Poems by Mrs. Opie :: :: University of Virginia Library

Power of the awful wind, whose hollow blast
Hurls desolation wide! thy sway I hail.
It o'er the scene around can beauties cast
Superior far to aught that Summer's gale
Bids in the ripening year to bloom awake.
To view thy majesty, the cheerful tale,
The dance, the festive song, I pleased forsake,

And through thy sparkling scenes I stray alone,
Now the pale regent of thy splendid night
Decks with her yellow rays thy snowy throne.
Richly her beams on Summer's mantle light;
Richly they gild chill Autumn's tawny vest:
But to mine eyes they shine more chastely bright
Spangling the icy robe that wraps thy breast.

THE DYING DAUGHTER TO HER MOTHER.

Mother! when these unsteady lines
Thy long averted eyes shall see,
This hand that writes, this heart that pines,
Will cold, quite cold, and tranquil be.

That guilty child so long disowned
Can then, blest thought! no more offend;
And, shouldst thou deem my crimes atoned,
O deign my orphan to befriend:......

That orphan, who with trembling hand
To thee will give my dying prayer;....
Canst thou my dying prayer withstand,
And from my child withhold thy care?

O raise the veil which hides her cheek,
Nor start her mother's face to see,
But let her look thy love bespeak,....
For once that face was dear to thee.

Gaze on,....and thou 'lt perchance forget
The long, the mournful lapse of years,
Thy couch with tears of anguish wet,
And e'en the guilt which caused those tears.

And in my pure and artless child
Thou 'lt think her mother meets thy view;
Such as she was when life first smiled,
And guilt by name alone she knew.

Ah! then I see thee o'er her charms
A look of fond affection cast;
I see thee clasp her in thine arms,
And in the present lose the past.

But soon the dear illusion flies;
The sad reality returns;
My crimes again to memory rise,
And, ah! in vain my orphan mourns.

Till suddenly some keen remorse,
Some deep regret, her claims shall aid,
For wrath that held too long its course,
For words of peace too long delayed.

For pardon (most, alas! denied
When pardon might have snatched from shame)
And kindness, hadst thou kindness tried,
Had checked my guilt, and saved my fame.

And then thou 'lt wish, as I do now,
Thy hand my humble bed had smoothed,
Wiped the chill moisture off my brow,
And all the wants of sickness soothed.

For, oh! the means to sooth my pain
My poverty has still denied;
And thou wilt wish, ah! wish in vain,
Thy riches had those means supplied.

Thou 'lt wish, with keen repentance wrung,
I'd closed my eyes upon thy breast,
Expiring while thy faltering tongue
Pardon in kindest tones expressed.

O sounds which I must never hear!
Through years of woe my fond desire!
O mother, spite of all most dear!
Must I unblest by thee expire?

Thy love alone I call to mind,
And all thy past disdain forget,....
Each keen reproach, each frown unkind,
That crushed my hopes when last we met.

But when I saw that angry brow,
Both health and youth were still my own:
O mother! couldst thou see me now,
Thou wouldst not have the heart to frown.

But see! my orphan's cheek displays
Both youth, and health's carnation dyes,
Such as on mine in happier days
So fondly charmed thy partial eyes.

Grief o'er her bloom a veil now draws,
Grief her loved parent's pangs to see;
And when thou think'st upon the cause,
That paleness will have charms for thee:

And thou wilt fondly press that cheek,
Bid happiness its bloom restore,
And thus in tenderest accents speak,
‘Sweet orphan, thou shalt mourn no more.’

But wilt thou thus indulgent be?
O! am I not by hope beguiled?
The long long anger shown to me,
Say, will it not pursue my child?

And must she suffer for my crime?
Ah! no!....forbid it, gracious Heaven!
And let thy goodness speed the time
When she'll be loved, and I forgiven!

ALLEN BROOKE OF WINDERMERE .

Say, have you in the valley seen
A gentle youth of pensive mien?
And have you marked his pallid cheek,
Which secret sorrow seems to speak?
Perhaps you'd wish his name to hear....
'Tis Allen Brooke of Windermere.

But, ah! the cause that prompts his sigh,
That dims with tears his sparkling eye,
That bids his youthful cheek turn pale,
And sorrow's hue o'er health's prevail,....
That cause from me you must not hear;
Ask Allen Brooke of Windermere.

Yet needless were his words to prove
His sorrow springs from hopeless love.
Go,....to the youth of Jessy speak,
Then mark the crimson on his cheek;
That blush will make the secret clear
Of Allen Brooke of Windermere.

And O believe his Jessy's breast
Is still with answering cares opprest;
But know, a father's stern command
Withholds from him my willing hand.
All but a father's frown I'd bear
For Allen Brooke of Windermere.

The burthen and the two first lines of this ballad were taken from a song written some years ago by Mr. G. S. Carey.

EPISTLE SUPPOSED TO BE ADDRESSED BY EUDORA, THE MAID OF CORINTH, TO HER LOVER PHILEMON,

Informing him of her having traced his shadow on the wall while he was sleeping, the night before his departure: together with the joyful consequences of this action.

THE ARGUMENT.

Dibutades, a potter of Sicyon, first formed likenesses in clay at Corinth, but was indebted to his daughter for the invention. The girl, being in love with a young man who was soon going from her into some remote country, traced out the lines of his face from his shadow on the wall by candle-light. Her father filling up the lines with clay formed a bust, and hardened it in the fire with the rest of his earthen ware. PLINY, book XXXV.

O Love! it was thy glory to impart
Its infant being to this magic art;
By thee inspired, the soft Corinthian maid
Her graceful lover's sleeping form portrayed.
HAYLEY.

Yes, I must write,....admiring crowds in vain
Wake in my praise the loudly swelling strain,
While thou, from whom these flattering honors flowed,
Know'st not the blessing on our loves bestowed.
Then let me breathe the tidings in thine ear,
And chide thine absence at an hour so dear;
For I my triumphs with indifference see,
And hate the glory that's unshared with thee.

On that dread day which tore thee from my arms,
While my sad bosom beat with fond alarms,
And I through various paths desponding roved,
Asleep I chanced to find the youth I loved.
Instant, for powerful passion swayed my soul,
With breath suspended, to thy couch I stole:
There as I stood in tender thoughts entranced,
I to thy cheek my trembling lips advanced;
And, while reserve repressed the furtive bliss,
Nor quite bestowed, nor quite withheld the kiss.
When, lo! (for Love's kind god my glance impelled)
Thy shadow I upon the wall beheld;
And on my mind the loved contrivance pressed,
Which shall to future ages make me blest.

Inspired, I ran and seized a taper wand
Which seemed just fallen from thy languid hand;
Then, with quick throbbing heart, and trembling haste,
I on the wall the faithful shadow traced.
Blest hour!....but words would ill my transport tell,
When, though thy head in various postures fell,
Source of my pride, and soother of my pain,
I saw the outline still unchanged remain!
But midst my rapture as I heard thee sigh,
And saw thee throw thy languid arms on high,
Heard thee, half waking, speak Eudora's name,
As recollection o'er thy senses came,....
Ashamed to meet thy fond inquiring eyes,
Swiftly I fled,....resolved the new-found prize

Which taught my heart such rapturous joys to feel
With virgin coyness I'd from thee conceal.
But, when I reached my home, the mimic line
So brightly seemed in Memory's eye to shine,
‘Vain coyness, hence,’ I cried, ‘your scruples bear,
And let Philemon's heart my rapture share!’
But Heaven when next we met that joy denied,
And sorrow chilled the glow of tender pride,....
For, oh! thou cam'st to bid thy last farewell,
And on thy neck in speechless grief I fell.
But when, dear youth, I heard that sad adieu,
The blest invention rose to Memory's view;
And, as my living love I saw no more,
I ran his lifeless semblance to adore.

What though in vain I bade that semblance speak
The youthful crimson mantling on thy cheek;
What though the sombre line could ill portray
Those looks which valour, genius, love display,....
Still, as I gaze, see Fancy's friendly art
The charms they wanted to my lines impart,
See cold reality before her fly,
Bloom paints thy cheek, and radiance fires thine eye.

But soon new hopes my throbbing bosom bless;
Soon, with quick footsteps, to my sire I press,....
Exclaiming, ‘Haste! the mimic lines survey
Whose magic influence can my grief allay.’
And as he gazed, I cried, ‘Thy skill shall now
With added power Philemon's graces show,

His clustering curls design with nicest art,
And on his forehead, richly waving, part.’
I ceased,....when he in humid clay designs
The fair proportion of my faithful lines,
Then to his furnace bears the prize away,
While hope my bosom ruled with added sway.
But not Deucalion felt more joy to view
Men spring to being from the stones he threw,
Than I experienced when my smiling sire
Thine image took from the Promethean fire.
It seemed my absent lover to restore;
And, till thou com'st, will charm me more and more;
For breath of absence bids faint flames expire,
But serves to feed true passion's generous fire;

It makes my heart with added fervour burn;
Yet still, too tardy youth, return, return!

Now hear my triumphs....Soon the tale transpired:
Increasing crowds, with new ambition fired,....
Chiefs, sages, bards who build the lofty lay,
All bid me haste their features to portray,....
The present moment's bounded triumphs scorn,
And wish to charm in ages yet unborn.
My father's art then forms the mimic head,
While nymphs and swains my path with roses spread,
While to the lyre my honoured name they breathe,
While round my brow they votive garlands wreathe.
‘And, on the pile when those soft limbs shall lie,
Think not thy glory will expire, they cry:’

‘Know, Corinth's pride! till time itself be o'er,
Thy name shall lovers, sages, chiefs adore;
And, thine invention through the world conveyed,
The world shall bless the fond Corinthian maid.’

Such homage Corinth to Eudora pays;
But o'er my bosom genuine passion sways,...
And the full heart where glows its gentle flame
Disdains ambition, and desires not fame.
No; while my name the voice of praise repeats,
My heart with nought but tender pleasure beats;
I joy to know my father's feeling breast
Exults to see me honoured, loved, caressed;
I joy to feel, while I my triumphs see,
I grow more worthy, matchless youth, of thee.

But, dearest boast! I've circumscribed the sway
Of that dread god to whom none homage pay.
Though stern-browed Death with all-destroying power
Tear from our grasp the forms our souls adore,
Saved by my art from his rapacious hand,
Their semblance still shall Memory's sigh command;
Still shall it softly charm in breathing clay,
Still, spite of death, prolong its gentle sway.
Nor let me dare to joy like this confine
The loved effects that wait my mimic line;
By its blest art succeeding chiefs shall know
Of Corinth's heroes each undaunted brow,
Till, as they gaze, aroused to kindred fire,
They strive to be the heroes they admire.

And what Invention's vigorous wings can bind?....
Ages to come may new devices find;
And some fond maid, inspired by love like mine,
On the pale clay bid glowing colours shine.
Nor there shall stop the art by love inspired;
Behold, to greater deeds his votary's fired!
And, wondrous progress of creative art!
See the whole form to mimic being start!

Hail, fair creations bursting on my view!
At Art's bold touch, assuming Nature's hue,
Kings, heroes, sages, even gods appear!
Jove grasps his lightning, Pallas lifts her spear!
See, to their temples trembling votaries throng,
And, struck with awe, forbear the votive song.....

The breathing forms behold with timid eye,
And, ‘Lo! a present deity!’ they cry.

Meanwhile my humbler art shall please, shall bless,
Increase enjoyment, and console distress;
Shall hush the plaintive grief of those who moan
O'er the dark bier, shall softly sooth my own.
For when I'm doomed my father's urn to view
My tears his honoured semblance shall bedew,
And, while the bust his kind expression wears,
I'll think he still my vows of duty hears.
And oh! should Fate thine early death ordain....
Hence, false idea! horrible as vain;
For when thy life, my all of bliss, is o'er,
In one embrace we'll meet, to part no more.

But O return! Though Fancy paints thee near,
Though thy fond parting accents still I hear,
While thee I view though seas between us roll,
And still thy long last look thrills through my soul;
Yet, yet, thy absence prompts the ceaseless sigh:
For, oh! when Fame my humble roof drew nigh,
Friendship I saw by slow degrees depart,
And Love alone can cheer my drooping heart.
The fair companions of my early days
With malice blame me, or with coldness praise,
And too too well this mournful truth proclaim,
‘They forfeit friendship, who are dear to fame.’
But thy Eudora can this loss despise,
So thou behold her with affection's eyes;

So he who gave the life which Love has blest
Still fondly clasp me to his honoured breast.
'Tis from Love's nearest ties true bliss must come,....
They her sole priests, her only altar, home;
On that has Jove's benignant power decreed
Their hallowed breath her sacred fire shall feed.
Then come, dear youth, nor fear the wintry wind,....
Resistless fetters will the tempest bind;
Come, dauntless venturing o'er the foaming tide,....
A matchless pilot will thy vessel guide.

Last night, when sleep o'er all held sovereign sway,
And I in restless feverish slumbers lay,
Around me more than morning's splendour beamed,
And on my sight a radiant vision gleamed.

Starting, I rose, when I a youth surveyed,
Like thee in feature, and like thee arrayed,
Save that, adorned in evervarying bloom,
From either shoulder waved a downy plume.
When, lo! he cried, ‘Sleep, drowsy power! remove:
Virgin, thine eyes behold the god of Love;
And hark! those winds that roughly dared to blow,
Husht by my presence, softly murmur now;
Waked by the genial gales my pinions shed,
See round thy couch the flowers of summer spread!
Now hear, blest maid, o'er whom with friendly wing
I've hovered oft, the joyful news I bring:....
Long had I prized the homage of thy heart,
Long vowed to bless a passion void of art;

And when thy breast with boding anguish swelled,
I to Philemon's couch thy feet impelled;
The slender wand beside the couch I placed,...
I the loved youth with added beauty graced,....
I on the wall the friendly shadow threw,
I with nice art the faithful outline drew.
Nor here, Eudora, shall my favours end:
I'll o'er thee still with watchful kindness bend,
And soon, to sooth thy bosom's fond alarms,
Will guard Philemon to thy constant arms.
The Halcyon, tamer of the tyrant flood,
Shall, at my bidding, on the billows brood;
That bird, of azure plumes, and plaintive tone,
Shall shield thy heart from sorrows like her own.

Then, in return, thy grateful zeal display,
And try Love's glowing features to portray;
Raised on my altar bid my image stand,
The fair creation of Eudora's hand.’

This said, away he winged his graceful flight;
While, as he flew, around the brow of Night
His twining figure spires of radiance wreathed,
And his soft pinions sweetest music breathed.
Then to my task I flew with eager haste:
But, though I thought I Love's own features traced,
And with nice art each fair proportion told,
Thine, and thine only, could mine eyes behold!
And wherefore not? Like thee the vision seemed,
Save that his form with younger graces beamed;

Nor more I strive to change the mimic lines,
The winged god in all thy beauty shines.

But come, the wonders of my hand survey;
Come, at Love's semblance grateful homage pay;
O haste, triumphant o'er the fettered wind,
And round his brows thy votive garlands bind!
O! thou hast much to see! No longer poor,
We court the needy stranger to our door;
And, while to want we give the aid it seeks,
Our altered state our altered dwelling speaks;
Coarse robes no more obscure my father's mien,
But all his native dignity is seen;
With Tyrian dyes his ample tunic glows,
And to the ground in waving beauty flows,

While down his robe his silver ringlets spread,
Their white contrasted with its radiant red;....
So look bright clouds upon the mountain's brow,
While there the sun's last crimson glories glow:
And I....But wherefore tales like these impart?
Suffice all here is changed,....except....my heart:
That still to thee with faithful fondness turns,
Thy presence covets, and thy absence mourns.
But since past pain enhances present joys,
Though now thy absence all my bliss alloys,
More bright 't will make the hour of meeting glow,
As to the storm the rainbow's charms we owe.
Till then, the loitering moments thus I cheat,....
I to the mimic head my vows repeat;

The lifeless cheek with glowing lip I press,
The lifeless brow in living garlands dress;
And my sick heart from weary woe to free,
I clasp the precious bust, and think on thee.

THE MOURNER.

Come, smiles! come, gay attire! and hide
The secret fang that tears my breast!
I'll lay my sable garb aside,
And seem to cold inquirers blest.
Yes,....I will happy triflers join,
As when grief's dart beside me flew,
And love and all its joys were mine,
And sorrow but by name I knew:
For health I saw in Henry's bloom,
Nor knew it marked him for the tomb.

Hard was the stroke;....but, oh! I hate
The sacred pomp of grief to show;
Throned in my breast, in secret state
Shall live the reverend form of woe:
For observation would degrade
The homage to her empire paid.

I hate the tear which pity gives;
I'm jealous of her curious eye:
The only balm my wound receives
Is from my own unheeded sigh.
A face of smiles, a heart of tears!
So in the churchyard (realm of death)
The turf increasing verdure wears,
While all is pale and dead beneath.

ANOTHER ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

Hence! cruel Life! nor more persist
To warm this sad, this broken heart!
When Henry's claycold lips I kissed,
How welcome, Death! had been thy dart!

Speechless, they say, benumbed I seemed
While his last precious breath I caught;
No tears to sooth my sorrow streamed,
And agony suspended thought.

They tell me thunders rent the air,....
That vivid lightnings flashed around;....
But I beheld no lightning's glare,
Nor heard the pealing thunder sound.

They tell me that my helpless child
I from my arms with fury tossed;....
It might be so,....for I was wild,....
The mother in the wife was lost.

They tell me, on the unconscious corse
At length bereft of sense I fell;....
Ah! blessed state! of balm the source!
It closed my ears to Henry's knell.

But, happy state resembling death,
Why is your balmy stupor flown?
O why restore her languid breath
Who now can only live to moan?

E'en Reason says I justly weep,
And, ah! she says I weep in vain;
My midnight couch with tears I steep,
Then rise at morn....to weep again.

When to my heart my child I fold,
She only deepens every sigh;
I think, while I her charms behold,
How she'd have pleased her father's eye.

And while I from her lisping tongue
Soft childhood's artless accents hear,
I think, with vain remembrance wrung,
How she'd have charmed her father's ear.

I think......but O forbear, fond heart!
From vain regrets to duties turn;....
Yes,....I will act a parent's part,....
I'll tear myself from Henry's urn.

In life I still one charm can see,....
One flower adorns that dreary wild,....
That flower for care depends on me....
O precious charge!....'Tis Henry's child.

ELEGIAC SONG

[_]

To the tune of ‘Ar hyd y nos.’

Here beneath this willow sleepeth
Poor Mary Anne,....
One whom all the village weepeth;
Poor Mary Anne!
He she loved her passion slighted,
Breaking all the vows he'd plighted;
Therefore life no more delighted
Poor Mary Anne!

Pale thy cheek grew, where thy lover,
Poor Mary Anne!
Once could winning charms discover;....
Poor Mary Anne!
Dim those eyes, so sweetly speaking
When true love's expression seeking;....
Oh! we saw thy heart was breaking,
Poor Mary Anne!

Like a rose we saw thee wither,
Poor Mary Anne!....
Soon, a corpse, we brought thee hither,
Poor Mary Anne!

Now, our evening pastime flying,
We, in heartfelt sorrow vying,
Seek this willow,....softly sighing
‘Poor Mary Anne!’

TO THE GLOW-WORM.

Gem of this lone and silent vale,
Treasure of evening's pensive hour!
I come thy fairy rays to hail,
I come a votive strain to pour.

Nor chilly damps, nor paths untrod,
Shall from thy shrine my footsteps fright;
Thy lamp shall guide me o'er the sod,
And cheer the gathering mists of night.

Again thy yellow fire impart;....
Lo! planets shed a mimic day:
Lo! vivid meteors round me dart;
On western clouds red lightnings play!

But I disdain these garish fires
Sporting on evening's sultry wing;
Thy humbler light my eye admires,
Thy soft retiring charms I sing.

Thine is an unobtrusive blaze,
Content in lowly shades to shine;
And much I wish, while thus I gaze,
To make thy modest merit mine.

For, long by youth's wild wishes cast
On the false world's tempestuous sea,
I seek retirement's shore at last,
And find a monitor in thee.

THE NEGRO BOY'S TALE.

‘Haste! hoist the sails! fair blows the wind:
Jamaica, sultry land, adieu!
Away! and loitering Anna find!
I long dear England's shores to view.’

The sailors gladly haste on board,
Soon is Trevannion's voice obeyed,
And instant, at her father's word,
His menials seek the absent maid.

But where was ‘loitering Anna’ found?....
Mute, listening to a Negro's prayer,
Who knew that sorrow's plaintive sound
Could always gain her ready ear;....

Who knew, to sooth the slave's distress
Was gentle Anna's dearest joy;
And thence, an earnest suit to press,
To Anna flew the Negro boy.

‘Missa,’ poor Zambo cried, ‘sweet land
Dey tell me dat you go to see,
Vere, soon as on de shore he stand,
De helpless Negro slave be free.

‘Ah! dearest missa, you so kind!
Do take me to dat blessed shore,
Dat I mine own dear land may find,
And dose who love me see once more.

‘Oh! ven no slave, a boat I buy,
For me a letel boat vould do,
And over wave again I fly
Mine own loved negro land to view.

‘Oh! I should know it quick like tink,
No land so fine as dat I see,
And den perhaps upon de brink
My moder might be look for me!....

‘It is long time since lass ve meet,
Ven I vas take by bad vite man,
And moder cry, and kiss his feet,
And shrieking after Zambo ran.

‘O missa! long, how long me feel
Upon mine arms her lass embrace!
Vile in de dark, dark ship I dwell,
Long burn her tear upon my face.

‘How glad me vas she did not see
De heavy chain my body bear;
Nor close, how close ve crowded be,
Nor feel how bad, how sick de air!

‘Poor slaves!....but I had best forget.
Dey say (but teaze me is deir joy)
Me grown so big dat ven ve meet
My moder vould not know her boy.

‘Ah! sure 'tis false! But yet if no,
Ven I again my moder see,
Such joy I at her sight vould show
Dat she vould tink it must be me.

‘Den, kindest missa, be my friend;
Yet dat indeed you long become;
But now one greatest favour lend,....
O find me chance to see my home!

‘And ven I'm in my moder's arms,
And tell de vonders I have know,
I'll say, Most best of all de charms
Vas she who feel for negro's woe.

‘And she shall learn for you dat prayer
Dey teach to me to make me good;
Though men who sons from moders tear,
She'll tink, teach goodness never could.

‘Dey say me should to oders do
Vat I vould have dem do to me;....
But, if dey preach and practise too,
A negro slave me should not be.

‘Missa, dey say dat our black skin
Be ugly, ugly to de sight;
But surely if dey look vidin,
Missa, de negro's heart be vite.

‘Yon cocoa-nut no smooth as silk,
But rough and ugly is de rind;
Ope it, sweet meat and sweeter milk
Vidin dat ugly coat ve find.

‘Ah missa! smiling in your tear,
I see you know what I'd impart;
De cocoa husk de skin I vear,
De milk vidin be Zambo's heart.

‘Dat heart love you, and dat good land
Vere every negro slave be free,....
Oh! if dat England understand
De negro wrongs, how wrath she be!

‘No doubt dat ship she never send
Poor harmless negro slave to buy,
Nor vould she e'er de wretch befriend
Dat dare such cruel bargain try.

‘O missa's God! dat country bless!’
(Here Anna's colour went and came;
But saints might share the pure distress,
For Anna blushed at others' shame.)

‘But, missa, say; shall I vid you
To dat sweet England now depart,
Once more mine own good country view,
And press my moder on my heart?’

Then on his knees poor Zambo fell,
While Anna tried to speak in vain:
The expecting boy she could not tell
He'd ne'er his mother see again.

But, while she stood in mournful thought,
Nearer and nearer voices came;
The servants ‘loitering Anna’ sought,
The echoes rang with Anna's name.

Ah! then, o'ercome with boding fear,
Poor Zambo seized her trembling hand,
‘Mine only friend,’ he cried, ‘me fear
You go, and me not see my land.’

Anna returned the artless grasp:
‘I cannot grant thy suit,’ she cries;
‘But I my father's knees will clasp,
Nor will I, till he hears me, rise.

‘For, should thine anxious wish prove vain,
And thou no more thy country see,
Still, pity's hand might break thy chain,
And lighter bid thy labours be.

‘Here wanton stripes, alas! are thine,
And tasks, far, far beyond thy powers;
But I'll my father's heart incline
To bear thee to more friendly shores.

‘Come! to the beach! for me they wait!’
Then, grasping Zambo's sable hand,
Swift as the wind, with hope elate,
The lovely suppliant reached the sand.

But woe betides an ill-timed suit:
His temper soured by her delay,
Trevannion bade his child be mute,
Nor dare such fruitless hopes betray.

‘I know,’ she cried, ‘I cannot free
The numerous slaves that round me pine;
But one poor negro's friend to be,
Might, (blessed chance!) might now be mine.’

But vainly Anna wept and prayed,
And Zambo knelt upon the shore;
Without reply, the pitying maid
Trevannion to the vessel bore.

Mean while, poor Zambo's cries to still,
And his indignant grief to tame,
Eager to act his brutal will,
The negro's scourge-armed ruler came.

The whip is raised....the lash descends....
And Anna hears the sufferer's groan;
But while the air with shrieks she rends,
The signal's given....the ship sails on.

That instant, by despair made bold,
Zambo one last great effort tried;
He burst from his tormentor's hold,....
He plunged within the foaming tide.

The desperate deed Trevannion views,
And all his weak resentment flies:
‘See, see! the vessel he pursues!
Help him, for mercy's sake!’ he cries:

‘Out with the boat! quick! throw a rope!
Wretches, how tardy is your aid!’
While, pale with dread, or flushed with hope,
Anna the awful scene surveyed.

The boat is out,....the rope is cast,....
And Zambo struggles with the wave;....
‘Ha! he the boat approaches fast!
O father, we his life shall save!’

‘But low, my child, and lower yet
His head appears;....but sure he sees
The succour given....and seems to meet
The opposing waves with greater ease:....

‘See, see! the boat, the rope he nears;
I see him now his arm extend!....
My Anna, dry those precious tears;
My child shall be one negro's friend!’

Ah! Fate was near, that hope to foil:....
To reach the rope poor Zambo tries;....
But, ere he grasps it, faint with toil,
The struggling victim sinks, and dies.

Anna, I mourn thy virtuous woe;
I mourn thy father's keen remorse;
But from my eyes no tears would flow
At sight of Zambo's silent corse:....

The orphan from his mother torn,
And pining for his native shore,....
Poor tortured slave....poor wretch forlorn....
Can I his early death deplore?....

I pity those who live, and groan:
Columbia countless Zambos sees;....
For swelled with many a wretch's moan
Is Western India's sultry breeze.

Come, Justice, come! in glory drest,
O come! the woe-worn negro's friend,....
The fiend-delighting trade arrest,
The negro's chains asunder rend!

‘I could not tell the imp he had no mother.’ Vide Series of Plays on the Passions, by Miss Baillie,....Count Basil, page 111.

LINES WRITTEN AT NORWICH ON THE FIRST NEWS OF PEACE.

What means that wild and joyful cry?
Why do yon crowds in mean attire
Throw thus their ragged arms on high?
In want what can such joy inspire?

And why on every face I meet
Now beams a smile, now drops a tear?
Like longloved friends, lo! strangers greet,....
Each to his fellow man seems dear.

In one warm glow of christian love
Forgot all proud distinctions seem;
The rich, the poor, together rove;
Their eyes with answering kindness beam....

Blest sound! blest sight!....But pray ye pause
And bid my eager wonder cease;....
Of joy like this, say what's the cause?....
A thousand voices answer...‘Peace!’

O sound most welcome to my heart!
Tidings for which I've sighed for years!
But ill would words my joy impart;
Let me my rapture speak in tears.

Ye patient poor, from wonder free
Your signs of joy I now survey,
And hope your sallow cheeks to see
Once more the bloom of health display.

Of those poor babes that on your knees
Imploring food have vainly hung,
You'll soon each craving want appease,....
For Plenty comes with Peace along.

And you, fond parents, faithful wives,
Who've long for sons and husbands feared,
Peace now shall save their precious lives;
They come by danger more endeared.

But why, to all these transports dead,
Steals yon shrunk form from forth the throng?
Has she not heard the tidings spread?
Tell her these shouts to Peace belong....

‘Talk not of Peace,....the sound I hate,’
The mourner with a sigh replied;
‘Alas! Peace comes for me too late,....
For my brave boy in Egypt died!’

Poor mourner! at thy tale of grief
The crowd was mute and sad awhile;
But e'en compassion's tears are brief
When general transport claims a smile.

Full soon they checked the tender sigh
Their glowing hearts to pity gave;
But, while the mourner yet was nigh,
They warmly blessed the slaughtered brave:....

And from all hearts, as sad she passed,
This virtuous prayer her sorrow draws:....
‘Grant, Heaven, those tears may be the last
That war, detested war, shall cause!’....

Oh! if with pure ambition fraught
All nations join this virtuous prayer,
If they, by late experience taught,
No longer wish to slay, but spare,....

Then hostile bands on War's red plain
For conquest have not vainly burned,
Nor then through long long years in vain
Have thousands died and millions mourned.

LINES FOR THE ALBUM AT COSSEY,

The Seal of Sir William Jerningham, Bart.

Soft smiling scene, with varied beauties graced,
Where Nature now delights, adorned by Taste,
What power creative from the rugged ground
Called into life the charms that glow around?
O'er yonder hill's once bleak and barren head
Who the bright wreaths of waving foliage spread,
That in rich masses deepening shadows throw,
And spot with quivering light its verdant brow,

While Philomela keeps her vigils there,
And charms with plaintive song the wakeful ear?....
Who midst yon flowery banks expanding wide
Taught the bright stream to roll its deepened tide,....
Woo to its clear expanse the beams of day,
And from its breast reflect the trembling ray,
While the clear wave each neighbouring object shows,
And softened beauty o'er those objects throws?....
Who bade (soft shelter from day's garish power)
Here smile a cottage, and there frown a tower?....
Who thus to Eden changed the untutored waste?....
The wand, the magic wand, was thine, O Taste!
Waked by thy touch, thou badst new beauties grow,
And those already there more brightly glow.

So when Pygmalion saw with fond surprise
Beneath his hand a beauteous form arise,
Still new attractions wantoned o'er the face
When animation waked each latent grace;
The form, the features, both were there before,
But, when with life inspired, they charmed still more;
While the fair wonder to the sight improved,
And graceful soon as beautiful she moved.

But, bright domain! though I thy charms admire,
'Tis not to them I wake my trembling lyre;
'Tis not because such wonders round it rise
I view this mansion with delighted eyes:....
Know that I breathe the tributary lay
Because these scenes not Taste alone obey:

Here true Beneficence delights to shine,
And proudly cries ‘Here power supreme is mine!’
Yes, all around her smiling sway confess;
Lo! peasants own it, and, lo! nobles bless....
Here the lorn exile from his native land
Still feels the pressure of affection's hand;
Torn from the ties misfortune makes more dear,
Soft soothing friendship's voice consoles him here;
And while he seems in this luxuriant plain
To view his native verdant vales again,
This friendly mansion, and its owner's smile,
Can with illusions dearer still beguile:
For looks of welcome to the social dome
Restore the vanished joys of Love and Home;

O'er bleeding memory's wounds a veil they cast,
And make the present charm him like the past.
And she, the cloistered virgin, forced to fly
The fatal blaze of Irreligion's eye,
Forced unprotected amidst foes to roam,
Profaned her altars, and laid waste her home,
Here finds, her weary wakeful wanderings o'er,
A sure asylum from destructive power,....
Here to an altar sacred still repairs,
Nor longer murmurs grief-impeded prayers;
But, far away all thoughts of danger driven,
Unchecked she lifts her ardent soul to heaven.

Ye bounteous rulers of this fair domain,
Whom misery's fainting feet ne'er seek in vain,

Who, not content to bid pale want resign
The numerous slaves that in her fetters pine,
Try (harder task) a balsam to impart
To the deep wounds that rack the feeling heart,....
For you, the sufferer's hope, the exile's friend,
O let my prayers with ardent zeal ascend!
Yet say, what more can Heaven on you bestow?....
In your bright path increasing blessings grow.
But, as so transient is all earthly joy,
Disease can banish it, and death destroy,
Still I for you may Heaven's high throne implore,
And bid its bounty grant one blessing more....
That long its sheltering wing may o'er you wave,
Its mercy guarding what its goodness gave.

But when death's tardy steps at length draw near,
And filial fondness sheds the tender tear,
Blest in that moment, as in all the past,
Bright as your earliest days shall be your last.
Not round your dying couch such shapes shall rise
As haunt the bed where selfish avarice lies;....
No;....at that awful hour, when hope and fear
In long review bid actions past appear,
Which, as the life-blood leaves the sinking heart,
By turns despair and confidence impart,....
Then, as the Ixia's fragrance-breathing flowers,
The snowy pride of Afric's sultry shores,
Ne'er to the breeze their slender leaves unclose
While day's fierce noon in all its lustre glows,

But, when still night's o'erhanging shades prevail,
Expand at once their beauties to the gale,....
So shall the generous deeds, in life's high noon
By you performed and then forgotten soon,
With soothing influence to your memory rise
When the last lustre lingers in your eyes,....
Of death's dark night shall cheer the awful gloom,
And gild the solemn pathway of the tomb.

SONG....TO LAURA.

Maid of the cold suspicious heart,
Ah! wherefore doubt thy Henry's love?
Imputing thus to practised art
The signs that real passion prove.

While through the sleepless night I sigh,
And jealous fears and anguish own,
At morn in restless slumbers lie,
Then, languid, rise to muse alone:

While harmony my soul disdains,
And beauties vainly round me shine,
Save when I hear thy favourite strains,
Or beauties see resembling thine:

While I in fixed attention gaze,
If e'er thou breathe thy plaintive lay,
And while, though others loudly praise,
I deeply sigh, and nothing say:

While I reject thy offered hand,
And shun the touch which others seek,
Alone with thee in silence stand,
Nor dare, though chance befriend me, speak:....

Ah! Laura, while I thus impart
The ardent love in which I pine,
While all these symptoms speak my heart,
Say, why should doubt inhabit thine?

SONG OF A HINDUSTA‘NI’ GIRL.

[_]

This Song was occasioned by the following circumstance:.... Mr. Biggs, the composer and editor of many beautiful Airs, gave me, some time ago, a plaintive melody, said to have been composed and sung by a Hindustàní girl on being separated from the man whom she loved.

She had lived several years in India with an English gentleman to whom she was tenderly attached; but he, when about to marry, sent his Indian favourite up the country; and, as she was borne along in her palanquin, she was heard to sing the abovementioned melody. To this melody I wrote the following words; and they have been already given to the public, with the original music, in a second set of Hindoo Airs, arranged and harmonized by Mr. Biggs.

'Tis thy will, and I must leave thee:
O then, best-beloved, farewell!
I forbear, lest I should grieve thee,
Half my heartfelt pangs to tell.
Soon a British fair will charm thee,
Thou her smiles wilt fondly woo;
But though she to rapture warm thee,
Don't forget thy poor hindoo.

Well I know this happy beauty
Soon thine envied bride will shine;
But will she by anxious duty
Prove a passion warm as mine?
If to rule be her ambition,
And her own desires pursue,
Thou'lt recall my fond submission,
And regret thy poor hindoo.

Born herself to rank and splendour,
Will she deign to wait on thee,
And those soft attentions render
Thou so oft hast praised in me?

Yet, why doubt her care to please thee?
Thou must every heart subdue;
I am sure each maid that sees thee
Loves thee like thy poor hindoo.

No, ah! no!....though from thee parted,
Other maids will peace obtain;
But thy Lola, broken-hearted,
Ne'er, oh! ne'er, will smile again.
O how fast from thee they tear me!
Faster still shall death pursue:
But 'tis well....death will endear me,
And thou'lt mourn thy poor hindoo.

SONG.

[Yes, Mary Anne, I freely grant]

[_]

[This and the following Song belong to a Set of Songs composed by Mr. Biggs, which are now published.]

Yes, Mary Anne, I freely grant
The charms of Henry's eyes I see;
But, while I gaze, I something want,....
I want those eyes....to gaze on me.

And I allow, in Henry's heart
Not Envy's self a fault can see;
Yet still I must one wish impart,....
I wish that heart to sigh for me.

A MAD-SONG.

Ha! what is this that on my brow
Presses with such o'erwhelming power?
My love to heaven is gone, I know;
But 'tis to fix our bridal hour:....
Then on his tomb why should I sorrow?
He's gone, but he'll return tomorrow.

Ah! then yon lofty hill I'll mount,
And seize on morning's brightest cloud;
On that I'll wait my love, and count
The moments till he leaves his shroud:
And he the rainbow's vest shall borrow,
To grace our bridal day tomorrow.

But all's not right in this poor heart,....
Yet why should I his loss deplore?
It was indeed a pang to part,
But when he comes, he'll rove no more:
And all today can laugh at sorrow,
When sure of being blest tomorrow.

Then why am I in black arrayed?
And why is Henry's father pale?
And why do I, poor frantic maid,
Tell to the winds a mournful tale?
Alas! the weight I feel is sorrow....
No, no....he cannot come tomorrow.

SONG.

[I once rejoiced, sweet Evening Gale]

I once rejoiced, sweet Evening Gale,
To see thy breath the poplar wave;
But now it makes my cheek turn pale....
It waves the grass o'er Henry's grave.

Ah! setting Sun! how changed I seem!
Beyond thy rays I love deep gloom,....
Since now, alas! I see them beam
Upon my Henry's lonely tomb.

100

Sweet Evening Gale! howe'er I seem,
I wish thee o'er my sod to wave;
Ah! setting Sun! soon mayst thou beam
On mine, as well as Henry's grave!

101

‘THE VOICE OF HIM I LOVE.’

[_]

[The name of this Song is borrowed from a Poem so called signed ‘Cesario,’ in The British Album.]

Hence far from me, ye senseless joys
That fade before ye reach the heart,....
The crowded dome's distracted noise,
Where all is pomp and useless art!

Give me my home, to quiet dear,
Where hours untold and peaceful move;
So fate ordain I sometimes there
May hear the voice of him I love.

102

I hate e'en music's pleasing power
When giddy crowds my tones attend,
But love to sing at evening's hour
To sooth the sorrows of a friend.

I love to breathe the plaintive lays
That Henry's heart and taste approve,
For, oh! how sweet in tones of praise
Appears the voice of him I love!

The praises I from others hear
Some joy may to my pride impart;
But Henry's wake the rapturous tear,
For his applauses touch my heart.

103

From busy crowds o'erjoyed I fly
With him in lonely shades to rove,
For e'en in gayest scenes I sigh
To hear the voice of him I love.

I woo the drama's magic powers,
Seek music's ever-crowded shrine,
In learning pass the studious hours,
Or try the muse's wreath to twine;

Yet still I feel a joy more dear,
Though I these pure delights approve,
When in retirement's scenes I hear
The soothing voice of him I love.

105

THE COMPLAINT.

And am I to endless repining decreed?
By the hand of her Henry must Caroline bleed?
Must I to another my Henry resign?
And see her boast the fondness I once believed mine?

Thou know'st thy strong sway o'er thy Caroline's breast;....
Thou know'st that, by passion and duty opprest,
Both tyrants at once my weak bosom assailed,
And that duty at length over passion prevailed.
Yet then, when I bade thee a final adieu,
Henry! did not my eyes still thy footsteps pursue?

106

Say, did not my tongue my fond agony tell
When it faltered, and could not say ‘Henry, farewell!’?
Say, did not my bosom by many a sigh
What my trembling lips uttered too strongly deny?
I said ‘O forget me!’ but couldst thou not see
That I wished thee to live for no other but me?
I hoped, (selfish balm for a passion-torn breast!)
Thou, deceiver! like me by fond anguish opprest,
Wouldst still in remembrance my image adore,
And that absence would only endear me the more.
Nought strange or fantastic in this could I see,
For, oh! such were the feelings I cherished for thee.

But vain were my hopes, for my Henry's untrue;
Another with eyes of delight he can view,....

107

Another, unchecked by harsh duty's control,
Who can yield up to passion the sway o'er her soul.
I hear thee to her breathing forth the fond vow,
I behold thee on her thy attentions bestow,....
And now to the altar I see thee her guide,....
In a moment, alas! thou wilt hail her thy bride.

Blest maid! but perhaps, tho' her fondness be thine,
In her heart ne'er will glow such a passion as mine.
Dear youth! had I been thy companion in life,
Had I boasted, my Henry, the name of thy wife,
How fondly would I, when grief reached thee, have tried
By still sharing thy sorrows their keenness to hide!

108

If doomed sad reverses of fortune to prove,
I'd have shown thee the fortune I prized was thy love.
If sickness and pain gave thy bosom alarm,
I'd have sought by attention thine anguish to calm,....
Scarce breathed while thy head on my bosom reposed,
And, ah! never, no never, my eyelids have closed:
My hand ever near should thy pillow have smoothed,
I'd each wish have prevented, each suffering have soothed:
To hush thy alarms I'd have smiled through my tears,
And breathed nothing but hope, though distracted with fears.
O dictates of passion, still ardent though vain!
But, ah! no,....thou unmoved canst not hear me complain:....

109

Return, O return! from control I'll be free,
And will sacrifice duty, nay all things, for thee!
Lead, lead to the altar, my struggles remove,
And the anguish let's change to the raptures of love!

Ah! no;....cease thy criminal wishes, fond maid!
To eternal repentance O be not betrayed!....
Fly, fly me for ever, fond passionate dream!
Though I lose Henry's love, I'll deserve his esteem.

'Tis over;....the dreadful, deep struggle is past;
And thou, Henry, once mine, art another's at last!
I see thee embrace her as wife of thy heart,
While the life-blood I feel from my bosom depart.

110

But ne'er shalt thou learn the sad cause of my fate,
Lest thy heart's tender transports the tale should abate,
And, when to thy view my cold grave shall appear,
Self-upbraidings should mix with regret's tender tear:

Then now to the flames I'll these numbers consign;
They my heart have relieved, but shall never wound thine!
Ah! no;....in the grave all my injuries shall sleep,
And thou, Henry, a friend, not a victim, shalt weep.
True love to the last shall thy Caroline's be,
And my breath shall expire in....a prayer for thee.

111

ADDRESS OF A FELON TO HIS CHILD ON THE MORNING OF HIS EXECUTION.

[_]

[Respectfully inscribed to the Philanthropic Society.]

Poor babe, that through this darksome grate
Survey'st yon crowd with curious eye,
If thou wouldst learn why thus they wait,
Know, 'tis to see thy father die:

To see how I that death shall bear
They deem for crimes like mine most fit;
Crimes urged by want, which many there
Were never tempted to commit:....

112

A death, sweet innocent! for which
Thou'lt be, alas! one day reviled:
For with my guilt the rude of speech
Too often will reproach my child.

Poor outcast! whither canst thou turn?
Thy future fate adds pangs to mine:
I'm my offences doomed to mourn,
And fear, devoted babe, for thine.

For all thou canst from me receive
Is but a legacy of shame:
And, shouldst thou up to manhood live,
Thou'lt learn to curse thy father's name.

113

But, while my guilt's to thee unknown,
Come, let me hold thee to my breast,....
Thou treasure without crime my own,
Thou only wealth I e'er possessed,....

Thou pledge of pure and faithful loves,
Image of one I still deplore:....
Yet now her death a blessing proves,....
She lives not to behold this hour.

But from my arms, ah! wherefore fly?
Why do I court thy kiss in vain?
Whence spring those tears? what means that cry?
Ah me!....thou fear'st my clanking chain.

114

Till now I felt not all its weight;....
But soon (blest thought!) my arms they'll free;
And when I'm summoned to my fate
These arms unchained may close on thee.

Then welcome, cruel hour of death,....
Thou'lt be of some keen pangs beguiled,....
For, ere I yield my forfeit breath,
I closely may embrace my child.

And see, they come to take me hence;....
My injured orphan babe, adieu!
O cruel world! for my offence
Wilt thou this child with horror view?

115

Ah! yes; with me his hopes must die;
For none will take him to their care;
The prudent e'en his sight will fly,
Lest with my blood my guilt he share.

And soon to vice and misery driven,
Unknown, or else disdained, by worth,
Untaught, my child, the way to heaven,
Thou'lt yet be judged unfit for earth.

What words are these that to my soul
A feeling like delight impart,....
That fear and agony control,
And bind an almost broken heart?

116

They say a generous few have joined
(The pride of these enlightened times,)
Poor outcast orphan babes to find,
And save them from their parents' crimes.

Instruction's page to them they ope,
Bid them aspire to honest fame,
And by their own good actions hope
To wipe away their parents' shame.

Blest men!....a dying culprit's prayer
Now seeks for you the heavenly throne;....
For making thus our babes your care
May Heaven reward you in your own!

117

THE VIRGIN'S FIRST LOVE.

Yes,....sweet is the joy when our blushes impart
The youthful affection that glows in the heart,
If prudence, and duty, and reason approve
The timid delight of the virgin's first love.

But if the fond virgin be destined to feel
A passion she must in her bosom conceal,
Lest parents relentless the flame disapprove,...
Where's then the delight of the virgin's first love?

118

If stolen the glance by which love is exprest,
If sighs when half heaved be with terror supprest,
If whispers of passion suspicion must move,
Where's then the delight of the virgin's first love?

Or if (ah! too faithful!) with fondness she sighs
For one who has ceased her affection to prize,
Forgetting the vows by whose magic he strove
To gain that rich treasure the virgin's first love,....

If tempted by interest he venture to shun
The gentle affection his tenderness won,
Through passion's soft maze with another to rove,....
Where's then the delight of the virgin's first love?

119

Her eye, when the tale of his treachery she hears,
Now beams with disdain, and now glistens with tears;
Ah! what can the arrow then rankling remove?
Farewell the delight of the virgin's first love!

And see, sad companion of mental distress,
Disease steals upon her in health's flattering dress:
Oh! surely that bloom every fear should remove!
Ah! no;....seek its cause in the virgin's first love.

Still brighter the colour appears on her cheek,
Her eye boasts a lustre no language can speak;....
But vain are the hopes these appearances move,
Fond parent! they spring from the virgin's first love.

120

And soon, while unconscious that fate hovers near,
While hope's flattering smiles on her features appear,
No struggle, no groan, his approaches to prove,
Death ends the fond dream of the virgin's first love.

121

STANZAS WRITTEN UNDER ÆOLUS'S HARP.

Come, ye whose hearts the tyrant sorrows wound;
Come, ye whose breasts the tyrant passions tear,
And seek this harp,....in whose still-varying sound
Each woe its own appropriate plaint may hear.

Solemn and slow yon murmuring cadence rolls,
Till on the attentive ear it dies away,....
To your fond griefs responsive, ye, whose souls
O'er loved lost friends regret's sad tribute pay.

122

But hark! in regular progression move
Yon silver sounds, and mingle as they fall;....
Do they not wake thy trembling nerves, O Love,
And into warmer life thy feelings call?

Again it speaks;...but, shrill and swift, the tones
In wild disorder strike upon the ear:
Pale Phrensy listens,....kindred wildness owns,
And starts appalled the well-known sounds to hear:

Lo! e'en the gay, the giddy and the vain
In deep delight these vocal wires attend,....
Silent and breathless watch the varying strain,
And pleased the vacant toils of mirth suspend.

123

So, when the lute on Memnon's statue hung
At day's first rising strains melodious poured
Untouched by mortal hands, the gathering throng
In silent wonder listened and adored.

But the wild cadence of these trembling strings
The enchantress Fancy with most rapture hears;
At the sweet sound to grasp her wand she springs,
And lo! her band of airy shapes appears!

She, rapt enthusiast, thinks the melting strains
A choir of angels breathe, in bright array
Bearing on radiant clouds to yon blue plains
A soul just parted from its silent clay.

124

And oft at eve her wild creative eye
Sees to the gale their silken pinions stream,
While in the quivering trees soft zephyrs sigh,
And through the leaves disclose the moon's pale beam.

O breathing instrument! be ever near
While to the pensive muse my vows I pay;
Thy softest call the inmost soul can hear,
Thy faintest breath can Fancy's pinions play.

And when art's laboured strains my feelings tire,
To seek thy simple music shall be mine;
I'll strive to win its graces to my lyre,
And make my plaintive lays enchant like thine.

125

CONSUMPTION.

Consumption, fairest of Death's craving brood!
But, ah! most treacherous, hence, thou smiling fate,
From those I love! for thou art skilled to play
A dread variety of hopes and fears
Upon the heart's best feelings. Specious foe,
Thy flattering hand paints the poor victim's cheek
With roses mocking health's rich bloom, and gives
The sinking eye such lustre as adorns
Love's eager glance. Thou cloth'st thy destined prey
In glowing charms it ne'er could boast before,

126

As victims were of old with flowers adorned
Before they bled in pagan sacrifice:....
And as the schoolboy, whose expected sport
Adown some favourite walk thick gathering clouds
And falling rains prevent, if he behold
One partial gleam of sunshine, thinks (fond youth)
That general splendour's gradual blaze is near,....
So, hanging o'er thy victim's restless bed
With breath suspended, vainly anxious friends
Watch thy fair seemings, which to them appear
Pledges that danger's past,....pledges as sure
As to the Patriarch's eye the radiant arch
Of ever-varying hues:....but, even then,
In that confiding moment, (treacherous power!)

127

Death steals upon security, and grasps
Thy lovely conquest, triumphing the while,
And smiling midst the beauty thou hast made.

Ye who have anxiously and fondly watched
Beside a fading friend, unconscious still
The cheek's bright crimson, lovely to the view,
Like nightshade, with unwholesome beauty bloomed,
And that the sufferer's bright dilated eye,
Like mouldering wood, owes to decay alone
Its wondrous lustre,....ye who still have hoped
Even in death's dread presence, but at length
Have heard the summons (O heart-freezing call!)
To pay the last sad duties, and to hear

128

Upon the silent dwelling's narrow lid
The first earth thrown, (sound deadliest to the soul!....
For, strange delusion! then, and then alone,
Hope seems for ever fled, and the dread pang
Of final separation to begin)....
Ye who have felt all this....O pay my verse
The mournful meed of sympathy, and own,
Own with a sigh, the sombre picture's just.

130

LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. BIGGS, ON HIS HAVING SET THE MAD-SONG, AND MY LOVE TO WAR IS GOING.

While from your taste my humble lays acquire
Attractive charms to them till now unknown,
My muse deceived exulting strikes her lyre,
And loves her strains for graces not their own.

131

FATHERLESS FANNY,

A BALLAD.

Keen and cold is the blast loudly whistling around:
As cold are the lips that once smiled upon me;
And unyielding, alas! as this hard-frozen ground,
The arms once so ready my shelter to be.
Both my parents are dead, and few friends I can boast,
But few to console and to love me, if any;
And my gains are so small,....a bare pittance at most
Repays the exertions of fatherless Fanny.

132

Once indeed I with pleasure and patience could toil,....
But 'twas when my parents sat by and approved;
Then my laces to sell I went out with a smile,
Because my fatigue fed the parents I loved.
And at night, when I brought them my hardly earned gains,
Though small they might be, still my comforts were many;
For my mother's fond blessing rewarded my pains,
My father stood watching to welcome his Fanny.

But, ah! now that I work by their presence uncheered,
I feel 'tis a hardship indeed to be poor,
While I shrink from the labour no longer endeared,
And sigh as I knock at the wealthy man's door.

133

Then, alas! when at night I return to my home,
No longer I boast that my comforts are many;
To a silent, deserted, dark dwelling I come,
Where no one exclaims ‘Thou art welcome, my Fanny.’

That, that is the pang;....want and toil would impart
No pang to my breast, if kind friends I could see;
For the wealth I require is that of the heart,
The smiles of affection are riches to me.
Then, ye wealthy, O think, when to you I apply
To purchase my goods, though you do not buy any,
If in accents of kindness you deign to deny,
You'll comfort the heart of poor fatherless Fanny.

135

THE DESPAIRING WANDERER.

Oh! 'tis an hour to misery dear!
No noise but dashing waves I hear,
Save hollow blasts that rush around,
For midnight reigns with horrors crowned.

Lo! clouds in swarthy grandeur sweep
Portentous o'er the troubled deep:
O'er the tall rocks' majestic heads,
See, billowy vapour slowly spreads:

136

And lo! fantastic shapes seem near,
The rocks with added height appear,
And from the mist, to seek the tide,
Gigantic figures darkly glide;
While, with quick step and hurried mien,
The timid fly the fearful scene.
Again loud blasts I shuddering hear,
Which to my mournful soul appear
To toll some shipwrecked sailor's knell!
Of fear, of grief, of death, they tell.
Perhaps they bade yon foaming tide
Unheard-of misery scatter wide.
Hail! dread idea, fancy-taught,....
To me with gloomy pleasure fraught!

137

I should rejoice the world to see
Distrest, distracted, lost, like me.

Oh! why is phrensy called a curse?
I deem the sense of misery worse:
Come, Madness, come! though pale with fear
Be joy's flusht cheek when thou art near,
On thee I eager glances bend;
Despair, O Madness, calls thee friend!
Come, with thy visions cheer my gloom,....
Spread o'er my cheek thy feverish bloom,
To my weak form thy strength impart,
From my sunk eye thy lightnings dart!
O come, and on the troubled air
Throw rudely my disordered hair;

138

Arm me with thy supporting pride,
Let me all ills, all fears deride!
O bid me roam in tattered vest,
Bare to the wintry wind my breast,
Horrors with dauntless eye behold,
And stalk in fancied greatness bold!
Let me, from yonder frowning rock,
With thy shrill scream the billows mock;
With fearless step ascend the steep
That totters o'er the encroaching deep;
And while the swelling main along
Blue lightning's awful splendours throng,....
And while within each warring wave
Unnumbered victims find a grave,

139

And thunders rend the ear of Night,
Which happy wanderers' souls affright,....
Let me the mountain torrent quaff,
And midst the war of nature....laugh!

141

THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE.

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale!
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake,....
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.
Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an Orphan Boy.

142

Poor foolish child! how pleased was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly
And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought;
She could not bear to see my joy;
For with my father's life 'twas bought,
And made me a poor Orphan Boy.

The people's shouts were long and loud;
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears;
‘Rejoice! rejoice!’ still cried the crowd;
My mother answered with her tears.
‘Why are you crying thus,’ said I,
‘While others laugh and shout with joy?’
She kissed me....and, with such a sigh!
She called me her poor Orphan Boy.

143

‘What is an orphan boy?’ I cried,
As in her face I looked and smiled;
My mother through her tears replied,
‘You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!’
And now they've tolled my mother's knell,
And I'm no more a parent's joy,
O lady,....I have learnt too well
What 'tis to be an Orphan Boy.

Oh! were I by your bounty fed!
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide,....
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread;
The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep!....Ha?....this to me?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ?...
Look down, dear parents! look, and see
Your happy happy Orphan Boy.

145

SONG.

[Fond dream of love by love repaid]

Fond dream of love by love repaid,
How soon thy dear illusions flew!
Lavinia smiled, seducing maid!
And then her flattering smile withdrew.

But still that smile, where'er I stray,
In fancy haunts and charms my sight,
Adds splendour to the blaze of day,
And gives it to the gloom of night:

146

And what my captive heart can free?
Love as the soul of life I view:
Then, if the soul immortal be,
Say, is not love immortal too?

Si l'âme est immortelle,
L'amour ne l'est-il pas?

FLORIAN.

147

SONG.

[Go, youth beloved, in distant glades]

Go, youth beloved, in distant glades,
New friends, new hopes, new joys to find!
Yet sometimes deign, midst fairer maids,
To think on her thou leav'st behind.
Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share
Must never be my happy lot;
But thou mayst grant this humble prayer,
Forget me not, forget me not!

148

Yet, should the thought of my distress
Too painful to thy feelings be,
Heed not the wish I now express,
Nor ever deign to think on me:
But, oh! if grief thy steps attend,
If want, if sickness be thy lot,
And thou require a soothing friend,
Forget me not! forget me not!

149

SONNET.

[How vain the task thy image to remove]

How vain the task thy image to remove
From the firm tablet of my faithful breast!
Thy image, Henry, there by artless love
In early youth's ingenuous hour imprest.

When first my yielding bosom owned thy sway,
Had reason bid the dangerous guest depart,
I might have hoped the dictate to obey;
But now thy empire's fixed within my heart.

150

So, in its fluid state when amber round
A heedless insect spreads its baneful power,
The fluttering prisoner for destruction bound
Some hand might soon to liberty restore:
But when the fluid hardens round its prize,
All chance for freedom lost, the victim yields and dies.

151

SONG.

[I know you false, I know you vain]

I know you false, I know you vain,
Yet still I cannot break my chain:
Though with those lips so sweetly smiling,
Those eyes so bright and so beguiling,
On every youth by turns you smile,
And every youth by turns beguile,
Yet still enchant and still deceive me,
Do all things, fatal fair,....but leave me.

152

Still let me in those speaking eyes
Trace all your feelings as they rise;
Still from those lips in crimson swelling,
Which seem of soft delights the dwelling,
Catch tones of sweetness, which the soul
In fetters ever new control;
Nor let my starts of passion grieve thee,....
Though death to stay, 'twere death to leave thee.

153

LINES RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE SOCIETY FOR THE RELIEF OF PERSONS IMPRISONED FOR SMALL DEBTS.

What are the deeds that fill the historic page,
And most the plaudits of the world engage?
What actions most attract the eyes of Fame,
And from her voice the loudest pæans claim?
The conqueror's deeds,....the awful works of death,....
For them the trophied bust, the flatterer's breath.
He, he alone a nation's praise enjoys,
Whose noble daring dazzles, but destroys;

154

While the blest deeds performed by Pity's hand
Nor praise nor notice from the world command:
Her useful charities to virtue dear,
Lost in the blaze of victories, disappear;
E'en the blest Howard's, long the boast of fame,
To Abercrombie's shines a second name.

So, when the traveller various countries seeks,
Not the smooth-flowing stream his praise bespeaks,
Which, as it humbly fills its narrow bound,
Diffuses verdure, plenty, health, around:
Unseen by him, perhaps, its waters glide;
He seeks the foaming cataract's lofty tide;
And while, creating wonder, awe, delight,
The frantic torrent sparkles to the sight,

155

He sees, admiring, the dread flood expand
That scatters waste and havoc o'er the land.

But though I Valour's offspring love to praise,
To pity's humbler sons shall flow my lays.
To me the warrior's brightest wreath appears
Steeped in the orphan's, parent's, widow's tears.
More blest, to me, one deed of Christian love
Than all the feats which British prowess prove:
From laurell'd conquerors still to those I turn
Who bid the debtor's bosom cease to mourn,....
Those who the victim of misfortune's hour
To useful labour, and his home, restore,....
Snatch him from indolence, from noxious air,
From vile associates, from his own despair,

156

Destructive habits, misery's baleful gloom,
An useless life, and an untimely tomb.
Blest men! to you, howe'er you shrink from fame,
Belongs the patriot's prostituted name.
If Rome to him a civic garland gave
Who snatched one Roman from the yawning grave,
On you what bright rewards should Britain shower,
For countless Britons saved from Death's dread power!
While want's pale sons, by your exertions charmed,
And their soothed hearts of jealous rage disarmed,
At fortune's partial smiles their frowns repress,....
Since wealth in you appears the power to bless.
But in your sight how poor were earthly praise!
For you to Heaven the eye of hope can raise.

157

Weak must the world's applause to them appear
Who thy still voice, approving Conscience, hear.

Go, sons of Charity! your course pursue,
Yours be the secret joy to virtue due!
O happy ye, whom every scene can please,
Viewed through the medium of a mind at ease!
E'en when, by fashion led, you chance to stray
Where triflers bow to dissipation's sway,....
As the phosphoric flame, though always bright,
Shines in pure air with most refulgent light;....
So still for you, within whose bosom glow
The pure enjoyments virtuous deeds bestow,
Pleasure's soft rose seems fresher sweets to shed,
And its bright blush to beam with livelier red.

158

But hail to all who others' sufferings feel,
And ills they pity nobly strive to heal!
Whether they rear the felon's orphan child,
Or sooth the stranger from his home exiled,
Or helpless foundlings to their care receive,
Or bid the captive's heart no longer grieve,....
Or, urged by justice to the virtuous deed,
The cause of Afric's injured offspring plead,....
Or, like those deep and unseen springs that spread
Verdure and plenty from a secret bed,
They bid their charities obscurely flow,
Content their God alone the deeds shall know.
Should pining woe or worldly want be theirs,
For them shall rise affection's fondest prayers;

159

To them shall friendship's seraph voice impart
The soothing words that heal the wounded heart;
Aid shall the acquaintance, nay the stranger, lend,
And in attentions rival e'en the friend;....
Shall, proud to bid those sufferers cease to groan
Who others' miseries ever made their own,
With watchful eye their secret wish explore,
And change affliction's into triumph's hour:
For then the world will see distinctly proved,
How much they're honoured, and how much beloved.
And, nobler prospect, when life's closing day
Sinks in the night of sickness and decay,....
In vain to them shall death's dark horrors gloom:....
Theirs the bright day that beams beyond the tomb....

161

TO TWILIGHT.

[Written in 1792.]

Friend of the pensive wanderer, Twilight, hail!
Pleased I observe thee roll thy sea of clouds
Athwart the crimson throne
Of the departing sun.

For then what various objects, dimly seen,
By wonder-working Fancy touched, acquire
An awe-inspiring air,
And urge Fear's hurried step!

162

See! thine attendant, the low-sailing bat,
Flaps his brown wing, begins his circling flight;
E'en midnight's tuneful bird
To hail thee pours her strain.

I love thy simple garb; no brilliant stars
Adorn thy dusky vest, unlike to that
Worn by thy sister Night,
Save when she reigns in storms.

Nor canst thou boast the many-tinted robe
Worn by thy beauteous herald, blushing Eve.
Thine is a veil of gray,
Meet for the cloistered maid.

163

Thou nurse of saddening thoughts, prolong thy stay,
Let me adore thee still! Eve's glowing grace,
Night's fire-embroidered vest,
Alike displease my eye;

For I am Sorrow's child, and thy cold showers,
Thy mist-encircled forms, thy doubtful shapes,
Wake a responsive chord
Within my troubled soul.

For, oh! to me futurity appears
Wrapt in a chilling veil of glooms and mists;
Nor seems one tint, or star,
To deck her furrowed brow.

164

But slowly cross her path imperfect shapes
Of danger, sorrow, phrensy, and despair,
Force their uneasy way,
And pale my cold, sunk cheek.

But see! the unwelcome moon unveils her head,
(Those hours are gone in which I hailed her beams)
Distinctness spreads around,
And mimic day appears.

I loath the cheerful sight, as still my fate,
O Twilight, bears a hue resembling thine;
And envy-struck I shun
The scene I cannot share.

165

I'll to my couch,....yet not, alas! to rest:
By artificial gloom I'll suit my soul,
And e'en from pity hide
My dim and sleepless eyes.

167

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND ON NEW YEAR'S DAY....1802.

Health to my friend!....Now o'er the frozen world
The gorgeous flag of revelry's unfurled,
Mayst thou with countless multitudes rejoice,
And join with heartfelt glee the choral voice!

Dear are the festive scenes which Christmas brings,
To smooth the plumes of winter's ruffled wings,
From his stern brow to smile the frowns away,
And the pale terrors of his form allay.

168

But now another festival is near,
And hark! the bells announce the new-born year.
The jocund sound awakes to thoughts of glee;
But, ah! it wakes far different thoughts in me.
To me, alas! this joy-devoted day
Sad self-reproaches in deep gloom array;
And, as last night I marked with pensive eye
The pale departing year for ever fly,
Methought, O sight my conscience to appall,
Dread ‘as the dread hand-writing on the wall!’
I, on the horizon traced by memory's powers,
Saw the long record of my wasted hours,....
Hours unproductive as the sun's bright ray
While on the snows around its splendours play.

169

What, though I saw, by love of virtue fired,
Eager to be whate'er my soul admired,
I the departed year with vows begun
Each fair temptation cautiously to shun;
I also saw my resolutions fly,
Swift as bright falling stars from summer's sky,
And hours to duties and amendment vowed
On Dissipation and her slaves bestowed:....
And, as the stream that rolls in spreading pride
Receives strange contrasts on its silver tide,
While on its surface still by turns succeed
The swan's pure feather and the putrid weed,....
So, as companions, I've alike received
The sage who charmed me and the fool who grieved,

170

In idle converse spent each precious hour,
Squandering the time that can return no more.

But are these thoughts confined to me alone?
To only me is conscious error known?
Are others' hearts from those dread whispers free
That dash this moment joy's full cup from me?
Ah! no;....I read in many a tearful eye
Within the bosom self-upbraidings lie,
While late self-knowledge, judging from the past,
Fears the next year will parallel the last.

But, though its hours had been with virtues stored,
Marked by each noble action we adored,

171

Still fond regret should claim this jocund day,
And heartfelt sorrow check the joyous lay:
For, oh! how many of that festive throng,
First in the dance, the pastime, and the song,
Who, with bright eyes unconscious of a tear,
Welcomed with us the late departed year,
Now, worn with sickness, press a restless bed,
Or droop in poverty the languid head,
Or, while affection vainly strove to save,
Have, warm in youth, been hurried to the grave!
Then, should this time to joy alone invite,
The feast by day, the song, the dance by night?
Home, thoughtless revellers! and, from sight removed,
In useful sadness mourn the worth ye loved;

172

Or give, in tribute to the new-born year,
Regret's deep sigh, and self-abasement's tear.

But 'tis not secret self-reproach alone
That bids my heart the season's joys disown;....
Ah! no:....whene'er I see this day return,
My saddened fancy views a mother's urn:
Remembrance whispers, when the new-born year
In time long past, by numbers hailed, drew near,
To me it gave, alas! misfortune birth,....
That hour my mother closed her eyes on earth.
Moment to me with every danger fraught,
Though on those dangers then I little thought;
Such was my youth, the blow was big with fate,
Yet such my youth, I could not feel its weight:

173

But, the first conflict o'er, again I smiled;
Too soon life's opening joys my grief beguiled;
Too soon, on pleasure's ocean launched, I found
The dear maternal image sunk and drowned.

But, now no more I trust that dangerous sea,
(Restored, Reflection! to my heart and thee,)
Again that sacred image meets my view;
And while I memory's mournful maze pursue,
As, in that magic scene where German skill
Bids phantom forms the awful darkness fill,
The illumined shapes when furthest from the sight
Beam on the eye with most refulgent light,....
So, long-lost parent, as more distant grows
The hour that wrapped thee in death's calm repose,

174

Stronger thy semblance on my mind I trace,
Clearer I view thy sickness-faded face,
Oftener in sleep, with seeming being bright,
Thy honoured form, my mother, glads my sight:
Nor soon, when slumber flies at rising day,
Fades the regretted visitant away;....
No,....grateful memory, wakened by the dream,
Makes thee with eager tenderness her theme:....
Thine anxious care for others' sufferings shown;
The patient sweetness which endured its own;
The temper still victorious over pain;
The active kindness never sought in vain;
The wise remarks of native genius born;
The kind excuses, or the well-meant scorn;

175

The converse e'en midst ceaseless anguish gay;
The industrious skill which cheered the lonely day,
Which e'en in sickness every hour improved,
Still toilful found for those it fondly loved;....
All these, and more, to my remembrance throng,
And, sadly sweet, the thought of thee prolong.

But, lost instructor, monitor most dear,
Nor too indulgent found, nor too severe,
Conscience, still fatal to my mind's repose,
Whispers, ere I the cells of memory close,
Time was, when gaily hurrying from thy sight
From home I flew abroad to seek delight;
When e'en thy mild restraints impatience moved,
And more thy lessons tired me, than improved;

176

When busy triflers I rejoiced to see,
And for their converse left my tasks and thee....
But now, could aught thy valued life restore,
Oh! what could lure me from thy presence more?
Then, by thy couch I loved not to abide,....
To tend thee now would be my joy, my pride:
Then, I thy well-meant frown abhorred to see,....
Now, 't were more dear than others' smiles to me;
And, could those eyes again the light behold,
How blest were I, my awe by love controlled,
To paint each scene I've trod since last we met,
Each source of triumph, or of deep regret;
Tell thee what various sorrows I have known,
Now others' wrongs deploring, now my own;

177

Tell thee, that, tost upon the world's wide sea,
Too soon, alas! I learnt to sigh for thee;
But tell thee also, urged by grateful pride,
How well the parent left thy loss supplied!
Then, gladly owning thy maternal power,
I'd court the censures which I feared before,
While, all my heart to thine inspection shown,
I bade thee form my conduct by thine own.
But never, never can that joy be mine....
No more these tearful eyes can fix on thine;
Nor let me form, upbraiding Heaven's decree,
A wish if granted, only kind to me
Whether thou sleep'st in peace, awaiting doom,
Or to new life art summoned from the tomb,

178

To thee, my mother, good is surely given,....
Thine rest from pain, or thine the bliss of heaven.

Here let me close the tributary strain,
And check the tender sigh that heaves in vain;
Here o'er departed time my requiem end,
Nor longer wound the patience of my friend.
But though by endless energy secured,
And by the world's temptations unallured,
Thy vigorous mind rejects each vain pursuit,
Ere fancy's flowers it seeks, or learning's fruit,
As water ne'er the forms of frostwork weaves
Till each gross particle the crystal leaves,....

179

Still, let the errors of my weaker mind
From thy superior strength indulgence find;
For O remember, they true greatness show,
Who pity frailties which they cannot know!

181

ON READING, SINCE THE DUKE OF BEDFORD'S DEATH, MR. BURKE'S LETTER REFLECTING ON HIS GRACE.

Such were the stern reproofs, illustrious shade!
That once to thee a warning voice conveyed;
Thus he, whose eloquence enchants the world,
Against thy head his powerful thunders hurled;
Thus thy bright path the modern Tully crossed,
The sorrowing parent in the statesman lost;
Thus he, whose praise thou hadst been proud to share,
To stop thy progress bade his lightnings glare.

182

But, had not death those lips in silence sealed
Which to the heart with magic force appealed,....
Had that afflicted genius lived to see
An anxious nation breathing prayers for thee,
And then beheld thee from the world removed,
When most deserving, and when most beloved,....
He would, forgetting all his anger past,
O'er thy fair fame his sheltering wings have cast;
No more thy ‘few and idle years’ have scorned,
But with thy praise his glowing page adorned,....
Nor thee ‘a poor rich man’ have dared to deem,
But owned him truly rich whom all esteem;....
No longer thought ‘derivative thy worth,’
But owned thy virtues nobler than thy birth.

183

And when his country's boast, thy honoured friend,
Whom rivals love, and even foes commend,
Rose in the senate, by thy worth inspired,
And dared to praise the virtues he admired;....
His, formed to mend and not mislead the heart,
The powers of Anthony without his art;
Not his the wish to gild a tyrant's crimes,
But make a patriot live to future times;....
The stern reprover of thy manly youth,
With answering sighs, had owned the picture's truth,
Had blessed the eloquence sublimely strong
That charmed to kindred woe the listening throng;
And when the eulogist, o'ercome with grief,
In tearful silence sought awhile relief,

184

He would the noble subject have pursued,
The fond regret, the votive sighs renewed;
And while he Friendship's bursting sorrow calmed,
Like her, in deathless words, thy name embalmed;
And as he deeply felt the parent's woe,
When forced a darling offspring to forgo,
Ordained to follow to the silent grave
The child whose virtues glowing transport gave,
To hear that precious child's expiring groan
Whose filial fondness should have soothed his own,
Doomed in his age in lonely grief to pine,
And mourn the blasted honour of his line,
Like some lone tree, his pale dejected form,
Bared of its branches by the wintry storm;

185

Not like the ruin, graceful in decay,
Which verdant ivy's sheltering wreaths array;....
He, as he sorrowed for thine early doom,
And saw in fancy thine untimely tomb,
Would, urged by mournful envy, thus have cried....
‘Blest were his parents! they before him died.’

THE END.