Malvern Hills :: :: University of Virginia Library

MORNING ascent up Malvern, p. 1. — Mountain thorn, emblematical of Genius, 3. — Chatterton, 4. — Advantage of early rising, 8. — Profound knowledge not necessary to perceive the works of God, 10. — View from the summit of Malvern, 10. — Upton, 11. — Malvern Chase, 12. — Conflict of Prince Edward with the Earl of Leicester, at the base of Malvern, 13. — Holy Well, 16. — Two Lovers killed by lightning on Malvern, 18. — Little Malvern, 20. — Bransil Castle, 21. — Hanley Castle, 22. — Beauchamp, and the spoils of time, 23. — The Infidel, 24. — Malvern Forest, 25. — Camp on Malvern, 27. — Conflicts between the Britons and Romans, and the Saxons and Welsh, 28. — Pernicious consequences of war, 31. — The Corsican, 31. — Alfred imitated by few potentates, 35. — Encomiums on the Sons of Peace, 36. — Slavery denounced, 37. — The Slave Merchant, 37. — The Slave Captain, 38. — The Slave Dealer, 39. — Apostrophe to Wilberforce, &c. 41. — Domestic Slaves, 42. — Milliners' Apprentices, 43. — Manufacturing Children, 46. — Unfeeling Masters, 48. — Children of Mammon heedless of the charms of Nature, 52. — The Book of Life, 53. — Criminality of Catholics in withholding the Bible, 54. — Value of the Bible to the afflicted; the wanderer; and the captive, 55. — Folly of regarding wealth as the chief good, 56. — Independence of the Poet, 57, — The City Magog; his follies and tergiversations, 58. — Magog's death, 66. — Man, a sojourner on earth, 67. — Death terrible to some, 68. — Hailed by the Christian, 69. — Reference to the dissolution of early friendships, 69. — Village bells, 70. — Festivities of Whitsuntide, 70. — Youthful dancers; rustic musicians; aged spectators, 70. — Farewell to Malvern, 71.

ALONE, unnoticed, at this early hour,
While all around is silence, I will mount
The Malvern Hills. This is a holy day;
And holy I will make it, leave the world,
Its toils, and cares, and commune with myself.

As up I climb, the freshness of the morn
Smells grateful, though no object meets my view.
Through the dark mists, which now, with coming day,
Struggle for mastery, the giant Hill
Casts not a shade. Now back I turn, to mark —

The winding path, but all is grey and void;
On every side thick and impervious clouds
Stretch their dark-bosom'd forms. The spacious world
Lives but in memory! whilst forth I roam
A wandering, unlov'd, solitary thing.

With Malvern thus before me, Fancy starts
At her discordant shapings, rousing up
Impossibilities, pursuing then
Through each strange circumstance, the vagrant thought,
With aptest energy, earnest, and stern.
Ye airy shapes and fantasies, away!
I am no unblest solitary man,
Confined to one rude spot, while round, a scene
Illimitable spreads, bleak, desolate,
With not one kindred soul my joys to share:
Ten thousand recollections, such as cheer
The inmost spirit, crowd upon my mind:
This Mount, I know it well, pre-eminent
Among the loveliest uplands of our isle,
And soon, from its proud head, shall I behold
Objects that glad the heart, assured the while
That I am loved and loving. — Still I toil.
How long, and steep, and dreary, the ascent!
It needs the evidence of close deduction
To know that I shall ever reach the height.

Now have I left the mists, and, glad, ascend
Up to a purer air. The hill appears
Bright in the crimson splendours of the morn,
Yet, when I cast a sideway look behind,
And mark the prostrate clouds, and view no form,

But this huge Mount, which, like an island, stands
Mid boundless seas, I could almost believe
Yon steril eminence, turf-clad and wild,
Spite of its glorious vest, the regal spot
Where Desolation sits, and views entranced
His vast, dispeopled empire.

By my side
An aged Thorn I see. At this lone hour,
Th' obtruding sight of aught familiar
Conducts, once more, my spirit back to earth.
How bent its matted head, by the bleak wind,
That in one current comes — howling and fierce!
A spectacle art thou, disshevell'd Thorn!
Though this the month of gladness, and the time
When verdure thrives — though now thy fellow trees,
Down in the vale, their summer dress put forth,
And every spray, with gorgeous blossoms hung,
Dances with happiness; yet, heedless, thou,
With here and there a solitary leaf,
Look'st ever to the earth, disconsolate:
Waiting till some rude storm the mount involve;
Uptear thy feeble limbs, for ever end
Their conflict with the winds, and down the steep
Hurl thee, unpitied, tenant of the clouds!
Emblem too oft of him, in this low world,
Whom Genius burdens; whose diviner mind
Spurns at the earth's low aims, heeding but small
The things which others sigh for, whilst he feels
Bleak Poverty's soul-withering blasts assail.
Low, like the Mountain Thorn, he bends his head,
Brooding; and if no solace reach his heart,

From trust in God and Goodness, he, alone,
Estranged from this ignoble scene of things,
Looks downward, and in darkness wraps his soul.

Such was Bristowa's bard, that wondrous boy,
First in the ranks of Genius, who illumed,
With coruscation of mysterious light,
Our dark terrene, then, comet-like, pass'd on!
Oh! had this spirit, of ethereal mould,
Into his heart received the Book of Life!
Soften'd and mellowed by the Christian's faith,
He had not look'd on all created things
As fatherless, ocean and starry heaven;
In evil hour, he had not sipp'd the bowl,
Which sent him, unprepared, in audit dread,
To meet his Judge!

O, ye, in after times
Who feel, like Chatterton, (over whose grave
We bend, in solemn silence!) Power of Song,
The lofty consciousness, seize not your lyre,
And dash it down, if men awhile withhold
Their tardy recognitions. What is Fame,

For which you pant, as the ascendant good?
One smile of Heaven, one whisper sweet within,

In Wisdom's chasten'd estimate, exceeds
The proudest plaudits Earth e'er scattered round.
Crowd not your thoughts, your aspirations high,
Into this point of being! — like a cloud —

A tale — a flower — a vision of the night!
So frail and fleeting! Grasp at mightier joys!
Stretch your impassioned and inspiring views
Beyond the passing finite: realize
Man, as immortal! From the Word Divine
Derive your maxims, regulate your aims,
The one enclosure where true peace is found!

How sweet the early fragrance, as the dew
Rises with morn's pure incense to the skies!

The mount is still before me, and my feet
Must tread the mazy circuit, rough, and steep,
Ere I attain the summit, but, on earth,
Toil is the grand precursor of all good.

— The strife is o'er! Thou Soul within me, shout!
Now on the Beacon's towering head I stand!
O, what a wide diversity of shapes!
The world in miniature! Trees, hills and dales,
Glist'ning with countless sun-beams; whilst high heaven
Assumes an aspect more magnificent,
So throng'd with all unutterable things!

Each moment brings some nobler object forth.
The radiant sun just peers o'er yonder hill
In silent grandeur, whilst the neighbouring land,
Like ocean, drinks the splendour of the morn —
One mass of glory! Now the last faint star
Withdraws his timid ray, whilst slow the moon
Sinks shadowy in the western hemisphere.
Beneath my feet, down the dark mountain's side,
The clouds are troubled! now they fast dissolve!
A fairy vision! whilst the early lark
Up through their bosom mounts most merrily.

Oh, what a luxury do those possess
Who, rising with the morn, taste its first sweets!
The breeze that waves the long grass to and fro,
While yet the dew of heaven hangs thick upon it,

Gives health, and raises the unfetter'd mind
To loftiest meditation. Day returns,
And Nature, rising from a transient rest,
Exuberant of beauty, seems to look
Lovelier for being seen. How wide the sway
Of Him who spake, and all things sprang to life!
Whose hand upholds, whose eye encircles all!
Parent, and Guardian of Creation round!
The elephant on Thee depends for food,
And all the intermediate train of shapes,
Down to the mite! with beings, smaller still,
Possest of parts peculiar and complete,
To whom the mite appears an elephant!
All on our Common Father call for bread!
Learn it, astonish'd Earth! shout it, oh Heaven!
He hears them all!

Little by man is known
Of this fair heritage; this world of sense;
The grand interior of the human mind;
Of thought untired; the living principle;
The secret springs of action; how the soul,
Occult, and moving through its dim obscure,
Maintains wide empire; all inert beside;
And, of that little, what is blindly lost
By him who wastes his hours in drowsiness!
In the still grave we shall have sleep enough!
Befits us now to do the work of day;
Night hastens on.

Though man's enquiring eye
Hath pierc'd the ethereal vault, where planets roll

Their never-ending course, and suns their fires
On other worlds bestow; seen the vast orbs
That tremble in th' immeasurable void;
Yet these are atoms, lost in littleness,
Compared with Deity's unnumber'd works,
Scatter'd beyond the utmost range of sight,
Where stars, far distant, never light exchange,
And never comets in their wide career
Blend their faint beams.

Most thankful be our hearts,
That not to search the vast profound of space,
And know all knowledge man hath yet attain'd,
Is needful, to perceive the Almighty's power!
This world, this land, this spot, an endless source
Of meditation offers, where all eyes,
In every insect, gliding through the air,
In every blade of grass, may view the God
Who form'd the Universe!

How bright the scene!
Now the low cots appear, the distant hills,
The fertile plains, wide spread on every side;
Whilst all the vast variety of forms
In yonder sunny vale, tranquil and fair,
O'erpower my ravish'd senses. What a sweep
For mortal eye! Trees of a hundred years,
From this huge mount, appear like tender sprays,
And mock the toil to separate; while flocks,
And scatter'd herds, so faintly meet my sight,
They seem not living things. The goodly view
Makes my eye swim with rapture, and my heart
Feel ecstasy.

Ah! who could stand, unmoved,
And trace this blue expanse, this beauteous scene? —
Who, not allied to marble, view yon sun
Mounting the arch of heaven, whilst clouds surround,
Fiery, that o'er th' horizon's verge, far stretch'd,
Heap their rich columns, nor the question ask
Whence came the whole? Such marvellous display,
Indicative of Deity, methinks,
No eye might contemplate and not confess
The Power that call'd it forth.

Now Upton's spires,
So late obscure, shine with the orient ray.
From east to west, in one continuous chain,
Hamlets attract the eye, their names unknown,
With cots, innumerous, some just peeping out,
From woody covert; some, with hardy front,
(Sylvan protectors none,) daring each wind
That revels in the canopy of heaven,
While orchards, with their odoriferous breath,
Perfume the air, and to the sight present
One sheet of blossoms; the beholder's heart,
In the excess of unconstrain'd delight,
Almost disclaims humanity's dull powers,
And thinks it were a task of easy sort
To glide an airy shape amid the sky,

Or through yon pleasant vallies; drinking more
Of heavenly influence.

But now I turn,
From Hills that in the distance die away,
To mark the subject Chase. Trees that just rise
Above the tufted fern, in one long line
Of tasteless order, and the bounds of earth
And partial barrenness, and mouldering trunks,
Clad in their russet dress, proclaim that man
With sacrilegious hand hath labour'd hard
To tame its wild luxuriance, and destroy
The haunts of hermit innocence and peace.
But memory strains her eye beyond the date
Of thy young pastures — memorable Chase!
She fancies the white mists that curl along
Yon river, marching armies, pacing slow,

And solemn, to this plain, to pitch their tents.
Even now the crafty Edward moves before
My retrospective glance, methinks I see
The youthful chieftain with his valiant hosts
Crown'd with new laurels, urging swift their course
To this fair spot, where Leicester sleeps secure
And meditates new triumphs, whilst his King

Stoops to obey a subject, and resigns
Europe's first crown.

The monarch's dauntless son
Now hastens to the fight, resolv'd to die,
Or free his captive father: There they stand!
Both armies marshall'd, gazing each at each
In fearful expectation. Ere the fight
Scatter the slain, as Autumn's gust, the leaf,
Forebodings stern they feel; such searching doubts,
As when a traveller benighted roams
O'er Alp or Andes, whilst the thunder's voice
Imperious, speaks on high; and lightnings flash
Round his bare head. He marks each peal subside,
Yet fears the rattling elements again
Will sound to war, and thinks, with serious brow,
Of that fresh conflict which may sink his head,
Abased, before the Genius of the Storm.
With such expectant heart both armies pause.
The spell is o'er! — the battle's bray is heard —
The combat rages, fierce, impetuous,
And dreadful is the sound of clashing arms.
There Edward sends his sword, through each mail'd foe,
As it were air that met it, whilst the crown,
Suspended o'er the thickest of the strife,
Rouses his heart anew. The gallant youth
Feels for a sire in chains, a throne usurp'd,
And moves mid mangled heaps of his own slain,
Resistless, singly, till with joy he views

The hostile ranks retire, discomfited,
And hastes to rend his captive Father's chain.

Each moment brings some secret object forth!
Old Severn there his eager current rolls,

Urging his stately undiverted course,
Impatient to embrace his parent flood.
And many a pleasant stream that from these hills
Takes its meandering way, now meets my eye;
The sun-beams sparkle on their humble waves,
That, hid awhile by little hills, or trees,
Seem lost, then reappear, and onward steal,
Gladdening the villagers.

And now I mark,
Beneath two lofty hills, and in the vale
Form'd by their steep descent, the Holy Well.
A plain stone dwelling, weather-worn and rude,
Stands singly by. There, never sound is heard
But the bleak wind, that, howling from above,
Sweeps the bald mountain's side, and urging on
Its boisterous way, at length forgets its rage,

In dallying with the valley's scattered trees:
Save when the sky is hush'd, and to the ear
The never-ended bubblings of the spring
Send the same note — the same eternal note.
Most melancholy spot! the hand of time
Is busy with thy shatter'd tenement,
And all around thee prompts to pensiveness:
For who can view this place, nor think of those
Who to the fount are led to ease their frames
Of rankling malady. The drooping sire,
Hastening to death, disfranchised of his hope,
And casting, with a serious brow, his eye
Through distant times, with many an anxious care
For those he leaves behind. Or of the wife
Who bears a mother's name, by slow disease
Treading the downward road, yet, fill'd with dreams
Of lengthen'd days and future happiness;
Watching her infant's smile, and planning well
Its opening destiny, though never she
Shall mark its course. Yet not alone the throng
Who vainly hope the renovated frame,
Here pass their days: beneath yon spacious roof
Health and her sister Cheerfulness are found,
Whilst every joy, from Nature's fairest works,
When in her pride she sits immaculate,
Spontaneous heaves the heart.

Yet, sudden check
Was it to the full current of delight,

Accordant with this spot delectable,
When tidings came, at which, the coldest heart
The tear withheld not. Piteous is the tale.

The air was balmy, as the morn was fair;
Creation, in her loveliest vest array'd,
Chided the reader, with his book, or pen
Absorbed, while Nature call'd all beings forth.
A youthful pair, whose lightsome hearts received
The general invitation, from this roof,
Went forth, to wander, in sweet colloquy,
Over these hills, free as the circling air,
Fancy their guide, while every word, and look,
Gave token of their loves reciprocal.
(Affection! he who never felt thy power,
Knows not the pinnacle of human joy,
And in a world of sweet community,
Stands alien, and unknown; — a feast around,
Where he, a guest, must never sit and smile.)
In the sweet interchange of heart with heart,
Behold them now, clear on the Beacon high,
Gazing on all the multitude of things
With silent awe, or, calling each aloud,
On Pan, or Elfin Mab, no matter what,
From cheerfulness excessive, unconstrain'd,
Bursting the measuremeut of sober speech;
They must expand, and give the heavens their shout,
While, as they call, (no cynic listeners near,)
E'en Folly's voice hath tones, to lovers' ears,
More touching than a Tully's eloquence.

The sun withdraws himself. The heavens collapse,
The deep blue cloud comes sailing from the west,

And breezes, that, so late, with ringlets play'd,
(The only motion, save the bird on high,)
Wafting a grateful coolness, now retire,
Succeeded by the preludes of the storm,
Mist, and the winds austere. The youth exclaims,
“Beloved! haste we down! No moment's pause!
“Press on this arm! A covert in yon house,
“Upon whose roof we gaze, the Holy Well,
“We soon shall gain; refuge of travellers,
“In hour like this.” The maiden clasps his arm.
No word she uttered. See them now descend,
Not in the well-trod path circuitous,
But, nothing daunted, down the mountain's side,
Straight forward, leaping, bounding, like the roe,
Haply to scape the tempest ominous
Dark brooding in the air. The well they reach.
Joy kindles in their eyes at perils past.
Stay, gentle fugitives! Suspend awhile
Your gratulations! Dangers yet await!
Their brows contract! Solicitude, alone,
Each feels for each. The heavens assume a dye
Still more portentous! Hark! the distant peal
Sounds audible. That sudden flash bespeaks
The elemental tumult! Louder still
The thunders shake the firmament. A light
Diffus'd through heaven, in instantaneous burst
Of forked glare, proclaims the focal point
Of conflict was the spot, which, in their flight,
Wistless, the lovers sought. That other flash!
The roof is shatter'd! See! the maiden lies
Stretch'd, breathless, on the ground! The youth beholds!
He clasps his hands, his eyes to heaven upcast,

In all the speechless agony of grief!
Brief pause, and holy! Ah! a fiercer flash
Lays him, a corse, beside the maid he loved!

Let not the sacrilegious touch of man
Disturb the sanctity of these reft walls,
August in nakedness, and form'd to breathe
Instructive truths; warning the thoughtless heart,
That, in the hour to joyance most alive,
Death may be near, when, he whose heritage
Time bounds, however rich, is “poor indeed.”

From this high spot, associate with the clouds,
How many spires and aged towers appear,
Clear, or by distance dimm'd. —Most sweet to think
That these are Temples to the Living God,
Rais'd by our pious fathers, who, beneath
Their ever changing shades, now rest in peace.

Encompass'd by majestic foliage,
The Lesser Malvern stands. Proud edifice!
The spot around thee speaks of quietness.

Down at the mountain's base thou long hast braved,
With unmoved front, the season's varying hour;
The vernal tempest and December's storms;
Yet, at this time! when every breeze is hush'd,
Unwonted beauty sits upon thy brow.
The aged oaks around, and scatter'd elms,
In wild luxuriance spread their stately limbs;
And, true to friendship, ward each angry blast
That, howling through the valley, sweeps along
To thy dark battlements. Sequester'd church!
Round whom for ever strays the Forest Maid,
Tranquillity, whilst Meditation loves
To watch thee from afar; — protected stand
Through many a year of sun-shine and of storm,
And may thy sylvan guardians flourish too;
The woodman pass them, and the tempest spare.

A musing melancholy fills the mind
As we behold where Bransil turrets stood.
How are the days gone by! how chang'd the scene,
Simce, circled by a vast and rich domain,
Its towers arose, imposing, moated round,
And made to bear th' assault of ages! now
The neighbouring shepherd scarce can point the place
Where once they stood! — Significant of Man!
Where are the countless generations past?
Earth's boasted lords? her lofty ministers?
Once fear'd throughout the world! her valiant hosts!

Prais'd in their day! her captains? and her chiefs?
Instructive thought, where are the mighty men,
The potentates, that ruled a crouching world,
Who call'd the earth their own, and proudly sway'd
The sceptre of dominion? — Where are now
Empires once famed? Assyria! where art thou?
Thou? Babylon! the mistress of the world!
Media? and Persia? Greece! thy boasted power?
And thine? victorious Rome! nations and states,
(Your record, like a dream!) the spoiler Time,
Hath o'er your greatness past, and at each step
Your proudest temples levell'd with the ground —
Your brazen monuments, your towers of strength;
Save one — a pillar of majestic height,
Fill'd with dark annals, where your names appear
Pre-eminent. There, Time, the contest yields!
Secure it stands, immoveable, ordain'd
To teach mankind, the great, the solemn truth,
“What shades they are, what shadows they pursue.”

Nor may I well forget, whilst tracing round
These spacious scenes, where Hanley's Castle stood.
Now not one stone remains to claim the sigh
Of passing man — save, when the hollow winds,
Bending the night-shade's head, or nettle rank,
Disclose some sculptured fragment, green and damp,
And half immured in earth. But though this pile
Hath fallen long — yet Fancy still delights

To trace the busy scenes of ancient days;
To view the Lord Manorial pacing slow
His castle-hall, and poring with mute joy
Upon the hard-won spoils, obtain'd in fight,
Or in the chase, by daring ancestors,
And made to grace these walls, and prompt their youth
To feats renown'd, of hunt, or chivalry,
Not heedless of their sires. But all is gone!
Lost with the hopes and fears before the flood!
No vestige left! and Beauchamp too is gone!
The great, the gallant Beauchamp known no more!

In him expired a race of valiant men,
For prowess famed, and wealth, and courtesy;
But, stern memento to the great, and proud!
Low lie their honours now, their wealth, their power,
Their very names forgotten, or reserv'd
To grace Time's trophies. Where is now the scowl
Of haughty Independence? where the views
That agitated once their glowing breasts
With hopes of high achievement, and inspired
Their youthful progeny to dare the wars
Of Cambria, or of France? Awhile they lived
In splendour's gayest hall, and laugh'd, and sung
The merry roundelay, or bade the harp
Swell with tumultuous joy. No more is heard
The song of gladness: and the blooming cheek —

The graceful step, that held th' admiring eye,
No longer charms! the throbbing heart is still!
Both sires and children, all have had their days
Of pain and ease, disquietude and joy,
And now repose on Earth, our common nurse!
Death, King of dread! with no enticing look,
(Haply, but may the secret fear be vain!)
Call'd to his arms these sons of affluence;
He seldom calls the great, the rich, the proud,
With soft and winning accent, but preserves
Silence unbroken, save when some slow knell
Sends through the air, at midnight, a report
Warning, and terrible. But to the poor
He yields a voice of comfort, sanctified,
And pointed rightly by that word of truth
Heaven hath vouchsafed to man. Most goodly then
These scatter'd spires appear; these aged towers,
Which to some little flock the path way tell
That leads to life eternal, where the ills
Which strew'd their mortal way shall never come.
And honour'd be the men who here preside,
And, with sincerity and holy zeal,
Point the celestial road! to simple minds
Reveal those holy truths, the which to hear,
And from the heart receive most willingly,
Blunts the keen shafts of sorrow; well they know,
The conflict will be short — the triumph, sure.

Some men, endued with a discerning soul,
Intuitive, discriminating, keen,
Breathing no vulgar atmosphere, removed
To a proud height from all that others fear,

Laugh loud at superstition, and include
In that mean bondage all who cherish thoughts
Of joys hereafter! yet, vain scoffers, know,
If, (prodigal of happiness,) your hearts
Can well resign such hopes, and pleased remain
With earthly habitations and delights,
Blame not the poor and needy, who have felt
No joys like you, in this inclement world;
Blame not their humble bosoms, if they think
Upon the hardships of their mortal race,
And draw consolement from futurity.
Nor were it quite unworthy of the wise
To meditate, —if, what they dare to scorn
Should true be found, and an insulted Judge
Deal wrath retributive! Such interests vast,
Trembling on the uncertain scale of life,
Might wake the serious thought. No little thing;
No evanescent blessing stands before,
Claiming our notice. It will prove to be
Welcome to heaven, or banishment from God —
Light, Love, and Goodness, thro' all time and space!
The ground, on which the wise their tower will rear,
Should be above mutation, —adamant,
Firm as the everlasting skies. To doubt
On such a theme, Eternity at stake,
Is folly, which, to wisdom, wants a name.

Amid the subject champaign, stretching far,
The eye in vain enquires for thicket dark;
Track, strew'd with trees, coeval with the soil,
That here reign'd paramount; whose lofty heads,
With jealousy, the mighty Malvern view'd,

And felt himself less vast. No longer, now,
These aged residents engender damps,
And secret vapours — pestilent and foul:
The fragrant orchard, and the waving corn
O'erspread the cultured ground, while life, and helath,
And cheerfulness, pervade the spacious scene.
But, not that thou art changed from wood to field,
And fragrant orchard; not, that thy rich corn
Enchants the gazer, and repays the toil
Of patient man, do I thy praises sing;
Not, that thy woods are levell'd, thy tall trees,
That dared the blast, and check'd e'en Malvern's pride,
But that the laws which ruled the royal lands
Are gone for ever! — curse of ages past!

An object which conducts the mind far off,
Into the dark unknown of earliest time,
Is that old Camp beside me, once the haunt
In years unchronicled, perchance of Chief,
(In lawless times, when strength alone was right,)
Whose trade was rapine; in whose iron heart,
No sojourn, pity made. From this bleak point,
Like eagle perch'd on clifts of giddiest height,
Haply he spied his prey, and, rushing down,
Spread ruin, as the thunder scatters rain.

Or, here abode Rome's Cohorts, fearing still
(For where does tyranny serene repose!)
Some fiercer Cassivelaunus, who might view
His fathers', and his sons' inheritance,
Wrested, successive, by the spoiler's hand,
Rage boiling in his veins, till, bursting on,
The Roman Eagle quivered in his grasp.
Or here, perchance, terrific in their ire,
Dwelt, undisturb'd, that noble-hearted race,
Opposers of our Cimbrian ancestors;
Stern patriots! waiting to roll back the tide,
Wide wasting, that advanced toward Cambria's hills;
Assail'd in vain. The fame of Rodiri,
(Maintaining rivalry with Arthur's self,)
Inspires them, and for “Sax” they gaze around,
With eve's last beam, and, at the earliest dawn.
Joy gladdens every heart! The foe they spy!
The glittering of the hostile spear is seen!
“Arms!” “arms!” they shout, exultant. Fancy sees
The march begun! the proud habiliments,
Target, and lance, with burnish'd sword and spear;
The trumpet's blast inspiring! Mournful thought!
Yet, true as sad! the falchion dyed in gore,
Again they seize, and, for the thousandth time,
In unavailing strife, shed Christian blood!
These scenes are vanish'd. Concord now prevails.
Blest change! and we are brethren.

Would it were
That only in those dark unannal'd times,

Or, when the Briton strove for mastery,
The spirit of destruction had gone forth;

E'en in these boastful, these enlighten'd days,
When right and wrong, once doubtful, have received
Such nice adjustments, even we have seen
Hamlet and town, the peaceful villagers,
Valleys and mountains wild, through half the earth,
Reckless invaded, whilst full many a stream,
Wont to reflect upon its bosom pure,
Rock, tower, and tree, in crystal sanctity,
Has borne the sanguine hue, rolling along
The mangled corse, impetuous to the sea.

Disastrous truth! how pliable is man! —
Moulded to every form, diversified
Of evil, trusting all hypocrisy declares,
(The attribute of vacant thought his own,)
Or would a tyrant few, in every age,
From Nimrod, bold, down to the Corsican,
Have raised the bloody standard, and beheld

(Assurance verified,) crowds gather round,
Passive, to slay, whom others call their foe!
With folly, were not men identified,
Would such tormentors desolate the earth;
Such wars prevail, — that hide the face of day
With steam of slaughter, bearing to the skies,
On each ascending particle, a prayer,
Leagued with the frowns, and thunderbolts of heaven?
Oh! ye, at whose command such deeds are done,
Take heed! ye have a long account to close,
When each, untimely slain, shall rise, and cry,
(Heart-withering words!) “You were my murderer!”

Not slightly would I pass the Corsican,
The wonder, and the scourge of this our age!
What crimes diversified, upon his head
Rest pond'rous! Virtue spurns the tarnish'd name!
Once more confirm'd, — Power was not made for man;
It saps his little virtue, manifests
His spirit's penury, subdues the weak,
And makes the strongest, giddy; opening wide
Sluices, that inundate with waste and death.
If Power were not subversive of the soul,
Had this once great Napolean, sunk abased!
Fallen from his fearful height! so talented!
So keen to penetrate both men and things!
Without a peer, in multiplicity
Of knowledge, bearing on the kingly rule?
Had power no curse, would he have prostrate lain!
His grasp relax'd! when fame was all his own? —
Conjuncture fair, mighty in means of good,

His will alone defective, failing there,
His laurel leaf was sear'd,

A sable cloud
Rest ever on the man, whose hand let slip

Such fair occasion to perpetuate
Each form of virtue; not ideal good,
Restricted to the vision of the night,
But clear, substantial; pass'd for ever by!
Doubtless, the Arbiter of human things
Has fix'd, irrevocable, that the world
Shall owe its renovation, not to chance,
Th' ensanguined warrior, or the wily skill
Of statesman, but to principle austere,
Deduced from Heaven's pure manual; light divine!
His law that rules, his will that governs all.

Are earth's mistitled great ones, bound by spell,
Potent, that dooms them never to expand,
Luxuriant, in achievements of high name?
Ambition sways their tiny faculties,
But not th' august ambition, pondering still
On lofty themes, how best to humanize
The brutish, raise the low, and altitude
Confer on genius, living for one end,
Their subjects' good, and practising alone,
Through their brief reign, deeds worthy of a king.
Is Ethelwolf's proud son, whose praise no trump
Need blazon, after twice five hundred years,
Still doom'd to stand alone, (like some old oak,
The forest's pride, gazing majestical,
Upon the royal underwood beneath!)
Age after age, to see his progeny
Inglorious creep, pleased with the record mean,
Lived, but not greatly, glitter'd, sicken'd, died!

If nobler purpose; fame legitimate;
Lordly aspirings, with no whisper, bland,

Spake to their hearts, motive of baser sort
Their souls might stimulate, and urge them on
To semblance of true greatness. They might hope
When they in marble rest, in record fair
To stand conspicuous; rampart to the surge,
Oblivious, that assail'd them. To sustain
The spirit, sinking to despair, one King,
Enwreath'd with honours, incorruptible,
Our Albion calls his birth-place. May the Line,
Firm-seated in our hearts, the Brunswick, brave,
To whom such debt we owe, as time rolls on,
Number, and in memorials, not of brass,
Not one, but many Alfreds!

Hope is ours.
Peace shall prevail! The happy hour shall come,
When nation, nation, shall molest no more,
But, Love prevail, that renovating spring
Of holy confraternity, which gives
To heaven its attributes, and which, withdrawn,
Makes hell, and outer darkness. Praise be theirs,
Above the common standard of renown,
Who War denounce, and with the filial heart,
Behold in man a brother; who promote
Concord, and on oppression heap their scorn.
Could such extinguish each fond sympathy
That lights, and warms the breast? Could such prepare
Chains for his fellows; sons of other climes,
Formed, like himself, of feelings exquisite;
Who love their homes, their friends; who freedom prize
Their crime, a swarthy skin!

Man, unrestrain'd
By influence from on high, left to himself,
Revels in all luxuriance of ill;
Worships the many-headed monster, vile,
Gain, as his one vocation: he corrupts
Fair Nature's face, made, like its author, good:
All things betray the curse; man, most of all.

Behold! to what unfathomable depth,
Creatures that breathe our air, and see our sun,
In virtue's scale may sink! Contemplate one
A Chapman, (Merchant, in the courtly phrase,)
Who deals in bones, and sinews. In the hour
To rest and night devoted, he concocts
Treasons against his kind: projects, serene,
In coverture of darkness, plans of blood.
Himself, a coward, who at danger starts,
He meditates who best will guide his bark,
Of captains, emulous of such a charge;
Who, do his bidding; traverse burning sands;
The arid waste; with pertinacity,
Unshrinking; skirt, with cautious step, and sure,
Some forest, crouching like a hungry lynx,
To plunge upon his prey. So much at stake,
He looks, with an especial vigilance,
To his vicegerent, soon, on Afric's shore,
Warfare to wage: enquires, if, to the pitch
Of total apathy in right and wrong
He dares aspire, and can divest his heart,
Effectual, from all mercy. Lo! the choice,
Momentous, now is made. A man stands forth,
Low'ring, the frozen zone upon his brow,

Ice at his heart — His very countenance,
(Less genial than the storm, advancing bleak
From hyperborean region,) ministers
Assurance, that the worshipper of gold
No loss will bear — this side Eternity.

Behold the vessel trim, freighted, and deep,
With instruments of torture, gag and chain,
Dividing wave on wave; with favouring gale,
Seeking the line. The long-look'd port he sees! —
Inhales the spicy odours; views the stream,
Majestic, up whose waters, calm and clear,
His calling lies. No secret qualm within,
The boat is launch'd, Sabres, and guns profuse,
Are dash'd, and piled, alternate on the deck;
Sight that inspires new courage, as he, now,
With character at stake, directs the helm,
From point, to jutting head-land, passing each,
And urging still, (no let,) his prosperous way.
With faithful crew, all peers in villany,
He ploughs, untired, the river, throwing far
The line of foam, while birds, with insects gay,
Wanton in air, and, through the western sky,
In wide diffusion o'er one half of heaven,
(Hateful discordancy!) clouds gorgeous reign.
This is a sight for Innocence alone:
No chord, in him, responses to the scene.
He had preferr'd, far as the eye might reach,
Thick clouds, harmonious with his dark designs.
To shake each thought, obtrusive, from his heart,
With undiverted purpose, he applies
Fresh sinews to the oar, and now, as eye

Deepens her shades, he lands. On villagers,
Sporting in joyous interlude, whilst round
The breeze of twilight throws the rich perfume,
He pounces, drags them off, and down the tide
His struggling captives bears, complacently,
Heeding no more their pungent agony,
Their prayers, their tears, their intercessions deep,
Than though they all were gnats of evening grey.

Lest in some moment, when his heart might shrink,
Spite of his will, from sight of misery
Known but on Afric's shore, he turns his eye
From all that outward is, to meditate
And thriftily devise expedients new,
(Had he a mother!) how to leave no chink
Untenanted in his accursed bark.

Ah! now he meets, upon the golden strand,
The Princely Dealer; (hundreds in his train,
Black as December's pitchy hour of night,)
Belov'd of none, though fear'd; through many a clime;
Claiming a proud precedency, and rais'd
Thus to his eminence by recreant sons —
Blots on our country! men, who sacrifice
Truth, honour, justice, — human sympathies,
Yea, lives, in hecatombs, at lucre's shrine!
These, the Slave Merchants, Britons blush to own!
Who consecrate their influence, all their powers,
Not to improve, reform, and elevate,
But to abase, by bribes on ignorance,
Quaternion population of the world!
Urging the base to violate, alike,

All laws, of God and man; no means too vile,
So they might thrive, and batten in the things
Of this wrold's elevations.

There they meet!
The white man, and the black, pre-eminent,
Each in his way: both lured by love of gold!
The merchant, who, so late, his foot-marks left
On Niger's boasted margin, gathering still
His merchandize, indifferent how, now stands
Upon Benin's wide shore. He looks around,
Hope realized, with a majestic port,
On wares of flesh and blood. The buyer, too,
No whit behind his peer, in consequence,
Encompass'd by select commodities,
(Powder, or “slaughter weapons,” spirits, beads,)
Offers, denies, rejects, each master-mind
In trick and subterfuge: The balance reels!
Th' agreement is confirm'd and ratified.
One “keg of proof” brings down the trembling beam!
A savage joy lights up the buyer's eye!
Doubtful no more, he calls his own, the droves
Of male and female captives, tied like beasts;
Their fate less envied. Compact now fulfill'd,
The captains greet at parting. One retires
To hunt his prey, with heart more resolute,
“Compunctions visitation,” none; to buy,
Or seize by stealth, remorseless, multitudes,
Parents and children, friendless, hopeless, wild,
Against the hour when they might meet again.
The other, hastes to the receptacle
Of misery sublimed, expands his sails:

Spite of the tremulous sigh, and burning tear,
His sable freight conducts across the seas;
Sells whom he calls his slaves, and then sits down
With the ferocious aspect of the damn'd,
To count his gains.

Thy name, O, Wilberforce!
(Redeeming half the character of man,)
Friend of thy kind! to the far-distant age,
Shall shine conspicuous! with thy brave compeers, —
In cause which might an angel's heart entrance,
Sharp, Cowper, Clarkson, Thornton, who withstood
The “strife of tongues,” the scowl of contumely,
Not, as with us, when a diversion grand,
Justice hath made, but in the battle's heat,
When all, for truth who pleaded, who beheld,
And dared to recognize, in Afric's sons,
The links, the features of humanity,
Were singled, as the outcasts of their race!
But ye were faithful. Unappall'd by frowns,
When God and Conscience smiled, you nobly stood,
(Conjoin'd with worthies, to the grave gone down,)
Denouncing slavery! There is on high,
A record, and Humanity, on earth,
Hangs o'er the turf of her illustrious dead.

But, forms of greatness rear their mountain head,
Not as the lark ascends, with promptitude,
And undiverted course. Works, excellent,
Before their consummation, slow expand;
More steadfast for the process and the pause.
Be this your consolation, men! endow'd

With talents prodigal, who life your voice
Amid your country's senate, and proclaim
The stigma that o'er Britain lingers still.
Brougham, Buxton, Holland, Sussex, (in whose veins
A Brunswick's blood flows uncontaminate,)
With Russell, scion of a glorious race,
Relax not! prove the captives' advocate!
Plead for the tribes that bless you with their tears!
Tell, with an utterance which will finally
Conduct to triumph, that supreme disgrace
Rests on the men, who freedom prize themselves;
Taste of its sweets; its blessings magnify;
Yet feel no sympathy for slaves around.

But we have slaves at home, and merchants too,
Kin to the Guinea Traffickers, who deal,
(Without a slur, or breath of calumny
On their fair names,) in life's blood of their kind!
Those, who with fetters bind the distant slave,
Are branded as a base fraternity,
But the Slave-merchant on the English soil,
He, and his peers, are “honourable men!”
Legal in all they do, and scrupulous
Not to exceed the sacred bounds of Right.
Domestic slaves, who raise no uproar rude,
But calmly suffer, far from public gaze,
(Often, through avocations leagued with death;
“Dying so slowly that none call it murder!”)
Our eyes, o'er these home sufferers, when beheld,
Wander regardless, like philosophers,
Who point their tubes to comet's devious course,

Or satellite, obscure, but, nothing heed
Objects that vulgar eyes may contemplate.

Are not those slaves, and piteous in their plight!
Forced by Task-Masters, oftener Mistresses,
Feeling of heart, who would not hurt a fly!
Who yet expose their charge, the tender sex,
To rigorous exactions, scarce surpass'd
In the abhorr'd Antilles?

To adorn
The outward head, (oft emptiness within,)
And form the flowing robe for gala night,
With all its load of honours, what, to her
Who shines, and hears her thousand compliments,
And “moves a goddess!” that the wasted frame
Of many a damsel, fairer than herself,
Has toil'd throughout the night; in conflict hard,
Resisted nature, longing for repose!
The notice “short.” The buyer “opulent!”
Her “word,” a fortune! Efforts must be made!
The midnight lamp must burn! and “balmy sleep
“Alight on lids not sullied with a tear!”

The lovely Butterflies that meet our eye,
Clothed with all colours, (throwing into shade,
Rainbows, once honour'd,) own the kindly heart,
And would not wrong the sex they ornament,
And scatter thorns, if, undisguised, they knew
The tendencies of deeds that harmless seem.
“Dresses” they want, and “dresses” they must have;
But why withhold their mandates, till the hour

Barely comport with possibility,
T' effect what they desire? Why thus forget
Some finery—essential! next to life!
Till the sixth day, the seventh so near at hand,
“When thou shalt do no work!” yet both too short
For the long-look'd for moment of display?
The baser portion of such mistresses,
(Who know Dependence must restrain her frown.)
Rejoice at claims which sanction plausibly,
Such hard requirements: pelf, their sole regard,
Not human sufferance, borne not by themselves!
Yet, ladies fair! so sensitive! so sweet!
Your's is no heart plebeian; you can feel
Where vulgar minds are obdurate; Oh, hear!
Regard the whisper of humanity!
Nor those oppress whom you desire to serve!
Think, in some brief cessation from your round
Of dissipations, on the canker-worm,
Preying on those who have no foes but you.

At early morn, the summons loud is heard!
Authoritative voice! which calls the slaves,
Fashion creates, their labours to resume;
Not humbling, not unworthy, where the task,
And the reward, fairly reciprocate,
And labour is proportion'd to the frame:
But who, whose conscience is not cauterized,
Can see, and mourn not, youth and beauty bound
To services which waste the opening frame:
And hurry crowds to their untimely grave!

Look closer still. The morning now is past!
And there they are, the task severe before,

The day wanes on; around the board they sit
Like statues, permanent; like statues, pale!
The evening comes. It finds them still the same;
Fix'd, weary, urging on the spirit faint.
The eve is past! Night now begins her reign,
But, respite they have none. The faded flower
Declares th' ungenial element. The eye,
Unconscious closed, its heavy lid uprears:
The lamp again is trimmed; the work renew'd;
And when exhausted nature fairly sinks,
The voice that regulates, now pitiful,
Warns them, as twilight glimmers in the east,
To seek their pallet, till the fatal sound,
On the next morn, calls them to sighs anew.
But they have wrongs e'en less supportable.
Is this a heathen land? The spectacle
Of churches, countless, the calumnious breath
Checks, yet these half-forgotten instruments
Of ball-room splendour, hear the welcome chime
To thousands,—not to them. They must not learn
Of Better Worlds! The day, by others prized,
Cessation from the wasting cares of life,
Unutterable blessing! with it bears,
No solace sweet to them, but rather woe,
Accumulated anguish, whilst they see
Crowds, moving on, decorous, to the house
Of prayer and praise, they, fetter'd down the while
To mercenary things, and secular,
Wounding the soul!—the Christian's day of rest
Encroach'd on, and oft taken quite away!

Have this forlorn, oppress'd, and outcast train,
(Dissever'd thus from human sympathy,)

Father and mother, sister, brother, friend,
(On whom, with tears, their fondest thoughts repose!)
Who loved them in their infancy; who felt,
And still who feel, solicitudes, which prove
The strength of nature's impulse? let them still
Cherish delusive dreams—that those they prize,
Striving for independence, and the fruit
Of honourable toil, so near their heart!
Are healthy, and are happy! far away
Their pallid cheeks they see not! They, at night,
Resting in peace, behold not how they fare;
Not slaves in foreign climes, but slaves at home.

Turning from cruelties, too vast the theme!
Too hopeless! too inveterate! and too dark!
The spirit, rack'd, one other wrong shall trace,
Though last not least. Behold yon Edifice!
Form'd for an eastern king, as it might seem,
So spacious, and commanding, broad, and high!
Beauty without,—enormity within!
The house where children work, and pine, and die!
Th' indignant spirit mourns so base a part,
Acted by men, who force the infant throng,
Almost too young to know their wretchedness,
From morn, to lengthen'd eve, unceasingly
To toil, and toil; the holiday of life,
With them past by, ere scarce it is begun.
Before the lisp of infancy be past,
They waste their tender strength, not in the hours,
When health and labour join fraternity,
But by protracted, midnight services,
Assailed by languor, loathsomeness, disease,
Till death, the friend of misery, close the scene!

Amid this field of mourning, mighty men!
Inheritors of all luxurious things,
Slave-Merchants legalized, whose wealth commands
A tyrannous control o'er multitudes,
“Flesh of their flesh;” these sons of eminence
Review their riches, boast their houses, lands;
Loll at their boards; congratulations, warm,
Receive, and pass, whilst boisterous mirth prevails;
Yet who, amid their revelries, ne'er think
Upon the means which raised their heads so high!

Shall children thus be tortur'd and borne down,
Without one voice, upraised, to tell their wrongs?
Ye followers of the good Samaritan,
Hear! and combine your efforts to redress
Evils, though crying, not importunate,—
So much the more exacting your regards!
In that imposing structure, lifting high
Our admiration, oft, too oft! are found
Infants, in countless groups, through the long year
From dawn to eve, from eve to drowsy night,
Haggard and spiritless, with toil severe,
Above the point of Nature's faculty,
Wasting their strength; the vital principle,
The moral too, assail'd in every form!
Here, disregarded, toss'd in heedless heaps,
They lengthen out their hours of weariness,
Withering, like flowers, on this, our “happy soil.”
No mercy near!—haply to please some minds
Church-going; advocates for equity;
Loud talkers of a Briton's birth-right, proud!
Who gaze around, on tribes, too young to grieve,

But not to suffer, with the consciousness,
Of giving such unfriended outcasts, bread!
Cease, men, whose hearts pertain to adamant,
Such dire delusion! If your thoughts incline
To piety, though in the last remove,
Question it well! for never pious heart
Dwelt with such deeds. Can Heaven applauding view
Children of want, nipp'd by the frost of gain;
Unnumber'd orphans, seized by avarice,
(Their parents safe in their last resting-place!)
And forced, without a friend, to sacrifice
Their joys in childhood, and their hopes in age?
If, Him to please, thy Maker, ever struck,
When interest was away, thy passing thought,
Learn, with more certainty than ever man
Foretold the morrow's sun, it is by acts
Of tenderness; by viewing all mankind
As offspring of one Sire, who never made
The wonderous human frame, to be consumed,
Ere yet the leaves of childhood half expand,
By man's fierce lust of perishable gold.

Is there not slavery, England! on thy soil?
The evil clear, but where the remedy?
A book, the Book of Books! expands; I read,

And bless the words, clothed with celestial light!—
“Do, as ye would that others did to you!”
This is the antidote; but if the voice,
Breathed from the sky; if still humanity
Urges unheard the lucre-worshippers
To soften their exactions, let the Law
Restrain the Cruel, and its penalties
Accomplish that which Heaven prescribes in vain.

How sweet to breathe at this neglected hour
The Mount's pure air! to trace the landscape wide;

Diversified as soothing. Scatter'd cots,
Sprinkling the valleys round, so gaily look,
They seem as never anguish pass'd them near.
The very trees wave concord, and invite
To meditation, while the feathered tribe
Pay their best homage to the Deity.

Pondering upon this goodly heritage,
Where all is fair and quiet; where the eye

Dwells on perfection, where with joy I view
Nature's luxuriance, and with soul entranced
Hear her inviting voice, that bids mankind
Learn goodness from herself—sudden I feel
Compassion wring my heart, to think that men
Should spend their few short days, in heaping wealth,
(Often for heirs unknown,) mid toil, and strife,
Unmindful of such heavenly scenes as these!

Is there no charm in Nature, that the eye
So shuns her, and, with quick-reverted glance,
Turns to the city's haunts, to mark around
Pollution's meager form; the cry of want,
Th' immortal spirit chain'd to avarice?
Yields it no pleasure to behold the birds,
Those gay and sportive links 'tween earth and heaven,
Caparison'd in plumage that outvies
Material splendour, whilst their varied songs,
From earliest morn, to eve, alike surpass
Man's proudest concerts? who can mark, unmoved,
The insect tribes, in ever-varying shape;—
The herbage of the field;—the yellow corn;—
The blossom gay;—or flower;—or running brook,
Winding through woods and glens its steady course?—
Who, at the seasons' changeful forms, restrain
The open eye of wonder, nor, in them,
Behold presiding Deity, whose word
Still calls them in succession, leads them on
To bless unthankful man?—who view yon sun,
Casting his full—broad—congregated beam,
At early morn, athwart the darken'd valley,
Tinging with red the distant forest top,
And view no grace in Nature's form divine?

All things that live and move send forth a voice,
Most audible, to him who hath not bow'd
To Mammon's shrine, teaching us precious lore:
A voice, though subtle, yet articulate,
Which we must seek, to hear. The hill and vale
Speak many a signal truth; nay, all things round
Join in one concert, whence the soul may draw
Sublime instructions. Should not mortals learn,
E'en from the peaceful flocks and scatter'd herds,
That harmonize with the gay landscape round,
To moderate their wants, and, to compare
Their calm contented state with toiling man?—
Who oft, to gain mistaken happiness,
With wants unreal, in his frantic chase,
Resigns the little joy he might possess,
And starves mid plenty.—To the meadows, haste,
Thou wanderer from the ways of happiness!
There, wrapt in Meditation's solemn garb,
Look well around thee; view, in silentness,
The forms which God hath made to teach thine heart
Wisdom unknown to sages; hoary truths,
Which must not be despised. Regard each sound,
Borne on the breeze, or rustling in the tree;
In such a mood, perchance some monitor
May seize thy Spirit, and true knowledge teach.

Instructions loftier! Not on Nature's self,
(Great as she is, and incontestable;—
With arguments, exhaustless, spreading far
The hand omnipotent,) must we rely—
Tillume our path, with twilight deep around;
The Book of Life, the Word of Prophecy,

Still surer, is our guide. To that we turn;
A rock which will sustain us, while we live,
And in the hour when all, beside, will prove
Refuge of lies.

If Heaven's Eternal Word—
The source of light, of life—the Bible be,
Are there, who hide the pearl, of price untold?
Is there a Priesthood, bound in compact, firm,
To stem this tide, which God, most merciful!
Sent, from above, to cleanse and fructify
The moral world? Are there, who bear the name,
Christ sanctifies, who thus his mandate spurn,
“The scriptures search!” and would, if will were power,
Sweep from the world, from every hearth, and home,
This greatest treasure heaven e'er gave to man?
Such have prevail'd in ages past away!
Such now exist! (the Papists' damning sin!)
Urged on by hell, whose cheeks to deadly white—
Turn, if perchance, the tidings reach their ear,
That, mid their flock, (precursor of all ill!)
A Bible, long proscribed, its poison sheds!
(While distant years will wonder and deplore!)
The “hue” is rais'd! In sacerdotal vest,
The Priest goes forth, wrath lowering on his brow,
To hunt the interdicted volume, source
Of “endless heresies!” to drag it forth,
And dash it to the flames! Disastrous truth!
Can these be Christians? Are the furious men,
Thus exercis'd, Religion's ministers?
Impossible! it is an idle tale!

Say ye, who, in the depths profound of grief,
Turn to your Bible, and consolement find;—
Say ye, who, in the time of solitude,
Haply, in season of captivity,
Or, mid lone wanderings o'er the clime remote;
Who, when dissever'd from the social tie,
(Remember'd still,) dwell on the sacred page,
And find a friend to warn, console, and guide;
Would you resign your treasure for aught time
Ranks in her costliest blessings? Say, O, men!
Languid, and cast upon the couch of pain;—
Say, ye, contending with the slow disease;
Or, ye, when near to Jordan's stormy shore,—
Who turn from earth, and anxious look around
For comfort, and inspiring promises,
On which to lean, in that heart-searching hour,
When smiling potentates, and mines, and crowns,
Would cease to move! would you the “Hail!” extend
To him, who sought to prove, by arguments,
And logical deductions, that the book,
By you extoll'd, had venom at the core,
And which, if shown in tongue familiar,
Would discords raise; upturn society;
Mar, and not mend the world; mislead; confound;—
Too complicate and dark for vulgar eyes!
How would your soul, the man, indignant spurn,
Unkind, who strove, with such vain sophistries,
To rob you of your joy; who dared affirm
The bearings of the book, so dear to you,
Were, (awful thought!) unhallow'd, prone to spread,
In undisguised commixtures, doctrines strange,
Delusions, deadly strifes?—the Upas Tree—

That sapp'd, and poison'd all beneath its shade!
What can the veriest infidel say more?
Oh blasphemy! from Pandemonium borne,
And hatch'd, and nurtured, by the Sire of Lies!

If thus assail'd with specious words of guile,
How would you cry, your hand upon your heart,
“I feel your fallacy. My spirit feels
“That book, by you condemned, to be, indeed,
“The word of life! the spring-head of repose!
“The balm of weary nature! whence my soul,
“Turning from man, derives instruction sweet,
“Joys, ever new! which moderates my hopes;
“Allays my fears! prepares my soul, to love
“Justice and mercy; teaches me to bear
“Affliction, as a Father's chastening rod;
“Endues me with the faculty, to view
“Man, and the range of all material things,
“In truth's clear light; the Finite to regard
“As it deserves, and, on the Infinite,
“My heart to stay! Rob me of all beside,
“But spare, O spare, my BIBLE!”

Those who yield—
All that ennobles man, the power to think!
And found their faith on others, hear, in vain,
Conclusive reasonings. So the balmy hour,
E'en Nature's face, thus lovely, has no charm,
Nature, nor inspiration, for the slaves,
Whose God is Wealth! who strive, unceasingly,
To still the voice within them̄, which would fain
Reclaim their hearts, caught in the wiles of sense.

Gold turns the breast to stone; makes wise men fools!
There is a curse in mammon;— influence,
From which the Virtues, (save in special case,
And unpresumable,) affrighted speed;
And siren are its charms.

Contemning thus
The lust of gain, the atmosphere of self,
The spirit, which consumes the lamp of life,
(That quivering flame!) in quest of avenue
That leads to wealth, the chief and only good,
What outcry loud, from city mart, outpours
Its contumelious scoff upon the bard!
Yet, mid the frown, the taunt contemptuous,
He looks, regardless;—like the regal bird,
His nest, some alpine crag, at even tide
Returning homeward, while the concave lowers,
And the fierce night-wind sweeps impetuous by;
As he withstands the blast, and, dreadless, moves
Mid the dark clouds, and elemental strife,
So should the poet be:—his object truth:
He writes for age, nor country, but obeys
The heaven-directed impulse; speaks a tongue
Pure, universal; language of the heart.
Mean adulation seeks a kindlier home;
He heeds no voice of faction; he is taught,
By his high calling, to hold light, the praise,
The censure of the world; his guide, alone,
The clear interior rule which conscience gives;
All else is servile, base, a sacrifice
Of the high gift of God, the power of song.

Where vice, or folly reigns, shall bard withhold
The voice corrective, who, at mortal frown,
Stands unappall'd? Oh! wide diversity
Of evil, changeful as the summer cloud.
Behold the mammon-loving Magog, raised
To the excess of opulence; (a king,
O'er all Cornhill!) the half adoring look
Lifted in wonderment to see the man,
Who, from his eminence, can cast an eye,
Disdainful, at the mightiest. He, “on Change,”
Resting his bulk against the column, huge,
Hour after hour, stands, with fidelity,
At his devotions: whether storms prevail,
Or cloudless suns scatter dissolving beams;
(The veteran and unshrinking spirit his!)
Whether some town be sack'd, or famine, gaunt,
Whole regions devastate:—the murrain spread,
Or earthquake shake a Lisbon to the dust,
He heeds it not. Within a narrower sphere
His sympathies, subjected, move and play.
Self is his centre, and diverging rays
Spread only to his own circumference.

Is it one day amid the rolling year,
That thus exacts, from Crœsus' darling child,
Such harsh observance, alien to his mind,
Prone to expand in more congenial scenes?
Alas! it is his home, his resting place,
His one delight; th' arena, where he strives,
As all things here, and through eternity,
Hung on the issue of his arduous task.
He loves the Gresham pillars, but, at length,

He must retire; day will not always last.
When that grim, magisterial, lacker'd Wight
Warns, with impassion'd emphasis, that time
Tedious, is flown, which tide-like, waits for none;
The moment come, when he, the massive hinge
Sending harsh discord through his soul, must turn,
Which shuts him from his heaven, he breathes a curse,
In mutter ominous, scarce less intense
Than Osmund's, when perdition he invoked
Upon his head, who should dismember e'er,
Sherborne from Sarum, to the judgment day.

Doth he ne'er gaze on heaven's cerulean vault;
View Nature, in magnificent array;

Trees, fruits, and flowers, and all her multitude
Of lovely forms?—Yes, and despise it too!
At sight so teeming with sweet influence,
Where every sense drinks rapture, is he not
Beguiled, subdued, and made, per force, to yield

Some tribute, though but faint, of passing praise?
No! charge of such defection from his God
Rests not on him. The habitation vast
He calls his own; magnificent array

Of statues, (painted with his favourite lead,)
With fair appendage, all that wealth can heap,
Or fancy, in her largest longing, crave.
Doth this restrain Behemoth from his waves;
Rolling his “rood,” upon the boisterous surge
Of stocks, and shares, and bonds, and politics;
That vortex which ingulphs the mightiest minds!

Alas! one Despot triumphs in his breast;
The love of gold! yet, other influence
Once, in vagary strange, his heart beguiled.
Time was, the resolution grand he form'd
To check the “grasping passion,” and, at length,
Be class'd with prudence' offspring, the sage few
Who know the point where wisdom cries “Enough!”
Thus fortified in his mature resolve,

He spurns at all the “money-getting tribe;”
Men of low aims, and dwarfish intellects!
“I,” he exclaimed, “who boast an ancestry,
“Direct from Noah, and whose arms display
“The head of Saracen, slain by a Sire,
“(Clear in Rouge Dragon's lucid chronicle,)
“When Cour de Lion dared the Soldan power?—

“I grope below, in Barter's atmosphere,
“The vale inglorious, form'd to climb, and soar?
“The city, and the cit, alike, I hate!
“And who like me would grace a Coronet?”
He speaks, and hurries from the hateful chimes,
The haunt familiar, humming, as he leaves
Noise, dust, and dirt, t' expand in purer air,
“God made the country, and man made the town.”

By charms encircled, various as the hours,
Calling “my own,” the rural, and the grand,
He fancies the great stake is gain'd at last,
That he is happy! Must the truth be told?
Regrets, half quench'd, still linger round his heart.
He is not quite “at ease.” His eye recoils,
At the same everlasting round of things,
Quiescent, that ne'er speak, but only smile!
They all have lost their power to animate;
The novelty is pass'd; the dream gone by.
What can he do, when all his work is done?
The hot-house finish'd; fish-pond dug, and stock'd;
The vestibule immaculate; the bath
Surpassing Trajan's; Doric green-house, stuff'd
To suffocation; temples; obelisks;—

Grottos, and cenotaphs, and corridors,—
Rising in rich profusion; naiads; nymphs;
Neptunes and satyrs; and such classics chaste;
Cascades; and fountains; with the bridge superb,
(Thrown over ditch, for lack of nobler stream;)
And still to swell the host of exquisites,
Dairy, of Parian; and the true Sien;—
The pinery built; conservatory, rare;—
(Throng'd with exotics from all tongues and climes,)
New-modell'd; walks; and seats; and shrubs; and lawns;
All trim and perfect; not a flower awry:
And, to oppress th' illiterate with due shame,
Oh! what a library the eye beguiles!
(Too sacred to be touch'd by hand profane!)
With daubs of Titian, and the Raphael school,
Thick scatter'd, (“ere their fame had reach'd its height!”)
What! object, yet, to make his joys complete?
He feels their emptiness! a beggar still!
Something he finds is wanting, what it is—
Worlds would he give to learn. It must be wealth,
Less bounded, hoards that laugh at rivalry;
Accumulations mightier; he must now,
Strain every nerve to gain the good supreme!
(Beware the wind that blows it all away!)
The resolution form'd, magnanimous,
The hasty and impatient glance he casts,
Each morn, o'er his domain, (presenting now,
Look of the alter'd friend,) then hurries off,
From his dull Mausoleum, once again,
Himself the Jehu, to enjoy the smoke,
So late despised, the multitudinous roar,
And all the sweltering, jostling of the crowd.

Rare metamorphose! See him now, again
Composed, as “Patience on a monument,”
In “high change hour,” amid the living trees,
Into his lap, which shake their mellow fruits;
A golden harvest! These are his delights,
Vista, and gay parterres, and groves in one!
Resolved to be quite happy, he augments
Stock, bullion, till the power to estimate,
Baffles his faculties, yet all is sweet,
As water to the fainting traveller!

The racer now advances to his goal!
What, must he “leave his glory,” and his gold!
Life has its morn, its noon-tide, and its eve,
And, stern mementos warn him of his end.
Fain would he live in this his paradise,
This world, so suited to his vast desires,
Mid wealth, and ease, and pleasures infinite,
Lauded of all, but here he cannot stay:
The waves behind, (those young probationers,
Sporting and countless,) drive him to the strand,
Where he must waste himself, and be no more!
Hard, but irrevocable doom! Beyond,
He has no hope, like one, with death at hand,
Who welcomed his last enemy, and cried,
“I, the good fight, have fought, and now there waits
“The crown of life!” Such lofty trust as this,
To him, finds no access; yet other joys
Cheer him, in prospect of his final change!
That hour of horrors! when he yields his all,
And sinks, annihilate! (so would he hope!)
Into the dust, with his compeer, the brute!
In musing mood, when stern realities,

Unwelcome, sometimes force an audience;
His only solace! he anticipates
The moment, when the chief of Mammon's Sons
Shall yield his empire, and the wondering crowd,
Awe-struck, do honour to the Mighty Dead!

Oh! abject littleness!—too mean for scorn!
For this he toil'd, the modern Hercules!
More slave-like, than the captive at the oar!
Burdening his thoughts by day, his dreams by night,
That when the worms have burrow'd in his skull,
Some prattling tongues, prone to expatiate
On fortunes made and scatter'd, might proclaim,
With lifted hands and eyes, mid pause profound,
Sums, boundless, Magog once could call his own!
The World's ambition, and the Scrape-all's end!

But back return, adventurous mind, from thoughts
Of folly's strange perversities: once more,
Upon these scenes, on which the heart reclines
Bestow a parting gaze, and bid adieu.

The sky is clear; these hills are beautiful;
The country smiles; and all is gaiety
That strikes the sight; but I, howe'er entranced,
Must soon forsake this spot; then, like a dream,
Snatch'd from oblivion, will it all appear;
So, life, a world of shadows, passes on!
And after some few joys, and many cares,
Our journeys end! our weary heads repose
In their last resting-place!

With different views
The mighty multitude of human-kind
Regard this prospect! Some are wisely taught
To meet, unmoved, the momentary ills
That here arise, whilst e'en their spirits glow,
Cheer'd with the thought, that soon, their nobler part,
Their souls, will be dismantled of the load
Of this vile body, and their intellect,
Illimitable, grow, associate still
With spotless purity.

And there are those
To whom these thoughts are terrible! who seek
Their all from Earth! who never raise their eye
To brighter prospects, though they ill sustain
Life's rugged conflicts, and, with weariness,
Endure the burdens of humanity!
Who still can look upon this goodly frame!—
This grand assemblage of all lovely things!—
This Speaking Tablet of Intelligence!
Yet nothing see amid the wondrous whole,
But jarring atoms! Not to Nature's form,
Not to the chaos of the moral world,
Nor to the want of that firm evidence
Which Wisdom seeks, to regulate and fix
Her calm decisions, must mankind ascribe
This strange, insensate, blindness of her sons,
But—to the heart! There is the malady!
For how can they believe, who seek man's praise,
Rather than his, who form'd the universe?
These gropers in mid-day, who will not see,
Unceasing call for guidance, and exclaim—

“The way!” “The way!” when they their eyes might ope
And see the way, the truth; clear as the sun
In his meridian glory.

Far removed
From such, the Christian stands. His peaceful mind
Welcomes the ever-changing scenes of time.
To him the world is order. He beholds
Th' Almighty Power that leads the tempest forth
To execute his judgments, whilst his heart,
Amid the whirlwind and the winged storm,
Is still, and solaced. He can calmly say,
“I fear no nightly terrors, nor the snare
“By sinners laid. I fear not Pestilence,
“Who, like an archer, when no eye can see,
“Pursues his sullen course, and evermore,
“Mid darkness and the silent hour of night,
“Sends Death around him,—for my strength and shield,
“My confidence, is Heaven's Eternal King.”

But, though, in season of high privilege,
His soul, by Faith sustain'd, can contemplate
The change that waits him; feel a humble hope,
(Through the Great Sacrifice, his only trust!)
That day eternal; heavenly joys are near;
Yet hard it is, to see Death bear away
The fond, and tenderest relative, or friend,
For time and state unknown.

These dawning eyes
Have followed to the grave, companions dear;
Some, whom, in earlier youth, I communed with,

Are gone for ever! Many a flattering scene
Of promised happiness, with which we cheer'd
Our roving fancies, fresh from fairy land,
Has vanish'd! Not a cloud to intervene,
We, in the spring-tide hour of confidence,
Talk'd of fair-opening prospects, and the joys
Succeeding years should bring: projects indulged
Of goodly import, such as learn to make
The big heart scorn its tenement, nor saw
One little cloud to dim the crimson dawn;
But, Death has been amongst us! low they lie,
My loved associates! I am left to mourn!

Not always should the mind an entrance grant
To these sad musings: pleasant in their turn
It is, to trace the virtues of our friends,
Once prized and honour'd—to the grave gone down:
Yet cheerfulness should follow, with the heart
That feels, and owns the blessings that remain.

E'en now my pulse beats high, for, now I hear
The village bells beneath ring merrily.
From hill to hill imperfect gladness bounds,
And floating murmurs die upon the air.
It is the long look'd pastime now begun!
Aye! there they are, down on the level green,
Maiden and rustic, deck'd in best attire,
And ushering in the Whitsun Holidays:
Weaving the mazy dance, fantastic, whilst,
Encircled by a gaping crowd of boys,
The merry piper stands, and, capering, plays;
Or, half forgetful of his half-learn'd tune,

Looks scantways, to behold his favourite lass
Pair'd with another; haply, smiling too!
The aged ploughman there forgets his team,
And, though to join the skipping throng, too old,
Laughs to see others laugh, he knows not why;
Or, if in graver mood, looks wondrous wise,
And tells his sportive daughters, as they pass,
Hold, maidens! hold! no whispering in the dance.
The scene is life, and soothing jollity!
That king of sports is there, the Mountebank,
With antic tricks, or, with no sparing hand,
Dealing around some nostrum, famed, alike
Specific in all pains and maladies.
And there the village matrons, gaily trimm'd
With lace and tucker, handed down secure
Through a long line of prudent ancestors;
And never shewn to gaping multitude,
Save at some marriage gay, or yearly wake.
Musing the mothers look o'er all the plain!
A cheerful smile unbends their wrinkled brow!
The days departed start again to life,
And all the scenes of childhood re-appear,
Faint, but more tranquil, like the changing sun
To him who slept at noon, and wakes at eve!
Light-hearted villagers, or young, or old,
Enjoy this brief exemption from your care,
And may no tempest spoil your holiday!

Farewell, entrancing spot! Receive, sincere,
My parting benediction, I return,
Not without sighs, to breathe pollution's air;
To mix with men envelop'd in the cares

Of this low world; to be envelop'd too;
To hear their converse, how to meet with wealth,
And prosperous fortune, and the little aims
Of thrifty patience. With far other thoughts
I join their throng, for I will love to think
On you, dear Mount! and ponder on the joys
This morn bestow'd, and say, pressing my heart,
Than to review with memory's musing eye
Your lofty summit; mark its subject vales,
Its many scatter'd spires, and hamlets small,
And hear the magic orisons of birds,
Breaking the silence with their melody;—
Not sweeter to the nightly traveller's ear
Sounds the soft lute, while wandering by the side
Of some slow stream, when, not a whispering breeze
Awakes the groves, and not a murmur, rude,
Impedes the warbled notes — expiring slow;
While the clear moon resplendent shines aloft,
And casts her pale beam o'er the sleeping tide.

DARTMOOR.

ARGUMENT.

Distant view of Dartmoor. Ascent up its side. Cultivation succeeded by barrenness. Lofty rock. Mountain springs. Flowers of Dartmoor. Effects of a sudden storm on the streams and rivers of Dartmoor. Moss. View from the highest Peak. The wildness of such scenery not according with England. Solitary traveller. Peat. Pannier-horses. Colts. A cottage. The housewife. The sire. The children. Comforts of cottage life. Druids. Their traces visible on Dartmoor. Incompetency of Science, Learning, Nature, or Genius, to correct Idolatry, and to teach the knowledge of the true God. Apostrophe to pure Religion. Reference to the ancient Britons, who, after their defeat, retired beyond Dartmoor. Pursued by the enemy. Storms and Sterility dismay the Saxons. Changes on the Earth effected by man. Proposed Asylum on Dartmoor, for the pauper children of London. Anticipations. Character of Devonshire. Conclusion.

WHAT hills are those, deserted, brown, and bare,
Whose mouldering crags the spoils of Time declare?
Dartmoor! thy stately presence I perceive,
Seen first at morn, and lingering last with eve:

Thy rugged pinnacles, unfolded clear,
Rising in solemn grandeur, vast, as drear.

Mounting thy sides, and musing as I go,
Streams, oozing from their source, beside me flow,
Traced by the flag; their motion, as they stray,
Known by the Sun's slant beams that on them play:
Larks, faintly heard, my weary steps beguile,
And, warm with promise, all things speak and smile.
Onward I press, yet, still before me rise,
Peaks, grey with age, their home among the skies.
As Nature's mild and gentler forms depart,
A sterner feeling sinks into my heart:
The waving corn, the “hum” of human kind,
The paths familiar, far are left behind,
And to th' horizon's dim-discover'd bound,
Heaths, strew'd with granite fragments, reign around,

So, on her course, when first the Bark proceeds,
The port, the shore, at every glance recedes;
'Till, forward borne, as favouring billows roll,
Each object fades that lingers near the soul.

Approaching now a Torr of towering height,
Where huge Rock-Idols awe while they invite,

In silence, I survey the prospect round,
Vales clothed with fern, and hills with ruins crown'd.
By slender aid from fancy, (which can give
Nerve to the feeble, make the breathless live,)
Imposing structures glisten in the Sun,
Completed often, oftener, just begun.
Base, architrave, and outstretched columns fair,
Promiscuous cast, and whitening in the air,
Save when, to change the sameness of the scene,
Lichen and Archil spot with red and green.
Whether primeval cliffs, by slow decay,
Have crumbled, till yon shapes they now display;
Or they were thus by force volcanic thrown,
Or heap'd, by power of mortal, stone on stone,

In times when men yoked lions to their car,
Nothing is certain, but that—“there they are.”

On yonder mount, where crags unnumbered lie,
Too poor for praise, too mean for rivalry,
One lordly rock, his head, disdainful, rears,
Braving the tempests of a thousand years,—
The dark and gloomy giant of the waste,
Whom eve-o'ertaken travellers pass in haste,
And, gazing at his front, austere and rude,
Start at the wizard haunts of solitude.

Ascending still; each moment to my eyes,
New wilds extend, and prouder summits rise.
The limpid streams, so late that tortuous ran
Down Dartmoor's sides, when first my toil began;
Boasting no name, by dews nocturnal fed,
And early lost mid reeds that near them spread:
Such now have vanish'd, while a nobler train,
From loftier springs, pass boisterous to the plain;

Winding through hollows in their mazy round,
And to the sea, howe'er diverted, bound.
These speed through banks that wrath departed show,
The neutral soil where herbs forbear to grow;
Through devious paths with hoarse impatience glide,
'Neath brambles oft, which matted straws bestride:
Dangling with every breeze, detained, when last,
Bearing their spoils, the floods imperious past.
Some simple flowers, attendant, fresh and fair,
Shed grateful perfumes on the “desert air:”
“Sweet-gale,” and “Thyme,” and “Spleenwort” here expand,
“Dwarf-raspb'ries” that confess th' ungenial land;
“Daisies,” in every nook of verdure found,
Or “Violets,” that empurple far the ground;
The “Sun-dew” pure, her crystal drop descried,
And thou, tall “Foxglove!” still Danmonium's pride.

The mists, that round yon Peak concentering spread,
Changes portend that mountain dwellers dread.
Clouds, dense and lowering, throng the western sky;
A pause proclaims aerial conflicts nigh,
Save when, (the equal prelude that dismays)
On summits bleak, the winds their voices raise,
Heard in the stillness, like the sullen roar
From Ocean's distant wave-assaulted shore.
Now storms conflicting burst upon the ear;
The wild-goat hurries to his covert near—

Whilst quivering flags before the tempest bend,
Rains, with brief warning, torrent-like descend;
And the loud gust, ascending peal on peal,
Comes with a might that probes the heart of steel.

Where are the silver rills that wound their way
Through tufted reeds, or spiring rushes gay;
Too small to shadow, in their face below,
The peaceful flowers that on their margin blow?
Or, where the streams, reflecting Heaven's clear dyes,
That roll'd o'er cress which vainly strove to rise,
Soothing the sense with their melodious song,
As to the vale they sparkling danced along;—
Haply to turn some clattering mill beside,
Or bear to sister towns their crystal tide?

Fled! like the savage, savage to engage,
At every blast convulsed with deeper rage!
See, in long lines of terrible array,
Th' impetuous waters, foaming, force their way.
If wrathful thus the mountain rills appear,
What forms must Dartmoor's headstrong rivers bear?

Taw, Yealme, and Stour, by countless streamlets fed,
Plunging infuriate down their rocky bed;—

Teign, in whose breast eternal discord reigns,
Or thou fierce Dart! indignant at thy chains?
So late who sped'st, dispensing murmurs faint,
Though arm'd with power, yet yielding to constraint;
Whose earnest flow th' obstructing stone divides,
Stain'd with the weeds that clothe its jagged sides;
Stretch'd out amid the current deep and strong,
And waving as it, lucid, pours along!
Now swoll'n by sudden storm, with furious force,
Onward thou bear'st whate'er would stem thy course;
Vex'd, madden'd, sending forth the fearful roar,
Then, winding round yon point, art seen no more!

Semblance of man, disquieted in vain,
Treading ambition's path, intent on gain;
Flush'd now with honours; panting for renown;
Scorning all toils to grasp the laurel-crown;
Loud, eager, ardent, hurrying on his way,
Disturb'd, or torn, by jarring passion's sway,
Scheme and device exuberant in his soul,
Till death, that foe abrupt! subverts the whole!

Is it some vagrant phantasy? the change,
Seems mightier than the last, so new! so strange!
The clouds discharged, from their unknown retreat,
The zephyrs back return on pinion fleet;

And in their comeliest garb (heaven's azure clear,)
Once more these crags and leafless wilds appear.

Moss have I seen, where, by the Moon's pale light,
Dryads might trip with fairies through the night,
(While Philomela gave th' inspiring lay,
The eye profane of mortal held at bay,)
Spread o'er some wood, or, mantling aged wall,
With the next war of winds ordain'd to fall;
Or crowning hut forlorn, 'neath beechen shade,
Prosperous itself, but all below decay'd,
Yet here the region is of that sweet flower,
Which decks the stones with many an elfin bower,
Through which the beetle peeps, or wanders o'er
His tiny vestibule, or corridor;
While near him, in the curious coil of grey,
The sly aranea waits her hapless prey.

Where is the lovelier sight than mountain steep,
When blustering storms, exhausted, sink to sleep;
The Sun aloft in cloudless pomp, serene,
With wild magnificence, the circling scene;
Rocks, hills, and sky in sleep lethean bound,
Nor one discordant voice obtruding round?
Excess of joy that verges fast on pain!
Silence maintains, too undisturb'd her reign.
In this secluded hour, when all is still,
And thoughts, fantastic, captive lead the will;
The spirit, borne on fancy's airy car,
Uncurb'd by reason's cold, but polar star,

Environ'd by the desolate and vast;
Requires a clear remembrance of the past,
To feel afresh th' indissoluble ties
Of earth, and all her softening charities.

What prospects in succession, wide as new,
From yon high Peak might break upon my view!
Form'd for dominion, 'tired in royal mien,
On which the rays of evening long are seen,
(Its splendour with beneficence combined,
Warning, mid bogs, the flag-collecting hind,)
When night, the soft enticer to repose,
Her sable canopy o'er Nature throws.
With labour hard that brow august is gain'd!
Confusion here her rule hath long maintain'd:
Far off, dismantled, stands the stannier stone,
With here and there the tower of age unknown;

Deep ravines, fretted by the wintry flood,
And large, tho' dwarfish still, old Wistman's wood.

Oh, spot! where, far from earth's cabal and crime,
Man seems a being alien to the clime,
One waste, continuous, meets the wearied eye,
No motion, but the cloud slow sailing by,
No sound remote, a death-like hush profound,
With hills, the wreck of chaos, scatter'd round!

Is this the land where all things noble smile?
Can this belong to thee, my native Isle!
O Britain! in pre-eminence of worth,
Who sit'st a queen o'er all the realms of earth?
With stately mansion, and meandering stream,
Mid temples meet for an Elysian dream,

Whose rich champaigns on every side present
Peace, join'd with health, and labour with content;
Cots, flocks, and herds, which he who sees must love,
With many a spire that points to worlds above?
In all the good, the generous, and refined,
In all that moves the heart, exalts the mind,
Bounding to heights, while others coldly climb;
Thy princely institutions, hoar with time,
Never by man, in happiest age, surpass'd,
(Heaven long protect them from the scathing blast
Can this be Albion?—views like these pertain
To that sweet clime where beauty holds her reign,
And all the Graces, all the Virtues shine,
Arts, friendship, genius, visitants divine?
The spell is burst? on Albion's ground I stand:
Out, in the distance far, lies Ocean's strand!
There England's Navy in her Hamoaze rides,
With Neptune's self that equal sway divides;
The wooden bulwarks to Britannia dear,
Which the whole world alternate laud, and fear.

Twice have I travers'd Dartmoor's hills and plains,
But still the curse, the barren curse, remains;

Spring scarce can thaw the rigours of her sky,
And, without offering, Autumn passes by;
Yet charms there are in shapeless tracks like these,
Distemper'd wilds possess their power to please.
Here, varied as the visions of the night,
Earth's fractured elements my gaze invite;
Views of dark horror, yet, that lustre shed,
And prospects which commingle joy with dread.

Said I, that all was barrenness alone,—
Vales, boundless spread, with summits strew'd with stone?
Prepared no vestige of mankind to see,
No features rose but wide sterility;
Now, through the grander lineaments, my eye
Perceives, with wonder, kindlier objects nigh.
So, haply, deeds at which our hands we raise,
Survey'd with closer scan might challenge praise;
So oft in foes, beheld through passion blind,
Virtues despair'd of, Charity might find.

Estranged, long time, from every human trace,
At glimpse of man, smiles kindle in my face;
For, mid the winding road that lies below,
One traveller journeys on, with footsteps slow,

Oft pausing some disruptured clift to view,
Till home-allurements prompt his pace anew.

Now I behold, upon the subject plain,
The black peat-hillocks, and the pannier-train,
Bearing the winter store to dwelling green—
In some far dell, by none but hunter seen,

When, bounding on through perils manifold,
He tracks his scent, from crag, from hold to hold,
Till sudden check'd; the game and chase have flown;
He stops, a hallow'd sympathy to own:
The light blue vapours, from the chimney rude,
(In that wild scene of waste and solitude,)
Rising toward Heaven in many a circle fair,
Speak to his heart, of social life, e'en there.

Objects, to human notice scarce reveal'd,
In times like these, some hues attractive yield.
Welcome, ye ants! that with the dawn appear,
Welcome, ye filmy insects! sporting near;
(Childe's solitary tomb, in this lone place,
Might prove a link to bind me to my race;)

Welcome, ye sheep! far off that herded lie,
Screen'd by some mouldering bank from sun or fly;
Welcome, ye birds! that there your gambols take;
What shapes are those, that wildering thoughts awake,
Discern'd upon yon prominence of stone,
In hour of sport grotesque by Nature thrown?
So sagely grave, the mane half worn away,
Trailing to earth, with coats of iron grey—
Their chests a forest, and their haunches bare,
Their shapeless legs, masses of shaggy hair,
With downcast look, still as the rock beneath?
Colts! Dartmoor Colts! the roughest forms that breathe!

Ah! there, till now unkenn'd, in cheerful white,
A cot, amid the marshes, meets my sight.
O memory! why so treacherous, once so true;
Sweet recollections crowd upon my view:
The self-same cot, at which, in season past,
I call'd, and, hungry, broke my lengthen'd fast;
Converse indulged, reciprocal and kind,
(The “splendid shilling” duly left behind,)
The very Dame who spread her homely fare,
And earnest press'd the stranger, lo! is there:—
For ever busy, though, as sunk the Sun,
Deploring that so much remain'd undone,
Yet who, true wisdom! still could time afford
To read her Bible, ever on her board.
In kersey-coat, by gales uncourteous fann'd,
With neat white bib, and basket in her hand,
I see her on the scatter'd furze present
Her garments to the bleaching firmament.
And there appears the hospitable sire,
Rearing the turf-pile for his Christmas fire,

While rosy children, with their flaxen hair,
Loose to the wind, officious burdens bear:
Bless'd Ignorance! who, as their mountains, free,
Deem the whole world comprised in what they see.

Some stunted trees before the dwelling grow,
Bent from th' Atlantic blast, their bitterest foe.

A strip of corn, the time-worn stones among,
Waves slowly to the breeze that sweeps along,
While near it, skirting a tumultuous stream,
Herbage, long mown, invites the sun's warm beam;
Nor these alone discreet remembrance show
Of Autumn's wind, and bleak December's snow;
Around the crazy door, which mounds defend,
Potatoes thrive, the poor man's greatest friend.
Though their lean kine, perverse, too far have stray'd,
Or in their garden floods have ravage made;
Though oft they watch the Heavens, and oft retire,
Chill'd still with rains, to stir the ember fire,
Forbear your pity! let the current flow,
Here wasted, in behalf of real woe!
Many, in ermine clad, oppress'd with cares,
Rest not, at night, with hearts so light as theirs,
With them solicitude has slender range,
They know no contrast, and they fear no change;
And though hard fare, their birth-right, they endure,
Pleasures their hearth surround, if humble, pure:
The mountain winds conspire to brace and cheer,
And brute intemperance is a stranger here:
Theirs are the wants which men unpamper'd crave,
And theirs the hopes that stretch beyond the grave.

Beholding hills, upon whose iron breast,
A permanence of being seems imprest;
The same through ages past, and still to be,
The earthly emblem of eternity;
Th' excursive thought, (whilst these unmoved remain,)
Traces the shifting scenes of mortals vain;
Man's little great concerns, kings' rise and fall,
While Dartmoor downward looks, and scorns it all.
The spirit, free as is the ambient air,
Throws back her glance upon the times that were;
Dwells on the years, by mental night o'ercast,
When skins preserved our fathers from the blast;
When the barbaric faith of ancient days,
Shone here with direful and concenter'd blaze.
What crowds upon the very sward I tread,
Once reverenced idols, bending low the head,
As they survey'd their stone-gods drench'd in gore;
Or heard their voices in the thunder's roar;
Or drown'd with shouts the agonizing cry
From peopled-wickers, kindling wide the sky—
But these deform'd prostrations of the mind
Have to oblivion's gulf been long consign'd;
Or lightly float on memory's tranquil stream,
The shadowy vestige of a morning dream.

Disastrous hour, when Hell, our race to cheat,
First sanctified the forest's dark retreat;
That once, as Heaven's vicegerents, Druids led
To seek these wilds, with tangling trees o'erspread;
To brave the mountain-torrent, foaming by,
And here prefer their curs'd idolatry:

100

On yonder beacon of dismantled stone,
To raise the altar, hear their victims groan;
And hope, delusive dream! by deeds like these,
Avenging heaven to deprecate or please,
Up yon tall crags e'en now the sign appears,
Steps coarsely wrought, the work of unknown years,

101

By which the priests ascended, hosts in sight,
To the rock-basin on the loftiest height,
And there perform'd, while Pity's eyes o'erflow,
Rites! Moloch rites! o'er which the veil we throw.

Did ever Science, on her blazon'd throne,
(Worshipp'd by some, who worship her alone!)
Did ever Learning, to the stars allied,
Glory of man, by none but fools decried;—
Did ever Nature, whose ecstatic praise,
Crowds echo, who no higher thought can raise;
Did ever Genius, in her flights sublime,
Spurning the narrow bounds of space and time;
Did ever these, with being's endless form,
Summer's mild breeze, or Winter's driving storm,
Revolving seasons, e'en the midnight sky,
Proclaiming, “thunder-tongued,” a deity!
Subdue the harden'd, cruelty restrain,
Or turn the wandering heart from idols vain?
See Druids in their reeking vestments bound,
While cliffs and rills, and sylvan scenes surround!
View Bramah's swarthy sons, 'mong genial skies,
Offering to demons nightly sacrifice!

102

See Vishnoo, Boodh, and Moslem devotees,
Framing their sensual Heavens, mid rocks and trees!
Witness the sages, boasts of elder time,
Who dared, save one, all hills of knowledge climb,
And, failing there, the record left behind,
That none, “by wisdom,” God, might seek and find.

What hallowed Being here directs her flight?
Her flowing robe of pure and pearly white;
With radiant chaplets, borrowed from the Sun,
Bearing the olive wreath on Calvary won?
Her brow benignant; meek, her look divine,
As Love, when pleading at Devotion's shrine?
Wheree'er the form angelic wings her way,
Harpies, which feed on man, resign their prey!
All deeds of darkness vanish, that consume,
Life, just expanding, hurried to the tomb!
Or Juggernaut, or Shivu's orgies vile!
Infanticide, the widow's blazing pile,
Remorseless, “red-eyed” superstition wild,
Feasting the famish'd tigress with his child!
Or bearing onward (still the passion, blood!)
His sire, to gorge the shark in Ganges' flood!
These all, the brood of Erebus, retire
At her approach, abash'd, to dens of fire!
Celestial Visitant! o'er this dark earth,
Enlarge thy triumphs! give that kingdom birth,
Which only can the powers of Hell restrain,
And consummate, O Peace! thy righteous reign.

In days, less rude, when War his banners rear'd,
How may these wilds, by turns, have awed and cheep'd.

103

Perchance, in all their martial pomp array'd,
Some chieftains, high in fame, might here have stray'd;
Bold to explore, the prelude to possess,
Who fear'd, at this sepulchral wilderness!
Not so the Britons! Vanquish'd by the foe,
These heights they reach, whose windings well they know,
Nor pausing to survey the trackless waste,
Up, earnest up, the “steep, rough” sides they haste,
Braving the lone recesses of the Moor,
Behind them Death, but Liberty before!
At length, escaped beyond this belt of stone,
Round them they gaze, and call one spot their own,
Joy in their breasts, and transport in their eyes,
Save when, with scorpion sting, the thoughts arise
Of wrongs, oppressions, ever fresh, though past,
Chiefly, when Britain's mothers shriek'd aghast;
Beholding, dread precursors of despair!
Assassins' daggers gleaming in the air!
Sons, brothers, husbands, as with wounds they reel,
Imploring mercy from the hearts of steel!
The purple tide, there from the banquet ran,
Wide-spreading, stain indelible on man!
As slaughter closed, what perfidy began!

104

Whence yonder glittering rays, far off, that beam,
Like noon-tide lustre, on some restless stream?
Faint sounds are heard! a motion slow is there!
A shout imperfect vibrates in the air!
The Saxons haste! List to their sturdy tread!
The shining helms flash terrors from their head!

105

Buckler, and sword, intenser glare display,
While ravenous Death, impatient, waits his prey.
Check'd, not dismay'd, at Dartmoor's base they stand;
Silent they mark the view on every hand;
Parch'd herbage, hill-tops in their dreariest form,
With vales, perpetual haunt of wind and storm.

106

Yet, not to Nature they their homage pay;
Far other aims their hearts obdurate sway:
Theirs is one thought, the same straight road to tread,
By which, so late, the routed Britons fled.
They see the path, clear in the broken ground,
And, like the roebuck, up the mountain bound.
Hour after hour, the foe his toil sustains,
Till Eve's last streak retires, and midnight reigns.

Heaven always just, though in his own wise way,
Sometimes o'erwhelms th' oppressor with dismay:
A season this might lion-hearts confound,
Such soul-distracting tempests rave around:
The drenching rain beats through the hour of sleep,
Whilst o'er the Saxons winds unpitying sweep.
The burst of elemental sounds austere,
Prolong'd by darkness, deafening, strikes the ear.
Fresh foes augment the horrors of the night!
Flashes, the Peaks invest, with forked light,
And such portentous peals prevail on high,
Each fears the “final doom” is drawing nigh.

Morn dimly breaks, at length, the twilight grey,
Reluctant long, her empire yields to day.
The warrior chief, projecting conquests wide,
Upbraids the tardy moments as they glide.
A rugged point before him towers serene,
Thither he speeds to trace the circling scene.
What sudden palsy on his sinew preys,
As slowly he the neighbouring realm surveys!

107

No human dwelling! Wastes, or crags up-piled,
And all beyond, more desolate, more wild,
“Back, back!” he shouts, rage beaming from his eye,
“Here storms may thrive, but living thing must die!”

O Earth! what changes on thy face appear,
Through man, the Lord of this sublunar sphere!
There, land he tills, where once the waters roll'd,
Here, guides new rivers, there, arrests the old;

108

Ranges o'er Alpine rocks, on courser fleet;
Prostrates Hercynian forests at his feet;

109

Joins sea with distant sea, in confluence wide,
Or barrier rears to ocean's raging tide!

110

These very mounts, that cheerless thus expand,
To man have bow'd, or Time's transforming hand,

111

For here, of old, oaks, sweeping tempests braved,
The deep gloom hung, the wood impervious waved;

112

And, soon their ancient glory to restore,
Mildew and death may triumph here no more.

113

Must fancy still, with ever-varying dye,
Obtrude her airy shadows, flitting by?

114

Can Dartmoor breathe a spirit not her own,
Where tyrant Desolation broods alone?
Can scenes like these, to penury resign'd,
Bursting the sleep of ages, teem with mind?
These arid wastes submit to Ceres' reign,
Hills wave with corn, and flocks adorn the plain?
No idle vision, changing with the sun,
Behold the work, with blessings fraught, begun!
View the first vict'ry fair of human toil!
See the young team invade the virgin soil!
There houses long and large, unseen till now,
Smile like the firs on some Norwegian brow,
Th' inspiring pledge of that auspicious day,
When Dartmoor's reeds and fens shall pass away;

115

Summer's deep-foliage clothe her mountains bare,
And harvest-home reward the reaper's care.

Are there some men, amid a world so vile,
Upon whose paths admiring angels smile?
Some spirits who to earth have found their way,
Some souls ethereal, form'd of purer clay,
Who love to break the child of sorrow's chain,
To whom the orphan never pleads in vain?—
The stay of lonely widowhood opprest,
On whom ten thousand beams of blessing rest?—
Whose “light,” diffuses round a “ray serene.”
Yet whose best deeds by Heaven alone are seen?
My country! many such in thee are found,
Whose unbought praise both hemispheres resound;
Who prove for Britain (not to sight reveal'd!)
Her strongest bulwark, and her firmest shield!
And who, at length, at the last trumpet's call,
Will hear “Well done!” from God, the Judge of all.
These, pondering with divine benignity
On lisping outcasts, London! own'd by thee,
Deserted, naked, destitute, forlorn,
No hand to guide, no Mentor to forewarn,
Projected plans of mercy, when the place
Where lonely captives pined, or brave, or base,

116

Expands her hundred doors, and Dartmoor yields
Her blasted heaths to labour, fruits, and fields!

117

Here is the promise verified, e'en here,
The plough and sickle form'd from sword and spear!
Oh, spot! on which our anxious hopes repose;
Here let the desert “blossom like the rose!”
To age mature, may Heaven's especial care
Watch o'er thy charge! protect from ev'ry snare!
And on their heads, to friendless want the friend,
His choicest gifts, in copious showers, descend.

Visions before me burst, in long array,
Bright as the winged harbingers of day.
Here, blooming like some palm on Lybia's waste,
Among these wilds, (half from the earth erased,
So spurn'd of man, scarce seen but by the skies,)
I mark the Infant Town progressive rise,
Destined, perchance, nor distant far, to throw
Her stately shadow o'er the plain below:—
I view the smiling hamlet lift her head;
Expanded meads, in vest luxuriant, spread;
Trees flourish where so late huge torrs were found,
Whilst many a church casts sanctity around.
Haste on to eminence, like some pure spring,
Small at its source, at length, a lord, a king,
Pouring his mass of waters to the sea,
And gathering, as he flows, fresh royalty.

118

While thus, to thee, the passing note I raise,
Oh, Dartmoor shall thy Parent find no praise?
Devon! whose beauties prove, from flattery free,
The happy theme where wranglers all agree!
When troubles press, or health, that blessing, fails,
What joy to range thy renovating vales;
“England's Montpelier!” o'er thy downs to stray,
Thy logans, camps, and cromlechs huge, survey;

119

Thy rivers to their mountain source explore,
Or roam refresh'd beside thy craggy shore;
To track thy brooks, that, to the passer by,
Babble their airs of liquid melody,
Winding through glens, where seldom suns have shone,
Like life, through all obstructions, gliding on;
Thy distant offspring with th' enthusiast's zest,
Extol thee still, in charms perennial drest;
Trace, and retrace each haunt of childhood sweet,
And, “Oh, my country:” in their dreams repeat.
And, if at length, when years are on their wane,
Surmounting bars, and bursting every chain,

120

To their “dear Devon” they return once more,
What pleasure to renew the joys of yore,
(Now mellow'd down, by time, to calm delight,
Like eve's broad orb, retiring from the sight;)
To mount thy wood-crown'd hills, and there to stand,
Creation blooming round, a Tempe land!
Shrubs, rocks, and flowers, voluptuous in attire,
Whatever eye can charm, or heart desire,
And in the distance, through some opening seen,
Old ocean, in his vast expanse of green.

Nor Devon, must thy honours linger here;
Though thou wast made to wake the rapturous tear,
And grant thy children, down to life's last close,
Forms fair on which their spirits might repose,
Yet higher claims are thine, in which the heart,
The germ eternal, bears conspicuous part;
Thine is the region large, the pale renown'd,
Where “Worthies” dwelt of old, and still abound;
In thee, congenial element, we find
The great! the liberal! the ennobling mind!
Virtues retired, that shrink from public gaze,
And genius, which demands a nation's praise.

Dartmoor! at length, the parting word to thee!
I leave thy borders not from sorrow free;
But all things here, successive, pass away
In storm, or sun-shine, like an April day:
Heaven's gorgeous clouds the night advancing tell,
“Mother of many rivers,” now, farewell,