 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
I. VOLUME I
THE ROSE OF CORBYE,
IN TWO CANTOS.
1
CANTO THE FIRST.
1
O may this tale of former daysBut cheat the bosom of a sigh,
How pleas'd will be the unknown Bard,
Who boasteth not of minstrelsy !
Tho' weak the tones of his broken harp,
And he in song with few can vie,
Fain would he sing in virtue's praise,
And dry the tear from sorrow's eye;
Tho' poverty hath bow'd him low,
And the wise and wealthy pass him by.
2
O have you heard of young Ellinor,The peerless maid of fair Cumberland?
How, where Eden steals to merry Carlyle,
Her castle did hill and dale command?
2
And the Black Baron he sought her hand?
3
And have you heard how young EllinorHad suitors far from east and west?
How, she was fairest of all the fair,
And of maidens good, she was the best?
How, virtue shone in every smile,
And pity's mansion was her breast?
How, when the helpless sought her aid,
Each found himself a welcome guest?
How, many a courteous knight and squire,
For love of her, could take no rest?
4
But love is oft a load of woe;And love is oft a dangerous snare;
It makes time fly on leaden wings,
And fills the breast with every care;
It robs youth of the rose's hue,
And plants a faded lily there:
Love leads to bliss; love leads to pain;
To heavenly joys, or to dark despair.
3
5
And have you heard of the gallant Dacre,The tyrant's scourge; his country's pride?
Whose shield borne by his ancestry,
With many a foeman's blood was dy'd;
His look made captive high-born dames,
Yet ne'er to win a heart he tried:
War was the hero's dear delight;
Ay when his country call'd, he hied;
Yet to soothe the sorrows of weak man,
O'er moor and mountain he would ride.
6
And have you heard of Corbye Castle,Where wild woods wave, and waters flow;
And many an aged spreading oak
Shelters the nimble deer and roe?
How its rocks are high, and its bow'rs are sweet,
And it seems a paradise below?
How it is the seat of as bold a race,
As e'er welcom'd friend, or fac'd a foe?
How there fair Ellinor first drew breath,
As sweet a bud as the eye e'er saw?
O never from this castle gate,
May the beggar poor unpitied go!
4
And heal the pains of want, and woe!
7
If you have not heard, then rest a while,And you shall hear a true-told song;
It first was chaunted by old Grey Graeme,
Who lived the silver birks among:
And now the minstrel rests in peace,
Long may it please both old and young!
8
A song oft drives dull care away,When Winter nights are dark and long;
Beguiles the labour of the day;
And he who scorns a well-meant song,
Whate'er he be, it seemeth to me,
In that he always acteth wrong.
9
“And who,” you say, “was old Grey Graeme?”He was a minstrel, blithe and gay;
And oft in Corbye's antient hall,
He to fair Ellinor lov'd to play;
And sweet to her were his ditties wild,
That told of many a former day;
5
And how fell the brave in border fray;
But alas! his songs are heard no more,
Or the harp's wild notes on the stone so grey;
For time who worketh every change,
Hath swept the simple strains away.
10
How few they be now in our days,Who in old hall e'er sweep the string!
How few reward the minstrel poor!
How few of other times can sing!
'Tis sweet to hear the song of old,
That oft hath made the wild woods ring;
It warms the heart of wrinkl'd age,
And makes man taste a second spring;
It cheats the bosom of a sigh;
And from the eye a tear can bring.
11
Grey Graeme was born in western Isle,And for Scotland's King had fought and bled;
But when he spake of his five brave sons,
The old man wept and hung his head:
For they were slain by the furious Dane,
When the foe's bleak shore was dy'd with red;
6
Though every joy of life was fled;
And long in hall, or by ivied tow'r,
Or near castle gate had he play'd for bread.
12
Oft he would tell right merry tales;Oft he would caution list'ning youth;
Oft warn the old of death's approach,
With serious look, in lays uncouth:
For much Grey Graeme had seen, I trow,
And much had sought in quest of truth:
And many a mountain steep had cross'd,
Since time had mark'd his manly growth.
13
Sweet were his strains, at eve's grey hour,When Summer's carpet deck'd the ground;
And now to love he'd strike the harp;
Now to wild war the strings he'd sound:
Now songs of sorrow, soft and slow,
Would draw a tear from all around;
Next changing to a lightly strain,
The laughing maid would frisk and bound.
7
14
O music! music, thy pow'r is great!It cures the mind of many a wound;
Cold is the heart it cannot melt—
Of such, I hope but few are found!
15
Alas! alas! how few they be,Who in old hall now sweep the string!
How few reward the minstrel poor!
How few of other times can sing!
'Tis sweet to hear the song of old,
That oft hath made the wild woods ring;
It warms the heart of wrinkl'd age,
And makes man taste a second spring;
It cheats the bosom of a sigh,
And from the eye a tear can bring:
By music sooth'd, in want or woe,
Quick to the winds all cares we fling.
16
Grey Graeme was bent, his locks were white,Pale was his face, and sunk his een;
Yet still a smile bespoke content,
Tho' poor this harper was, I ween:
8
And clad him all in a garb of green.
17
His lodgment was a small house of stone,Where he could laugh at the winter keen:
Still was he priz'd whene'er he stray'd,
By wealthy squire, or peasant mean.
The ruin near the silver birks,
Tells where old Grey Graeme's hut has been;
And the mould'ring stone that marks his grave,
By many a wanderer yet is seen.
18
Now it fell about the blithe new year,When mountains high were capp'd with snows;
Young Dacre he would a hunting go,
And threescore men and three he chose:
Saying “We will range both wood and wild,
Where to merry Carlyle old Eden flows!”
19
Ne'er would he bow to tyranny;His mind was bent on Freedom's cause;
Ne'er had he sigh'd a slave to love,
Nor did he dream of a peerless rose.
9
20
In border fray, or in foreign fight,He brav'd the boldest of the field;
Ay when his country cried to arms,
The first was he to grasp the shield,
For many a foe had own'd his might,
But few his massy sword could wield;
And glory was his whole delight,
But glory oft to love must yield.
21
Yes, glory must to love give way;The brave to beauty still must bow;
In vain we scorn the urchin bold,
In vain to 'scape his snares we vow:
The crimson'd cheek, and the eye of fire,
Will drive a frown from the hero's brow;
And he who scorns the fairest fair,
May soon be captive led, I trow!
22
With merry hearts, each drank his ale,And they are all a hunting gone;
The dogs were swift, and the sports were good,
And bounding deer full many a one,
10
And hare as fleet as e'er could run;
Such, Dacre, and his merry clan,
Had slain, before the day was done.
23
They hunted many a wood and wild,Where Eden strays to merry Carlyle;
And when the evening frosts come on,
What pleasure was, was now a toil.
Red Robin on a high hill stood,
And distant saw an antient pile;
“And in that castle,” quoth the Dacre,
“We may, methinks, find rest a while.
24
“For rest brings health, and blithe content;And rest can all our cares beguile;
And rest is still the good man's friend,
But justly scorns the sinner vile.
25
“And when the moon peeps o'er the hill,We will hie home right speedily;
And to-morrow drink of the nut-brown ale,
And tell what merry sports had we;
11
Who hunting hates, or a fair ladie!
26
“Yet by my fay, I none have seen,Who e'er could make a slave of me!
The piercing eye, the rosy cheek,
The snowy breast, and the heart of glee;
Nay, were she fairest of the fair,
With every grace of the graces three,
I would not bow a female's slave,
For all the wealth of Christendie!
He who delighteth in hero's deeds,
From ladie's look must keep him free!
27
“For when love shoots his arrows keen,Care snatches all our joys away;
Sunk in an agony of woe,
Love claims the night, love claims the day:
And love can pierce decrepid age,
With furrow'd cheeks, and locks so grey;
Love opes alike the palace gates,
And the lowly latch of the shepherd gay;
Love holds each lure to glowing youth,
That oft, alas! the heart betray.
12
28
“Now, comrades all, let's merry be,And thankful, still, for pleasures past—
Oh! mercy on the houseless poor,
Who bear keen want, and the piercing blast!
But He who guides this frightful storm,
Can give the weary ease at last.”
29
The light shone bright in Corbye Castle,And loud the northern blast did blow,
Where spreading woods of leafless trees
Shelter'd the trembling deer and roe:
The star of eve now lent a ray,
Now hid by many a cloud of snow;
While Eden o'er his rocky bed,
In hollow sounds was heard below.
30
The Dacre knock'd loud at the gate;And who so ready was, within,
As fair Ellinor to unbolt the gate,
And welcome strangers, kith or kin?
Quoth Dacre, “An angel by my fay!
Such beauty would tempt to sin:
13
'Twas wisely meant the world to win!”
31
Yes glory must to love give way;The brave to beauty still must bow;
In vain we scorn the urchin bold,
In vain to 'scape his snares we vow:
The crimson'd cheek, and the eye of fire,
Will drive a frown from the hero's brow;
And he who scorns the fairest fair,
May soon be captive led, I trow!
32
Now she has curtsey'd to the Dacre,And bid them welcome, one by one;
She has given to each the nut-brown ale,
To the bold Dacre she gave none;
But a silver horn of the blood-red wine,
And a look that any heart might won;
For fairer maid was never form'd,
I trow, to grace a proud monarch's throne
33
With trembling lips, and blushing cheek,With gazing eye, and breast of flame,
14
And who he was, and whence he came;
The look of pleasure mark'd her face,
Soon as she heard the hero's name,
And he was welcomed with a smile,
That tyranny itself might tame.
34
And much he suffer'd from that look,For it has cost him many a sigh:
Now having learn'd where stands his hall,
And the streaming Lyne hoarse murmurs by,
And O his name! a name well known,
O'er oceans wide, and mountains high,
She lighted him to the fairest chamber,
Wherein the Dacre he might lie;
Tho' he wearied was, the long, long night,
Love wou'd not let him close an eye.
35
For love it causeth sleepless nights,And love it causeth days of pain;
And when love robs us of our rest,
'Tis long ere we can rest again;
It makes a coward of the hero bold,
And binds him with a silken chain;
15
To struggle proves too oft in vain:
From palac'd prince, to vassal vile,
Mankind he tames o'er earth and main.
36
How cou'd he sleep? He saw her form;Her winning look; her easy grace;
He heard her voice, most musical,
Then thought he of her matchless face;
And of the praise her sire had won,
For she was of a noble race:
The more he thought, the more he sigh'd,
All seemed quite an enchanted place.
With pride, long may he bless the hour,
When with his clan he sought the chace!
37
But love is like the opening rose,When Phoebus ushers in the morn;
Tho' fragrant blooms this queen of flow'rs,
Its leaves conceal a piercing thorn:
As fades a rose, when the bleak blast blows,
So love is blighted by ladie's scorn.
16
38
And love is like a lily flow'r;And love is like a feverish dream;
A bitter draught it soon may turn,
Tho' now life's luxury supreme.
39
Young Ellinor is to her chamber gone,But good lack-a-day! she cannot rest!
She dreams not of the lords and knights
Who sought her, far from east and west;
But feels a pain ne'er felt before,
And many a sigh escapes her breast:
In fancy, she beholds the smile,
And manly form of her far-fam'd guest—
Of Dacre, why does she think and start?
Those who in love have been, know best.
40
But love is oft a load of woe;And love is oft a dang'rous snare;
It makes time fly on leaden wings,
And fills the breast with ev'ry care;
It robs youth of the rose's hue,
And plants a faded lily there;
17
To heav'nly joys, or to dark despair.
41
When the black shades of night were gone,And from his roost the grey cock crew,
Who rose so ready as the young Dacre,
In hopes soon Ellinor to view?
For she was fair as the mountain snows;
Her cheek bloom'd with health's rosy hue;
And o'er her bosom, pure as white,
Her flaxen locks in tresses flew.
Ah! who cou'd gaze, and not be won,
When Love laugh'd in her eyes of blue!
42
For Love can wound, without a scar;And Love can bind, without a chain;
Mid' savage Winter's frightful storms,
Love finds his way o'er land and main:
Love's arrows pierce the bravest heart,
And soon subdue the proud and vain;
And when man bows a slave to Love,
'Tis hard his freedom to regain.
18
43
By day and night, Love wings his flight,O'er barren heath, and flow'ry plain;
Mid' Summer's heat, and Winter's cold,
Love glories in his tyrant reign:
His bow is bent to wound the heart
Of monarch proud, or lowly swain;
But one kind glance from her we prize,
Can freedom give, and banish pain!
44
The next that rose Brown Adam was;And the Gibsons, that by Irthing dwell;
The Scotts, who fear no Scottish laws;
The Weirs; the Jardins; and the Bell;
Jocks Tom, who knew each roaring linn,
Each moor and mountain, moss and dell;
Hob o' the Syke, and his two sons,
Who fought the best at Tindle Fell;
The Howme Foot Harry; Grizzy's George;
And Hardy Wat, no man cou'd fell.
45
The Potts'; the Elliots o' the Buss;Strang Wull; and Gib o' Hether Side;
19
The laird's young Ralph, Kirklinton's pride;
The Nobles; Fosters; John o' Cleugh;
Old Hardin, that had most been tried;
Black Fergus, that slew young Buccleugh,
And Liddal's flood ay scorn'd to ride;
Braid Andrew; Geordie o' the Burn;
Names known and dreaded, the borders wide.
46
Brown Barney, o' the Buller Syke;And Smiddy Dick; and Cocker Will;
And white Tom's Tom; and Kirsty's Kit;
And Rose-trees Rob; and Three-thoum'd Gill:
Lang Philip, now bent short with age,
Fam'd far and wide, for healing skill;
The dart o' death ay fain to ward,
But ne'er wou'd draw a doctor's bill.
47
The Carrs, the brag o' Leversdale;The Jameses five, from Scaleby Hill,
Who wan the day at Brampton fray,
And drave the fae-men 'yont the mill;
They'd fly to face the fiercest Scot,
But ne'er wou'd do a neighbour ill.
20
48
And Bolton Clem, with Clem his son;White Willy o' the Bleaberry;
Mad Matt; and Sawney o'er the Knowe;
Red Sim, with all his billies three;
The least stood full two yards in height,
The one a giant was to see;
Oft did they strip the Scottish howmes,
And many a Scot they made to flee:
Each had his home on the Dacre' lands,
And they were a goodly company.
49
And they were welcom'd, one, two, and three,By Ellinor, into the hall;
Where the tables groan'd with wholesome fare,
And blithe and merry I trow were all:
And old Grey Graeme, in his garb of green,
Who still was ready at our ladie's call,
Now with his harp was seated near,
And sung of many a brave warrior's fall.
50
O music! music, thy power is great!It cures the mind of many a wound;
21
Of such, I hope but few are found.
51
Alas! the Dacre nor eat nor drank,But sunk a willing prey to love;
And oft he check'd the rising sigh,
And oft to join in mirth he strove.
Ah! little thinks the dauntless youth,
What pains, what pleasures, he must prove!
52
Yes, glory must to love give place;The brave to beauty still must bow;
In vain we scorn the urchin bold,
In vain to 'scape his snares we vow:
The crimson'd cheek, and the eye of fire,
Will drive a frown from the hero's brow;
Who scorns the fairest of the fair,
May soon be captive led, I trow;
And he who was so bold of late,
A willing slave, sits sighing now.
53
With wistful gaze, uprose the Dacre,'Tis far, far to his woody glen;
22
The Scots oft tried to seize in vain:
There, watching, sits his feeble mother,
Praying for him, and his dauntless men;
For, O, he was her only son,
Her only child now left of ten!
54
Yound Ellinor's lily hand he kiss'd,And sad he look'd, and she turn'd pale;
What moment of this life so sweet,
As when we list true lover's tale?
And thrice he vow'd a solemn vow,
Ere the next moon shone in the vale,
Again he'd range both wood and wild,
And his comrades drink of her nut-brown ale:
The last look told her how he lov'd,
And how her loss he would bewail.
55
For when Love shoots his arrows keen,Mirth follows mirth, hours dance away
Rapt in an exstacy of bliss,
Love claims the night, Love claims the day:
Love opes alike the proud palace gates,
And the lowly latch of the shepherd gay;
23
With furrow'd cheeks, and locks of grey;
Love lends new joys to glowing youth,
That oft, alas! the heart betray!
56
Now as they homeward bent their way,Where waters flow, and wild woods wave,
Young Dacre many a look behind,
To Corbye's fading castle gave.
The tale and song, the laugh and joke,
No more his sinking spirits save;
Nor heeded he their revelrie,
For he was beauty's willing slave,
Whose smile gives man each dear delight,
Whose frown oft sends him to the grave.
57
Quoth Potts, “I's haud my guid scotch quey,We suin wull hunt thes way again!”
“Nay!” cries old Hardin, “tous ay wrang!
Our laird maun come tes way hes lane!
Hey's stout and comely, a beauty shey,
And o' his choize he may weel be vain;
But the fairest shey, in a' Chressendie,
I wad the Dacre caw'd her his ain!”
24
58
Quoth Noble, “shey's a bwonnie bird,Whare we hae been! woo but I'd gie
My weyfe, my gear, my bairnies five,
Just yenze her hinny mou to prie!”
“Hout, hout!” cries Sim, “gie mey her yell!
For her kisses I'd no care a flea!”
“Haith!” quoth the Cleugh, “our laird afore,
Has gott'n his deeth frae her pawkie e'e!
But a lass sae bwonnie, young, and guid,
I trow, wull a reeght kind doctress be!”
59
Now as they pass'd thro' merry Carlyle,They were a comely sight to view;
The wives threw open their windows wide,
And marvell'd much what was to do:
Not one was there, but in border fray,
Had made his man full dearly rue;
And not all the men in old Carlyle town,
Could have taken the Dacre and his brave few!
60
And as they pass'd thro' Rickar Gate,In this street or gate leading north from Carlisle, the inhabitants of the borders (or debateable lands) commonly assemble on market-days. Filled with poisonous liquors, and more so with a maddening spirit of revenge for any trifling injury a friend or relative may have sustained, an uprorious evening scene formerly took place, to the great annoyance of the town. The combatants generally fought with leaden-headed whips, made for the purpose. This antient and barbarous custom has now given way to friendly intercourse and rational pleasures. The education of a family, and agricultural improvements, engross the attention of the aged farmers: a spirit of industrious emulation having been occasioned by the great increase of rents. Horse-racing, cockfighting, and other amusements, equally idle, have been superseded by an ever-pleasing thirst after useful knowledge.
Quoth Brown Adam, “There's the spot, I trow,
25
And sweet to me was her hinny mou!
Tho' she was woo'd by a' around,
Yet to be mine, she made a vow;
And for my winsome breyde, my Jean,
I wheyles gat bang'd; bein aft blin fou:
But, Deil rive my sark, gin a Carel chiel
Dare cry bo! to Brown Yeddy, now!”
61
And when they cross'd the Carlyle sands,Cries Davie, “Mark yon castle wa';
Mak our young Dacre the governor,
And the bravest Scot e'er Scotland sa'
Shou'd he an Armstrang dare rescue,
He suin wad feel a Dacre's blow:
The girt Buccleugh,
This stanza alludes to the brother of Johnny Armstrong, the noted free-booter, who lived at Gilnockie Tower, now a ruin, on the banks of the river Esk, near Langholm. Kinmont Willy suffered a long and unjust confinement in Carlisle Castle. Young Buccleugh, with forty chosen from among the sons of his tenantry, bravely determined, at every hazard, to rescue suffering Willy. They succeeded in the dangerous attempt, and had it in their power to have seized the governor (Lord Hunsdon) and all his attendants.
Wad ne'er hae ventur'd here awa!
But wae betide yer suthern lwords!
A manly sword they darena dra'!”
62
The Dacre heard, but silent heard,For love had fill'd his breast with care;
And love oft proves a load of woe,
And love is oft a dang'rous snare;
26
And plants a faded lily there:
Love leads to bliss; love leads to pain;
To heav'nly joys, or to dark despair.
63
How eager sits his good old mother,Young Dacre watching, from tower high;
And many with their children look,
“They suin wull come!” oft do they cry:
They gaze along the woody glen,
And o'er the hill with eager eye,
When swift and swifter over the moor,
Foremost they see the Dacre fly.
“O, God be prais'd!” says the feeble mother,
“I count them all in safety nigh!
And long may happiness be theirs,
The manly clan I now espy!”
64
They parted, fain to be at home,A father, child, or wife to see;
To-morrow they drink the nut-brown ale,
And keep the Dacre good companie:
Each man will drink to fair Ellinor,
And tell their sports, with merry glee;
27
Who hunting hates, or a fair ladie!
And he whose heart is sunk in love,
I wish him soon from trouble free!
65
For Love can wound, without a scar;And Love can bind, without a chain;
Mid' savage Winter's frightful storms,
Love finds his way o'er land and main:
Love's arrows pierce the bravest heart,
And soon subdue the proud and vain;
And when man bows a slave to Love,
'Tis hard his freedom to regain.
66
By day and night, Love wings his flight,O'er barren heath, and flow'ry plain;
Mid' Summer's heat, and Winter's cold,
Love glories in his tyrant reign:
He bends his bow to wound the heart
Of monarch proud, or lowly swain;
But one kind glance from her we prize,
Will freedom give, and banish pain!
END OF CANTO FIRST.
31
CANTO THE SECOND.
O would to me some pitying Muse
A while her cheering aid impart!
'Tis sweet to sooth the pensive mind,
When sorrow's tear begins to start;
But vainly have I sought to twine
The wreath that shews a Poet's art:
Tho' weak my lays, in virtue's praise,
They yet may touch the feeling heart!
A while her cheering aid impart!
'Tis sweet to sooth the pensive mind,
When sorrow's tear begins to start;
But vainly have I sought to twine
The wreath that shews a Poet's art:
Tho' weak my lays, in virtue's praise,
They yet may touch the feeling heart!
2
Now wou'd you know of the Black Baron?His castle stands on the banks of Tyne;
Its walls are strong, and its dungeons deep,
In which the feeble are doom'd to pine:
And he has wagered a thousand merks,
As they sat drinking the blood-red wine.
32
3
Quoth he, “Ere twelvemonths and a day,The Rose of Corbye shall be mine!”
But woe unto thee, thou Black Baron!
May never maid to thee incline!
4
“I wager, ere twelvemonths and a day,The Rose of Corbye sits in this hall;
Where I have had young, fair, and gay;
And tho' she fairer be than all,
I will not woo her for a bride;
Love shall not so this heart enthrall:
Who takes denial from womankind,
He, by my fay, deserves a fall!
Ah! little think'st thou, peerless Rose,
How soon life's cup I'll fill with gall!
5
“Who stoops to ladie, still she scorns;Who gently woos her, woos in vain;
I would not ask her for a bride,
The wealth of worlds, if sure to gain;
I laugh at love, and ladie's frowns,
Neither can give this bosom pain:
33
I'd force her here, o'er land and main!
6
“For Love can wound, without a scar;And Love can bind, without a chain;
Mid' savage Winter's ruthless storms,
Love finds his way o'er land and main;
And he who bows to tyrant Love,
His freedom never can regain:
For Love can cause a thousand woes,
And Love's the source of endless pain;
Love's arrows pierce too many hearts,
But now he bends his bow in vain!
7
“The urchin, Love, with wily snares,May lure the fondling beardless boy;
But soon he loads weak youth with cares,
And every bliss wou'd fain annoy:
Then why shall man bow to thy pow'r,
That health and peace will quick destroy?
—Ah! little think'st thou, ladie fair,
How soon I'll change thy cup of joy!”
34
8
Now he has gone to Tom o' Clint,“O Tom! good Tom, do favor me!
Where Eden rowes to merry Carlyle,
There stands a castle, it's name Corbye:
Young Ellinor dwells in that castle,
The fairest fair in Chrissendie;
Her beauty wounds both lords and knights,
Go, force her here, I ask of thee:
I'll give thee house, I'll give thee land,
And gold and silver shall be thy fee!”
9
The Clint has sworn a solemn oath,A solemn oath, most furiouslie,
“Gie' me thy hand, thou great Baron,
By th' blood that warmeth this bodie!
The proudest fair in a' Cumberland,
Shall suin be here, gif thy will it be!
10
“At thy command, the bonniest flow'r,That bloometh in a' Chrissendie,
I'll mak her thine, but gin I fail,
The Clint will forfeit life to thee!
35
11
“For luive maks life a weary load;And luive, alake! is hard to bide;
It gars man cla' a sairy pow,
To see a jilt, fuils ca' a bride;
And wae befa' the witless loon,
Wha tamely bows to woman's pride,
Better to hing on the gallows tree,
Than tak fause woman for a guide!
Here beats a heart, but ne'er for luive—
Now quick thy errand I will ride;
And ere to-morrow's sun gaes down,
I'll seat the ladie by thy side!”
12
The Clint he mounted the swiftest steed,Regardless of the wintry show'r,
The tempest wild, the foaming flood,
He flew o'er mountain, moss, and moor;
Quick as an arrow from the bow,
By abbey, castle, hall, and tow'r;
And where Eden rowes to merry Carlyle,
He did espy a blooming flow'r;
Who should it be, but fair Ellinor,
As she was reading in her bow'r.
36
13
Ah! woe is me, that villain manE'er seeks such virtue to devour;
Who parts with all the bliss of life,
For the false pleasures of an hour!
Forgetful of a future state,
And heedless of the Ruling Pow'r,
Whose goodness is for ever shewn
To monarch proud, or thoughtless boor!
14
The Clint he kneel'd down to the ground,“Come, ladie fair, to the banks of Tyne!
The Black Baron lacketh thy companie;
His castles, lands, wull a' be thine:
At his command, I ride this errand,
While he sits drinking the bluid-red wine,
Wi' courteous lords, and walthy knights—
Say, ladie, shall his will be thine?”
15
The ladie started, as he spoke—“Shall Ellinor to such deeds incline!
Go back! go back, vain is thy errand,
I never will to the banks of Tyne!
37
Reflection drowning with madd'ning wine;
Where, daily in the dungeon deep,
The virtuous starve, and vainly pine—
Be it proud castle; from that foul place,
O God keep me! and God keep mine!”
16
The Clint he seiz'd her in his arms,And she grew weak, and she grew pale—
“O where! O where art thou, young Dacre!
How little know'st thou what I ail!
O wert thou near me, gallant Dacre!
I need not thus my fate bewail!”
But all her struggles, sighs, and tears,
Alas! with him did nought avail!
17
Now when the Clint bound her lily hands,She shrieked loud, and she shrieked long;
Her cries soon brought forth Andrew's Willie,
Right stout he was, I ween, and strong;
And with his staff, a full ell in length,
He has fell'd the Clint, the grass among:
“Ay sic a deeth may he die!” quoth Willie,
“The loon wha con'd sic a ladie wrang!”
38
18
Next, he cut off the Clint's black head,And hung it on the highest tree;
“There wad I hing ilka head,” quoth Willie,
“O' th' man wha'd harm our guid ladie!”
The crows came east, the kites came west,
The hawks came fast as they cou'd flee;
They perch'd around the Clint's black head,
And Willie stared the sight to see;
But when they peck'd out the Clint's large eyes,
Loud Willie laugh'd, as tho' mad were he.
19
He has thrown the body into Eden deep;“Troth! there's a ready-made grave for thee!
Thus wad I bury thousands mair,
Gin they sud harm our sweet ladie!
Deil tak a' sic black-hearted loons,
Wha glory in their crueltie!”
20
Now up the stream, and down the stream,The twisted eels swam greedily;
And twined around the bleeding trunk,
Like gluttons feasting furiouslie:
39
Eager to taste the Clint's bodie;
And Willie stood on Eden's brink,
And loud he laugh'd the sight to see.
“Deil tak a' sic black-hearted loons,
Wha glory in their crueltie!”
21
He has driv'n the steed far from the castle;O'er moor and mountain home flew he;
When the Black Baron the steed beheld,
I trow an angry man was he:
He call'd his clan, he vow'd revenge,
He made the table in flinders flee;
And he has sworn three solemn oaths,
That the Rose of Corbye his shall be.
22
“Who stoops to ladie, still she soorns;Who gently woos her, woos in vain;
I would not ask her for a bride,
The wealth of worlds, if sure to gain.
A curse on Love, and ladie's frowns!
Neither can give this bosom pain;
Liv'd she in farthest Chrissendie,
I'd force her soon o'er land and main!
40
23
“Tho' Love can wound, without a scar,And Love can bind without a chain,
His arrows pierce the coward's heart,
But now he bends his bow in vain.
What tho' mid Winter's thousand storms,
He wings his way o'er land and main;
Woe to the slave who bows to Love!
Freedom he never can regain.
Love sows the seeds of black despair
In mighty king, or silly swain;
But by the joys of life I prize,
Love ne'er shall give this bosom pain!”
24
“Dear Tom o' Clint! good Tom o' Clint!Perish the wretch who murder'd thee!
Ere thrice the sun beams on this castle,
Now thrice I swear reveng'd to be!
Be who he will, the Baron's sword
Shall draw the blood from his foul bodie!
Tho' I command a fearless clan,
Dearest of all wert thou to me!”
41
25
As Ellinor sat in her gilded chamber,Surrounded by her maidens gay,
There came a letter from the Dacre,
That he again must hunt that way;
And three times did she read that letter,
While blushes sweet did her thoughts betray.
26
And three times did she kiss that letter,And place it near her bosom white;
But many a sigh that bosom heav'd,
For still the Dacre was in her sight.
Who would not cherish virtuous love?
Its joys are pure, its cares are light;
But who can say love's joys will last?
The fairest flow'r a storm may blight.
27
For love is oft a load of woe,And love is oft a dang'rous snare;
It makes time fly on leaden wings,
And fills the breast with every care;
It robs youth of the rose's hue,
And plants a faded lily there:
42
To heav'nly joys, or to dark despair.
28
Now she has sent for Andrew's Willie,And ordered him her swiftest steed;
And the three best cows that graze around,
And the three best fields wherein they feed:
And she has giv'n him twenty merks,
For they are good, in time of need;
Saying, “There's a youth in Cumberland,
Will well reward thee for such a deed.”
29
Now Willie off his bonnet threw,And down he sunk on his bended knee;
And Willie blush'd, and Willie star'd,
And Willie laughed the sight to see;
“I'd face the warl, and rejoice at deeth,
Were it to sairve our guid ladie!
The Deil waits a' black-hearted loons,
Wha glory in their crueltie!”
“Rise, Willie, rise,” quoth fair Ellinor,
“What thou hast done, will remember'd be.”
43
30
Why looks the Dacre so wan and pale?Alas! alas! how chang'd is he!
He cannot eat, he cannot drink,
He cannot sleep, or merry be!
Brown Adam whispers, “Guid maister mine!
To see ye thus, sair grieveth me!
'Tis a' for love o' the Corbye Rose,
A hundred merks to ae penny!
31
Yes, love it causeth sleepless nights,And love it causeth days of pain;
And when love robs us of our rest,
'Tis long ere we can rest again:
It makes a coward of the hero bold,
And binds him with a silken chain;
Time only can relief afford,
To struggle proves too oft in vain:
From palac'd prince, to vassal vile,
Mankind he tames, o'er earth and main.
32
“O woe is me!” said the feeble mother,“A-well-a-day! what ails my son!
44
Or if thou had'st an ill deed done:
A medicine strong will give thee rest,
To Carlyle town, I'll send anon.
O luckless hour, thou left this hall!
A weary hunting thou hast gone!
And griev'd am I, to hear thee sigh;
Thy joys of life, alas! are done!'
33
“O chide me not, my good old mother!O heed me not, I beg of thee!
Sick, sick at heart I am, I trow,
But an ill-doer I hate to see!
No med'cine healeth the wounded mind,
Nor can it bring relief to me;
For I must range both wood and wild,
Ere well again I can hope to be!”
34
Now with his comrades, one and all,Young Dacre is a hunting gone;
The dogs were swift, and the sports were good,
But dogs or sport he heeded none,
Tho' bounding deer, and fox, and hare,
Ere noon they'd slain full many a one.
45
Just as the evening shades drew on;
And thrice he knock'd loud at the ring,
Where first his youthful heart was won.
35
Young Ellinor down from her maidens five,Quick to the castle gate is gone;
And she has curtsey'd to young Dacre,
And bid them welcome, one by one.
She has giv'n to each the nut-brown ale,
To the young Dacre she gave none,
But a silver horn of the blood-red wine,
And a smile, such as his heart first won;
For fairer maid was never form'd,
I trow, to grace proud monarch's throne:
But one is more than monarch dear,
Her thoughts are fix'd on one alone.
36
Now thrice he kiss'd her lily hand,And he has told her, with a sigh,
A tale as sweet as e'er lover told,
How, without her, he soon must die:
She lighted him to the fairest chamber,
Wherein the Dacre he might lie;
46
Love would not let him close an eye.
37
For when Love shoots his arrows keen,The lazy hours pass slow away;
Toss'd on a sea, 'twixt hopes and fears,
Love claims the night, Love claims the day:
Love lends new joys, time quick destroys;
Love changes every month to May;
Love opes alike the proud palace gates,
And the lowly latch of the shepherd gay:
Love's arrows wound the world around,
From rosy youth, to age grown grey!
38
And love is like the opening rose,When Phoebus ushers in the morn;
Tho' fragrant blooms this queen of flow'rs,
Its leaves conceal a piercing thorn:
As fades the rose, when the bleak blast blows,
So love is blighted by ladie's scorn!
39
And love is like a lily flow'rAnd love is like a feverish dream;
47
Tho' now life's luxury supreme!
40
A prey to love, the Dacre lies;No deeds of arms his soul delight;
For she is all his thoughts by day,
And she is all his thoughts by night:
On mountain, moor, in hall, or bower,
Fair Ellinor is in his sight:
And now to view her matchless form,
That captive led full many a knight,
Oft did he chide the ling'ring hours,
Oft did he wish for morning bright.
41
The gloomy night pac'd slow away,At op'ning dawn the Dacre rose;
For who by Beauty captive led,
Can hope for peace, or soft repose?
Pleas'd he beheld fair Ellinor,
Whose eye sleep tried in vain to close;
He, sighing, sung a sonnet wild,
Love was the theme the hero chose.
48
SONG.
Welcome to man is gay Spring's returning;
Nature, ever beauteous, delights his view:
Dearer to this fond bosom, burning,
When that matchless grace I behold in you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
This beating heart proves the Dacre true.
Nature, ever beauteous, delights his view:
Dearer to this fond bosom, burning,
When that matchless grace I behold in you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
This beating heart proves the Dacre true.
Blithe sings the lark, when he hails the morning,
Shaking from his wings the drops of dew;
Thus blithe am I, all others scorning,
Happy, happy still, when I gaze on you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
Your smile can bless the Dacre true.
Shaking from his wings the drops of dew;
Thus blithe am I, all others scorning,
Happy, happy still, when I gaze on you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
Your smile can bless the Dacre true.
Sweet bloom the flow'rs on the lap of Flora;
Rapt in fond delight, we behold each hue:
But the fairest flow'r on which beams Aurora,
Tho' stern Winter reigns, yet I see in you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
O look with pity on the Dacre true!
Rapt in fond delight, we behold each hue:
But the fairest flow'r on which beams Aurora,
Tho' stern Winter reigns, yet I see in you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
O look with pity on the Dacre true!
49
42
By love o'erpower'd, of speech bereft,Fair Ellinor her chamber sought;
With frenzied gaze, the Dacre stood,
Now sooth'd by hope, now sunk in thought:
The languid look, the trembling frame,
The tortur'd mind avail'd him nought.
43
The Dacre gaz'd, the Dacre sigh'd,With aching heart, and giddy head;
In vain he struggled to be free;
Life's pleasures all, alas! were fled:
Forgotten are the feats of youth,
When by his arm vain tyrants bled.—
Leave we the hero for a while,
By Love an easy captive led.
44
Yes! glory must to love give way;The brave to beauty still must bow;
In vain we scorn the urchin bold,
In vain to 'scape his snares we vow;
The crimson'd cheek, and the eye of fire,
Will drive a frown from the hero's brow;
50
May soon a captive be, I trow;
And he who was so bold of late,
A willing slave, sits sighing now.
45
The golden morn gleam'd o'er the hills;The soaring lark did Phoebus call;
Whose gladsome rays illum'd the woods,
When the little Page look'd from the hall,
And mounted on a palfrey grey,
He spied a stranger, fierce and tall:
Dark was his visage, sunk his eyes,
And oft his steed was like to fall,
For he spurr'd, and spurr'd the wearied steed,
Until he came to the castle wall.
46
The weighty sword hung by his side,And black the armour the stranger wore;
He lighted from his palfrey grey,
Whose sides were wet with purple gore:
With angry frown he gaz'd around;
The little Page was troubled sore;
And with the look of tyranny,
He ey'd the Page now o'er and o'er.
51
47
And he has said to the little Page,“Sweet boy! do thou but hearken me;
Shew which chamber in this proud castle,
It is, were sleeps thy fair ladie.
I'm the Black Baron, of Northumberland,
And fain young Ellinor would see;
I'll make thee greater than a Page,
And gold and silver shall be thy fee!”
48
The Page he frown'd, the Page he laugh'd,The Page he spake right angrily;
“Think'st thou my ladie I would betray,
For all the gold in Chrissendie!
No!—Know, Black Baron, my ladie's love,
Is dearer, far, than gold to me:
And woe awaits the luckless fair,
Who wares a look of love on thee!”
49
The Baron took a silver whistle,And thrice he blew, both loud and clear,
When one score men, and two score men
Did quickly by his side appear;
52
“Thy proud reply, boy, shall cost thee dear:
Thy aid to me, do but quickly lend,
And thou thro' life hast nought to fear.”
50
The Page he laugh'd, the Page he frown'd,The Page he spake right angrily;
“My ladie hates thee, thou Black Baron,
As I do thy gold, and thy silver fee!
For wander east, or wander west,
The widow's curse still follows thee!
Who such a tyrant gives her hand,
But binds herself to slaverie!
There is a squire within this castle,
A match for thee and thy companie!”
51
The Page he spake, but he spake no more;For, Oh! his life was at an end!
“Take, take thee that!” quoth an angry loon,
“Poor noisy worm! it will thee mend!
Or man, or boy, who thus speaks our Baron,
To heav'n, or hell, his soul I'll send!”
53
52
The Dacre from his window sawThe bloody deed; quick down he came;
“Now rise! now rise! my comrades all!
Brown Adam! Andrew! Dick o' Graeme!
Rise Johnstons! Armstrongs! and the Shaws!
And all the rest that I could name;
Rise! try your swords, that never fail'd,
Fair Ellinor your help doth claim;
And curs'd be he who will not rise,
To save from harm an injur'd dame!”
53
When each had sworn to kill or die,The Dacre opened the castle gate,
And he has said to the Black Baron,
“Thy strength I scorn! thy deeds I hate!
Who stains his sword with virtue's gore,
Will sore repent, when 'tis too late!
54
“Come on! come on! man to his man!Methinks it loss of time to wait;
We fight the cause of a ladie fair,
And for the rest, we trust to fate!”
54
55
The first who fell was the Black Baron;For the Dacre cleft his head in twain:
Soon, of his luckless threescore men,
Full forty on the ground lay slain:
The rest sunk down; from many a wound
The crimson tide pour'd out amain;
Each look'd on Dacre, with a sigh,
A brave man's mercy proud to gain.
56
“Spare! spare, and pity!” quoth the Dacre,“No more their gore our swords shall stain;
And may he who fights for a good ladie,
Ne'er fear a foe, nor fight in vain!
57
“The wounded gently bear to the hall,For need of help, I trow, have they;
And some a grave dig wide and deep,
And in it soon these dead men lay:
The mangled corse of the Black Baron,
Quick to his castle we will convey;
And give due thanks to the King of kings,
For favors he hath shewn this day!”
55
58
And Andrew's Willie, he was there,And loud he laugh'd, the sight to see;
And fain the corse of the Black Baron
He would have hung on the highest tree,
Or thrown it into Eden deep,
A feast for eels and pikes to be.
The Dacre gave him a well-lin'd purse,
For saving of our good ladie;
And he has join'd the Dacre's clan,
And a merry wight long may he be!
59
Now stepped forth ladie Ellinor,The bloody fray she had trembling seen;
And she has knelt most fervently,
And thanked heav'n, with uplifted een:
The Dacre bending o'er her, sigh'd,
And rais'd her, with a courteous mien.
60
From her fair finger she took a ring,And gave it the Dacre, with kisses three,
Saying, “For the deed thine arm hath done,
The Lord of Corbye, thou shalt be.”
56
A sorrie ladie, I trow was she:
“A-lack-a-day! my faithful boy!
A Page so true, I ne'er hope to see!”
She hung her head, pale grew her cheek,
And many a tear fell from her e'e.
61
She has giv'n the Dacre her lily hand,And her lands that lay both far and wide;
Again the red blooms on his cheeks,
When he beholds so fair a bride:
For she seem'd an angel, and no woman,
With her maidens seated by her side;
And fain will be the feeble mother,
To hear what luck did her son betide.
62
Who would not cherish virtuous love,Its joys are pure, its cares are light;
But who can say love's joys will last,
The fairest flow'r a storm may blight:
63
For love is like a lily flow'r;And love is like a feverish dream;
57
Tho' now life's luxury supreme!
64
Now one by one the Dacre's clanWere welcomed into the hall,
Where the tables groan'd with dainty fare,
And blithe and merry, I trow were all:
And old Grey Graeme, in his garb of green,
Who still was ready at our ladie's call,
Now with his harp was seated near,
And loudly sang the Black Baron's fall;
Whilst the castle echoed their revelrie,
Till the grey cock thrice did on them call.
65
How eager sits his good old mother,Young Dacre watching, from tower high;
And many with their children look,
“They suin wull come!” oft do they cry.
They gaze along the woody glen,
And over the hill, with eager eye,
When swift and swifter o'er the moor,
Foremost they see the Dacre fly.
58
66
“O God be prais'd!” says the feeble mother,“I count them all in safety nigh!
And on grey palfrey array'd in white,
Methinks an angel I espy!”
67
And when she kiss'd the Dacre's bride,She dropp'd an aged mother's tear;
And when they told of what had pass'd,
Rejoic'd was she, the tale to hear:
“Thrice happy day!” quoth the feeble mother,
“That gave my son a dame so dear!”
“Thrice happy day!” quoth the Dacre's clan,
“When man to man, we knew no fear!”
68
Now safe arriv'd on the banks of Lyne,A father, mother, wife, they see,
And there they drink the nut-brown ale,
And tell their feats, with merry glee:
For man to man, ne'er a border clan
Cou'd fight the Dacre, and his companie.
59
69
He has to each brave comrade giv'nBoth gold and silver, for a fee;
But may the penny ne'er cross his purse,
Who will not fight for a good ladie!
And he whose heart is sunk in love,
I wish him soon from trouble free!
70
For Love can wound without a scar;And Love can bind without a chain;
Mid' savage Winter's frightful storms,
Love finds his way o'er land and main:
Love's arrows pierce the bravest heart,
And soon subdue the proud and vain;
And when man bows a slave to Love,
'Tis hard his freedom to regain,
For the greatest trial man endures,
Is lovely woman's cold disdain!
71
By day and night, Love wings his flightO'er barren heath, and flow'ry plain;
Mid' Summer's heat, and Winter's cold,
Love glories in his tyrant reign:
60
Of monarch proud, and lowly swain,
But one kind glance from her we prize,
Will freedom give, and banish pain!
72
O may this tale of former daysBut cheat the bosom of a sigh,
How pleas'd will be the unknown Bard,
Who boasteth not of minstrelsy!
Tho' weak the tones of his broken harp,
And he in song with few can vie,
Fain would he sing in virtue's praise,
And dry the tear from sorrow's eye;
Tho' poverty hath bow'd him low,
And the wise and wealthy pass him by.
63
THE DYING HARPER.
1
The mavis sweet began to sing,And Corbye woods were turning green;
When auld Grey Graeme grew sick at heart,
Now fourscore Winters he had seen;
And rest gat nane,
A' strength was gane;
Pale was his cheek, and sunk his een.
2
Quo' he, “Life's sand is weel nigh run,And last of a' the flock am I;
But here's a leel, an honest heart,
The stings o' conscience can defy:
Life's but a day;
We slip away;
A' nature tells the reason why.
64
3
“In vain we seegh and greet at death,When time has shorn an achin' pow;
'Tis painfu' to be ling'rin' here,
When to the earth age maks us bow:
I've had my share
O' warldly care,
And death comes wi' nae terrors now.
4
“When first I sa' yon castle wa',A blithesome sight it was to me;
When last I sa' yon castle wa'
The saut tear blinded aft my e'e:
God's will be duin!
Hope points abuin;
And ay her smiles can comfort gie.
5
“Hoarse-murm'ring Eden, sweet thy soundsAre borne on ilka passing gale;
Aft I hae stray'd thy thick-wov'n woods,
When Luna lighted hill and dale;
O' days by-gane,
In lightly strain,
Ay fain to pour the true-tauld tale.
65
6
“Dear windin' stream! thy soughin' floodLike friendship's voice, to me was sweet;—
Nae mair thy murmurs maun I hear!
Nae mair my friens on earth I'll meet!
A fev'rish dream,
A bubbling stream,
Life proves at best a daily cheat!
7
Jeannet, my wife! blest saint abuin!The twentieth spring now decks the tree,
Sin' thou tuik leave o' this warl's care,
And laith was I to part wi' thee:
I pin'd me lang,
But that was wrang;
We shou'dna weep at fate's decree!
8
“Wi' thee, dear partner o' youth's joys,In realms o' bliss I lang to meet;
And my five sons, slain by the Dane,
O may they suin this spirit greet!
The noon's braid light
Fades frae my sight,
And weak life's pulse begins to beat.
66
9
“Come hither, Coll!—Auld faithfu' dog!To lea' thee, O it maks me grieve!
Thou monie a lesson gie'st proud man,
For thou wilt serve, but ne'er deceive!
When I am gane,
There still is ane,
Will ilka day thy wants relieve.
10
“Yes, ane there is will send thee food,That angel fair wha plac'd me here;
And ane there is will her reward,
The virtuous mind hath nought to fear:
Puir and distrest,
She made me blest—
Flow on! flow on, thou gratefu' tear.
11
“Fareweel, dumb frien! grown grey wi' years,Painfu' the thought that we maun part;
May'st thou be buried by my side,
This wish clings to my achin' heart:
Thy paw gie me;
Tears quat my ee;
Thy moan e'en maks anither start!
67
12
“Hand o'er my harp! guid Margery!And let me ance mair touch the string;
To it, I sang o' former days,
But nane of auld Grey Graeme will sing!
Sweet harp! nae mair
Thou'lt sooth ilk care!
For me, there is nae second spring!
13
“O when I'm in my narrow bed,This harp hang high in Corbye Ha'!
There monie a Winter we beguil'd,
Nae snell blast heedin, sleet or snaw;
And there, blest hour!
When cauld, and puir,
Fair Ellinor my een first saw!
14
“Yes, Sol had westward driv'n his team,Some ither country to delight;
And Boreas, wi' a thousand blasts,
Bade welcome to the wintry night:
The roarin' flood,
The moanin wood,
Might weel a timid mind affright!
68
15
“But when the Empress o' the skyRose stately o'er ilk murky cloud,
An angel smile bade plenty chear
The carle, by cauld and hunger bow'd:
I thank kind heav'n!
To me 'tis giv'n,
To pay her yet wi' gratitude!
16
“Blest be the aged poor man's friend,Who owns a heart to feeling true!
May happiness grow wi' her years,
Nor sorrow ever cloud her brow!
O were she near!
O could she hear
The Dying Harper's last adieu!
17
“To soothe distress, wherever seen,What joy so pure beneath the sky?
Heav'n has, for such, a gift in store,
That this warl's wealth can never buy.
Peace to their days,
With each one's praise,
Who wipe the tear frae misery's eye!
69
18
“Fareweel, ye sheep upo' the hill!Nae mair ye'll hear the Harper's voice;
Nae mair ye'll greet him wi' a bleet;
Nae mair he'll pat ye, and rejoice!
Wi' ye to stray,
At closin' day,
Was ay the leel auld Harper's choice!
19
“Fareweel, ye buddin' wavin' woods!Ne'er, ne'er again ye'll shelter me;
I watch'd ye grow, I've seen ye fa',
And sa' a frien in ilka tree:
Cropp'd in your prime,
Or bow'd by time,
Just sae, weak man's cut down, like ye!
20
“Fareweel, my bonnie siller birks,Where monie an e'enin' hour I play'd!
It is a leel auld Harper's wish,
To rest his banes aneath your shade!—
Weak grows my breath—
Come, welcome death!
To quat this warl, I'm not afraid!
70
21
“The wicked ne'er fan me a frien!The virtuous ne'er fan me a fae!
A shamefu' deed ne'er flush'd my cheek,
Ne'er caus'd within my bosom wae!—
Receive me, God!
Be my abode
The mansion of eternal day!”
22
Without a moan, without a seegh,The leel auld Harper clos'd his een;
And near his weel-lo'ed siller birks,
There is a grave by monie seen:
And on the hill,
Close by the rill,
The spot where Grey Graeme's but has been.
23
Fair Ellinor, the peerless dame,Had carv'd his virtues on a stane,
At which the learn'd aft pore and seegh,
And fancy words, where words are nane.
Time a' destroys!
Let us be wise!
Anither day, perchance we're gane!
71
CONNOR, A FRAGMENT,
IN TWO CANTOS.
Dear Philanthropy! first-born of Heaven! whatever my sufferings in this giddy world, never do thou forsake this bosom. I listen the child of sorrow's tale, and thou whisperest to me in a soothing voice, “Haste, dry the scalding tear, and bid the rose of joy banish the sickly lily of despair.”
CANTO THE FIRST.
73
1
Night had drawn her sable curtain,Some three hours across the plain;
From the hills the blast was raging,
And in torrents fell the rain;
Grey in years, and grey in sorrow,
At a cabin in the vale,
Dermot, trembling o'er the threshold,
Sigh'd, and told his broken tale.
2
“Wet and weary, dull and dreary,Home or comfort none have I;
On the dark heath long I've wander'd,
Not one star illumes the sky:
The cheering blaze that gilds this cottage,
Gave a ray of hope to me;
O shield an old man from the tempest!
Heav'n still smiles on charity.”
74
3
“Welcome!” cried a manly cottar,“Welcome to this lowly shed!”
“Mercy on thee!” said his fair one,
“Thou shalt share our board and bed!
Age and trouble's bow'd thee double;
Whiten'd locks thy years proclaim;
Food and fire will quick revive thee,
But, O say from whence you came?”
4
“I'm a wand'rer, dame believe me,Heedless where I bend my way;
Now I sigh thro' gloomy vallies,
Now o'er craggy mountains stray:
Oft driv'n from the stately mansion;
Oft partaking with the poor;
Sometimes in an out-house resting;
Sometimes wretched on a moor.
5
“How dare man, e'en sunk in sadness,Blame the fix'd decrees of God!
For me, tho' ofttimes driv'n to madness,
Still resign'd, I kiss the rod:
75
Who wou'd change their lot with mine—
Heav'n has blessings for each mortal,
Never let me then repine.
6
“Life is but a vale of sorrow;Fleeting joys awhile we prize;
Comfort now from Hope we borrow;
Now the syren from us flies:
Now we bow to pow'r, to riches;
These, alas! the mind deceive;
But at length experience teaches,
Virtue only bliss can give.
7
“Since the blood-stain'd fiend, Rebellion,Stalk'd this dear-lov'd country round,
I have dreamt of days departed,
Nought but mis'ry have I found:
Oft, alas! I'm reft of reason;
Ah! how happy then am I!
These dim eyes have done with weeping,
Sorrow's fountains are run dry.
76
8
“The faithful mistress of this bosomLong has moulder'd with the dead;
I had friends, who smiling met me,
Some are fall'n, and others fled:
Busy memory, why distract me?
Turn no more to manhood's joys;
Greatest treasures, dearest pleasures,
In a moment fate destroys.
9
“Half my life the sport of fortune,Hopes I must not cherish here;
Bent with age, its pains increasing,
Man hath little left to fear:
Stranger, wheresoe'er I wander,
Kindred, friends, from me are torn;
Yet, ev'n thus, a voice of soothing,
Cries, “Man was not made to mourn!”
10
“I'd a cabin, seat of comfort,Where ne'er poor man ask'd in vain;
Eager to diffuse each blessing,
Eager to allay each pain:
77
Shar'd my coarse but wholesome fare;
Oft I saw the tear of pleasure,
Oft I heard the earnest pray'r.
11
“It was more than palace to me;There with health I hail'd the day;
From the seat of happy childhood,
Nought cou'd tempt me far to stray:
Years returning gave new blessings;
Joyous, where I first drew breath;
There, in peace, had dwelt my fathers,
There, I hop'd to welcome death.
12
“I had fields, I lov'd them dearly;I had sons for me who toil'd;
Heav'n a daughter kindly gave me,
Blooming like a rose-bud wild.
Fiends of Hell soon burnt my cottage,
Where youth's happy years were spent;
Worse than fiends deflower'd my daughter,
And to Heav'n that angel sent.
78
13
“Sixteen Summers on the mountains,Scarce had danc'd the hours away;
Till to earth we weeping bore her
Fall'n to villain man a prey!
Pow'r Supreme, who knew my feelings,
Knew the murd'rers I forgave,
How can man, thy image boasting,
E'er forget—'Tis sweet to save?
14
“Yet, methinks I see her dying,That was life's severest shock;
—Ah! how cou'd ye spare her father?
Mercy did his grief but mock!
The last words she feebly utter'd,
Seem'd a pray'r to Heav'n for me;
Bud of promise, early blighted,
Had I bow'd to earth with thee!
15
“Shed not for me tears of sorrow;Bitter pangs I'd yet to feel;
My two manly sons were slaughter'd,
By th' assassin's reeking steel!
79
Freedom tho' they dearly lov'd,
Dark suspicion saw them virtuous;
Such foul deeds stern Pow'r approv'd.
16
“But my William! youngest, dearest,Doom'd in foreign climes to mourn!
Exil'd youth! perhaps unpitied;
Ne'er, ah! ne'er canst thou return!
Durst I ask of God one blessing,
On thee I would feast mine eye;
Then forgetful of life's troubles,
Connor soon in peace would die!
17
“Tow'rds the fields I till'd, delighted,At to-morrow's dawn I'll bend;
And trace the hill were stood my cottage;
Ev'ry tree will seem a friend.
From the sod that wraps her mother,
Near were murder'd Mary lies,
Nought on earth, I've sworn, shall tear me,
Till death close my aching eyes!”
80
18
Wildly gaz'd the cottar, sighing;Oft in vain he strove to speak;
Strong emotions tore his bosom;
Manly tears bedew'd his cheeks:
“Sorrow's victim,” soft he utter'd,
“Heav'n has heard thy fervent pray'r;
Mark thy son who bows before thee;
Henceforth thou shalt be our care.
19
“Long-lost parent now I've found thee,Never, never more we'll part!
This lov'd wife thy age will nourish,
Watch thee, with a feeling heart!
Lambs at rest, shall each, when waking,
Bless a grandsire with a kiss.”—
“Heav'nly Father! let us thank thee,
For this scene of unhop'd bliss!”
END OF CANTO FIRST.
81
82
83
CANTO THE SECOND.
1
O'er the fruitful vales of ErinGlanc'd the broad-fac'd god of day;
Cottars to their early labour,
Whistl'd trifling cares away:
Plenty wav'd her golden treasure,
Blest reward for human toil;
Nought was heard but joyous pleasure,
Nought was seen but nature's smile.
2
Redbreasts, sweet domestic songsters,Hymn'd with joy the grey-ey'd morn;
Dew drops spangl'd hedge and meadow,
Glisten'd on the bending corn:
Near the mill, his females round him,
Stately strode brisk chanticleer;
From lone cot and busy village,
Rural sounds burst on the ear.
84
3
Happy Isle! all isles excelling,Little known, tho' much despis'd,
Where contentment rules each dwelling,
And domestic bliss is priz'd;
Hospitality, delighted,
Smiles benignant o'er thy plains;
While by Shamrock wreathes united,
Honour marks thy hardy swains.
4
Ne'er may foreign foes deceive thee,Isle that boasts the wise and brave;
Ne'er that dauntless spirit leave thee
Ling'ring to a coward's grave!
While thy sons in ev'ry danger,
Pour destruction on each foe,
May thy daughters from a stranger
Ne'er receive a cup of woe!)
5
Such the time, when William, rising,Pour'd to Heav'n his daily pray'r;
While the partner of his bosom,
Trimm'd the hearth with thrifty care:
85
On poor Dermot's aged cheek;
Fearful to disturb his slumbers,
Oft they would, but durst not speak.
6
Blest with two sweet buds of promise,Pictures fair of roseate health,
Pledges of each fond affection,
Dearer far to both than wealth;
Many a glance towards the stranger,
Did they give, with asking eyes;
Eager for a grandsire's blessing,
Anxious to behold him rise.
7
“Sleep, thou soother of dejection,Nature's balm for ev'ry woe,
Health's restorer, care's beguiler,
All our joys to thee we owe;
Dear to him who rules a palace;
Dear to him who bows a slave;
Dearer to the son of sorrow,
Than all wealth or pow'r e'er gave!”
86
8
Thus reflected William, sighing,O'er the author of his birth;
Rapt in mute attention near him,
Wonder check'd the children's mirth:
From his cheek, unmark'd by wrinkles,
Oft he wip'd the tear of joy;
Doubtful that new scenes of anguish
Wou'd each bud of hope destroy.
9
Dermot rose, with hands uplifted,Thankful for the light of day;
“Where, where am I!” sigh'd he feebly,
“Do these eyes my mind betray?
Ah! no! no! my William's near me,
With the thought reviv'd I seem;
This repays long years of suffering,
And the past seems all a dream!
10
“Thou, my daughter, may misfortuneNe'er thro' life once bow thy head!
Sweet thy welcome to the stranger,
—“Thou shallt share our board and bed!”
87
While a smile of joy was giv'n,
Such as marks a pitying angel,
When the wretched enter Heav'n.
11
Soon prepar'd, the wholesome breakfastSusan places; with a smile,
Each intreats the feeble father,
Each his cares wou'd fain beguile:
Kissing oft the mother's image,
Blessing oft the blooming boy,
Sighs now stifle words half utter'd,
Now he sheds the tear of joy.
12
Much he long'd to quit the cottage;Anxious ere the evening hour,
To mark the grave that hides his partner,
And his Mary, luckless flow'r!
There the aged man oft wander'd,
And a vent to sorrow gave,
There on happy days oft ponder'd,
Weeping o'er each well-known grave.
88
13
Susan saw the father, husband,Climb the steep hills rugged brow;
Oft they turn, and gaze enraptur'd,
On the whiten'd cot below:
William's arm his sire supported,
Winding many a hill and dale—
'Neath a spreading beech tree resting,
Thus the son relates his tale.
14
“Father, since with thee I parted,I have felt of woes my share;
From the treach'rous foe oft skulking,
Wand'ring, scarcely knowing where:
For my yet-lov'd bleeding country,
Never once afraid to die;
Guiltless prov'd, and still undaunted,
Pow'r, not justice, bade me fly.
15
“Oh! 'twas hard to quit the valley,And each scene dear to the heart;
Harder still to lose my fair one,
When she utter'd—‘Must we part?
89
Fairer dames thou may'st pursue;
Robb'd of thee, poor orphan Susan
Will to pleasure bid adieu!'
16
“All the pangs of grief at parting,When two hearts in union join,
Bound by love, and urg'd by virtue,
All these pangs of grief were mine.
Forc'd on board, with many a brother,
Nought of joy, alas! remain'd,
Tho' my mind ne'er vice had cherish'd,
Nor my hand with blood was stain'd.
17
“When the star of morning beaming,Signal gave of day's bright dawn,
Oft I trac'd the deck dejected,
Mus'd on joys forever flown;
Or when murky tempests lower'd,
Drenching my weak shiv'ring frame,
I wou'd pray for thee, my father,
Sigh, and think myself to blame.
90
18
“Borne across the wide Atlantic,Friendless, wretched, doom'd to pine;
Days of ceaseless toil and anguish,
Nights of mis'ry long were mine:
Still a ray of hope smil'd on me,
When my weary toil was o'er,
Oft I climb'd the highest mountain,
Oft I gaz'd tow'rds Erin's shore.
19
“Fancy, various pictures painting,Sometimes fill'd my heart with grief;
Sometimes in a sportive humour,
Gave my wounded mind relief:
When the shades of night clos'd round me,
Forc'd to seek my wretched home,
I'd no friend to bid me welcome,
Tho' by toil, by thought o'ercome.
20
“Spirits ebbing, health decaying,Life seem'd drawing near its close;
One dear comrade driv'n from Erin,
Brought my aching heart repose;
91
Liv'd for William, fond and true;
But the transient gleam quick vanish'd,
When no tidings came from you.
21
“Long I shar'd his liberal bounty,He my guardian angel prov'd,
Till the time rejoicing exiles
Sought the homes and friends they lov'd:
He it was to Erin brought me,
Plac'd me on our little farm;
Gave to me the maid endearing,
Thus had life yet pow'r to charm.
22
“Need I mention Cormac to thee?Him I found this man of worth —”
Dermot hung his head deep sighing,
This call'd many a sorrow forth.
Cormac sought the hand of Mary;
Love smil'd on the happy pair:
Man to-day each pleasure tasting,
Mourns to-morrow joys that were.
92
23
“Father, I'll no more distress thee,With the hardships I endur'd;
Meek religion ne'er forsook me,
When to ev'ry ill inur'd:
Changes wish'd in war-spoil'd Erin,
Brought safe o'er thy long-lost son;
Time restor'd my welcome father—
God is just!—His will be done!”
93
FAIR MARGARET'S BOWER.
IN THREE CANTOS
95
CANTO THE FIRST.
1
“Go saddle me the milk-white steed,In costly proud array;
My errand do with mickle speed,
And three times fleeter than the wind,
Tho' day is fled, my path I'll find
To Margaret's Bower.—Away! away!
2
“For I have dreamt a frightful dream;For I a solemn oath have sworn,
Spite of the flood, to cross the stream,
And pull a rose at Margaret's Bower,
That blooms like her, a matchless flower,
Ere thrice the cock proclaims the morn.”
96
3
Thus to his groom, Sir Edward said,All in his gilded hall;
'Twas his the feeble still to aid,
For knight more courteous and brave,
Ne'er scorn'd the name of coward slave;
Tho' he would fight, but never flee,
Mild as the mountain lamb was he,
And Margaret of the east country,
Whom nobles woo'd,
And many sue'd,
Did long his heart enthrall.
4
Then up, and spake the little page,His eye let fall a tear;
“If e'er you deign'd to hear a page,
Your trusty page now hear:
O list! O list to me!
Upon my bended knee,
I do beseech you, tarry here!
Venture not forth, good master dear!
Cold, dark, and angry is the night,
Nor lends one star its feeble light;
97
Dang'rous the wood;
O go not forth!” quoth he.
5
“Peace, peace, thou little trembling page,Nor drop a tear for me!
I ne'er took counsel of a page,
Nor will I now of thee!
The bleakest blast I'd boldly brave,
Or cross the highest white-topp'd wave,
Nor heed the angry storms of night,
Tho' not one star lends me its light,
The peerless maid I'll see.
6
“I'll hear her voice, ere rise the moon,If Heaven doth me spare;
For by her beauteous matchless face,
And by her artless winning grace,
Now solemnly I swear,
Ne'er, ne'er did sun or pale-fac'd moon
Shine on a face so fair!”
98
7
The milk-white steedNow prancing neigh'd,
His mane shook with the wind;
Loud blew the blast, down came the shower,
But many a lofty lonely tower,
He soon left far behind:
And many a deep-ton'd castle bell
Told him each hour in distant dell.
8
'Twas tempest all, and all was dark,Save from the steed's feet many a spark;
Thro' mossy glens, and soughing woods,
Mid' rugged rocks, and roaring floods,
O'er mountains wild, and moors he flew;
And pluck'd a rose at Margaret's Bower,
That bloom'd like her, the sweetest flower,
Long ere the grey-cock crew.
9
And now below the Bower window,Without or dread or fear,
He anxious listens, pacing slow,
All expectation, breathing low,
99
That well-known voice he cannot hear.
10
“Awake, fair Margaret, awake!All silent is around,
Save many a watch-dog's far-heard voice,
And Tyne's hoarse-murmuring sound:
Far have I wander'd for thy sake,
Awake, awake, blest choice!
The pale moon resteth on the hill,
Then bid thy true love now rejoice,
And haste to him who loves thee still!
11
“O dear Margaret!O fair Margaret!
Thy true-love calls on thee!
O fair Margaret!
O dear Margaret!
Come quickly down to me!
12
“Thy father is perchance at rest,And nought, methinks, hast thou to dread;
100
A captive by thy beauty led;
'Tis Edward calls on thee!
Ere day's bright dawn
We'll far begone,
To-morrow's sun
Will see us one;
Think of thy vows to me!”
13
“What voice is that, which bids her rise?”In whispers low, a stranger cries;
“Who dare on Margaret call?
I swear by yon bright lamp of night,
Ruin awaits the luckless wight;
He ne'er will see the morning light,
But by this arm shall fall!”
14
“O dear Margaret!O fair Margaret!
Again I call on thee!
Maid of my love,
Thy faith now prove!
And pity shew to me!”
101
15
Enrag'd, his sword the stranger drew;Ah! wretch, the deed long wilt thou rue!
Deep, deep it drank life's purple gore;
Like some mute victim doom'd to bleed,
The dauntless youth now struggl'd sore,
But thought not who had done the deed:
Sir Edward fell, his country's pride,
On Margaret call'd, his promis'd bride;
“For thee I bleed!” he said and sigh'd,
But word spake never more.
END OF CANTO FIRST.
105
CANTO THE SECOND.
1
Above the grey-hills of the East,Blithe morning smil'd in saffron drest,
With silver dew besprent;
When Margaret left her chamber fair,
O that she'd ne'er been pillow'd there!
Pale wretched child of love and care,
Alas! a weary night she spent.
2
Why didst thou, Margaret, leave thy bower,To rest thee in thy chamber fair?
O had'st thou ne'er been pillow'd there,
Poor hapless child of love and care!
Was it the tempest of the night
That did thy anxious mind affright?
106
Sir Edward flew;
Spite of loud wind, or heavy shower,
He came at love's appointed hour,
To pluck the rose at Margaret's Bower.
3
Scarce sleep, the soother of each woe,Had clos'd her eyes of azure hue,
When various ghastly forms she saw
Flit hideous to her fancied view;
The owl next at her casement flapp'd,
The raven hoarsely scream'd aloud:
Her tortur'd breast
Could hope no rest,
For cross the room Sir Edward stepp'd,
And near her stood,
All bath'd in blood,
Clad only in a shroud.
4
And now, to rise, she strove in vain;Alas! disorder'd was her brain;
Then fainting on the floor she fell:
The morning smil'd on her pale cheek,
Fled was the bloom, sweet maiden meek,
107
She rose, her tresses bath'd in tears,
But all her hopes, her pains, her fears,
No pen can paint, no tongue can tell.
5
Now for her father, in the hall,Loud, and louder did she cry;
But echo round each massy wall,
Only made a long reply.
6
“Ah! whither, father, art thou gone?Who will now my grief allay?
I ne'er was wont to be alone;
But at this early hour of day,
When with thy Margaret all was gay!”
7
Now for her father in the glen,Loud, and louder did she cry;
But echo from her darken'd den,
Only made a long reply.
8
“Come hither, little trembling page,All wan and pale, what aileth thee?
108
What heavy tidings bring'st thou me?
From either eye there falls a tear,
Alas! thy tale I fain would hear;
Say, trembling page, what aileth thee?”
The boy he wept, the boy he sigh'd,
In vain to speak the boy oft tried.
9
Now for her father in the wood,Loud, and louder did she cry;
The passing stream, the distant flood,
Only made a deep reply.
10
She thought not of her rosy Bower,But sought the highest western tower,
And eager gaz'd around;
But nought could see,
Save moor and tree,
And scatter'd flocks upon the lea:
Tho' great her fear,
She nought could hear,
Save Tyne's hoarse-murm'ring sound.
109
11
“Methinks, I see in yonder valeMy father slowly come this way;
Alas! no father's in the vale;
Where can he be? What can he ail?
Distraction doth my thoughts betray!”
12
Again she look'd, and near the Bow'r,Beheld a mile-white steed
Bend o'er a corse; Ah! luckless hour!
She little dreamt who had the pow'r
To do the hellish deed.
13
As darts a mountain eagle down,She from the castle flew;
But every hope forsook her, soon
As she Sir Edward knew:
On his pale face, and gory breast,
She sunk, and oft his cold lips prest,
And oft did Edward call:
Alas! what some are doom'd to know,
What trials mortals undergo!
Now from her eyes, quite dim with woe,
Love's last sad tears did fall.
110
14
Soon, soon in wild despair,The silver pin from her fair hair,
She took, and piere'd her heart:
His bleeding corse she dying prest,
Life's current quickly left her breast;
“Edward!” she cried, “I come, my love!
The joys denied, we yet may prove!
We meet no more to part!”
END OF CANTO SECOND.
113
CANTO THE THIRD.
1
“Sir Hugh! Fair Margaret! Sir Hugh!”The servants call around;
In vain, Fair Margaret, Sir Hugh,
Around the servants loudly call,
Deep echo round each ivied wall,
Did only mock the sound.
2
“Where goest thou, little trembling page?Pale is thy face, what aileth thee?
Why dost thou weep? Speak quickly, page?”
He sighing said, “Ah! follow me!”
114
3
He led them to his lady's Bower,And first they saw a milk-white horse;
And next, they saw a faded flower
Embrace her lover's stiffen'd corse:
Sad was the sight, each shrunk to view
Fair Margaret slain,
Alas! what pain
'Twill cause her father, proud Sir Hugh!
4
His bowmen on Sir Edward call,And mourn along the glen;
The maidens from the gilded hall,
Now on the highest castle wall,
Look and sigh, but all in vain.
5
Weep, weep, ye hardy bowmen bold;Mourn, mourn, along the glen;
Ye maidens, quit the castle wall,
Go hang with black the gilded hall;
Your master's manly form is cold,
And long with sorrow 'twill be told,
How all untimely he was slain.
115
6
The trusty band range thro' the wood,And careful seek the gloomy dale;
Now sound in vain the dark deep flood,
Now eye the far extended vale,
Then search the forest thro';
When 'neath a wither'd pine tree stood
The murderer, Sir Hugh.
7
“Oh! misery! Oh! misery!No happiness is left for me!”
8
“What ho! Who's he that moans so loud?What ails thee? Say, thou baron proud?
Thy face is wan and thin!
Thy teeth they chatter, eyes are sunk,
Thy body from they garb is shrunk!
Who art thou? say?
A-well-a-day!
Thy bones have cut the skin!”
116
9
“Oh! misery! Oh! misery!Sir Edward's murderer you see!”
10
“O mercy! Canst thou hope for rest?No! no! Hell rages in thy breast!
Soon wither'd be thy coward arm,
That slew a knight so bold;
And nipt Northumbria's fairest flower,
A maid possest of every charm—
Thy daughter, wretch, lies cold,
Near her own Bower!”
11
“Oh! misery! Oh! misery!One hellish deed has ruin'd me!”
12
“Speak, man of guilt, and say,Dost see his ghost ride on the storm?
Or thy fair daughter's saint-like form?
Yes! yes! and conscience, gnawing worm,
On thee doth keenly prey!”
117
13
“Oh! misery! Oh! misery!There is no hope, alas! for me!”
14
“Thou tremblest, now thine eye-balls roll;Methinks we see the sinner die:
Peace, murderer, to thy troubled soul!
The ravens smell thy carcase foul,
But screaming from thee fly!”
15
“Oh! misery! Oh! misery!The grave can give no rest to me!”
16
“For thee, no one will dig a grave!For thee, no one will wail or weep!
No grass will o'er that body wave,
Base murderer of the good and brave!
Still far, far from thy whiten'd bones,
That moulder mid' the heath's grey stones,
The traveller will keep:
And babes unborn their babes will tell
The deed of base Sir Hugh;
118
And hoary minstrels in the hall,
Or near the ivied castle wall,
Will strike the string, and curse the hour,
And loudly sing of Margaret's Bower—
Thou man of guilt, adieu!”
121
THE HARPER.
“To music we are indebted for one of the purest and most refined pleasures that the bounty of Heaven has permitted to cheer the heart of man.” Sturm.
“And frae his harp sic strains did flow,
Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear.” Burns.
Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear.” Burns.
1
Alake! that the harp is nae langer heard,Beguilin' the lee-lang night!
Its tones the heart can bind,
And ease the wounded mind;
Ne'er, ne'er can I count him a friend to mankind,
Whase saul it fails to delight!
2
Auld Scotia, still is thy music dear,It minds us o' times that were:
122
Aft to a gory bed,
Ay freedom defendin', nae haughty foe they dread,
And it lightens ilk cottar's care.
3
Come list, and ye's hear of a blithe Harper,Wha cam to our Baron's Ha';
O he tickled ilka string,
And made the auld Ha' ring;
His music was fittin' for the ear of a king,
And it pleas'd our young ladies a'.
4
Aft had merry minstrels in this Ha',In praise o' heroes sung;
While aloft the massy shield,
And sword but few could wield,
That aft had been stain'd in the Border field,
Wi' hauberk and helmet hung.
5
A bonnet o' the green he wore down to his een,And lang was his beard, and brown;
He was cloak'd frae head to heel,
Frae his lips when words did steal,
123
He monie better days had known.
6
And now, aloud he tun'd his harp to war,Wild and mournfu' was the strain;
Then of fae-men he sang,
And the trumpet's chang,
It seem'd, as he swept the strings amang;
O but our auld Baron was fain!
7
For it brought fresh to mind the days o' his youth,When to the English Borders he flew;
And aft in Lydisdale,
He made widows wan and pale,
For he heeded nae proud borderer, or baron in mail,
But age had now whiten'd his pow.
8
To love, wi' a sigh, he gae his saftest note,And sweet, O sweet was the sound;
Then he sang o' maidens fair,
And o' lovers sad despair,
How thearrows o' the urchin cause mickle, mickle care,
And deadly aft proves the wound.
124
9
Then of dames forsaken by proud fause knights,Maist dirge-like chaunted he;
Sae weel he play'd his part,
He touch'd deeply ilka heart,
And tears frae the een now of a' 'gan to start,
Save those o' our Baron's cross ladie.
10
For proud was her heart, and whene'er she spak,The dark frown hung on her brow;
Ay haughty was her mind,
Ne'er felt she for mankind;
But yet to a' her fauts the guid Baron was blind,
And sae the sweet dochters I trow.
11
She has ey'd the Harper, wi' monie a scornfu' luikThat spak him nae welcome guest,
—A'ye, to whom great Heav'n
Baith health and walth has giv'n,
Shield, shield the weary wanderer by monie a sorrow driv'n;
Ay bless, as ye hope to be blest!
125
12
“Whare comest thou frae, thou Harper puir and mean?What ill deed has brought thee here?”
“I come o'er hight and howe,
But for nae ill deed, I vow;
And my kin hae been whiles thought walthy I trow,
But a lang tale might tire your nice ear!
13
“Mickle cou'd I tell o' this sly wicked warl,Whare folk ca'd great are aft to blame;
I've seen virtue meanly clad,
And fore'd to beg for bread;
While vice strutted lordly, and wore a haughty head,
But mair I perchance mauna name.
14
“Sae gie me some meat, and gie me some drink,And a bed whereon to lie;
For, alake! I am but puir,
Mickle, mickle I endure;
Far, far hae I wander'd o'er moss and o'er muir,
And hungry, weary am I!”
126
15
Lady Ellinor brought him the bluid-red wine;Lady Margaret sought him meat:
But the youngest, Lady Jean,
Gied a glance wi' her een,
That shone bright as onie starnies i' the sky, I ween,
Woo but this made his leel heart beat.
16
For ne'er did a minstrel frae north or southGaze heedless on beauty's charms:
Ae saft bewitchin' smile,
Whare the heart seems void o' guile,
Maks proud man cast his cares to the winds for a while,
And a savage o' his rage it disarms.
17
Then spak, wi' a smile, our guid auld Baron,To his sullen and sour ladie;
“Since puirtith is nae sin,
And far he canna win,
The Harper ae night shall sleep our Ha' within,
My ladie, if thy will it be.”
127
18
Now wi' a frown, she has answer'd the Baron,“Nae Harper, I trow, shall sleep here!
He may rest i' the fauld,
The night is no' sae cauld;
And if weary, I guess he's no' sae auld—
A beggar has nought to fear!”
19
Lady Jean whisper'd o'er her left shoulder,“Sleep, sleep i' the fauld!” says she,
“For mild is the night,
And if I hae but might,
Lang ere the siller muin shews a glimpse o' light,
God save me, love, I'll meet thee!”
20
Wi' a lang luik o' luive, he crap aff to the fauld,But ne'er ance did sleep close his e'e;
The night grew cauld and snell,
And he said to himsel,
Wi' monie a deep sigh, when he heard the midnight bell,
“Why comest thou not, ladie, to me?”
128
21
“O woman, woman, cause o' man's greatest joy,And source o' mickle grief and pain;
Now you mak him coward, slave,
Now ilk doughty deed he'll brave;
Wha heeds you, may e'en trust the fickle wind or wave,
Ne'er, I swear, shall you tempt me again!
22
“And lang or the muin gies a glimpse o' light,God save me, luive, I'll meet thee!
Saft were her words, and sweet,
They made this proud heart beat;
Thou muin, yet dinna rise! methinks I hear her feet—
No!—Fause were her sweet words to me!”
23
The first cock crew, silence reign'd i' the Ha';Lady Jean left her sisters asleep;
Bare-footed, down the stair,
Saftly stept the ladie fair,
And unbelted the gate o' the Ha', wi' mickle care,
Her promise fu' fain to keep.
129
24
She's aff to the fauld, wi' a beatin' heart,Syne awa' wi' the Harper is gane;
Wi' a kiss, and monie a vow,
His plaid o'er her he threw,
And he luiked like a gallant young lord, I trow,
Wi' a sword monie a faeman had slain.
25
Now bright shone the muin o'er the misty hills,And white were the meads wi' dew;
Lady Jean, wi monie fears,
Thinks the Baron's voice she hears,
And her mither's angry chide aft rings thro' her ears:
O love! thy cares are not few!
26
O'er mountains high, o'er monie a moss and muir,They journey'd, or break o' day;
When in a flowery vale,
Quite weary, faint, and pale,
Lady Jean sat her down, and mickle did she ail,
Nae farther, alake! could she gae.
130
27
Wi' dew on his breast, the lark had left his nest,To greet the blithe god o' the morn;
The wild birds saftly sang,
The neigbrin' woods amang,
“O cou'dst thou,” quoth the Harper, “but o'er yon mountains gang,
A' thy father's swift steeds would I scorn!
28
“That I've lo'ed lang, that I've lo'ed weel,The pangs o' this bosom can prove;
What man dare, I would dare;
What he cou'd bear, I'd bear,
And laugh at the threats o' the warl, and ilka care,
A' for thee, sweet maid o' my love!”
29
“Tho' rash was the deed I hae duin,” quoth she,“That deed I scorn to rue;
If by Fate it were decreed,
Thy Jean shou'd beg for bread,
A' the ills o' pale poverty I'd bear without dread,
Were my Harper but leel and true!”
131
30
He sigh'd, and his eye spoke his feeling soul,While it rov'd o'er each peerless charm;
Not the dew-bespangl'd rose,
Not the purest mountain snows
Cou'd rival her face, which nature proudly chose
To combine wi' an angel's form.
31
And now wi' the sun rose the Baron and his clan,And he ca'd for his dochters three;
Lady Ellinor he saw,
Lady Margaret and a',
But the flow'r o' them a', Lady Jean was awa',
And an angry man was he.
32
“Fie, ride, run!” said he, “baith east and west,Nor seek ye lang in vain!
Bring them back to me,
And on the highest tree,
Of a' the proud forest, suin he hanged shall be,
For stcalin' awa' Lady Jean!
132
33
But much did he fear his scornfu' dame,Whase luik spak a gathering storm;
Tho' to man great pow'r is giv'n,
Great masterpiece of Heav'n,
Yet howe'er he to rage by misfortune may be driv'n,
Let him yield to the female form.
34
Then some ran east, and some rade west,When down in a flowery glen,
Lady Jean they espied,
Seated by her lover's side;
And to please her, aft wi' his harp has he tried,
In monie a merry lilting strain.
35
“Say what do ye here? thou fause Harper,Wi' us gae back to the Ha';
By the Baron sent are we,
And on the highest tree,
Of a' the proud forest, thou hanged wilt be,
For stealin' our ladie awa'!”
133
36
Says the Harper, “Spare your mistress fair,For weary and faint is she!”
“Our mistress we will spare,
Tho' thoughtless as she's fair,
And back to the Baron convey wi' mickle care,
But an ill death waiteth thee!”
37
“Gae hame to the Baron, and tell your fuil's errand,Nor waste monie words on the blast;
Aff hirelings! aff, nor dare
To touch the ladie fair;
Or by a puir Harper's faith and troth I swear,
This day ye may count your last!”
38
Then the Harper loudly leugh, as he rase,“Gae tell Baron Sessfoorth frae me,
The Harper nit to blame,
I hae duin nae deed o' shame,
And for every castle or tower he can name,
To his dochter I'll gie three!
134
39
“And tell,” said he, “your sullen ladie,Nae mair a puir Harper to scauld;
Tho' his claithing seem'd but mean,
Weel he's lo'ed by lady Jean,
And had monie a glance o' her bonnie blue een,
Twa years ere he laid i' the fauld!”
40
He tuik ladie Jean by the lily saft hand,And thrice kiss'd her cheek the while;
“Fear not!” he sighin' cried,
“Whate'er may us betide;
I swear by this sword, nought shall our hearts divide,”
Then she gied him a saint-like smile.
41
He has stript aff his cloak frae head to heel,And woo but he luiked bra'!
For his hose were silken fine,
And his studded star did shine,
It prov'd that he cam of a noble line,
Tho' a Harper he seem'd at the Ha'.
135
42
“Now mount thy father's steed, sweet ladie fair,And to my castle let us gae;
This night shall see us one,
And ere the setting sun,
Thy parents bless the time, when awa' thou didst run,
In the mirk hour o' night, wi' the Douglas' eldest son,
And thy lord on his harp will sweetly play;
43
“But if e'er proud minstrel frae north or southGaze heedless on beauty's charms,
I count him sinner vile:
Ae saft bewitchin' smile,
Wi' a fond luik o' luive, frae a heart void o' guile,
Shou'd mak man cast his cares to the winds for a while;
E'en a savage o' his rage it disarms!”
44
Alake, that the harp is sae seldom heard,Beguilin' the lee-lang night!
Its tones the heart can bind,
And socthe the wounded mind;
136
And ne'er will I count him a friend to mankind,
Whase saul it fails to delight!
45
Auld Scotia, still is thy music dear;It minds us o' times that were:
By it thy sons are led,
Aft to a gory bed,
Ay freedom defendin', nae haughty foe they dread;
LIt saftens monie a heart, and aft the tear is shed,
As it lightens the cottar's care!
137
ENIGMAS.
139
ENIGMA THE FIRST.
On publishing this and the two following, in the Belfast Commercial Chronicle, the scribblers and pedants throughout the neighbourhood were seized with an Enigmatic Fever, which raged for a considerable time, to the great mortification of the enlightened public. The Author became disgusted with the numerous and laughable communications he daily received, supposed to be ingenious solutions. No. 1. Starch, was answered throughout, by Mr.T.Falconer, Comedian, of the Belfast Theatre, in verse. The three following remain unanswered.
Who made me first, when, where, but few can tell,
Tho' I'm made daily for each beau and belle;
And in most countries found, such is my lot,
From the proud palace to the lowly cot.
I owe my being to the ploughman's toil;
He views me oft in summer with a smile:
Next I surround the bosoms of the fair,
Would I could guard them from the villain's snare!
By beauties in most climes am I carest,
And oft have won them lovers, 'tis confest:
I to deformity add many a charm;
Tho' base the coin, it does the world no harm.
I'm in complexion fairer far than you,
Nor is my shape to ought confin'd, I vow.
Short is my date, perhaps an hour, a year,
And when I'm put to use I disappear.
A drop of water quick my form will change,
But keep me dry, throughout the world I'll range:
I'm hot, I'm cold; let this not cause alarm;
Eat me, or drink me, faith I'll do no harm,
Yon supple tradesman calls me to his aid,
And for his blooming lovey I was made;
Their dear-lov'd cherubs, too, find me of use;
And shop-boy Jacky, strutting, pert and spruce.
I rustle thro' the ball-room 'midst the proud,
Nor yet am seen by any of the crowd;
I'm in the park, parade, and at the play,
In churches, eke in chapels, every day:
You meet me every minute in each street,
But you're too proud to know me when we meet.
In eastern climates I'm at each one's call,
In Norway, Lapland, I'm scarce known at all.
The lawyer, doctor, vicar I attend,
And have been thought a judge's, bishop's friend:
Old maids, old bachelors, my influence own;
I'm next the king, God bless him! on his throne.
That I was used by Scotia's beauteous queen,
And by her murd'rous cousin, may be seen:
Yea, each proud potentate, and gay grandee,
Must shew their pow'r accompanied by me.
The cloister'd nun admits me to her cell,
And in some dungeons I'm allow'd to dwell:
By proud, by wise, o'er Europe am I borne,
Yet still am I the lonely hermit's scorn.
Erin, a faithful friend I prove to thee,
Tho' thousands of thy sons are dup'd by me;
For I a knave have been, in many a clime,
And will remain so till the end of time.
Tho' I'm made daily for each beau and belle;
And in most countries found, such is my lot,
From the proud palace to the lowly cot.
I owe my being to the ploughman's toil;
He views me oft in summer with a smile:
Next I surround the bosoms of the fair,
Would I could guard them from the villain's snare!
By beauties in most climes am I carest,
And oft have won them lovers, 'tis confest:
I to deformity add many a charm;
Tho' base the coin, it does the world no harm.
I'm in complexion fairer far than you,
Nor is my shape to ought confin'd, I vow.
Short is my date, perhaps an hour, a year,
And when I'm put to use I disappear.
A drop of water quick my form will change,
But keep me dry, throughout the world I'll range:
I'm hot, I'm cold; let this not cause alarm;
Eat me, or drink me, faith I'll do no harm,
140
And for his blooming lovey I was made;
Their dear-lov'd cherubs, too, find me of use;
And shop-boy Jacky, strutting, pert and spruce.
I rustle thro' the ball-room 'midst the proud,
Nor yet am seen by any of the crowd;
I'm in the park, parade, and at the play,
In churches, eke in chapels, every day:
You meet me every minute in each street,
But you're too proud to know me when we meet.
In eastern climates I'm at each one's call,
In Norway, Lapland, I'm scarce known at all.
The lawyer, doctor, vicar I attend,
And have been thought a judge's, bishop's friend:
Old maids, old bachelors, my influence own;
I'm next the king, God bless him! on his throne.
That I was used by Scotia's beauteous queen,
And by her murd'rous cousin, may be seen:
Yea, each proud potentate, and gay grandee,
Must shew their pow'r accompanied by me.
The cloister'd nun admits me to her cell,
And in some dungeons I'm allow'd to dwell:
By proud, by wise, o'er Europe am I borne,
Yet still am I the lonely hermit's scorn.
Erin, a faithful friend I prove to thee,
Tho' thousands of thy sons are dup'd by me;
141
And will remain so till the end of time.
I wonder oft mankind e'er think about me,
When just as well all ranks could do without me.
I'm but a word. My meaning quick explain;
Come, study; bite your nails, then try again.
When just as well all ranks could do without me.
I'm but a word. My meaning quick explain;
Come, study; bite your nails, then try again.
One half of me is brought far o'er the waves—
One half of me our dear-lov'd country saves—
One half a glorious act or base may mean—
One third contempt or pity shews, I ween—
One half of me an useful tree will form;
It shelters many a rustic from the storm—
From half of me an heroine was nam'd,
Whose death made British cruelty much blam'd;
That half of me did ere the flood appear,
And but for it, thou hadst not now been here.
One half of me our dear-lov'd country saves—
One half a glorious act or base may mean—
One third contempt or pity shews, I ween—
One half of me an useful tree will form;
It shelters many a rustic from the storm—
From half of me an heroine was nam'd,
Whose death made British cruelty much blam'd;
That half of me did ere the flood appear,
And but for it, thou hadst not now been here.
Two thirds of me is many a courtier's pride—
Two thirds oft seen with monarchs, side by side—
Two thirds of me the traveller greets with joy—
Two thirds the seaman's mind doth oft employ—
Two thirds of me delight this earthly ball—
Two thirds of me caus'd gallant Nelson's fall—
Two thirds of me is each free-mason's boast—
Two thirds of me is oft his heart-warm toast—
Two thirds of me the curious view with awe—
Two thirds of me make man your dang'rous foe—
Two thirds of me support you o'er the flood;
Yet am I useless, rightly understood—
Two thirds of me delight a sland'rous crew,
And yet it entertains the virtuous too—
Two thirds shew what our warriors for you bear—
O brethren, let them ever be your care!
Two thirds oft seen with monarchs, side by side—
Two thirds of me the traveller greets with joy—
Two thirds the seaman's mind doth oft employ—
Two thirds of me delight this earthly ball—
Two thirds of me caus'd gallant Nelson's fall—
142
Two thirds of me is oft his heart-warm toast—
Two thirds of me the curious view with awe—
Two thirds of me make man your dang'rous foe—
Two thirds of me support you o'er the flood;
Yet am I useless, rightly understood—
Two thirds of me delight a sland'rous crew,
And yet it entertains the virtuous too—
Two thirds shew what our warriors for you bear—
O brethren, let them ever be your care!
Transpose me now, and soon perchance you'll find
What proves a benefit to all mankind;
By what old Albion is to glory led;
What 'tis secures her sons their daily bread;
What Greece and Rome for ages thought their own,
And what to many a country's yet unknown.
Transpose me, and you'll see a rising ground,
By tyrants rear'd, throughout Hibernia found.
Transpose me, and I soon become a fish,
Deem'd by each epicure a dainty dish;
'Tis not in Ireland found; not in the sea;
Not in the river—Pray, where can it be?
Transpose me, every danger I defy.
Transpose me, and as useless dross I lie.
Transpose me, I'm what various metals are;
Or like a guilty felon at the bar.
Transpose me, I'm the idol of mankind,
And hourly influence the noblest mind.
I'm source of many a pleasure, many a pain;
And hurl destruction o'er both land and main.
I caus'd Parisian blood in streams to flow,
And struck at monarchy the fatal blow.
I call a demon, he attends my call;
The peasant's wholesome cup he fills with gall.
I bid a monster that fair town destroy;
'Tis done—I view him smile with hellish joy.
I bid a mother quick dispatch her child;
'Tis o'er—that cry, how innocent! how wild!
I bid a son his parent smite to death;
I see the parent, gasping, close his breath.
I bid the murd'rer plunge his steel in gore;
He shews it reeking—what can wretch do more?
'Twas I bade Williams try the murd'rous art;
He grinn'd horrific; well perform'd his part!
In carnage now, I glory to my shame;
Now to relieve the helpless is my aim:
I succour many a brother in distress,
And fabrics rear to make their sorrows less:
The beggars bless me, curse me, this I own;
Yet pomp and pow'r I humble with a frown.
Millions by me themselves at once undo;
Millions for want of me are ruin'd too.
I level states and empires when I chuse;
And kings my mandates seldom dare refuse:
I lord it o'er the world, with tyrant sway;
Bid cities flourish, others sweep away.
For me, yon patriot loud of freedom raves;
I nod, his happy country he enslaves.
For me, the artist rears yon lofty dome;
For me the starveling whistles at his loom.
Bards strike the tuneful lyre, and I'm the theme;
Crown'd heads and low-born wretches of me drear
My country's threaten'd; I avert the blow,
And the dull rabble ever keep in awe:
From shore to shore I fly, borne on each gale;
To greet me with a smile, none ever fail.
I speak all languages, although I'm dumb;
And pity 'tis, I'm seldom overcome.
I'm dark; I'm fair; I'm light; I'm heavy found;
And am an hundred fathoms under ground.
Since time's beginning, all have own'd my skill:
Till time shall end, I must be ruler still!
What proves a benefit to all mankind;
By what old Albion is to glory led;
What 'tis secures her sons their daily bread;
What Greece and Rome for ages thought their own,
And what to many a country's yet unknown.
Transpose me, and you'll see a rising ground,
By tyrants rear'd, throughout Hibernia found.
Transpose me, and I soon become a fish,
Deem'd by each epicure a dainty dish;
'Tis not in Ireland found; not in the sea;
Not in the river—Pray, where can it be?
Transpose me, every danger I defy.
Transpose me, and as useless dross I lie.
143
Or like a guilty felon at the bar.
Transpose me, I'm the idol of mankind,
And hourly influence the noblest mind.
I'm source of many a pleasure, many a pain;
And hurl destruction o'er both land and main.
I caus'd Parisian blood in streams to flow,
And struck at monarchy the fatal blow.
I call a demon, he attends my call;
The peasant's wholesome cup he fills with gall.
I bid a monster that fair town destroy;
'Tis done—I view him smile with hellish joy.
I bid a mother quick dispatch her child;
'Tis o'er—that cry, how innocent! how wild!
I bid a son his parent smite to death;
I see the parent, gasping, close his breath.
I bid the murd'rer plunge his steel in gore;
He shews it reeking—what can wretch do more?
'Twas I bade Williams try the murd'rous art;
He grinn'd horrific; well perform'd his part!
In carnage now, I glory to my shame;
Now to relieve the helpless is my aim:
I succour many a brother in distress,
And fabrics rear to make their sorrows less:
The beggars bless me, curse me, this I own;
Yet pomp and pow'r I humble with a frown.
144
Millions for want of me are ruin'd too.
I level states and empires when I chuse;
And kings my mandates seldom dare refuse:
I lord it o'er the world, with tyrant sway;
Bid cities flourish, others sweep away.
For me, yon patriot loud of freedom raves;
I nod, his happy country he enslaves.
For me, the artist rears yon lofty dome;
For me the starveling whistles at his loom.
Bards strike the tuneful lyre, and I'm the theme;
Crown'd heads and low-born wretches of me drear
My country's threaten'd; I avert the blow,
And the dull rabble ever keep in awe:
From shore to shore I fly, borne on each gale;
To greet me with a smile, none ever fail.
I speak all languages, although I'm dumb;
And pity 'tis, I'm seldom overcome.
I'm dark; I'm fair; I'm light; I'm heavy found;
And am an hundred fathoms under ground.
Since time's beginning, all have own'd my skill:
Till time shall end, I must be ruler still!
Again transpose me; in a heavy gale,
Tars I make tremble, cowards I turn pale,
Again transpose me, and I'll quick disclose,
What to my aid each land of commerce owes:
What sail'd with Drake, with Anson, this globe round,
And Cook's companion, too, was daily found.
Transpose again, and by one half you'll see,
What's worn on princes, prelates, you, not me.
Presto! again; now certes beyond doubt,
You know what farmers seldom are without.
Tars I make tremble, cowards I turn pale,
145
What to my aid each land of commerce owes:
What sail'd with Drake, with Anson, this globe round,
And Cook's companion, too, was daily found.
Transpose again, and by one half you'll see,
What's worn on princes, prelates, you, not me.
Presto! again; now certes beyond doubt,
You know what farmers seldom are without.
Be patient, reader. Try me, oft I'll change;
Become a beast that doth the forests range:
Another, many a thrifty housewife's dread;
Another still, that by the last is fed.
Become a beast that doth the forests range:
Another, many a thrifty housewife's dread;
Another still, that by the last is fed.
Lastly; I bear the hero from the field:—
Tell what I am, or quick thy judgment yield.
Tell what I am, or quick thy judgment yield.
Carnmoney, near Belfast.
146
ENIGMA THE SECOND.
In yon fair town,
where Lagan's lazy stream
Steals softly past, and men of commerce dream;
Where wealth, where fashion, hold the gay levee,
Or dry the tear of each wan wretch they see;
Where merit ever finds a sure reward,
And each has the good wishes of our bard;
Where Drummond, learn'd, with all a poet's art,
In verse majestic, sways at will the heart;
Where Balfour
strikes her lyre, the silver sound,
Terne hears, and spreads her fame around;
Where Bunting, eager for his country's praise,
Snatches from time the songs of other days,
The harp new strings, that long aside was thrown—
Throughout the Em'rald Isle, long be it known;
Where sons of genius, bow'd by want or care,
Too little known, sing “to the desert air;”
There am I found.—Yes, I'm at each one's call,
And some to me attribute their downfall;
Strange falsehoods, these; for I would none offend,
But to the multitude would be a friend.
I'm known to kings, and am to kings unknown;
Tho' round them daily is my influence shewn.
I'm oft-times found in France's gay domain,
With sans culottes; and eke with haughty Spain;
With slovenly Mynheer, I too am seen;
And am the fav'rite of each Mandarine.
In Scotland more than Ireland am I priz'd;
In many parts of England much despis'd.
Behold yon captive in his dark dank cell,
With such as he I'm ne'er asham'd to dwell.
The insolvent debtor, from all friends exil'd,
With hazard look, where health once blooming smil'd,
The thoughts of happy years, long since flown by,
Break night's repose, and force the daily sigh;
Yet, 'mid the solemn stilness of the night,
Aided by me, ev'n he tastes pure delight;
With my assistance, he his foes may dare,
Hope's rays on him I dart—now cause despair.
I'm from afar, and little known afar—
I'm priz'd by seamen, scorn'd by many a tar:
The dauntless sailor on the giddy mast,
Draws comfort from me, 'mid the roughest blast;
He toils submissive, scorning to complain,
Laughs, jokes, and sings, then thinks of me again.
The shiv'ring centinel, I too can cheer;
Or down his manly cheek force many a tear.
The peasant, happy in his straw-roof'd cot,
Beholds me—in a trice beholds me not;
And oft a-field with him, caress'd I'm seen,
But ere next morn he knows not what I mean.
I'm seen with Bess the beggar, in the street;
Princes, alas! don't know me, when we meet.
Many they are, who know me but by name;
Many they are, I daily put to shame:
Some great men know me not, some weak ones do;
Some mortals I enrich, some ruin too.
The lawyer, doctor, parson, I befriend,
And at the grave, some heroes I attend.
Now for my colour—still am I at ease,
I'm white, red, black, blue, green, whate'er you please;
And as for form, I'm lusty now, now spare,
Now perpendicular, now round, now square;
Diagonal, and horizontal too;
Believe our author, faith he tells you true:
Now long, now short, and now so very small,
Saddle your nose, I'm scarcely seen at all.
I, Proteus like, change fifty times a-day,
But I'll be cautious, nor myself betray.
Steals softly past, and men of commerce dream;
Where wealth, where fashion, hold the gay levee,
Or dry the tear of each wan wretch they see;
Where merit ever finds a sure reward,
And each has the good wishes of our bard;
Where Drummond, learn'd, with all a poet's art,
In verse majestic, sways at will the heart;
Where Balfour
From the fire of genius, and the harmonius versification this lady has displayed, her name may rank with the first poetic favourites of her country. In her elegant Poem addressed to Hope, many passages will bear a comparison with Mr. Thomas Campbell's, on the same subject, without injuring the fair fame of our Authoress.—Her Songs, sprightly, or pathetic, are always interesting, and particularly calculated for the amusement of her countrymen. As a dramatist, she requires only the patronage of the great, to establish her fame; and make life a scene of pleasure, which has for some years been the reverse.
Terne hears, and spreads her fame around;
Where Bunting, eager for his country's praise,
Snatches from time the songs of other days,
The harp new strings, that long aside was thrown—
Throughout the Em'rald Isle, long be it known;
Where sons of genius, bow'd by want or care,
Too little known, sing “to the desert air;”
There am I found.—Yes, I'm at each one's call,
And some to me attribute their downfall;
Strange falsehoods, these; for I would none offend,
But to the multitude would be a friend.
147
Tho' round them daily is my influence shewn.
I'm oft-times found in France's gay domain,
With sans culottes; and eke with haughty Spain;
With slovenly Mynheer, I too am seen;
And am the fav'rite of each Mandarine.
In Scotland more than Ireland am I priz'd;
In many parts of England much despis'd.
Behold yon captive in his dark dank cell,
With such as he I'm ne'er asham'd to dwell.
The insolvent debtor, from all friends exil'd,
With hazard look, where health once blooming smil'd,
The thoughts of happy years, long since flown by,
Break night's repose, and force the daily sigh;
Yet, 'mid the solemn stilness of the night,
Aided by me, ev'n he tastes pure delight;
With my assistance, he his foes may dare,
Hope's rays on him I dart—now cause despair.
I'm from afar, and little known afar—
I'm priz'd by seamen, scorn'd by many a tar:
The dauntless sailor on the giddy mast,
Draws comfort from me, 'mid the roughest blast;
He toils submissive, scorning to complain,
Laughs, jokes, and sings, then thinks of me again.
The shiv'ring centinel, I too can cheer;
Or down his manly cheek force many a tear.
148
Beholds me—in a trice beholds me not;
And oft a-field with him, caress'd I'm seen,
But ere next morn he knows not what I mean.
I'm seen with Bess the beggar, in the street;
Princes, alas! don't know me, when we meet.
Many they are, who know me but by name;
Many they are, I daily put to shame:
Some great men know me not, some weak ones do;
Some mortals I enrich, some ruin too.
The lawyer, doctor, parson, I befriend,
And at the grave, some heroes I attend.
Now for my colour—still am I at ease,
I'm white, red, black, blue, green, whate'er you please;
And as for form, I'm lusty now, now spare,
Now perpendicular, now round, now square;
Diagonal, and horizontal too;
Believe our author, faith he tells you true:
Now long, now short, and now so very small,
Saddle your nose, I'm scarcely seen at all.
I, Proteus like, change fifty times a-day,
But I'll be cautious, nor myself betray.
And now, dissect me, reader, if you please;
In schools I'm flogg'd, in schools I sit at ease.
I'm now a bird—am now by soldiers worn—
Next by all ages, by both sexes borne—
Our blooming sisters, pride of Britain's court,
To where the Loves and Graces still resort,
Have worn me oft; I'm ever at their call;
God grant them virtuous husbands, one and all!—
You hear me, and an useful creature see—
Now I'm the virtuous man, the villain's plea—
The carrier uses me, ay, day by day—
The tradesman too, whatever sum you pay—
You try me, every dainty I refuse,
Now greedily devour whate'er you chuse:
You see you coxcombs flutt'ring in the street;
They'll use me, ten to one, if chance they meet.
I animals can please, both great and small—
In every country, mankind on me call.
Now I'm what many thousands fain wou'd know—
I make yon Corsican our country's foe;
And shou'd the tyrant, and his sanguine host,
But rashly dare to venture on our coast,
They'll find an hundred Nelsons in command,
And Moores, and Wellingtons, throughout the land!—
On me, tho' many millions love to tread;
Grateful am I, and yield them daily bread—
An useful piece of furniture you see;
It serves our author, reader it serves thee—
Now I'm a liquid, topers think a treat;
I'm strong, I'm weak, I'm bitter, sour, and sweet—
I'm like a noisy instrument oft heard—
And now to every pleasure I'm preferr'd;
You use me, nor without me can you live;
I make you sick, and well, new vigour give
To lisping infancy and hoary age:
Shame on me war 'gainst poverty to wage!—
I many a tear provoke, cause oft a smile;
And seen in Albion's, more than Erin's Isle—
Now I adorn a city, cottage feast—
Now I become a bold, a cunning beast—
I form a part of many a female dress,
Worn by our good queen Charlotte, bluff queen Bess;
And Egypt's amorous queen bore me about,
When romping with Mark Anthony, no doubt—
I'm seen on flow'rs, each garden's gayest pride—
I'm what you eat, with fowls plac'd side by side—
Next I'm a bird, some taste, some never taste;
Near gormandizing aldermen oft plac'd—
Now I'm a name in Scripture oft thou'st read,
If e'er that best of books ran in thy head—
A name thou'lt find me in great Shakspeare's page,
He who pourtray'd the manners of each age;
Who robb'd dame Nature, oft, with matchless skill,
And leads the mind a captive at his will:
Unlike the boasted Philos of our age,
Who flatter folly, for a rabble's praise—
Now I'm an idol—Now a patriot found—
Now please the sportsman, and the crowd around—
I'm us'd in sickness, and I'm us'd in health;
And I'm a place of fashion, fame, and wealth—
Yon simp'ring quack, precise, with wig and cane,
Makes use of me, alas! too oft in vain—
Mark well what changes I can make appear;
Without me, reader, long thoud'st not been here—
Oft I refresh you—Now o'er me you ride—
I'm us'd by builders—I'm the drunkard's pride—
I'm like a hero, when he gasps in death—
I please the sportsman, when he pants for breath—
You hear me loudly call'd at each review—
You hear me bawl'd out on each race-course, too—
Now I'm a place, where men, where women meet,
Lies propagate, enjoy a social treat;
Near me, this hour, Care hides his hideous head,
But ere the next, all harmony is fled—
An artist's tool am I, whom all admire—
Now I enliven millions round the fire—
Now many a son of Erin I offend,
Now I'm their summer—now their winter friend—
Now Gripus views me oft, with greedy joy—
Now many a town and hamlet I destroy—
Of tot'ring age, you find me next the boast—
By me, alas! some hundreds have been lost—
I'm now a vowel—Now are we a pair;
Glance o'er the Chronicle, you'll find us there—
Oft I delight you, make you stand aghast—
Lastly, I'm like some houses in Belfast.
In schools I'm flogg'd, in schools I sit at ease.
149
Next by all ages, by both sexes borne—
Our blooming sisters, pride of Britain's court,
To where the Loves and Graces still resort,
Have worn me oft; I'm ever at their call;
God grant them virtuous husbands, one and all!—
You hear me, and an useful creature see—
Now I'm the virtuous man, the villain's plea—
The carrier uses me, ay, day by day—
The tradesman too, whatever sum you pay—
You try me, every dainty I refuse,
Now greedily devour whate'er you chuse:
You see you coxcombs flutt'ring in the street;
They'll use me, ten to one, if chance they meet.
I animals can please, both great and small—
In every country, mankind on me call.
Now I'm what many thousands fain wou'd know—
I make yon Corsican our country's foe;
And shou'd the tyrant, and his sanguine host,
But rashly dare to venture on our coast,
They'll find an hundred Nelsons in command,
And Moores, and Wellingtons, throughout the land!—
On me, tho' many millions love to tread;
Grateful am I, and yield them daily bread—
An useful piece of furniture you see;
It serves our author, reader it serves thee—
150
I'm strong, I'm weak, I'm bitter, sour, and sweet—
I'm like a noisy instrument oft heard—
And now to every pleasure I'm preferr'd;
You use me, nor without me can you live;
I make you sick, and well, new vigour give
To lisping infancy and hoary age:
Shame on me war 'gainst poverty to wage!—
I many a tear provoke, cause oft a smile;
And seen in Albion's, more than Erin's Isle—
Now I adorn a city, cottage feast—
Now I become a bold, a cunning beast—
I form a part of many a female dress,
Worn by our good queen Charlotte, bluff queen Bess;
And Egypt's amorous queen bore me about,
When romping with Mark Anthony, no doubt—
I'm seen on flow'rs, each garden's gayest pride—
I'm what you eat, with fowls plac'd side by side—
Next I'm a bird, some taste, some never taste;
Near gormandizing aldermen oft plac'd—
Now I'm a name in Scripture oft thou'st read,
If e'er that best of books ran in thy head—
A name thou'lt find me in great Shakspeare's page,
He who pourtray'd the manners of each age;
Who robb'd dame Nature, oft, with matchless skill,
And leads the mind a captive at his will:
151
Who flatter folly, for a rabble's praise—
Now I'm an idol—Now a patriot found—
Now please the sportsman, and the crowd around—
I'm us'd in sickness, and I'm us'd in health;
And I'm a place of fashion, fame, and wealth—
Yon simp'ring quack, precise, with wig and cane,
Makes use of me, alas! too oft in vain—
Mark well what changes I can make appear;
Without me, reader, long thoud'st not been here—
Oft I refresh you—Now o'er me you ride—
I'm us'd by builders—I'm the drunkard's pride—
I'm like a hero, when he gasps in death—
I please the sportsman, when he pants for breath—
You hear me loudly call'd at each review—
You hear me bawl'd out on each race-course, too—
Now I'm a place, where men, where women meet,
Lies propagate, enjoy a social treat;
Near me, this hour, Care hides his hideous head,
But ere the next, all harmony is fled—
An artist's tool am I, whom all admire—
Now I enliven millions round the fire—
Now many a son of Erin I offend,
Now I'm their summer—now their winter friend—
Now Gripus views me oft, with greedy joy—
Now many a town and hamlet I destroy—
152
By me, alas! some hundreds have been lost—
I'm now a vowel—Now are we a pair;
Glance o'er the Chronicle, you'll find us there—
Oft I delight you, make you stand aghast—
Lastly, I'm like some houses in Belfast.
Reader, an author little known to fame,
But one whose labours may some notice claim,
(Proud if his song, or enigmatic lay
Can soothe a sorrowing brother on his way)
Again has dar'd to trespass on thy time,
And pardon craves; he lives not by his rhyme;
But wou'd amuse some friends, when labour's o'er—
This cost him three hours study, and not more.
But one whose labours may some notice claim,
(Proud if his song, or enigmatic lay
Can soothe a sorrowing brother on his way)
Again has dar'd to trespass on thy time,
And pardon craves; he lives not by his rhyme;
But wou'd amuse some friends, when labour's o'er—
This cost him three hours study, and not more.
Carnmoney, Feb. 25, 1812.
153
ENIGMA THE THIRD.
Reader, not in pompous verse I sing,
Nor with the Sons of Genius hope to vie;
Ne'er have I drank at the Castalian spring,
Yet oft to please a rustic groupe I try:
For this, my Muse beguiles the hours of leisure—
O may my light effusion yield thee pleasure!
Nor with the Sons of Genius hope to vie;
Ne'er have I drank at the Castalian spring,
Yet oft to please a rustic groupe I try:
For this, my Muse beguiles the hours of leisure—
O may my light effusion yield thee pleasure!
In ev'ry state, throughout the globe, I'm found,
Where'er the steps of man imprint the ground;
Now seen with monarchs, side by side;
Now with the beggar, and his bride;
Oft I'm thought a welcome guest;
Oft with thorns I wound the breast,
And feel for no man;
To crush the noble mind,
Thro' all ranks of mankind,
Alas! is but too common!
From Ganges banks to Mississippi's shore,
Or where the icy streams of Tornè roar,
To man I've been a friend;
Proud to assist the high, the low,
I'm virtue's pride, am vice's foe,
And thus may I remain till time shall have an end.
The wretch bow'd down by care and toil,
Feels death approaching with a smile,
A ray of comfort oft derives from me;
Now numbers boldly me abuse,
And well they may, with fair excuse,
For thousands I've destroyed, by land and sea.
I'm nam'd in many a poet's page;
Dramatists force me on the stage;
Old Chaucer, Shak speare, Dryden, Cowper, Burns,
Have sung of me by turns;
And Scott, the adventurous chief of song,
Whose lays of chivalry, sweet and strong,
A captive bind the heart,
When of former days,
He the manners pourtrays,
Names me with a poet's art.
Historians, politicians, 'gainst me rage,
In scribbling fury;
I've been oppress'd by many a great law sage,
And eke the brainless jury.
Many there are who little think about me,
And if my deeds are nam'd they shrug and doubt me.
Reader, dost thou visit church,
Or leave the parson in the lurch?
Thou'rt fond, perchance, of play or ball;
Whether thou think'st retirement sweet,
Or lov'st to lounge the street,
I'm ever at thy call.
To no one colour can I be confin'd;
Eyes I have, but oft am blind;
As to size, I'm long, I'm short,
A giant, now a pigmy's sport;
Immoveable, now move at ease,
Oppress, delight, and many teaze:
Like some great men at court, too much I say
About myself; agreed: and now, I pray,
Dissect me, gentle reader, if you please.
Where'er the steps of man imprint the ground;
Now seen with monarchs, side by side;
Now with the beggar, and his bride;
Oft I'm thought a welcome guest;
Oft with thorns I wound the breast,
And feel for no man;
To crush the noble mind,
Thro' all ranks of mankind,
Alas! is but too common!
From Ganges banks to Mississippi's shore,
Or where the icy streams of Tornè roar,
154
Proud to assist the high, the low,
I'm virtue's pride, am vice's foe,
And thus may I remain till time shall have an end.
The wretch bow'd down by care and toil,
Feels death approaching with a smile,
A ray of comfort oft derives from me;
Now numbers boldly me abuse,
And well they may, with fair excuse,
For thousands I've destroyed, by land and sea.
I'm nam'd in many a poet's page;
Dramatists force me on the stage;
Old Chaucer, Shak speare, Dryden, Cowper, Burns,
Have sung of me by turns;
And Scott, the adventurous chief of song,
Whose lays of chivalry, sweet and strong,
A captive bind the heart,
When of former days,
He the manners pourtrays,
Names me with a poet's art.
Historians, politicians, 'gainst me rage,
In scribbling fury;
I've been oppress'd by many a great law sage,
And eke the brainless jury.
Many there are who little think about me,
And if my deeds are nam'd they shrug and doubt me.
155
Or leave the parson in the lurch?
Thou'rt fond, perchance, of play or ball;
Whether thou think'st retirement sweet,
Or lov'st to lounge the street,
I'm ever at thy call.
To no one colour can I be confin'd;
Eyes I have, but oft am blind;
As to size, I'm long, I'm short,
A giant, now a pigmy's sport;
Immoveable, now move at ease,
Oppress, delight, and many teaze:
Like some great men at court, too much I say
About myself; agreed: and now, I pray,
Dissect me, gentle reader, if you please.
You'll find a beast; a bird; a tree;
What's seen in Heaven, but not by you or me;
What cheers the seaman far at sea;
The sportsman's dear delight:
Part of the head; a wholesome liquor,
Priz'd by prelate and by vicar;
And what procures the beggar many a mite.
A part of the female dress,
Worn long ere the days of queen Bess;
A British bard oft nam'd;
A senator justly fam'd;
An Indian fruit;
An useful brute;
A prison, where the wildest oft are tam'd.
What caused in Scotia many a broil,
And oft disturb'd the Em'rald Isle;
A female name;
What calls forth shame;
What robs the beauteous face of many a smile.
What thousands dread;
What thousands tread;
What thousands yearly seek:
What thousands ruin daily;
What thousands mount on gaily;
What spreads a blush on many a lovely cheek.
What hurls destruction o'er the land and main,
And gives to millions pleasure, millions pain—
Leaving a houseless wretch the peaceful swain.
What's oft the poor man's food;
What gamesters love to hold;
What's giv'n for each man's good;
What's dearer far than gold:
What yields to multitudes delight;
What many a good man's ruin proves;
What's hateful to the villain's sight;
What woman dearly loves.
A town in France, which gave a tyrant birth;
A part much gaz'd at in the female shape:
An useful earth;
A well-known cape.
An English bishop's see;
What many cannot do;
What each one ought to be;
What's touch'd but by a few.
A Greek philosopher; Scottish duke;
A word much us'd in the sacred book;
A marshal of France, well known;
A dismal shout;
What few are without;
A botanist fam'd the world throughout;
A sportsman, best pleas'd, when alone.
A fish; what's mostly found in a street;
That which affords a nourishing sweet;
A river, the poet's theme;
A fruit that yields a delicious treat;
What oft'times contains an animal's meat;
A manure some useful deem.
What travels with speed;
What serves you in need
With liquors, the best and the worst;
What bears you on high;
What time's measur'd by;
A title of old
Giv'n by fame, we are told,
To heroes, but now to base sycophants sold,
Whose names are by nations accurs'd.
What's seen in Heaven, but not by you or me;
What cheers the seaman far at sea;
The sportsman's dear delight:
Part of the head; a wholesome liquor,
Priz'd by prelate and by vicar;
And what procures the beggar many a mite.
A part of the female dress,
Worn long ere the days of queen Bess;
156
A senator justly fam'd;
An Indian fruit;
An useful brute;
A prison, where the wildest oft are tam'd.
What caused in Scotia many a broil,
And oft disturb'd the Em'rald Isle;
A female name;
What calls forth shame;
What robs the beauteous face of many a smile.
What thousands dread;
What thousands tread;
What thousands yearly seek:
What thousands ruin daily;
What thousands mount on gaily;
What spreads a blush on many a lovely cheek.
What hurls destruction o'er the land and main,
And gives to millions pleasure, millions pain—
Leaving a houseless wretch the peaceful swain.
What's oft the poor man's food;
What gamesters love to hold;
What's giv'n for each man's good;
What's dearer far than gold:
What yields to multitudes delight;
What many a good man's ruin proves;
What's hateful to the villain's sight;
What woman dearly loves.
157
A part much gaz'd at in the female shape:
An useful earth;
A well-known cape.
An English bishop's see;
What many cannot do;
What each one ought to be;
What's touch'd but by a few.
A Greek philosopher; Scottish duke;
A word much us'd in the sacred book;
A marshal of France, well known;
A dismal shout;
What few are without;
A botanist fam'd the world throughout;
A sportsman, best pleas'd, when alone.
A fish; what's mostly found in a street;
That which affords a nourishing sweet;
A river, the poet's theme;
A fruit that yields a delicious treat;
What oft'times contains an animal's meat;
A manure some useful deem.
What travels with speed;
What serves you in need
With liquors, the best and the worst;
What bears you on high;
What time's measur'd by;
158
Giv'n by fame, we are told,
To heroes, but now to base sycophants sold,
Whose names are by nations accurs'd.
Enough, good-natur'd Muse, thy rambling cease,
Still at my cabin thou'rt a welcome guest:
Long may we virtuous pleasures try t'increase,
For man's a riddle, and this life's a jest!
Still at my cabin thou'rt a welcome guest:
Long may we virtuous pleasures try t'increase,
For man's a riddle, and this life's a jest!
Carnmoney, near Belfast.
159
ENIGMA THE FOURTH.
Reader, a vagrant Muse, mid' these bleak hills,
With dreams poetic, oft our Author fills;
Bids him again the advent'rous task engage,
To please, surprise, in this enlighten'd age:
Bold this, indeed! Methinks you soft exclaim;
Hush, friend! to please is still our Author's aim:
Weak is his lyre, yet tun'd in virtue's praise,
To goodness, not to wealth, he homage pays.
Th' exordium, egotistic, pray excuse,
He courts not flattery, but for candour sues;
Proud if thou smil'st on his unpolish'd line,
Rhyme is his hobby.—Reader, what is thine?
With dreams poetic, oft our Author fills;
Bids him again the advent'rous task engage,
To please, surprise, in this enlighten'd age:
Bold this, indeed! Methinks you soft exclaim;
Hush, friend! to please is still our Author's aim:
Weak is his lyre, yet tun'd in virtue's praise,
To goodness, not to wealth, he homage pays.
Th' exordium, egotistic, pray excuse,
He courts not flattery, but for candour sues;
Proud if thou smil'st on his unpolish'd line,
Rhyme is his hobby.—Reader, what is thine?
I benefit mankind, am useless found;
Now irritate, delight whole nations round;
Am seen mid' splendid domes, in lowliest cot;
Now thought worth thousands, now not worth a groat:
Now on the waters, now in air am seen;
Now many a fathom in the earth have been:
Great Newton I delighted, all allow,
He saw me for the benefit of you;
And Swift, eccentric genius, Erin's pride,
With him oft have I wander'd side by side.
My size oft varies, I'm both great and small;
Now seen by numbers, now not seen at all:
Now I occasion many a heart-felt joy;
Now hopes and pleasures quickly I destroy:
Whole provinces with me have nought to do:
The great man prizes me, the base one too.
I'm seen in dungeons, not in every jail;
My loss the world oft did, oft will bewail.
I'm brought after by ev'ry fav'ring breeze,
Yet Britain's sons can make me at their ease;
Her daughters, too, caress me, with a smile,
Long be they happy as they're void of guile!
For ne'er did Nature, since she tried her art,
Form beings more to captivate the heart;
And while mirth, goodness, claim his deep regard,
Still they'll enjoy the praises of our bard.
Near rivers now I'm seen, with anxious stare;
Go wander Eden's banks, you'll find me there.
Now irritate, delight whole nations round;
Am seen mid' splendid domes, in lowliest cot;
Now thought worth thousands, now not worth a groat:
Now on the waters, now in air am seen;
Now many a fathom in the earth have been:
160
He saw me for the benefit of you;
And Swift, eccentric genius, Erin's pride,
With him oft have I wander'd side by side.
My size oft varies, I'm both great and small;
Now seen by numbers, now not seen at all:
Now I occasion many a heart-felt joy;
Now hopes and pleasures quickly I destroy:
Whole provinces with me have nought to do:
The great man prizes me, the base one too.
I'm seen in dungeons, not in every jail;
My loss the world oft did, oft will bewail.
I'm brought after by ev'ry fav'ring breeze,
Yet Britain's sons can make me at their ease;
Her daughters, too, caress me, with a smile,
Long be they happy as they're void of guile!
For ne'er did Nature, since she tried her art,
Form beings more to captivate the heart;
And while mirth, goodness, claim his deep regard,
Still they'll enjoy the praises of our bard.
Near rivers now I'm seen, with anxious stare;
Go wander Eden's banks, you'll find me there.
Now Reader, some strange things I'll bring to view,
Dissect me carefully, you'll own 'tis true.
I'm dark, I'm pale, I'm feeble, and I'm strong;
I'm light, I'm heavy, short am I, and long;
For me you call, I'm with you day by day;
Aid young and old, wise, foolish, grave, and gay.
I'm fruit; I'm fish; I'm insect, bird, and beast;
Next I delight the glutton at a feast:
A poet, patriot, gen'ral, king I turn,
And now o'er me, in tears, the afflicted mourn.
You worship me, and now of me complain;
Then think of me, and ask what news from Spain.
Yon connoiseur now views me o'er and o'er,
Stares, rubs his eye-glass, squints at me once more:
Swears I'm invaluable: what does he mean?
I own I please the beggar and the queen.
Yon artless ploughman, whistling o'er the lea,
Hears me, delighted; Reader, I've pleas'd thee.
Now I'm a highwayman, great London's dread;
And now from me are thousands daily fed.
I'm on yon mountain, in that woody glen;
Mankind I daily serve; alas! what then,
They disregard me, use me night and day;
Praise, and abuse me; what's the reason, pray?
You see me, and you quick let fall a tear;
You hear from me, aye, daily through the year:
O'er me you laugh and joke, carouse and sing.
I'm beggar's bev'rage, and can please a king.
Now I'm the rustic's pride, the miser's dream;
Now I'm a river, many a poet's theme;
The drunkard's joy; the studious artist's toast;
The robber's dread; and many a farmer's boast.
Now children wear me; now by age I'm worn;
By me, with great delight, the Cockney's borne:
Yon gamester I enrich, and him undo;
Yon party I enliven, vex them too.
You see me in the ball-room, in the street
You hear me, and oft fly me when we meet.
I from the main save many a gallant tar;
I'm made for soldiers, us'd in peace and war:
I hide each beauteous object from your view,
You pray for me, and many I undo:
I give you plenty, and each hope destroy;
Know, friends, from me each blessing you enjoy:
I claim the pity of each passer by,
Call forth the manly tear, the heart-felt sigh.
Man's notice I have sought in every age,
The young, the old, the ideot, and the sage;
They gaze on me, each season, with delight,
I in a moment vanish from their sight.
Mark well you busy crew with ceaseless mirth,
For me, they mole-like daily toil in earth;
A thousand various forms I quick assume,
And now your garrets, painted halls illume.
I, tyrant like, cause streams of blood to flow;
I'm used by beauty, yet am beauty's foe:
For various purposes am still employ'd,
Have states delighted, and have men destroy'd.
By me aloft, methinks I see you borne;
Sad change, alas! I make you each one's scorn:
I turn you frightful in your country's eyes,
But ne'er destroy your hope beyond the skies.
By me all ages, nations have been charm'd,
And anger of his rage is quick disarm'd;
Th' untutor'd Indian, nature's simplest child,
My pow'r confesses oft, in raptures wild.
I'm now an herb, still grateful to your nose;
A reptile, and in man disgust oft cause;
I'm provinces; I'm rivers; many a town;
And now on me with horror you look down.
Now I'm an article of useful food;
Now do, what ev'ry mortal should do, good;
Snatch pale-fac'd suff'rers from the yawning grave:
Much evil, too, for millions I enslave.
I'm like a sland'rous vixen, o'er her tea,
She deals out scandal, gazing oft on me;
I'm next a card, she's eager to behold;
Now I adorn her head, or young, or old.
The British tar sees me with greedy joy:
Mankind I now defend, mankind destroy.
I'm parent own'd of universal good,
Form'd by th' all-wise Creator, ere the flood;
My influence is own'd in every clime,
And must continue till the end of time.
Observe yon motley groupe of young and old,
Toys, health, wealth, freedom, bartering for gold;
Our nation's glory, and her foul disgrace,
Where men like brutes are purchas'd, I'm that place.
You work, exquisite from the artist's hand,
That Genius o'er the midnight taper plann'd,
Where beauty, grace, taste, science are combin'd,
I'll quick destroy, nor leave a wreck behind.—
In fam'd St. Stephens, alias Wrangler's Hall,
Where men for office and for freedom bawl,
Where patriotic weathercocks hold forth,
And unfledg'd statesmen scowl on modest worth;
There oft I'm seen with traitors, cheek by jole;
And ev'n in council, great men I controul.
Behold you wretched hovel on the moor,
You'll see me, if you enter but the door;
Look in the palace, and you'll find me there;
I'm in the play-house, market, crowd, and fair.
I'm with the Regent oft, am oft his pride,
Woe to all those who would his steps misguide!
Thro' him, may suff'ring mortals hope for peace;
Thro' him, may all religious discord cease!
I'm black, I'm white, I long, I short am found;
Soaring in air; now groveling on the ground:
I'm silent, noisy, eloquent, and dumb,
Of size gigantic, and but like Tom Thumb:
Now many a fathom deep, in ocean lie;
Now out of sight, above the clouds I fly.—
Yon toil-worn exile, prey to want and grief,
To whom Hope soothing gives a faint relief,
Views me; and Fancy paints in colours true,
Scenes youth pourtray'd, when sorrows were but few:
Loves, friendships cherish'd, tear his tortur'd breast;
He weeps, and looks to Heav'n alone for rest.—
Observe yon sinner, on the bed of death;
Mark the deep groan, the short-drawn closing breath;
Hope tells another hour may ease his pain,
But ne'er let Hope deceive the giddy brain:
Him, how I torture! Conscience acts her part,
Soon life's red current ceases round his heart.
Next, view the man of worth, at life's sad close,
The look serene the Christian's hope he shews;
Him I afflict in vain. He patient bears
Aches, sickness, poverty; nor e'er despairs:
Firm, convinc'd life's race is nearly run,
He gratefully exclaims, God's will be done!
The Ruler of the Winds, thus, if he please,
A healing gives to sorrow or disease.
Dissect me carefully, you'll own 'tis true.
161
I'm light, I'm heavy, short am I, and long;
For me you call, I'm with you day by day;
Aid young and old, wise, foolish, grave, and gay.
I'm fruit; I'm fish; I'm insect, bird, and beast;
Next I delight the glutton at a feast:
A poet, patriot, gen'ral, king I turn,
And now o'er me, in tears, the afflicted mourn.
You worship me, and now of me complain;
Then think of me, and ask what news from Spain.
Yon connoiseur now views me o'er and o'er,
Stares, rubs his eye-glass, squints at me once more:
Swears I'm invaluable: what does he mean?
I own I please the beggar and the queen.
Yon artless ploughman, whistling o'er the lea,
Hears me, delighted; Reader, I've pleas'd thee.
Now I'm a highwayman, great London's dread;
And now from me are thousands daily fed.
I'm on yon mountain, in that woody glen;
Mankind I daily serve; alas! what then,
They disregard me, use me night and day;
Praise, and abuse me; what's the reason, pray?
You see me, and you quick let fall a tear;
You hear from me, aye, daily through the year:
O'er me you laugh and joke, carouse and sing.
I'm beggar's bev'rage, and can please a king.
162
Now I'm a river, many a poet's theme;
The drunkard's joy; the studious artist's toast;
The robber's dread; and many a farmer's boast.
Now children wear me; now by age I'm worn;
By me, with great delight, the Cockney's borne:
Yon gamester I enrich, and him undo;
Yon party I enliven, vex them too.
You see me in the ball-room, in the street
You hear me, and oft fly me when we meet.
I from the main save many a gallant tar;
I'm made for soldiers, us'd in peace and war:
I hide each beauteous object from your view,
You pray for me, and many I undo:
I give you plenty, and each hope destroy;
Know, friends, from me each blessing you enjoy:
I claim the pity of each passer by,
Call forth the manly tear, the heart-felt sigh.
Man's notice I have sought in every age,
The young, the old, the ideot, and the sage;
They gaze on me, each season, with delight,
I in a moment vanish from their sight.
Mark well you busy crew with ceaseless mirth,
For me, they mole-like daily toil in earth;
A thousand various forms I quick assume,
And now your garrets, painted halls illume.
163
I'm used by beauty, yet am beauty's foe:
For various purposes am still employ'd,
Have states delighted, and have men destroy'd.
By me aloft, methinks I see you borne;
Sad change, alas! I make you each one's scorn:
I turn you frightful in your country's eyes,
But ne'er destroy your hope beyond the skies.
By me all ages, nations have been charm'd,
And anger of his rage is quick disarm'd;
Th' untutor'd Indian, nature's simplest child,
My pow'r confesses oft, in raptures wild.
I'm now an herb, still grateful to your nose;
A reptile, and in man disgust oft cause;
I'm provinces; I'm rivers; many a town;
And now on me with horror you look down.
Now I'm an article of useful food;
Now do, what ev'ry mortal should do, good;
Snatch pale-fac'd suff'rers from the yawning grave:
Much evil, too, for millions I enslave.
I'm like a sland'rous vixen, o'er her tea,
She deals out scandal, gazing oft on me;
I'm next a card, she's eager to behold;
Now I adorn her head, or young, or old.
The British tar sees me with greedy joy:
Mankind I now defend, mankind destroy.
164
Form'd by th' all-wise Creator, ere the flood;
My influence is own'd in every clime,
And must continue till the end of time.
Observe yon motley groupe of young and old,
Toys, health, wealth, freedom, bartering for gold;
Our nation's glory, and her foul disgrace,
Where men like brutes are purchas'd, I'm that place.
You work, exquisite from the artist's hand,
That Genius o'er the midnight taper plann'd,
Where beauty, grace, taste, science are combin'd,
I'll quick destroy, nor leave a wreck behind.—
In fam'd St. Stephens, alias Wrangler's Hall,
Where men for office and for freedom bawl,
Where patriotic weathercocks hold forth,
And unfledg'd statesmen scowl on modest worth;
There oft I'm seen with traitors, cheek by jole;
And ev'n in council, great men I controul.
Behold you wretched hovel on the moor,
You'll see me, if you enter but the door;
Look in the palace, and you'll find me there;
I'm in the play-house, market, crowd, and fair.
I'm with the Regent oft, am oft his pride,
Woe to all those who would his steps misguide!
Thro' him, may suff'ring mortals hope for peace;
Thro' him, may all religious discord cease!
165
Soaring in air; now groveling on the ground:
I'm silent, noisy, eloquent, and dumb,
Of size gigantic, and but like Tom Thumb:
Now many a fathom deep, in ocean lie;
Now out of sight, above the clouds I fly.—
Yon toil-worn exile, prey to want and grief,
To whom Hope soothing gives a faint relief,
Views me; and Fancy paints in colours true,
Scenes youth pourtray'd, when sorrows were but few:
Loves, friendships cherish'd, tear his tortur'd breast;
He weeps, and looks to Heav'n alone for rest.—
Observe yon sinner, on the bed of death;
Mark the deep groan, the short-drawn closing breath;
Hope tells another hour may ease his pain,
But ne'er let Hope deceive the giddy brain:
Him, how I torture! Conscience acts her part,
Soon life's red current ceases round his heart.
Next, view the man of worth, at life's sad close,
The look serene the Christian's hope he shews;
Him I afflict in vain. He patient bears
Aches, sickness, poverty; nor e'er despairs:
Firm, convinc'd life's race is nearly run,
He gratefully exclaims, God's will be done!
The Ruler of the Winds, thus, if he please,
A healing gives to sorrow or disease.
166
Full three hours' study hath this trifte cost;
Now patient Reader, should thy time seem lost,
Henceforth my Muse will other themes pursue—
Enigmatists, I bid you all adieu.
Now patient Reader, should thy time seem lost,
Henceforth my Muse will other themes pursue—
Enigmatists, I bid you all adieu.
Carnmoney, near Belfast.
168
EPISTLES.
169
EPISTLE THE FIRST.
TO ONE WHO PREFERRED THE JOYS OF LONDON, TO THE RURAL PLEASURES OF THE COUNTRY.
And will my friend then run life's race,
Where virtue oft to vice gives place;
For quiet wishing every hour;
Cloy'd with the noise he must endure;
For ever toiling in the crowd,
Expos'd to insults meanly rude,
Forc'd to be rakish, vain, and proud.
Now busier than the veriest slave;
Now bowing to some artful knave;
Now gadding thro' the restless town,
For fashion seeking up and down;
Or idly trifling time away,
At noisy tavern, park, or play.
Methinks I see you panting sit,
In Colman's elbow-pinching pit;
Or with their godships, (dismal groupe)
Yclep'd hoarse Bully Uproar's troop,
A slave to pleasure, pain, and fear,
Laugh at the wit you cannot hear,
Or weep, 'cause others drop a tear.
Or if to loud debate you fly,
Where dunce gives dunce the dull reply;
Where reason's rul'd by impudence,
And wit to virtue gives offence;
You hear each ignoramus prate,
'Bout Whig and Tory, church and state;
But with as much success might draw
Instruction from a pert jackdaw.
This hubbub over; next you view
Disease, and all her ghastly crew;
Here danger lurks in every street,
Here injur'd innocence you meet;
Here the remains of beauty trace,
In some poor midnight wand'rer's face;
For, well, my friend, I know your breast
Of each fine feeling is possest:
But may you, ever with disgust,
Avoid the foul embrace of lust;
Whether the luring wanton smiles
At proud St. James's or St. Giles'!
Thro' scenes of riot thus you reel,
To pent-up garret forc'd to steal;
Where, wak'd by watchmen's toneless chime,
Discordant nightingales of time,
You taste not ease; for calm repose
Is what the city seldom knows:
Thus youth you spend in real pain,
For misery in age to gain!
Where virtue oft to vice gives place;
For quiet wishing every hour;
Cloy'd with the noise he must endure;
For ever toiling in the crowd,
Expos'd to insults meanly rude,
Forc'd to be rakish, vain, and proud.
Now busier than the veriest slave;
Now bowing to some artful knave;
Now gadding thro' the restless town,
For fashion seeking up and down;
Or idly trifling time away,
At noisy tavern, park, or play.
170
In Colman's elbow-pinching pit;
Or with their godships, (dismal groupe)
Yclep'd hoarse Bully Uproar's troop,
A slave to pleasure, pain, and fear,
Laugh at the wit you cannot hear,
Or weep, 'cause others drop a tear.
Or if to loud debate you fly,
Where dunce gives dunce the dull reply;
Where reason's rul'd by impudence,
And wit to virtue gives offence;
You hear each ignoramus prate,
'Bout Whig and Tory, church and state;
But with as much success might draw
Instruction from a pert jackdaw.
This hubbub over; next you view
Disease, and all her ghastly crew;
Here danger lurks in every street,
Here injur'd innocence you meet;
Here the remains of beauty trace,
In some poor midnight wand'rer's face;
For, well, my friend, I know your breast
Of each fine feeling is possest:
But may you, ever with disgust,
Avoid the foul embrace of lust;
171
At proud St. James's or St. Giles'!
Thro' scenes of riot thus you reel,
To pent-up garret forc'd to steal;
Where, wak'd by watchmen's toneless chime,
Discordant nightingales of time,
You taste not ease; for calm repose
Is what the city seldom knows:
Thus youth you spend in real pain,
For misery in age to gain!
If e'er you steal an hour from care,
And leave the town for purer air,
Think sometimes of an absent friend;
And fancy thus the hours I spend.
When evening bids my labour cease,
In nook retir'd I muse in peace,
On these remember'd, those belov'd,
Or books peruse, by you approv'd;
Or with a friend, (tho' few I own,
For friendship is but little known)
In summer o'er the meadows rove,
Or trace the wood, and beechen grove,
Where Eden's winding current strays,
And thro' the fruitful valley plays;
Or range, elate, the plenteous fields,
When earth to man her produce yields.
What tho' no syren's voice we hear,
Still sweeter minstrels charm the ear;
While straining Mara you encore,
The feather'd choir delight me more.
No costly painted domes we view;
No glitt'ring palaces, 'tis true:
Yet num'rous landscapes meet the eye,
That domes and palaces outvie.
In peace, reclining at our ease,
We taste the health-bestowing breeze,
Beneath some osier's cooling shade;
Or mark the changes time hath made,
Since youth his fairy gambols play'd.
We laugh at love, and all his tricks,
And scorn with fashion's fools to mix;
Nor envy nor the rich, nor great,
Nor heed who rules o'er church or state.
And leave the town for purer air,
Think sometimes of an absent friend;
And fancy thus the hours I spend.
When evening bids my labour cease,
In nook retir'd I muse in peace,
On these remember'd, those belov'd,
Or books peruse, by you approv'd;
Or with a friend, (tho' few I own,
For friendship is but little known)
In summer o'er the meadows rove,
Or trace the wood, and beechen grove,
Where Eden's winding current strays,
And thro' the fruitful valley plays;
172
When earth to man her produce yields.
What tho' no syren's voice we hear,
Still sweeter minstrels charm the ear;
While straining Mara you encore,
The feather'd choir delight me more.
No costly painted domes we view;
No glitt'ring palaces, 'tis true:
Yet num'rous landscapes meet the eye,
That domes and palaces outvie.
In peace, reclining at our ease,
We taste the health-bestowing breeze,
Beneath some osier's cooling shade;
Or mark the changes time hath made,
Since youth his fairy gambols play'd.
We laugh at love, and all his tricks,
And scorn with fashion's fools to mix;
Nor envy nor the rich, nor great,
Nor heed who rules o'er church or state.
Tho' different thoughts lead you and me,
Yet friendship bids our hearts agree;
Of pleasures, rural, or the town,
No more, my Willy; both must own,
That happiness is but a name,
By prince, by peasant known the same
But when self-interest sways the mind,
Man seeks in vain that gem to find.
Did riches ease the aching heart,
Or sorrow's tear forbid to start;
lOr add to th' number of our days,
Then might the miser claim our praise:
But they give seldom health or peace,
And oft, too oft, our cares increase.
Yet friendship bids our hearts agree;
Of pleasures, rural, or the town,
No more, my Willy; both must own,
That happiness is but a name,
By prince, by peasant known the same
173
Man seeks in vain that gem to find.
Did riches ease the aching heart,
Or sorrow's tear forbid to start;
lOr add to th' number of our days,
Then might the miser claim our praise:
But they give seldom health or peace,
And oft, too oft, our cares increase.
Regardless, then, of fortune's smile,
Be ours, my friend, content and toil;
And blest with friendship, peace, and health,
E'en let who will contend for wealth!
Be ours, my friend, content and toil;
And blest with friendship, peace, and health,
E'en let who will contend for wealth!
Carlisle, September, 1798.
174
EPISTLE THE SECOND.
TO MISS E. C---E, IN SCOTLAND.
Ye Pow'rs abuin, O hear me now!
If I'm to cla' an auld man's pow,
Just grant a circle o' leel friends,
To cheer me, ere life's journey ends!
If I'm to cla' an auld man's pow,
Just grant a circle o' leel friends,
To cheer me, ere life's journey ends!
Sin' first I wrote R. A. his book,
God gie him grace on it to look!
I've fash'd my friens wi' monie a line;
In tuneless rhyme, in senseless prose;
Now teazin' these, now pleasin' those,
As folly, whim, or friendship chose
To rule this head o' mine.
God gie him grace on it to look!
I've fash'd my friens wi' monie a line;
In tuneless rhyme, in senseless prose;
Now teazin' these, now pleasin' those,
As folly, whim, or friendship chose
To rule this head o' mine.
Tho' weel acquaint wi' monie a ane,
Of a' the lave, how few I ken,
Wha can for sense wi' ye compare!
Woo lass! had I auld Ramsay's skill,
Or like Ayr's Bardie, wit at will,
'Twou'd pleasure gie, to drive the quill,
That ye my verse might share!
Of a' the lave, how few I ken,
175
Woo lass! had I auld Ramsay's skill,
Or like Ayr's Bardie, wit at will,
'Twou'd pleasure gie, to drive the quill,
That ye my verse might share!
But he wha cheerfu' does his best,
Guid-natur'd sauls forgie the rest;
Sae nought hae I frae ye to fear.
Driv'n by wild Autumn frae ilk bow'r,
Where linties late did wild notes pour,
In cot retir'd, I'll ryhme an hour,
To please a frien sae dear.
Guid-natur'd sauls forgie the rest;
Sae nought hae I frae ye to fear.
Driv'n by wild Autumn frae ilk bow'r,
Where linties late did wild notes pour,
In cot retir'd, I'll ryhme an hour,
To please a frien sae dear.
Now far frae town the sportsman flies,
Proud to ensnare the harmless prize;
Be his, sic pleasures to enjoy!
To range o'er mountain, muir, and heath,
Charm'd wi' ilk sound that echoes death;
My aim shall be, while I draw breath,
To save but ne'er destroy!
Proud to ensnare the harmless prize;
Be his, sic pleasures to enjoy!
To range o'er mountain, muir, and heath,
Charm'd wi' ilk sound that echoes death;
My aim shall be, while I draw breath,
To save but ne'er destroy!
The hollow blasts begin to bla',
And frae the trees, leaves twitt'rin' fa';
A lesson seemin' aft to gie:
For ere anither Autumn come,
They'll rustle o'er the narrow tomb
O' monie, wha now boast health's bloom,
And may be, thee, or me!
And frae the trees, leaves twitt'rin' fa';
A lesson seemin' aft to gie:
For ere anither Autumn come,
176
O' monie, wha now boast health's bloom,
And may be, thee, or me!
Life's simmer, Bess, is thine and mine,
But hastnin' quick to a decline;
That 'tis sae, haith, I find fu' weel!
Time's snatch'd the forelock frae my pate,
And hope that made this heart elate,
Now lea's me mourning o'er my fate,
A luckless, rhymin' chiel.
But hastnin' quick to a decline;
That 'tis sae, haith, I find fu' weel!
Time's snatch'd the forelock frae my pate,
And hope that made this heart elate,
Now lea's me mourning o'er my fate,
A luckless, rhymin' chiel.
What then, like me, baith rich and puir,
Maun painfu' trials here endure;
Yet man, weak man's his greatest foe:
A something ay appears in view,
The fleetin' shadow we pursue;
And if o'erta'en, this aft is true,
It adds but to our woe.
Maun painfu' trials here endure;
Yet man, weak man's his greatest foe:
A something ay appears in view,
The fleetin' shadow we pursue;
And if o'erta'en, this aft is true,
It adds but to our woe.
Wou'd we enjoy the envied state,
Whilk mortals truly may ca' great,
On pleasure we shou'd ne'er be bent;
Reason shou'd o'er ilk thought preside,
And honesty ay act as guide;
Syne let what will on earth betide,
We ay may rest content.
Whilk mortals truly may ca' great,
On pleasure we shou'd ne'er be bent;
Reason shou'd o'er ilk thought preside,
And honesty ay act as guide;
Syne let what will on earth betide,
We ay may rest content.
177
Niest to give life a double charm,
And slander o' her rage disarm,
Friendship shou'd temper weel the whole:
But true it is, we seldom find
That social tie amang mankind;
Int'rest o'er aft enslaves the mind
That ought to think for all.
And slander o' her rage disarm,
Friendship shou'd temper weel the whole:
But true it is, we seldom find
That social tie amang mankind;
Int'rest o'er aft enslaves the mind
That ought to think for all.
To this gie riches, that a name;
To ane gie pow'r, anither fame;
And let ambition's sons ay rule:
Gie me a sonsy honest friend,
On whom I may wi' truth depend,
And cheerfu' I'll to puirtith bend,
Nor envy fortune's fool!
To ane gie pow'r, anither fame;
And let ambition's sons ay rule:
Gie me a sonsy honest friend,
On whom I may wi' truth depend,
And cheerfu' I'll to puirtith bend,
Nor envy fortune's fool!
But in life's journey, gin we meet
A leel true saul, whase converse sweet
Can soothe a while the throbbing heart;
That jillet, fortune, steps atween,
And changes quick the happy scene;
Syne a' we boast is what has been,
Ay laith sae suin to part.
A leel true saul, whase converse sweet
Can soothe a while the throbbing heart;
That jillet, fortune, steps atween,
And changes quick the happy scene;
Syne a' we boast is what has been,
Ay laith sae suin to part.
178
Just sae it far'd wi' us, I trow,
Ere hawf acquaint, awa' thou flew;
Tho' distant, Bess, I swear to thee,
While genius, worth, I can discern,
Or aught o' virtue wish to learn,
Howe'er by fate I'm thrawn astern,
Remember'd thou wilt be!
Ere hawf acquaint, awa' thou flew;
Tho' distant, Bess, I swear to thee,
While genius, worth, I can discern,
Or aught o' virtue wish to learn,
Howe'er by fate I'm thrawn astern,
Remember'd thou wilt be!
Carlisle.
179
EPISTLE THE THIRD.
TO MR. ROBERT CARLYLE.
O thou, my long-lov'd, and much-honour'd friend,
Why on the winding banks of Tay,
Doth sorrow ay point out thy way,
And melancholy still thy steps attend?
When virtue fires the youthful breast,
Her vot'ry, pure, should live secure;
And be, where'er he strays, a welcome guest.
Why on the winding banks of Tay,
Doth sorrow ay point out thy way,
And melancholy still thy steps attend?
When virtue fires the youthful breast,
Her vot'ry, pure, should live secure;
And be, where'er he strays, a welcome guest.
Now smiles the season gay, which erst thine eye
Beheld, while by thy native streams,
Ting'd oft by Sol's departing beams,
The sober landscape made thy heart beat high:
Shall Spring, with all her joyous train,
Her sweets diffuse, of various hues,
And thou, in pensive numbers mark her reign?
Beheld, while by thy native streams,
Ting'd oft by Sol's departing beams,
The sober landscape made thy heart beat high:
Shall Spring, with all her joyous train,
Her sweets diffuse, of various hues,
And thou, in pensive numbers mark her reign?
Ah! no.—Since science hath illum'd thy mind,
And genius pour'd to thee her store,
Let sadness twine the wreath no more,
Of faded flow'rs, thy youthful brows to bind!
If reason bids us joy despise,
And guiltless mirth gives sorrow birth,
All may exclaim, “'Tis folly to be wise!”
And genius pour'd to thee her store,
Let sadness twine the wreath no more,
Of faded flow'rs, thy youthful brows to bind!
180
And guiltless mirth gives sorrow birth,
All may exclaim, “'Tis folly to be wise!”
Self-exil'd mid' majestic scenes to roam,
Where Tay's proud streams incessant roar,
Or Lomond laves the wood-fring'd shore;
With grief, I saw thee quit thy happy home,
Where scowling pride thy merit view'd,
And mark'd a youth in quest of truth,
But mock'd his sufferings with ingratitude.
Where Tay's proud streams incessant roar,
Or Lomond laves the wood-fring'd shore;
With grief, I saw thee quit thy happy home,
Where scowling pride thy merit view'd,
And mark'd a youth in quest of truth,
But mock'd his sufferings with ingratitude.
Alas! that genius e'er should know distress!
Or bend, in spite of reason's rules,
An abject slave to fortune's fools;
While bloated ignorance mankind caress!
Yet, heed not thou the world's sharp frown,
Content, and health, to haughty wealth,
And humble poverty, alike are known.
Or bend, in spite of reason's rules,
An abject slave to fortune's fools;
While bloated ignorance mankind caress!
Yet, heed not thou the world's sharp frown,
Content, and health, to haughty wealth,
And humble poverty, alike are known.
Bethink thee of the cares that all await;
Nor let dejection cloud thy brow,
If to the world thou'rt doom'd to bow;
Nor view with partial eye the pomp of state:
To nature's child, a virtuous name
Can give repose, and heal his woes,
More than doth e'er the air-blown bubble fame.
Nor let dejection cloud thy brow,
If to the world thou'rt doom'd to bow;
Nor view with partial eye the pomp of state:
To nature's child, a virtuous name
Can give repose, and heal his woes,
More than doth e'er the air-blown bubble fame.
181
Why labours o'er his midnight lamp, the sage,
Still teaching man himself to know?
'Tis his, to trace the source of woe,
And ours, to glean instruction from his page;
To make the most of life's short span,
And seek of Heav'n, the promise giv'n;
These are the noblest studies of frail man.
Still teaching man himself to know?
'Tis his, to trace the source of woe,
And ours, to glean instruction from his page;
To make the most of life's short span,
And seek of Heav'n, the promise giv'n;
These are the noblest studies of frail man.
Then court not, ere thy prime, the sombrous shade,
Where dwell disease, and cank'ring care;
Nor let the haggard fiend despair
Thy steps mislead; if by the world betray'd.
But, ah! if hope no more can cheer
Thy bosom, torn, in life's fair morn,
Long, long for thee shall Friendship shed the silent tear!
Where dwell disease, and cank'ring care;
Nor let the haggard fiend despair
Thy steps mislead; if by the world betray'd.
But, ah! if hope no more can cheer
Thy bosom, torn, in life's fair morn,
Long, long for thee shall Friendship shed the silent tear!
Carlisle, April 27, 1800.
182
EPISTLE THE FOURTH.
TO MARIA OF THE COTTAGE,
The late Mrs. Munster of Belfast. She has long been known as an authoress, and chose that appellation in Magazines, Newspapers, &c. She commenced her literary career in early youth, by publishing the “Cottage of the Appenines,” a Romance, in 4 vols. This work, which was completed in her sixteenth year, proves her to be a warm admirer of the celebrated Mrs. Radcliffe. In “Rosa,” a Tale, she has displayed a knowledge of the world in a story replete with interesting incident. Her language and pathos cannot fail to please the lovers of Sterne, or the author of the “Man of Feeling.” Although she may truly assert with Camoens,
“My cradle was the couch of care,
And sorrow rock'd me in it,”
yet no one ever bore the crosses of life with greater fortitude, nor did cheerfulness forsake her when the tomb seemed yawning for her reception. Sensibility, vivacity, and a philanthropic spirit, could not fail to make Maria the admiration of many a learned and respectable circle. She died in January 1818, and was interred in the new burial ground, Belfast.
ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
The late Mrs. Munster of Belfast. She has long been known as an authoress, and chose that appellation in Magazines, Newspapers, &c. She commenced her literary career in early youth, by publishing the “Cottage of the Appenines,” a Romance, in 4 vols. This work, which was completed in her sixteenth year, proves her to be a warm admirer of the celebrated Mrs. Radcliffe. In “Rosa,” a Tale, she has displayed a knowledge of the world in a story replete with interesting incident. Her language and pathos cannot fail to please the lovers of Sterne, or the author of the “Man of Feeling.” Although she may truly assert with Camoens,
“My cradle was the couch of care,
And sorrow rock'd me in it,”
yet no one ever bore the crosses of life with greater fortitude, nor did cheerfulness forsake her when the tomb seemed yawning for her reception. Sensibility, vivacity, and a philanthropic spirit, could not fail to make Maria the admiration of many a learned and respectable circle. She died in January 1818, and was interred in the new burial ground, Belfast.
“Long may she live,
The care of Heav'n; and her declining years
Be crown'd with plenty, and with happiness!”
The care of Heav'n; and her declining years
Be crown'd with plenty, and with happiness!”
This is thy natal day. Now thrice seven times
Hath Spring, still welcome, scatter'd o'er the earth
Her fost'ring dews, then with her joyous train
A flow'r-wov'n carpet spread o'er many a mead,
While caroll'd each wild warbler; thrice seven times
Hath savage Winter ravish'd Autumn's charms,
Since first thou saw the light. Fair innccent!
From that blest hour which gave thee to this world,
This world of vanity, this world of care,
Where wealth is honour'd, worth oft doom'd to pine,
Ne'er hath bright Sol shone on a sweeter flow'r;
A winter rose, not “born to blush unseen.”
May'st thou, when many years have o'er thee roll'd,
And time, relentless tyrant, beauty's foe,
Hath furrow'd that fair face, with smiles behold,
In blest retirement, tranquilliz'd thy mind,
Sol's cheering beams, then think of well-spent years;
Prepar'd to seek the Christian's sure reward,
As sinking to thy last sad narrow bed!
This thy friend wisheth. Friend unknown to fame;
Who spite of jaundic'd slander, bloated wealth,
Who spite of the fool's scorn, will ever give
To modest worth, to genius pure, its due.
Hath Spring, still welcome, scatter'd o'er the earth
Her fost'ring dews, then with her joyous train
A flow'r-wov'n carpet spread o'er many a mead,
While caroll'd each wild warbler; thrice seven times
Hath savage Winter ravish'd Autumn's charms,
Since first thou saw the light. Fair innccent!
From that blest hour which gave thee to this world,
This world of vanity, this world of care,
Where wealth is honour'd, worth oft doom'd to pine,
Ne'er hath bright Sol shone on a sweeter flow'r;
A winter rose, not “born to blush unseen.”
183
And time, relentless tyrant, beauty's foe,
Hath furrow'd that fair face, with smiles behold,
In blest retirement, tranquilliz'd thy mind,
Sol's cheering beams, then think of well-spent years;
Prepar'd to seek the Christian's sure reward,
As sinking to thy last sad narrow bed!
This thy friend wisheth. Friend unknown to fame;
Who spite of jaundic'd slander, bloated wealth,
Who spite of the fool's scorn, will ever give
To modest worth, to genius pure, its due.
Health, rosy health, presided at thy birth,
And watch'd thy infant slumbers. Plump-cheek'd mirth
Enraptur'd, gaz'd, then mark'd thee for her own.
Next, mild religion with parental care,
Rear'd the young shoot, with finger held to Heav'n.
Genius, who scorns the multitude, whose smile
No diadem can purchase, heav'nly maid;
Who with a spark divine the mind illumes,
And makes each fav'rite soothe a brother's woes,
Nurs'd thee, her darling. Hope, with uplift hands,
The cherub bless'd; then promis'd happy days.
But hope's a fair deceiver. Gaily drest,
She whispers man of countless joys in store;
And by her smiles, alas! he's oft undone!
Grave wisdom, with instruction by her side,
Oft pleas'd to hear thy lisping accents sweet,
Wou'd point to many a flow'ry path, which leads
To fame's far distant temple. High it stands;
And thousands try in vain to climb the mount,
Access still eager hoping. Careful, she
The thorns secreted from thy ardent gaze,
And lur'd thy feet the steps they oft have trod.
And watch'd thy infant slumbers. Plump-cheek'd mirth
Enraptur'd, gaz'd, then mark'd thee for her own.
Next, mild religion with parental care,
Rear'd the young shoot, with finger held to Heav'n.
Genius, who scorns the multitude, whose smile
No diadem can purchase, heav'nly maid;
Who with a spark divine the mind illumes,
And makes each fav'rite soothe a brother's woes,
Nurs'd thee, her darling. Hope, with uplift hands,
The cherub bless'd; then promis'd happy days.
But hope's a fair deceiver. Gaily drest,
She whispers man of countless joys in store;
184
Grave wisdom, with instruction by her side,
Oft pleas'd to hear thy lisping accents sweet,
Wou'd point to many a flow'ry path, which leads
To fame's far distant temple. High it stands;
And thousands try in vain to climb the mount,
Access still eager hoping. Careful, she
The thorns secreted from thy ardent gaze,
And lur'd thy feet the steps they oft have trod.
Ne'er was thy cradle the sad couch of care,
Nor did pale sorrow ever rock thee in it.
Life's morn was fair as fleeting: all a dream;
A fev'rish dream, time ne'er must realize!
Nor did pale sorrow ever rock thee in it.
Life's morn was fair as fleeting: all a dream;
A fev'rish dream, time ne'er must realize!
How little thought the rose-cheek'd beauteous groupe,
When dear associates in each fairy scene,
Rev'lers in bliss uncloy'd, a few short years
Wou'd find thee musing o'er the midnight lamp;
A young but great instructress. Chilling, now,
With horror wild, the youthful reader's frame;
As in idea, o'er thy glowing works,
He fondly bends, and shudders at each sound,
Some spectre dreading. Next the gothic stairs,
Scar'd, slow ascending, he at length beholds
In chamber gloomy, some sad captive, pale,
Woe-worn, and ghastly. Some angelic maid,
Stol'n from her home, a virtuous sacrifice
To lordly man, foul image of his Maker.
The scene now changes; nature's children please;
And love's delights, Arcadian sweets surprise.
The reader mingles with some village groupe,
And joins the evening dance; and revelry;
Or with them roams, aided by Luna's beam,
Pale empress of the night. Perchance he sees
Some tow'r half-hid, and half-embrown'd by shade;
While on his ear the bird of sorrow flings
Her sad, but soothing song.
When dear associates in each fairy scene,
Rev'lers in bliss uncloy'd, a few short years
Wou'd find thee musing o'er the midnight lamp;
A young but great instructress. Chilling, now,
With horror wild, the youthful reader's frame;
As in idea, o'er thy glowing works,
He fondly bends, and shudders at each sound,
Some spectre dreading. Next the gothic stairs,
Scar'd, slow ascending, he at length beholds
185
Woe-worn, and ghastly. Some angelic maid,
Stol'n from her home, a virtuous sacrifice
To lordly man, foul image of his Maker.
The scene now changes; nature's children please;
And love's delights, Arcadian sweets surprise.
The reader mingles with some village groupe,
And joins the evening dance; and revelry;
Or with them roams, aided by Luna's beam,
Pale empress of the night. Perchance he sees
Some tow'r half-hid, and half-embrown'd by shade;
While on his ear the bird of sorrow flings
Her sad, but soothing song.
Long may'st thou lead,
Daughter of magic, with thy high-wrought scenes
(Where pure morality adorns thy page,
And virtue shines a mirror to each sex,
While guilt's dark deeds provoke Heav'n's bitter wrath)
The mind a willing captive. May reward
Still crown thy labors, friend to all mankind!
Nor e'er the Muse desert thee! Yes! ev'n now,
Methinks thy name 'midst Erin's gifted fair
Will live recorded, on the lists of fame.
Daughter of magic, with thy high-wrought scenes
(Where pure morality adorns thy page,
And virtue shines a mirror to each sex,
While guilt's dark deeds provoke Heav'n's bitter wrath)
The mind a willing captive. May reward
Still crown thy labors, friend to all mankind!
Nor e'er the Muse desert thee! Yes! ev'n now,
Methinks thy name 'midst Erin's gifted fair
Will live recorded, on the lists of fame.
186
Ah! little dreamt thou, child of innocence,
In infancy, life's golden happy age,
A few short years wou'd find thee sorrow's child;
And sickness spread for thee a painful couch!
Guileless thy heart. How little didst thou know
Ev'n with a mind well stor'd, th' unfeeling world!
But let me o'er thy wrongs throw friendship's veil,
Nor irritate a sore, not yet half heal'd.
The feeling heart my pen shall never wound;
No man is he, who sports with virtue's tears!
In infancy, life's golden happy age,
A few short years wou'd find thee sorrow's child;
And sickness spread for thee a painful couch!
Guileless thy heart. How little didst thou know
Ev'n with a mind well stor'd, th' unfeeling world!
But let me o'er thy wrongs throw friendship's veil,
Nor irritate a sore, not yet half heal'd.
The feeling heart my pen shall never wound;
No man is he, who sports with virtue's tears!
Now when December with his thousand storms,
Ah! dreaded month, to many a houseless wretch!
In frozen snow-clad mantle sweeps the vale,
Wither'd and leafless, ruin scattering round,
Peaee to thy cot! May health, coy, rosy fair,
And blithe content long thy companions be;
While changing seasons yield thee greater bliss!
Ah! dreaded month, to many a houseless wretch!
In frozen snow-clad mantle sweeps the vale,
Wither'd and leafless, ruin scattering round,
Peaee to thy cot! May health, coy, rosy fair,
And blithe content long thy companions be;
While changing seasons yield thee greater bliss!
Unenvying, thou canst view yon bustling town,
Where high ambition rears a haughty head;
And all is commerce, craft, and cank'ring care.
This wild unpolish'd lay should'st thou approve,
I'll smiling, scorn the learn'd reader's sneer.
Where high ambition rears a haughty head;
And all is commerce, craft, and cank'ring care.
This wild unpolish'd lay should'st thou approve,
I'll smiling, scorn the learn'd reader's sneer.
December 26, 1808.
187
EPISTLE THE FIFTH.
TO ROBERT ANDERSON.
While on the Lyne's romantic stream,
Meek ev'ning threw her farewell beam,
In mem'ry's soft reflected hue
Those rapt'rous hours return'd to view,
When you, in vales that blush'd with flow'rs,
Entranc'd the ear with music's pow'rs:
But, since you bade these vales farewell,
No bard awakes the vocal shell;
No flute e'er breathes the woods among,
Symphonious to the milk-maid's song:
Our merry-nights, where pleasure ties
Her garlands of a hundred dies,
Where love glows with his purest flame,
Leave no memorials of their fame;
Our meddings, where the dance and bowl
Bathe, in the fount of bliss, the soul,
Pass like the dreams of night away,
The subject of no minstrel's lay:
And the fair maids of Eden's plain
Implore a poet's aid in vain,
To paint their roses ere they die,
And the blue languish of their eye.
Meek ev'ning threw her farewell beam,
In mem'ry's soft reflected hue
Those rapt'rous hours return'd to view,
When you, in vales that blush'd with flow'rs,
Entranc'd the ear with music's pow'rs:
But, since you bade these vales farewell,
No bard awakes the vocal shell;
No flute e'er breathes the woods among,
Symphonious to the milk-maid's song:
Our merry-nights, where pleasure ties
Her garlands of a hundred dies,
Where love glows with his purest flame,
Leave no memorials of their fame;
Our meddings, where the dance and bowl
Bathe, in the fount of bliss, the soul,
Pass like the dreams of night away,
The subject of no minstrel's lay:
188
Implore a poet's aid in vain,
To paint their roses ere they die,
And the blue languish of their eye.
Come, then, my friend, and bring with thee
That welcome heart—the heart of glee;
Thy flute will cheer my bow'rs once more,
And all my long-lost joys restore;
Bright will my ev'ning star go down,
Though Fortune and my Juliet frown;
'Mid social hours of radiant hue,
To pallid care I'll bid adieu;
O'er Gibson's ale, the festive night
Shall fly on pinions soft and light;
The tale and song's enchanting pow'r
Shall long protract the parting hour;
And, till on Eden's chrystal stream
The morning's purple splendour beam,
The glass, in streamy pride, shall roll
A tide of transport o'er the soul.
That welcome heart—the heart of glee;
Thy flute will cheer my bow'rs once more,
And all my long-lost joys restore;
Bright will my ev'ning star go down,
Though Fortune and my Juliet frown;
'Mid social hours of radiant hue,
To pallid care I'll bid adieu;
O'er Gibson's ale, the festive night
Shall fly on pinions soft and light;
The tale and song's enchanting pow'r
Shall long protract the parting hour;
And, till on Eden's chrystal stream
The morning's purple splendour beam,
The glass, in streamy pride, shall roll
A tide of transport o'er the soul.
Oh! tell me, soon, in prose or rhyme,
What fills the void of vacant time:
Are still th' inspiring Muses kind?
Do their green wreathes thy temples bind?
On Erin's shore, oh! do they meet
Their poet with their visions sweet?
And do the loves and young desires
Still flutter o'er thy joyous wires?
Still does the enchantress beauty dart
Her charms upon thy captiv'd heart?
Or does the harp of sorrow mourn
O'er love or friendship's timeless urn?
What fills the void of vacant time:
Are still th' inspiring Muses kind?
Do their green wreathes thy temples bind?
189
Their poet with their visions sweet?
And do the loves and young desires
Still flutter o'er thy joyous wires?
Still does the enchantress beauty dart
Her charms upon thy captiv'd heart?
Or does the harp of sorrow mourn
O'er love or friendship's timeless urn?
Perhaps, in fancy's magic glass,
Thy native vales before thee pass;
Those scenes of sweet delight appear
That to the eye of youth were dear:
Perhaps the nymphs of Eden's stream
My smile in some poetic dream;
May come in each attractive form,
With beauty, love, or virtue warm!
'Twas thus the sweetest bard of Rome,
When banished from his friends and home,
Upon the ling'ring moment threw
Reflected joys of every hue;
More precious far than Cæsar's throne
An imag'd world he made his own!
In fancy's visionary light
The Tyber darted on his sight;
And every scene o'er which he hung
With exstacy, when life was young,
Return'd to soothe an exile's hours,
And gleam upon his shadowy bow'rs.
Then, oh! then, no longer frown'd
The wildness of the desart round;
The howling of the tempest's blast,
Unheard, amidst the grey rocks, past;
And, on the bosom of the deep,
The angry surges seem'd to sleep.
Thy native vales before thee pass;
Those scenes of sweet delight appear
That to the eye of youth were dear:
Perhaps the nymphs of Eden's stream
My smile in some poetic dream;
May come in each attractive form,
With beauty, love, or virtue warm!
'Twas thus the sweetest bard of Rome,
When banished from his friends and home,
Upon the ling'ring moment threw
Reflected joys of every hue;
More precious far than Cæsar's throne
An imag'd world he made his own!
In fancy's visionary light
The Tyber darted on his sight;
And every scene o'er which he hung
With exstacy, when life was young,
190
And gleam upon his shadowy bow'rs.
Then, oh! then, no longer frown'd
The wildness of the desart round;
The howling of the tempest's blast,
Unheard, amidst the grey rocks, past;
And, on the bosom of the deep,
The angry surges seem'd to sleep.
Oh! could, dear friend, a verse of mine
The treasures of the soul enshrine,
The richness of thy worth should glow,
When o'er my grave the wild winds blow;
And green should distant ages find
The wreath that sacred friendship twin'd:
But, ah! my rude, unpolished lay
Is but the record of a day;
Soon, soon, dear friend, my rustic rhyme
Shall feel the deadly touch of time;
Oblivion's ruthless hand shall shed
Her night-shades o'er thy Crito's head;
And not a line of living fame
Shall bear to future times his name!
The treasures of the soul enshrine,
The richness of thy worth should glow,
When o'er my grave the wild winds blow;
And green should distant ages find
The wreath that sacred friendship twin'd:
But, ah! my rude, unpolished lay
Is but the record of a day;
Soon, soon, dear friend, my rustic rhyme
Shall feel the deadly touch of time;
Oblivion's ruthless hand shall shed
Her night-shades o'er thy Crito's head;
And not a line of living fame
Shall bear to future times his name!
CRITO.
191
EPISTLE THE SIXTH.
TO CRITO.
This ingenious and virtuous man, Mr. Thomas Sanderson, whose works, in prose or poetry, have justly gained him the admiration and esteem of his enlightened countrymen, is a native of Sebergham, and resides in the Parish of Kirklinton, Cumberland. To him the public are indebted, for his well-written and interesting notes on the “Cumberland Ballads.” His friendship will always be gratefully remembered by the Author of this publication; whose wish it is, that health, peace, plenty, and the Muse, may long be his welcome companions.
“Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul,
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society,
I owe thee much!”
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society,
I owe thee much!”
My harp I neglected, and careless threw by;
Its tones became feeble, beguil'd not the night;
And oft as I view'd it, I said, with a sigh,
“Sweet soother of woe, thou'lt no longer delight!
The wild-flow'rs of fancy now charm me no more,
The pictures of hope, and her visions are flown;
When loves, joys, and friendships for ever are o'er,
Remembrance will linger on years that are gone!”
Its tones became feeble, beguil'd not the night;
And oft as I view'd it, I said, with a sigh,
“Sweet soother of woe, thou'lt no longer delight!
The wild-flow'rs of fancy now charm me no more,
The pictures of hope, and her visions are flown;
When loves, joys, and friendships for ever are o'er,
Remembrance will linger on years that are gone!”
O, Cumbria! thy pine-clad bills rise to my view;
Thy wide-spreading valleys in livery of green;
Thy hoarse-murm'ring streams where enraptur'd I flew,
To mark the romantic, the heart-soothing scene;
These still haunt my pillow, for there with the Muse,
Forgetful of sorrows, I wove the rude song
That nature dictated. Ah! who cou'd refuse
To paint her gay pictures, thy wild woods among?
Thy wide-spreading valleys in livery of green;
Thy hoarse-murm'ring streams where enraptur'd I flew,
To mark the romantic, the heart-soothing scene;
192
Forgetful of sorrows, I wove the rude song
That nature dictated. Ah! who cou'd refuse
To paint her gay pictures, thy wild woods among?
And oft, in idea, with lingering pace,
Thy landscape enchants, while thy meadows I tread,
And o'er haunts of my youth, still with Spring fondly trace
Her glories, new-born, that so lavish were spread:
I wind Eden's stream, where I first sought the maid,
Whose coy looks of witch'ry cou'd raptures impart;
Or press thy dark woods, and each thrush-haunted glade,
'Mid the smiles of the few, ever dear to my heart.
Thy landscape enchants, while thy meadows I tread,
And o'er haunts of my youth, still with Spring fondly trace
Her glories, new-born, that so lavish were spread:
I wind Eden's stream, where I first sought the maid,
Whose coy looks of witch'ry cou'd raptures impart;
Or press thy dark woods, and each thrush-haunted glade,
'Mid the smiles of the few, ever dear to my heart.
Ev'n now, when dun evening bedews these bleak vales,
And pensive reflection past pleasure calls forth,
I mark thy blithe groups, care no longer assails,
Assemble, o'erjoy'd, round the neatly-trimm'd hearth.
There wisdom is gather'd, of mortals and states,
O'er heart-cheering liquor, in calumny's spite;
News foreign or local, each freely narrates,
And the song, jest, and story give wings to the night.
And pensive reflection past pleasure calls forth,
I mark thy blithe groups, care no longer assails,
Assemble, o'erjoy'd, round the neatly-trimm'd hearth.
There wisdom is gather'd, of mortals and states,
O'er heart-cheering liquor, in calumny's spite;
News foreign or local, each freely narrates,
And the song, jest, and story give wings to the night.
193
But time, the destroyer, hath numbers laid low;
Misfortune hath many to penury driv'n;
And others have tasted the gall-drop of woe,
To whom, when we parted, was happiness giv'n!
There are, who from poverty's gripe have got free,
The scoff of the wise, and the sport of the day:
A thousand such changes, in fancy, I see,
Since the hour when hope flatter'd, and tore me away.
Misfortune hath many to penury driv'n;
And others have tasted the gall-drop of woe,
To whom, when we parted, was happiness giv'n!
There are, who from poverty's gripe have got free,
The scoff of the wise, and the sport of the day:
A thousand such changes, in fancy, I see,
Since the hour when hope flatter'd, and tore me away.
Yes! Cumbria, I mark where thy aged oaks stood;
The groves where I pip'd with a heart free from care;
Or thought, as I trac'd nature's works up to God,
No bow'rs were so fragrant, no fields half so fair.
Then oft would I sigh, but the wish, ah! how vain,
That in youth and in manhood still clung to my breast,
When death gave relief to all sorrow, all pain,
Near the tombs of my fathers, in peace I might rest.
The groves where I pip'd with a heart free from care;
Or thought, as I trac'd nature's works up to God,
No bow'rs were so fragrant, no fields half so fair.
Then oft would I sigh, but the wish, ah! how vain,
That in youth and in manhood still clung to my breast,
When death gave relief to all sorrow, all pain,
Near the tombs of my fathers, in peace I might rest.
Thus oft have I ponder'd, when day's toil was done,
And Phoebus gave Erin his last ev'ning smile;
When sicken'd with tumult, life's Autumn steals on,
'Tis sweet o'er past pleasures the hours to beguile.
And oft have I said, why forgetful of me,
Are the few sons of science, whose converse I shar'd?
Sings the Bard of the Lyne now no longer with glee,
For whom all the Muses a chaplet prepar'd?
And Phoebus gave Erin his last ev'ning smile;
When sicken'd with tumult, life's Autumn steals on,
'Tis sweet o'er past pleasures the hours to beguile.
194
Are the few sons of science, whose converse I shar'd?
Sings the Bard of the Lyne now no longer with glee,
For whom all the Muses a chaplet prepar'd?
Long, long hath his page pour'd delight o'er the mind,
For sacred to virtue, and sweet are his strains;
O'er fancy's fair regions he roams unconfin'd,
And the wish to instruct in his bosom still reigns:
And fain with my Crito again would I range
The groves and the bow'rs, where each tree seem'd a friend;
And when we beheld, with a sigh, a sad change,
Reflect, soon like them, we must wither and bend.
For sacred to virtue, and sweet are his strains;
O'er fancy's fair regions he roams unconfin'd,
And the wish to instruct in his bosom still reigns:
And fain with my Crito again would I range
The groves and the bow'rs, where each tree seem'd a friend;
And when we beheld, with a sigh, a sad change,
Reflect, soon like them, we must wither and bend.
But the gales to my ears brought the song of the Bard,
That succour'd, like manna, from friendship's abode;
—While flows the red current, the song I'll regard,
That soothes a lone brother on life's flinty road!
Thou chief of the number whose sanction I boast,
Let friendship, long cherish'd, in death but expire;
And whatever my fate on life's perilous coast,
May I copy thy virtues, while list'ning thy lyre!
That succour'd, like manna, from friendship's abode;
—While flows the red current, the song I'll regard,
That soothes a lone brother on life's flinty road!
Thou chief of the number whose sanction I boast,
Let friendship, long cherish'd, in death but expire;
And whatever my fate on life's perilous coast,
May I copy thy virtues, while list'ning thy lyre!
Carnmoney, near Belfast.
195
EPISTLE THE SEVENTH.
TO MR. ROBERT ANDERSON, ON READING SOME OF HIS BEAUTIFUL POEMS IN THE BELFAST NEWS-LETTER, BY GAELUS.
Mr. Andrew M'Kenzie, of Dunover, in the County of Down, who chuses the signature of Gaelus, is a man of considerable abilities. In 1810, he published a volume of Poems which have been much perused and justly admired. His works abound in moral sentiment, and prove him to be a favourite with the Muse, and a friend to his fellow creatures. Blessed with an amiable partner and a promising offspring, he enjoys in his humble sphere that domestic tranquillity which can only be attained by the virtuous.
Hail Anderson! nature's sweet bard,
(For nature gives birth to thy lay;)
What praise could thy merit reward?
What fame thy effusions repay?
(For nature gives birth to thy lay;)
What praise could thy merit reward?
What fame thy effusions repay?
Permit me, tho' wild is the strain,
My tribute of praise to bestow;
Nor treat my rude verse with disdain,
Since heartfelt esteem bids it flow.
My tribute of praise to bestow;
Nor treat my rude verse with disdain,
Since heartfelt esteem bids it flow.
Thy songs with delight I have read,
Which flow like a smooth-gliding stream,
And sympathy's tear I have shed,
As oft as distress was thy theme.
Which flow like a smooth-gliding stream,
And sympathy's tear I have shed,
As oft as distress was thy theme.
Nor would I those pleasures resign,
Which flow from thy sorrowful strain,
To call the whole universe mine,
And rank with the unfeeling train.
Which flow from thy sorrowful strain,
196
And rank with the unfeeling train.
Thy Outcast, poor victim of woe,
I've heard on the desolate heath,
And seen the sad suff'rer laid low,
Releas'd from her sorrows by death.
I've heard on the desolate heath,
And seen the sad suff'rer laid low,
Releas'd from her sorrows by death.
Thy Widow's affecting complaint,
Might melt e'en a bosom of stone;
What mortal could hear her lament.
And not make her sorrows his own.
Might melt e'en a bosom of stone;
What mortal could hear her lament.
And not make her sorrows his own.
Poor Annie's extravagant song
Beguiles me of many a sigh;
Such wild accents fall from her tongue,
As oft steal a tear from my eye.
Beguiles me of many a sigh;
Such wild accents fall from her tongue,
As oft steal a tear from my eye.
Sweet Bard! what sensations divine
Thy exquisite ditties impart!
Simplicity dwells in each line,
Yet strongly they speak to the heart.
Thy exquisite ditties impart!
Simplicity dwells in each line,
Yet strongly they speak to the heart.
And still as I read with delight,
Hope tells me of some happy day,
When we shall in friendship unite,
And sing all our sorrows away.
Hope tells me of some happy day,
When we shall in friendship unite,
And sing all our sorrows away.
197
Oh! come thou dear moment of joy!
No anguish my bosom should rend,
Nor care my sweet visions destroy,
If blest with so gentle a friend.
No anguish my bosom should rend,
Nor care my sweet visions destroy,
If blest with so gentle a friend.
Sweet poet of nature! adieu!
May fame be the meed of thy lays;
That fame which no change will subdue,
When time shall have number'd thy days!
May fame be the meed of thy lays;
That fame which no change will subdue,
When time shall have number'd thy days!
198
EPISTLE THE EIGHTH.
TO GAELUS,ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS POEMS.
Whan cottars guid hae said their pray'rs,
An' wee tots sleep awa' their cares,
I musin', whyles think how it fares
Wi' friens a few;
But ane 'buin a', my wish aft shares—
I hint at you:
An' wee tots sleep awa' their cares,
I musin', whyles think how it fares
Wi' friens a few;
But ane 'buin a', my wish aft shares—
I hint at you:
Wha (gifted wi the saul o' Burns,
Whom monie a son o' wisdom mourns)
Now soaring, saint-like, sunk by turns,
Ay proud to gie
Man maxims rare, that folly spurns,
Appall'd to see.
Whom monie a son o' wisdom mourns)
Now soaring, saint-like, sunk by turns,
Ay proud to gie
Man maxims rare, that folly spurns,
Appall'd to see.
Yes, “wordy, wise, auld-farran'd” Gaelus,
Prince o' our poetizin fallows,
The serious truths ye bauldly tell us,
E'en gar us tremble;
Wha scorns yer warks, deserves a gallows;
I'll no' dissemble!
Prince o' our poetizin fallows,
The serious truths ye bauldly tell us,
E'en gar us tremble;
Wha scorns yer warks, deserves a gallows;
I'll no' dissemble!
199
Stern Winter's bleerin' frightfu form
Now maks us creep our ingles warm;
When readin' your true-pictur'd “Storm,”
I think o' thae,
Wretched, expos'd to ilka harm,
Wha houseless stray.
Now maks us creep our ingles warm;
When readin' your true-pictur'd “Storm,”
I think o' thae,
Wretched, expos'd to ilka harm,
Wha houseless stray.
But neist your soothin' “Broken Heart”
Can dry the tear grief bids to start;
Sic honied truths few Bards impart,
In these rank times;
They try owre aft, wi' strainin' art,
To gild curs'd crimes.
Can dry the tear grief bids to start;
Sic honied truths few Bards impart,
In these rank times;
They try owre aft, wi' strainin' art,
To gild curs'd crimes.
Your “Brook's” a type o' human kind,
Warm frae a Bard's religious mind;
Sic similies are weel design'd,
The warl to cheer;
And warn the wicked, weak, or blind,
What course to steer.
Warm frae a Bard's religious mind;
Sic similies are weel design'd,
The warl to cheer;
And warn the wicked, weak, or blind,
What course to steer.
The Peasant trudgin' hame at een,
Wi' heart untainted, thoughts serene,
Aft minds me o' yoursel, and Jean,
An weeans fair;
Sic lines gie pamper'd chiels the spleen,
But deil may care!
Wi' heart untainted, thoughts serene,
Aft minds me o' yoursel, and Jean,
An weeans fair;
Sic lines gie pamper'd chiels the spleen,
But deil may care!
200
Hail, nature's priest! unlike the lave,
Wha light as air, or idly grave,
Seek to bepraise some coward slave,
In spite o' truth;
Or wi' lewd rhymes, try to deprave
Believing youth.
Wha light as air, or idly grave,
Seek to bepraise some coward slave,
In spite o' truth;
Or wi' lewd rhymes, try to deprave
Believing youth.
Hale be thy pipe, Dunover's Bard!
The day's at haun ye'll meet reward,
For puir are ye; and times are hard,
And claithin' dear;
But thousans mae will ye regard,
Ere this neist year.
The day's at haun ye'll meet reward,
For puir are ye; and times are hard,
And claithin' dear;
But thousans mae will ye regard,
Ere this neist year.
Yes Erin lang will bless yer name;
Ay fain to raise her sons to fame;
Ye'll put the guilty aft to shame,
As sure as fate:
Rise, An'rew! fair-earn'd honours claim,
An' be na blate!
Ay fain to raise her sons to fame;
Ye'll put the guilty aft to shame,
As sure as fate:
Rise, An'rew! fair-earn'd honours claim,
An' be na blate!
For me, while I can think or luik,
Whare'er I hurkle in a nuik,
I'll pore wi' pleasure owre yer buik,
An' bless the time,
When Rab's advice ye fearfu' tuik,
To print ilk rhyme.
Whare'er I hurkle in a nuik,
I'll pore wi' pleasure owre yer buik,
An' bless the time,
When Rab's advice ye fearfu' tuik,
To print ilk rhyme.
201
Ye've whyles glanc'd owre his plaintive sang,
Studied auld Cumbria's glens amang,
Whar monie a burnie rowes alang,
An' mountain rill;
Ah! dear-lov'd scenes! whare'er I gang,
Ye haunt me still.
Studied auld Cumbria's glens amang,
Whar monie a burnie rowes alang,
An' mountain rill;
Ah! dear-lov'd scenes! whare'er I gang,
Ye haunt me still.
Whare Thames majestic seeks the sea,
I've stray'd; and by the streamless Cree,
Whan grass-plot, cottage, shrub, or tree,
Were seldom seen;
Eden, my thoughts ay turn'd to thee,
Mid' meadows green.
I've stray'd; and by the streamless Cree,
Whan grass-plot, cottage, shrub, or tree,
Were seldom seen;
Eden, my thoughts ay turn'd to thee,
Mid' meadows green.
I've liv'd, by warldlings aft dispis'd;
By lovers o' the Muse whyles priz'd;
But ne'er, no! ne'er could be advis'd,
Tho' weak my lays,
To wink at folly's whims disguis'd,
Or vice to praise.
By lovers o' the Muse whyles priz'd;
But ne'er, no! ne'er could be advis'd,
Tho' weak my lays,
To wink at folly's whims disguis'd,
Or vice to praise.
Whyles, lad, I trust we'll meet thegether,
In spite o' fortune, or rough weather;
An' ablins comfort ane anither,
In frienship blest:
We suin slip aff, we ken no' whither,
Let's hope the best!
In spite o' fortune, or rough weather;
An' ablins comfort ane anither,
In frienship blest:
202
Let's hope the best!
Life's like the journey o' a day,
And pleasure leads us aft astray;
Let friendship chace dull care away,
As on we drive:
I'm An'rew's frien, I proudly say,
Lang may he thrive!
And pleasure leads us aft astray;
Let friendship chace dull care away,
As on we drive:
I'm An'rew's frien, I proudly say,
Lang may he thrive!
Nae thought ye've wrote, ye e'er need blot,
Nor carpin' bodies heed a jot;
Content in hard-earn'd, hame-spun coat,
Man needs nae mair;
An' virtuous folk, howe'er forgot,
Are ay Heav'n's care!
Nor carpin' bodies heed a jot;
Content in hard-earn'd, hame-spun coat,
Man needs nae mair;
An' virtuous folk, howe'er forgot,
Are ay Heav'n's care!
Carnmoney, Oct. 29, 1809.
203
EPISTLE THE NINTH.
TO MISS B---Y, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
Sweet maid! thy birth a loftier verse doth claim,Than I, weak vot'ry of the Muse, can give;
Tuneless my harp. Had I been known to fame,
With such a theme, I'd hope my lays would live.
All nature smiles around; enchanting sight!
The feather'd throng their homage seem to pay;
Ev'n Sol, with rays more glorious, shines more bright,
As if rejoicing on thy natal day:
For while he lights our earth, ne'er will he smile
On one more worthy of a mortal's praise;
On one more virtuous, or more free from guile,
Unknown 'midst folly's throng, or fashion's blaze:
And O, when many chearful years have flown,
And thou to conq'ring time, like all, must bow;
May calm reflection dwell on pleasures known,
Nor sorrow till that hour e'er cloud thy brow!
Belfast.
204
EPISTLE THE TENTH.
TO MARIA OF THE COTTAGE.
Stern Winter frae the gelid north,
Wi' monie a storm comes howling forth;
And hills and glens are clad wi' sna':
While cottars roun, are wrapp'd in sleep,
O'er heartsome ingle fain I creep,
An' think o' friens, far, far awa'.
Wi' monie a storm comes howling forth;
And hills and glens are clad wi' sna':
While cottars roun, are wrapp'd in sleep,
O'er heartsome ingle fain I creep,
An' think o' friens, far, far awa'.
O' some nae mair I hope to see;
O' some wha ware nae thoughts o' me;
O' days when I to pleasure bow'd:
Pleasure, that caus'd me mickle pain,
And forc'd me aft the bowl to drain
Wi' life's unthinkin' senseless crowd.
O' some wha ware nae thoughts o' me;
O' days when I to pleasure bow'd:
Pleasure, that caus'd me mickle pain,
And forc'd me aft the bowl to drain
Wi' life's unthinkin' senseless crowd.
Fuils tell us, friendship's but a name;
They're blest wha feel the sacred flame,
And hourly mak it brighter burn!
Grant me but friens, upright, and leel,
They'll mak me fearless o' the Deil;
And warldly cuifs I'll bauldly scorn!
They're blest wha feel the sacred flame,
And hourly mak it brighter burn!
Grant me but friens, upright, and leel,
They'll mak me fearless o' the Deil;
And warldly cuifs I'll bauldly scorn!
205
Now exil'd frae the few I prize,
The town, and its misnomer'd joys,
In solitude some charms I find;
Yes, e'en in obscure lowly cot,
I thank my Maker for my lot,
For plenty, health, an' peace o' mind.
The town, and its misnomer'd joys,
In solitude some charms I find;
Yes, e'en in obscure lowly cot,
I thank my Maker for my lot,
For plenty, health, an' peace o' mind.
Contented wi' my daily toil;
Pleas'd wi' ilk comrade's unfeign'd smile;
What man needs wish, proud I enjoy:
Henceforth, in quiet let me live,
An' a' my thoughts to wisdom give,
The guide, whase precepts ne'er can cloy.
Pleas'd wi' ilk comrade's unfeign'd smile;
What man needs wish, proud I enjoy:
Henceforth, in quiet let me live,
An' a' my thoughts to wisdom give,
The guide, whase precepts ne'er can cloy.
And thou, her daughter, to me dear,
Wha strove to dry misfortune's tear,
When mis'ry sunk my spirits low;
Why now forgetfu' o' a friend,
Thou wha sic counsel erst would lend,
Ay first to soothe a suff'rer's woe?
Wha strove to dry misfortune's tear,
When mis'ry sunk my spirits low;
Why now forgetfu' o' a friend,
Thou wha sic counsel erst would lend,
Ay first to soothe a suff'rer's woe?
Has sickness numb'd thy tender frame?
Wou'd slander sully thy fair fame?
Does sorrow ca' thee still her ain?
Has hope been busy wi' new art,
To wound afresh thy feeling heart?
Has peace for ever frae thee gane?
Wou'd slander sully thy fair fame?
Does sorrow ca' thee still her ain?
Has hope been busy wi' new art,
To wound afresh thy feeling heart?
Has peace for ever frae thee gane?
206
Thou'st known enough o' pain and care;
O' sorrow thou'st e'en had thy share,
Sin youth ilk fairy picture drew:
Envy has sought to work thy fall,
Aft mix'd thy cup wi' bitterest gall;
For days o' bliss hae been but few.
O' sorrow thou'st e'en had thy share,
Sin youth ilk fairy picture drew:
Envy has sought to work thy fall,
Aft mix'd thy cup wi' bitterest gall;
For days o' bliss hae been but few.
Dear fav'rite o' the pensive Muse!
Thy smile a rhymin' brither woos,
O, quickly say, thou'rt yet his friend!
May He wha stills the ragin' storm,
Grant health, and shield thee ay frae harm,
Till life's last peacefu scene shall end!
Thy smile a rhymin' brither woos,
O, quickly say, thou'rt yet his friend!
May He wha stills the ragin' storm,
Grant health, and shield thee ay frae harm,
Till life's last peacefu scene shall end!
207
EPISTLE THE ELEVENTH.
TO A YOUNG LADY IN BELFAST
Thanks for thy letter, best of friends!
On it my life of life depends.
Fair moralizer! whose warm heart
May balm to any mind impart;
I gaze enraptur'd on each line,
Where wisdom shews in truths divine
The dang'rous path, the wily snare,
That still mislead, that cause each care;
The pois'ners of man's purest joy,
That wealth, and health, and life destroy.
On it my life of life depends.
Fair moralizer! whose warm heart
May balm to any mind impart;
I gaze enraptur'd on each line,
Where wisdom shews in truths divine
The dang'rous path, the wily snare,
That still mislead, that cause each care;
The pois'ners of man's purest joy,
That wealth, and health, and life destroy.
Dear beauteous comforter! whose smiles
Ev'n sorrow of her sting beguiles,
Whate'er thro' life my fate may be,
My grateful thanks are due to thee;
And till this pulse shall cease to beat,
Thy name with ardour I'll repeat;
Delighted, ever, to peruse
Thy favors, fav'rite of the Muse!
Ev'n sorrow of her sting beguiles,
Whate'er thro' life my fate may be,
My grateful thanks are due to thee;
And till this pulse shall cease to beat,
Thy name with ardour I'll repeat;
Delighted, ever, to peruse
Thy favors, fav'rite of the Muse!
208
To thee, this humble verse I pour,
The musing of a midnight hour;
Weak flows the lay, my friend must own,
For youth and fancy now are flown;
I mark life's autumn, overcast,
Whilst mem'ry pauses on the past:
Truth holds her mirror to my view,
And bids me virtue still pursue.
The musing of a midnight hour;
Weak flows the lay, my friend must own,
For youth and fancy now are flown;
I mark life's autumn, overcast,
Whilst mem'ry pauses on the past:
Truth holds her mirror to my view,
And bids me virtue still pursue.
No more of pleasure's airy round!
Too long I've slept in rose-leaf'd bow'rs;
And trod on fairy ground,
With folly by my side;
Nor number'd e'er the passing hours.
For hope, delusive flatterer, was my guide;
And with her fairest flow'rs,
That blossoming did decay,
She, smiling, strew'd my way;
And life's short morn was nought but empty pride.
By hope a willing victim led,
Soon reason from me fled;
Then pleas'd, each distant prospect fair
With partial eye I view'd;
And mock'd the busy spoiler care,
And laugh'd to hear of man's ingratitude.
Now wak'd, as from a dream,
How sad, alas! I seem!
While meek religion whispers, Heav'nwards turn!
Then, O my thoughts surmount the sky,
And from all worldly follies fly;
Ere dim life's lamp begins to burn!
While others vainly study how to live,
Let me the hours to meditation give;
And study how to die!
Too long I've slept in rose-leaf'd bow'rs;
And trod on fairy ground,
With folly by my side;
Nor number'd e'er the passing hours.
For hope, delusive flatterer, was my guide;
And with her fairest flow'rs,
That blossoming did decay,
She, smiling, strew'd my way;
And life's short morn was nought but empty pride.
By hope a willing victim led,
Soon reason from me fled;
Then pleas'd, each distant prospect fair
With partial eye I view'd;
And mock'd the busy spoiler care,
And laugh'd to hear of man's ingratitude.
209
How sad, alas! I seem!
While meek religion whispers, Heav'nwards turn!
Then, O my thoughts surmount the sky,
And from all worldly follies fly;
Ere dim life's lamp begins to burn!
While others vainly study how to live,
Let me the hours to meditation give;
And study how to die!
210
EPISTLE THE TWELFTH.
TO MR. ROBERT ANDERSON, ON HEARING HIM SAY HIS MUSE HAD PAID HIM A VISIT FOR THE FIRST TIME, SINCE HIS RETURN TO CARLISLE, BY THOMAS WANNUP, OF GREAT CORBY.
Rejoice with me, ye vocal train,
And raise the cheerful rustic strain;
Our Cumbrian Bard, with glee again,
The song renews:
Nor grief, nor absence, can restrain
His generous Muse.
And raise the cheerful rustic strain;
Our Cumbrian Bard, with glee again,
The song renews:
Nor grief, nor absence, can restrain
His generous Muse.
The sight of native fields and skies,
Revives the thoughts of youthful joys;
Thoughts absence blunts, but ne'er destroys,
And hark! his reed,
With double sweetness he employs
In dale and mead.
Revives the thoughts of youthful joys;
Thoughts absence blunts, but ne'er destroys,
And hark! his reed,
With double sweetness he employs
In dale and mead.
And thou, our Bard, though 'tis not thine
In battle's gory scenes to shine;
Scenes which too oft, in strains divine,
The Muses sing;—
And oh! with glory deeds combine,
That ruin bring.
In battle's gory scenes to shine;
Scenes which too oft, in strains divine,
The Muses sing;—
And oh! with glory deeds combine,
That ruin bring.
211
Nor mercenary talents thee
Have taught to bend the servile knee;
Though modest, humble, thou art free,
And know'st thy soul
To aid oppression, bribe, or fee,
Need'st no controul.
Have taught to bend the servile knee;
Though modest, humble, thou art free,
And know'st thy soul
To aid oppression, bribe, or fee,
Need'st no controul.
But thou hast been our fields among,
And thou hast mark'd the rural throng;
Our griefs and joys to thee belong,
And thine's the art
To soothe the mind with tender song,
And cheer the heart.
And thou hast mark'd the rural throng;
Our griefs and joys to thee belong,
And thine's the art
To soothe the mind with tender song,
And cheer the heart.
Sing on, sweet Bard, thy country's friend;—
Amuse, delight, instruct, amend;
And whilst our weal you ardent 'tend,
When faults you see,
Spare not the kindly lash; we'll bend,
And thankful be.
Amuse, delight, instruct, amend;
And whilst our weal you ardent 'tend,
When faults you see,
Spare not the kindly lash; we'll bend,
And thankful be.
So may'st thou live to see the day,
To wear an honour'd pow of grey;
When wife, and maid, united say,
And sire and son,—
“We aw for thee will gratefu' pray, R. Anderson.”
To wear an honour'd pow of grey;
When wife, and maid, united say,
And sire and son,—
“We aw for thee will gratefu' pray, R. Anderson.”
212
EPISTLE THE THIRTEENTH.
TO MR. THOS. WANNUP, OF GREAT CORBY.
Dear friend! (for friends too oft are few)
Thank Heaven! I boast of numbers true;
May such have happiness in view,
And rest in peace;
Still scorning the tyrannic crew,
Who cares increase.
Thank Heaven! I boast of numbers true;
May such have happiness in view,
And rest in peace;
Still scorning the tyrannic crew,
Who cares increase.
O that 'twere mine the pow'r to serve
Those, who a brother's praise deserve,—
Those who, rejoic'd, would strain each nerve
The poor to save;
Ne'er from that duty would I swerve
Till in the grave!
Those, who a brother's praise deserve,—
Those who, rejoic'd, would strain each nerve
The poor to save;
Ne'er from that duty would I swerve
Till in the grave!
But mortals' wishes oft are vain;
Oft prove the source of care and pain;
While some, exulting, seek to gain
What leads to woe,—
Ne'er may I scorn, with cold disdain,
Where much I owe.
Oft prove the source of care and pain;
While some, exulting, seek to gain
What leads to woe,—
Ne'er may I scorn, with cold disdain,
Where much I owe.
213
Return'd to each lov'd native scene,
Rocks, wood-crown'd hills, and valleys green,
Tho' long my Muse hath absent been,
With me she roves,
To paint—what may give some the spleen,
But merit moves.
Rocks, wood-crown'd hills, and valleys green,
Tho' long my Muse hath absent been,
With me she roves,
To paint—what may give some the spleen,
But merit moves.
Still may she wear the rustic dress,
And soothe the suff'rer in distress;
Now thousands round roam pennyless,
Of health bereft,—
That men may such with plenty bless,
Few hopes are left.
And soothe the suff'rer in distress;
Now thousands round roam pennyless,
Of health bereft,—
That men may such with plenty bless,
Few hopes are left.
Still may she mark each loving pair,
Who life enjoy, and laugh at care,
Who steer the course that's bright and fair—
To peace inclin'd;
Who scorn the world's entangling snare,
And serve mankind.
Who life enjoy, and laugh at care,
Who steer the course that's bright and fair—
To peace inclin'd;
Who scorn the world's entangling snare,
And serve mankind.
Yes, mine the theme shall ever be,
Friends to amuse with harmless glee;
To let the virtuous ploughman see
A portrait true;
For nature's rural scenes, to me,
Are still in view.
Friends to amuse with harmless glee;
To let the virtuous ploughman see
A portrait true;
For nature's rural scenes, to me,
Are still in view.
214
Those who oppose a brother's right;
The upstart proud; the worthless wight;
The wretch who errs in reason's spite,
May purchase praise;
Such, only, who in good delight,
Should grace our lays.
The upstart proud; the worthless wight;
The wretch who errs in reason's spite,
May purchase praise;
Such, only, who in good delight,
Should grace our lays.
Dear friend! to whom my thanks are due;
Till time to death shall bid thee bow,
May no dull cares e'er cloud thy brow,
But joy prevail;
And proud thy offspring speed the plough
O'er hill and dale.
Till time to death shall bid thee bow,
May no dull cares e'er cloud thy brow,
But joy prevail;
And proud thy offspring speed the plough
O'er hill and dale.
In fancy, I thy fields survey;
Thro' Corby's woods and valleys stray,
At op'ning morn, or evening grey,
In many a grove,
Where minstrels sweet their homage pay
To Him above.
Thro' Corby's woods and valleys stray,
At op'ning morn, or evening grey,
In many a grove,
Where minstrels sweet their homage pay
To Him above.
When rakes their midnight revels keep,
I trace the scenes near Eden deep;—
Oft that romantic rocky steep,
Where thousands bend;
And now, in age, I'll proudly creep,
To meet my friend.
I trace the scenes near Eden deep;—
Oft that romantic rocky steep,
Where thousands bend;
And now, in age, I'll proudly creep,
To meet my friend.
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