Poems Chiefly Written in Retirement, By John Thelwall; With Memoirs of the Life of the Author. Second Edition |
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PATERNAL TEARS.
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
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 | Poems |  |
145
PATERNAL TEARS.
EFFUSION I. Llys-Wen, Feb. 1800.
To J--- G---.
AH! generous friend! who, with a patriot's zeal,
Stood'st forth, undaunted, in oppression's hour,
To shield this head devoted; and who still,
With unrepenting kindness (most unlike
The changeling multitude) essay'st to prop
The reed thou sav'd'st unbroken—vain the hope!—
Tho now no more, with her insensate howl,
The demon Persecution, tir'd, intrudes
On my sequester'd privacy—tho late
The autumnal deluge, by thy care disarm'd,
Fell on my fields innoxious, and the rage
Of hostile elements, by thee oppos'd
With sympathising friendship, but secur'd
A less penurious harvest:—vain the care
That from remorseless Destiny would snatch
Her hopeless victim. Me, from ill to ill,
From woe to woe still urging, her fierce hate
Pursues incessant, and has pierc'd, at last,
With barbed shaft, that never shall be drawn
The seat of vital feeling. Yes, 'tis here:
Deep in my heart I feel it: the poor heart,
That with convulsive wildness throbs, awhile,
But soon shall throb no more. So deems, at least,
Hope, that has now no refuge but despair—
In soothing strain so whispers: So the chords
Of this frail being (sensitive too much
To every touch of passion) sad, reply
With dissonance responsive. Yes they jar:
Each nerve and fibre feels the untuning touch
Of most assur'd decay. Dim swims the sight;
The vital spirits languish; and the blood,
No more obedient to the order'd course
Of self-preserving Nature, refluent oft
Turns on her o'ercharg'd fountain; or, impell'd
By wildering Anguish, rushes to the brain,
And whelms the sense in apoplectic whirl,
That Nature's chain seems bursting.—Why but seems?
Why is the stroke retarded?—Ah! my friend!
That these prophetic calls to me alone
Might give concernment—that this head repos'd
Upon Oblivion's turf, no widow'd heart
Might heave in wilder agonies; nor they,
The orphan'd pledges of our hapless loves,
Whom Fate as yet has spar'd, defenceless mourn
Their unprovided state, and infant years
Cast on a hostile world! How welcome then
The voice that summon'd to the insensate tomb
How pleas'd obey'd!—how aided! For to him—
Ah! what to him avails the sentient power
To whom all sense is pain? Who reft of joy—
Reft of each solace—reft of all that fed
Hope's vital lamp, benighted, droops, appall'd,
Amid the horrors of sepulchral gloom—
A conscious maniac?—while thought on thought
Flows on in sad monotony—and all
That in the frame of Nature wont to joy
Sight, or the touch, or hearing, seems to blend
In funeral lamentation, and recal,
With dirgeful record, the afflictive hour
Irremeable? And such, my friend, am I.
For she, alas! is gone, in whom I liv'd—
In whom all hope was center'd—whose sweet smiles
And fair expanding beauties, thro' the night
Of my disastrous destiny diffus'd
A soothing radiance; with reflective beam
Tempering its sombrous horrors.—Oh! most like
That boreal dawn that oft, in arctic climes,
With gay illusive splendour, gilds the gloom
Of the long winter; and false hope awakes
Of genial suns, and op'ning flow'rs, and sweets
Of vernal joyance, from the genial south
Approaching.—Yet to them, the Day shall come—
Tho distant. O'er their hills of melting snows,
And sudden-blooming plains, the northering tribes
Shall see their Summer God, in gorgeous pomp,
Rush joy-dispensing. But for me no more
Shall dawn the vital Day Star. Spring no more—
Nor joyous summer, in my blighted heart,
Shall glow with genial warmth. 'Tis winter all.
Darkness, and Storm, and ever-during Frost
Involve my hopes; and, in Maria's grave
My sun is set for ever: sunk—extinct,
In cold, eternal night. Nor ye who judge
A parent's anguish by the vulgar ties
That bound parental passion, vainly deem
My Grief's excess unmanly: nor insult,
With vain Philosophy, the poignant woes
That rend the sentient texture of this breast:
For 'tis no vulgar loss I'm doom'd to mourn,
And with no vulgar feeling;—nor such tears
As other fathers shed o'er other graves.
Shall dew Maria's turf, or ease this heart,
Whelm'd with exhaustless sorrow. Who would judge
My bosom's anguish, must have known the worth
That wak'd that bosom's fondness; must have known
My fostering cares; like me, with raptur'd eye,
Have mark'd each op'ning grace; have seen each germe
Of fond tuition, in that grateful soil,
Expand with matchless promise; must have felt
Association's power, that round the heart
(Blending events and feelings—times and things)
Twines links of adamant. This—this, and more—
They must have known the father, known the child—
Felt her endearments, and have shar'd my fate.
Stood'st forth, undaunted, in oppression's hour,
To shield this head devoted; and who still,
With unrepenting kindness (most unlike
The changeling multitude) essay'st to prop
The reed thou sav'd'st unbroken—vain the hope!—
Tho now no more, with her insensate howl,
The demon Persecution, tir'd, intrudes
On my sequester'd privacy—tho late
The autumnal deluge, by thy care disarm'd,
Fell on my fields innoxious, and the rage
Of hostile elements, by thee oppos'd
With sympathising friendship, but secur'd
A less penurious harvest:—vain the care
That from remorseless Destiny would snatch
Her hopeless victim. Me, from ill to ill,
From woe to woe still urging, her fierce hate
Pursues incessant, and has pierc'd, at last,
With barbed shaft, that never shall be drawn
The seat of vital feeling. Yes, 'tis here:
Deep in my heart I feel it: the poor heart,
That with convulsive wildness throbs, awhile,
146
Hope, that has now no refuge but despair—
In soothing strain so whispers: So the chords
Of this frail being (sensitive too much
To every touch of passion) sad, reply
With dissonance responsive. Yes they jar:
Each nerve and fibre feels the untuning touch
Of most assur'd decay. Dim swims the sight;
The vital spirits languish; and the blood,
No more obedient to the order'd course
Of self-preserving Nature, refluent oft
Turns on her o'ercharg'd fountain; or, impell'd
By wildering Anguish, rushes to the brain,
And whelms the sense in apoplectic whirl,
That Nature's chain seems bursting.—Why but seems?
Why is the stroke retarded?—Ah! my friend!
That these prophetic calls to me alone
Might give concernment—that this head repos'd
Upon Oblivion's turf, no widow'd heart
Might heave in wilder agonies; nor they,
The orphan'd pledges of our hapless loves,
Whom Fate as yet has spar'd, defenceless mourn
Their unprovided state, and infant years
Cast on a hostile world! How welcome then
The voice that summon'd to the insensate tomb
How pleas'd obey'd!—how aided! For to him—
Ah! what to him avails the sentient power
To whom all sense is pain? Who reft of joy—
Reft of each solace—reft of all that fed
Hope's vital lamp, benighted, droops, appall'd,
147
A conscious maniac?—while thought on thought
Flows on in sad monotony—and all
That in the frame of Nature wont to joy
Sight, or the touch, or hearing, seems to blend
In funeral lamentation, and recal,
With dirgeful record, the afflictive hour
Irremeable? And such, my friend, am I.
For she, alas! is gone, in whom I liv'd—
In whom all hope was center'd—whose sweet smiles
And fair expanding beauties, thro' the night
Of my disastrous destiny diffus'd
A soothing radiance; with reflective beam
Tempering its sombrous horrors.—Oh! most like
That boreal dawn that oft, in arctic climes,
With gay illusive splendour, gilds the gloom
Of the long winter; and false hope awakes
Of genial suns, and op'ning flow'rs, and sweets
Of vernal joyance, from the genial south
Approaching.—Yet to them, the Day shall come—
Tho distant. O'er their hills of melting snows,
And sudden-blooming plains, the northering tribes
Shall see their Summer God, in gorgeous pomp,
Rush joy-dispensing. But for me no more
Shall dawn the vital Day Star. Spring no more—
Nor joyous summer, in my blighted heart,
Shall glow with genial warmth. 'Tis winter all.
Darkness, and Storm, and ever-during Frost
Involve my hopes; and, in Maria's grave
My sun is set for ever: sunk—extinct,
148
A parent's anguish by the vulgar ties
That bound parental passion, vainly deem
My Grief's excess unmanly: nor insult,
With vain Philosophy, the poignant woes
That rend the sentient texture of this breast:
For 'tis no vulgar loss I'm doom'd to mourn,
And with no vulgar feeling;—nor such tears
As other fathers shed o'er other graves.
Shall dew Maria's turf, or ease this heart,
Whelm'd with exhaustless sorrow. Who would judge
My bosom's anguish, must have known the worth
That wak'd that bosom's fondness; must have known
My fostering cares; like me, with raptur'd eye,
Have mark'd each op'ning grace; have seen each germe
Of fond tuition, in that grateful soil,
Expand with matchless promise; must have felt
Association's power, that round the heart
(Blending events and feelings—times and things)
Twines links of adamant. This—this, and more—
They must have known the father, known the child—
Felt her endearments, and have shar'd my fate.
And much of this hast thou, O, friend belov'd!
And she, thy bosom's partner; and the train
Fraternal, who, perchance, with tearful eye
And bosoms sadly throbbing, round shall throng
Thy wintry fire, what time, with faltering voice
Thou read'st this sad memorial. Yes, ye knew
At once the lost and loser. Hence to you,
Seeking the balm of sympathy, I ope
My bosom's inmost anguish: in your ear
Pour all my griefs;—and, fearless of reproof,
Proclaim my weakness:—if that name belong
To love so meritted, to tears that flow
From such remember'd sweetness.—O, my babe!
Maria! Oh, Maria! thy lov'd name,
While Nature yet is vocal—while this heart
To this sad tongue can dictate, thy lov'd name
The rocks and conscious echoes shall repeat,
And murmuring Vaga mourn no loss but thine.
And she, thy bosom's partner; and the train
Fraternal, who, perchance, with tearful eye
And bosoms sadly throbbing, round shall throng
Thy wintry fire, what time, with faltering voice
Thou read'st this sad memorial. Yes, ye knew
At once the lost and loser. Hence to you,
Seeking the balm of sympathy, I ope
149
Pour all my griefs;—and, fearless of reproof,
Proclaim my weakness:—if that name belong
To love so meritted, to tears that flow
From such remember'd sweetness.—O, my babe!
Maria! Oh, Maria! thy lov'd name,
While Nature yet is vocal—while this heart
To this sad tongue can dictate, thy lov'd name
The rocks and conscious echoes shall repeat,
And murmuring Vaga mourn no loss but thine.
EFFUSION II. In the Vale of Taff. May 13, 1800.
Maria! Oh, Maria! my sweet babe!—But ah! she hears not. Vainly that lov'd name
These lips reverberate—vainly these fond eyes
Roll round, in asking gaze, and, missing thee,
Find nought but vacancy. The budding Spring
That, in profuse luxuriancy, adorns
Mountain and vale—the ever-murmuring brook,
And choir of Nature's songsters charm no more,
Nor soothe my bosom's sadness. Thou art gone,
Who wert my spring of comfort—On thy cheek
Bloom'd fairer hopes than ever vernal gale
Wak'd in the May-tide morning—Purer thou—
More sweetly playful, in thy sportive wiles,
Than Cambria's dimpling rills. Thy infant voice
Than birds was more melodious, when they tune
150
Is there aught beauteous—aught that Sense can prize,
Or Fancy hope to feed on, but must hence
Renew my keen affliction?—Thou art gone!—
And I in vernal scenes, henceforth, must trace
Nought, but the dire remembrance of thy loss.—
EFFUSION III. On the Banks of the Wye. May 15, 1800.
Along thy varying banks, sequester'd Wye,At eve, I wander mournfully—full oft
Thridding the tangled maze, or under shade
Of hoary oaks, that over-hang thy stream,
Courting congenial gloom: but not, as erst,
Or with the Painter's, or the Poet's glance,
Noting thy wild varieties. No more
Thy haunts romantic charm. No more mine eyes
(Dim with their griefs) from tint or varied line
Receive accustom'd joyance. Rocks, and falls,
And deep-worn pools reflective, and ye woods
Wash'd by the eddying stream, and you, ye hills
Of fearful height, in wild perspective heap'd,
Closing the sinuous valley, what to me
Are all your varied forms?—Ah! what the charm
Of beauteous or sublime?—the scenes that nurse
Romantic vision, or invite the skill
Of imitative effort?—Other forms
Possess my weeping fancy: other thoughts,
151
In dim abstraction; and my troubled soul,
Here while I rove, is absent; nor remains
Ought but the wandering shade of him who erst
Trac'd your wild haunts delighted. To that spot
Where buds the white-thorn o'er the turfted grave
Turn my sad thoughts—there—there incessant dwell,
While, with paternal anguish, oft my lips
Breathe thy lov'd name, Maria!—Oh! Maria!
First born of Love! and fondling of my heart!
In thee my hopes are blighted—blighted all
The varied charms of Nature. All that once,
With grace or mingled harmony, could thrill
Sight or the list'ning sense, unheeded meets
The unconscious organ; save where memory marks
Some fond memorial—some remember'd scene
Of sweet endearment, where reclining erst
(Pensive, perchance, beside the rushing stream,
That moan'd responsive) I have heard the voice
Of my lost darling, lisping kindliest notes
Of soothing gentleness, that from my heart
Chac'd every woe; or where, perchance, her form,
Disporting gaily, with attractive charm,
Full in my view has bounded:—joy and health
Blending with graceful loveliness.—At sight
Of such mute record, in afflictive trance,
Groaning I pause: from my dim eyes, suffus'd,
Tears stream afresh; and, down the echoing Wye,
Woods, waves, and rocks repeat Maria's name.
152
EFFUSION IV. During a severe Indisposition. May 18, 1800.
Stretch'd on the bed of pain, restless I lie,Nor taste the vernal day-spring. Heavily
Pass the lone hours; and thro' my wasting nerves
The feverish langour steals. Yet not for this
Heave I the frequent groan—nor not for this
Course down my wasted cheeks the channell'd tears,
Dewing the uneasy pillow. Corporal pain,
The woe of vulgar minds, with stoic pride,
I well can combat: and there was a time,
When never lonesome seem'd the pensive hour
Of silent solitude. For then the Muse,
On Contemplation's wing, would haply soar
Into the realms of Fancy; bodying forth
Ideal excellence, and into life,
Calling each nobler feeling: or, more blest,
With whisper'd voice, most musical, would tell
Of future hopes (how specious)—flattering boons
That the paternal heart might well repay
For all its years of anguish. Ah! how oft
In such sweet vision has my raptur'd soul
Dwelt on thy form, Maria!—Ah! how oft
Imag'd thy rip'ning years; when every hope,
That sweetly blossom'd in thy morn of life,
Should bloom in gracious fulness—when thy form,
More fair expanding, and more beauteous mind
(Germe of each kindlier virtue!) should secure
153
And all the blissful feelings that reflect
Back on the worth that wakes them. Ah! most blest
When thoughts like these were present! Pain, and Woe,
And persecuting Fortune, lost their power,
And my torn heart was heal'd.—But, she is gone!
The balm of life is gone; and its sore ills
Fester irremeable! Yet, not these I feel:
Nought but thy loss is poignant—O! Maria!—
My health!—my joy!—my fortune! all entomb'd!
EFFUSION V. In the Vale of Taff. June, 1800.
THE Blackbird whistles from the pendant grovesThat fringe thy varied banks, meandering Taff,
And every spray is vocal. Thro' thy vale
Smiles green Fertility; and, on thy heights,
Of hoar sublimity, in varied form,
Romantic Grandeur sits. Each object blends
(Wild wood, and cultur'd farm, and rocky bank
That mocks the hand of Labour) to adorn
The vary'd scene, cheering the lonely way—
If ought could now be cheerful. But in vain!
Mountain nor vale delight, nor cultur'd scene,
Nor Nature's wilder grace. In these sad eyes,
The vernal year is blasted: from the blight
That nipt my budding hopes in thee, Maria!
Never to be renew'd. That heavy woe
154
That tracing heeds not; but, amid such scenes
As once to kindling ecstasy could wake
The bounding heart, calls for sepulchral gloom,
To my sad thoughts congenial: those sad thoughts
(Constant to anguish) that around thy tomb
(O! beauteous and beloved!) hover still,
Nor hope for rest—but in such rest as thine!
EFFUSION VI. On returning from a Journey to Merthyr Tydfil. June, 1800.
TO my once cheerful home, at evening hour,Sad I return, and weary; from my brow
Wiping the painful sweat-drops, for afar,
Over thy heights, Farinioch, I have climb'd,
With lonely tread; and, from the blaze of noon,
Till now that Hesper rises, borne the thirst
And turmoil of the day. Yet not for this
Droop I despondent, or, with faltering step,
Pause on the threshold of my lonely cot,
Checking the starting tear. Not this I moan.
It is the doom of man with toil to earn,
With toil and care, the bread of his support;
Nor must I claim exemption; but submit,
Outcast of fortune, to the common lot
That Fortune's outcasts bear. Of this let those
Who less have mark'd life's checker'd paths complain:
155
I would not bend beneath it—but, as erst,
Smooth from the trouble past my wrinkled brow,
And seize the present good. But nought is good!
This trouble passes not: and Hesper's ray
In vain conducts to my once-cheerful home:—
For my once-cheerful home can cheer no more,
And toil's reward is wanting. Hence, alas!
Even on the threshold, faltering, I recline,
While the heart droops within me. Where is now
The shout exulting, that was wont to hail
My home-returning steps? Ah! where those eyes,
Kindling with filial ecstasy?—that cheek,
Flush'd with ingenuous glow? those outstretch'd arms,
To which, with holiest rapture, I have rush'd,
Blessing the name of father? Where is she—
My soul's best darling! hope of all my hopes!
Whose bosom thrilling with such eager joy,
Wont to rush forth to meet me!—Round I turn,
As my sad heart thus questions, to the spot,
Where, o'er the church-yard wall, sad neighbourhood!
The white-thorn budding marks thy early grave,
Maria! Oh! Maria!—There, entranc'd,
Lingers the tearful gaze; reluctantly
To the slow latch reverting—the slow latch
That, late uplifted, to mine eye reveals
Nought but the sadness of sepulchral gloom!
156
EFFUSION VII. On Stella's leaving me, to Visit some Friends, at Hereford, with a View to the Restoration of her Health. Llys-Wen. June, 1800.
WELL thou art gone—gone to the City's throng,My soul's sad partner! mid the generous cares
And kind solicitudes of pitying friends
To sooth thy bosom's anguish. Be they blest
Who in the wounds of thy affliction seek
To pour the healing balm! and may they not
The task of Love ply vainly. Me, the while,
Here shall heart-eating Solitude consume—
O'er saddest thoughts still brooding; or afar
(Call'd by life's busy turmoil) over heights
Of Alpine dreariness, my feet shall climb,
To the once-peaceful vale, where sinuous Taff,
(Stunn'd by Vulcanian clamour) writhing, shifts
His devious course, and seeks for peace in vain.
As vainly I. Nor this sequester'd cot,
Mid circling scenes romantical, embower'd—
Once how belov'd!—nor Taff's remoter vale,
Late, by the magic of Vulcanian art,
Grown populous—nor busy cares of Life—
No—nor the Muse's song, in this sad heart
Shall ever more its wonted calm renew.
Lost is the charm of Life—the treasur'd hope
That, o'er our shipwreck'd fortunes buoyant still,
Sooth'd our lone bosoms. She, alas! is gone
157
Fondly we liv'd, and, in a dream of joy,
Dwelt on the bliss-foreboding charms that bloom'd
In her all-graceful form, and gracious mind—
Perfection's germe!—deeming our night of life
For such entrancing vision all too short.
EFFUSION VIII. At Merthyr Tydfil. June, 1800.
WHY, from imperfect slumber as I start,
Shake my jarr'd nerves with terror? Why should thus
The pale reflection of the waterish moon
Gleam with ideal phantoms—bodying forth
The shapes of things that are not? Bows the mind
To second infancy? or cling the tales
Of beldame Superstition to the heart,
Scoffing the sceptic Reason? Time has been
I slept and fear'd not; and, amidst the gloom
Of tombs and sepulchres, could walk, unmov'd,
At Midnight's darkest hour. But now the couch
Of solitary slumber scares my sense,
Grief-worn and dizzy—dizzy with the whirl
Of ever-restless anguish!—Fancy leagues
With busy Memory; and the mind, diseas'd,
Deems all her Shadowings real. Reason's boast
Is mine, alas! no longer. My torn heart
Feels, but reflects not; or, reflecting, dwells
But on thy loss, Maria! and mine eyes,
But half unclosing from a dream of thee,
At my bed's foot still view thee.—I could think—
(For Grief, like Fear, its superstitions hath,
That thrill, tho we believe not)—I could think
Thou still didst hover o'er my unblest couch,
And haunt my restless pillow: for sometimes
Thy voice sounds plaintive in the midnight gale;
Or, in the rush of waters, on mine ear,
Steals in articulate moan; or else, thy shade,
Transient and dim, but in proportion'd grace,
Floats in mine eyes—mine eyes that fondly strain,
Thro' the thick vail of tears, to follow thee,
And realize illusion. Such, even now,
Imagination view'd thy beauteous form,
Faded and sad. Upon thy cheek no more
Bloom'd the sweet rose of Health: but such thou seem'st,
Pallid and wan, as when upon the bier
I saw thee stretch'd, of every grace bereft—
Save the soft symmetries, that, even in death,
Made thee all lovely. Yet not lifeless now
Seem'd'st thou, tho pale: the look, the mournful air
Was vital; and thine eye's expressive glance,
In silent eloquence, upon my face
Reproachfully thou turned'st; but yet found,
And full of pitying drops—such drops as erst
(O! lost benignity!) were wont bedew
Thy infant cheek, whene'er Affliction met
(Maid of ingenuous mind!) thy sentient glance.
Shake my jarr'd nerves with terror? Why should thus
The pale reflection of the waterish moon
Gleam with ideal phantoms—bodying forth
The shapes of things that are not? Bows the mind
To second infancy? or cling the tales
Of beldame Superstition to the heart,
Scoffing the sceptic Reason? Time has been
I slept and fear'd not; and, amidst the gloom
Of tombs and sepulchres, could walk, unmov'd,
At Midnight's darkest hour. But now the couch
Of solitary slumber scares my sense,
Grief-worn and dizzy—dizzy with the whirl
Of ever-restless anguish!—Fancy leagues
With busy Memory; and the mind, diseas'd,
Deems all her Shadowings real. Reason's boast
Is mine, alas! no longer. My torn heart
Feels, but reflects not; or, reflecting, dwells
But on thy loss, Maria! and mine eyes,
158
At my bed's foot still view thee.—I could think—
(For Grief, like Fear, its superstitions hath,
That thrill, tho we believe not)—I could think
Thou still didst hover o'er my unblest couch,
And haunt my restless pillow: for sometimes
Thy voice sounds plaintive in the midnight gale;
Or, in the rush of waters, on mine ear,
Steals in articulate moan; or else, thy shade,
Transient and dim, but in proportion'd grace,
Floats in mine eyes—mine eyes that fondly strain,
Thro' the thick vail of tears, to follow thee,
And realize illusion. Such, even now,
Imagination view'd thy beauteous form,
Faded and sad. Upon thy cheek no more
Bloom'd the sweet rose of Health: but such thou seem'st,
Pallid and wan, as when upon the bier
I saw thee stretch'd, of every grace bereft—
Save the soft symmetries, that, even in death,
Made thee all lovely. Yet not lifeless now
Seem'd'st thou, tho pale: the look, the mournful air
Was vital; and thine eye's expressive glance,
In silent eloquence, upon my face
Reproachfully thou turned'st; but yet found,
And full of pitying drops—such drops as erst
(O! lost benignity!) were wont bedew
Thy infant cheek, whene'er Affliction met
(Maid of ingenuous mind!) thy sentient glance.
Ah! such thou seem'st!—and Fancy, full of thee—
Fancy, that coins thy semblance, to my mind,
The woeful look interprets—“Wretched sire!
“O'erwhelm'd with cares and sorrows! while thou striv'd'st
“With thy hard Destiny, with carking toil,
“Solicitous, to snatch thy scanty means
“From prowling Plunder, or the inclement rage
“Of an ungenial season, unobserv'd,
“Upon the vitals of thy dearest hope
“Seiz'd the unbaffled pest; and treasuring that
“Thy soul so little values, thou hast lost
“All that thou deem'd'st worth treasuring.”
Fancy, that coins thy semblance, to my mind,
159
“O'erwhelm'd with cares and sorrows! while thou striv'd'st
“With thy hard Destiny, with carking toil,
“Solicitous, to snatch thy scanty means
“From prowling Plunder, or the inclement rage
“Of an ungenial season, unobserv'd,
“Upon the vitals of thy dearest hope
“Seiz'd the unbaffled pest; and treasuring that
“Thy soul so little values, thou hast lost
“All that thou deem'd'st worth treasuring.”
Ah! most true!
Thou, my sweet babe! art to my hostile stars
Another sacrifice—another fine
(Heavier than all the past) that I have paid
For love of human nature—for the crime
Of universal brotherhood, that, thus,
Dooms me, in exile from the social sphere
Of humaniz'd fraternity, to weep
Thy early loss—in whom myself am lost.
Thou, my sweet babe! art to my hostile stars
Another sacrifice—another fine
(Heavier than all the past) that I have paid
For love of human nature—for the crime
Of universal brotherhood, that, thus,
Dooms me, in exile from the social sphere
Of humaniz'd fraternity, to weep
Thy early loss—in whom myself am lost.
EFFUSION IX. After having spent a Part of the preceding Day in cheerful Society. Llys-Wen. Sept. 14, 1800.
Transient, alas! and faint, what cheerful gleamsRelieve my bosom's sadness—whether, bent
On studious thought, I range thy lonely haunts,
Sequester'd Vaga, or explore the page
Of ancient Wisdom, or, perchance, inspir'd
160
I “build the lofty rhyme,” and twine the wreath
Of civic virtue, for the honour'd brow
Of Albion's earliest Hope—or if, impell'd
By hard necessity, with careful hand
(To toil of late accustom'd) from the womb,
Scant and ungenial, of an alien soil
I force reluctant sustenance,—alike
O'er every season—every changeful scene
Of various destiny, intrusive Woe
Hovers with baleful gloom;—Remembrance still
Dwells on Maria lost; and Fancy's self
(No more, alas! creative) but renews
That dire affliction—but renews the thought
Of Thee, ingenuous maiden! early snatch'd
From my paternal hopes, while yet the bloom
Of sweet attraction on thy infant cheek
Promis'd long-during bliss. Or if perchance,
To this sequester'd solitude (tho rare)
Journeying from far, some sympathizing friend,
Cordial, approach, and of the times long past
(Times not estrang'd to social intercourse)
Renew the lost memorial, still my heart,
To other thoughts incontinent, amid
The flow of mutual converse, sad renews
This woe of woes, and the unbidden tear,
Or sigh spontaneous, mars the social grace
Of hospitable welcome. Jest and Smile
Are but abortions of the labouring brain,
That would have ease, but cannot; or, at best,
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That soon returns more poignant. Sleep herself,
To my sad couch coy visitant! if chance
She steep my temples in her opiate dews,
Brings not the wish'd oblivion. Still, in dreams,
Renew'd affliction haunts me. Still, in dreams,
Rises thy beauteous form, Oh! best belov'd!
To mock with faint illusion; and, the while
My yearning heart throbs with a parent's love,
I see Thee sink expiring—see renew'd
The writhing pang that, in an instant, chang'd
Thy bloom to ghastly paleness; in these arms
Leaving a wither'd flow'r—a breathless corse!
EFFUSION X. CERRIG-ENION:
(Enion's Tomb) on Pen-Heol-Enion, in Brecknockshire. August, 1800.
WHY, on the mouldering tomb of other Times,
Sits my lorn wanderer, in the muffled robe,
Vailing her pensive brow, and to the winds
Giving, on such bleak height, the unshelter'd form
Of feminine softness! Broods her thoughtful mind
Some legendary fiction? or some tale
Of Tragic record, pregnant with the woes
Of virtue vainly brave? Or does she mourn
Time's changeful progress, thro' these desolate Realms
Too sadly mark'd?—where oft the enquiring eye
(Seeking the ancient site of rampir'd wall,
Or bourg, or populous city) meets, perchance,
Nought but the brambled fosse, some moss-grown heap
Of shapeless fragments, or some lonely hut,
Turf-built, and thatch'd with fern, or with the wrecks
Of prostrate palaces, now rudely heap'd,
Without cement, or order, to enroof
The toil-worn peasant, shivering in the blast
That winnows thro' the walls!—or worse, perchance,
Sees the rent fragments of those wretched hives
Forlorn, and tenantless; while all around
Stalks silent Desolation, unobserv'd,
Save by the felon Kite, who, pois'd aloof,
Watches his quarry'd prey, and makes the Air,
Like the scourg'd Earth, depopulate! Such scenes
Well might the wanderer mourn: and I, with her,
(Making thy tomb—Enion of Cambrian fame!
My thoughtful couch) full many a dreary hour
Could sit and moralize: but that my heart
(My heart, alas! like hers—for but two well
Fancy can paint her musings) sorrowing dwells
On pangs of home-felt sufferance—Woes that bend
Our hearts, united in one common grief,
Down to the earth they sprung from!—woes that blot
The half of Nature's glories (thro' the vail
Of sadness dimly seen) and dull the edge
Of curious observation. Hence while here,
With rude memorial, my unpractis'd hand
Traces the Time-worn fragment, that still marks
The Chieftain's grave, who, on this lonely height,
Slumbers (in death still emulous) her thoughts
Flee to the lowly vale, where, underneath
The turf, unhonour'd, save by frequent tears,
And ever-hovering memory, She, beloved!
Our lost Maria sleeps. Oh! loss supreme!
Never to be forgotten!—whether thus
We climb the dreary height, or trace the scenes
Of smooth fertility, where Culture spreads
Luxuriant, and the careful walks of Men
Chace the still Solitude!—Thee, budding flower!
Cropp'd in thy sweetest promise—Thee, the fields,
The groves, the wood-land wild, or dreary heath,
The peaky Mountain, and the shelter'd vale,
Alike shall mourn!—Alike, the village spire,
The fern-thatch'd cottage, and the crumbling heap
That stories ancient prowess shall renew
The sad remembrance, echoing to our sighs,
The mournful music of Maria's name.
Sits my lorn wanderer, in the muffled robe,
Vailing her pensive brow, and to the winds
Giving, on such bleak height, the unshelter'd form
Of feminine softness! Broods her thoughtful mind
Some legendary fiction? or some tale
Of Tragic record, pregnant with the woes
Of virtue vainly brave? Or does she mourn
Time's changeful progress, thro' these desolate Realms
Too sadly mark'd?—where oft the enquiring eye
(Seeking the ancient site of rampir'd wall,
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Nought but the brambled fosse, some moss-grown heap
Of shapeless fragments, or some lonely hut,
Turf-built, and thatch'd with fern, or with the wrecks
Of prostrate palaces, now rudely heap'd,
Without cement, or order, to enroof
The toil-worn peasant, shivering in the blast
That winnows thro' the walls!—or worse, perchance,
Sees the rent fragments of those wretched hives
Forlorn, and tenantless; while all around
Stalks silent Desolation, unobserv'd,
Save by the felon Kite, who, pois'd aloof,
Watches his quarry'd prey, and makes the Air,
Like the scourg'd Earth, depopulate! Such scenes
Well might the wanderer mourn: and I, with her,
(Making thy tomb—Enion of Cambrian fame!
My thoughtful couch) full many a dreary hour
Could sit and moralize: but that my heart
(My heart, alas! like hers—for but two well
Fancy can paint her musings) sorrowing dwells
On pangs of home-felt sufferance—Woes that bend
Our hearts, united in one common grief,
Down to the earth they sprung from!—woes that blot
The half of Nature's glories (thro' the vail
Of sadness dimly seen) and dull the edge
Of curious observation. Hence while here,
With rude memorial, my unpractis'd hand
Traces the Time-worn fragment, that still marks
The Chieftain's grave, who, on this lonely height,
Slumbers (in death still emulous) her thoughts
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The turf, unhonour'd, save by frequent tears,
And ever-hovering memory, She, beloved!
Our lost Maria sleeps. Oh! loss supreme!
Never to be forgotten!—whether thus
We climb the dreary height, or trace the scenes
Of smooth fertility, where Culture spreads
Luxuriant, and the careful walks of Men
Chace the still Solitude!—Thee, budding flower!
Cropp'd in thy sweetest promise—Thee, the fields,
The groves, the wood-land wild, or dreary heath,
The peaky Mountain, and the shelter'd vale,
Alike shall mourn!—Alike, the village spire,
The fern-thatch'd cottage, and the crumbling heap
That stories ancient prowess shall renew
The sad remembrance, echoing to our sighs,
The mournful music of Maria's name.
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