Poems Chiefly Written in Retirement, By John Thelwall; With Memoirs of the Life of the Author. Second Edition |
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93
EFFUSIONS OF SOCIAL and RELATIVE AFFECTION.
95
ELEGY On the death of a favourite Schoolfellow, Phillip Bonafous, who died of the small pox, in 1785.
I GRIEVE to think how quick each blossom fades
That decorates the thorny road of life—
How Sorrow's worm the tender bud invades,
How oft 'tis blighted by Misfortune's strife.
That decorates the thorny road of life—
How Sorrow's worm the tender bud invades,
How oft 'tis blighted by Misfortune's strife.
I grieve to think how Disappointment's breath
Shrinks the young foliage of our budding hopes!
How oft the sudden hand of cruel Death
Each sweetest branch of young enjoyment lops.
Shrinks the young foliage of our budding hopes!
How oft the sudden hand of cruel Death
Each sweetest branch of young enjoyment lops.
I had a friend—O, Lucio, ever dear!
Still shall thy memory in my bosom live;
Thy virtues bloom in recollection here,
Dwell on my tongue, and in my theme survive.
Still shall thy memory in my bosom live;
Thy virtues bloom in recollection here,
Dwell on my tongue, and in my theme survive.
I had a friend—tho Heav'n had snatch'd away
Each promis'd comfort of my tender age;
In him it seem'd my losses to repay—
My sweet companion on life's toilsome stage!
Each promis'd comfort of my tender age;
In him it seem'd my losses to repay—
My sweet companion on life's toilsome stage!
How fraught with tender feelings was his mind!
O'erflowing font of sensibility!
To friends how true! to relatives how kind!
In generous zeal, how boundless and how free!
O'erflowing font of sensibility!
To friends how true! to relatives how kind!
In generous zeal, how boundless and how free!
96
But ah, Disease, with envious hand, assail'd
The vital stem of each remaining joy:
O'er his fair form the noxious pest prevail'd;
Prompt to deform, and powerful to destroy.
The vital stem of each remaining joy:
O'er his fair form the noxious pest prevail'd;
Prompt to deform, and powerful to destroy.
Who now shall sooth my sorrow-clouded mind?
Who now the sad reflection shall relieve?
Where shall my heart consoling friendship find?
Misfortune's children still unpity'd grieve.
Who now the sad reflection shall relieve?
Where shall my heart consoling friendship find?
Misfortune's children still unpity'd grieve.
The proud carnation, costly child of art,
Droops not unheeded on the cultur'd plain.
The florist's hand shall soon his aid impart,
With care to rear it, and with props sustain.
Droops not unheeded on the cultur'd plain.
The florist's hand shall soon his aid impart,
With care to rear it, and with props sustain.
But if some hedge-row flower (of humbler worth)
By Erus torn, the wounded head recline,
The careless traveller treads it to the earth—
The herd, unpitying, to its fate resign.
By Erus torn, the wounded head recline,
The careless traveller treads it to the earth—
The herd, unpitying, to its fate resign.
Not so didst thou, my heart's elected friend!
You kindly courted when the world grew coy;
When bland civility was at an end,
And the cold kinsman turn'd the averted eye.
You kindly courted when the world grew coy;
When bland civility was at an end,
And the cold kinsman turn'd the averted eye.
For this shall Memory oft, with glistening tear,
Thy form, thy friendship, and thy name renew—
Still Lucio dwell in recollection here,
And all his virtues blossom in my view.
Thy form, thy friendship, and thy name renew—
Still Lucio dwell in recollection here,
And all his virtues blossom in my view.
97
Elegy, written during the Festival of Christmas, 1785.
The time has been (but ah! farewell those days—
Those cheerful days of innocence and mirth!)
I bless'd the wained sun's convivial rays
That gave this day of joyous pastime birth.
Those cheerful days of innocence and mirth!)
I bless'd the wained sun's convivial rays
That gave this day of joyous pastime birth.
Around the social hearth, at night, we throng'd,
Where humour much, but more good-nature shin'd;
While joke and song the cheerful feast prolong'd
Beyond the usual hour for rest assign'd.
Where humour much, but more good-nature shin'd;
While joke and song the cheerful feast prolong'd
Beyond the usual hour for rest assign'd.
Oft would our Sire the youthful train provoke;
Full oft incite to pastimes gay and bland;
Full oft himself revive the flagging joke,
And, in the comrade, lose the sire's command.
Full oft incite to pastimes gay and bland;
Full oft himself revive the flagging joke,
And, in the comrade, lose the sire's command.
Good, gentle soul! who every soul could cheer!—
Of morals blameless, as of manners gay;
He scorn'd the stoick frown and tone severe,
And rather chose by love than fear to sway.
Of morals blameless, as of manners gay;
He scorn'd the stoick frown and tone severe,
And rather chose by love than fear to sway.
But he is gone; and gone the joys of life—
Now woes on woes roll thickening o'er my head;
While Penury, and keen domestic Strife,
And hopeless Love their mingled venom shed.
Now woes on woes roll thickening o'er my head;
While Penury, and keen domestic Strife,
And hopeless Love their mingled venom shed.
98
Pale Melancholy's first-born daughter, Spleen,
To my sick fancy paints a thousand ills:
Upholds her shadowy, woe-depictur'd screen,
Blasts every hope, and every prospect chills.
To my sick fancy paints a thousand ills:
Upholds her shadowy, woe-depictur'd screen,
Blasts every hope, and every prospect chills.
Ah why, to all the real woes of life,
Should sick Imagination add her store?—
Ideal blending with substantial strife,
To crush the feeble wretch oppress'd before?
Should sick Imagination add her store?—
Ideal blending with substantial strife,
To crush the feeble wretch oppress'd before?
Ye cheerful Hours, unhurt by gnawing Care!
Ye social Days of plenty, joy, and peace!
Say will ye e'er the wrongs of Fate repair?
Shall e'er the frowns of adverse Fortune cease?
Ye social Days of plenty, joy, and peace!
Say will ye e'er the wrongs of Fate repair?
Shall e'er the frowns of adverse Fortune cease?
Elegy, written in 1786, at a time when the subject of Imprisonment for Debt was much discussed.
Farewell thou last dim blush of fading day—
Ye busy scenes—ye bustling Cares, farewell:
Lo Contemplation watch the parting ray,
To lead the Votary to her pensive Cell!
Ye busy scenes—ye bustling Cares, farewell:
Lo Contemplation watch the parting ray,
To lead the Votary to her pensive Cell!
Yes, power serene! your awful haunts I love,
What time, flow-pacing thro' the misty vale,
Wrapp'd in Night's sober mantle, sad you rove,
And breathe your precepts in the sullen gale,
What time, flow-pacing thro' the misty vale,
Wrapp'd in Night's sober mantle, sad you rove,
And breathe your precepts in the sullen gale,
99
And I have heard you, in the breezy sigh
Of Zephyrs moaning in the Moon's pale beam,
While scarce their humid pinnions, as they fly,
Shake the dark spray, or curl the spangled stream.
Of Zephyrs moaning in the Moon's pale beam,
While scarce their humid pinnions, as they fly,
Shake the dark spray, or curl the spangled stream.
And I have heard and felt the solemn call,
What time, more awful, in the stormy blast,
Amid the ruins of some ivy'd wall,
You told of Earth's frail pomps, and follies past.
What time, more awful, in the stormy blast,
Amid the ruins of some ivy'd wall,
You told of Earth's frail pomps, and follies past.
O! lead me then, sad moralizing pow'r!
To where thy Cavern fronts the raging main:
There will I think on life's tempestuous hour,
And human woe shall moralize the strain.
To where thy Cavern fronts the raging main:
There will I think on life's tempestuous hour,
And human woe shall moralize the strain.
Ah me! how long the gaunt disastrous train
That croud with anguish Man's precarious day!
How Sickness, Sorrow, Penury, and Pain,
And Disappointment throng in dark array!
That croud with anguish Man's precarious day!
How Sickness, Sorrow, Penury, and Pain,
And Disappointment throng in dark array!
How perjur'd Friendship darts the treacherous sting—
How all the youthful Passions, gay to view,
Repentance, shame, and wild affliction bring—
While scorpion Furies all their paths pursue!
How all the youthful Passions, gay to view,
Repentance, shame, and wild affliction bring—
While scorpion Furies all their paths pursue!
Where Pleasure courts us with her smiling train,
There Pain and Death prepare the hidden dart—
Where Wealth allures with hopes of promis'd gain,
There Ruin waits to rend the wasted heart.
There Pain and Death prepare the hidden dart—
Where Wealth allures with hopes of promis'd gain,
There Ruin waits to rend the wasted heart.
100
How many from the golden dreams of life,
Has my sad soul seen wak'd to iron woe!
How many sunk in shame and hopeless strife,
Who grasp'd at fame with hope's aspiring glow.
Has my sad soul seen wak'd to iron woe!
How many sunk in shame and hopeless strife,
Who grasp'd at fame with hope's aspiring glow.
From the high summit of well-founded hopes
(If ought were founded in this fragile world)
While each gay prospect round alluring opes,
To Want's abyss what crouds are headlong hurl'd!
(If ought were founded in this fragile world)
While each gay prospect round alluring opes,
To Want's abyss what crouds are headlong hurl'd!
To that abyss as, with imploring hands
And bleeding hearts, precipitate they fall,
Lo prosperous Avarice—fiend unfeeling! stands,
And points the iron door, and grated wall.
And bleeding hearts, precipitate they fall,
Lo prosperous Avarice—fiend unfeeling! stands,
And points the iron door, and grated wall.
Is this the land where liberal feelings glow?
Is this the land where Justice holds the scale?
The felon's lot must pale Disaster know?
And freemen give Misfortune's sons a gaol?—
Is this the land where Justice holds the scale?
The felon's lot must pale Disaster know?
And freemen give Misfortune's sons a gaol?—
A gaol!—oh horror! what a sound is there
To jar the feeling nerve of Virtue's ear!
The dungeon's gloom must guiltless Sorrow share,
Its noxious terrors, and its pangs severe?
To jar the feeling nerve of Virtue's ear!
The dungeon's gloom must guiltless Sorrow share,
Its noxious terrors, and its pangs severe?
From scenes like these, let Contemplation soar,
Nor sink desponding in the cheerless gloom;
A better world, with better hopes, explore,
Mount to the skies, and peer beyond the tomb.
Nor sink desponding in the cheerless gloom;
A better world, with better hopes, explore,
Mount to the skies, and peer beyond the tomb.
101
Sonnet to the Nightingale. 1788.
Sweet Bird of Sympathy! whose voice aloneSooths the attentive ear of darkling Woe,
Whose strains, responsive to the Wretch's moan,
With softly melancholy influence flow,
As thy sweet note thus melts upon my ear,
I heave the sigh—I shed the starting tear.
For oh! of Lucio—dear, departed friend!—
The fond memorial in that note I find.
When Joy forbore her cheerful smile to lend,
When Fortune lour'd on my benighted mind,
Alone, with Friendship's sympathizing strain,
He sooth'd my soul, and lull'd my bosom's pain.
Sweet Bird of Sympathy! for this the tear
Still shall Remembrance shed on Friendship's early bier!
Lines presented by the Author, to his Mother, together with a crutch stick.
Dear source of that life, which your kindness and care
Not only preserv'd, but persists to endear,
Who so oft o'er my infancy fondly would bend,
Protection to yield, and assistance to lend;
Ere yet my young limbs a firm fortitude knew,
Or could hope for a prop, but from love, and from you,
Whose solicitude prov'd (how incessantly tried!)
The strength of my weakness, my help, and my guide;
Since Providence will'd that, thro' infancy's cares,
The follies of childhood, and youth's early snares,
Your hand should conduct me to manhood's estate,
When the full-flowing spirits can combat with Fate;
And since that great Pow'r has now doom'd me to see
Your age want the aid you imparted to me,
O! let me (since mine it by nature appears)
Be the stay of your steps, and the strength of your years.
Not only preserv'd, but persists to endear,
Who so oft o'er my infancy fondly would bend,
Protection to yield, and assistance to lend;
Ere yet my young limbs a firm fortitude knew,
Or could hope for a prop, but from love, and from you,
Whose solicitude prov'd (how incessantly tried!)
The strength of my weakness, my help, and my guide;
102
The follies of childhood, and youth's early snares,
Your hand should conduct me to manhood's estate,
When the full-flowing spirits can combat with Fate;
And since that great Pow'r has now doom'd me to see
Your age want the aid you imparted to me,
O! let me (since mine it by nature appears)
Be the stay of your steps, and the strength of your years.
Meantime, at my hand, this small present accept;
Both as emblem (or type) and a pledge of respect.
What tho no quaint labour a polish impart,
Nor the varnisher's daub, nor the cunning of art;
Yet let not the roughness of Nature offend:
It will ever be ready its service to lend.
And the gift and the giver alike may you find,
The stay of your steps, and the crutch of your mind.
Both as emblem (or type) and a pledge of respect.
What tho no quaint labour a polish impart,
Nor the varnisher's daub, nor the cunning of art;
Yet let not the roughness of Nature offend:
It will ever be ready its service to lend.
And the gift and the giver alike may you find,
The stay of your steps, and the crutch of your mind.
Stanzas On a clay candlestick, given to the Author by an esteemed and valuable friend.
The smallest gift from Friendship's partial hand
To generous minds acquires extrinsic worth;
As homeliest scenes our fond respects command,
If, haply, honour'd by some valu'd birth.
But thou, neat present of well-moulded clay!
From still superior motives claim'st my love;
In thee her humble emblem I survey,
Whose worth you shadow, and whose friendship prove.
The gift, where oft the visual radiance plays,
The nightly studies of my Muse befriends;
The giver, beaming wisdom's mental rays,
My mind irradiates, and my judgment mends.
To generous minds acquires extrinsic worth;
As homeliest scenes our fond respects command,
If, haply, honour'd by some valu'd birth.
But thou, neat present of well-moulded clay!
From still superior motives claim'st my love;
In thee her humble emblem I survey,
Whose worth you shadow, and whose friendship prove.
103
The nightly studies of my Muse befriends;
The giver, beaming wisdom's mental rays,
My mind irradiates, and my judgment mends.
With thee, what time the garish day is fled,
And Noise and Folly quit the sombre scene,
When Contemplation's deepest mantle spread,
Bids passion sleep, and judgment reign serene—
Oft shall my toil explore the classic ground
Where never selfish Care, with heavy eye,
Presum'd to pace his dull unfeeling round,
Dead to the generous woe, or liberal joy—
The classic realms of Fancy, ever gay!
Where smile the Graces, and where haunts the Muse;
Or there where Truth directs the hallow'd way,
Or heav'n-taught Science the dark maze pursues.
And Noise and Folly quit the sombre scene,
When Contemplation's deepest mantle spread,
Bids passion sleep, and judgment reign serene—
Oft shall my toil explore the classic ground
Where never selfish Care, with heavy eye,
Presum'd to pace his dull unfeeling round,
Dead to the generous woe, or liberal joy—
The classic realms of Fancy, ever gay!
Where smile the Graces, and where haunts the Muse;
Or there where Truth directs the hallow'd way,
Or heav'n-taught Science the dark maze pursues.
Nor will I pass with light unheedful tread
The realm, where midst the hoary wrecks of time,
Eventful Histroy hails the mighty dead,
And graves intent the instructive lore sublime.
There too, with solemn Ethics by her side,
I'll rove where Sentiment refines the heart;
Nor shun, with frigid and fastidious pride,
Where sportive Humour wings the glittering dart.
Thus the lov'd scenes where Learning, Genius shine,
Aided by thee, kind gift, will I explore;
And oft the donor hail, in whom combine
The mingled merits of their varied lore.
The realm, where midst the hoary wrecks of time,
Eventful Histroy hails the mighty dead,
And graves intent the instructive lore sublime.
There too, with solemn Ethics by her side,
I'll rove where Sentiment refines the heart;
Nor shun, with frigid and fastidious pride,
Where sportive Humour wings the glittering dart.
Thus the lov'd scenes where Learning, Genius shine,
Aided by thee, kind gift, will I explore;
And oft the donor hail, in whom combine
The mingled merits of their varied lore.
104
O! thou, who blend'st in thy capacious thought,
With these, what these could never teach alone,
The useful lore from life's great drama caught,
To sons of Science but too seldom known;
Fain would digressive Friendship here display
The liberal feelings of thy letter'd soul,
Whose partial care directs my dubious way,
Prompts the bright race, and aids me to the goal.
To infant Genius who a fostering friend,
Can watch the dawning of the faintest ray,
With kindling zeal its influence extend,
And chace the clouds of prejudice away.
With these, what these could never teach alone,
The useful lore from life's great drama caught,
To sons of Science but too seldom known;
Fain would digressive Friendship here display
The liberal feelings of thy letter'd soul,
Whose partial care directs my dubious way,
Prompts the bright race, and aids me to the goal.
To infant Genius who a fostering friend,
Can watch the dawning of the faintest ray,
With kindling zeal its influence extend,
And chace the clouds of prejudice away.
O! should that seeming dawn, you kindly hail,
Prove no false glow-worm's short delusive gleam—
Thro' fortune's low'ring mists at length prevail,
And dart the lustre of no feeble beam;
In Poesy's horizon should it shine
(Fond, flattering thought!) in full meridian glow,
Then shall it boast the fostering care of Cline,
And, Hawes's worth shall unborn Ages know.
From mortal view by hard Misfortune hurl'd,
Deep in oblivion's chaos hid I lay:
He found, and plac'd me in the letter'd world,
There bad my verse a moral light display.
Prove no false glow-worm's short delusive gleam—
Thro' fortune's low'ring mists at length prevail,
And dart the lustre of no feeble beam;
In Poesy's horizon should it shine
(Fond, flattering thought!) in full meridian glow,
Then shall it boast the fostering care of Cline,
And, Hawes's worth shall unborn Ages know.
From mortal view by hard Misfortune hurl'd,
Deep in oblivion's chaos hid I lay:
He found, and plac'd me in the letter'd world,
There bad my verse a moral light display.
Yet still deep shadows o'er my genius hung,
The clouds of error, and the mists of doubt;
Misguided Taste her veil obscuring flung,
Nor Critic-Friendship mark'd the dubious rout.
From quick extinction then you kindly rose
(A heav'n-sent gale) the infant beam to save;
Chas'd, from my clouded course, these envious foes,
And to my rays recruited vigour gave.
Nor shall my mind, while night succeeds to day,
The grateful memory of thy worth resign—
Or Muse forget—while Muse can pour the lay,
Her best, her earliest benefactor—Cline.
The clouds of error, and the mists of doubt;
Misguided Taste her veil obscuring flung,
Nor Critic-Friendship mark'd the dubious rout.
105
(A heav'n-sent gale) the infant beam to save;
Chas'd, from my clouded course, these envious foes,
And to my rays recruited vigour gave.
Nor shall my mind, while night succeeds to day,
The grateful memory of thy worth resign—
Or Muse forget—while Muse can pour the lay,
Her best, her earliest benefactor—Cline.
EXTEMPORE, On receiving a Rose from his Sister.
Why, sever'd from its parent thorn,
Assumes the rose a brighter hue
Than when, impearl'd by dewy morn,
Among surrounding sweets it grew?
Assumes the rose a brighter hue
Than when, impearl'd by dewy morn,
Among surrounding sweets it grew?
Why should it to the feasted sense,
Within a narrow room confin'd,
A richer perfume now dispense,
Than when it breath'd the fresh'ning wind?
Within a narrow room confin'd,
A richer perfume now dispense,
Than when it breath'd the fresh'ning wind?
Fraterna, hear the partial Muse
The mystery's pleasing cause proclaim:
More sweet its breath, more gay its hues,
Since from Affection's hand it came.
The mystery's pleasing cause proclaim:
More sweet its breath, more gay its hues,
Since from Affection's hand it came.
106
The Invitation.
To Stella.
July, 1789.
Say, Stella, wilt thou rove with me,
Far from the cheerful native scene,
From smiling hill and valley flee,
From harvest fields and pasture green?
From these could'st thou contented range
The city's bustling cares to prove?
All, all these tranquil joys exchange—
The sole return thy Damon's love?
Far from the cheerful native scene,
From smiling hill and valley flee,
From harvest fields and pasture green?
From these could'st thou contented range
The city's bustling cares to prove?
All, all these tranquil joys exchange—
The sole return thy Damon's love?
Yet hear me love, ere thou reply,
A youth that scorns deception hear;
No wealth is mine, the heart to buy;
My cot is poor; my fate severe:
Nor may'st thou look for pomp and shew,
Or hope in Pleasure's train to move.
Say, wilt thou, then, these joys forego?—
The sole return thy Damon's love!
A youth that scorns deception hear;
No wealth is mine, the heart to buy;
My cot is poor; my fate severe:
Nor may'st thou look for pomp and shew,
Or hope in Pleasure's train to move.
Say, wilt thou, then, these joys forego?—
The sole return thy Damon's love!
Ah, think, what pain 'twill be to view
The splendid city's gay parade,
The festive dance, the public shew,
The costly dress with pride display'd—
These, these to view; yet ne'er to share—
Ah! would not this thy patience move?
All, all these trials couldst thou bear?—
The sole reward thy Damon's love.
The splendid city's gay parade,
The festive dance, the public shew,
The costly dress with pride display'd—
These, these to view; yet ne'er to share—
Ah! would not this thy patience move?
All, all these trials couldst thou bear?—
The sole reward thy Damon's love.
107
If so, my Stella, come with me,
And quit the cheerful native scene;
From smiling hill and valley flee,
From harvest fields, and pasture green.
And if thou heav'st a parting sigh,
My bosom shall responsive move;
Or shouldst thou weep, my tearful eye
Shall well assure thy Damon's love.
And quit the cheerful native scene;
From smiling hill and valley flee,
From harvest fields, and pasture green.
And if thou heav'st a parting sigh,
My bosom shall responsive move;
Or shouldst thou weep, my tearful eye
Shall well assure thy Damon's love.
Yet, think my Stella, could'st thou bear
To drudge those charms in ceaseless toil
While other forms, less sweetly fair,
In idle pomp around Thee smile.
And when Mischance, or frowning Care
My hasty ruffled temper move—
Say, can'st thou from reproach forbear,
And rest assur'd of Damon's love.
To drudge those charms in ceaseless toil
While other forms, less sweetly fair,
In idle pomp around Thee smile.
And when Mischance, or frowning Care
My hasty ruffled temper move—
Say, can'st thou from reproach forbear,
And rest assur'd of Damon's love.
If so, my Stella, come with me,
Far from these rural scenes to stray:
No youth more blest, more fond shall be,
And none a truer heart display.
For pride or gold let others wed,
In scenes of noisy pomp to move;
While we, by pure affection led,
Will seek for nought but mutual love.
Far from these rural scenes to stray:
No youth more blest, more fond shall be,
And none a truer heart display.
For pride or gold let others wed,
In scenes of noisy pomp to move;
While we, by pure affection led,
Will seek for nought but mutual love.
108
STANZAS written in 1790.
In rural metaphor full oft my song
Hath sung the feverish pains of slighted love;
With artful aim to charm the list'ning throng,
More than the fair one's cruel heart to move.
Hath sung the feverish pains of slighted love;
With artful aim to charm the list'ning throng,
More than the fair one's cruel heart to move.
Though dying sighs might melt through ev'ry strain,
Though tearful woe bedropt each murmur'd line,
Those sighs aspir'd a poet's name to gain,
Those tears impearl'd Ambition's darling shrine.
Though tearful woe bedropt each murmur'd line,
Those sighs aspir'd a poet's name to gain,
Those tears impearl'd Ambition's darling shrine.
'Tis true, with Delia's sense and merit fir'd,
Strong throbb'd my heart to gain the wondrous maid;
Yet fond Ambition the proud wish inspir'd:
And when the substance fled, I woo'd the shade.
Strong throbb'd my heart to gain the wondrous maid;
Yet fond Ambition the proud wish inspir'd:
And when the substance fled, I woo'd the shade.
Nor less Melinda's philosophic mind,
Her fame wide sounded wak'd the glow-worm fire;
'Till what Ambition urg'd, and verse refin'd,
Reflection's beam bad silently expire.
Her fame wide sounded wak'd the glow-worm fire;
'Till what Ambition urg'd, and verse refin'd,
Reflection's beam bad silently expire.
Thus, though full many a radiant fair I sung,
My constant heart hath still remain'd the same;
What name soe'er might falter on my tongue,
Love was the theme, the wish'd-for guerdon—fame!
My constant heart hath still remain'd the same;
What name soe'er might falter on my tongue,
Love was the theme, the wish'd-for guerdon—fame!
109
But now, Ambition's vain pursuit—farewell!
Weary, at length I see the proud deceit;
With plain Simplicity my heart shall dwell,
Nor haughty dreams my social pleasure's cheat.
Weary, at length I see the proud deceit;
With plain Simplicity my heart shall dwell,
Nor haughty dreams my social pleasure's cheat.
And lo! Simplicity herself appears!
In semblance fair, a blooming village maid;
Her tender form my drooping fancy cheers,
Her artless charms my throbbing heart invade.
In semblance fair, a blooming village maid;
Her tender form my drooping fancy cheers,
Her artless charms my throbbing heart invade.
Soft on her youthful lip, a winning smile
(Not such as town-bred Affectation wears)
Speaks the mild temper, free from haughty guile,
And the gay innocence of soul declares.
(Not such as town-bred Affectation wears)
Speaks the mild temper, free from haughty guile,
And the gay innocence of soul declares.
Ye mincing daughters of fantastic Pride!—
Ye glittering flies who pant in Folly's chace!
Votaries of Fashion, lay your airs aside—
Come here, and learn the charms of real grace!
Ye glittering flies who pant in Folly's chace!
Votaries of Fashion, lay your airs aside—
Come here, and learn the charms of real grace!
See, with an ease which Fashion ne'er could teach,
On steady foot she lightly glides along;
While Health's pure glow, which Art may never reach,
And untaught glances charm the gazing throng!
On steady foot she lightly glides along;
While Health's pure glow, which Art may never reach,
And untaught glances charm the gazing throng!
Lo! native modesty her charms pervade,
And with unconscious dignity adorn!
This Pride would imitate—But soon betray'd,
The stiffen'd mimic only claims our scorn.
And with unconscious dignity adorn!
This Pride would imitate—But soon betray'd,
The stiffen'd mimic only claims our scorn.
110
O! sweet Simplicity! dear, rustic fair!
Hence shall my song thy worth, o'er all, approve!
Come—live with me; my pure affections share,
With native Honour, and with artless Love.
Hence shall my song thy worth, o'er all, approve!
Come—live with me; my pure affections share,
With native Honour, and with artless Love.
But ah! these soft desires, this fluttering heart,
Prove the dear form no allegoric shade!
Could fairy dreams such kindling hopes impart,
So charm the senses, and the soul invade?
Prove the dear form no allegoric shade!
Could fairy dreams such kindling hopes impart,
So charm the senses, and the soul invade?
And hark, how Admiration's raptur'd tale
Steals in soft whispers through the rustic throng,
'Tis she—my Stella! pride of Catmose vale,
Joy of each heart—and theme of every song!
Steals in soft whispers through the rustic throng,
'Tis she—my Stella! pride of Catmose vale,
Joy of each heart—and theme of every song!
Yet come Arcadian nymph, as Dryad fair,
Let the pure strain of artless passion move:
Come live with me, my fix'd affections share
With native Honour and with artless Love,
Let the pure strain of artless passion move:
Come live with me, my fix'd affections share
With native Honour and with artless Love,
EPISTLE to MERCUTIO.
July, 1791.
While you, my friend, in London's giddy town,
With jest and song each grave reflection drown,
Flirt with gay belles, besiege fantastic wenches
Who fire Love's glances from their band-box trenches,
Whence, while their banners wave, they dauntless wield
The various arms of Love's triumphant field—
The high-plum'd helm that each fierce bosom awes,
And all the sacred panoply of gauze:
While cares like these your youthful heart detain
Far from the peaceful shade and rustic plain;
Me here, remov'd from scenes of bustling noise,
The town's lewd follies, and its sickly joys,
The Muse perchance, perchance some stronger power
Attracts to loiter in the rural bower.
With jest and song each grave reflection drown,
Flirt with gay belles, besiege fantastic wenches
Who fire Love's glances from their band-box trenches,
Whence, while their banners wave, they dauntless wield
The various arms of Love's triumphant field—
111
And all the sacred panoply of gauze:
While cares like these your youthful heart detain
Far from the peaceful shade and rustic plain;
Me here, remov'd from scenes of bustling noise,
The town's lewd follies, and its sickly joys,
The Muse perchance, perchance some stronger power
Attracts to loiter in the rural bower.
Yet, truth to say, on Catmose' cheerful plains
No pensive gloom, no sombrous silence reigns;
No solemn saws of philosophic pride,
That bid the feelings of the heart subside!
'Tis transport all: the height of festive joy:
And jocund hours on wings of rapture fly.
Here (Iö Hymen!) Love triumphant dwells
With Jest and Glee, and sound of merry bells:
Mirth rules supreme o'er every friendly breast,
And yields reluctant e'en the dues of rest.
And yet, to hail fair Friendship's hallow'd pow'r,
From joys like these I steal a silent hour,
To thee, my lov'd Mercutio! to impart
The new sensations of a social heart:
—But let us here to preface bid adieu,
While I my journey's simple tale pursue.
No pensive gloom, no sombrous silence reigns;
No solemn saws of philosophic pride,
That bid the feelings of the heart subside!
'Tis transport all: the height of festive joy:
And jocund hours on wings of rapture fly.
Here (Iö Hymen!) Love triumphant dwells
With Jest and Glee, and sound of merry bells:
Mirth rules supreme o'er every friendly breast,
And yields reluctant e'en the dues of rest.
And yet, to hail fair Friendship's hallow'd pow'r,
From joys like these I steal a silent hour,
To thee, my lov'd Mercutio! to impart
The new sensations of a social heart:
—But let us here to preface bid adieu,
While I my journey's simple tale pursue.
Releas'd, at length, from Duty's iron chain,
Whose painful links the happier wish restrain,
Full light of heart sets forth the man of rhime,
For cheerful Catmose, Joy's triumphant clime—
Dear Land of Promise! for whose blissful groves
(Haunts of the Virtues! Muses! Graces! Loves!)
Long had I languish'd, thro' my drooping frame
While fond Impatience lanch'd the youthful flame!
And now, no more by angry Fate delay'd,
Eager I fly to clasp the blooming maid.
Tho Stamford's coach the Jewish sabbath kept,
And man and beast in pious malice slept,
My ardent soul disdain'd the feeble bar.
Winds thwart in vain when Love's the pilot star!
Up Highgate-hill, o'er Barnet's fatal heath,
Where factious Warwick breath'd his latest breath;
And hence to Hatfield, once of high renown
For royal domes and heaths of barren brown,
Thro' rain unwet, thro' dangerous roads serene,
With limbs unwearied, and with cheerful mien,
On foot I thrid. The turtle, from the glade,
Trills the sad note that echoes thro' the shade,
While glow-worms oft their amorous fires display,
To light the wandering lover on his way:
Like Hero's torch, that, thro' the midnight hour,
Blaz'd, long-expecting, from the sea-beat tower,
When bold Leander the impetuous tide
Stemm'd with fond arm,—and in the conflict died.
Ah, gentle worm! may no such fate assail
Thy vagrant bridegroom, to the ruthless gale
Who now, perhaps, his little wing displays,
With eye fast anchor'd on thy silver rays.
Swift to thy virgin bosom may the breeze
Bear him secure, and all thy terrors ease.
Whose painful links the happier wish restrain,
Full light of heart sets forth the man of rhime,
For cheerful Catmose, Joy's triumphant clime—
Dear Land of Promise! for whose blissful groves
(Haunts of the Virtues! Muses! Graces! Loves!)
112
While fond Impatience lanch'd the youthful flame!
And now, no more by angry Fate delay'd,
Eager I fly to clasp the blooming maid.
Tho Stamford's coach the Jewish sabbath kept,
And man and beast in pious malice slept,
My ardent soul disdain'd the feeble bar.
Winds thwart in vain when Love's the pilot star!
Up Highgate-hill, o'er Barnet's fatal heath,
Where factious Warwick breath'd his latest breath;
And hence to Hatfield, once of high renown
For royal domes and heaths of barren brown,
Thro' rain unwet, thro' dangerous roads serene,
With limbs unwearied, and with cheerful mien,
On foot I thrid. The turtle, from the glade,
Trills the sad note that echoes thro' the shade,
While glow-worms oft their amorous fires display,
To light the wandering lover on his way:
Like Hero's torch, that, thro' the midnight hour,
Blaz'd, long-expecting, from the sea-beat tower,
When bold Leander the impetuous tide
Stemm'd with fond arm,—and in the conflict died.
Ah, gentle worm! may no such fate assail
Thy vagrant bridegroom, to the ruthless gale
Who now, perhaps, his little wing displays,
With eye fast anchor'd on thy silver rays.
Swift to thy virgin bosom may the breeze
Bear him secure, and all thy terrors ease.
When now, at length, each cheerful hope was flown,
And round, full oft, the anxious eye was thrown,
Intent to seek (by angry Spleen opprest)
Some neighbouring Inn, for hospitable rest—
(Tho, these approach'd—impatient of delay—
I still pursu'd my solitary way!)
Advancing sounds my drooping spirits cheer,
And the loud lash rings music in my ear.
And lo! a coach, with steeds of fiery breed,
Thro Stamford bound towards the banks of Tweed.
No room within, I cheerly mount the roof,
Against the rain, by love, not cloathing, proof:
For, like a modern friend, so Fate decreed!
My good surtout lurk'd in the hour of need
Secure at home, together folded warm,
And left me fenceless to the pelting storm.
But short the storm: and now, with jocund lay
And vacant laughter we deceive the way,
While our stout guard, well soak'd with gin and ale,
Roar'd at my “Paddy Bull,” and “Sheering Tale;”
Then smoak'd his pipe, laid down his threat'ning gun,
And, while the steeds o'er darkling wild heaths run,
Flat on his belly, o'er the coaches eaves,
Snor'd out amain—to fright away the thieves.
And round, full oft, the anxious eye was thrown,
113
Some neighbouring Inn, for hospitable rest—
(Tho, these approach'd—impatient of delay—
I still pursu'd my solitary way!)
Advancing sounds my drooping spirits cheer,
And the loud lash rings music in my ear.
And lo! a coach, with steeds of fiery breed,
Thro Stamford bound towards the banks of Tweed.
No room within, I cheerly mount the roof,
Against the rain, by love, not cloathing, proof:
For, like a modern friend, so Fate decreed!
My good surtout lurk'd in the hour of need
Secure at home, together folded warm,
And left me fenceless to the pelting storm.
But short the storm: and now, with jocund lay
And vacant laughter we deceive the way,
While our stout guard, well soak'd with gin and ale,
Roar'd at my “Paddy Bull,” and “Sheering Tale;”
Then smoak'd his pipe, laid down his threat'ning gun,
And, while the steeds o'er darkling wild heaths run,
Flat on his belly, o'er the coaches eaves,
Snor'd out amain—to fright away the thieves.
But see!—What comet, with disastrous glare,
Thwarts the thick gloom, and frights the midnight air?
What flame infernal, by demoniac breath
Fann'd, on the confines of the lurid heath—
While haggard phantoms, with discordant yell,
Throng round, malign, to brew the fatal spell?
Such, to the fancy vers'd in Tales of Old,
Might seem the spectres whom we now behold:
But, truth to say, nor comet's hideous glare,
Nor flame infernal frights the midnight air;
Nor hags, nor demons, with discordant yell,
Dance round the cauldron o'er the direful spell;
But vagrant Gipsies, on the forest's bound,
Squat round their fire loquacious on the ground.
Thwarts the thick gloom, and frights the midnight air?
What flame infernal, by demoniac breath
Fann'd, on the confines of the lurid heath—
While haggard phantoms, with discordant yell,
Throng round, malign, to brew the fatal spell?
Such, to the fancy vers'd in Tales of Old,
Might seem the spectres whom we now behold:
114
Nor flame infernal frights the midnight air;
Nor hags, nor demons, with discordant yell,
Dance round the cauldron o'er the direful spell;
But vagrant Gipsies, on the forest's bound,
Squat round their fire loquacious on the ground.
Poor harmless vagrants!—harmless when compar'd
With those whom crouds adore, and courts reward—
The price of fell ambition, and the meed
Of each oppressive, every ruthless deed:
Of cities sack'd, of empires overthrown,
And struggling millions doom'd in chains to groan.—
Poor harmless vagrants! whom the reeking knife,
Red with the midnight wanderer's ravish'd life,
Ne'er yet reproach'd; nor crimes of savage die,
That the sweet flumbers of the night defy:
Whose utmost want ne'er owns the stern appeal
To threaten'd fury, or the brandish'd steel:
Still rove secure; and may no beadle's thong
Remorseless drive your wandering groups along!
But still to ye may wood and heath supply
The darling boon of savage Liberty!—
Oft, harmless vagrants! as I lonely stray,
May your rude groups adorn the woody way;
And round your kettles, pendant o'er the fire,
The ruddy smoak and cheerful flame aspire,
While, loitering near, beneath the hawthorn shade,
The tawny lover wooes the willing maid.
With those whom crouds adore, and courts reward—
The price of fell ambition, and the meed
Of each oppressive, every ruthless deed:
Of cities sack'd, of empires overthrown,
And struggling millions doom'd in chains to groan.—
Poor harmless vagrants! whom the reeking knife,
Red with the midnight wanderer's ravish'd life,
Ne'er yet reproach'd; nor crimes of savage die,
That the sweet flumbers of the night defy:
Whose utmost want ne'er owns the stern appeal
To threaten'd fury, or the brandish'd steel:
Still rove secure; and may no beadle's thong
Remorseless drive your wandering groups along!
But still to ye may wood and heath supply
The darling boon of savage Liberty!—
Oft, harmless vagrants! as I lonely stray,
May your rude groups adorn the woody way;
And round your kettles, pendant o'er the fire,
The ruddy smoak and cheerful flame aspire,
While, loitering near, beneath the hawthorn shade,
The tawny lover wooes the willing maid.
Light wakes the Morn, in vail of fleecy clouds,
Whose meek disguise her glowing beauties shrouds:
The lark in air, the linnet on the spray,
All seem to hail me, gratulous, and gay;
The silver Ouze, as clear it winds along,
Murmurs, responsive to the cheerful song,
While its brisk tenants, as they sportive glide,
Leap from the stream, and shew the glossy side.
Thus pleas'd with all that Nature's stores display,
Auspicious omens cheer me on the way;
Till now, at length, in Stamford's ancient town,
Whose gates and spires four neighbouring counties own,
I light; nor idly linger to survey
Her ancient piles, or Wiland's wandering way;
But mount the steed, and fly before the gale,
With eager hopes, to Catmose' fertile vale.
Whose meek disguise her glowing beauties shrouds:
115
All seem to hail me, gratulous, and gay;
The silver Ouze, as clear it winds along,
Murmurs, responsive to the cheerful song,
While its brisk tenants, as they sportive glide,
Leap from the stream, and shew the glossy side.
Thus pleas'd with all that Nature's stores display,
Auspicious omens cheer me on the way;
Till now, at length, in Stamford's ancient town,
Whose gates and spires four neighbouring counties own,
I light; nor idly linger to survey
Her ancient piles, or Wiland's wandering way;
But mount the steed, and fly before the gale,
With eager hopes, to Catmose' fertile vale.
But here the joys that wait what tongue can tell?
What tender transports in my bosom swell!
Nature's best boons my throbbing heart divide—
The tender mother, and the virgin bride.
Oh! thou canst never guess—canst ne'er conceive
What rapturous charms in love-warm'd Beauty live,
When the soft heart, unknown to practis'd guile,
Speaks in the tear, and sparkles in the smile.—
When the long-sever'd maid, whom passion warms,
With joy commutual, rushes to your arms,
Drops the fond head upon your throbbing breast,
And yields to feelings not to be supprest.
'Tis not the thrilling touch of sensual joys
(Which Nature's boon to lowest brutes supplies,)
The couch of Love—the extatic fond embrace
(Tho these from Virtue snatch a higher grace)
That wake (whate'er the vulgar mind may deem)
The richest transports of their pure esteem,
Whose flames, that glow from intellectual fire,
Give soul to Sense, and defecate Desire.
No: their best joys from nobler sources spring—
Joys saints might taste, and raptur'd seraphs sing:
Soul join'd with soul, the sympathizing mind,
Truth undefil'd—and feelings all refin'd;
One spirit guiding—by one will inform'd—
And two fond bosoms by one essence warm'd.
What tender transports in my bosom swell!
Nature's best boons my throbbing heart divide—
The tender mother, and the virgin bride.
Oh! thou canst never guess—canst ne'er conceive
What rapturous charms in love-warm'd Beauty live,
When the soft heart, unknown to practis'd guile,
Speaks in the tear, and sparkles in the smile.—
When the long-sever'd maid, whom passion warms,
With joy commutual, rushes to your arms,
Drops the fond head upon your throbbing breast,
And yields to feelings not to be supprest.
'Tis not the thrilling touch of sensual joys
(Which Nature's boon to lowest brutes supplies,)
The couch of Love—the extatic fond embrace
(Tho these from Virtue snatch a higher grace)
116
The richest transports of their pure esteem,
Whose flames, that glow from intellectual fire,
Give soul to Sense, and defecate Desire.
No: their best joys from nobler sources spring—
Joys saints might taste, and raptur'd seraphs sing:
Soul join'd with soul, the sympathizing mind,
Truth undefil'd—and feelings all refin'd;
One spirit guiding—by one will inform'd—
And two fond bosoms by one essence warm'd.
HARVEY.
An APOSTROPHE.
Blest was the hour—if bliss, indeed, belong
To the high fervours of Poetic song—
Blest was the hour—if 'tis the bliss of youth
To thirst for knowledge, and to pant for truth—
From Academic shades when Harvey came,
Wak'd the first spark, and fann'd the etherial flame:
When, midst Bæotian fogs, his purer ray
Pour'd on mine eye the intellectual day;
And, sole instructor of my youthful mind,
Rous'd the fine thrill extatic and refin'd—
Touch'd the keen nerve, and taught the tear to flow
O'er Shenstone's moral page, and Jessey's artless woe.
But, ah! more blest had been that fairer day
(Why, why are proffer'd blessings spurn'd away?)
When, gay of heart (the Tutor's talk no more)
He proffer'd Friendship at my natal door:—
More blest had been—but their ill-judging fears
Who claim'd obedience from my tender years
(With prudent saws from Traffic's school imbu'd)
To check the cordial fires of youth intrude:
Whence oft my Muse bewails, in pensive strain,
That hearts for Friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
To the high fervours of Poetic song—
Blest was the hour—if 'tis the bliss of youth
To thirst for knowledge, and to pant for truth—
From Academic shades when Harvey came,
Wak'd the first spark, and fann'd the etherial flame:
When, midst Bæotian fogs, his purer ray
Pour'd on mine eye the intellectual day;
And, sole instructor of my youthful mind,
Rous'd the fine thrill extatic and refin'd—
Touch'd the keen nerve, and taught the tear to flow
O'er Shenstone's moral page, and Jessey's artless woe.
But, ah! more blest had been that fairer day
(Why, why are proffer'd blessings spurn'd away?)
117
He proffer'd Friendship at my natal door:—
More blest had been—but their ill-judging fears
Who claim'd obedience from my tender years
(With prudent saws from Traffic's school imbu'd)
To check the cordial fires of youth intrude:
Whence oft my Muse bewails, in pensive strain,
That hearts for Friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
But, oh! that, Harvey! to thy classic ear
Some friendly chance these artless lines might bear!
That she, the Muse (each sordid care aloof)
Who weaves, with feeling hand, the airy woof,
From the wrought web a magic clue might lend,
Once more to guide thee to thy sorrowing friend,
Who loves thy merits, and in memory bears
Thy mirth instructive, and thy friendly cares;
And with this burthen saddens of the strain,
That hearts for Friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
Some friendly chance these artless lines might bear!
That she, the Muse (each sordid care aloof)
Who weaves, with feeling hand, the airy woof,
From the wrought web a magic clue might lend,
Once more to guide thee to thy sorrowing friend,
Who loves thy merits, and in memory bears
Thy mirth instructive, and thy friendly cares;
And with this burthen saddens of the strain,
That hearts for Friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
For ah! what pity—since too truly known
How thin the flowers of genuine bliss are strown,
In this low vale of sorrows and of cares,
How small the harvest, and how throng'd the tares;
Along Life's road, how many a bramble grows,
How many a nettle, for one fragrant rose,—
What pity 'tis that Friendship's boon refin'd
(Pleasure and food of every virtuous mind!)
Should thus be cast with heedless scorn away,
Smile unadmir'd, and unenjoy'd decay!
Come, Harvey, come! nor let me more complain,
That hearts for Friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
How thin the flowers of genuine bliss are strown,
In this low vale of sorrows and of cares,
How small the harvest, and how throng'd the tares;
Along Life's road, how many a bramble grows,
How many a nettle, for one fragrant rose,—
What pity 'tis that Friendship's boon refin'd
(Pleasure and food of every virtuous mind!)
Should thus be cast with heedless scorn away,
Smile unadmir'd, and unenjoy'd decay!
Come, Harvey, come! nor let me more complain,
That hearts for Friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
118
[_]
The above form a sort of series of the juvenile productions of the author; and as such merely they are presented. The volumes in which they appeared have fallen into meritted oblivion; from which few of the articles, it is hoped, will ever be revived. In the wide chasm that separates these from the ensuing poems, the following is introduced, from another pen.
Invocation to Poetry.
By Stella. 1793.
O, Poesy! enlivening pow'r!
Wilt thou accept my humble praise,
(Sweet soother of the lonely hour!)
Nor frown upon my artless lays?
Wilt thou accept my humble praise,
(Sweet soother of the lonely hour!)
Nor frown upon my artless lays?
When care and sorrow fill the breast,
'Tis thou canst pour the healing balm;
Or sooth the anxious soul to rest,
When Wrongs annoy, or Fears alarm.
'Tis thou canst pour the healing balm;
Or sooth the anxious soul to rest,
When Wrongs annoy, or Fears alarm.
'Tis thine to chace the gloomy thought,
The sullen frown, or glance severe:
By thee the indignant eye is taught
To shed the sympathising tear.
The sullen frown, or glance severe:
By thee the indignant eye is taught
To shed the sympathising tear.
May I thy soft, thy so thing pow'r,
In each distressing moment, hail!
Thou, who canst cheer the troubled hour,
When Wisdom's feebler efforts fail.
In each distressing moment, hail!
Thou, who canst cheer the troubled hour,
When Wisdom's feebler efforts fail.
119
STANZAS To Rosa Bella Bianca, on her Birth-day.
Norwich, August 8, 1796.
Blossom of vernal sweetness, lovely Rose!
Once more I tune the long-neglected lay,
To hail the sun, whose favouring beams disclose
Improving beauties with this genial day.
Once more I tune the long-neglected lay,
To hail the sun, whose favouring beams disclose
Improving beauties with this genial day.
Propitious Day! still as the circling year
Renews its course, may'st thou, at each return,
Vail'd in fresh show'rs of op'ning bliss appear,
While Health's gay fires with purer ardour burn!
Renews its course, may'st thou, at each return,
Vail'd in fresh show'rs of op'ning bliss appear,
While Health's gay fires with purer ardour burn!
And may the Loves and Graces still, as now,
Play round the form and flush the artless cheek;
While taste and virtue crown the polish'd brow,
And thro' her eyes the native feelings speak!
Play round the form and flush the artless cheek;
While taste and virtue crown the polish'd brow,
And thro' her eyes the native feelings speak!
The while some youth, by Nature's partial love
Form'd in the mould of Genius, Worth, and Sense,
In early prime, her virgin heart shall move,
And Hymen's torch its brightest ray dispense.
Form'd in the mould of Genius, Worth, and Sense,
In early prime, her virgin heart shall move,
And Hymen's torch its brightest ray dispense.
So shall the charms on her fair form impress'd
Enhance her bliss, and every tender sigh
That heaves the softness of Bianca's breast,
Be but the herald of approaching joy!
Enhance her bliss, and every tender sigh
That heaves the softness of Bianca's breast,
Be but the herald of approaching joy!
120
Thus does, sweet Maid! the strain of Friendship flow,
Gilding thy fate in colours of the morn:
A spring-tide life, unchil'd by wintry woe—
Day without cloud—a rose without a thorn!
Gilding thy fate in colours of the morn:
A spring-tide life, unchil'd by wintry woe—
Day without cloud—a rose without a thorn!
But 'twill not be: some dregs of envious care
In Life's incongruous cup the Fates will fling.
Beauty and Worth the bitter draught must share,
And Wisdom's self shall drink at Sorrow's spring.
In Life's incongruous cup the Fates will fling.
Beauty and Worth the bitter draught must share,
And Wisdom's self shall drink at Sorrow's spring.
Be then each cloud that glooms life's fickle day,
Like transient show'rs that cool the fervid skies;
And from each vernal blossom's doom'd decay,
May Virtue's store, and Wisdom's fruits arise.
Like transient show'rs that cool the fervid skies;
And from each vernal blossom's doom'd decay,
May Virtue's store, and Wisdom's fruits arise.
To Stella in the Country, Dec. 1796.
Joy of my soul! who now, in Catmose' vale,
Cradlest our drooping Infant on thy breast,
And shield'st from Wintry blasts, that would assail
His fading Cheek, ah! may no gale unblest
Shake thy own tender frame, nor anxious care,
For him thou leav'st, reluctant, mar thy rest.
Midst thy long-sever'd Kindred may'st thou share
The season's pastime's, and its joys encrease
With fond remember'd tales of Infancy—
Its artless pranks, and freaks of wayward ire,
When griefs were transient, when the halcyon, Peace,
Spread her gay pinion, and high-bounding Glee
Could every wish to kindling hope inspire.
Cradlest our drooping Infant on thy breast,
And shield'st from Wintry blasts, that would assail
His fading Cheek, ah! may no gale unblest
Shake thy own tender frame, nor anxious care,
For him thou leav'st, reluctant, mar thy rest.
Midst thy long-sever'd Kindred may'st thou share
The season's pastime's, and its joys encrease
With fond remember'd tales of Infancy—
Its artless pranks, and freaks of wayward ire,
When griefs were transient, when the halcyon, Peace,
Spread her gay pinion, and high-bounding Glee
Could every wish to kindling hope inspire.
121
Nor wilt thou, as around the social fire
Thy childhood's first companions throng to hear
The tale, and much relate, and much enquire—
Nor wilt thou then forget (the pleasing tear
Stealing from thy lov'd eye) to name the day
When first thy artless form (remembrance dear!)
Array'd in rustic innocence, and gay
With all the modest graces that adorn
The unadulterate mind, entranc'd my soul,
And fir'd my raptur'd fancy, as I gaz'd.
Ah! be thou ever blest! thrice-happy morn,
Whose imag'd joys can present griefs controul!
Bright tints of memory ne'er to be eras'd!
Ye shall not fade with Fortune's transient day,
But still life's thickening gloom cheer with reflective ray.
Thy childhood's first companions throng to hear
The tale, and much relate, and much enquire—
Nor wilt thou then forget (the pleasing tear
Stealing from thy lov'd eye) to name the day
When first thy artless form (remembrance dear!)
Array'd in rustic innocence, and gay
With all the modest graces that adorn
The unadulterate mind, entranc'd my soul,
And fir'd my raptur'd fancy, as I gaz'd.
Ah! be thou ever blest! thrice-happy morn,
Whose imag'd joys can present griefs controul!
Bright tints of memory ne'er to be eras'd!
Ye shall not fade with Fortune's transient day,
But still life's thickening gloom cheer with reflective ray.
“Here” wilt thou say, “beneath this rustic roof,
“Along those walks, and where yon woodbines twine
“Their winter-widow'd arms, in mournful proof
“That all that's sweet is transient—all that shine
“In vernal hope, must yield to the stern power
“Of bleak Disaster, and each bloom resign
“Wak'd to short rapture in youth's feverish hour:
“Here first we met—here chang'd the mutual glance
“That with mysterious musings thrill'd the heart,
“And wak'd the illusive glow of young desire:
“Pleasing, scarce felt, till Absence from his trance
“Awak'd the slumbering Love, and barb'd his dart,
“And fann'd, with many a sigh, the genial fire:—
“Here first he told his passion, mingling oft
“A melancholy tale, of stars unkind,
“And threat'ning woes, and faithless friends, that scoft
“At undeserv'd misfortunes; there reclin'd,
“His plaintive verse, colour'd with darkest hues,
“His hopeless fortunes, and his wayward mind;
“Deep'ning each shade, and with a moral muse,
“Warning the partial heart he sought to gain.”
Thus wilt thou say, and own, with modest pride,
Thy artless looks that spoke the mutual flame,
When thy young bosom, kindling at the strain,
Confess'd the lover, monitor, and guide—
Most blest, if thy propitious smiles might claim
The power to gild for him life's rugged road
And guide his wounded step to Pleasure's calm abode.
“Along those walks, and where yon woodbines twine
“Their winter-widow'd arms, in mournful proof
“That all that's sweet is transient—all that shine
“In vernal hope, must yield to the stern power
“Of bleak Disaster, and each bloom resign
“Wak'd to short rapture in youth's feverish hour:
“Here first we met—here chang'd the mutual glance
“That with mysterious musings thrill'd the heart,
“And wak'd the illusive glow of young desire:
“Pleasing, scarce felt, till Absence from his trance
“Awak'd the slumbering Love, and barb'd his dart,
“And fann'd, with many a sigh, the genial fire:—
122
“A melancholy tale, of stars unkind,
“And threat'ning woes, and faithless friends, that scoft
“At undeserv'd misfortunes; there reclin'd,
“His plaintive verse, colour'd with darkest hues,
“His hopeless fortunes, and his wayward mind;
“Deep'ning each shade, and with a moral muse,
“Warning the partial heart he sought to gain.”
Thus wilt thou say, and own, with modest pride,
Thy artless looks that spoke the mutual flame,
When thy young bosom, kindling at the strain,
Confess'd the lover, monitor, and guide—
Most blest, if thy propitious smiles might claim
The power to gild for him life's rugged road
And guide his wounded step to Pleasure's calm abode.
Yes, Stella, thus, amid the cordial throng,
Wilt thou our days of early love renew:
Days of delight! which memory would prolong—
To passion sacred, and to nature true.
Wilt thou our days of early love renew:
Days of delight! which memory would prolong—
To passion sacred, and to nature true.
But other days—another scene succeeds,
And private bliss is lost in public woes:
O'er prostrate rights the patriot bosom bleeds,
And Love's soft flame, for Ate's torch foregoes.
And private bliss is lost in public woes:
O'er prostrate rights the patriot bosom bleeds,
And Love's soft flame, for Ate's torch foregoes.
Me, first arous'd by Afric's clanking chain,
Then urg'd by Gallia's struggle, to enquire
What woes, what wrongs Man's trampled race sustain,
Stern Duty bids to strike the bolder lyre.
Then urg'd by Gallia's struggle, to enquire
What woes, what wrongs Man's trampled race sustain,
Stern Duty bids to strike the bolder lyre.
123
Harsh sounds the note in Power's infatuate ear;
Yet Man still groans; and claims a louder string:
The heart's torn fibres feel the call severe!—
The heart's best pleasures fly, with trembling wing.
Yet Man still groans; and claims a louder string:
The heart's torn fibres feel the call severe!—
The heart's best pleasures fly, with trembling wing.
Ah! most unblest, whom thoughts like these inspire!
His eyes no more shall tranquil slumbers close;
His proudest joy—a feverish, transient fire!
His fairest hope—a catalogue of woes!
His eyes no more shall tranquil slumbers close;
His proudest joy—a feverish, transient fire!
His fairest hope—a catalogue of woes!
Him lasting hatreds, short-liv'd friendships wait,
Envy's foul breath, and Slander's forked tongue.
Whom most he serves, shall darken most his fate,
And whom he shelters, load with heaviest wrong.
Envy's foul breath, and Slander's forked tongue.
Whom most he serves, shall darken most his fate,
And whom he shelters, load with heaviest wrong.
Imperious Duty! rigid, Spartan guide!
Strew, strew, at times, a rose among thy thorns;
Or steel each votive breast with stoic pride,
'Till from the gloom resurgent Virtue dawns.
[OMITTED]
Strew, strew, at times, a rose among thy thorns;
Or steel each votive breast with stoic pride,
'Till from the gloom resurgent Virtue dawns.
[OMITTED]
The Tartan Pladdie.
Feb. 4, 1797.
In Ossian's Hall, the bard of Yore
Would charm the Highland lass and laddie,
With tuneful harp, and songs in store
Of feats perform'd in Tartan Pladdie.
O! the graceful Tartan Pladdie,
The pride of Highland lass and laddie,
While verse can charm,/Or beauty warm,
We'll ne'er forget the Tartan Pladdie.
Would charm the Highland lass and laddie,
With tuneful harp, and songs in store
Of feats perform'd in Tartan Pladdie.
O! the graceful Tartan Pladdie,
The pride of Highland lass and laddie,
While verse can charm,/Or beauty warm,
We'll ne'er forget the Tartan Pladdie.
124
Then Love was free from sordid guile,
And Freedom warm'd each gallant laddie,
And worth alone could win the smile
Of bonny lass in Tartan Pladdie.
O! the graceful Tartan Pladdie,
That deck'd, of Yore, the lass and laddie!
So brave—so rare!—/So kind—so fair!
Was youth and lass in Tartan Pladdie.
And Freedom warm'd each gallant laddie,
And worth alone could win the smile
Of bonny lass in Tartan Pladdie.
O! the graceful Tartan Pladdie,
That deck'd, of Yore, the lass and laddie!
So brave—so rare!—/So kind—so fair!
Was youth and lass in Tartan Pladdie.
But not on days like these I call,
Nor sing of Highland lass or laddie;
High-bosom'd maid in Ossian's Hall,
Or antique chief in Tartan Pladdie.
But O! the modern Tartan Pladdie,
For Sara wove by skilful laddie!
My verse essays/To sing the praise
Of Sara, in her Tartan Pladdie.—
Nor sing of Highland lass or laddie;
High-bosom'd maid in Ossian's Hall,
Or antique chief in Tartan Pladdie.
But O! the modern Tartan Pladdie,
For Sara wove by skilful laddie!
My verse essays/To sing the praise
Of Sara, in her Tartan Pladdie.—
Soft is her air: no sweeter smile
E'er won the heart of faithful laddie,
Nor bosom more estrang'd to guile
Was ever deck'd with Tartan Pladdie.
O! the modern Tartan Pladdie!
That wins the heart of every laddie:
The proudest fair/In Fashion's glare,
Might envy Sara in her Pladdie.
E'er won the heart of faithful laddie,
Nor bosom more estrang'd to guile
Was ever deck'd with Tartan Pladdie.
O! the modern Tartan Pladdie!
That wins the heart of every laddie:
The proudest fair/In Fashion's glare,
Might envy Sara in her Pladdie.
But should I sing her charms of mind,
My verse would fire each list'ning Laddie,
Her temper gentle, free, and kind,
And gayer than her Tartan Pladdie.
O! the lass in Tartan Pladdie!
How blest shall be that favour'd laddie,
The guileless youth/Whose fervent Truth
Shall win the lass in Tartan Pladdie.
My verse would fire each list'ning Laddie,
Her temper gentle, free, and kind,
And gayer than her Tartan Pladdie.
125
How blest shall be that favour'd laddie,
The guileless youth/Whose fervent Truth
Shall win the lass in Tartan Pladdie.
Thus do the Loves and Graces blend
In her, who wears the Tartan Pladdie,
In every nymph she finds a friend,
A lover in each youthful laddie.
O the graceful Tartan Pladdie!
That wins, alike, the lass and laddie!
Long may the fair/Each blessing share,
And charm us with her Tartan Pladdie!
In her, who wears the Tartan Pladdie,
In every nymph she finds a friend,
A lover in each youthful laddie.
O the graceful Tartan Pladdie!
That wins, alike, the lass and laddie!
Long may the fair/Each blessing share,
And charm us with her Tartan Pladdie!
For me, whose wedded love is plight
To her, far off, who loves her laddie,
In Stella's charms I still delight,
Tho never deck'd in Tartan Pladdie!
Yet—O! the lass in Tartan Pladdie!
My verse shall tell to every laddie,
In friendly lays,/The peerless praise
Of Sara in her Tartan Pladdie.
To her, far off, who loves her laddie,
In Stella's charms I still delight,
Tho never deck'd in Tartan Pladdie!
Yet—O! the lass in Tartan Pladdie!
My verse shall tell to every laddie,
In friendly lays,/The peerless praise
Of Sara in her Tartan Pladdie.
Yes, Stella! thine's the sigh of love—
And well thou know'st thy faithful laddie;
But friendship's flame thou'lt still approve
For Sara in her Tartan Pladdie.
O! the lass in Tartan Pladdie!
Soon may she bless some worthy laddie,
While I still prove/A brother's love
For Sara in her Tartan Pladdie.
And well thou know'st thy faithful laddie;
But friendship's flame thou'lt still approve
For Sara in her Tartan Pladdie.
O! the lass in Tartan Pladdie!
Soon may she bless some worthy laddie,
While I still prove/A brother's love
For Sara in her Tartan Pladdie.
126
To Stella.
Feb. 8, 1797.
When kind Hope, at seasons smiling,
Tells of changing fortune nigh—
When gay Fancy, sweetly guiling,
Whispers of approaching joy,
Then my thoughts, by Love directed,
To my Stella's bosom flee;
And the flattering boon expected,
Hopes its worth from pleasing thee.
Tells of changing fortune nigh—
When gay Fancy, sweetly guiling,
Whispers of approaching joy,
Then my thoughts, by Love directed,
To my Stella's bosom flee;
And the flattering boon expected,
Hopes its worth from pleasing thee.
Or when Fortune, sadly glooming,
Threats with storms of hovering woes,
Fancy still, thy form assuming,
Grief's increasing pang bestows.
Every rude assault of anguish
This undaunted breast can bear;
But shall Stella droop and languish?—
Every shaft can wound me there!
Threats with storms of hovering woes,
Fancy still, thy form assuming,
Grief's increasing pang bestows.
Every rude assault of anguish
This undaunted breast can bear;
But shall Stella droop and languish?—
Every shaft can wound me there!
Lines, written at Bridgewater, in Somersetshire, on the 27th of July, 1797; during a long excursion, in quest of a peaceful retreat.
Day of my double birth! who gave me first
To breathe Life's troubled air; and, kindlier far
Gave all that makes Life welcome—gave me her
Who now, far distant, sheds, perchance, the tear
In pensive solitude, and chides the hours
That keep her truant wanderer from her arms—
Her's and our smiling babes:—Eventful Day!
How shall I greet thee now, at thy return,
So often mark'd with sadness? Art thou, say,
Once more arriv'd a harbinger of woes,
Precursor of a Year of miseries,
Of storms and persecutions, of the pangs
Of disappointed hope, and keen regrets,
Wrung from the bosom by a sordid World
That kindness pays with hatred, and returns
Evil for good?—a World most scorpion-like,
That stings what warms it, and the ardent glow
Of blest Benevolence too oft transmutes
To sullen gloom and sour misanthropy,
Wounding, with venom'd tooth, the fostering breast
That her milk turns to gall. Or art thou come,
In most unwonted guise, O, fateful Day!
With cheering prophecy of kindlier times?—
Of hours of sweet retirement, tranquil joys
Of friendship, and of love—of studious ease,
Of philosophic thought—poetic dreams
In dell romantic, or by bubbling brook,
High wood, or rocky shore; where Fancy's train,
Solemn or gay, shall in the sunbeam sport,
Or murmur in the gloom, peopling earth, air,
Ocean, and woodland haunt,—mountain, and cave,
With wildest phantazies:—wild, but not vain,
For, but for dreams like these, Meonides
Had never shook the soul with epic song,
Nor Milton, slumbering underneath the shade
Of fancy-haunted oak, heard the loud strain
Of heavenly minstrelsey:—nor yet had he,
Shakespear (in praise of whom smooth Avon still
Flows eloquent to every Briton's ear,)
Pierc'd the dark womb of Nature, with keen glance,
Tracing the embrio Passions ere their birth,
And every mystic movement of the soul
Baring to public ken.—O, Bards! to whom
Youth owes its emulation, Age the bliss
Of many a wintry evening, dull and sad,
But for your cheering aid!—Ye from whose strains,
As from a font of Inspiration, oft
The quickning mind, else stagnant, learns to flow
In tides of generous ardour, scattering wide
Smiling fertility, fresh fruits and flowers
Of intellectual worth!—O! might my soul
Henceforth with yours hold converse, in the scenes
Where Nature cherishes Poetic-Thought,
Best cradled in the solitary haunts
Where bustling Cares intrude not, nor the throng
Of cities, or of courts. Yet not for aye
In hermit-like seclusion would I dwell
(My soul estranging from my brother Man)
Forgetful and forgotten: rather oft,
With some few minds congenial, let me stray
Along the Muses' haunts, where converse, meet
For intellectual beings, may arouse
The soul's sublimer energies, or wing
The fleeting Time most cheerily—The Time
Which, tho swift-fleeting, scatters, as he flies,
Seeds of delight, that, like the furrow'd grain,
Strew'd by the farmer, as he onward stalks
Over his well-plough'd acres, shall produce,
In happy season, its abundant fruits.
To breathe Life's troubled air; and, kindlier far
Gave all that makes Life welcome—gave me her
Who now, far distant, sheds, perchance, the tear
In pensive solitude, and chides the hours
127
Her's and our smiling babes:—Eventful Day!
How shall I greet thee now, at thy return,
So often mark'd with sadness? Art thou, say,
Once more arriv'd a harbinger of woes,
Precursor of a Year of miseries,
Of storms and persecutions, of the pangs
Of disappointed hope, and keen regrets,
Wrung from the bosom by a sordid World
That kindness pays with hatred, and returns
Evil for good?—a World most scorpion-like,
That stings what warms it, and the ardent glow
Of blest Benevolence too oft transmutes
To sullen gloom and sour misanthropy,
Wounding, with venom'd tooth, the fostering breast
That her milk turns to gall. Or art thou come,
In most unwonted guise, O, fateful Day!
With cheering prophecy of kindlier times?—
Of hours of sweet retirement, tranquil joys
Of friendship, and of love—of studious ease,
Of philosophic thought—poetic dreams
In dell romantic, or by bubbling brook,
High wood, or rocky shore; where Fancy's train,
Solemn or gay, shall in the sunbeam sport,
Or murmur in the gloom, peopling earth, air,
Ocean, and woodland haunt,—mountain, and cave,
With wildest phantazies:—wild, but not vain,
For, but for dreams like these, Meonides
Had never shook the soul with epic song,
Nor Milton, slumbering underneath the shade
128
Of heavenly minstrelsey:—nor yet had he,
Shakespear (in praise of whom smooth Avon still
Flows eloquent to every Briton's ear,)
Pierc'd the dark womb of Nature, with keen glance,
Tracing the embrio Passions ere their birth,
And every mystic movement of the soul
Baring to public ken.—O, Bards! to whom
Youth owes its emulation, Age the bliss
Of many a wintry evening, dull and sad,
But for your cheering aid!—Ye from whose strains,
As from a font of Inspiration, oft
The quickning mind, else stagnant, learns to flow
In tides of generous ardour, scattering wide
Smiling fertility, fresh fruits and flowers
Of intellectual worth!—O! might my soul
Henceforth with yours hold converse, in the scenes
Where Nature cherishes Poetic-Thought,
Best cradled in the solitary haunts
Where bustling Cares intrude not, nor the throng
Of cities, or of courts. Yet not for aye
In hermit-like seclusion would I dwell
(My soul estranging from my brother Man)
Forgetful and forgotten: rather oft,
With some few minds congenial, let me stray
Along the Muses' haunts, where converse, meet
For intellectual beings, may arouse
The soul's sublimer energies, or wing
The fleeting Time most cheerily—The Time
Which, tho swift-fleeting, scatters, as he flies,
129
Strew'd by the farmer, as he onward stalks
Over his well-plough'd acres, shall produce,
In happy season, its abundant fruits.
Day of my double Birth! if such the Year
Thou usherest in, most welcome!—for my soul
Is sick of public turmoil—ah, most sick
Of the vain effort to redeem a Race
Enslav'd, because degenerate; lost to Hope,
Because to Virtue lost—wrapp'd up in Self,
In sordid avarice, luxurious pomp,
And profligate intemperance—a Race
Fierce without courage; abject, and yet proud;
And most licentious, tho' most far from free.
Thou usherest in, most welcome!—for my soul
Is sick of public turmoil—ah, most sick
Of the vain effort to redeem a Race
Enslav'd, because degenerate; lost to Hope,
Because to Virtue lost—wrapp'd up in Self,
In sordid avarice, luxurious pomp,
And profligate intemperance—a Race
Fierce without courage; abject, and yet proud;
And most licentious, tho' most far from free.
Ah! let me then, far from the strifeful scenes
Of public life (where Reason's warning voice
Is heard no longer, and the trump of Truth
Who blows but wakes The Ruffian Crew of Power
To deeds of maddest anarchy and blood)
Ah! let me, far in some sequester'd dell,
Build my low cot; most happy might it prove,
My Samuel! near to thine, that I might oft
Share thy sweet converse, best-belov'd of friends!—
Long-lov'd ere known: for kindred sympathies
Link'd, tho far distant, our congenial souls.
Of public life (where Reason's warning voice
Is heard no longer, and the trump of Truth
Who blows but wakes The Ruffian Crew of Power
To deeds of maddest anarchy and blood)
Ah! let me, far in some sequester'd dell,
Build my low cot; most happy might it prove,
My Samuel! near to thine, that I might oft
Share thy sweet converse, best-belov'd of friends!—
Long-lov'd ere known: for kindred sympathies
Link'd, tho far distant, our congenial souls.
Ah! 'twould be sweet, beneath the neighb'ring thatch,
In philosophic amity to dwell,
Inditing moral verse, or tale, or theme,
Gay or instructive; and it would be sweet,
With kindly interchange of mutual aid,
To delve our little garden plots, the while
Sweet converse flow'd, suspending oft the arm
And half-driven spade, while, eager, one propounds,
And listens one, weighing each pregnant word,
And pondering fit reply, that may untwist
The knotty point—perchance, of import high—
Of Moral Truth, of Causes Infinite,
Creating Power! or Uncreated Worlds
Eternal and uncaus'd! or whatsoe'er,
Of Metaphysic, or of Ethic lore,
The mind, with curious subtilty, pursues—
Agreeing, or dissenting—sweet alike,
When wisdom, and not victory, the end.
And 'twould be sweet, my Samuel, ah! most sweet
To see our little infants stretch their limbs
In gambols unrestrain'd, and early learn
Practical love, and, Wisdom's noblest lore,
Fraternal kindliness; while rosiest health,
Bloom'd on their sun-burnt cheeks. And 'twould be sweet,
When what to toil was due, to study what,
And literary effort, had been paid,
Alternate, in each other's bower to fit,
In summer's genial season; or, when, bleak,
The wintry blast had stripp'd the leafy shade,
Around the blazing hearth, social and gay,
To share our frugal viands, and the bowl
Sparkling with home-brew'd beverage:—by our sides
Thy Sara, and my Susan, and, perchance,
Allfoxden's musing tenant, and the maid
Of ardent eye, who, with fraternal love,
Sweetens his solitude. With these should join
Arcadian Pool, swain of a happier age,
When Wisdom and Refinement lov'd to dwell
With Rustic Plainness, and the pastoral vale
Was vocal to the melodies of verse—
Echoing sweet minstrelsey. With such, my friend!—
With such how pleasant to unbend awhile,
Winging the idle hour with song, or tale,
Pun, or quaint joke, or converse, such as fits
Minds gay, but innocent: and we would laugh—
(Unless, perchance, pity's more kindly tear
Check the obstreperous mirth) at such who waste
Life's precious hours in the delusive chace
Of wealth and worldly gewgaws, and contend
For honours emptier than the hollow voice
That rings in Echo's cave; and which, like that,
Exists but in the babbling of a world
Creating its own wonder. Wiselier we,
To intellectual joys will thus devote
Our fleeting years; mingling Arcadian sports
With healthful industry. O, it would be
A Golden Age reviv'd!—Nor would we lack
Woodnymph, or Naïd, to complete the group
Of classic fable; for, in happy time,
Sylvanus, Chester, in each hand should bring
The sister nymphs, Julia of radiant eye
And stately tread, the Dryad of the groves;
And she, of softer mien, the meek-ey'd maid,
Pensively sweet! whom Fancy well might deem
The Fairy of the brooks that bubble round.
In philosophic amity to dwell,
Inditing moral verse, or tale, or theme,
Gay or instructive; and it would be sweet,
With kindly interchange of mutual aid,
130
Sweet converse flow'd, suspending oft the arm
And half-driven spade, while, eager, one propounds,
And listens one, weighing each pregnant word,
And pondering fit reply, that may untwist
The knotty point—perchance, of import high—
Of Moral Truth, of Causes Infinite,
Creating Power! or Uncreated Worlds
Eternal and uncaus'd! or whatsoe'er,
Of Metaphysic, or of Ethic lore,
The mind, with curious subtilty, pursues—
Agreeing, or dissenting—sweet alike,
When wisdom, and not victory, the end.
And 'twould be sweet, my Samuel, ah! most sweet
To see our little infants stretch their limbs
In gambols unrestrain'd, and early learn
Practical love, and, Wisdom's noblest lore,
Fraternal kindliness; while rosiest health,
Bloom'd on their sun-burnt cheeks. And 'twould be sweet,
When what to toil was due, to study what,
And literary effort, had been paid,
Alternate, in each other's bower to fit,
In summer's genial season; or, when, bleak,
The wintry blast had stripp'd the leafy shade,
Around the blazing hearth, social and gay,
To share our frugal viands, and the bowl
Sparkling with home-brew'd beverage:—by our sides
Thy Sara, and my Susan, and, perchance,
Allfoxden's musing tenant, and the maid
Of ardent eye, who, with fraternal love,
131
Arcadian Pool, swain of a happier age,
When Wisdom and Refinement lov'd to dwell
With Rustic Plainness, and the pastoral vale
Was vocal to the melodies of verse—
Echoing sweet minstrelsey. With such, my friend!—
With such how pleasant to unbend awhile,
Winging the idle hour with song, or tale,
Pun, or quaint joke, or converse, such as fits
Minds gay, but innocent: and we would laugh—
(Unless, perchance, pity's more kindly tear
Check the obstreperous mirth) at such who waste
Life's precious hours in the delusive chace
Of wealth and worldly gewgaws, and contend
For honours emptier than the hollow voice
That rings in Echo's cave; and which, like that,
Exists but in the babbling of a world
Creating its own wonder. Wiselier we,
To intellectual joys will thus devote
Our fleeting years; mingling Arcadian sports
With healthful industry. O, it would be
A Golden Age reviv'd!—Nor would we lack
Woodnymph, or Naïd, to complete the group
Of classic fable; for, in happy time,
Sylvanus, Chester, in each hand should bring
The sister nymphs, Julia of radiant eye
And stately tread, the Dryad of the groves;
And she, of softer mien, the meek-ey'd maid,
Pensively sweet! whom Fancy well might deem
The Fairy of the brooks that bubble round.
132
Ah! fateful Day! what marvel if my soul
Receive thy visits awfully? and fain
With Fancy's glowing characters would trace
Thy yet to me blank legend?—painting most
What most my bosom yearns for—Friendship's joys,
And social happiness, and tranquil hours
Of studious indolence; or, sweeter far!
The high poetic rapture, that becalms
Even while it agitates?—Ah, fateful Day!
If that the Year thou lead'st (as fain my soul
Would augur, from some hours of joy late past,
And friendship's unexpected)—if the Year
Thou usherest in, has aught, perchance, in store
To realize this vision, welcome most—
Ah most, most welcome! for my soul, at peace,
Shall to it's native pleasures then return,
And in my Susan's arms, each pang forgot,
Nightly will I repose—yielding my soul
(Unshar'd, unharrass'd, by a thankless world)
To the domestic virtues, calm, and sweet,
Of husband and of father—to the joys
Of relative affiance;—its mild cares
And stingless extasies; while gentlest Sleep,
Unwoo'd, uncall'd, on the soft pillow waits
Of envyless Obscurity.—Ah, come!
Hours of long-wish'd tranquility! ah come:
Snatch from my couch the thorn of anxious thought,
That I may taste the joys my soul best loves,
And find, once more, “that Being is a Bliss!”
Receive thy visits awfully? and fain
With Fancy's glowing characters would trace
Thy yet to me blank legend?—painting most
What most my bosom yearns for—Friendship's joys,
And social happiness, and tranquil hours
Of studious indolence; or, sweeter far!
The high poetic rapture, that becalms
Even while it agitates?—Ah, fateful Day!
If that the Year thou lead'st (as fain my soul
Would augur, from some hours of joy late past,
And friendship's unexpected)—if the Year
Thou usherest in, has aught, perchance, in store
To realize this vision, welcome most—
Ah most, most welcome! for my soul, at peace,
Shall to it's native pleasures then return,
And in my Susan's arms, each pang forgot,
Nightly will I repose—yielding my soul
(Unshar'd, unharrass'd, by a thankless world)
To the domestic virtues, calm, and sweet,
Of husband and of father—to the joys
Of relative affiance;—its mild cares
And stingless extasies; while gentlest Sleep,
Unwoo'd, uncall'd, on the soft pillow waits
Of envyless Obscurity.—Ah, come!
Hours of long-wish'd tranquility! ah come:
Snatch from my couch the thorn of anxious thought,
That I may taste the joys my soul best loves,
And find, once more, “that Being is a Bliss!”
133
The Farewell.
Written at the request of an intelligent and beautiful young lady, with whom the Author happened to meet, at Uley, in Glocestershire. Aug. 10, 1797.
A wanderer from my distant home,
In quest of Wisdom's various lore,
Awhile, with devious steps, I roam,
And Pleasure's softer scenes explore.
In Uley's sweet sequester'd shades
I seek the fleeting form of Joy,
Where Strife, nor busy Pomp pervades,
Nor envious Cares the soul annoy.
In quest of Wisdom's various lore,
Awhile, with devious steps, I roam,
And Pleasure's softer scenes explore.
In Uley's sweet sequester'd shades
I seek the fleeting form of Joy,
Where Strife, nor busy Pomp pervades,
Nor envious Cares the soul annoy.
“To Lloyd's delightful bower repair!
“Perchance the Nymph may there reside.”
Thanks whispering Sylph.—I found her there,
In Youth's soft bloom, and Beauty's pride.
A wreath of flowers, of roseate glow,
The tresses of her brow confin'd;
While, loosely, o'er her robe of snow,
The playful ringlets flow'd behind.
“Perchance the Nymph may there reside.”
Thanks whispering Sylph.—I found her there,
In Youth's soft bloom, and Beauty's pride.
A wreath of flowers, of roseate glow,
The tresses of her brow confin'd;
While, loosely, o'er her robe of snow,
The playful ringlets flow'd behind.
In modest guise, that robe behold
Enshrine from view each softer grace.
Yet may the eye, thro every fold,
The magic curves of beauty trace.
What more could partial Heaven dispense
To such a shape and such an air?
“The charms of temper—genius—sense!”—
Sense, genius, temper—all are there.
Enshrine from view each softer grace.
Yet may the eye, thro every fold,
The magic curves of beauty trace.
What more could partial Heaven dispense
To such a shape and such an air?
“The charms of temper—genius—sense!”—
Sense, genius, temper—all are there.
134
Pleas'd with the Vision—rarely seen,
I gaz'd the happy hours away;
Till Twilight, from her thickening skreen,
Reproachful chid the fond delay.
The Bird of Night (too sadly wise!)
Thus seem'd, in harshest notes, to sing—
“Remember Man, that Pleasure flies:
“She rides on Time's impetuous wing:
I gaz'd the happy hours away;
Till Twilight, from her thickening skreen,
Reproachful chid the fond delay.
The Bird of Night (too sadly wise!)
Thus seem'd, in harshest notes, to sing—
“Remember Man, that Pleasure flies:
“She rides on Time's impetuous wing:
“Or if, awhile, her destin'd flight
“The partial vision would delay,
“Stern Duty, with relentless might,
“The hapless votary tears away.”—
Ah! Bird of Night (too sadly wise!)
I own thy envious warning true;
For Duty calls, and Pleasure flies:—
O! blooming form of Joy, adieu!
“The partial vision would delay,
“Stern Duty, with relentless might,
“The hapless votary tears away.”—
Ah! Bird of Night (too sadly wise!)
I own thy envious warning true;
For Duty calls, and Pleasure flies:—
O! blooming form of Joy, adieu!
“Yet pause,” she said, “or e'er thou part,
“Invoke the Muse, and tune the lay;
“If Uley's shades have sooth'd the heart,
“With grateful verse the boon repay.”
Ah! hard request. A bliss so pure,
What hasty verse can fitly tell?
What can it—but the nymph assure,
“Remembrance shall on Uley dwel?”
“Invoke the Muse, and tune the lay;
“If Uley's shades have sooth'd the heart,
“With grateful verse the boon repay.”
Ah! hard request. A bliss so pure,
What hasty verse can fitly tell?
What can it—but the nymph assure,
“Remembrance shall on Uley dwel?”
Yes, tho thro' adverse regions bound,
Tho Pleasures court, or Cares annoy,
I'll still remember where I found
The blooming form of fleeting Joy:
And, in her distant home reclin'd,
I'll sometimes hope the gentle maid,
With pleas'd regret, will call to mind,
The wandering Bard in Uley's shade.
Tho Pleasures court, or Cares annoy,
I'll still remember where I found
The blooming form of fleeting Joy:
135
I'll sometimes hope the gentle maid,
With pleas'd regret, will call to mind,
The wandering Bard in Uley's shade.
The Reply.
“Fortune waft you on your way!”
Sighs the Nymph, in sweet adieu—
“Fortune waft you on your way,
“Pleasure lead, and smiles pursue.
“To the partner of your heart,
“Speed ye on the wings of Joy:
“Blest the partner of your heart!
“Sorrow ne'er your peace annoy.
Sighs the Nymph, in sweet adieu—
“Fortune waft you on your way,
“Pleasure lead, and smiles pursue.
“To the partner of your heart,
“Speed ye on the wings of Joy:
“Blest the partner of your heart!
“Sorrow ne'er your peace annoy.
“Fortune waft you on your way!—
“Till the gentle fair you see.
“Love shall crown you—far away:
“Yet, may Friendship think on me.
“Thy summer bower, thy wintry fire
“May the social pleasures throng:—
“Summer's bower, and winter's fire
“Cheer'd alike with tuneful song.
“Till the gentle fair you see.
“Love shall crown you—far away:
“Yet, may Friendship think on me.
“Thy summer bower, thy wintry fire
“May the social pleasures throng:—
“Summer's bower, and winter's fire
“Cheer'd alike with tuneful song.
“Fortune waft you on your way!”
Sighs the nymph—but sighs in vain.
Fortune turns another way:
Verse and Beauty plead in vain.
Sighs the nymph—but sighs in vain.
Fortune turns another way:
Verse and Beauty plead in vain.
136
On leaving the Bottoms of Glocestershire; where the Author had been entertained by several families with great hospitality.
Aug. 12, 1797.
Regions of hospitality! dear scenes
Where I have loiter'd cheerily, and quaft
The nectar'd bowl of Friendship, or have rov'd
The live-long summer's day, in pensive thought,
Or kindlier converse—Ah! delightful vales!
O'er which the hand of partial Nature sheds
Each wilder grace, while Culture and the Arts
Of civiliz'd improvement spread around
Their gay varieties, enlivening all
With social decoration—fare ye well—
For I must leave ye, pleasant haunts! brakes, bourns,
And populous hill, and dale, and pendant woods;
And you, meandering streams, and you, ye cots
And hamlets, that, with many a whiten'd front,
Sprinkle the woody steep; or lowlier stoop,
Thronging, gregarious, round the rustic spire,
Warm in the quiet glen. Ah! with what joy
(Scenes that I leave reluctant!) with what joy
Have I beheld ye, at the varying hour,
Dawn, or the noon of night, or mid the glare
Of Phœbus' sultry season, when your groves
Woo'd to sequester'd musings. Thence, how sweet
(From your romantic scenes, and sylvan haunts—
Tho sylvan, yet not solitary) to hear
The distant hum, that, as from nectar'd hives
137
Came whispering on the breeze: for not to gloom
Lethargic, or the hermit's inward prayer
Of visionary silence, are your haunts
(As erst, perchance, in Superstition's day)
Consign'd, and pious inutility—
Once holy deem'd. Here holier Industry,
Even from the dawning to the western ray,
And oft by midnight taper, patient, plies
Her task assiduous; and the day with songs,
The night with many an earth-star, far descried
By the lone traveller, cheers amidst her toil.
Nor cheerless she; nor to her numerous race—
If semblance may be trusted—(as too oft)
Like a penurious step-dame, scantily
'The appointed task rewarding. By her side
Sits lowly Comfort, in her decent stole
(If homely, yet commodious,) dealing round
The well-earn'd bread of sustenance; while shout
The circling infants; their sleek ruddy cheeks,
Like the sunn'd side of brown Pomona's fruit,
Gladdening the kindred eye. Ah! 'tis a scene
That wakes to social rapture. Nor, as yet,
Towers from each peaceful dell the unwieldy pride
Of Factory over-grown; where Opulence,
Dispeopling the neat cottage, crowds his walls
(Made pestilent by congregated lungs,
And lewd association) with a race
Of infant slaves, brok'n timely to the yoke
Of unremitting Drudgery—no more
138
Of matronly instruction, interspers'd—
Cheering, or sage; nor by the sports relax'd
(To such how needful!) of their unknit prime
Once deem'd the lawful charter. Little here
Intrude such pompous mansions—better miss'd.
Therefore I love thee, Chalford, and ye vales
Of Stroud, irriguous: but still more I love
For hospitable pleasures here enjoy'd,
And cordial intercourse. Yet must I leave
Your social haunts—for not my unblest feet
Yet may I rest, or my long wanderings close,
Tho weary'd: but thro' many an untried scene
(Perhaps from this how differing!) shape my way,
Beneath my weight of sorrows; where to find
Some nook obscure, that I may lay them down,
And lap me in Oblivion. Once again,
Then, once again, and my full heart no more
Lingering shall falter—once again, farewell—
Dear scenes of hospitality and joy!—
A long farewell:—for I, perchance, no more,
Lonely, or mingling with the cordial group
That made your haunts thrice lovely, hence shall trace
Your wild varieties. Yet in my heart
Shall live your scenes endear'd; and when, at eve,
With her, my soul's lov'd partner, by the light
Of blazing fuel, o'er the wint'ry hearth,
Of joys past by, and the remember'd smiles
Of friendship, still more cheering, I renew
The treasur'd images, ah! then the names
139
And hospitable Partridge, not unmark'd
With lengthen'd emphasis, shall frequent dwell:
And theirs, the cordial youths, who to each scene
Of curious observation led my steps
Inquisitive; and, with their social mirth,
Deceiv'd the way. And, as these scenes renew'd,
Cheer our lone cottage, the sooth'd heart shall smile,
Conciliated, that, some there are—some few,
Still warm and generous, by the changeling world
Not yet debauch'd, nor to the yoke of fear
Bending the abject neck: but who, erect
In conscious principle, still dare to love
The Man proscrib'd for loving human kind.
The Woodbine.
Dovedale, Oct. 1797.
Sweet flower! that loiterest on the autumnal branch
Beyond thy wonted season, pleas'd to view,
In Dove's pure mirror, thy reflected charms,
And cheer her with thy fragrance, be thou blest!—
For thou hast sooth'd my heart; and thy soft scent
(Mild as the balmy breath of early love!)
Hath warm'd my kindling fancy with the thoughts
Of joys long past—of vernal days, how sweet!
Past with my gentle Stella, far away—
Even in the vale of Catmose. Or my heart,
Turning from retrospects to dreams of hope—
Paternal hope! can dwell on thee, sweet flower!
(Emblem of artless softness) till I see,
140
Seeking the fragrant bower, to breathe, or hear,
(In Youth's due season) the delightful tale
Of foul-awakening passion. Gentle flower!
The thought, perchance, is wild—the hope is vain—
(For, ah! what blighting mildews wait the hours
Of life's frail spring-tide!) yet 'tis cheering sweet—
And my heart hails it, gentle flower!—well pleas'd
If o'er the sterrile scene of real life
Imagination sometimes shed around
Her transient blooms:—for blissful thoughts are bliss.
To the Infant Hampden.—Written during a sleepless night.
Derby. Oct. 1797.
Sweet Babe! that, on thy mother's guardian breast,
Slumberest, unheedful of the autumnal blast
That rocks our lowly dwelling, nor dost dream
Of woes, or cares, or persecuting rage,
Or rending passions, or the pangs that wait
On ill-requited services, sleep on;
Sleep, and be happy!—'Tis the sole relief
This anxious mind can hope, from the dire pangs
Of deep corroding wrong, that thou, my babe!
And the sweet twain—the firstlings of my love!
As yet are blest; and that my heart's best pride,
Who, with maternal fondness, pillows thee
Beside thy Life's warm fountain, is not quite
Hopeless, or joyless; but, with matron cares,
And calm domestic Virtues, can avert
141
Read nameless consolations. Ah! sleep on—
As yet unconscious of The Patriot's name,
Or of a patriot's sorrows—of the cares
For which thy name-sire bled; and, more unblest,
Thy natural father, in his native land,
Wanders an exile; and, of all that land,
Can find no spot his home. Ill-omen'd babe!
Conceiv'd in tempests, and in tempests born!
What destiny awaits thee?—Reekless thou.
Oh! blest inapprehension!—Let it last.
Sleep on, my Babe! now while the rocking wind
Pipes, mournful, lengthning my nocturnal plaint
With troubled symphony!—Ah! sleep secure:
And may thy dream of Life be ne'er disturb'd
With visions such as mar thy father's peace—
Visions (Ah! that they were but such indeed!)
That shew this world a wilderness of wrongs—
A waste of troubled waters: whelming floods
Of tyrannous injustice, canopy'd
With clouds dark louring; whence the pelting storms
Of cold unkindness the rough torrents swell,
On every side resistless. There my Ark—
The scanty remnant of my delug'd joys!
Floats anchorless; while thro' the dreary round,
Fluttering on anxious pinion, the tired foot
Of persecuted Virtue cannot find
One spray on which to rest; or scarce one leaf
To cheer with promise of subsiding woe.
142
MARIA.
A FRAGMENT.
[_]
The following thought originated in one of those infantile endearments, to which the parental heart cannot —perhaps, ought not to be insensible. It occurred, and was hastily committed to paper, during the bustle and preparation for the author's removal, with his family, from Derby to Llys-Wen. It is, perhaps, somewhat more tinctured with political sentiment, than is entirely consistent with the general tenour and object of this Publication: but an interest of another sort forbad its suppression. It forms a natural prologue to the Tragedy that follows; and, on that account, the sensibility of the reader, whatever his opinions may happen to be, will readily excuse the insertion.
Dear is the Babe—thrice dear, to my fond heart!
For she was my first born; and she has sooth'd,
With many an infant smile, the anxious hours
Of hard captivity; what time, impell'd
By tyrannous suspicion, and the thirst
Of uncontroul'd dominion, impious men
Immur'd thy patriot sons, Oh, hapless Isle!
Once deem'd the land of Freedom, now the den
Of infamous Corruption. Then how oft
Yearn'd my fond heart, and for the social bliss,
Permitted at short intervals, and rare—
Rare, and imperfect; by the watchful eyes,
And ears, and prying insolence of guards
Check'd and imbitter'd, have I heav'd the sigh,
And felt the anxious wish, that yet the tongue
Disdained to utter, or the throbbing breast
To own, uncheck'd:—alive to every pang
That Nature dictates; but, not less, alive
To the strong sense of duty; to the voice
Of patriots and of martyrs, oft array'd,
At dawn or even-tide, around my couch,
With presence all inspiring, and with tongues
Awfully eloquent, that bad me think
“'Twas for Mankind I suffer'd—for the cause
“For which a Hampden fought, a Sidney bled;
“For which the Gracchi perish'd, and for which
“Each high exploit that, with unweary'd breath,
“Fame, even from eldest time, still trumpets forth
“Was erst achiev'd.”—Ah! visions, that could rouse
Enthusiastic ardours! ye were oft
My props, my consolations: ye could turn
My bonds to trophies, my keen wrongs to boons,
My solitude to high communion;—
Could make me laugh to scorn the threats of Power—
His mock tribunals, solemn pageantries,
And axe, already whetted in the pause
Of bloody expectation. Ah! how oft,
Warm'd by such thoughts, has the gaunt scaffold seem'd
A car of glorious triumph, banner'd round
With wreaths and well-earn'd trophies. Death no more
Was hideous; and the Tyrant lost his power.
For she was my first born; and she has sooth'd,
With many an infant smile, the anxious hours
Of hard captivity; what time, impell'd
By tyrannous suspicion, and the thirst
Of uncontroul'd dominion, impious men
Immur'd thy patriot sons, Oh, hapless Isle!
Once deem'd the land of Freedom, now the den
143
Yearn'd my fond heart, and for the social bliss,
Permitted at short intervals, and rare—
Rare, and imperfect; by the watchful eyes,
And ears, and prying insolence of guards
Check'd and imbitter'd, have I heav'd the sigh,
And felt the anxious wish, that yet the tongue
Disdained to utter, or the throbbing breast
To own, uncheck'd:—alive to every pang
That Nature dictates; but, not less, alive
To the strong sense of duty; to the voice
Of patriots and of martyrs, oft array'd,
At dawn or even-tide, around my couch,
With presence all inspiring, and with tongues
Awfully eloquent, that bad me think
“'Twas for Mankind I suffer'd—for the cause
“For which a Hampden fought, a Sidney bled;
“For which the Gracchi perish'd, and for which
“Each high exploit that, with unweary'd breath,
“Fame, even from eldest time, still trumpets forth
“Was erst achiev'd.”—Ah! visions, that could rouse
Enthusiastic ardours! ye were oft
My props, my consolations: ye could turn
My bonds to trophies, my keen wrongs to boons,
My solitude to high communion;—
Could make me laugh to scorn the threats of Power—
His mock tribunals, solemn pageantries,
And axe, already whetted in the pause
Of bloody expectation. Ah! how oft,
Warm'd by such thoughts, has the gaunt scaffold seem'd
144
With wreaths and well-earn'd trophies. Death no more
Was hideous; and the Tyrant lost his power.
But there were times when fonder thoughts prevail'd,
Soft'ning, but not abasing, the stern brow
Of Patriot-Emulation:—chiefly then
When, with a tardy pace, the wish'd for hour
Approach'd, that to a husband's, father's sight
Promis'd the social banquet. Then—ah! then,
When thro' my grated dungeon I have gaz'd,
With straining eye unmov'd, upon the gate
Thro' which the partner of my soul should pass—
And this, my only babe:—my only, then,
And still my best beloved!—ah! how high
(With what a tide of fervour thro' my breast)
Swell'd the fond passion—for Thee, babe belov'd!—
(Even in the earliest dawn of infancy,
So sweet thy promise!) and, for Her, more dear
To my connubial heart, that she had giv'n
Birth to thy infant sweetness.—
Soft'ning, but not abasing, the stern brow
Of Patriot-Emulation:—chiefly then
When, with a tardy pace, the wish'd for hour
Approach'd, that to a husband's, father's sight
Promis'd the social banquet. Then—ah! then,
When thro' my grated dungeon I have gaz'd,
With straining eye unmov'd, upon the gate
Thro' which the partner of my soul should pass—
And this, my only babe:—my only, then,
And still my best beloved!—ah! how high
(With what a tide of fervour thro' my breast)
Swell'd the fond passion—for Thee, babe belov'd!—
(Even in the earliest dawn of infancy,
So sweet thy promise!) and, for Her, more dear
To my connubial heart, that she had giv'n
Birth to thy infant sweetness.—
Oct. 1797.
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,
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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,
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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.
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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!
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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
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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,
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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,
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“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
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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,
162
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
163
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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The HARP on the WILLOW.
On being importuned, by a Lady, at Birmingham, for a Song of my own composing. May 15, 1800.
IN Youth's vernal season, Hope's dawn brightly glowing,
To each object around some new beauty bestowing,
Awak'd in my bosom Love's delicate thrill.—Oh!
I twin'd the gay myrtle, nor dreamt of the willow.
To each object around some new beauty bestowing,
Awak'd in my bosom Love's delicate thrill.—Oh!
I twin'd the gay myrtle, nor dreamt of the willow.
To the maid of my heart my fond vows then repeating,
Her heart to my vows, in sweet sympathy, beating,
We join'd in the song oft by bower, or by rill.—Oh!
We pluck'd the sweet rose, nor e'er dreamt of the willow.
Her heart to my vows, in sweet sympathy, beating,
We join'd in the song oft by bower, or by rill.—Oh!
We pluck'd the sweet rose, nor e'er dreamt of the willow.
But Time, on all bliss that remorseless encroaches,
Has clouded my noon, and my twilight approaches;
Of many a woe I have felt the keen thrill.—Oh!
My voice is untun'd, and my harp on the willow!
Has clouded my noon, and my twilight approaches;
Of many a woe I have felt the keen thrill.—Oh!
My voice is untun'd, and my harp on the willow!
In exile I wander, from friendships divided;
Ingratitude's shaft thro' my bosom has grided;
And, while lonely I loiter by grove or by rill—Oh!
My love is far off, and my harp on the willow!
Ingratitude's shaft thro' my bosom has grided;
And, while lonely I loiter by grove or by rill—Oh!
My love is far off, and my harp on the willow!
Farewell ye gay strains, then, ye hopes brightly glowing!
To the scenes of my youth once such beauty bestowing.
My fancy no more with such visions must thrill.—Oh!
The rose and the myrtle are chang'd for the willow.
To the scenes of my youth once such beauty bestowing.
My fancy no more with such visions must thrill.—Oh!
The rose and the myrtle are chang'd for the willow.
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INVOCATION TO HEALTH.
Ah! where, rustic maiden! of hamlets the pride—
What heath dost thou rove? on what mountain reside?
Dost thou follow some sheep track, and bound up the hill?
Or wander, sedate, by the murmuring rill?
Thee, Health! I invoke; and, thy foot-marks to find,
Give my brow to the sun, and my locks to the wind.
What heath dost thou rove? on what mountain reside?
Dost thou follow some sheep track, and bound up the hill?
Or wander, sedate, by the murmuring rill?
Thee, Health! I invoke; and, thy foot-marks to find,
Give my brow to the sun, and my locks to the wind.
Then come, rustic maiden, whom anxious I woo,
In thy beauty appear, and my transports renew;
The balm of thy smiles o'er my senses distill,
And wake in my bosom thy exquisite thrill:
For Joy in thy loose-flowing vail is enshrin'd
And sports in thy locks, as they float on the wind.
In thy beauty appear, and my transports renew;
The balm of thy smiles o'er my senses distill,
And wake in my bosom thy exquisite thrill:
For Joy in thy loose-flowing vail is enshrin'd
And sports in thy locks, as they float on the wind.
But her carol is heard. Hark! in raptures how shrill
It bursts on mine ear from the brow of yon hill.
See, see, with light step, she descends from the rock,
Where she sou't the young kid that had strayd from the flock:
Of the wild thyme it brows'd, she a garland has twin'd,
Whence her hair, half unbraided, floats loose on the wind.
It bursts on mine ear from the brow of yon hill.
See, see, with light step, she descends from the rock,
Where she sou't the young kid that had strayd from the flock:
Of the wild thyme it brows'd, she a garland has twin'd,
Whence her hair, half unbraided, floats loose on the wind.
More bright is her hue than the brightness of dawn,
And the rose on her cheek than the rose of the thorn;
The blue-bell, besprinkled with dew, cannot vie
With the lustre that beams from her love-darting eye;
And sweeter her breath than the wreath she has twin'd,
Whence her hair, half unbraided, floats loose on the wind.
And the rose on her cheek than the rose of the thorn;
The blue-bell, besprinkled with dew, cannot vie
With the lustre that beams from her love-darting eye;
And sweeter her breath than the wreath she has twin'd,
Whence her hair, half unbraided, floats loose on the wind.
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Cheerly smiling her mouth, as when first the young bloom,
From lips tipt with orient, emit their perfume;
When thy vintage, Siluria, first germs on thy trees,
And we quaff the rich nectar in every breeze.
So hopeful her smile, from the wreath she has twin'd,
While her hair, half unbraided, floats loose on the wind.
From lips tipt with orient, emit their perfume;
When thy vintage, Siluria, first germs on thy trees,
And we quaff the rich nectar in every breeze.
So hopeful her smile, from the wreath she has twin'd,
While her hair, half unbraided, floats loose on the wind.
And see, as she brushes thro' woodland and brake,
New fragrance bursts forth, and new beauties awake,
Groves spread forth their branches their homage to pay,
The buds are more sweet, and the foliage more gay,
As emulous all in fresh wreaths to be twin'd,
Whence her hair, half-unbraided, may float on the wind.
New fragrance bursts forth, and new beauties awake,
Groves spread forth their branches their homage to pay,
The buds are more sweet, and the foliage more gay,
As emulous all in fresh wreaths to be twin'd,
Whence her hair, half-unbraided, may float on the wind.
The vales too rejoice. Hark! they join in the song,
As she bounds from the copse, and comes tripping along;
Peeping forth from their sod, cups and daisies are seen,
And the grass, late so grey, is all vital with green:
Flowers burst from each hedgerow, in wreaths to be twin'd,
Or to sport in her locks, as they float on the wind.
As she bounds from the copse, and comes tripping along;
Peeping forth from their sod, cups and daisies are seen,
And the grass, late so grey, is all vital with green:
Flowers burst from each hedgerow, in wreaths to be twin'd,
Or to sport in her locks, as they float on the wind.
Yes, this is the mistress, my Stella, I woo:
Yet no mistress for me, if not handmaid to you.
If my bosom to warm with fresh rapture she seek,
She must pencil those eyes, she must vermeil that cheek,
With her wreath of wild flow'rs she those temples must bind,
And sport in those locks, as they float on the wind.
Yet no mistress for me, if not handmaid to you.
If my bosom to warm with fresh rapture she seek,
She must pencil those eyes, she must vermeil that cheek,
With her wreath of wild flow'rs she those temples must bind,
And sport in those locks, as they float on the wind.
Come then, my lov'd partner! sit pensive no more,
For Maï invites, and stern Winter is o'er:
Let us stray thro' the woodlands, and climb the green hill,
From the Lark's early note to the Nightingale's trill.
Come—seek the sweet handmaid, where'er we may find,
And give all your cares, with your locks, to the wind.
For Maï invites, and stern Winter is o'er:
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From the Lark's early note to the Nightingale's trill.
Come—seek the sweet handmaid, where'er we may find,
And give all your cares, with your locks, to the wind.
THE ORPHAN BOY.
[_]
[The following ELEGIAC BALLAD originated in a trifling incident, which spontaneously suggested the burthen, and the burthen of the Story. The Ballad itself may be considered as extemporary; having been composed during a walk to Worcester, while the Work it accompanies was preparing for the Press.
The Author was not a little surprised to find, upon comparison, how nearly, in the outline, it resembles a beautiful little Tale already before the Public. During the time of composition, he was neither conscious of imitation nor of competition; but as he had certainly read Mrs. Opie's “Orphan Boy,” when it first made its appearance, he is willing to be beforehand with the Reader, in acknowledging all the Obligation he can possibly have thence derived.]
ALAS! I am an Orphan Boy,
With nought on earth to cheer my heart:
No father's love, no mother's joy,
Nor kin, nor kind, to take my part.
My lodging is the cold, cold ground;
I eat the bread of charity,
And when the kiss of love goes round,
There is no kiss, alas! for me.
With nought on earth to cheer my heart:
No father's love, no mother's joy,
Nor kin, nor kind, to take my part.
My lodging is the cold, cold ground;
I eat the bread of charity,
And when the kiss of love goes round,
There is no kiss, alas! for me.
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Yet once I had a father dear,
A mother too, I wont to prize,
With ready hand to wipe the tear,
If chanc'd a transient tear to rise.
But cause of tears was rarely found;
For all my heart was youthful glee:
And, when the kiss of love went round,
How sweet a kiss there was for me!
A mother too, I wont to prize,
With ready hand to wipe the tear,
If chanc'd a transient tear to rise.
But cause of tears was rarely found;
For all my heart was youthful glee:
And, when the kiss of love went round,
How sweet a kiss there was for me!
But, ah! there came a War, they say.
What is a War I cannot tell;
But drums and fifes did sweetly play,
And loudly rang our village bell.
In troth, it was a pretty sound
I thought: nor could I thence foresee
That, when the kiss of love went round,
There soon should be no kiss for me.
What is a War I cannot tell;
But drums and fifes did sweetly play,
And loudly rang our village bell.
In troth, it was a pretty sound
I thought: nor could I thence foresee
That, when the kiss of love went round,
There soon should be no kiss for me.
A scarlet coat my father took,
And sword as bright as bright could be;
And feathers, that so gayly look,
All in a shining cap had he.
Then how my little heart did bound:
Alas! I thought it fine to see;
Nor dreamt that, when the kiss went round,
There soon should be no kiss for me.
And sword as bright as bright could be;
And feathers, that so gayly look,
All in a shining cap had he.
Then how my little heart did bound:
Alas! I thought it fine to see;
Nor dreamt that, when the kiss went round,
There soon should be no kiss for me.
My mother sigh'd, my mother wept.
My father talk'd of wealth and fame:
But still she wept, and sigh'd, and wept;
Till I, to see her, wept the same.
But soon the horsemen throng around:
My father mounts, with shout and glee:
Then, gave a kiss to all around;
And, ah! how sweet a kiss to me!
My father talk'd of wealth and fame:
But still she wept, and sigh'd, and wept;
Till I, to see her, wept the same.
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My father mounts, with shout and glee:
Then, gave a kiss to all around;
And, ah! how sweet a kiss to me!
But, when I found he rode so far,
And came not home as heretofore;
I said it was a naughty war,
And lov'd the drum and fife no more.
My mother oft in tears was drown'd;
Nor merry tale, nor song had she;
And, when the hour of night came round,
Sad was the kiss she gave to me.
And came not home as heretofore;
I said it was a naughty war,
And lov'd the drum and fife no more.
My mother oft in tears was drown'd;
Nor merry tale, nor song had she;
And, when the hour of night came round,
Sad was the kiss she gave to me.
At length the bell again did ring;
There was a victory, they said.
'Twas what my father said he'd bring:
But ah! it brought my father dead.
My mother shriek'd: her heart was woe:
She clasp'd me to her trembling knee.
O, God! that you may never know
How wild a kiss she gave to me.
There was a victory, they said.
'Twas what my father said he'd bring:
But ah! it brought my father dead.
My mother shriek'd: her heart was woe:
She clasp'd me to her trembling knee.
O, God! that you may never know
How wild a kiss she gave to me.
But once again—but once again,
These lips a mother's kisses felt.
That once again—that once again—
The tale a heart of stone would melt.
'Twas when, upon her death-bed laid,—
(Oh, God! oh, God! that sight to see!
“My child!—my child!” she feebly said,
And gave a parting kiss to me.
These lips a mother's kisses felt.
That once again—that once again—
The tale a heart of stone would melt.
'Twas when, upon her death-bed laid,—
(Oh, God! oh, God! that sight to see!
“My child!—my child!” she feebly said,
And gave a parting kiss to me.
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So now I am an Orphan Boy,
With nought below my heart to cheer:
No mother's love, no father's joy,
Nor kin, nor kind, to wipe the tear.
My lodging is the cold, cold ground;
I eat the bread of charity;
And, when the kiss of love goes round,
There is no kiss of love for me.
With nought below my heart to cheer:
No mother's love, no father's joy,
Nor kin, nor kind, to wipe the tear.
My lodging is the cold, cold ground;
I eat the bread of charity;
And, when the kiss of love goes round,
There is no kiss of love for me.
But I will to the grave and weep,
Where late they laid my mother low,
And buried her, with earth so deep,
All in her shroud as white as snow.
And there, I'll call on her, so loud,
All underneath the church-yard tree,
To wrapt me in her snow-white shroud;
For those cold lips are dear to me.
Where late they laid my mother low,
And buried her, with earth so deep,
All in her shroud as white as snow.
And there, I'll call on her, so loud,
All underneath the church-yard tree,
To wrapt me in her snow-white shroud;
For those cold lips are dear to me.
Amatory Sonnet.
“HIDE, oh! hide those hills of snow,”
O'er which those sunny smiles, in vain,
Dazzling shine, but ne'erbestow
Vital warmth, to cheer the swain.
With mysterious pangs they kill,
Burning from excess of chill.
O'er which those sunny smiles, in vain,
Dazzling shine, but ne'erbestow
Vital warmth, to cheer the swain.
With mysterious pangs they kill,
Burning from excess of chill.
Vail, Oh! vail those sunny smiles,
Which that bosom cannot melt:
Phosphor like, their chilly wiles
Kindle fires they never felt:
Lights—that, in the northern skies,
Promise suns that never rise.
Which that bosom cannot melt:
Phosphor like, their chilly wiles
Kindle fires they never felt:
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Promise suns that never rise.
Yet those hills of breathing snow,
Yet those sunny smiles, so sweet!
Could they feel what they bestow,
Kindling touch of vital heat,
Lapland nights themselves would prove
All too short to tell my love.
Yet those sunny smiles, so sweet!
Could they feel what they bestow,
Kindling touch of vital heat,
Lapland nights themselves would prove
All too short to tell my love.
Another.
[Bosom white as Alpine snow]
Bosom white as Alpine snow,
And, like Alpine snow, as cold,
O'er which the careless tresses flow—
Tresses spun of palest gold:
Like the threaded beams of light,
That rest on peaky summits white.
And, like Alpine snow, as cold,
O'er which the careless tresses flow—
Tresses spun of palest gold:
Like the threaded beams of light,
That rest on peaky summits white.
Snowy heights, for ever cold,
Tho the sun appears so nigh,
Far below which men behold
Panting beneath the fervid sky!
So those tresses, maid divine!
Kindle every heart, but thine.
Tho the sun appears so nigh,
Far below which men behold
Panting beneath the fervid sky!
So those tresses, maid divine!
Kindle every heart, but thine.
O'er thy forehead, o'er thy cheek
While those morn-like tresses spread,
Ah! what crimson blushes break!
And is no warmth beneath that red?
Oh! icy maid of glowing mien!
Amid the pangs you cause serene.
While those morn-like tresses spread,
Ah! what crimson blushes break!
And is no warmth beneath that red?
Oh! icy maid of glowing mien!
Amid the pangs you cause serene.
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But, if thus, by Nature's law,
Suns by distance only burn,
Hence, away with timid awe:
Nature's lesson let me learn.
Let me to those heights aspire—
Bask in the ray, nor feel the fire!
Suns by distance only burn,
Hence, away with timid awe:
Nature's lesson let me learn.
Let me to those heights aspire—
Bask in the ray, nor feel the fire!
THE FALL OF EGYPT;
Or, Extinction of the Ptolomies.
AN ODE.
EGYPT is fall'n. Behold! behold
The full accomplishment of woes!
Wide-wasting Ruin, uncontroul'd,
The refuge of the Gods o'erthrows.
From the swoln wrath of Heav'n has burst
Of all the worst of ills the worst.
Hope—even Hope herself, is fled—
The hope, that ever sweet Repose
O'er the land again should spread
Her balm-distilling wing, our griefs to close,
Or Memphis lift, again, her consecrated head.
Mad Ambition's awless hand
Hurls around the flaming brand;
And, reekless, o'er the groaning ground,
Fell Desolation stalks around.
The full accomplishment of woes!
Wide-wasting Ruin, uncontroul'd,
The refuge of the Gods o'erthrows.
From the swoln wrath of Heav'n has burst
Of all the worst of ills the worst.
Hope—even Hope herself, is fled—
The hope, that ever sweet Repose
O'er the land again should spread
Her balm-distilling wing, our griefs to close,
Or Memphis lift, again, her consecrated head.
Mad Ambition's awless hand
Hurls around the flaming brand;
And, reekless, o'er the groaning ground,
Fell Desolation stalks around.
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O! sacred Nilus! awful stream!
Thou father of prolific floods!—
Whose head adoring mortals deem
Lost in the regions of the Gods!
And shall thy torrents subject glide
To yellow Tiber's sandy tide?
Back, back, to their mysterious source,
Your refluent floods, indignant, call!
Ye Rocks! restrain their downward course;
And you, ye headlong Cataracts! cease to fall:
Back to your fountains flee, and change your thundering course.
O'er sandy desarts, drear and dead,
Your fertilizing waters spread:—
There, there, in unknown deluge, burst,
And satiate their eternal thirst.
Thou father of prolific floods!—
Whose head adoring mortals deem
Lost in the regions of the Gods!
And shall thy torrents subject glide
To yellow Tiber's sandy tide?
Back, back, to their mysterious source,
Your refluent floods, indignant, call!
Ye Rocks! restrain their downward course;
And you, ye headlong Cataracts! cease to fall:
Back to your fountains flee, and change your thundering course.
O'er sandy desarts, drear and dead,
Your fertilizing waters spread:—
There, there, in unknown deluge, burst,
And satiate their eternal thirst.
Soon, o'er those trackless realms of death,
The living green shall, wondering, rise;
Where never flow'd the quick'ning breath,
Shall choral Riot cleave the skies;
While some new pamper'd race (like ours)
The bounties of thy Urn devours,
Till, drunk with Plenty's baneful store,
Enfeebling Luxury, at last,
To some new spoiler gives them o'er,
Opprest with woes prepar'd by blessings past;
And thy new turrets bow, as Memphis bow'd before.
Meantime let prostrate Egypt lie
A barren conquest, waste, and dry;
And channels parch'd, and plains adust,
Repay the Victor's greedy lust.
The living green shall, wondering, rise;
Where never flow'd the quick'ning breath,
Shall choral Riot cleave the skies;
While some new pamper'd race (like ours)
The bounties of thy Urn devours,
Till, drunk with Plenty's baneful store,
Enfeebling Luxury, at last,
To some new spoiler gives them o'er,
Opprest with woes prepar'd by blessings past;
And thy new turrets bow, as Memphis bow'd before.
Meantime let prostrate Egypt lie
A barren conquest, waste, and dry;
And channels parch'd, and plains adust,
Repay the Victor's greedy lust.
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But see—The vision'd Vengeance glares!
I pierce the mystic womb of Fate,
Where Time, the embrion doom prepares,
That soon shall whelm the tyrant state.
Destruction hovers o'er the walls.
She falls!—“The victim Victor falls!”
Alike, to such predestin'd fate
Shall each successive Empire press:
Hurl'd—hurl'd to misery's lowest slate
With weight of their o'er-prosperous wantonness:
By Triumph's self subdu'd, and crush'd by Fortune's weight.
For such are Pride's eternal bars,
That Greatness self its greatness mars;
And, driv'n, by favouring gales, uncheck'd,
On rocks of its own might 'tis wreck'd.
I pierce the mystic womb of Fate,
Where Time, the embrion doom prepares,
That soon shall whelm the tyrant state.
Destruction hovers o'er the walls.
She falls!—“The victim Victor falls!”
Alike, to such predestin'd fate
Shall each successive Empire press:
Hurl'd—hurl'd to misery's lowest slate
With weight of their o'er-prosperous wantonness:
By Triumph's self subdu'd, and crush'd by Fortune's weight.
For such are Pride's eternal bars,
That Greatness self its greatness mars;
And, driv'n, by favouring gales, uncheck'd,
On rocks of its own might 'tis wreck'd.
For the first rough outline of this Ode, see the final Chorus, in Daniel's “Tragedy of Cleopatra.”
I ought, also, to have acknowledged, that, the fourth, sixth, and seventh Stanzas, of the “Invocation to Health,” were principally suggested, by a beautiful specimen of ancient alliterative metre, quoted in the third Volume of “Percy's Reliques.”
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Specimens of THE HOPE OF ALBION;
OR, Edwin of Northumbria. AN EPIC POEM.
177
THE HOPE OF ALBION.
FOR the General Argument of this Poem, the Reader is referred to Hume's History of England, Chap. I. Title “Heptarchy,” Section “The Kingdom of Northumberland:” where he will find sufficient, it is presumed, to excite some interest in behalf of the hero, and of the fable. If he is desirous of further particulars, the Author must refer him to Rapine, Warrington's History of Wales, and the Old Chroniclers; in almost all of whom some scattered facts will be found. When the Poem is published, in its collective form, the sources of historical assistance will be more particularly developed.
ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST BOOK.
SUBJECT proposed — The emancipation of Northumbria, by Edwin, the exiled prince of Deïria, and consequent establishment of English liberty, and the Christian faith. Invocation to the tutelary Angel of Patriotism, and to those who superintend the social sympathies.—Edwin (having found refuge in the Court of E. Anglia) while indulging, in lonely meditation, on the banks of the Yare, his passion for the mysterious Emma, is interrupted by the Ghost of Albert, his former Tutor and preserver; who warns him, in mysterious language, of the machinations formed for his destruction. At the same time, he apprizes him, that the approaching hour is the crisis of his Fate; when, resign'd by the Chastening Angel to the trial of his own proper virtue, his election, to the high mission, for which his mind has been disciplined, must depend entirely upon himself. He then relates the circumstances of his own assasination by the Courtiers of Redowald; but trespassing upon his bounds of mission, he is suddenly called away by Ahimoth, the Brother of Death, or Angel who controuls the wandering spirits of the dead. Edwin, after bewailing the fate of his foster-father, returns to the palace, at
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Of this book, the Proposition, Invocation, and Introduction of the subject, are all that are here presented.
ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND BOOK.
The corruption of the East Anglian Courtiers; and their hatred to Edwin, arising out of the amiable Character of that Prince. Redowald, having dismissed, unheard, three previous Embassies, sent to induce him to deliver up Edwin, the present Ambassadors are impowered to denounce the decisive alternative of War or Alliance. At the same time, the Fallen Angels, worshipped under the symbols of Saxon Deities, commission Meribah, the Angel of Discord, one of the Valkyries, or Ministers of Woden, with a train of subordinate Furies, to accompany the Embassy, and promote its object. The E. Anglian Courtiers endeavour to influence Redowald to listen to the proposals: and Hermanric and Ossa, the chiefs of the Embassy, in a nocturnal carousal, practice every artifice to bring over the Anglian nobles to their interest. When the morning arrives, they amuse the populace with a pompous procession; and, by the display of spoils taken from the Britons, and other inflammatory artifices, excite great commotions. They are assisted by the Demons, who, assuming human forms, mingle with the croud, and kindle their national animosities and rage for war. Meribah, herself, assuming the voice and gesture of Beornulph, still further excites and directs their animosities against the person of Edwin. The deluded populace surround the Palace, with seditious clamours, shouting for Alliance with Adelfrid, and a Cambrian War.
The action of these two Books is comprised within the space of less than twenty-four hours—from the twilight of the first, to the middle of the second day.
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BOOK THE FIRST.
NORTHUMBRIA freed, and Edwin's patriot worthMy verse records; his wanderings, and his woes,
His martial ardour, and his faithful loves:
How these, by powerful destiny, combin'd
To form The Hero; who by virtue rose
Superior to the fratricidal rage
That sought his life, insatiate, and his youth
Doom'd to disastrous exile; till arous'd
To final effort, he their traitorous wiles
Turn'd on the traitors' heads; and, from the strife
Of feuds and deadly factions, haply wrought
A nation's bliss: whence union, wisdom, power,
Spread thro' The Seven-fold Isle; and cheering lights
Of Holy Truth—and Liberty, and Laws.
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(Sacred, or classic) thou delight'st to hear
The votive salutation, O! attend,
From those empyreal regions where thou sitt'st,
Among the ministering seraphim enthron'd
Who guard our sea-girt realm; and, by the side
Of Albion, awful in cerulean robe,
Shar'st (from primeval time) the trust conferr'd
Of heav'nly tutelage; with helmed brow
And missile thunder, from the horrent shores
Chacing invasive Ravage; or the breast
Of mission'd Patriot with sublimest rage,
In perilous hour, inspiring, to confound
Inborn Oppression, with triumphant arm,
Or martyrdom more glorious. Thee I call,
That, in the wrong'd Northumbrian's dauntless soul
Breathing ethereal energy, inform'd
His mind to worth and wisdom; such as ne'er
Beam'd in his darker age; nor ever warm'd
Chieftain, or sage, or hero of this isle,
Anglian or British, till, in after times,
Ina and Alfred in his godlike steps
Trod reverent; and, by his example fir'd,
Tower'd to immortal fame. O! then, descend,
Seraphic ardour! from thy starry throne—
My theme's appropriate patron!—As to thee
Belongs The Hero, so inspire The Song.
Nor You, ye plastic powers! that, round the hearts
Of youthful lovers, weave the mystic web
Of sacred Sympathy—nor YE disdain
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The trump sonorous, and the melting flute
Shall breathe alternate strains, and love, and war—
The social feeling, and the public care,
Each in appropriate numbers, sway the heart.
NOW since Deïrian Acca, bath'd in blood
Of holy patriots, with her tyrant lord,
Bernicia's warlike chief, not less by crimes
Than nuptial vows united, o'er the realm
Of joint Northumbria (in like sufferance join'd—
In groans, and equal bondage) wielded first
Their iron sceptre, many a sickening sun
Had to decrepit Winter's ruthless sway
Yielded our northering zone; while, fierce of soul,
Collected in his empire's double strength,
And form'd for martial enterprise, the chief
Led forth his veteran bands to many a field
Of blood-stain'd triumph, and enlarg'd his bounds
With vanquish'd vassalage. So stood the throne—
Powerful in wrongs, and terrible in arms,
And shook the circling states; while Tyranny
Tower'd to prescriptive right; as tho secure
In tacit confirmation: if secure
Pow'r could be deem'd, or Domination stand,
Unpropt of Justice. But the sense of guilt
Intrudes, unceasing; and the injurious pair,
Palsied with conscious terrors, inly pine,
Brooding strange thoughts, with jealous frenzy big,
And murderous precaution. But, o'er all,
Their guilty terrors, and fierce hate pursue
An exil'd brother, from Deïria's throne
Expell'd by treason; and by treason doom'd
To infant massacre: but doom'd in vain:
In vain had Bebba's towers (in riper years)
Enclos'd the shipwreck'd wanderer—preserv'd
By Chance, or favouring Providence, to thorn
Oppression's couch with terrors—or to hurl
(Such visions mar their slumbers) on their heads
The bolts of retribution.
Of holy patriots, with her tyrant lord,
Bernicia's warlike chief, not less by crimes
Than nuptial vows united, o'er the realm
Of joint Northumbria (in like sufferance join'd—
In groans, and equal bondage) wielded first
Their iron sceptre, many a sickening sun
Had to decrepit Winter's ruthless sway
Yielded our northering zone; while, fierce of soul,
Collected in his empire's double strength,
And form'd for martial enterprise, the chief
Led forth his veteran bands to many a field
Of blood-stain'd triumph, and enlarg'd his bounds
With vanquish'd vassalage. So stood the throne—
Powerful in wrongs, and terrible in arms,
And shook the circling states; while Tyranny
Tower'd to prescriptive right; as tho secure
In tacit confirmation: if secure
Pow'r could be deem'd, or Domination stand,
Unpropt of Justice. But the sense of guilt
Intrudes, unceasing; and the injurious pair,
Palsied with conscious terrors, inly pine,
Brooding strange thoughts, with jealous frenzy big,
And murderous precaution. But, o'er all,
Their guilty terrors, and fierce hate pursue
182
Expell'd by treason; and by treason doom'd
To infant massacre: but doom'd in vain:
In vain had Bebba's towers (in riper years)
Enclos'd the shipwreck'd wanderer—preserv'd
By Chance, or favouring Providence, to thorn
Oppression's couch with terrors—or to hurl
(Such visions mar their slumbers) on their heads
The bolts of retribution.
HE, the while,
Escap'd from countless snares, thro' toils unheard
And many a fearful conflict, unappall'd,
Observant rov'd, thro' many an adverse realm,
Hostile or kindred—where Diganway's tow'rs
O'erlook blue Conway, and the headlong streams
Water the Cambrian Vallies! or where, flow,
With silver lapse, the Anglian rivers pour
Their southern tribute; or, impell'd by Fate,
Athwart the Scythian Vale, where Erin's chiefs,
From bogs, and lakes, and mountains, their rough clans,
Martial, collect, and, over wicker towns,
And hurdled cots, hold a precarious sway.
So roam'd The Hero: such his joyless youth:
Escap'd from countless snares, thro' toils unheard
And many a fearful conflict, unappall'd,
Observant rov'd, thro' many an adverse realm,
Hostile or kindred—where Diganway's tow'rs
O'erlook blue Conway, and the headlong streams
Water the Cambrian Vallies! or where, flow,
With silver lapse, the Anglian rivers pour
Their southern tribute; or, impell'd by Fate,
Athwart the Scythian Vale, where Erin's chiefs,
From bogs, and lakes, and mountains, their rough clans,
Martial, collect, and, over wicker towns,
And hurdled cots, hold a precarious sway.
His early manhood such: wherever thrown,
In every region—every soil and clime—
In every scene, with unremitting ills
Hemm'd and pursu'd: in dangers, and in woes.
Say then (Ethereal Patron of my Song!—
My soul's best guide!) for what mysterious end
His worth, unstaid by interposing Heav'n,
Thus mourn'd disastrous?
My soul's best guide!) for what mysterious end
His worth, unstaid by interposing Heav'n,
Thus mourn'd disastrous?
For a nation's weal—
For Albion's glory; yet in barbarous gloom
Involv'd, and savage violence, and wrongs—
Unknown to arts and polity—till he
(Sage from well-during sufferance) shall arise—
Freedom's first prototype: the first to found
The sacred dome of Justice. Thence his youth
And spring of early manhood, unsustain'd
By prop or ministry (save one weak old man—
His sometime guardian,) bends beneath the wrath
Of adverse Destiny: what time his mind,
School'd by The Chastening Seraph, spreads, enlarg'd
In wisdom as in virtue; and attains
Ingenuous fortitude: alternate taught
To pity and to dare.
183
Involv'd, and savage violence, and wrongs—
Unknown to arts and polity—till he
(Sage from well-during sufferance) shall arise—
Freedom's first prototype: the first to found
The sacred dome of Justice. Thence his youth
And spring of early manhood, unsustain'd
By prop or ministry (save one weak old man—
His sometime guardian,) bends beneath the wrath
Of adverse Destiny: what time his mind,
School'd by The Chastening Seraph, spreads, enlarg'd
In wisdom as in virtue; and attains
Ingenuous fortitude: alternate taught
To pity and to dare.
But now, awhile,—
As tho some kindly power, from astral heights
Beam'd brief benignity, his wearied worth
In Redowald's court respires. Red'wald the good—
Might goodness without fortitude reside
In human bosom. He the East-Anglian throne
Fill'd with a patriot's wish; and many a plan
Of wisdom and beneficence devis'd
In meditation's hour: but his weak grasp
Pois'd not the sceptre's weight—on favourites oft
Or female hands devolv'd. Such was the chief
To whom (since now twelve chang'ling moons had fill'd
Their horns, as oft retiring) Ælla's Son
Had fled for refuge, that no roof beside
Nor Earth, nor Ocean, nor the cavern's depth,
Might to his sorrows yield. [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
As tho some kindly power, from astral heights
Beam'd brief benignity, his wearied worth
In Redowald's court respires. Red'wald the good—
Might goodness without fortitude reside
In human bosom. He the East-Anglian throne
Fill'd with a patriot's wish; and many a plan
Of wisdom and beneficence devis'd
In meditation's hour: but his weak grasp
Pois'd not the sceptre's weight—on favourites oft
Or female hands devolv'd. Such was the chief
To whom (since now twelve chang'ling moons had fill'd
Their horns, as oft retiring) Ælla's Son
Had fled for refuge, that no roof beside
Nor Earth, nor Ocean, nor the cavern's depth,
Might to his sorrows yield. [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
184
BOOK THE SECOND.
MEANTIME, Northumbria's heralds, in the hall
Not unregarded wait. The fame, soon spread,
Of pomps and royal presents round them draw
The courtly tribe—not hopeless to partake.
Not unregarded wait. The fame, soon spread,
Of pomps and royal presents round them draw
The courtly tribe—not hopeless to partake.
Nor lack they disposition to the cause,
Or enmity to Edwin. Ill they brook
His influence, or his virtues: for the youth
(Whom now protracted sojourn, in the realm
And friendly court of Anglia, had reveal'd
In native colours) wins from every heart
(All but the minion throng) cordial esteem,
And reverence, and such love as waits on worth
Unvaunting. The brave chiefs his martial port
Wond'ring admire; and, in his ardent eye,
Read his adventurous spirit, active, bold,
Unweariable; and oft the sager ones divine,
In tone prophetic, as, amid the train
Illustrious of associate youth, he bears
The wolf's rough spoils, triumphant, or shorn crest
Of furious boar, slain in the sylvan war,
That not unheard, in verse, or treasur'd tale
Of hoar Tradition, his aspiring name
Shall to the shades descend. Nor less the fair
His graceful form approve, his manners bland,
With courteous air endearing. Form'd to please,
Nor less to please aspiring, well he knew
To sooth the female ear, or win the heart—
And what he won to merit: champion still,
Guardian and friend, not spoiler, was he found
Of virgin innocence. But most he charm'd
By manly probity: a heart that scorn'd
Guile or disguise—that to its friend was friend
Without reserve; and where he found a foe
Was open, not revengeful: bold, not fierce.
The love that waited on such worth but ill
Brook the insidious crew; and less they brook
That to his generous counsels Redówald's ear
Was ever open: for he counsell'd not
Such themes as courtiers use—as rapine, spoils,
Oppressions, acts of power that overleap
All bounds of law, and justify themselves
On pleas of state necessity. All these
His soul abhorr'd: So Albert's timely lore,
And his own wrongs had taught. Instead of these,
Justice, and Truth, and Mercy were his theme,
And sacred Freedom—at whose awful name
His great heart heav'd, and, with erected brow
And eye that beam'd devotion, from his tongue
Burst strains of eloquence, which whoso' heard
Felt more than mortal fervour warm the breast.
Or enmity to Edwin. Ill they brook
His influence, or his virtues: for the youth
(Whom now protracted sojourn, in the realm
And friendly court of Anglia, had reveal'd
In native colours) wins from every heart
(All but the minion throng) cordial esteem,
And reverence, and such love as waits on worth
Unvaunting. The brave chiefs his martial port
Wond'ring admire; and, in his ardent eye,
Read his adventurous spirit, active, bold,
Unweariable; and oft the sager ones divine,
In tone prophetic, as, amid the train
Illustrious of associate youth, he bears
The wolf's rough spoils, triumphant, or shorn crest
Of furious boar, slain in the sylvan war,
That not unheard, in verse, or treasur'd tale
Of hoar Tradition, his aspiring name
185
His graceful form approve, his manners bland,
With courteous air endearing. Form'd to please,
Nor less to please aspiring, well he knew
To sooth the female ear, or win the heart—
And what he won to merit: champion still,
Guardian and friend, not spoiler, was he found
Of virgin innocence. But most he charm'd
By manly probity: a heart that scorn'd
Guile or disguise—that to its friend was friend
Without reserve; and where he found a foe
Was open, not revengeful: bold, not fierce.
The love that waited on such worth but ill
Brook the insidious crew; and less they brook
That to his generous counsels Redówald's ear
Was ever open: for he counsell'd not
Such themes as courtiers use—as rapine, spoils,
Oppressions, acts of power that overleap
All bounds of law, and justify themselves
On pleas of state necessity. All these
His soul abhorr'd: So Albert's timely lore,
And his own wrongs had taught. Instead of these,
Justice, and Truth, and Mercy were his theme,
And sacred Freedom—at whose awful name
His great heart heav'd, and, with erected brow
And eye that beam'd devotion, from his tongue
Burst strains of eloquence, which whoso' heard
Felt more than mortal fervour warm the breast.
As yet the minion throng had bent beneath
His happier influence, and their courtly arts
Plied unavailing; tho not unsuborn'd
By the usurping pair, nor unintent,
With close cabal, or specious plea, to aid
Their impious purpose; when, three several times,
The restless tyrants (trembling at the bruit
Of Edwin's fame) had heretofore assail'd
Thé Uffingian chieftain. He three sev'ral times
Rejects their proffers, shuddering with disdain
That paus'd not, nor thé expecting council call'd
To vent their hollow casuistries. But now
Deeper their plots are laid; their agents chos'n
With subt'lest policy; and, big with hope,
Moves on the imperious embassy, empow'r'd,
Against the scale of right, to counterpoise
Int'rest and fear, seduction and the sword.
His happier influence, and their courtly arts
186
By the usurping pair, nor unintent,
With close cabal, or specious plea, to aid
Their impious purpose; when, three several times,
The restless tyrants (trembling at the bruit
Of Edwin's fame) had heretofore assail'd
Thé Uffingian chieftain. He three sev'ral times
Rejects their proffers, shuddering with disdain
That paus'd not, nor thé expecting council call'd
To vent their hollow casuistries. But now
Deeper their plots are laid; their agents chos'n
With subt'lest policy; and, big with hope,
Moves on the imperious embassy, empow'r'd,
Against the scale of right, to counterpoise
Int'rest and fear, seduction and the sword.
Nor this their only trust: for bloody rites
And magic incantations, ere they quit
Northumbria's court, give hopes of prosperous aid,
Counsel, or force miraculous, from powers
Supernal—or so deem'd by erring men.
Nor yet unmeaning from the reeking fane
Issu'd the demon oracles: for, pois'd
In midway air, upon their steps attend,
Unmark'd, a goblin rout, the assiduous train
Of Moloch, by the Saxon nations nam'd
Woden (fierce homicide!) in classic times
Mars, or the mountain god (thence Harees) long
Worshipp'd on Thracian heights—his dwelling deem'd:
Baäl or Bell, with oriental tribes,
His name the while; beneath whose idol fane,
In Babylon, the fiery furnace flam'd,
Fearful to captive Israël! With these
(Misdeem'd of later years a fabled form
Of allegoric fancy) Discord soars—
Alecto erst, or of the furies chief
That guard Valhalla, or the gloomy throne
Of Dys—as Scald, or classic bard adorns
The varying tale, by Superstition taught,
Discolouring holy truths obscurely known:
For she from highest Heav'n (a cherub once
In titlé and essence—ere her present name
Was heard, except in Chaos) headlong fell,
With all that rebel rout; her glory soil'd,
And form celestial: first of all the host
(Meribah, thence, and Meribaäl call'd,
And Eber, by th' indignant files of Heav'n)
To urge presumptuous war, and fan the rage
Of Satan, when, ambition-fir'd, he sought
To quell the omnipotent; and therefore fell—
He, and his rebel peers; and this withal—
Punish'd, not penitent: for still she broods
Strife and contention;—waging distant war
On God most high, aye present in his works.
And magic incantations, ere they quit
Northumbria's court, give hopes of prosperous aid,
Counsel, or force miraculous, from powers
Supernal—or so deem'd by erring men.
Nor yet unmeaning from the reeking fane
Issu'd the demon oracles: for, pois'd
In midway air, upon their steps attend,
Unmark'd, a goblin rout, the assiduous train
Of Moloch, by the Saxon nations nam'd
Woden (fierce homicide!) in classic times
Mars, or the mountain god (thence Harees) long
Worshipp'd on Thracian heights—his dwelling deem'd:
Baäl or Bell, with oriental tribes,
His name the while; beneath whose idol fane,
187
Fearful to captive Israël! With these
(Misdeem'd of later years a fabled form
Of allegoric fancy) Discord soars—
Alecto erst, or of the furies chief
That guard Valhalla, or the gloomy throne
Of Dys—as Scald, or classic bard adorns
The varying tale, by Superstition taught,
Discolouring holy truths obscurely known:
For she from highest Heav'n (a cherub once
In titlé and essence—ere her present name
Was heard, except in Chaos) headlong fell,
With all that rebel rout; her glory soil'd,
And form celestial: first of all the host
(Meribah, thence, and Meribaäl call'd,
And Eber, by th' indignant files of Heav'n)
To urge presumptuous war, and fan the rage
Of Satan, when, ambition-fir'd, he sought
To quell the omnipotent; and therefore fell—
He, and his rebel peers; and this withal—
Punish'd, not penitent: for still she broods
Strife and contention;—waging distant war
On God most high, aye present in his works.
So soars the dread Valkyrie!—as her chief,
Hideous of purpose; nor in alter'd shape
Less fearful, when, thro' lurid air she floats,
A giant form. Round her colossal brow
(Once with ambrosial locks, of orient hue,
Twin'd graceful) now a venomous brood enwrithe
With vip'rous hiss; and from her shoulders broad,
Where erst the snowy plumage dropp'd with gold
Beam'd radiant, wide the seared pinions spread,
Bat-form'd, a huge expanse! and over hill,
Champain, or grove, or dale, where'er she wends
On impious errand, shed a noxious shadow.
Fierce are her looks, and sullen—ghastly fierce!
Dark scouls her lowering brow; and, underneath,
The restless eye-balls, that, dilated, gleam
Two fiery meteors, ever rolling, seek
Food for their wrath, while on each feature hangs
Black tempest, rage deform'd, and rending storm
Tumultuous. Such she seems (hideous and wild!)
As when, in midnight blasts, the warring clouds
Burst flaming, and the else untemper'd dark
Bewrays the mingled uproar; seas, and skies,
And riven rock, and mast of founder'd bark,
And steeple' and tow'r split smouldering: woful scene!
To her heart-cheering! which, when she beholds,
She shakes the scorpion scourge, and, from her side,
Snatches, in act to sound, the pendant horn
Earth-shaking, that appals living and dead:
The same which erst, ere man yet was, on high
War and defiance breath'd, from angel hosts
Apostate; and, first time, with alien sounds,
Rude clamouring, tore Heav'n's concave; vocal ne'er,
Till that disastrous hour, but with the strains,
Holy and sweet, of love, and gratulous joy.
Hideous of purpose; nor in alter'd shape
Less fearful, when, thro' lurid air she floats,
A giant form. Round her colossal brow
(Once with ambrosial locks, of orient hue,
Twin'd graceful) now a venomous brood enwrithe
With vip'rous hiss; and from her shoulders broad,
188
Beam'd radiant, wide the seared pinions spread,
Bat-form'd, a huge expanse! and over hill,
Champain, or grove, or dale, where'er she wends
On impious errand, shed a noxious shadow.
Fierce are her looks, and sullen—ghastly fierce!
Dark scouls her lowering brow; and, underneath,
The restless eye-balls, that, dilated, gleam
Two fiery meteors, ever rolling, seek
Food for their wrath, while on each feature hangs
Black tempest, rage deform'd, and rending storm
Tumultuous. Such she seems (hideous and wild!)
As when, in midnight blasts, the warring clouds
Burst flaming, and the else untemper'd dark
Bewrays the mingled uproar; seas, and skies,
And riven rock, and mast of founder'd bark,
And steeple' and tow'r split smouldering: woful scene!
To her heart-cheering! which, when she beholds,
She shakes the scorpion scourge, and, from her side,
Snatches, in act to sound, the pendant horn
Earth-shaking, that appals living and dead:
The same which erst, ere man yet was, on high
War and defiance breath'd, from angel hosts
Apostate; and, first time, with alien sounds,
Rude clamouring, tore Heav'n's concave; vocal ne'er,
Till that disastrous hour, but with the strains,
Holy and sweet, of love, and gratulous joy.
Like wrath to breed in Albion, now the fiend
Spreads her obnoxious pinion: in her rear,
A throng of ministering fiends, that imp her flight,
And do her fatal biddings; stirring up,
Each in his sphere not idle, venomous thoughts—
Panics, and rage, and wrongs; obdurate pride
And jaundic'd jealousies; suspicions dire,
And fears, and hates, the populous brood of Hell.
Spreads her obnoxious pinion: in her rear,
A throng of ministering fiends, that imp her flight,
189
Each in his sphere not idle, venomous thoughts—
Panics, and rage, and wrongs; obdurate pride
And jaundic'd jealousies; suspicions dire,
And fears, and hates, the populous brood of Hell.
By these (the gods of Acca) watch'd and warn'd,
Proceeds the imperious embassy, on which
Thy fate Northumbria hangs, and Albion's hope
Of laws and holy truths, that from the bonds
Of tyrant Superstition may redeem,
And savage wrongs. So fear the demon gods
Of Scandinavia—Hertha and her race—
(So deem'd: herself of elder Ymer born:
Born out of Chaos!) but more truly known
As Belial's hideous train; obscene with rage
Of brutal cruelty and brutal joys;
Yet worshipp'd oft on many a torr sublime;
In many a Karn; and oft, in runic verse,
With fond alliteration, hymn'd and prais'd.
Thee, Frea! thee they praise, embrothel'd queen
Of wanton dalliance! and thy warrior spouse,
Asgardian Woden, in his Hall of Shields,
Horrid with blood; and cloud compelling Thor
(Fruit of your loves connubial) and the rest
Who, with septemviral sway, with magic rites,
And impious festivals, alternate shar'd
Diurnal homage; chronicled as yet
In mystic calendars; profaning thus
The shrine of holy Science with the weeds
Of Pagan Superstition, false and foul!
Proceeds the imperious embassy, on which
Thy fate Northumbria hangs, and Albion's hope
Of laws and holy truths, that from the bonds
Of tyrant Superstition may redeem,
And savage wrongs. So fear the demon gods
Of Scandinavia—Hertha and her race—
(So deem'd: herself of elder Ymer born:
Born out of Chaos!) but more truly known
As Belial's hideous train; obscene with rage
Of brutal cruelty and brutal joys;
Yet worshipp'd oft on many a torr sublime;
In many a Karn; and oft, in runic verse,
With fond alliteration, hymn'd and prais'd.
Thee, Frea! thee they praise, embrothel'd queen
Of wanton dalliance! and thy warrior spouse,
Asgardian Woden, in his Hall of Shields,
Horrid with blood; and cloud compelling Thor
(Fruit of your loves connubial) and the rest
Who, with septemviral sway, with magic rites,
And impious festivals, alternate shar'd
Diurnal homage; chronicled as yet
In mystic calendars; profaning thus
The shrine of holy Science with the weeds
Of Pagan Superstition, false and foul!
190
All these and more (Elvæ, and antic Sprites—
Patrons of months and seasons) fear their doom—
Fear for their shrines and altars, runic spells,
And homicidal worship. Therefore, sent
To aid the tyrant's plea, th' infernal throng
Fly sedulous; and feel a common cause.
Patrons of months and seasons) fear their doom—
Fear for their shrines and altars, runic spells,
And homicidal worship. Therefore, sent
To aid the tyrant's plea, th' infernal throng
Fly sedulous; and feel a common cause.
A common cause, not less, the minion train
Who throng the court of Redowald confess—
Nor less malign. And now, by these inspir'd,
They tower with bolder frontlet: hence no more
Obsequious flatterers, to a masters will
Who bow with silent awe. The palace rings
With strains unwonted; and the royal name,
Clamorous, they brand with censure—who, unwarn'd,
“An alien youth protects—perhaps for crimes
“Banish'd his native land; unheard rejects
“The claims, perchance, of justice; turning, hence,
“Proffer'd alliance into deadly feuds
“And enmities; the while East Anglia's realm,
“Menac'd with dangerous league, must in new wars
“Plunge, unconsulted—her existence stake,
“As yet unstable, from the recent strife,
“Wag'd with Icenian foes: and this, forsooth,
“Not for East Anglia's glory; not to gain
“Extent of wish'd dominion, and her chiefs
“Enrich with foreign spoil; or further chace,
“Into their savage wilds, the Cambrian tribes
“Detested: not to rest on firmer base
“East Anglia's freedom, and her rights protect,
“Inviolate, from spoil of alien force:—
“No—not for this, nor these, must Anglian blood
“Flow in the direful conflict, and our strength,
“Exhausted, perish in renewed strife,
“Ere from the old reviv'd. But grant it right,
“Thus, for a vagrant chief (for causes known
“Best to himself) from every other court
“Expell'd indignant; for a chief, erewhile,
“Among their untam'd mountains, taught and train'd
“By our inveterate foes, and doom'd, perhaps,
“In league with Cambrian legions, once again
“To shake the Saxon power; till all in vain
“Our Uffas, and our Hengists, Erkenwins,
“Cerdics and Idas, chiefs of deathless fame—
“The progeny of Woden, demigods!
“In the illustrious conflict shall have bled!—
“Grant that it could, in such a cause, be right
“(For one of dubious fame—a stranger chief!)
“To plunge in civil feud, and Saxon swords
“Bury in Saxon bosoms, were't not well
“To hear, at least, the embassy?—to weigh
“The cause in council? that East Anglian blood
“Not unappreciate by East Anglia's chiefs
“May flow devoted; and our fate depend
“On other surety than an alien's will.”
Who throng the court of Redowald confess—
Nor less malign. And now, by these inspir'd,
They tower with bolder frontlet: hence no more
Obsequious flatterers, to a masters will
Who bow with silent awe. The palace rings
With strains unwonted; and the royal name,
Clamorous, they brand with censure—who, unwarn'd,
“An alien youth protects—perhaps for crimes
“Banish'd his native land; unheard rejects
“The claims, perchance, of justice; turning, hence,
“Proffer'd alliance into deadly feuds
“And enmities; the while East Anglia's realm,
“Menac'd with dangerous league, must in new wars
“Plunge, unconsulted—her existence stake,
“As yet unstable, from the recent strife,
“Wag'd with Icenian foes: and this, forsooth,
“Not for East Anglia's glory; not to gain
“Extent of wish'd dominion, and her chiefs
“Enrich with foreign spoil; or further chace,
“Into their savage wilds, the Cambrian tribes
“Detested: not to rest on firmer base
“East Anglia's freedom, and her rights protect,
“Inviolate, from spoil of alien force:—
191
“Flow in the direful conflict, and our strength,
“Exhausted, perish in renewed strife,
“Ere from the old reviv'd. But grant it right,
“Thus, for a vagrant chief (for causes known
“Best to himself) from every other court
“Expell'd indignant; for a chief, erewhile,
“Among their untam'd mountains, taught and train'd
“By our inveterate foes, and doom'd, perhaps,
“In league with Cambrian legions, once again
“To shake the Saxon power; till all in vain
“Our Uffas, and our Hengists, Erkenwins,
“Cerdics and Idas, chiefs of deathless fame—
“The progeny of Woden, demigods!
“In the illustrious conflict shall have bled!—
“Grant that it could, in such a cause, be right
“(For one of dubious fame—a stranger chief!)
“To plunge in civil feud, and Saxon swords
“Bury in Saxon bosoms, were't not well
“To hear, at least, the embassy?—to weigh
“The cause in council? that East Anglian blood
“Not unappreciate by East Anglia's chiefs
“May flow devoted; and our fate depend
“On other surety than an alien's will.”
Thus, in the Court, they clamour, glossing o'er
Their impious purpose with the specious shew
Of patriotic care, and pious zeal,
And tender love of justice: nor less loud
Amid the popular throng; whom for their ends
(Tho erst despis'd and trampled) they exalt,
And woo with artful blandishments—their ears
Filling with fearful words—strife-stirring sounds
And cabalistic jargon; such as aye
Traitors in pow'r, state jugglers, trumpet forth,
When in the popular mind they seek to raise
Ideal terrors, phantoms of alarm,
And baseless apprehensions. By such arts
Sway they the unstable mind of Redöwald,
Else self-determin'd and persuade to hear
The embassy in council; there to weigh
War or alliance, the propounded terms
For Ælla's Son protected or betray'd.
Their impious purpose with the specious shew
Of patriotic care, and pious zeal,
And tender love of justice: nor less loud
Amid the popular throng; whom for their ends
(Tho erst despis'd and trampled) they exalt,
192
Filling with fearful words—strife-stirring sounds
And cabalistic jargon; such as aye
Traitors in pow'r, state jugglers, trumpet forth,
When in the popular mind they seek to raise
Ideal terrors, phantoms of alarm,
And baseless apprehensions. By such arts
Sway they the unstable mind of Redöwald,
Else self-determin'd and persuade to hear
The embassy in council; there to weigh
War or alliance, the propounded terms
For Ælla's Son protected or betray'd.
'Mid these cabals not idle are the twain,
Or of their charge unheedful. Thro' the night,
While, with the social chiefs, wassail and meed
They quaff, in gay carousals, Hermanric
Probes every heart: as pride or interest sways,
Mirth, or the genial rite, or thirst of fame,
Or enmity and deep corroding hate
Against the race of Cambria, he enflames
Their several passions: here the costly gift
Timely presents; some martial trophy there;
And there the spacious bowl. Less sordid, these
Are won by shews of friendship—cordial words,
The statesman's cheapest bribes. Some well-tim'd praise
Quaint tales or jests convivial some allure—
A jocund band; while to another group
Of martial deeds he vaunts, “of Bangor's fight,
“Where Adelfrid o'er slaughter'd thousands strode,
“Humbling the Cambrian crest; while, cowering, fled
“Brochmael, thy prince, O, Powys! to their fate
“Leaving the tonsur'd crew; twelve hundred priests,
“Crosier'd and cowl'd; who, with their impious rites
“And chaunted incantations, hope to fray
“The sons of Woden. To the insulted god,
“An acceptable offering, these our king
“Bravely devotes; then, on the buckler'd host,
“Springs, like the brindled wolf, who, having flesh'd
“His warrior tusks with blood, and thinn'd the fold,
“Next on the herdsmen turns, that round him throng,
“Intent with missile weapons to repel
“The bold invader: these, with conquering rage,
“Fiercely he tears; their sylvan war defies,
“And chaces to their huts; well pleas'd to find
“Inglorious safety. So the hero rag'd:
“So to their woods and mountains chac'd the tribes
“Of Cambria's boastful warriors. Dee's broad waves
“Ran purple to the sea; proud Bangor flam'd;
“And Legan-Cester, trembling to its base,
“Confess'd the Saxon pow'r. Nor scap'd the chiefs;
“But, by the outstretch'd sax mow'd down, or crush'd
“Beneath the pond'rous mace, groaning they fell,
“In conflict and in flight, a royal carnage!
Or of their charge unheedful. Thro' the night,
While, with the social chiefs, wassail and meed
They quaff, in gay carousals, Hermanric
Probes every heart: as pride or interest sways,
Mirth, or the genial rite, or thirst of fame,
Or enmity and deep corroding hate
Against the race of Cambria, he enflames
Their several passions: here the costly gift
Timely presents; some martial trophy there;
And there the spacious bowl. Less sordid, these
Are won by shews of friendship—cordial words,
The statesman's cheapest bribes. Some well-tim'd praise
Quaint tales or jests convivial some allure—
A jocund band; while to another group
Of martial deeds he vaunts, “of Bangor's fight,
“Where Adelfrid o'er slaughter'd thousands strode,
“Humbling the Cambrian crest; while, cowering, fled
193
“Leaving the tonsur'd crew; twelve hundred priests,
“Crosier'd and cowl'd; who, with their impious rites
“And chaunted incantations, hope to fray
“The sons of Woden. To the insulted god,
“An acceptable offering, these our king
“Bravely devotes; then, on the buckler'd host,
“Springs, like the brindled wolf, who, having flesh'd
“His warrior tusks with blood, and thinn'd the fold,
“Next on the herdsmen turns, that round him throng,
“Intent with missile weapons to repel
“The bold invader: these, with conquering rage,
“Fiercely he tears; their sylvan war defies,
“And chaces to their huts; well pleas'd to find
“Inglorious safety. So the hero rag'd:
“So to their woods and mountains chac'd the tribes
“Of Cambria's boastful warriors. Dee's broad waves
“Ran purple to the sea; proud Bangor flam'd;
“And Legan-Cester, trembling to its base,
“Confess'd the Saxon pow'r. Nor scap'd the chiefs;
“But, by the outstretch'd sax mow'd down, or crush'd
“Beneath the pond'rous mace, groaning they fell,
“In conflict and in flight, a royal carnage!
“First bled Gwendellau, fierce Caradoc next,
“Madoc and Modred, strong Derwyddon, Ludd,
“Merion and Mathraval; Rhiwallon next,
“Renown'd for brutal rage; and Howel's son,
“Proud Cunvan: swift Ardiffrid then we slew,
“O'erta'en in flight; and, making fruitless stand,
“Cadwallader, and Rhun, and Ruthfedel;
“And stern Cadoffin, tall Usgathrog, Mawr,
“Enion and Cadiffor—Arglooddi all,
“Fam'd in their clans, and Bards, whose epic songs
“Inflame the martial ardour. Cadvan's self—
“(Your Edwin's patron!) who, with all his hosts,
“Flush'd with predicted conquest, from the north
“Came foaming (like the torrents from their heights,
“Swoln by autumnal rains—an upland sea!)
“Stood all aghast; and, doubting Merlin's faith,
“For his own Snowdon trembled and retir'd.”
“Madoc and Modred, strong Derwyddon, Ludd,
“Merion and Mathraval; Rhiwallon next,
“Renown'd for brutal rage; and Howel's son,
“Proud Cunvan: swift Ardiffrid then we slew,
“O'erta'en in flight; and, making fruitless stand,
“Cadwallader, and Rhun, and Ruthfedel;
194
“Enion and Cadiffor—Arglooddi all,
“Fam'd in their clans, and Bards, whose epic songs
“Inflame the martial ardour. Cadvan's self—
“(Your Edwin's patron!) who, with all his hosts,
“Flush'd with predicted conquest, from the north
“Came foaming (like the torrents from their heights,
“Swoln by autumnal rains—an upland sea!)
“Stood all aghast; and, doubting Merlin's faith,
“For his own Snowdon trembled and retir'd.”
Thus Hermanric. Fierce Ossa hears with joy
The boastful tale: but most his soul exults
In Bangor's massacre—her slaughter'd monks
And conflagrated monast'ry—“where all
“Their arts,” he cries, “their spells, and endless rolls
“Of Nechromantic jargon, a vast pile
“Of impious mummery, in the flames expire.
“Grim Woden smil'd, and Thor, with furious joy,
“Convuls'd the air; while Coifi, from the herd
“Of trembling captives, snatch'd the victim chiefs,
“And on our altars slew. So perish all
“The race of Cambria—and their vagrant friends!”
The boastful tale: but most his soul exults
In Bangor's massacre—her slaughter'd monks
And conflagrated monast'ry—“where all
“Their arts,” he cries, “their spells, and endless rolls
“Of Nechromantic jargon, a vast pile
“Of impious mummery, in the flames expire.
“Grim Woden smil'd, and Thor, with furious joy,
“Convuls'd the air; while Coifi, from the herd
“Of trembling captives, snatch'd the victim chiefs,
“And on our altars slew. So perish all
“The race of Cambria—and their vagrant friends!”
Redden his eyes at this: his eyes that glare,
Inquisitive, around: and, where he marks
A kindred disposition, there he turns,
Insidious—pledges deep the wassail bowl,
And grasps the hand in amity; the while,
With low'ring brow, and darkly mutter'd words,
He seeds the smouldering sire. To such, he drops
Close-whisper'd hints of “Traitors!—Cambrian spies!”
Or tells some tale “of canker-worms destroy'd,
“Or vipers crush'd!”—Nor lacks the ambiguous theme
Comment of glancing eye, or gnashing teeth,
Or hand that grasps the poignard, half expos'd.
Inquisitive, around: and, where he marks
A kindred disposition, there he turns,
Insidious—pledges deep the wassail bowl,
And grasps the hand in amity; the while,
With low'ring brow, and darkly mutter'd words,
He seeds the smouldering sire. To such, he drops
Close-whisper'd hints of “Traitors!—Cambrian spies!”
195
“Or vipers crush'd!”—Nor lacks the ambiguous theme
Comment of glancing eye, or gnashing teeth,
Or hand that grasps the poignard, half expos'd.
Thus waines the night. But, when the ruddy day
Resumes his empire, thro' the crowded streets
They bend their course; and to the public gaze,
Display their purpos'd presents: chiefly those
(Banners and arms and trophies) from the foe
Ta'en in the Cestrian fight. With these they hope,
Not idly, in the popular mind, to rouse
The sullen passions—scorn, and deadly hate
Of alien tribes, and national pride that steels
The obdurate heart, presumptuous, and confounds
Reason and right; moulding the infatuate herd
(Their own worst foes!) to the pernicious views
Of crafty politicians: whence the woes
That thin the human race—oppressions, wars,
Famine, and fire, and pestilence; whate'er
The Good with horror view, the Great with pride.
Resumes his empire, thro' the crowded streets
They bend their course; and to the public gaze,
Display their purpos'd presents: chiefly those
(Banners and arms and trophies) from the foe
Ta'en in the Cestrian fight. With these they hope,
Not idly, in the popular mind, to rouse
The sullen passions—scorn, and deadly hate
Of alien tribes, and national pride that steels
The obdurate heart, presumptuous, and confounds
Reason and right; moulding the infatuate herd
(Their own worst foes!) to the pernicious views
Of crafty politicians: whence the woes
That thin the human race—oppressions, wars,
Famine, and fire, and pestilence; whate'er
The Good with horror view, the Great with pride.
Meantime, not heedless, with the gaping throng
Mingle the ministéring furies; their foul forms
Vailing in human mould, and shifting oft,
As spirits wont, and their malignant views
Best prompt them. Now, in lowliest weeds, they mix
Among the lowest, and, with sordid speech,
Quaint idiom, and obscener mirth, disguise
Insidious malice; now, in martial strain,
Boast their exploits, and shew the mimic scar,
Feign'd from Icenian shafts. Anon, they seem
Sages, or Priests, that of impending ills
Bode, reas'ning, or, from divination, feign
Woes darkly shadow'd. Still, in every form,
Their own bad passions into every breast
They breathe, infectious—pride, and causeless hate,
Contention, scorn, and envy, and the drought
Of wildering rage, that thirsts for guiltless blood.
Mingle the ministéring furies; their foul forms
Vailing in human mould, and shifting oft,
As spirits wont, and their malignant views
Best prompt them. Now, in lowliest weeds, they mix
Among the lowest, and, with sordid speech,
Quaint idiom, and obscener mirth, disguise
Insidious malice; now, in martial strain,
Boast their exploits, and shew the mimic scar,
Feign'd from Icenian shafts. Anon, they seem
196
Bode, reas'ning, or, from divination, feign
Woes darkly shadow'd. Still, in every form,
Their own bad passions into every breast
They breathe, infectious—pride, and causeless hate,
Contention, scorn, and envy, and the drought
Of wildering rage, that thirsts for guiltless blood.
Such passions, by the passing pomp inspir'd,
(For so he deems) the crafty Hermanric
Beholds self-gratulous: nor does he lack
To watch the spreading fire, and, timely, heap
Fuel of words accordant; vaunting oft
“Northumbria's glory, and the martial fame
“Of Adelfrid, from East to West wide borne
“On wings of Triumph!—Caledonians, Picts,
“And martial Scots pent in their Grampion hills;
“The Saxon name spread to the northern isles;
“And Cambro-Britons o'er their barren heights
“Chac'd timorous, on the sea's extremest verge
“To pant for short-liv'd safety.” So he boasts
(Bruiting a tyrant's worth!) and interweaves
Words oft of soothing praise, and dearest love
Borne to East Anglia's tribe: and much he talks
“Of wish'd alliance; of confederate force,
“And Cambria's remnant crush'd beneath the weight
“Of Anglia and Northumbria join'd in arms.”
(For so he deems) the crafty Hermanric
Beholds self-gratulous: nor does he lack
To watch the spreading fire, and, timely, heap
Fuel of words accordant; vaunting oft
“Northumbria's glory, and the martial fame
“Of Adelfrid, from East to West wide borne
“On wings of Triumph!—Caledonians, Picts,
“And martial Scots pent in their Grampion hills;
“The Saxon name spread to the northern isles;
“And Cambro-Britons o'er their barren heights
“Chac'd timorous, on the sea's extremest verge
“To pant for short-liv'd safety.” So he boasts
(Bruiting a tyrant's worth!) and interweaves
Words oft of soothing praise, and dearest love
Borne to East Anglia's tribe: and much he talks
“Of wish'd alliance; of confederate force,
“And Cambria's remnant crush'd beneath the weight
“Of Anglia and Northumbria join'd in arms.”
Mantles each cheek at this. The demon stirs
In each inflated breast; nor stirs unurg'd;
For swift the infernal crew the closing words,
Exulting, catch; and, with reverberate shout,
Rend heav'n's high arch, denouncing “Cambria's fall
“By Anglia and Northumbria!” The fierce throng
Kindle with martial rage. All join the peal,
And swift, from man to man, contagious wrath
Spreads, direful: as, from group to group, expands
The electric fire, when to the crystal jar,
Or sphere excited, the hermetic hand
Applies the tried conductor, and relieves
The imprison'd element, whose subtile flames
Dart thro' the languid nerves, the fibres brace,
And with encreas'd pulsation urge the heart.
In each inflated breast; nor stirs unurg'd;
For swift the infernal crew the closing words,
Exulting, catch; and, with reverberate shout,
197
“By Anglia and Northumbria!” The fierce throng
Kindle with martial rage. All join the peal,
And swift, from man to man, contagious wrath
Spreads, direful: as, from group to group, expands
The electric fire, when to the crystal jar,
Or sphere excited, the hermetic hand
Applies the tried conductor, and relieves
The imprison'd element, whose subtile flames
Dart thro' the languid nerves, the fibres brace,
And with encreas'd pulsation urge the heart.
So these, excited by mysterious fires,
Glow with unwonted fury. Loud the name
Of Adelfrid they clamour—“Adelfrid!
“Avenging Scythe of Woden! Cambria's Scourge!
“Hope of the Cimbrian race!” Meantime to arms,
Urg'd by the demon crew, with breathless haste,
All fly delirious. Thro' the crowded streets
Helmet and hauberk gleam, and burnish'd sax,
Spear, and the ponderous mace. The clanging shields
Bray hideous; and the city teems with war.
Glow with unwonted fury. Loud the name
Of Adelfrid they clamour—“Adelfrid!
“Avenging Scythe of Woden! Cambria's Scourge!
“Hope of the Cimbrian race!” Meantime to arms,
Urg'd by the demon crew, with breathless haste,
All fly delirious. Thro' the crowded streets
Helmet and hauberk gleam, and burnish'd sax,
Spear, and the ponderous mace. The clanging shields
Bray hideous; and the city teems with war.
Then swells the heart, vainglorious. Each beholds,
In fierce imagination, thy proud towers,
Diganway, fall; while, o'er the perilous heights
Of cloud-girt Snowdon, expectation pours
The martial deluge; and the hapless race
(Hated for wrongs and sufferings!) seems extinct.
In fierce imagination, thy proud towers,
Diganway, fall; while, o'er the perilous heights
Of cloud-girt Snowdon, expectation pours
The martial deluge; and the hapless race
(Hated for wrongs and sufferings!) seems extinct.
Meantime, in different groups, the demon throng
Essay their boldest arts; and, for their ends,
Assume the port and gesture (well devis'd)
Of minion courtiers—a seditious crew,
When to their ends directed, the dread storm
Of popular rage may swell! Now here, now there,
Clamourous they fly, inflaming more the fierce,
Urging the bold, and with insidious speech,
Guiding the whirlwind passions. But o'er all,
Gifted in specious malice, and the rage
Of festering hate, the seeming Beornulph shines:
Beornulph, for unrein'd insolence and pride
Conspicuous ever: turbulent of tongue,
And school'd in subtile sophistry, he knew
Each popular art against the popular cause,
Skilful, to turn; to deck the altar up
Of bloody immolation in such guise
Of luring pomp that the poor hecatomb
Bleat for the sacrifice; and while they deem
Themselves the God, not victims, on the knife
Rush self-destroying. Such appropriate form
Assumes The Master Fiend, who, heretofore,
Aloof, suspended on inveterate wing,
Beheld the tumult thickening—best to guide
The Ministering Mischief, or the frenzy urge
When to full crisis raging. This perceiv'd,
She her infernal in such semblant form
Subtly invelopes, with infuriate force
Of hell-instructed eloquence, to goad
Delirium on to madness; and the wrath,
Kindled by wiles demoniac against
The race of Cambria, on the head divert
Of Edwin—erst so favour'd: popular love
(Ah, boon precarious!) to the deadly gall
Of hatred turning. Thus disguis'd, her head,
While fierce the tumult rages, o'er the crowd
Lifts the dire fiend. The spell-bound crowd attend.
Essay their boldest arts; and, for their ends,
Assume the port and gesture (well devis'd)
198
When to their ends directed, the dread storm
Of popular rage may swell! Now here, now there,
Clamourous they fly, inflaming more the fierce,
Urging the bold, and with insidious speech,
Guiding the whirlwind passions. But o'er all,
Gifted in specious malice, and the rage
Of festering hate, the seeming Beornulph shines:
Beornulph, for unrein'd insolence and pride
Conspicuous ever: turbulent of tongue,
And school'd in subtile sophistry, he knew
Each popular art against the popular cause,
Skilful, to turn; to deck the altar up
Of bloody immolation in such guise
Of luring pomp that the poor hecatomb
Bleat for the sacrifice; and while they deem
Themselves the God, not victims, on the knife
Rush self-destroying. Such appropriate form
Assumes The Master Fiend, who, heretofore,
Aloof, suspended on inveterate wing,
Beheld the tumult thickening—best to guide
The Ministering Mischief, or the frenzy urge
When to full crisis raging. This perceiv'd,
She her infernal in such semblant form
Subtly invelopes, with infuriate force
Of hell-instructed eloquence, to goad
Delirium on to madness; and the wrath,
Kindled by wiles demoniac against
The race of Cambria, on the head divert
Of Edwin—erst so favour'd: popular love
(Ah, boon precarious!) to the deadly gall
199
While fierce the tumult rages, o'er the crowd
Lifts the dire fiend. The spell-bound crowd attend.
“And what prevents—ye warriors! what prevents
“The wish'd alliance?—What forbids the Sons
“Of Elb, united, to their fame to rush,
“And Cambria's instant fall? What but this blight—
“This outlaw'd Edwin? who, in Cambria's court
“Uprear'd and nurtur'd, to the Cambrian race
“Inclines with partial favour: in his heart
“Almost a Briton! adverse to our Gods,
“And from our altars alien! He it is
“That with his foreign counsels fills the ear
“Of credulous Red'wald, urging causeless hate
“Against Northumbria's king, brave Adelfrid!
“Whom, as it seems, the popular voice preferr'd,
“For martial virtues, and deep rooted hate
“Of Cambria's tribe, to fill a double throne;
“And, haply, for collective strength, to blend,
“Against the common foe, Deïria's sons
“With those of fam'd Bernicia. He, it seems,
“Owns not the national will; but would oppose,
“And, with hereditary claims, dissolve
“The happy compact. Hence, from court to court,
“Suppliant, he flies, with well-invented tales
“Of wrongs and woes, storming the womanish heart
“Of Pity; hoping thus the Saxon league
“To split in hostile factions; and, by force
“Of alien swords, with lurking treasons leagu'd,
“To gain his ends ambitious. Thus may we—
“Shield clash'd with shield, and sax with sax embroil'd,
“Thin our victorious ranks. Meantime the foe,
“Fear-chill'd no more, burst from their icy chains;
“And, from Mervinian heights, shall Cadvan pour
“The wasting deluge o'er our fertile vales
“Exulting; and, too late, our civil rage
“Quench in promiscuous ruin: better far
“Timely extinguish'd: better, e're the spark
“Spreads into flame, in its own smoke, confound
“The latent mischief. Hence Northumbria's, peers
“Pronounce him traitor. Hence each Saxon realm,
“(East Anglia's court excepted) timely wise,
“Spurns him pernicious. Even Erin's chiefs,
“That range the swampy forest, and the hordes
“Of Scandinavian rovers, who the sea
“From Mang's rude Isle infest, their aid refuse.
“But we, my friends! we on this forlorn hope
“Headlong must rush, and these our scythe-like blades
“(Whence our heroic name) must turn to mow
“Not Woden's foes, but Woden's kindred ranks:
“An impious harvest. Doff then the stern helm:
“Pile up your arms: Hauberk, and axe, and spear,
“In idle state, hang in your chieftains' halls,
“And let the warrior sax rust in the scabbard:
“So Edwin wills—or clang your brazen shields
“For him, and not for Adelfrid. The front
“Of perilous war turn not against the tribes
“Of fugitive Cambria; but against the Chief
“(Favour'd of Woden) who the Cambrian tribes
“Pens in contracting bounds;—and would destroy,
“But for intestine treasons!” Thus declaims
The latent fiend, well acting, and appears,
In phrase, as voice and gesture, Beornulph's self:
Clamourous and false: the demagogue of power!
Then, plunging in the crowd, to thinner air
Resolves the borrow'd form; and over head
Floats, a dark cloud, wide low'ring: such as oft
O'er Skiddow's top (divine of coming storms—
Lightning, or hail, or fall of feathery frost
Cold-piercing, or the deluging rain that swells
Autumnal torrents) at the close of eve,
With darkening swoop, stoops threat'ning: fearful sight
To the way-wearied traveller, whose eye,
Haggard and cheerless, scans the houseless waste.
“The wish'd alliance?—What forbids the Sons
“Of Elb, united, to their fame to rush,
“And Cambria's instant fall? What but this blight—
“This outlaw'd Edwin? who, in Cambria's court
“Uprear'd and nurtur'd, to the Cambrian race
“Inclines with partial favour: in his heart
“Almost a Briton! adverse to our Gods,
“And from our altars alien! He it is
“That with his foreign counsels fills the ear
“Of credulous Red'wald, urging causeless hate
“Against Northumbria's king, brave Adelfrid!
“Whom, as it seems, the popular voice preferr'd,
“For martial virtues, and deep rooted hate
“Of Cambria's tribe, to fill a double throne;
“And, haply, for collective strength, to blend,
“Against the common foe, Deïria's sons
“With those of fam'd Bernicia. He, it seems,
“Owns not the national will; but would oppose,
“And, with hereditary claims, dissolve
“The happy compact. Hence, from court to court,
“Suppliant, he flies, with well-invented tales
“Of wrongs and woes, storming the womanish heart
“Of Pity; hoping thus the Saxon league
“To split in hostile factions; and, by force
“Of alien swords, with lurking treasons leagu'd,
“To gain his ends ambitious. Thus may we—
“Shield clash'd with shield, and sax with sax embroil'd,
200
“Fear-chill'd no more, burst from their icy chains;
“And, from Mervinian heights, shall Cadvan pour
“The wasting deluge o'er our fertile vales
“Exulting; and, too late, our civil rage
“Quench in promiscuous ruin: better far
“Timely extinguish'd: better, e're the spark
“Spreads into flame, in its own smoke, confound
“The latent mischief. Hence Northumbria's, peers
“Pronounce him traitor. Hence each Saxon realm,
“(East Anglia's court excepted) timely wise,
“Spurns him pernicious. Even Erin's chiefs,
“That range the swampy forest, and the hordes
“Of Scandinavian rovers, who the sea
“From Mang's rude Isle infest, their aid refuse.
“But we, my friends! we on this forlorn hope
“Headlong must rush, and these our scythe-like blades
“(Whence our heroic name) must turn to mow
“Not Woden's foes, but Woden's kindred ranks:
“An impious harvest. Doff then the stern helm:
“Pile up your arms: Hauberk, and axe, and spear,
“In idle state, hang in your chieftains' halls,
“And let the warrior sax rust in the scabbard:
“So Edwin wills—or clang your brazen shields
“For him, and not for Adelfrid. The front
“Of perilous war turn not against the tribes
“Of fugitive Cambria; but against the Chief
“(Favour'd of Woden) who the Cambrian tribes
“Pens in contracting bounds;—and would destroy,
“But for intestine treasons!” Thus declaims
The latent fiend, well acting, and appears,
201
Clamourous and false: the demagogue of power!
Then, plunging in the crowd, to thinner air
Resolves the borrow'd form; and over head
Floats, a dark cloud, wide low'ring: such as oft
O'er Skiddow's top (divine of coming storms—
Lightning, or hail, or fall of feathery frost
Cold-piercing, or the deluging rain that swells
Autumnal torrents) at the close of eve,
With darkening swoop, stoops threat'ning: fearful sight
To the way-wearied traveller, whose eye,
Haggard and cheerless, scans the houseless waste.
Meanwhile her trump sonorous, with loud blast,
The fiend inspires; wide-spread, her harpy wings
Flap joyous; and with more than mortal force
She swells the boisterous din. The crowd confess
The hovering demon. Wide, and wider spreads
The torrent rage, with shout, and deaf'ning clash
Of brazen shields, that uproar shakes the earth.
Then onward, by the maddening pest impell'd,
Foaming they pour, and with their clamourous rage
Circle the royal palace: like the sea,
That breaks its banks, and, round some frontier tow'r,
Beacon, or spire, roars with tumultuous rage:
Wave rolls on wave, and, flood impelling flood,
Onward resistless spreads: fierce breaks the foam
(A briny shower) dash'd from the batter'd base,
Till from its height, the threaten'd pile stoops tottering.
The fiend inspires; wide-spread, her harpy wings
Flap joyous; and with more than mortal force
She swells the boisterous din. The crowd confess
The hovering demon. Wide, and wider spreads
The torrent rage, with shout, and deaf'ning clash
Of brazen shields, that uproar shakes the earth.
Then onward, by the maddening pest impell'd,
Foaming they pour, and with their clamourous rage
Circle the royal palace: like the sea,
That breaks its banks, and, round some frontier tow'r,
Beacon, or spire, roars with tumultuous rage:
Wave rolls on wave, and, flood impelling flood,
Onward resistless spreads: fierce breaks the foam
(A briny shower) dash'd from the batter'd base,
Till from its height, the threaten'd pile stoops tottering.
So they, impatient for the Cambrian war,
Foam mad'ning: while for Adelfrid they shout,
Till with percussion of the beaten air
The palace trembles. Red'wald hears astound:
Nor ill divining the insidious cause,
Ponders with painful doubt; and with his breast
Holds fearful council. So a swarm of wasps,
By hunger urg'd, around the industrious hive
Throng martial, and, with brandish'd sting prepar'd,
Breathe thro' their tiny horns the threatening blast
Impetuous; while within the regal bee
Fears for the foodful store, and, ere she calls
Forth from their waxen cells and frugal toils
The warlike train, debates, with quick consult,
How wiseliest to repel impending woe.
Foam mad'ning: while for Adelfrid they shout,
Till with percussion of the beaten air
202
Nor ill divining the insidious cause,
Ponders with painful doubt; and with his breast
Holds fearful council. So a swarm of wasps,
By hunger urg'd, around the industrious hive
Throng martial, and, with brandish'd sting prepar'd,
Breathe thro' their tiny horns the threatening blast
Impetuous; while within the regal bee
Fears for the foodful store, and, ere she calls
Forth from their waxen cells and frugal toils
The warlike train, debates, with quick consult,
How wiseliest to repel impending woe.
END OF THE SECOND BOOK.
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