Poems Chiefly Written in Retirement, By John Thelwall; With Memoirs of the Life of the Author. Second Edition |
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THE ORPHAN BOY.
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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.]
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.
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!
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.
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 father talk'd of wealth and fame:
But still she wept, and sigh'd, and wept;
Till I, to see her, wept the same.
My father mounts, with shout and glee:
Then, gave a kiss to all around;
And, ah! how sweet a kiss 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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