Poems original and translated :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems original and translated

By John Herman Merivale ... A new and corrected edition with some additional pieces

Merivale, John Herman (1779-1844)

VOL. I

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I. VOL. I

THE MINSTREL

OR THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS

[_]

(IN CONTINUATION OF BEATTIE)

BOOK III.

I

Awful the hand of Fate, whose ruthless power
With bitterest pangs the human heart can rend;
Most awful at that sadly solemn hour,
When, o'er the bed of a departing friend,
Speechless, in agonizing grief we bend,
Observe the quivering lip, the languid eye,
And throbbing breast, which the last groans distend;
Wipe the cold dew, and catch the parting sigh
That wafts the immortal soul into eternity.

II

But why o'er dying Virtue do we weep?
Does the free spirit share our life's decay,
(Lost in the gloom of everlasting sleep)
Or wait the dawning of a better day?

Tho' fearful be the solitary way
From this perplext and feverish mortal clime,
Yet, cheer'd by Faith, and Hope's celestial ray,
Soon shall our wanderings cease in realms where Time
And Chance and Change no more shall blast our deathless prime.

III

Tho' all day long the fast descending rain
Have bathed in tears the lovely landscape round,
While the sad woods were silent, and the plain
No more reechoed every rural sound,
The tempest knows its heaven-appointed bound,
Sunshine again may cheer the evening's close,
And Nature's form be with fresh beauty crown'd;
When the swoln stream that from the mountain flows,
Will, with its distant roar, but soothe us to repose.

IV

So I, erewhile whose unavailing woe
Deplored the best of friends for ever fled,
Now bid those idle sorrows cease to flow,
While, by strong Faith to happier regions led,
I hold imagined converse with the dead;
And if my brow be sometimes overcast,
Or if mine eye a tear unbidden shed,
It flows from memory of affections past,
Mixt with a sigh for those which shall for ever last.

V

For, tho' a stern philosophy reprove
The tender tribute on the grave bestow'd,
Whoe'er has felt the sacred flame of love,
Whose animated heart has ever glow'd
With sense of Nature's charms, or Nature's God,
Knows well the soothing power of Melancholy,
By whose mild guidance led, the rude abode
I pleased forsook of Ignorance and Folly,
And consolation found in solitude most holy.

VI

Thou too, whose strains my bitter cares allay'd,
First-born of Heaven, celestial Music, hail!
For, well I ween, thy visionary aid
Can sweetly soothe, when strength and reason fail,
The ills that this distracted life assail;
Our miseries can charm, our toils repay;
Can guide our progress through the dreary vale,
Break with a gleam of light the o'erclouded day,
And bid the storms of grief in zephyrs die away.

VII

Guided by thee, thro' woods whose hollow sound
Responsive murmur'd to thy plaintive strain,
Or 'mid dark-cavern'd rocks with ivy crown'd
Where Echo still possess'd her ancient reign,

Or where the gray stream glided through the plain,
How oft his steps the young enthusiast bent,
To wander free o'er Fancy's airy reign,
Or “ruin'd man and virtue lost” lament:
For yet no nearer cares his simple heart had rent.

VIII

But ah! too soon the waves of sorrow roll
In gloomy turbulence around, and pour
Their gather'd forces on his yielding soul.
His native vale (abode of joy before)
Reechoes to the song of health no more.
The pale destruction hovers o'er his sire;
Whose gentle spirit, while it pants to soar,
His breast no longer glows with vital fire,
His boasted vigour fails, his mental powers expire.

IX

No more, upon the mountain's craggy steep,
His flocks bleat, answering the well-known horn;
On the wild cliff that overhangs the deep,
No more he hails the glad approach of morn;
No more, as eve on dusky pinions borne,
Recalls his fleecy wanderers to their fold,
His tender Phœbe welcomes his return,
Nor on the hearth the blazing fagots roll'd
Drive from his hardy limbs the nipping winter's cold.

X

In yain his Edwin's pious cares relieve
By one last gleam of joy his closing day;
In vain his friends around in silence grieve,
Moistening with tears of love his senseless clay:
But yesternight, in robes of shadowy gray,
Moved o'er the heath the slow funereal train
(Mark'd by prophetic sight) in long array;
The torch of death glared horrid on the plain,
And streaks of bloody red illumed the swelling main.

XI

For when, in days where memory loves to dwell,
Dark Superstition o'er the nations spread
Her fearful banner, every lonely dell,
And glade that human footsteps seldom tread,
And pathless heath, and storm-beat mountain's head,
Became the imagined haunt of witch or sprite,
Or peopled by the spectres of the dead
Who walk'd the melancholy round of night,
Till to their graves dispersed by the fresh morning's light.

XII

E'en now, when Reason, like the lovely dawn,
Has chased those strange fantastic dreams away,
Far in the bleak ungenial North withdrawn
The tyrant holds her solitary sway:

But ah! unhappy thou, her destined prey,
Whom ardent fancy hurried to the snare!
For thee shall joyless pass the summer day,
And, when dark winter hurtles in the air,
Thy life shall be a blank of comfortless despair.

XIII

At length when, heated by the wizard fire,
The extravagant and erring spirit glows
Uncheck'd within; and baleful fiends inspire
(Last curse of Heaven) the sense of future woes;
When every wave that roars and wind that blows
Comes charged with prescience of impending fate;
How will thy soul, in agonizing throes,
Strive to shake off the hated gift too late,
And sink again, oppress'd with more than mortal weight!

XIV

Edwin, whose mind the Hermit's pious lore
Had clear'd from error's stain and thoughts untrue,
Yet strong imagination often bore
Beyond the limits that his reason drew.
How vain the dreams of ignorance he knew,
Yet trembled at the voice he scorn'd to fear:
His sense revolted from the hideous crew
Of phantoms imaged by the gifted seer;
Yet each new portent fell like death upon his ear.

XV

Beneath an oak whose antique branches shade
A bank with moss and fragrant flowers o'ergrown,
Low in the earth the hoary sire is laid,
The place unmark'd by fence or sculptured stone;
No angels there in polish'd marble moan,
Nor pompous epitaph bespeaks his worth;
For such befit the proud and great alone
Who boast their hoarded wealth or noble birth,
Kings, statesmen, conquerors, and tyrants of the earth.

XVI

Not so the shepherd: near the rising ground
Where low at peace his mouldering bones were laid,
A rustic cross was fix'd, and, all around,
Fresh flowers were strown, and verdant holly made
About the sacred spot a grateful shade.
In a lone dell o'ergrown with tangled wood
These last sad obsequies his Edwin paid,
Where never foot profane had dared intrude,
Nor sound of mirth disturb'd the silent solitude.

XVII

Thither the melancholy youth would hie,
Oft as the sun's last ray illumed the plain,
And watch the spot the whole night long, and sigh,
Till sank the morning-planet in the main:

At length his long-forsaken lyre again
Becomes the gentle solace of his care;
Again he wakes the sweetly solemn strain,
The listening woods again his wild notes bear
To the lone echoing hills, and waft along the air.

XVIII

“O shades beloved!” (thus flow'd his plaintive song)
“Where he I weep in vain was wont to stray,
When your rude rocks and wizard streams among
I with him plied, untired, the toilsome day,
Where now is he whose presence cheer'd the way,
Whose eyes beam'd gladness o'er the blest abode?
That form revered is now unfeeling clay,
Silent that tongue whence mild instruction flow'd,
And cold the generous breast where love and pity glow'd.

XIX

“Yet still the immortal spirit lives and moves:
Perhaps, beyond this dark terrestrial bourn,
Sometimes the memory of departed loves
May upward to the heaven of heavens be borne,
And guide him to the once beloved sojourn,
His favourite haunts, in life so sweet and fair,
Where, in the company of those who mourn,
Unseen he oft may hover in the air,
Join in the choral hymn, or aid the fervent prayer.”

XX

And now sweet sleep his weary eyelids press'd,
As stretch'd he lay the flowery grave beside;
No hideous dreams disturb his balmy rest;
But o'er his head strange music seems to glide,
Mix'd with the murmurs of the distant tide;
Such strains as might to heaven itself aspire,
Purer than aught to earthly sounds allied,
Wild as the breathings of the Æolian lyre,
Full as the organ's swell, and loud responsive choir.

XXI

Raptured he cast around his wondering sight,
And saw, far stretching o'er the Atlantic main,
An airy cloud, with silver radiance bright,
Which half involved the spangled azure plain:
There, clad in robes of mist, a shadowy train
Of spirits seem'd their nightly watch to keep;
There stood the honour'd chief, the humble swain,
And there the hoary Bard appear'd to sweep
His harp, whose solemn notes soft floated o'er the deep.

XXII

“O'er him whose fate, O pious youth! you grieve,
No longer mourn,” aerial voices cried.
“That he yet lives, and lives most blest, believe,
And that, no more to earthly dross allied,

His pure celestial soul is still thy guide.”
He gazed, and saw enthroned among the rest
His much-loved sire: and now the ocean-tide
Was in the morning's loveliest colours drest,
And all the vision died into the kindling West.

XXIII

Edwin awoke. Light, cheerful, and serene,
He felt at once from all his woe released,
And saw, unclouded, the surrounding scene.
Tho' tasteless long Creation's noblest feast,
Tho' long the joyous woodland song had ceased,
The groves were tuned anew to harmony;
Again the day-star blazing in the East,
With no dark vapours clouded, deck'd the sky;
All nature's charms again lay open to his eye.

XXIV

Oh, could I aught of that celestial flame
Acquire, which fired the Faerie Minstrel's breast,
How small would be on Fortune's gifts my claim,
Of Nature's stores and Nature's love possest!
He whom the Muse has favour'd is most blest:
For him the forest spreads a broader shield;
The shades of summer give securer rest;
The beauteous vales a livelier verdure yield;
And purer flows the stream, and fairer smiles the field.

XXV

He envies not the rich imperial board,
Or downy couch for pamper'd Luxury spread:
The simple feast that woods and fields afford,
The canopy of trees, the natural bed
Of moss by murmuring streams perennial fed,
In him more genuine heart's content excite:
The dazzling rays by brightest diamonds shed
Yield to the fairer glories of the night,
That circle round his head in order infinite.

XXVI

Such were thy joys, sweet Bard, when stretch'd along
By Mulla's fountain-head thy limbs reclined,
Where Fancy, parent of enchanted song,
Pour'd the full tide of Poesy, refined
From stain of earthly dross, upon thy mind.
Thine was the holy dream when, pure and free,
Imagination left the world behind
“In that delightful land of Faerie”
Alone to wander, rapt in heavenly minstrelsy.

XXVII

Oh who, so dull of sense, in heart so lost
To Nature's charms and every pure delight,
Would rather lie, on the wild billows tost
Of vain Ambition, with eternal night
Surrounded, and obscured his mental sight

By mists of Avarice, Passion, and Deceit?
Not he whose spirit clear, whose genius bright,
The Muse has ever led, in converse sweet,
Within the hallow'd glades of her divine retreat.

XXVIII

Not Edwin—in whose infant breast, I ween,
From childish cares and little passions free,
Tho' long in shades retired, unmark'd, unseen,
Had blown the fairest flower of Poesy.
That lovely promise of a vigorous tree
Instructed Genius found: each straggling shoot
He wisely pruned of its wild liberty,
Turn'd the rich streams of Science round the root,
And view'd with warm delight the fair and grateful fruit.

XXIX

The animating tales of former days,
'Wakening the patriot's warm heroic fire;
The strains of old traditionary praise,
That bid the soul to noblest deeds aspire;
All swell'd the raptures of his kindling lyre:
His native vales resounded with the song,
And rustic bosoms glow'd with new desire
To raise the oppress'd, to quell the proud and strong,
And in the poet's lays their glorious names prolong.

XXX

Nor chain'd for ever to unbending truth
Did Edwin's active spirit deign to dwell,
But oft, transported by the fire of youth,
Was borne away to Fancy's airy cell.
Then would his harp more rapturously swell,
And all that's great, or beautiful, or wild
Awake his soul to joys that none can tell
But he on whom the power of Song has smiled,
Nature's inspired priest, Imagination's child.

XXXI

Oft, at the close of eve, assembled round
The youthful minstrel village groups were seen,
Regardless of the distant tabor's sound
And peals of noisy mirth that burst between;
While, in some glen remote or shelter'd green,
He sang the strains his brethren loved to hear;
Full to their view he brought each fabled scene
Of war or peace, the banquet or the bier,
And hardy deeds of arms, and sorceries dark and drear:

XXXII

Of Fingal, victor in the bloody field
O'er prostrate tribes of Erin's faithless coast;
Or dreadful blazing with his sun-like shield,
An angry meteor thro' the affrighted host;
Or, half beheld and half in shadows lost,
Sailing in mist above the towering head

Of some gigantic hill with clouds emboss'd,
Encircled by the spirits of the dead,
Who walk the moonlight maze, or in the tempest tread:

XXXIII

Of Morna, looking for her lord's return,
Her lovely hunter, who returns no more;
Of Loda's vengeful spirit, dark and stern,
Haunting the wizard rocks of Inistore:
But Edwin's soul was never known to pour
So sweet, so sadly musical, a strain,
As when, deep pondering on the deeds of yore,
He seem'd with mournful Ossian to complain,
The last of all his race, alone on Morven's plain.

XXXIV

By Fancy's sweet but strong attraction caught,
The swains delighted hung upon his lays;
Nor ceased to listen when their Edwin taught
With graver minstrelsy the wondrous ways
Of Nature, or ascended to the praise
Of that Almighty Power who sits on high,
Who mark'd the eternal course of circling days,
Who made, from nothing, Man, and fix'd his eye
Full on the empyreal heaven, and bad him read the sky.

XXXV

Yet not at once could Edwin's mystic lore
Complete the wonders by his lays begun:

“What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself for her enchanted son?”
Not till maturing years had slowly run
Their destined course, coæval with the strain,
Could the whole animating task be done.
Then universal music fill'd the plain,
While listening oaks and rocks obey'd the mighty swain.

XXXVI

And now the “subtle thief of youth” has borne
Whole years of life away on silent wing,
Mingling the riper grace by summer worn
With the fair bloom of Edwin's vigorous spring.
Now o'er his tuneful harp's responsive string
With nervous firmness sweeps his manly hand;
Years o'er his cheek their mellowing shadows fling;
His modest grandeur and demeanor bland
Bespeak him form'd alike for love and high command.

VII

Unpractised in the chase, untaught to know
The rustic sports his fellow-swains pursued,
His powerful arm ne'er bent the twanging bow,
Nor dipp'd the knotty spear in savage blood;
His dextrous feet stemm'd not the eddying flood,
Nor scaled the lofty precipice whene'er
The echoing horn from distant glen or wood

Call'd round the wandering huntsmen to the lair
Where lay some noble beast unconscious of the snare.

XXXVIII

Yet was his frame to early toil enured,
His noble soul in fears and dangers tried;
Hunger, and thirst, and watchings, he endured,
The fearful turbulence of storms defied;
And, as advancing manhood's lofty pride
Mark'd with determined lines his sun-burnt face,
His sinewy limbs, firm grasp, and active stride,
Raised him, in deeds of strength and matchless grace,
Above his rude compeers, the heroes of the chase.

XXXIX

Nor yet, tho' Edwin's noble spirit glow'd,
With every generous wish and feeling fraught,
Had Hope survey'd Ambition's wider road,
Or love of fame his young idea caught.
Still home was ever nearest to his thought,
His native mountains, his paternal shed:
Or, worlds untried if fancy ever sought,
His sage instructor's words again he read,
“Ambition's slippery verge oh why should mortals tread?”

XL

And tho' for love his warm and feeling breast
Full surely was by Heaven itself design'd,

That heavenly love, the noblest and the best,
That seeks the union of a kindred mind;
The fairest virgin yet had fail'd to bind
His gentle soul, or amorous thoughts impart.
Constant in friendship, generous, just, and kind,
With him who sought, he shared a brother's part,
But still preserved untouch'd the freedom of his heart.

XLI

Soothed by the magic of his earliest song,
The infant Malcolm had his steps pursued,
Oft as by haunted springs he lay along,
Or in the deep recesses of the wood;
And, ever as the sun his course renew'd,
Closer and closer still the knot he drew,
Alike the sharer of each various mood
When the whole world assumed its gayest hue,
Or her dark veil o'er all black Melancholy threw.

XLII

Yet many a moment of the live-long day
(But chief what time descend the evening dews)
Nor village converse, nor the pleasing lay
Of his loved friend, could aught of joy diffuse:
Oft at that solemn hour would Edwin choose,
All lonely, to the sea-beat shore to go,
Holding celestial converse with the Muse,
Who to her genuine sons alone will show
The ways of Heaven above, the path of life below.

XLIII

'Twas on a night most suited to his soul,
Silent and dark, save when the moon appear'd
Thro' shadowy clouds at intervals to roll,
And half the scene with partial lustre clear'd;
Save that the stillness of the air was cheer'd
By waters pouring from the heights above;
Save that by fits the ocean's voice was heard,
With sudden gusts of wind that stirr'd the grove,
And rose and fell again like tender sighs of love.

XLIV

Soothed by the scene, he traced the straggling course
Of a small stream, which, from the distant steep
Of hills descending, pour'd its rocky force,
With many an eddying whirl and foamy leap,
Through a dark narrow valley, to the deep.
Shunn'd was the dell by every earthly wight,
Where ghosts and wicked elves were said to keep:
True 'twas a haunted spot; for Edwin's sprite
Oft loved to linger there, and there the Muse invite.

XLV

But wider did this gloomy vale expand,
As nearer roar'd the ocean's awful sound;
Till, sudden opening on the sea-beat strand,
The unbounded main appear'd; and, wide around,
An amphitheatre of granite, crown'd

With mountains piled on mountains to the sky.
And now the moon had reach'd her western bound,
When the long shades extending from on high
Veil'd half the face of things in deep obscurity.

XLVI

A feeble ray, still rescued from the dark,
The furthest eastern billows glimmer'd o'er,
Illumining a distant bounding bark,
That drove with swelling sails the wind before:
The Minstrel mark'd the course that vessel bore,
And watch'd, until the breeze had shaped its way
To where, beyond a northern point, the shore
Narrow'd into a safe and quiet bay,
Hard by the woody glen in which the hamlet lay.

XLVII

That distant point the Minstrel also gain'd
As night withdrew her veil of sable lawn;
Just when the sky with earliest light was stain'd,
And ocean's distant outline faintly drawn
By the uncertain pencil of the dawn.
And now the vessel safely moor'd he view'd,
And, at a distance from the shore withdrawn,
Two men of warlike port, and aspect rude,
Who lay apart reclined in sad and thoughtful mood.

XLVIII

The warlike helmet shadow'd o'er each face,
Frowning with sable plumes in gloomy pride;
The spear, alike for battle and the chase

Before them lay; and naked at their side
The broad claymore with leathern thongs was tied;
Thro' the thick cloak that wrapp'd their limbs in shade,
The burnish'd cuirass, which it seem'd to hide
In its capacious folds, was half display'd,
Mark'd with the deep indent of many a hostile blade.

XLIX

Fired with the sudden sight, so new and strange,
A momentary flash of glad surprise
Kindled in Edwin's cheeks a glowing change:
Onward he press'd, and ever fix'd his eyes
On one, the first in noble port and size,
Of the mysterious strangers; and, as near
His footsteps drew, he saw the warrior rise,
As if the approaching sound had struck his ear—
But Edwin's generous soul was ignorant of fear.

L

Stern was the warrior's brow—his eye of fire
Temper'd by Melancholy's chastening hand;
His looks at once might awe and love inspire,
Inexorably firm, sublimely grand,
Yet mingling soft persuasion with command;
Furrow'd his front with sorrows, toils and cares,
Like some lone exile's in an unknown land;
His grisly beard and thinly scatter'd hairs
Proclaim'd him somewhat sunk into the vale of years.

LI

“Peasant,” he said, “if aught of human woes
“E'er melt the natives of this lonely place,
“Here let our tempest-beaten bark repose
“From Fate's unpitying storms a little space!
“Used are we to hard fare—the perilous chase
“Hath yielded, day and night, our doubtful food:
“Tho' from the South we come, our hardy race
“Can boast the untainted channel of their blood,
“Flowing from sire to son in no degenerate flood.

LII

“Nor had we wander'd from our quiet home,
“The much-loved hamlet where our fathers lie;
“But fell Ambition, ever wont to roam,
“Left her own fruitful plains and sunny sky
“To rob us of our cherish'd liberty.
“Detested king! what mighty prize is thine,
“That haughty England lifts her head so high?
“A barren rock encircled by the brine,
“Stain'd with the streaming blood of thousands of thy line.

LIII

“But while I speak, perchance my life is sold,
“And Edward's spies hang eager o'er their prey;
“Perchance my narrow sum of days is told,
“And night already closes round my way.
“If thus, I am prepared, nor wish to stay
“The heavy hand of death, however near.

“Are then these deserts free, O stranger, say?
“'Twill gild with joy my parting hour to hear
“That yet a Scot survives unawed by Edward's spear,”

LIV

“Yet free,” the youth replied, “from blood and crimes,
“From the rude tyranny of foreign powers,
“And ‘all the misery of these iron times,’
“Our peaceful shepherds pass their harmless hours;
“Nor battle rages, nor the sword devours:
“Not e'en the distant sound of war's alarms
“Has ever reach'd these calm sequester'd bowers;
“But the old Minstrel's song of knights and arms
“Seems like some fairy-tale that by its wonders charms.

LV

“The constant practice of the chase affords
“A feeble mimicry of war alone;
“And to our rudely taught but free-born hordes
“The Name of Liberty is scarcely known,
“Altho' her real Substance is our own.
“Yet, strong and zealous to defend our right,
“If tyrant-force in our loved vale were shown,
“Soon should we, equal to the best in fight,
“Assert fair Freedom's cause, and prove our native might.

LVI

“But tho' from our rude mountain's rocky side
“The blast of distant war rolls off unheard,
“Yet are we not to savage beasts allied,
“Nor slow to pity woes we never fear'd:
“All human-kind is to our souls endear'd;
“The wretched to our special care belong:
“But, most of all, if their bold arms they rear'd
“In Virtue's cause against tyrannic wrong,
“Still unsubdued in soul, unconquerably strong.”

LVII

The warrior-chief on Edwin while he spoke
Fix'd his firm eye, and long deep-musing sate;
Then, rising, thus the awful silence broke:
“Youth, I accept thy love, thy guidance wait;
“Enough for me, if Edward's lawless hate
“Hath left this little nook of Scotland free.
“Enough for thee, that I'm the sport of Fate,
“Driven from my home, a wanderer on the sea,
“And all for ardent love of sacred Liberty!”

BOOK IV.

I

Farewell the oaten pipe and pastoral song,
The vocal woodland, the resounding shore!
In the delightful vale of peace too long
The muse hath linger'd, destined to explore
Far other scenes, and bolder heights to soar.
How soon, with weary pilgrimage o'erspent,
She may retrace her early haunts once more,
I stay not to discover—lowly bent
With my best powers to serve her sovereign intent.

II

Of arms and loves, gay youth and warlike pride,
Of courteous deeds, of tilts and trophies hung,
Those ancient bards who Fancy made their guide
In sage and solemn minstrelsy have sung.
Them now I follow, and with faltering tongue
Would tune anew the rude poetic lays
Wherewith old Scotia's mountains whilom rung,

When hoary chiefs sat listening to the praise
Of their own mighty deeds, achiev'd in earlier days.

III

Oh would the genius of that hallow'd time
But deign to smile on this degenerate day,
And animate my all too feeble rhyme,
More boldly would I speed the soaring lay,
And cast distrust and chilling doubt away.
So may the love of sacred Liberty
Direct my rude and perilous essay,
And set my soul from servile fetters free,
Curbing the native flight of Heaven-born Poesy!

IV

Thrice had the moon decay'd, and thrice renew'd
Her horn, while yet those wandering strangers stay'd,
Charm'd with the simple life the swains pursued,
And the rude virtues of that sylvan glade.
Oft in the chase their vigorous frames display'd
All knightly gests of valour, strength and speed;
And oft at eve their friendly hosts they paid
With kindling tales of many a generous deed,
Of fierce invaders quell'd, and Caledonia freed.

V

The rustic herd, whose lives in thoughtless ease
And toil alternate, unregarded flow,

Listen'd the unwonted strains, which idly please,
Like children wondering at some passing shew;
But more they neither guess, nor wish to know.
Not so the minstrel, in whose nobler breast
Swell new desires, and unknown passions glow,
Whose soul no pleasure knows, whose frame no rest,
Rapt ever in himself, of his own thoughts possest.

VI

To his enchanted senses now no more
The changing scenes of nature yield delight,
And every charm, so exquisite before,
Dies unobserved upon his vacant sight:
Lost to all joy, save when the solemn night
Holds o'er a peaceful world unbroken sway;
Then oft in converse with that elder knight,
Free and regardless, would he while away
The swiftly passing hours, and chide returning day.

VII

And mutual was the charm that bound each soul.
If from the warrior's tongue persuasion flow,
If, while he speaks, his eyes indignant roll
In virtuous transport, or dissolve in woe,
No less in Edwin's beaming face, where glow
His heart's best energies, pure, lofty, free,
Rekindling hopes engender'd long ago,
The Chief might still some fleeting vision see
Of happier days to come, and rescued Liberty.

VIII

The fate of Wallace, Scotia's pride and boast,
The daring champion of her injured right,
Who stemm'd the tide of Edward's conquering host,
Proving in Freedom's cause his native might,
Became the sacred theme of every night:
The tale, tho' oft repeated, never tired;
While thro' the toils of many a glorious fight,
Edwin, with all a patriot's zeal inspired,
Track'd his bright course, and burn'd to be what he admired.

IX

But soon the tale inclined to sadder mood,
Painting the Hero of his country, lost
Among dark glens, and rocks, and caverns rude,
Or on wild seas in some frail pinnace tost,
Or naked thrown on some deserted coast,
Abandon'd by his friends, alone, forlorn,
Each fondly cherish'd hope by Fortune crost,
His memory proscribed, his honours shorn,
And his loved native land condemn'd in blood to mourn.

X

How in his castle, like a faded rose,
Dissolved in tears his lovely Margaret lay,
In tears fast flowing for her country's woes,

And for an exiled Father far away;
While, like some vulture, hovering o'er his prey,
With dusky wings darkening the troubled air,
Black Douglas bade his ruthless bands display
The sanguine flag, and seize the struggling fair,
Unmoved by Beauty's charms, and deaf to maiden prayer.

[OMITTED]

Whoso with patient and enquiring mind
Would seek the stream of science to ascend,
Must count the cost, and never hope to find
Rest to his feet, or to his wanderings end.
The faithless road doth ever onward tend,
And clouds and darkness are its utmost bound:
The sacred fount no human eye hath kenn'd,
Though many a wight, beguiled by sight or sound,
“Ευρηκα!” may exclaim; “I—I the place have found.”

And, sooth to tell, it is a pleasant way
Through sweet variety of lawn and wood,
Mountain and vale, green pasture, forest gray,
And peopled town, and silent solitude;
And many a point, at distance dimly view'd,
For idle loiterers an unmeasured height,
By persevering energy subdued,
Rewards the bold adventurer with a sight
Of undiscover'd worlds—vast regions of delight.

[OMITTED]

Not before published, having been left unfinished.

LEGENDS

FROM THE “SEVEN CHAMPIONS OF CHRISTENDOM.”

LEGEND I. ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.

Now was the season when the gorgeous sun
Had doff'd his dark December liverie,
And o'er the waving plain and dimpled sea
With renovated light resplendent shone.
All nature felt his ray, and, rich with showers,
Glad in her lap received the opening flowers
That Maia strew'd about unsparingly,
While thro' the green groves tripp'd it merrily,
All fresh with vernal dews the rosy bosom'd hours.

From the high rock and mossy forest soar
To thank their sovereign sun the tuneful birds,
And basking in his beams, the lowing herds
Lie on the bank beside the rivulet hoar;
Thro' chequer'd woods, to meet the rising morn,
Springs the rejoicing lark from every thorn,
And sober evening hears the melody

Of Philomel in many a lonely tree,
That to high Heaven by echo is for ever borne.

So nature smiled, as o'er the flowery road,
And down the mountain's wild romantic side,
And by the banks of wandering rivers wide,
And through deep woods, by human feet untrod,
An English knight his devious path pursued:
While the soft season, in his soul renew'd
Sweet fairy visions, and delicious dreams
Of friends and country left, bright Phœbus' beams
Pour'd down their noontide heat upon the sparkling flood.

Like the mild evening of a summer's day
Is the remembrance of enjoyment past:
The sun is set, but o'er the vale is cast
A softer light from his reflected ray.
No dazzling radiance strikes the senses blind,
No fiery heat fatigues the raptured mind;
But calm the spirit as the unruffled sea,
Concordant as seraphic harmony,
Pure as the soul that longs its native Heaven to find.

Enjoyment palls; imagination fades;
But memory's pleasures never melt away,
And hope's delusive power with stronger sway
Our actions rules, and every sense pervades.
'Tis like the rising morn, whose cheerful smile
Exalts our souls, and animates our toil.

What though in misty shrouds the landscape lies,
Creative fancy every scene supplies,
Spreads the bright grassy slope, or shapes the shadowy isle.

'Twas smiling hope that led that errant knight
Thro' Egypt's perilous wilds and burning sands,
To seek the mead of fame in distant lands,
Honour's best solace, and supreme delight.
'Twas hope advanced him thro' the rugged road,
By many a trial won, to fame's abode.
'Twas heavenly hope exalted o'er the throng,
To shine on high, the blessed souls among,
Saint George—of Britain's weal the tutelary God.

When Phœbus now had reach'd his western goal,
And lengthen'd shades obscured the dubious way,
Fled from the wanderer's mind those visions gay.
Behind, the last ray glimmer'd from the pole;
Before him frown'd an unfrequented wood,
Whereto his steed uncurb'd its way pursued.
Thick was the wood, and as they journey'd on,
Deeper and deeper sank the setting sun,
Whilst darker grew the shades, and desart longer shew'd.

And to this day the knight might still have trod
The many mazes of that endless wood,
Whilst issuing from old Nilus' slimy flood,
Fierce Alligators scream'd along the road,

And serpents hiss'd, in every thicket found,
And Lions roar'd, and Tigers growl'd around.
Such concert for the Champion was prepared,
When, thro' the blackening shades as on he fared,
A taper's friendly light shot gleaming o'er the ground.

Fortune, in truth, had led him to a place
Where stood the only mansion of the soil.
There, far removed from worldly care and toil,
A hermit stay'd, to end his mortal race.
Tho' ten long years the sire had ne'er survey'd
The face of man who thro' these desarts stray'd,
Not with less courtesy he received the knight,
Refresh'd with food, and lodged him for the night,
And with the morning's dawn, to his lost road convey'd.

Midst other converse—“Underneath yon hill,”
The old man said, while tears of pity roll'd,
“Each year some fair Egyptian maid is sold
A hellish serpent's ravenous maw to fill.
This savage monster, fifty years ago,
Fill'd Egypt's far-extended land with woe,
Her harvests blasted, and her sons destroy'd,
Till at the last, with spoil and slaughter cloy'd,
An annual tribute now will satisfy the foe.

“So to avert his all-destroying spite,
They choose a virgin every year by lot,

Whom bound they leave a victim on the spot,
Sad victim to his ravenous appetite.
This very day the Soldan's daughter dies,
Ah how unfit to be the monster's prize!
And twenty youths, the lovely maid to save,
Have in this desart met an early grave,
Scorch'd by his sulphurous breath, or blasted by his eyes.”

“O chosen band!” the admiring champion cried,
“Let me pursue your path to deathless fame!
Here for myself the bold emprize I claim,
And swear to save, or perish by her side.”
The hoary sage commends his generous zeal,
Blesses his hauberk's mail and gloves of steel,
Directs his course, then leaves with tear-swoln eyes.
The champion, as the sun made sign to rise,
Came where the dragon waits, alone, his annual meal.

Red rose the sun above the eastern hill,
Mantled in mist, and thro' the troubled air
Burst the wild shrieks of horror and despair,
That with unwonted awe his bosom fill.
Bound to yon stone what sculptured form appears?
Down her pale cheek descend no dewy tears,
No sighs her bare and marble bosom move,

Closed are her lips, for pleasure form'd, and love,
No sight her dimmèd eyes receive, no sound her ears.

To the cold statue as the knight drew nigh,
Feebly she raised her languid lids, and cried,
(Till on her lips the unfinish'd accents died,)
“Fly, daring youth, from luckless Sabra fly!”
—“No, by the God whose holy badge I bear,
No, by the King whose knightly sword I wear;
None e'er shall English George a caitiff call,
Who vows for thee to conquer or to fall.”
—He knelt, and on his forehead seal'd the oath he sware.

“For thee, bright Virgin, to this fated place
I came, nor, without thee, will hence depart:
Here will I leave a spotless Christian's heart,
Or rend the monster's from its ebon case.
Give then thine hand, fair saint! thy Knight am I.”
She gave her hand; when lo! before her eye
Appear the scaly Monster's sinewy folds:
Again she strives to loose the hand he holds;
“Fly, generous youth,” she cried, “from luckless Sabra fly!”

The Monster now, in many a tortuous spire,
Drags his green length of tail along the sand—
(Firm stays the knight, nor quits the Virgin's hand.)

Flash his red eye-balls, and his nostrils fire—
(The Briton bears unmoved his ghastly gaze.)
And now his burnish'd scales erected blaze;
His iron wings he spreads; and o'er the ground
His shadow spreads ten cubits' space around;
(Saint George his lance protends, and his broad shield displays.)

Sabra no more resists, no more dissuades,
No more her eyes their speaking lustres dart
To tear the fateful purpose from his heart,
But grateful agony each look pervades.
Oh with what throbs her heaving bosom beats,
As the stout lance the scaly dragon meets!
What horror stiffens every joint again,
Chains every nerve, and freezes every vein,
When shiver'd on the sand, the Knight unarm'd retreats!

Loud yell'd the monster, and his sulphurous breath
Fill'd with intolerable stench the air.
The hot contagion can no mortal bear,
But parch'd and wither'd, sinks in putrid death.
The flowers are blasted on the smoking ground,
The leaves drop blacken'd from the woods around;
Stiff in the tainted pools the fishes die;
In spiral paths the birds above them fly,
In lessening circles whirl'd, till life and sense are drown'd.

What pitying power has George and Sabra spared?
Ah happy pair! to you shall yet be given
Long hours of solace by indulgent Heaven.
Yet scarce the fainting knight to breathe was heard,
As motionless on his dead horse he lay:
Onward the monster roll'd his destined way,
His griping talon on his shoulder laid,
All the black horrors of his throat display'd,
And pour'd the burning venom on his hapless prey.

The deadly stream descended on his vest,
Where the red cross the pious Champion bore,
Dear symbol of his faith. Deadly no more,
The life-restoring poison fill'd his breast.
O miracle of Grace! the Knight, restored,
Leap'd lightly from the ground, and seized his sword;
On the fell fury rush'd with ardent zeal—
The gaping throat received his trusty steel,
And the black heart's blood, mix'd with baleful venom, pour'd.

“Rise, Sabra! thou art saved—the dragon dies.”
Alas! she answers not—her limbs are cold—
Dim mists have closed her eyes—her breath enfold.
Again the knight exclaims, “Rise, Lady, rise!”
At length like healing balm his accents flow;
Again the life blood mounts, the spirits glow;

While, on his soft supporting arm reclined,
Fann'd by his casque, the brisk refreshing wind
Bids on her death-cold cheek returning roses blow.

Now on that cheek, where late the pallid hue
Unmix'd appear'd of hopeless cold despair,
Warm blushes rise, as from his ivory fair
Pygmalion's passion warmth and feeling drew.
The statue warms—and in the virgin's breast
Joy, gratitude, and wonder shine confest.
As on the youth who saved her gleam her eyes,
With gratitude, and pleasure, and surprise,
If love too enters, comes he a forbidden guest?

But if the maid such various passions move,
On the blest victor's heart what rapture steals,
As every moment some new charm reveals,
And her eyes sparkle with the flames of love?
Lingering and silent they together trace
Their path towards the Hermit's holy place:
Expressive silence!—words had less display'd
The awaken'd fervours of that grateful maid
Than did her speaking eyes and love illumined face.

Now hast thou loiter'd long enough, my muse!
Suffice it then, they love; nor stop to say
How joyful was the hermit to survey
His late lost guest alive, and hear the news
Of that foul dragon stretch'd along the shore,
Now terror of Egyptian dames no more;

Nor what his hut contain'd, to drink and eat:
We know he was not sparing of his meat,
And that his mule at length the rescued princess bore.

And so for Cairo!—On the banks of Nile
I see the amorous pair pursue their way;
Bright Sabra, lovely as the dawn of day,
Slow pacing on her mule; and, all the while,
The British knight, attendant at her side,
Along the shore the sluggish palfrey guide,
In silence gazing on its beauteous load;
Or, to beguile the long, though happy, road,
Of knightly deeds converse, and countries distant wide.

Here rest, my Hippogryff, some little space—
And time, perchance, thy wanderings here were ended;
From dreamy realms of Faery-land descended,
Ill may'st thou hope to find reward or grace
Mid sober sons of sage utility,
Who ne'er to fancy bent the stubborn knee,
Or own'd the soul-subduing power of song.
Then rest awhile—yet not to tarry long,
Ere Egypt's sands are changed for verdant Thessaly.

LEGEND II. ST. DENIS AND THE MULBERRY TREE.

From Nile's hot regions, by the viewless gale
Of warm imagination borne along,
And the resistless power of wizard song,
Turn, gentle muse! to Tempé's flowery vale—
Delicious Tempé—where the Thracian bard
Of old amid the echoing caves was heard
By stones and trees, that, waken'd by his lyre,
Felt the soft breathings of poetic fire,
And, bounding to the strain, their new-born joys declared.

Yet not of Greece or Rome's enchanting lore,
The Mantuan flute or Syracusan reed—
More barbarous times—an iron age—succeed,
And darken all the Muses' favour'd shore.
Not now of swains who, with alternate song,
Bad Phœbus linger, whilst his journey long
He sought to finish at his western gate;
While Nymphs applauded, and in rustic state
Time-honour'd judges sat the rival bards among.

Still rugged Œta lifts his cloudy head,
And high Olympus with eternal snows;
Still through his valleys pure Enipeus flows,

And their old woods o'er Hæmus' cliffs are spread:
But Love and Music there no longer dwell;
Foul monsters lurk in every savage dell;
The clank of arms the sovereign wood-nymphs frights;
Wild Fauns sit trembling on their ancient heights,
No more secure, and Pan has left his royal cell.

Oh yet revisit thy once loved domain,
Immortal Muse! and tune the Gothic lyre,
And with the breath of wild romance inspire
The shores once echoing to a classic strain.
Not inharmonious through the pastoral shade
Where Thyrsis erst, and Melibœus play'd,
Shall sound the lay of arms, and steed, and knight,
(Fancy's creation) nor without delight
Oh let me in the lap of Faërie be laid!

For who, to please a cold, fastidious age,
Would lop each wilding shoot that nature gave,
Banish the clowns that dig Ophelia's grave,
Or chase Lear's simple follower from the stage?
Shall yonder tower be of its ivy spoil'd,
Or brushwood from the cavern's mouth exiled?
Tasteless Reformer!—thy “sublime” and “fair”
May form a thesis for the pedant's chair;
But thee the Muse ne'er loved, nor Fancy call'd her child.

To me more dear are Nature's strangest forms,
The rudest structures of the Poet's hand,
Than palaces with art Palladian plann'd,
Though placed secure from reach of Critic storms.
I hail the giant oak's fantastic boughs,
The huge misshapen mountain's shaggy brows;
Nor less the wanton windings of the brook,
The streams that gush from every wayward nook,
And, roaring through the vale, far mountain echoes rouse.

But chiefly you, great masters of the lyre!
Who struck as nature moved, as fancy reign'd;
Whom no cold rules of modern art restrain'd
But the great Muse herself exalted higher.
For one bright hue from Shakspeare's magic loom,
For one stray feather cast from Spenser's plume,
Say, would I not each courtlier grace resign?
—Immortal Muse! Then never more be mine
Enjoyment's rapturous trance, or Awe's ecstatic gloom!

'Twas thus, beneath a hawthorn's snowy bower
Reclining laid, lull'd by the ceaseless noise
Of summer flies, I dream'd of former joys,
And felt again the soft poetic power,
Long absent; for below the open sky,
She dwells, and shuns the confined paths where I

Must the sweet season spend, until the days
Slow rolling bring me back where Isca strays
Thro' my loved native fields, land of my minstrelsy.

Nor Isca only wakes my slumbering lyre,
Ah no! Love strung it on the banks of Thames:
Her image mingles with the noon-tide flames,
Whose morning smiles engender'd first the fire.
Hers is the spell that sped my tuneful vein;
And of her beauties and my love I feign
Would only sing; but the great Muse denies:
Yet,—wilt thou take the unworthy sacrifice?
To thee and Richmond will I dedicate my strain.

Again from Thames to old Enipeus borne
In Fancy's airy barque, I see a knight
Thro' the deep valley ride in armour bright:
The fleurs de lys his azure coat adorn;
From his proud helm three waving feathers fall;
The white cross glitters on his velvet pall:
His courteous airs a noble race bespeak;
By his sweet tongue ye might have deem'd him Greek;
But his embroider'd arms bespeak a knight of Gaul.

And who is he, the youth so fresh and fair,
With sparkling crest and dancing plumage gay?
And on what bold adventure does he stray
So far from his loved Seine's maternal care?
To exalt in distant regions Gallia's fame,

And spread Religion's empery his aim,
Long had he lain enslaved to Grammarye;
And now but late from Khalyb's spells set free
By Britain's Champion bold; and Denis is his name.

Ah why has Beauty so confined a date?
Why bow the brave to Time's all-conquering power?
The violet droops beneath the thunder shower,
And lightning rends the Oak's majestic state.
So mighty man to Time and Chance must yield;
A stranger doom, by history unreveal'd,
Untold before in song, must Denis prove,
And, ere he win a matchless virgin's love,
Roam thro' Thessalian shades a savage of the field.

And must that noble front wide antlers bear?—
That form, which stands erect, and braves the sky,
Descend, and prone on earth's mean bosom lie?
That gentle skin be cased in horrid hair?
Yes. On Enipeus' banks there stood a tree,
From whose rich boughs the tempting mulberry
In luscious clusters lured the hungry knight—
(Ah luckless hour that e'er they met his sight!—)
He rends the loaded branch—the life blood follows free.

The warm stream gushing from the wounded plant
Not long the knight in silent wonder view'd,

Ere a faint shriek sent forth the labouring wood
That seem'd thro' every shoot to shrink and pant.
At length a female voice pursued the sound,
Sweet, though disturb'd and plaintive from the wound.
“Tear not my tender flesh!—kind youth, forbear!
Ah re-unite the branch with generous care,
Nor leave me thus to pour my life out on the ground!”

As when some swain, with pleasing cares of love,
Tends his bright mistress thro' emboweréd meads,
Perchance a straggling rose his path impedes,
Or tangled wood-bine pendant from above,
Sportive he leaps the tempting flower to tear,
To deck her bonnet or entwine her hair;
If from the leaves a lurking adder dart,
He drops the prize; strange horrors chill his heart,
All motionless he stands, nor flies the deadly snare.

So stood the knight as from that injured wood
(Unfeeling deem'd) he heard the voice of woe
—A virgin's voice—in plaintive accents flow.
At length her suit the Mulberry thus renew'd:
“What lust of blood, O cruel knight, detains
Thy ruthless hand, and wantons in thy veins?
O stain to arms!—I ask no mighty boon—
Repair the ills those torturing hands have done!
To bind the sever'd shoot requires no wondrous pains.

“Or does the dread of magic spell control?
Fear not, Sir knight!—no wizard here you see;
And of what sorceries animate this tree
My hand is guiltless, though I reek the dole.”
As thus she sued, the champion heard, ashamed,
His courage question'd, and his knighthood blamed;
Compassion sway'd his courteous mind no less;
For well he ween'd some damsel in distress
Spake from that Mulberry stem, and knightly succour claim'd.

Yet, ere his hands the reeking members close,
The afflicted trunk proclaim'd a sudden fear,
And thus exclaim'd: “Ah, yet the warning hear,
Which my strange fate compels me to disclose.
And Oh, may Heaven thy noble breast inspire
With dauntless valour's never-dying fire!
Nor be my wishes vain, which points to thee,
The Saviour promised by that dark decree,
Whose star and mine in Heaven eternally conspire.

“Thus then the power that fix'd me in this rind,
Compels me, trembling, hoping, to declare.
If to my earnest suit you bend an ear,
And the lopp'd branch again by thee be join'd,
From prison worse than death you free a maid,
Than whom a fairer graced not Tempé's shade;

A fiendish Sorcerer's spell you overthrow,
Bid a great monarch's heart with joy o'erflow,
And with his daughter's love the deed shall be repaid.

“Yet, ere the spell be broke, and damsel freed,
Seven tedious years the wizard uncontroll'd
Must o'er this vale unquestion'd empire hold.
Seven tedious years, ('tis so by fate decreed,)
If to thy knighthood true, by pity sway'd,
By dark Satanic engines undismay'd,
Thou dare achieve this feat—seven tedious years,
Thyself, amid perpetual griefs and fears,
Must linger out a hopeless life in Tempé's shade.

“More that stern power forbids me to declare,
What torments wait thee, and what toils beset:
If, darkly told, they fright, avoid them yet!
Leave me to bleed, and shun the fearful snare.
Still may'st thou safe from Tempé's vale retire,
New glories wait thee, other loves inspire;
From these deep shades no tongue can e'er repeat
To scandal's ear the shame of base retreat;
Thine honour still may shine with undiminish'd fire.”

“O gentle Knight!”. . . . but here her accents fail;

For now the hardening fibres choke her breath,
And heavier fall the thickening drops of death.
Who but may guess the sequel of my tale?
Who doubts if Denis, true to knightly vow,
With tender care restored the sever'd bough;
Seven years content his alter'd form to keep,
In faith assured the bright reward to reap,
And pay for future bliss the fine of suffering now?

'Twas faith like this, in Nature's virgin prime,
Ere all of good, or great, or fair, or just,
Lay in the scale like grains of worthless dust,
Against successful fraud, and purpled crime;
Ere Truth was forced the sceptre to resign,
And blasts of Mammon banish'd airs divine;
'Twas faith like this, ensuring power to save,
To English George his rescued Sabra gave,
And noble Denis crown'd with love of Eglantine.

THE ABBOT OF DOL.

PART I.

'Tis straunge that divers minds so diverslie
Of metaphysicke subtilties doe deeme.
There be whoe scoffe at faytes of devilrie,
And 'count them all meer coinage of a dreame:
But these, I trow, have more of wit than grace—
Why else doth Abbott Wulpho veile his face?

Which whilom was a Priest of faire renowne
As ever wonn'd in londe of Christentie,
And hath been known to calle high angells downe
From Heaven, to listen his divinitie,
Whereby he gain'd the Abbaye of Seinct Pol,
Near Englysshe sea, fast by the towne of Dol.

When as his friers, in solemn service dredde,
Their mattin chaunt and lowlie vespers sing,
What now makes Abbott Wulpho veile his hedde,
That none him see, nor he sees anything?
Foul tales will spred of holiest-seeming wight
When he so wilful seekes to shunne the light.

Whilom, when priests and reverend bishopps rode
In seemlie guise to Redons' neighbouring towne,

“Redons' neighbouring towne.” By this pedantic appellation is probably meant Rennes, the capital of Britanny, and ancient city of the Redones, an Armorican tribe. It seems evident that the narrator was an English schoolmaster taking the benefit of a holiday excursion on horseback along the coast of France.

Whiles one a mare, and one a mule bestrode,
Low trailing on the ground his decent gowne,
For seemlie order, and for decent stole,
Was none colde mate the Seinctlie prior of Dole.

And when in Redon towne they all did meete,
Bishoppe and Abbott, cowléd Monk and Priest—
Fayre brotherhood—in grave debate to treate
Of holie churche,—and, now and thanne, to feast,
Ymongst them alle was none so far renownde
For winning rhetorike or sense profounde.

Yet now he never doth his cloyster leave
For feast or grave debate in Redon towne,
But haply, at the solemn hour of eve,
Walks lonely forth, enwrapt in sable gowne,
With cowle that hides his face from mortal ken,
And rude inquiry of observant men.

And ever wends he, at the hour of prayer,
To chappelle, and his throne accustom'd takes;
But there he muttereth vowes that none may hear,
And, whiles he muttereth, his bodye shakes.
He brings, I wis, no angells down perforce,
As erst from Heaven, to harken his discourse.

Earl Conan was a lord of great domain
That skirted round the Abbaye-lands of Dol.

A childe he was of arms and lineage vain,
And scorn'd the letter'd Abbott of Seinct Pol;
Whose scorn the church-man met with holy pride,
Enow to fill the countrie farr and wide.

The Earl, a mighty hunter eke was he,
Aye following of the chace with hound and horn,
Reckless alike an 'twere the forest free,
Or vineyard fenced, or field of standing corn.
The Abbott these unhallow'd sports eschew'd,
And roused to wrath the neighbouring rusticks rude.

And, more their lawless bosoms to inspire
With hate of rule and rage enkankeréd,
An English mastiffe full of savage fire
Did ever close behind his foot-steps tred;
And oft-times with a holie oathe he swore,
But for such guard, a perill'd life he bore.

Eft soones, this mastiff, let abroade to stray,
A sore disturber of the chase became,
Dogs, horses, huntsmen, scared and drove away,
And tore with bloody fangs the noblest game.
The Earl vow'd vengeance on his head, the while
Dan Wulpho eyed him with a ghostly smile.

By threats, and oaths, and curses undismay'd,
Still loose Dan Wulpho let the mastiff roam,
Till, caught at last, with clubs and stones assaied,
The yelling savage limp'd, disabled, home.

The church-man, he was fill'd with rage, I ween,
Yet hid in saintlie shew his inward teen.

Next day, at Matins, he to chapel came:
Pale was his visage, his demeanour wild.
His coal-black eyes shot forth a living flame;
His saintly forehead was with blood defiled.
All there, I guess, full little praied that day,
Onlesse from Satan's power their souls to stay.

At last, the Abbott, as he slowly rose,
With hollow tones of drearie import sed—
“Attend, my brethren, whiles my lips disclose
A wondrous vision granted from the ded;
And lerne henceforth, from Conan's dismal rewe,
What griefs the sacrilegious wretche persewe.

“To sley a manne is deeméd felonye,
To sley a Prieste is treason, worse in sort;
But Heaven, that view'th with special clemencye
The lowest menial of its holie court,
Hath curst thee, Conan, for the fell cross-bow
That caused an Abbott's mastiff lame to go.

“These eyes beheld him when the prince of ill
Three demons summon'd from their dismall cave,
Beheld them as they hasten'd to fulfill
The direful mandate that their master gave,
Beheld them with their damnéd prisoner fly,
Athwart the barriers of this nether sky.

“I saw them tear his precious sight away,
And cast the bleeding eye-balls on the ground;
I saw their fangs his writhing members flay,
And in his harte-strings print the torturing wound.
Then on Saint Michael's stairs the corse they threw,
Where limbs disjointed all the place did strew.

“This was no idle mintage of the brain,
The blood upon my brow the truth declares,
The blood that sprinkled like a show'r of rain
Saint Michael's steep ascent and holy staires.”
The 'mazed brethren heard, with silent dred,
This tale of vengeance on the impious hed.

Earl Conan on that day to hunt had gone,
And never from the hunting came again;
And through the country round the tale when known
Was well believed by every simple swain,
They shunn'd the spot where Conan's restless sprite
Still follows up the ghostly chace all night.

But Abbott Wulpho never since that day
Hath raised the cowl that shadows o'er his brows.
When others tell their beads and loudly pray,
He trembling muttereth unheard oaths and vows,
And never since hath pass'd his Abbaye's bound,
Nor joins in converse with the monkes around.

PART II.

Alone, on horse-back, from the towne of Dol,
Full of this tale I journey'd forth at eve:
Moche it perplex'd with doubt and feer my soul,
As one scarse knowing what he mote believe—
'Twas hard to think the Count so foully dyed,
Yet harder still to deeme an Abbott lyed.

The night was overcast with murky cloudes,
And rain beganne to powre, and winde to blow:
“This is the time,” me-thought, “when ghosts in shrowdes
Walk in the shrieking churche-yards to and fro.”
Unwonted tremour o'er my members stole,
As thus I journey'd thro' the wood of Dole.

When lo! I heard afar a bugle horn
That faintly stole upon the plaintive breeze:
The sound, so cheerful mark'd at break of morn,
Now mingled horrour with the moaning trees.
Methought no earthly huntsman ere did blow
So strange a strain, so solemne and so slow.

And therewithall I heard the howl of hounds,
The huntsman's hoarse halloo, the tramp of steeds:
The forest groan'd in cadence, with its sounds

Of crashing boughs, torn trunks, and rustling reeds.
My senses shrank aghast with new affright—
“No earthly hunters chase so late at night.”

Nigher and nigher drew the distant rout,
And seemes less earthly as it comes more near:
The hounds more harshly howl; more hoarsely shout
The viewless huntsmen, hallooing in the rear.
In that wild crash all noises else were drown'd;
My frighten'd horse stood still like one astound.

As the fierce hurricanoe sweeps along,
Uproots big oaks, tall castles overturns,
And, shaking earth's foundations deep and strong,
Lays bare to sight old Neptune's hidden urns,
So loud and fierce that tempest hurried by,
Like Heaven, Earth, Hell, in one commingled cry.

At once around, beneath, and over head,
It seem'd to pass—then all was hush'd and still:
But as the thunder, when its bolt is sped,
Is heard faint echoing from some distant hill,
So, when that soul-subduing peal was past,
The plaintive bugle swell'd upon the blast.

At length, as in the rear of that wild train,
A white plume swiftly pass'd my eyes before:
My steed, awaken'd from its stound again,

Following that meteor-form, its rider bore
(All powerless to restrain) by brake and brier,
O'er rough rude rocks, and thorough quag and mire.

And ever was that snow-white plume our guide,
Like Northern Bear to wandering marinere,
Or that blest starre that led thro' deserts wide
The eastern wise-men to our master deare;
Till deeper still the darkness round us lay;
And then it melted, like thinne ayre, away.

Me seeméd now together we were brought
Beneath some hollow arch, my horse and I.
I stopp'd and hearken'd; but no sound I caught
Save, at long intervalls, the scritch-owle's cry:
At length I saw, as 'twere a taper's ray
Shoot through the gloom, and thereby shaped my way.

It was a chappell, half to ruin gone,
From whose east window flash'd that welcome ray:
My reeking steed I bridled to a stone,
And reach'd a portall that adjoyning lay;
There entering in, before the tapers lighte
Beheld the figure of a kneeling Knighte,

In hunter's garb array'd from top to toe;
A bauldricke was across its shoulders flonge;
In its right hand it grasp'd a hunter's bow;
A hunter's bugle at its back was honge;

A mailéd shirt peep'd forth beneath its vest,
And snow-white plume waved nodding o'er its crest.

At the high altar supplicant it kneel'd,
Seemingly muttering some holy prayer;
Then slowly turning round its head reveal'd
A face illumined by the taper's glare,
Pale—haggard—bloody; but I saw displaied
Earl Conan's features in the specter shade.

The grisly specter raised its beaver'd crest,
And shew'd a throat deep gored with gaping wound;
It pointed sadly to its bleeding breast,
And with a heart-enthralling dolour groan'd;
Then, like a guiltie soule, at breake of day,
Thrise waved its head, and vanishedde away.

Into thinne ayre it vanisht like a dreame,
Leaving me sore astonied and dismaied:
But where it late had knelt, a ruddie gleame
As from a torche, upon the pavement plaied;
And, on what seem'd a grave-stone, where I stood,
I saw engraved in characterrs of blood—

LEGENDE.

“Straunger! whoe'er thou art, praie for the soule
Of one whose naked corse lies festering nighe—

Conan, by name—once puissaunt Earle of Dole;
Whose bloud for Heavén's vengeaunce loud doth crye;
And Abbott Wulpho's was the devilysshe hande
That shed Earl Conan's bloud upon the lande.

“Nor judge that, even in this worlde of sinne,
Foul murther unrequyted doeth remaine.
Whosoe with innocent bloud hath 'filed bin
Shall never from his forehead wype the staine;
But, tho' he vaile his crime from human eye,
Heaven's justice view'th its foule deformitie.”

These words scarse redde, away the vision stole,
Stone, altar, taper, from my wondering sight:
The dawn had brighten'd, and the towres of Dole
Gay sparkled with the fresh Auroraes light,
Seen thro' the forest leaves, where, late so drear,
Now sweet birds chaunt their carolls loud and clear.

Nought but the ruin'd arch remain'd in view,
Of all the wonders I had seen, to tell;
And tho' I scarse cold hope for credence dew,
Nathless, as if constrain'd by hidden spell,
I back return'd, and to the Provost there
Did the whole truth, on solemn oath, declare.

All day his archers scour'd the forest o'er:
At evening, underneath a turfy mount

But loosely hid with leaves, and stiffe with gore,
They found the murther'd body of the Count.
Him nowe in holie earthe they softe enshrine,
But vengeaunce leave to Him who saith, “Tis mine.”

For this doth Abbott Wulpho shrowde his face;
Who, tho' above the reach of Human sway,
Yet knows, as one debarr'd from Heavén's grace,
That innocent bloud can ne'er be washt away,
And therefore feares to shew to man, what He
Who sits above, beholds Eternallye.

THE DEAD MEN OF PEST.

I left the chaulkie cliftes of Old Englónde,
And paced thro' manie a region faire to see,
Thorowe the reaulme of Greece, and Holie Londe,
Untille I journied into sadde Hongrie.

I sawe old Cecrops' towne, and famous Rome;
But Davydd's holie place I lykéd best;
I sawe straunge syghtes that made me pyne for home,
Bot moche the straungest in the towne of Pest.

It was a goodlie citye, fayre to see;
By its prowde walles and statelie towres it gave
A delicate aspéct to the countrée,
With its brigg of boates across the Danow's wave.

Yet many thinges with grief I did survaie:
The stretys all were mantell'd o'er with grass,
And, tho' it were upon the sabbath daie,
No belles did tolle to call the folke to masse.

The churchyard gates with barrs were closyd fast,
Like to a sinnefull and accursedde place;
It shew'd as tho' the judgment daie were past,
And the dedde exyléd from the throne of Grace.

At last an agéd carle came halting bye—
A wofull wyghte he was, and sadde of cheere—
Of whom, if aught of cell or bowre were nighe,
For wearie pilgrimme's rest, I 'ganne to speire.

“Straunger!” he sedde, “in Marye's name departe!”
And, whan thus spoken, wolde have past me by.
His hollowe voyce sanke deepe into my harte;
Yet I wolde not lett him passe, and askyd, “Why?”

“'Tis now mid daye,” quoth hee, “the sunne shines brighte,
And all thinges gladde, bot onlie heare in Peste:
But an 'twere winter wylde, at dedde of nighte,
Not heare, O straunger, sholdst thou seke to reste;

Tho' rain in torrents fell, and cold winde blew,
And thou with travell sore, and honger pale.”
“Tho' the sunne,” saied I, “shine brighte, and the day be newe,
Ile not departe ontill thou's tolde thy tale.”

This wofull wyghte thanne toke me by the honde;
His, like a skeletonne's, was bonie and colde.
Hee lean'd, as tho' hee scarse mote goe or stonde,
Like one who fourscore yeares hath, haply, tolde.

We came togither to the market-crosse,
And the wyghte, all wo begon, spake never worde;
Ne living thinge was sene our path to crosse,
(Tho' dolours grones from many a house I herde,)

Save one poore dogge, that stalk'd athwart a courte,
Fearfullie howling with most pyteous wayle:
The sad manne whistled in a dismall sorte,
And the poore thing slunk away and hidd his tayle.

I felt my verye bloud crepe in my vaynes;
My bones were icie-cold, my hayre on end:
I wish'd myself agen upon the playnes,
Yet cold not but that sad old manne attend.

The sadd old manne sate down upon a stone,
And I sate on another at his side.
He hevéd mournfully a pyteous grone,
And thanne to ease my dowtes his selfe applyde.

“Straunger!” quoth he, “regard my visage well,
And eke these bonie fingerrs feel agen—
Howe manie winterrs semyth it they tell?”
I dowtingly replyde, “Three-score and ten.”

“Straunger! not fourty yeres agonn I laye
An infant, mewling in the nurse's armes;
Not fourty dayes agonn, two daughterrs gaye
Did make me joyful by their opening charmes.

“Yet now I seme some fowrscore winterrs olde,
And everie droppe of bloud hath left my vaynes;
Als' my fayre daughterrs twayne lye stiffe and colde,
And bloudless, bound in Deth's eternall chaynes.

“Straunger! this towne so pleasaunt to our syghtes,
With goodly towres and palaces so fayre,
Whilom for gentle dames and valiaunt knyghtes,
From all Hongaria's londe the mede did beare.

“But now the few, still rescow'd from the dedde,
Are sobbing out their breath in sorie guyse;
Alle, that had strength to flee, long since have fledde,
Save onlye I, who longe to close mine eyes.

“Seaven weekes are past sithence our folk begann
To pyne, and falle away—no reason why;
The ruddiest visage turn'd to pale and wann,
And glassie stillnesse film'd the brightest eye.

“Some Doctours sedde, the lakes did agews breede,
Bot spring retorning wold the same disperse,
Whiles others, contrarie to nature's creede,
Averr'd the seasonn's chaunge wold make us worse.

“And tho' we leugh at these, like doaters fonde,
Or faytours wont in paradoxe to deele,
Yet, as the sun wax'd warm, throughout the londe,
Alle menne the more did wintrie shiverings feele.

“At length it chaunc'd that one of station highe
Fell sicke, and dyed uponn the seaventh daie:
They op'd the corse the hidden cause to spie,
And founde that alle the bloud was drain'd awaie.

“There was a tailour, Vulvius by name,
Who longe emongste us dwelt in honest pride;
A worthie citizenne esteem'd by fame;
That since some monéth of a soddeine dyde.

“Now thus it happ'd—as oft it chaunceth soe—
That, after he was gon, straunge rumours spred
Of evill haunts where 'twas his wont to goe,
And midnight visitacyonns to the ded.

“Now, whanne this fearfull maladye had growne
To soche an hyght as men were loath to saye,
Emongst the reste in our unhappie towne,
My darlinge doughterrs sore tormentyd laye.

“Nathless I mark'd that ever whiles they pyned
Their appetyte for foode encrees'd the more;
They fedde on richest meates whene'er they dyn'd,
And drancke of old Tokaye my choicest store.

“Thus, everie eve, their colour fresh arose,
And they did looke agen both briske and gaye;
All nighte depe slomberrs did their eyelidds close;
Bot worse and worse they woxe by breake of daye.

“One nyght yt chauncyd, as they slepyng laied,
Their serving wenche at midnight sought their room,
To bring some possett, brothe, or gellie, made
To quelle the plague that did their lives consume.

“Whenne, ere she reach'd the spot, a heavie sound
Of footsteps lumbering up the stayre she heard;
And, soon as they had gain'd the top-most round,
The buried tailour to her sighte appear'd.

“She herd him ope my daughters' chamber dore—
(Her lighte lett falle, she had no force to crye,)
Then, in briefe space, agen—for soe she swore,
It lumber'd downe; but farre more heavilee.

“This storye herde, albe' I inly smyl'd
To think the seely mayd such fears cold shake,
Yet, the nexte nighte, to prove her fancies wyld,
I kept myselfe, till past midnighte, awake:

“Whanne, at the midnighte belle, a sounde I herd
Of heavie lumbering stepps, a sound of dred;
The tailour Vulvius to my sighte appeard;
And all my senses at the instant fledde.

“Next daye, I founde a fryer of mickle grace,
A learnéd clerke, and praied he wold me rede,
In soche a straunge, perplext, and divellishe case,
His ghostly counsaile how 'twere best procede.

“Into the churchyarde wee together wente,
And hee at everie grave-stone saied a prayer;
Till at the tailour Vulvius' monimente
We stopt—a spade and mattoke had we there.

“Wee digg'd the earth wherein the tailour laye,
Till at the tailour's coffyn we arrived,
Nor there, I weene, moche labour fonde that daye,
For everie bolt was drawen and th'hinges rived.

“This sighte was straunge, bot straunger was to see;
The corse, tho' laid som monéth's space in mold,
Did shew like living manne, full blythe of glee,
And ruddie, freshe, and comelie to behold.

“And now the cause wee happlie mote presume.
The vampire—so he named this demonne guest—
Had burst the sacred cerements of the tomb,
And of the buried corse himselfe possest.

“This newes, whanne thro' the towne wee made it knowne,
Unusual horrour seised the stoutest wyghtes,
As deming not the tailour's grave alone
Had so bin made a haunt of dampnéd sprites.

“The churchyarde now was diggéd all aboute,
And everie new made grave laid bare to viewe,
Whanne everie corse that they dyd digge thereoute,
Seem'd, like the firste, of freshe and ruddie hewe.

“'Twas plain, the corses that the churchyards fill'd,
Were they whoe nightly lumber'd upp our stayre,
Whoe suck'd our bloud, the living banquette swill'd,
And left us alle bestraughte with blanke despayre.

“And nowe the Priestes burne incense in the choyre,
And scatter Ave-maries o'er the grave,
And purifye the churche with lustrall fire,
And caste alle things profane in Danowe's wave;

“And they've barr'd with ironne barrs the churchyarde pale,
To kepe them inn; but vayne is alle they doe:
For whan a ded manne hath lernt to drawe a nayle,
Hee can also burste an ironne bolte in two.”

The sadde old manne here endyd. I arose,
With myngled greefe and wonderment possest:
I rode nine leagues or ere I sought repose,
And never agen came nigh the towne of Peste.

For the origin of the above legend, the reader is referred to a superstition long prevalent in Hungary, and other Sclavonian countries, which has been lately rendered familiar to us, by a spell far more potent than any inherent in these rude verses. It may, however, be added, that the present poem, in which some slight alterations have since been made, first appeared in a periodical work of which Dr. Aikin was editor, (the Athenæum,) some years previous to the date of Lord Byron's “Giaour,” and that it is believed, with some confidence, to have furnished the noble poet with the hint of the passage beginning,

“But first, on earth as vampire sent,
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent;

Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life,
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse.”

Leaving, however, this question, the present tale may (if the reader pleases,) be presumed, from its style and language, to be the work of the same learned pedagogue as was conjectured to be the author of the preceding story; who, after renouncing the arduous labours of his profession, must be supposed to have devoted a twelvemonth or more to the various objects of foreign travel, and to have given vent to “Crudities” which may be compared with those of honest Tom Coryate. And, with reference to the former poem, it may in this place be observed,—what was omitted in the note at its conclusion,—that, although the names of Earl Conan and Abbot Wulpho would seem to point to a much earlier period of Armorican history, they were probably adopted as a convenient veil for the real circumstances, which cannot, from the style of narration, be referred to an earlier date than the commencement of our Elizabethan æra. But this subject may be thought worthy the investigation of some learned and ingenious member of the recently formed “Camden Society.”

THE WRAITH.

Cold blew the breeze of early day,
And furious fell the driving sleet;
Sir Lodowicke on the banks of Tay
Was riding from his castle seat.
On him the storm unheeded beat,
Unfelt the wintry breezes blew,
For she he hoped at eve to meet
Alone possess'd his fancy's view.

Long captive, and of hope forlorn,
He bow'd beneath the paynim foe,
Nor, all the time, were tidings borne
Of his sweet Emmeline's weal or woe;
And now with beating heart, where glow
Alternate hopes, and terrors lower,
Through piercing wind, and driving snow,
He sought his lovely Emmeline's bower.

And first he cross'd the rivulet's fall,
Where oft, in childhood's joyous day,
An orphan in his father's hall,
She with him used at eve to stray;
Next by the bank pursued his way,
Which Emmeline loved, at early morn,

To deck with flowers and garlands gay—
Now rough with tangled brier and thorn.

And now that ancient oak he spied,
The best loved tree of all the glade,
Where first his amorous vows he sigh'd,
And woo'd and won the plighted maid.
Thither his steps unbidden stray'd;
But lightning had the branches torn,
And the bare roots, by storms assay'd,
Groan'd to the boisterous breath of morn.

A keener air upon him blew,
Mix'd with a sound so sadly shrill,
As pierced his shuddering members through,
And made each vein with horrour thrill.
A dark preságe of future ill
Confusedly pass'd his senses o'er,
When, heard by fits, long, faint and still,
The kirk bell chimed the hour of four.

Then first, while, shivering with the breeze,
He closer folds his mantle round,
Dim through the murky mist he sees,
Stretch'd on the bleak unshelter'd ground,
A maiden form. The winds around
Unheeded roar—the driving snows
Descend unfelt; nor sight, nor sound,
Seem to disturb her last repose.

He stretch'd his arms, and vainly tried
To clasp that heavenly form so fair:
The vision seem'd away to glide,
And all he clasp'd was empty air.
“O Emmeline sweet! O Emmeline rare!
Say, dost thou not thy true love see?
Or are his cheeks so changed with care,
His eyes so sunk with slavery?

“Ah! wherefore, wherefore fliest thou, fair?
And wherefore to the inclement sky
Dost thou that tender bosom bare,
Nor heed the tempest rushing by?”—
In vain he calls, since none is nigh—
The phantom form no longer seen;
But driving storms more fiercely fly,
And the chill morning bites more keen.

He looks around with eager eyes
Through every opening glade, in vain:
He calls aloud; but nought replies
Save howling wind and beating rain.
And now he spurs his steed amain,
With desperate haste, mid wind and shower,
Through bush and brier, o'er hill and plain,
Until he stops at Emmeline's bower.

Who first should meet his ardent sight?
Who grant the kiss his raptures seek?
Who, speechless, breathless with delight,

Hide in his breast her glowing cheek?
In vain they both attempt to speak;
Love can no more than feel and see.
At length the well-known accents break,
“My love, my love, thrice welcome be!

“My Lodowicke! Oh, an hour like this
Might well reward an age of pain;
Yet scarce for all this wondrous bliss
Would I last night dream o'er again.
What phantoms swarm'd about my brain!
What shudderings stole my senses o'er!
As if my soul its flight had ta'en
To some dark, wintry, howling shore.

“Long time in deadly trance I lay,
A mass perplext of shapeless thought;
Till fancy bore my soul away,
And to the scenes of childhood brought.
But when that trysted oak I sought
By Lodowicke's early vows endear'd,
The storm its lordly boughs had caught,
And all its leaves were scorch'd and sear'd.

“I laid me by that blasted tree,
When, borne upon the tempest's roar,
The old kirk bell toll'd sullenly,
Through the dun air the hour of four.
Again a deadly trance came o'er,
And all my powers of sense were flown;

But, O my loved one! 'tis no more,
Thou, thou art here, and art mine own!”

She said—O'er Lodowicke's heart, the while,
A short, convulsive tremour stole;
But soon his Emmeline's beaming smile
Chased every cloud that dimm'd his soul.
Sweet music's voice, the inspiring bowl,
But most his Emmeline's artless glee,
Disperse the vapours as they roll,
And melt in gleams of extacy.

Her Lodowicke safe—her Lodowicke near—
All care forsook the maiden's breast,
Light was her heart, unused to fear,
And golden slumbers crown'd her rest.
But when her form no longer bless'd
His sight, her voice his spirit charm'd,
Wild fancy's train again possess'd
His thoughts, and vital powers disarm'd.

Then ever as with rapturous love
His mind he turn'd to Emmeline fair,
The shape those torturing spectres wove
Was wan with woe, and pale with care,
And blighted by the noisome air
That shrewdly nipp'd its shivering form,
And through its wet, unbraided hair
Shrill whistled to the driving storm.

All night his fever'd couch he press'd;
Hour after hour pass'd joyless o'er:
Till, striking chillness to his breast,
He heard the well-mark'd sound of four.
From trance he started, when before
His eyes appear'd his spectre-bride;
But, while he gazed, she was no more,
And in the cold pale moon-light died.

Deep horror seized each vital power,
His limbs were stiffen'd, fix'd his eyes;
When from fair Emmeline's distant bower
Low murmuring sounds were heard to rise;
Then, more distinct, shrill female cries;
Louder and louder—not a breath
Is breathed around—no groans—no sighs;
One long, long shriek—the shriek of Death.

Fate strikes the forest's blooming pride;
The ivied oak resists its spell:
“The bridegroom may forget the bride,”
But in Dunfermline's lowliest cell
A lonely friar was known to dwell,
Who threescore years for death had pray'd—
How fervently no tongue can tell—
Death comes not to the wretch's aid.

THE ENGLISH SAILOR AND THE KING OF ACHEN'S DAUGHTER.

Come, listen, gentles all,
And ladies unto me,
And you shall hear of as stout a sailér
As ever sail'd on sea.

'Twas in the month of May,
Sixteen hundred sixty four,
We sallied out all fresh and stout,
In the good ship Swiftsure.

With wind and weather fair
We sail'd from Plymouth Sound,
And the line we cross'd, and the Cape we pass'd,
For we were to China bound.

And we sail'd by Sunda isles,
And Ternate and Tydore,
Till the wind it lagg'd, and our sails they flagg'd,
In sight of Achen's shore.

Becalm'd, days three times three,
We lay in the burning sun;
Our water was rank and our meat it stank,
And our biscuit was well nigh done.

And we slowly paced the deck,
So long as our legs would bear us;
And we thirsted all, but no rain did fall,
And no dews descend to cheer us.

And the red red sun from the sky,
Sent his scorching beams all day,
Till our tongues hung out, all black with drought,
And we had no voice to pray.

Then the hot hot air from the south
Oppress'd our lungs all night,
As if the grim devil, with his throat full of evil,
Had blown on each troubled sprite.

At length it so befell,
While we all in our hammocks lay,
Quite scant of breath, and expecting death
To come ere break of day;

At once a pleasant breeze
Sprang up amidst the shrowds,
And the big round rain dropp'd down amain
From its cisterns in the clouds.

I open'd my heavy eyes,
And my mouth, I open'd it wide;
And my heart rejoiced, and my throat was moist,
And “A breeze! a breeze!” I cried.

But no man heard me cry,
And the breeze again sank down,
And a noise like thunder, with fright and wonder,
Nigh cast me in a swoune.

I dared not look around,
Till, by degrees made bolder,
When I saw a sprite, through the pale star-light,
Dim glimmering at my shoulder.

He was clad in a sailor's jacket,
Wet trowsers and dripping hose,
And an unfelt wind I heard behind
That whistled among his clothes.

I kenn'd him by the stars,
And the moon, as it faintly shone,
And I knew, though his face was seam'd with scars,
John Jewkes, my sister's son.

“John Jewkes!” I exclaim'd, “Alack,
Poor boy, what brings thee here?”
But nothing he said, but hung down his head,
And made his bare scull appear.

Then, by my grief made bold,
I to take his hand endeavour'd;
But his head he turn'd round, which a gaping wound
Had clean from his shoulders sever'd.

He open'd his mouth to speak,
Like a man with his last breath struggling;
And with every word in his throat I heard,
A queerish sort of guggling.

At last he, guggling, said,
“Kind uncle, touch not me!
For the fish have my head, and my trunk lies dead,
And 'tis only my ghost you see.

“You surely must remember,
Three years agone this day,
How at aunt's we tarried, when sister was married
To farmer Robin May.

“Oh! then were we blythe and jolly;
But none of us all had seen,
While we sang and laugh'd, and the stout ale quaff'd,
That our number was thirteen:

“And none of all the party
At the head of the table saw,
While the flask went round to the tabor's sound,
Old Goody Martha Daw.

“Yet Martha Daw was there,
Though she never spoke no word,
And beside her sat her old black cat,
Though it neither mew'd nor purr'd.

“On her crooked staff she hobbled,
And a bundle of sticks she broke,
And her prayers all jumbled she backward mumbled,
Though never a word she spoke.

“'Twas on a Friday morning,
That very day was a se'nnight,
I ran to sweet Sue, to bid her adieu,
—For I could not stay a minute.

“Then, crying with words so tender,
She gave me a true love's locket,
And bad me still love her, forgetting her never,
—So I put it in my pocket.

“And then we kiss'd and parted;
But we knew not, all the while,
Martha Daw was by, with her crutch, to spy,
Looking on with a fiendish smile.

“So I went to sea again,
With my heart brimful of Sue;
Though my mind misgave me, the salt waves would have me,
And I'd taken my last adieu,

“A prosperous voyage we had,
'Till we came to this hellish coast,
When a tempest did rise, in seas and in skies,
That we gave ourselves for lost.

“Our good ship it was stranded
All on the shoals of Achen,
And all but myself were put on the shelf,
And I only just saved my bacon.

“For it chanced that very minute
The black king, walking by,
Beheld me sprawling, and scarcely crawling,
And took home to his house hard by.

“Then, bethinking him I was
A likely lad for to see,
My bones well knit and of passing wit,
And not above twenty-three,

“He made me his gardener boy,
To sow pease and potatoes,
To water his flowers in lack of showers,
And cut his parsley and lettuce.

“Now it fell out, of a Sunday,
(Which these Pagans never keep holy,)
I was picking rue, and thinking on Sue,
With a heart right melancholy,

“When the king of Achen's daughter
Threw open her casement to see;
And, as she look'd round on the gooseberry ground,
Her eyes fell full on me;

“And seeing me tall and slim,
And of shape right personable,
With skin so white, and so very unlike
The blacks at her father's table,

“She took it into her head,
(Or else the devil did move her,)
That I, in good sooth, was a likely youth,
And would make a gallant lover.

“So she tripp'd from her chamber high,
All in silks and satins clad,
And her gown it rustled, as down she bustled
With steps like a princess sad.

“Her shoes they were deck'd with pearls,
And her hair with diamonds glisten'd,
And her jewels and toys, they made such a noise,
My mouth water'd whilst I listen'd.

“Then she tempted me with glances,
And with sugar'd words so tender—
And, although black, she was strait in the back,
And young, and tall, and slender.

“But I my love remember'd,
And the locket she once did give me,
And resolved to be true to my darling Sue,
As she did ever believe me.

“Whereat the princess wax'd
Right furious and angry,
And said, she was sure I had some paramour
In kitchen or in laundry.

“Then, with a devilish grin,
Says she, Give me that locket,—
But I call'd her a witch, and a conjuring bitch,
And kept it in my pocket.

“Howbeit both night and day,
She still did torture and teaze me;
And swore, if I'd yield to her the field,
To do all she could to please me.

“Says she, only give me the locket,
And bide three months with me,
If then the will remains with you still,
I'll ship you off to sea.

“So I thought it the only way
To behold my lovely Sue;
Also, thinking of England, it made me tingle, and
I gave up my locket so true.

“Thereupon she laugh'd outright
With a hellish grin—and I saw
The lady no more, but where she stood afore,
Now stood old Martha Daw.

“She was sitting astride a broomstick,
And bade me mount behind;
So, my wits being lost, the broomstick I cross'd,
And away we went swift as the wind.

“But my head it soon grew giddy,
I reel'd, and lost my balance;
And I tumbled over, like a perjured lover,
And a warning to all false gallants.

“And there where I tumbled down,
The Indians found me lying;
My head they cut off, and my blood did quaff,
And set my flesh a frying.

“Hence, all ye English gallants,
A warning take from me,
Your true love's locket to keep in your pocket
Whenever you go to sea.

“And, oh dear uncle Thomas,
I come to give you warning,
As then 'twas my chance with Davy to dance,
'Twill be yours to-morrow morning.

“'Twas three years agone to-night,
Three years gone clear and clean,
When, a jovial set, at aunt's we met,
And our number was thirteen.

“Now I and sister Nan,
Two of that jovial party,
Have gone from aunt's, with Davy to dance,
Tho' then we were young and hearty,

“And since we both kick'd the bucket
—I speak it with pain and sorrow,
At the end of each year, it seems quite clear
That you must kick it to-morrow.

“Howsoever good uncle Thomas,
If you'll promise, and promise truly,
To plough back the main for old England again,
And perform my orders duly,

“Old Davy will still allow you
Another year to live,
To visit your friends, and make up your ends,
And your enemies forgive.

“But mind when you first reach England,
To Launc'ston town you wag,
And there, (to make short,) in open court,
Impeach that d---d old hag.

“And then you must see her hang'd,
Without any doubt whatever,
And, when void of life, with your own clasp knife
The string of her apron sever.

“And, if that you determine
My last behests to do,
In her left hand pocket you'll find the locket,
And carry it to Sue.”

These words that grisly spectre
In guggling accents spoke,
When, it now being morning, he gave no warning,
But vanish'd away like smoke.

And there sprang up a breeze that day,
And our ship began for to tack,
And to please the ghost, we left the coast,
And steer'd for Old England back.

Then I, as soon as landed,
Did his last commands pursue;
Old Martha likewise I saw hung at 'Sise,
And took the locket to Sue.

And now of life being weary,
I've made up my mind to die,
But I thought this sad story I'd lay before ye
For the good of posteritie.

So take good heed that never
You sit thirteen at table,
And true love's token to keep unbroken,—
At least so long as you're able.

THE MARESCHAL AND THE BARBER.

A TALE. AFTER THE MANNER OF COLMAN.

There's ne'er a skin so exquisitely fair
Among our beaux and belles of noble blood,
But those whom chance has lifted from the mud
In Fortune's richest gifts to hold a share,
Make, with their tough and sun-tann'd hides, pretence
To a still more refined and tender sense.

Of such a hide as this my story goes,
Whose owner—bony, gaunt, a man of swagger,
Of popgun, harquebuse, and dagger—
('Twas one of Bonaparté's maréchaux—)
Forgetting that his father,
A plain painstaking man of labour,
Had pass'd his life, like many a neighbour,
Unconscious of the sin of lather,
Now, in support of his gentility,
Affected so much sensibility
Of beard,
That it appear'd
No barber in all Paris knew
To pay his ducal visage reverence due.
Were I to speak
How many tonsors in a week

He kill'd with fright
At the big, round, and dreadful oaths he swore,
You'd fancy that I lied outright,
And hear no more.
Nathless, he found at last an operator,
Who work'd with so much ease and taste,
And used so excellent a shaving paste,
That, tho' a prater,
He never gave his highness cause to swear
More than a simple oath or two,
(As “Sacredi,” or “Ventrebleu,”)
From early Floréal to late Frimaire,
All summer through.
Of winter I say nothing; Heaven well knew,
When, for our father Adam's sin,
It sent a covering for the human chin,
Earth has no torment like the adorning
One's face for breakfast on a frosty morning.
Then, be the razor dull, or razor bright,
A parson's self must swear—a soldier rave outright.

It chanced, as once our artist sat
With a young brother tonsor, close in chat,
('Twas at a tavern, where good cheer they made,
And of good liquor quaff'd their fill,)
At last they fell to talking of their trade,
Each loudly boasting his superior skill;
Whereon our master barber, in a fume,
(Whether of anger or of wine)
Cried, “Odds, young whipster, and dost thou presume

To match thy clumsy fist with mine?
Go to, you silly knave, for shame!
When there's the duke of—What's his name?
Who, were the razor ne'er so bright and keen,
Would never think it shaved him clean—
In short, all Paris knows his surly humour—
Yet now, I mow his chin so smooth and flat,
He never grumbles. Who'll do more than that?”
“Zounds!” said the Gascon artisan, “I'll do more.”
“What canst thou do, O peasant slave and vile?
“Wo't drink up Eysel?—eat a crocodile?”
“Let me, to-morrow, go instead of you,
And, Sacredieu!
I'll shave but half his face, leaving the other
As guiltless of the razor as my mother;
Yet, when I've finish'd, make the duke declare,
I suit him to a hair;
And pay me too.”—“Done, for a ducat!”—“Done!
And, as I live, the wager's fairly won.”

Next day, our Senior feign'd indisposition,
And sent his Gascon friend, who craved permission
To pass a whetted razor o'er the face,
So tender, of his grace.
Leave given, with all a Gascon's modesty,
He plants himself, easy and free,
In the Duke's anti-chamber,—takes his station,
And waits till, rising out of feather-bed,
In stalks, with awe-inspiring tread,
The barber-killing conqueror of Bagration;

Who, eying first the Gascon round and round,
And seeing him so tall, well-limb'd, and stout,
Perhaps might entertain a doubt
Whether, if he had chanced to meet the peasant
Alone, in a dark lane, he might have found
It quite so pleasant:
Since, howsoe'er it be,
The bravest man amongst us must confess
He cannot treat a rogue of six foot three,
Like one whose stature is six inches less.
So to this youth, so stout and large of bone,
The Marshal growl'd forth in a lower tone
Than was his custom with the shaving crew.
He sate, and bad the knave commence his work;
Who, setting to like any Turk,
Mow'd half the face before his patient knew
The business was begun.
But, tho' in skill our Gascon had it hollow,
The worst was yet to follow
Before the wager could be fairly won.
With half a beard the Duke to satisfy?
—Sir Huon had not ne'er so hard a job
To pull the teeth out of his old Nabób.
What can he do?—He lays his razor by,
And, keeping still his former station,
Turns up his eyes, and clasps his hands,
And like a living statue stands,
Muttering some strange ejaculation.
At first the Marshal stares both east and west,
Astonish'd at the tonsor's mien devout,

Till, in the end, his patience quite worn out,
In gentle phrase he thus the youth address'd.
—“Morbleu!”. . . . His Grace, you've heard, was not select
In choice of fashionable oaths;
For men change not their fashions with their clothes,
And from a Marshal what can you expect?
“Sir,” said the Gascon, with a bow profound
Down to the ground,
“So please your highness of your wrath to spare
I was at prayer.”
“At prayer, you lousy scoundrel?—Sacredi!
Is it a time to pray while shaving me?”
—“Prayer never comes amiss, an't like your grace,
In any place.”
“Odslife! was ever such a shaver?
The reason, sirrah, of this mad behaviour!”
“Since”—calmly thus rejoin'd the youth—
“Your highness bids me tell the truth,
While shaving of your chin, I felt so curs'd
And devilish an inclination
To cut your noble throat, that I was forc'd
To pray to God against the strong temptation.”
“Zounds!” scream'd the Marshal, rising in a fright,
“Out of my sight!”
“What, sir! when I have shaved but half your chin?
That were a sin.
No, please your highness, keep your seat;
I'm ready for the other side:
The trials of the devil are great;

But I've sufficiently been tried:
And—I believe—I now may safely swear,
To spare your weasand while I mow your hair.”
—“Believe? you scurvy thief!
Oons! shall I trust my throat to your belief?
Here, Jean, Jacques, George!”—“Dread Sir, be quiet!
I would not be the cause of riot;
And thus to part would blast my reputation
Before the nation.
I cannot leave you thus.”—“Avaunt,
Imp of the devil!”—“I must—” “Away!”
—“Only one minute let me stay!”
—“You sha'n't!”
“I'll shave you smooth as when you first were born.”
—“Zounds, sir! I like to be half-shorn.”
—“O, sir, if you are satisfied—”
“Rascal! I'm perfectly content.”
—“I only hope, if you repent,
You'll send for me to shave the other side.
But, please your Grace, before I go—
(Or otherwise, I shall be much afraid
You're not well pleased—) your Grace must know—”
—“Oh, certainly.—What ho! my page here!
See that the gentleman is duly paid.”
—“Good morning, sir! I've won my wager.”

FROM THE ABBE DELILLE'S “L'IMAGINATION.”

A beauteous flower Spain's glowing sun matured.
Her virgin breast the power of love abjured
Too long; for when at length the conqueror came,
He fired her bosom with a fiercer flame:
That flame, too precious for a sire's control,
To young Alvarez yielded all her soul.

My tale is short. The haughty father knew
Their loves, and at her feet the lover slew.
She seized the reeking blade with frantic fire,
And to the lover sacrificed the sire.
Thus were dissolved, in one short moment's time,
By deeds of darkest and most hideous crime,
The holiest and the softest ties below:
—So mad is love when vengeance prompts the blow.

But who, poor wretched maid, can picture thee?
Victim of guilt, remorse, and misery?
The horrid secret, to no creature known,
Pent up, and raging in her breast alone,
A solitary hut conceal'd her shame,
And dark oblivion gather'd round her name.
One peasant girl alone found entrance there,
To be the witness of her black despair,
But not the soul's deep mystery to share.

No mortal ever, in the world's wide range,

Gave such example of discordant change.
Now plunged in gloomiest silence, dark and deep,
The gnawing fiends of conscience seem'd to sleep;
Then—as if all unable to control,
And trample down the horror of the soul,
The fearful struggle in her mind was seen
Thro' her strain'd eye-balls and distorted mien;
While, suddenly, as o'er a stormy sky,
Some trembling sun-beam oft is seen to fly,
Painting the sullen cloud with transient glow;
So o'er her alter'd front, her sunken brow,
Her features strain'd with agony, awhile
Shoots a sweet, mournful, melancholy smile.

But, durst she weep, her tears bring no relief—
Those burning tears of unrelenting grief.
Sudden—O horror! O refined distress!
What beauteous scenes of childhood happiness
Start to her troubled view!—she sees again
That blissful age, exempt from guilt and pain,
When a fond mother's tender kiss gave place,
In playful contest, to a sire's embrace.
O then, how heaved her breast, how roll'd her eye,
How burst the thrilling shrieks of agony!
O'er field and mountain, and the forest glade,
Wander'd with hurrying steps the frantic maid,
Rush'd o'er the plains, and darted thro' the shade;
Till nature, tired, exhausted, quite gave way,
And bloodless, breathless, on the earth she lay.

E'en pangs like these bring solace to her care;
For madness gives a vent to blank despair.

But when, imprison'd in her hut alone,
Her scatter'd senses reassume their tone,
And all the wanderings of her fancy cease,
Reason returns—but not with reason, peace.
'Twas then her heart appear'd to sink within,
Weigh'd down by all the mightiness of sin:
There, drop by drop, a father's blood distill'd,
Mix'd with a lover's—blood her hands had spill'd;
Now, with those parricidal hands, she tried
To turn away the still returning tide;
Now, close pursued by some avenging ghost,
“Help, help,” she cried, “Alvarez! or I'm lost.
See, see, O see, my angry father glare!
Lo! the sharp steel!—O God, what sight is there?
The same with which I shed his precious life—”
Then would she bend, as if to shun the knife
In fancy pointed—but, O agony!
She cannot shun her soul; she cannot fly
From those fell demons that her heart corrode:
All paints her crime—all marks avenging God.
Hell yawns—heaven thunders—the hot bolt is sent;
Might God forgive—her soul can ne'er relent.

At times she hopes—she bends her knees to pray—
She clasps her hands—despairs—and dies away;
Avenging God o'erwhelms her with dismay.
Yet, not unoften, in her maddest mood,
She stopp'd, observant, where the gloomy wood
Of cypress join'd the elm's majestic shade,
And round the village church a shelter made.
It seem'd as if some hidden, viewless force,

100

Awful, yet soothing to her soul's remorse,
Here urged her on—but then a sudden fear,
And horror seized her if she ventured near.

Yet once, as round the pale she dared to stray,
A simple peasant met her on her way,
Whose saintly aspect fix'd her roving sight:
Mild were his features, and his countenance bright
Beam'd inward peace and fellowship with heaven,
Which God's appointed minister had given.
Surprised, encouraged, hoping, she draws nigh—
She enters—she advances silently—
Her trembling eyes can now at length endure
The sight of that tribunal, just and pure,
To true repentance ever open found.
—She gazed, 'mid tears of anguish, wildly round—
“That Judge severe, whose hallow'd throne I see,
May mercy grant to all, but none to me!”

A venerable man with age grown white,
The pastor of the church, now met her sight;
Whose useful days, some forty summers, ran
In piety to God, and love to man.
All shared his bounty—none his censure fear'd—
Loved in his hamlet, in his church revered.
His manners preach'd—his fair example taught,
And warm'd the heart, and sanctified the thought.
Both child and parent bless their strengthen'd tie,
And e'en the infant, as he passes by,
Extends his little hands in playful guile,
And hangs delighted on the good man's smile.
Of deep remorse assuager firm and sure—

101

Refuge of sinners—yet himself most pure—
Like some proud mountain, whose exalted head
Sees storms and tempests far beneath it spread,
While thunders roll around its breast, and die,
Itself the tenant of a cloudless sky.

Meeting, they paused—the opening sentence hung
Ready to break—yet silence chain'd each tongue.
With looks most eloquently mute, the maid
At once conceal'd her secret, and betray'd.
He ask'd her not a word—for souls refined
Respect the secrets of a tortured mind;
Yet his eye spoke such pity as perforce
To win the confidence of true remorse.
Together to the altar they drew near:
She knelt, opprest by holy awe and fear.
Three times her guilt hangs trembling, half reveal'd,
And thrice her timid heart denies to yield;
At length, impatient of the struggling load,
Her full, o'erflowing soul gave way to God;
And 'mid confession's sacred source she tries
To read with hurried glance the good man's eyes.

Moved by such sufferings, touch'd by such remorse,
His lips dare open comfort's sacred source.
She breathes once more—tears, long by misery dried,
Pour from her soften'd eyes a copious tide—
Not such as used from maddening rage to break,
When burning torrents drench'd her furrow'd cheek,
But pure delicious tears—those tears from heaven,
By God himself to souls repentant given,

102

Resembling, in their course, the dews of even;
Refreshing, balmy, sent to give new birth
To the parch'd fruits and drooping flowers of earth.
Mean-time the priest, commission'd from the sky,
Grants pardon in the name of the Most High.

Oh who can paint the calm that hour bestow'd?
She vows her heart, her prayers, her tears, to God.
She feels her passion rest, her torments cease,
And conscience seals heaven's promises of peace.

FROM CHATTERTON'S “ÆLLA.”

FIRST MINSTREL.

The budding floweret blushes at the light,
The meads are sprinkled with a saffron hue;
In daisied mantle is the hill-top dight;
The graceful cowslip bendeth with the dew:
Thro' leafy trees, whose green heads kiss the skies,
Waked by the gentle breeze, soft whisper'd murmurs rise.

Gray evening comes, and brings the dews along;
The western sky with golden radiance shines;
Sweet minstrels tune their jocund village song,
Young ivy round the cottage door-post twines;
I lay me on the grass; yet, to my will,
Tho' all is fair around, there wanteth something still.

103

SECOND MINSTREL.

So our first father thought in Paradise,
Where heaven and earth did homage to his mind.
In woman man's supremest pleasure lies,
Man's first and best delight is woman-kind.
Go—take a wife unto thine arms, and see!
Winter, and russet hills, will then have charms for thee.

THIRD MINSTREL.

When autumn sere and sun-burnt doth appear,
With cunning hand gilding the changeful leaf,
Bringing up winter to fulfill the year,
And bearing on his back the welcome sheaf;
With forest seed when all the hills are white,
And thro' the kindled sky swift streams the northern light;

When the fair apple, red as evening sky,
Doth bend the tree unto the fruitful ground;
When juicy pears, and berries of black dye,
Dance in the air, and all is glad around;
Then, be the evening foul, or evening fair,
Methinks the heart's delight is strangely check'd by care.

104

SECOND MINSTREL.

Angels are painted as of neither kind,
And angels only from desire have rest.
There is a something in the manly mind
That, without woman, can be never blest.
There is no sainted hermit, but the sight
Of lovely woman warms, and cheers his dulled sprite.

Woman for man—not for herself—was made;
Bone of his bone, and child of his desire.
To him from whom she sprang, she flies for aid,
Her gentle frame less mix'd with native fire;
Therefore the fire of love was given, to heat
Her milkiness of kind, and make her all complete.

So, without woman, man yet kindred were
To savage beasts, and war his sole employ:
But woman bade the spirit of peace appear,
And won the brutal mind to love and joy.
Then let a wife be to thy bosom press'd.
In wedded life alone is man supremely blest.

105

FROM OSSIAN'S “BERRATHON.”

“Bend thy blue course, oh stream! round the narrow plain of Lutha!”

Oh flow round Lutha's narrow plain, sweet stream,
And let the wild woods hanging o'er thee wave,
And let the sun there shed his warmest gleam,
And light winds gently breathe o'er Ossian's grave!

At early morn the hunter passing by
No more shall hear my harp's harmonious fall;
Then shall he drop the tender tear, and cry
“Where is the tuneful son of great Fingal?”

O come, Malvina! all thy music yield!
Let thy soft song once more delight my breast!
Then raise my tomb in Lutha's narrow field,
And lull my dying spirits into rest.

Where art thou, lovely maid? Where is thy song?
Where are the soft sounds of thy passing feet?
Thou canst not come, nor shall I call thee long,
Till in my father's airy halls we meet.

Oh pleasant be thy rest, thou lovely beam!
Silent and slow thy peaceful light declined:

106

Like the pale moon upon the trembling stream,
Soon hast thou set, and left us dark behind.

We sit around the rock—but there no more
Thy voice remains to soothe, thy light to cheer:
Soon hast thou set on this deserted shore,
And left us all in gloomy darkness here!

SONG.

“MORVA RHUDDLAN.”

'Twas at the time when the white thorn was blowing,
When pleasant and fruitful the early dews fell,
That to the wars as my Owen was going,
He stay'd one sad moment to bid me farewell.
But, O the marshes, the marshes of Rhuddlan!
—He knew not, for ever he bade me farewell.

Sad was our parting, and bitter tears falling
Shew'd hearts full of sorrow and bursting with love;
But a brave soldier, whom honour is calling,
No sorrow can soften, no passion can move.
Yet, before eve, on the salt marsh of Rhuddlan,
In anguish he thought on the tears of his love.

107

Fair smiled the morn; but no joy to my bosom
Could all the gay livery of nature afford:
Fresh was the breeze that blew over the blossom;
My heart, it was heavy because of my lord.
And, when night fell o'er the marshes of Rhuddlan,
In dreams I beheld it—the form of my lord.

Dark rose the morning, and winds loudly blowing
Had chased from my pillow the visions of sleep;
I sat at my window, and thought of my Owen;
I strove to be cheerful, but only could weep.
For something had said, On the marshes of Rhuddlan
Thy Owen is stretch'd in the hero's last sleep.

Never shall time put an end to my mourning;
E'en winter retiring no joy brings to me:
Lovers may hope in the gay spring returning—
'Twas then that I parted, my Owen, from thee!
O the green marshes, the marshes of Rhuddlan!
I parted for ever, my Owen, from thee!

108

DEVON'S POLY-OLBION.

THE FIRST SONG. (A FRAGMENT.)

[_]

(A portion of the following verses was honoured with a place in a Collection of Poems edited by Joanna Baillie, 1823.)

First of Devon's thousand streams,
(Beside whose banks no poet dreams,
Since to her praise Old Drayton framed
His pastoral reed—yet scarcely named,)
Silver Axe; who, though her course
She fetches from a distant source,
And Dorset's downs, as on she glides,
From fruitful Somerset divides,
Yet justly I Devonian name her,
And for that nobler province claim her,
(No less than Exe, or Western Tamar;)
Amongst whose nymphs she's always numb'red,
And christens sea-port, burgh, and hundred.

109

From London smoke, and London follies,
To Devon's verdant oaks and hollies,
As year by year the dog-star leads me,
And with sweet thoughts of childhood feeds me,
(Those best and purest thoughts that ever
Through life's long intermittent fever,
Like health-restoring cordials enter,
And in our inmost bosom center:
Thoughts which for all that wealth, ambition,
Wide spreading fame, or proud condition,
Can yield to man, I would not barter;
—Not even for the George and Garter)—
Thee first (sweet nymph,) my eyes salute,
Thee last, when autumn's faded fruit
Falling in lap of sad November,
Bids me the waning months remember,
And leave the country's tranquil joys
For eager crowds, and wrangling noise.

Hail, modest streamlet! on whose bank
No willows grow, nor osiers dank;
Whose waters form no stagnant pool,
But ever sparkling, pure, and cool,
Their snaky channel keep, between
Soft swelling hills of tender green,
That freshens still, as they descend
In gradual slope of graceful bend,
And in the living emerald end—
On whose soft turf supinely laid
Beneath the spreading beechen shade,
I trace, in Fancy's waking dream,
The current of thine infant stream,

110

Where straggling on with gentle force,
Thy waves pursue their destined course.
Then crowd upon my mental gaze
Dim visions of the elder days.
Shrouded in black Cistercian cowl,
They pass like spectres o'er my soul,
On each pale cheek, and furrow'd brow
Impress'd the wretched exile's woe,
While many a sigh recalls with pain,
The distant home they hope to gain
Once more, and rest in peace—in vain!
Poor wanderers, ye shall never see
The wept-for towers of Waverley,
Nor with enamour'd sense inhale
The sweets of Surry's cultured vale;
Whence, at Fitz-Baldwin's high command,

111

Ye sallied, (a devoted band,)
To plant the Cross in savage land;
Where, free from all restraints of law,
The darkling tribes of infant Taw,
And rocky Ockment, roam'd secure
In the wild franchise of the moor.
—A feverish space, 'twixt life and death,
The pious planters gasp'd for breath:
At length resign'd in mute despair
The thankless objects of their care,
To moulder left their lowly cell
For ever—and without farewell—
And, sick at heart, with watchings worn,
With failing limbs, and minds forlorn,
Hopeless they sought the distant bourn
They scarce could dream to reach again—
Then laid them down in reckless pain,
And watch'd, sweet Axe, thy murm'ring tide
Of waters, as they gently glide
In rapid silence to the sea,
Fit emblem of eternity.
But pious Adeliza there,
(The conqueror's kin, and baldwin's heir,
Fair Devon's countess, rich as fair,
And more than fair or rich, devout,)
Beheld them on their homeward rout,
With liberal hand relieved their woes—
And Ford's majestic abbey rose.
Age after age since then has roll'd
O'er generations dead and cold,
From sire to son twice ten-times told—

112

Nor of that grey time-honour'd pile
Can one poor stone, in tower or aisle,
Of cloister'd walk, or 'battled wall,
Or oriel bower, or lordly hall,
(Though the thick clustering ivy dwells
Imbedded midst the low-roof'd cells,
As if its aged trunk had grown
Coeval with the native stone,
Ere yet the builder's art was known,)
Say to the fond exploring eye
That fain would read its history,
“Avert your touch profane—forbear!
The Royal Foundress placed me here.”
Yet flows—and will flow on for ever—
The current of that peaceful river;
While priest and monk have past away,
And sable cowl, and amice grey,
And 'broider'd cope, with jewels' shine,
High rood, and consecrated shrine.
In dust the holy relics lie—
The hands that rifled them, hard by—
The mitred abbot dispossess'd;
The leveller with his ribald jest;
The courtier, whose inglorious toil

113

Achieved the glittering Romish spoil;
The wily lawyer's subtle craft,
That temper'd the destructive shaft,
Which kept its destined aim, conceal'd
Behind Religion's frowning shield,
The work of reformation ended,
And in one common ruin blended
All holy and all hallow'd things,
Altars and thrones, and priests and kings.
—The solemn pageant pass'd away,
Where next (sweet river,) shall we stray?
To Wycroft's bridge, and mouldering wall,
That faintly marks the embattled hall
By lordly Cobham once possest,
And trod by high and princely guest.
In Thorncombe's aisle you still may trace
The features of a gentle face
(Of knight's degree, and Cobham's race,)
Glorious in brass, and by his side
The image of his lady bride,
And character'd in letters fair,
“Thomas Brooke, Knyghte,” engraven there:
No more remains—the when,—the where,—
The how he lived, and fought, and died,

114

Or who the lady at his side,
The brass has long forgot to tell,
Nor can the keen explorer spell
With all his pains, the smallest trace
Of the short pious prayer for grace,
That ends the monumental scroll,—
“The Lord have mercy on his soul.”
Yet to the heart it teaches more
Than tomes of theologic lore;
—A proverb, or grave homily,
Of most sententious brevity
On mortal durability—
Such wisdom is in crumbled bones!
Such are the sermons proach'd by stones!
Let but a few short lustres pass—
The tablet of recording brass
(Raised for eternity,) may show,
No more than he who sleeps below,—
Nay—e'en his feeble fleshly form,
Spite of corruption and the worm,
Outlast, within its bed of earth,
The pompous verse that boasts its worth:
So hard the pious taste to save
One plank from time's o'erwhelming wave;
But would we trace his earlier stream,
“'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream!”
The Druid walked yon stone-girt round,
The Roman rear'd yon grassy mound;
This for defence—a chosen site—
That for observance, day or night,

115

Of hallow'd or unhallow'd rite.
Clear as the sun—Nay, all agree—
—Even so, sage dreamer, let it be!
Why then wear life's brief candle out
In proving that which none can doubt?
Why with such dread suspicion eye
The grey-beard swain who passes by,
As if a word his tongue might say,
Would puff your theory away?
Well may you dread that rustic smile,
“He minds the bigging” of the pile.
Yet may we trust without a crime
The legends of the olden time,
And still pursue, by croft and mill,
Deep vale, and gently sloping hill,
(Sweet Axe!) the mazes of thy rill,
To plains which, long ere Ford was known,
And Newenham's sister abbey shone
Transcendent with the blessed rood,
Blush'd crimson deep, with Danish blood.

116

Lo! from the bosom of the deep,
The sea kings swift ascending sweep!
From Seaton's cliffs they wind their way,
(Old Moridunum's doubted bay,)
The boding raven in their van,
To meet undaunted Athelstan.
Nor Erin's lonely harp, that day,
Nor Scotia's Royal Lion may
Be absent from the bloody fray.
Dream they of conquest, or of spoil—
Fit guerdon of the warrior's toil?
Do they for fame or plunder burn?
Ah, destined never to return!
For Royal Athelstan is there,
And Edmund, with the yellow hair,
The dangers of the field to share;

117

And with their standard follow free
The flower of England's chivalry.
With such a foe 'tis vain to cope;
From such a foe 'tis vain to hope
Whether to win the field or flee—
Alike escape and victory.
—'Tis done—and on the battle plain
Five kings and eight stout earls lie slain;
Nor stone is raised, nor mound, to tell
They bravely fought, or nobly fell.
But they who for their country bled,
For them their country's tears are shed.
Shrined in their parent soil they sleep;
There holy priests their vigils keep,
And altars burn, and prayers arise
In swelling anthems to the skies,
From full-toned choirs, for their repose.
—Such honours grateful England owes,
And such be ever duly paid
To her loved patriot's peaceful shade.
—Are yonder straggling orchard wall,
And yon dark ivied window all—
All that unpitying Time has spared
Of that illustrious fabrick, rear'd
And consecrate to Heaven above,

118

In union of fraternal love?
And has destruction seized so soon
The saintly labours of Mohun?
—Leave we the clouds of antient story,
For scenes of later parted glory.
—When scarce a river flows unsung,
Or murmuring brook but hath its tongue
To praise whate'er of great or good
Beside its sacred banks hath stood,
Shall Marlborough's native current keep
Its channel to the ocean deep,
Unhonour'd by one tuneful voice,
That may his mighty ghost rejoice?
No—through the dazzling radiance shed
By conquest round his laurel'd head,
Let him in dim perspective see

119

The tender scenes of infancy
Reflected by the muse's art,—
Then feel the welcome tear-drop start,
Richer than all the jewels set
In his bright princely coronet.
—Dismantled now the courts and void,
The goodly fabric half-destroy'd,
And at the hospitable hearth,
Once echoing to the festive mirth
Of knight and squire, carousing round
The board their morning sport had crown'd;
Or to the tabor's merrier sound,
When Father Christmas to the door,
Call'd young and old, and rich and poor,
And stately dame, and blushing maid,
(Despite of velvet and brocade,
Though guarded by the encircling pale
Of stomacher and farthingale,)
Would, for the season, lay aside
Their full-blown dignity and pride,
And join the dance, with honest glee
“In unreproved pleasures free;”
Unmindful of the waste of years,
The goodwife plies her household cares,
Or marks the embers, as they burn,
To greet the farmer's late return.
Yet still you may distinguish, o'er
Yon desecrated chapel's door,
Display'd the coil'd and wingéd snake,

120

That figures forth the name of Drake;
With daring crest, and scaly hide,
Such as Sir Bernard's ill-starr'd pride,
In pomp of heraldry, denied
To a far greater Drake, whose fame
Outshone the herald's loftiest claim.

121

—Not as the maiden queen, in scorn
Of ancestry, would have it borne
By her great captain, wise as brave,
(When for his proud device, she gave
The ship that bore him o'er the wave,)
On 'scutcheon downward hung, and fast
Suspended to the boastful mast.—
—Now to old Ocean's hollow cave
Axe pours a wider, deeper wave,
Swoln by a thousand nameless rills,
Fast trickling from the western hills,
That with their woody summits crown
Old Colyton's baronial town,
And Colcombe's walls with ivy dark,
And Shute's grey towers, and mossy park—
—No longer now defiance breathing,

122

As when stout Devon's earl, unsheathing
His sword in sainted Henry's right,
Challenged fierce Bonville to the fight
(Plantagenet's redoubted knight).
—This is no dream. I see them yet,
As when on Clyst's brown heath they met
Radiant in arms, and, with them set
In meet array, on either side
(As sway'd by favor, or allied
In kindred ties of blood and name.)
All Devon's worthies crowding came,

123

Eager to try the desperate game.
Alike regardless of the cause,
Each for his feudal chieftain draws
The ready glaive, content to share
With him the toils, and meed of war,
And leave the schoolmen to debate
Those knottier subtleties of state,
Whether the red rose, or the white,
The king in fact, or king by right,
Holds heaven's commission in the fight.
—Fry speeds from Yarty to the field,
Three snow-white coursers plain reveal'd
Are charging on his crimson shield.
Brooke from his castellated roof
Brings the crown'd Lion to the proof.
Ash, with the double chevron draws
His trusty sword in Courtenay's cause,
And Pine (whose name is spelt aright
By the three pine-cones, golden bright,)
For Bonville proves a kinsman's might.
From Branscombe's wild and lonely beach,
Resounding to the sea-bird's screech,
Two warriors mark, ascending slow.
On ruby shield the rose of snow

124

Speaks gentle Wadham: while from far,
Three sever'd heads, (stern spoils of war,)
The fame of Holcombe's line declare.
—From where swift Otter's streams divide,
And in their parted channel glide,
Rejoicing as they wander on
Through the rich vale of Honiton,
Yon sun-bright banner, broad display'd,
Advancing from the distant glade,
In stately march, unfurls to view
The sable lions of Carew.
Who follows in the Baron's train?
Malherbe, whose courage free from stain
(As by his bearing he would shew,)
Yields “stinging nettles” to the foe.

125

In order next you may behold
Rich Beaumont, with his bars of gold;
Then, by his silver chaplets known,
Time-honour'd Duke of Otterton;
And last, not least in the career,
The blazing sun of bold St. Cleer.
Nor backward in the martial list
Were found that day, the men of Clyst—
Unlike their parent streams, that sleep,
As through the fattening meads they creep
In lazy silence to the deep.
Fraunceis was there, from Fraunceis-Court,
Frankcheyney, Bampfylde, Valletort,
There Beavis shakes the quivering lance,
Like his old name-sake of romance,
And by his knightly bearing shows
The fabled stock whereon he grows—
(Three helmets with the beavers down,)—
There Faringdon, whose name makes known
The pleasant place that sent him forth
To signalize his gentle birth.
And oh! may this degenerate tongue
Cleave to my throat, if e'er unsung
(Loved Faringdon!) I pass thee by,
Nor pay the tribute of a sigh,
To scenes of early joys and cares,
(View'd thro' the softening mist of years,
When life was young, and pleasures new,)
From grateful memory ever due.

126

—But see! from Hemyock's stately towers
Lord Dinham leads his border-powers.
High-raised above the circling press,
Four lozenges conjoin'd in fess,
(Ermine, on bright vermillion coat,)
His old Armoric race denote—
Welcome to York's ascending star,
No less than when from adverse war
To Nutwell's brown o'er-arching shade
The royal exile he convey'd,
And thence in secret safety bore
To Gallia's hospitable shore.

127

[OMITTED] Ere half the promised song is sung,
My voice is check'd, my harp unstrung.
The knightly vision melts away,
Of glittering arms and banners gay;
Imagination quits her throne;
The winged fancies all have flown,
And left the field to noise and strife,
The dull realities of life.

------ “Where
Great Brute first disembarqu'd his wand'ring Trojans, there
His offspring (after long expulst the Inner land,
When they the Saxon pow'r no longer could withstand)
Found refuge in their flight; when Ax and Otrey first
Gave these poore soules to drink, opprest with grievous thirst.”

(Drayton's Poly-Olbion.)

The village of Axmouth; the town (which by a grant of King John was constituted a free borough) and hundred of Axminster.

“Thorncombe was given by William the Conqueror to Baldwin de Sap (or de Brioniis) who had married his niece, Albreda. Richard, Baron of Oakhampton, (son of Baldwin,) founded a monastery of the Cistercian order at Brightley, in the parish of Oakhampton, in the year 1133, which, a few years afterwards, was removed by his sister, and heiress, Adela, (called also Adeliza,) to a place called Ford in this parish (of Thorncombe). The history of the foundation states, that this noble lady, in the year 1138, met the abbot and monks passing through her manor of Thorncombe on their return to the abbey of Waverley, in Surrey, (to which they had originally belonged,) from the barren spot at Brightley, which they had been obliged to quit from poverty and scarcity of provision; and that, moved with compassion, she gave them her manor-house of Ford for their residence, and the manor of Thorncombe for their support.” —Lysons's Devonshire, p. 501.

At the suppression, the manor was granted to the Earl of Oxford—the site of the abbey to Richard Pollard, esq. From him the latter passed through various hands till it was purchased by Sir Edmund Prideaux, solicitor-general to the Commonwealth.

The manor of Wycroft passed by sale to Sir Thomas Brooke, ancestor of the Lords Cobham. In 1426, a licence was granted to Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, and others, (trustees, probably, for the Brooke family,) to castellate the mansion at Wycroft, and enclose a park of 800 acres.

See Walter Scott's “Antiquary.”

In 937 is said to have happened, near Axminster, the most bloody conflict which had ever been known in England, between King Athelstan (accompanied by his brother Edmund,) and the Kings of Ireland and Scotland confederated with the Danes; in which Athelstan was victorious. In the old chronicle which relates it, the slaughter is described as immense; five of the leaders slain are there called kings; these, with eight earls, and others, are said to have been buried in the cemetery at Axminster.

“The site of Moridunum is so difficult to determine,” (observes the Bishop of Cloyne in his observations on Roman Stations in Devonshire, incorporated by Lysons in his History,) “that our best antiquaries have doubts on the subject.” Some fix it at Eggardon in Dorsetshire, others at Hembury, but the common opinion is in favour of Seaton. Why not Musbury—two miles above Seaton, on the opposite side of the river—where are evident traces of a Roman camp, and the modern name may be considered as a corruption of the ancient? The point of distance, which is insisted on by the advocates of Hembury fort, does not appear to me very conclusive. The fifteen miles may have been computed from the mouth of the river—the port of Isca. Moridunum—Morisbury—Morsbury—Musbury.

“King Athelstan gave the church of Axminster to seven priests, who were to pray for the souls of seven knights or earls, and many others, slain in the battle with the Danes near this town.” —Lysons, p. 24.

“The abbey of Newenham in this parish (Axminster) was founded for monks of the Cistercian order, in the reign of Henry III., by Reginald de Mohun, and his younger brother William.”—“There are scarcely any remains of the monastic building, some of which were pulled down a few years ago.” —Lysons, p. 22.

Ash, in the parish of Musbury, was the chief seat of the family of Drake for many generations. This house is celebrated as having been the birth-place of John Churchill, the great Duke of Marlborough. He was born on Midsummer day, 1650, his mother being then on a visit to her father Sir John Drake. It is now occupied as a farm-house, one wing only of the original edifice, and the chapel (now used as a barn, and detached from the residence) being left.

The arms of Drake (still visible over the door of the chapel,) are thus emblazoned: “Argent, a wivern (or winged dragon, probably allusive to the name of Drake,) with wings displayed, gules.”

“About this time it was (says Prince in his Worthies, Art. Sir Bernard Drake, knt.) that there fell out a contest between Sir Bernard and the immortal Sir Francis Drake; chiefly occasioned by Sir Francis his assuming Sir Bernard's coat of arms, not being able to make out his descent from his family; (a matter, in those days, when the court of honor was in more honor, not so easily digested.) The feud hereupon increased to that degree, that Sir Bernard, being a person of a high spirit, gave Sir Francis a box on the ear; and that within the verge of the court. For which offence be incurred her majesty's displeasure; and, most probably, it proved the occasion of the queen's bestowing upon Sir Francis Drake a new coat, of everlasting honour to himself and his posterity for ever; which hath relation to that glorious action of his, the circumnavigating the world; which is thus emblazoned by Guillim, (Diamond, a fess wavy between the two pole-stars, Arctic and Antarctic, Pearl,)—and, what is more, his crest is, A ship on a globe under ruff, held by a cable rope, with a hand out of the clouds; in the rigging whereof is hung up by the heels a wivern gules, Sir Bernard's arms; but in no great honour (we may think,) to that knight, though so designed to Sir Francis. Unto all which Sir Bernard boldly replied, “That though her majesty could give him a nobler, she could not give him an antienter coat than his.”

Colcombe Castle, and Shute House and Park, both of which were (in the time of Elizabeth,) purchased by Sir William Pole, the antiquary, and have ever since descended in his family, belonged (at the commencement of the wars of the two Roses,) the one to Thomas Courtenay, Earl of Devonshire, (a zealous Lancastrian,) the other to William Lord Bonville, (an equally strenuous adherent of Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York). “In 33 Hen. 6 (says Prince,) there fell out a shrewd dispute between Thomas Courtenay, Earl of Devonshire, and this Lord Bonvil, about a couple of hounds; which could by no mediation of friends be qualified or appeased, untill it was valiantly tryed by a single combat on Clyst Heath, near Exeter, wherein (as Dugdale tells us,) this lord prevailed. But another writer saith, that after they had well tryed one the other's strength and valour with their naked swords, they at last lovingly agreed, and embraced each other, and ever after continued in great love and amity.”

It seems, however, that a very different account of this transaction is nearer the truth.

“During the civil wars between the houses of York and Lancaster, this county was much divided; and, although we have no record of any battle fought in it, yet it appears that bloodshed sometimes ensued between the partisans of the two houses. The roll of parliament, 1455, speaks of several riots and murders committed in the west by these noblemen. Some writers mention a duel between them on Clyst Heath. It was rather a combat, for they fought attended by numerous retainers, who engaged in the conflict; and several persons were killed on either side. Lord Bonville was victorious, and the gates of Exeter were opened to him and his party.” —Lysons, p. viii.

I have adopted this historical statement, in its largest signification, as affording an opportunity for introducing a list of the Devonshire worthies of the period, distinguished, (for the most part,) by their various armorial bearings.

“The king in fact, or king by right.” The distinction between a king de facto and a king de jure, which was first known in law at this period, and the scholastic as well as political disputes to which that distinction gave birth, are familiar to historical readers.

The principal seat of the noble family of Carew was (at this period,) at Mohun's Ottery, near Honiton. Their arms are, “Or, three lions passant, sable.” Nicholas Baron Carew was the son of Sir Thomas Carew, captain of Harfleur (a distinguished actor in Harry the Fifth's wars,) by a daughter of Sir William Bonville; from whence it might be inferred that he was of the York faction, unless his own marriage with the daughter and heir of Sir Hugh Courtenay, of Haccombe, should lead to an opposite conclusion. His being found, in 1469, in company with the Lords Fitzwarren and Dinham, at Exeter, when that city was besieged by Hugh, Earl of Devonshire, (son and successor of Earl Thomas,) seems, however, to confirm the former supposition.

“Yield stinging nettles to mine enemy.” Shaksp. K. Rich. II. The singular device of Malherbe of Feniton—in evident allusion to his name.

John, Lord Dinham, (Lord High Treasurer of England, anno 1 Hen. VII.) was a zealous Yorkist, and personally attached to the Earl of March, afterwards Edward the Fourth, whom (together with his famous adherents Salisbury and Warwick,) he concealed in his house, at Nutwell near Lympstone, (now Sir Thomas Drake's,) when, after the battle of Bloreheath, (ann. 1459,) the Yorkists were dispersed, and that prince took refuge at Calais.

The Dinhams had, if not the most extensive, probably the most widely scattered possessions, of any family belonging to Devonshire at this period. Nutwell appears to have been, at this time, their ordinary residence; but Hemyock Castle (on the borders of Somersetshire,) also belonged to them; and I have placed him here accordingly, as at the head of “the men of Culm.”

The origin of the family is derived from the Castle of Dinant in Britanny. Oliver de Dinant was Lord of Hartland in the time of the Conqueror; and to his descendant Geoffrey de Dinant (temp. Hen. II.) is ascribed the second foundation of Hartland Abbey.

Farewell, my muse! another day
We may resume our pleasant play;
But now (although it grieve my heart,)
'Tis time that thou and I should part.
Farewell, my muse! another year
Will soon speed on in swift career:
Dark winter's fogs will soon take wing,
And fly before the laughing spring;
Soon bright-eyed summer pass—and soon
Brown autumn with his harvest-moon
Return—and we will loiter then
'Mongst Devon's river-nymphs again.
And is it thus our idle rhyme
Would urge the flying wheels of time?
And dare we thus, (infirm of will,)
In blind anticipation still
Of some imagined hour, unknown,
Lose that which only is our own?

128

Farewell, my muse! another day
Will bring such leisure as it may—
That's not for you or me to say.
All is, though we're no longer young
As when we first together sung;
Though Time has check'd your wanton flow,
And plac'd some wrinkles on my brow;
We are not yet too old to sport
Where Mirth and Fancy keep their court.
And so, my farewell I repeat,
Not as if doom'd no more to meet,
Yet dwelling on the unwelcome word
Like some fond lover, who has heard
The well-known signal to be gone,
And still looks back, and lingers on,
Afraid to strike the note of sorrow,
Though hoping to return to-morrow.

129

EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES.

TO MY MOTHER, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

[_]

(WRITTEN FROM COLLEGE, MARCH 16, 1797.)

130

The snows dissolve—the frost retires,
And loosens each rejoicing stream;
Fresh youth the new-born year inspires,
Nursed by the sun's enlivening beam.

All nature feels return of spring;
With the sweet lark's seraphic lay
Again the vocal woodlands ring—
Again their tuneful homage pay.

In verdant robe the meads are drest—
E'en Camus feels the general joy,
Reflecting from his silver breast
Each varied hue that decks the sky.

All—all to fill my glowing breast
With love and gratitude conspire;
But this thy day—of days most blest—
Awakes my soul to holier fire;

Adds livelier charms to all I view,
New blossoms to the bursting wood,
To every mead a brighter hue,
And purer crystal to the flood.

131

Not truer bliss the hour bestows
Amid those scenes which fancy loves,
Where native Isca murmuring flows
Beside our Cowley's infant groves,

Than in these walls to science dear,
These bowers renown'd in classic song,
Where willowy Camus lingering near,
In placid stillness creeps along.

O thou, who at this genial hour
Life's strange eventful course began,
Who train'd my soul by Virtue's power,
And guided all my steps to man!

If I should e'er unworthy prove
Of all thy fond maternal care,
Yet could I never cease to love,
E'en in the depths of dark despair.

But brighter hopes my fancy rouse;
Far different dreams of bliss refined,
Make answer to my ardent vows,
And gladden my prophetic mind.

In times far hence, when circling years
Shall with fresh wreaths thy temples shade,
May'st thou behold in me thy fears
Averted, and thy cares repaid!

132

Revered, till virtue low is laid,
Beloved, till love delights no more,
Till all life's kindling raptures fade,
And all its earthly joys are o'er.

ON BEAUTY.

And can a look, a smile, control
The warm emotions of the soul?
A sigh, a glance, a tear, convey
The unresisting heart away?
And can a power which knows to bend
The laws of nature to its end,
To ride secure in air, to breathe
Old ocean's liquid vaults beneath,
The eternal arch of heaven to scan,
And all the mighty maze of man,
Yield to a cheek in roses drest,
A coral lip, or ivory breast?
No—'tis the mind I love—the mind,
Where virtue's purest thoughts are 'shrined—
Firm faith—untainted modesty—
Meek hope—and sainted charity.
But when we see each mental grace
Glow in the radiance of the face;
An angel's purity confess'd
In the bright cheek and snowy breast;

133

The speaking lustre of the eye
Beam hope and sainted charity;
Each sigh, each tear, each glance, impart
The faithful records of the heart;
'Tis then, while Beauty's force we prove,
A crime to gaze, and not to love.

SONNET

ON HEARING THE VESPER SONG IN THE CHAPEL AT HENGRAVE.

There is a wild and solitary heath
On whose brown bosom spring no flowers has shed.
There no green hill uplifts his smiling head,
Sheltering the calm, well water'd vale beneath;
But all is one flat, dark, uncultured waste.
Near to that savage spot I heard a strain
More ravishing than that which did detain
Gay Comus and his wassailers, when they traced
Their nightly revels in the wild wood's shade;
More mournful than the notes that Zephyr bore,
Faint murmuring, along the Danish shore,
Pour'd forth unconscious by the sinking maid.
That heavenly strain devotion taught to pour,
And fancy gave it inspiration's aid.

134

THE WILLING DETENTION.

“The night is dark; and thick arise
The mist and fog on every side;
The roads are heavy, and your eyes
Will find no land-mark, near or wide.”
“Oh! when the first half mile is over,
The road is strait, and plain to see:
Our steeds will soon the way discover,
And we shall jog home merrily.”

“Our common's wild—our common's wide;
And some part brake, and some part fen,
By ditches cross'd on every side:
You'll never find your way agen.
Then there's no polar star to guide you—
You cannot see St. Ives's light:
I fear some mischief will betide you:
Cross not our common, then, to-night!”

I yield me to the sweet command,
And, under thy protecting wing,
Defy all harm, all fear withstand—
But ruin drink at pleasure's spring.
Far safer in the brake and fen,
To wander on till break of morning—
I then had found my way again
In spite of thy prophetic warning.

135

Now from that tongue more pain I've found
Than wind or water could impart:
Those eyes have made a deeper wound
Than could the fen-fiend's icy dart:
Yet would I not the bliss resign
In memory's glass again to view thee,
For all the peace I once call'd mine,
Ere, lovely Imogen, I knew thee.

TO MEMORY.

Farewell, deceitful Memory!
Thy faded form, thy hollow eye
No more shall blast my sickening view.
To thy half joys and chequer'd fears,
Thy bitter frown, and smile of tears,
Alike I bid adieu.

My soul on Lethe's bank hath stood,
And drunk of that reviving flood.
To a new life awake, I scorn
The crowd that shuns the untasted streams,
And, tossing still mid feverish dreams,
Fail to salute the morn.

The hours in pleasure that have pass'd,
Remember'd, pall upon the taste,
And raise disgust, or discontent.

136

Idly we note, with proud remorse,
The imputed errors of our course,
And mourn our time mispent.

Memory, farewell! before me shine
Forms fairer and more fresh than thine,
Bright hope, and glittering novelty:
The trodden vales I leave behind,
And borne on fancy's viewless wind,
To unsought mountains fly.

There shall no stain of ancient dross
My renovated soul engross,
Or taint the free unsullied air:
There all is lovely, all is new;
No former sight there meets my view,
No former sound my ear.

—Vain is the lay, and false the theme—
Of Lethe's dull oblivious stream
Man may not taste; nor hard his doom:
For sober memory yet can pour
On the pure mind a boundless store
Of ever sweet perfume.

In each new realm she bids me see
Some spot to waken thoughts of thee,
Dear land! where first I wept and smiled:
In every warbled wood-note there,
And murmuring stream, I still shall hear
A sister's descant wild.

137

Then shall I think how many a day
On Isca's banks I loved to stray
With dear companions, absent long;
How oft at fancy's twilight hour,
Full of the muse, I've woo'd the power,
The melting power of song.

How blest, if in the various bowl
No bitter drop shall sting my soul,
Drain'd through the dregs of fell remorse—
How blest, if memory shall supply
New lights to fix my wandering eye,
And regulate my course!

TO A LADY,

WITH THE “CONTINUATION OF BEATTIE'S MINSTREL.”

Hoping thro' fields of fierce forensic war
The steep whence fame's proud temple shines afar
To gain, no more the humble Minstrel's lay,
Though often summon'd, will my call obey.
In gayer hours, by fairy visions drest,
The muse with rapture fill'd my youthful breast,
When health, and peace, and competence my aim,
I shrank to hear the obstreperous trump of fame;
With Edwin loved to trace the haunted stream,

138

O'er the white torrent gazed in bliss supreme,
Hung, mutely joyful, on the mountain's side,
Nor knew more transport than those scenes supplied.

E'en now, when you my youthful efforts praise,
And ask the tribute of my minstrel lays,
My random pearls I would again unite,
And string a jewel worthy of thy sight.
—In vain—the muse, disdainful of my prayer,
From her high throne thus thunders in my ear:
“Stay thy rash hand! These gems, my special care,
None but a true devoted bard may wear;
These fields, by Beattie till'd, by Edwin trod,
Yield not to rebel feet their sacred sod;
This Eden yet some favour'd bard may share—
—No flaming sword shall fright Eliza here;
But thou!—rebellious to my sovereign sway,
Bear thy rude steps and daring hands away!
Go, vow submission to the power I hate!
Go, swell the suppliants at ambition's gate!
Seek the throng'd bar, full wig, and flowing gown,
The miry streets and dingy walls of town!
And, when thy goddess hides her spurious fires,
When law provokes to sleep, and business tires,
Put on, to soothe thy spleen, my German bonnet,
Write tales of wonder, or some limping sonnet,
And think, with earth-born insolence o'er-run,
The muse still favours an apostate son!”

While such the answer to my humble suit,
In vain I gape to catch poetic fruit;
Yet when my early love, not yet subdued,

139

Returns to frown upon my solitude,
I seek to make a compromise with fate,
And think repentance never comes too late.
Perhaps ambition may my suit repel,
And lofty honour scorn my humble cell;
The golden fruit elude my venturous hand,
And melt, my vision of the promised land:
No sapient coif may light upon my head,
No honour'd silk be o'er my shoulders spread.
Then, disappointed, jostled, press'd, subdued,
While dolts and knaves before my face intrude,
Wearied with watchings, and with labour spent,
A prey to care and fruitless discontent,
May I, to pass my disregarded age,
Find out at eve some peaceful hermitage!
When true repentance aids my suit, the muse
Her humble suppliant may no more refuse,
But heal the wounds by foil'd ambition made
With balm fresh gather'd in her laurel shade,
Teach me to pour again my soul in song
With powers more ripen'd, and a voice more strong,
Again draw gentle Edwin forth to view,
And make the minstrel strain more worthy you.

140

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE 7.

TO A FRIEND ON LEAVING COLLEGE.

First of my friends, who long with me
Hast drain'd the bowl of slavery,
Driven to the extreme of toil and gloom
In old Mathemon's lecture room;
First of my friends, what favouring god
Now brings thee safe to Hope's abode?
—With whom, our hated cares to drown,
I've talk'd the evening shadows down,
Or, bursting from our fetters free,
Have rush'd to wine and poesy?

When fortune fail'd, and courage died,
With thee I fled the battle's tide,
And, on our rear while Tavel hung,
Away my blotted buckler flung.
The muse received me, spent with care,
And wafted to a healthier air,
But thee the billows closed around,
And bore amidst the vast profound.

Now, every toil and trouble o'er,
With me the glad libation pour;
And let thy weary limbs be laid
Beneath the muse's laurell'd shade:

141

Leave musty algebraic rules,
And Vince and Waring to the schools;
And let the muse returning charm thee,
And fancy guide, and pleasure warn thee:
So I a new escape shall prove
In thy return to joy and love,
And feel each gift the muse can send
More rich with my recover'd friend.

Moderator in 1799. See Cambridge Tripos.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE 7.

PARAPHRASED.

Let others praise the meads of Kent,
Or steal through “Surrey's quiet lanes;”
The charms of Humber or of Trent
May swell the rapture of their strains;

Or Usk, that gave our Henry birth,
Or Avon, nurse of Shakspeare's song,
Or the wild consecrated earth
Where wanders wizard Dee along.

Some love to tune fair Granta's reeds,
On which the Athenian goddess breathes,
Or press the turf where Isis speeds
To crown her sons with classic wreaths.

142

But neither thought of toil-won race,
Nor soothing dream of tuneful ease,
Can so my bounding spirits brace,
Or so my softer moments please,

As Isca's swift descending flood,
And Creedy's waves that gentler run,
And much-loved Cowley's infant wood,
And orchards ripening to the sun.

Yet, if the viewless storm of fate
Should drive me from its sheltering shade,
To leave—perhaps no distant date!
Each rural walk, and quiet glade—

(O might the lot be never mine!)
Yet would I bear a tranquil soul,
Nor faint, nor murmur, nor repine
Whilst there is rest beneath the pole.

[OMITTED]

THE PRAISE OF ISCA.

Erewhile, in Richmond's hawthorn bower
I rested from the noon-tide fire,
There woo'd the long neglected power
Of song to wake my idle lyre,
And, more my visions to inspire,

143

Though deep yet clear, though gentle, strong,
By mead and wood, by cot and spire,
Slow roll'd majestic Thames along;

But, whilst I traced his winding course
From Twit'nam's meads to Fulham's grove,
Where late, from dawning beauty's source,
I drank delicious draughts of love;
Though soul-subduing phantoms strove
Imagination to detain,
Still would the goddess further rove,
And Isca mingle with the strain.

When gliding late up Medway's stream,
Our bark explored her fountain cells,
I thought, while freedom was my dream,
(Bright genius of her oak-clad dells,)
Proud Kent! though manly vigour swells
Thy sons, thy nymphs each maiden grace,
Yet freedom too in Devon dwells,
And Isca bathes as fair a race.

Though Pales sheds her choicest store
On gentle Coln and sedgy Lea,
Yet Pan himself on Isca's shore
Has fix'd his rural sovereignty.
While chain'd by Bath's dull pool, yet free
My soul, to wander where it chose,
Oft stray'd, majestic Thames, to thee,
But oftener still where Isca flows.

144

I saw Sabrina's yellow hair,
—Sabrina, famed in British song,—
Through peopled vales and cities fair
Curling its silken tresses long,
Wild float, luxuriant meads among;
Methought I saw her reed-crown'd head
Mid deafening din, with heavings strong,
High-raised above its oozy bed.

I wander'd on poetic ground,
Where Shakspeare's Avon sweetly flows,
And woo'd each softly whispering sound
That trembled midst his osier rows;
I sought the vale of deep repose
Where Vaga hoarsely pours her wave,
And trod at evening's solemn close
Old Tintern's dim religious cave.

Yet poets too by Isca dream;
Rich meadows kiss her sparkling face,
And ancient walls o'erhang her stream,
And peopled towns her borders grace:
Let all old ocean's vassal race
Conspire to check the vaunting strain,
So thou thy loyal bard embrace,
Maternal stream! their toils are vain.

145

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.

In this dull clime, where smoke and fog conspire
To quench each spark of fancy's sacred fire,
Where Themis loves sole arbitress to reign,
And binds the passions in her leaden chain,
How shall the muse, who loves the breezy hill,
The tangled forest, and the haunted rill,
And there to wander unconstrain'd and free,
Alone, unless with peace and liberty,
Through the thick mists and dusky air appear,
Nor shun, appall'd, a city atmosphere?

The gayer hopes that fire the untainted mind,
Fly far away upon a healthier wind,
And leave a sickly substitute, that feeds
On hackney'd precedents of wire-drawn deeds;
Imagination, clogg'd and damp'd, can soar
Into the blue expanse of heaven no more,
Content to calculate expected fees,
And swell the crowd of mammon's votaries.

Here, as I watch my fire's expiring light,
Companion of a lonely, studious night,
My discontented thoughts unbidden stray
To scenes of social comfort far away;
Dreams of the paradise of home intrude
Upon the sickening eye of solitude;

146

Forgetful that true Paradise is found
On no peculiar spot of hallow'd ground,
That, to the mind from lawless passion free,
It still is here—at Rome, or Ulubræ.

O may my soul keep ever in its view
This certain truth—this golden rule pursue!
If generous passions ever sway'd my breast,
If virtue e'er my youthful mind possess'd,
If e'er my heart at noble deeds beat high,
Or emulation fired my eager eye;
And oh! if e'er the muse had power to raise
These lofty musings in my boyish days;
Perish the thought that she restrains her aid
To the close covert of the sylvan shade!
Not to wild woods, or pathless glades confined,
Her favourite mansion is the noble mind.

Still, still, celestial power, my spirit fire!
Cherish each heaven-born thought, each pure desire
Teach me to curb my passions—to unite
The truest wisdom with the best delight!
Inspire my diligence! my longings guide!
Restrain my petulance! abase my pride!
And when with business tired, my day of toil
Uncheer'd at evening by a social smile,
The sickening spirit longs for liberty,
O may it still find happiness in thee!

[OMITTED]

147

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,

WHOM THE AUTHOR WAS FORBIDDEN TO VISIT WHILE ON DUTY.

In ancient times—so says the muse—
At Gela, or at Syracuse,
Or somewhere else—no matter where—
Where youths are brave, and maidens fair,
Where vineyards glow on every plain,
And every mountain waves with grain,
Where rivers gently flow, and clear,
And sunshine gladdens all the year,
Where snakes are harmless, wolves polite,
And man alone knows how to bite;
There lived—the terror of the swains,
And spoiler of those lovely plains—
A direful beast, which men of old,
In their rude phrase, a tyrant call'd,
But now, accustom'd to the thing,
And grown more courteous, style a king.

One evening, as he went his round,
This king two faithful lovers found;
And, taken with a sudden whim
Of love to her, or hate to him—
Whether his hat was cock'd awry,
Or too much lustre gemm'd her eye,
He gave a nod—his guards straitway

148

Poor Damon to a gaol convey.
(Sicilian gaols, on recollection,
Are like our houses of correction—
When once you're in, 'tis ten to one
You never more behold the sun.)

The luckless youth, now held in quod,
Must call to his relief some god:
No man to his complaints attended,
The habeas corpus was suspended.
In vain the mistress of his love
Tried the rude gaoler's heart to move;
At length, as at the prison gate
The nymph bewail'd her cruel fate,
A sudden stiffness seized her limbs;
Her head with dizzy vapours swims;
And her white garments sweep the floor
With rustlings never heard before.
Still she renews her amorous woes,
But all the plaints her lips disclose,
No longer echoed through the town,
Stand printed on her paper gown,
And there, as fast as she can think,
Her thoughts are fetter'd down in ink.
Yet, not at once of power bereft,
One motion to her lips still left,
What should her last faint breath proclaim
But her imprison'd Damon's name;
Which on her beauteous back engross'd,

149

Forms the direction for the post:
Last came the Cyprian dove, and bore her,
A billet-doux, to her adorer.

In vain the tyrant's bolts are hurl'd,
While pens and doves are in the world;
And, e'en though doves were wanting, still
The post supplies the pigeon's bill.
Your master's empty threat may be,
“You ne'er a friendly face shall see”—
His power is to a threat confined,
While you can read a friendly mind.

Now let me, if I yet am able,
Leave for a while the realms of fable,
And lofty regions of romance;
(Like our ingenious friends in France,
Who, after all their strange vagaries
Of freedom in a land of fairies,
Have now descended to plain fact,
And bear a consul on their back,)
To tell you wherefore I lay by
My tomes of law and history,
A few brief hours to kill, or spend
In scribbling nonsense to a friend.

The other evening, sick of smoke,
And less disposed to read than joke,
—The sun that glitter'd on the trees,
The birds that caroll'd on the breeze,
(Though stunted these, imprison'd those)
The powers of fancy bore along,
And lured to thoughts of soft repose,

150

And all the dreams of rural song.
The king of rivers too was near:
—I took a barge from Westminster.

With gentle breeze and favouring tide,
Up the sweet stream we smoothly glide;
The swelling bosom of our sail
Freely receives the wooing gale,
And, as the spires behind recede,
The pendant wood, the verdant mead,
The palace soaring o'er the grove,
The low retreat of peace and love,
The prospect, soothing past expression,
Of towers and trees in swift succession,
The purple hills that gently rise
Athwart the glowing western skies,
And (chief) the monarch of the scene,
Thames, majestic and serene,
While the winds with wonder whist
Scarce his glassy bosom kiss'd,
And evening pour'd his crimson light
Upon that mirror calm and bright,
Dissolved my every captive sense
In soft voluptuous indolence:
Unguarded, I no longer strove
Against the subtle traitor, love.
The god observed my open heart,
And seized the vulnerable part.
He turn'd my eyes on Fulham's wood
That darkly overhangs the flood;
Bad me on days long past reflect,

151

When love was new, and hope uncheck'd,
And she, of Fulham's grove the queen,
Gave life to all the lovely scene.
Again I gazed—the view no more
Was bright with rapture as before;
The woods were black; the wind was cold;
Dim vapours o'er the landscape roll'd;
The banks were swamps—on every side
The pamper'd city rear'd its pride;
E'en Thames no longer shew'd so fair,
His waters dull, his margent bare.

Sadly my bark I homeward turn'd,
But Thames, ill brooking that I spurn'd
The glories of his burnish'd throne,
Or prized not for themselves alone,
Call'd up, to seal my wretched doom,
The ministers of cold and rheum.
Raw blew the blast against the tide,
My labouring oars incessant plied;
Thick vapours loaded every gale,
And useless lay the flagging sail.
Hence, at the river god's behest,
A noxious sprite my frame possess'd,
Who holds with men eternal war
Through this fair isle—by name, catarrh;
And hence, debarr'd from outer day,
Like you, I own tyrannic sway;
Like you immured, [OMITTED]

[_]

(Cætera desunt.)

In the year 1801.

152

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,

WHO HAD COMPLAINED OF THE AUTHOR FOR WITHDRAWING HIMSELF FROM SOCIAL ENJOYMENTS.

Well—be it so—my friend, I've done
With noise, extravagance, and fun.
I fear I've pass'd the fatal line—
That uncheck'd mirth, and unstopp'd wine,
The flow of wit that knows no bound,
The merry laugh's perpetual round,
Nay—e'en the social generous glow
That all-enlivening grapes bestow,
—Joys that, a few brief se'nnights past,
I thought eternally would last,
Or fondly wish'd, before they fled,
I might be number'd with the dead—
No more are trick'd with charms for me,
Nor wake my soul to jollity;
That, if to pleasure I incline,
No more I view her form in wine,
Nor, if bleak care besets my soul,
Can drown him in the sparkling bowl.
Farewell! farewell, delusive dream!
—The joy of youth—the poet's theme—
Enchanting scenes of mirth and glee,
Where all was gay, and all was free,
Where infant love's first sparks were fann'd,

153

Cemented friendship's strictest band,
And both together bore along,
In union sweet, the power of song!
Enchanting scenes, that fancy loves,
That friendship's sacred voice approves,
On which remembrance oft shall dwell
With sad delight—dear scenes, farewell!
Even so—I've pass'd the fatal line,
And other suns upon me shine;
But, as the home-sick sailor sees
'Mid the waste waves his native trees,
And thinks the wide-stretch'd watery scene
Fair meadows clad in vernal green,
So oft my fancy turns to view
Those forms my livelier moments knew,
And, kindling at delusions vain,
Believes and hopes them back again:
Then, if I court their imaged charms,
My fever'd soul is up in arms,
And sickening nature proves at last
The passion weak, the moment past.

Yet, oh the vile reproach disclaim
That stamp'd “Unfriendly” on my name,
And cease to think a friend untrue
Because he shuns to drink with you.
Though now imperious o'er my soul
Love reigns, and wars without control,
If e'er a friend I've valued less,
Shared not his joys, or his distress,
Or felt unkindness easier smart,

154

Than when I still possess'd my heart,
May all my hopes of bliss decay,
And dark despair o'ercloud my day!

And you, if e'er, for mirth unfit,
Or tired with wine, or cloy'd with wit,
You wish a sober hour to pass,
Enliven'd by a temperate glass,
And sacred to the powers of rhyme,
Or mightier muse of ancient time,
Remember there is one whose heart
In friendship ever bears a part,
And think you may that friendship share,
Unmingled with the name of “Hair!”

For an explanation of this cant phrase—φωναντα συνετοισιν—see Hodgson's Juvenal, satire 16:

“Worthy of all the Hair of ancient days,”

together with the note on the passage.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

Life was not made to flow in smooth delight,
Nor to be lost in unavailing sorrow.
It is a chequer'd scene of black and white;
The cloud scarce form'd to-day may burst tomorrow.

155

It is for action given, for mental force,
For deeds of energetic hardihood.
There is no time for sighing and remorse;
There is no room for selfish solitude.

There's not a day doth pass but teems with fate;
No fleeting hour, but alteration brings:
O'er this, our perishable mortal state
Variety for ever waves her wings.

Then let not mortal man of change complain—
Of change, that governs our sublunar sphere;
Nor waste in fond regret, and listless pain,
The hours assign'd to generous action here.

The joys of lawless youth perhaps are fled.
The glass brisk circling, and the jovial song,
The careless heart, the wild fantastic head,
That to the early burst of life belong,

No more are ours. With these have haply flown
Some cherish'd visions, yet more closely twined,
Which hope delusive fondly call'd her own,
And fate unpitying claims to be resign'd.

What though their day be o'er, ambition glows
With fiercer heat in our meridian age;
Honour remains, the foe to dull repose,
And points a hard, but glorious pilgrimage.

156

ANSWER TO A CHARGE OF INCONSTANCY.

O not that I am faithless say,
Or that my love's no more the same,
If Cynthia once inspired my lay,
And then Licymnia lit the flame.
One goddess only I adore,
Although in different forms I woo her;
Nor, though she bid me love no more,
Could I be e'er inconstant to her.

The sailor, midst the dangerous main,
Full many a lovely region sees,
Fair islands, bright with golden grain,
And rich with ever blooming trees;
But, till the destined port he gains,
Those transient charms he little prizes,
And quits with joy the happiest plains
Soon as a favouring gale arises.

My fancy had a mistress drawn,
And stamp'd her image on my heart;
I roved o'er hill and vale and lawn,
But ne'er could find the counterpart:
This had the form, the air, the face,
That, the sweet smile's bewitching beauty,
And every singly winning grace
Fix'd for the time my wandering duty.

157

But now 'tis sped—my fancy's flight:
All former trivial, vain desires,
Like spectres fade before the light,
Or perish in sublimer fires.
He needs not fear again to fall
Before the shadow of perfection,
Who for the bright original
Has dared avow his soul's election.

LYRIC STANZAS.

Ah! what is life, with all its joys
And sorrows that disturb us so?
The thunder's peal, with startling noise,
That for a moment shakes the skies,
And then—no more its path we know.

Ah! what is pleasure? what is power,
Fame, learning, honour, riches, praise?
The glittering vision of an hour,
The rainbow of a summer's shower,
That passes from us while we gaze.

And what is love—our hope and stay—
The soft enchanter of our dreams?
'Tis but the sunshine's transient ray,
That o'er the clouds of life's short day
A moment sheds its doubtful gleams.

158

Let me the transient bliss enjoy,
Unmindful of hereafter's gloom!
I'll view the sunshine of her eye,
While yet the fates that light supply,
And welcome then the friendly tomb.

For if my offering she despise,
'Tis only that the inconstant ray
One little instant sooner flies
From life's dark cloud that loads our skies;
And soon that cloud will pass away.

But if my vows she should requite,
Will life that fleeting vapour be?
Ah no! To my enraptured sight
'Twill beam like heaven's eternal light—
And then, farewell, philosophy!

LYRIC STANZAS.

Why will you fly me when I sue?
No fond romantic tale is mine,
Such as a maid should scorn to hear:
The homage of a bosom true,
A flame from love's most holy shrine,
Why need it move distrust or fear?

No sign of love return'd I seek:
A kind approving smile alone,

159

Or only not a frown from thee;
Till time my vows sincere shall speak,
And thou no longer blush to own
A more than sister's care for me.

But if (forbid it, heaven!) thy breast
Disdain the thought I would impart,
Oh, end at once the hopes of mine!
My grief shall ne'er disturb your rest,
And not a sigh that rends my heart
Shall ever damp the joys of thine.

FROM PETRARCH.

NOV. 1804.

“Mie venture al venir son pigre e tarde,
La speme incerta, e 'l desio monta e cresce;
Onde 'l lassar e l' aspettar m' incresce.”

My joys on sluggish pinions move—
Hope is uncertain—and desire
Mounts on the eager wings of love;
Thus, lingering, sickening, I expire.

160

THE WONFORD GHOST.

A DEVONSHIRE LEGEND. PARODIED FROM WORDSWORTH'S LYRICAL BALLADS.

“At the corner of Wood Street, ere daylight appears.”

At an old house in Wonford, ere daylight appears,
There's a ghost that has haunted the stair-case nine years.
Poor Susan, who lived at the place, loves to tell
How the spectre she knew, and remembers it well.
'Tis the ghost of a waggon—she hears it, and sees
Twelve horses ascending the stairs on their knees:
To the gallows the jingle of bells echoes plain,
And the neighings resound throughout Heavitree Lane.
It recalls to her mind days of rapture, when John
Would send by the waggon, from fair Honitòn,
Some Michaelmas fairing—a ribbon or glove,
Or a garter—the last, sweetest token of love.
From the window she looks; something seems to approach:
'Tis the waggon—Ah no! 'tis the Exeter coach!
Again she looks out—'tis the waggon she spies;
How swift run the horses!—the dust, how it flies!
She looks—and her soul is in heaven—but they fade,

161

These visions of bliss from the poor forlorn maid;
No ribbons so flaunting, no garters so gay,
For John, he was hang'd at the 'sizes last May.

MORAL.

Ye damsels, from Susan's sad story beware,
How to thieves and housebreakers you offer an ear.
When they're hang'd, no more waggons bring fairings from town,
But the ghosts of four wheels roll your stairs up and down.

ON AN INCIDENT 1811.

RELATED IN SOME OF THE PUBLIC PAPERS.

PARODY OF SOUTHEY'S “CURSE OF KEHAMA.”

“Arvalan! Arvalan!
Arvalan! Arvalan!”

There is a spot at Drinsey nook
Where builds her nest the feather-poke.
In what cave, or in what cell,
Lovest thou, feather-poke, to dwell?
Under Temporell's dead jaw-bone
Thou sitt'st and incubatest alone;

162

Where the clanking gibbet chain
Swings o'er Gainsborough's houseless plain.
The midnight pilgrim, wandering near,
Turns aside his head for fear;
Yet he hears not human scream nor groan,
For speech the senseless corse has none.
But the wind hath a voice that sadly moans,
And whistles amid the rattling bones;
And the feather-poke screams as by fits she looks out,
Through the sightless sockets, and fleshless snout.
Five years—five little years ago—
The murderer was as we are now;
And now the small bird sits alone,
And incubates under his jaw-bone.—
Temporell! Temporell!
Temporell! Temporell!
The dead jaw-bone of Temporell.

A mistake of the parodist, proving his culpable ignorance of one branch, at least, of natural history—ornithology. The feather-poke is not the name of the animal, but the nest of the bird called the tom-tit, or tit-mouse. It may be corrected, however, after the following manner:

“There is a spot at Drinsey nook
Where the tit-mouse builds its feather-poke.
In what cave, or in what cell,
Lovest thou, little Tit, to dwell?”

And again:

“And Tom-tit screams, as by fits he looks out,” &c.

I am indebted for this correction to the patient and persevering researches of an excellent friend at the British Museum.

163

FROM LAMENTATIONS. CHAP. I.

How desolate and sad
She sits, that once with multitudes o'erflow'd!
How hangs her widow'd head,
Deserted by her sovereign and her God!
How want and misery
Usurp the place of her fallen majesty!

She weeps the whole night long;
Upon her pale cheek stands the briny tear:
Her lovers' numerous throng
No help afford, nor consolation bear;
Her treacherous friends are fled,
Or turn their arms against her sinking head.

Judah is captive borne,
And in affliction drags the heavy chain;
From all she honour'd torn,
Forspent, and lost, she prays for rest in vain.
All unforeseen they came
Who sought her ruin, and abhorr'd her name.

The ways of Zion mourn
Her rites neglected, and abandon'd fane;
Her reverend priests forlorn,
Her maids afflicted, and her children slain;

164

Her enemies are chief,
Nor from offended heaven hopes she relief.

Her charms are all declined;
Her princes perish like the famish'd hart,
That can no shelter find,
And faint and trembling flies the hunter's dart;
And, thinking in her woe
Of her past joys, her sorrows heavier grow.

THE FORTY-SIXTH PSALM.

Our steadfast hope is God;
The strength of our abode;
Our help in troubles, ever ready found:
Therefore we will not fear,
Though earth herself uprear
From her foundations deep, with direful sound;
Though rude rocks thundering from the steep
Fall, and increase the horrors of the raging deep;

Though ocean's billows break,
Till loftiest mountains shake
At the rough surge that beat their savage sides;
While by the Holy Hill
Yet flows a living rill,
Gladdening bright Zion with its gentle tides,
And in the midst our God doth stand:
Therefore it shall endure unmoved, by his command.

165

When as the nations raged,
And wars the mighty waged,
And all the kingdoms of the wide world shook,
Then thunder'd from on high
The dreadful Deity,
And the globe melted, by his lightnings strook.
The Lord of armies is our shield;
To us shall Jacob's God his heavenly refuge yield.

O tremble at the Lord,
Whose all-commanding word
Earth's loveliest realms can render desolate;
Who biddeth wars to cease,
And every land be peace;
Who breaks the bow, and makes the sword abate;
Who, with his lightning's fearful force,
Fires the proud scythéd chariot in its swiftest course.

“Be humble, and adore!
I am the God, before
All other gods whose name is lifted high;
Whose everlasting throne
Shall through the world be known,
The one unseen, unrivall'd Deity!”—
The Lord of armies is our shield;
To us shall Jacob's God a heavenly refuge yield.