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THE
POEM.
A GRAVE,
00
by
ROBERT BLAIR..
To which are added,
Gray's Flegy

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD;
AND
Drawn by G.Sele
PARNELL'S HERMIT.
With Biographical Notices of the Authors.
from DR ANDERSON'S EDITION of the
BRITISH POETS.

500
dant
Eng by W&D Licare int
dinburgh
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLAIR,
FOR J.DICK,142, HIGH STREET.
1816.
acic


THE NEW YORK
PUBLIC LIBRARY
446592B
ASTOR, LENOX AND
TALDEN FOUNDATIONS
R
1948
L


LIFE OF BLAIR.
THERE are few particulars of the personal history of Blair
known, and those few are such as give little scope for am-
plification and embellishment.
The life of a country clergyman, constantly engaged in
the duties of his profession, the practice of the domestic
virtues, and the occupations of literature, however respec-
table such a character may be, can afford but slender ma-
terials for biography.
A


2
LIFE OF BLAIR.
Robert Blair was the eldest son of the Rev. David Blair,
one of the ministers of Edinburgh, and chaplain to the
King.
His mother was
Nisbet, daughter of
Nisbet, Esq. of Carfin.
He was born about the beginning of the last century;
had the most liberal education in the University of Edin-
burgh, and afterwards was sent abroad by his father for
his improvement, and spent some time on the Continent.
After undergoing the usual trials, he was ordained minister
of Athelstaneford, in the county of East Lothian, in the
year 1731, where he passed the remainder of his life.
As his fortune was easy, he lived very much in the style
of a gentleman, and was greatly respected by Sir Francis
Kinloch, Bart. of Gilmerton, patron of the parish, and by


LIFE OF BLAIR.
3
all the gentlemen in the neighbourhood. He was a man
of learning, and of elegant taste and manners.
He was a
botanist and florist, which he showed in the cultivation of
his garden; and was also conversant in optical and micro-
scopical knowledge. He was a man of sincere piety, and
very assiduous in discharging the duties of his clerical
functions. As a preacher, he was serious and warm, and
discovered the imagination of a poet.
He married Isabella Law, daughter of Mr Law of El-
vingston, a lady of uncommon beauty and amiable man-
ners. With her father, who had been professor of Moral
Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, who was his
relation, and had been left one of his tutors, he had been
long and intimately connected; and, upon occasion of his
death, which happened several years before his marriage
%


4.
LIFE OF BLAIR.
with his daughter, he wrote a funeral poem to his memory,
which, with the Grave, are the only pieces of poetry he is
known to have written.
Such was Robert Blair, who died of a fever on the 4th
of February 1746, in the 47th year of his age.
He was
succeeded in his living, at Athelstaneford, by another poet,
Mr John Home, the celebrated author of Douglas.
The friends of Blair were the friends of science and of
virtue; among whom were the celebrated Dr Watts; the
famous naturalist, Henry Baker, Esq.; the pious and
learned Dr Doddridge, and the worthy and respected Co-
lonel James Gardiner, who was slain at the battle of Pres-
tonpans in the year 1745. With all of whom Blair carried
on an habitual and learned correspondence.


LIFE OF GRAY.
THOMAS GRAY was born in Cornhill in December 1716,
descended of a very respectable family in the city of Lon-
don. His grandfather was a considerable merchant; and
his father, Philip Gray, was a money-scrivener. His mo-
ther's name was Dorothy Antrobus. They had many
children, of whom the poet was the fifth born. All of
them, except him, died in their infancy.
He was educated at Eton school, under the care of
Mr Antrobus, his mother's brother.


6
LIFE OF GRAY.
In 1734 Gray removed from Eton to Cambridge, and
entered a pensioner in St Peter's College.
He returned to London in 1738, with the intention of ap-
plying himself to the study of the law; but this was soon
laid aside; for, the year following, he accepted an invita-
tion from Mr Walpole to accompany him on his travels.
After visiting a number of places on the continent, Gray
returned to England in September 1741, and two months
afterwards buried his father.
In 1742 he went to Cambridge, where he was admitted
to the degree of Bachelor of the Civil Law. At this place
he continued for a number of years, during which time he
had the misfortune to lose his mother, to whom he was


LIFE OF GRAY.
7
strongly attached, and his conduct exemplary for the dis-
charge of every filial duty towards her.
In 1765 Gray undertook a journey to Scotland, with a
belief that he would recover his constitution, which was in
a very weak state. He wrote a curious and interesting ac-
count of his journey.
Two years after this, he was appointed, by the Duke of
Grafton, to the Professorship of Modern Languages and
History at Cambridge, worth L.400 a-year.
In May 1771 he removed from Cambridge to London, af-
ter having suffered greatly from irregular attacks of an here-
ditary gout, to which he had long been subject, and from
which a life of singular temperance could not protect him.


00
LIFE OF GRAY.
On the 24th of July, while at dinner, he felt a sudden
nausea, which obliged him to rise from table. The gout
had fixed on his stomach, and resisted all the powers of
medicine. On the 29th he was seized with a strong con-
vulsion fit, which, on the 30th, returning with increased
violence, he expired the next evening, in the 55th year of
his age.
Gray was an excellent poet, and considered one of the
most learned men in Europe. His poems and letters were
collected and published by his intimate friend Mr Mason,
in 1775. The Elegy is the most popular of all his pro-
ductions.


LIFE OF PARNELL.
THOMAS PARNELL was descended from an ancient family,
that had, for some centuries, been settled at Congleton, in
Cheshire. His father, Thomas Parnell, who had been at-
tached to the Commonwealth party, upon the Restoration
went over to Ireland, where he purchased an estate, which,
with his lands in Cheshire, descended to the poet, who was
his eldest son, and still remains in the family.
He was born in Dublin in the year 1679, and received
the first rudiments of his education at the school of Dr
Jones in that city.
B


10
LIFE OF PARNELL.
1
When he was only thirteen years old, he was admitted
a member of Trinity College, Dublin, which may be con-
sidered as a presumption, that he had made great progress
in learning at a very early age; for young men, proposed
to be entered at that University, are expected to be well
acquainted with the Latin, and to have attained some pro-
ficiency in the Greek.
He was admitted to the degree of Master of Arts in
1700, and was the same year ordained a Deacon by Dr
King, Bishop of Derry, having obtained a dispensation
from the Primate, as being under the canonical age.
About three years afterwards he was made a Priest by
Dr King, then Archbishop of Dublin; and, in 1705, Dr
St George Ashe, Bishop of Clogher, conferred on him the


*0.
LIFE OF PARNELL.
· 11
Archdeaconry of Clogher. About the same time, he mar-
ried Miss Anne Minchin, a young lady of great merit and
beauty, by whom he had two sons, who died young, and
a daughter.
His first excursions to England began about the year
1706, where his company was desired, and his friendship
sought, by persons of every rank and party, even before
he made any figure in the literary world. Among the in-
timate friends of Parnell, were Pope, Gay, Arbuthnot,
Swift, Addison, Steele, and Congreve.
He died at Chester, on his way to Ireland, in July 1717,
in the 78th year of his age, and was buried in the Trinity
Church in that city.
?


12
LIFE OF PARNELL.
Having died without male issue, his estate devolved to
his only nephew, Sir John Parnell, Bart. whose father was
younger brother to the Archdeacon, and one of the Justices
of the King's Bench in Ireland.
Parnell left many compositions behind him, of which
Pope selected those whom he thought best, and published
them in one volume, in the year 1721, with a dedication
to the Earl of Oxford.
Parnell was a man of very great benevolence, and of
very agreeable manners. His conversation is said to have
been extremely pleasing, and he was respected by the world
as a man of superior endowments.


THE GRAVE.





THE ARGUMENT.
The Author's choice of his subject. Invocation, addressed to the Almighty.
The Grave described. An ancient country church pourtrayed. Ghosts
make their appearance. A school-boy passing through a church-yard by
moonlight. The tombs visited by a widow. Apostrophe, addressed to the
Grave. The sweets of friendship. An address to undertakers. The Grave
buries all distinctions. The frailty of beauty. Strength overcome by sick-
ness. Philosophers, orators, and physicians, alike subdued by death. The
miser's character. Dreadful effects of covetousness. The vanity of riches.
The departure of a thoughtless soul. Solemnity of death. Suicide, and its
dreadful consequences. True bravery consists in patiently waiting till our
change comes. The state of the dead. Description of a sexton. His thought-
lessness and inconsideration. The folly of the living in not considering their
latter end. The swiftness and secrecy of time. The world described. Rich
and poor, of every age and nation, alike subject to the stroke of death. The
happiness of Adam before his fall. The shortness of it. Sin the origin of
every evil in the world. Death represented as an insatiable glutton. The
resurrection of the dead. Christ's resurrection. The folly of meeting death
with reluctance. The end of a good man. Conclusion.





THE
GRAVE.
The grave has eloquence; its lectures teach
In silence, louder than divines can preach!
Hear what it says, ye sons of folly hear,
It speaks to you, lend an attentive ear. MOORE.
WHILST Some affect the sun, and some the shade;
Some flee the city, some the hermitage;
Their aims as various as the roads they take
In journeying through life; the task be mine
с


18
THE GRAVE.
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb;
The appointed place of rendezvous, where all
These travellers meet. Thy succours I implore,
Eternal King! whose potent arm sustains
The keys of hell and death. The grave, dread thing!
Men shiver when thou'rt named. Nature appalled,
Shakes off her wonted firmness. Ah! how dark,
Thy long-extended realms and rueful wastes!
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night,
Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun
Was rolled together, or had tried his beams
Athwart the gloom profound. The sickly taper,
By glimmering through thy low-browed misty vaults,
(Furred round with mouldy damps and ropy slime,)
Lets fall a supernumerary horror,
And only serves to make thy night more irksome.


THE GRAVE.
19
Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew,
Cheerless unsocial plant! that loves to dwell
Amidst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms:
Where light-heeled ghosts, and visionary shades,
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports)
Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds.
No other merriment, dull tree, is thine.
See yonder hallowed fane; the pious work
Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot,
And buried 'midst the wreck of things which were;
There lie interred the more illustrious dead.
The wind is up; hark! how it howls! Methinks,
Till now, I never heard a sound so dreary!
Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird,
Rooked in the spire, screams loud; the gloomy ailes,


20
THE GRAVE.
Black plastered, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons,
And tattered coats of arms, send back the sound,
Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults,
The mansions of the dead. Roused from their slumbers,
In grim array the grisly spectres rise,
Grin horrible, and obstinately sullen,
Pass and repass, hushed as the foot of night.
Again the screech-owl shrieks; ungracious sound!
I'll hear no more, it makes one's blood run chill!
Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms,
(Coeval near with that) all ragged show,
Long lashed by the rude winds. Some rift half down
Their branchless trunks; others so thin a-top,
That scarce two crows could lodge in the same tree.
Strange things, the neighbours say, have happened here;


THE GRAVE.
21.
Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs ;
Dead men have come again, and walked about;
And the great bell has tolled, unrung, untouched.
(Such tales their cheer, at wake or gossiping
When it draws near the witching time of night.)
Oft in the lone church-yard at night, I've seen,
By glimpse of moon-shine chequering through the trees,
The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up,
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones,
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown),
That tell in homely phrase who lie below.
Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears,
The sound of something purring at his heels;
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,


22
THE GRAVE.
Till, out of breath, he overtakes his fellows;
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O'er some new opened grave, and (strange to tell!)
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.
The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes 'spied,
Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead:
Listless, she crawls along in doleful black,
While bursts of sorrow gush from either eye,
Fast falling down her now untasted cheek.
Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man
She drops; whilst busy meddling memory,
In barbarous succession, musters up
The past endearments of their softer hours,


THE GRAVE.
23
Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks
She sees him, and indulging the fond thought,
Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf,
Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way.
Invidious grave! how dost thou rend in sunder
Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one?
A tie more stubborn far than nature's band.
Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul;
Sweetener of life, and solder of society,
I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.
Oft have I proved the labours of thy love,
And the warm efforts of the gentle heart
Anxious to please. Oh! when my friend and I,
In some thick wood, have wandered heedless on,


24
THE GRAVE.
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
Upon the sloping cowslip-covered bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along,
In grateful errours through the under-wood,
Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongued thrush
Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird
Mellowed his pipe, and softened every note;
The eglantine smelled sweeter; and the rose
Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower
Vied with its fellow plant in luxury
Of dress. Oh! then the longest summer's day
Seemed too, too much in haste; still the full heart
Had not imparted half; 'twas happiness
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed,
Not to return, how painful the remembrance !


THE GRAVE.
25
Dull grave! thou spoilest the dance of youthful blood,
Strikest out the dimple from the cheek of mirth,
And every smirking feature from the face;
Branding our laughter with the name of madness.
Where are the jesters now? the men of health,
Complexionally pleasant? Where the droll,
Whose every look and gesture was a joke
To clapping theatres and shouting crowds,
And made even thick-lipped musing melancholy
To gather up her face into a smile
Before she was aware? Ah! sullen now,
And dumb as the green turf that covers them.
Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war?
The Roman Cæsars, and the Grecian chiefs,
The boast of story? Where the hot-brained youth,
D


26
THE GRAVE.
Who the tiara at his pleasure tore
From kings of all the then discovered globe;
And cried, forsooth, because his arm was hampered,
And had not room enough to do its work?
Alas! how slim, dishonourably slim,
And crammed into a space we blush to name!
Proud royalty! how altered in thy looks!
How blank thy features! and how wan thy hue!
Son of the morning! whither art thou gone!
Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled head,
And the majestic menace of thine eyes
Felt from afar? Pliant and powerless now,
Like new-born infant wound up in its swathes,
Or victim turned flat upon his back,
That throbs beneath the sacrificer's knife.
Mute must thou bear the strife of little tongues,


THE GRAVE.
27
And coward insults of the base-born crowd,
That grudge a privilege thou never hadst,
But only hoped for in the peaceful grave,
Of being unmolested and alone.
Arabia's gums and odoriferous drugs,
And honours by the herald duly paid
In mode and form, even to a very scruple;
O cruel irony! these come too late,
And only mock whom they were meant to honour.
Surely there's not a dungeon slave that's buried
In the highway, unshrouded and uncoffined,
But lies as soft, and sleeps as sound as he.
Sorry pre-eminence of high descent,
Above the baser born, to rot in state.
But see! the well-plumed hearse comes nodding on,


28
THE GRAVE.
Stately and slow; and properly attended
By the whole sable tribe, that painful watch
The sick man's door, and live upon the dead,
By letting out their persons by the hour
To mimic sorrow, when the heart's not sad.
How rich the trappings, now they're all unfurled,
And glittering in the sun! Triumphant entries
Of conquerors and coronation pomps,
In glory scarce exceed. Great gluts of people
Retard the unwieldy show; whilst from the casements
And houses tops, ranks behind ranks close wedged
Hang bellying o'er. But tell us, why this waste,
Why this ado in earthing-up a carcase
That's fallen into disgrace, and in the nostril
Smells horrible? Ye undertakers, tell us,
'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit,


THE GRAVE.
29
Why is the principal concealed, for which
You make this mighty stir? 'Tis wisely done;
What would offend the eye in a good picture,
The painter casts discreetly into shades.
Proud lineage! now how little thou appearest
Below the envy of the private man.
Honour, that meddlesome officious ill,
Pursues thee even to death; nor there stops short.
Strange persecution! when the grave itself
Is no protection from rude sufferance.
Absurd to think to overreach the grave,
And from the wreck of names to rescue ours!
The best concerted schemes men lay for fame,
Die fast away; only themselves die faster.


30
THE GRAVE.
The far-famed sculptor, and the laurelled bard,
Those bold insurancers of deathless fame,
Supply their little feeble aids in vain.
The tapering pyramid, the Egyptian's pride,
And wonder of the world, whose spiky top
Has wounded the thick cloud, and long outlived
The angry shaking of the winter's storm;
Yet spent at last by the injuries of heaven,
Shattered with age, and furrowed o'er with years,
The mystic cone, with hieroglyphics crusted,
At once gives way. Oh! lamentable sight;
The labour of whole ages lumbers down,
A hideous and mishapen length of ruins.
Sepulchral columns wrestle, but in vain,
With all-subduing time; his cankering hand,
With calm deliberate malice, wasteth them;


THE GRAVE.
31
Worn on the edge of days the brass consumes,
The busto moulders, and the deep-cut marble,
Unsteady to the steel, gives up its charge.
Ambition, half-convicted of her folly,
Hangs down the head, and reddens at the tale.
Here all the mighty troublers of the earth,
Who swam to sovereign rule through seas of blood;
The oppressive, sturdy, man-destroying villains,
Who ravaged kingdoms, and laid empires waste,
And, in a cruel wantonness of power,
Thinned states of half their people, and gave up
To want the rest; now, like a storm that's spent,
Lie hushed, and meanly sneak behind thy covert.
Vain thought! to hide them from the general scorn,
That haunts and dogs them like an injured ghost


32
THE GRAVE.
Implacable. Here too, the petty tyrant,
Whose scant domains geographer ne'er noticed,
And, well for neighbouring grounds, of arm as short,
Who fixed his iron talons on the poor,
And gripped them like some lordly beast of prey;
Deaf to the forceful cries of gnawing hunger,
And piteous plaintive voice of misery ;
(As if a slave was not a shred of nature,
Of the same common nature with his lord);
Now, tame and humble, like a child that's whipped,
Shakes hands with dust, and calls the worm his kinsman;
Nor pleads his rank and birthright. Under ground
Precedency's a jest ; vassal and lord,
Grossly familiar, side by side consume.
When self-esteem, or others adulation,


THE GRAVE.'
33
Would cunningly persuade us we were something
Above the common level of our kind,
The grave gainsays the smooth-complexioned flattery,
And with blunt truth acquaints us what we are.
Beauty! thou pretty play-thing, dear deceit,
That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart,
And gives it a new pulse, unknown before,
The grave discredits thee; thy charms expunged,
Thy roses faded, and thy lilies soiled,
What hast thou more to boast of? Will thy lovers
Flock round thee now, to gaze and do thee homage;
Methinks I see thee with thy head low laid,
Whilst, surfeited upon thy damask cheek,
The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes rolled,
Riots unscared. For this was all thy caution?
E


34
THE GRAVE.
For this, thy painful labours at thy glass?
To improve those charms and keep them in repair,
For which the spoiler thanks thee not. Foul feeder,
Coarse fare and carrion please thee full as well,
And leave as keen a relish on the sense.
Look how the fair one weeps! the conscious tears
Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flowers:
Honest effusion! the swollen heart in vain
Works hard to put a gloss on its distress.
Strength too! thou surly and less gentle boast
Of those that laugh loud at the village ring;
A fit of common sickness pulls thee down
With greater ease, than e'er thou didst the stripling
That rashly dared thee to the unequal fight.
What groan was that I heard? deep groan indeed!


THE GRAVE.
35
With anguish heavy laden; let me trace it;
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man,
By stronger arm belaboured, gasps for breath
Like a hard-hunted beast. How his great heart
Beats thick! his roomy chest by far too scant
To give the lungs full play. What now avail
The strong-built sinewy limbs, and well-spread shoulders?
See how he tugs for life, and lays about him,
Mad with his pain! Eager he catches hold
Of what comes next to hand, and grasps it hard,
Just like a creature drowning; hideous sight!
Oh! how his eyes stand out, and stare full ghastly!
While the distemper's rank and deadly venom
Shoots like a burning arrow cross his bowels,
And drinks his marrow up. Heard you that groan?
It was his last. See how the great Goliath,


36
THE GRAVE.
Just like a child that brawled itself to rest,
Lies still. What meanest thou then, O mighty boaster,
To vaunt of nerves.of thine? What means the bull,
Unconscious of his strength, to play the coward,
And flee before a feeble thing like man ;
That, knowing well the slackness of his arm,
Trusts only in the well-invented knife?
With study pale, and midnight vigils spent,
The star-surveying sage, close to his eye,
Applies the sight-invigorating tube;
And travelling through the boundless length of space,
Marks well the course of the far-seen orbs.
That roll with regular confusion there,
In ecstasy of thought. But ah! proud man,
Great heights are hazardous to the weak head;


THE GRAVE.
37
Soon, very soon, thy firmest footing fails;
And down thou droppest into that irksome place,
Where no device nor knowledge ever came.
Here the tongue warrior lies disabled now,
Disarmed, dishonoured, like a wretch that's gagged
And cannot tell his ails to passers by.
Great men of language, whence this mighty change,
This dumb despair and drooping of the head?
Though strong persuasion hung upon thy lip,
And sly insinuation's softer arts
In ambush lay about thy flowing tongue;
Alas! how chop-fallen now! Thick mists and silence
Rest, like a weary cloud, upon thy breast
Unceasing. Ah! where is the lifted arm,
The strength of action, and the force of words,


38
THE GRAVE.
The well-turned period, and the well-tuned voice,
With all the lesser ornaments of phrase?
Ah! fled for ever, as they ne'er had been,
Razed from the book of fame; or more provoking,
Perchance some hackney hunger-bitten scribbler
Insults thy memory, and blots thy tomb
With long flat narrative, or duller rhymes,
With heavy halting pace that drawl along;
Enough to rouse a dead man into rage,
And warm with red resentment the wan cheek.
Here the great masters of the healing art,
These mighty-mock defrauders of the tomb,
Spite of their jalaps and catholicons,
Resign to fate. Proud Esculapius' son!
Where are thy boasted implements of art,


THE GRAVE.
39
And all thy well-crammed magazines of health?
Nor hill, nor vale, as far as ships could go,
Nor margin of the gravel-bottomed brook,
Escaped thy rifling hand; from stubborn shrubs
Thou wrungest their shy retiring virtues out,
And vexed them in the fire; nor fly, nor insect,
Nor writhy snake, escaped thy deep research.
But why this apparatus ? why this cost?
Tell us, thou doughty keeper from the grave,
Where are thy recipes and cordials now,
With the long list of vouchers for thy cures?
Alas! thou speakest not. The bold impostor
Looks not more silly when the cheat's found out.
Here the lank-sided miser, worst of felons,
Who meanly stole (discreditable shift)


40
THE GRAVE.
From back and belly too their proper cheer,
Eased of a tax it irked the wretch to pay
To his own carcase, now lies cheaply lodged,
By clamorous appetites no longer teased,
Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs.
But ah! where are his rents, his comings in?
Ay! now you've made the rich man poor indeed;
Robbed of his gods, what has he left behind?
Oh, cursed lust of gold! when, for thy sake,
The fool throws up his interest in both worlds;
First starved in this, then damned in that to come.
How shocking must thy summons be, O death!
To him that is at ease in his possessions;
Who, counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnished for that world to come?


THE GRAVE.
41
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement,
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help;
But shrieks in vain! How wishfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer, yet a little longer,
Oh! might she stay to wash away her stains,
And fit her for her passage. Mournful sight!
Her very eyes weep blood; and every groan
She heaves is big with horror. But the foe,
Like a staunch murderer, steady to his purpose,
Pursues her close through every lane of life,
Nor misses once the track, but presses on;
Till forced at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.
F


42
THE GRAVE.
Sure 'tis a serious thing to die! my soul!
What a strange moment must it be, when near
Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view?
That awful gulf no mortal e'er repassed
To tell what's doing on the other side.
Nature runs back, and shudders at the sight,
And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of parting;
For part they must; body and soul must part;
Fond couple; linked more close than wedded pair.
This, wings its way to its Almighty source,
The witness of its actions, now its Judge;
That drops into the dark and noisome grave,
Like a disabled pitcher of no use.
If death were nothing, and nought after death;
If when men died, at once they ceased to be,


THE GRAVE.
43
Returning to the barren womb of nothing,
Whence first they sprung, then might the debauchee
Untrembling mouth the heavens; then might the drunkard
Reel over his full bowl, and, when 'tis drained,
Fill up another to the brim, and laugh
At the poor bugbear, death; then might the wretch
That's weary of the world, and tired of life,
At once give each inquietude the slip,
By stealing out of being when he pleased,
And by what way, whether by hemp or steel;
Death's thousand doors stand open. Who could force
The ill-pleased guest to sit out his full time,
Or blame him if he goes? Sure he does well,
That helps himself as timely as he can,
When able. But if there's an hereafter;
And that there is, conscience, uninfluenced


44
THE GRAVE.
And suffered to speak out, tells every man;
Then must it be an awful thing to die;
More horrid yet to die by one's own hand.
Self-murder! name it not; our island's shame,
That makes her the reproach of neighbouring states.
Shall nature, swerving from her earliest dictate,
Self-preservation, fall by her own act?
Forbid it Heaven. Let not, upon disgust,
The shameless hand be fully crimsoned o'er
With blood of its own lord. Dreadful attempt!
Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage,
To rush into the presence of our Judge;
As if we challenged him to do his worst,
And mattered not his wrath! Unheard-of tortures
Must be reserved for such; these herd together;
The common damned shun their society,


THE GRAVE.
45
And look upon themselves as fiends less foul.
Our time is fixed, and all our days are numbered;
How long, how short, we know not; this we know,
Duty requires we calmly wait the summons,
Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission;
Like sentries that must keep their destined stand,
And wait the appointed hour till they're relieved.
Those only are the brave that keep their ground,
And keep it to the last. To run away
Is but a coward's trick; to run away
From this world's ills, that, at the very worst,
Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves,
By boldly venturing on a world unknown,
And plunging headlong in the dark; 'tis mad;
No frenzy half so desperate as this.


46
THE GRAVE.
Tell us, ye dead, will none of you, in pity
To those you left behind, disclose the secret?
Oh! that some courteous ghost would blab it out;
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be.
I've heard, that souls departed, have sometimes
Forewarned men of their death: 'Twas kindly done
To knock and give the alarm. But what means
This stinted charity? 'Tis but lame kindness
That does its work by halves. Why might you not
Tell us what 'tis to die? Do the strict laws
Of your society forbid your speaking
Upon a point so nice? I'll ask no more;
Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shine
Enlightens but yourselves. Well 'tis no matter;
A very little time will clear up all,
And make us learned as you are, and as close.


THE GRAVE.
47
Death's shafts fly thick. Here falls the village-swain,
And there his pampered lord. The cup goes round;
And who so artful as to put it by?
"Tis long since death had the majority;
Yet strange! the living lay it not to heart.
See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,
The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle,
Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole
A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand,
Digs through whole rows of kindred and acquaintance,
By far his juniors. Scarce a skull's cast up,
But well he knew its owner, and can tell
Some passage of his life. Thus hand in hand
The sot has walked with death twice twenty years;
And yet ne'er yonker on the green laughs louder,
Or clubs a smuttier tale. When drunkards meet,


48
THE GRAVE.
None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand
More willing to his cup. Poor wretch! he minds not
That soon some trusty brother of the trade
Shall do for him what he has done for thousands.
On this side, and on that, men see their friends
Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out
Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers
In the world's hale and undegenerate days
Could scarce have leisure for, Fools that we are,
Never to think of death and of ourselves
At the same time; as if to learn to die
Were no concern of ours. Oh! more than sottish,
For creatures of a day, in gamesome mood,
To frolic on eternity's dread brink
Unapprehensive; when, for ought we know,


THE GRAVE.
49
The very first swollen surge shall sweep us in.
Think we, or think we not, time hurries on,
With a resistless unremitting stream;
Yet treads more soft than e'er did midnight-thief,
That slides his hand under the miser's pillow,
And carries off his prize. What is this world?
What? but a spacious burial-field unwalled,
Strewed with death's spoils, the spoils of animals
Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones.
The very turf on which we tread once lived;
And we that live must lend our carcases
To cover our own offspring. In their turns
They too must cover theirs. "Tis here all meet,
The shivering Icelander, and sun-burned Moor;
Men of all climes, that never met before;
And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Christian.
G


50
THE GRAVE.
Here the proud prince, and favourite yet prouder,
His sovereign's keeper, and the people's scourge,
Are huddled out of sight. Here lie abashed
The great negociators of the earth,
And celebrated masters of the balance,
Deep read in stratagems and wiles of courts;
Now vain their treaty skill. Death scorns to treat.
Here the o'erloaded slave flings down his burden
From his galled shoulders; and when the stern tyrant,
With all his guards and tools of power about him,
Is meditating new unheard-of hardships,
Mocks his short arm, and, quick as thought, escapes
Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest.
Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade,
The tell-tale echo, and the babbling stream,
(Time out of mind the favourite seats of love)


THE GRAVE.
51
Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down,
Unblasted by foul tongue. Here friends and foe
Lie close; unmindful of their former feuds.
The lawn-robed prelate and plain presbyter,
Erewhile that stood aloof, as shy to meet,
Familiar mingle here, like sister streams
That some rude interposing rock has split.
Here is the large-limbed peasant; here the child
Of a span long, that never saw the sun,
Nor pressed the nipple, strangled in life's porch.
Here is the mother, with her sons and daughters;
The barren wife, and long-demurring maid,
Whose lonely unappropriated sweets
Smiled like yon knot of cowslips on the cliff,
Not to be come at by the willing hand.
Here are the prude, severe, and gay coquette,
a


52
THE GRAVE:
The sober widow, and the young green virgin,
Cropped like a rose before 'tis fully blown,
Or half its worth disclosed. Strange medley here!
Here garrulous old age winds up his tale ;
And jovial youth, of lightsome vacant heart,
Whose every day was made of melody,
Hears not the voice of mirth. The shrill-tongued shrew,
Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding.
Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave;
The just, the good, the worthless and profane;
The downright clown, and perfectly well-bred;
The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean;
The supple statesman, and the patriot stern;
The wrecks of nations, and the spoils of time,
With all the lumber of six thousand years.


THE GRAVE.
53
Poor man, how happy once in thy first state!:
When yet but warm from thy great Maker's hand,
He stamped thee with his image, and, well-pleased,
Smiled on his last fair work. Then all was well..
Sound was the body, and the soul serene ;
Like two sweet instruments, ne'er out of tune,
That play their several parts. Nor head, nor heart,
Offered to ache; nor was there cause they should;
For all was pure within; no fell remorse,
Nor anxious castings-up of what might be,
Alarmed his peaceful bosom. Summer seas
Show not more smooth, when kissed by southern winds
Just ready to expire. Scarce importuned,
The generous soil, with a luxurious hand,
Offered the various produce of the year,
And every thing most perfect in its kind


54
THE GRAVE.
Blessed, thrice blessed days! But ah! how short!
Blessed as the pleasing dreams of holy men;
But fugitive like those, and quickly gone.
Oh! slippery state of things. What sudden turns!
What strange vicissitudes in the first leaf
Of man's sad history! To-day most happy,
And ere to-morrow's sun has set, most abject.
How scant the space between these vast extremes!
Thus fared it with our sire: Not long he enjoyed
His paradise. Scarce had the happy tenant
Of the fair spot due time to prove its sweets,
Or sum them up, when strait he must be gone,
Ne'er to return again. And must he go?
Can nought compound for the first dire offence
Of erring man? Like one that is condemned,
Fain would he trifle time with idle talk,
·


THE GRAVE.
55
And parley with his fate. But 'tis in vain.
Not all the lavish odours of the place,
Offered in incense, can procure his pardon,
Or mitigate his doom. A mighty angel,
With flaming sword, forbids his longer stay,
And drives the loiterer forth; nor must he take
One last and farewel round. At once he lost
His glory and his God. If mortal now,
And sorely maimed, no wonder. Man has sinned.
Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures,
Evil he would needs try; nor tried in vain.
(Dreadful experiment! destructive measure!
Where the worst thing could happen, is success.)
Alas! too well he sped; the good he scorned
Stalked off reluctant, like an ill-used ghost,
Not to return; or if it did, its visits,


56
THE GRAVE.
Like those of angels, short and far between ;
Whilst the black demon, with his hell-scaped train,
Admitted once into its better room,
Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone;
Lording it o'er the man; who now, too late,
Saw the rash error, which he could not mend;
An error fatal not to him alone;
But to his future sons, his fortune's heirs.
Inglorious bondage! Human nature gröans
Beneath a vassalage so vile and cruel,
And its vast body bleeds through every vein.
What havock hast thou made, foul monster, sin!
Greatest and first of ills. The fruitful parent
Of woes of all dimensions! But, for thee,
Sorrow had never been. All-noxious thing,


THE GRAVE.
57
Of vilest nature! Other sorts of evils
Are kindly circumscribed, and have their bounds.
The fierce volcano, from his burning entrails,
That belches molten stone and globes of fire,
Involved in pitchy clouds of smoke and stench,
Mars the adjacent fields for some leagues round,
And there it stops. The big-swollen inundation,
Of mischief more diffusive, raving loud,
Buries whole tracts of country, threatening more ;
But that, too, has its shore it cannot pass.
More dreadful far than these! sin has laid waste,
Not here and there a country, but a world;
Dispatching, at a wide-extended blow,
Entire mankind; and, for their sakes, defacing
A whole creation's beauty with rude hands;
Blasting the foodful grain, and loaded branches,
H


58
THE GRAVE.
And marking all along its way with ruin.
Accursed thing! Oh! where shall fancy find
A proper name to call thee by, expressive
Of all thy horrors? Pregnant womb of ills!
Of temper so transcendently malign,
That toads and serpents, of most deadly kind,
Compared to thee, are harmless. Sicknesses
Of every size and symptom, racking pains,
And bluest plagues, are thine. See how the fiend
Profusely scatters the contagion round!
Whilst deep-mouthed slaughter, bellowing at her heels,
Wades deep in blood new spilt; yet, for to-morrow,
Shapes out new work of great uncommon daring,
And inly pines till the dread blow is struck.
But, hold, I've gone too far; too much discovered


THE GRAVE.
59
My father's nakedness, and nature's shame.
Here let me pause, and drop an honest tear,
One burst of filial duty and condolence,
O'er all those ample deserts death hath spread,
This chaos of mankind. O great man-eater!
Whose every day is carnival, not sated yet!
Unheard-of epicure, without a fellow!
The veriest gluttons do not always cram;
Some intervals of abstinence are sought
To edge the appetite. Thou seekest none.
Methinks the countless swarms thou hast devoured,
And thousands that each hour thou gobblest up,
This, less than this, might gorge thee to the full.
But, ah! rapacious still, thou gapest for more;
Like one, whole days defrauded of his meals,
On whom lank hunger lays her skinny hand,


60
THE GRAVE.
And whets to keenest eagerness his cravings.
As if diseases, massacres, and poison,
Famine, and war, were not thy caterers.
But know, that thou must render up the dead,
And with high interest too. They are not thine,
But only in thy keeping for a season,
Till the great promised day of restitution;
When loud diffusive sound, from brazen trump
Of strong-lunged cherub, shall alarm thy captives,
And rouse the long, long sleepers into life,
Day-light and liberty.
Then must thy doors fly open, and reveal
The mines that lay long forming under ground,
In their dark cells immured; but now full ripe,
And pure as silver from the crucible,


THE GRAVE.
61
That twice has stood the torture of the fire,
And inquisition of the forge. We know
The illustrious Deliverer of mankind,
The Son of God, thee foiled. Him in thy power
Thou couldest not hold; self-vigorous he rose,
And, shaking off thy fetters, soon retook
Those spoils his voluntary yielding lent ;
(Sure pledge of our releasement from thy thrall!)
Twice twenty days he sojourned here on earth,
And shewed himself alive to chosen witnesses,
By proofs so strong, that the most slow assenting
Had not a scruple left. This having done,
He mounted up to heaven. Methinks I see him
Climb the aerial heights, and glide along
Athwart the severing clouds; but the faint eye,
Flung backwards in the chace, soon drops its hold;


62
THE GRAVE.
Disabled quite, and jaded with pursuing.
Heaven's portals wide expand to let him in;
Nor are his friends shut out. As a great prince,
Not for himself alone, procures admission,
But for his train. It was his royal will,
That where he is, there should his followers be.
Death only lies between. A gloomy path!
Made yet more gloomy by our coward fears;
But not untrod, nor tedious; the fatigue
Will soon go off. Besides, there's no bye-road
To bliss. Then, why, like ill-conditioned children,
Start we at transient hardships in the way
That leads to purer air, and softer skies,
And a ne'er-setting sun? Fools that we are!
We wish to be, where sweets unwithering bloom ;
But strait our wish revoke, and will not go.


THE GRAVE.
63
So have I seen, upon a summer's even,
Fast by the rivulet's brink, a youngster play;
How wishfully he looks to stem the tide!
This moment resolute, next unresolved.
At last he dips his foot; but, as he dips,
His fears redouble, and he runs away
From the inoffensive stream, unmindful now
Of all the flowers that paint the further bank,
And smiled so sweet of late. Thrice welcome death!
That, after many a painful bleeding step,
Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe
On the long-wished for shore. Prodigious change!
Our bane turned to a blessing! Death disarmed,
Loses its fellness quite. All thanks to him
Who scourged the venom out. Sure the last end
Of the good man is peace! How calm his exit!


64
THE GRAVE.
Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground,
Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft.
Behold him in the evening tide of life,
A life well spent, whose early care it was
His riper years should not upbraid his green;
By unperceived degrees he wears away;
Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting.
(High in his faith and hope) look how he reaches
After the prize in view! and, like a bird
That's hampered, struggles hard to get away;
Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded
To let new glories in, the first fair fruits
Of the fast-coming harvest. Then, Oh, then!
Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears,
Shrunk to a thing of nought. Oh! how he longs
To have his passport signed, and be dismissed!


THE GRAVE.
65
'Tis done, and now he's happy! the glad soul
Has not a wish uncrown'd. Even the lag flesh
Rests, too, in hope of meeting once again
Its better half, never to sunder more.
Nor shall it hope in vain. The time draws on
When not a single spot of burial earth,
Whether on land, or in the spacious sea,
But must give back its long-committed dust
Inviolate; and faithfully shall these
Make up the full account; not the least atom
Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale.
Each soul shall have a body ready furnished;
And each shall have his own. Hence, ye profane!
Ask not, how can this be? Sure the same power
That reared the piece at first, and took it down,
Can re-assemble the loose scattered parts,"
I


66
THE GRAVE.
And put them as they were.
Almighty God
Has done much more; nor is his arm impaired
Through length of days; and what he can, he will;
His faithfulness stands bound to see it done.
When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust,
(Not inattentive to the call) shall wake;
And every joint possess its proper place,
With a new elegance of form, unknown
To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul
Mistake its partner, but, amidst the crowd,
Singling its other half, into its arms
Shall rush with all the impatience of a man
That's new come home, and, having long been absent,
With haste runs o'er every different room,
In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting!
Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more.


THE GRAVE.
67
'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night;
We make the grave our bed, and then are gone.
Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird
Leaves the wide air, and, in some lonely brake,
Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day;
Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears away.





GRAY'S ELEGY.





THE ARGUMENT.
A Summer's Evening described. Its calmness disturbed by the beetle, sheep-
bells, and owl. Country church-yard pourtrayed, with its sleeping tenants.
The vanity of ambition, power, and beauty. The folly of pompous epitaphs
and inscriptions. True merit obscured by penury. Rustic poverty not to
be despised. Love of life natural to all. What the poet's fate may be, in
some future period, related by old age, with his epitaph.


I


ELEGY,
WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD,
BY MR GRAY.
THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day;
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness, and to me.
K


74
GRAY'S ELEGY.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
✓ Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
✓ Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.


GRAY'S ELEGY.
75
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp his sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their teams a-field!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!


76
GRAY'S ELEGY.
5
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.


GRAY'S ELEGY.
77
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?
✓ Perhaps in this neglected spot, is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes, her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unrol;
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.


78
GRAY'S ELEGY.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest;
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
T
C


GRAY'S ELEGY.
79
Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide.
To quench the blushes of ingenious shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
They keep the noiseless tenor of their way.


80
GRAY'S ELEGY.
Yet even these bones, from insult to protect,
Some fair memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;
And many a holy text around she strews
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, lingering, look behind?
I


GRAY'S ELEGY.
81
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;
Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured head,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate.
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
"Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,
"To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
L


82
GRAY'S ELEGY.
"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
"That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
"His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
"And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove;
"Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn,
"Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
66
“One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill,
66 Along the heath and near his favourite tree;
"Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
"Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.
3


GRAY'S ELEGY.
83
"The next, with dirges due, in sad array,
"Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne,
"Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
"Graved on the stone, beneath yon aged thorn.”
THE EPITAPH.
HERE
ERE rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair science frowned not on his humble birth,
And melancholy marked him for her own.


84
THE EPITAPH.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send;
He gave to misery all he had, a tear ;
He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Nor draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
4
The bosom of his father and his God.


THE HERMIT.





THE ARGUMENT.
The Hermit introduced.. His pious character. He leaves his abode, and meets
with a companion. Their visit to the houses of the Vain Man, the Covetous
Man, and the Good Man, and their successive entertainments at each place,
related with descriptive narration. It concludes with the means employed
for correcting the above characters, and the Hermit's return to his ancient
place of abode.


A A A


THE
HERMIT,
BY
THOMAS PARNELL, D. D.
FAR in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age, à reverend hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well;
Remote from man, with God he passed his days;
Prayer all his business, all his pleasures, praise.
M


90
THE HERMIT.
A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose;
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey,
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway;
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenor of his soul is lost.
So when a smooth expanse receives imprest
Calm nature's image on its watery breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
And skies beneath with answering colours glow;
But if a stone the gentle sea divide,
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder, run.


THE HERMIT.
91
To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight,
To find if books, or swains, report it right.
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew);
He quits his cell; the pilgrim staff he bore,
And fixed the scallop in his hat before;
Then, with the sun, a rising journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.
The morn was wasted in the pathless grass,
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ;
But when the southern sun had warmed the day,
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way;
His raiment decent, his complexion fair,
And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair.


92
THE HERMIT.
Then near approaching, Father, hail! he cried;
And hail, my son, the reverend sire replied.
Words followed words, from question answer flowed,
And talk of various kinds deceived the road;
Till each with other pleased, and loth to part,
While in their age they differ, join in heart.
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound,
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.
Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray;
Nature in silence bid the world repose;
When near the road a stately palace rose.
There by the moon through ranks of trees they pass,
Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides of grass.


THE HERMIT.
93
It chanced the noble master of the dome,
Still made his house the wandering stranger's home;
Yet still the kindness from a thirst of praise,
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive; the liveried servants wait;
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate.
The table groans with costly piles of food,
And all is more than hospitably good.
Then led to rest, the days long toil they drown,
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.
At length 'tis morn, and, at the dawn of day,
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play;
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep,
And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep.


94
THE HERMIT.
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call;
An early banquet decked the splendid hall;
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced,
Which the kind master forced the guests to taste;
Then pleased, and thankful, from the porch they go;
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe;
His cup was vanished; for, in secret guise,
The younger guest purloined the glittering prize.
As one who spies a serpent in his way,
Glistening and basking in the summer ray,
Disordered, stops to shun the danger near,
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear;
So seemed the sire; when, far upon the road,
The shining spoil his wily partner showed.
He stopped with silence, walked with trembling heart,
And much he wished, but durst not ask to part;


THE HERMIT.
95
Murmuring, he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard,
That generous actions meet a base reward.
While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds,
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds;
A sound in air presaged approaching rain,
And beasts to covert scud across the plain;
Warned by the signs, the wandering pair retreat,
To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat,
'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground,
And strong, and large, and unimproved around;
Its owner's temper, timorous and severe,
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there.
As near the miser's heavy door they drew,
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew;


96
THE HERMIT.
The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, began,
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunder ran.
Here long they knock; but knock or call in vain,
Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain.
At length some pity warmed the master's breast,
("Twas then his threshold first received a guest),
Slow creeking turns the door with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair.
One frugal faggot lights the naked walls,
And nature's fervour through their limbs recalls;
Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine,
(Each hardly granted), served them both to dine;
And when the tempest first appeared to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.


THE HERMIT.
97
With still remark the pondering hermit viewed,
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude;
And why should such (within himself he cried)
Lock the lost wealth, a thousand want beside?
But what new marks of wonder soon took place,.
In every settling feature of his face!
When, from his vest, the young companion bore
That cup, the generous landlord owned before,
And paid profusely, with the precious bowl,"
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul.
But now the clouds in airy tumult fly,
The sun emerging opes an azure sky;
A fresher green the smelling leaves display,
And glittering as they tremble, cheer the day;
N


98
THE HERMIT.
The weather courts them from the poor retreat,
And the glad master bolts the wary gate.
While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought
With all the travel of uncertain thought;
His partner's acts, without their cause appear,
"Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here.
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various shows.
Now night's dim shades again involve the sky,
Again the wanderers want a place to lie,
Again they search and find a lodging nigh.
The soil improved around, the mansion neat,
And neither poorly low, nor idly great;


THE HERMIT.
99
It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind,
Content, and not to praise, but virtue kind.
Hither the walkers turn with weary feet,
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet;
Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest guise,
The courteous master hears, and thus replies:
Without a vain, without a grudging heart,
To him who gives us all, I yield a part.
From him you come, for him accept it here,
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer.
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread,
Then talked of virtue till the time of bed,
When the grave household round his hall repair,
Warned by a bell, and close the hours with prayer.
446502B


100
THE HERMIT.
At length the world, renewed with calm repose,
Was strong for toil, the dappled morn arose ;
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept
Near the closed cradle where an infant slept,
And writhed his neck, the landlord's little pride,
O strange return! grew black, and gasped, and died.
Horror of horrors! what! his only son!
How looked our hermit when the fact was done?
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part,
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart.
Confused, and struck with silence at the deed,
He flies, but trembling fails to fly with speed.
His steps the youth pursues; the country lay
Perplexed with roads, a servant shewed the way;


THE HERMIT.
101
A river crossed the path; the passage o'er
Was nice to find; the servant trode before.
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied,
And deep the waves, beneath the bending, glide.
The youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin,
Approached the careless guide, and thrust him in;
Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head,
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead.
Wild sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes,
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries,
Detested wretch; but scarce his speech began,
When the strange partner seemed no longer man.
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet;
His robe turned white, and flowed upon his feet;
;


102
THE HERMIT.
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair;
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air;
And wings, whose colours glittered on the day,
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display.
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight,
And moves in all the majesty of light.
Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew,
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do!
Surprise in secret chains his words suspends,
And in a calm his settling temper ends.
But silence here the beauteous angel broke,
(The voice of music ravished as he spoke).
Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown,
In sweet memorial rise before the throne.
These charms success in our bright region find,
And force an angel down to calm thy mind;


THE HERMIT.
103
For this commissioned, I forsook the sky;
Nay, cease to kneel! Thy fellow-servant I.
1
Then know the truth of government divine,
And let these scruples be no longer thine.
The Maker justly claims that world he made,
In this the right of Providence is laid;
Its secret majesty through all depends
On using second means to work his ends;
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye,
The Power exerts his attributes on high,
Your actions uses, nor controls your will,
And bids the doubting sons of men be still.


104
THE HERMIT.
What strange events can strike with more surprise,
Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes?
Yet taught by these, confess the Almighty just,
And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust!
The great vain man, who fared on costly food,
Whose life was too luxurious to be good;
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine,
And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine,
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost,
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost.
The mean suspicious wretch, whose bolted door,
Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor;


THE HERMIT.
105
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind,
That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind.
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl,
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul.
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead,
With heaping coals of fire upon its head;
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow,
And loose from dross, the silver runs below.
Long had our pious friend in virtue trode,
But now the child half-weaned his heart from God.
(Child of his age) for him he lived in pain,
And measured back his steps to earth again.
To what excesses had his dotage run?
But God, to save the father, took the son.
O


106'
THE HERMIT.
To all but thee, in fits he seemed to go,
(And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow).
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust,
Now owns in tears the punishment was just.
But how had all his fortune felt a wreck,
Had that false servant sped in safety back?
This night, his treasured heaps he meant to steal,
And what a fund of charity would fail!
Thus Heaven instructs thy mind; this trial o'er,
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more.
On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew,
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew;
Thus looked Elisha, when, to mount on high,
His master took the chariot of the sky.


THE HERMIT..
107
The fiery pomp ascending left the view;
The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too.
The bending hermit here a prayer begun,
Lord! as in Heaven, on earth thy will be done;
Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place,
And passed a life of piety and peace.
EDINBURGH:
Printed by Wm. Blair, 1815.
THE END.


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