,V10S-At kA LONDON IN A THOUSAND YEARS r € ^ »w. ^- LONDON IN A THOUSAND YEARS; Wiiti) otijev ^{Jocmsi. nV THE I.ATK EUGENIUS ROCHE, ESQ. EDITOR OF THE COURIER, &C. LONDON : COLDUllN AND BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. VliX'CCXXX. Jolui Wcstlcy and Co. 27, Ivy Lane. TO THE BENEVOLENT SYMPATHIES THE PUBLIC, THIS VOLUME IS MOST RESPECTFULLY BY THE AUTHOR'S DESTITUTE FAMILV. CONTENTS. Page Dedication. Memoir of the Author i Lines to the Memory of the late E. Roche, Esq xxxii Origin of the Poem xxxiii London in a Thousand Years 1 Notes to the Poem 65 MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. The Flower Girl 91 Moscow's Conflagration 95 To a Young Lady with Blue Eyes 98 Song — Oh ! those days are fled 99 The Parting 100 On a Rose, plucked from the Grave which once contained the remains of Marshal Ney 102 Affliction 104 Conquest 105 The Thunder Storm 106 Woman 107 Song — With bounding step and lightning eye 108 A ssociations 1 09 To Ill Song — I have a rose 112 Harp of the sky 113 Stanzas; written in a young lady's Album 114 True Love 116 Femioy H^ The Thought 119 The Lesson 120 Love's Test 122 CONTENTS. Page Stanzas — To a young lady convicted of flattery 123 Sacred Sorrow 124 All is vain! 125 The Bridal Dance 128 Song — Gone is the floweret's pride 129 The Autumn Rose 130 Tlie Rose, the Maiden, and the Bard 131 The Wandering Harper 133 The Dove 134 Song — Ah! my love no limit knows 136 Napoleon at St. Helena 136 S>Tnpathy 1 37 Ajml's Answer 1 38 First Love 140 Song — Oh, they were dreams! 141 Stanzas by the Author on his Birth-day 142 The Mysteiy 145 Separation 146 The Lock-stealer 147 The Doubt 152 The Envoi 153 The Confession 154 Waterloo 155 Absence 157 The Incantation 158 Recollection 159 'lire Minstrel's Meed 161 To Miss Adclc Jams 162 The Remonstrance 163 The Captive 164 The Exile 165 Song — The laurel once rose gi-een and lair 166 Envoi a Caroline 1()7 Song — Oh, land of my fathers 169 The Minstrel's Song 171 The Spirit's Cry 174 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. Mr. Eugenius Roche, the author of "Lon- don m a Thousand Years," was descended from an ancient and noble family. He was a scion of the house of Fermoy, distinguished in history by its heroic conduct in, and de- voted attachment to, the cause of the unfor- tunate Charles, — Lord Roche having contri- buted a large portion of his pay, obtained from a foreign service, to the support of Charles the Second when in exile ; and by the ungrateful and profligate return made by that monarch for such conduct, — his bene- factor's widow having been an aged and miserable beggar in the streets of Cork. Mr. Roche has been frequently styled an Lishman ; and, indeed, he so considered a 11 MEMOIR OF himself, from his father being a native of Ireland. It is, however, ascertained that he was born in Paris on the 23rd of February, 1786, at L'Ecole Militaire, where his father, who is still living, held a situation as Pro- fessor of Modern Languages. Mr. Roche remained in France till the age of eighteen years ; and there, under the super- intendance of his parent, received a liberal education, in the course of which he distin- guished himself by obtaining various prizes for poems and essays in the Greek, Italian, English, and French languages. The dread of his son being drawn away by the conscription (at that time in full force) induced the father of Eugenius to get him attached to the suite of the Russian ambassador (General Hittroft'), who was leaving Paris, by way of Holland, for London, and thence destined for St. Peters- burgh, whither it was supposed Mr. Roche wouhl have accompanied hiin. Circumstances rendered this not of easy accomi)lishment, and he arrived with his Excellency in London, on the 30tli of May, 1804. Findinj]: shortly after his arrival in England THE AUTHOR. HI that the hopes of advancement he had enter- tained from the connexions of the Russian ambassador were not likely to be realised, he applied to Mr. Hoare, of Fleet Street, to whom he had the strongest letters of recom- mendation. This excellent gentleman re- ceived him into his house at Mitcham Grove, where he was a guest for nearly two years. To Mr. Hoare and family Mr. Roche was devotedly attached, and ever entertained for them the warmest and sincerest sentiments of gratitude and esteem. Shortly after his introduction into the family of Mr. Hoare, Mr. Roche's literary life may be said to have commenced ; he fre- quently supplying articles to the Belle As- semblee and other magazines and periodicals of that day. Being well versed in the English and French languages, his talents for translation were, during the war between the two countries, in great requisition. From his earliest years Mr. Roche was distinguished by his poetical talents. In 1807 (being in his twenty-first year), he, in conjunction with a literary friend, originated a 2 iv MEMOIR OF and conducted a monthly magazine, under the title of " Literary Recreations," which was much and deservedly praised by many of the ablest judges of the time, and exhibited, on the part of the subject of this memoir, extra- ordinary versatility of talent. There was no department of the publication to which he did not contribute. His translations of «' Eliezer and Nephtaly," '* William Tell," and the " Dialogue between Two Dogs," by Florian, excited particular admiration. The last mentioned essay he continued with great ability and humour. This magazine has the honour of having given to the world some of the earliest pro- ductions of Lord Byron, Campbell, Allan Cun- ningham, and Gaspey. Amongst the papers of the late Mr. Roche were found letters from Lord Byron, modestly requesting the encou- ragement of his early muse. Others, in whom he discerned the germs of talent, and who have since become distinguished Avriters, were indebted to his spontaneous liberality of sen- timent for a direct and favourable introduc- tion to the j)ublic, and in whose success he THE AUTHOU. V never afterwards failed to take an equally generous interest. The letter of Lord Byron, offering some of his first verses to the editor of this magazine, is now a literary curiosity, and as it is not to be found even in the ample work of Mr. Moore, is therefore transcribed here. July 2\st, 1807. Sir, I have sent, according to my promise, some stanzas for " Literary Recreations." The insertion I leave to the option of the editors : — they have never appeared before. I shoukl wish to know whether they are admitted or not, and when the work will appear, as I am desirous of a copy. &c. &c. BYRON. P. S. — Send your answer when convenient. His lordship had previously written the fol- lowing letter to the publisher of the " Monthly Recreations," probably at an earlier hour on the same day ; as both letters, it will be seen, bear the like date. vi MEMOIR OF July 2\st, 1807. Sir, I have sent you a critique on Wordsworth's poems, for " Literary Recreations," insert or not as you please, or rather the editors. Of course they must alter or ex- punge what they disapprove. If it is not deemed worthy of publication, you need not trouble yourself to return the manuscript, but commit it to the flames. In a day or two I will send you a manuscript poem for the same work. &c. &c. BYRON. The poem, sent with the former of these letters, is that with which the literary world is now so familiar, entitled " Stanzas to Jessy," and commencing — " There is a mystic thread in life." The opinion Lord Byron had formed of the editor will be collected from the following letter, copied from Mr. Moore's Life of the noble poet. " I have now a review before me, entitled " Literary Recreations," where my hardship is applauded far be- yond my deserts. I know nothing of the critic, but THE AUTHOR^ VU think him a very discerning gentleman, and myself a devilish clever fellow. His critique pleases me particu- larly, because of its great length, and a proper quantum of censure is administered, just to give an agreeable relish to the praise. You know I hate insipid, unqua- lified, common-place compliment. If you would wish to see it, order the thirteenth number of " Literary Recre- ations," for the last month. I assure you I have not the most distant idea of the writer of the article ; it is printed in a periodical publication, and though I have written a paper (a review of Wordsworth's) which ap- pears in the same work, I am ignorant of every other person concerned in it, even the editor, whose name I have not heard." But whatever the merit of this periodical, its success, principally perhaps through the mismanagement of its publisher, was not such as to remunerate the conductors, and after the eighteenth or nineteenth number it was discontinued. Our author's next periodical first appeared in June, 1808, entitled the " Dramatic Ap- pellant," and was to be published every three months, containing, in each number, three plays, neglected or rejected by mana- Vlll MEMOIR OF gers; each author, on sending his production, to be entitled to three copies of the number which contained his or her piece. Sanguine as the author was respecting the success of his plan — tending to rescue the drama from degeneracy of taste, and its writers from neg- lect or oppression — he was not seconded with that warmth or efficiency which his design so much demanded. " I cannot help think- ing," writes one of his friends, " that your scheme resembles very much the first foun- dation of Rome, into which every discon- tented person was invited to enter, with an assurance of protection ; — had not Romu- lus kept a tight hand over those refractory pirates, they would have done both himself and his design more injury than the common enemy from before whose persecuting arms they simultaneously fled." Cautioning him never to enter as it were single-handed the dramatic field, this monitor adds, after some more remarks, that provided the '* A2:)pel- lant" were likely to involve him (Mr. Roche) in more difficulty, he should advise the latter *' to wash his hands entirely of the under- THE AUTHOR. IX taking." This plain advice he was compelled with great reluctance to follow. Authors did not press forward to support their own cause, whilst the interests of managers were con- cerned in catering for the ephemeral taste of the passing day ; and, last of all, it appeared that the public were indifferent to the abuses of the stage, or undesirous of their reformation. In the beginning of the year 1809, Mr. Roche became connected with a newspaper called " The Day," first as a parliamentary reporter, and subsequently as editor. For- tune seemed to smile on his first efforts in connexion with that journal, and he became a husband. He married a Miss Olivier, a young lady to whom he had been long at- tached, though prudential considerations had prevented their union from taking place at an earlier period. His prospects were soon overcast. Poli- tics ran high, and the disturbances which occurred in 1810, when Sir Francis Burdett was committed to the Tower by order of the House of Commons, gave rise to angry com- MEMOIR OF ment in the newspapers of that tmie. The sokliers, called out to restrain the turbulence of the populace, were said to have mis-con- ducted themselves, and some very severe animadversions on the subject appeared in " The Day/' These were prosecuted by the government, and the editor, printer, and pub- lisher were severally convicted of libel, and sentenced each to a year's imprisonment, the two latter in Newgate, the first in the King's Bench Prison. Those whose experience may have afforded them an opportunity of know- ing the newspaper press, especially where the proprietorship is vested in committees, will be aware of the counteraction to which the ablest of conductors are liable to be exposed, and how rarely the latter are en- trusted with the control of that engine which they are presumed to wield. Responsible irresponsibility in such cases is commonly the pitiable lot of even the most talented editors. That such was, therefore, the pre- dicament of Mr. Roche amidst his compeers, will excite the wonder of those only who ha}»pen to be ignorant of the behind-scene THE AUTHOR. XI work frequently going on in newspaper establishments where there is a diversity of interests. But Mr. Roche, though he suffered as a convicted libeller, was distinctly known and proved on the trial to be in reality as guilt- less as the judge who tried him.* The law held him responsible as editor, but it was clearly shown that he had nothing to do with the writing of the libel, or knew of its exist- ence, and that he never saw it till it Avas in print. The committee who managed the affairs of the paper considered it indispensa- ble that it should appear at a certain hour of the morning, and the printer, to accomplish this object, was authorised to insert what the proprietor gave him, although not seen by the editor. It was in this way that the offensive strictures got into the paper, and for this Mr. Roche, morally innocent, but technically cul- pable, was condemned to, and suffered, one year's confinement. * Even the noble judge who presided at the trial declared that he was not the guilty person, but that, having once incurred the responsibility, he must endure the penalty. Xll MEMOIR OF Exertions of an uncommon kind, ema- nating from the spontaneous zeal of friend- ship, had been made to arrest the severity of the law, and it was expected that such inter- position would not have proved unavailing. It was ardently hoped that the applications made, not only to the Attorney General, but also to the minister, would have succeeded in softening the rigour of his sentence. These expectations were, however, doomed to dis- appointment. Mr. Roche prepared to suffer the visitation, and, " bridling the strong ebul- litions of his spirit," he endured with firm- ness an accumulation of ills. No sooner was the prison closed on him, than he was abandoned by the committee of " The Day." By the interference of friends with the marshal of the King's Bench, Mr. Roche was, however, indulged with such liberty as the rules afforded, for a portion of the time that he was a prisoner. Before the period of his sentence had expired, the privilege was with- drawn, and he was lodged in the state house. This was not in consequence of its having THE AUTHOR. Xlll been in any way abused by Mr. Roche. Never did any man more honourably refrain from passing the prescribed boundary. At the end of one of the streets in the West- minster Road was a post which then marked the limit of the rules. Here he frequently took leave of friends who came to visit him. He placed his foot on the side of the post which was within the rides, and no consideration would have induced him to have gone one step further. While he was in confinement, proceedings were commenced against the paper for an- other libel. This related to a statement of the conduct of a sea-captain towards a female passenger, which was complained of as a gross misrepresentation of facts ; but as it clearly appeared that in this, as in the for- mer instance, Mr. Roche was not the writer of the objectionable article, the prosecutor stayed the proceedings. A weekly paper, called the " National Register," of which Mr. Roche was pro- prietor, had been successfully edited by him XIV MEMOIR OF up to the period of his receiving the sentence of the court of King's Bench. During his incarceration it declined in sale, and even- tually became a losing concern. He not- withstanding continued it for some years in the hope of restoring its former circulation, but the funds requisite for carrying it on pressed too severely on his moderate means, and at length he was induced to sell the copyright of the paper, with the printing materials, to a person of the name of Reg- nier, with whom he had become intimate. Here again Mr. Roche was singularly un- fortunate. In payment for this purchase, Regnier gave him bills, amounting to be- tween £400 and <£500. These bills were forthwith handed over by Mr. Roche to a stationer, in discharge of a debt unavoidably incurred. When the bills became due they \v ere dishonoured, and Mr. Roche was called upon to pay them. Hard as it was for a man with a rapidly increasing family to meet a demand so totally unexpected, Mr. Roche made an arrangement for paying THE AUTHOR. XV principal and interest ; and both, though it was a burden for some years, were honour- ably satisfied. During all this period, Mr. Roche's health was far from good. He suffered severely from an asthma, attended with frequent spit- ing of blood ; but this did not prevent him from again undertaking the laborious duties of a journalist. In August, 181.3, he was em- ployed on the pages of the Morning Post, and shortly afterwards became one of the editors of that paper. To this journal, with which he was connected about fourteen years, he gave up (as he writes to his excellent friend, the Rev. Mr. Shuttleworth) " every hour of his time, and almost every thought of his mind." Indeed the intenseness of his application, and the laboriousness of his duties, pressed severely on a constitution already impaired ; but the effort was made in the cause of his family, and he resolutely persevered, thougli year after year his friends were fearful that his strength would not prove equal to the effort. But notwithstanding he was thus immersed in the uncongenial labours connected with Xvi MEMOIR OF the newspaper press, he did not abjure the muses, to whom in his earlier and happier days he had been, and still continued, devo- tedly attached. His occasional effusions, while his mind must have been so much occupied with matters by no means stimulat- insc to the imaoinative faculties, were neither unfrequent nor destitute of poetic fervour. At one period he turned his attention to dramatic writing, and had an accepted play upon the subject of William Tell, in Drury Lane Theatre, when that edifice was de- stroyed by fire. It was never performed, though subsequently printed in the Dramatic Appellant, with another play by the same author, called " The Invasion." Mr. Roche also wrote the poetry to a volume of French melodies, which were peculiarly distinguished by elegance, spirit, and feeling. During intervals of relaxation from the labours and the turmoil of political conflict, Mr. Roche produced the poem which is now published* in aid of his bereaved and afflicted offspring. * Itwas begun October,an(] finished in the beginiiingof December, 1817. THE AUTHOR. XVll Of this production, as neither criticism nor panegyric is the object of these prefatory remarks, it is only deemed necessary to ob- serve, that it does not go to the press with the advantage of being prepared by its author for that ordeal ; and that it was his declared intention to have made omissions and alte- rations, which doubtless would have im- proved it generally, as well as added refine- ment to its beauties. To resume the thread of the unfortunate author's story. At the commencement of 1827, after a long and distressing illness, attended with great expense, Mrs. Roche died, leaving him with a family of eight children. One less fitted to take upon him- self the worldly cares of such a family could hardly exist. Of him it may truly be said, that he was " In wit a man, simplicity a child." To go into particulars would be tedious ; suffice it to say that his affairs were much deranged, and that to restore something like order and comfort to his family, the protection b Xvill MEMOIR OF and solicitude of a wife was indispensably necessary. In the summer of 1828, he mar- ried a lady of the same name and related to another branch of his family. His friends indulged the hope that this union would have proved most auspicious. The second Mrs. Roche manifested all the anxious care of a real mother for the children of his first wife, and the most perfect domestic harmony con- nected all the members of his house. In the year 1827, Mr. Roche was selected to be the editor of the New Times, formerly the Day, and subsequently metamorphosed into the Morning Journal. It is rather a strange circumstance in the history of the press, that after twenty years Mr. R. should have returned to the editorship of that paper on account of which he had so severely suf- fered. It was made a condition of his ap- pointment to the New Times that he should purchase shares in the property, upon the plea, that the interest he would thus ac- quire in the paper, would be to his co-pro- prietors the best guarantee for the assi- duous application of his talents in the THE AUTHOR. XIX management of it. Here again he siifFered through his unsuspicious nature. He found too late that by indiscreetly purchasing what were termed shares, he had, in fact, rendered himself liable for the debts of a losing con- cern ; and that instead of possessing himself, as he confidently imagined, of that which would yield provision for his children in case of his death, he had mortgaged their inhe- ritance* in exchange for a purchase, which not only swallowed up the amount of his editorial stipend, but also subjected him to a heavy claim. It needs not to be told that he was unconscious of the embarrassments he was about to bring upon himself, in taking the step in question. It was part of the un- derstanding between him and those with whom he dealt upon the occasion, that in case of a vacancy upon the Courier, which was then contemplated, he should be elected the editor of that print. When he became fully sensible of the loss he was sustaining * He actually mortgaged the freehold house in which he lived, to raise funds for the purchase of two twenty- fourth shares, as the stipu- lated condition of his appointment as editor, at a salary which did not cover the quarterly demands upon liim as his share of the losses. b 2 XX MEMOIR OF by his connection with the New Times, he felt anxious to have his services transferred to a concern which he considered would at least afford to pay the stipends of its con- ductors, without tirst drawing the amount out of their own pockets. By often and strenuously representing to his co-proprie- tors the hardship of his situation, observing, that however their ample means (for they were all Avealthy individuals) might enable them to bear the burden, it was neither pos- sible for him to pay, nor just that he, who had never shared the profits, should be taxed to sustain the losses, he was at length allowed to escape from the toils in which he had become entangled. It was arranged that he should give his services for the benefit of the Cou- rier, in which his co-proprietors of the New Times were also embarked. It was still thought necessary to attach the new editor more closely to the interests of the paper, by inducing him to become the holder of a share in it. Accordingly an influential proprietor agreed to transfer a twenty-fourth share to Mr. Roche ; and a contract was actually THE AUTHOR. XXI signed and sealed for the purchase at the price of five thousand guineas. It is fit, however, to state, that he expected to obtain the editorship of the Courier from thus connecting himself with that journal; and to this he eventually succeeded, though not to all the emoluments enjoyed by his predecessors. Had his life been spared he might have been able to fulfil all his engage- ments, and to have provided for his family. Unhappily the distressing embarrassments consequent on the losses he had previously sustained, and on his becoming bail for " a public character" who fled to America, threw him into greater difficulties. His efforts to extricate himself from these, committed him with other parties ; and trembling for the ruin which impended over his family, and expecting each day to be consigned to the grasp of the myrmidons of the law, his con- stitution sunk beneath the struggle, and his poor broken heart found relief and repose in death. It is almost impossible to speak of Mr. Roche in private life without being open to XXll BIEMOIR OF the suspicion of extreme partiality. Mr. Roche was a man whose like is very seldom met with in the busy world. He was humane, benevolent, candid, tolerant, honourable, and confiding to a fault. No one ever sought his assistance or advice in vain ; no one was ever more ready to extend a friendly hand to the literary aspirant, and to cheer him on with friendly encouragement. Some of the bright- est ornaments of English literature are in- debted to him for the fame and success which now crown the talents he fostered. He had the rare art of gaining the friendship and esteem of all with whom he came in contact. There was a charm in his easy, unassuming demeanour, and in his polished conversation, trtdy endearing. He possessed the sincerest friendship of his equals, the good name and affection of his dependants, and the blessings of his poor pensioners. As a father and a husband, Mr. Roche was endued with every qualification to make his partner and his children most happy and respected. They alone who deeply lament the loss of the best of fathers and husbands THt AUTHOR. XXIU can imagine the feelings of grief his death has occasioned to his family, aggravated, most unhappily, by distress and continued disappointment. As a son, Mr. Roche was most dutiful and affectionate. The poem which fol- lows this memoir was dedicated by him to his father in the most pious and Christian- like spirit ; — his letters to his parent do honour to his excellent heart. It was his misfortune to be deprived of his mother at an early age ; yet he never ceased to lament the untimely loss. While in England he thus apostrophises her spirit : — " 'Twas there, my mother, there you sunk in death, Wliile blessings hung o'er thine expiring breath ! Who round thy dust now bids the rose to bloom ? Who greets with filial tears thy lonely tomb ? Parent beloved ! though freed from earthly ties, Thy soul, unfettered, mixes with the skies. Oft still thou deign'st to lower thy towering flight. Still love reveals thee through the realms of night; Thy friendly ghost still hovers round thy son. Screens him from dangers, as thy life had done ; Pours in his breast the strength thyself had given. And whispers to his heart the path to heaven !" As a Christian, Mr. Roche was indeed ex- emplary. Whatever the fatigue occasioned XXIV MEMOIR OF by his laborious duties (and they were nu- merous and dispiriting), however pressing or alluring his engagements, however ab- sorbing his affairs, he never forgot his duty to his Creator ; he never laid his weary head upon his pillow to sleep without first read- ing some portion of the Holy Scriptures, and praying for divine grace. He never quitted his bed-chamber without supplicating on his knees the blessing of the Almighty. Though ever mixing with the noisy bustle of life, inti- mately acquainted with, and in some mea- sure interested in, the contending political factions of the time, Mr. Roche, in his moments of leisure, and in the bosom of his family, was frequently abstracted from the busy world ; his thoughts, his very soul, lost in contemplation of a purer sphere; often would he, during these reveries, break out in exclamations of his desire to be freed from the trammels of earth, and to be with his beloved family in the bosom of eternity. Though in the world, he may be justly said to have been not of the world. Often would he say, he felt as though his soul were im- THE ALTHOR. XXV prisoned in narrow bounds, from which it strove to be emancipated. Impressed with these feelings of religion, we find him, at an earlier period of his life, exclaiming, " Oh, that propitious heaven would pitying send, To guide my lonely youth, a faithful friend. Who to my breast his feelings would impart. And warm, with virtue's flame, my panting heart ! Who, when misfortunes fling their weight of woe, Might to my cheek restore health's cheerful glow ; And while the passing storms of earth annoy. The present veil, and point to future joy !" Such a friend it was the happiness of Mr. Roche to meet in the Rev. Mr. Shuttleworth, a gentleman who, through all the vicissitudes of our author's earthly career, proved himself a generous sympathising friend, and a valued counsellor. Mr. Roche's admiration of, and affection for this excellent and esteemed gen- tleman, could only be equalled by the virtues which excited them. In speaking of the late Mr. Roche, his firm and reverend friend says : — " Mr. Roche, I can testify, was a very extraordinary man. I cannot now expatiate more largely on his character ; but to compress his worth into as XXVI MEMOIR OF few words as may be, I might say, almost without any exaggeration or aftectionate partiality, that he possessed every virtue which could render him a successful can- didate for the glory of heaven, and every talent that could exalt him to a similar emi- nence on earth. His memory, by me, will always be held in the highest respect and admiration." As a friend, Mr. Roche was all that the most sanguine could desire. Eminently gifted with talents to win, and virtues to secure, the affections of all with whom he became acquainted, he was ever the beloved man in all the relations of life. As a hus- band, father, friend, companion, master, or a member of society, he has left few equal- none superior — behind him. One of the most striking peculiarities in the character of the author of this volume, was a forecast or premonition of hostile events, with which he considered himself to be endowed. It is a well ascertained fact, that his feelings were continually excited by the chief battles fought during the closing THE AUTHOR. XXvil scenes of the war between this country and France, and that an engagement seldom took phice of which he failed to have some pre- vious intimation or prescience. Allusion is pointedly made to such anticipations in the lines of his poem of " London in a Thousand Years," commencing — " Spirit that burn'dst vvithin me at my birth." And indeed it seems to have been the ori- ginal intention of the author to have prefixed the following to the poem itself: « Spirit " This address to the Spirit of Second Sight, and the pretensions of the author to a share in its afflicting-, no less than wonderful visitations, will of course be ridi- culed as worthy of a Highland savage, or of a wandering- Arab — gentlemen to whom alone it is granted to see the future in the present without being more laughed at or despised than their purblind neighbours. It therefore requires some courage to suffer such a passage to appear without declaring it to have been written ' in imitation of legendary bards.' But to proclaim it the effusion of real feelings — to contend that the writer describes only what he has experienced, and that it is possible for civilized man, in the midst of active occupations or XXVIU MEMOIR OF social enjoyments, to feel his spirit suddenly oppressed by a dark sense of momentous events passing at a dis- tance, demands more than courage, and little less than audacity." The same feeling is also expressed in the following Stanzas, found among his unpub- lished MSS. Spirit ! that on mine ear dost pour The thunder of the distant battle, And when around me calm is spread, And nature smiles, and man, in social bands Of amity and love, leads happy hours, Tear'st, as a fragile veil. The present from mine eyes, And lay'st the dark remote, The storm, the blood, the flame, the wreck of war, Bare to my shrinking sight ! — When shall thy visions wear The blessed hue of peace ! Spirit ! though terrible thy joys, I bid thee not forbear ; Though dread, 'midst dreams of bliss, the peal that tells The root of joy is cut for thousands fur. And all her bloom hangs withered o'er their grave ! Yet let me hear that peal. E'en when it bursts, whilst man, Late wakened, startles at its dying notes : — For then the racking pangs Of anxious fear shall cease; And woe, full known, less terrible than doubt, Shall press with lighter weight On mine unburthened heart ! THE AUTHOR. XXIX He was endowed most remarkably with that poetic prescience which, in the dispen- sation of intellect, is allotted to but very few, and which, combined (as it was most peculiarly in him) with religion, seems to approximate nearest to inspiration. Contem- plation of immortality was his delight. Never was his spirit so felicitous as when, emanci- pated from the shackles of mere terrestriality, it soared far beyond its earthly sphere, and reposed, as it were, within the temple s vail. *' Of this gentleman," says a contemporary journal, opposed to him in politics, " we now speak as of one who has been called into a state of existence where no matters of tem- porary concernment are allowed to enter. And of him we may truly say, that if a life of simple and unaffected goodness, if great suavity of manners, and great sweet- ness of temper, joined to a constant and un- remitting desire of contributing to the hap- piness of all with whom he came in contact, — if these, heightened as they were in the deceased with no inconsiderable scholarship, and an understanding and fancy neither un- XXX MEMOIR OF enlightened nor languid, may be supposed to mark the fitting tenant for such a sphere, the late Eugenius Roche was indeed possessed [ of all fitness. We have sometimes spoken / severely of the editor of ' The Courier,' but ' it was of the political abstraction of which ' we spoke — not of the man, who, during a lapse of more than twenty years that he was connected with the journals of London, never gained an enemy, nor lost a friend." Mr. Roche departed this life on the 9th of November, 1829, leaving a widow and nine children, eight of them by his former wife, as we have already mentioned. The widow has no means of maintaining them. She has made their cause her own — she considers herself but one of Mr. Roche s family, and the most exemplary efforts have been made by her to save them from that extremity of poverty with which they are menaced. As yet her endeavours have been of little avail ; but it is hoped that this publication will prove the means of rallying round the standard of humanity the friends of the deceased, to con- tribute in all the various ways which their THE AUTHOR. XXXI kindness and experience may suggest, to mitigate this severe calamity. If genius — if benevolence and domestic worth, can move sympathy, this simple appeal in behalf of Mr. Roche's family will not have been made in vain. LINES TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE EUGENIUS ROCHE, ESQ. BY MR. CHARLES HARDCASTLE FREEMAN. " I saw him faint ! — I saw iiim sink to rest ! Like one oiflained to swell tlie vnlgar tlirong ; As tho' tlie virtues liad not warni'd his breast, As tho' the Muses not inspired his tongue." Shbnstone. Wliat ! not one bard to pen tli' elegiac line, To tell that virtue, goodness,— all were tliine ? Where are the men thy generous voice hath praised? Where are the bards thy friendly care hath raised ? Did they desert thee with thy fleeting breath ? Perished thy memory with thy body's death ? Oh, no ! — in other hearts it lives, to liloom More bright and fragrant, springing from thy tomb. Unhappy Roche! — Yet wherefore mourn thee dead? Thy sinless soul from its frail mansion fled, In heaven seeks its home and place of rest, And mingles with the spirits of the blessed. 'Tis not thy death excites the frequent tear — A refuge from thy wrongs and sorrows here — No ; 'tis the loss of all most dear on earth. Thy true benevolence ; thy friendship, — worth ; Thy generous heart — thy pure, exalted mind ; Thy winning graces ; manners meek, — refined ; Tliy genius, taste, and piety sincere ; Thy Christian virtues— all that could endear ! — Oh, when this varied life is closed for me. May I depart as pure, — prepared like thee ! — By all admired;— by ev'ry friend adored; — Thy virtues cited, and thy loss deplored ! July 22. ORIGIN OF THE POEM. Strange as it may appear, particularly to tlie Rig-lit Honourable Gentleman,* the first idea of this poem was given to the author by the present Chancellor of the Exchequer ! — not, indeed, in the confidence and inter- course of private friendship, for such never existed be- tween them, but in fair open political debate. Tlie glories of Waterloo are probably not yet forgotten, nor the exulting cry raised at the time, that nations had re- covered their freedom ! It will certainly be remem- bered that, shortly after, Mr. Vansittart applied to parliament for a sum of money to erect a monument in honour of our warriors, and of the deliverance of Europe. As matters have turned out, the latter part of his motion would have been more correct had he worded it, " the * Mr. Viiusittiut, now Lord Bcxley. c XXXIV ORIGIN OF THE POEM. deliverance of sovereig'ns from the necessity of regarding their own promises, and respecting their people's rights ;" but as only a few wise men at the time ventured to doubt the word of monarchs, and neither the house nor the country expected or required much accuracy on that point from the Right Honourable Chancellor, a trifling vote of £300,000 was passed, and every blockhead set about planning the monument which he thought most cal- culated to do credit to his brains, and to strike posterity with wonder. Amongst the rest, the imagination of the author of the present work was not idle ; it toiled and troubled, and troubled and toiled, till in a state of com- plete effervescence, it suddenly turned round, and con- founded him with the following question : — " Suppose London destroyed in a thousand years, what monuments would remain to tell posterity that it was once the capital of a great nation?" He had no sooner recovered from his confusion, than he began a beggarly enumeration of bridges, which are already mouldering away ; of pillars, not yet erected, or which the safety of passengers re- quired should be taken down, from an original vice in their construction ; of churches, with Grecian porticos and Gothic steeples, like harlequin's cap stuck on the head of Hercules; of new parks, planted with seedlings, oniGIN OF THE POEM. XXXV whicli might become trees by the time the empire is dissolved; of palaces, which in other countries would scarcely be deemed gentlemanly hotels ; of new streets, whose Roman-cement colonnades will, in a few years, strew the ground like fragments of ice and snow after a thaw. All this was not very satisfactory. He had some inclination to rest his hopes on the theatres ; but he had seen so many generations of them reduced to ashes, that he could but little trust in their durability. He thought of St. Paul's, but its wooden dome was not likely to resist the assaults of so many ages. He dwelt, with melancholy complacency, on Westminster Abbey ; but it had been rebuilt six times in twelve centuries : how, then, could it survive ten more, if there were no hands to re-edify its ruins ! Dissatisfied with the result of his enquiries — with the littleness of a great people, that fills the earth with its power, its wealth, and its pre- tensions, and leaves its home naked of national gran- deur ; still more irritated against his own imagination, which had led him such a fruitless round by its imperti- nent questionings, he as suddenly determined to revenge himself, and imposed upon her, as a penance, the task of describing London as it may be in a thousand years. Hence it is clear, according to the chain of ideas, aiul XXXVl ORIGIN OF THE POEM. the host of possibilities, that if the French monarchy had not been founded by Pharamond, and overthrown by Robespierre ; if Napoleon had not ascended the imperial throne, wasted his force in Russia, retired to Elba, regained his crown, and lost it again at Waterloo; if our troops had not been heroes, and Mr. Vansittart Chancellor of the Exchequer, no monument would have been proposed, no £300,000 voted, no imagination set on fire, and no poem like the present written, — " a con- summation," will many of its readers perhaps exclaim, on closing the book, " most devoutly to have been wished." LONDON IN A THOUSAND YEARS. " How doth the city sit solitary th;it was full of people ! — how is she become as a widow!— she that was i;ieat among the nations, ami princess among the provinces, how is she become tributary ! " She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks; among all her lovers she hath none to comfort her : aU her friends have dealt treacherously with her ; they are become her enemies. " Her gates are sunk into the ground ; He hath destroyed and broken her bars : the mountain of Zion is desolate; the foxes walk upon it." — Jeremiah's L.amentations. Hill of the spring*!* — I love thy gentle SAvell, When all the freshness of the dawn is on thee, And on thy verdant brow the primrose spreads Her earliest bloom to heaven. The vallies round Slumber in mist ; and as the rising gale Drives the white vapours, sudden vistas gleam * Primrose Hill. B LONDON Of fields and blossomed hedges, seen and lost As moving pictures from tli' enchanted eye. Silence is also thine, save when on high, Stirred by the passing gust, thine aged trees Mingle their rustling tops, and utter voices As spirits in a dream. Hill of the spring ! I love thee in thy loneliness, ere man Hath climl)ed thy dewy sides, and with his breath Tainted thine air. And yet 'twas lovely, too, When summer's sun glowed milder from the west. And clothed thee in red glories, to behold Thy summit wreathed with maidens robed in snow With hearts of innocence and looks of joy. Playing and bounding like wild antelopes On some sequestered mount, while crouching near The hunter views their sports and marks his prey. But I, no hunter of the trusting fair. Amid the blooming virgins stood, and smiled To see them crowding round, thoughtless of ill. And therefore dreading none ; or rushing down In playful races, whilst thy echoing top Rung to their parting feet, and many a glance, IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 3 Reverted, sought whether unmarked they fled, Or unregretted. Vanished are those scenes. And once more in thy solitude thou standest, TwUight and silence seated on thy brow. And wherefore shoidd I wake and break thy calm, As some unholy wizard casting round His spells, while Nature sleeps, and smiling dreams Delude his fellow-men ? No storm hath roused My spirit from its slumbers — all is peace ; And as I trod Augustus' streets they seemed As silent as thy vallies. Yet a voice, Heard by the soul alone, upbraided deep My heedless sloth, a flame was at my heart, A thrilling through my frame, and thoughts arose Within my troubled mind, that were not mine. And breathed not of the earth. I have obeyed — Spirit, whoe'er thou art, that cam'st on man A terror and a rapture, making all His strength a trembling, and his glory shame — I have obeyed. But wherefore came I forth. Unless to meet thee in the loneliness. And learn my task of thee ? But thou hast fled, n 2 4. LONDON And left me as the lisflitnins: leaves the cloud — Dark lowering still, ])ut drained of all its flames. And now the morn advances ! In the east A light blush deepens, till with living gold The sky o'erflows ; and yonder star, that blazed In glory o'er my head, now shrinking fast Into a diamond sparkle, seems to mount Sublimer from the earth, and melt in heaven. Day glares, and fancy's magic veil is rent ; The illusion vanishes ; the desert flies ; And once more near the haunt of men I stand; And thou a rural mound, to crown their M^alks With smiling prospects of delight and pride, Risest in beauty 'mid the fragrant bloom Of cultivated fields. See, wrapped in light As with a vestment, Hampstead's woods appear, Topped by her tapering spire, and winding round Her breezy heights, save where in snowy pomp The scattered villas glisten through the beam Which shoots above them. Mark yon humbler hill ; No aged oak is there, or rising elm, To give it feeble shade, and in the gale IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 5 Wake the wild melody that poets love. It is the traitors' hill ; its double brow Yields but a stunted grass, as though the soil Still felt the pressure of their traitor-feet, Who, breathless with their fears and hopes, in gloom, In midnight gloom, each by his courser's side, Reins loose in hand, stood silent as the grave, To watch the sudden bursting flame on high Spread wreck and conflagration, Mdiilst the peal, Destined to rend a capital, proclaimed His throne a ruin, and the land a widow — Her monarch and her senate swept at once ! But vainly did they listen, watch, and w^onder, And hope, and tremble, till the twilight gleam Revealed th' unbroken city's sleep — then leaped Each on his rushing courser, and diverse Fled to the quartered winds. With loftier port See Highgate lift her terraced brow — the seat Of civic ease and revelry ; behold Her rifted bosom, and her giant arch ; Armed with the strength of earthquakes, man has rent The rooted hill asunder, whilst his art 6 LONDON Has joined the parted tops, and where beneath The buried sea-shell stiffened into stone And waters slept in darkness, dashes now The gilded chariot or the bounding steed ; Whilst high above, with slow and heavy roll, Crashes the heavy wain. And, hark ! afar What lowings hail the morn, with bleatings mixed, And all the melody of herds and flocks. Swelling and sinking on the varying breeze. Where is the shepherd's pipe, with plaintive note, To join th' instinctive hummings ? — or the song That lightly carols while the heifer yields Her streaming treasure to the milk-maid's hand ? The shepherd's pipe is in the distant vale; The milk-maid's song is mute, or sounds afar Where all is tuned to gentleness and joy ; — For yonder mingling murmurs, though they rise Sweet to the listening ear, are the last wail Of victims numberless, o'er-driven and faint With toil and hunger, penned in barren folds, Or dragging 'neath the lash their tortured limbs, To perish on thy altars, Babylon ! — IN A THOUSAND YEARS. And glad thy Molocli appetite, O grave Of countless lives !— that ever yawn'st for prey And fattenest on blood, on daily blood ; Rejoice, for thousands still are pouring forth To feed thine over growth, and thousands more Are rising in thy nursery ; the earth, The air, the sea, are thine ; each element Pays thee death-tribute, and thou sitt'st in joy, Devouring all till thy devourer come. Oh, that the blood of lambs and oxen might Appease thy ravening ! — but 'tis tasteless now. Thou hast drunk at thy fount, and for a feast Nations must bleed ; and yet, who saw thee shine In all the pomp of morn, thy temples bright With heaven's own glories, and thy host of spires Each as a golden arrow in the sky ? — Who viewed thy palaces, thy marts, and traced Earth's navies in thy bosom, would not pause Ere he pronounced thee cursed of thy God, The sister of the fallen, soon to fall ? Who would not rather, with the prophet's voice, Take up thy burthen, and with tears and ashes 8 LONDON Invoke thy pity on thyself, and cry — Repent ! — the day's at hand, the Lord's great day, When all the terrible of earth shall come, And, as a potter's vessel, break thy strength : Repent ! — thy bridegroom's voice is still within thee, The bridegroom's voice is passing vt^itli the bride's. Repent ! — thy light shall cease, thy mill-stone rest, And desolation in thy courts shall dwell ! But thou would'st not believe him ; for thou sayest, I sit a queen, and fear no sorrows ; earth Is at my feet ; mine arm is on the seas ; I've toiled, and fought, and won the battle — who Shall wrest the conqueror's thunder from his grasp ? And truly thou art great, and thou hast done Exploits, and magnified thyself above All thrones and all dominions ; — thou art great. But art thou pure ? — and have thy noble deeds Been worked in truth and sanctity of heart ? Or, with the name of justice on thy lips, Was selfishness thine aim, and hast thou walked Tlie ways accurst of dark hypocrisy ? IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 9 I see thee in thy greatness, queen of cities ! Stretching afar thy giant-arms that hurl Fair Nature from her throne, and where fields smiled In vernal loveliness, and hedges hung Their snowy wreaths, gemmed with the wild-rose bloom, Or streamlets played beneath the light of heaven Reflecting every star — I see the broad Interminable street its length expand Of stony barrenness. On either side, In social order, towers the mansioned pride Of thy unsocial children. Neighbour there Scarce hears his neighbour's name ; and if they meet, 'Tis in the crowded rout, where all are heaped And none are seen, save by the wandering glance Of vanity, and not affection's gaze. There vice is in her bloom ; th' adulterer there Pours in the wedded ear his poisonous love, And withers as he lights the faithless heart. There, honour on his lips, and in his breast The robber's lust, the gamester steals from youth. Not useless gold, his fortune, and his fame, 'Twere empty dross ! — but spoils more precious far — 10 LONDON His innocence of soul, that conscious pulse Of high integrity, his fathers' guide Through their long race of honour, now his bane. The sting that arms remorse, but not recalls His vanished virtue. There the flatterer sits, A meaner gambler still, whose traffic lies In hollow words, to win the grace of fools. And then proclaim their folly to the world. There slander moves, and with feigned sorrow tells The shame of friends, invented, or if true, Basely betrayed, though fenced with sacred oaths ! There all the passions sweep from street to street Their train — disease, dishonour, and despair. There avarice robs himself; — a dastard — else A public robber too ! Extortion rends The bed from starving widows and their babes. And parish charity, to spare a grave, Against the sick and helpless bars the door. And thinks she does not murder whom she kills ! Wait till the evening hour, an ambush lies In every street, beneath the very porch. There painted loathsomeness awaits thy coming. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 11 To blast thee with pollution. Alone In midnight gloom, forsaken of his God, Whom he deserted first, unseen of man, Who'd mock his woe — here, the lost hopeless wretch, With stiffening hands and short convulsive breath, Lifts to his burning lips the deadly draught, Or draws with frenzied grasp the tightening cord ; Or with a hurried touch and starting eye. Shoots the swift ball, and leaps from mortal pains To meet immortal wrath ! There, lovely still — Her gaze fixed hopeless on th' unopening door, Through which no lover, mother, sire shall pass, Nor e'en a stranger steal, to view her charms Stretched nerveless to the unpitying walls, and moist Her fevered lip, or shield her freezing limbs. And to her spirit breathe of rest to come — Seduction's wan and wasted victim pours Her last faint sob in prayer, and dies forgiven ! And 'tis for this we form our social bands ! And 'tis for this the living earth is crushed With huge and pond'rous masses, giant halls Of human dwarfs ! And 'tis for this we drive, 12 LONDON As felons, health and nature from our gates, Till half the land becomes a crowded town, Impure with foetid breaths and strewed with graves ! Grow, Babylon, rejoicing in thy might ! Let thy proud heart be lifted to the sky ! Sunshine is on thy walls — thy temples rise, Decked with the trophied banners of thy foes. And rich with heroes' dust, whose spirits guard The glories they have won : the sound of toil, The dash of gilded cars, the busy stir, The wandering minstrels' choir, the mariner's cry, The levee's martial flourish, and the shout Of multitudes — are on thy winds : thy streets Are thronged with wondering nations, who to thee, As to the altar of their goddess, bring The offerings of the earth : thy name is feared By all the tongues and kindreds of a world. And thou art thought a marvel — for the storm Hath passed, but smote thee not ; and thou art called A lasting city and a refuge. Drink Thy fill of joy, of glory, and of power ! Highest, thou can'st not higher rise, but stand IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 13 Eternal as thou art, that rolling ages May perish round thy greatness, as the winds That idly breathe upon thy palaces, And die in harmless murmurs round their walls. I said and gazed ; and as I gazed, a sleep| Fell on my soul, and times passed by. At length. Afar and dim, as through a shadowy dream, Gigantic forms 'gan move : a stir of war Rose from the troubled land ; a sound of flight Rushed and was lost; and from th' advancing mist A voice of multitudes was sent to heaven, As the great waters when their spirit roars. Gloom rolled on gloom, until the imperial city. That sat as queen, and said, " No sorrow comes," Was robed in night, and through her palaces Shook to her deep foundations, whilst the moan Of failing hearts was poured along her streets, And melted all within her : for her crimes Had come within remembrance, and on her Th' Almighty bent his wrath. All earth and heaven Were silent now, as though creation slept. Or life had never been ; while the thick horror Settled and thickened still, till pillared clouds 14 LONDON Joined earth and heaven. Then 'mid the darkness flashed Th' avenging angel, as a rushing flame ; Earth thundered from her womb, and heaved in waves, And, 'mid the crash of falling towers, a cry, As of a whole expiring people, burst. And all was hushed ! Then broken moans arose. And quivering sank, and long and low the wail Of desolation murmured, fainting still As closed the sufferers' pangs in death. The laugh Of loud derision, and exulting pride ; The taunts of mingled tongues, that bade the fallen Rise and redeem her spoils ; the strife of men Sharing their prey, tumultuous swelled awhile. Then, loud the trumpet blew : the clash of arms, The tramp of feet, the dash of war-steeds, mixed With the wild flapping of a thousand banners. Passed by me like a tempest, whilst behind The desolation gave one mighty echo, And then was still for ever ! Ages rolled In storm and sunshine o'er me, and I lay Beneath the dews of heaven, a living dream, IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 15 That saw not with the eye, and with the ear Heard not, but with the spirit understood. The desert darkened round, and in its strength Flourished the wilderness. The wild fox rushed Through tangled forests, where the lamb had browsed ; And the deep voice of waters rose in wrath, Where golden fields had waved. Once, once I heard A human voice — some venturous traveller's call Of wonder, as, far wandering from the world, He met the mighty ruin, and revolved Who could have built, and reigned, and mouldered there. Amid the trackless desert ! But his tongfue Was one of other lands, and other sounds Unkindred to the past, and soon was lost In distance, whilst he sped to tell his tale Of new-discovered cities to a world Incredulous and wondering at his daring. At length a sound of mystic power arose, A sound of earlier days ; at whose approach My youthful heart would beat, my nerves would thrill, My soul would melt in melancholy dreams, Pleasing though sad, and all my spirit flow 16 LONDON In plaintive melodies. 'Twas autumn's sigh, Breathing enchantment througli all living things, And passing as a blessing o'er the desert — 'Twas as though one from heaven breathed upon me. I stood and felt the undulating gale Move romid me like a fragrant bath. I gazed, And saw the quivering leaf, with mingled hues, Fall frequent from an arch of woven boughs, That gently shook and rustled o'er my head; The scent of fading nature, sweeter still Than all the vernal roses, floated round. And through the waving shade the glowing sky Poured a warm tint of glory. Now the breeze Expired; o'er earth, and woods, and air, and sky, Sat deep repose, as though creation held Her breath in rapture. Kneeling I adored Him, who was heard in stillness, seen and felt In solitude, whose fulness was around. And in whose present Deity I plunged, As in an ocean boundless, fathomless ! Refreshed, though sad in soul, I sloM'ly trod IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 17 Th' accumulated leaves, that sunk beneath My footsteps' pressure ; and throug-h tangled briars, That wreathed witli living fence my bower of rest, I urged my way, whilst clashing boughs, where still Some snowy blossoms 'mid the darkening berries Smiled in wild loveliness, with thorny grasp Grappled and vainly battled with my strength. Hill of the primrose meek, how changed art thou ! The briar is thy garment, and the forest. New from thy sister's humbler top descried, Sits as a cloud of darkness on thy brow. And thou, proud Babylon, where lies thy grave ? Is it a chasm in nature, deep and wide As thy iniquities ? Or dost thou still Lift to the earth a banner in thy ruins, Thy monuments of grandeur and of shame, To tell her what thy crimes have made thee now ? Alas ! I sweep in vain thy vast expanse ; Nature hath covered thee, and thrown her M^oods, Her own green mantle, o'er thy nakedness ! Yet where the fire of heaven yon oaks have scathed, Amid the blasted tops methinks I view c 18 LONDON Some lofty pillars' heads. I know tliem well ; I saw them rise beneath thy children's hands ; And they did stay the thunder, for they bore A temple* to the Most High ; and awhile, Beneath its arched roof, amid the swell Of choral voices, or in silent prayer, His name was duly honoured ; but the flood Of thy iniquities has all engulfed, And e'en God's dwelling is a lonely wreck ! Oh, let me seek its portals, and amid The silent courts and broken altars, pour The anthem of the desert, giving still A voice to desolation ! I am come ! My step is on thy heaps — my call hath waked Thy slumbering echoes, as though all thy wastes Thrilled at th' approach of life, and heaved with joy To feel a living breath within them ! - Peace ! From thy wrecked altars and unpeopled courts, Come, let me plead with thee, proud Babylon ! * MaiT le Bone ('hurdi. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 19 Say not within thy heart — The wrath that smote Fell on me as the lightning- on the oak, And strewed my branches round unwarned, untried. — Thou hadst thy warning ! Did not monarchs come Into thy bed of lust, and drink with thee The cup of fornication ? Did not arms Stand on thy part awhile, and nations give Their strength into thy hands, until thou sat'st, 'Mid tongues and multitudes, as on great waters, And lived'st deliciously ? Did not the sound Of earthquakes circle thee unharmed, and plagues, Famine, and war pass round thee as a dream ? Thou hadst thy warnings when thy loveliest died* — Died in her morning beauty, and the spring Of all her bliss ; while to her raptured sight Life was an opening Eden, and her heart. Warm with connubial joys, thrilled wilder still With all a mother's wakening love and fears For him, th' unborn, who in her bosom found His cradle and his grave ! Thy thousands breathed Prayers for their best beloved, and eager hope * Princess Charlotte. (• 2 20 " LONDON Hailed her the parent of a race of kings, Mightiest amongst the mighty. Every ear Ached for the joyous peals, that, sent at once From all thy towers, would thunder forth to heaven Earth's welcome to her monarch. Every hand Twined wreaths of gladness to adorn his cradle. And every heart its hymn of prayer essayed. — No joyous peal was rung, no sun-beam shone ! Heaven, like a pall of darkness, hung in clouds And wept appalling tears. At length a voice Of lamentation came, and all was woe ! — For she was loved ; and though no crown she wore, She had a throne in every feeling heart — A brother's, father's, sister's sorrow there Bled, as though nature's closest ties were rent, And every breast were widowed of its love ! Thou hadst thy warnings — but thine eyes were closed. Thy shepherds slept : the warder's horn was still, Whose blast might wake thy spirit for the strife ; Thy prophets had no dreams, or told them not, To be thy pride's derision and thy scorn. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 21 The flatterer's A'oice M^as in thine halls — thine ear, Filled with th' enchanting lay, loathed other sounds, And called for more delusion, till thy heart, Drunken with lies and fancied wisdom, soared Beyond the Assyrian's, and thou wert a god Unto thyself ! Then were thy branches rent. Proud cedar ! — and the birds that nestled there, The beasts that lived beneath thy shade, were slain ; And thy deep roots were shaken from the earth. To rot and moulder 'neath the dews of heaven. Alas ! that I should see thee, when the wrath Hath burnt upon thee ; and each wreck I tread Still bears the seal of an avenging God ! Yon gaped the giant street.* Each palace there Was wealth's or grandeur's dwelling — thoughts of woe Were banished from the threshold ; and the sound Of revelry, the pomp of titled crowds. The ball's magnificence, and sports of masks. The concert's mingled peals, in ceaseless round, Filled all the busy hours of vacant hearts. * Portland Place. 22 LONDON How silent now, luxurious fanes ! — how low, Ye lofty mansions of the loftiest once ! The grass e'en covers you ! Your caves profound Have SAvallowed up your greatness, and still yawn Insatiable, whilst bending o'er the chasm Where in dark order once, like serried files, Your iron fences reared their spiky heads, The dwarf thorn spreads his aged boughs, that wave In melancholy murmurs to the wind. What are yon hollow glens, that seem the beds Of perished torrents — strewed with shattered rocks, And spots of creeping verdure ; and the leaves Thickening in light brown heaps of spreading larch And stretching oak, whose wild entangled boughs Meet from opposing banks — whilst towers above The pine's dark pyramid, or rustling low, Though winds are hushed, the Caledonian fir Spreads out its graceful head and tufts of green, Lightened with many a silvery tint. Not here Have wintry floods in devastation rolled. And ploughed their mighty channels through the land j IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 23 No torrents' beds are these. Man's toil had scooped The valleys, for the highways of his pride : And they have borne him long, stone-bound and firm, As though no vegetative earth beneath Heaved with repressed births. Man's art had reared Yon banks of hills, his dwellings once, the seat Of all his comforts, all his dearest joys — The joys of home — but not of all his follies, His vices, or his crimes. These soared beyond, And made him, and his glory, like a morn That had no noon or evening ! Man is passed. And Nature conquers now. The pavement's breadth — Raised and disjointed, first by tufts of grass, That spread, and wild round each untrodden stone Wove a low verdant wreath — now lies concealed Beneath the soil of ages. Herb and flower, Briar and tree, in crowded generations, Have bloomed and perished o'er the buried mass That sunk still deeper as the desert rose. The towering fabrics tottering long, and pierced By all the tempests of the changing skies, Now echoing with the fall of moiddering beams, 24 LONDON Now shaken by the crash of roofs, and riven, Now toppling down in thunder, wall o'er wall, Unsightly heaps ! — and this to earth resolved, And planted by the pitying winds with seeds Of mightiest growths, are clad in waving shades, And forest majesty, where Nature rules, Throned on a thousand hills, in sway supreme ; And solitude, slow blotting from the earth Man's frail remembrances ! A cloud mounts swiftly from the sultry south — The fragment of a storm. Its bosom lowers ; Its broken edge is fire ; it cleaves the air As tlie dark wing of seraph half revealed, And bent on utmost speed ; and as it passes. In hail and lightning, from its inmost womb Deep thunders utter voices, as though heaven Commimed in tempest with the desolation That sends through all her wastes a low response, Sealed by the mystic voice ! The moving gloom Hath melted in the sunbeams. He hath passed — Th' accusing Angel ; and the desert smiles IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 25 In all tlie radiance of fresh-sprinkled dews. Deep were the tossings of your proudest heads When the peal burst, and rolled along your summits, Ye dark unwoven woods !* — and the fierce shower Smote thick your withering- foliage to the earth. You clashed and struggled, as a thousand waves In conflict with the winds. Now, as I move Through your entangled bosom, all is still — So still, that in the momentary calm The pulses of my heart, grown audible, Make living music. Even the rooks have fled, That built so high, amid your nodding tops, Their dark aerial hamlets ; and with hoarse Resounding clamour, and the strife of wings. Bred a perpetual tumult in the air. — Ye were the haunts of pleasure, and beneath Your verdant arches, 'mid the roar of feasts. The blazing cyphers, and the swell of voices. And hidden minstrelsy, earth's monarchs ledf The dance triumphal ; or in purple tides Drank fleeting abdication of their crowns, * St. James's Park. t Carlton House festivities. 26 LONDON Their sense and minds, till children might have chained The lords of nations. Guests of humbler shape Now revel at your feet. The toad sucks there His venomed store, whilst wreathing round your trunks, Or rustling 'mid the fallen leaves, the snake Hisses astonished at my footfall's sound. Or tosses high his head, and, darting on me A glance of fire, shoots forth his forked tongue With fierce though vain hostility. I now Have passed your ancient bounds, and still ye deepen, Glooms of the desert ! — where the formal park Stretched its long arched walks, that seemed, though broad, To shrink and close in distance. Now the soil, Elastic, and with reeds gigantic armed. Trembles beneath my foot. Here waveless spread Your mirror-prisoned waters, doomed to sleep In everlasting calm ! Yet once I saw* Your bosom sparkling with the sportive oars Of shallops numberless, by youth elanced, * Celebration of the centenary of the House of Brunswick, on the first of August, 1814. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 27 And studded thick with beauty ; whilst around, 'Mid tents and floating- banners, wreaths of light. And tables breathing sweets of flowers and fruit. And smiles and laughs, and peals of melody Mounting from secret bowers, and sudden flights Of flaming arrows through th' enkindled sky. On all your banks the glittering throng im rolled Its moving multitudes ; — now gazing o'er The blazing arch your trembling crystal gave With sister brightness ; now, through depths of heaven, Following with untired eye the lessening orb That sprung from earth, and bore amid the stars Man's daring dust ; now listening to the roar Of volleyed cannons, and Mdien the sanguine smoke. Starred by the flashes of the bursting bomb. Had slow revolved away, hailing with shouts The tall majestic fane, that blazed upon them With all its painted visions, all its flags Waving in triumph, and its sculptured heroes Guarding with stern defiance the frail peace They conquered but in vain ! By me thou stood'st, My brother, at that glowing hour ! — but now 28 T.ONDON United still in spirit ; though between Thy dust and mine seas, lands, and times, have thrown Their billoM^s, and their mountains, and their tombs. And parted all in us that was not deathless. My heart is faint, for I have thought on hours That should have slept, my brother, till we met Above the fragments of a perished world ! My heart is faint, and scarce with languid eye I seek the faded seats of other dreams. For they were dreams to me — and frailer still ! The desert lifts no beacon ! — Hast thou failed, Elm* of the towering port, that spread'st thy branches In solitary grandeur, and with shade. As with a cloud, darkened the radiant files That stretched, or closed, advanced, retired, or wheeled In gay parade around thee ; whilst on high Rose fife and drum, and mimic war gave all Her voices to the winds. Memorial dear Of storm, of infancy, and innocence. How hath thy beauty withered, and thy place Forgotten thee — her glory and her pride ! * Elm on the parade in St. James's Park. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 29 Fleet as a broken host, the winter's rack Flew scattered through the sky ; the waters heaved, Blast rushed on blast tumultuous ; and I stood To view the mighty strife of winds and clouds, And on the tempest-chariot send my spirit. Amidst the clash of waters and of Avoods, Methought a cry fell on my troubled ear ; It sunk, and rose, and mingled with the storm. I looked, and saw thee battling in thy might ; Thy tough roots grappled earth, thy head was bent. And all thy groaning branches, backward tossed. Lashed thy firm trunk. A child was at thy foot. Dashed rudely by the tempest, and in tears. Alone, and wildly grasping thee, who seem'd'st To nod in ruin o'er her fragile form. The helpless and the mighty, struck at once ! I bore her in mine arms ; her blue eyes smiled ; The whirlwind raved around us, but she felt A saving hand, and the loud whirlwind's howl Was melody ; her blue eyes smiled — her voice Breathed artless gratitude. A mother's arms Enclasped her wanderer back — a mother's tears 30 LONDON Thanked, chid, and blessed — and thou alone remain'd'st To tell me she had been — and thou art gone That seem'd'st eternal ! Frailer still than man's Are then the noblest works of nature grown ? No ! they have life within them, and their wrecks Are but the wombs whence youthful generations Spring in continual round. Man's works are dead, And barren as the grave. They moulder long, And strew the earth with ruins ; but no shoot Springs from the scattered heaps and blackened stones Their splendours to restore ! Even thine are sunk. Receptacle of glory !* — where the land, As in her sacred heap, collected all Her honoured dust, and e'en o'er vacant tombs Raised imaged forms, and graved the mighty names That made her peerless through the realms of earth — How art thou fallen ! Sebert's awful pile, With all thy graves about thee ! — living hands Might fail to guard, but could they e'er destroy thee, God's temple and the sepulchre of ages ? So liglitly ])eautiful, sublimely grand, * Westmiiistei- Abbey. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 31 That time e'en smote thee with a softened wing, Investing thee with darkness as a robe Of shadowy majesty ! Why rose they not In wrath and terror from their outraged tombs — Thy buried monarehs, sages, warriors, bards, Whose relies strewed thy bosom, and whose fame Spread like a rampart round them ? Saw they not The shining of thy flames ? Could they not hear Thy hideous crash, when towers, and fretted aisles, And roof, and battlements, fell mingling down In one vast thundering ruin ? They were still — They knew thy doom — their deeds perhaps had s\vclled And hurried on the storm, though called on earth Wisdom, fair policy, true glory ; names That gild and hide pollutions. And they saw. Above the multitude of gathered nations. An arm in vengeance stretched ; an arm of might. That smites, and there is none to lift — that opes, And none can close ! How desolate art thou. Receptacle of glory ! — scarce above Thy dark and furzy heaps, in broken rows 32 LONDON And heights unequal, scattered fragments heave Their stunted heads, moss-clad, or thinly crested With pale leucoium, where, in airy lightness, Like bundled arrows shooting to the sky, Sprung the tall pillars, each a grove of shafts. Round, slender, and elanced, that spread aloft In bending shoots, and bore with magic strength Arch over arch suspended, till amid The vaulted roof they wreathed in flowers, and hung In fretted cones. How oft I've paced at eve Thy lonely cloisters ; with a musing eye Bent on the graves beneath, and seeking slow. Amid the mouldering tables of the past. What names survived the dust I pressed, with tread Not impious nor unfeeling ! Light would fade As generations had, but still 'twas sweet To wander 'mid the dead, and bid them live In fancy's dream ; to light again their hearts With passions long extinct, and people earth With hopes and fears fresh budded from the grave. Anon thy swelling vespers, deep and "wdld IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 33 Pealed through the murm'ring vaults, as if the voices Of all thy buried generations rose, And in one mighty anthem rolled to heaven ! Farewell ! thy voice is now the desert wind, And the wild clash of waters, as they chafe And shake yon deep-rent towers, thy rivals once In splendour, now in ruin. Westminster ! I saw thee as I then thoucrht in thine ag-e, Hoary and cleft without, and dark within, Thy guard of monarchs crumbling into dust ; Or if on some lone pedestal, beneath A mouldering arch, a stone once sculptured stood, 'Twas shapeless all, so deep had time effaced. Or man more wanton still, the works of man. Within thine ample bosom,* where the sun Shed from his throne of noon but doubtful twilight. Crowding with anxious looks and beating hearts. Came the long host of pleaders, robbing hosts To feed a pampered few ; iniM'isely deemed The only wise, who shared their clients' wealth, * Westminster Hall. D 34 LONDON And ruined them with triumphs ! Thick and short, Proud of liis ample wig and floating robes, High living on his cheek, and in his eye And pompous smile huge self-complacency, That oft could turn to glance of fire, and curl Of indignation, when some timorous wretch. Called to establish right, must needs be frowned And awe-struck into perjury and shame. Here, slowly moved the swoU'n crown-lawyer's bulk: Whilst keen in looks and appetite, with pace As rapid as a spirit's, skimmed along The briefless barrister, and passing oft. And oft repassing, 'mid the M^ondering throng, Appeared the busy thing he longed to be. But e'en thy vastness, lined with awful courts, Where riches, liberty, guilt, innocence, Life, honour, all in legal scales were weighed — Was but a portal to a loftier temple. Not built with hands, nor fashioned from the rock. But sprung from ancient wisdom, patriot zeal. Souls nobly daring, and of purpose firm, Who with an equal eye beheld the throne, IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 35 The feudal tyrant, and the hapless serf, And, meting laws and powers to all, compelled A monarch to respect a beggar's right. Rooted in love and veneration, lono" That moral fane had stood ; and thouo'h obscured The glory of its youth, and stained and fled Its virgin purity, yet still it towered The wonder and the beacon of a world ! Senate of sages once!* I heard the roar Of thy loud eloquence, that moved the nations And altered times and empires — for thy voices, Like arrows on the winds, went forth in power And troubled every land ! Nor thou at rest ; For in thy bosom raged the fiercest war, And they who held the Syracusan's lever To wield the universe, all weakness here, Because divided, found no abler aid Than base corruption to uphold their rule ! Senate of monarchs once ! — for earth was thine, The convert to thy creed, thy willing slave — Thou, too, hast had thy terrors ! As I stood * Parliament. I) 2 36 LONDON Within thy crowded walls, a sudden cry '' Of armed soldiers rose — and all was tumult, A stirring and a murmuring, as of winds Rushing from bending forests to the plain, Till loftier minds above the infection soared, And, calmly dignified, restored the calm. Then thou, once more thyself, seem'd'st greater far Than when thou gav'st or shiver'd'st crowns ; for death Sat lowering o'er thy head, and plunder raged Within thy distant homes ; yet at thy post Thou stood'st unshrinking-, and unyielding passed The laws that roused the storm ! O Westminster, How awful was thy ancient hall that night ! When, passing bars and bolts, and guarded chambers. Before me yawned thy chill immensity ! Silence was in thy bosom ; on thy steps. Still as the stone they pressed, a trusty band Of armed watchers sat, or leaned, or stood ; In every hand a blazing torch whose glare Scarce tinged thy dingy roof, while dimly seen Through the thick darkness round thy distant porch, Moved deep red lights, like drops of burning blood. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 37 Silence was in tliy bosom ; and each step Woke a long echo through thy dreary stillness: But pealed without the shout of multitudes, A people rising in its wrath ; whilst cries, Insulting threats, the crash of falling stones, The sudden dash of clattering hoofs, the charge And flight of thousands, all in mingled roar Rolled o'er thee, as the thunder o'er a grave. I paused amid thy breathless solitude, And listened to the storm without, with wild And terrible delight. I seemed a spirit Just bursting from the tomb, and rushing forth Into a living world. At my command Thy echoes wakened with the clash of bars, And bolts, and loosened chains ; thy portals rung, And, yawning for a moment, cast me forth Amidst the fiercest raging of the tempest. And closed again in gloom and proud defiance. But not in storm alone, have I beheld thee. Hall of forgotten kings ! How lovely rose Thine aged towers in moonlight, when the sound Of human life was still, and round thee came, 38 LONDON From distant fields, the breath of new-mown hay, And bathed thee in perfumes. The sky above Was living blue, and oft some paly star Seemed resting on thy battlements ; beneath, Rose the low voice of waters, fretting round The glittering arches that bestrode their stream ; And at thy side, with tapering pinnacles. That seemed the fairies' structure in the sky, The Gothic tomb of heroes, bards, and kings. Shot its light shafts, and spread its airy aisles. Where are thy portals now ? The flame hath passed E'en through their steel-bound valves ; thy matchless roof. Wrought of the undying oak from Erin's Isle, Hath perished too ! And hast thou shared its fate, My country,* e'en behind thy shield of waves ? Star of the western deep ! — that ne'er hast blazed ■ In thy full glory, is thy lustre set E'en in its twilight dawn? Or dost thou shine Alone in heaven, and leave thy sister dark, Widowed, and desolate ? A sister's name * Ireland. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 39 She gave thee, but not all a sister's heart : She wrenched the diadem from thine infant brow, Then, troubled at her daring and her guilt, Consumed the ancient records of thy fame. That not one memory for thee should bloom In the long night of ages, to revive Heroic deeds within thee, and the hate And energy to burst a foreign chain. She lashed thee with commissioned tyrants, spoiled Thy goodly heritage, hunted thy sons From towns and cities — nay, with impious rage. Gave e'en thy rooted forests to the flame. That not a tree should shade a freeman's flight — That not a secret loch, or mountain cave, Should heave its waters, or unfold its gloom, Unsullied by her slaughters and thy tears ; And when, in all the turbulence of youth, Of hope and daringness, thou started'st forth. Accumulated ages of despair. And wrongs and vengeance, flaming on thy swords, She called thee rebel ! — traitors, all thy sons. And made them so to thee ! With gold she bought 40 LONDON What arms could now no longer force — thy bondage ! And hers thou seem'd'st for ever. Milder grown, Or thou too powerful, she then poured the balm Of conciliation o'er thy bleeding wounds ; With kindly arts assuaged thy pangs ; unclosed The ocean to thy enterprise ; inspired Thy industry ; rebuilt thy wastes ; reclothed Thy soil in golden harvests ; called thy sons To share her laws, her triumphs, and her power ; And on thy vassal brow replaced a crown, The triple badge of empire. Then thy hate Fled with forgotten wrongs ; with her thou reign'd'st, With her thou conquer'd'st, and the world was thine As it was hers awhile. With her, alas ! Thou sinn'd'st. A voice of waters from the west — The deep is on thy hills ! — thy pleasant vallies Are dark beneath the rolling of the waves ; The mermaid's cry is thine ; the whale's wide bulk Levels thy cities ; and if e'er the sound Of bold adventurer strike thy palaces, With rapid flight he plies his sail afar. Where ocean sleeps not o'er a buried M^orld ! IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 41 Spirit that burn'd'st within me at my birth ! Spirit that view'st the viewless, hear'st the trumpet When all is still, and in the loneliness Mov'st as in multitudes — thou art upon me ! As when the battles of the earth were fought, And all their mingling shouts and thunderings Burst on mind ear, e'en 'mid the peaceful city. Unheard by other men ! As when thy red And low'ring sky of smoke, and flame, and blood, Darkened with all the spirits of the slain, Rose on my troubled soul, fierce Waterloo ! Whilst 'mid the fairest daughters of the land, Stepping in youth and loveliness, the stir And crowded pomp of fashion, and beneath The cloudless radiance of a Sabbath eve I sauntered light and careless. On a sudden My heart was changed within me ; tide on tide Of melting softness poured and drowned my soul, Till I was faint, and dark, and desolate Amongst unheeding thousands ; for mine eye Beheld the ghastly forms that wreathed in death. And mine ear heard unutterable groans ! 42 LONDON Spirit, whose joys are terror, spare me now ! I am within thy temple ; for thou art He who doth break the nations, and thou sittest Amid the wreck of empires : spare me now ! I walk through desolations, woe is round. And I am bowed beneath the past. Oh, veil The distant from my soul ! I would not see E'en wdiat I now behold ! I would not stand As I do now, upon a shapeless heap That once hath been a palace,* whilst the flood. With slow and solemn heavings, laves the spot That drank a monarch's blood. The dream is past- The gaze is spent — and the fixed, phrenzied eye Now moves unshackled, as I slowly wind Around th' usurping waters. Wide and far Trembles the green morass, the spungy grave Of countless habitations, where, amid The rustling reeds, yon few, grey, scattered stones Man's lost dominion mark. And now I rest Beneath the crumbling portal, on whose top Long did Northumbria's lion scowl and mock * Whitehall. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 43 The warring tempests, now to dnst resolved, Or borne to other lands, a pledge of conquest ! Say not thy beauty with thy pride hath perished. Daughter of Bab v Ion ! It still survives Where yonder pillars lift their spotless forms. The giant of the desert. Bare their tops, As they had never borne a temple's weight,* Each, single, stands deep rooted in its strength, O'erlooking, in its majesty, thy mounds. Thy shattered palaces, and forest glooms. A task is on my soul ! I cannot rest, I cannot shrink and yield to other hands The charge that weighs me down ; nor can I strive With Him who guides my steps, and e'en my will. Then wander on, my soul, thy only home His pleasure and His smile, who bids thee serve. I've passed the brother's mound,f suspended still O'er yawning caves ; and now where granite blocks, In rugged heaps o'ertop the flood, I climb, * St. Martin's Church. t Adelphi. 44 LONDON And stand upon a broken arch. Beneath Heave the dark swelling waters, closing now O'er the gigantic wTecks that still bestrew Thames' ample bed. The clash of waves is still ; The toss of foam has ceased amidst the crags Man once had piled, though still an eddying whirl Hallows the tide and tells the war beneath. How changed the scene, since o'er thy lofty piers* Waved all the banners of a fi-iendJy world, While beauty lined thy battlements, and 'mid The blast of trumpets and the cannon's roar, The shout of multitudes, that made yon banks One mass of life and sound, a royal hand. And, loftier still, a hero's, oped thy barriers ; And o'er thy terraced bosom, side by side. The son of monarchs passed and child of fame. Loud in the upper air each steeple flung Its pealing gratulation. Louder still, With answering thunder, Gaul's artillery Proclaimed her captor's might ; while from each bark. That shot a golden gleam along the w^ave, * Waterloo Bridge, when opened. IN A THOUSAND YEAKS. 45 A passing melody was sent to swell The mighty concert. Yet, at sweeter hour, I saw thee in thy beauty, lone and still; The moon was in her youth, a skiff of light Wandering the blue expanse — one lonely star, Heaven's brightest, stood above the floating bark. As o'er its viewless mast, for morn had breathed Her twilight freshness, and each dimmer orb Had melted in the gleam. The wave below Gave back a moving sky — its moon and star, Whilst on its edge, as a dark ridge of clouds, Swept the vast city, wrapt in gloom and sleep. No voice was in her streets : the watchman's cry Was hushed, the busy din was still; the flow Of countless multitudes had passed away : It seemed — what now it is — a nation's grave ; But still a nol)le grave, ere time had thrown The pillar from its base, or dashed to earth The mountain's dome, that cleft the clouds of heaven. I leaned upon thy battlement, and sighed O'er a departed city ; but my wail Was of the spirit, not the voice. I saw Thee, as I see thee now, but saw in soul, 46 LONDON And lived awhile 'mid dread futurities ; Nor would I break with human tone the calm That sat upon thy slumbers, Babylon ! And now I call, but desert shores alone, And the vast ruin, like a gaping tomb. Give hollow faint reply. All, all is still Within thy guilty bosom ! E'en the eagle Screams as he passes o'er thy solitude. To find no life within thee ; and among Thy crumbled palaces no lion wakes To guard thy desolation. Where art thou. Proud Somerset !* whose giant masses reared Their grandeur to the sky, and in the tide Bathed their vast image, darkening all the waves ? Where are thy pleasant courts, thy pillared gates ; Thy deep-sunk walks, that seemed in middle earth To plant activity and toil ; thy domes, Where painting's magic hand its wonders spread, And sculpture breathed in marble, science-taught, And emulation caught the flame divine ? All, all is melted, as the glacier's piles, Beneath a summer's sun : save where a heap * SonuTsct Mouse. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 47 Of shapeless mould and shivered capitals Swells from the broken ground ; or where a chasm, Left yawning to receive the rains of heaven, With festering greenness feeds the gliding lizard And bloated toad ; or save where yonder arch, Now solitary, where an hundred stood, Rocks o'er the tide that dull and darkly creeps Within the secret chambers, where the steed Once neighed and pawed beneath his master's hand. Oh, let me quit thy wrecks, and seek what once Was the great city's heart,* the seat of life. Main artery of her blood, where crowds on crowds. All ages, sexes, countries, mingling rolled In endless flow — a sea of multitudes. With features, gait, and thoughts, and views diverse, Yet moving as a host of banded friends. In social confidence — some bustling through. As gain or pleasure called, with rapid step And skilful evolutions, to elude The billows of the tide ; others with slow * The Stranil. 48 LONDON Reflective pace, and minds that viewed around Nought but their own conceits of good or ill — And moved in solitude, where thousands pressed ; Some with a voice of song, of anger some, Venting loud curses ; others wdth the cry Of daring beggary : a few with tears, But ill suppressed, of helplessness and woe, Who faintly sighed their wants, and fainter hopes Of brother's charity — whilst at the doors Of gilded shops, or round their chrystal windows. That brightened all the wealth of worlds within, The loveliest of the earth, with airy shapes, And garb of elegance and taste, stepped forth, Blest with their costly prize, or clustering gave A gaze of admiration as they stood. Midway the dashing car, the humble cart, The courser's gallop, and the people's cry — The thundering chariot — and the waggon's roll, 'Midst whips, and oaths, and horns, and shocks of wheels, And wandering minstrels' song, and pealing band. Bred an eternal tempest — all is hushed ! Mounds, like the graves of giants, darkened o'er IN A THOUSAND YEARkS. 49 With long rank grass, mark trade's bright palaces, Where she displayed her thousand wares, to lure The nations to her banquet. Though adorned With precious wood, and brass, and ebony. And lifting high their painted fronts, they were But framed with dust, and are to dust returned ; Rock o'er the tide, that dull and darkly creeps ; < Or, if beneath their vegetating wrecks. Some lonely chamber yawn, it is th' abode Of doleful creatures hateful to the light, And nameless among men. From them I turn : — And dost thou still, still in thy beauty stand, Frail pillar ! — that hast propped her lovely form. Her form long melted in a distant grave ! * Oh, thou art dear ! — and as I lean against Thy mossy stones, the past is on my soul ! A thousand lamps blaze on the brow of night,f And write in flame war's triumphs ; in the sky Rings the loud peal of universal joy ; On earth, in endless billows, roll along Exulting multitudes, whilst o'er their heads, * St. Mary le Strand. t Illuminating for victories. E 50 LONDON In fiery mazes, flies the hissing fuse, And harmless bursts amidst the frightened fair And shouts of laughing urchins. I alone, With thee, my virgin-love, the dearest tie That bound a soaring soul to earth ; with thee. Whom e'en amid the stillness of the grave. And from the bosom of a thousand years, I will but love, not name ; with thee I stood. And viewed the dazzling scene ; but as a dream, That for a moment gave thee to mine arms. Thy heart was beating 'neath my trembling hand ; No word was on thy lip, no sound on mine ; And yet we breathed, and felt, and thought as one. The world was round us, with its pomp and roar, As though all generations had come forth To throno- Augustus' streets. We were alone, Unmarking and unmarked, yet happier far Than all the life that wildly rioted by ! Here, here thou lean'd'st, and round thy slender \\'aist My circling arm was twined ! — Here, as the peal Of festive thunder rent the air, or fires. Sent by a sportive hand, fell showering down, IN A THOUSAND YEARS. - 51 I pressed thee to my heart, and with my being As with a living mantle I repelled The blazing rain, and half-repined in soul 'Twas all but mimic peril, for I felt How sweet it would have been to die for thee ! Here —all is desert, silent, perished now ! My heart is in thy grave ! An empire's tomb. Itself half-mouldered with the wrath of heaven, But faintly smote my breast, and woke but awe ; But thou hast flashed in lightnings through m.y soul, And left me dark again, in deeper night ; Night of the spirit, which yon glorious sun, And all the blaze of constellations, ne'er Can brighten into day ! Oh, as I press The step thy foot hath trod, and with my lips Seek on the sacred pillar's senseless stone The memory of thy touch, come on the breeze That sighs o'er desolation ! Blue-eyed come, As are the spirits of heaven, and thou on earth ; Come, though I see, I hear thee not, my soul Shall feel thy presence ! Hark ! thy breeze is come. And art thou in its plaintive voice ? The grass E 2 52 l.ONDON Bends all its verdant tops, as though a spirit Brushed o'er the yielding stems ! And art thou near, Joy of the past ? Oh, when these fetters fall, And I can wing immensity with thee, Be thou my kindly guide through worlds and suns ; Be thou my light — myself! Earth could not join More than our hearts ; but heaven can mingle souls In sinless, sanctified, immortal love ! But time for me is still ! The portals' roof, Though natives from the rock, hath crumbled down ; The steeple, towering 'mid the clouds of heaven. Is in the dust ; the massy arch is rent — The house of prayer lies prostrate, like a rock Shivered by lightnings ; where the anthem pealed, Shrieks the foul bat — and where the altar rose, Coils the wreathed adder — yet I breathe ! The frail, The being of a day, survives the strong. The work of ages, and the might of nature ! Farewell ! I still will seek ye, and when night. My night of death shall come, I'll lay me down Close to thine ivied base, and clasping round With weak embrace thy mouldering stone, shall dream IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 53 I press her still, and that within her arms I breathe away my soul ! What structure vast Towers darkly o'er the ridges of the plain ? Its lofty top is rent ; but still it stands Huge and embattled, as at war with time, And yet unconquered all, though sore defaced. Gloom sits upon the ponderous mass, save where A yawning arch drinks the declining sun. And floods of living light come rushing forth, Amid the sear and floating briars' wreaths, That spring and blossom in its crevices. Oh, wert thou once the seat of mingled joys, The mental pure delight, the blissful tear That flows at mimic woe, the haughty laugh At follies, each believed his neighbour's, whilst He viewed his own reflected on the stage ? Wert thou the gilded, airy, dazzling dome. Where all the multitudes of varied life, In all the shapes and shades of youth and age, Of beauty, fashion, wealth, e'en poverty, Of circumstance and feeKngs thronged at eve. Amid soft music's swell, the pomp of lights. 54 LONDON The eloquence of voices, heart-attuned, The flash of souls, when Kean or Kelly blazed, The magic flight of scenes, to lose themselves A moment, and in wild enchantment lived ? Thou wert, and thou art now, the fox's nest : For as I passed beneath thy broken arch, Methought some living thing rushed swiftly by, And sunk amidst thy glooms. Thine hours are on me Of splendour and of life ; but loftier still Thy night of dread sublimity, when heaven Grew ruddy v/ith thy fires,* and earth M'as lightened As thouofh a sun had burst forth from her bosom. The mighty city's millions gazed upon thee ; The distant hills were peopled, and a voice Of trouble, mingled with the muttering drum, The bugle's wail, the clash of rushing engines. Rose like a tempest round thee. On thou burned'st ! Magnificently calm : from all thine arches. In volumed torrents, ceaseless, uncontrolled, Mounted the living flame. Then sudden rocked Thy deep foundations ; thy gigantic walls * ConHagration of Drury Lane Theatre. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 55 Swung to and fro, and with an earthquake's crash Rushed inwards ! All was instant night within thee, Till from thy mingling wrecks a cloud of gloom Thick, slow, and silent rose. It hovered, swelled In circling folds, that heavily unrolled Their dark expansive volumes in the sky ; A thousand blazing sparks ran through the gloom And rained on earth, whilst through the mountain- billows Looked the pale moon, and at their awful base, Blood-red and hissing, flashed reviving fires. Years then beheld thy ruins, and thou layedst A desolation 'mid a prosperous city — Gaping more hideous than thy walls restored. And now time-rent, yawn in the wilderness. Where, where is now thy sister-dome ?* — in fate United once to rise in brighter pomp, The school of manners and the fane of lust ; Where, in the broad saloon, hell's houris thronged To blast the virtue which the stao-e had tauoht. Still do the cumbrous pillars bear on high * Covciit (/arden Tlicatz"e. 56 LONDON The massy portico ; still many an arch, Low-browed, expands beneath the sculptured front, Where Sophocles' and Shakspeare's heads retain The wreath triumphal ; but the groups have mouldered That swelled the pomp divine, and with their towers, The laughing and the weeping Muses' forms, In scattered fragments 'mid the sighing grass Lie half concealed. How vast a sepulchre Of all that dazzled once, now stretches round ! How deep and dark th' abyss, within whose tomb Beneath, unconscious thousands pranced the steed, And learnt, in vaulted darkness, to delight The wondering multitudes, by seeming acts Of human sense and feeling ! Was it here That Kemble stalked in Roman majesty? — That Siddons moved in terrors ? — and O'Neill, Loveliest in tears, with melting beauty beamed ? The wild rose fills her place ; and as I pluck The late and lonely blossom, its faint breath And tender hue raise visions of the past, That press with mournful rapture on my heart. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 57 Who woke the thrilling note that trembles still ? There is no harp around me, and no voice Of earthly echo hath so wild a fall ! 'Tis melted ; and mine ear feels lonely now. As it had lost the blessing of a friend. I know thee, Bard of Avon ! — 'tis thy spirit Hath passed in melody, for still it dwells Within thy temple's ruins, still survives Empires and ages, e'en thy country's name, For thou wert born for immortality ; And now, perhaps, where other tongues are muttered, And other days, sunk in the gloom of years. Known as a dream ; thine all-resistless spells. Clothed in barbaric sounds, still sway the heart, Inform, delight, melt, overawe the soul Of myriads, wond'ring whence their fountain rose. Here were thy thrones of glory ! — here thy lays Found spirits of thine own etherial flame To give them living utterance. Here the tears Or smiles of gathered thousands flowed or lightened, As thou, the monarch of the bosom, badest. And here thine own morality is proved, 58 LONDON For, " like the baseless fabric of a vision," The majesty of earth hath passed, and soon Shall not a wTeck tell where the mighty dwelt ! When shall my wild, perturbed spirit rest ? The sun reposes on his western bed, O'er-canopied with golden clouds ; the sky Drinks his last glow in stillness, and the desert Sleeps voiceless in the light and creeping mist, Scarce visible, that seems a wandering breath. I, I alone, with life discordant move Amid the universal calm, and feel What was, what is, and shall be — all at once Rush on my burdened soul ; and I am sad And weary as a pilgrim who hath passed Through all the climes of earth, and left behind All that he loved and loved him, and would fain Forget awhile, or dream another dream, Or wake in one of those etherial worlds Emerging now in glory from the sky. Oh, are ye seats of bliss, eternal stars .'^ — That seem the spirits of unbounded space, IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 59 Moving- in flame through your appointed round ; Or are ye living glances of that eye That burns beyond all worlds, or thoughts of worlds, Within its own eternity of light ? Your mingling beams rain on me, and my soul Feels you a kindred essence witli her own — A portion of Deity who lives in all — A flashing of his immortality ! Hark ! — 'tis an earthly sound ! Will night send foi th A prowling host, to howl in vain for prey ? Or doth the bosom of the desert teem With voices of the past and forms of death, In midnight revels and unholy bands, To mock thy desolations, Babylon, And people thee with spectres ? No ! thy wastes Heave not in monstrous birth. It is a voice, Unheard amid the busy glare of day. That swells in awful tones thy solemn dirge At night's still hour. It is the hymn of waters, Mounting around thee as a ceaseless moan, 60 LONDON As though once more thy lovers stood afar Lamenting o'er thy burning and thy fall ! And whence this mighty roUing of the flood, Where social hearts once blazed ? I turned and climbed Some lofty nameless mounds. The battle's thine, Almighty ! — and the strength of nations moves Thy hidden flame of wrath ; the whirlwind scatters, And the deep earthquake rends and tosses empires ; The pestilence broods in the breathless air, And g-enerations wither in their bloom : — These are thy* four destroying chariots, sent Throughout the earth ; and here they all have passed In blood, in flame, in tempest, and in wreck ! Yet all is tranquil now ! — A silver lake Heaves all its waves in beauty ; for the moon, Rising 'midst broken columns, tufted aisles, Arches, and porticos, that scattered lift Their shadowy tops and fragments from the flood, Spreads o'er the vast expanse a living light * Zechariali, vi. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. 61 That moves and glances from a thousand beams ; While on the distant shore mound over mound, In circling amphitheatre ascends, Dark with the awful majesty of forests. Here London* stood, and gloried in her might, And lived in peace and joy — in wealth and guilt ; Here I take up her burden, for 'tis mine; I am the lonely spirit of the past, Wand'ring 'mid wrecks and graves, and pouring forth My wailings in the desert. Babylon, Where are thy merchants now — thy dearest pride— The great men of the earth ? They spread their sails To all the winds ; they ploughed up every wave, And rifled every clime ! The east was theirs, With all its subject gods. The western world, Isle-girt, their garden, yielded all its wealth To fill their granaries. The polar ice Battled in vain against them, and the south. Though wreathed in flames, before their enterprise * City of London. 62 LONDON, &C. Knelt, and with all her swarthy tribes adored ! Where are the mighty now, whose Avord could pass Before the word of monarchs, whom they led In golden chains ? They had their wall on earth ; They roused or laid the nations, and could buy The fate of empires ! Is their traffic o'er Of gems, and gold, and lives, and souls of men ? Or have they built their towns of rest, and left A world to pine and wonder at the sloth ? Or hath vexed ocean burst its bonds, and swept Their navies from the waters ? They have been — They are forgotten now. Their name is passed, Their arts have perished, and their land is wild As it had never been a land of men ! Yet once more shall the desolation teem, And living souls spring on her bosom, thick As heath-flowers on the wilderness : — but when ? 'Tis done. — Th' Almighty girds his darkness round, And I am quenched — his awful glooms are on me ! NOTES, NOTES. Note I. Page 1. " Hill of the spring!— I love thy gentle swell, When all the freshness of the dawn is on thee, And on thy verdant brow the primrose spreads Her earliest bloom to heaven." Primrose Hill is so generaUy kno^^^^ that little need be added to the description given in the poem. Though caUed but one, Primrose Hill is divided into two mounds of unequal height, separated by a small valley. Appearances, like those of ancient tumuli, crown the lower elevation ; and, indeed, both hills may have been funeral monuments, originally thrown up by man to cover the remains of warriors slain in remote ages and long-forgotten battles. The top of the loftiest is bare : but on its northern flank, a line of twelve venerable ashes, towering one above the other, forms a majestic and famtastic ridge, which affords a pleasing shade to the wanderer, and renders the mount remarkable and beautiful from afar. The view from the summit is most extensive and interesting. It is a panorama, which, though boimded by Hampstead and Highgate on the north, extends beyond Harrow on the west, Richmond on the south, and Shooter's Hill on the east; and displays, when the atmosphere is clear, the windings of the Thames, with its multitude of ships, to an immense distance, between the rival shores of Essex and Kent. Go F fifi NOTES. down only a few paces, and all this magnificence of prospect is lost. The great capital vanishes ; and in the deep valley which separates the mount from Hampstead, amidst luxuriant fields and blossomed hedges, without an object to reveal the deception, the eye I'eposes on a scene of breathless solitude, and the spirit exults in its momentary emancipation and fancied remoteness from the tumult and corruption of cities. This hill, which in thirty years, if London continue to grow as at the present rate, will be covered mth houses, is not unkno^^^l to histoiy. It was on its summit that in the reign of Charles II. the assassins of that upright and unfortunate magistrate. Sir Edmondbury Godfrey, deposited the body of their victim, after having dispatched him privately. The cause and authors of this murder are still in- volved in mystery, though three persons were executed for it at the time, on evidence which bears every appearance of having been suborned. The only motive assigned on the trial for the commission of the crime, was the wish of silencing Sir Edmondbury, who had received, in his magisterial capacity, the confession of the infamous Titus Oates respecting the pretended Popish Plot of 1618. But had this really been the object, would not the dagger of the assassins have rather been directed against Oates, who had it in his power, as long as he lived, to renew his confession before the magistrates ? To murder Sir Edmond- bury Godfrey for the purpose of suppressing a document which it was certain would be immediately renewed, woidd have been a wanton and useless enormity on the part of the Catholics. It is, therefore, more likely that he was sacrificed to the fears of the impostor Oates and his employers, on finding that he gave no credit to the confession, and displayed the will, or possessed the means, of exposing the fabrication. The blame was afterwards easily thrown on a party who were, at that period, objects of inveterate persecution. However this may Tje, Sir Edmondbury Godfrey, having been missed on the 12th of October, NOTES. 67 1678, was found dead on the 17tli, on the top of Primrose Hill, with his sword run tlu-ough his body ; his cane and gloves were by him, rings were upon his fingers, and money in his pocliet. There was a mark round his neck an inch broad, his breast was bruised all over, and his neck broken. There were also drops of white wax-lights on his breeches, which he never used himself. A coroner's inquest sat for two days on the body, and at last came to the following verdict: — • " That he was murdered by certain persons unknown to the jurors ; that his death proceeded from suffocation and from strangling ; and that his sword had been thrust through his body some time after his death, and when he was quite cold, because not the least sign of blood was seen upon his shirt, or his clothes, or the place where he was found." Note II. Page 3. " And many a glanco, Reverted, sought whether unmarked they fled. Or unregretted." " Is this novelty?" will every classical reader at once exclaim, if he proceed so ftir. " Did not Virgil say nearly the same, eighteen hundred years ago ? — " ' Et fiigit ad solices, et secupit ante videri.' " " Very true ; but he said it of Roman virgins." " And you of British maidens ; and where lies the difference, save in the application ?" Softly, gentle reader; let me tell you that if I used an idea of rather an ancient date, it was to vindicate the character of the loveliest of all creatures — woman — from a most foul and unfounded aspersion ; listen patiently. They have hitherto been deemed the most volatile of all beings, the very weathercocks of creation, turning with every gust of passion, nay, at the very aspiration of a sigh. Now I mean to prove and establish their F '2 68 NOTES. constancy. I mean to demonstrate, that what they were two thousand years ago, they are now; that neither climate, education, nor times, can change them ; and that the very last beam of our sun will find them still invested with all those seductive graces, those charms of mind and manners, those artless artifices, that untaught coquetry of nature, which drew man from his native Paradise to create round him an Eden of his own. Had Virgil never lived, or, what would have been the same, had I not smarted more than once to learn his language, I should have used the very expression which has given you so much oflfence. In one of my rambles on the hill of primroses (where, by-the-bye, I never saw any), I found myself suddenly surrounded by a host of white fairies, in all the bloom and spirits of sixteen (j/ou would, perhaps, have called them a school of young ladies), whose lovely disportings I have faintly endeavoured to describe. As I was the only male animal nsible for miles, there can be no vanity in thinking that to create an interest, if not to excite admiration, in so steady and contemplative a being as I then appeared, added a spring to their elasticity ; and this was no longer doubtful, when bounding all at once, they rushed down the hill, and I saw many a head reverted and quickly turned round agaiit when they found that the grand manoeuvi-e had succeeded, and that my eyes, if not my heart, followed them. And, indeed, they had drawn from my heart, what even now I feel no repentance in renewing — a blessing on their youth and innocence. NOTES. 69 Note III. Page 4-. " See, wrapped in light, As witli ,1 vestment, Hampstead's woods appear, Topped by her tapering spire, and winding round Her breezy heiglits." This is a deception produced by the multitude of trees wath which the parks, and even the hedges, on the south side of Hampstead abound. The only woods in the vicinity lie on the north, and, consisting chiefly of low timber, are not visible from this point. But the aged and majestic elms of Frognall grove and the terrace, blending their summits in the distance, form a dark forest mass which overtops and oversha- dows the hill beneath a magnificent canopy. It is on the north side, however, that the chief beauties of this renowned spot are found. There, besides a panoramic sweep of at least fifty miles in diameter, embracing within its line the Gothic towers of Windsor castle on one side, and the masts of our naval guardians at the Nore on the other, the eye plunges with delight into a succession of scenes, in the midst of usurping cultivation ; and upon the right, the Vale of Health displays its fuTzy slopes, spreading out as they descend into a little plain, studded with elegant cottages, and watered by a glassy lake, whose real dimin- utiveness their sinuosities at once conceal and magnify. Further, steep sandy banks, crested with tufts of blackberry bushes and eglan- tine, assume the appearance. Note IV. Page 5. " It is the traitors' hill." A little to the east of Hampstead, and to the south of Highgate, and like the first degree of the romantic amphitheatre formed by those sister hills, the ground rises into considerable swell, terminating in a rounded cone, gently divided into two summits by a slight bend in the centre. 70 NOTES. The base of this elevation is wreathed with hedges, but neither bush nor tree breaks the smooth uniformity of the mound itself, which is known in the surrounding villages by the name of Guy Fawkes's Hill. This denomination arises from a tradition still prevalent in the neigh- bom-hood, that the friends of this celebrated incendiary took post here on the night of the 5th of November, 1604, and awaited his return, with relays of horses to favour his flight, after he should have carried the gunpowder plot into execution, and effected the destruction of the king, lords, and commons. Here, it is said, they watched, with trembling anxiety, till the undisturbed repose of the capital revealed the failure of their designs, and the breaking of the dawn compelled them to provide for their own safety. They could not have selected a spot better calcu- lated for their purpose. This hill, from its situation, nearly in a line with the centre of the metropolis, commands a prospect of its whole extent. Secure from the efl!ects of the explosion, the conspirators would have witnessed its terrific magnificence, and learned at once the full completion of their scheme ; and as the whole of the ground (now covered by the parishes of St. James's, Mary-le-bone, &c.) consisted, at that period, of open fields, Fawkes would have easily made his way to his friends, and escaped with them from the perUs of immediate pursuit. The scene represented in the poem is, therefore, not entirely imaginary, though it is doubtful whether the conspirators ever did more than fix upon this spot for their place of rendezvous, as the discovery of the plot, on the night previous to its intended execution, must have pre- vented their meeting. To a fanciful mind, however, the hill seems still to retain marks of the nightly assembly ; for, being grazed during the greater part of the year by cattle, and its soil of a soft spongy nature, it is fidl of holes, made by the hoofs of the wandering animals, which recal the tradition at every step, and render the ascent a laborious task. The trouble, however, is amply repaid by the magnificent view which it NOTES. 71 presents of the vast capital ; sometimes lifting its gigantic masses, its steeples, domes, and towers in the sunshine, and sometimes swept at once from the sight by an ocean of vapours, like those of cities when suddenly swallowed up by earthquakes, whose site is only known by the thick cloud rising from their ruins, and rcUing over their grave. Note V. Page 5. " With loftier port See Higligate lift her terraced brow." More pi'ecipitous than its neighbour Hampstead, the village of High- gate is, upon the whole, less romantic. Here the industiy of man has completely subdued the wildness of nature, and disrobed it of its gran- deur and majesty. Houses — the leprosy which (in this edificating but not edifi/ing age) devours the beauty of the land — occupy and conceal the greater part of the hill, whilst enclosed orchards and waUed gardens render the remainder less picturesque, but more productive. The views, also, except on the side of London, are comparatively confined; yet Highgate is not without its advantages. It is here that almost every opident city shop-keeper indulges in the othim cum dignitate of a country villa. It is here, also, that mysteries, scarcely less renowned than those of Eleusis, though more pubKcly celebrated, unite all friends of plea- santry, fun, and merriment under the auspices of the Mighty Horns, in a confrairie o{bo7is viva/ts. Here the candidate receives from mine host, not the stroke of knighthood, but the badge of fashionable wedlock, and swears faithfully to discharge the follovdng Important and painful obliga- tions : — " Never to drink new wne when he can get old;" " never to remain poor when he can attain riches ;" and, hardest of all, " never to wed a widow when he ran marry a maid !" — The origin of this custom 72 NOTES. of" swearing at Higbgate is, like most other great institutions, lost in the night of time. Where shall we look for its justification ? " Li the heart of man," says every good-humoured reader. So let it be. Note VI. Page 5. " Behold Her lifted bosoin and her giant arch.'' — (Higligate Arcliivaij.) Though very inferior to what it might have been, the Highgate Arch- way is certainly a noble work. The original plan, it is well known, was wdely different. A subterraneous road, nearly half a mile in extent, was to have been cut through the bosom of the hill, and one of the wonders of Italy thus realised on our soil. The work was spiritedly commenced in 1809. In 1810 a passage was effected through the whole body of the hill ; and the first entrance arch was completed on the north side. It was too elliptical in its stretch, however, to resist the immense superincumbent weight ; and early one Sunday morning its centre gave way, and the hiU sunk in with the sound and shock of an earthquake. Trees were torn up by the roots, and thrown down in wild confusion, and several neighbouring villas experienced material injury; but no lives were lost. The sacredness of the day seemed as a shield kindly interposed by Providence, and hundreds of industrious workmen now owed their preservation to the institution of that Sabbath, which so few of the labouring classes are willing to observe and keep holy ! The destruction of the works was immediately followed by the adoption of a new plan. The hiU was no longer to be pierced, for the precipitation of the strata and shell had too far injured their solidity to allow fresh excavations to be made. It was therefore rent asunder ; the interposing walk was raised ; a deep valley yawned where a ])recipitoiis mound had NOTES. 73 towered ; and a broad and level road ran on ground exposed for the first time since the creation, between shivering banks of lofty altitude, and beneath a portal formed to connect the parted tops. There is some- thing grand in this triumph of human art and activity over the reposing might and majesty of natiu-e ; yet the effect would have been far more imposing, if, instead of a narrow portal, scarcely able to admit two carriages abreast, and surmoimted by three small low-browed openings, one single arch had leaped over the chasm from hill to hill, and, by its aerial boldness, -given sublimity to the scene. But there is no inspira- tion amongst our architects ; they content themselves M-ith the useful ; and when taste is called for, it is scarcely ever exercised ; and as to the sublime, it is not even thought of. And how can it be otherwise, when, instead of building for posterity, our egotistical age only builds for itself; and, mistaken in its sordid calculations, frequently those fragile mansions tumble about its head, in which it had wisely reckoned on spending full ten or twenty years in peace and safety ? It is a fact worthy the notice of the Police, or of those to whom the protection of human life is entrusted in this metropolis, that in consequence of the slight manner in which modem houses are built, every lease contains a clause that there shall be no dancing within them, lest they should fall down upon their inhabit- ants. Commend me to the practice of our ancestors ! Their hospitality and amusements were not at the mercy of a brick-and-mortar contractor. They did not tread, it is true, on elastic floors ; each did not cause an housequake ; but they had elasticity in their limbs, and their castles, open like their hearts, to the rich and the poor, were strong to repel the assaults of time and the tempests of heaven. 74 NOTES. Note VII. Page 6. " Penned in banen folds." The Islington pens, where the generations of victims destined to bleed for the support of the metropolis, have for centuries been crammed at night, that they may be at hand for the next market ; and starved, that they may yield more tender meat to the epicui-es of the great city. Sur- rounded \vith green and grassy fields, the poor animals feel their fresh- ness and see their inviting abundance, but vainly seek, on the hard and barren ground on which they stand, (for they have no room to lie), a blade of herbage that may have escaped the avidity of their prede- cessors. During night, a confused murmur only reveals their distress ; but at the fii-st gleam of the dawn, it is burst forth into that agony of sound which distance renders sweet to the ear, and reHection most bitter to the heai't. Such is the rapid growth of this gigantic metropolis, that an explima- tor\j note, written at the close of 1810, would scarcely be understood at the beginning of 1821 without a particular crplanaiivn. The Islington pens are no longer in existence ; they have disappeared, with all their scenes of animal suffering, to make room for the dwellings and moral vices and afflictions of man. Rows of inhabited houses and half-finished streets akeady occupy then- site ; and if here and there fragments of broken-down fences still remind experienced cockneys of the past, it is only to make them wonder that London should not have yet fallen a prey to famine, in consequence of the removal of the cattle destined for its support to the distant banks of the New River ! NOTES. 75 Note VIII. Page 10. " Ami parisli charity, to spare a grave, Against the poor and helpless bars the door, And thinks she does not murder whom she kills!" Charity has been called our national virtue ; and the useful establish- ments founded in all parts of the metropolis, and of the country, for the relief of the poor, the cure of the sick, the education of orphans, the support of tTie infirm and aged, and the refuge of the repentant, afford us ample evidence of the justness of this distinction. But if charity be a national, it is not a parish viitue. Those very individuals who bestow their mite to oblige a friend, and enrol their guineas in a public subscription to gratify themselves, are no sooner invested with parish dignities, and entrusted mth parish money, than their brains are turned, or their hearts changed. Humanity becomes to their quickened apprehension an error, if not a vice, which the strictness of their morality commands them most sedidously to avoid. Hence all their ingenuity is exerted to devise plausible excuses for refusing relief ; since the trifle that might clothe the naked, or feed the hungry, would necessarily curtail the dainties of the vestry-dinner ; and what are the cravings of the destitute, to the mortification of the churchwardens' palates ? Plausible excuses, however, are not always at hand ; and when invention fails, authority steps in. The starved and fainting sup- plicant is thus hurried out of the parish, that he may Jind, or rather want a grave in another. Let not this be deemed an imaginar}- or impossible case. It is one, unfortunately for the honoiu- of human nature, of but too frequent recurrence. Who has forgotten, or, having heard, can ever forget, the horrible bandyings of perishing paupers from parish to parish, which have taken place v>fithin the last few years — each denying relief, and all dreading to give a grave, till life was extinct amidst the rude 76 NOTES. strife; and the wretched victims (in one case a poor Irishman, and in another a pregnant woman) expired, one in the wheelbarrow in which he was dragged, and the other amidst the pangs of child-birth on the pavement upon which she had been thrown ? The following instance proves no amendment in the times. It combines all that is inhuman with all that is unnatm-al. A mother is suffered to die of hunger in the streets of this crowded and overfed metropolis, wliilst a daughter could desert her parent in her agonies, without once procuring her even a mouthful of bread, or a glass of cold water ! fFrom the Globe of Wednesday, October 6th, 1819.; " An inquisition was taken at the Three Tuns, Thames Street, yesterday, before T. Shelton, Esq. on the body of a poor old creature named Mary Andrews. She had been employed with her husband in picking hops in Kent, where she had contracted disease from labour and want ; and they set out for London in expectation of assistance from their daughter; they arrived at the Borough market on Friday morning, between nine and ten o'clock, in such a state of exhaustion that the deceased laid down unable to proceed any farther ; some humane per- sons assisted her into a public house, where she was permitted to remain tiU her daughter was fetched, but it did not appear that she had received any refreshment. The daughter took her as far as London bridge, and her weakness increased so much that she was altogether unable to pro- ceed ; her daughter, therefore, seated her under the first covered recess on the Borough side, which is situated in the parish of St. Olave, where she left her, and did not return till between six and seven o'clock at night, when she found her in the same place in shaking fits. The woman's condi- tion drew around her a considerable crowd, who were all very clamorous, and applied to the bridge beadle, who immediately went to the house of Mr. Little, the assistant overseer of St. Olave, in Tooley-street, and from NOTES. 77 thence to Mr. Dutton, another of the overseers, to whom he described the distressed situation of the deceased. Mr. Dutton came and viewed her, and offered to pay for a coach to convey her home to Shoreditch, but could not find one. Soon after Mr. Little came, attended by a marshalman, and pledged himself to the beadle * that the woman should be taken care of;' but as soon as the beadle went away, she was merely moved a few paces further into the parish of St. Magnus, and there left with her daughter, who presently after went away, as she said, to fetch her husband, but never returned. No further notice was taken of the deceased till about twelve o'clock, when a young woman named Kent, who resides in Bermondsey Street, saw her lying on the ground, to all appearance dying ; she raised her up, and when the watchman came round, she called his attention to her, but he refused to render any assistance, because, as he said, it was a mistake between the parishes, and that she, having been first in St. Olave's, established her claim for relief there. About three o'clock in the morning she expii-ed, and then the watchman carried the body to the bone-house. It was afterwards opened by Mr. Vaux, a surgeon, who found a quantity of water on the chest, and the stomach quite empty. His opinion was, that, with proper care, the deceased might have lived, but the case was at all times hopeless. " A gentleman of the jury desired to be informed whether any of the parish officers of St. Magnus were informed of the woman's state in the course of the night ? He was answered that a person had gone to the watchhouse to tell the constable, but that he did not attend. " The coroner said that it was a cruel piece of business, to say the least of it, and he would not hesitate to say that the watchman had be- haved in the most criminal manner. Indeed, this poor woman seemed to have been neglected by the world and the world's law. " The room was then cleared, and a warm conversation ensued respect- 78 NOTES. ing the propriety of passing a vote of censure. The whole of the jury agreed to it ; but the coroner gave it as his legal opinion that such a step would subject them to the consequences of an action, when the idea was abandoned, and they returned a verdict of— Natural Death. Note IX. Page 19. " Did not monarchs come Into thy bed of lust, and diink with tliee The cup of fornication V The visit of the allied sovereigns, in 1814, to London, cost many thousand pounds, and served to expose the riches of the land to the cupidity of strangers. However friendly they appeared at the time, and however pacific their professions continue to be, still policy is the rule of their conduct. This gives the word of command ; and no sooner shall it cry out " March !" than the kings and their armies will move from all quarters against their formerly " dear and honoured ally," to despoil him and his people of those treasures so unguardedly displayed to their view. We appear to have imitated the vanity and folly of Hezekiah, king of Judah, who, by similar imprudence, had inflamed the cupidity of his Babylonian visitors, and thus caused, in aftertimes, the downfall of his house, and the captivity of his people. It is, moreover, an ominous and a fearful thing that all the charac- teristics of the modern Babylon should have become applicable to our own country, through the events of the late war. Was it not during its progress, and through the monopoly which it created, that our " merchants" became "the great men of the earth?" Did not our « sorceries," more speciously called " oiu- policy," deceive the nations ? We roused them from their rest ; we placed arms in their hands ; we breathed our spirit into them, while exhorting them to fight for their territories, their rights, their independence — but did we not mean our NOTES. 79 own 9 Had we merely called upon them as allies in the hour of our danger, there would have been neither deceit nor criminality. But we made them principals. We worked upon their fears, to stand our guardians, and persuaded them that they were protecting themselves. Nay, we bribed the cupidity of monarchs, and thus " committed forni- cation with the kings of the earth." We held out the price of blood ! Their subjects were counted; a value was set on eveiy head; and we trafficked in human lives ! The destruction of the people thus became the enriching oT princes. Multitudes were sent forth to perish, that millions might be paid. And we paid them ! No sooner was an au- thenticated death-list received, than our exchequer was emptied, and the debt of blood liquidated. " But our end was noble, and our success has been complete." True, we have reached the summit of earthly glory ; we have passed the limits of human daring. A giant had threat- ened to bestride the earth ; we marshalled the nations against him, and sent them, as oiu^ salaried champions, to the field of battle and discom- fiture. Undisturbed he might, like the Carthaginian, have lost his vigour in rest and indolence ; yet we urged him to continual action. We formed coalitions on coalitions ; he trampled upon them, and rose on their ruins to a height of power unexampled in the annals of mortality. What, if his heart was changed within him ? If, on the pinnacle of uni- versal empire, rioting in its pride, he became a god unto himself, and, like Nebuchadnezzar, heard a voice from heaven, saying, " Thy king- dom is departed from thee, and they shall drive thee from men ?" Shall we boast that we have thro\vn him down " by the might of our power, and for the honour of our majesty ?" Abandoned of heaven, he fell, and was cast off; but what have we raised in his stead ? Have we freed the nations, as we held ourselves commissioned by the Most High to do ? Have we not rather given them up to the deeper oppression of their own despots, confirmed by our aid in all the fulness of arbitrary 80 NOTES, power ? We may have reached the summit of earthly glory -. but is it not that glory of men which is " abomination before God ?" We are too apt to blind, nay, to exalt ourselves. Confidence becomes us not, still less vanity. An awful responsibility lies upon us. We are those who have trailicked "in lives and souls of men." Shall we still exult in the deed? — or shall we not rather pray, " with fear and trembling," that the past may be recalled, the sanguinary contract annulled, and that we may not stand in the end of time, in the view of assembled worlds, and in the estimation of an unerring Judge, " stained with the blood of all those slain on the earth. " Note X. Page .36. " And, calmly dignified, restored the calm." This line has been objected to as a bad play on words; but it was so exactly descriptive of what the author %vitnessed in the House of Com- mons on the first night of the Coi'n Bill Riots, that he preferred in- curring a reproach (which he must share with no less a distinguished companion than the author of " The Borough,") to committing a breach of fidelity. The whole scene is still fresh in his mind. A boy in appear- ance (though in wealth, talents, and audacity a man) starts up suddenly in one of the most crowded houses recorded in parliamentary history, and moves that the house do adjourn, as he understands that, in violation of its constitutional privileges, it was surrounded with soldiers. A thimderbolt setting fire to the speaker's wig, would ha^'e produced less effect. All moved and rose, sat down and rose again, and talked, and whispered, and called aloud ; and, in fact, knew not what they did. In the midst of this universal confusion and " hubbub wild," one man alone still seemed possessed of his senses. This was Lord Castlereagh. NOTES. 81 With a brow really majestic, from the calm dignity with which it was impressed, he rose, neither in haste nor in alarm, but firm, deliberate, and (so far as the term can be appUed to man) omnipotent ! Confusion heard his voice, and was silenced. Terror stood rebuked, beheld his firmness, and wondered — by degrees strove to share it ; feelings were controlled, and order was restored. But, anon, the sublime gave way to the ridiculous. The adventm'ous Secretary to the Admiralty detailed his " hair-breadth 'scapes," not by " flood and field," but midst mobs and blows. Cross-examined by some, pulled out of his carriage by others, soundly thumped by all, till in their eagerness to impress upon his mind the duty of giving an independent vote, they lost sight of the pupil, and began dealing knocks and instruction at each other. The bard of Talavera here fairly owned that he had recoiu:se to his heels, and that, skilfully manoeuvring amongst the legs of those whose heads were battered above, he had kicked his way to the coflfee-house of the House of Lords, and from thence rejoined the body of the Com- mons. The then Attorney- General (now Lord Garrow) told a more legal tale. Stopped at the great entrance of Westminster Hall, the terrors of his face and fame had preserved Ids person from manual violence, whilst the double-edged ambiguity of his addresses had secured the good humour of those who heard them. As hearing and conviction, how- ever, did not extend very far amidst the vociferations of thousands, he had been compelled to renew his addresses every eight or ten yards of the way, and had reached the house by a series of capitulations, which, however taken by the multitude, only bound him to vote as he should think proper, after having heard the arguments on both sides. More adventurous, and less fortunate, than either the bard or the lawyer. Lord mournfully displayed a pummelled face, and a skirtless coat, showing at once the gains and the losses of battle. The mighty Chancellor of the Exchequer for Lcland told of desperate sorties, G 82 NOTES. vainly- attempted rescue ; and tales of personal prowess or endurance continued, till the temper of the house was changed. The lobbies, the hall, and the avenues, had been cleared by the assistance of the military. The gates were locked, bolted, and barred ; additional con- stables were stowed within, and detachments of horse galloped without. The threatening roar of multitudes grew more faint and distant. A feeling of security revived, and with this a conviction of the propriety of employing that military by whose momentary presence alone a partial security had been restored. Mr. Lambton (now Lord Durham) suf- fered himself to be overruled. His motion was withdrawn, and the High Sheriff called to the bar to account for the insufficiency of the civil power. The debate on the Corn Bill was then resumed. On the 4th not one group was seen in the vicinity ; all was silence and peace. Napoleon had landed in France, from Elba ; and the whole cm-rent of popular feeling was changed. Curiosity had become the sole engrossing passion of the moment, and the corn-bill, brought forth in discontent, and cradled in tumult, was allowed to pass into a law, without another symptom that the people were aware of its provisions or existence. Note XI. Page 36. " When, passing bars, and bolts, and guarded chambers. Before me yawned thy chill immcusity I" It may seem unnecessary to add any particulars to the description just given ; but the period to which they relate is of public interest, likely one day to engross the pen of the historian. An eye witness may there- fore be excused if he throws in his mite. Contemptible as it may appear in the eyes of contemporaries, time will increase its value, and future NOTES. 83 annalists may seize with avidity upon that information, which, though only known to a few, excites the disdain of present readers. It was naturally expected that the motion of the Right Honourable Frederick Robinson (now Viscount Goderich), to raise the protecting price against the importation of foreign grain from sixty-five to eiglity shillings, would yield more satisfaction to the corn growers than to the consumers. It was even thought possible that the question might be so used by party skill as to become a powerful engine for raising an outciy against the nrinistry; but it never was imagined that instantaneous commotions would attend the first proposal of the measure, and still less, that those commotions would at once assume a character of violence and desperation. It was, therefore, with some surprise, but without any idea of approaching tumult, that on entering Westminster Hall, about four o'clock on the day of the motion, the author found its vast expanse filled with multitudes, whose restlessness might denote expecta^- tion but not riot. Some formed themselves into circles — others con- trived to keep up a broken and irregular walk — some looked wise and remained silent — others talked aloud and betrayed their folly, whilst a kind of Babylonian murmur rose above the whole. The scene was novel, and the numbers considerable ; yet no other impression was produced on the author's mind, than an idea that the crowd had assem- bled to vidtness and greet the first pubfic appearance of Lord Castlereagh after his second visit to the continent, and his successful exertions at the congress of Vienna. This impression was confii-med by the entrance of the noble lord himself in the house, about six o'clock, when he mai-ched to his seat amidst loud and repeated cheers from all parties. The author remained in this state of simple ignorance till a few minutes after ten o'clock, when Mr. Lambton's sudden motion for an adjourn- ment opened his eyes, and raised the storm which has already been described. When the High Sheriff had exculpated himself; when inter- G 2 84 NOTES. nal peace had been restored, and the tremblers of the hour before began magnanimously to declare that they would vote for the bill, even though they did not approve of its principle, because the mob had had the audacity to think it could intimidate them, the author conceived that both the sublime and the ridiculous had been fairly exhausted within, and sallied forth in rpiest of either without. On leaving the house, he found the lobby (where the unfortunate Perceval received his death woimd) guarded by a strong and well-armed body of constables; the outer doors were locked, barred, bolted, and chained inside, and little less than a twelve-pounder woidd have been required to effect with sound, flame, and wrack, what the " open sesame" of a gentle nod operated with magic swiftness and clanking harmony. He then thought that the chief obstacle was passed, and that a few steps would bring him into contact with the multitude. But he soon discovered his mistake, and, in the nature of the means of defence adopted, the extent of the apprehensions entertained. The doors had no sooner given him egress, than they were closed, barred, and chained behind him, and he found himself hemmed in with half a dozen constables on the steps, terminated by a snug little room, or nook in the wall. A door, invisible at other times, was, some how or other, fixed at the bottom of the steps, and fastened with the same care as the former ; and the garrison within might have maintained a most galling fii-e, in case of an attack, through the long narrow-arched slits and open tracery of the unglassed win- dows, into which the prescience of the Norman architect had carved out, in olden times, the whole breadth of the wall. Fresh egress having been obtained, the author found that it did not lead farther than the Gothic antichamber, where a Russian stove fronts the Doric porch or grand entrance into the House of Lords, thrown open, erected most unaccountably all on one side, at the time of the Union. Here a very large body (jf armed constables was assembled ; but the author had no A NOTES. 85 doubt that he had reached the last line of defence, when the bars and bolts being mthdrawn, he was ushered into a new guard room, for the long passage beyond had been turned into a complete camp by the agents of the civil power. A gentle knock at the folding doors on the right, procured him admission from within. But still he only gained ground a few yards; for the door which at that period existed between the courts of King's Bench and Chancery, had been closed and put on the war establishment. It was opened, however, and the dark, deep, and still immensity of Westminster Hall burst at last upon the eye and the heart. P^orty or fifty constables, holding flaming torches, occupied the steps that lead into its bosom. Some sat, some stood, some leaned against the bases of pillars, but all maintained a watchful and unbroken silence. Their arms, varied attitudes, the fixed expression of their countenances, strongly lighted up by a blaze which made all dark beside, produced a scene not less fantastic; than wild. The space beyond was involved in the deepest gloom, for gas had not yet shed its mimic day so far. As the author proceeded, dim and distant lights then began to move along the ground through the thick darkness, and announced that another trusty band guarded the only portal which now remained between the death-like stillness of the hall and the tumul- tuous groans and shock of miiltitudes without. The author paused and listened. All around him was silence and solitude, where all, a few hours before, had been crowd and agitation. He seemed to wander, chill and desolate, over the grave of thousands, whilst the mingled sounds of life still swelled in wrath and tempest at a distance. For the varied peals of the contest rolled over the hall like a mighty wind which shook its casements, but was imfelt within. There was something sublime in the feeling of the hour, in thus standing, as it were, upon the edge of silence and of storm. Soon, however, the stillness of the hall ^vas violated l)y the sudden rla'sh of bars ; one \alve of its portal was 86 NOTES. cautiously unclosed, and the author stood before the raving midtitudes, who, although terrific themselves, at his aspect set up an appalling shout of scorn, which, notwithstanding, was scarcely heard amidst the clatter of the cavalry, the showering of grating stones, the smashing of windows, the yells of rage, flight, or triumph, which marked the vicissitudes of the conflict, and the imiversal din which fomtied, as it were, over the com- batants, one unbroken arch of sound. A lofty stature, a well-poised cane, equally ready for defensive and offensive operations, a firm coun- tenance, and a look that hurled back the defiance that it received, secured the author against all personal attack. He walked into the hissing crowd, was lost amidst the hostile mass, and in half a minute might have been as dutifully trampled down by the militaiy, and perhaps as warmly defended by the mob, as if he had been one of its most active leaders in its long course of outrage and violence. Note XII. Page 54.. " Thy night of dread sublimity, wlien heaven Grew ruddy with thy tire8." The conflagration of Drury Lane Theatre formed one of the most sublime spectacles the author ever witnessed. His description is a faithful but very faint image of the featiu-es which fell under his o^vn observation. Looking through the telescope of report, he might cer- tainly have added a few strokes to the picture. He might have repre- sented the British Senate, alarmed at the unusual glare, rushing forth from the arena of political contention, to contemplate, from Westminster Bridge, the ravages of the devouring element. He might even have thrown greater interest over the whole, by pointing out, amongst the agitated senators, a man, who alone could behold, with a poet's admira- NOTES. 87 tion aiid a philosopher's heart, the magnificent desolation, and remain master of his wit and cheerfulness, amidst the destruction of his pro- perty, and the afflicting, though well-meant condolence of political friends and opponents. A slight sketch of the wit, the orator, and the poet, — the life of the senate, and the admii-ation of the land, — would have been welcome to all who revere genius long after it has ceased to illuminate our country j and the name of Sheridan might have imparted a portion of its immortality to this poem. Why, then, did he neglect such treasures; since he was acquainted with their existence ? In the rapidity of his views, be could only seize the grand outlines of objects, and throw them into broad masses of light and shade, without any of those softenings and minute features which are caught by a second glance, and add to the finish, but not to the grandeur of the picture. Note XIII. Page 60. " A silver lake Heaves all its waves in beauty." Such a revolution may well startle the thoughtless and incredulous, and be ranked among impossibilities. That a numerous population should be swept away may easily be reconciled to our belief. War, pestilence, and famine have too often devastated the earth not to have left a deep impression of their power. But that all traces of man's dominion and grandeur should ultimately be lost, and that nature shoidd regain the provinces and kingdoms which his skill and activity had con- quered from her, is too mortifying not to appear improbable. Yet, in how many instances has not the pride of humanity been taught this humiliating but useful lesson ! How many cities have totally vanished from the surface of the earth, whose names are still recorded on the 88 NOTES. page of history; and how many others, no doubt, whose very existence has; ceased ^to be even the tradition of ages! In the case of tliis vast metropolis, every local probability tends to show that as soon as the preserving care of man shall be withdrawn, it will hurry back to the dust with a rapidity of decay unparalleled among its elders in destniction. MISCELLANEOUS POETRY, MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. THE FLOWER GIRL'S FATE. " My fair young roses Come buy, come buy ! For, ere day closes. They'll die— they'll die ! " The morn's light tinges Their radiant vest. The dew still fringes Their balmy breast. " My fair young roses Come buy, come buy ! For, ere day closes. They die — they die ! " 92 THE FLOWER GIRL'vS FATE. Thus sung a maiden, From Nature's bower, With roses laden, Herself a flower ! The morning's glances Illume her eye, And her heart dances With extasy. Around her, springing, Come Age and Youth ; Age bright gems bringing. Youth vows of truth. " Oh, sell not roses !" — Hear the old man cry ; " Since, ere day closes. They fade and die. " Sell me those blushes, That shine so bright ; That eye, whence rushes Love's living light. THE FLOWER GIRl/s FATE, 93 " Sell me that bosom, Ne'er form'd to sigh ; Thou art the blossom My gems shall buy." " Nay, sir, thy treasure Shall go with thee; It may buy pleasure, But never me." Thus Youth approaches, With timid eye : — " Nor gold, nor coaches. Thy love shall buy. " But if thou ever Hast known its price, Heart, nought can sever, Shall be thy choice." The maid uncloses Her heart — her hand. And yields her roses At love's command. 94 THE FLOWER GIRl/s FATE. " Adieu, gay posies !" She sighed — " we part ; I lose my roses. But gaiu — a hcai't ! " MORAL. The winter's glooming, The earth is dry ; Not one rose blooming, To glad the eye. The maiden's paler Than wintry snows ; Yet none bewail her, Since lost her rose ! 95 MOSCOW'S CONFLAGRATION. (Moscow is burning — Russians marching — Napoleon in the Kremlin. ) RUSSIANS. Blaze, Moscow, blaze ! thy funeral light Shall be the sun that wakes our midit ! It scorches not our skies in vain, But calls our lions to the plain ; And, ere thine ashes cease to glow, Our arms shall strike tli' aventjing; blow. Blaze, Moscow, blaze ! thy funeral light Shall be the sun that wakes our might ! NAPOLEON. Blaze, Moscow, blaze ! thy glare's in heaven, The trojihy to my triumphs given ! O days of rapture and of fame. My crown's thy canopy of flame ! 96 Moscow's CONFLAGRATION. Earth trembles at its dazzling ray, And nations own my destined sway. Blaze, Moscow, blaze ! thy glare's in heaven, The trophy to my triumphs given ! RUSSIANS. How solemnly — how solemnly The city of om- fathers glows ! Whilst broken, wild and sullenly Each falling spire its peal bestows. The light is on the conqueror's crown. The smoke and darkness all our own ; His heart is joy, and ours' are woe. But soon we'll strike th' avenging blow. NAPOLEON. How fitfully — how fitfully Yon reeling steeples fling their peals ! How awfully — how awfully Yon flaming ocean round me wheels ! Moscow's CONFLAGRATION. 97 The sound is like the parting cry Of angels from their stations driven ; The blaze is like the melting sky, When doomsday mingles earth and heaven. \ RUSSIANS. A clamour from the howling waste — A storm is on the wingfed blast ! A host ! — a host ! — all winter teems ! Now, Moscow, for thy blazing beams ! The land is snow, the air is frost ; Our country's saved, the conqueror's lost ! NAPOLEON. " To arms ! — to arms !" — Unnerved each grasp, And harmless falls the lifted sword. " To horse ! — to horse !" — The coursers gasp, And tumble with their freezinsr lord. " O skies of ice, and land accurst ! To flight ! " — The battle's zone is burst ; O'er hill, and vale, and river-bed. Ye fowls of heaven, your banquets spread ! H 98 Moscow's CONFLAGRATION. ******** How merrily — how merrily Yon lio-ht-toned bells their matins tell ! How cheerily — how cheerily The mingled sovmds of labour swell ! Lift, Moscow ! lift thy towery head ; The winter's past, th' invader's fled ; And valour, peace, and freedom stand The guardian spirits of the land ! TO A YOUNG LADY WITH BLUE EYES. The stars which gem the midnight sky Exalt our thoughts to scenes above ; The beams that lighten from thine eye Bring heaven to earth, for heaven is love ! I 99 SONG. Oh ! those days are fled When my smile met thine, love And thy glances shed Joy and life on mine, love ! Dully years are flowing, For the sundered heart ; Oh ! there's bliss in meeting. But 'tis death to part ! Bright that morning rose. Like a bridal morn, love ! Yet, ere evening's close. All my joys were torn, love ! Darkly round thy vessel Did the billows roll; Darker still the tempest Gathered round my soul ! H 2 100 THE PARTING. Oh, never shall they be forgot — Those parting tears of thine ! They fell not on some barren spot, Whose dews may idly shine. Within my roek-smit heart they flow, And now, where'er thou'lt be — Afar or near, in weal or woe, That heart shall bloom for thee ! We parted not as others part, To meet in joy again ; Or, in eternal absence, break The links of memory's chain. Though our's are lives asunder rent. We may, we still must meet ; And yet so meet, with strange intent. Nor own our meeting sweet ! THE PARTING, 101 Around my neck thine arms no more May fondly still be flung; Thus on my soul in sighs to pour The music of thy tongue. No longer may these lips impart The balmy bliss of woe ; And, bitterer still — repining heart ! No tear of thine must flow. 102 ON A ROSE, PLUCKED BY A YOUNG LADY FROM THE CRAVE WHICH ONCE* CON- TAINED MARSHALL NEY, IN THE CEMETIERRE OP PERE LA CHAISE, AND BROUGHT TO THE AUTHOR IN 1823. That faded rose ! — that faded rose ! Ah ! to my heart 'tis dearer far Than e'en the brightest flower that blows In light and dew — the garden's star. For lately o'er a hero's grave It kindly spread its pious bloom, And nature's funeral honours gave Where kingly wrath denied a tomb ! * Too much veneration being paid by the people to the grave of this unfortunate warrior, during the year which followed his execution, his body was taken up by order of the government, and, as a security against posthumous popularity, carried to an estate belonging to his family, where it was re-interred, at a distance of several hundred miles from the metropolis. For several years the place where he had lain at Pere la Chaise was planted with roses ; but it appears that the roses have since been allowed to perish, or have also been removed, as too brilliant a tribute to the memoiy of the " Bravest of the Brave." ON A ROSE. 103 Its beauty's shrunk, and pale its hue — Like his, where'er his lowly bed ; And if it e'er taste earthly dew, 'Twill be the tear for him that's shed. For though his country spurn his name. Obedient to a monarch's hate; Strangers shall sound the hero's fame. And strangers weep the hero's fate. And thou, whose foot has reverent pressed The turf that could not shield the brave. Whose touch, with feeling's spell has dressed This withered relic from the grave — Ah ! think not thou hast robbed his shrine Because one rose less scents the air; Thou gav'st it more — one sigh of thine. And thou hast left thy blessing there ! 101 AFFLICTION. Sweet is the morn's first beaming O'er the dews of night, For while each drop hangs gleaming They look like tears of light. See, how yon flowers they're steeping In floods of mimic woe ! While, though my soul be M^eeping, No tears of mine must flow ! Sweet are the morn's young breezes, Wafting melody ; But their wild music pleases, Their freshness soothes not me ! Ah ! fling not songs and roses A passing smile to wake ; Mine is a heart that closes, ■> Or only swells — to break ! 105 CONQUEST. What is conquest ? — 'Tis a sword Blasting as the meteor's mane ; 'Tis the hand, with murder gored, Raised in thanks o'er thousands slain ! 'Tis the trumpet's brazen breath ; 'Tis the shout that rends the skies ; 'Tis tlie fainting gasp of death, — Orphans' tears and widows' cries ! 'Tis that flame on regal brows, Melts imperial crowns away ; 'Tis the spear ambition throws. And the shroud of freemen's clay ! 'Tis what poets laud with glee ; 'Tis what heroes die to gain ; 'Tis what angels weep to see, And what Heaven forbids in vain ! 106 THE THUNDER STORM. Why tlius tremble, O my fair ! And so wild thy glances rove ? Though alone with thee, I swear I'll not breathe one sigh of love. While the tempest's thunder peals, Oh, thy guardian let me be ! And when heaven her light reveals, Cruel maid ! I'll fly from thee ! Soon the tempest-blasts were chained, And of all the torrent-showers. Nought but dewy gems remained Sparkling in the cups of flowers. Then with timid, downcast eye. While soft blushes rapture move. Sighed the maid, " No more I'll fly, E'en though thou should'st speak of love." 107 WOMAN. Eden's roses round him growing Man still found no liappy hour, Till fair woman, freshly blowing, Came to weave the nuptial bower. When her hand with rash ambition. Culled the apple of despair, Madly fond, he braved perdition, Shared her guilt her fate to share. What endears this vale of sorrow, Where our banished feet since rove ? 'Tis the charm our prospects borrow From the light of woman's love. Heightener of each earthly pleasure. Softener of each ill we bear — Woman ! — since thy love's our treasure. Be thy bliss our tenderest care ! 108 SONG. With bounding step and lightning eye, Young Spring escaped from Winter's arms, To Nature flew, as favourites fly To revel in maternal charms. When looking o'er the slumbering earth, " What ! — doth for me no flow'ret blow ? Oh, why should Spring's young soul have birth To shiver in a world of snow ! " Where, Nature, where's the living flame. That brightened e'en my earliest day ? Where are those minstrel sounds that came, To hail and cheer me on my way ? I was thy god, and thou my shrine. Why, fickle one, so altered now ? In vain I shed my smiles divine. Dark, mute, and desolate art thou !" 109 ASSOCIATIONS. Oh, 'tis pleasure, Without measure, When the light of eve is fleeting, Slow to glide O'er the tide. O'er the tide of the moonlight sea ! And when the gales of evening sigh, And the smooth billows gently heave. To view the stars emerge on high, Or in the waves bright garlands weave- Then to listen While they glisten, To the oars' light-measured beating, Till afar, Love's guitar Fling her passing melody. 110 ASSOCIATIONS. But 'tis meeter, And still sweeter, When the light of youth is fleeting, Slow to glide. O'er the tide, O'er the tide of memory ! And when past joys in visions rise. And all their sweetness breathes again, To meet the beams of long-lost eyes. And wear anew the broken chain. Then to listen. While tears glisten. To the heart's tumultuous beating, Till afar. Love's guitar Fling her passing melody ! Ill TO Oh, lady ! do not say they're fled, — Those days when flattery could deceive ; For, till the hour thyself art dead, Thou'lt still be fooled, and still believe. A sly glance at thy pretty foot. An ear attentive to thy tale, A dashing coat, a sparkling boot, Will ever o'er thy heart prevail. And should'st thou rage, and weep, and write, And hate and love — dismiss, recall — A wild tornado in thy spite — An easy spell will soften all. 112 SONG. I have a rose, a lovely rose, That blossoms in my bower ; And on its stem, soft budding, grows The hope of many a flower. Then why on other blooms should stray My wild, inconstant eye ? Can other blossoms e'er display So rich a scent and dye ? I have a gem, a threefold gem, That clusters round my heart ; None, in a monarch's diadem. With brighter lustre dart. Then round, when other brilliants gleam, Why starts the longing sigh ? Can any shed so pure a beam As tried affection's eye ? 113 HARP OF THE SKY. Harp of the sky ! I love to hear Thy wild tumultuous swell, Whilst swept by Winter's hand thou peal'st the knell Of the departing year. Like troubled spirits shrieking on the air Thy mingled notes arise ; — Now burst in thunder loud and clear, And now the lengthening waving murmur dies. Borne on th' aspiring sound. Wild fancy follows to creation's bound ; O'er wastes of waves that heave below, O'er isles of ice, and mounts of snow, Where cold, reflected sunbeams flow, She speeds to catch the wand'ring cry. That seems faint Nature's dying sigh; She hears it in the mountain-cave, It flits along the rushing wave ; And, 'neath the forest's snow-bent boughs. Startles the rein-deer as they browse. 114 WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADy's ALBUM. Now all her dreams are fled — The whirlwind rages o'er her head ; From all thy trembling strings A voice of thunder springs, Astounding, deep the tempests roll, The bounding ocean rends her shore, And, 'midst the universal roar, Shakes 'neath the crash of snows the trembling pole. Harp of the sl^y ! what seraph sports So lightly with thy strings ? — " A fiend no more my music courts. Nor o'er my chords his rude hand flings." WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM. There was a time I could have traced. Where, on this page of seeming white, Like sunbeams darting o'er the waste. Some virgin eyes had shed their light. WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY's ALBUM. 115 There was a time my soul had read What maids conceal with anxious care ; E'en though the tell-tale glance be fled, What thoughts and hopes were written there. There was a time this hand had felt, And trembled as the feeling came, That loveliest fingers here had dealt. And left behind their touch of flame. O light of soul ! why darkened now ? And why, my hand, so cold and still ? Yon maid replies, " Peruse this brow ! The answer's there, — 'tis Autumn's chill." O thou, gay daughter of the spring ! On whom the dews of morning come, Caressed by every painted wing. Admired by all, beloved by some — Not on a luckless poet's years Thy wit and satire try to fix ; Or be thou still, to pay thy sneers, His virgin theme at thirty-six ! I 2 116 TRUE LOVE. I love thee not with earthly love, Though still thou be a child of earth ; But love thee as thou'rt loved above, By spirits of immortal birth ! O thou'rt to me a living dream — Impalpable to aught but soul ! One wish would dim that spotless beam, — One touch would humanize the whole ! Then dread not feeling so refined, 'Tis not the passion burns and blights; Like heaven's own flame, with love combined. It consecrates where'er it lights. It is the spirit of the heart, The fragrance of its sentient flower. Which doth awhile to earth impart The freshness of an Eden hour. ii-r FERMOY. AIR — " GRAMACHREE." The banner once o'er Fermoy's towers In pride of conquest waved, Whilst round it gleamed the battle showers, And whirlwinds wildly raved : The spear that glittered on the wall, The sword that armed the just. The harp that shook the festive hall, Now moulder in the dust ! Why, woods, so high your summits tower, So wide your branches spread? ^' We hide the wrecks of Fermoy's power, Her prostrate walls o'ershade." And why, dark stream, so loudly roar, While swift thy waters flow ? — " I mourn remembered glories o'er. And shun the scene of woe. 118 FERMOY. " For here I heard the turret's crash, The tyrant's threatening call ; And here I saw oppression dash Fair Freedom from the wall. Yet long did lady hands uprear The banner of the brave : And when, unconquered, burst her spear, The victor won— her grave !" Halls of my sires ! around me fling Your ancient revelry ; Whilst ladies smile, and harpers sing, Pour forth your chivalry ! Or whilst the trumpet echoes shrill. And the war-beacon glows In majesty of battle, still Frown o'er your monarch's foes ! But all is hushed ! The harp's rich swell, Still sweeter beauty's lay ; The warrior's clang, the battle's yell, The falling turrets' bray. THE THOUGHT. 119 In scattered heaps the ramparts lie, Yawns wide the secret keep, Nods light the chapel arch on high, Th' uncovered tombs gloom deep. Halls of my sires ! no longer scowl. Deserted and unknown ; No longer be the nightly owl Your host and bard alone. I bring a harp not loud, but wild, A hand not skilled, but true, A heart with feelings warm, though mild. And offer all to you. THE THOUGHT. There was a star but yesternight That beamed on me, so full and bright, I almost thought it was an eye Of kindred — flashing from the sky. I little knew thy soul was there, Youth of my hopes, and my despair ! 120 THE LESSON. There was a gale so wild and low, I felt it breathe, not heard it blow, And almost thought it bore a tone Of voices, to my spirit known. Ah ! little knew I thou wert there. Youth of my hopes and my despair ! There was a thought that life is strong, That earth detains our spirits long ; And that 'twere happier far to rove 'Mid orbs of light, and worlds of love. I little knew thy spirit there, Culled joys our guilt may never share ! THE LESSON. What plaintive note is dying In murmurs on the wind? Art thou some spirit, sighing For joys thou canst not find ? THE LESSON. 121 Then fly this world of seeming, And try another sphere ; 'Tis but when souls are dreaming That rapture flashes here. " Vain man ! that dar'st, off'ending, Thy native orb despise ; Hast thou, from earth ascending, Explored yon peopled skies ? — Those stars so brightly glowing. As clad in light divine, Have woes and tears fast flowing, And glooms and storms, like thine. " Earth views their glories streaming In radiance through the night; They, too, behold her beaming. And wonder at her light. Ah ! trust a voice of healing ; Bliss dwells in every sphere Where beats a heart of feeling, And falls afi'cction's tear !" 122 LOVE'S TEST. 'Tis sweet to think there is a spot We both have trod together ; And sweeter still to know 'twill not Be e'er forgot by either ! Though distance part, or fetters bind, Our frames alone they sever ; O'er chains, and realms, and time, the mind Still clings as close as ever ! Then let the world our beings part, And think it can divide us, — We have a spell, with mightier art. Will back as often guide us : 'Tis but to let our spirits fly. When all around is glooming, To that blest spot, beneath the sky. Where Eden's for us blooming. 123 STANZAS. TO A YOUNG LADY CONVICTED OF GROSS FLATTERY IN THE COURT OF CONSCIENCE, ON MONDAY, 17tH FEBRUARY, 1817. PLAINTIFF, JUDGE, AND JURY, EUGENIUS ROCHE. What ! do you flatter ? — know ye not It is our right you thus assume ? Your's is an higher, happier lot, — To drink, not minister, the fume. Shall from her shrine the goddess bend To bid her votary ascend ; And not content with him to share The lofty honours of her place, Sink lower still, and e'en prepare A sacrifice to win his grace ? No ; 'tis a crime against your sex, Though lovely in our eyes it be ; And, lest their bosoms you should vex. Resume their frigid dignity. 124 SACRED SORROW. And let me, as in duty bound, With heart contrite, and awe profound. The fairy of our hills adore : My incense will not burn less bright, Though flattery with it shall not soar — Whilst true sincerity's its light. SACRED SORROW. I cannot raise my sinful eye, 1 cannot lift my voice in prayer ; But Thou wilt hear the spirit's sigh The anguish of the heart declare ! Though lips are mute — and faint and slow The thoughts that tremble to thy throne, Ah ! spurn them not, but let them know That mercy listens to their moan ! 'Tis not the pang of earthly woe That wakes the sorrow of my soul ; If 'twere thine hand had dealt the blow, I'd own in tears thy just controul : — ALL IS VAIN. 125 But 'tis my faithless heart has sought The stain that blackens all its springs ; And 'tis my failing strength hath wrought The grief that now my bosom wrings. I'm humbled in my very sight : How loathsome must I seem to thee ! Oh ! will thy pure, immortal light Illumine e'er a blot like me ? Yet 'tis a joy, in woe, to feel The ill I work I most abhor ! Oh, press on me thy living seal, Father ! that I may sin no more ! ALL IS VAIN. Yes, I have looked into the tomb, And found no terror there ! They told me 'twas a cave of gloom. Of silence, and despair; But through the gloom I saw thy star, Redeemer ! — pour its blaze afar ; 126 ALL IS VAINT. And tlirough tlie stillness heard tliy voice Bidding tli' enfranchised soul rejoice. And where they said despair had stood, I saw the mantle of thy blood In mercy o'er the traveller spread, To clothe his nakedness, and shield his head. I looked behind— the world was night, Its suns had faded from my sight, Or dim as sickly tapers shone ; The beauty of the earth was gone ; The majesty of man was low. And all seemed vanity below. Oh ! then I laughed, in pity laughed, At all the plans myself had traced ; At all the draughts of hope I quaffed. And all the w^orthless joys I chaced. For once the torch that men call fame. Had lured me with her meteor-flame, And, kindling at the unholy Hght, In wild, Icarian flight. My soul had sought and miss'd the nothing of a name. ALL IS VAIN. 127 For once did giant hopes unbind The daring of a youthful mind, And dreams of greatness, glory, power. Had flit across my lonely hour. More lovely far, but fleeter still, Had beauty's smile, and beauty's eye, And stronger yet, her tear, her sigh. Awakened passion's wildest thrill : — But now mortality had half aside Her veil of darkness cast. Fame, how I spurned thy empty blast ! And power, thy pompous stride ! E'en woman's glance had lost its spell ; And on mine ear unheeded fell The witchery of her tongue ! 128 THE BRIDAL DANCE. The dance is twined in Hymen's bower, And rapture wings the giddy hour : See, as the living circles glide, How lightly springs the lovely bride ! Now in her eyes what gay transport is beaming, And yet regretM tears from mine are streaming ! No, no, I envy not her bliss ; But wish my bridal still like this ! And now the flash of feet is o'er. Whilst, hands entwined, hearts mingle more. See, as he tends his noble bride, The husband-knight beam love and pride ! Now in his heart what sweet tumult is swelling ; And yet in mine the sigh alone is dwelling ! No, no, I envy not their bliss ; But may my bridal be like this ! 129 SONG. Gone is the floweret's pride, The dew of morn that glittered on its leaves ! First the gay butterfly her nectar sucked, The thoughtless grasshopper her rich bloom plucked, The snail glued her stem with his slime as he passed, The caterpillar mowed her verdure last. Whilst in her bosom, deep and warm, Nestled and fed the canker-worm ; The earth the withered plant receives, Whose buds scarce expanded and died. Lost is the virgin's rest. The peace of heart reflected in her smile ! First the seducer won, and scorned his prize ; The lover, now unchecked, snatched easy joys ; The rake to public shame consigned her charms, Disease enclasped her in his withering arms ; Whilst in her bosom, gored and torn. Despair fixed deep his deadly thorn ; Their victim lost, the world reviles. Welcomes the grave an early guest ! K 130 THE AUTUMN ROSE. Why linger thus upon thy stem, Frail bud ! — that ne'er hast tasted dew? Summer hath dropped her diadem, And Autumn's wreaths are withering too. Ah ! quick unfold thy tardy bloom. Ere gentle gales forsake the sky ; One morning more, and frost may doom Thy pride or indolence to die ! Ah, think not sloth or pride conceal My virgin treasures from thy view ! I sprung so late, I dread to feel The lightest gale, the softest dew. Oil, could I hope one beam would glide To cheer my frail and lonely flower, I'd soon expand my bosom wide, And revel in the golden shower ! THE ROSE, THE MAIDEN, AND THE BARD. 131 The sun-beam heard the answer given, And wondered much a bud so mean Should think that suns were set in heaven To please its whims and soothe its spleen. Yet pitying from his clouds he smiled, And shed so pure, so warm a ray. That Autumn's blossom gave the wild The sweetness of its passing day ! THE ROSE, THE MAIDEN, AND THE BARD. [These stanzas were written in consequence of tlie melancholy death of Lady Blane's young and lovely daughter. The writer met her at an evening party, in 1813, and three mornings afterwards her body was discovered in a small lake, in her father's park, within view of the mansion.] THE ROSE. Yester on parent-tree I drank The morning beam, the morning dew ; The vernal breezes sipped my breath. And with the theft still sweeter grew. K 2 132 THE ROSE, THE MAIDEN, AND THE BARD. To-night the storm has smote my head, My stem is snapped, my leaves are spread ; My lovers with my charms are fled. And on my rain-o'erflooded bed, I sigh to light, adieu ! THE MAIDEN. Yester I bloomed in virgin's pride. With cheek of health, and glancing eye, With airy form that trod the earth. As seraphs wing their native sky. This morn, the cheek of health is white, The glancing eye is quenched in night, The heart is still that beat so light. And o'er this form, like seraphs bright, The slumbering waters lie. THE BARD. O what is youth that fades so fast ! O what is life we prize so high ! Youth is the lielpless cloud, that chaced Before the northern storm, must fly. THE WANDERING HARPER. 133 And life is but a solar ray, Tlmt wings to earth its flaming way, Lights to the grave our mortal clay, Then seeks again the source of day, And blazes in the sky. THE WANDERING HARPER. " Harper, refrain ! I had long, long obeyed thee, Yetthy hand to the blast and the snow has betrayed me ! My strings they are wet, and their melody o'er, 'Twere fit they should break when they please thee no more." Harp of my youth ! if no shelter I yield thee, 'Tis because o'er my brow hangs no kind roof to shield me. On the blast that assails thee my white hair is spread. And if snow wet thy strings, it still melts on my head. 134. THE DOVE. Sitting in the dusk of a November evening in the Hermitage at Mitcham Grove, the seat of his most dear and revered friend Henry Hoare, Esq., a dove tlew in through the surrounding rose-bushes, and alighted at the author's feet. He held his breath, remaining without moving, and the unwary snowy stranger was preparing to couch by his side, when her eye met bis, and she darted away with the rapidity of fear. In the short interval between this visit and the dinner-bell, the following lines were composed. " Dove, with die snowy pinion, why Alight so near, then fly so fast? Didst thou read menace in mine eye, Though but one glance on thine was cast, And rather trust the wintry sky. Than shelter with me from the blast?" " Man, though the wintry star on high Now sheds her cold and piercing light, Though tired my wing, and shelter nigh, Still far from thee I'll take my flight ; Deceit may couch in smiling eye. While storms alone disturb the night." 135 SONG. Ah, my love no limit knows ! Bounds true passion never knew ; Mixed in one with life it flows, And with life will vanish too. But if, when this frame hath perished, Passions with our spirits rise, The pure flame on earth I cherished Shall be love that never dies ! 13G NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA. Oh ! when shall the star of my freedom arise, And empire's waned splendour revisit my brow ? I watch, but in vain, for a light in the skies. All's dark as my spirit, and cold as hope now. Time was, that I stood, and the nations were shaking, And earth felt my tread as the tread of her king ; 1 looked — at my glance, crowns and sceptres fell breaking, I spoke — and new thrones for new monarchs would spring. Time is, that I languish in bonds and in woe. No wife left to lighten their weight with a smile, No son on my bosom permitted to grow. But storms and rude spirits to mock and revile. Yet wed is the hand that now withers alone, And glows in this bosom a father's fond heart ; A world they might take — 'twas the conqueror's own — | But son, bride, and sire none but heaven should part. 137 SYMPATHY. I saw thee not ; and j'^et 'twas sweet To know I breathed that air with thee ; For though our glances could not meet, I felt thee near, 'twas bliss for me ! Oh, if the lightning in his wrath Should ever blast my guilty sight. Do thou but wander in my path, And still a sun will cheer my night ! I could not hear thee ; — but I knew The sounds that pleased thine hearing w^ell ; And oft with thine my spirit flew On music's soft and varied swell. Oh, if the thunder in his wrath Should ever close my guilty ear. Do thou but wander in my path, My heart will tell me thou art near! 138 (C APRIL'S ANSWER. Why set in gloom wild April now, Art tliou not herald to the Spring ? And does that grave and low'ring brow Beseem the sports this hour should bring ? Go ; to the ocean of the past, With haste pursue thy dreary way, That cloudy face, that frosty blast. Might chill the opening blooms of May. Well may I wear a cloudy face, Well might I drop a parting tear, For though I ope the vernal race I also close a fleeting year. Long wilt thou here in joy behold, The Christian sire 'mid blessings move. With mortal frame of earthly mould. But heart and spirit from above. April's answer. 139 " Oft wilt thou hear the orphan sigh A prayer for him who taught him prayer ; Oft view the widow's tearful eye In rapture own his saving care. Mine is the dread and encUess chill, The path but once by ages trod, Whilst blest and blessing he shall still Perform to man the work of God. " Another day, and / have been, Unlike thee, never more to be ! For all I've loved, and all I've seen, Shall rise again, but not for me. Another day for him shall weave A wreath of many a happy year — From him to part well may I grieve, Well thou rejoice to keep him here." 140 FIRST LOVE. Fair is the morn, when on the gale That shakes the dewy bud she flies, Peeps o'er dark night's retiring veil, And flings her blushes o'er the skies. Fair is the Spring, when from the arms Of Winter's king she speeds away, Robes Nature in her brightest charms, And cheers with smiles the face of day. But sweeter far is youthfid love. When, breaking from all bondage free. It bids our raptured spirits move In fields of joy and liberty ! 141 SONG. Oh, they were dreams ! Those hours when stars were glowing, And in their beams From thee and bliss I stole ! The ocean wave Alone wath life was flowing, And softly gave Her music to my soul. But eyes had shone With purer lustre beaming, And thrilled a tone Of richer, dearer spell. The wave, the sky. For calmer hearts were gleaming ; The parting sigh Alone in mine could dwell ! 142 STANZAS WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR ON HIS BIUTH-DAY, THE 23lU) OK FEBRUARY, 1817. Another twined ! — My wreath of years Grows full, and clusters on my brow ; My spring is past, and summer now In all its blazing pomp appears. Forsake me not. Almighty Guide, Amid the tempest of the hour ! Thy mercy bade me gently glide O'er infancy, and youth's wild tide ; And now, that fiercer dangers lower, Ah, let me on thy pinions ride, Unharmed, amid the fiery shower ! Thou know'st my infant eye First oped to Thee ; Thou know'st my infant sigh First rose to Thee : — STANZAS. 143 Thou know'st, in peace or strife, The day and nig-ht of life, My hope is linked to Thee ! A thousand stars are in the sky, While not a cloud obscures their light ; They flash, like rays of bliss on high. That seeming stray to mortal sight. And yet, perhaps, no human eye Now wakes, but mine, to drink the glories of the night ! A thousand gales are on the "wdng. And while in torpor, long and deep. Earth and her millions sleep, Instinct with mystic sound. As wandering harps they fling "Wild melodies around ; And yet, perhaps, no listening ear, Save mine, awakes their thrilling notes to hear. " And why so wakeful is thine eye ? So vigilant thine ear ? Art thou a spirit of the sky. Chained for a moment here. But struggling for thy liberty ?" 144 STANZAS. 'Twas on such night my bonds were tied, And I became a son of earth; On such a night my musings glide To Him who gives immortal birth. Oh, Father ! when my task is o'er, And earth shall check my flight no more, Let me, in bridal-garments drest, Rise to heaven a pardoned guest ! I do not ask for bliss below, Or e'en for short reprieve from woe ; I ask for Thee — thou First and Last — That shall not pass — that hath not past ! Now, farewell night ! — thy shadows fly ! Mingling with my former years, The dawn of other days appears — The Sabbath of my soul is nigh ! 145 THE MYSTERY. Well, let it pass ! — It was a dream, And dreams are made to melt in air ; It cheered me with a passing gleam. And are realities more fair ? Or do they shed a steadier beam To gild our thoughts and soften care ? The hope was wild ! The mountain-rose. Bright-looking from its bower of thorn. Is not more lovely as it blows — Nor sooner, by rude tempests torn. Falls withered where in pride it rose, The joy of earth, the child of morn ! That hope is fled !— I knew it well, I felt it when I loved it most — It could not long with mortal dwell ! It was a joy from seraph tost. As o'er this world his glances fell— He called it back— my star is lost ! 146 SEPARATION. 'Tis not most at the parting hour The feeling heart is rent in twain ; The tumult of the scene suspends the pain, And robs fierce anguish of its power. Besides, some cold, unsympathetic eye Might glare upon the falling tear with scorn ; Sneer at the woe that on the cheek is worn, Or mock the sadness of the farewxU sigh. 'Tis when the clasp of hands is o'er, Affection would in vain have still renewed ; 'Tis when the shooting glance no more With living spell endued, Wafts soul to soul ; 'tis when the ground No more returns the flying chariot's sound. And of the day that saw us joined. No beam, our last frail link, remains behind. 'Tis then the heart is sunk, the cheek bedewed. And the lorn spirit feels its solitude ! 147 THE LOCK-STEALER. [A young lady having told the author that she had lost some tufts of hair at night, in a manner for which she could not account, he assured her that some sentimental sylph was the plunderer; and that if she allowed a poet's hand to share the prize, and a poet's heart to wear it, the power of the sylph would be destroyed, and her beautiful locks secured against future aggressions. The experiment was tried, and the following is a faithful history of the result.] Scene, the vicinity of a stream ; time, evening darkening into night. FIRST SYLPH. From the leaf of the willow, Light swinging- o'er the stream, To my loved maiden's pillow, I sail oft on a dream ; And there I watch and linger Till sleep hath closed her eye, To pluck, with cautious finger, One tress of raven dye. Then I fly, and I cry, While earth, wave, and sky, L 2 148 THE LOCK-STEALEU. To my bliss reply, Then I fly, and I cry, " Maid, awake !— arise ! Love has won the prize !" 'Tis the hour — my fleet pinions Now speed ye ! Sylphs, adieu ! Nay, fling not, saucy minions. To bear me down, the dew ; Or else your frolic minding. With virgin-locks I'll twine So firm a chain, so binding, Ye'll all in slavery pine. While I fly, and I cry, Till earth, wave, and sky, To my notes reply. While I fly, and I cry, " Sylphs, the moon is high, To the greenwood hie !" I THE LOCK-STEALER. 149 SYLPHS. " What, so soon, friend, returning ? Hast woven lock and chain ? Why that brow with shame burning, That cheek so red with pain ?" SYLPH. li Oh, all my joys are blighted. An exile now I rove ! The spoiler's hand has lighted On those dark locks of love ; And you know, to the blow, Sylphs, perforce, must bow, Though their hearts be woe, If their power can't restore. To the maid or flower, Her rich stolen dower." SYLPHS, " There's no cause for despairing, The spoiler, friend, is nigh ; 150 THE LOCK-STEALER. To yon stream late repairing, We saw him wander by. His lip was on thy treasure, His look was on the sky, And all a poet's pleasure Seemed dancing in his eye. But we'll breathe, and we'll wreathe, Such wild melodies On the waving breeze, That will close, in repose. The bright eye that glows As we shut the rose. " Hush ! — beneath yon tree lying. The half-dreaming poet view : Now, with lightest wing flying. Steal o'er him like the dew. Then flow our softest numbers. Like murmurs of the bee, To steep in mystic slumbers That spirit wild and free ! THE LOCK-STEALER. 151 Then on air, while we bear The chained soul afar, To some favourite star, The rich prize rescued lies, If it touch no part Of his throbbing heart. " For the heart of a poet Is so sacred a shrine, All it guards, ye well know it, Grows holy and divine ! Now mark that eye's faint beaming, That deep and lengthened sigh — On, on ! — his soul is dreaming !" But what a sudden cry ! And on high, how they fly ! While earth, wave, and sky. To this plaint reply — " Oh, 'twas shrined ! — heart-entwined ! O that sylphs could die ! O that sylphs could die !" 152 THE DOUBT. Perhaps 'twas fancy all ! — her eye, That seemed to meet and answer mine. Might roll in careless reverie, And o'er my soul unconscious shine ! And yet so oft, methought, it turned Where my wild hopes with terror strove, And in its beam such meaning burned, 'Twas more than chance, though less than love ! There is a language of the soul, By lips unuttered — felt, unheard ; And when our mingling glances stole, Methought the converse sweet I shared. The mist that dims the solar beam, Leaves in its flight no gloom behind — Oh, why must Love's entrancing dream Fly from the grasp, but not the mind ! 153 THE ENVOI. One tlioiight upon a distant love ! The brightest eye mine ever met, The lightest form in dreams can move, The softest voice e'er warbled yet — One thought upon a distant love ! One sigh upon the moments blest When on my soul that eye was bent. When in mine arms that form was pressed, And to my heart that voice was sent — One sigh upon those moments blest ! One tear upon the rapid flight Of years, and joys, and feelings too. That leave our life a feverish night, Uncheered by star, uncooled by dew — One tear upon their rapid flight ! 154 THE CONFESSION. One wish — though seas and times divide, One spot of earth may still unite ! One hope — our spirits, when they glide From mortal to immortal light, May meet and mingle in the tide ! THE CONFESSION. Full well I know I should not love. And oft I fain would still my heart ; But soon I find the task above The power of will — the skill of art. I can command my tongue, mine eye- Perhaps repress the anxious sigh. And e'en from thy dear presence fly ; But to forbid each pulse that beats To beat for thee — Or to prevent each thought that fleets To fleet to thee, Ah, well I feel that ne'er can be ! WATERLOO. 155 True, we are parted, and mine eye No longer drinks the beams of thine ! And in a glance— a touch — a sigh — Thy soul no longer melts with mine ! But still with fervent, ceaseless care, My spirit's round thee, like the air That floats thy limbs and lifts thine hair. Then to forbid each pulse that beats To beat for thee — Or to prevent each thought that fleets To fleet to thee, Ah, well I feel that ne'er can be ! WATERLOO. 'Twas eve ; but no cloud of pure fragrance ascended. No sun in the west sunk in billows of li^ht. No villager's song with the wood's music blended, But earth shook with awe at the coming of night ! 156 WATERLOO. For man, who in thunders that morn had proclaimed His mandate of wrath, whose voice is the storm, Man, blind to the vengeance in heaven that flamed. Still moved in his fury her face to deform ! The cannon's loud peal o'er the hills still rebomided, The flash of the muskets still lightened the vale, The bomb crashed, and crushed those her burst had astounded. And low on the ground ran the dying's deep wail. The trumpet blew shrill, and the proud courser neighed, And dashed o'er the M^ounded to rush on their foes ; Hosts pressed, wavered, fell, as the tide of war swayed. And smoke red with flames o'er the wild carnage rose. 'Twas then wild ambition, no longer concealing The joy of his heart, and his spirit of pride. Cried — " Mine are the thunders that round me are pealing, I breathe, and whole nations are swept in the tide." 'Twas all : in his hand crashed the battle's red SM^ord, The crown from his brow by a whirlwind was torn. ABSENCE. 157 Despair yelled around, and tlie conflict's proud lord On billows of flight from the tempest was borne ! 'Tis night : but the roar of the battle now sleepeth, A garment of snow wraps the couch of the brave ; The moon's silent eye in its course o'er them weepeth, And stars rain from heaven tears of light on their grave. Here Nature shall soon in her beauty awake, The tomb yield a rose for the bosom of spring ; — But when o'er the brave shall that fair morning break. When mercy shall waft them to bliss on her wing ! ABSENCE. Lovely and bright as the visions of morning, Haunt still my soul as in days that are fled ! Thou wert the star all my dark hours adorning ; Thou art the spirit of joys that are dead ! 158 THE INCANTATION. If e'er my harp, in the stillness of even, Shed a wild sigh on no hearing but mine, That lonely sigh to thy absence is given. For all my spirit is withering for thine ! If e'er my soul, 'mid the throng of the fairest. Fly from their charms and seem darkened to me, That pause is thine, for she travels then, dearest. To seek thy spirit, and Meander with thee ! THE INCANTATION. Slumber, light as vernal air, Hitlier weave thy softest spell ! Lull to rest the thought of care. Bid the soul in rapture dwell. With half-breathed notes and dying- fall We thy pinions hither call ! Borne on the waviny; swell Forsake thy secret cell ! RECOLLECTION. 159 The breath of eve has cleared the sky — Ere the cooling dew-drop gleam, Or the star of twilight beam, Seal in peace the weary eye ! The voice of distant streams Shall woo inspiring dreams, And music shed her gentlest sigh. Slumber, light as vernal air. Thou hast wove thy softest spells ! Rests the charmed thought of care, And the soul in rapture dwells ! RECOLLECTION. Ah, say not 'tis a sprightly air, Without one thrill of feelinjr's tone ! When light in youth thy spirits were Was feeling then unknown ? Reflect, tis not the gale — The wand'ring gale — that yields perfume ; 160 RECOLLECTION. He steals it from the vale Where rose or violets bloom. Thus o'er thee while those gay notes fly- Like melodies the desert flings, To me they bring a secret sigh From memory's soul that springs ! Oh, where's the form that tripped so light When those gay notes were ringing near ? Oh, where the eye that shone so bright — The voice so sweet and clear ? That form is in her grave — Be calm and deep its long repose ! But oh, the glance she gave Still o'er my spirit glows ! Then wake again those notes that fly Like melodies the desert flings — For me they breathe a secret sigh. From memory's soul that springs ! 161 THE MINSTREL'S MEED. Oh, sweet is the breath of the dew-sprinkled thorn, And bright is the gleam of the clear vernal sky ! But richer's the sigh that from feeling is born. And purer the glance of the soul-kindled eye. When deepens the gloom of the tempest around, How cheering each sunbeam that glimmers on high ! When loudest the shrieks of wild terror resound, How sweet is the voice that breathes "succour is nigh !" More bright than the sunbeam that shoots through the storm. More sweet than the voice that bids lost hope return 3 The glance of affection our griefs can disarm, And friendship to blisses our sorrows can turn. Tlius sung a young minstrel, while eve's breezes blew, And millions of stars slow emerged from the sky; For beauty he sung, and the loved meed he drew, A sigh from her bosom, a tear from her eye. M 162 TO MISS ADELE lAMS. Clear, O clear that brow of gloom, Grief stains so fair a shrine ; Joy alone should e'er illume An eye so bright as thine. Leave to me the plaintive sigh, For me no roses twine ; Summer blazes in thy sky, But autumn sets in mine. Keep, O keep that pensive smile, So faint, so sweet, so brief; Though it beams, we doubt, the while, If it be joy or grief: Keep it, for 'tis feeling's own, And, as it gently stole. Seemed, in chastened heavenly tone. The moonlight of the soul ! 163 THE REMONSTRANCE. Why mimic thus the feeble bee, And flutter o'er each lowly flower ? Where is the harp I strung for thee, The wing I braced with mounting power ? I gave thee not the sprightly flute To call the dance and wake the song ; I gave thee not the breathing lute A lover's sighing to prolong. The harp I gave thee was my own, But seldom struck by mortal hand ; Its chords are deep, and wild its tone, And nature owns its stern command. Then plunge amid the battle-storm. Fire with its peals the hero's breast; Nor waste a note on beauty's form, To win a smile, and lose thy rest. M 2 164 THE CAPTIVE. Or catch, amid the blazing- sky, The melody of rolling spheres ; Nor let the beam of beauty's eye Profane thy song or wake thy fears. THE CAPTIVE. He stood : the strength of nations at his feet Rolled like the countless billows of the deep : And he had power, with its wild might to sweep The bosom of the earth, and down to beat Armies and thrones that would his will defeat. But yet he was not happy. Healthful sleep In kind forgetfulness would never steep Thoughts of dark deeds, nor his fierce spirit greet. But now, the load of human grandeur laid Down in the dust, though barriers round him frown. He walks erect and free. His debt is paid To nations, who have ta'en his worthless crown, And in the silence of his highland shade He tastes the bliss of peace, forgetting past renown. l()5 THE EXILE. The following sonnet is founded on the accounts of St. Helena, published when that island became the prison of the greatest conqueror of modern times. Thunder-storms were represented as altogether un- known. It appears, however, by the observations of his friends, that serenity is far from being the general character of the climate. Oh, for a peal of thunder ! — smile no more, Eternal sunshine, thou fatiguest my soul ! In calm and majesty no longer roll Vast ocean ! but in all thy tempests roar, And lash with mountain-vv-aves my prison shore ! »Send forth your voices, angels of the pole. Hither wild whirlwinds be your constant goal. And give my spirit wings of storm to soar : I'll rush into the past, and as around The mingling thunders of your conflict peal. Shall burst upon mine ear the battle sound. Shall break upon mine eye the ranks of steel, Till planting o'er the earth my flag unfurled, I'll stand, and seem once more the monarch of a world ! 166 SONG. The laurel once rose green and fair Beneath the balm of Devon's air, And scouted e'en the storm ; But now with admiration view The magic power, the blessing too, Of radical reform. Scarce has a lordling's plastic hand With laurel decked his patriot band, And loyalty denied, Than, withering at the touch of scorn. The laurel shrinks into a thorn. Aimed at the country's side. Then, Devon, trust not laurels now, They will but mar, not grace, thy brow. Whilst on thy mountains grows, Implanted firmer by the blast. The oak, whose strength will ever last. Whose leaf no winter knows ! 167 ENVOI A CAROLINE. Vous le voulez — ma main obeissante Va done commettre un acte de noirceur ! Pensez y bien ; ma plume est encore innocente, Et ce papier garde encore sa blancheur — Mais vouz riez — eh bien, ma foi, tant pire, Tout sera fait pour vous a point nomme, Car lorsqu'on veut le mal avec tant doux sourire, On est bien sur qu'il sera consomme : J'ai la plume a la main, allons, je vais ecrire, Voyons un pen ce que la muse inspire. Ah ! que ne suis je le printems ! Je verserais ici ma corbeille de roses, Et de leur levres demi closes La douce haleine enivrerait tes sens. Je t'ouvrirais ainsi les portes de I'annee, Et lorsqu' en des momens plus beaiLX, De fruits et de moissons sa tcte couronnce S'inclinerait sous ses riches fardeaux, 1G8 ENVOI A CAROLINE. Meme au milieu cle ta gloire noiivelle Et de tous ces dons enchanteurs, Ta memoire, au passe fidele, Redonnerait peut etre un soupir a mes fleurs ! Que ne suis je le jeune Aurore ! Je verserais iei le tribut de mes pleurs, Et tu verrais, brillant des plus vivos eouleurs Dans cliaque larme un diamant eclore ! Bientot I'ardent Midi, plus fier, plas glorieux, S'emparerait en Roi de I'empire des cieiix, Et de son front brulant seeouant la lumiere Eteindrait dans ses feux ma clarte passagere — Mais a ces doux instans que j'aime plus encore, Lorsque du soir la porape triompliale, De ses voiles de pourpre et ses pavilions d'or, Ombrage du soleil la couclie nuptiale, En voyant expirer le jour, Tu penserais peut etre a mon retour ! Du doux printcms, helas, je ne suis pas la rose, Je n'ai i)as I'eclat du matin — SONG. 169 L'automne est sur mon front; I'hiver est dans mon sein, Que puis je done I'ofFrir ! A peine si je I'ose, Car pour jeunesse et pour beaute, C'est, je sais bien, fort peu de chose. D'un ami la sincerite, D'un censeur sans venin I'estime franche et pure, Les voeux du coeur pour ta felicite, Et du Cygne expirant le triste et vain murmure ! SONG. O land of my fathers, how glorious thy beam. When the light of the morn wraps thy mountains in flame ! O land of my fathers, how dear is the theme To wake from the past the bloom of thy fame ! The light that so brightly thy hills wraps in flame, With lustre untarnished each morn shall return ; But can the last sunshine of splendour and fame Revive from thy embers, resplendent to burn ? 170 SONG. How oft through thy vallies has wild tumult roared ! How oft have thy sons drawn from thee the deep groan ! Whilst tyrants afar dread the gleam of their sword, It wounds, on thy shore, but thy bosom alone ! The towers of thy chieftains, that guarded thy plains, Now shelter the owl and the robber of night ; And the woods where thy bards first essayed their wild strains, Hear the moanings of death, shield the murderer's flight. O land of my fathers, where then is thy pride. The pure spirit of knighthood, the patriot's fire ? Can the sons of the valiant their annals deride. And leave Erin to weep and her fame to expire ? The moon o'er my couch sheds a dim clouded beam, At my waking the morn's brightest splendours o'erflow; Thus may'st thou, sad Erin, lost glories redeem. And burst in thy might from thy long night of woe ! ITl THE MINSTREL'S SONG. I thought on thee, when first thy hand With secret pressure bade me feel, Thy youthful heart began t' expand, And its first pulse had beat for me. I thought on thee, when first thine eye In silence fixed on mine. Poured melting floods of sympathy. And mingled all my soul with thine. I thought on thee, when first thine arms Around my form were flung, When near my bosom heaved thy charms — Whilst on our lips our spirits hung — Oh, then, I lived in thee ! When health was strong, and youth was wild ; When rivals envied, ladies smiled ; When through the dances, bounding light, I trifled with each beauteous fair; '"^2 THE minstrel's SONG. Or, lending to the heavenly flight Of cadenced sounds, a ravished ear, I seemed on waves of pleasure tossed, To all but present rapture lost ; Amid the song, amid the dance. One single note, one single glance, One single bliss was mine : That note, the music of thy voice ; That glance, the love-beam from thine eyes ; That bliss, the thought of thine ! Amidst the tumult of the storm, When winds and billows thundered round ; When beauty wildly clasped mine arm, And on my breast a shelter found ; — E'en at that hour of bliss and dread, When life her soft illusions shed. And death his darkest terrors spread, I thouglit on thee ! I thought on thee. And said. Whene'er the tempest's o'er. Her smile will greet me on the shore ; THE minstrel's SONG. T73 Or should I sink beneath the wave, Her prayers, too impotent to save. My spirit, rising o'er the deep, Shall to her distant cottage sweep, And round her form his station keep In blest fidelity. When smitten in their early pride. As though heaven's flash had killed their bloom, Health's frail, but lovely roses died, And youth's bright flame was quenched in gloom; When strength, and even hope was fled. And pitying friends bedewed my bed With tears I only could not shed — When that dread feeling o'er me came That turns to stone the living frame. Binds thought in chains, and robs the eye Of all its mental extasy ; When my cold hand no longer felt The pressiu-e of a friendly grasp. And kins, unheeded, round me dealt Groans, as they watched the expiring gasp — 174 THE SPIRIT S CRY. Thine image lingered o'er my soul, As on the darkening brow of night The last blest beam of golden light, That sinks behind the pole ! THE SPIRIT'S CRY. My faltering lips in vain essay, Almighty ! — thy supernal name ; By thought opprest I cannot pray, Much less thy wondrous love proclaim. With strength beyond his wonted might, Satan my cries would stifle still, My spirit cloud in saddest night, And question e'en thy saving skill ! He tells me sin is at my heart. And that there lies no faith in prayer ; He bids me from thy courts depart, Nor shed my fruitless sorrow there. THE spirit's cry. 175 But I will pray, and I will weep — Ah, would my tears were blood like thine. Redeemer ! — for, though sin be deep, Thy mercy's boundless as divine. *' I came not (blessed words !) to cidl Repentance from the righteous breast; I came to loose transgression's thrall, And ease the heart by guilt distrest !" Such were thy words, Redeemer ! Mine The sinner's thrall, the heart of guilt ; Oh, break my bonds, my soul refine. For still on Thee my hopes are built ! What were I now without thy love ? — A wretch, inured to vice and crime ; Reckless of judgment from above. While satiate with the joys of time ! And what were I without thy blood ? A thing of deepest guilt and woe ; Unblest by man, abhorred of God ; Unnamed in heaven, accurst below ! 176 THE spirit's cry. O Saviour ! when tliy knee was bent, And tliy pure spirit poured in prayer, His angel, from thy Father sent, Then strengthened thee his will to bear. The sinless if such terror rend, How shall the sinful pray and live. Unless tlie Comforter descend To breathe new life, and Heaven forgive? FINIS. John Westley and Co., 27, Ivy Lane. SUBSCRIBERS" NAMES. Abernethy, John, Esq. M.D. Abernethy, Mrs. B. Byron, the Rt. Hon. Lady Noel, 2 copies. Blizzard, the Hon. Lady Baldwin, Charles, Esq. 2 copies. Baldwin, Edward, Esq. Baldwin, James, Esq. Baldwyn, Walter J., Esq. Bayley, F. W. N., Esq. Bynon, C. W., Esq. Byrne, N. Esq. Morning Post, .5 copies. Beurgher, Rev. Lionel Bell, .John, Esq. Braham, John, Esq. Bush, John, Esq. C. Cunningham, Allan, Esq. Clark, Dr. William, Cambridge, 5 copies. N 178 subscribers' names. Clark, Francis, Esq. Clift, William, Esq. Clift, William Home, Esq. Clift, Miss, Cooke, T., Esq., T.R.D.L. Craig, Captain, (Glasgow.) Croker, T. Crofton, Esq. Collier, James, Esq. Conway, James, Esq. Colburn, Henry, Esq. D. Derbislnre, Stewart, Esq. 5 copies. Denny, Anthony, Esq. 3 copies. Deane, Alexander, Esq. (Cork.) Deane, Thomas, Esq. (Cork.) Dean, Thomas, Esq. Danvers, G. J. D. B., Esq. Domieir, Dr. Dunne, Joseph, Esq. Donovan, C, Esq. Duruset, , Esq., T. R. C. G. De Begnis, Signor. F. Fife, The Rt. Hon. Earl of, F. W., a friend of the late Mr. Roche, 20 copies. Fitzgerald, Rt, Hon. Maurice, M.P. subscribers' names. 179 Fraser, William, Esq. Freeman, William, Mr. Freeman, C. H., Mr. Frances, Mrs. Fisher, George, Esq. Fitzwilliam, , Esq. G. Gaspey, Thomas, Esq. 5 copies. Gaspey, Mrs., 5 copies. Gaspey, William, Mr. GifFard, H. Esq. LL. D. GiflFard, J., Esq. Goldsmith, John, William, Esq. Gould, Joseph, Esq. Guest, Douglas, Esq. H. Heseltine, S., Esq. Heseltine, W., Esq. 5 copies. Hamlin, Daniel, Esq. Cork, 2 copies. Hall, Samuel Carter, Esq. 2 copies. Hall, Mrs. S. C. Hall, W. S., Esq. Hall, John, Esq., (Winchester.) Hall, Colonel Hobart, The Rev. Gaunter, Hyde, George, Esq. Hone, Leland, Esq. N 2 180 subscribers' names. Haynes, James, Esq. Heseltine, Samuel, Esq. Hone, Nathaniel, Esq. (Dublin.) Hudson, William, Esq. J. Inglis, Sir Robert Harry, Bart. Jones, B., Esq. Keeley, Esq. T.R.C.G. Keeley, Mrs. Kirkraan, Captain L. Listowel, Rt. Hon. Earl Lockhart, J., Esq. Liston, John, Esq., T.R.D.L. Leggett, W. H., Mr. Lady, A, Lady, at Clapham. Lett, Lionel, Esq. Lee, Leoni, Lewis, Esq. Lemon, Robert, Esq. M. Maginn, William, Esq. LL .D. Maginn, Rev. John Macready, William, Esq. T.R.D.L., 2 copies. Mathews, Charles, Esq. T.R.A. Mackmurdo, Mrs. subscribers' NAxMES. 181 Martin, John, Esq. Mc Cliss, Daniel, Esq. Murray, John, Esq. Murray, Mrs. Miller, Robert, Esq. Molton, Mrs. A., N. North, John, Esq. 10 copies. Newton, Miss, (Cork.) Nugent, M., Esq. O. O'Mally, Peter, Esq. O'Connell, General, Count, (Paris.) O'Bryen, Denis, Esq. P. Power, James, Esq. Pollock, George, Esq. Power, Tyrone, Esq. T.R.C.G. Perkins, J., Esq. Planche, J. R., Esq. Phillips, W., Esq. Parry, John, Esq. R. Rowan, George, Esq. Rouse, John, Esq. Rouse, Miss, Roche, James, Esq. 182 subscribers' names. Roche, Miss. Roche, Miss Sarah. Revell, Henry, Esq. Reilly, T., Esq. Ross, Charles, Esq. S. Scott, Sir Walter, Bart. Shuttleworth, Rev. Benjamin, 5 copies. Skine, P. O., Esq. Sheppard, Miss. T. Times, Proprietors of, 10 copies. Tuke, Dr. W. Wellesley, Hon. W. Long. Willis, Robert, Esq. Walsh, Rev. Robert. Wesley, Frederick, Esq. Wilson, James, Esq. Woods, J. D., Esq. Y. York, Archbishop of. Young, C. M., Esq. T.R.C.G. Yates, Frederick, Esq. 2 copies, T.R.A. ERRATA TO " LONDON IN A THOUSAND YEARS." Page 2, line 2, for pictures/row, read 'fore. Page 3, line 10, for Augustus' read Augusta's. Page 7, line 1, for glad, read gorge. Page 9, line 1, for I fee, read I sau: Page 11, line 13, for her charms, read arms. Page 17, line 4, for whilst, read midst. Page 30, line 13, for sacred heap, read lap. Page 44, line 7, for Hallows, read Hollows. Page 50, line 16, for Augustus' , read Augusta's, Page 51, line 17, read. The memory of tliy touch — Come on the breeze, That sighs our desolation ! Page 57, line 11, for muttered, read uttered. \ A Jl University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 305 De Neve Drive - Parking Lot 17 • Box 951388 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90095-1388 Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. noiy-REniEW OCT 2 DUE 2 WKS W mi' 3 2001 DATE RECEIVED Pi I o /5 ^ CiLl^ 3 1158 01164 7673 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 380 493 ty of CaJ Jrn Regi( FaciL Llh' liLL