THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ^5L Wvdfa WU&
 
 THE 
 
 SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 a ijtorat* 
 
 IN TWO PARTS. 
 
 $ctoca*tU*on*€pne : 
 
 J. MARSTON, MOSLEY STREET. 
 
 1845.
 
 
 TO 
 
 THO s . L. WATKIN, M. D. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED 
 
 AS A TRIFLING OFFERING OF SINCERE REGARD, 
 
 BY HIS FRIEND AND ADMIRER, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Newcastle on Tyne, 184.5.
 
 THE 
 
 SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 O quis-quis volet impias 
 Coedes, aut rabiein tollere civicam ; 
 
 Si queeret " Pater Urbium'' 
 Subscribi statuis, indomitam audeat 
 
 Refrcenare licentiam, 
 Clarus post genitis : quatenus (heu nefas !) 
 
 Virtutem incolumem odimus, 
 Sublatam ex oculis qucerimus invidi. 
 
 Quid tristes querimonia;, 
 Si non supplicio culpa reciditur ? 
 
 Quid leges sine moribus 
 J'atiee proficiunt ; — 
 
 Hor. Car., Lib. hi., 24.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Wild tempest hovers o'er a foaming flood, 
 
 'Snaring the sea-fowl from her hardv brood.. 
 
 To revel 'midst the billows, flung on high, 
 
 And aid harsh Discord with a piercing cry : 
 
 Dark is the firmament, and dark the deep, 
 
 Where heavy waters in confusion leap, 
 
 Save when the lightning's flash, with lurid glow. 
 
 Displays the horrors of the depths below. 
 
 Dull vapoury masses, by the tempest ta'en 
 
 Alike from Heaven and Earth, hang o'er the main 
 
 Checking the headlong fury of the gale 
 
 Into a long, low, melancholy wail. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the moaning of the wind ! and hark 
 
 To the loud booming of the minute-gun, 
 As man seeks aid from man. Alas ! poor bark ! 
 
 Thy timbers gape, thy course is nearly run :
 
 S THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 .Man's handiwork, but now, with crowded deck, 
 Breaks thro' the ocean, a deserted wreck : 
 On dies the hulk, by Southern wind impell'd, 
 The rudder loose — the helm no longer held ; 
 Now rais'd on high — now plung'd in an abyss 
 Where winds are hush'd, but angry waters hiss ; 
 Now lab'ring thro' the surf, she still rolls on : 
 A struggle yet — a plunge — the gallant ship is gone. 
 
 'Tis o'er that vortex meet a clam'rous throng 
 
 Of errant winds, more boist'rous in the meeting ; 
 Threading the Maelstroom labyrinths among, 
 
 At each trough bellowing their noisy greeting ; 
 Dashing, as if in strife, now here, now there, 
 Scatt'ring the boiling waters high on air ; 
 Or hand in hand, with elfin laughter, sweep 
 The shatter'd surface of the angry deep. 
 Wearied at length of such a dismal scene, 
 Some seek the East or Western climes serene ; 
 While other winds, their folly sighing o'er, 
 Shrink at the storm they rais'd, and rage no more. 
 On Norway's iron coast, where darkling caves 
 Return an echo to the dashing waves,
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Frowning with beetled brows upon a strand, 
 By Nature fashion'd with a hurried hand, 
 So wild it seem'd, so rugged, and so drear, 
 Instinct forbade the bird to loiter there : 
 Huse eranite rocks, embedded near the shore, 
 Worn smooth by waves for ages dashing o'er, 
 Thro' the ebb tide their blacken'd summits lift, 
 Catching the tangled weeds that near them drift : 
 Within a cave, whose tortuous depths defied 
 Alike the ingress of the sun and tide, 
 Rais'd in the cliff a thousand giddy feet, 
 Two Spirits of the Wind had chanc'd to meet : — 
 The one, majestic, Avith a thoughtful brow 
 O'ershadow'd by Resentment's heated glow, 
 Gaz'd, with a gloomy fixedness, on nought, 
 That mark'd the distant wandering of Thought ! 
 Sad was her mein ; and yet, perhaps, more wild 
 Than sad her features seem'd, for, as she smil'd, 
 The fire darted from her brilliant eye, 
 Like flash electric — bright and moment'ry, 
 So fraught with piercing anguish, still so brief, 
 'Twas as the with'ring of impassion 'd Grief. 
 
 The other, loveliest of a lovely race 
 From /Ether sprung, eclips'd in every grace
 
 10 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Her beauteous sister — she was exquisite — 
 Cast in the mould of Mirth, whose torches lit 
 Those laughter-loving eyes, each glance would dress 
 In radiancy more bright her loveliness ; 
 And genial smiles would hover on the lip, 
 Feeding on sweetness such as bees could sip, 
 Till even things inanimate, that lay 
 Within the influence of her smile, gave way, 
 And sprung to life, with lovelier charms array'd, 
 Marking the Spirit's course where'er she stray'd. 
 But now, infected by the boding frown 
 Enthron'd upon her sister's brow, her own 
 Grew sad, as Sympathy's impulsive sway 
 Chas'd, for the moment, Merriment away : 
 And hanging fondly on her troubled breast, 
 Affection's balmy kiss she gently press'd 
 On lips that quiver'd, as they vainly strove 
 To tell how soothing was that kiss of love. 
 
 With sisterly caress and soft embrace, 
 They range the limits of their lurking place ; 
 Recounting wild adventures o'er and o'er, 
 Enacted far from that deserted shore ; 
 Searching for Happiness, where'er they new, 
 First sight deceived, — but on a nearer view,
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 1 1 
 
 The bud of bliss within a canker show'd ; 
 Man sought for peace, and yet forgot his God. 
 Oh ! fatal blindness ! Can a few short years 
 
 Of fancied pleasure cloud th' undying soul ? 
 What in this mundane sphere so bright appears, 
 
 That Pow'rs Angelic even lose control ? 
 What fetters man to earth ? Neglect of Heaven, 
 And an abuse of gifts his God hath given ! 
 
 Thus mus'd the gentle Spirits, till the shade 
 Of Ev'ning, tales of Woe, the sadder made ; 
 One told her wand'rings, while the other huns 
 Attentive on her lips, as thus she sung : —
 
 PART I. 
 
 ©br flight of the dfr'rst Spirit. 
 
 How sweet is Freedom ! Gentle sister, say : 
 
 Can ought surpass our ecstasy, as when 
 With filmy clouds we proudly soar away, 
 
 Far from the honds of Earth and taint of men. 
 With steady wing, until the azure vault 
 
 Of glorious Heav'n impedes our upward flight ? 
 Alas ! that Man so rarely doth exalt 
 
 His soul unto a God of life and light, 
 
 With throne so fair as this ! When last we met, 
 
 'Twas as the Western Sun on Hecla set, 
 Gilding its cloudy summit : — drifting snow, 
 Urg'd by our kindred spirits, whirl'd below : 
 Poor shrinking birds, in tim'rous hurry crept 
 Beneath pine shelt'ring bough, while o'er them swept
 
 14 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 The Iceland hawk on wing. One long embrace, 
 
 And then we parted. O'er the wat'ry space, 
 
 And glitt'ring Ice-floes, to the North I held 
 
 My hurried way across the Dofrafeld ; 
 
 Whose ridge of snow, and sides of sombre green, 
 
 Indented by the deep pine-clad ravine, 
 
 For leagues a barrier form'd. — Inclin'd to haunt 
 
 A solitude like this, with solemn chaunt 
 
 Scaling the rugged crags, with lichens drest, 
 
 I scared the eagle from his cloudy nest ; 
 
 With outstretch'd nervous wing, and ruffled crest, 
 
 Irate, he soar'd on high, as if in quest 
 
 Of some poor victim. — Thus we often see 
 
 The strong on Earth delight in tyranny ! 
 
 Tell Man he sins — awake that soul, whose eye 
 
 Is clos'd on God, and bid it sleep no more, 
 Oft, as the startled Monarch of the Sky, 
 
 He seeks fresh victims, as his wrath flows o'er ; 
 Repentance scouted, Sin maintains its hold, 
 Increasing that man's guilt a thousand-fold. — 
 
 Then took I wing again, skirting the edge 
 
 Of Wenner's Waters, to the rolling Dahl ; 
 Where stately cranes rose slowly from the sedge, 
 
 Invading the night's silence with their call :
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 15 
 
 Anon, its cataract was dimly seen 
 
 Leaping the broken crags between, 
 
 With thunders loud, whose echo widely spread, 
 
 Fill'd th' unconscious traveller with dread. 
 
 Dark hissing pools engulph'd the stream-borne weed, 
 
 And rocks stood forth, as if they would impede 
 
 Th' o'erwhelming current of that mighty flood, 
 
 But all were dash'd aside. — In sportive mood, 
 
 My voice I rais'd, to harmonize the din, 
 
 Making the eddies foam, by plunging in 
 
 Beneath the wat'ry bow ; whose chilly spray, 
 
 Stor'd in my gath'ring wings, I bore away, 
 
 And scatter'd in light showers. Morn awoke, 
 
 Wrapp'd in the Baltic's mist ; while dismal croak 
 
 Of raven, wheeling in its sluggish flight, 
 
 Seem'd as a last farewell to gloomy Night. 
 
 The sun, at length, with ardent ray dispell'd 
 
 Such shades as Nature yet in bondage held ; 
 
 Enliv'ning Earth with Heaven's cheering light, 
 
 And making all things beautiful and bright : 
 
 The lark, Night's dew shook from his heavy wings, 
 
 And sung an Anthem to the King of Kings, 
 
 To whose bright realms, ambitious he would rise, 
 
 Soaring with shrilly note beyond the skies :
 
 16 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Wolves, who had prowl'd beneath Night's sable cloak, 
 
 Sought caverns drear, wherein to sleep the day ; 
 And to the hollow trunk of blighted oak, 
 
 The owl, with fleeting sight, pursued her way. 
 
 O'er Finland's Gulf, and Upsal's bustling crowds, 
 Sped I, observant, 'mid the drifting clouds ; 
 Now stooping gently to disturb a wave, 
 And tantalize some lazy skipper knave, 
 Whose drooping canvass only seem'd to clog 
 His ship, that lay upon the sea — a log : — 
 Or skimming Riga's marts, where traders throng'd, 
 True men and knaves, some wronging, others wrong'd ; 
 Some trafficking, with Jewish spirit vie, 
 Counting their gains, as if they'd never die ; 
 Others, by daring Speculation driv'n, 
 Preferring dross of earth to joys of heav'n. 
 Oh, perishable dust ! Can ages roll 
 On ages, still, thou heedest not the soul ? 
 Can gauds and tinsel dash the cup of bliss 
 From lips, alas ! that only Mammon kiss ? 
 Oh ! sad degen'racy of those who claim 
 The privilege'of bearing Jesus' name. 
 
 My wings were fetter 'd by the dreary weight 
 Of this sad spectacle, where Sin innate
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 1 7 
 
 Seem'd sole possessor of the hearts of men 
 
 By long indulgence harden' d. Until then 
 
 My darkest fears, for erring man, had been 
 
 He doom'd himself alone ; this chilly scene 
 
 Too plainly pictur'd, as I soar'd on high, 
 
 The bitter fruits of mortal perfidy. — 
 
 The rugged Steppes, to which I now pursued 
 
 My quicken'd flight, appear'd less wild, less rude 
 
 Than haunts, where Avarice and Cunning grew 
 
 As if indigenous. — Away I flew 
 
 Beyond Tobolsk to cold Siberia's plains, 
 
 Where banish'd men, writhing in icy chains, 
 
 Torn from their " household gods," are sent to die, 
 
 Poor victims of a cruel policy, 
 
 Without a hearing— -when the bold defence 
 
 Of truth, elsewhere, had prov'd their innocence. 
 
 Oh, vile oppression ! can the ruling few, 
 
 Man's life, in hopeless sorrow, thus imbrue ; 
 
 Breaking the links of nature with a breath, 
 
 And plunging hearts in mis'ry worse than death ? 
 
 That man, in lux'ry lapp'd, from year to year, 
 
 Should seek his sustenance with wolf and bear ! 
 
 Depriv'd of sympathy, of hope, and love ; 
 
 Save for that pure Intelligence above, 
 
 B
 
 18 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Who ever wills the injur'd man should live, 
 Till knowing Who forgave, makes him forgive. 
 
 Mortals, ye seem to shrink at ev'ry blast ; 
 Mortals, ye dread the heavens overcast ; 
 But there's a fear, more terrible than these, 
 Of friends, no longer friends, — now enemies! 
 Yes ! ye can love, and change that love to hate, 
 And as your love was pure, so doubly great 
 Will be the rancour of your souls. Alas ! 
 Did not a Saviour's sufferings surpass 
 Your deepest injuries, the cold disdain, 
 The deep ingratitude, the bosom's pain, 
 The loss of friends, the chastisement severe, 
 And countless petty ills ye cannot bear ? 
 Did not the idle scoff, and bitter jeer, 
 Of reckless sinners, shock that god-like ear ? 
 Was not his doctrine ridicul'd, and shame 
 Heap'd on his mediatorial claim ? 
 Was not the finger pointed at that breast 
 With low reviling, when the sinner's feast, 
 With humble presence, grac'd the Son of God ? 
 But still that heart was Charity's abode ! 
 Revil'd, he held his peace ; question'd, the answer gi v'n 
 Breath d of his " Father s business< ' Peace? and Heav'n.
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 19 
 
 Tracing the frozen Oby's dreary length, 
 
 On Altyn's lake, I vainly sought repose ; 
 But chill'd, stretch'd onward with redoubled strength 
 
 Across Bokhara's deserts : Clouds arose 
 Of stifling dust, whose volumes wreath'd afar, 
 Marking my southern course from rude Cashgar, 
 Till the wild chain of Himalaya sprung 
 From sterile plains, and tow'r'd the clouds among 
 In majesty profound. Then sweet Cashmere, 
 To Persian hearts and Persian poets dear, 
 Till eve, with tender sighs, I linger'd near ; 
 Breathing on lovers' lips, on lovers' brows, 
 To cool the ardour of their whisper 'd vows : 
 Far to the West my flagging pinions span, 
 From pinnacled Lahore to Ispahan ; 
 Passing Khorassan's vales, with verdure clad, 
 And lighting on the turrets of Bagdad. 
 
 Alas, how chang'd ! Here once in splendour shone 
 The Caliph city ; now its beauty's gone ; 
 Tho' stately mosques, with dome and minaret, 
 Bearing the weight of time, are standing yet ; — 
 But how deserted ! The Muezzin's cry 
 Scarce draws attention from the passers by ; 
 
 b 2
 
 20 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Grown apathetic, with its sad decav ; 
 Here bigot Pilgrims beg their weary way 
 In sombre garb; while there, in colours gay, 
 Some spur their steeds, as if the swift career 
 Recall'd past days, and made the scene less drear. 
 Kissing the straggling rose, that near the tomb 
 Of fam'd Ezekiel budded into bloom, 
 Dark Tigris' flood, and swift Euphrates' stream, 
 I cross'd in haste, to watch the ruddy beam 
 Of Syria's sun upon Damascus gleam : 
 Here fell the scales from eyes, then raised from earth ; 
 Here humbled Saul acknowledg'd his soul's dearth ; 
 While Gospel truth, no longer fetter'd, burst 
 On hearts then bless'd — but, ah ! how long accurs'd. 
 Oh ! what a tale of woe those tow'rs could tell, 
 Beneath whose shadows Christian martyrs fell : 
 Methought the sun seem'd angrily to brood, 
 And bathe his ling 'ring rays in streams of blood. 
 So lurid was the sky. With fretful rage, 
 The horrors of that soul-destroying age 
 Flash'd on remembrance, as with sudden blast 
 In angry mood, I swept Damascus past. 
 Thus rous'd, my quiv'ring wings with fury bore 
 Tyre and Si don's waters high on shore ;
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 21 
 
 Rousing the fisher from his heavy sleep, 
 To wonder, in affright, what mov'd the deep ; 
 While shrinking guards the watch no longer keep. 
 But, mantle-wrapp'd, steal cautiously away, 
 Nor raise again the lance till break of day. 
 
 Faint were the struggles of the dawn to free 
 Its brilliancy from mist, o'er Bethany ; 
 With clouds oppress'd, the morning linger'd vet. 
 Bidding farewell to night with sad regret ; 
 Then burst in grandeur on Moriah's mount, 
 Gilding fair Ophel and Siloam's fount ; 
 While Zion's hill, and David's regal tomb, 
 Stood forth resplendent from the city's gloom, 
 Alas, Jerusalem ! Judea's Queen, 
 How transient hath thy boasted grandeur been ! 
 Where are thy glories now ? where dome and tower ? 
 Where rears thy Temple, with its priestly power r 
 Where fall the thousand shadSws now, that fell 
 From turret bold, and loftv pinnacle? 
 Where are thine armed bands, thy " men of might/ 
 With bow and spear, impatient for the fight ? 
 Where prance thy chariot steeds, in warlike gear ? — 
 
 Alas! thy Pride and Power perish'd here. 
 
 b 3
 
 22 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Zion despoil'd, still rears her stately mound, 
 J3ut echoes not the trumpet's brazen sound ; 
 Nor shawms, nor cymbals 'wake that peace profound ; 
 *How truly hath the Lord, with angry cloud, 
 Fair Zion's daughter hid ; and Israel proud 
 Of beauty, buried deep beneath the dust 
 Of earth, as if from heav'n indignant thrust, 
 Great Israel's swallow'd in God's angry flood ; 
 And corn fields wave where once her towers stood. 
 
 Siloam's pool, fed by its hidden stream, 
 Ere long became illumin'd by the gleam 
 Of that bright orb, which centuries ago 
 Peer'd on its waters, over Opbel's brow. 
 As flows the silent flood of grace and power, 
 
 From the Creator's throne, on souls redeem'dv 
 Methought, that pool in morning's silent hour 
 
 An emblem true, so beautiful it seein'd ; 
 Changing its under current, by the rill 
 That freely fed, but never sought to fill. 
 Dejection hung upon my wing ; my gaze 
 Sought round in vain for works of other days ; 
 For Moslem prejudice, and Romish pride, 
 Alike the gospel purity deride, 
 
 * Lamentations ii., 1, &•
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 23 
 
 Yet till their groaning coffers with the dross 
 Wrung from the worshippers of Jesus' cross. 
 On Mount Moriah frowns a gloomy pile, 
 
 The Mosque of Omar, where the Temple stood ; 
 While crafty monks the ignorant beguile 
 
 With lying narratives, that chill the blood, 
 
 And heat their fever'd fancy, till they see 
 
 Within the city walls, Mount Calvary ! ! !* 
 
 But Charity forbade a longer stay, 
 
 Where Superstition held its rigid sway, 
 
 Where weak Invention bred the worthless lie, 
 
 And Faith had sunk to weak Credulity. 
 
 ***** 
 To Greece, poor fallen Greece ! o'er many an isle 
 
 Wild Fancy urg'd my pinions, to beguile, 
 
 'Mid ruin'd fanes, the sultry Summer's day, 
 
 And muse on many a glory passed away. 
 
 Alas ! poor Attica ! she seem'd to weep, 
 
 As fitful breezes, from th' ^Egean deep, 
 
 * " The longer we remained in the Holy City, the more we were con- 
 vinced that this is not the true site of Calvary. We are told expressly in 
 Scripture that ' Jesus suffered without the gate ;' and also, that ' the 
 place where he was crucified was nigh to the city.' But the site of the 
 Church of the Holy Sepulchre is a long way within the walls of Jerusalem. 
 We cannot believe that the ancient city was narrower or smaller in any 
 way than the present Jerusalem. On the contrary, there is reason to be- 
 lieve that it was much more extensive."— Church of Scotland's Mission to 
 the Jews, p. 140.
 
 24 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Swept o'er her ruins, with a mournful sound, 
 
 Waving the tendril shrubs that clung around 
 
 Each tow'r, as if to hide the gaping wound, 
 
 By time inflicted, with a cruel hand. — 
 
 Where waves the pennon now, where gleams the brand. 
 
 Or skims the armed prow, to Lesbian strand ? 
 
 Greeks, ye are mock'd by ev'ry passing breeze, 
 
 As if the murm'ring shade of Pericles 
 
 Look'd sadly on his children, once so free, 
 
 Alas ! now sunk in coldest apathy. — 
 
 E'en as the waters of a flood subside, 
 
 No longer fed by tributary stream, 
 And sluggishly flow on, a turbid tide. 
 
 Impenetrable to the Solar beam ; 
 So Wisdom, that, in olden times, was wont 
 To flow a glorious course from Grecian fount, 
 Its source obstructed, slowly drips away, 
 And Ignorance is hail'd the victor of the day- 
 Look on the Greeks, ye shadows of the great, 
 And mourn, as they should mourn, their abject state ; 
 Great Homer, strike thy harp's heroic string, 
 And touch, in torpid hearts, the warrior spring ; 
 Move these automatons — dispel the mists 
 That clog the heart of Greece, ye Rhapsodists-
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 25 
 
 Oh ! that Archilochus, with stinging thong 
 Of Satire, liv'd again that lash to wield ! 
 
 Or that Euripides, with gentler song, 
 
 Could draw the veil from Virtue, long conceal'd ! 
 
 Herodotus, and thou Thucvdides ! 
 
 Do ye not hlush for recreants like these ? 
 
 Who hug their chains, and worship Slav'ry gaunt, 
 
 While Freedom's whisperings seem dissonant ! 
 
 Seek ye no crown of laurel, Son of Greece ? 
 
 Or is thy frame enervated by peace ? 
 
 Is fam'd Olympia shrunken in her charms? 
 
 Is thy weak soul averse to deeds of arms ? 
 
 Seeks it repose in Langour's soft embrace, 
 
 Alas ! unconscious of its foul disgrace? 
 
 Revive ye Pythian contest, where the muse 
 
 Fed her poetic lamp from Wisdom's cruse ? 
 
 Or deck thy brows with the NeMjEAN wreath 
 
 In mem'ry of the young Opheltes' death ? 
 
 No, indolent ! — thy country's classic vales 
 
 Call to thy soul, " Arise ;" but courage fails ; 
 
 And hearts once sensitive, no longer feel 
 
 The ruthless tread of an oppressor's heel. 
 
 Oh, frown no more, Parnassus — Greece is dead ! 
 
 Nor weep, ye Gods, 'twere useless tears to shed ;
 
 2t) THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Attune your lyres no longer for the strain 
 Of Grecian liberty — the theme were vain ! 
 
 -T. "7? -ff ^f 3p 
 
 Why ponder thus on scenes, which now, as then. 
 
 Stir in my soul resentment unto men ? 
 
 Why thrust a flaming torch in Passion's mine ? 
 
 Or lay regrets upon a Grecian shrine? 
 
 Away, away, away, from such a land, 
 
 Laid waste, alas ! by Time's e'er changing hand ; 
 
 From Athens, once so bless'd, where Christians heard 
 
 The Great Apostle preach the Sacred Word ; 
 
 Telling Philosophy how much she owed, 
 
 " Not unto Nature, but to Nature's God !"* 
 
 Then strove Athenians for a heavenly prize, 
 
 And Heathens left their gods to praise the Lord ; 
 Sages eclipsed, by fools becoming wise, 
 
 Doubting the theories they once ador'd, 
 First jeer'd at doctrine they could not disprove, 
 Then list'ning mus'd, till marvel chang'd to love. 
 
 How love they now ? 
 
 •x- * * * * 
 
 To fair Italia's shore my muse inclines : 
 Ah, Sister ! hast thou seen the Apennines, 
 
 • Acts xvii.
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 27 
 
 Tow'ring beneath the azure vault of Heav'n, 
 When morning dew a fresher tint hath given 
 Unto their verdant base ? Each craggy steep 
 With snow surmounted, tott 'ring o'er the deep 
 Dark chasms, form'd by Winter's swollen flood : 
 Here single rocks their rugged heads protrude. 
 While there, a hundred piled, obstruct the view, 
 Such as ^Egeon at Olympius threw. 
 Here on the mountain top, my breath I drew, 
 Resting awhile in contemplation sweet ; 
 And list'ning to the wild goat's gentle bleat, 
 As on the chasm's edge she stopt to graze, 
 Fixing upon the depths below her gaze. 
 Here Nature frown'd, and there again she smil'd, 
 Now gay, now gloomy, as a petted child : 
 Oh, 'twas a lovely scene ! — methought, how bless'd 
 Such peace as this, would be to hearts oppress'd ; 
 To bosoms wounded in the ceaseless strife, 
 And jarring discords, of ambitious life : 
 Here Pride could learn humility from God, 
 
 Seeing the span of His creative hand ; 
 Here Vanity might blush, as from the sod 
 
 The modest herbs far lovelier charms expand :
 
 28 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Love, torn from Lust, might breathe the dulcet sigh, 
 
 As thought of Time merg'd in Eternity. 
 
 Oh, Mentor of the soul, sweet Solitude ! 
 
 Where beats the heart thy calm hath not subdued, 
 
 As hidden sins stand fearfully array'd 
 
 Before the Conscience Silence hath dismay'd ? 
 
 Such is thy power, such thine influence, 
 
 That Sensuality gives place to Sense ; 
 
 And Virtue, guided into Sin's abode, 
 
 By thee, sweet Solitude, leads man to God ! 
 
 Oh, gentle sister, I could throw away 
 
 Time's precious moments, on a theme like this ; 
 But let it rest. — The Arno, glittering lay, 
 
 As if inviting but a parting kiss 
 From one so gentle, as I e'er had been, 
 On taking flight from such a tranquil scene. 
 In soothing converse with the murm'ring flood, 
 Uninterrupted by the thunders loud 
 Of foaming cataracts, I onward flew 
 Till Tiber's swollen flood my fancy drew, 
 
 And bent my wings to Rome — to glorious Rome. 
 
 * * •* * * 
 
 Oh, that great Curtius had shunn'd the leap 
 Of Death into the Forum's chasm deep !
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 29 
 
 Reserving Rome for what ? — a sadder fall, 
 
 And Superstition's dark and hideous thrall. 
 
 Where'er 1 chanc'd to turn, my eye survey 'd 
 
 Nations, and States, and Powers, all decay'd ; 
 
 Some sunk in Apathy, for glories gone ; 
 
 Others, existing on their Pride alone : 
 
 Here, Tyranny would exercise her sway, 
 
 And Romish bigots fret the soul away ; 
 
 Raising 'gainst Heretics their Church's cry, 
 
 Themselves debas'd in dark Idolatry ! 
 
 Rome, with thy priests, a conscience-keeping swarm. 
 
 Hast thou no terrors ? feel ye no alarm ? 
 
 What will thy scarlet mummery avail, 
 
 Thy shows, and pageantry, when Time shall fail ? 
 
 As youthful Icarus, with confidence, 
 
 Trusted the art of Dosdalus, and sprung, 
 Forgetful of the solar heat intense, 
 
 To vaulted Heaven, drifting clouds among ; 
 E'en as his waxen wings, too heavy grew, 
 Clogging the urchin, as he vainly flew, 
 Parted at length, and dashing from on high 
 The young Adventurer that strove to fly ; 
 So, heedless Rome ! perchance, the genial ray 
 Of Truth, may cause thy pinions to give way ;
 
 SO THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Lev'Iling, with all thy soul-beclouding show, 
 The triple Crown that lords it o'er ye now. 
 And yet thy pride is humbled : when the veil, 
 
 Woven by Superstition, fell, the sore 
 Long hid, betray'd thee, as thou art, most frail ; 
 
 And Intellect, enlightened, slept no more. — 
 Leo !* that first, that glorious step was thine, 
 To foster Learning ; this 'twas sprung the mine 
 Of mental thraldom ; and the only slaves 
 To Popish terror, floated on the waves 
 Of Ignorance most bigotted. In vain 
 Have grasping Pontiffs striven to regain 
 An influence once blighted. Thus to muse, 
 Thus from the page of Mem 'ry to peruse 
 The changing hist'ry of that mighty Rome, 
 Encreases, even now, my spirit's gloom : 
 Vandals and Goths and Huns but levell'd walls, 
 
 Wreaking, with flaming brand, their wrath on dust; 
 Is not the foe more fearful, that enthrals 
 
 The Soul immortal with a senseless trust 
 On man for its Salvation ? Let us e'en 
 
 * Leo X., who, by encouraging learning, undermined the foundation 
 ol Papal Authority ; and the Reformation so shook the structure, that the 
 Church of Rome lost much of its power and influence.
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 31 
 
 To other meditations fly. Hast seen 
 
 The ruddy sunbeams, on a Summer's eve, 
 Tinging with golden hues the forest green ; 
 
 While little warblers its recesses leave, 
 To skim, with varied plumes, the meads around, 
 Or trace the stream, whose mimic waters bound 
 As if in merriment ? 'Tis such a scene, 
 When Nature's lineaments are most serene, 
 That makes the heart grow warm to Earth ; and vet 
 Its faults, its failings we can ne'er forget. 
 In vain these wings have spann'd th' /Ethereal space.. 
 In vain, alas ! these eyes have sought to trace, 
 'Mid all its loveliness, its wealth and joy, 
 One single pleasure free from an alloy. 
 I bid adieu to Rome ; seeking the wild 
 
 And wooded mountains as a calm retreat ; 
 Loving to look on Nature as she smil'd, 
 
 Or even as she frowned ; both pictures sweet 
 To close observers of the Power Supreme, 
 Who " saw that every thing was good." A dream 
 Will oft recur, and sadden with its sloom : 
 How like a dream that view of fallen Rome ! 
 Dispell'd, 'tis true, by fairer visions, still 
 Her desecrated grandeur wakes the thrill
 
 32 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Of Sorrow, even now. Thou lov'st me not, 
 
 Or smiles of incredulity could ne'er 
 Have banish 'd from thy brow the low'ring spot 
 
 Of anger, or of sympathy — nay, there — 
 Tis o'er, we differ ; thou would'st only cull 
 
 A garland of Experience from the charm 
 Of Nature, in her form most beautiful ; 
 
 Nor feel, with me, the agonis'd alarm 
 For those who know not God ; whose hearts are seal'd 
 'Gainst the conviction of a truth reveal'd. 
 Enough ; — Time flies ; and Life, its feeblest link, 
 
 Bv God, the great Omnipotent, designed, 
 Must pass away from mortals : oh ! to think 
 
 How fragile are the ligatures that bind 
 " The sheeted dead" with those who yet may be : 
 An endless chain ! an awful mystery ! 
 
 * * -::- * * 
 
 I sought the Rhine, and 'twas a pleasing change ; 
 
 No mummeries enslaved, no tenets strange 
 
 Oppress'd men's hearts ; for Luther only died 
 
 In flesh, — his memory is deified ; 
 
 And men love God in purity and truth : 
 
 Age venerates His excellence ; and youth,
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. S3 
 
 From such example, weaves a moral wreath, 
 Blooming thro' life, nor fading e'en in death. 
 Here, Reformation clos'd the mouth of Hell, 
 
 And open'd up the paths that led to Heaven ; 
 Here, clam'rous priests would fain have cast a spell 
 
 O'er hearts Jehovah had to Freedom given ; 
 But Truth a vict'ry gain'd. — On, on I flew, 
 Excitement gave my pinions strength anew, 
 Dispelling, day by day, the gloomy trance 
 In which my fancy slumber'd. Lovely France ! 
 Beauteous hut frail, — as woman at the fall, 
 Burst on my vision ; — yes, I looked on Gaul, 
 That field of war, whose very streams ran blood, 
 
 As to my mem'ry, countless hosts, array'd 
 For rapine, murder, and aggression, stood : 
 
 While feuds intestine next their powers display 'd ; 
 The days of Robespierre appear'd once more, 
 And Liberty's fair garments, drench'd in gore, 
 A tale of murder told. Oh, fearful sight ! 
 When Satan, loos'd on earth, his fiendish might 
 Pand 'ring to Death and Carnage. France, thy 
 
 smile, 
 So sweet, so radiant now, can ne'er beguile 
 
 c
 
 34 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 The fondest of thy sons, unmov'd, to gaze 
 On those terrific — those appalling days : 
 He looks with horror, aye, he looks with shame 
 On those dim spots, that sully Gallia's fame ; 
 He sees her leprosy, — nor time, nor age, 
 Can cleanse the blemish from historic page ; 
 For chronicled appears the weighty load 
 
 Of guilt, when madden'd France rejected God. 
 
 ***** 
 
 And yet this Liberty, the gath'ring cry 
 
 Of France 'mid all her infidelity, 
 
 Sprung from the seeds of Anarchy and Woe ; 
 
 Where lay its charm ? — In purity ? — Ah, no ! 
 
 Where all is tyranny, can Freedom live? 
 
 Or Peace maintain her own where factions strive? 
 
 Would Liberty her choicest gifts convey 
 
 To trait'rous hearts, hearts loving to betray 
 
 The old, the young, the beautiful, the good, 
 
 To doom, to death, and revel in their blood ? 
 
 No ! Liberty to man can ne'er be given, 
 
 So long as worldliness his soul enchains ; 
 Her blessings pour direct from God and Heaven, 
 
 Free from this earth's contaminating stains ;
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 35 
 
 The Spirit's gift : — .a liberty of Love 
 
 For Him, who promis'd men a rest above; 
 
 Of Hope, whose sentiment, distinct from Time, 
 
 E'er seeks to pierce the mystery sublime 
 
 That veils Eternity ; and lives on One, 
 
 The Word ! — the Light op Men ! — God's only 
 
 Son! 
 This is to revel in a sweet excess 
 Of Liberty : — when mortals dare confess 
 Their utter frailty, their nothingness ; 
 Yet feel the fulness of their God, whose power 
 Imbues the helpless creatures of an hour 
 
 With Life Eternal. * * * 
 
 See ye not now the errors of the time ? 
 
 Men seek this Freedom thro' the slough of crime : 
 
 Callous their hearts, Equality their aim, 
 
 Yet find it at the best an empty name, 
 
 Prolific only in the saddest woe. 
 
 As swollen torrents from the mountain flow 
 
 Uncheck'd, a roaring flood, on plains below, 
 
 Subside at length, but leave their ruthless course, 
 
 By devastation marked, — so, human force, 
 
 Uncurb'd by Reason, ploughs its hideous way, 
 
 Filling the past with blood, the future with dismay 
 
 c2
 
 86 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Such meditation, springing from a life 
 As seen in nations civilized, was rife 
 
 ith disappointment. Could I tamely view 
 a bless'd with gifts, of which he only knew 
 lie readiest abuse ? — No ! let me seek 
 iuch haunts as these, where Ocean's billows speak 
 'he voice of Truth ; where man hath never trod, 
 sullied, by his breath, the glorious works of God. 
 ruth, my tale is told ; such wand'rings bring 
 'ith all their store of memory — a sting ! 
 ;entment lives no more ! It is a name 
 known to dreamers ; as a lambent flame, 
 full, now flickering, bright, then barely seen, 
 id now extinct, " a thing that once has been" ! 
 \y, dear one, doubt not, Selfishness appears 
 e only mainspring of mankind : it rears 
 hastly head, upheld by stubborn pride, 
 e world its god, the world its only guide. 
 
 sad to seek for happiness in vain, — 
 s sad to view the impress of disdain 
 irk'd on the heart of man, for holy things ; 
 trace with what tenacity he clings 
 
 iat which "moth and rust corrupt." — Thy kiss, 
 gentle, rais'd my soul from an abyss
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 37 
 
 Of care, to feel once more Affection's bliss ; 
 And yet, ungrateful, I have e'en repaid 
 Thy sweet caress with words that but upbraid : 
 Forgive me, innocent, my heart was full 
 Of bitterness, my best affections dull.
 
 PART II. 
 
 Che dHtgfct oC the Jperontr J?pmt. 
 
 Nay, sister dearest, why so sad ? 
 
 Can mortal errors shade thy brow ? 
 Thine own sweet thoughts should make thee glad ; 
 
 Yet droops thy heart with sorrow now : 
 Why take these men for what they seem ? 
 Alas ! the surface of Life's stream 
 So oft is ruffled by the breeze 
 Of Chance, or Accident, to seize 
 The moment when it fairest seems 
 Is difficult ; — why should extremes 
 Weigh on the judgment ? God hath giv'n 
 
 To erring man a reas'ning mind ; 
 Is there no spot 'twixt Hell and Heav'n, 
 
 That we a resting place may find ? 
 Men, form'd of dust, will aye be men 
 So long as reason holds ; and then,
 
 40 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Be life extinct, the Soul must bear 
 
 Its happiness — or its despair. 
 
 On Earth, Perfection ne'er hath shewn 
 
 Her glorious head, since Christ was slain ; 
 Why should we seek her face alone ? 
 
 Alas ! our search indeed were vain. 
 
 My flights have sought a nearer range, 
 Yet have I witness'd scenes most strange, 
 Sights that have raised a Spirit's sigh 
 At mortals' hapless destiny : 
 Lash ye at Sects ? — Nay, 'tis unkind ; 
 
 Faith leads, 'tis true, to Heav'n and God 
 By one straight path, — tho' some we find 
 
 Would, heedless, wander from the road : 
 So that the heart he fix'd alone 
 
 On the great triune God of Heav'n, 
 Why, 'mid a hundred forms, to one 
 
 Should all thy preference be given ? 
 Where sits enthron'd thy Purity, 
 
 Deck'd with Salvation's radiant crown, 
 An index to futurity, 
 
 And blessings not to others known ?
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 41 
 
 Not in the Vatican of Rome, 
 
 With all its majesty and gloom ? 
 
 Not in poor Grecia's ruin'd fanes, 
 
 In Moslem mosque, or Druid plains ? 
 
 Not in Episcopacy ? — No ! 
 
 There's too much form, or too much show ! 
 
 Nor in the Covenant — that burst 
 
 Into a civil war accurs'd, 
 
 Loosing a wild fanatic brood, 
 
 That delug'd Britain's hearths with blood ? 
 
 Springing from such intestine woes, 
 
 Poor Scotland's humble Kirk arose, 
 
 Firm in her doctrine, pure as firm, 
 
 'Till chok'd by weeds, and Discord's worm 
 
 Batt'ning, alas ! upon her roots, but left 
 
 A wither'd trunk, almost of sap bereft — 
 
 Where can the truth be found ? * 
 
 ***** 
 
 Is this thy great discernment ? Fie ! 
 
 'Tis nought but partiality. 
 
 Look to the great and golden rules, 
 
 The Son of God himself exhorted : 
 Ye great divines, and pedant schools, 
 
 Are not those simple truths distorted ?
 
 42 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 « Thou shall the Lord thy God revere, 
 With all thy heart and soul sincere, 
 Loving none other made with hands ' — 
 Tis all a gracious God commands 
 Touching his Godhead ; and, to prove 
 
 How simple is Salvation's road, 
 He merely bids the Sinner " love 
 
 His neighbour as himself."— Oh ! code 
 Of moral law, most eloquent, 
 Most merciful, most excellent ! 
 And yet men speed on Satan's wings, 
 Scorning the peace a Gospel brings, 
 Sated with life, by vice consum'd, 
 Self-will'd, self-loving, and self-doom'd.— 
 A truce to moralizing : — List, 
 As a short narrative is told : 
 Our lips, in parting, scarce had kiss'd, 
 
 On Iceland's promontories bold, 
 Ere, soaring to the ruddy sky, 
 Where set the Sun in majesty, 
 My brow illum'd with flick'ring rays, 
 My voice attun'd to hymns of praise, 
 So great the World's Creator seem'd, 
 So heavenly was the ray that stream'd
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 43 
 
 In rich effulgence on the sea ; 
 Oh, 'twas a snatch of ecstacy ! 
 
 But, like all bliss, most transient. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Perch'd on a wild and craggy steep, 
 That overlook'd the roaring deep, 
 Totter'd a crazy hut. Each rent 
 
 In roof and wall, bore evidence 
 Of wars with wintry element, 
 
 And show'd the Tempest's influence : 
 Its hanging door but half reclin'd 
 Against the lintel, every wind 
 Rocking the clumsy mass aside, 
 That gap'd, but could not open wide ; 
 A few turf clods might still ba seen, 
 Marking where chimney once had been ; 
 But stifling clouds of vapour now, 
 In noisome fumes, seek high and low 
 For egress thro' the loosen'd wall, 
 Fast yielding to the mountain squall 
 This was in hapless Erin's Isle — 
 Nay, sister, prithee do not smile , 
 For ruin'd hovels now abound 
 Where once the well-built hut was found.
 
 44 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Poor Ireland ! — that joyous day, 
 
 Methinks, for e'er hath passed away, 
 
 When comely maidens gaily trod, 
 
 With merry hearts, the verdant sod, 
 
 Singing their Country's lively strains ; 
 
 Or listening to their happy swains, 
 
 Whose lips breath'd truth, whose hearts conceal'd 
 
 No thought, but Love at once reveal'd. 
 
 Alas ! the tread is heavy now, 
 
 And seam'd with care the maiden brow ; 
 
 No longer rings each steep and fell 
 
 With blithesome notes, we love so well ; 
 
 All, all is mute, unless a sigh 
 
 Attention draws to misery. 
 
 Then Love, alas ! its breath may sink, 
 
 And hearts from observation shrink, 
 
 While tongues, o'erwhelm'd with keen distress, 
 
 No more impart their tenderness. 
 
 Time was, when Erin's nymphs could tell, 
 
 How sweet were draughts from Passion's well ; 
 
 The Passion of the Soul, intense, 
 
 That takes from Earth alone its sense, 
 
 Yet born of God, ennobles still, 
 
 The breast its inspirations fill : —
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 4-i 
 
 But now, fly o'er that lovely isle, 
 And mark if love exacts a smile 
 
 From care-worn anxious brows, 
 
 Where settled sadness shews, 
 
 The rankling of her woes. — 
 Return, dear sister, to the dismal shade 
 Of that low roof. * * * 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Ent'ring the darkness drear, 
 Moans struck my startled ear ; 
 There, stretch'd upon a pallet, lay, 
 Life merging fast into decay, 
 A form most haggard, spectral, wan, 
 
 Scarce human, still with sense imbued; 
 And, kneeling by that bed, a man 
 
 Kiss'd the cold brow, while features rude 
 In Happiness, assum'd in Grief 
 A calm expression, sweet yet brief : 
 'Twas Strength o'er Weakness watching, 
 Its last faint whispers catching ; 
 No tear suffus'd that manly eye, 
 
 No groan escaped that heaving breast, 
 But manv a long heart-with'ring sigh, 
 
 Betray'd an anguish ill suppress'd :
 
 46 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 The husband gaz'd upon a flower, 
 
 Worn on his breast for many an hour, 
 
 Now call'd to its Creator ; — still, 
 
 He doubted if his God would kill: 
 
 She was so good, 60 kind, so fair, 
 
 Could Death have envied charms so rare ? 
 
 His cherish'd wife — his joy — nay, 
 
 His soul, would soon " be passed away :" 
 
 Could it be Death usurp'd the throne 
 
 Of Love, in eyes that dimly shone, 
 
 And wander 'd still on that dear face, 
 
 Where, doating yet, she sought to trace 
 
 The last bright beam of love ? 'Twas there, 
 
 But shrouded in the garments of Despair. 
 
 ***** 
 
 She died ; — the peasant's only link 
 
 To Happiness was torn away : 
 How strong that tie, while o'er the brink 
 
 Of the dark grave life hover'd ; — nay, 
 Two loving hearts were so entwin'd, 
 Each thought, each hope, seem'd from one mind 
 Spontaneously to rise : — She died, 
 And what had he to love beside ?
 
 47 
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 All, all was gloom, a sea of blood 
 
 Before his fever'd fancy stood, 
 
 In giant waves ; the scorching rays 
 
 Of Madness gleam'd from eyes, whose gaze 
 
 Was fix'd on all that now was left 
 
 Of her he lov'd ; his soul bereft 
 
 Almost of Reason, there he knelt 
 
 Absorb'd in grief : the blow was dealt 
 
 So suddenly, he could not trace 
 
 Death's hand as yet — one last embrace 
 
 The frightful truth of his bereavement told, 
 
 The lips he kissed were rigid, wan, and cold. 
 
 Uprising, with the fev'rish glow 
 
 Of Vengeance mantling on his brow, 
 
 The lonely man the scene survey 'd, 
 
 But sigh'd no more, nor grief betray 'd ; 
 
 One step, the chilly mountain wind 
 
 Breathes on his brow : one look behind — 
 
 That look unnerves — he cannot go 
 
 Leave her he idolized ? — Ah, no ! 
 
 Her spirit yet appeared to dwell 
 
 In that still form ; his weapon fell ; 
 
 She bid him pause — she bid him think of Heav'n, 
 
 And yield forgiveness as he'd be forgiv'n !
 
 48 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 He thought on many a by-gone day, 
 
 When Peace and Comfort cheer'd his heart ; 
 
 When the fair form, that stiffening lay 
 Before his aching sight, bore part 
 
 In all his joys. Then, Care unknown, 
 
 Hours, days, and years, had quickly flown ; 
 
 Contentment, barb 'ring at his board, 
 
 While pure affection amply stor'd 
 
 Their loving hearts. That hour went by, 
 
 When burst a cloud of miserv, 
 
 Dark as the gloomiest shade of night, 
 
 On bliss, 'till then, so exquisite : 
 
 Loss follow'd loss, the rent fell due; 
 
 An Agent's heart no pity knew ; 
 
 Their Lord, in foreign climes, ne'er felt 
 
 Th' oppressions that his minions dealt ; 
 
 But, plung'd in Gaiety's excess, 
 
 Saw not his Tenantry's distress. — 
 
 Ye absentees, had ye but view'd 
 
 The death-bed in that hovel rude ; 
 
 Had ye but heard the parting sigh, 
 
 Or seen that famish'd creature die, 
 
 Your souls had shar'd her agony :
 
 TTIE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 49 
 
 Yet 'twas a common case. We hear 
 
 But little of these horrors ; still, 
 Such mis'ry is not less severe 
 
 Because 'tis hidden, nor the thrill 
 Of anguish less acute. * * 
 
 ***** 
 
 A tear bedews thy cheek — weep on, 
 'Twere better, sympathy were shown 
 On such a theme, than o'er the grave 
 Of an ideal purity to sigh. * * 
 
 ***** 
 
 These worshipp'd God by symbols ! Aye, 
 " Poor ignorant Papists !" thou would'st say ; 
 But hadst thou se»n the chilly breast, 
 'Gainst which that ebon cross was press 'd, 
 Or caught the last expiring breath, 
 That murmur'd Jesus' name in death, 
 Thy prejudice had lost its fire, 
 Thy bosom all its sternest ire ; 
 'Twas not the sign that soul ador'd, 
 
 But the thing signified — the Lord ! 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 
 D 
 

 
 50 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 The church-bells rang a merry peal ; 
 The housewife left her spinning wheel ; 
 And noisy urchins, blithe and gay, 
 Spurning the Horn-book, sprung away ; 
 While gentle maidens, trimly dight, 
 In Sunday hoods and kirtles bright, 
 Form'd laughing groups, or idly stray 'd, 
 Where loving swains had sought the shade. 
 
 "Twas England — and a holiday — 
 A lovely genial first of May ; 
 The Village Queen, in bridal wreath, 
 Reclin'd, a shelt'ring grove beneath ; 
 Now gay, now sad — in smiles, in tears — 
 Now full of hopes — now faint with fears ; 
 Her's was indeed a beauty rare, 
 Retiring, meek, and doubly fair, 
 From the sweet innocence, betray 'd 
 In ev'ry look — in ev'ry word she said : 
 E'en now, I see those beaming eyes ; 
 
 E'en now, I breathe upon that cheek : 
 And hear an anxious bosom's sigh, 
 
 A tender tale of passion speak. 
 Those merry peals grew merrier yet, 
 Then ceas'd. — Oh ! can I e'er forget
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 51 
 
 The vows exchang'd, the blessing then bestow'd, 
 
 Before that altar of the living God ? 
 
 Pause, then, ye thoughtless hearts, — nor deem 
 
 Such holy vows an idle scheme, 
 
 By churchmen fram'd, to swell their might : 
 
 See ye not God's effulgence bright, 
 
 In this most sacred ordinance ? — Aye, pause, 
 
 And search the record of poor human laws 
 
 For one so perfect, one so pure as this. 
 
 ***** 
 
 If smiles portray a mortal's bliss, 
 
 That happy man was truly bless'd : 
 Oh ! how I envied each sweet kiss, 
 
 And could have clung to that pure breast, 
 But other scenes arose, less bright, 
 And Pleasure's day in Sorrow's night 
 Set speedily : — I soar'd above 
 That little spot, so bless'd with love, 
 To witness Care's dull canker kill, 
 Or wild Ambition madly fill 
 The hearts of men 'Tis a disease, 
 
 Raging on Earth, — most virulent — 
 
 Seeming the heart's best charm to freeze, 
 
 And urging to its fullest bent, 
 
 d 2
 
 ar 
 
 52 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 An evil passion in the blood : 
 
 'Tis intermittent, — ne'er subdued. — 
 
 Men strive to climb the tow'ring tree 
 
 Of what they call — Jj>octct{) ; 
 
 The topmast branch their only aim, 
 
 Self-love their prop, the prize — a name : 
 
 What countless crowds would fain appear 
 
 Deserving of the name they bear, 
 
 Living, chameleon-like, on air ! 
 
 For Pride their headlong course maintains, 
 
 And Folly feebly guides the reins: — 
 
 Well may'st thou deem the world a lie, 
 
 A hot-bed for duplicity, — 
 
 Judging from such ephem 'ral swarms. — 
 
 ***** 
 
 Tell me, ye creatures of an hour, 
 
 Ye that would grasp at earthly pow 'r, 
 
 Tell me, ye narrow-minded throng, 
 
 To whom such pow'r and wealth belong ? 
 
 What their sure end ? — The worm — the grave. 
 
 Where beam their charms ? They but deprave. 
 
 Oh ! could short-sighted mortals view 
 
 Worldliness in its colours true,
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 53 
 
 Could they but see its wide abyss, 
 
 Its all appalling precipice, 
 
 Could they suppose this love of praise, 
 
 A pitfall into Hell — amaze 
 
 Would seize the souls, now idly bent 
 
 On this poor world's enjoyment. 
 
 Oh ! sister, how my spirit clung 
 
 On thy sweet lips, when erst they sung 
 
 Of Freedom's charm ! — Men know it not, 
 
 For all are willing slaves. To what ? 
 
 That startled look would e'en enquire ; — 
 
 Slaves to Appearances : — desire 
 
 To seem, what they may never be, — 
 
 Is this not abject slavery ? 
 
 Could we denude Society 
 
 Of all its mock propriety ; 
 
 Could we but steal from Fashion's dress, 
 
 The veil that hides its nothingness ; 
 
 Methinks the charm its votaries now see, 
 
 Would to our eyes appear deformity 
 
 Yes, with a code of honour, trac'd 
 
 In blood, — Society's disgrac'd ; 
 
 For impious man had rather die, 
 
 Or launch into Eternity 
 
 d 3
 
 54 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Another's soul, than Rumour's breath 
 Should tell the World, he dreaded death. 
 Oh ! what a false, erroneous view 
 
 Of Honour ! Is not honour due 
 
 To God, before all earthly things ? 
 And yet, rash man Life's blessing flings, 
 As if 'twere nought, away. — Has Death 
 No sting, that man's content to die ? 
 
 Or the dark grave no victory ? 
 
 ***** 
 
 Forgive this wand'ring from my theme, 
 
 To moralize on ills past cure : 
 That rural scene, so like a dream, 
 
 Show'd me all men were not impure, 
 But oft more vilified than vile, 
 And guilty deem'd, when free of guile : 
 Oppression lays its heavy hand 
 Now here, now there, at Fate's command : 
 While Poverty, o'er-tyrannis'd, 
 Succumbs to Wealth and sinks despis'd. 
 
 I left that happy spot, to rove 
 'Mid scenes, where Fashion laugh'd at Love ; 
 Where titles bow'd to painted queans, 
 And Happiness was measur'd by the means
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 55 
 
 Secur'd in settlements. Oh, shame ! 
 
 Such slur to cast on Hymen's name : 
 Marry for gold ? 
 
 I chanc'd to meet 
 An equipage with coursers fleet, 
 Spurning the dusty way : — it bore 
 A happy pair, bedizen'd o'er 
 With marriage gewgaws, lace and bows ; 
 But, oh ! how gloomy were their brows .' 
 Some said they lov'd ; — 'twas difficult to prove ; 
 They married truly — but they did not love ! 
 Yet had they sworn, before their God, 
 
 To love, to honour, and obey 
 
 ***** 
 
 'Twas night, and flitting clouds roll'd o'er 
 The wintry moon ; while Nature wore 
 A dewy garment, damp and chill, 
 On flow'ry vale and wooded hill. — 
 With gentle wing, I hover'd where 
 The wild thyme fed the humid air 
 With sweetest perfume : — not a sound 
 Disturb'd that stilliness profound ; 
 Unless a branch, surcharg'd with dew, 
 Creak'd 'neath its load, — or night-bird flew
 
 56 THE SPIRITS OF THE WINI>, 
 
 To closer shelter. Hush ! — methought 
 
 Some moving form a moonbeam caught : 
 Yes, there again, — with stealthy tread, 
 With crouching form, and lovver'd head, 
 
 The Poacher lays his snare : 'tis done,- 
 
 Then cautiously he travels on, 
 Till, deep within the coppice shade, 
 He paus'd to watch the toil he'd laid ; 
 Nor laid in vain : his tangled prize 
 Wakes the dull air with piercing cries, 
 That find an echo in the stilly night. 
 Filling the felon's bosom with affright. 
 On come his foes — his weapon gleams — 
 Quickly the murd'rous fire streams ; 
 Onwards he starts, with quicken'd bound 1 , 
 And flies, affrighted at the sound 
 Re-echo'd by the rocky fell, 
 That seems a tale of blood to tell. 
 On, on we sped, till morning glow 
 Beam'd on the murd'rer's clammy brow : 
 I kept beside him : could it be 
 Starvation wrought such misery ? 
 Yes ; now he pauses — listens — then 
 Resumes his tott'ring course again ;
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 57 
 
 Till, plunging down a narrow way, 
 Where wretched hovels, crumbling, lay 
 In wild confusion, here he stay'd 
 His flight, then vanish'd in the shade. 
 What could those bolts and bars avail 
 
 Against a Spirit's entrance ? None ! 
 Softly I pass'd, where oft the Gale 
 
 Before had forc'd its way : — then shone 
 The morning's sun upon a scene, 
 
 Oh ! Sister, most appalling 
 
 There stood the pale Mechanic, there, 
 With pallid cheek and matted hair, 
 And trembling frame, with terror spent, 
 His fingers clench'd his gaze intent 
 On those he lov'd — his wretched wife 
 And little child. To these, his life, 
 Alas ! now forfeited, had e'er 
 Devoted been ; nor pain nor care 
 Could wean his heart from those fond ties ; 
 
 Oh ! picture, then, his agonies. 
 
 Here, for a meal, by Famine led, 
 His hand had numbered with the dead 
 His fellow man ; here, for a meal, 
 An upright man was led to steal ! !
 
 58 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Call it not Theft, but Instinct, driv'n 
 To take what God had unto Nature giv'n. 
 Yet there are men would murmur " Shame;" 
 
 And, " Shame, foul shame," is my reply, 
 On Laws that sully Britain's name — 
 
 Laws savouring of Tyranny. 
 " How can men starve ?" the thoughtless cry ; 
 " We do not see this misery ! 
 " Perchance, a beggar wounds our ear 
 " With drawling prayer, or feigns a tear ; 
 " It is their trade ; but England claims, 
 " Thank God ! the purest, best of names — 
 " Land of the free ! ! ! Then, turn thine eyes 
 " On all her glorious Charities ! 
 " Look at her Unions ! ! ! Need men want, 
 " Or condescend to senseless cant, 
 " With Institutions such as these ?" 
 
 So reason harden'd hearts, that freeze 
 Poor Pity with their cruelties : 
 Sister, these eyes have chanc'd to see, 
 In these famed Unions, Britons free 
 Crushing rank bones, fight o'er their task, 
 And gnaw the refuse offal. Ask
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 59 
 
 Ye boasters, if such things be true ? 
 
 Ask, if that poor half-famished crew 
 
 Have wives, have children, — where are they ? 
 
 ***** 
 
 As droops the willow o'er the stream, 
 
 So bent that mother o'er her child, 
 Whose features brightened by the dream 
 
 That show'd it Heaven. Yes ! it smil'd, 
 
 Smil'd on its mother. Ah ! sleep on, 
 
 'Twere better than that deed were known 
 Which steep'd thy father's hands in gore ; 
 'Twere better thou shouldst wake no more, 
 Till angel spirits, with their Heav'nly song, 
 
 Seek thy pure soul to join the radiant throng. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Oh ! can I e'er forget that group so wild, 
 As the pale murd'rer fed his wife and child ; 
 He, pond'ring still upon that deed of blood ; 
 They, all unconscious how he earn'd their food, — 
 
 For it was food, — and they were famish'd. 
 
 Why 
 Should wrongs be silenc'd by expediency ? 
 Why offer man a home, yet sever ties 
 The dearest to his moral sympathies ?
 
 60 THE SPIRITS OP THE WIND. 
 
 England's condition, now, 'tis said, 
 
 Works on men's minds ; and yet, " Cheap bread,' 
 
 From starving millions, swells on high, 
 
 A specimen of Freedom's cry. 
 
 There is an adage, used by some, 
 
 That " Charity begins at home" ! ! ! 
 
 Oh ! vile the man, whose purse's strings 
 
 Are drawn by selfishness ; he clings 
 
 To hope the vainest, should he deem 
 
 His niggard hand can turn the stream 
 
 Of comfort to his hearth. Around, 
 
 He hears of misery, the sound 
 
 Of Famine, with discordant tone, 
 
 Speaking its woes, should make his own 
 
 Less onerous. The public good 
 
 Can ne'er, alas ! be understood 
 
 By men who see not with the eyes 
 
 Of perfect Charity. There lies 
 
 But one fair open path to peace 
 
 And comfort ; let a man decrease 
 
 The rash expenditure, that tends 
 
 To gratify his selfish ends, 
 
 And feed his brother. Let him scan 
 
 The Word that bids him succour man
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 61 
 
 The Word that counts all wealth but dross, 
 Things Heavenly, gain ; things Earthly, loss : 
 Let him root out each brier and weed 
 That spring from Pride, and would impede 
 The growth of fervent Christian love 
 For the Almighty One above ; 
 Whose hand creates, whose care protects, 
 But whose all-seeing eye detects, 
 Thro' smiles and placid outward mien, 
 Th' iniquity that lurks within 
 The best of hearts : let him survey 
 The beauties of a single day, 
 Cloth'd in the garb of Heaven : yes, 
 His soul would own their loveliness ; 
 For Nature speaks of God, and warms 
 Man's heart to man ; its countless charms 
 Should make him feel the glorious might 
 That calls him Lord of things so bright. 
 Pause, thoughtless mortal, check the train 
 Of thought that issues in Disdain ; 
 Stretch forth the hand of fellowship, 
 Nor curl that proud contemptuous lip, 
 Upon thy brother man ; the Grave 
 Must close on all — the good, the brave,
 
 62 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 
 
 The rich, the poor, the captive, and the free ; 
 What is the difference 'twixt him and thee ? 
 
 For Death makes no distinction 
 
 Come, 
 Fair Spirit, let us hence, and roam 
 Thro' Scotia's wooded glens ; may be 
 Our search for love and Charity 
 Will not be vain. — Whv dost thou start ? 
 And smiles of light derision part 
 Those beauteous lips ? what hast thou heard 
 Or seen ? What, not one little word 
 
 To tell thy griefs ? Can Scotland err ? 
 
 ***** 
 
 Here, fondly bending o'er that drooping brow, 
 The gentle Spirit saw its cloud of woe, 
 And check'd her song, to gaze upon that face 
 Where so much sorrow sat. A vain embrace ; 
 It lessen'd nought the pain her sister felt, 
 Then, at her feet, the loving Spirit knelt, 
 Striving Affection's beaming glance to catch, 
 While fervent kisses from her lips she'd snatch. 
 Her's was a light and desultory strain, 
 She meant not to offend, nor meant to pain ;
 
 THE SPIRITS OF THE WIND. 63 
 
 Now here, now there, she journey'd Fancy's road, 
 Her object Peace, her sole conductor God. 
 The mention of a land they both so lov'd, 
 Convuls'd by schism, had her sister mov'd 
 To silent sorrow, not to anger ; no, 
 
 'Twas tender Pity made those eyes o'erflow. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Lock'd in a fond embrace, the sisters spring 
 To Heaven's throne, with wide extended wing, 
 Spurning dull Earth, with all its black'ning stain, 
 Its evanescent bliss, its lasting pain. 
 E'en now, methinks, their gentle melody 
 Hangs on the clouds of night with dulcet sigh, 
 Telling weak man of brighter realms above, 
 Where all is sweet contentment, peace, and love ; 
 Telling of Death and Judgment. Hark ! how clear 
 The warning cry, — « Repent, for Heaven's near ; 
 " Repent, and cast your sorrows upon One 
 " Who died, that ye might live — God's own dear Son ; 
 " Prostrate your souls, your erring ways confess, 
 " And blessings seek from HIM, who still will bless ; 
 " Blot from thine heart a World, to cleave to Heav'n, 
 " And glorify that Name, to whom all praise be giv'n." 
 
 FINIS.
 
 PRINTED BY M. ROSS, PILGRIM STREET, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE.
 
 This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below. 
 
 * 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 .-&*&
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 365 537 o
 
 m 
 
 mi