PR 
 
 4453 
 
 C62d 
 
 y
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 DUROVERNUM; 
 
 #ti)cr iPotm{i« 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR BROOKE. 
 
 Itottlrcin : 
 
 FUBUSHED BY LONGMAN, HURST, REES, OR.ME, AND BROWN, 
 PATEHyoSTER-ROfV. 
 
 1818,
 
 B\RNiRO AND fAflLKY, 
 Skimicr Stria, Lundon.
 
 /5f 
 
 €o 
 
 Ct)i0 VtAxmt 
 
 H 
 
 I3rtiiratelr, 
 
 iH 
 
 ?^t0 i^xitxca. 
 
 A 2
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FAGB 
 
 DUROVERNUM J7 
 
 Notes 53 
 
 THE CURSE OF CHATTERTON 91 
 
 J. Recollections, &c .^ 105 
 
 II. Sonnet, written under a Print of Sappho 112 
 
 III. Sappbo. A Sonnet .,..y« 114 
 
 A 3
 
 PAGE 
 
 IV. Fragment. " And this is vain" — 116 
 
 V. Sonnet. To . " Cruel hath been 
 
 this kindness !" , 120 
 
 Vr. Sonnet. " In musing' moods" ,. VZ'2 
 
 VII. Stan/as. To * * *. "And must Thou".. 124 
 
 \II[. Solitude. A Sonnet 12(i 
 
 IX. Sonnet. To a Star 128 
 
 X. Sonnet. To the same 130 
 
 Xf. To . " \^ in tlie world's unthinkin;^- 
 
 tlirorig'" 132 
 
 XII. The l>roiiTess of Evil 13G 
 
 XTII. Imjtromjjtu. " My heart, thou sayest" 141 
 
 XIV. Reverie. A Sonnet 142 
 
 XV. To . "Oh! might I tcacli" 144 
 
 XVI. Statizas. " It' the world could lie kind" 146 
 
 XVII. To * * *. " If care hath dimmed tiiat angel 
 
 form" 148 
 
 XVHI. I'arting. •' Forgive if all jo\ less" lo2 
 
 XIX, To ***. " Vou know not, love, \u<\\ lieavily [ijo 
 
 XX. To . '• The glow of wild desire but 
 
 flusheil" 1j7 
 
 X.\ I. Sonnet. " Oh me ! this air" IjO
 
 XXII. Sonnet. "Woe unto him within wliose fe- 
 verish breast" 160 
 
 XXIII. Sonnet. To the 3Ioon , 161 
 
 XXIV. Sonnet. To 162 
 
 XXV. Frao-ment of a Satirical Poem 163 
 
 XXVI. Ballad Stanzas 166 
 
 XXVII. An Invitation. To 167
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 1", Stanza I. line S,jfor (.) nad (,) 
 
 Puj^e j9, (Notes) line 7, for " Doiovernum,"' read " Duroveiiiuin.
 
 DUROVERNUM 
 
 % lloem.
 
 ADYERTISEMEXT. 
 
 i 11 1^ tbllowing Poem makes no preten- 
 sions to tlic title ot a complete and regular 
 description of Canterbury, but merely of 
 those objects which may be supposed to 
 have occurred in a Niuht-walk in and 
 about tliat City, with the consequent 
 reflections on each. 
 
 The general reader will very })roba- 
 bly be surprised at the omission of some
 
 12 
 
 things, which perhaps may not have 
 escaped the attention of the Author, but 
 which he might consider incapable of 
 being treated poetically, at least in the 
 style and tone here adopted.
 
 lantrobernum.
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Address to the Setting Sun — to Night — Subject prO' 
 ■posed — Dane John Field — The Castle — Martyr's 
 Field — Moonlight — St. Martinis Church — Ruins 
 of St. Augustine^s Monastery — The Cathedral — 
 Tomb of the Black Prince — Of Henry IV. — 
 Casaubon — The King's School — The River 
 Stour — Day-break — Conclusion. 
 
 B 2
 
 DUROVERNUM. 
 
 I. 
 
 Father of life and light! who from the birth 
 Of Time or Nature, with that glorious eye 
 Hast quickening gazed upon the subject earth, 
 
 As througli the boundless deserts of the sky 
 Thou mov'st in solitary majesty; 
 Soul of Creation! whose paroUal care 
 Doth, like a visible God, to all supply 
 The springs of their existence. Thou shalt share 
 IVilh thy Creator's self, the wide world's ceaseless 
 pra\ er !
 
 18 
 
 II. 
 
 All that thou see'st, O Sun, is thine; to thee 
 Earth and its habitants one voice shall raise 
 Of grateful adoration, and by nie 
 Once too was hymned thy glory, power, and praise. 
 And if it seems that now I coldly gaze, 
 Upon those beams which gladden all beside, 
 If in thy worship my dull heart delays, 
 It is not wilful blindness, scorn, nor pride, 
 But that the founts of love in me are parched and 
 dried. 
 
 III. 
 
 I have more loved to watch thee at thy fall 
 Behind the western mountains, and to view 
 Thy sable follower spread her gradual pa!!. 
 O'er the dim scene, till all things took the hut
 
 19 
 
 Of njy own spirit ; and thus in me grew 
 A hatred of thy broad obtrusive ray, 
 Which brought no blessing unto me, but drew 
 My hush'd thoughts from their sanctuary away, 
 Into the hateful toils and duties of the day. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Night! let me be thy votary! and thou, 
 When I appeal to thee in converse lone 
 At thy deep noon, still hearken to my vow : 
 Since every dearer moment I have known. 
 Under the shadow' of thy wing hath flown ; 
 Thine was the welcome hour which set me free 
 From the world's vulgar drudgeries, thou hast 
 
 shewn 
 Things which the light shut from me, and to thee, 
 All that I am, O Night! I owe whate'er that be.
 
 m 
 
 V. 
 
 Thou, when my days, like the neglected sands 
 Of a brief hour-glass, ebbed in hopeless haste, 
 Benignant gavest into my youtliful hands 
 A chalice from the fount 1 burned to taste, 
 But which I deemed Fate had for ever placed 
 Far from my barren path ; then, by thy aid. 
 If I might haply yet redeem tiie waste 
 Of my past years, I shrunk into thy shade. 
 And by the lonely lamp, my last, best, pastime 
 made. 
 
 VI. 
 
 All hail, dear Muses ! if I did not g:un 
 In my sweet wanderings o'er your classic ground, 
 u4ll that I sought, the search was not in vaii,-. 
 If in the lore J loved there was not found
 
 21 
 
 Aught that might heal tlie deep and fatal wound 
 Of a crush'd heart; yet, if it dulled the sense 
 Of selfish suffering ; if awhile it drowned 
 In streams of Castaly, thoughts too intense 
 For my weak brain, — it was my study's recompence. 
 
 VII. 
 
 This is not now my theme ; but as I stray 
 To breathe the richness of diis evening hour, 
 And gaze upon the Sun's declining ray, 
 Whicli gilds tiie g;t'cnness of this ivied lower; 
 W hile ihe hglit bieeze scarce bends the saffron 
 
 liower, 
 Which freshly springs above the mouldering stone, 
 As if in mockery of Time's wasting power; 
 Here as i wander, pens'Ve a.^d alone, 
 My mind's eye turns within — niy musings take this 
 tone. 
 
 B 5
 
 22 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But let me rather weave into this song 
 A record of the scenes which round me rise ^ 
 Not for the love I bear them, for among 
 The varying objects which in other eyes 
 Look lovely, or are bound by the soft ties 
 Of natural affections, there are none 
 Which my perverted spirit now will prize ; 
 Within these walls my life as yet hath run 
 A joyless course, and may, till its last days an- 
 done. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Here will the stranger no memorial meet, 
 Of names which ne'er can fade, no classic trace 
 Where he may lingering pause, and oft repeat, 
 With heart high-swelling, " This is tlie proud 
 " place
 
 23 
 
 '' Where men have dwelt^ whose memory lends a 
 
 " grace 
 " To History's dull page, whose deathless words, 
 '' Time from the book of life shall ne'er efface; 
 " Or such as drew for Freedom their just swords, 
 " And from the groaning land swept off its tyrant 
 " lords." 
 
 X. 
 
 Nought such will M'uit him here: yet he may 
 
 wander 
 Oer the rude footsteps of Barbarian war; 
 And in their proudest shrines may fitly ponder 
 Upon the faiths which once have been or are. 
 And though the haughty spn-es that shine f'om far 
 Claim now more reverence from the passer-by. 
 The ruined abbey, shattered in the jar 
 Of clashing creeds, will, to the Uioughtful eye, 
 A deeper lesson yield of frail Mortality.
 
 24 
 
 XL 
 
 Of these hereafter. Now the sunken sun 
 
 Scarce tinges the horizon's farthest bound, 
 
 And Twihght, stealing with her mantle dun, 
 
 In silence closes the wide prospect round. 
 
 I stand alone upon the mighty mound, <^'^ 
 
 By the rude Dane upthrown ; and where the 
 
 alarms 
 Of his fierce war once rung, a calm profound 
 Now broods, as if the din of hostile arms 
 Had never yet profan'd this valley's peaceful charms. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Scourge of our suffering Isle! from the fell Nortii 
 Breathing destruction, like a locust cloud, 
 Denmark her countless armaments poured forth, 
 Before whose strength the feebler Saxon bowed
 
 25 
 
 Down to the du-it; and while the invader proud 
 Ravaged remorseless, and the prostrate land 
 WhU the best blood of its defenders flowed, 
 Here too was levelled the resistless brand, 
 And Durovernum '^■^ sunk beneath their murderous 
 hand. ^'^ 
 
 XIII. 
 
 In ashes sunk: but like Earth's giant son, 
 
 Fell but to rise more vigorous from her tali. — 
 Those days are past; her battles all are done; 
 Calmly slie now may view her crum')!ing wall, 
 And sleep seeure, fearless of foreign thrall. 
 Ne'er may she feel a Conqueror's force again! 
 Though now ^-^^ her offspring, deaf to Freedom's 
 
 call, 
 Forge for themselves a vile domestic chain, 
 Which they may sometime curse, and writhe under 
 in vain !
 
 26 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Before me rises, in a mass of shade*', 
 
 A frowning fortress/^^ whose vast walls were 
 
 reared 
 By the first Norman whom our sires obered ; 
 A wretch who sought not to be loved, but feared : 
 iNIay kings whose sway, like his, is unendeared 
 By niercy, find, like him, their thrones a hell! '-^^ 
 They must; unless their vassals' hearts are seared, 
 And, callous by long slavery, the spell 
 Which guards them will be broke — 'tis virtue to rebel! 
 
 XV. 
 
 These battlements, which would have braved the 
 
 storm 
 For years unnumbered, now are rent away 
 J5y ruftian slaves, whose sordid hands deform 
 ^^ hat they can scarce destro}' ; Oh ! soon may they 
 * The old castle.
 
 Unpitied perish in u like decay ! 
 
 Oh! worse than Vandals! may the indignant 
 
 mould, 
 Where they at last their baser earth would lay, 
 Reject them from her breast, nor deign to hold 
 Creatures that knew no thought nor care — save lust 
 
 for gold ! C'5 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The moss-crowned monuments of time long past, 
 The reverend records of a vanish'd age, 
 Are gradual swept away ; and soon the last 
 Will sink beneath then- sacnlciiious rajje. 
 Vain were remonstrance now : but those who wage 
 Their impious ^var with this majestic pile. 
 Should live in infamy along this page, 
 Did not the abhorrent Muse blush to defile 
 Her lays, however mean, with names and deeds so 
 vile! . 
 
 2
 
 28 
 
 xvir. 
 
 Thejc is a spot not far remote'*^ the scene 
 \\ liere Superstition played her bloodiest game ; 
 There have the victims of a bisrot Queen, 
 And creed more cruel, felt the torturing tiame 
 Wind round their hearts, while things which wore 
 
 the name 
 Of Man stood scoffing by. God ! at that hour 
 AVhere were thy thnndei bolts: whose vengeful aim 
 Should then have lighted, in a iiery shower. 
 On wretches who could tempt thy lage, and brave 
 
 thy power ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 If, roused at last by l^ai th's iniquities, 
 Thv long-forbearing vengeance once nptore 
 The fountains of the deep, while the charg'd skies, 
 Bursting tremendous, poured out all their store 
 * The 3Iart\r's ttckl. <sj
 
 29 
 
 Of waters, till a sea without a shore 
 Rolled o'er a ruined world, uhy did not then 
 The climax of her crimes call down once more 
 The exterminating curse, nor leave to men 
 To do, as have been done, such damning deeds again ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 My spirit hath been moved : and who could dwell 
 
 With heart unruffled upon thoughts like these ? 
 
 But let me oaze around on what mi^ht well 
 
 The tumults of the stormiest soul appease : 
 
 Nature alone is waking; the soft breeze 
 
 Flits almost musically by ; how bright 
 
 The moon-beams mingle with the dark irreen 
 
 trees. 
 Or glitter on the gr:!ss ; the brows of Night 
 Arc bound with myriad gems of tenderest, purest 
 
 liuht.
 
 30 
 
 XX. 
 
 Oh ! who that wanders at an hour like this, 
 And looks upon the earth, the stars, and sky. 
 But feels, with a calm joy, one treasure his, 
 Unbought by toils, and kept without a sigh r 
 Though man may to his feiiow-nian deny 
 His tinselled trash, Great Nature, free to all, 
 Spreads forth her thousand stores unsparingly ; 
 Her charms are pure, her beauties never pall, 
 She can unchanged remain, whate'er to Man befal. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 But let me break the chain of this soft dream 
 ^Vhich star-light fancies \\eave, or it will woo 
 i\Iy willing thoughts to quit this lowlier theme.. 
 Am\ lil't it, O ye radiant Orbs! with you
 
 31 
 
 To meditate, until your fading hue 
 Heralds the morn. Now let me rather bend 
 My mind unto its task, while I pursue 
 My purpos'd patii ; and let my musings blend 
 With man, and \^ ith man's works, where'er my foot- 
 steps lend. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Where first Augustine ^^^ gave the word divine, 
 To our rude sires, and from his pious hands 
 The Pagan Monarch took the mystic sign 
 Of Christ's salvation, a small structure stands *, 
 Of simplest form ; but as the seed expands, 
 Set in a goodly soil, till the strong shoot. 
 Out-branching, covers the surrounding lands 
 With its wide shade, so did this lowly root 
 Spring to a giant height — and what hath been the 
 fruit : 
 
 * St. jMartin's church.
 
 82 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Corruption — terror — bigotry — and crime ; 
 Till he* arose, whose daring arm restrained 
 Its baleful piogress, and the truths sublime 
 Of the first Faith, from folly's gloss regained. 
 And though the lapse of darkened days had stained 
 Or warped those lessons, since they purely fell 
 From the meek Prophet's lips, enough remained 
 To teach a jarring world in peace to dwell, 
 If aught the lust of sway in Man's rank breast could 
 quell. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 One aim has Luther — Calvin — England — Rome; 
 Each seeks supremacy ; and each would bind 
 Its misbelieving Lretliren, and Ijccoine 
 Sf)L minister of wiiat the noblei' r.jind 
 
 * l>iith(;r.
 
 33 
 
 Sliouki Itave to every bosom unconfined, 
 Unbiassed as tiie uir. Has not each felt, 
 And each inflicted on its suffering kind, 
 Keen Persecution's sword, as if there dwelt 
 A chastening God with each, who thus his judg- 
 ments dealt ? 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But chief on thee, O Rome ! the united curse 
 Of outraged man should fall, on whom thv reign 
 Wreaked, with a drunken rapture, torments worse 
 Than Sin had yet devised, or fear could feign. 
 Thy power hath past from us; and though again 
 Thy footsteps never shall these Isles affright, 
 Thy shade yet hngers — Superstition's chain 
 Clings round us still ; — Oh ! when shall Reason's 
 light 
 Drive the detested fiend back to its native night !
 
 34 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 These unembellished Avails and lowly root, 
 Where holiness iiiiglit dwell in humblest guise, 
 Seem gazing witii a grave, but calm reproof, *^'"^ 
 On shrines of later days, whose })roud heads rise, 
 With a colossal grandeur to the skies. 
 Fit emblem of a faith, wiiich once alone 
 On Heaven intent, could worldly pomps despise, 
 But whose maturer years, by pride up-blown, 
 Aspired to make of Earth one universal throne ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 But thou*, magnificent Ruin ! where the tracf^ 
 Of pristine grandeur shines through its decay, 
 When hands, unhallowed, shook thee to thy base, 
 And the stern spoiler tore thy pride away, 
 ■* The remains of St. All^•ustine's monastery. ^^'^
 
 .35 
 
 VVliere were thy saints ? alas ! regardless, they 
 Heard not thy cry in that distressful hour, 
 But silent slept, as any common clay ; 
 And now these moulderine; walls — this totterin*" 
 tower — 
 Alone can tell the tale of thy departed power. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Flowers spring above the ruins, and the grass 
 Grows freshly o'er decay : the soil I tread 
 Is rife with death, and in one mingled mass 
 Kings — saints — are resting with the vulgarer dead. 
 Awake ! Arise ! Come from your lowly bed 
 But one of you ! bring answer from the dust 
 What man shall be when once this life hath fled . 
 Awake ! arise ! unfold ! — is it not just 
 Assurance should be given ere we repose our 
 trust ? (i^>
 
 36 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Thou dark and awful GravCj whose mystery 
 Ilath fed my musings ! in the cloistered gloom 
 Where thousands sleep, have I not called to thee: 
 Have I not craved for tidings from the tomb, 
 Of life — or death — whate'er may be our doom r 
 Have I not prayed it r would I not forsake 
 All vainer wisdom, and no more relume 
 My midnight taper, so 1 might partake 
 Of an immortal hope, which this world could not 
 shake : 
 
 XXX. 
 
 It hath not been accorded : — the high light 
 From Heaven, which guides the wanderer on his 
 
 way, 
 Shmes not for me ; all hopeless, in the niaht 
 Of my bewildered spirit still 1 stray,
 
 37 
 
 Aiid combat with my suflferings as I may. 
 Wlience came I ? whither go ? and what shall be, 
 When this frail body sinks again to clay ? — 
 E'en as the dust I tread? or pure and free, 
 Quaff from eternal founts. Life, Love, and Liberty ? 
 
 XXXL 
 
 God of my life! Spirit! whate'er thou art, 
 That gav'st to me this being ! wilt thou not 
 Clear with thy breath the clouds which wrap this 
 
 heart 
 111 worse than Egypt's darkness ? Shall my lot 
 Be ever bounded to this desolate spot. 
 Where, when some few brief hours have sorrow- 
 ing past, 
 I know, at least, this hateful frame must rot ? 
 Or shall I rather, roused by the awakening blast 
 Of the Arch-angel's Trump, gaze on thy Truth at 
 last, 
 
 G
 
 38 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Fearless, undazzled, when it shall be given 
 To the unfettered soul to wander fiee, 
 On wing ecstatic, o'er the extreme Heaven, 
 Piercing through Time's eternal mystery, 
 Feeding on bliss without satiety, 
 With beings, such as earth's least mortal tliought 
 JV]ight hardly dream of, though inspired by thee, 
 Thrice-hallowed Muse! who, erst to Milton- 
 taught 
 Strains such as meaner bards have since all vainly 
 sought .' 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Flow bootless such inquiry ! — leave to each 
 That path in {(eace, by which he hopes to gain 
 His promised Eden; though these stones might 
 
 teach, 
 Much that the schoolman's creed would scarce 
 
 explain.
 
 :39 
 
 Fire, flood, and liercer foes/^''^ assailed in vain 
 This sainted shrine, but when her favorite son, 
 [ler eherished hope, the champion of her reign, ^^^^ 
 Aimed at her lieart the blow she could not shun, 
 She sunk, as loftier fanes with purer faiths have 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Here the Eighth Henry, with unsparing hand, 
 Worked his fierce will; though were this act his 
 
 worst, 
 He had not, in the annals of the land, 
 Left to all after time his name accursed, 
 
 * This monastery was dissolved, in common with all others 
 of the kind, throughout the kingdom, by the edict of Henry 
 the Eighth. See note. 
 
 C 2
 
 40 
 
 The Nero of our throne : but the hot thirst 
 Of power had settled in his tameless soul, 
 Corrupt by luxury, and by flattery nurst, 
 Till passion's wildest waves, w hich mocked control, 
 Hurried their slave where'er the desperate tide 
 might roll. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Well had it been, if Bigotry and Fraud, 
 Alone had felt his devastating rage, 
 But when his tiger-spiiit stalked abroad, 
 
 Worth — Wisdom Valour — Beauty — Voutli — ■ 
 
 and Age, — 
 All were its prey; as if he sought to assuage 
 His burning heart widi blood : then his fair bride, 
 The guiltless Anna*, and the statesmen sage, 
 The upright More, and blameless Cromwell died, 
 And gallant Surrey! thou, the Muses' hope and 
 
 pride 1 ^1^) 
 
 * Anna Boleyii,
 
 41 
 
 XXXVl. 
 
 The moon has stoop'd beneath a mountainous cloud, 
 Whicli, with o'erwhelming pomp floats darkly by. 
 
 A melancholy pause succeeds: ^then loud, 
 
 From her lone tower, the owlet's tremulous cry 
 Breaks the deep silence, and the night-winds sigh 
 Shrill through the ruins, and the waving tree. 
 Answers with whispering voice : to Fancy's eye 
 Dim forms seem hovering round; — if fear could be, 
 la such an hour as this 't would come more fear- 
 fully. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The dead are in their graves ; the living sleep ; 
 The spirit of the place alone is here : 
 How desolate ! but who with it w ill weep ? 
 It wakes no sympathies, it claims no tear,
 
 42 
 
 [t prompts no mournful memories, which endear 
 Departed greatness : this, perliaps, is all 
 \A e gatlier from such relics, — that \\ e rear 
 Shiines for oui- own subjection, that they fall, 
 And then our chains we sliift, and still our souls 
 enthral. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 But now again 'tis bright ; tlie cloud is past 
 V> hich buried in its gloomy depths awhile 
 That iuslrous Orb, whose whitening beams are cast 
 Full on the face of von aspiring pih '"^, 
 V\ lii(h, o'ei its iiiiued rival, '""'' seenrs to smiic 
 In consoou- strength; — a taldic that (h"-pia}s, 
 In manv a sculptured dome, and long-drav. n :u-!c 
 "^1 he niagic of ]Man's art, which joy> to rai^e 
 A palace for ius piide, e'en on his Makeis prai-( . 
 
 "* The ailjaceiit caihcili;: 1.
 
 43 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 Thy boast is not in vain : thou hast survived 
 The changes of thy creed ; and shouldst thou be, 
 In the long hipse of time, in turn deprived 
 E'en of this last and better faith, with thee 
 Still may devotion shrine her deity : 
 Thy Beaidj/ should preserve thee ; thou shouldst 
 
 stand 
 Firm, 'midst Opinion's ever-varying sea, 
 Like the eternal cliffs which guard our land, 
 Reposing on tliy might, unalterably grand. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Pride of old Kent! thy venerable walis, 
 Tiiy storied windows, rich with many u dye, 
 T'iiough which the varied day-beam dimly falls, 
 riiy gorgeous shiiiies, and towers that brave the
 
 44 
 
 Long shall attract the stranger's wondering eve. 
 Though now no pilgrim benil^ o'er Beeket's tomb, 
 Though Dunstan's ashes all unhonored lie^ 
 Though now no longer pious hands illume 
 The lamp o'er Anselin's grave, gilding the niidnighi 
 gloom/'') 
 
 XLl. 
 
 Here sleeps the sable Warrior, on whose arm 
 Once hung the fate of Trance, before wiiose breath 
 Her hosts were scattered, but who knew the charm 
 Which Mercy sheds around the conqueror'^: 
 
 wreath, 
 The halo of true glory! Few bequeath 
 A fame like his, unsullied by a blot 
 Which Calumny may point ; '•^^^ and, though be- 
 neath 
 These stones his mighty heart must darkly rot, 
 While England has a name, Iiis will not be forgot.
 
 45 
 
 XLir. 
 
 ^And here is raised a monumental show, 
 
 Such as vain man decrees that Kings should have, 
 
 For Henry's bones ; but do they rest below 
 
 And moulder motionless ? or did the wave 
 
 Bear them to whiten in some coral cave, 
 
 The sea-nymphs' sport, and did his followers 
 
 weep 
 Over an empty bier and corseless grave? ^^^^ 
 What recks it, if this marble or the deep, 
 Closed o'er his cold remains ? — as sound will be his 
 
 sleep. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 His blame or praise, let those who list rehearse, 
 But from the Muse thy tomb should rather claim, 
 Oh Casaubon ! one memorizing verse. 
 Fit tribute to thy own, thy father's fame. '-'°^ 
 c5
 
 46 
 
 Thy classic labors, wliicli have .staui}»t.l iliv nann 
 
 A\ ith an unfading verdure, long shiili guide 
 
 Our steps through. I,cr,ruing's lahvrinth ; and 
 
 should shame 
 The monkish drones, whose ignorraice and pride 
 Will rest in Ijloated pomp thy sacred tlust beside. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Fare^vell, ye scenes! o'er which my youthl'ul feet 
 Once duly wandered, till the hour assigned 
 Called them, scarce willing, to the honoieu seat''', 
 AVhere first Instruction on my opening mind 
 Poured her delights; but where my spirit pnu.d, 
 71iat dared not love too \\ell the attractive page 
 AVhich envious Folly hated, nor could lind 
 Pleasure in acting, on that petty stage, 
 its part in the vile deeds which shame man's riper 
 age. 
 
 The Kii)L:''s School, within tlie precincts of the Cathedral.
 
 47 
 
 XLV. 
 
 There each young despot, whom the fates had 
 
 blest 
 With brains of lead, and lindDs of stm-dier mould 
 Tiian his compeers, hfted his loifily crest, 
 False as the serpent, as the tiger bold 
 In acts of ill ; where from its virgin fold 
 In the heart's rose-bud every innocent thought 
 Was rudely torn ; — and should a truth be told 
 Which some might hide, if \'.\ my soul be aught 
 Of cruelty or crime, it then, and there, was taught. '^-'^ 
 
 XLVL 
 
 Then in my breast was sown the deadly seed, 
 Wliich after suffering ripened, then I learned 
 The slave's sole privilege, to bear and bleed 
 In silent hate, to hide the pang when spurned
 
 48 
 
 By brutal Ignorance for honors earned 
 In studious strife : — Not sorrowing, I recall 
 The sense of early wrong, though first it turned 
 The current of fresh feelings into gall, 
 It fitted me to meet what 1 have met through all. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 But now upon thy flower-fringed banks I stand, 
 Fair Stour ! ^^■'^ and gaze upon thy winding stream. 
 Whose dimpled surface, by the soft breeze fanned, 
 Shakes to dissolving silver the clear beam 
 Of countless stars, whose bright reflections seem 
 As in a liquid mirror here to lave. 
 With livelier lustre. Oh! how sweet a dream 
 Steals o'er the heart, while on this placid wave 
 Heaven opens its wide breast, and claims us from 
 the grave.
 
 49 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 As if we stood upon the utmost verge 
 Of that great gulf, which keeps us from the blest, 
 While far-off shapes of brightness o'er the surge 
 Beckoned, and pointed to the bowers of rest, 
 Where, as a dove returning to her nest, 
 The soul might soon forget its earth-born woes, 
 Blissfully leaning on as dear a breast, 
 As that which boyhood once, once only knows, 
 When first Affection's flowers all tremblingly unclose. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Alas ! the love of our maturer years 
 
 Is Custom Instinct Friendship what you 
 
 Mill ; 
 A\ here then is the wild maze of hopes and fears, 
 In which our senses wandered? where the thrill,
 
 .50 
 
 Whose tlr.sli oKctiic shook the breast until 
 It sickened with delight : Oh ! 'tis not so, 
 Wliate'er we deem, when once the heavy chill 
 Of stern Experience, — Love and Joy's worst 
 foe, — 
 Hath fallen npon the fount from which those feeiini^'s 
 How. 
 
 Roll on, fair River! with a lovely pride, 
 Unmoved by all save ^^atlu•e"s high decree: 
 IIovv unreniittingly thy waters glide 
 W ilh silent lapse unto the boundless sea, 
 Like earthly years into Eternity ! 
 Let mightier streams in loftier la\s be sung: 
 Enough, dear native Stour! enough for thee, 
 If on thy banks one home-bred harp hadi rung, 
 And to thv name the Muse one votive gai land hnni
 
 51 
 
 LI, 
 
 TIuoiics — monarchs — empires — in the night of 
 
 rorjiotteii sink, ;i lost and nameless ihrou'^-: 
 Bui shrined in glory on the imniortal page 
 Of the great Falhri- of our English Song*, 
 Thou, Durovcrnum ! shalt be borne along 
 "^riie tide of tinie in never-fading fame. 
 Thou wei't niv Nursing-Mother; if among 
 Thy woithier sons my elsc-imhonored n.ame 
 Shall haplv be preserved, 'tis all these strains may 
 claim. 
 
 LIl. 
 
 The moon is in tlie West : the stars grow dim : 
 ivastv^ard the heavens arc tlecked with puipling 
 
 wh.ite : 
 'I'he ecstatic lark pours forth its matin hynm, 
 Trom its glad wings shaking the dews of night : 
 
 ^ Chaucer. — In alhi->iou to liis Canterburv Tales.
 
 r^o 
 
 The ros}-fingered liours with circling flight, 
 Throng eager to linbar the gates of dav : 
 Soon will the Sun ascend his throne of light ; 
 Then cease my song ; while home I bend my way, 
 And leave to happier eyes to track his rising ray.
 
 NOTES.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note J, Stanza xi. 
 
 " The Dungeon or Dane John Field, for it is at 
 present known by both these names, lies near the 
 .Site o-f old Riding-gate, adjouiing, but within the 
 walls of the city, at the south-east corner of it, and 
 on the west side, almost to the ditch and wall of the 
 castle bayle. In ancient deeds the name is vari- 
 ously written Dangon, Daungeon, and Dungen; 
 names all much alike, and of the same import. 
 
 " At the south-east corner of this field, close to 
 ihc city-wall, there is thrown up a vast artijicial
 
 56 
 
 mount or lull, now to all appearance circular, having 
 a deep ditch, from wliicli, no doubt, the earth waa 
 taken round the other part of it; it is a great deal 
 higher than the wall ever was, when entire ; inso- 
 much, that from the top of it there is a clear view 
 over the whole city below it, as well as a great extent 
 of the adjacent country; the held itself, before the 
 late alterations, consisted of very uneven ground, 
 and whatever liad occasioned it hod never been 
 levelled. On the outward, or opposite side of 
 the wall, to the above mount, the city ditch and a 
 high road only separating the two, is another artifi- 
 cial mount of a much smaller size, and not half so 
 high. This place was esteemed of such conse- 
 quence, that it gave name to the adjoining manor 
 of the Dungeon. 
 
 " The original of its name is conjectured to have 
 arisen from its having been the Danes' work, and to 
 have been from thence corruptly called Dangeon 
 and Daungeon, for Danien or Danes'- hill, and thar,
 
 57 
 
 because it was either their work against the city, 
 or of the city against them ; but the former appears, 
 by what follows, to be mucli more probable. In- 
 deed, it seems to have been the proper work of the 
 Danes, the great and frequent molesters, invaders, 
 and wasters of this city; and most likely at the time, 
 when in King Ethelred's days they besieged the 
 city, and after twenty days resistance took it by 
 stoim, and then destroyed both city and inhabitants. 
 " Whoever well observes the whole of this spot, 
 will plainly see that the works above-mentioned, 
 both within and without the present wall of the city, 
 were not counterworks one a;:;unst tlie other, as the 
 comujon opinion is, but \\\i'c once all one entire 
 {)k)t, containing about three acres of ground ; the 
 outwork of a triangular form, with a mount or hill, 
 (what appears to )>e now two, having been but one 
 of a pear-hke sha{)e, till cut through, as will be 
 noticed hereafter) intrenched round within it, and 
 that when iirst iiKule and cast up, it lay wiiolly with-
 
 58 
 
 out the city ^vall, and that part of the mount \\luch 
 now forms the larger one, and most part of the out- 
 work likewise, towards the north of it, foi tlie greater 
 security of the city, has been taken and walled in, 
 since tiiat side of the trench was formed which en- 
 compasses the smaller mound, now lying without 
 and under the wall (titly meeting w ith the rot of the 
 city ditch) after both sides of tlie outw ork were cut 
 through to make way for it, at the time of the citv's 
 being walled and inditched ; a conjecture that must 
 seem probable to any one who marks and examinci 
 the place with attention." Hasted. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xti. 
 
 " And Durorcrninn, 
 
 The first mention v.e have of this city by name 
 is in Ptolemy's Geoura|)iiv of Britain, who lived in 
 the reigns of tlie Roman emperors Trajan, lladiian,
 
 59 
 
 and Antoninus Pius, and wrote it in the Greek lan- 
 guage. He says, in the most eastern part of Britain 
 are the Cantri, and among tlieni these towns, TroKnq 
 i\ov^iviov, Accoovsuov, Poi/TiSTTiai, that is, Londinium, 
 Durvenum, and liutupiie. The second of which is 
 certainly meant for tiiis city of Canterbury. Anto- 
 nhius, in his Itinerary of Britain, writes it Dorover- 
 luun. In Peutinger's TubU", written about tlie time 
 of Theodosius the Great, it is called by the same 
 name, and the uiark of a considerable town, as Can- 
 terbury was in those times, is set to this station ; and 
 this is all the geographical notice taken of this city 
 in the ti-ne of tlie iloinans. 
 
 -Note 3, Stanza xii. 
 " And Duroccrmuii sunk biiv.alh his murderous hand." 
 
 " Being situated at no great distance from the two 
 islands of Thanet and Sheppy, the usual places of
 
 CO 
 
 landing, as well as the usual winter abode of those 
 merciless pirates, the Danes, this city twice felt the 
 misfortune of so near a neighbourhood to them ; for 
 in the year 851, they landed with a great army, from 
 350 ships, and wasted it, Ceolnoth being the Arcli- 
 bishop ; and again in 1009, in the time of autumn, 
 another army of the Danes, innumerable, came to 
 Sandwich, and thence to Canterbury, which they 
 had taken inmicdiately, had not the citizens, by 
 giving a large snm in lime, obtained their peace, 
 which having done, these plunderers immediately 
 departed, and sailed for the Isle of Wight; but in the 
 year 1011, when these bandilti, having over-run and 
 wasted all Kent, again laid siege to it, and having en- 
 tirely surrounded it, provisions in it falling short, and 
 great part of the city being bmnt, they took it by 
 assault on the 20th day, when, rushing impetuously 
 over every part of it, they set ihe to the remainder 
 of the town, and the church and priory of the Iloly 
 'i'rinitv, havms: first ijlr.ndered them of all tlieir
 
 61 
 
 valuables, (the abbey of St. Augustine being alone 
 left standing) aud then massacred the inhabitants, 
 without distinction of age, religion, or sex ; for 
 having decLniuted them, out of the number of near 
 8000, there remained alive only four monks, and 
 scarce eight hundred of the inferior class of people. 
 The full story of this calamity is given by Osborn 
 in the life of Archbishop Odo, an abridgment of 
 which is; here presented to the reader. 
 
 " A. D. 1011, in September, the Danes, with a 
 numerous and well-armed fleet, came to Sandwich, 
 where, landing, they made their way directly to 
 Canterbury, which they immediately compassed and 
 besieged. Having carried on the siege with all 
 vigour, using every warlike means either to battle or 
 to scale the walls, or by throwing fire to set the city 
 in flames ; on the GOlh day of September the latter 
 means took etTect, for a fnc being kindled in some 
 houses that were nearest to the walls, it increased so 
 much by a strong south m ind, that the whole city 
 
 D
 
 ()-i 
 
 was presently in a tianie. The citizen.^ were bv 
 this brought into a miserable strait ; for betoio 
 them they saw the enemy leady to enttr swoid in 
 hand, behind them were the Hanics, nut only (jcvdiu- 
 ing their houses, but which was lar nioie du-adlui, 
 ready to devour their wives and chilineii toueilifr. 
 Hence, private aftectson, and a ter.elcrness ot" com- 
 passion, prevailed so far over lli^in, liiat they mg- 
 lectcd the public safety, thev i'ursook llie dtAnce of 
 the walls, and ran to their own liouses. to >nal( h 
 their wives and children from the Ih^imc-, "'.\ho, in 
 the same hour, were to be expo.ad to t!:e hi; rcih s> 
 fury of the enemy. For whilst they were busied 
 among the ashes of their houses, a breach was matie, 
 and the enemy entered the city; then a tciiihlc 
 noise, of shrieks and cries on one side, and ol trum- 
 pets and shouts on the othei', was lilted up to itje 
 heavens, so as the very foundati'.jns of the city steiiiLd 
 to be shaken by it. And now who can concei\e ;n 
 his thoughts the sad confusion which overs])read tin-
 
 63 
 
 whole city ! Some fell by the swonl, some perished 
 ill the liaines, some were thrown headlong over the 
 walls, and others, in a manner more shameful than 
 is lit to be expressed, were put to death. The 
 matrons were dragged by the hair of the head 
 through the streets, in order to extort from them the 
 discoverv of hidden treasures which they never had, 
 and then were cast into the iiames. The infants 
 were torn from their mother's breasts, some of them 
 were carried about, stuck on the tops of spears; 
 others were laid under the wheels of carriages, and 
 crushed to pieces. The venerable Archbishop 
 Alphage, who all this while had staid in the church, 
 in the midst of his weeping monks, could no longer 
 endure to hear of the calamities of the miserable 
 people, but rushing out of a sudden from the church, 
 ran iimong the heaps of the slain bodies, into the 
 midst of the enemies, crying aloud. Spare, O spare, 
 ivc. when they seized upon, bound him, stopped his 
 n 'Z
 
 G4 
 
 mouth that he might not speak, then beat and 
 abused him. They then forced him back into the 
 church, and there made him stand and see a most 
 dismal tragedy ; for, before his eyes many were 
 put to several kinils of cruel death, that he miglit 
 behold it in the most friglitful shapes, before he 
 came to die himself. Tiie church was ritled and set 
 on iire, insonuich, that the meked lead ran down 
 upon tlie heads of the monks ; they came out, and 
 were presently put to the sword. In this slaughtei', 
 the monks and people, men, women, and children, 
 were decimated, i. e. nine were slain, and one saved 
 alive, and the archbishop himself was carried away, 
 and afterwards put to death by them." 
 
 Battelys Somner. p. 84. From Whartoiis 
 Ang. Sacr. vol. 2, p. 13:3.
 
 65 
 
 N'ote 4, Stanza xm. 
 > 
 
 " Though noiu her offspring, deaf to Freedoms call," SfC. 
 
 At the time this was written (in the spring of 
 1818) the city had become ahiiost proverbial for 
 corruption and servility ; . having elected for its re- 
 presentative, by a majority greater than was ever 
 before known, a creature of the ministers', who, of 
 coarse, voted fur the Suspension of the Habeas 
 Corpus Act, the continuation of the Property Tax, 
 the Alien Bill, and every other measure which dis- 
 graced the last parliament. 
 
 Perhaps it is but justice to add, that the citizens 
 have since, in some degree, reasserted their ancient 
 chum to independence*. 
 
 "^ The iVieuds ubo ave most intimately acHjuainted ANith 
 tlie haluts anil o]uu;i)ns of" the Author, can Ijcst testify the 
 liitie ciirnpaidtive interest be takes in the mere politics of
 
 NoU" 5, Stanza xn. 
 " A froiiiwig fortress,'' cSt. 
 
 The general opinion respecting tiie castle of Can- 
 terbury is, that it Nvas one of the many erected by 
 William the Conqueror, for his better subduing and 
 bridling those parts of the kingdop.i that he most 
 suspected, to several of which it has a very similar 
 appearance. It had a bayle or yard adjoining to it 
 of upwards of four acres, surrounded by a wall and 
 ditch. The passage from the city to it was anciently 
 by a bridge, and beyond that a gate, built at the en- 
 
 the 'lay, but iui(l«Mstanilin^' lliat nuich of the scunilinis 
 trasli s(» plentifully circulated (iuriiin" tlie late election, liaN 
 been attributed to liiui, lie takes this o[ijiorlunity of (jliseiv - 
 ing, (to such as it may concern) that a "?5onnet. addressed 
 to the Peoide of England," " The Soul;- of the Hluc 
 Cockade," and an K|ugrani on one Gibbs, are the only 
 pieces which owe their origin to his pen. (ISovembtr.)
 
 07 
 
 irance of the castle yard, and on the opposite side, 
 towards the country, was the ancient gate of the city, 
 called \\ orth-gate, the remains of wliich were nearly 
 entire till a few years since. The castle is eighty- 
 eight feet in length, and eighty feet in breadth, and 
 the two fronts, which are of the greatest extent, have 
 each four buttresses, the others have only three ; the 
 Malls are, in general, about eleven feet thick. 
 
 Note 6, Stanza xiv. 
 " find, like him, their thrones a hell" 
 
 lu allusion to the continual troubles during the 
 leion of this tyrannical usurper. 
 
 Vote 7, Stanza xv. 
 " Thisc haitlnntnts," Sfc. 
 This line ruin has lately been shamefully niuti-
 
 (J8 
 
 latecl, for no other purpose than that of se/li//z the 
 muleriah! 1 ! 
 
 Under the pretence of improvenierit, nioi-t of the 
 remains of anliauity in this city have shared the same 
 fate. 
 
 Note 8, Stanza xvii. 
 
 " There is a spot," Sfc. 
 
 The meadow adjoining llie Dane John Field, is 
 usually called the Martyr-field, from seve; al persons 
 having been burnt in a large lioHow or {)it, at the 
 south end of it, in Queen ^Mary's reign, on account 
 of their religion. See Fox's iNlartyrs, vol. 3. 
 
 Sr,t'i 9, Siunza xxii. 
 
 The churcli of Si. ]SIartiii is sapj>'\-:.' to have 
 been bulk b\ the chri':';an3 of V.iv ilonian .-uiciicrv.
 
 69 
 
 in the second century, at the time of Lucius, the 
 first christian king, who lived in 182, so that it is 
 looked on as one of the oldest structures of that 
 kind in the kingdom ; and indeed nothing appears 
 in die materials or architecture to contradict this 
 opinion : for its walls seem to have been built 
 (those of the chancel at least) entirely of Roman 
 brick, and the structure is the most simple that is 
 possible. Hither did St. Augustine and his fellow- 
 labourers resort to their devotions at their lirst 
 arrival in this island, in ,097, by the license of King 
 Ethelbcrt, who sliortly after became a convert to the 
 doctrines of Christianity, and was here baptized. 
 
 D 5
 
 70 
 
 "N'ote 10, Stanza, xxvi. 
 
 " Seem gazing with a grave hut calm reproof, 
 " On shrines of later days' 
 
 " For Clirist made ntr no C'atliedrals." 
 
 Chaucer, I'lou;j,]imari.'i Tnk, pa)/ 1. 
 
 St. Martin's church commands a distinct vuw oi' 
 llie cathedral, and of the ruins of St. Aui^usliue's 
 monastery. 
 
 Note 11, Stanza xxvn. 
 " .S"^. Augustine's mo?iastcr-/.'' 
 
 '' The front of this stately abbey Nvas towards the 
 west, extendino; '250 feet, having, at each extremity 
 of it, two handsome gateways, the northern one 
 bemg the most superb, uas the chief approach to 
 the monastery, which was situated mostly at the 
 2
 
 71 
 
 back part of it ; the other was the gate through 
 ■.\hic:h the entrance was to the cemetery. After the 
 dissolution of this abbey, the great buihlings of it, 
 such as the dormitory, kitchen, halls, and the like, 
 to which may be added the church, being covered 
 \\ii[) lead, Mere, for the lucre of it, at different times 
 stripped of it, after which the walls of them were 
 either demolished for the sake of the sale of the 
 materials, or being left uncovered, perished by the 
 inclemency of the weatlu-r, and the mouldering 
 liand of time ; so that the very ruins of the far 
 greatest part of this once extensive monastery 
 scarcely appear, and the very foundations of them 
 are with difficulty traced at this time. The most 
 striking object is Ethelbert's tower, whose beauty 
 though much defaced, especially by sacrilegious 
 hands of late years, will witness to succeeding ages 
 the magnificence of the whole, when all stood com- 
 plete m their glory together." Hasted,
 
 Note 12, Stanza xx. nr. 
 " is it not just,"' cVr. 
 
 I must be allowed to anticipate ti remark, which 
 will probably suggest itself here to the mintis of 
 some persons: — '' They have Tyloses am! the Pro- 
 phets, if they hear iheni not, neither v,iU i'lcy i.e 
 persuaded, though one rose from the dead." 
 
 Note 13, ^'tan'/a xxxin. 
 " Fire, flood;' S^'c. 
 
 " Notwithstanding the many inslanccs of loyal 
 muniticencc, aided by tlie fostering {::iud of paj):d 
 favor and indulgence, this abbey ni^t wdl: d. lii- 
 ments and misfortunes, which at timts ob.-'.'urL;! li-.e 
 sunsliine of its prosperity, till it at last \va-- over- 
 taken by tliat impetuous storm whicli wholly ex- 
 tingui.shed the glory and majesty of this once fa- 
 mous and opul: nt abl;ey.
 
 7:5 
 
 '^ To pass by the loss at that long-enjoyed right 
 and interest of the burials of Kings and Arclibi~;liops 
 which has been already taken notice of, in order to 
 mention a nnich more dreadful calamity which 
 befel this abbey. I mean the frequent and grievous 
 infestation of this place by the Danes, and, however 
 their chroniclers, for th.iir abbey's greater g'.oiy, 
 sometimes ascribe tiieir safety and deliverance froni 
 those invaders to miraculous preseivation, yet 
 doubtless it either sunered from their violence, or at 
 least purchased its peace at a dear rate, and with 
 costiv redempticns. 
 
 " In llic vear 11G3 tlie dreadful calamity of 
 lire nearly destrincd tliis monastery : it h.appened on 
 August 29; when the greatest part of it was burnt. 
 In this tire many of their ancient codiois and charters 
 perished, and the church itself being destroyed, the 
 shrines of St. Augustine and many other samts were 
 miserably spoiled. 
 
 " Another misfortune happened to this monas- 
 tery, though of quite a contrary nature to that last
 
 74 
 
 iDeutioned, for as that was by lire, so this liappened 
 l>y water, though more than one liundred years 
 between the one and the other. For in the year 
 IS?!, on the day of the translation of St. Augustiue, 
 there came on a storm and flood, which proved a 
 general calamity to the city ; it thundered and light- 
 ened that whole day, and the night of it, in which 
 time dark clouds were continually gathered togethei', 
 great torrents of rain flowed do\\n for many days, 
 flocks and herds were driven by it out of the fu^lds, 
 and trees were overthrown and torn up by the roots ; 
 in this inundation of rain, the City of Canteibury 
 was almost drowned, and the llood occasioned by it 
 was so high, both in the court of the monastery and 
 the church, that they had been quite overwiieltned 
 with the water," continues the chronicler, " had not 
 the virtue of the saints who rested there, withstood 
 the waters." 
 
 IJadid , from Thorn, col. 181'}. 
 
 Battcljj's Sonmcr.jj, 30
 
 70 
 
 " Little had all the former casualties been to the 
 ruiu of this goodly abbey, had not the sudden and 
 tempestuous storm, which bore down before it all 
 the religious structures of this kind throughout the 
 kingdom, falling upon it, brought this with the rest, to 
 irrecoverable ruin ; to perpetuate which, the abbot, 
 ^\ilh tlinty of his monks, among whom were the seve- 
 ral officers of the monastery, signed the surrendiy of it 
 into the king's hands, on the last day but 0!ie of July, 
 anno SO, King Henry VIll."*" Hasted. 
 
 ISote, 14, Stanza xxxni. 
 
 — - " bid when her favorite son 
 
 " Her ckerlslud hope, the ehampion oj her reigji." 
 
 M hen Henry received the title of " Defender of 
 the Faith" for las writings in favor of the Church 
 
 ^ There is a tradition tliat the monks opposed tlie king's 
 (■orauussioners who came to take the siuTenih-y of the abbey,
 
 7(> 
 
 of Rome, it was little imagined he was soon to be- 
 come one of the most terrible enemies she ever had 
 to contend with. 
 
 Note 1-3, Stanza xxw. 
 
 " His fair bride, 
 
 " The guiltless Anna, and the statesmen sage, 
 " The upright J [ore and blameless Cronucell.'' 
 
 Anna Boleyn, Sir Thomas jNlore, Thomas Lord 
 Cromwell, and the Earl of Surrey, a few of the 
 many victiins to the luibridled passions of lienry 
 die Eighth, perhaps the most execrable monster 
 liiat ever disgraced the thione of En^'and. '' It 
 
 and shut tlitir L^Titrs aij'ainst iht-ni. till, torrifitil I'v Xwv 
 pieces o!' (ivdiuuicc ji'iaced on a neiL;!ibouring" liiil, tliey 
 liasttiied to deli-, er up ilie ke\s to tliem.
 
 was 11 crime to put his pampered despotibin lo an 
 luicaaiiiess : he was mad with absolute power, — 
 with tlie abihty of indulging liis selt'-wdl; and it is 
 not to be doubted that the excess of power Uterally 
 tends to resider princes insane, that is to sav, it 
 overdoes itself, and puts them at the mercy of all 
 their impulses. Nero himself begun uell; — it was 
 only the excess of indulgence that rendered his 
 wants dreadful, and his self-will too much for human 
 nature." 
 
 The character of the Earl of Surrey is so pecu- 
 liarly graceful and interesting, that the reader will 
 probably not be displeased at a short account of 
 him, extracted i-rinci>)al!y from the Edinburgh Re- 
 view, of i)r. Noll's edition of his works. 
 
 *' iteury ilowaul, Ear! of Surrey, son of Thoiras, 
 third Duke of Norfolk, was born about t!ic year 
 \o\i). lie passed his boyhood at his father's 
 liou-c in the country, and there also received his 
 edi'caiion, w':ic!i is supposed to l;a\e bocu finished
 
 78 
 
 at fifteen. It is manifest from his poems, lliat he 
 passed some portion of ins youth at W uidsor, in 
 company with tiie ]3uke o! llichnKnul, a natural son 
 of the king, but it is not knowii when, or how long; 
 neither is it understood to what university he w tnt^ 
 or whether indeed he went to any at a!!. In Feb- 
 rnary, 1^32, when about sixteen, he was contracted, 
 perhaps married to Lady Frances V'ere, daughter of 
 the Earl of Oxford, though, from the customs of 
 tliose times, it does not follow that he immediately 
 lived w illi his wife. Towards the close of the same 
 year he attended, amongst other nobihty, at the 
 celebrated interview between Henry and Irancis, 
 and thus seems to have made his first appearance m 
 life at the field of the Cloth of Ciohl, — a striking 
 debut for a young poet and citvaiier. Jrroni tins 
 time forward he seems always lo have Inen among 
 the first pertoruRrs on occasioas of royal ceremony. 
 Jn 1,340 he shone with great brilliancy at the jousts 
 and tournaments that \ve)e uiven in honor of the
 
 79 
 
 King .s marriage yvilh Anne of Cleves, on which 
 occasion Uie Royal Bluebeard was so pleased, that 
 lie dismissed the combatants with considerable pre- 
 sents. -At the close of the same year the Earl ap- 
 pears to have iirst entered upon active public life, 
 being sent as commissioner to the English posses- 
 sions on the coast of France, to see that they were 
 safe against some threatened attacks. With the 
 exception of his being made a Knight of the Garter, 
 a greater honor in those days than now, we hear 
 nothing further of him till 1542, when he fell into 
 temporary disgrace, and was committed successively 
 to the Fleet and to \\ indsor Castle, in consequence 
 of a violent jjrivate quarrel with one John-a-Leigh, 
 who is supposed to have been a rival of the Earl's 
 in love. The King and Court, though Suirey was 
 punished, do not seem to have cared long about the 
 offence, for it was in the same year that he held a 
 principal command under his father, in tl-e cam- 
 paign against Scotland. On his return Uoin this
 
 so 
 
 expedition, lie again got into trouble and imprison- 
 ment, "^riiere were two charges again-t iiiin ; one 
 for having tateu flesh in I^ent, notwithstanding the 
 royal prohibition. From tliis lie cleared liinrself 
 by producing a licence, though he acknowledged 
 he had committed the meals rather too openly. 
 The other was of a more singular nature, and pro- 
 duced from him as extraordinary a defeiice. He 
 was accused of walking about the city at midnight, 
 in a disorderly manner, breaking windows with a 
 cross-bow. The reader will be prepared to regard 
 this as a frolic of youth : but, according to Surrey's 
 defence before the council, it Mas a misdemeanour 
 (>f a very staid and contemplative description. He 
 allowed it might be ni'"^ri)nstrued, but ' it grieved 
 ^ me, my lords/ said lie, ' to >ec the lieeiiti^-i! - iT'a'i- 
 ' iieis of tlu ci;i"cn>; of London. They re-indj;td 
 ^ tlie mar.iK'; 'f Papal I'ome in Li ■■ coiiiiphst 
 ' state, and not that of a chri^iiiin ci)ni:iiUu;on. 
 ' W li^ 1. to -ulier these mihappy men to })i'ijsii wah-
 
 SI 
 
 ' out warning ? That, couinion charity forbade. 
 ' The remonstrances of their spiritual pastors had 
 ' been urged 1 knew in vain, I therefore went at 
 ' midnight through the streets, and shot from my 
 * cross-bow at their windows, that the stones, pass- 
 ' ino- noiseless througli the air, and breakiiio- in 
 ' suddenly n|)on their guilty society, might remind 
 ' them of the suddenness of that punishment which 
 ' the scrij)tiu-e tells us Divine justice will niflict on 
 ' impenitent sinners, and so lead them to a refor- 
 ' mation of manners.' 
 
 " But his imprisoiunent does not appear to have 
 been of long duration, for, in the summer of the 
 same year, he again went to France, and commenced 
 that active part in die campaigns there, m which the 
 short remainder of his life was chieliy occu[)ied. 
 He was lirst a volunteer at the siege of Landrecy, — 
 then marshal of the army at that of Montreuil, 
 wliere he was wounded, and from uhich place he 
 conuueted the retreat, and was subsequently ap-
 
 82 
 
 pointed commander at Gulsncs, and linaliv at J>ou- 
 logne. His fortune, on these occasions, was vai'ious. 
 He lost a battle, with inferior numbeis, against tlic 
 INIarcscliai de Bitz, but the retreat tVoni Moiitreuil 
 is said to liave been conducted in a manner that did 
 creiht to his soldiership; and his courage and ardor 
 were always unquestionable. Tht- December fol- 
 lowing he was accused on a frivolous charge of 
 high treason, for fjuarleiing a part of the royal arms 
 widi diose c)f die Hou ards. He proved on his 
 tiial that he had hot oniv ihe licence of the heralds 
 for doing so, but that Ins ancestors had done it for 
 a long time, and that he had constantly borne the 
 quartering u; the pre.-ence of ilenry himst If. I'hese 
 jjioofs, howevei-, were oi no avail before roval slave -^ 
 and judges, wiio were personal enemies. He was 
 condemned, to the block, and executeri (ju the 
 Gist January, 1.547; about the .jlst }ear of his a^e. 
 
 " Thus was cut off, gallant and guiltless, the most 
 accon;])i!shed man of his age: he was snmewh'at
 
 8:} 
 
 small of stature, but excellently made, strong and 
 active, and able to eiuhue labor and fatigue. His 
 eye was dark and piercing, his counteiuuice com- 
 posed and thoughtful, which ga\c him the appear- 
 ance of being somewhat older than he was. He 
 was a fast and enthusi.i:-,nc friend; a knight, after 
 the model of the knights of old, amorous, undaunted, 
 and nicorrnptible. lie songlit reputalisjii in war, 
 and in ioclry, loved the tine arts, and liouored and 
 foatered genius w hercver he found it. 
 
 " One thing more ma\ be added to the nu/lan- 
 eho'y certainties of Surrey's hfe — luat he was not 
 liap{)y. If his temj)er was too warm and high, he 
 •aj'.ptars to have surrered enough for it. A vein of 
 melancholy runs through almost all his pieces, and 
 though he died young, we iind his proud_ heart 
 melling in an unhappy passion, and at last bleeding 
 away in Penitential Psalms. But adversitv evi- 
 dently assisted his poetic })owers, as it has done 
 those of other poets. It took iiim out of the com-
 
 84 
 
 111011 places and self-satisfaction of ordinary success ; 
 subjected his proud spirit to a variety of tender 
 impressions, and, in short, made him think and feel 
 to tenfoli! purpose." 
 
 Mote IG, Stanza xxwiii. 
 
 "yon aspiring pile 
 
 " Which o'tv its ruined rival .sctins io smile 
 
 " Between tliis monastery (St. iVngustine'sj and 
 that of Christ church, tliere was ever an apparent 
 jealousy and emulation ; and if the [profound \ ene- 
 ration which all men bore to St. 'J homas t!;e 3. martyr 
 had not surmounted all opposition, they Vv(;uid at 
 least have maintained then' pretences to an equality, 
 if not to a superiority of plory and dig"a.':y against 
 their rival monastcrv."' Hasted.
 
 85 
 
 Note 17, Stanza xt. 
 
 " Though now no pilgrim bends o'er Becket's tomb,'' 
 Sfc. 
 
 Becket's shrine is no longer reverenced, and that 
 of St. Dunstan can scarcely be pointed out. King 
 Stephen appropriated some land for the mainten- 
 ance of a perpetual lamp at the tomb of St. Auselm 
 — it has ceased to burn. 
 
 Note 18, Stanza xu. 
 
 " The sable warrior" "few bequeath 
 
 "■ A fame like his," S^c. 
 
 All historians unite in celebrating the amiable 
 qualities of the Black Prince, he was indeed ^ a 
 meek man and a brave ;' ' a knight without fear or 
 reproach.'
 
 86 
 
 Note 19, Stanza xur. 
 
 or did the wave 
 
 " Bear them to whiten in some coral cave, 
 " The sea-nymphii sport.' 
 
 One of llie persons who Mas in tlie boat whicli 
 brought Kino- Henrv the Fourth's bodv bv uater 
 towards Canterbury, afthined on his oath, that 
 whilst they were on the passage a ;j.reat storm arose, 
 which so endangered the lives of tiie persons in the 
 vessel, as well as of the nobility mIucIi followed in 
 eight smaller ones, that in despair, they agreed to 
 cast the corpse into the sea; Mhich having done, 
 there was immediately a calm ; after \\ n.ich ihev 
 carried on the coflin covered over with cloth of 
 gold, with all manner of solenmity, to Canterbury, 
 and there honorably buried it.
 
 87 
 
 Note 20, Stunza XLiii. 
 
 " thy tomb should rather claim, 
 
 " Oh Casauhon ! one memorizing verse, 
 
 " Fit tribute to thy own, thy father s fame." 
 
 The learned and famous Meric Casaubon, son of 
 Isaac Casaubon, lies buried in the lower south cross 
 of this Cathedral, where there is a marble monu- 
 ment erected to his memory, with the following in- 
 sciiption. 
 
 8TA ET VENERARE VIATOR, 
 
 IliC 3I()RTALES IMM0RTAL18 SPIRITUS 
 EXUVE\8 DEPOSUIT, 
 
 MKIUCUS Cx\SxVUBONUS. 
 
 ]MaGM NOMINIS, J 
 
 V PAR n.£RES. 
 
 Eruditiqli: Generis,' 
 
 PATRE-AI ISAACUM CAS AUBOXOI, 
 AVUM HENRICUM STEPIIANUM, 
 ;PROAVU>I ROBERTUM STEPHANUM, 
 
 E 2
 
 88 
 
 Heu quos Vivos I Qiv.xi lifcrariim iiiiuina I Qiia> .K\j 
 siii decora! Ipse enulitior.erii ])er tot enulita cajiita tra- 
 ductani cxccpit, excoliiit, V acl pictatis (qua' in ejus pec- 
 tore Regina sedebat) onianicutum & iiu'icnicntiiui 
 feliciter consccravit : renipublicamque literariani imiltiplici 
 rerum &»linguarum su]iellectile locupletavit. \ ir, iiicertum 
 doctiov an melior, in paiqteres libcralitate, in aniieos utiii- 
 tate, in omnes bunianitate, in acutissimis longissiun morbi 
 tormentis Christiana patientia insignissimiis. 
 
 Gandeat priinavia \rxc ecclcsia canoi'.icis Casaubonis 
 amI)obus : qui cinnlein in eruditione, tpio ipsa in cede 
 siaruni serie, ordineni obtinnerur.t. Obiit nosier [tridic 
 idus Julii, anno 1671, fetatis sute 7o, oanonicalus sui 4(5. 
 
 >sote 21, f5tanza xlv. 
 
 " The7-c each young despot," Sfc. 
 
 To the opinions of myself and my friends, on llie 
 tendency of the discipline of Pnbhc Schools to 
 degrade the feelings, and corrupt the heart of youth, 
 I am proud to add that of an eminent periodical
 
 89 
 
 vviitcr, and poet of deserved reputation, who lias 
 lately favored the publie nilh several essays on this 
 subject. See Examiners, No. 54'2 — 3 — 4 — and 5. 
 I do not mean to say that the system, as there 
 animadverted on, Mas carried to its fullest extent 
 at the respected seminary at which I myself received 
 the rudiments of classic learning ; but there, as at 
 ail similar institutions, the young, the weak, the 
 sUidious, and the welt-disposed, were invariably the 
 objects of persecution by the elder, the stronger, 
 the idle, the ignorant, and tlie vicious. Many a 
 f)romising spirit have I invself seen, in order to 
 avoid the torrent of derision and abuse, assinulating 
 itself vvilh llie mjoriiy, and becoming quickly as 
 depraved as its tormentors ; and even of those who 
 liad the courage to resist tlie infection of this falsely- 
 denominated " inanliness," many have imbibed such 
 foeiiiigs of bitterness and disgust towards the species, 
 from lluar early initiation into a " knoziiedge of the 
 world/' as it is called, as will probabi} never here- 
 after be entirely eradicated.
 
 90 
 
 Note 22, Stanza XLvir. 
 
 " But noiv upon thy Jloivcr-fringed hanks J stand, 
 " Fair Stour /" 
 
 The river Stour, in the words of Leland, " break- 
 elh a lytle above Cantorbiri^into ii amies, of the 
 whicli one cummeth be Westgate, and the oilier 
 through the cyte under S. Thomas' hosj)ita]e, & 
 iiieteth agayne yn one botom beneth tlie evte." . . , , 
 It'uicrarif, vol. 7. 
 
 ]u the early time of the Saxons it was frequently 
 bolii ealkd and written Jiistura, ililslur, Sec. no 
 doubt from the Latin a.'»tuarium, an itstuary, or 
 arm of the sea, having, as is conjectured, llowed up 
 where the course of this river is, over the level oi'. 
 which part of Canteibury now stands, and as highi 
 up as Ashford beyond it. 
 
 It was afterwards written by the Saxons, Stur^, 
 as appears by one of th(^ir codicils, so early as tlu^ 
 year GBG, and by another in 814, it is written by it:i 
 present name of Stour, Hasted.
 
 tiEi^e 
 
 mtxvm of m^tmton,
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 1 HE fate of the unfortunate Chatter- 
 ton, " the marvellous Boy, who pcrisli- 
 ed in his pride/' is, of course, familiar 
 to every reader. He is supposed, at the 
 opening of the following Poem, to be 
 contemplating the Poison with which he 
 effected his fatal purpose. 
 
 E O
 
 CURSE OF CHATTErxTON, 
 
 One struggle more, and then I shall be calm; 
 This friendly phial holds the welcome draught 
 Which to my feverish breast shall seem a balm 
 Sweeter than e'er the lips of Luxury quaffed. 
 Yet, let me pause; and ere a self-sought grave 
 Over this worn and wearied frame shall close, 
 Let me breathe out one dying curse on those 
 AVho best deserve it. Nay, I do not rave, 
 But in this awful hour, I can compose
 
 96 
 
 Mv thoughts to meet this fate, rather than crave 
 From their vile bounty, what perhaps might save 
 This beins vet awhile — for ■\^hat." — to be their slave 
 
 Shall I live thus .' No ! while Earth's cold 
 embrace 
 Offers to woes like mine a resting place, 
 There will I tlee ; beneath that quiet sod 
 To sleep for ever, or to meet a God 
 Who will not judge like his proud creature, JNlan. 
 Who, as he passes by the humble tomb 
 His pity scarce accorded, will presume 
 The faults of lum who lies beneath to scan. 
 Invoking on this deed the liery doom 
 Which tits his fierce belief's mfeinal plan. 
 
 Stand oH, thou Hypocrite! thy threats are vain: 
 Beyond the grave, what should the guiltless fear '
 
 97 
 
 Is it a crime to quit this world of pain, 
 And seek from IJeaveii what was denied us here : 
 No orphan hearts will break upon my bier: 
 No friends to whom my living was a life, 
 For mc will pour the agonizing tear. — 
 What binds me to these scenes of sordid strife? 
 To till/ base spirit they are justly dear — 
 Stand off! miiie cansiot rest while such is near ! 
 Cursed be your creed, accursed be all your tribe, 
 Ye self-sufficient Fools ! who would'prcsciibe 
 Bounds to your Maker's mercy, and exclude 
 All but your fellow fanatics. I've viewed 
 Your holy cheats too long — your impious zeal 
 To make this earth a Hell ! Go, wretc'ies, bind 
 That broken heart ; into those wounds distil 
 The balm of kindness ; though ye cannot jbc/ 
 For human woes, some anguish ye might heal. 
 Preach peace and charity among mankind ! 
 Thus shall ye best work out your Master's will, 
 Thus, thus your fancied ^lission best fulfil.
 
 98 
 
 There is a race as callous and more cold, — 
 ^Mammon's true soiis,^ — -whose only God is Gold; 
 Creatures of baser clay ! upon w hose breast 
 But one presiding passion is expressed, 
 Which reigns supreme, and shuts out all th« 
 
 rest ! 
 Assassins of the soul ! Slaves, who uould bind 
 That only spark of Heaven, — the ethereal iiiind, 
 Down to the Avorld's worst duties; till it grows 
 Contracted as the boundaries that close 
 Upon the trash they treasure! Things that smile, 
 And cringe, and fawn, and flatter, and beguile. 
 Cursed be these sycophants ! accursed the arts 
 AVith which they wind into unwary hearts. 
 Till they may suck at will the vital blood, 
 Legally fattening on their ill-got food ! 
 Honor, — that high-wrought feeling, which would 
 
 droop 
 Beneath the blast of Death, rather than stoop 
 To aught of wrong, — was never understood 
 1
 
 .9J) 
 
 l>v such as these! one virtue at the most, 
 One only virtue, these true vvorkllings boast, — 
 Hard, selfish Iloitestj/, which better suits, 
 Than bare-faced Knavery, with their base pursuits. 
 Speak 1 as one unknowing: ck) I draw 
 Forms Mhich no eye but Fancy's ever saw? 
 No! such liave hemmed me round, and I have dwelt 
 Under their hish too long, too long have felt 
 Whate'er they could inflict. Could curses blight, 
 There are some know, perhaps, where this would 
 liuht. 
 
 Thou, who canst yet command all hearts but 
 
 mine. 
 Woman ! for whom Mas waked mine earliest song ; 
 Woman! my soul's first idol, at whose shrine 
 My vows were breadied so lavishly and long ; 
 Whilst round thee, hope — -thought — feeling — all 
 
 would twine,
 
 100 
 
 Till my whole being was absorbed in thine, 
 Lost in a irance I madly deemed divine ! 
 Cold as it is, I feel my bosom still 
 That tender hour recalling, wildly thrill ; 
 Life seemed so smiling then, and Love so sweet. 
 That when proud Reason tore tlje veil away. 
 Which Folly cast around, and the deceit 
 IMellcd like mist before Truth's piercing ray, 
 ISly spirit still clung fondly to the cheat, 
 And vainly bade the fleeting vision slay. 
 That parting cost some pangs — but they are past, 
 !My breast might bleed awhile — but now 'lis o'er; 
 \\ Oman! this strain, the truest and the last, 
 To thee is given ; my voice is raised no more 
 To '^oothe, deliule, to flatter, or adore. 
 No ! 1 have vie\\ed your worthlessness, have si en 
 \ our false souls changing with eacii changiiu 
 
 scene, 
 Have marked ye as ye wove your web of wiles 
 \\ jth tears ami treachery, and snares and smiles :
 
 101 
 
 Seen, when at last those siren arts entice 
 
 Some nobler heart to woe — perhaps to vice, 
 
 How ye can watch your victim as he sinks ; 
 
 Uncoiling, coolly, all the blissful links 
 
 Which bound, in seeming, your own heart to his. 
 
 Then whelm him dee()er in the black abyss 
 
 Of his despair ; and turniiig from the shore, 
 
 Pass on your tlowery padr — calm, smiling, as before! 
 
 This, this is Woman ! this that sex accursed ; 
 Nature's last work, her weakest, and her worst ! 
 
 Thus o'er his mind as wrongs and sufferings 
 rushed, 
 From his torn breast these frantic accents gushed; 
 Till his exhausted spirit, wild but weak, 
 Simk to that deadlier gloom which does not speak.
 
 10-2 
 
 He gazed around: — there was no loved one there 
 To soothe the dying pangs of his despair j 
 There was no friendly hand whose care might close 
 His stiffening eyelids in their la^t repose. 
 Shuddering, he smiled ; some thoughts of doubt and 
 
 dread 
 Came o'er like shadows — but as quickly fled: 
 He looked to Heaven — all there was calm, though 
 
 dim ; 
 He turned to Earth — it was no place for him ; 
 He felt his hour was come : — then deeply drank 
 Of that dread cup, and on the cold ground sank.
 
 POEMS.
 
 POEMS 
 
 I. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF A NIGHT, 
 
 HASTILY RENDKUED INTO RHYME. 
 
 Inscribed L'. 
 
 1. 
 
 31 Y languid limbs and aching head, 
 A\ ilh uuisiug wearied and oul-worn, 
 
 Last night upon the couch I hiid, 
 
 \\ aiting the wished approach of morn.
 
 106 
 
 Such thoughts of sorrow, pain, and fear, 
 Passed tlirough my wild brain ere I slept, 
 
 That if mine eyes had held a tear, 
 It had in that dark hour been wept. 
 
 3. 
 
 At last a ^velcome slumber stole, 
 And lulled me in a brief repose ; 
 
 AViien soon before my restless soul 
 Visions of other worlds arose. 
 
 4. 
 
 I dreamed that as this feeble frame 
 Was sinking in its last dicay, 
 
 With silverv wing a Seraph came, 
 And smiling beckoned me awav.
 
 107 
 
 5. 
 
 I rose with one ecstatic bound, 
 And floating through an airy sea, 
 
 Sailed on, and onwards, till I found 
 ]Myself in Paradise with thee ! 
 
 6. 
 
 Oh if 'tis true that hours of Love 
 
 j^rc the best hours that mortals know, 
 
 AVhat wonder if we frame above, 
 Blisses like those we felt be/ozc ! 
 
 Methought that in the founts of God, 
 Our earthly stains were washed away. 
 
 And now we both in briglitness trod 
 Throuoh mansions of celestial day.
 
 108 
 
 Now o'er tlie blisslul scene \\c strayed, 
 13} loving arms together bound ; 
 
 And then beneath some fragrant shade 
 Reposed upon the tiowery ground. 
 
 9. 
 
 Ah ! then my trembhng hand would steal 
 A\ here it has stolen so oft before, 
 
 And I, Miihout a crime, could feel 
 
 ^^ hat I shall feel m itli thee no more ! 
 
 10. 
 
 And tiiou Avouldst print along my lip 
 
 Those deep, those dear, impassioned kisse.- 
 
 ^\ hich e'en the holiest saint might sip 
 Nor envv Heaven its other blisses.
 
 109 
 
 11. 
 
 Then, whilst upon my raptured breast, 
 With smiling eyes you sweetly lay, 
 
 My hand in your's you fondly pressed, 
 And seemed in tenderest tone to say : — 
 
 12. 
 
 '' Forgive me, Love, alas ! I see 
 
 (For all things must in Heaven be seen) 
 
 That I \vas not on earth to thee, 
 
 All that, perhaps, I might have been ; 
 
 13. 
 
 " Could 1 have read thy bosom then, 
 I might have spared my cruel chiding, 
 
 And known I ne'er could meet again 
 A breast so fond, and so confiding. 
 
 F
 
 ito 
 
 14. 
 
 " I should have known, through all my grief, 
 When anguish wrung my racked hearts core, 
 
 Could but thy hand have given relief, 
 I had not felt one soirow more. 
 
 15. 
 
 " I should have known I had one friend, 
 Whenever slanderous tongues defamed me, 
 
 Whose voice would still my cause defend, 
 And dare to praise, while others blamed me- 
 
 16. 
 
 " 1 should have seen (what now 1 see) 
 Thine was a heart whose sto\c pride 
 
 Could yield its every thought to me. 
 But shrank from all the world beside!
 
 HI 
 
 17. 
 
 " Then, oh, forgive! if once my hand 
 Our earthly lies could rashly sever, 
 
 Since Love now joins us in a band, 
 
 Which, like our soufs, shall last for ever !" 
 
 18. 
 
 I listened with a deep delight, 
 
 As from your lips these accents broke ; — 
 When the first beams of morning bright 
 
 Flashed o'er my eyelids — and I woke. 
 
 f 2
 
 112 
 
 II. 
 
 SOXXET. 
 
 JVrilten under a Print f'f Sappho. 
 
 Sappho! thou still art with us, and shalt be, 
 Whilst painter can conceive, or bard can feel : 
 Thy spirit lives; for I.ove halh set his seal 
 
 On thy immortal song: the savage sea 
 
 Closed over thee in vain; thv verse shall free 
 Thy nicmorv from oblivion, and appeal 
 E'en to the sternest hcait, till drops -^hall >lLal 
 
 From eyes which had no tears — except for ihed
 
 113 
 
 Daugliter of Passion! in whose glowing frame 
 As in its chosen temple Genius dwelt, 
 
 Unhappy victim of a worthless flame ! 
 
 By thee this trnth was, ah ! too deeply felt, 
 
 Whate'er the joys that envied gift may bring, 
 
 It lends Affliction's barb a tenfold sting.
 
 114 
 
 III. 
 
 SAPPHO. 
 
 A Si/iintt. 
 
 High on Leucadia's stct-p a voice was lieard^ 
 A passionate voice, — lliat tlncnigli tlie live-loni 
 
 niglit 
 Floated upon the breeze's titful tiiglit, 
 
 In wild complainings, or a prayer preferred
 
 115 
 
 To Love's great Em})ress'^ ; while the varied word 
 Now lifted loud to Inspiration's height, 
 Now in the struggling bosom buried quite, 
 
 Seemed like the dying notes of Music's hallowed 
 bird ! 
 
 That voice was thine, oh Sappho! and those sighs 
 Were sent to one who heard them not; away 
 
 Far o'er the main, thy faithless lover flies : 
 
 And thou, ere dawns the light of new-born day, 
 
 Deep in the wave shalt feel no future woe, 
 
 Which bosoms, framed like thine, but live to know! 
 
 * 111 alhision to her celebrated Hymn to Venus.
 
 110 
 
 IV 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 * * * ^ •?? ^ 
 
 1817. 
 
 And this is vain! once more I must return 
 To my own breast, like ^Madness to its cell ; 
 Yet not deceived ; I had not iioze to learn 
 That nought could break that everlasting spell 
 Which shuts me from the world. Ah! could I 
 
 dwell 
 As others do, in some beguiling dream 
 Of joy and love eternal, could I quell 
 The spirit's aimless wandering, life would teem 
 For me as for the rest, with many a blissful scheme.
 
 117 
 
 It may not be : 'tis blank and barren all, 
 \\ hate'er the rest may reach / cannot prize. 
 Shrouded in torpor — lost to Pleasure's call — 
 An icy heart within this bosom lies, 
 Which in its self-despising scorn defies 
 The sympathies of Earth : and e'en the charm 
 W hich moved so long, sweet W Oman's smiling eyes, 
 • Rest there in radiance now, but fail to warm 
 That pulse, or wake again Love's trenmlous alarm. 
 
 If this be Knowledge, this the bitter fruit 
 Of that fair tree which ]VIaii alone may find, 
 Why was I raised beyond tiie happier brute ? 
 Why cursed with reason — tortured with a mind 
 Which wakes when 1 would rest, which cannot 
 
 blind 
 Itself to its own frailties, while the sense 
 Of those appalling truths which lurk behind 
 Delusion's blossoms, with a beam intense. 
 Strikes on the aching brain, piercing that flowery fence? 
 F 5
 
 118 
 
 Is there no Idol I can form on earth ? 
 Have I no anchor where my hopes may rest r 
 Still must I live thus lonely m the dearth 
 Of all delights which warm another's breast ? 
 Where shall I hie me ? in what halcyon nest 
 May my worn spirit fold its weary wings r 
 When shall my bosom own its ancient guest, 
 Oh Love, young Love ! whose cherished memory 
 
 clings 
 L'en in the wreck of all jound my heart's bleeding 
 
 strings ! 
 
 Then leave me, oh my friends 1 to my despair, 
 Nor in my drooping breast these hopes int\ise ; 
 Or worse distress me \\ ith officious care, 
 Lest this dim spot, ye call the world, refuse
 
 119 
 
 A longer sojotirn to me : I can lose 
 Little with this sad being; though to you 
 Existence be enjoyment, might I choose 
 Between a life like that 1 have passed through, 
 And a calm grave's repose, — this were my last adieu.
 
 120 
 
 V. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 To 
 
 Ckuel hath been this kindness ! I could bear 
 Better to let thine image fade away, 
 From my void breast in feeling's cold decay, 
 
 Than have it stamped again all freshly there, 
 
 Stirring the deadly springs of tliat despair 
 Which clouded my young bosom, till the day 
 Of Life became a night where not a ray 
 
 Of joy looked through to gild the paths of care
 
 1-21 
 
 Yet, Mary ! not, as once, \vi'.h cliaiK'inc: brow, 
 And quiverinc: lips, and accents ihar are lost 
 
 In breathless pa;?iun, do I meet thee now: — 
 Ah '. no, my heart hath learned. wha:e*-.-r :: c 
 
 To hide the ag.:.ny that wrings i: most. 
 Or mjeit with softneis it will not avow !
 
 VI. 
 
 SOXXET. 
 
 In musing moods this oft hatli clianced to me : — 
 When long my swelling heart hath inly wrougiit 
 "With wrongs and sufferance, and at length o'er- 
 fraught; 
 
 Ponred out its wrath like a tempestuous sea, 
 
 Then in the weakness of vacuity, 
 
 The refluence of its bitterness hath broucht 
 Back to my changeful bosom many a thought 
 
 Of peace, goodwill, and love, and charity!
 
 123 
 
 So when some whelming wave halh burst the 
 bounds, 
 
 Which for awhile its gathering rage repressed; 
 And with wikl rush the spreading dchige drowns 
 
 Fiekls by tlic liberal hands of Flora drest; 
 Its ebbing stream sweeps from the flowery grounds 
 
 Some buds of sweetness to its briny breast!
 
 124 
 
 VII. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 To * * *. 
 
 And must Thou sink beneath the storms of Fate, 
 Ah, gentle heart I so tender and so true ! 
 AVho loved me in a -svorld of pain and hate, 
 And " did forme wliat none beside ^vould tlo;"' 
 And though t])i/ sorrows wore as dark a hue, 
 ^let me with smiles — wiio could no smilts repay, 
 And to my cold enrbrace with rapture \\c\\\ 
 Content, if tliou couldst charm some cares aw ny, 
 As on tluxt failliful breast tranquil awhile I lay. 
 • 1
 
 125 
 
 Yes ! the world's hardened virtues may look down 
 On faults like thine wiih unforgiving eye ; 
 Some saintly Hypocrite austerely frown, 
 Whose creed atibrds no place for Charity ; 
 Some scornful sister sweep indignant by, 
 In self-applause of her own bloodless heart, 
 AVhich shuts from Love what thou couldst not 
 
 deny ; 
 
 Such may look on thee suffering, and depart 
 Haply, " to thank their God they are not as thou art/' 
 
 But in that page where kindness is recorded, 
 Shall thy name stand in lines of living light; 
 And in that hour when goodness is rewarded, 
 Thou shalt find favour in that Being's sight 
 Who will thy pilgrimage on eardi requite 
 With joys immortal, and among the blest 
 Place thee in bowers of Eden, pure and bright. — 
 If these be dreams, at least there is one breast 
 Where, though all fade beside, thy memory still shall 
 rest.
 
 12{j 
 
 Vlll. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 A Sonnet. 
 
 Alas! o'er past delights 1 cannot broud, 
 For joy with me was ever dashed with pain : 
 Before my eyes, in swift and shadowy train, 
 
 V\ ild dreams tiit by, and maddening tliou^hls intrude 
 
 Into the stiUness of mv solitude, 
 
 Which well might drive me to the world again, 
 Did I not know it vainest of the vam, 
 
 To ily for solace to a scene so rude.
 
 127 
 
 Thou hast thy terrors, Solitude ! yet best 
 
 With thee the wounded heart may soothe its woes ; 
 Best in thy calm its pulses may repose ; 
 Unless it throb in some self-torturing breast, 
 Which hopes no refuge, and can know no rest, 
 Till over it the deep cold grave shall close.
 
 128 
 
 IX. 
 SONNET. 
 
 To a Star. 
 WRITTEN IN ILLNESS. 
 
 There is a Star whose deep and tender light 
 Shines on are duly from the evening sky, 
 Radiant and mild, as if a Seraph's eye 
 
 Shed comfort o'er my soul ; and at the sight 
 
 Of its sweet beam m\ spirit wings its llight 
 Up to that placid orb, wiierc, for each sigh 
 It meets, or seems to meet, such sympatiiy, 
 
 As makes it half forfret its earthly bliuht.
 
 129 
 
 Fair Traveller ! yet awhile protract thy stay, 
 Thou ne'er may'st visit these sad eyes again ; 
 
 Ere thou shalt tread once more thy glorious way,, 
 I may have left these scenes of care and pain. 
 
 If so, sweet Star, one parting boon I crave — 
 
 As now thou shinest, then shine upon my grave.
 
 130 
 
 X. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 To the sinne Star. 
 
 Light's lingering glories in the west decay: 
 
 Now Earth and Heaven resume their evening hue ; 
 
 And in the deepening scene I soon shall view 
 That constant Star, whose mild but radiant ray, 
 Bashfully shrinking from the glare of day, 
 
 Looks on me nightly like an eye of blue ; 
 
 Yes ! now I mark its meek beam trembling 
 through 
 Its twilight veil, which melts at length away.
 
 131 
 
 Hail Tliou, that to my fancy hast supplied 
 Tile semblance of a fond neglected heart, 
 
 Thrust in the insolence of power aside, 
 
 Waiting till Fortune's noon-tide beams depart, 
 
 To prove, — oh triumph for a virtuous pride ! — 
 How true e'en then, how changeless still thou art.
 
 132 
 
 XL 
 
 To - 
 
 1. 
 
 If in the world's unthinking throng, 
 
 INIy harp's wild numbers reach thine ear, 
 
 The passionate sounds should thrill along 
 Thv heartstrings, like a dirge of fear. 
 
 For well thou knowest they are not sighs, 
 ]5reathed in the wantonness of sorrow, 
 
 But bursting from a heart which lies 
 Sunk in a ni"ht MJiich sees no morrow.
 
 133 
 
 3. 
 
 Fruitless were now tliy fondest smile, 
 Thy dearest kiss would now be vain, 
 
 Thou hast no charm can e'er beguile 
 My soul to seek thy love again. 
 
 4. 
 
 Would I could deem as once I deemed, 
 That Faith might yet be found on Earth ! 
 
 Would 1 had still unwakened dreamed, 
 That W oman yet was something \\o\X\\ I 
 
 5. 
 
 Oh ! how my spirit once would melt 
 
 F^en at thy name ; and bowed before thee 
 
 In rapturous awe, how oft hath felt 
 Itself scarce worthy to adore thee ! 
 
 G
 
 VS4 
 
 6. 
 
 And it had ever been the same 
 
 In Love — Devotion — Truth : — but thou 
 With a cold caution quenched the tlanie, 
 
 And left it — all that it is now ! 
 
 Alone at this calm hour of Even. 
 
 Wearied with scenes of earthly care, 
 1 lift my languid glance to Heaven, 
 
 And meet with thy remembrance there; 
 
 Yon Star \\hich gihls the darki ning sky, 
 
 \\ e'\e watched wlien once it shone as brightly 
 
 Seems it not now as if the eye 
 
 Of Love looked down to chide thee niiihtlv ■'
 
 1:3.-) 
 
 9. 
 
 Ah, no; — my soul mislook — the thought 
 \\ ould never reach a lieail like thine; 
 
 Nature hath round thy bosom wrought 
 A firmer fence tliaii urief round mine. 
 
 G 2
 
 13G 
 
 XII. 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF EVIL*. 
 
 'TwAS on a wiid November iiiglit, 
 
 While listcniii"' to the oiistv wind, 
 And watching the taper's dving light, 
 
 That a vision of woe fell o'er my mind. 
 
 * Since the- al)ove was written, I li;n c met with u Poein 
 ]>y Dyer, in which, ihouyii tin? execution \mis ditierent, 
 there were some extruoi-dinury {■(•incidences of tliou'^lit and 
 expression. As far as recollection will ser\e, I had never 
 seen tiie verses before, and if my oww were ctariN \afie, I 
 miglit be tem])led to exclaim with him wiio feared he lived 
 in loo late an aije for originality, '• I'ereant qui ante nos 
 nostra dixere !"
 
 l:J7 
 
 Long had I amsed on sorrow and sin, 
 
 The terrors of Death and the dreams of Hell 
 
 No joy from without, and no liope within, 
 Came to mc then those thoughts to quell. 
 
 I seemed to roam in a forest vast, 
 
 By the lightning's flash alone illumed, 
 When the Spirit of III before me passed. 
 Borne on the winsis of the rushing: blast 
 
 To ravage the earth ; while I was doomed 
 To witness the deeds of waste and ruin, 
 Which he in his fiendish mirth was doins;. 
 
 A babe sat on his mother's knee : 
 He was his mother's only joy ; 
 The Spirit of Evil strangled the boy ; 
 And the Spirit of Evil laughed to see 
 The mother's maddening agony !
 
 1:38 
 
 The son was with his aged sire, 
 In a valley lone and chear; — 
 The Spirit whispered in his car— 
 
 And he turned to his sire, with c}*-- of lire, 
 " Give up iliv gold, 
 Thou dotard old, 
 
 And take this steel in exchange from me." 
 
 How the Spirit laughed to sec 
 The old man meekly yield his life 
 Beneath the strokes of the murderer"? knift 
 
 ^\ e have another di^ed to do, 
 
 The Spirit said, and awav lie flew , 
 
 Riding upon a nuuky cloud 
 
 Which shad'u\ed. the city liiat slept bcncalh, 
 
 ^\ ell nugiit it seem that cily'^ shroud; 
 For he breathed u{)on it, and his breath 
 W as lank with poison, jilagiK- anti death !
 
 139 
 
 Ah ! how the Spirit in liis glee 
 
 Held his sides and huighed to see 
 
 The sister drop dead while aiding the brother, 
 
 And the baby suck death from its dying mother. 
 
 Onward still the Spirit passed, 
 Plague and famine in his train, 
 O'er a tyrant's wide domain; 
 While on every side he cast 
 Rage, Revenge, Rebellion, Slaughter ; — 
 Blood flowed through the land like water 
 The Spirit laughed to see the nation 
 Working its own desolation, 
 For few survived the deadly strife, 
 'Twas blood for blood, and life for life ! 
 
 Thus on lie passed fiom clime to clinie, 
 Till tlie whole earth was one \vide crime.
 
 140 
 
 The guardian spirits of good were flown, 
 
 " And at length," he cried, " 'lis ail my own: 
 
 Freedom, Virtue — all are past, 
 
 Nature, thou shalt perish last !" 
 
 He stamped — the mountains felt the shock, ~^ 
 
 Quivered to their base, and fell ; 
 He called — and bade the fiends unlock 
 
 The all-devouring flames of Hell 1 
 The sea was lost — the earth was gone — 
 Evil had nought to feed upon ; 
 Ruin on itself had preyed, 
 Destruction's self was now dccaved ! 
 
 The Spirit paused awhile at the sight ; — 
 Then flapped his wings witli a tierce ilelight, 
 And off to other w orids he flew. 
 As he liere had done, to do.
 
 141 
 
 XIII. 
 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 To * *. 
 1. 
 
 My heart, thou sayest, is " cold and hard"- 
 
 Too deep the truth may be ! 
 Yet tluis 'twas framed by Love to guard 
 
 What there was left by thee. 
 
 2. 
 
 Tliy image on that rock impressed, 
 
 The longer must endure ; 
 xVnd in that shrine of ice will rest, 
 
 As long untouched and pure! 
 g5
 
 U2 
 
 XIV. 
 
 REVERIE. 
 
 A Sonnet. 
 
 'rHEiiK is a rapture when the spirit spiings 
 
 From its dull clay, and seeks and finds meet food 
 In far-oft dieams^ for that least mortal mood 
 
 ^\ hieli hunies us, as with an angel's wnigs, 
 
 Int(j the deep of Heaven, w Inle loveliest thiiigs, 
 Palpably bright, people our solitude. 
 Anil when not vainly may the ^luse be wooed 
 
 Vty him whose hand dares sweep the sounding 
 strinus. —
 
 143 
 
 Upliokl mc yet awhile — I would not sink 
 Back to you dim-seen earth ; upon the brink 
 Of the eternal gulph I seem to stand, 
 Breathless w ith hope ; — oh ! for some aiding 
 hand 
 Whose toiicli would sever life's remaining link, 
 And waft me over to yon golden sand !
 
 144 
 
 XV. 
 
 To 
 
 1. 
 
 On ! might I teach those placid lips 
 
 A duty yet they never knew, 
 And sigh there, till in soft eclipse, 
 I marked how gradual passion drew, 
 Over those swimming orbs of blue, 
 Their veiling lids, whose jetty fringe 
 Wouki rest upon the flushing tinge 
 \\ hicli o'er thy changing cheek Feeling's s\veet magic 
 threw !
 
 145 
 
 JI. 
 
 Clasped to that bosom's snowy swell, 
 
 Wiiere yet Love never dared to rest, 
 ]Vlight I but for a moment dwell. 
 
 And feel to mine that young heart pressed, 
 
 Sure 1 could tempt it from its nest 
 
 In Joy's bewildering maze to wander, 
 
 Till wiser — -warmer — wilder — fonder, 
 
 Faint with delight — too richly, deeply, blest. 
 
 It left its gentle Mistress melting on my breast
 
 14() 
 
 XVI. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 I. 
 
 If tlic world could be kind, and all life be as bright 
 As the tVicuds and the moments I prove here to- 
 night, 
 My soul ne'er could sigh for a joy beyond earth, 
 Living here in an Eden of Wisdom and JNIirth ! 
 Jjut the World's a rude scene 
 
 Of dehision and hate ; 
 And no Friendship can screen 
 From the stern hand of Fate !
 
 ii: 
 
 II. 
 
 oil! speak to me, friends! ere my spirit declines, 
 I have leaned on your love, but my proud heart 
 
 repines 
 To think ye have borne with my frailties so long, 
 And I but repaid your kind cares with a song ! 
 \ et though worthless the strain, 
 
 Stil! it tlows from the heart; 
 And the notes shall remain 
 
 As from life we depart, 
 Proving stiil to th.e last, 
 
 Though the grave close between, 
 That such moments have passed 
 And such friendships have been !
 
 148 
 
 XVIi. 
 
 To 
 
 1. 
 
 Tf care liatli dimmed that angel form, 
 Yet in those deep and azure eyes 
 
 Beauty sliil beams, as through the storm 
 We catch some gUmpses of the skies. 
 
 2. 
 
 The cahn of b.appier days is there, 
 A tender, pure, and heavenly liglit, 
 
 Which well might teach the world to spare 
 The curse of its condenmiuir hiiiilit.
 
 149 
 
 Oh! who that meets that glance of blue, 
 
 And gazes on its ray serene, 
 But feels that Virtue leaves its hue 
 
 Where it has once so brightly been. 
 
 4. 
 
 Yes ! though across thy youthful days 
 Fate may have thrown a lingering stain, 
 
 Still in that sweet unclouded gaze 
 Purity — Truth — and Peace remain. 
 
 5. 
 
 Would that a wish, a prayer of mine 
 
 Could waft ihee from this troubled sphere, 
 
 To orbs where sister-seraphs j-hine, 
 
 Far from the woes which \\ ait thee here.
 
 ir)0 
 
 For storms are gathering darkly round, 
 And snares on all thy steps attend, 
 
 And hardly shall the faith be found 
 To guide and "iiard thee to tiie end. 
 
 At Misery's touch these charms will tly, 
 
 Those eyes shall fail — that cheek must fade,- 
 
 And Man can pass unpitying by 
 The iiiin which liimsclf hath araiie! 
 
 Ah ! who the thoughtless crowds among, 
 
 Which round thee bowed in Pleasure's bowcr, 
 
 \\ ill then forsake the festal tiu-oiig, 
 
 To soothe and cheer lliv parling hour .'
 
 151 
 
 9- 
 
 Oh ! pardon if this mournful hiy 
 
 Hath given thy breast one moment's pain. 
 Come, let me kiss that tear away, 
 
 And let me see thee smile again. 
 
 10. 
 
 Nay, do not weep; 'tis ours to bear 
 W hatevcr lot on Earth is given ; 
 
 And hope, througii ali, that every care 
 At last wiil be repaid in Heaven!
 
 lO-i 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 PARTIXG, 
 
 To * * *. 
 
 I. 
 
 FoRcivE, if all joyless I gaze on that eye, 
 
 lliougli beside it the sap})liire shine dim, 
 Forgive it" I liini iVoiii this cup wilh u sigh, 
 
 \\ hen voiir kiss lias just sweetened the brim. 
 Oh! to know that the lij)S which now hallow my bow I, 
 
 Will perhaps ])e imprcs'-cd there no more, 
 Is a thouirht which must iin e a tVesii urief to a mjuI 
 
 ^\ liich had, ah! all too mauv before !
 
 153 
 
 1[. 
 
 There are pauizs in this heart dwcUiiig deep and 
 i!nkno\Mi, 
 
 A\ hieh no b'i--s, e'en with vou can beguile ; 
 Though 1 own that some monieuts have briliiantlv 
 flown, 
 
 Since illumed by the light of that smile. 
 But pardon, dear love, if a cloud hath o'ercast 
 
 Tiiis hour which to joy should be given, 
 Though sweet still, 1 feel that perhaps 'tis the last 
 
 ^^ hich can e'er be allow ed us bv Heaven ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Wt but flatter our hearts with these fanciful schemes. 
 
 And devise future pleasures in vaui ; 
 As the world-wearied wretch, who of haj>piuess 
 dreams, 
 
 But must wake to delusion and pain.
 
 154 
 
 "^1 he wild tiash of hope, which now beams from \ouv 
 eye, 
 
 Is a death-light that burns o'er a tomb^ 
 A meteor that shoots through tlie (hu k stormy sky, 
 
 But to plunge us yet deeper in gloom.
 
 155 
 
 XIX. 
 
 To 
 
 I. 
 
 You know not, love, how heavily 
 
 This heart within me lies ; 
 You know not, love, how wearily 
 With me each moment t^ies. 
 From the depth of those dark eyes, 
 As from Pleasure's inmost shrine. 
 Though the lights of love arise, 
 Y et they tlash in vain on mine !
 
 loC 
 
 11. 
 
 E'en w illi you no ray.s of gladness 
 
 Can again my looks illume, 
 For the gathernig load of sadness 
 Piesses on uie like a tomb. 
 And vainly uilli my doom 
 
 Hatli my spirit striven awhile, 
 For the chill and murky gloom 
 
 Quelled and quenched the rising smile, 
 
 III. 
 
 But while leaning on that breast, love, 
 
 Sweet thoughts my senses steep : 
 And when in those arms I rest, love, 
 A calm so pure and deep 
 O'ei my heart 1 feci to creej), 
 
 That its crushed pulse aches no moie. 
 And tl !j .-erpent seems to sleep, 
 Which was feethnir at its core I
 
 167 
 
 XX. 
 
 To 
 
 I. 
 
 The glow of wild desire but flushed 
 
 A moment o'er my changing cheek ; 
 And through my bosom passion rushed, 
 
 But left its pulses doubly weak. 
 I must away, I do not seek 
 
 A sweeter lip or livelier eye. 
 Rapture to me can never speak 
 
 In tones more dear than iu that sigh ! 
 
 H
 
 158 
 
 II. 
 
 But, oh ! forgive a wretched heart, 
 
 Which cannot quell the wayward mood 
 Which prompts it e'en from thee to part, 
 
 Over its own despair to brood : — 
 Why, why did such a guest intrude 
 
 Before a spirit bright as thine ? — 
 Ah, let it to its solitude. 
 
 And pain no other breast but mine !
 
 159 
 
 XXI. 
 ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 A Sonnet. 
 
 Oh nie ! this air Aveighs on my brain like lead, 
 The shadow of this evening shrouds my heart 
 In gloom too well remembered ; hot tears start 
 
 From eyes which well might cease such drops to shed, 
 
 And my ^vounds open, bleeding as they bled 
 
 Too long I — Oh Time ! all-powerful as thou art, 
 When wilt thou bid these memories depart. 
 
 Which shake my soul like whisperings from the dead! 
 
 How oft on such an eve, when the full sense 
 Of my tlespair first on my spirit came, 
 
 Have I sat maddening, while a pang intense 
 Preyed on n)y vitals like a M'ithering flame !— 
 
 All sorrows Time may soften, but the past 
 
 Still o'er the future its dread shade will cast. 
 H 2
 
 160 
 
 XXII. 
 SONNET. 
 
 Woe unto him within whose feverish breast 
 There pants a heart, restless yet unemployed, — 
 Sated with study, and with pleasure cloyed, — 
 
 To which Man's vaunted wisdom seems a jest, — 
 
 To whose worn pulses Love has lost its zest, — 
 Dead to the quick delights it once enjoyed, — 
 Wandering in aimless thought through the world's 
 void, 
 
 Butlike the patriarch's dove reaching no bower of rest. 
 
 Lo ! such hath been thy gift to me, oh Life ! 
 
 This was thy boasted boon, when thou didst free 
 My soul from active agonizing strife, 
 
 To plunge it in the abyss of Vacancy. 
 Ah ! if thy very blessings thus are rife 
 
 With woes, why yet do I endure to be.
 
 101 
 
 xxiir. 
 
 SOXNET. 
 
 To the Moon. 
 
 I LOOKED at niidniglit on the silent sky, 
 
 And watched the Moon as with majestic pride 
 Up the empyreal arch she seemed to ride, 
 
 Unmatched, alone, in maiden dignity ; 
 
 And though I viewed her with a lover's eye, 
 'Twas not as if she were an earthly bride, 
 But my affections, raised and purified, 
 
 Worshipped her with a spiritual ecstacy. 
 
 Sweet ]Moon! I have not gazed upon a face 
 Since my first days of passion, with a thought 
 So pure as then within my bosom wrought, 
 
 Gazing ou thine ; where 'twas my joy to trace 
 The lineaments of One who seemed to have caught 
 
 From thee her placid smiles and tranquil grace, 
 II 3
 
 XXIV. 
 SONNET. 
 
 To 
 
 A HEART as kind as ever made abode 
 In mortal bosom, — and an eye still bright 
 Though youtli hath passed away,' — a spirit light 
 
 As if upon life's rough and thorny road 
 
 It ne'er had journeyed, nor liad felt the load 
 Of earth's infirmities, — have in my sight 
 Given thee a charm which Time can never blight, 
 
 Though all decay which Beauty once bestowed. 
 
 Oh! late may be the winter which would chill 
 The genial tide which circles in that breast ; 
 
 And late the hour that comes (since come it will) 
 To call thee hence to rapture — or to rest ; 
 
 And long thy memory, waking Love's sweet thrill, 
 Teach them to bless, who iieie by thee were blest. 
 1
 
 10:3 
 
 XXV. 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 A SATIRICAL POEM, 
 
 ENTITLED, 
 
 '' CSootr 3ort of iUeojpIr/' 
 
 The things which circle round an evening lire, 
 The sage, by turns, will envy and despise ; 
 They look no farther than the day's desire, 
 And daily life possesses in their eyes 
 Such interest and importance, as supplies 
 The cravings of all thought, and to the brim 
 Fills up the measure of iheir faculties; 
 They feel their being in each healthful limb, 
 ts'o cheek is pale with thought, no eye with study dim.
 
 1G4 
 
 Theirs is that better wisdom wliich can reap 
 Joy or content from every passintr hour : 
 They smile and know not why, or if thev weep, 
 Their tears are transient as a sunmier shower. 
 \\ hat are to tliem the passions, and their power r 
 Their hate is folly — their love idleness — 
 In Misery's hovel or in Pleasure's bower, 
 Scarce wakes the torpid heart; yet not the less 
 They in their petty world hope, fear,tormeiit, and bless. 
 
 Here the spruced lover, with a fond grimace, 
 Turns tenderly to son^.e sweet simpering she ; 
 Calls up a rapture in his foolish face, 
 And stares on liers \\\(l\ apelike ecstacy. 
 x\h ! happy pair, mav ye for ever be 
 Happy as now ! for me, I would not shake 
 Your trusting faith in Love's divinity ; 
 Too happy, if the spell may never break. — 
 If bliss be but a dream, ^\l!y should we ever wake
 
 105 
 
 Here " love.Ii/ JVoman^' has the homage due ; 
 The " softer sex!" that bright and angel throng! 
 Some have seen fauhs, — (Swift's Strephon saw 
 
 some too) 
 Yet have they graced each amorous harper's song, 
 Have been be-goddesscd and be-graced so long, 
 That Heaven forbid, /of their praise should stint 
 
 them. 
 True, I've some notions — but perhaps 'twere 
 
 wrong — 
 So though in conversation I might hint them. 
 Nothing shall e'er induce the modest Muse to print 
 
 them. 
 
 ******
 
 166 
 
 XXVII. 
 BALLAD STANZAS. 
 
 When pain and hatred hemmed me round 
 
 In life's young years, 
 One faithful hand at least I found 
 
 To dry my tears ; 
 One soothing voice, whose dulcet sound 
 
 Hushed my wild fears — 
 One heart to mine was ever bound 
 
 Li life's young years. 
 
 But now 1 am alone indeed — 
 
 Hope disappears ; 
 1 smile — but there is none to heed, 
 
 I sigh — none hears ! 
 I wither like the worthless weetl, 
 
 But shed no tears. 
 For I feel I shall no solace need 
 
 Li a few .slioit years.
 
 167 
 
 XXVIII. 
 AX IX\ ITATIOX. 
 
 1. 
 
 Come to me, love, my spirit pines 
 
 Beneath the withering blioht of care, 
 And every flower of hope declines 
 
 Which blossomed once so brightly there; 
 Come to me, love, as fond and free 
 
 As when we last shared Pleasure's thrill ; 
 Come to me, love, and let me see 
 
 Earth has a joy can touch me still ! 
 
 If those dear lips again shall press 
 
 With nectarous kiss my mantling bowl, 
 
 The draught which lono; hath ceased to bless, 
 Once more may warm my kindUng soul;
 
 168 
 
 And if the still-remembered strain 
 
 Once more from that sweet voice I,hear, 
 
 My heart will love those sounds again, 
 And Music, as before, be dear ! 
 
 And then if to the Harp I turn. 
 
 My hand however rude may shew 
 How much a minstrel's art may learn, 
 
 Beneath that eye's inspiring glow : 
 Love from the soul's most secret mine 
 
 The rarest gems of thought can draw, 
 Who pierces with his glance divine 
 
 Through worlds which Wisdom never saw 
 
 THE END. 
 
 BARNARD AND FARt,KY, 
 Skinney Sirerl, London.
 
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