A/lin. 
 
 PR 
 
 4725 
 
 G76s 
 
 1835
 
 Ex Libris
 
 THE 
 
 SABBATH,
 
 SABBATH, 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 By JAMES GRAHAME 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PCTBLISIIED BY JONES & COMPANY, 
 
 TEMFLE OF THE MUSKS, (LATE LACKINGTO.N'S,) 
 
 FINSBURY SQUAKE. 
 
 1835.
 
 .:> 
 
 CONTENTS, /gfi- 
 
 IheSjblath 
 
 SABBATH WALKS 
 A Spring Sabbath Walk . 
 A Summer Sabbath Walk 
 An Autumn Sabbath'Waik 
 A ^Vinte^ Sabbath Walk . 
 
 Page 
 3 
 
 BIBLICAL PICTURES. 
 
 The First Sabbath 34 
 
 The Finding of Moses 55 
 
 Jacob and Pharaoh SS 
 
 Jephtha's Vow in- 
 
 Saul and David 37 
 
 Elijah fed by Ravens 38 
 
 The Birth of Jesus Anrouncid . . , ib. 
 
 Behold my Mother and my Brethren . . 3'J 
 
 Bartiraeus restored to Sight .... 10 
 
 Little Children brought to Jesus . . . ib. 
 
 Jesus calms the Tempest 41 
 
 Jesus -walks on the Sea, and cali^is the Storm . ib. 
 
 The Dumb cured 1 i 
 
 The Death of Jesus i'.. 
 
 The Resurrection il> 
 
 aOB4i37
 
 Ti CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Jesus appears to the Disciples .... 43 
 Paul accused before the Tribunal of the .A.reo- 
 
 pagus, . 44 
 
 Paul accused before the Roman Governor of 
 
 Judea ib. 
 
 MISCELL.A.XEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Paraphraia on Psalm ciii. 3, 4 46 
 
 On visiting Melrose, after an absence of six- 
 teen year? . , 47 
 
 The Wild Duck and her trood . . . . ib. 
 
 To a Redbreajt 48 
 
 Epitaph on a Blackbird k illed by a Hawk . 4a 
 
 The Poor Man's Funeral ib. 
 
 The Thansgiving off Cape Trafalgar . . 50 
 
 To my Son 51 
 
 Notes M
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Ik the first of the following Poems 1 have endea- 
 voured to describe some of the pleasures and duties 
 peculiar to the seventh day. The appropriation of 
 so considerable a portion of human life to religious 
 services, to domestic enjoyment, and to meditative 
 leisure, is a most important branch of the divine 
 dispensation. The extent of the boon appears in 
 its most striking light, when we consider the days 
 of rest in any given period, as accumulated into one 
 sum. — He who has seen threescore and ten years, 
 has lived ten years of Sabhathi. 
 
 It is this beneficent institution that forms the 
 grand bulwark of poverty against the encroachments 
 of capital. The labouring classes sell their time. 
 The rich are the buyers, at least they are the chief 
 buyers ; for it is obvious, that more than the half 
 of the waking hours of those who earn their bread 
 by the sweat of their brow, is consumed in the 
 manufacture of articles that cannot be deemed 
 either necessaries or comforts. Six days of the 
 week are thus disposed of already : if the seventh 
 were in the market, it would find purchasers too. 
 The abolition of the ^(abbath would, in truth, be 
 eouivalent to a sentence, adjudging to the rich- the 
 services of the poor /or l^fe,
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 In the Biblical Pichiret, I have atteirptetl !0 
 delineate some of those scenes which painters have 
 so successfully presented to the eje. I need hardly 
 say, however, that, by the adoption of tliis title, I 
 meant not to subject myself to the principles of the 
 art of painting. — I have not confined myself to the 
 objects of sis^ht, nor adhered to one point of time. I 
 have often represented a series of incidents ; and, 
 in portraying characters, I have made thera speak, 
 as well as act. 
 
 If some of the Miscellaneous Poems which con- 
 clude this volume should draw on me the imputa- 
 tion of egotism, I must even plead guilty to the 
 charge ; trusting that the indulgent reader, and 
 »ooJ-nalured critic, will not be disp«sed to rank 
 my transgressions in this respect among the mjre 
 af gradated .«pecies of the crime.
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Description of a Sabbath morning in the country. 
 —The labourer at home.— The town mechanics 
 bellT^Fr^wH '"r^" njeditation.-Thrsounrof 
 hells.— Crowd proceedmg to Church.—Interval 
 before the service begins. -Scoti.h service _ 
 wf,^ tt> ^'=':^'c<=--Sc"ptures read.-ThTorga^ 
 f^ hP^- ^'''"^°f tl'e people.-The sound bfrne 
 Z^ ff^ ^''•^" ? ™"'='' '—"'^ wish.-The wor 
 ^bl^h ^K^ '" "'^ '°'''"<'^ °f the woods -The 
 shepherd boy among the hills.-People seen on 
 he heights returning from church.-Contrast of 
 
 rpd■SI.^'^',.''™f' .^""^ ^^°'^ immediately pre 
 redmg the Revolution The nersemt^nn >,*•,»; 
 
 ^^'"r^H^ ^'T'"" -r;ent-cf;:'L^Lne' 
 
 ron ,— Kenwicfc :_PsaIms. — Night conventicles 
 
 nf ,''h"^rK°"",!-^4 f""eral according to the rites 
 
 Th^ Church of Kngland.-A femafe character 
 
 K^^e^?-^^--^^°--,|;S 
 
 feSipr Th^p'- "'^'^^"^ 'V ^""-^^y schooI._The 
 f^i. -^ impress—Appeal on theindiscrim- 
 
 mate seventy of criminal law. _ Comparative 
 mddnoss of the Jewish law -The year o^Jubu 
 nhi'i;?'''^',?''"" "! '^ commencement of the 
 rnd f"he h 'T'^ °^"^^ trumpets through the 
 <Vn^Tv,^?l bondman and his family returning 
 from their servitude to take possession of their 
 inheritance -Emigrants to .hi wilds of Ameii' 
 l.t;;;T= f ^«'?''u '^ Y°':^'"P— The whole Inha. 
 bitants of Highland districts who have emi- 
 A
 
 5 VUG 'J?.; EXT. 
 
 jj'ated together, still regret their co'jn'.ry Kvsn 
 
 the blind man regrets the objects with which he 
 had been conversant. — An emigrpjil's contrast 
 
 between the tropical climates and Scotland 
 
 The boy who had been bom on the voyage. — De- 
 scription of a person on a desert island His 
 
 Sibbath. — His release. — Missionary ship The 
 
 Pacific Ocean — Defence of ^f issionarics. — Effects 
 
 of the conversion of the primidTe Christians 
 
 Transition to the slare trade. — I'he Sabbath in a 
 slave ship. — Appeal to England on the subject of 
 her encouragement to this horrible complication 
 
 of crimes — Transition to war Unfortunate 
 
 issue of the late war — In France — in Switzerland. 
 
 — Apostrophe to Tei.i. The attempt to resist too 
 
 late — The treacherous foes already in possession 
 
 of the passes Their devastating progress 
 
 Desolation. — Address to Scotland — Happiness of 
 seclusion from the world — Description of a Sab- 
 bath evening in Scotland. — Psalmody An aged 
 
 man. — Description of an industrious female re- 
 duced to poverty by old age and disease. — Disin- 
 terested virtuous conduct to be found chieflv in 
 the lower walks of life — Test of charity in"the 
 opulent — Recommendation to the rich to devote 
 a portion of the Sabbath to the duty of visiting 
 
 the sick Invocation to Health — to Music The 
 
 Beguire nuns.— Lazarus — Tlie Resurrection — 
 Da'wnings of faith— Its progress— Consummation.
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 How still the morning of the hallow'd day ! 
 Mule is the voice if rural labour, hush'd' 
 The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. 
 The scythe lies glitterinij in the dewy wieath 
 Of tedded grass, mingled -with fading flowers. 
 That yester-mom bloom'd waving in the breezei 
 Sounds the most faint attract the ear — the huci 
 Of early hee, the trickling of the dew. 
 The distant bleating midway up the hill. 
 Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. 
 To him who wanders o'er the upland leas. 
 The blackbird's note comes mellower from the 
 
 dale; 
 And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark 
 Warbles his heaven-tuned song ; the lulling hrcok 
 iMurmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen ; 
 While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke 
 O'ermounts the mist,' is heard, at intervals. 
 The voire of psalms — the bimple song of praise. 
 With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon villag? 
 
 breeds ; 
 The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din 
 Hath ceased ; all, all around is quietness. 
 J ess fearful on this day, the limping h.-.re 
 Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, 
 Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, 
 Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; 
 And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls. 
 His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. 
 
 But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. 
 Fail, Sabbatii ! thee I hail, the poor man's day. 
 On other days the man of toil is doom'd 
 To eat his joyless bread, I.nnely , the ground 
 A2
 
 4 THE SABBATH. 
 
 Both seat and board ; screenM from the winter's, 
 cold [tree , 
 
 And summers heat, by neighbouring hedge or 
 But on this day, embosom'd in his home. 
 He shares the frugai meal with those he lores ; 
 With those he loves he shares the heart-fell jov 
 Of giving thanks to God — not thanks of form, 
 A word and a grimace, but reverently. 
 With cover'd face and upward earnest eye. 
 
 Hail, Sabbath ! thee 1 hail, the poor man's day. 
 The pnle mechanic now has leave to breathe 
 The morning air, pure from the city's smoV;e ; 
 While, wandering slowly up the river side. 
 He meditates on Him, whose power he marks 
 In each green tree that proudly spreads the boiigii. 
 As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom 
 Around its roots ; and while he thus surveys, 
 With elevated joy, each rural charm. 
 He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope, 
 That heaven may be one Sabbath without end. 
 
 But now his steps a welcome sound recaU ; 
 Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile, 
 Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe : [ground : 
 
 Slowly the thro:ig moves o'er the toiiib-paved 
 The aged man, the bowed down, the blind 
 Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes 
 With" pain, and eyes the new-made grave wttl 
 
 pleased ; 
 These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach 
 The houic of God ; these, spite of all their i'.h, 
 A glow of gladness feel ; with silent praise 
 They enter in. A placid stillness reigns. 
 Until the man of God, worthy the name. 
 Arise and read the anointed shepherd's lays. 
 His locks of snow, his brow serene, his look 
 Of love, it speaks, " Ve are my children all ; 
 The gray-hair'd man, stooping upon his staff". 
 As well as he, the giddy child, whose eye 
 Pursues the swallow flitting thwait the'dome." 
 Loud swells the song: O how that simple song, 
 Though rudely chanted, how it melts the heart. 
 Commingling soul with soul in one full tide 
 Of praise, of thankfulness, of humble trust ! 
 Next comes the unpremeditated prayer, 
 Breathed from the inmost heart, in accents low, 
 tJut earnest.— .ilter'd is the tone; to man
 
 THK SABBATH. 
 
 Are now address'd the sacred speaker's trords, 
 
 Instruction, admonition, comfort, peace, 
 
 Flow from his tongue : O chief let comfort flow I 
 
 It is most needed in this vale of tears : 
 
 Yes, make the widow's heart to sing for joy ; 
 
 The stranger to discern the Almighty's sh'ield 
 
 Held o'er his friendless head ; the orphan child 
 
 Feel, mid his tears, I have a father still 1 
 
 'Tls done. But hark that infant quei^lous voice 
 
 Plaint not discordant to a parent's ear ; 
 
 .And see the father raise the white-ro'oed babe 
 
 In solemn dedication to the Lord : 
 
 The holy man sprinkles with forlh-strefch'u iiar.d 
 
 The face of innocence; then earnest turns. 
 
 And prays a blessing in the name of Him 
 
 VVho said. Let little children come to me ; 
 
 Forbid thnn not :* The infant is replaced 
 
 Among the happy band : they, smilingly. 
 
 In gay attire, hie to the house of mirth. 
 
 The poor man's festival, a jubilee day, 
 
 Uemember'd long. 
 
 Nor would I leave ursur.g 
 The lofty ritual of our sister land : 
 In vestnient white, the minister of God 
 Opens the hook, and reverentially 
 The stated portion reads. A pause en<:u(s. 
 The organ breathes its distant tbunder-notts. 
 Then swells into a diapason full : 
 'I he people rising, sing. With harp, nith hur; , 
 And voice of psalms ; harmoniously attuned 
 The various voices blend ; the long drawn aiilei, 
 At every close, the lingering strain prolong. 
 And now the tubes a mellow 'd stop controls. 
 
 • "And they brought young children to h.hn 
 that he should touch them; and his disciples ic. 
 buked those that brought them. But when Jesus 
 saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto 
 them, Suffer the little children to come unto n:e, 
 and forbid them not ; for of such is the kingdom of 
 God. Verily, I say unto vou. Whosoever shall not 
 receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he 
 shall not enter therein. And he took them up in 
 his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed 
 them." .Maik x. 13— Ifi. 
 A 3
 
 6 THE SABB.iTH. 
 
 In softer harmony the people join, 
 W hile liquid vv-hispers trom yon orphan band " 
 Hecal the boiil from adoration's trance. 
 And fill the eye with pity's genile tears. 
 Again the organ-peal, loud-rolling, meets 
 The halleluiahs of the choir : Sublime, 
 A thousand notes symphoniously ascend. 
 As if thp whole were one, suspended high 
 In air, soaring heavenward : Afar they float, 
 Wafting glad tidings to the sirk man's couch : 
 Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close. 
 Yet thinks he hears it still : his heart is cheer'd ; 
 He smiles on death ; but, ah ! a wish will rise, — 
 " Would I were now beneath that echoing roof! 
 No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow; 
 My heart would sin» ; and many a Sabbath-day 
 My steps should thither turn ; or, wandering far 
 In solitary paths, where wild tlowers blow. 
 There would I bless his name, who led me forth 
 From death's dark Tale, to walk amid those sweets, 
 Who gires the bloom of health once more to glow 
 Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye." 
 
 It is not only in the sacred fane 
 That homage should be paid to the Most High ; 
 There is a temple, one not made with lianda — 
 The vaulted firmament : Far in the woods. 
 Almost beyond the sound of city chime. 
 At intervals heard through the breezeless air; 
 When not the limberest leaf is seen to move. 
 Save where the linnet lights upon the spray ; 
 When not a floweret bends its little stalk. 
 Save where the bee alights upon the bloonj ; — 
 There, rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love. 
 The man of God will pass the Sabbath noon ; 
 Silence his praise; his disembodied thoughts. 
 Loosed from the load of words, will hi^h ascend 
 Beyond the empyrean.— 
 Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne. 
 The Sabbath-service of the shej.herd-b y. 
 In some lone glen, where every sounii is lull'd 
 To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill. 
 Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry. 
 Stretch 'd on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son ; 
 Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold. 
 And wonders why he weeps ; the volume closed. 
 With thyme-sprig laid between the leaves,he sings
 
 THE SABBATH. 7 
 
 The sacred lays, his weekly lesson, conr.d 
 
 With ineikie care beneath the lowly roof, 
 
 Where humble lore is learnt, where humi;le woth 
 
 Pines unrewarded by a thankless state. 
 
 Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen. 
 
 The shepherd-boy the sabbath holy keeps. 
 
 Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands 
 
 Returning homeward from the house of prayer. 
 
 In peace they home resort. O blissful days": 
 
 VS'hen all men worship God as conscience wills. 
 
 Far other times our fathers' grandsires kunw, 
 
 A virtuous race, to godliness devote. 
 
 MTiat though the sceptic's scorn hath dared to ';oil 
 
 The record of their fame I what though the men 
 
 Of wordly minds have dared to stigmatize 
 
 The sister-cause. Religion and the Law, 
 
 With Superstition's name ! yet, yet their deeds. 
 
 Their constancy in torture and in death — 
 
 These on Tradition's tongue still live ; these shall 
 
 On History's honest page be pictured bright 
 
 To latest times. Perhaps some bard, whose muse 
 
 Disdains the servile strain of Fashion's quire. 
 
 May celebrate their unambitious names. 
 
 AVith them each day was holy, every hour 
 
 They stood prepared to die, a people doom'd 
 
 To death ; — old men, andyouths, and simple maids. 
 
 With them each day was holy ; but that morn 
 
 On which the angel said. See niliere the Lord 
 
 Was laid, joyous arose ; to die that day 
 
 Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways. 
 
 O'er hdls, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, 'they 
 
 sought 
 The upland muirs, where rivers, there but brooks, 
 Eispart to different seas : Fast by such brooks 
 A little glen is sometimes scoop'd, a plat 
 With green sward gay, and flowers that strangers 
 Amid the heathery wild, that all around [seem 
 Fatigues the eye ; in solitudes like these. 
 Thy' persecuted children, Scotia, foil'd 
 A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws : 
 There, leaning- on his spear, (one of the arrav. 
 Whose gleam, in former days, haa bcathed t.^>« 
 
 rose 
 On England's banner, and had powerless struck 
 The infatuate monarch and his wavering Lost,; 
 The lyart veteran heard il.e word of Goj 
 A 4
 
 S THE SABBATH. 
 
 Fy Cameron thunder'd, or by Ren wick pour'd 
 la gentle stream ; then rose the song, the loud 
 Acclaim of praise. The wheeling plover ceased 
 Her plaint ; The solitary place was glad. 
 And on the distant cairns the watcher's ear* 
 Caught doubtfully at times the breeze-bome not». 
 >fut years .nore gloomy follow"d ; and no more 
 The assembled people'dared, in face of day. 
 To worship God, or even at the dead 
 Of night, save wheu the wintry storm raved fierce. 
 And thunder-peaJs compell'd the men of blood 
 To couch within their dens ; then danntlessly 
 The scattered few would meet, in some deep dell 
 By rocks o'er- canopied, to hear the voice. 
 Their faithful pastor's voice : He by the gleam 
 Of sheeted lightning oped the sacred book. 
 And words of comfort spake : Over their souls 
 His accents soothing came, — as to her young 
 The heathtowl's plumes, when, at the close of eve. 
 She gathers in, mournful, her brood dispersed 
 By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads 
 Fondly her wings ; close nestling 'neath her breast, 
 They,' cherish d, cower amid the purple blooms. 
 
 But wood and wild, the mountain and the dale. 
 The house of prayer itself, — no |ilace inspires 
 Emotions more accordant with the day. 
 Than does the field of graves, the land of rest : — 
 Oft at the close of evening-prayer, the toll. 
 The solemn funeral-toll, pausing, proclaims 
 The service of the tomb : the homeward crowds 
 Divide on either hand ; the pomp draws near ; 
 The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing, 
 I am the resurrection and the life. 
 Ah me ! these youthful bearers robed in wliite. 
 They tell a mournful tale; some bloommg friend 
 Is gone, dead in her prime of years : — 'Twas she. 
 The- poor man's fnend, who, when she could not 
 
 gi^e. 
 With angel tongue pleadetl to those who could ; 
 AVith angel tongue and mild beseeching eye. 
 That ne'tr besought in vain, save when she prayd 
 
 • Sentinels were placed on the surrounding 
 Mils to give ■sfaming of the approach of the mili-
 
 THE SABBATH, 9 
 
 For longer life, with heart resi^'d to die,— 
 Rejoiced to die; for happy visions bless'd 
 Her voyage's last days,* and hovering round. 
 Alighted on her soul, giving presage 
 
 That heaven was nigh : O what a burst 
 
 Ut rapture from her lips ! what tears of joy 
 Her heavenward eyes suffused ! Those eves are 
 iiut all her loveliness is not yet flown : Fclosed ; 
 >ho smiled in death, and still her cold pale face 
 Ketains that smile ; as when a waveless lake. 
 In which the wintry stars all bright appear. 
 Is sheeted by a nightly frost with ice. 
 Mill u reflects the face of heaven unchanged, 
 Lnruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast. 
 Again that knell ! The slow procession stops : 
 The pall withdrawn. Death's altar, thick emboss'd 
 « ith melancholy ornaments, -(the name, 
 1 he recora ot her blossoming age,)— appears 
 IJnTeird, and on it dust to dust is thrown 
 rhe final rite. Oh ! hark that sullen sound ' 
 Lpon the lower'd bier the shovelld clay 
 
 Falls fast, and fills the void 
 
 ,„, . , , „ -But who is he 
 
 1 hat stands aloof, with haggard wistful eve 
 
 As if he coveted the closing grave 3 ' ' 
 
 And he does covet it-his wish is death : 
 
 1 he dread resolve is fix'd ; his own right-hand 
 
 Is sworn to do the deed : The day of rest 
 
 >.o peace, no comfort, brings his wo-wom spirit: 
 
 Sell-cursed, the hallow'd dome he dreads to enter • 
 
 He dares not pray; he dares not sigh a hope ; 
 
 Annihilation is his only heaven. 
 
 Loathsome the converse of his friends ; he shuns 
 
 1 ne human face ; in ever>- careless eye 
 
 ^uspicion of his purpose seems to lurk. 
 
 Deep pi.-iy shades he loves, where no sweet note 
 
 is warbled, where the rook unceasing caws : 
 
 i.r*'^.??'"'^'*'^^"^ of Columbus's voyage to the 
 ISew VVorld, when he was already near, but not in 
 sight ot land, the drooping hopes of his mariners 
 (tor his own confidence seems to have remained un- 
 moved) were revived by the appearance of birds, at 
 first hovering round the ship, and then alighting on 
 tlieriBging. " ^
 
 10 THE bABBAXn. 
 
 Or far in moors, remote from house or hut, 
 
 AVTiere animated nature seems extinct. 
 
 Where even the hum of wandering bee ne'er breaks 
 
 The quiet slumber of the level wa.-te; 
 
 Where vegetation's traces almost fail, 
 
 Save where the leafless cannachs wave their tufts 
 
 Of silky white, or massy oaken trunks 
 
 Kalf-huricd lie, and tell where greenwoods grew,— 
 
 Tiiere on the heathless moss outstretch'd lie 
 
 broods 
 0"cr all his ever-changing plans of death : 
 The time, place, means. sweep lite a stormy rack. 
 In fleet succession, o'er hi~ clouded soul ; — 
 The poniard,— and the opium draught, that bring* 
 Death by degrees, but leaves an awful chasm 
 Between the act and consequence,— the flash 
 Sulphureous, fraught with instantaneous death ; — 
 ITie ruin'd tower perched on some jutting rock. 
 So high that, 'tween the leap and dash below, 
 The breath might take its flight in midway air,— 
 This pleases for a while ; but on the brink, 
 3ack from the toppling edge his fancy shrinks 
 In horror : Sleep at last his breast becalms,— 
 He dreams 'tis done ; but starting wild awakes. 
 Resigning to despair his dream of joy. 
 Then hope, faint hope, revives— hope, that Despair 
 JVlay to his aid let loose the demon Frenzv, 
 
 To lead scared Conscience blindfold o'er tl:e hunk 
 
 Of self-destruction's cataract of blood. 
 
 Most miserable, most incongruous wretch ! 
 
 Darest thou to spurn thy life, the boon of God, 
 
 Yet dreadest to approach his holy place ? 
 
 O dare to enter in ! may be some word. 
 
 Or sweetly chanted strain, will in thy heart 
 
 Awake a chord in unison with life. 
 
 What are thv fancied woes to his, whose fate 
 
 Is (sentence dire !) incurable disease, — 
 
 The outcast of a lazar-house, homeless. 
 
 Or with a home where eves do scowl on him ! 
 
 Yet he, even he, with feeble steps draws near. 
 
 With trembling voice joins in the song of pr.i-se. 
 
 Patient he w?its the hour of his release ; 
 
 He knows he has a Wome beyond the grave. 
 Or turn thee to that house with studded doors. 
 
 And iron-vlzor'd windows; even there 
 
 The Sabbath sheds a beam of bUss, though faint ;
 
 THE SABBATH. H 
 
 The debtor's friends (for still be has some frienJ^) 
 Have time to visit him ; the blossoming pea. 
 That climbs the rust- worn bars seems tVcslur 
 And on the little turf, this day renew'd, [tinged , 
 The lark, his prison-mate, quivers the wint; 
 VV'ith more than wonted joy. See, through the 
 
 bars. 
 That pallid face retreating from the view, 
 That glittering eye following, with hopeless look, 
 The friends of former years, now passing by 
 In peaceful fellowship to worship God ; 
 Wiih them, in days of youthful years, he roani'd 
 U'ei hill and dale, o'er broomy kiiowe ; and wist 
 As little as the blithest of the band 
 Of this his lot; condemn'd, condemu'd unheard. 
 The party for his judge; — among the throi;^'. 
 The Pharisaical hard-hearted man 
 He sees pass on, to join the heaven-taught prayer 
 Forgive our debts as we forgive our debtors : 
 From unforgiving lips most impious prayer ! 
 O happier far the victim than the hand 
 That deals the legal stab ! The injured man 
 Knjoys internal, settled calm; to him 
 The Sabbath bell sounds peace ; he loves to meet 
 His fellow sufferers to pray and praise: 
 And many a prayer, as pure as e'er was breathed 
 In holy fanes, is sigli'd in prison halls. 
 Ah me! that clank of chains, as kneel and rise 
 The deat.h-doom'd row. But see, a smile illumes 
 The face of some ; perhaps they're guiltless : (Jli ! 
 And must high-minded honesty endure 
 The ignominy of a felon's fate I 
 No, 'lis not ignominious to be wrong'd -. 
 No ; conscious exultation swells their hearts 
 To think the day draws nigh, when in the view 
 Of angels, and of just men perfect made. 
 The mark which rashness branded on their names 
 Shall be efiaced ; — when wafted on life's storm. 
 Their souls shall reach the Sabbath of the skits;— 
 As birds from bleak Norwegia's wintry coast 
 Blown out to sea, strive to regain the shoie. 
 But, vainly striving, yield them to the blast. — 
 Swept o'er the deep to Albion's genial isle. 
 Amazed they light amid the bloomy sprays 
 Of fome green vale, there to enjoy new loves. 
 And join in harmony unlicard before.
 
 1-2 THE SABBATH. 
 
 The land Is groaning 'neath the guilt of blood 
 Svilt wantonly : for everj' death-doom'd man, 
 VV'ho, in his boyhood, has been left untaught 
 That Wisdom's mays are nays nf pleasantness. 
 And all her paths are peace, unjustly dies. 
 But, ah ! how many are thus left untaught.^ 
 How many would be left, but for the band 
 United to keep holy to the Lord 
 A portion of his day, by teaching those 
 Wnom Jesus loved with forth-stretched hand to 
 
 bless ! 
 Behold von motley train, by two and two. 
 Each with a Bible 'neath its little arm, 
 Approach well-pleased, as if they went to play. 
 The dome where simple lore is feamt unbouC'ht • 
 And mark the father 'mid the sideway throng, 
 Well do I know him by his glistening eye. 
 That follows steadfastly one of the line, 
 A dark seafaring man he looks to be ; 
 And much it glads his boding heart to think, 
 That when once more he sails the vallied deip. 
 His child shall still receive Instruction's boon. 
 But hark,— a noise,— a cry, — a gleam of swords !— 
 Resistance is in vain, — he's borne away, 
 Nor is allow'd to clasp his weeping child. 
 
 My innocent, so helpless, yet so gay 
 How could I bear to be thus rudely torn 
 From thee ;— to see thee lift thy little arm. 
 And impotently strike the ruffian man,— 
 To hear thee bid him chidingly— begone I 
 
 O ye who live at home, and kiss each eve 
 Vour sleeping infants ere you go to rest, 
 And, 'wakened by their call, lift up your eyes 
 L'pon their morning smile,— think, think of those, 
 Who, torn away without one farewell word 
 l~o wife or children, sigh the day of life 
 In banishment from all that's de r to man ;— 
 O raise your voices in one general peal 
 Remonstrant, for the oppress'd. And ye, who sit 
 Month after month devising impost-laws. 
 Give some small portion of your midnight vigils 
 To mitigate, if not remove the wrong. 
 
 Relen"tless Justice ! with fate-furrow'd brovr; 
 Wherefore to various crimes of various guilt. 
 One penalty, the most severe, allot ? 
 Why, pall'd in state, and mitred witli a wreath
 
 THE SABBATH. !3 
 
 Of nightshade, dost thou tit portentously, 
 Beneath a cloudy canopy of siphs. 
 Of fears, of trembling hopes, of boding doubts ; 
 Death's dart thy mace f— Why are the laws of 
 
 God, 
 Statutes promulged in characters of fire,* 
 Despised in deep concerns, where heayenly guid- 
 ance 
 Is most required ? The murderer — let him die, 
 ^nd him who lifts his arm against his patent. 
 His country, — or his voice against his God. 
 Let crimes less heinous dooms less dreadful meet 
 Than loss of life ! so said the law divine ; 
 That law beneficent, which mildly strelth'd. 
 To men forgotten and forlorn, the hand 
 Of retHtution : Yes, the trumpet's voice 
 The Sabbath of the jubilee f announced : 
 The freedom -freighted blast, through all the land 
 At once, in every city, echoing rings. 
 From Lebanon to Carmel's woody cliffs. 
 So loud, that far within the desert's verge 
 The couching lion starts, and glares around. 
 Free is the bondman now, each one returns 
 To his inheritance : The man, grown old 
 In servitude far from his native fields. 
 
 • " And it came to pass, on the third day in the 
 morning, that there were thunders and lightnings, 
 and a thick cloud upon the Mount, and the voice 
 of the trumpet exceeding loud ; so that all the peo- 
 ple that was in the camp trembled." Exod. six, 
 IG. 
 
 f " And thou shalt number seven Sabbaths i:. 
 years unto thee, seven times seven years ; and the 
 space of the seven Sabbaths of years shall be un- 
 to thee forty and nine years. Then shalt thou 
 cause the trumpet of the Jubilee to sound on the 
 tenth day of the seventh month; in theday of atone- 
 ment shall ye make the trumpet sound throughout 
 all your land. And ye shall hallow the fiftieth 
 year, and proclaim liberty throughout all the land 
 unto all the inhabitants thereof: it shall be a ju- 
 bilee unto you ; and ye shall return every man un- 
 to his possession, and ye shallreturn every man un- 
 to his family." Lev. xxv. 8, 9, 10.
 
 14 ti:e sabbath. 
 
 Hastes joyous on his way ; no hills are steer. 
 Smooth is each rugged path ; his little ones 
 Sport as they go, -while oft the mother chides 
 The lingering step, lured hy the way-side flo-vers : 
 At length the hill, from which a farewell lo^k. 
 And still another parting look, he cast 
 On his paternal vale, appears in view : _ 
 
 The summit gain'd, throbs hard his heart witn joy 
 And sorrow blent, to see that vale once more; 
 Instant his eager eve darts to the roof 
 A\Tiere first he saw the light ; his youngest bom 
 He lifts, and, pointing to the much-loved spot. 
 Says,— "There thy fathers lived, and there they 
 
 sleep." 
 Onward he wends ; near and more near he draws : 
 How sweet the tinkle of the palm-bower'd brook ! 
 The sun-beam slanting through the cedar srrove 
 How lovelv, and how mild ! But lovelier still 
 The welcome in the eve of ancient friends, 
 Scarce known at first ! and dear the fig-tree shade 
 •Neath which on Sabbath eve his father told" 
 Of Israel from the house of bondage treed, 
 I.ed through the desert to the promised land — 
 With eagtr arms the aged stem he clasps, 
 And with his tears the furrow'd bark bedews: 
 And still, at midnight hour, he thinks he hears 
 The blissful sound that brake the bondman s 
 The glorious peal of freedom and of joy ! [chains. 
 
 Did ever law of man a power like this 
 Display ? power marvellous as mercifi'!. 
 Which, though in oihir ordinances still 
 Most plainly "seen, is yet but little mark'd 
 For what it truly is,— a miracle ! 
 Stupendous, ever new, perform'd at once 
 In every region,— yea, on every sea 
 
 * "And these words which I command thee 
 this dav shall he in thine heart : And thou shalt 
 teach them diligently unto thy children, and shall 
 tnlk of them when thou sittest in thine hou^e, and 
 when thou walkest bv the way, and when thou 
 liest down, and when thou risest up. Thou shalt 
 «ay un;o thy son. We were Pharaoh's bondnen in 
 Kpvpl ; 2nd the Lord brought us cut of Kgjpt with 
 a ii'iighiy hand."— Feut. vi. 6, 7, 21.
 
 THE SABBATH. l-> 
 
 Which Europe's navies plough ; — yes, in all lands 
 
 From pole to pole, or civilized to rude. 
 
 People there are, to whom the Sabbath mom 
 
 Dawns, shedding dews into their drooping hearts : 
 
 Yes, far beyond the high-heaved western wave, 
 
 Auiid Columbia's wildernesses vast, 
 
 The words which God in thunder from the Mount 
 
 Of Sinai spake, are heard, and are obey"d. 
 
 Thy children, Scotia, in the desert land, 
 
 Driven from their homes by fell Monopoly, 
 
 Keep holy to the Lord the seventh day. 
 
 Assembled under loftiest canopy 
 
 Of trees primeval, soon to be laid low. 
 
 They sing. By Babel's streams we sat and rvept. 
 
 What strong mysterious links enchain the heart 
 To regions where the morn of life was spent ! 
 In foreign lands, though happier be the rlime. 
 Though round our board smile all the friends we 
 The face of nature wears a stranger's look. [love. 
 Yea, though the valley which we loved be swept 
 Of its inhabitants, none left behind. 
 Not even the poor blind man who sought his bread 
 From door to door, still, still there is a want ; 
 Yes, even he, round whom a night that knows 
 No dawn is ever spnad, whose native vale 
 Presented to his closed eyes a blank. 
 Deplores its distance now. There well he knew 
 Each object, though unseen ; there could he wend 
 His way, guideless, through wilds and mazy woods; 
 Each aged tree, spared wnen the forest fell. 
 Was his familiar friend, from the smoo'th birch. 
 With rind of silken touch, to the rough elm : [l.-iy, 
 The three gray stones that mari'd' where hemes 
 IMourn'd by the harp, mourn'd by the melting voice 
 Of Cona, oft his resting-place hatl been ; 
 Oft had they told him that his home was near : 
 The tinkle of the rill, the murmuring 
 So gentle of the brook, the torrent's rush. 
 The cataract's din, the ocean's distant roaTj 
 The ecno's answer to his foot or voice, — 
 All spoke a language which he understood, 
 All warn'd him of his way. But most he feels, 
 T'pon the hallow'd mom, the saddening change: 
 No move he hears the gladsome village bell 
 King the bless'd summons to the house of God: 
 Anil— for the voice of psalms, loud, solemn, gia<:d.
 
 16 THE SABBATH. 
 
 That cheerd hU darkling path, as with slow step 
 And feeble, he toiled up the spire-topt hill,— 
 A few faint notes ascend among the trees. 
 
 What thoagh the cluiteTd Tine there hardly 
 
 tempts [plume 
 
 The traveller's hand; though hirds of dazzling 
 
 Perch on the loaded boughs; — "Give me thy 
 
 woods, 
 (Eiclairai the banish 'd man,) thy barren wocds. 
 Poor Scotland ! Sweeter there the reddening haw. 
 The sloe, or rowan's* bitter bunch, than here 
 The purple grape ; dearer the redbreast's note. 
 That mourns the fading year in Scotia's rales. 
 Than Philomers, where spring is ever new ; 
 More dear to me the. redbreast's sober suit. 
 So lite a wither d leaflet, than the glare 
 Of gaudy wings, that make the Iris dim." 
 
 Nor is regret exclusive to the old : 
 The boy, whose birth was midway o'er the main, 
 A ship his cradle, by the billows rock'd, — 
 " The nursling of the storm," — although he claims 
 No native "and, yet d:es he wistful hear 
 Of somt far distant country still call'd home, 
 VTUere lambs of whitest fleece sport on the hills; 
 %\'here gold-speck'd tishes wanton in the streams : 
 Where little birds, when snow-flakes dim the air. 
 Light on the floor, and peck the table crums. 
 And with their singing cheer the winter day. 
 
 But what the loss of country to the woes 
 Of banishment and solitude combined ! 
 Oh ! my heart bleeds to think there now may live 
 One hapless man, the remnant of a wreck. 
 Cast on some desert island of that main 
 Immense, which stretches from the Cochin shore 
 To Acapulco. Motionless he sits. 
 As is the rock his seat, gazing whole days. 
 With wandering eye, o'er all the watery waste; 
 Now striving to believe the albatross 
 A >ail appearing on the horizon's verge ; 
 Now vowing ne'er to cherish other hope 
 I han hope of death. Thus pass his weary hours. 
 Till welcome evening warn him that 'tis time 
 Upon the shell-notch'd calendar to mark
 
 THE SABBATH. 17 
 
 Another day, another dreary day, — 
 Changeless; — for, in these regions of the sun. 
 The wholesome law that dooms mankind to toil. 
 Bestowing grateful interchange of rest 
 And labour, is annulled ; for there the trees, 
 Ariorn'd at once with bud, and flower, and fruit, 
 Drop, as the breezes blow, a shower of bread 
 A nti blossoms on the ground. But yet by him. 
 The Hermit of the Deep, not unobserved 
 The Sabbath passes. Tis his great delight, 
 Each seventh eve he marks the farewell rav. 
 And loves, and sighs to think, — that setting sun 
 Is now empurpling Scotland's mountain tops. 
 Or, higher risen, slants athwart her vales. 
 Tinting with yellow light the quivering throat 
 Of day-spring lark, while woodland birds below 
 Chant in the dewy shade. Thus all night long 
 He watches, while the rising moon describes 
 The progress of the day in happier lands. 
 And now he almost fancies that he hears 
 The chiming from his native village church ; 
 And now he'sings, and fondly hopes the strain 
 HI ay be the same that sweet ascends at home 
 In congregation full, — where, not without a tear, 
 They are remember'J who in ships behold 
 The wonders of the deep :* he sees the hand. 
 The widow'd hand, that veils the eye suffused ; 
 He sees his orphan'd boy look up, and strive 
 The widow'd heart to soothe. His spirit leans 
 On God. Nor does he leave his weekly vigil, 
 Tliough tempests ride o'er welWin-Iashing wave* 
 On winds of cloudless wing ; f though lightnings 
 So vivid, that the stars are hid and seen [burst 
 
 In awful alternation : Calm he views 
 The far-exploding firmament, and dares 
 To hope — one bolt in mercy is reserved 
 For his release : and yet he is resign'd 
 
 • " They that go down to the sea in ships, thnt 
 do business in great waters; these see the wo'.ks 
 of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep." Psai.
 
 IS THE SABBATH. 
 
 To live; because full -well he is assured, ^ ,, . 
 Thy hand does lead him, thy right hand upholds." 
 And thy light hand does lead him. Lo ! at last 
 One sacred eve, he hears, faint from the deep. 
 Music remote, swelling at intervals, 
 As if the embodied spirit of such sounds 
 Came slowly floating on the shoreward wave: 
 The cadence well he knows,— a hymn of old, 
 "Where sweetly is rehearsed the lowly state 
 Of Jesus, when his birth was first announced. 
 In midnight music, by an angel choir, [tlocks. 
 
 To Bethlehem's shepherds,! as they watch'd their 
 Breathless, the man forlorn listens, and thinks 
 It U a dream. Fuller the voices swell. 
 He looks, and starts to see, moving along, 
 A fiery wave, ^ (so seems it,) crescent form'd, 
 Approaching to the land ; straightway he sees 
 A towering whiteness ; 'ti s the heaven-fiU'd sails 
 
 • " If I take the wings of the morning, and 
 dwell in the uttermost parts of the sen, even there 
 shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall 
 . hold me." Psal. cxxxix. 
 
 + " \nd there were in the same country shep- 
 herds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their 
 flocks by night. And lo ! the angel of the Lord 
 came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone 
 lound about them, and they were sore afraid. And 
 the angel said unto them. Fear not, for, behold !1 
 bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be 
 to all people. For unto you is born this day in the 
 city of David, a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord. 
 And this shall be a sign unto you, ^ e shall find the 
 babe wrapped in swaddling-clothe?, lying in a 
 manger. And suddenly there was with the angel 
 a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, 
 and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on 
 earth peace, gcod wUl toward men." Luke u. 
 
 ~± " In some seas, as particularly about the coast 
 of iMa'.abar, as a ship floats along, it seems during 
 the night to be surrounded with fire, and to leave a 
 long t?ack of light behind it. Whenever the sea is 
 gently agitated, it seems converted into little stars : 
 every dfop as it breaks emits light, like bodies 
 electrified iu the d:xi^."—Danvin.
 
 THE SABBATH. 19 
 
 That waft the mission'd men, wlio have renounced 
 1 heir homes, their country, nay, almost the world. 
 Rearing glad tidings to the farthest isles 
 Of ocean, that the dead ehall rise again. 
 Forward the gleam-girt castle coastwise glides : 
 it seems as it would pass awaT. To crv 
 Ihe wretched man in vain atltempts, in vain, 
 J owerless his voice as in a fearful dream : 
 iV ot so his hand -. he strikes the flint,— a blsze 
 ^rounts from the ready heap of wither'd leaves : 
 i he music ceases, accents har^h succeed, [saih • 
 Harsh, but most grateful: downward drop xhs 
 InguUd the anchor sinks ; the boat is launch'd • 
 l<ut cautious lies aloof till morning dawn : 
 
 then the transport of the man unused 
 
 1 o other human voice beside his own,— 
 
 His native tongue to hear ! he breathes at heme, 
 1 hough earth's diameter is interposed. 
 Of perils of the sea he has no dread. 
 Full well assured the mission'd bark is safe. 
 Held m the hollow of the Almightv's hand. 
 (And signal thy deliverances have "been 
 Of these thy messengers of peace and joy.) 
 i;rom storms that loudly threaten to unfix 
 Islands rock-rcoted in the ocean's bed 
 1 hou dost deliver them,— and from the calm, 
 Wore dreadful than the storm, when motiorlc-'S 
 Lpon the purple deep the ves-el lies 
 !• or days, for nights, illumed by phospher Ir.mps : 
 i\ hen sea-birds seem in nests of flame to float T 
 W hen backward starts the boldest mariner 
 To see, while oer the side he leans, his face 
 As it deep-tinged with blood.— 
 ,j.v , , Let WOT Idly men 
 
 1 ne cause and combatants contemptuous scorn 
 And call fanatics them who hazard health 
 And life in testifying of the truth, 
 Who joy and glory in the cross of Christ ! 
 What were the Galilean fishermen . 
 But messcngeis, commlssion'd to announce 
 I he re^uireclion, and the life to come < Twortt 
 
 They too, though clothed with power of mightv 
 Miraculous, were oft received with scorn : ' 
 
 Oft did their words fall powerless, though enforced 
 J y deeds that mark'd Omnipotence iheir frieid 
 
 iut, when their efforts fail'd 
 B2 
 
 otence iheir friend ; 
 unweariedly
 
 iO THE SABBATH. 
 
 Thev onward went, rejoiciiiK in their course. 
 Like' helianthus,* borne on downy wings 
 To distant realms, they frequent fell on soils 
 Barren and thankless ; yet oft-times they saw 
 Their labours crown'd with fniit an hundred fold, 
 Saw the new converts testify their faith 
 By works of love, — the slave set free, the sick 
 Attended, prisonei^s visited, the poor 
 Received as brothers at the rich man's board. 
 Alas ! how different now the deeds of men Islares ! 
 Nursed in the faith of Christ!— The free madj 
 Tom from their country, borne across the deep, 
 Enchain'd, endunfteon'd, forced by stripes to live, 
 Doom'd to behold their wives, their little ones, 
 Tremble beneath the white man's fiend-like frown ! 
 Yet even to scenes like these, the Sabbath brings 
 Alleviation of the enormous wo : — 
 The oft-reiterated stroke is still ; 
 The clotted scourge hangs hardening in the shrouds. 
 But see, the demon man, whose trade is blood. 
 With dauntless front, convene his ruffian crew 
 To hear the sacred service read. Accursed, 
 The wretch's bile-tln{?ed lips profane the word 
 Of God : Accursed, he ventures to pronounce 
 The decalogue, nor falters at that law 
 AV'herein 'tis written. Thou shalt do no murder : 
 Perhaps, while yet the words are on his lips. 
 He hears a dying mother's parting groan ; 
 He hears her orphan'd child, with lisping plaint. 
 Attempt to rouse her from the sleep of death. 
 
 O England ! Knaland ! wash thy purpled hands 
 Of this foul sin, and never dip them more 
 In guilt so damnable 1 then lift them up 
 In supplication to that God, whose name 
 Is Mer<:y ; then thou niayest, without the risk 
 Of drawing vengeance from the surcharged clouds. 
 Implore protection to thy menaced shores; 
 Then, God will blast the tyrant's arm that grasps 
 The thunderbolt of ruin o'er thy head : 
 Then will he ttim the wolvish race to prey 
 
 • Sun flower. " The seeds of many plants o( 
 this kind are furnished with a plume, by whiph 
 a Imirable mechanism they are disseminated far 
 from their parent stem."— Car«ii».
 
 THE SABBATH. 5il 
 
 I 'pon each other; then will he arrest 
 The lava torrent, causing it legorge 
 Back- to its source with fiery desolation. 
 
 Of all the murderous trades by mortals plitd, 
 'Tis war alone that never violates 
 The hallow'd day by simulate respect, — 
 By hypocrilic rest : 'No, no, the work proceeds. 
 From sacred pinnacles are hung the flags,* 
 That give the sign to slip the leash from slaughter. 
 The bells, whose knoll a holy calmness pour'd 
 Into the good man's breabt,— whose sound solaced 
 The sick, the poor, the old — perversion dire — 
 Pealing with sulphurous tongues, speak death- 
 fraught words: 
 From mom to ere Destruction revels frenzied. 
 Till at the hour when peaceful vesper-chimes 
 Were wont to soothe the ear, the trumpet sounds 
 Pursuit and flight altern ; and for the song 
 Of larks, descending to their grass-bower'd homes. 
 The croak of Pesh -gorged ravens, as they slake 
 Thfcir thirst in hoof-prints fiU'd with gore, disturbs 
 The stupor of the dying man ; while Death 
 Triumphantly sails down the ensanguined stream. 
 On corses throned, and crown'd with shivej'd 
 
 boughs, 
 That erst hung imaged in the crystal tide.f 
 
 And what the harvest of these bloody fields ? 
 A double weight of fetters to the slave, 
 And chains on arms that wielded Freedom's'sword. 
 Spirit of Tell ! and art thou doom'd to see 
 Thy mountains, that confess'd no other chains 
 Than what the wintry elements had forged,— 
 Thy vales, where Freedom, and her stem compeer, 
 Proud virtuous Poverty, their noble state 
 Maintain'd, amid surrounding threats of wealth. 
 
 Of superstition, and tyrannic sway 
 
 Spirit of Tell ! and art thou doom'd to see 
 That land subdued by Slavery's basest slaves; 
 By men, whose lips pronounce the sacred name 
 
 • Church steeples are firequently used as signal 
 posts. 
 
 t After a heavy cannonade, the shivered branrhon 
 cf trees, and the corjises of the killed, are seen float- 
 ing together down the rivers. 
 E3
 
 io THE SABBATH. 
 
 Of Liberty, then kiss the despot's foot ? 
 
 HelTetia ! hadst thou to thyself been true. 
 
 Thy dving sons had triumph'd as they fell : 
 
 But 'twas a glorious effort, though in vain. 
 
 Aloft thy Genius, 'mid the sweeping clouds. 
 
 The flag of freedom spread ; bright in the storm 
 
 The streaming meteor waved, and far it eleam'J : 
 
 But, ah 1 'twas transient, as the Iris' arch, 
 
 Glanced from Leviathan's ascending shower, 
 
 When 'mid the mountain waves heaving hii head. 
 
 Already had the fnendiy-seeming foe 
 
 Posssss'd the snow piled ramparts of the land : 
 
 Down like an avalanche they roU'd, they crush'd 
 
 The temple, palace, cottage, every work 
 
 Of art and nature, in one common ruin. 
 
 The dreadful crash is o'er, and peace ensues, — 
 
 Th3 peace of desolation, gloomy, still: 
 
 Each day is hush'd as Sabbath ; but, alas '. 
 
 N'o Sabbath-service glads the seventh day ! 
 
 No more the happy villagers are seen 
 
 Winding adown the rock-hewn paths, that wont 
 
 To lead their footsteps to the house of prayer ; 
 
 But, far apart, assembled in the depth 
 
 Of solitudes, perhaps a little group 
 
 Of aged men, and orphan bovs, and maids, 
 
 Bereft, list to the breathings of the holy man, 
 
 >\'ho spurns an oath of fealty to the power 
 
 Of rulers chosen by a tyrant's nod. 
 
 No more, as dies the rustling of the breeze. 
 
 Is heard the distant vesper-hymn ; no more 
 
 Atgloamin hour, the plaintive strain, that linlrs 
 
 His country to the Switzer's heart, delights 
 
 The loosening team ; or if some shepherd boy 
 
 Attempt the strain, his voice .soon faltering stops ; 
 
 He feels his country now a foreign land. 
 
 O Scotland ! oanst thou for a moment brook 
 The mere imagination, that a fate 
 Like this should e'er be thine ! that o'er these hills 
 And dear-bought vales, whence Wallace, Douglas 
 
 Bruce, 
 Repell'd proud Edward's multitudinous hordes, 
 A Gallic foe, that abject race, should rule i 
 No, no : let never hostile standard touch 
 Thy shore : rush, rush into the dashing brine. 
 And cre.st each wave with steel : and should the 
 Of Slavery's footstep violate the strand, [sta.np
 
 THE SABBATH. 23 
 
 Let not the tardy tide efface the mark ; 
 Sweep off the stigma -with a sea of blood ! 
 
 Thrice happy he, who, far in Scotish glen 
 Retired, (yet ready at his country's call,) 
 Has left the restless emmet-hUl of man : 
 He never longs to read the saddening tale 
 Of endleis wars ; and seldom does he hear 
 The tale of wo ; and ere it reaches him. 
 Rumour, so loud when new, has died away 
 Into a whisper, on the memory borne 
 Of casual traveller : — as on the deep, 
 Far from the sight of land, when all around 
 Is waveless calm, the sudden tremulous swell. 
 That gently heaves the ship, tells, as it rolls. 
 Of earthquakes dread, and cities overthrown. 
 
 O Scotland ! much I love thy tranquil dales: 
 But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun 
 Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight, 
 Wandering, and stopping oft, to hear (he song 
 Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs ; 
 Or, when the simple service ends, to hear 
 The lifted latch, and mark the gray-haii'd man. 
 The fiither and the priest, walk forth alone 
 Into his garden-plat, or little field. 
 To commune with his God in secret prayer,— 
 To bless the Lord, that in his downward years 
 His children are about him : Sweet, meantime. 
 The thrush, that sings'upon the aged thorn. 
 Brings to his view the days of youthful years 
 When that same aged thorn was l,ut a bush. 
 Nor is the contrast between youth and age 
 To him a painful thought ; he joys to think 
 His journey near a close, — heaven is his home. 
 More happv far that man, though bowed down. 
 Though feeble be his gait, and dim his eye. 
 Than they, the favourites of youth and health. 
 Of riches," and of fame, who have renounced 
 The glorious promise of the life to come. 
 
 Clinging to death 
 
 Or mark that female face, 
 The faded picture of its former self, — 
 The garments coarse, but clean ;— frequent nt 
 I've noted such a one, feeble and pale, [chur<.i» 
 
 Yet standing, with a look of mild content. 
 Till beckon'dbv some kindly hand to kit. 
 She had seeu better days ; there v.as n l>:r.e 
 B4
 
 'ii THE SABBATH. 
 
 Her hands could earn her bread, and freely pire 
 To those who were in want ; but now old 'age. 
 And lingering disease, have made her helpless. 
 Yet she is happy, ay, and she is wise, 
 (Philosophers may sneer, and pedants frown,) 
 Although her Bible is her only book ; 
 And she is rich, aUhcugh her only wealth 
 Is recollection of a weil-spent-life— 
 Is expectation of the life to come. 
 Examine here, explore the narrow path 
 In which she walks ; look not for virtuous deeds 
 In history's arena, where the prize 
 Of fame, or power, prompts to heroic acts. 
 Peruse the Uvea themselves of men obscurer- 
 There charity, that robs itself to give ; 
 There fortitude in sickness, nursed by want; 
 There courage, that expects no tongiie to praise ; 
 There virtue lurks, like purest gold deep hid, 
 AVith no alloy of seliish motive mix'd. 
 The poor man's boon, that stints him of his bread. 
 Is piized more highly in the sight of Him 
 Who sees the heart, than golden gifts from bands 
 That scarce can know their countless treasures 
 
 less:* 
 Yea, the deep sigh that heaves the poor man's 
 To see distress, and feel his willing arm [breast 
 Palsied by penury, ascends to heaven ; 
 While ponderous bequests of lands and goods 
 Ne'er rise above their earthly origin. 
 
 And should all bounty, that is clothed with 
 power 
 Be deera'd unworthy ? — Far be such a thought ! 
 Even when the rich bestow, there are sure tests 
 Of genuine charity ;— Yes, yes, let wealth 
 
 • " And Jesus sat over against the tieasury, and 
 beheld how the people cast money into the trea- 
 sury : and many that were rich cast iu much. 
 And there came a certain poor widow, and she 
 threw in two raites, which make a farthing. And 
 ne called u.nto him his disciples, and saith nnto 
 them. Verily, I say unto you, that this poor widow 
 hath cast more in than all'they which have cast into 
 the treasury: For all ihev did cast in of their abun- 
 dance, but she of her wsmt did cast in all that she 
 had, even all her living." JJark xii. 41 — H.
 
 THE SABBATH. 26 
 
 Give other alms than silver or than gold, — 
 Time, trouble, toil, attendance, watchfulness. 
 Exposure to disease ;— yes, let the rich 
 Be often seen beneath the sick man's roof; 
 Or cheering, with inquiries from the heart. 
 And hopes of health, the melancholy range 
 Of couches in the pubhc wards of wo : 
 There let them often bless the sick man's bed, 
 AV'ith kind assurances that all is well 
 At home, that plenty smiles upon the board, — 
 The while the hand that earn'd the frugal meal 
 Can hardly raise itself in sign of thanks. 
 Above all duties, let the rich man search 
 Into the cause he knoweth not, nor spurn 
 The suppliant wretch as guilty of a crime. 
 
 Ye, bless'd with meciUh ! (another name forpori'er 
 Of doing good,) O would ye but devote 
 A little portion of each seventh day 
 To acts of justice to your fellow men ! 
 The house of mourning silently invites : 
 Shumiot the crowded alley ; prompt descend 
 Into the half-sunk cell, darksome and damp , 
 Xor seem impatient to be gone : Inquire, 
 Console, instruct, encourage, soothe, assist; ' 
 
 Read, pray, and sing a new song to the Lord ; 
 Make tears of joy down fjritf-worn furrows flow. 
 
 O Health I thou sun of life, without whose beam 
 The fairest scenes of nature seem involved 
 In darkness, shine upon my dreary path 
 Once more ; or, with thy faintest dawn, give hope. 
 That I may yet enjoy thy vital ray ! 
 Though transient be the hope, 'twill be most sweet, 
 I-ike midnight music, stealing on the ear. 
 Then gliding past, and dying slow away. 
 Alusic ! thou soothing power, thy charm is proved 
 JMost vividly when clouds o'ercast the soul ; 
 So light its loveliest effect displays 
 In lowering skies, when through the murky rack 
 A slanting sun-bettm shoots, and instant limns 
 The ethereal curve of seven harmonious dyes. 
 Eliciting a splendour from the gloom : 
 O Music ! still vouchsafe to tranquillize 
 "This breast perturb'd ; thy voice, though mournful, 
 
 soothes ; 
 And mournful aye are thy most beauteous lays. 
 Like fall of blossoms from the orchard boughs,—
 
 25 THE SABBATH. 
 
 The autumn of the spring. Enchanting power ! 
 Who, by thy aiiy spell, canst whirl the mind 
 Fai from the busy haunts of men, to vales 
 Where Tweed or Yarrow flows ; or, spuming time 
 Recal red Flodden field ; or suddenly 
 Transport, with alter'd strain, the deafen'd ear 
 To Linden's plain ! — But what the pastoral lay, 
 The melting dirge, the battle's trurapet-peal, ' 
 Compared to notes with sacred numbers link'J 
 In union, solemn, grand ! O then the spirit. 
 Upborne on pinions of celestial sound. 
 Soars to the throne of God, and rartsh'd hears 
 Ten thousand times ten thousand voices rise 
 In halleluiahs : — voices, that erewhile 
 M'ere feebly tuned perhaps to low-hreath'd hymns 
 Of solace iii the chambeis of the poor, — 
 The Sabbath worship of the friendless sick. 
 
 Bless'd be the female votaries, whose dzys 
 No Sabbath of their pious labours prove. 
 Whose livfs are consecrated to the toil 
 Of ministering around the uncurta-n'd couch 
 Of pain and poverty ! Bless'd be the hands. 
 The lovely hands, (for beauty, youth, and grace. 
 Are oft co'nceal'd by Pity's closest veil,) 
 That mix the cup medicinal, that bind 
 The wounds which ruthless warfare and disease 
 Have to the loatlisome lazar-house consign'd. 
 
 Fierce Superstition of the mitred king! 
 Almost I could forget thy torch and stake, 
 \Vhen I this blessed siste'rhood survey, — 
 Compassion's priestesses, disciples true 
 Of him whose touch was health, whose single word 
 Electrified with life the palsied arm, — 
 Of him who said. Take up thy bed and tvall:,— 
 Of him who cried to Lazarus, Come forth. 
 
 And he who cried to Lazarus, Come forth. 
 Will, when the Sabbath of the tomb is past. 
 Call forth the dead, and re-unite the dust 
 (Transform d and purified) to angel souls. 
 Ecstatic hope ! belief! conviction fir.-n! 
 How grateful 'tis to recollect the time 
 When hope arose to faith.' Faintly at first 
 The heavcnlv voice is heard ; thpii, by degrees. 
 Its music sounds peri)etual in the heart. 
 Thus he, who all the gloomy winter long 
 Has dwelt in city crowds, wandering a-tJeld
 
 THE SABBATH. -ij 
 
 Betimes on Sabbath mom, ere yet the spring 
 Unfold the daisy's bud, delighted hears 
 The fiist lark's note, faint yet, and short the song, 
 Check'd by the chill ungenial northern breeze; 
 But, as the sun ascends, another springs. 
 And still another soars on loftier wing. 
 Till all o'erhead, the joyous choir unseen. 
 Poised welkin high, harmonious fills the air. 
 As if it were a link 'tween earth and heaven.
 
 SABBATH WALKS. 
 
 A SPRIXG SABBATH WALK. 
 
 Most earnest was his voice .' most mild his look, 
 As with raised hands he bless'd his parting tlock. 
 He is a faithful pastor of the poor ;— 
 He thinks not of himself ; his Master's -words. 
 
 6, how I love, with melted soul, to leave 
 The house of prayer, and wander in the fields 
 Alone ! WTiat though the opening spring he chill ! 
 Alihough the laik, check'd in his airy path 
 Eke out his song, perch'd on the fallow clod. 
 That still o'ertops the blade ! Although no branch 
 Have spread its foliage, save the willow wand 
 That dips its pale leaves in the swollen stream ! 
 
 • " So when he had dined, Jesus saith to Simon 
 Peter, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more 
 than these? He saith unto him. Yea, Lord, thou 
 knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed 
 my lambs. He saith to him again the second time, 
 Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me ? He saith 
 unto him. Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love 
 thee. He saith unto him. Feed my sheep. He 
 saith unto him the third time, Simon, son of Jonas, 
 lovest thou me ? Peter was grieved, because he said 
 unto him the third time, Lovest thou me ? And he 
 said unto him. Lord, thou knowest all things, thou 
 knowest that I love thee. Jesus saith unto him. 
 Feed my 3heep," Jchn xsi 15—17.
 
 SABBATH WALKS. 29 
 
 Wliat though the clouds oft lower ! Their threats 
 
 but end 
 In sunny showers, that scnrcely fill the folds 
 Of moss-couch'd violet, or interrupt 
 The merle's dulcet pipe, — melodious bird ! 
 He, hid behind the milk-white slow-thorn spray, 
 (Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf,) 
 Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year. 
 
 Sweet is the sunny nook, to which my steps 
 Have brought me, hardly conscious where I roam'd. 
 Unheeding where, — so lovely all around 
 The worksof God, array'd in vernal smile! 
 
 Oft at this season, musing, I prolong 
 My devious range, till, sunk from view, the sun 
 Emblaze, with upward-slanting ray, the breast, 
 And wing unquivering of the wheeling larkj 
 Descending, vocal, from her latest flight; 
 \\ hile, disregardful of yon lonely star, — 
 The harbinger of chill night's glittering host, — 
 Sweet Redbreast, Scotia's Philomela, chants, 
 In desultory strains, his evening hymn. 
 
 A SUMMER SABBATH WALK. 
 
 Delightful is this loneliness ; it calms 
 My heart : pleasant the cool beneath these elms. 
 That throw across the siream a moveless shade. 
 Here nature in her midnoon whisper speaks; 
 How peaceful every sound ! — the ring-dove's plaint, 
 Moan'd from the twilight centre of the grove. 
 While every olher woodland lay is mute, [nest. 
 
 Save when the wren flits from her down-covtd 
 And from the root-sprig trills htr ditty clear, — 
 The grasshopper's oft-pausing chirp, — the buzz. 
 Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee. 
 That, soon as loosed, booms with full twang away, 
 •The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal. 
 Scared from the shallows by my passing tread. 
 Dimpling the water glides, with here and there 
 A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay 
 The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed troiU
 
 50 SABBATH WALKS. 
 
 Watches his time to spring ; or, from above. 
 
 Some feather'd dam, purveying midst the boughs. 
 
 Darts from her perch, and to her piuraeless brood 
 
 Bears off the prize: — Sad emblem of man's lot! 
 
 Ke, giddy insect, from his native leaf, 
 
 {^\^lere safe and happily he might have lurk'd,) 
 
 Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings. 
 
 Forgetful of his origin, and, worse. 
 
 Unthinking of his end, dies to the stream ; 
 
 And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape. 
 
 Buoyant he flutters but a little while. 
 
 Mistakes th' inverted image of the sky 
 
 For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets hi; fa'e. 
 
 Now let me trace the stream up lo ils souice 
 Among the hills ; is runnel by degiees 
 Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle. 
 Closer and closer stiil the banks approach, 
 "Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble shoots. 
 With brier, and hr.zel branch, and hawthorn spray. 
 That, fain to quit the dangle, glad I mount 
 Into the open air : Grateful the breeze 
 That fans ray throbbing temples ! smiles the plain 
 Spread wide below : how sweet the placid view ! 
 But, O ! more sweet the thought, heaxt-sootbing 
 
 thought. 
 That thoT:sands, and ten thcusai:ds of the sons 
 Of toil, partake this day the common joy 
 Of rest, of peace, of viewicg hill and dale. 
 Of breathing in the sileni-e of the woods. 
 And blessing Him who gave the Sabbath d,-y. 
 Ves, my heart flutters with a freer throb, 
 To think that now the townsman wanders f.rth 
 Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy 
 The coolness of the day's decline ; lo ;ee 
 His children sport around, and simply pull 
 The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon, 
 \\'T!ich proudly in his breast they smiling fix. 
 
 Again I turn me to the hill, and trace 
 The wizard stream, now scarce to be discem'J ; 
 XVocdless its banks, but green with ferny leaves. 
 And thinly strew'd with healh-bells up and down. 
 
 Now, when the downward sun has left the glens. 
 Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced 
 von the adverse slope, where stalks gicantic 
 Ti-e shepheids shadow thrown athwart the chasm. 
 As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies.
 
 SABBATH WALKS. J 
 
 How deep the hush ! the torrent's channel dry. 
 Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt. 
 But, hark, a plaintive sound tloatiiig along ! 
 'Tis from yon heath-roof'd shielin ; now it dies 
 A way, now rises full ; it is the song 
 Which He,— who listens to the halleluiahs 
 
 Of venerable age, — of guileless youth. 
 In kindly circle seated on the ground 
 Before their wicker door. Behold the man ! 
 The grandsire and the saint ; his silvery locls 
 Beam in the parting ray : before him lies. 
 Upon the smooth cropt sward, the open book. 
 His comfort, stay, and ever new delight ! 
 While, heedless, at his side, the lisping bov 
 Fondles the lamb tha*. nightly shares his couch. 
 
 AX AUTUMN SABBATH WALK. 
 
 When homeward bands theirspveral waysdispcrse, 
 I I ve to linger in the narrow fieid 
 Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb. 
 And think of some who silent sleep below. 
 Sad sighs the w jid, that from those ancient elms 
 Shakes showers of leaves upon the wither'd grass : 
 The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep, 
 Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillocfc'd" graves. 
 But list that moan ! 'tis the poor blind man's dog. 
 His guide for many a day, now come to mourn 
 The master and the friend— ccnjimction rare ! 
 .A man indeed he was of gentle soul. 
 Though bred to brave the deep : the lightrinij's 
 flash [cybs. 
 
 Had dimm'd, not closed, his mild, but sightles 
 He was a welcome guest through all his range ! 
 (It was not wide :) no dog would bay at him ; 
 Children would run to meet him on' his way, 
 A;id lead him to a sunny seat, and climb 
 His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales. 
 Then would he teach the ellins how to plait 
 The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship;
 
 32 SABBATH WALKS. 
 
 And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand 
 L'pon their heads, while silent moved his lips. 
 Peace to thy spirit ! that now looks on rae 
 Perhaps with greater pity than 1 felt 
 To see thee wandering darkling on thy way. 
 
 But let ine quit this melancholy spot. 
 And roam where nature gives a parting smile. 
 As vet the blue-bells linger on the sod 
 That copes the sheepfold ring ; and in the woods 
 A second blow of many flowers appears ; 
 Flowers faintly tinged, and breathing no perfume. 
 But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath 
 That circles Autumn's brow : the ruddy haws 
 Now clothe the half-leaved thorn; the branib'.e 
 Beneath its jetty load ; the hazel hangs [bends 
 With auburn branches, dipping in the stream 
 That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow 
 The leaf-strewn banks : Oft, statue-like, I gaze. 
 In vacancy of thought, upon that stream. 
 And chase, with dreaming eye, the eddying foam ; 
 f)r rowan's cluster'd' branch, or harvest sheaf, 
 Eome rapidly adown the dizzying flood. 
 
 A WINTER SABBATH WALK. 
 
 How dazzling white the snowy scene ! deep, deep, 
 'J he stillness of the winter Sabbath day, — 
 .Not even a foot-fall heard — Smooth are the fields. 
 Each hollow pathway level with the plain : 
 Hid are the bushes, save that, here and there. 
 Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom. 
 High-ridged, the whirled drift has almost reach'J 
 The pow'der'd key-stone of the church-yard porch. 
 Mute hangs the hooded bell ; the tombs lie buriei ; 
 I\o step approaches to the house of prayer. 
 
 The flickering fall is o'er ; the clouds disperse 
 And show the sun, hung o'er the welkin's verge, 
 Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam 
 On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time 
 To visit nature in her grand attire ; 
 Xt.ough perilous the mountainous ascent.
 
 SABBATH WALKS. 35 
 
 A noble recompense the danger brings. 
 How beautiful the plain stretch'd far below 1 
 Unvaried though it be, 6?ve by yon stream 
 With azure windings, or the leafless wood. 
 But what the beauty of the plain, compared 
 To that sublimity which reigns enthroned, 
 Holding joint rule with solitude divine. 
 Among yon rocky fells, that bid defiance 
 To steps the most adventurously bold ! 
 There silence dwells profound ; or if the cry 
 Of high-poised eagle break at times the calm. 
 The mantled echoes no response return. 
 
 But let me now explore the deep sunk dell. 
 No foot-print, save the covey's or the flock's. 
 Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs 
 Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green. 
 Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts. 
 Nor linger there too long : the wintry day 
 Soon closes ; and full oft a heavier fall 
 Heap'd by the blast, fills up the shelter'd glen. 
 While, gurgling deep below, the buried rill 
 ]VIines for itself a snow -coved way. O ! then. 
 Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot. 
 And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side, 
 Where night-winds sweep the gathering drift 
 
 away :— 
 So the great Shepherd leads the heavenly flock 
 From faithless pleasures, full into the storms 
 Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast. 
 Until at length the vernal sun looks forth, 
 Bedimm'd with showers: Then to the pasture* 
 
 green 
 He brings them, where '.he quiet waters glide. 
 The streams of lile, the Siloah of the soul.
 
 BIBLICAL PICTURES. 
 
 THE FIRST SABBATH. 
 
 Srx days the heavenly host, in circle vast, 
 
 Like that untouching cincture which enzones 
 
 The globe of Saturn, compass'd wide this orb. 
 
 And with tiie forming mass floated along. 
 
 In rapid course, through yet untravell'd spa<-€. 
 
 Beholding (iod's stupendous power, — a world 
 
 Bursting firom chaos at the omnific will. 
 
 And perfect eie the sixth day's evening star 
 
 On Paradise arose. Blessed' that eve 1 
 
 The Sabbath's harbinger, when, all complete. 
 
 In freshest beauty from Jehovah's hand, 
 
 Treation bloom'd ; when Eden's twilight face 
 
 Smiled like a sleeping babe. The voice divine 
 
 A holy calm breathed o'er the goodly wort ; 
 
 ^fildly the sun, upon the loftiest trees, 
 
 Shed mellowly a sloping beam. Peace reign'd, 
 
 .And love, and gratitude; the human pair 
 
 Their orisons pour'd forth ; love, concord, reign'J. 
 
 The falcon, perch'd upon ihe blooming bough 
 
 With Philomela, listen 'd to her lay ; 
 
 Among the antler'd herd, the tiger couch'd 
 
 If aimless; the lion's mane no terror spread 
 
 .\raong the careless ruminating flock. 
 
 -Silence was o'er ihe deep ; the noiseless surge. 
 
 The last subsiding wave, — of that dread tumult 
 
 Which raged, when Ocean, at the mute command, 
 
 Kush'd furiously into his new-cleft bed, — 
 
 Was gently rippling on the pebbled shore ; 
 
 While, on the swell, the sea-bird with her head 
 
 Wing-veil'd, slept tranquilly. The host of heaven, 
 
 Kn'.ranced in new deligni, siieechless adored;
 
 BIBLICAL PICTUr.CS. ^b 
 
 Nor stopp'd their fleet career, nor chccged ihtir 
 
 form 
 Ercircular, till on (hat hemisphere, — 
 In which the blissful garden sweet exl^alcd 
 Its incense, cdorous clouds, — the Sabbath dawn 
 Arose; then wide the flyins circle oped. 
 And soar'd, in semblance of a mighty rainbow. 
 Silent ascend the choirs of Seraphim ; 
 No harp resounds, mute is each voice ; the burst 
 Of joy and praise reluctant they rei>ress, — 
 For love and concord all things so attuned 
 To harmony, that Earth must have received 
 The grand vibration, and to the centre shook : 
 Put soon as to the starry altitudes 
 'I hey reach'd, then what a storm of sound tremen- 
 dous 
 S weird through the realms of space ! The morn- 
 ing stars 
 Together sang, and all the sons of God 
 Shouted for joy ! Loud was the peal ; so loud 
 As would have quite o'erwhelm'd the human sense; 
 Put to the earth it came a gentle strain. 
 Like softest fall breathed from ^olian lute, 
 When "raid the chords the evening gale expires. 
 Day of the Lord ! creation's hallow'd close ! 
 Day of the Lord ! (prophetical they tang,) 
 Benignant mitigation of that doom 
 Which must, eie long, consign the fallen race, 
 Dwellers in yonder star, to toil and woe ! 
 
 THE FINDING OF MOSES. 
 
 Si.ow gUdce the Nile : amid the margin flags. 
 Closed in a bulrush ark, the babe is left. 
 
 l^ft by a mother's hand. His sister waits 
 Far ofr; and pale, 'tween hope and fear, beholds 
 The royal maid, surrounded by her train, 
 Approach the river bank,— approach the spot 
 Where sleeps the innocent : She sees them stoop 
 With meeting phiines; the rushy lid is oped. 
 And wakes the infant, smiling in his tears, 
 C i
 
 56 BIBLICAL PICTURES. 
 
 As when along a little mountain lake 
 i he summer south-wind bieathes, with e^ntle sl^'h 
 And parts the reeds, unveiling, as they bond *'* 
 A water-lily floating on the waVe. ' 
 
 JACOB AND PHARAOH. 
 
 w,"/'t°-^ "Pon a gorgeous throne of state 
 
 JV as seated; while around him stood subreiss 
 
 Of B^ni^m-'n^ T/"'' ^^V'PS °" the arm 
 Ot Benjamin. Unmoved by all the glare 
 Of royalty, he scarcely throws a glance 
 
 AT.nht P?^ff"'v.'*'?'^ = ''°'' f'""" ^'^ youth 
 A shepherd's life he led, and view'd each nicht 
 
 M^Vu^' ^Z'-' ^""^ ^""' where'er he we, f 
 He telt himself m presence of the Lord. 
 
 "ud^^n ',1 T* °V°«^P']. him pursues. 
 
 Sudden the king descends; and, bendin-, kneels 
 
 Before the aged man, and suppl cales '"' 
 
 A blessing from his lips ! The aged man 
 
 Lays on the ground his staff, anStlretching forth 
 
 \r\^"AT!T *}*"^. °'" Pha^aoh-s urn ro w^'d her d 
 
 I ray. that the Lord would bless him and his land. 
 
 JEPHTHA'S VOW. 
 
 A'Xrn,T*,"'^^'''U''\"™^' '■"h faltering step 
 And troubled eye : His home appears in view • 
 rie trembles at the sight. Sad he forbSde^I' 
 i?nr TlTi I^'",'"^" 3 "':'i"> in his child : ' 
 She still wLfi,°T^ '''^'' ^1°"" her earliest years, 
 W^ii hi 7^ ^^V' ^° '?^^' his homeward steps : 
 ShP r^n '^^™^'"V^«. how. with tottering gait, 
 hhe ran, and^ clasp'd his knees, and lifp'd; and 
 
 Uul7,i ^P^ hew, when garlanding with flowers 
 KacV fl^,; fS'^r ' ^^' '"*^'"' hand would shrink 
 Hack from the hon couch'd beneath tho crest
 
 BIBLICAL PICTURES. 37 
 
 What sound is that, which, from the pahn-lree 
 
 grove, 
 Floats now with choral swell, now fainter falls 
 Upon the ear ? It is, it is the song 
 He loved to hear,— a song of thanks and praise, 
 Sung by the patriarch for his ransora'd son. 
 Hope from the omen springs : O blessed hope I 
 It may not he her voice !— Fain would he think 
 'Twas not his daughter's voice that still approach'd. 
 Blent with the timbrel's note. Forth from the 
 
 grove 
 She foremost glides of all the minstrel hand : 
 Jloveless he stands ; then grasps his hilt, still red 
 \\'ilh hostile gore, but, shuddering, quits the hold : 
 And clasps in agony his hands, and cries, 
 " Alas, my daughter ! thou hast brought me low.'' — 
 The timbrel at her rooted feet resounds. 
 
 SAUL AND DAVID. 
 
 Dbbp was the furrow in the royal brow, 
 WTien David's hand, lightly as vernal gales 
 Rippling the brook of Kedron, skimm'd the lyre : 
 He sung of Jacob's youngest born, — the child ' 
 Of his old age, — sold to the Ishmaelite ; 
 His exaltation to the second power 
 In Pharaoh's realm ; his brethren thither sent; 
 Suppliant they stood before his face, well known, 
 Unknowing, — till Joseph fell upon the neck 
 Of Benjamin, his mother's son, and wept. 
 Unconsciously the warlike shepherd paused ; 
 But when he saw, down the yet quivering string, 
 The tear-drop trembling glide, abash 'd, he check'd. 
 Indignant at himself, the bursting flood. 
 And, with a sweep impetuous, struck the chord'.; 
 From side to side his hands transversely glance. 
 Like lightning 'thwart a stormy sea ; his voice 
 Arises 'mid the clang, and straightway calms 
 Th' harmonious tempest, to a solemn swell 
 Majeslical, triumphant ; for he sings 
 Of Arad's mighty host by Israel's arm 
 Subdued ; of Israel thro'ugh the desert led, 
 C3
 
 3S BIBLICAL PICTURES. 
 
 Ke sines ; of him who was their leader, c.I'.'d 
 By God himself, from keeping Jethro's ti^ck. 
 To be a ruler o'er the chosen race. 
 
 Kindles the eye of Saul ; his arm is poised , 
 
 Harmless thejavelin quivers in the wall. 
 
 ELIJAH FED BY RAVENS. 
 
 Sf>BB was the famine throughout all the bounds 
 
 Ot" Israel, when Elijah, by command 
 
 Of God, joumeved to Che'rith's failing brook. 
 
 No rain-drops fall, no dew-fraughl cloud, at morn 
 
 Or closing eve, creeps slowly up the vale ; 
 
 The withering herbage dies ; among the palms 
 
 The shriveird leaves send to the summer gale 
 
 An autumn rustle ; no sweet songster's lay 
 
 Is warble<l from the branches ; scarce is heard 
 
 The rill's faint brawl. The prophet looks arouixl. 
 
 And trusts in God, and lays his silver'd head 
 
 Upon the flowerless bank ; serene he sleeps. 
 
 Nor wakes till dawning: then with handi en- 
 
 clasp'd, 
 And heavenward face, and eye-lids closed, hepravs 
 To Him who manna on the desert shower'd. 
 To Him who from the rock made fountains gush : 
 Entranced the man of God remains : till roused 
 By sound of wheeling wings, wiih grateful heart. 
 He sees the ravens fearless bj his side 
 
 Alight, and leave the heaven-provided food. 
 
 THE BIRTH OF JESUS ANNOUNCED. 
 
 r>EfiP was the midnieht silence in the fields 
 
 Of Bethlehem ; hush'd the folds ; save that at times 
 
 Was beard the Iamb's faint bleat : the shepherds, 
 
 stretch'd 
 On the green sward, survey'd the starry vault. 
 The h'.avem declare the glory of the Lord, 
 The firmament shuns forth thy karcdy-viork:
 
 BIBLICAL PICTURES. 39 
 
 Tlius they, their hearts attuned to the ?.rost High — 
 
 WTien suddenly a splendid cloud appeai'ii. 
 
 As if a portion of tlie milky way 
 
 Descended slowly in the spiral course. 
 
 Near and more near it draws ; then, hovering, 
 
 floats 
 High as the soar of eagle, shedding bright. 
 Upon the folded flocks, a heavenly radiance. 
 From whence was utter'd loud, yet sweet, a voice, — 
 Fear not, I bring f;o(,d tidings of great joy; 
 -For vnto you it born_ this day a Saviour 1 
 And this shall be a sign to you, — the babe, 
 Z'Oid lowly in a manger, ye shall find — 
 The angel spake ; when, lo ! upon tVie cicud, 
 A multitude of Seraphim, enthroned. 
 Sang praises, saying, — Glory to the Lord 
 On high ; on earth be peace, good mill to men. 
 With sweet response Harmoniously they chair'd. 
 And while, with heavenly harmony, the song 
 Arose to (iod, more bright the buoyant throne 
 Illumed the land : the prowling lion stops. 
 Awe-struck, with mane uprear'd, and flatten'd 
 
 head; 
 And, without turning, backward on his steps 
 IVecoils, aghast, into the desert glooai. 
 A trembling joy the astonish "d shepherds prove. 
 As heavenward reascends the vocal blaze 
 Triumphantly ; while by degrees the strain 
 Dies on the ear, that, self-deluded, listens — 
 As if a sound so sw£et could never tae. 
 
 BEHOLD MY MOTHER AND MY 
 BRETHREN. 
 
 IVuo is my mother, err my brethren f 
 He spake, and look'd on them who sat around. 
 With a meek smile of pity blent with love. 
 More melting than e'er gleam'd from human face^ 
 As when a sun beam, through a summer shower. 
 Shines mildly on a little hill-siJo flock ; 
 C i
 
 40 BIBLICAL PICTURES. 
 
 tifjr!^^ that look of loTe he said. Behold 
 ThJ. l''^ ^'^ ™y breUirai ; for illy 
 «e IS my brother, sister, mother, all. 
 
 BARTIMEUS RESTORED TO SIGHT. 
 Blind, poor, and helpless Bartimeus sAt 
 Hp fhir^t^i K ""^ 'J^'" ^"^ trembline hand. 
 
 Ml ■ J ^' the Nazatene was passine bv 
 
 f^s/^is^jeMi^ars^y-L'^^ii;- 
 
 A..d straight the blind beh£i.o th/^ac^'o^ g'od. 
 
 LITTLE CHILDREN BROUGHT TO JESUS. 
 
 ^jryKRthai lillle children come to n,f, 
 rC'irHl'" "■"• I"?boIden'd Lv his words, 
 i he mothers onwara press; but findim; vain 
 
 ^"-"'P|,^tojeach the Lord. the^tr^iTt their 
 
 4'ml!f^h^TK' ^"^Hlr "^^^ innocents alarm'd 
 
 Rh^^i^V^^Z':.^ °'^f^^« ^" unknown. 
 
 Shrink, trembUng,_tiU their wandering eyes dls- 
 
 1^% ^"'intenance of Jescs. beaming love 
 And p„T ; eager then they stretch their arm, 
 Ard, cow nng, lay their heads upon his b^a
 
 BIBLICAL PICTURES. 41 
 
 JESUS CALMS THE TEMPEST. 
 
 The roaring tumult of the billow'd sea 
 Awakes him not : high on the crested surge 
 Now heaved, his locks flow streaming in the blast. 
 And now, descending 'tween the shettering wa\es, 
 The falling tresses veil the face divine : 
 Meek tliiough that veil, a momentary gleam 
 Benignant shines; he dreams that he beholds 
 The opening eyes, — that long hopeless had roll'd 
 In darkness, — look around bedimra'd with tears 
 Of joy ; but suddenly the voice of fear 
 DispeU'd the happy vision : Awful he rose. 
 Rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea. 
 Peace, be thou tiill ! and straight there was a calm. 
 With terror-mingled gladness in their looks, 
 The mariners exclaim,— W/ia< mayi is this, 
 That even the mind and sea obey his voice .' 
 
 JESUS WALKS ON THE SEA. AND 
 CALMS THE STORM. 
 
 Loud blew the storm of night; the thwarting surge 
 Dash'd, boiling on the labouring bark : dismay. 
 From face to face reflected, spread around : — 
 When, lo ! upon a toweling wave is seen 
 The semblance of a foamy wreath, upright. 
 Move onward to the ship : The helmsman starts. 
 And quits his hold ; the voyagers, appall'd. 
 Shrink from the fancied Sp"irit of the Flood : 
 But when the voice of Jesus with tlie storm 
 Soft mingled. It is I, be not afraid ; 
 Fear fled, and joy lighten'd from eye to eye. 
 Up he ascends, and, from the rolling side, 
 Surveys the tumult of the sea and sky 
 AV'ith transient look severe ; the tempest, awed. 
 Sinks to a sudden calm ; the clouds disperse; 
 The moon-l>eam trembles on the face divine, 
 Hefiectcd mildly in the unruffled deep.
 
 BIBLICAL PICTURES. 
 
 THE DUMB CURED. 
 
 His eves uplifted, and his hands close clasp'd. 
 The dumb man, with a supplicating look, 
 Tum'd as the Lord pass'd bv : Jesus beheld. 
 And on him bent a pitying look, and spake : 
 His moving lips are by 'the suppliant seen. 
 And the last accents of the healing sentence 
 King in that ear which never heard before. 
 Prostrate the man restored falls to the earth, 
 And uses first the gift, the gift sublime 
 Of speech, in giving thanks to him, whose voicj 
 Was never utter'd but in doing gocxl. 
 
 THE DEATH OF JESUS. 
 
 'Tis finished : he spake the words, and bow'd 
 His head, and died. — Beholding him far oft', 
 They who had minister'd unto him hope 
 'Tis his last agony : The Temple's vail 
 Is rent ; revealing the most holy place, 
 'W^herein the cherubim their wings eitei.d, 
 O'ershadowing the mercy-seat of Uod. 
 Appall'd the leaning soldier feels the spear 
 Shake in his grasp ; the planted standard falls 
 Upon the heaving ground ; the sun is dimm'd. 
 And darkness shrouds the body of the Lord. 
 
 THE RESURRECTION-. 
 
 The setting o/b of night her level ray 
 Shed o'er the I md, and on the dewy sward 
 The lengthen'd shadows of the triple cross 
 ■Were laid far-stretch 'd, — when in the east arosj 
 Last of the stars, day's harbinger : No sound 
 \Va^ heard, save of the watchir.g soldier's foot :
 
 BIBLICAL PICTURES. 43 
 
 \Vithin the rock-barr'd sepulchre, the gloom 
 Of deepest midnight brooded o'er the dead, 
 The Holy One : but, lo ! a radiance faint 
 Began to dawn around his sacred brow : 
 The linen vesture seem'd a snowy wreath. 
 Drifted by storms into a mountain cave: 
 Bright and more bright, the circling halo bear.i'd 
 Upon that face, clothed in a smile benign. 
 Though yet exanimate. Nor long the reii^ 
 Of death ; the eyes that wept for human griefs 
 Unclose, and look around with conscious joy. 
 Yes ; with returning life, the first emotion 
 That glow'd in Jesus' breast of love was joy 
 At man's redemption, now complete; at death 
 Itisarm'd ; the grave transform'd into the couch 
 Of faiih ; the resurrection and the hfe. 
 Majestical he rose : trembled the earth ; 
 The ponderous gate of stone was roU'd away, 
 'Phe keepers fell ; the angel, awe-struck, sunk 
 Into Invisibility, while forth 
 The Saviour ol'the world walk'd, and stood 
 Before the sepulchre, and view'd the clouds 
 Empurpled glorious by the rising sun. 
 
 JESUS APPEARS TO THE DISCIPLES. 
 
 Tub evening of that day, which saw the Lord 
 Hue from the chainbers of the dead, was cume. 
 His faithful followers, assembled, sang 
 A hymn, low-breathed j a hymn of sorrow, blent 
 With hope; when, in the midst, sudden he s.<.i'd ; 
 The awe-blruck circle backward shrink; he louks 
 Around with a benignant smile ot love. 
 And says. Peace le unto you : Faith and joy 
 Spread o'er each face, amazed ; as when the moon 
 Pavilion'd in dark clouds, mildly comes forth. 
 Silvering a circlet in the fleecy ranks.
 
 « BIBLICAL PICTURES. 
 
 PAUL ACCUSED BEFORE THE TRIBUNAL 
 OF THE AREOPAGUS. 
 
 LrsTEx that voice ! upon the hill of Mars, 
 Rolling in bolder ihunders than e'er peal'd 
 Berid i;i'd'' 'h°"'^ "^^ Macedo.^In'^lhrone; 
 nf,,,^^ f daunUess outstretched arm, hk face 
 Of^^ of Heaven :_he knoweth not the fear 
 Of man, of principalities, of powers, 
 ihe Stoic's moveless frown ; the vacant stare 
 
 The Areopagite tribunal dread. ' 
 
 TlfirhT-^M"?.,'^^ '^S?"' "*■ Socrates was utter'd ;_ 
 1 his hostile throng dismays him not : he seems 
 As if no worldly object coild inspire 
 U-h1!^v,°' "I ^''^'"V' '■ as if the vision. 
 Fr^i^ k' ''^" hejourney'd to Damascus, shone 
 Oaf^,/^^"' ff"' ?«^a™ before his eyes,' 
 Out-dazzling all things earthly ; as if the voice 
 wtK-'Pl''^ from out the etfulgen^, ever rang 
 Within his ear. inspiring him with words' 
 tZ ^' ™^Je^"<:. l°ft>> as his theme,- ' 
 1 he resurrection, and die life to come. 
 
 PALL ACCUSED BEFORE THE RO.AIAX 
 GOVERNOR OF JUDEA. 
 
 Iml/^lf ascended to the judgment-seat; 
 Dm nM.-f r"^ of spears the Apostle stood. 
 Daundess he foryvard came, and look'd around 
 And raised his voice, at first in accents low. 
 So lw'',i, ^.IT'^'y"'' ^P""^*^ among the throng :_ 
 Is h^^rH '^,^ *^""der mutters, still the breeze ^ 
 Trpmln^^' "r^^?? '° ''Sh ; but when the peal 
 ?.^^;?^^5'^°"''J°"''^'" ^°"s. a silence dead 
 bucceeds each pauie,-moveless the aspen leaf
 
 BIBLICAL PICTURES. 45 
 
 Tims fix'd and motionless, the listening band 
 Of soldiers forward lean'd, as from the man 
 Inspired of God, truth's awful thunders roU'd. 
 No more he feels, upon his high-raised arm, 
 The ponderous chain, than does the playful child 
 The bracelet, form'd of many a flowery link. 
 Heedless of self, forgetful that his life 
 Is now to be defended by his words, 
 He only thinks of doing good to them 
 Who seek his life ; and while he reasons high 
 Of justice, temperance, and the life to come. 
 The Judge shrinks trembling at the ptisouer'j 
 voice.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 PARAPHRASE. 
 
 TTho healeth all thy diseases ; rvko redeemeih thy lifi 
 from destruztion ; who cronneth thee n-ith loving 
 kindneS3 and lender mercitt — PsAtM ciii. 3, 4. 
 
 TiiESB eyes, that were half-closed in death. 
 
 Now dare the noontide blaze ; 
 Mv voice, that scarce could speak my wants, 
 
 Xow hjmns Jehovah's praise. 
 
 How pleasant to my feet unused. 
 
 To tread the daisied ground ! 
 How sweet to mv unwonted ear 
 
 The streamlet's lulling sound . 
 
 How soft the first breath of the breeze 
 
 That on my temples play'd ! 
 How sweet the woodland evening sons, 
 
 Full floating down the glade ! 
 
 But sweetor far the lark that so.-u-s 
 Through morning's blushing ray ; 
 
 F' r then" unseen, unheard, I join 
 His lonely heavenward lay. 
 
 And sweeter still that infant voice. 
 
 With all its artless charms ;— 
 T^vas such as he ih'.t Jesus took. 
 And cherish'd in hi; arms.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 O Lord inv God ! all these delighU 
 
 I to thy'mercy owe ; 
 For thou hast la'sed me from the couch 
 
 Of sickness, pain, and wo. 
 
 'Twas thou that from the whelming wave 
 
 IMv sinking soul redeem'd ; 
 'Twas thou that o'er destruction's storm 
 
 A calming radiance beam'd. 
 
 ON VISITING MELROSE, 
 
 AJJer an absence of Sixieen Years. 
 
 Yon setting sun, that slowly disappears. 
 Gleams a memento of departed years: 
 Ay, many a year is pone, and many a fiif>nd. 
 Since here I saw the autumn sun desoerd. 
 Ah ! one is gone, whose hand was lock'd in mine. 
 In this, that traces now the sorrowing line: 
 And now alone I scan the mouldering tomlis. 
 Alone I wander through the vaulted glooms. 
 And list, as if the echoes might retain 
 <)ne lingering cadence of her varied strain. 
 Alas ! I heard that melting voice decay. 
 Heard seraph tones in whispers die away ; 
 I mark'd the tear presageful fill her eye. 
 And quivering speak,—! am resign'd to die. 
 Ye stars, that" through the fretted windows shed 
 A glimmering beam athwart the mighty dead. 
 Say to what sphere her sainted spirit flew, 
 That thither I may turn my longing view. 
 And wish, and hope, some tedious seasons o'er. 
 To join a long lost friend, to part no more. 
 
 THE WILD DUCK AND HER BROOD. 
 
 How calm that little lake ! no breath of wind 
 Sighs through the reeds ; a clear abyss it seem*.
 
 4S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Held in the concaTe of the uiTerted sky, — 
 In which is seen the rook's dull flagging wing 
 Move o'er the silvery clouds. Kow peaceful sails 
 Yon little fleet, the wild duck and her brood ! 
 Fearless of harm, they row their easy way ; 
 The water-lily 'neath the plumy prows. 
 Dips, re-appearing in their dimpled track. 
 Vei, even amid that scene of peace, the noise 
 Of war, unequal, dastard war, intrudes. 
 Yon revel rout of men, and boys, and dofrs. 
 Boisterous approach ; the spaniel dashes in ; 
 Quick he descries the prey ; and faster swims, . 
 And eager barks ; the harmless flock dismay'd. 
 Hasten 'to pain the thickest grove of reeds. 
 All but the parent pair; they, floating, wait 
 To lure the foe, and lead him from their young; 
 But soon themselves are forced to seek the shore. 
 Vain then the buoyant wing; the leaden storm 
 Arrests their flight ; they, fluttering, bleeding fall. 
 And tinge the troubled bosom of the lake- 
 
 TO A REDBREAST, THAT FLEW IN 
 AT MY WINDOW. 
 
 From snowy plains, and icy sprays, 
 
 From moonless nights, and sunless days, 
 
 AVelcome. poor bird! I'll cherish thee; 
 
 I love thee, for thou irustest me. 
 
 Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest ! 
 
 Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast: — 
 
 How quick thy little heart is beating I 
 
 As if its brother flutterer greeting. 
 
 Tliou need'st not dread a captive's doom 
 
 No : freely flutter round my room ; 
 
 Perch on my !ute"s remaining string. 
 
 And sweetly of sweet summer sing. 
 
 Th::i note, that summer note, I know ; 
 
 It wakes at once, and soothes my wo ; 
 
 I see those woods, I see that stream, 
 
 I see, — ih still prolong the dream ! 
 
 Still with thv song tliose scenes renew, 
 
 Though through my tears they reach my vie v.
 
 s'eKus 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POE^rS. 
 
 \o more now, at my lonely meal. 
 While thou art by, alone I'll "feel ; 
 For soon, devoid of all distrust, 
 Thou'lt nibbling share my humble crust ; 
 Or on my finger, pert and spruce, 
 Thou'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice j 
 y\nd when (our short collation o'er) 
 Some favourite volume I explore, 
 Be't work of poet or of sage. 
 Safe thou Shalt hop across the page ; 
 Uncheck'd, shalt flit o'er Virgil's groves, 
 Or flutter 'mid TibuUus' loves. 
 Thus, heedless of the raving blast, 
 Thou'lt dwell with me till winter's past 
 And when the primrose tells 'tis spring. 
 And when the thrush begins to sing, 
 Scon as I hear the woodland song, 
 Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng. 
 
 EriTAPH ON A BLACI^BIRD KILLED 
 
 BY A HAWK. 
 
 vViNTEB was o'er, and spring fiowers deck'd the 
 
 glade; [rung 
 
 The Blackbird's note among the wild woois 
 
 Ah, shortlived note .' the songster now is laid 
 
 Beneath the bush on which so sweet he sung. 
 
 Thy jetty plumes, by ruthless falcon rent, 
 
 Are now all soil'd among the mouldering clay 
 
 A primrosed turf is all thy monument, 
 
 And for thy dirge the Redbreast lends his laj 
 
 THE POOR MAN'S FUNERAL, 
 Von motley, sable-suited throng, that wait 
 Around the poor man's door, announce a tale 
 Of wo ; the husband, parent, is no more. 
 Contending with disease, he labour'd long, 
 By penury compell'd; yielding at last. 
 He laid him down to die ; but, lingering on 
 From day to day, he from his sick-bed saw, 
 f'eart-broken quite, his children's locks of want 
 Veil'd in a clouded sn.ile : alas I he heard
 
 5D MISCELLANEOL'S POEMS. 
 
 The elder lispinely attempt to still 
 
 The younger's plaint,— languid he raised bis he.id, 
 
 And thought he yet could toil, but sunk 
 
 Into the arms of Death, the poor man's friend ! 
 
 The coffin is borne out ; the humble pomp 
 Moves s1jw1» on ; the orphan mourners hand 
 {Poor he'.plfcss child !) just reaches to the pall. 
 And now they pass into the field of graves. 
 And now around the narrow house they stand, 
 And Tiew the plain black boaid sink from the 
 Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds, Isight. 
 As falls each spadeful of the bone-mix'd mould. 
 The turf is spread ; uncovered is each head,— 
 A last farewell : all tuni their several ways. 
 
 Woes me ! those tear-dimm'd eyes, that sobbing 
 breast ! 
 Poor child ! thou thinkest of the Kindly hind 
 That wont to lead thee home : No more that hand 
 Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gentle stroke 
 Thy sun-bleach'd head and downy cheek. 
 But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps ; 
 In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page,— 
 Her thoughts are in the grave ; 'tis thou alone. 
 Her fitst-boin child canst rouse that statue gaze 
 Of wo profound. Haste to the widow'd arms ; 
 Look with thy father's look, speak with his Toi( e. 
 And melt a heart that else will break with griel. 
 
 THE THANKSGIVING OFF CAPE 
 TRAFALGAR. 
 
 Upon the high, vet gently rolling wave. 
 The floaUng tomb that hesves at ove the brave. 
 Soft sig'is the gale, that late tremendous roar'd, 
 \^'Tielm;ng the wretched remnants of the sword. 
 And now the cannon's peaceful thunder calls 
 The vict>r bands to mount their wooden walls. 
 And from the ramparts, while their comrades fell. 
 The mingled strain of joy and gritf to swell : 
 Fast thev ascend, from >tem to stem they spread. 
 And crowd the engines, whence the lightnings 
 sped : ^ [tends ; 
 
 The white-robed priest his upraised hands ex- 
 Hush'd 15 each voice, attention leamng bends; 
 Then from each prow the grand hosannas rise. 
 Float o'er the deep, and hover to the skies.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEiMS. 51 
 
 Heaven fills each heart ; yet Home will oft intruda 
 And tears of love celestial joys exclude. 
 The wounded man, who hears the soaring strain, 
 I,ifts his pale visage, and forgets his pain ; 
 VVtiile parting spirits, mingling with the lay. 
 On halleluiahs wing their heavenward way. 
 
 TO MY SON. 
 Twice has the sun commenced his annual round. 
 Since first thy footsteps totter'd o'er the ground. 
 Since first thy tongue was tuned to hless mine ear, 
 By faltering out the name to fathers dear. 
 O ! Nature's language, with her looks combined. 
 More precious far than periods thrice refined ! 
 
 1 sportive looks of love, devoid of guile, 
 
 1 prize you more than Beauty's magic smile: 
 Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm, 
 
 1 gaze with bliss, unmingled with alarm. 
 Ah, no ! full oft a boding horror flies 
 Athwart my fancy, uttering fateful cries. 
 Almighty Power ! his harmless life defend, 
 And if we part, 'gainst me the mandate send. 
 And yet a wish will rise, — would I might live. 
 Till added years his memory firmness give ! 
 For, O ! it would a joy in death impart, 
 To think I still survived within his heart ; 
 To think he'll cast, midway the vale of years, 
 A retrospective look, bedimm'd with tears; 
 And tell, regretful, how I look'd and spoke; 
 What walks I loved; where grew my favouht- 
 How gently 1 would lead him by the hand; loak ; 
 How gently use the accent of command ; 
 VVfiat lore I taught him, roaming wood and wil 1, 
 And how the man descended to the child ; 
 How well I loved with him, on Sabbath morn. 
 To hear the anthem of the vocal thorn ; 
 To teach religion, unallied to strife. 
 And trace to him the way, the truth, the life. 
 But, far and farther still my view I bend, — 
 And now I see a child thy steps attend ; — 
 To yonder churchyard-wall thou takest thy way. 
 While round thee, pleased, thou seest the infant 
 
 play; 
 Then lifting him, while tears sufTuse thine eyes. 
 Pointing, thou tell'st him. There thy grandiire tU-il 
 D2
 
 NOTES. 
 
 That tlic religious observance of one day in seven 
 was a point ©rmain importance under the Jewish 
 and Christian dispensations, is evident, from the 
 very strong terms in which the law commanding 
 its observance is couched ; from the anxious repe- 
 titions of that law, the judgments which the pro- 
 phets denounced against its violation, the fulfil • 
 ment of these denunciations, the strict observance 
 of the Sabbath during the best times of the Jewish 
 polity , and its observance by Christ, the apostles, 
 and the primitive Christians. What is more ma- 
 terial,— that the Sabbath weis instituted, not as a 
 mere ritual observance, but as an essential article of 
 moral duly, is proved by this consideration, that one 
 of the oi;ec<i of the institution was — the ameliora- 
 tion of the lot of the laborious part of the creation, 
 animals as well as men — Sut the spirit of this ad- 
 mirable institution will be best illustrated, by 
 bringing into one view some of those passages of 
 Scripture, whether preceptive, prophetic, or his- 
 torical, in which the Sabbath is mentioned. 
 
 " Keep the Sabbath day, to sanctify it. as the 
 Lord thv God hath commanded thee. Six days 
 shalt thou labour, and do all thy work. But the 
 seventh day is the sabbath of the Lord thy God : 
 in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy 
 son, nor thy daughter, nor thy man-servant, nor 
 thy maid-servant, nor thine ox, nor thine ass, nor 
 any of thy cattle, nor the stranger that is within 
 thy gates; that thy man-servant and thy maid-ser- 
 vant may rest as well as thou. And remember that 
 thou wast a servant in the land of Egypt, and that 
 the Lord thy God brought thee out thence through 
 a mightv hand, and hv an outstretched arm ; there- 
 fore the'F>ord Ihv God" commanded thee to keep the 
 ^habbath dav." Dcut. v. I'Z— 15.
 
 NOTES. S3 
 
 " Ve shall keep my Sabbaths, and reverence niT 
 sanctuany ; I am the Lord." Lev. xix. 50. 
 
 " Six days shall work be done; but the seventh 
 day is the Sabbath of rest, an holy convocation: ve 
 shall do no work therein; it is the Sabbath of the 
 Lord in all your dwelling«." Lev. xxiii. 3. 
 
 " Six days shall thou do thy work, and on the 
 seventh day thou shalt rest, Ihat thine ox and Ihint 
 ass may rest, and the son of thy handmaid and tht 
 stringer may be refreshed." Exod. xxii. l'^. 
 
 " Also the sons of the stranger (hat join them- 
 selves to the Lord, to serve hira and to luve the 
 name of the Lord, to be his servants, every ore 
 that keepeth the Sabbath from polluting it, and 
 taketh hold of my covenant, even them will I bring 
 to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in ni y 
 house of prayer : their burnt-offerirgs and thtir 
 sacrifices shall he accepted upon mine altar ; for 
 mine house shall be called an house of prayer for 
 all people." Isa. Ivi, 6, 7. 
 
 " And he came to Nazareth, where he had been 
 brought up, and, as his custom was, he went into 
 the synagogue on the Sabbath day, and stood up for 
 to read. And there was delivered unto him the 
 book of the prophet Esaias ; and when he had open- 
 ed tlie book, he found the place where it was writ- 
 ten, The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he 
 hath anointed me /j preach the gospel to the joor; 
 he hath sent me to heal the broken-hearted, to preach 
 deliverance to the captives, ana recovering of siuht to 
 the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised: to 
 preach the acceptable year of the Lord." Luke iv, 
 16-19. 
 
 " And that day was the preparalion, and the 
 Sabbath drew on. And the women also which 
 came with him from Galilee, followed afier, and 
 beheld the sepulchre, and how his body was laid. 
 And ihcy relumed, and prepared spices and oint- 
 
 th, 
 
 " But when Chey departed from Perga, they 
 came to Antioch in Pi^idia, and went into the 
 synagogue on the Sabbath day, and sat down. And 
 after the reading of the law and the prophets, the 
 ruU'rs of the synagopue sent unto them, saying. Ye . 
 lucn and brethren, if you have any word of cxlior- 
 1)5
 
 54 NOTE?. 
 
 tation for the ptcple. say on. Ther Tsui sirod up, 
 and beckoning \» ith his hand, said, .Men of Israel, 
 and ye that fear God, give audience." — " For they 
 that dwell at Jerusalem, and their rulers, becaui* 
 they knew him not, nor yet the voices of the pro- 
 
 Rhets, which are read every Sabbath day, they have 
 ilfiUed them in condemning him." — "And'when 
 the Jews wtre gone out of the synagogue, the (ien- 
 tiles besought them that these words might be 
 preached to them the next Sabbath. Actsxiii. U, 
 15, 16, 27. 42. 
 
 " Hear this, O ye that swall iw up the needy, even 
 to make the poor of the land to fail, saving. When 
 will the new moon be gone, that we may sell corn ? 
 and the Sabbalh, that we may set forth wheat, 
 making the ephah small and the shekel great, and 
 falsifymg the balances by deceit ? That we may buy 
 the poor for silver, and the needy fora pair of^hoes'; 
 yea, and sell the refuse of the wheat." Ames viii. 
 4-6. 
 
 " If thou turn away thy foot from the Sabbalh, 
 from doing ihy pleasure on my holy dav, and call 
 the Sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord, hon- 
 ourable, and Shalt honour him, not doing thine 
 own ways, nor finding thine own pleasures, r.or 
 speaking thine own words : then shalt thou delight 
 thyself in the Lord, and I will cause thee to lide 
 upon the high places of the earth, and fctd thfe 
 with the heritage of Jacob thy father: for ihe 
 mouth of the Lord halh spoken iu" Isaiah Iviii. 
 13,11. 
 
 " And on the Sabbalh, he went out of the city by 
 a river side, where prayer was wont to be made." 
 Acts xvi. 13. 
 
 " And upon the first day of the week, when the 
 disciples came together to break bread, Paul preach- 
 ed unto them, ready to depart on the moriow, and 
 continued his speech until midnight." AcU xx. 7. 
 
 The toil rvorn horse set free. P. 1. 1. 24. 
 
 " A Sabbath day's journey," says a late able and 
 faithful labourer in the vineyaidof the Lord, " was, 
 an.opg the Jews, a proverbial expression for a very 
 »hori one. Among us it can have no such mean"-
 
 NOTES. 55 
 
 hig affixed to it. That day seems to be considered 
 bj loo many, as set apart,' by divine and human 
 aulhority, for the purpose, not of reit, but of its di- 
 rect opposite, the labour of travelling ; thus adding 
 one day more of torment to those generous, but 
 wretched animals whose services they hire; and 
 who, being generallv strained beyond their strength 
 the other six days of the weeli, have, of all creatures 
 under heaven, the best and most equitable claim 
 to suspension of labour on the seventh. Consider- 
 ations such as these may perhaps appear to some 
 below the dignity of this place, and the solemnity 
 of a Christian assembly. But benevolence, even 
 to the brute creation, is, in its degree, a duty, no 
 less than to our own species ; and it is mentioned by 
 Solomon as a striking feature in the character of a 
 righteous man, that ' he is merciful even to his 
 beast.' He, wiihout whoie permission ' not a spar- 
 row falls to the ground, and who feedeth the young 
 ravens that call upon him,' will not suffer even the 
 meanest work of his hands to be treated cruelly 
 with impunity. He is the common Father of the 
 whole creation. He takes every part of it under 
 his proteciion. He has, in various passages of 
 Scripture, expressed his concern even for irration- 
 al creatures, and has declared more especially, in 
 the most explicit terms, that the rest ofihe Sab- 
 bath was meant/or our ca/</e and our tenants, a* 
 w ell as for ourselves." Bishop Porteia. 
 
 Their constancy in torture and in death. P. 7. 
 1. IS. 
 
 The following passage from Bishop Burnet's His- 
 tory of his Own 1 ime, will give some notion of the 
 kind, though not of the extent, of that hideous per- 
 .•-ecution, from which the people of Scotland were 
 delivered by the Revolution. " When any are to 
 be struck in the boots, it is done in the presence of 
 the council ; and upon that occasion almost all of 
 fur to run away. The sight is to dreadful, that 
 without an order restraining such a number to stay, 
 the board would be forsaken. But the duke, while 
 he had I een in Scotland, was so far frcmwiili- 
 dra^ ing, that he koled on all the while wiili aa 
 D 1
 
 ft6 NOTES. 
 
 umr.oTed indifference, and with an attention, as if 
 he Pad been to look on some curious experiment. 
 This gave a teriible idea of him to all that observed 
 it, as of a man that had no bowels nor humanity in 
 him. Lord Perth observing this, resolved to let him 
 see how well qualified he was to be an inquisitor- 
 general. The rule about the boots in Scotland 
 was, that upon one witness, and presumptions, both 
 together, the question might be given : But it was 
 never known to be twice given, or that any other 
 species of torture, besides the boots, might be used 
 at pleasure. In the courts of inquisition, they do, 
 upon suspicion, or if a man refuses to answer upon 
 oath as he is required, give him the torture ; and 
 repeat it, or vary ii, as often as they think fit; and 
 do not give o>er till they have got out of their man- 
 gled prisoners all that thej have a mind to know 
 from them. 
 
 " This Lord Perth resolved now to make hi- p.it. 
 tern ; and was a little too early in letting the world 
 see what a government we were to expect under 
 the influence of a prince of that religion. So, up- 
 on his going to Scotland, one Spence, who was a 
 s"rvant of Lord Arg\irs, and was taken up at Lon- 
 don, only upon suspicion, and sent down to Scot- 
 land, was required to take an oath to answer all 
 the questions that should be put to him. This 
 was done in a direct contradiction to an express 
 law against obliging men to swear, that they will 
 answer super inquirendis. Spence likewise said, 
 that he himself might be concerned in what he 
 might know ; and it was against a very universal 
 law, that excused 'all men from swearing against 
 themselves, to force him to take such an oath. So 
 he was struck in the hoots, and continued firm in his 
 refusal. Then a new species of torture w.is in- 
 vented: he was kept from sleep eight or nii'.e 
 nights. They grew weary of managing this; so a 
 third specits"was invented: little screws of steel 
 were made use of, that screwed the thumbs with so 
 exquisite a torment, that he sunk under this; for 
 Lord Perth told him, they would screw every joint 
 of his whole body, one after another, ti'l he took the 
 oath. Yet such was the firmness and fidelity of 
 tliis poor man, that, even in that extremity, he 
 caj'i'.uiatedj that no new questions should be put to
 
 NOTES. 67 
 
 him, but those already agreed on ; and that be 
 himself should be pardoned: so all he could tell 
 them was, who -were lord ArgxU's correspondents. 
 The chief of them was Holmes, at London, to 
 whom Lord Arsnil writ in a cypher, that had a 
 particular curiosity in it. A double key was ne- 
 cessary ; the one was, to show the way of placing 
 the words or cypher, in an order -veiy different 
 from that in which they lay on the paper ; the oth- 
 er was, the key of the cyphers themseWes, which 
 was found among Holmes's papers when he abscon- 
 ded. Spence knew only the first of these ; but he 
 putting all in its true order, then by the other key 
 they were decyphered. In these, it appeared what 
 Argyll had demanded, and what he undertook to 
 do upon the granting his demands ; but none of 
 his letters spoke any thing of any agreement then 
 made. 
 
 " When the torture had this effect on Spence, 
 they offered the same oath to Carstairs ; and, upon 
 his refusing to take it, they put his thumbs in the 
 screv s, and drew them so hard, that as they put 
 him to ex'.reme toiture, so they could not unicrc-w 
 them, till the smitli that made them was brought 
 with his tools to take them off." Burnet. 
 
 July 22, 1688. Anna Ker, relict of Mr. James 
 Duncan, was brought before the council. " The 
 Lords caused bring in the boots before her, and 
 gave her to five of the clock to think upon it, ap- 
 prizing her, if she would not give her oath in the 
 promises, she was to be tortured. In the afternoon 
 Mrs. Duncan continued firm to her purpose, anj 
 had certainly been put to the torture, had not 
 Rothes interposed, and told the council. It rvas not 
 proper for f^entlcwoinen to wear boots." Wudrtin, 
 vol. i. p. 994. 
 
 " .Some time after Eothwell, George Forbes, a 
 trooper in Captain Stewart's troop, then lying in 
 Glasgow, came out one morning with a party of 
 soldiers to the village of Langside, in the parish of 
 Cathcart, not two miles from that city, and by 
 force broke open the doors of John Mitchell, ten- 
 ant there, his house, who, they alleged, had been 
 at Bothwcll. John was, that morning, happily out 
 of the way, whereupon they seized Anna I'ark', his 
 wife, a si::^uu\rly rel;;;i,iis and sensible (.(.uuiiy
 
 58 NOTES. 
 
 womin, whose memoi? is yet savaurj- i:i that place, 
 and pressed her to tell where her' hu.l>aiid was. 
 The good woman peremptorily refusini;, they bound 
 her, and put kindled matches between her 'fingers, 
 to extort a discovery from her. Her torment was 
 great; but her God strengthened her, and she en- 
 dured, for some hours, alf they could do, with ad- 
 mirable patience, and both her hands were disabled 
 for some time." Wodrow vol. ii. i^. 77. 
 
 A people doom'd, S^c, P. 7. 1. 25. 
 
 By the tyrannous and saneuinary laws that were 
 passed between the year 1601, and the ever-memor- 
 able year of the Revolution, the whole inhabitants 
 of extensive districts in the Lowlands of Scotland 
 might be said to have lived under sentence of 
 death. 
 
 Old men, and youlhi, and timple maids. 
 
 i'. 7. 1.26. 
 
 " One morning, between five and six hours, Johit 
 Brown, having performed the worship of God in 
 bis family, was going, with a spade in his liand, to 
 m.ike ready some peat-ground. The mist being 
 very dark, he knew not until cruel and bloody Cla- 
 verhouse compassed him with three troops of horse, 
 brought him to his house, and there examined 
 him ; who, though he was a man of stammering 
 speech, yet answered him distinctly and solidly ; 
 which made Claverhouse to examine those whom 
 he had taken to be his guide through the niuirs, 
 if they had heard him preach ? They answered, 
 ' No, no, he never was a preacher." He said, ' If 
 he has never preached, meikle has he prayed in his 
 time.' He said to John, ' (io to your prayers, for 
 you shall immediately die.' When he was praying, 
 Claverhouse interrupted hira thr e limes: one 
 lime that he slopped nim, he was pleading that the 
 Lord would spare a remnant, and not make a full 
 end in the day of hii anger. Claverhouse said, ' 1 
 f(ave you fme to pray, and you are l)egun to 
 preach ;' he turned about upon his knees, and said.
 
 NOTES. 5y 
 
 • Sir, you know neither the nature cf piaving nor 
 preaching, that calls this preaching;' then coniin- 
 utd without confusion. When ended, Claverhouse 
 said, ' Take goodnight of your wife and children.' 
 His wife standing by with her child in her aims 
 that she had brought forth to him, and anotlier 
 child of his first wile's, he came to her, and said. 
 Now, Marion, the day is come that I told you 
 would come, when I spake first to you of marry irg 
 me.' She said, ' Indeed, John, I can willii gly 
 part with you.' Then he said, ' This is all I de- 
 sire, I have no more to do but die." He kissed his 
 wife and balms, and wished purchased and pro- 
 mised blessings to be multii>lied upon them, and 
 his blessing. Clavcrhouse ordered six men to 
 shoot him : the most part of the bullets came upon 
 his head, which scattered his brains upon the 
 ground. Claverhouse said to his wife, ' What 
 thinkest thou of thy husband now, woman ?' She 
 said, ' I thought ever much of bin:, and now as 
 much as ever.' He said, ' It were justi( e to lay 
 thee beside him.' She said, ' If y° were permitttd, 
 I doubt not but your cruelty would go that length : 
 but how will you make answer for this morning' 
 work ?' He said, ' To man I can be answerable ; 
 and for God, I will take hira in mine own hand.' 
 Claverhouse mounted his horse, and marched, and 
 Itfl her, with the corpse of her dead husband lying 
 there. She set the bairn on the ground, and tied 
 up his head, and straighted his body, and covered 
 him in her plaid, and sat down, and wept over 
 him. It being a very desert place, where never 
 victual grew, and far from neighbours, it was some 
 time betore any friends came to her : the first that 
 came was a very fit hand, that old singular Chris- 
 tian woman in the Cummerhead, named Elizabeth 
 Alenzies, three miles distant, who had been tried 
 with the violent death of her husband at Peniland, 
 afterwards of two worthy sons, Thomas Weir, whc 
 was killed at Drumclog, "and David Steel, who was 
 suddenly shot afterwards when taken. The said 
 Marion'Weir, sitting upon her husband's grave, 
 told me, that before that, she could see no blood 
 but she was in danger to faint, and yet she was 
 hdped to be a witness to all this witJout either 
 fainting or confusion ; eicc-pl i* lieu the ihots wt7»
 
 GO NOTES. 
 
 h?t off", her t-yes dazzled. His corpse was buried at 
 trip end of !iis house, where he was slain." — Pcdtn'i 
 Life. 
 
 C'averhouse was rewarded by his master, James, 
 with the title of Viscount Dundee, and with the 
 confiscated lands and goods of the sufferers. A 
 late memoir writer, the slanderer of Sidney and 
 Russets, apostrophizes this dastardly murderer of 
 the unarmed peasantry as a generous and heroic 
 character. 
 
 James Stewart, a boy, " came in from the west 
 country to see a relation of hii in prison at Edin- 
 burgh. By what means I know not, the other 
 got out, and he was found in the room whence 
 
 snared by their questions. ^V'hen he was silent 
 on some heads, and would not answer, some pa- 
 pers before me biar, tl:at Sir George JI'Kenzie 
 threatened to take out his tongue with a pair of 
 pincers. precisely on his answers, he was con- 
 demned, and in a few days after he was taken 
 with the rest, (ms others',) and executed at the 
 GaUow-lee "—Wodrow, B. III. c. 5,§ 4. year IfSl. 
 " Marion Harvie, a young woman, not twenty 
 years of age, on her way to the place of execution, 
 was intermpted in her devotions: on which she 
 turned to her fellow-prisoner, Isabel Alison, and 
 said, ' Come, Isabel, let us sing the 2.'5d Psalm ;' 
 which accordingly thsy did, Maricn repeating the 
 psalm line by line without book. Being come to the 
 scaffold, after singing the 8 Uh Psalm, and reading 
 3-1 of Malachi, she said, ' I am come here to-day for 
 avowing Christ to be the head of his church, and 
 King in Zion. They say I would murder; but I 
 declare, I am free of all matters of fact; I could 
 never take the lite of a chicken but my heart 
 shrinked. But it is only formyjudgnient I'lf things 
 that I am brought here. I leave my blood on the 
 coimcil and the Duke of York.' .^t tlii>', the sol 
 diers interrupted her, and would not allow her to 
 speak any."— Child of Witnestet. 
 
 But that mem. P. 7. I. .<T. 
 The rcsun --tion happoi;cd on the morning of
 
 the first day of the week, which is now observed as 
 the Christian Sabbath. 
 
 By Cameron thundnr'd. P. S. 1. 1. 
 
 " The la^t night of his life, he was in the hcw^e 
 of William ."Mitchell in ]\feadowhead at the water 
 of Ayr, where about twenty-three horse and fortv 
 foot had continued with him that week. That 
 
 g a woman gave him water to wash his 
 face and hands; and having washed, and dried 
 them with a towel, he looked to his hands, and 
 laid them on his face, saying, ' this is their last 
 washing; I have need to make them clean, for 
 there are many to see them.' At this the woman's 
 mother wept. He said, ' Weep not for me, but for 
 yourself and your's, and for the sins of a sinful 
 land, for ye have melancholy, sorrowful, and 
 weary days before you.' 
 
 " I'he people who remained with him were in 
 some hesitation whether they should abide together 
 for their own defence, or disperse, and shift for 
 themselves. But that day, being the 2'2d of July, 
 they were surprised by Bruce of Earshall ; who, 
 having got the command of Airly's troop and 
 Strahan's dragoons, upon notice given him by Sir 
 John Cochran of Ochiltree, came furiously upon 
 them, about four o'clock in the afternoon, when 
 lying on the east end of Airs-moss. When thev 
 saw the enemy approaching, and no possibility o'f 
 escaping, they all gathered round about him, while 
 he prayed a short word ; wherein he repeated this 
 expression thrice over, ' Lord spare the green, and 
 take the ripe.' When ended, he said to his brother, 
 with great intrepidity, ' Come, let us fight it out to 
 the last ; for this is the day that I have longed for, 
 and the day that I have prayed for, to die fighting 
 against our Lord's avowed enemies; this is the day 
 that we will get the crown.' And to the rest he 
 said, ' Be encouraged, all of vou, to fight it out 
 valiantly; for all of you that shall fall this day, I 
 see heaven's gates open to receive you." 
 
 " But the enemy approaching, they immediately 
 drew up eight horse with him on the right, the 
 rest, with valiant Hackston, on the left, and the
 
 CI NOTES. 
 
 foot in theniiddle; where they all heUaTed with 
 much bniwrr, iiatil overpowered by a suiieno.- 
 number. At last Hackston was taken prisoner, 
 and Mr. Cainoron was killed on the spot, and his 
 head and hands cut off by one Murray, and taken 
 to Edinburgh. Hi> father being in prison for the 
 same cause, they carried them to him, to add CT^jef 
 unto his former 'sorrow, and inquired at him, if he 
 knew them. He took his son's hands and head, 
 which were %ers fair, being a man of a fair com- 
 plexion, with his own hair, and kissed them, aid 
 said, • I know, I know them ; they are my son'', 
 my own dear sons : it is the Lord, good is the 
 wi'll of the Lord, who cannot wrong me nor mine, 
 but has made goodness and mercy to follow us aU 
 ourdavs.' After which, bv order of the council, 
 his head was fixed on the Netherbow Port, and 
 his hands beside it, with the fingers upward.' — 
 amid of Wilnesses. 
 
 " The father durst not receive his son, nor the 
 wife her husband ; the country was prohibited to 
 harbour the fugitives, and the j>orts were shut 
 a-ainst their escape bv sea. WTien expelled from 
 their homes, thev resided in caves, among morasses 
 and mountains, or met by stealth, or by night, for 
 worship ; but whenever the mountain-raen, as 
 thev were styled, were discovered, the hue-and- 
 cry'was ordered to be raised. They were pursued, 
 and frequently shot by the military, or sought with 
 more insidious diligence bv the spies, informers, 
 and officers of justice ; and on some occasions, it 
 appears, that the sagacity of dogs was employed to 
 track their footsteps, and explore their lurking 
 retreats."— Aain^'* History, vol. ii. 
 
 I am convinced, that in Enjland, and especially 
 In Ix)ndon, (such ii the despatch used in criminal 
 p oceedings,) unwarranted verdict* are sometimei
 
 NOTES. ^ 63 
 
 pronounced. The mechanical rotim of n'cighing 
 evidence seems to have got an unfortunate hold 
 of the minds of jurymen ; and if thus happens 
 that if there be something like evidence on ihe 
 other, the one scale (as it is called) of the judicial 
 balance sinks, and the proof is estimated, not by 
 what it is in itself, but by what it is in comparison 
 of something else. The" law of England recognizes 
 the evidence of one witness, as suflficient to warrant 
 a capital conviction. The law of God was different : 
 " \vho=o killelh any person, the murderer shall be 
 j)ut to death by the mouth of witnesses ; but one 
 witness shall not testify against any person, to cause 
 him to die" Num. sxxv. 30. 
 
 " At the mouth of <n;o or three witnesses shall he 
 that is worthy of death be put to death ; but at the 
 mouth of one witness Ac iAaW jio< 6f! put to death." 
 DfUt. xvii. 6. 
 
 £iic/i one returns to his inheritance. P. 12. 1. 23. 
 
 Lycurgus's contrivance of iron money, as a pre 
 Tentive of the corruption arising from the commer 
 ciaFsystera, was clumsy and inefficient, compared 
 with that part of the Mosaic institution here 
 alluded to. 
 
 The utility of all such agricultural improve- 
 ments, as diminish the quantum of human labour 
 employed in the cultivation of the soil, is very 
 questionable. In the Highlands of Scotland, black 
 cattle were the produce which in former times was 
 cultivated. Afterwards it was discovered, that the 
 rearing of sheep was a mode of farming which 
 jequired a much smaller proportion of hands than 
 the rearing of black cattle did. In other words, 
 the ilighland proprietors discovered, that by the 
 substitution of sheep for black cattle, nine-tenths of 
 that fund, which formerly was consumed in Ihe 
 maintenance of a numerous tenantry, might be 
 added to the amount of their rent-rolls". The ci>n-
 
 Si NOTES. 
 
 sequence has been, that large districts of the 
 Highlands have been nearly depopulated. Make 
 the supposition, that an improvement, similar in 
 its effects, should be made on the agricultural 
 system of the low country ; suppose, for instance, 
 that a new kind of grain, or root, should be dis- 
 covered, the cultivation of which should require no 
 more than one-tenth part of the manual labour 
 necessary for the cultiva-.ion of our present crops ; or 
 suppose,' that there should be invented a machine 
 for turning up the soil, as much superior to the 
 plough as the plough is to the spade, and the other 
 impferaenis of husbandry sl-.ould be improved on a 
 proportional scale ; the consequence undoubtedly 
 would be, that the peasantry of this country would 
 be nearly extirpated. It is true, that the supposed 
 i.-nproveraents would not only increase the revenue 
 of the landlord, but would add to the quantity <!f 
 agricultural produce, and that an increase of pro- 
 duce would tend to an increase of population. I. 
 however, doubt very much, whether the increase of 
 agricultural produce is always attended with a 
 proportional increase of pcpulaUon. At any T.\ie, 
 the population that is in this way acquired, must 
 be added to the already overgrown mass of manu- 
 facturing towns. No doubt the apparent strength, 
 of the nation would be thus increased. But a 
 healthy and a virtuous populace constitute the real 
 power'of a state; and it will not be said, that 
 crowded towns are favourable either to health or 
 morals. The country and the village inhabitants are 
 in truth, thesource of the national population ; and, 
 if it be drained, the towns themselves must of course 
 decay ; since the demand for live supplies, conse- 
 quent on the consumpt of human life in towns, 
 could no longer be answered. But how are the 
 evils arising from the abridgment of agricultural 
 labour to be counteracted ? They may be par- 
 tially counteracted bv a limitation of the extent of 
 farnis. If the arable districts were parcelled out 
 into possessions not exceeding a hundred and hf;y 
 acres ; and if every landlord and tenant were 
 bound, either to keep up a certain number of in- 
 habited cottages, in the proportion, let bo said, of 
 one to each thirty acres,— or else to pay triple land- 
 tax and poor rate, our crops would perhaps not be
 
 ?rOTES. 65 
 
 quite so abundant as in process of time they may 
 come to be, under thejiiesent system of weeding 
 out the small farmers and cottagers ; but the na- 
 tion would be richer in a more important kind of 
 produce, — a numerous peasantry ; and even the 
 landlords themselves would find more real comfort 
 and enjoyment in contemplating a populous and 
 happy neighbourhood, than in surveying lar.ce 
 deserted domains, teeming with all the nioans of 
 ▼irtuous and happy existence, but barren of inhabi- 
 tants to reap the benefits so liberally spread out bv 
 the Father of mercies. Perhaps another expedient 
 to check rural depopulation might be suggested,— 
 an equalization of the right of succession. Com- 
 mercial accumulation has, during the last half 
 century, gone far in reuniting those enormous es- 
 tates which at one time commerce had disjoined. 
 Every great merchant and money-dealer wishes to 
 be the founder of what is called a family. Now, I 
 would indulge this vanity, by allowing such persons 
 to found, not one family, but a number of families, 
 in proportion to the number of ibeir children. To 
 the peerage, and perhaps to families that have been 
 long established in their possessions, the law ought 
 to be left as it now stands. But if it be expedient 
 to keep things as thei) now are, — to check the rapid 
 progress of a hideous Oligarchy, the old law of 
 inheritance, as it existed in England prior to the 
 Norraan conquest, and as it now exists in the 
 county of Kent, ought to be made the general law 
 of the land. 
 
 England ! England ! mash Ihy purrled hatuh. 
 P. 20. 1.31. 
 
 The slave-trade has been attempted to be defend, 
 ed by appeals to the authority of the Old Testament. 
 The existence of i/atien/ appears, indeed, to have 
 been tolerated among the Jews; but where is tlie 
 authority for any thing like the slave-trade T Is it in 
 the following express law ? " .And he that stialeih 
 a man, and sellcth him, or if he bo found in hi« 
 hand, he shall surely be put to death." Exod xxi. Iff,
 
 Dvwii like an avalanche. P. 22. 1. 15. 
 
 " After haTing descended about three hours, 
 from the time of our quilting Me>sinpcn, we re- 
 freshed ourselves and our horses in a delightful 
 T-,!e, strewed with handets; a sloping hill, adoin 
 ed with variegated verdure and wood, on one 
 side ; on the other, the Rosenlavi and Schartzwald 
 glaciers, stretching between impending rocks ; and 
 before us the highest pojnt c.f the 'W'etterhom 
 lifting its pyramidical top, capped wiih eternal 
 sjiow. As we were taking our repast, we were 
 suddenly startled by a noise like the sound of thun- 
 der, occasioned by a large body of snow falling 
 from the top of the mountain, which, in its precipi- 
 tous descent, had the appearance of a torrent of 
 water reduced almost into spray. These avalanches 
 (as they are called) are sometimes attended with 
 the most fatal consequences ; for when they consist 
 of enormous masses, they destroy every thing in 
 their course, and not unfrequently" overwhelm even 
 a whole village." — Cnxe. 
 
 The plaintii ! strain that links, c^c. P. 2^. 1. 31 . 
 
 " After I'.iiiiier, some musicians of ihe country 
 peiformed the Rens de Vaehcs, that famous air 
 which was forbid to be played among the Swiss 
 troops in the French armies ; as it created in the 
 soldiers such a longing recollection of tbeir native 
 country, that it produced in them a settled melan- 
 choly, 'and occasioned frequent desertion. The 
 French call this son of patriotic regret maladie <ht 
 pays. There is nothing peculiarly striking in the 
 tuiie; but, as it is composed of the most simple 
 notes, the powerful effect of its melody upon the 
 Swiss soldiers in a foreign land is the less remark- 
 ble. Nothing, indeed, renews so lively a rtmem- 
 brance of former scenes, as a piece of favourne 
 music which we were accustomed to hear among 
 our earliest aud dearest connexions." Toxc. 
 
 l! i^ most melancholy to see old respectable )M.r-
 
 sons standing in the passage of a church. In 
 former times, the area of churches was common to 
 all. The appropriation was certainl> an encroach, 
 ment. To bring matters back to their primitive 
 state, would now be impracticable. But surely a 
 verj' large portion of the house of prayer, ought to 
 be alloted to the Lord's poor. Or why should not 
 free churches be established in all coiisiderable 
 towns :•* There are several in England. To the 
 I'.ardship of exclusion fiom divine service, or of 
 precarious and mendicant admission, may be 
 traced the dissipated and idle habiis of many 
 orignally well-disposed persons. 
 
 The character here described is well portiaved 
 in the following passage of Nen(ou's Letters : " W'e 
 have lost another of the i)eople here ; a person of 
 much experience, eminent grace, wisdom and use- 
 fulness She walked with God forty years. She 
 was one of the Loid's poor; but her poverty was 
 decent, sanctified, and honourable. She lived re- 
 spected, and her death is considered a public loss. 
 It is a great loss to me : 1 shall miss her advice and 
 example, by which I have been often edified and 
 animated. Almost the last words she uttered were, 
 ' The Lord is my portion, saith my soul. " 
 
 I have known many instances of such persons. 
 'l"he character is, indeed, most highly respectable ; 
 but it does not obtain that respect and support 
 which it so well merits. In truth, wealth is so 
 devoutly worshipped, that virtuous poverty must 
 of necessity, be neglected, if not despised. 'Every 
 man is aspiring to the imaginarij ditiiiity of the 
 person who happens to be a Utile richer than him- 
 self. The distinction of wealth is gradually ab- 
 iorbing every other. I would prefer tlie aristo- 
 cracy of pedigree to that of riches. 
 
 To private soldiers and sailors the voice of praise 
 
 »eiy seldom reaches, yet is their courage nut lea 
 
 K2
 
 63 NOTES. 
 
 eoni4V'<''J"'"s than that which their superiors in 
 rank display. Our military establishment, both at 
 sea and on shore, is indeed penurious in reward, 
 while it is liberal in jmnishment. By extending; 
 the one, and restricting the other, the regular 
 army would be more expeditiously recruited than 
 by increase ot bounties. Let the experimtni of iesi 
 Severe punishments be tried. The immediate con- 
 s«}uence would be, (to speak in mercantile phrase,) 
 afallin thepricecf thear/jc/e. But there is still 
 another, and more effectual way of recruiting the 
 arrav. Follow the advice of that man, who through 
 good report and through bad report, stood the 
 steadfast friend of justice and o: freedom, — to whose 
 intuitive ken the most compli;ated subjects were 
 simple, the most opaque transparent. His advice 
 (but alas! his prescient advice has been seldom 
 regarded until the event verified the prediction) 
 was, to restrict the term of service to a moderdte 
 period, — to five, sis, or seven years. If a man, 
 engaging himself for half a year as a common ■-cr- 
 vant, were asked, for what higher rate of wages he 
 would bind himself during life? his answer would 
 probably be, that no reward would tempt him to 
 bind himself for life. Or, if he were to be so allur- 
 etl, would he not ask cm enormous hire ? To indent 
 o^e's person for life is a tremendous engageme.it. 
 Hut a limitation of the term of service would be 
 highly expedient in another view. Reckoning the 
 regular Uoops of Britain at 200,000,— if each man 
 were to be discharged at the end of seven yeai-s 
 fiom the time of his enlistment, is it not obvious, 
 that we should have a yearly addition of about 
 !i7,000 thorough-bred soldiers, ready to fall into 
 the ranks of the strictly defensive department of 
 cur national armament ? Say that the addition 
 were to be only 5:0,000, what an accession of real 
 strength, of discipline, of experience, of confidence, 
 -would be the result I In five year*, there would t>e 
 nearly 100,000 veterans (for a soldier who has serv- 
 ed sevFii years I would call a veteran) added to our 
 home force. No one ran form a proljable guess at 
 ihe duration of the present war ; nor'is it likely 
 that many of the present generation will see the 
 clay, when they may with safety turn their swords 
 info plough-shares, and their spears into pruning-
 
 hooks. We inu&t continue in the attitude of an 
 armed nation. We must labour with the one hand, 
 and wield our weapons with the other.* 
 
 In some hospitals, the patients are supposed to 
 be treated with ail due justice, if the bolus and the 
 knife be liberally administered. Nothing is done 
 to amuse or to console. 
 
 Bless'd he the female votaries. P. 26. 1. 18. 
 
 The nuns called Boguines devote the whole of 
 their limt to attendance on the sick, whether in 
 hospitals or in private houses. They are habited 
 in black, and, when going abroad, they wear deep 
 black veils. 
 
 Call forth the dead, and re-unite the dust, 
 ( Transfai m'd and purified J to angel so7ils. '■ 
 
 P. 20. 1. 38, 39. 
 
 Every one has experienced how much contrast 
 enhances pleasure and agu'ravates pain. Perliaps 
 in created beings, perfect happiness is impossible, 
 without the contrast of recollected misery. This 
 consideration affords an answer to those persons, 
 who censure the resurrection of the boay as a 
 provision unnecessary and unwise,— who say, that 
 the jtiys of a blessed spirit cannot be increased by a 
 union with a material body, however excellent in 
 form, structure, and powers. I would ask, what 
 other provision could possibly furnish the pleasure 
 
 * The above note was inserted in the first edi- 
 tion of tlie Sabbath. The just, the humane, the 
 wise proposal of enlistment for a limited time, was 
 af'erwards enacted into a law; but its efficacy is 
 litely to be completely counteracted by the rectr.lly 
 introduced power of enlistment for life.
 
 TO NOTES. 
 
 deriTed from con(v.-.st, sa vividly, so constantly ^ A 
 celestial form, the habitation of that being, who 
 forraeilj dwelt in a body, frail, diseased, mortal I — 
 To the man who had been blind in Ids earthly 
 abode, what a chanL'e 1 His sijjhtless orbs trans- 
 formed into eyes of telescopic ken ' — To the palsied ! 
 That body which could not move itself— endowed, 
 
 Rerhaps, with electric velocity ! that once feeble, 
 iltering voice — attuned to the harmonies of the 
 heavenly choirs, " who sing the song of Moses, the 
 servant of (lod, and the song of the Lamb saying. 
 Great and marvellous are all thy works. Lord (iod 
 Alm'ghty : just and true are thv ways, thou Ki:>s 
 of sainU: Alleluia, for the Lord God Omnijotent 
 reigneth I" 
 
 To think thai i 
 
 " There cannot be a more pleasing or more < on- 
 solatory idea presented to the human mind, than 
 that ofon* universal pause of labour throughout the 
 whole Christian world at the same moment of 
 time ; diffusing rest, comfort, and peace, through 
 a large part of the habitable globe, and affording 
 case and refreshment, not only to the lowest part 
 of our own species, but to their fellow-labourers of 
 the brute creation. Even these are enabled to join 
 in this silent act of adoration, this mute kind of 
 homage to the great Lord of all : and although 
 they are incapable of any sentimenti of rr'ligion, yet, 
 bv this means, they become sharers in the ilessin^t 
 of it. Every man of the least sensibility must see, 
 must feel, tlie beauty and utility of such an institu- 
 tion as this ; and must see, at the same time, the 
 cruelty of invading this most valuable privilege of 
 the interior class of mankind, and breaking in upon 
 that sacred repose which God himself has, in pity 
 to their sufferings, given to those that stand most 
 in need of it. It was a point in which it highly 
 became the majesty and goodness of Heaven itself 
 to interpose. And happy was i: for the world that 
 it did so. For had man, unfeeling man, been U'fit 
 t/) himself, with no other spur to compassion than 
 oatiiral instinct, or unassisted reason, there is but
 
 NOTES 71 
 
 too nnicli ground to apprehend, he would have 
 bien deaf to the cries of his Iribouring brethren, 
 would have harassed and worn them out with in. 
 cessant toil; and when thej implored, by looks and 
 signs of distress, some little intermission, would 
 perhaps have answered them in the language of 
 Pharaoh's task-masters, ' Ye are idle, ye are idle. 
 There shall not aught of your daily tasks be di- 
 minished ; let more rfork be laid upon them, that 
 they may labour therein.' Exod. v. 9, 11, 17. 
 
 " That this is no uncandid representation of the 
 natural hardness of the human heart, till it Is sub- 
 dued and softened by the influences of divine grace, 
 we have but too many unanswerable proofs, in the 
 savage treatment which the slaves of the ancients, 
 even of the most civilized and polished ancients, 
 met with from their unrelenting masters. To 
 them, alas ! there w^s no Sabbath, no seventh day 
 of rest! The whole week, the whole year, was, in 
 general, with but few exceptions, one uninterrupt- 
 ed round of labour, tyranny, and oppression."— 
 Diihop Porleus. 
 
 Your hell less charge drive from the tempting spul. 
 P. 33. 1. i3. 
 
 During the winter season, there are many shep- 
 herds lost in the snow. I have heard of ten being 
 lost in one parish. U'hen life-boats, for the pre- 
 servation of shipwrecked mariners, and institutions 
 f r the recovery of drowned persons, obtain so much 
 of the public attention and patronage, it is strange 
 that no means are ever thought of for the preserva- 
 lion of the lives of shepherds during snow storms. 
 I believe, that in nine instances out of ten, the 
 death of the unhnppy persons who perish in the 
 snow is owing to their losing their way. A proof 
 of this is, that very few are lost in the day time. 
 The remedy, then, is both easy and obvious. Let 
 means be used for enabling the shepherd, in the 
 darkest night, to know precisely the spot at which 
 he is, and the bearings of the surrounding grounds. 
 Snow storiris are almost always accompanied with 
 wind. Suppose a pole, fifteen feet high, well tiled 
 in the ground, with two cross spars placed near the 
 E 4
 
 Uo^lom, to der.ole the airls, or voir.ts of the com. 
 pass;— ^t>ell huni; at the top of this pole, with a 
 piece of ilat wood attached to it, projectme upward, 
 wculd ring with the slightest breeze. For a few 
 hundred pounds, every square mile of the southern 
 dislrict of Scotland might be supplied with such 
 bells. As thev would be purposely made to have 
 different tones, the shepherd would soon be able to 
 distinguish one from another. He could never be 
 more than a mile from one or other of them. On 
 coming to the spot, he would at once know the 
 points of the compass, and of course the direcUon 
 m which his home lay. 
 
 And Tvith the forming maujloated along. 
 P. 34. 1. i. 
 
 Mav we not suppose, that the mass of the earth, 
 while' yet forming, received its progressive and 
 rotatory motions ? 
 
 The dumb cured. P. 42. 
 
 This miracle, the reality of which the Pharisees 
 could not deny, (Matth. ix. 34.) is one of a higher 
 order than those which consisted m heahng dis- 
 eases. Dumbne-vs implies, in general, not only a 
 defect in the organs of speech, or of hearing, or of 
 both, hut ignorance of language. Here, then, was 
 a miracle performed on the rnind. 
 
 The judge ascended to the judgment-teat. P. 4 1. 
 
 This representation of Paul I have not founded 
 on the circumstance of anv one of his appearances 
 before the Roman governors. I h ve alluded to 
 facU which happened at his apprehension, as well 
 as his arraignments before Felix, Festus, and 
 Agrippa.
 
 POEMS; 
 
 AND 
 
 RUNNAMEDE, 
 
 A 
 
 TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE REV. JOHN LOGAN, F.R.a 
 
 WITH 
 A LIFE OF THE AtTTHOR. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY Wm. S. OKR 8s Co., 
 
 AMEX CORNER, FATERNOSXER-ROW.
 
 C O N T P: N T S. 
 
 Page 
 Livn ... ... . ▼ 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Ode to the Cuckoo 1 
 
 Song, 'The Braes of Yanow' .... 'J 
 
 Ode on the Death of a young Lady ... 3 
 
 Ode to Women 3 
 
 Ossian's Hymn to the Sun .... 8 
 
 Ode, written in Spring 9 
 
 Song, 'The day is departed,' &c. . . .11 
 
 Ode to Sleep 15! 
 
 Ode to a Voung Lady 13 
 
 Ode to a Man of Letters 15 
 
 The Lovers, a Poem . . . . . .17 
 
 A Tale 2"^ 
 
 Moniniia, an Ode 32 
 
 Ode, -written in a Visit to the country In 
 
 Autumn ........ 35 
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 I. The Prayer of Jacob 38 
 
 II. The Complaint of Nature .... ib. 
 Ill Trust in Providence 4*.
 
 Pcgi 
 
 IV. Heavenly Wisdom <« 
 
 V. 'Behold! the Mountain of the Lord' . ib. 
 
 VI. ' Behold ! the Ambassador Divme' . . 45 
 Vn. ' Messiah ! at thy glad approach' . . 45 
 
 VIII. ' ■\Vhen Jesus, by the Virgin brought' . 46 
 
 IX. 'HTiere high the heavenly Temple stands' 47 
 
 RorKAMKDi, a Tragedy 49
 
 THE LIFE OF LOGAN. 
 
 When a man of genius, by his writings, enlarge* 
 our sphere of useful knowledge, or increases our 
 fund of refined pleasure, we naturally berome soli- 
 citous to inquire into his origin, his private charac- 
 ter, and the Tarious particulars of his life. For 
 though his hours may have been divided between 
 business and study, and sometimes devoted to 
 amusement, like those of other literary men, yet 
 we feel an interest in the one case, which we do 
 not feel in the other. The sources and windings of 
 the (ranges and the Nile are explored, by inquisi- 
 tive travellers, with an avidity proportioned to the 
 magnitude at which they arrive, and the benefits 
 which they confer in their course to the ocean/ 
 while their tributary streams are suffered to flow 
 in silence and neglect. 
 
 Frequently, however, scanty materials can only 
 be gleaned for gratifying this curiosity. The early 
 life, especially of such as are bom and educated in an 
 humble station, and emerge into notice by a native 
 superiority of talents, is generally wrapt up in ob- 
 scurity, which even the persevering hand of plod- 
 ding industry can scarcely remove. The editor 
 trusts, that a candid allowance will be made by an 
 indulgent public, for the following sketch, which, 
 in spite of his best endeavours, assisted by the 
 friendly communications of some early companions 
 of Logan, he is far from pronouncing fice from im- 
 perfection and error. 
 
 His father, George Logan, occupied a small farm 
 at Soutra, in the parish of Fala, on the southern 
 extremity of Mid-Lothian. His mother's name 
 was Watherstone, daughter to a respectable farm- 
 er, and small ptoprittor of land at Howden, in
 
 Ti THE LIFE OF LOGAX. 
 
 Lauderdale,* and sister to INIrs. Addison of Kirk- 
 cant. Both Ladies were religious : and the form- 
 er, with her husband, became zealously attached to 
 that class of dissenters denominated Burghers. 
 Their elder son James was destined to succeed his 
 father as a farmer ; and his education, according 
 to the narrow maxims of the times, was confined 
 to reading a little English, learning a little writing, 
 and a smattering of arithmetic, and repeating the 
 catechism. But having strong natural parts and 
 an ardent mind, by devoting his leisure hours to 
 books, he made considerable progress in various 
 branches of science, during the lite of his father ; 
 and a few vears after his death, abandoned the oc- 
 cupation of farming, betook himself keenly to the 
 study of medicine, went abroad, settled in North 
 America, and died there long before his brother. 
 
 Their younger son, John, was bom about the be- 
 ginning of the year 1748, f and, like many others of 
 the same rank,' was probably intended by his pa- 
 rents for the ministry, before he discovered either 
 capacity for learning, or inclination for that sacred 
 employment. Whether he received the first rudi- 
 ments of his education at home, or in the parochial 
 school, has not bitheno been ascertained ; but it is 
 certain that some time before 1762, his father h.-.d 
 removed from Soutra to Gosford Mains in East 
 Lothian, and that the son was sent to Musselburgh 
 school, then under the care of Af r. Jeffray. While 
 there, perhaps, to save expense, though more pro- 
 bably to preserve his sectirian principles from 
 being corrupted, instead ot being boarded with the 
 master, he was placed with an old woman of the 
 same religious persuasion with his parents. By 
 her he was made to read the scriptures every even- 
 ing witli a whming tone, which seldom failed to 
 lull her into a profound sleep ; insomuch, that upon 
 some occasion, when her physician had ordered a 
 quieting dose for her, the servant-maid archly ob- 
 served, that there was no need for his stuff, as her 
 
 » The X. W. district of Berwickshire, once the 
 title of a Duke, and still of an Enrl. 
 
 t Orperhapsin theendof 1747. Few dissenters 
 at that time registered the birth of their children.
 
 THE LIFE OF LOGAN. rU 
 
 mistress would soon fall into rest if she heard the 
 young scholar begin to the Bible. 
 
 This anecdote, which he often related, though 
 no proof of his application at school, showed an 
 early talent for observation. Upon his removal to 
 the University of Edinburgh in November 1762, 
 where he attended the first Greek and second Latin 
 classes, he discovered uncommon proficiency in the 
 learned languages, and was one of the few whom 
 Mr. Hunter, then Professor of Greet, examined be- 
 fore Principal Robertson upon his first visitation af- 
 ter being installed. Ulichael Bruce, and the late Dr. 
 Robertson, ministers of Dalmeny, (both conspicu- 
 ous in different walks of literature,) were his class- 
 fellows ; and r>r. Hardy, late IMinister of Edin- 
 burgh, and Professor of Ecclesiastical History in 
 the College, entered that same season a student in 
 the first Latin class. His friendship with the two 
 latter did not commence upon their first acquaint-- 
 ance, but was gradually formed and matured by 
 the increasing intercourse of successive years ; 
 whereas, congeniality of dispositions, and similar- 
 ity of pursuits, attached him at once to the form- 
 er, and bred such an intimacy, as procured him the 
 possession of those MSS. "which the immature 
 death of the Poet of Lochleven had left unfinished, 
 and which, in a few years afterwards, made their 
 appearance, corrected and polished by the mjisterly 
 hand of his surviving friend. 
 
 hand of his surviving 
 • As a student of philosophy his appearances were 
 less brilliant than they had been as a student of the 
 languages. The abstract demonstrations of Eu- 
 clid, the confused jargon of scholastic logic, and 
 the abstruse doctrines of metaphysics, wanted 
 charms to arrest and captivate his glowing and 
 vigorous imagination. Yet he was by no means 
 inattentive to these studies. Though exotic plants 
 to his mind, he cultivated them with considerable 
 success. Far, indeed, from being eminent, he was 
 as far from being deficient in the principles of 
 mathematics, natural philosophy, and pneiunato- 
 logy. — By several of his class-fellows, no doubl, he 
 was surpassed ; but from a great majority of them 
 he would have had nothing to fear in a compara- 
 tive trial, and in one particular branch he had no 
 equals. Mr. John Stevenson, then Professor of 
 c4
 
 viU THE LIFE OF LOGAX. 
 
 Logic, delivered a series of lectures upon " Ari3> 
 toti'e's Alt of Poetry," and " LongLnus's Treatise on 
 the Sublime." These lecture?, whatever might 
 have been their merits or defects in other respects, 
 breathed a genuine spirit of liberal criticism, and 
 abounded with judicious quotations from the best 
 English classics, to illustrate the maxims of the 
 Grecian masters. By these means they were ad- 
 mirably calculated to call forth the latent seeds of 
 genius and taste, which till that moment the young 
 untried mind was unconscious of possessing ; and 
 while they stimulated the poetic fancy of Logan, 
 prescribed the bounds within which its excursions 
 should be confined. His early acquaintance with 
 the sacred writings had given him a reiish for their 
 bold and abrupt figures. He was so delighted with 
 the small portion of Homer's Iliad and Odyssey 
 read at College, as to go through the whole of these 
 truly wondertul poems, during the summer vaca- 
 tion, with an enthusiasm which a poet alone can 
 feel. To a mind of this sujierior cast the works of 
 Milton and of Ossian (then recently published with 
 Dr. Blair's inimitable Dissertation) held forth re- 
 sistless attractions. And with the same avidity 
 that he perused these sublime authors in private, 
 he listened to the venerable Professor, while point- 
 ing out their beauties in his class. 
 
 From that lime he employed his leisure hours, 
 chiefly on poetic compositions of merit in different 
 languages. He could read Latin, Greek, and 
 French, with tolerable ficility. In each he was 
 directed to the best mo;lels by the instructions he 
 had received ; and he always found some com- 
 panion willing to lend him siich books as he was 
 unable to purchase. Perhaps there are few in- 
 stances of a young man reading so much genuine 
 poetry, and so little trash. And, perhaps, there is 
 no instance where studies, during the recesses of a 
 CoUese, contributed more both to pleasure and im- 
 provement, — where the pursuits, which enraptured 
 the soul, had a more fascinating influence in form- 
 ing the linguist and the man of taste. 
 
 A genuine poet cannot admire without endea- 
 vouring to imitate. Early in life, either before, or 
 soon after he went to the University, Logan made 
 some attempts in poetic prose, like otii translation
 
 THE LIFE OF LOGAX. is 
 
 of the prophetic books of Scripture; but he had 
 tile good sense to show them only to a few confi- 
 dential friends, and soon to destroy them. During 
 tlie summers of 1764 and 1765, his muse was not 
 idle, but it is uncertain whether her productions 
 were consigned to oblivion, cr preserved and 
 moulded afterwards into a form, more proper to 
 appear before the public. In 17b6, he was so well 
 known, in the neighbourhood, as a lad of superior 
 abilities, erudition, and taste, ai to attract the no- 
 tice of Patrick, Lord Elibank, a nobleman noted 
 indeed for eccentricity, but net less for his patron- 
 age of learning and merit. Besides the informa- 
 tion and polish to be derived from the conversation 
 of that enlightened nobleman, and of the select few 
 who were admitted to his table, Logan reckoned 
 much upon the advantage of free access to an ex- 
 tensive and well chosen library. About the same 
 time, he was introduced to the acquaintance of Dr. 
 John Main, then Minister of A thelstaneford, and 
 generally respected as a clergyman of classical 
 knowledge, chaste composition, amiable manners, 
 and invincible modesty. Perceiving sparks of true 
 poetic fire in some juvenile pieces, which accident- 
 ally fell in his way, he encouraged the visits, and 
 insensibly gained upon the natural reserve of Lo- 
 gan, who was gradually induced to submit the effu- 
 sions of his fancy with less shyness, to the revisal of 
 tliis sound and unassuming judge. By his friendly 
 Zeal, some early productions of approved excellence 
 were circulated, in the subsequent seasons, among 
 the lovers of poetry in the surrounding district. 
 
 In the preceding season, Logan had commenced 
 the study of theology; and, upon his return to 
 Edinburgh, in November 1766, he attended that 
 inestimable course of lectures, which the late cele- 
 brated Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres 
 delivered with such high and deserved applause, 
 during a long succession of years. Dr. Blair pre- 
 scribed annually a paper in the Spectator to his 
 students, on which they were desired to wiite and 
 present critical remarks within a limited lime ; 
 and he submitted to the drudgery of perusing these 
 remarks, of selecting, and arranging, in the form 
 of a lecture, such ot them as displayed ingenuity oi 
 good taste, and of pointing out, with his us'ial acu
 
 s THE LIFE OF LOGAX. 
 
 men, the beauties and defects, both of the paper 
 Itself and of the various criticisms made upon it. 
 On that trying occasion, the observations of Logan 
 were mentioned in the most flattering terms ; his 
 elucidation of tlie author's sentiments and execu- 
 tion, was pronounced to be just and masterly, and 
 his language quoted on account of its propriety, 
 elegance, and force. From that time he was hon- 
 oured ■Kith the countenance and friendship of Dr. 
 Blair ; though, cautious to an extreme, and fearful 
 of bringing the smallest stain upon a character so 
 weritoriouily acquired, and so long maintained, he 
 was scrupulous of recommending a joungr man to 
 any employment, without the fill lest conriction of 
 his sufficiency and good behaviour.— Xor did he, 
 till Logan had made the same distinguished figure 
 a second year at the class, and had afforded ample 
 proofs of diligence and correct conduct, uike any 
 steps to procure for him the office of priTate tutor 
 to the present Sir John Sinclair, in the summer of 
 1-6S. 
 
 The first theological exercise of Logan at the 
 Hall, was not such as his other literary exhibitions 
 gave reason to expect. Several bold thoughts and 
 splendid passages were scattered through it— but 
 the composition was unequal ; and less attention 
 was evidently paid to the meaning of the text, and 
 the connection of its parts, than to brilli.-incy of 
 sentiment and expression. These defects were 
 noticed by the Professor, (Dr. Hamilton,) in his 
 usual calm and mild manner; and they were after- 
 wards so carefully avoided, that one of the subse- 
 auent pieces delivered there, chastened, without 
 doubt, in his riper years, makes no contemptible 
 figure in the iirst volume of sermons, which was 
 published after his death. 
 
 In summer 1768 he accompanied his pupil to 
 Caithness ; and, perhaps, it was on his way going 
 or returning, that he snatched time to rr.ake a 
 short call on the father of iMichael Bruce, and 
 obtained possession of his MSS. Yet this Tisit 
 more probably did not take place till the following 
 season, (1769;) for it was then, that the fact, of 
 these MSS. being in his hands, was fir>,t known to 
 his companions, and the resolution ad' ptedof pub- 
 'ishing them by subscription. By that time, he
 
 THE LIFE OF LOGAN. xi 
 
 had left his situation in the family of Ulbster, from 
 a dislike of going so far from his friends and the 
 metropolis during summer, and also, for the sake 
 of superintending the press, and sending abroad 
 the posthumous works, of a kindred genius, in a 
 correct and finished state. They appeared in 1770, 
 under the title of " Poems on Several Occasions, 
 by Michael Bruce." In the preface he informs 
 us, that a few of them were written by different 
 authors. This intimation, united with other cir- 
 cumstances, has given rise to a controversy between 
 the surviving friends of the two poets, concerning 
 the share which each of them had in publication. 
 
 The only pieces, which Logan himself ever ac- 
 knowledged in his conversations with the compiler 
 of this biographical sketch were, the Story of Le- 
 vina, the Ode to Paoli, and the Cuckoo. The lar.t 
 was handed about, and highly extolled, among hi% 
 literary acquaintances in East Lothian, long before 
 its publication, probably (though not certainly) in 
 1767, as he did not reside there at all in 1 768, and 
 very little in 1769. This fact, and his inserting it 
 as his own, in a small volume published eleven years 
 afterwards, seem pretty decisive of his claim. ' Le- 
 vina, though a beautiful tale, yet being incomplete 
 in itself, and forming only an incident in a larger 
 poem, could not, with propriety, have been intro- 
 duced into that volume : and he probably thought 
 the other poems which he contributed anonymously 
 to the posthumous works of another, had too little 
 merit to appear in a work professedly his own. For 
 this reason, he might be particularly solicitous o( 
 excluding the Eclogue in the manner of Oesian. 
 although there are strong reasons for ascribing i 
 to his pen, notwithstanding its inferiority to hie 
 other compositions. For it is undeniable that his 
 admiration of the Gaelic bard gave birth to many 
 imitations still more puerile than the Eclogue. 
 
 Poetry, however, was far from engaging the 
 whole time he had to spare from his professional 
 duties. Two years before these publications ap- 
 peared, he had delivered a course of lectures on the 
 Philosophy of History, which displayed extensive 
 knowledge, deep research, and judicious arrange- 
 ment. He had long been employed in collecting 
 materials, selecting, compressing, and digesting
 
 sU THE LIFE OP LOGAN. 
 
 them into the most agreeable form ; he had sub 
 mitted his labours, and made known his intention 
 to his more confidential companions, Dr. Robertson 
 and Dr. Hardy; and with their entire approbation, 
 he had eonsuJted principal Robertson, Dr. Blair, 
 Dr. Carlyle, Dr. Adam Smith, and other literary 
 characters, with whom he lived in good habits; all 
 of whom promised him their couotenance and as- 
 sistance. But he was not a little mortified to find 
 himself precluded from the use of a room in the 
 College, by a regulation expressly denying that 
 privilege to all teachers of languages and' lecturers 
 on subjects, for which professors were provided. 
 The course, however, was announced to begin in 
 St. Mary's Chapel, upon a particular^ day in No- 
 vember 1779; and such was the general esteem 
 and respect entertained for Mr. Logan, that many 
 of his class-fellows came from a considerable dis- 
 tance to attend his preliminary lectures. During 
 the first session, his students were respectable, 
 more on account of their rank and talenu, than 
 of their number, and contributed as much to the 
 increase of his fame as of his emolument. In the 
 second, his success was equal to his most sanguine 
 hopes, and opened to him a likelv prospect of being 
 promoted to the Professorship of Universal History, 
 which became vacant about that time. An un- 
 foreseen obstacle stood in his way. It had been the 
 invariable practice of the Patrons to present a 
 member of the Faculty of Advocates. And on 
 this occasion, they conferretl the office on Mr. 
 Fraser Tytler, now Lord AVoodhouselee. The 
 disappointment was the more cruel, because the 
 character and abilities of the new Professor lessen- 
 ed the chance of every competitor. The lecttires 
 of Logan no longer met with encouragement, and 
 were discontinued. He seems to have entertained 
 some thoughts of publishing them, for, in summer 
 17SI, while yet he only anticipated their failure, 
 an analysis of them appeared, imder the title of 
 " Elements of the Philosophy of History." And 
 in the year following, one of the lectures was sent 
 into the world in the form of an " Lssay on the 
 Manners of Asia." Both were favourably received. 
 Of the latter it is justly observed, that it exhibiu a
 
 THE LIFE OF LOGAN. xiu 
 
 successful attempt to apply the science of moral 
 philosophy to the history of mankind* 
 
 The applause of the public called for a second 
 edition of his poems Tery soon after their publica- 
 tion, and probably encouraged him to offer his 
 tragedy of Runnamede to the Managers of Covent 
 Garden Theatre, for representation; but it was 
 stopped by an interdict from the Lord Chamber- 
 lain's Office, merely from a suspicion of its contain- 
 ing allusions unfriendly to the politics of the day. 
 
 Mr. Logan had besides to encounter with an 
 obstacle of a different nature, in Scotland equally 
 powerful, eind which in England too has its weight 
 — the general prejudice which, ever since the in- 
 troduction of the drama into Britain, has looked 
 with aversion to the interference of the clergy, 
 with the amusements of the stage. So sacred is 
 this sentiment among the sober Piesbyteriani of 
 Scotland, that Logan cannot be easily vindicated 
 from the imputation of rashness, in venturing to 
 bring forward Rtjnkamede, while yet the obloquy 
 had scarcely subsided, which had been excited by 
 the production of Douglas. 
 
 VVe cannot wonder that these repeated and se- 
 ▼ere disappointments should prey, with pungent 
 keeimess, upon a mind uncommonly susceptible; 
 or, that the melancholy, congenial to the poet's 
 constitution, should assume a darker and more 
 gloomy cast, when all the favourite schemes were 
 blasted from which he had fondly hoped to derive 
 fortune and fame. His temper was still further 
 fretted, by the nmbrage, which some of his parish 
 had unjustly taken, at his engaging in studies to- 
 tally foreign to his profession, and which others, 
 ■with more reason, had conceived on account of 
 certain deviations from the propriety and decorum 
 of his clerical character ; thdfcgh not a few of there 
 were sufficiently liberal in their allowances fer 
 irregularities, which could only be attributed to 
 in«qu«lity of spirits and irritability of nerves. These 
 concuning causes affected his health, rendered 
 him unequal to the proper discharge of his duties, 
 and induced .aim to close with a proposal of retir 
 
 • Dr. Atderson's Life of Logan.
 
 xi7 THE LIFE OF LOGAN. 
 
 ine upon a moaerate annuity. The agreement 
 was not completed tiU 1786; but, upon the faith 
 of it, he left Leith in the October preceding, and 
 ■went to London. •, » j t* 
 
 His pursuits there cannot be bo easily trace<L It 
 is eenerally beliered, that he furnished many Ten- 
 able articles to the English Review, which then 
 had the greatest run of all the periodical works of 
 that kind. And it is well known that he was the 
 author of an anonymous pamphlet, entitled, A 
 Review of the Principal Charges against Mr. Hast- 
 ines." This publication made its appearance in 
 1788, was eagerly and universally read, and pro- 
 duced such an effect upon the public mind, in 
 fevour of the distinguished culprit, as to occasion a 
 prosecution ot the publisher, by order of the llou^e 
 oi Commons, of which Logan did not l»vet0 5ee 
 the issue. He died upon the 28th day of .Decem- 
 ber 1783, and 2\Ir. Stoctdale was not tned and 
 acquitted till the 9th of December following. 
 
 The end of Logan was truly Christian. When 
 he became too weak to hold a book, he employed 
 his time hearing such young persons as vuited him 
 read the Scriptures. His conversation turned 
 chiefly on serious subjects, and was most afRcting 
 and instructive. He foresaw, atid prepared for the 
 approach of death, gave directions a])out his fu- 
 neral with the utmost composure, and dictated a 
 distinct and judicious wUl appointing Dr. Donald 
 Grant, and his andent steadvfriend Dr. Hobertson, 
 his executors : and bequeathing to them his pro- 
 nert^■, books, and MSS. to be converted into money. 
 & the payment of legacies, to those relations and 
 friends, who had the strongest claims upon hi, 
 affectionate remembrance in his dying momente. 
 
 The execution of this delicate trust devolved 
 chiefly on Dr. Rob*tson, because he resided in 
 Scotland, not far from the relotions "^ J-OS^"' ^"^ 
 near the spot where his character was best known, 
 and his MSS. would sell to the featest advantage : 
 And no man was more eminently qualified for the 
 office; for his talents have not raised lym to a 
 more distinguished rank in the republic of letter,, 
 t?ln his virtues have in the circle of hn pnyate 
 friends. He instantly annountid an intention ot 
 publishing a volume of his sem.ons ; and from the
 
 THE LIFE OF LOGAN, it 
 
 peneral admiration which the preacher had at- 
 tracted, it was purchased in 1 790, at a good price, 
 and met with a very faTourable reception. The 
 same piice was giren for a second volume, which 
 appeared in the year following. He alone took 
 the trouble of selecting from the ftlSS. such ser- 
 mons as were most complete, and fittest for coming 
 abroad into the world. In revising, and preparing 
 them for the press, and in correctmg them while 
 there, he was assisted by Dr. Blair and Dr. Hardy. 
 
 These sermons are rich in vaiiety of sentin-ent 
 and language. While the author is careful to 
 " hold fast the form of sound words, and the doc- 
 trine which is according to godliness," his expres- 
 sions are always perspicuous, generally elegant and 
 nervous. In none of his other compositions, hath 
 he displayed, to such advantage, his happy talent 
 of borrowing, decorating, and, in a manner, creat- 
 ing anew, the thoughts and images of others. 
 Never were popular tenets arrayed in a more splen- 
 did and captivating dress. — Never were plain and 
 interesting truths sent home to the heart, with 
 greater power of persuasion and elegance. The 
 world has done justice to their merit, for they have 
 already reached the fourth edition. 
 
 Thefriendly exertions of Dr. Robertson, in push, 
 ing forward their publication, were the more merit- 
 orious, because, during that very time, he was 
 deeply immersed in studies of his own— meditating 
 a second volume of his " Enquiry into the Progress 
 of the Fine Aits" — preparing his History of Oueen 
 Mary for publication, and drawing up papers of 
 valuable communications for the Board of Agricul- 
 ture. He was besides much occupied in superin- 
 tending the education of his own children, and of 
 some young gentlemen, who were boarded in hk- 
 house. Had not his industry and application ex- 
 ceeded those of most men, he never could have 
 found leisure to do as much as he did for his de- 
 ceased friend ; and it cannot be matter of surprise, 
 that he was unable to accomplish a design, which 
 he seems to have meditated, of j)refixing an ac- 
 count of Logan, to an edition of his miscellaneous 
 works, from MSS.* which are still unpublished.— 
 
 • Dr. Anoeison's Life of Logan. The Dr. give;
 
 rvi THE LIFE OF LOGAX. 
 
 That intention, probably, was never relinquished, 
 but postponed from time to time, from the preisure 
 of more important occupations ; till at last too 
 great indulgence of his studious habits brought on 
 a disease which prematurelv put an end to his use- 
 ful life. 
 
 Logan's character as a poet is easily conceived. 
 Simplicity, elegance, and taste, are the genuine 
 features of hio composition. His style, peculiarly 
 chaste and delicate, is finely suited to natural, 
 tender, or pathetic descriptionj in which principally 
 he excels. 
 
 Little need be said respecting the poetry of this 
 small volume. Of its merit there is but one opin- 
 ion; and the reader who cannot relish its beauties, 
 has yet to learn the elements of taste and beauty. 
 On It, the scrutiny of the most subtle or peevish 
 criticism would be lost. Logan's art was to imi- 
 tate nature, and so natural and fine is the imita- 
 tion, that his pages, like the scenes of nature, are 
 always new ; we read them again and again with 
 undiminished pleasure. The images of the fancy 
 are not formed bv rules, and its subjects are invari- 
 ably the same. If the language in which they are 
 written be not rendered oboolete by change or im- 
 provement that we cannot anticipate, the poems 
 of Xxjgan wUl be admired, while poetry is cultivated 
 by his country ; and in the hemisphere of real 
 beauty, of nature and simplicity, his star shall 
 shine, while the ' cloud of night' descends upon 
 * the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 the following list of these unpublished works from 
 Pr. Robertson, — In verse, ' Electra," and ' The 
 Wedding Day,' tragedies; ' The Carthagenian 
 Heroine,' a tragedy, with one act only finished ; 
 and about six short Lyric poems. In T^'ose — eight 
 numbers of an intended paper, called ' The Guard- 
 ian,' twenty-five ' Lectures on Roman History.' 
 Besides these, the Compiler has seen and read 
 three acts of a tragedy, on the Death of Mary Queen 
 of Scotland, composed in Logan s best style.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 ODE TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Hail, beauteous stranger of the groTe ! 
 
 Thou messenger of spring ! 
 Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat. 
 
 And woods thy wtlcome sing. 
 
 What time the daisy decks the green. 
 
 Thy certain Toice we hear ; 
 Hast thou a star to guide thy path. 
 
 Or mark the rolling year f 
 
 Delightful visitant ! with thee 
 
 I hail the time of flowers. 
 And hear the sound of music sweet 
 
 From birds among the bowers. 
 
 The school-boy wandering through the wood. 
 
 To pull the primrose gay. 
 Starts, the new voice of spring to hear. 
 
 And imitates thy lay. 
 
 What time the pea puts on the bloom 
 
 Thou fliest thy vocal vale. 
 An annual guest in other lands. 
 
 Another spring to hail. 
 
 Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever greea. 
 
 Thy sky is ever clear ; 
 Thou 'hast no sorrow in thy song. 
 
 No winter in thy year !
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 
 
 O could I flf , IM fly with thee ! 
 
 We'd make, with joyful wing. 
 Our annua! Tisit o'er the globe. 
 
 Companions of the spring. 
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 
 
 " Thv braes were bonnv, Yarrow stream ! 
 
 When fiist on them 1 n-et my loTer ; 
 Thy braes how dreary. Yarrow stream ! 
 
 When now thy wares hii body cover ! 
 For ever now, O Yarrow sueam I 
 
 Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; 
 For never on thv banks shall I 
 
 Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. 
 
 " He promised me a milk-white steed. 
 
 To bear me to his father's bowers; 
 He promised me a little page. 
 
 To squire me to his father's towers ; 
 He promised me a wedding-ring, — 
 
 The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow ; — 
 Now he is wedded to his grave, 
 
 Alas ! his watery grave, in Yarrow ! 
 
 " Sweet were his words when last we met. 
 
 My passion I as freelv told him ! 
 Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought 
 
 That I should never more behold him ! 
 Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; 
 
 It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow ; 
 Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, ^ 
 
 And gave a doleful groan through \ arrow. 
 
 " His mother from the window look'd. 
 With all the longing of a mother; 
 
 His little sister weeping walk'd 
 
 The green- wood path to meet her brother : 
 
 Thev sought him east, they sought him west. 
 They sought him all the forest thorough ;
 
 They only saw the cloud of nieht. 
 They only heard the roar of Varrow ! 
 
 " No longer from thy window look, 
 Thou hast no son, thou tender mother 
 
 No longer seek him esist or west. 
 
 And search no more the forest thorough ; 
 For, wandering in the night so dark. 
 
 He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow. 
 
 " The tear shall never leave my cheek. 
 
 No other youth shall be my marrow ; 
 I'll seek thy body in the stream. 
 
 And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.' 
 The tear did never leave her cheek. 
 
 No other youth became her marrow ; 
 She found his body in the stream. 
 
 And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. 
 
 OX THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 The peace of Heaven attend thy shade. 
 My early friend, my favourite maid ! 
 When life was new, companions gay. 
 We hail'd the morning of our day. 
 
 Ah ! with what joy did I behold 
 The flower of beauty fair unfold ! 
 And fear'd no storm to blast thy bloom. 
 Or bring thee to an early tomb ! 
 
 Untimely gone ! for ever fled 
 
 The roses of the cheek so red ; 
 
 Th' affection warm, the temper mild, 
 
 The sweetness that in sorrow smiled. 
 
 Alas ! the cheek where beauty glow'd. 
 The heart where goodness overflow'd, 
 A clod amid the valley lies. 
 And ' Dust to dust,' the mourner cries. 
 A2
 
 4 ODE. 
 
 O from thy kindred early torn. 
 And to thv grave untimely borne I 
 Vanish'd for ever from my view, 
 Thou sister of my soul, adieu ! 
 
 Fair, with my first ideas twined. 
 Thine image oft will meet my mind ; 
 And, while remembrance brings thee near, 
 Afl'ection sad will drop a tear. 
 
 How oft does sorrow bend the head. 
 Before we dwell among the dead ! 
 Scarce in the years of manly prime, 
 I've often wept the wrecks of time. 
 
 What tragic tears bedew the eye ! 
 What deaths we suffer ere we die ! 
 Our broken friend>hips we deplore, 
 And loves of youth that are no mo/e. 
 
 No aftei -friendship e'er can raise 
 Th' endearments of our early days ; 
 And ne'er the heart such fondness prove. 
 As when it first began to love. 
 
 Affection dies, a vernal flower; 
 And love, the blossom of an hour; 
 The spring of fancy cares control. 
 And mar the beauty of the soul. 
 
 Versed in the commerce of deceit, 
 How soon the heart forgets to beat ! 
 The blood runs cold at interest's call :— 
 They look with equal eyes on all. 
 
 Then lovely nature is expell'd, 
 Ar\d friendship is romantic held ; 
 Then prudence comes with hundred eyes 
 The veil is rent — the vision flies. 
 
 The dear illusioiu will not last ; 
 The era of enchantment's past ; 
 The wild romance of lifie is done ; 
 The real history is begun. 
 
 The sallies of the soul are o'er. 
 The feast of fancy is no more ;
 
 ODE TO WOMEN. 
 
 And ill the banquet is supplied 
 By form, by gravity, by pride. 
 
 Ye gods ! whatever ye withhold, 
 Let my affections ne'er grow old ; 
 Ne'er may the human glow depjirt. 
 Nor nature yield to frigid art ! 
 
 Still may the generous bosom bum. 
 Though doom'd to bleed o'er beauty's urn ; 
 And still the friendly face appear. 
 Though moisten'd with a tender tear ! 
 
 ODE TO WOMEN. 
 
 Ye virgins ! fond to be admired. 
 With mighty rage of conquest fired. 
 
 And universal sway ; 
 Who heave th' uncover'd bosom high. 
 And roll a fond, inviting eye. 
 
 On all the circle gay ! 
 
 You miss the fine and secret art 
 To win the eastle of the heart. 
 
 For which you ?11 contend ; 
 The coxcomb tribe may crowd your train. 
 But you will never, never gain 
 
 A lover, or a friend. 
 
 If this your passion, this your praise. 
 To shine, to dazzle, and to blaze. 
 
 You may be call'd divine : 
 But not a youth beneath the sky 
 ■\\'ill say in secret, with a sigh, 
 
 " O were that maiden mine !" 
 
 You marshal, brilliant, from the box. 
 Fans, feathers, diamonds, castled locks. 
 
 Your magazine of arms; 
 But 'tis the sweet sequester'd walk, 
 Tlie whispering hour, the tender talk. 
 
 That gives you genuine charm*. 
 A 3
 
 ! ODE TO WOMEN'. 
 
 The nymph-like robe, the natural grace. 
 The smile, the native of the fece. 
 
 Refinement without art ; 
 The eve where pure attection beams. 
 The tear from tenderness that streams; 
 
 The accents of the heart ; 
 
 The trembling frame, the liring cheek. 
 Where, like the morning, blushes break 
 
 To cnmson o'er the breast ; 
 Tha look where sentiment is seen. 
 Fine passion moving o'er the mien. 
 
 And all the soul expressed : 
 
 Your beauties these ; with these you shine, 
 And reign on high by right divine. 
 
 The sovereigns of the world : 
 Then to your court the nations flow ; 
 The muse with flowers the path will Strew, 
 
 AVTiere Venus' car is hurl'd. 
 
 From dazzling deluges of snow. 
 From summer noon's meridian glow, 
 
 We turn our aching eye. 
 To nature's robe of vernal green. 
 To the blew curtain all serene. 
 
 Of an auttminal sky. 
 
 The favourite tree of beauty's queen. 
 Behold the myrtle's modest green. 
 
 The virgin of the grove ! 
 Soft from the circlet of her star. 
 The tender turtles draw the car 
 
 Of \''enus and of Love. 
 
 The growing charm invites the eye; 
 See morning gradual paint the sky 
 
 With purple and wiih gold ! 
 See spring approach with sweet delay I 
 Bee rose-buds open to the ray. 
 
 And leaf by leaf unfold ! 
 
 We love th' alluring line of grace. 
 
 That leads the eye a wanton chace. 
 
 And lets the' fancy rove;
 
 ODE TO WOMEN. 
 
 The walk of beauty ever bends. 
 
 And still begins, but never ends 
 
 The labyrinth of love. 
 
 At times, to veil is to reveal. 
 And to display is to conceal ; 
 
 Mysterious are your laws ! 
 The vision finer than the view ; 
 Her landscape nature never drew 
 
 So fair as fancy draws. 
 
 A beauty, carelessly betray'd. 
 Enamours more, than if display'd 
 
 All woman's charms were given ; 
 And, o'er the bosom's vestal white. 
 The gauze appears a robe of light. 
 
 That veils, yet opens, heaven. 
 
 See virgin Eve, with graces bland 
 Fresh blooming from her Maker's hand. 
 
 In orient beauty beam ! 
 Fair on the river-margin laid. 
 She knew not that her image mside 
 
 The angel in the stream. 
 
 Still ancient Eden blooms your own 
 But artless innocence alone 
 
 Secures the heavenly post ; 
 For if, beneath an angel's mien. 
 The serpent's tortuous train is seen. 
 
 Our paradise is lost. 
 
 O nature, nature, thine the charm ! 
 Thy colours woo, thy features warm. 
 
 Thy accents win the heart ! 
 Parisian paint of every kind 
 That stains the body or the mind. 
 
 Proclaims the harlot's art. 
 
 The midnight minstrel of the grove. 
 Who still renews the hymn of love. 
 
 And woos the wood to hear ; 
 Knows not the sweetness of his suain, 
 Nor that, above the tuneful tiain. 
 
 He charms the lover's ear. 
 
 A4
 
 I HYMN TO THE SUN. 
 
 The sone of Venus, hearenly fine. 
 Is nature's handy-work dirine. 
 
 And not the' web of art ; 
 And they who wear it never know 
 To what enchanting charm they owe 
 
 The empire of the heart. 
 
 OSSIAN'S 
 
 HTMN TO THE SVS. 
 
 O THOD whose beams the sea-girt earth array. 
 
 King of the sky, and father of the day ! 
 
 O sun ! what fountain hid from human eyes. 
 
 Supplies thy circle round the radiant skies, 
 
 For ever burning and for erer bright. 
 
 With hearen's pure fire, and ererlasting light ? 
 
 WTiat awful beauty in thy face appears ! 
 
 Immortal youth, beyond the power cf years ! 
 
 \VTien gloomy darkness to thy reign resigns, 
 And from the gate of mom thy glory shines. 
 The conscious stars are put to sndden flight, 
 And all the planets hide their heads in r.isht: 
 The queen of hearen forsakes th' ethereal plain. 
 To sink inglorious in the western main. 
 The cloudi refulgent deck thy golden throne. 
 High in the heavens, immortal and alone 1 
 Who can abide the brightness of thy face ! 
 Or who attend thee in thy rapid race ! 
 The mountain oaks, like their own leaves decay ; 
 Themselves the mountains wear with age away ; 
 The boundless main that rolls from land to land. 
 Lessens at times, and leaves a waste of sand : 
 The sil'er moon, refulgent lamp of night. 
 Is lost in heaven, and emptied of her light ; 
 But thou for ever shalt endure the same. 
 Thy light eternal, and unspent thy flame. 
 
 When tempests with their train impend on high. 
 Darken the aay, and load the labouring sky
 
 ODE WRITTEN IN SPRING. !» 
 
 When heaTen's wide convex glows with lightnings 
 All ether flaming, and all earth on fire : [dire, 
 
 When loud and long the deep-mouth'd thunder 
 
 rolls. 
 And peals on peals redoubled rend the poles ; 
 If from the opening clouds thy form appears. 
 Her wonted charm the face of nature wears ; 
 Thv beauteous orb restores departed day, 
 Looks from the skv, and laughs the storm away. 
 
 ODE WRITTEN IN SPRING. 
 
 No longer hoary winter reigns. 
 
 No longer binds the streams in chains, 
 
 (Jr heaps with snow the meads; 
 Airay'd with robe of rainbow-dye. 
 At last the spring appears on high. 
 And, smiling over earth and sky. 
 
 Her new creation leads. 
 
 The snows confess a warmer ray. 
 The loosen'd streamlet loves to stray. 
 
 And echo down the dale ; 
 The hills uplift their summits green. 
 The vales more verdant spread between. 
 The cuckoo in the wood unseen 
 
 Coos ceaseless to the gale. 
 
 The rainbow arching woos the eye. 
 With all the colours of the sky. 
 
 With all the pride of spring ; 
 Now heaven descends in sunny showers. 
 The sudden fields put on the flowers. 
 The green leaves wave upon the bowers. 
 
 And birds begin to sing. 
 
 The cattle wander in the wood. 
 And find the wanton verdant food. 
 Beside the well-known rills; 
 Blithe in the sun the shepherd swain. 
 Like Pan atttmes the pastoral stiain.
 
 10 ODE ^VRITTEN IX SPRING. 
 
 While many echoes send again 
 The music of the hills. 
 
 At eve, the primrose path along. 
 The milkmaid shortens with a song 
 
 Her solitary way ; 
 She sees the fairies, with their queen. 
 Trip hand in hand the circled green, 
 And hears them raise at times, unseen, 
 
 The ear-enchanting lay. 
 
 Maria, come ! Now let us rove. 
 Now gather garlands in the grove. 
 
 Of every new-sprung flower ; 
 U'e'Il hear the warblings of the wood, 
 We'll trace the windings of the flood; 
 O come, thou fairer than the bud 
 
 Unfolding in a shower ! 
 
 Fair as the lily of the vale. 
 That gives its' bosom to the gale 
 
 And opens in the sun ; 
 And sweeter than thv favourite dove. 
 The Venus of the vernal grove. 
 Announcing to the choirs of love 
 
 Their time of bliss begun. 
 
 Now, now thy spring of life appears. 
 Fair in the morning of thy years. 
 
 And May of beauty crown'd : 
 Now vernal visions meet thine eyes. 
 Poetic dreams to fancy rise. 
 And better days in better skies ;— 
 
 Elysivim' blooms around. 
 
 Now, now's the morning of the day ; 
 But, ah : the morning flies away. 
 
 And youth is on the wing ; 
 'Tis nature's voice, " O pull the rose. 
 Now while the bud in beauty blows. 
 Now while the opening leaves disclose 
 
 The incense of the spring !" 
 
 \^Tiaf vouth, high favout'd of the skies, 
 WTiat jouth shall win the brightest prize 
 •That nature has in store ?
 
 SONG. 
 
 Whose conscious eyes shall meet with thii 
 
 Whose arms thy yielding waist entwine ; 
 
 Who, ravish'd with thy charms divine. 
 
 Requires of Heaven no more ! 
 
 Not happier the primeval pair. 
 
 When new-made earth, supremely fair. 
 
 Smiled on her virgin spring; 
 When all was fair to God's own eye. 
 When stars consenting sung on high. 
 And all heaven's chorus made the sky 
 
 With Hallelujahs ring. 
 
 De'-oted to the muses' choir, 
 I tune the Caledonian lyre 
 
 To themes of high renown : — 
 No other theme than you I'll choose. 
 Than you invoke no other muse : 
 Nor will that gentle hand refuse 
 
 "Thy bard with bays to crown. 
 
 Where hills by storied streams ascend. 
 My dreams and waking wishes tend 
 
 Poetic ease to woo ; 
 Where fairy fingers curl the grove. 
 Where Grecism spirits round me rove. 
 Alone enamour'd with the love 
 
 Of nature and of you. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Thb day is departed, and round from the cloud 
 
 The moon in her beauty appears ; 
 The voice of the nightingale warbles aloud 
 
 The music of love in our ears . 
 J I aria, appear ! now the season so sweet 
 
 With the beat of the heart is in tune ; 
 The time is so tender for lovers to meet 
 
 Alone by the light of the moon. 
 
 I cannot when present unfold what I feel, 
 I sigh Can a lover do more ?
 
 12 ODE TO SLEEP. 
 
 Her name to the shepherds I never reveal. 
 
 Yet I think of her all the day o'er. 
 Maria, ray love ! Do vou long for the grove ? 
 
 Do you sigh for an interview soon ? 
 Does e'er a kind thought run on me cis you rove 
 
 Alone by the light of the moon ? 
 
 Tour name from the shepherds whenever 1 hear, 
 My bosom is all in a glow ; [ear, 
 
 Vour voice when it vibrates so sweet through mine 
 _ My heart thrills — my eyes overflow. 
 
 Ve powers of the sky, will" vour bounty divine 
 Indulge a fond lover his' boon ? 
 
 ^hall heart spring to heart, and Maria be mine. 
 Alone by the light of the moon ? 
 
 ODE TO SLEEP. 
 
 In vain I court till dawning light. 
 The coy divinity of night ; 
 Restless, fi-om s'ide to side I turn. 
 Arise, ye musings of the mom ! 
 
 Oh, sleep ! though banishM from those eyes 
 In visions fair to Delia rise ; 
 And o'er a dearer form diffuse 
 Thy healing balm, thy lenient dews. 
 
 Bless'd be her night as infant's rest, 
 LuU'd on the fond maternal breast, 
 AV'ho, bweetly-playful smiles in sleep. 
 Nor knows that he is born to weep. 
 
 Remove the terrors of the night. 
 The phantom forma of wild atfright. 
 The shrieks from precipice or flood, 
 And starting scene that swims with blood. 
 
 Lead her alofl to blooming bowers. 
 And b-ds of amaranthine flowers. 
 And golden skies, and glittering streams. 
 That paint the paradise of dreams.
 
 ODE TO A YOUNG LADY. 1 
 
 Venus ! present a lover near, 
 
 And gently whisper in her ear 
 
 His woes, who, lonely and forlorn. 
 
 Counts the slow clock from night till mom. 
 
 Ah ! let no portion of my pain. 
 Save just a tender trace, remain; 
 Asleep consenting to be kind, 
 And wake with Daphnis in her mind. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Maria, bright with beauty's glow, 
 In conscious gayety you go 
 
 The pride "of all the park : 
 Attracted groups in <:ilen< e gaze. 
 And soft behind you hear the praise. 
 
 And whisper of the spark. 
 
 In fancy's airy chariot whirl'd, 
 You make the circle of the world. 
 
 And dance a dizzy round : 
 The maids and kindling youths behold 
 You triumph o'er the envious old. 
 
 The queen of beauty crown'd. 
 
 Where'er the beams of fortune blaze. 
 Or fashion's whispering zephyr plays, 
 
 The insect tribe attends ; 
 Gay glittering through a summer's day, 
 The silken myriads melt away 
 
 Before a sun descends. 
 
 Divorced fiom elegant delight. 
 The vulgar Venus holds her night 
 
 An alien to the skies ; 
 Her bosom breathes no finer fire. 
 No radiance of divine desire 
 
 Illume« responsive eyes.
 
 ODE TO A YOUNG LaDY. 
 
 Oods ! shall a sordid son of earth 
 Enfold a form of heavenly birth. 
 
 And ravish joys divine ; 
 An angel bless unconscious arms ? 
 The circle of surrender'd charms 
 
 Unhallowed hands entwine ? 
 
 The absent dav ; the broken dream ; 
 The vision wild ; the sudden scream ; 
 
 Tears that unbidden flow ! 
 
 Ah ! let no sense of tnriefs profound. 
 That beauteous bosom ever wound, 
 
 AVith unavailing wo ! 
 
 The wild enchanter youth beguiles. 
 And fancy's fairy landscape smiles 
 
 With more than nature's bloom ; 
 The spring of Eden paints your bower«, 
 Unsetting suns your promised hours 
 
 \ViUi golden light illume. 
 
 A hand advancing strikes the bell ! 
 That sound dissolves the magic speJl, 
 
 And all the charm is gone ! 
 The vjsionarv landscape flies: 
 At once the aerial music dies ; 
 
 In wilds you walk alone. 
 
 Howe'er the wind of fortune blows. 
 Or sadly-severing fate dispose 
 
 Our everlasting doom ; 
 Impressions never felt before. 
 And transperta to return no more, 
 
 ■V\'ill haunt me to the tomb ! 
 
 MvGod! the pangs of nature pass'd, 
 Will e'er a kind remembrance Icist 
 
 Of pleasures sadly sweet ' 
 Can love assume a calmer name ? 
 My eyes with friendship's angel flame. 
 
 An angel's beauty meet ? 
 
 Ah! should that first of finer form* 
 Require, through life's impending storms, 
 A sympathj of soul ;
 
 ODE TO A MAN OF LETTERS. 16 
 
 The lored Maria of the mind 
 Will send me, on the wings of wind. 
 To Indus or the Pole. 
 
 ODE TO A MAN OP LETTERS. 
 
 Lo, winter's hoar dominion past I 
 Arrested in his eastern blast 
 
 The fiend of nature flies ; 
 Breathing the spring, the zephyrs play, 
 And re-enthroned the Lord of day 
 
 Resumes the golden skies. 
 
 Attendant on the genial hours. 
 The voluntary shades and flowers 
 
 For rural lovers spring; 
 Wild choirs unseen in concert join. 
 And round Apollo's rustic shrine 
 
 The sylvan muses sing. 
 
 The finest vernal bloom that blows, 
 "The sweetest voire ihe forest knows. 
 
 Arise to vanish soon ; 
 The rose unfolds her robe of ligh t 
 And Philomela gives her night 
 
 To Richmond and to June. 
 
 \Vith bounded ray, and transient grace, 
 "Thus, Varro, holds the human race 
 
 Their place and hour assign'd ; 
 Loud let the venal trumpet sound. 
 Responsive never will rebound 
 
 The echo of mankind. 
 
 Von forms divine that deck the sphere, 
 The radiant rulers of the year. 
 
 Confess a nobler hand ; 
 Throned in the maiesty of rnom. 
 Behold the ICing of day adorn 
 
 The skies, the sea, the land.
 
 ODE TO A MAN OF LETTERS. 
 
 Not diJ th* Almighty raise the sky. 
 Nor hang th' eternal lamps on high 
 
 On one abode to shine ; 
 The circle of a thousand suns 
 Extends, while nature's period nms 
 
 The theatre divine. 
 
 Thus some, whom smiling nature hails 
 To sacred springs, and chosen vales, 
 
 And streams of old renown ; 
 By noble toils and worthy scars, 
 Shall win their mansion 'mid the stars, 
 
 And wear th' immortal crown. 
 
 Bright in the firmament of fame. 
 The lights of ancient ages flame, 
 
 With never setting ray ; 
 On worlds unfound from history torn. 
 O'er ages deep in time unborn. 
 
 To pour the human day. 
 
 Won from neglected wastes of time, 
 Apollo hails his fairest clime. 
 
 The provinces of mind ; 
 An Egvpt,* with eternal towers, 
 See Montesquieu redeem the hours. 
 
 From Louis, to mankind. 
 
 No tame remission genius knows ; 
 No interval of dark repose. 
 
 To quench the ethereal flame ; 
 Prom Thebes to Troy the victor hies. 
 And Homer with his hero vies 
 
 In varied paths to fame. 
 
 The orb which ruled thy natal night, 
 And usher d in a greater light. 
 
 Than sets the pole on fire ; 
 With undiminishd lustre crown d. 
 Unwearied walks th' eternal round. 
 
 Amid the heavenly quire. 
 
 • The finest provinces of Egypt, gained frocc 
 neglected waste.
 
 THE LOVERS. 
 
 Proud in triumphal chariot hurl'd. 
 And crown'd the master of the world. 
 
 Ah ! let not Philip's son. 
 His soul in Syrian softness drown'd, 
 His brows with Persian garlands bound. 
 The race of pleasure run ! 
 
 With crossing thoughts Alcides press'd. 
 The awful goddess thus address'd. 
 
 And pointing to the prize : 
 • Behold the wreath of glory shine ! 
 And mark the onward path divine 
 
 That opens to the skies ! 
 
 ' The heavenly fire must ever bum. 
 The hero's step must never turn 
 
 From yon sublime abodes: 
 Long must thy life of labours prove 
 At last to die the son of Jove, 
 
 And mingle with the gods.* 
 
 THE LOVERS, 
 
 Tlie lovers, in the following poem, were deacendnt 
 of houses that had been long at variance. The 
 Lady is first introduced as leaving her father's 
 house, and venturing out in the darkness of the 
 night to meet with her Lover. They meet at 
 the appointed hour. The rest of the dialogue 
 passes in the chariot. 
 
 HARRIET. 
 
 'Ti8 midnight dark ; 'ti» f.ilence deep ; 
 My father's bouse is hush'd in sleep;
 
 13 THE LOVERS. 
 
 In dreams the lover meets his bride. 
 
 She sees her lover at lier side ; 
 
 The mourner's voice is now suppress'd, 
 
 A while the weary are at rest : 
 
 'Tis midnight dark ; 'tis silence deep ; 
 
 I only waie, and wake to weep. 
 
 The window's drawn, the ladder waits, 
 I spy no watchmen at the gates : 
 So tread re-echoes through the hall, 
 Xo shadow moves along the wall. 
 1 am alone. 'Tis drean- night,— 
 Ct come, Oiou partner of my flight ! 
 Shield me from darkness, from alarms ; 
 O take me trembling to thine arms ! 
 
 The dog howls dismal in the heath. 
 
 The raven croaks the dirge of death 
 
 Ah me ! disaster's in the sound ! 
 
 The terrors of the night are round ; 
 
 A sad mischance my fears forebode. 
 
 The demon of the dark's abroad. 
 
 And lures, with apparition dire, 
 
 7 he night-struck man through flood and fire. 
 
 The howlet screams ill-boding sounds. 
 The spirit walks unholy rounds ; 
 The wizard's hour eclipsing rolls ; 
 The shades of hell usurp the poles ; 
 The moon retires ; the heaven departs— 
 From opening earth a spectre starts ; 
 
 I\fy spirit dies Away my fears, 
 
 Mv love, mv life, my lord appears ! 
 
 I come, I come, my love ! my life ! 
 And nature's dearest name, ray wife ! 
 Long have I loved thee ; long have sought ; 
 And dangers braved, and battles fought ; 
 In this embrace our evils end ; 
 From this our better days ascend ; 
 The vear of suffering now is o'er. 
 At last we meet to part no more ! 
 My Icvelv bride, my consort, come ! 
 The rapid chariot rolls thee home.
 
 THE LOVERS. 
 
 HARRIET. 
 
 -1 dare not stay. 
 -I dare not look that way. 
 
 No evil ever shall betide 
 My love, while I am at her side. 
 Lo ! thy protector and thy friend ; 
 The arms that fold thee will defend. 
 
 HAKRIBT. 
 
 Still beats my bosom with alarms : 
 I tremble while I 'm in thy arms ! 
 What will impassion'd lovers do ! 
 What have I done— to folK w you ? 
 I leave a father torn with te. rs ; 
 I leave a mother bath'd in tears; 
 A brother girding on his sword 
 Against my life, against my lord. 
 
 Now, without father, mother, friend. 
 On thee my future days depend ; 
 Wilt thou, for ever, true to love, 
 A father, mother, brother prove ? 
 
 O Henry ! to thy arms I fall. 
 
 My friend ! my husband ,' and my all ! 
 Alas ! what hazards may 1 run ! 
 Shouldst thou forsake me — I'm undone 
 
 HKNRV. 
 
 My Harriet, dissipate thy fears. 
 And let a husband wipe thy tears ; 
 For ever join'd our fates combine. 
 And I am yours, and you are mine. 
 The fires the firmament that rend. 
 On this devoted head descend. 
 If e'er in thought from thee I rove. 
 Or love thee less than now I love ! 
 
 Although our fathers have been foes. 
 From hatred stronger love arose ; 
 From adverse briars that threatening stood. 
 And threw a horror o'er the wood. 
 Two lovely roses met on high. 
 Transplanted to a better sky, 
 B 2
 
 ;0 THE LOVERS. 
 
 And, grafted in one stock, they grow. 
 In union spring, in beauty blow. 
 
 HARBIBT. 
 
 My heart believes iny love ; but still 
 ^f y boding mind presages ill : 
 Fo'r luckless ever was our love. 
 Dark as the sky that hung above. 
 While we embraced, we shook with fears. 
 And with our kisses mingled tears : 
 We met with murmurs and with sighs. 
 And parted still with watery eyes. 
 
 An unforeseen and fatal hand 
 
 Cross'd all the measures love had plann d ; 
 
 Intrusion marr'd the tender hour, 
 
 A demon started in the bower : 
 
 If, Uke the past, the future run. 
 
 And mv dark day is but begun. 
 
 What clouds mav hang above mv heaa ! 
 
 What tears may I have yet to shed ! 
 
 HENBT. 
 
 O do not wound that gentle breast ; 
 Nor sink, with fancied ills oppress'd ; 
 For softness, sweetness, all, thou art. 
 And love is virtue in thy heart. 
 That bosom ne'er shall heave again 
 But to the poet's tender strain ; 
 And never more these eyes o'erflow. 
 But for a hapless lover's wo. 
 
 Long on the ocean tempest toss'd, 
 At last we gain the happy coast ; 
 And safe rtcount upon the shore 
 Our sufferings past and dangers o'er : 
 Past scenes ; the woes we wept erewnlle 
 Will make our future minutes smile : 
 \V'hen sudden joy from sorrow springs. 
 How the heart thrills through all its strings ! 
 
 HARRIET. 
 
 My father's castle springs to sight ; 
 . Ye towers that gave me to the light ! 
 O hills! vales! where I have play'd. 
 Ye woods, that wrapp'd me in your shade.
 
 THE LOVERS. 
 
 O scenes I've often wandcT'd o'er ! 
 
 sctnes I shall behold no more! 
 
 1 take a long, last, lingering view: 
 Adieu ! my native land, adieu ! 
 
 O father, mother, brother dear ! 
 O names still utter'd with a tear ! 
 Upon whose knees I've sat and smiled. 
 Whose griefs my blandishments beguiled ; 
 Whom I forsake in sorrows old. 
 Whom I shall never more behold ! 
 Farewell, my friends, a long farewell, 
 Till time shall toll the funeral knell ! 
 
 HENB7. 
 
 Thy friends, thy father's house resign; 
 My friends, my house, my all is thine. 
 Awake, arise, my wedded wife. 
 To higher thoughts and happier life! 
 For thee the marriage feast is spread. 
 For thee the virgins deck the bed; 
 The star of Venus shines above. 
 And all thy future life is love. 
 
 They rise, the dear domestic hours I 
 The May of love unfolds her flowers; 
 Youth, beauty, pleasure, spread the feast. 
 And friendship sits a constant guest ; 
 In cheerful peace the mom ascends. 
 In wine and love the evening ends ; 
 At distance grandeur sheds a ray. 
 To gild the evening of our day. 
 
 Connubial love has dearer names, 
 And finer ties, and sweeter claims. 
 Than e'er unwedded hearts can feel. 
 Than wedded hearts can e'er reveal ; 
 Pure, as the charities above, 
 Rise the sweet sympathies of love ; 
 And closer cords than those of life 
 Unite the husband to the wife. 
 
 Like cherubs new come from the skies, 
 Henrys and Harriet* round us rise ; 
 And playing wanton in the hall. 
 With accents sweet their parents call. 
 B3
 
 .2 A TALE. 
 
 To TOUT feir imajjcs I run ; 
 You clasD the husband in the son ; 
 O ho-K- the mother's heart -will bound I 
 O how the father's joj be crown'd ! 
 
 Whbre pastoral Tweed, renown'd in sor«5, 
 
 With rapid murmur flows ; 
 In Caledonia's classic ground. 
 
 The hall of Arthur rose. 
 
 A braver Briton never arm'd 
 
 To guard his native isle ; 
 A gentler friend did never make 
 
 The social circle smile. 
 
 Twice he arose, from rebel rage 
 
 To save the British crown ; 
 And in the field where heroes strove 
 
 He won him high renown. 
 
 But to the ploughshare tum'd the sword. 
 
 When bloody war did cease ; 
 And in the arbour which he rear'd 
 
 He raisd the song of peace. 
 
 An only daughter in his age 
 
 Solaced a father's care ; 
 And all the countrv bless'd the name 
 
 Of Emily the Fair. 
 
 The picture of her mother's youth, 
 
 (Now sainted in the sky ;) 
 She was the aneel of his age. 
 
 And apple of his eye. 
 
 Something unseen o'er all her form 
 
 Did nameless grace impart ; 
 A secret charm that won the way 
 
 At onoe into the heart.
 
 A TALE. ? 
 
 rler eye the pure ethereal blue. 
 
 Than that did fairer show, 
 Whene'er she watch'd a father's look. 
 
 Or wept a lover's woe : 
 
 For now the lover of her youth 
 
 To Indian climes had roved. 
 To conquer fortune's cruel rage. 
 
 And match the maid he loved. 
 
 Her voice, the gentle tone of love. 
 
 The heart a caytive stole ; 
 The tender aocent of her tongue 
 
 When thrilling through the soul. 
 
 The gracts that for nature fair 
 
 Present us mimic art. 
 The faUe refinements that refine 
 
 Away the human heart. 
 
 She knew not ; in the simple robe 
 
 Of elegance and ease. 
 Complete she shone, and ever pleased 
 
 Without the thought to please. 
 
 Instruct th* unplanted forest-crab 
 
 To leave its genius wild ; 
 Subdue the monster of the wood. 
 
 And make the savage mild : 
 
 But who would give the rose a hue 
 Which nature has not given '■f 
 
 But who would tame the uightincale. 
 Or bring the lark from.heaven ? 
 
 The father, watching o'er his child. 
 
 The joy of fathers found ; 
 And bless'd himself, he siretch'd his hand 
 
 To bless the neighbours round. 
 
 A patriarch in the vale of peace. 
 
 To all he gave the law ; 
 The good he guarded in their rights 
 
 And kept the bad in awe.
 
 4. TALE. 
 
 Lord of his ovrn paternal field. 
 
 He liberal dealt hi? store ; 
 Arid nall'd the stranger to his feast. 
 
 The beggar to his door. 
 
 But, ah ! what raonal tnows the hour 
 
 Of fate ? a hand unseen 
 I'pon the curtain ever rests. 
 
 And sudden shifts the scene. 
 
 Arthur was surety for his frtend. 
 
 Who fled to foreign climes. 
 And left him to the gripe of law. 
 
 The Ticiim of his crimes. 
 
 The sun, that rising, saw him lora 
 
 Of hili and valley round, 
 Beheld him. at his setting hour. 
 
 Without one foot of ground. 
 
 Forth from the hall, no longer his. 
 
 He is a pilgrim gone ; 
 And walks a stranger o'er the fields 
 
 He lately caUd his own. 
 
 The blast of winter whisUed loud 
 And shrill through the void hall; 
 
 And heavy on his hoarv locks 
 The shower of night'did fall. 
 
 Clasp'd in his daughter^ trembling hand. 
 
 He joumey'd sad and slow ; 
 At times he stopp'd to l(K)k behind. 
 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 Wearied, and faint, and cold, and wet. 
 
 To shelter he did hie ; 
 ' Beneath the covert of this rock, 
 
 JMy daughter, let us die !' 
 
 At midnight, in the weary waste. 
 
 In sorrow sat the pair ;' 
 She chaff d his shivering bands, and wrung 
 
 The water from his hair. 
 
 The sigh spontaneous rose, the tear 
 Involuntary tlow'd;
 
 ISO word of comfort coufd she speak. 
 Nor would she weep aloud. 
 
 • In yonder hall mj fathers lived. 
 
 In yonder hall they died ; 
 Now in that church -yarci's aisle they sleep. 
 Each by his spouse's side. 
 
 • Oft have I made yon hall resound 
 
 With social, sweet delight ; 
 And marked not the morning hour. 
 That stole upon the night. 
 
 ' When there the wand'rers of the dark. 
 
 Reposing, ceas'd to roam ; 
 And strangers, happy in the hall. 
 
 Did find themselves at home : 
 
 ' I little thought, that, thus forlorn, 
 
 In deserts I should bide, 
 And have not where to lay the head. 
 
 Amid the world so wide !' 
 
 A stranger, wandering through the wootl. 
 
 Beheld the hapless pair ; 
 Long did he look in silence sad. 
 
 Then shriefd as in despair. 
 
 He ran, and lowly at the feet 
 Ofhis late lord he fell; 
 
 • Alas ! my master, have I lived 
 
 To bid your house farewell J 
 
 ' But I will never bid adieu 
 To him I prized so high : 
 , As with my master I have lived, 
 I'll with my master die. 
 
 ' I saw the summer-friend, who shared 
 
 The banquet in your hall, 
 Depart, nor cast one look behind 
 
 On the forsaken wall. 
 
 ' I saw the daily, nightly guest. 
 
 The changing scene ib'sake : 
 Nor drop a tear, nor turn his step* 
 
 The long fareweU to take :
 
 A TALE. 
 
 ' Then to the service of my lord 
 
 I vow'd a throbbing heart ; 
 And in the changes ofyour life 
 
 To bear an humble part. 
 
 ' Forgive the fond, officious zeal 
 
 Of one that loves his lord ! 
 The new possessor ofyour field 
 
 A suppliant I implored. 
 
 ' I told the treachery ofyour &iend. 
 
 The story of your woe. 
 And sought his faTour, when I saw 
 
 His tears begin to flow. 
 
 ' I ask'd the hamlet of the hill. 
 
 The lone, sequesier'd seat. 
 Your chosen haunt and favourite bower 
 
 To be your last retreat. 
 
 ' I offer'd what was all your own 
 
 The gold I had in store; 
 Low at his feet I fell, and wept 
 
 That I could give no more. 
 
 ' Tour gold is yours, the generous youth 
 
 With gentle accent said ; 
 Vour master's be that little field. 
 
 And cheerful be his shed ! 
 
 ' Now Heaven has heard my prayer; I'v? 
 
 I could in part repay ' [wish'd 
 
 l"he favours vour extended hand 
 
 Bestow'd from day to day. 
 
 ' I vet mav see a garland green 
 
 Cpon the hoary haad ; 
 Vet see my ma.ste'r bless'd, before 
 
 I dwell among the dead I' 
 
 In silence Arthur look'd to heaven. 
 
 And clasp 'd his Edwin's hand; 
 The ejes of EmUv in tears 
 
 Express'd affection bland. 
 
 From opemng heaven the moon appear'd ; 
 Fair was the fece of night ;
 
 Bright in their beauty shone the stars j 
 I'he air was flowing light. 
 
 They held their lonely way 
 Dim through the forest's darksome bourne, 
 Till near the dawning day. 
 
 That quiT 
 Reveal'd their lone retreat, and closed 
 The pilgrimage of woe. 
 
 He cnter'd, solemn, slow, and sad. 
 
 The destined hermitage, 
 A little and a lonely hut 
 
 To cover hapless age. 
 
 He clasp'd his daughter in his arms. 
 
 And kiss'd a falling tear ; 
 ' I have my all, ye gracious powers ! 
 
 I have my daughter here 1' 
 
 A sober banquet to prepare, 
 
 Emilia cheerful goes ; 
 The faggot blazed, the window glanced. 
 
 The heart of age arose. 
 
 ' I would not be that guilty m.an, 
 
 With all his golden store ; 
 Nor change my lot with any wretch. 
 
 That counts his thousands o'er. 
 
 ' Now here at last we are at home. 
 
 We can no lower fall ; 
 Low in the cottage, peace can dwell. 
 
 As in the lordly hall. 
 
 • The wants of nature are but few ; 
 
 Her banquet soon is spread : 
 The tenant of the vale of tears 
 
 Requires but daily bread. 
 
 ' The food that grows in every field 
 Will life and health prolong; 
 
 And water from the spring sumce 
 To quench the thirsty tongue.
 
 A TALE. 
 
 ' But all the Indies, with their wealth. 
 And earth, and air, and seas. 
 
 Will never quench the sickly thirst. 
 And craving of disease. 
 
 ' My humble garden to mv hand 
 Contentment's feast will yield ; 
 
 And in the season, harvest white 
 Will load my litUe field. 
 
 ' Lite nature's simple children, here. 
 With nature's self we'll live. 
 
 And of the little that is left. 
 Have something still to ^ve. 
 
 ' The sad vicissitudes of life 
 Long have I learn'd to beJir ; 
 
 But oh ! ray daughter, Uiou art new 
 To sorrow and to caie '. 
 
 ' How shall that fine and flowery form. 
 
 In silken folds confined. 
 That scarcely faced the summer's gale, 
 
 Endure Uie wintry wind I 
 
 ' Ah ! how wilt thou sustain a sky 
 
 With angry tempest red ! 
 How wilt thou bear the bitter storm 
 
 That's hanging o'er thy head : 
 
 ' Whate'er thy justice dooms, O God ! 
 
 I take with temper mild ; 
 But oh ! repay it thousand-fold 
 
 In blessings on my child !' 
 
 ' Weep not for me, thou father fond ." 
 
 "The virgin soft did say , 
 ' Could I contribute to thy peace, 
 
 O, 1 would bless the day '. 
 
 ' The parent who provides for all 
 
 For us will now provide, 
 These hands have learn'd the gayer arts 
 
 Of elegance and pride : 
 
 • What once amused a vacant hour, 
 Shail now the day engage ;
 
 And Tanity shall spread the board 
 Of poverty and age. 
 
 • At eventide, how blithe weal meet. 
 
 And, while the faggots blaze. 
 Recount the trifles of the time. 
 And dream of better days ; 
 
 • I'll read the tragic tales of old. 
 
 To soothe a father's woes ; 
 
 I'll lay the pillow for thy head. 
 
 And sing thee to repose.' 
 
 The father wept. ' Thy wondrous hand; 
 
 Almighty, 1 adore ! 
 I had not known how bless'd I was. 
 
 Had I not been so poor I 
 
 ' Now bless'd be God for what is left ! 
 
 And bless'd for what is given ! 
 Thou art an angel, O my child ! 
 
 With thee I dwell in heaven !' 
 
 Then, in the garb of ancient times, 
 They trod the pastoral plain : 
 
 But who describes a summer's day, 
 Or paints the halcyon main ? 
 
 One day, a wanderer in the wood 
 The 'lonely threshold press'd ; 
 
 'Twas then that Arthur's humble roof 
 Had first received a guest. 
 
 The stranger told his tender tale : 
 ' I come from foreign climes ; 
 
 From countries red with Indian blood. 
 And stain'd with Christian crimes. 
 
 ' O may Britannia never hear 
 
 What these sad eyes have seen ! 
 Mav an eternal veil be drawn 
 'That world and this between I 
 
 ' No frantic avarice fired my soul. 
 And Heaven my wishes crown'd ; 
 
 For soon a fortune to my mind 
 With innocence I found.
 
 A TALE. 
 
 ' From exile sad, returning home, 
 
 I kiss'd the sacred earth : 
 And flew to find my natiye -woods. 
 
 And walls that gave me birth. 
 
 ' To church on Sunday fond I went. 
 
 In. hopes to mark, unseen, 
 All rny old friends, as^mbled round 
 
 The circle of the green. 
 
 ' Alas ! the change that time had made I 
 My ancient friends were gone ; 
 
 Another race possess *J the walls. 
 And I was left alone ! 
 
 ' A stranger among strangers, long 
 
 I look'd from pew to pew ; 
 But not the face of one old friend 
 
 Rose imaged to my view. 
 
 ' The horrid plough had razed the green 
 \\'here we have often pla\'d ; 
 
 The axe had fell'd the hawthorn tree, 
 The school-boy's summer shade. 
 
 ' One maid, the beauty of the vale. 
 
 To whom I Tow'd my care. 
 And gave my heart, hail fled away, 
 
 Aad none could tell me where.' 
 
 ' Mv cares and toils in foreign climes 
 
 \Vere for that peerless maid ; 
 She rose in beauty by my side: 
 
 My toils were all repaid. 
 
 • Bv Indian streams I sat alone, 
 
 ^'hile on my native isle. 
 And on my ancient friends, I thought. 
 
 And wept the weary while. 
 
 ' 'Twas she that cheer'd my captive hours, 
 
 .She came in every dream. 
 As, smiling, on the rear of night. 
 
 Appears the morning beam.
 
 A TALB. S 
 
 ' In quest of her, I wander Kild, 
 O'er mountain, stream, and plain ; 
 
 And, if I find her not. I fiy 
 To Indian climes again.' 
 
 The father thus began : ' Jfy s«ln. 
 
 Mourn not thy wretched fate ; 
 For he that rules in Heaven decrees 
 
 This life a mixed state. 
 
 ' The stream that carries us along. 
 Flows through the vale of tears; 
 
 Yet, on the darkness of our day. 
 The bow of Heaven appears. 
 
 • The rose of Sharon, king of flowers. 
 
 Is fenced with prickles round : 
 Queen of the vale, the lily fair 
 "Among the thorns is found. 
 
 ' E'en while we raise the song, we sigh 
 
 The melancholy while; 
 And, down the face of mortal man. 
 
 The tear succeeds the smile. 
 
 ' Nought pure or perfect here is found ; 
 
 But, when this ni^ht is o'er, 
 Th' eternal morn will spring on high. 
 
 And we shall weep no more. 
 
 • Bevond the dim horizon far. 
 
 That bounds the mortal eye, 
 
 A better country blooms to view. 
 
 Beneath a brighter sky.'— 
 
 Unseen the trembling virgin heard 
 
 The stranger's tale of wo ; 
 Then enter'd as an angel bright. 
 
 In beauty's highest glow. 
 
 The stranger rose— he look'd, he gazed^ 
 
 He stood a statue pale; 
 His heart did throb, his cheek did change, 
 
 His faltering voice did faU. 
 
 At last, ' My Emily herself 
 Alive in all her charms !'
 
 The father kneel'd ; the lovers rush d 
 To one another's arms. 
 
 In speechless ecstacy entranced 
 
 Long while thev did remain ; 
 They glow'd, they trembled, and thev sobb't 
 
 They wept, and wept again. 
 
 The father lifted up his hands. 
 
 To bless the happy pair ; 
 Heaven smiled on Edward the Beloved, 
 
 And Emily the Fair. 
 
 M O X I M I A. 
 
 AN ODE. 
 
 In weeds of sorrow wildly 'di£;ht. 
 Alone beneath the glooin of night, 
 
 ^fonimia went to mourn ; 
 She left a mother's fond alarms ; 
 She left a father's folding aims ; 
 
 Ah ! never to return I 
 
 The bell had struck the midnight hour, 
 Diiastrous planets now had power. 
 
 And evil spirits reign'd ; 
 The lone owl, from the cloister'd isle. 
 O'er falling fragments of the pile, 
 tll-boding prophet, plain'd. 
 
 \\Tiile down her devious footsteps stray, 
 She tore the will^jws by the way, 
 
 And gazed upon. the wave ; 
 Then raising wild to Heaven her eyes. 
 With sobs and broken accent, cries. 
 
 ' I'll meet thee in the grave.' 
 
 Bright o'er the border of the stream, 
 lUun)ined bv a transient beam. 
 She knew the wonted grove ;
 
 Her lover's hand had deck'd it fine. 
 
 And roses mix'd with myrtles twine 
 
 To form the bower of love. 
 
 The tuneful Philomela rose. 
 
 And, sweetly mournful, sung her woes, 
 
 Enamour'd of the tree; 
 Touch'd with the mtlody of wo. 
 More tender tears began to flow : 
 
 « She mourns her mate lite me. 
 
 ' I loved my lover from a child. 
 
 And sweet "the youthful cherub smiled. 
 
 And wanton'd o'er the green ; 
 He train'd my nightingale to sing. 
 
 : spoi 
 To 
 
 crown me rural queen. 
 
 ' My brother died before his day ; 
 
 Sad, through the church-yard's dreary way. 
 
 We wont to walk at eve : 
 And bending o'er th' untimely urn. 
 Long at the monument to mourn. 
 
 And look upon his grave. 
 
 • Like forms funereal while we stand. 
 In tender mood he held niy hand, 
 
 And laid his cheek to mine ; 
 My bosom beat unknown alarms. 
 We wept in one another's arms. 
 
 And mingled tears divine. 
 
 ■■ From sweet compassion love arose, 
 Our hearts were wedded by our woes. 
 
 And pair'd upon the tomb; 
 Attesting all the l^owers above, 
 A fond romance of fancied love 
 
 We vowed our dajs to come. 
 
 ' A wealthy lord fiom Indian skies. 
 Illustrious in my parmt's eyes. 
 
 Implored a mutual inind ; 
 Sad to my chamber 1 withdrew, 
 But Harry's foottteps never flew 
 
 The wont«d sceue to find.
 
 MONIMIA. 
 
 ' Three nights in dire suspense I sat 
 Alone ; the fourth convey'd ray fate. 
 
 Sent from a foreign shore;— 
 " Go, where thy wandering wishes tend 
 Go, and embrace thy father's friend. 
 
 You never see me more !" — 
 
 'Despair! distraction! I obey'd. 
 And one disordered moment made 
 
 An ever- wretched wife: 
 Ah ! in the circuit of one Sun, 
 Heaven ! I was wedded and undone. 
 
 And desolate for life! 
 
 ' Apart my wedding robes I tore. 
 And guarded tears now gushing o'er 
 
 Distain'd the bridal bed : 
 'Wild I invoked the funeral yell. 
 And sought devoted now to dwell 
 
 For ever with the dead. 
 
 ' My lord to India climates went, 
 A letter from my lover sent 
 
 Renew'd eternal woes; — 
 Before my love my last words greet, 
 Wrapp'd'in the weary winding sheet, 
 
 I in the dust repose ! 
 
 ' Perhaps your parents have deceived. 
 Perhaps too rashly I believed 
 
 A tale of treacherous art ; 
 Monimia ! could you now behold 
 The youth you loved in sorrows old. 
 
 Oh ! it' would break my heart ! 
 
 • Now in the grave for ever laid, 
 A constant solitary shade, 
 
 Thy Harry hangs o'er thee ! 
 For you I fled'my native sky : 
 Loaded with life, for you I die ; 
 
 My love, remember me ! 
 
 * Of all the promises of youth, 
 i"he tears of tenderness and truth. 
 
 The throbs that lovers send ;
 
 The vows in one another's arms. 
 The secret sympathy of charms 
 My God ! is this the end !' 
 
 She said, and rushing from the bower. 
 Devoted sought in evil hour 
 
 The promontory steep ; 
 Hung o'er the margin of the main. 
 Her fix'd and earnest eyeballs strSLa 
 
 The dashing of the deep. 
 
 ' Waves that resound from shore to shore ! 
 Rocks loud rebellowing to the roar 
 
 Of ocean, storm, and wind ! 
 Vour elemental war is tame, 
 ■To that which rages in my frame. 
 
 The battle of the mind ]•• 
 
 With downcast eye and musing mood, 
 A lurid interval she stood. 
 
 The victim of despair ; 
 Her arms then tossing to the skies. 
 She pour'd in nature's ear her cries, 
 ' My God ! my father ! where !' — 
 
 Wild on the summit of the steep 
 She ruminated long the deep, 
 
 And felt her freezing blootl ; 
 Approaching feet she heard behind, 
 Then swifter than the winged wind 
 
 She plunged into the flood. 
 
 Her fonn emerging from the wave. 
 Both parents saw, but could not save 
 
 "The shriek of death arose . 
 At once she sunk to rise no more ; 
 And sadly sounding to tlie shore. 
 
 The parted billows close '. 
 
 ODE, 
 Written in a Vitti to the Country in Aiifumn. 
 Ti3 past ! no more the summer blooms 
 Ascending in the rear, 
 
 ca
 
 36 CDS. 
 
 Behold congenial autumn comes. 
 
 The Sabbath of the year! 
 What time thy holy whispers breathe, 
 The pensive evening shade beneath, 
 
 And twilight consecrates the floods ; 
 While nature strips her garment gay, 
 And wears the vesture of decay, 
 
 let roe wander through the sounding woods. 
 
 Ah ! well-known streams ! Ah ! wonted groves, 
 
 Mill pictur'd in my mind ! 
 Oh! sacred scene of youthful loves, 
 
 MTiose image lives behind ! 
 ■Wiiile sad I ponder on the past. 
 The joys that must no longer last ; 
 
 The wild-flower strown on summer's bier. 
 The dving muiic of the grove. 
 And the last elegies of love, 
 Dissolve the soul, and draw the tender tear ! 
 
 Alas ! the hospitable hall. 
 
 Where youth and friendship play'd. 
 
 Wide to the winds a ruin'd \raU 
 Projects a death-like shade ! 
 
 The charm is vanish'd from the vales ; 
 
 No voice with virgin-whisper hails 
 A stranger to his native bowers: 
 
 No more Arcadian mountains bloom. 
 
 Nor Enna valleys breathe perfume. 
 
 The fancied Eden fades with all its flowers! 
 
 Companions of the youthful scene, 
 
 Endear'd from earliest days ! 
 With whom I sported on the green. 
 
 Or roved the woodl md mazu ! 
 Long-exiled from your native clime. 
 Or by the thunder-stroke of time 
 
 Siiatch'd to the shadows of despair; 
 
 1 hear ycur voices in the wind, 
 Your forms in every walk I find, 
 
 I stretch my arms ;' ye vanish into air ! 
 
 Mv steps, when innocent and young, 
 
 "These fairy paths pursued ; 
 ^ nd, wandering o'er the wild, I sung 
 
 ilv fancies to the wood.
 
 ODE. 3 
 
 1 tnoum'd the linnet-lover's fate. 
 Or turtle from her murder d mate, 
 
 Condcrati'd the widow'd hours to wail: 
 Or -while the mournful Tision rose, 
 I sought to weep for imaged woes. 
 Nor real life believed a tragic tale ! 
 
 Alas ! misfortune's cloud unkind 
 
 May summer soon o'ercast ; 
 And cruel fate's untimely wind 
 
 All human beauty blast ! 
 The wrath of nature smites our bowers. 
 And promised fruits, and cherish'd flowers. 
 
 The hopes of life in embryo sweeps; 
 Pale o'er the ruins of his prime. 
 And uesolate before his time. 
 In silence sad the mourner walks and weeps ! 
 
 Relentless power ! whose fated stroke 
 
 O'er wretched man prevails ! 
 Ha ! love's eternal chain is broke, 
 
 And friendship's covenant fails ! 
 Upbraiding forms ! a moment's ease — 
 O memory ! how shall I appease 
 
 The bleeding shade, the unlaid ghost ? 
 What charm can bind the gushing eye ? 
 What voice console th' incessant sigh. 
 And everlasting longings for the lost ? 
 
 Yet not unwelcome waves the wood. 
 
 That hides me in its gloom, 
 While lost in melancholy mood, 
 
 1 muse upon the tomb. 
 Their chequer'd leaves the branches shed 
 Whirling in eddies o'er my head, 
 
 They sadly sigh, that winter's near : 
 The warning voice I hear behind. 
 That shakes the wood without a wind. 
 And solemn sounds the death bell of the year. 
 
 Nor will I court Lethean streams, 
 
 The sorrowing sense to steep ; 
 Nor drink oblivion of the themes 
 
 On which I love to weep. 
 Belated oft by fabled rill. 
 While nightly o'er the hallowed hill 
 C3
 
 SS HYMNS. 
 
 Aerial music seems to mourn ; 
 ['11 listen autumn's closing strain; 
 Then woo the walks of youth again. 
 And pour my sorrows o'er th' tmtimelj nm I 
 
 HYMN S. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE PRAYER OF JACOB. 
 
 Thy people still aref 
 
 Our TOWS, our prayers, we now 
 Before thy throne of grace; 
 
 God of our fathers, be the God 
 Of their succeeding race. 
 
 Our wandering footsteps guide. 
 Give us by day our daily bread. 
 And raiment fit provide. 
 
 O spread thy covering wings around, 
 'Till all our wanderings cease, 
 
 And at our Father's loved abode 
 Our feet arrive in peace. 
 
 Now with the humble %oice of prayer 
 
 Thy mercy we implore; 
 Then with the grateful voice of praise 
 
 Thy goodness we'll adore. 
 
 II. 
 THE COMPLAINT OF NATURE.
 
 Tbj doom is written, "Dust thou art. 
 And Shalt to dust return." 
 
 Determined are the days that fly 
 
 Successive o'er thy head ; 
 The number'd hour is on the wing. 
 
 That lays thee with the dead. 
 
 Alas 1 the little day of life 
 
 Is shorter than a span ; 
 Yet black with thousand hidden ills 
 
 To miserable man. 
 
 Gay is thy morning ; flattering hope 
 
 Thy sprightly step attends ; 
 But soon the tempest howls behind. 
 
 And the dark night descends. 
 
 Before its splendid hour the cloud 
 Comes o'er the beam of light ; 
 
 A pilgrim in a weary land, 
 Man tarries but a night. 
 
 Behold ! sad emblem of thy state. 
 The flowers that paint the field ; 
 
 Or trees, that crown the mountain's brow. 
 And boughs and blossoms yield. 
 
 When chill the blast of Winter blows, 
 
 Away the Summer flies. 
 The flowers resign their sunny robes. 
 
 And all their beauty dies. 
 
 Nipp'd by the year, the forest fades ; 
 
 And, shaking to the wind, 
 The leaves toss to and fro, and streak 
 
 The wilderness behind. 
 
 The Winter past, reviving flowers 
 
 Anew shall paint the plain ; 
 The woods shall hear the voice of Spring, 
 
 And flourish green again : 
 
 But man departs this earthly scene. 
 Ah ! never to return !
 
 No second spring shall e'er reTire 
 The ashes of the urn. 
 
 Th' inexorable doors of death 
 
 What hand can e'er unfold ? 
 Who from the cerements of the tomb 
 
 Can r-.ise the human mould f 
 
 The mighty flood that rolls along 
 
 Its torrents to the main, 
 The ■waters lost can ne'er recall 
 
 From that abyss again. 
 
 The days, the years, the ages, dark 
 
 Descending down to night, 
 Can never, never be redeem'd 
 
 Back to the gates of light. 
 
 So man departs the liring scene. 
 
 To night's perpetual gloom ; 
 The -voice of morning ne'er shall break 
 
 The slumbers of the tomb. 
 
 Where are our fathers ? vhither gone 
 
 The mighty men of old ? 
 The patriarchs, prophets, princes, kings. 
 
 In sacred bouks iiiroU'd i" 
 
 Gone to the re-tlng-place of man. 
 
 The everlastir^ nome, 
 \rhere ages past hare gone before, 
 Where future ages come. 
 
 Thus nature pour'd the wail of wo. 
 
 And urged her earnest cry ; 
 Her voice in agony extreme 
 
 Ascended to the sky. 
 
 Th' Almighty hpard ; then from his throne 
 
 In majestv hi- rose j 
 And from the heaven, that open'd wide. 
 
 His voice in mercy flows. 
 
 " When mortal man resigns his breath. 
 
 And falU a clod of clay, 
 The soul immortal wings its flight 
 
 To never-setting day.
 
 " Prepared of old for w^icked m 
 The bed of torment lies ; 
 
 The just shall enter into bliss 
 Immortal in the skies." 
 
 TRUST IN PROVIDENCE. 
 
 Alhiohtt Father of mankind. 
 
 On thee my hopes remain 
 And when the day of trouble comes, 
 : I shall not trust in vain. 
 
 Thou art our kind Preserver, from 
 
 The cradle to the tomb ; 
 And I was cast upon thy care, 
 
 Ev'n from my mother's womb. 
 
 In early years thou wast my guide. 
 And of my youth the friend : 
 
 And as my days began with thee. 
 With thee my days shall end. 
 
 I know the Power in whom 1 trust. 
 The arm on which I lean ; 
 
 He will my Saviour ever be. 
 Who has my Saviour been. 
 
 In former times, when trouble came. 
 Thou didst not stand afar ; 
 
 Nor didst thou prove an absent friend 
 Amid the din of war. 
 
 My God, who causedst mc lo hope. 
 
 When life began to beat. 
 And when a stranger in the world. 
 
 Didst guide my wandering feet ; 
 
 Thou wilt not cast me off", when ajje 
 
 And evil days descend ; 
 Thou wilt not leave me in despair. 
 
 To mourn my latter end.
 
 Therefore in life 1 11 trust to thee. 
 
 In death I will adore ; 
 And after death will sing thy praise, 
 
 %Vhen time shall be no more. 
 
 HEAVENLY WISDOM. 
 
 O HAPPr Is the man who hears 
 Instruction's warning voice. 
 
 And who celestial wisdom makes 
 xiis early, only choice. 
 
 For she has treasures greater far 
 
 Than east or west unfold. 
 And her reward is more secure 
 
 Than is the gain of gold. 
 
 In her right hand she holds to view 
 
 A length of happy years ; 
 And in her left, the prize of fame 
 
 And honour bright appears. 
 
 .She guides the young, with innocence 
 In pleasure's path to tread ; 
 
 A crown of glory she bestows 
 Upon the hoary head. 
 
 According as her labours rise. 
 
 So her rewards increase ; 
 Her ways are ways of pleasantness, 
 
 And all her paths are peace. 
 
 V. 
 
 Behold ! the mountain of the Lord 
 
 In latter days shall rise, 
 ^bove the mountains and the hills, 
 
 Antl draw the wondering eyes.
 
 To this the joyful nations round. 
 All tribes and tongues, shall flow ; 
 
 Up to the hill of God, they'll say. 
 And to his house we'll go. 
 
 The beam that shines on Zion hill 
 
 Shall lighten every land ; 
 The King who reigns in Zion towers 
 
 Shall ail the world command. 
 
 No strife shall vex Messiah's reign. 
 
 Or mar the peaceful years. 
 To ploughshares soon they beat their sword». 
 
 lo pruning-hooks their spears. 
 
 No longer hosts encountering hosts, 
 
 Their millions slain deplore; 
 They hang the trumpet in the hall. 
 
 And study war no more. 
 
 Come then— O come from every land. 
 
 To worship at his shrine ; 
 And, walking in the light of God, 
 
 ■\Vith holy beauties shine. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Behold ! th' A mbassador Divine, 
 
 Descending from above. 
 To publish to mankind the law 
 
 Ofeverlasthiglove! 
 
 On him, in rich effusion pour'd. 
 The heavenly dew descends ; 
 
 And truth divine he shall reveal 
 To earth's remotest ends. 
 
 No trumpet-sound, at his approach. 
 Shall strike the wondering ears ; 
 
 But still and gentle breathe the voice 
 In which the God appears. 
 
 By his kind hand the shaken reed 
 Shall raise its falling frame;
 
 The dying embers shall revive, 
 And kindle to a tlame. 
 
 The onward progress of his zeal 
 
 Shall never know decline, 
 Till foreign lands and distant isles 
 
 Receive the law divine. 
 
 He who spread forth the arch of heaTen, 
 
 And bade the planets roll. 
 Who laid the basis of the earth. 
 
 And form'd the human soul, — 
 
 Thus saith the Lord, " Thee have I sent, 
 
 A Prophet from the sky, 
 Wide o'er the nations to proclaim 
 
 The message from on h,gh. 
 
 " Before Ihv face the shades of death 
 
 Shall take to sudden flight ; 
 The people who in darkness dwell 
 
 Shall hail a glorious light ; 
 
 " The gates of brass shall 'sunder burst. 
 
 The iron fetters fall ; 
 The promised jubilee of Heaven 
 
 Appointed rise o'er all. 
 
 " And 'o ! presaging thy approach. 
 
 The heathen temples shake. 
 And trembling in forsaken fanes. 
 
 The fabled idols quake. 
 
 " I am Jehovah : 1 am One : 
 My name shall now be known ; 
 
 No idol shall usurp my praise. 
 Nor mount into my throne." 
 
 Lo, former scenes, predicted once, 
 
 Conspicuous rise to view ; 
 And future scenes, predicted now. 
 
 Shall be accomplished too. 
 
 Now sing a new song to the Lord ! 
 
 Let earth his praise resound : 
 Ye who upon the ocean dwell, 
 
 And fill the isles around.
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 O city of the Lord ! begin 
 
 The universal song ; 
 And let the scatter'd villages 
 
 The joyful notes prolong. 
 
 Let Kedar's wilderness afar 
 Lift up the lonely voice; 
 
 .■Vnd let the tenants of the rock 
 With accent rude rejoice. 
 
 O from the streams of distant lands 
 
 Unto Jehovah sing ! 
 And joyful from the mountain tops 
 
 Shout to the Lord the Iving ! 
 
 Let all combined with one accord 
 
 Jehovah's glories raise, 
 Till in remotest bounds of earth 
 
 The nations sound his praise. 
 
 Mbssiah ! at thy glad approach 
 The howling wilds are still ! 
 
 Thy praises fill the lonely waste, 
 And breathe from every hill. 
 
 The hidden fountains, at thy call, 
 Their sacred stores unlock ; 
 
 Loud in the desert, sudden streams 
 Burst living from the rock. 
 
 The incense of the spring ascends 
 Upon the morning gale : 
 
 Red o'er the hill the roses bloom, 
 The lilies in the vale. 
 
 Renew'd, the earth a robe of light, 
 
 A robe of beauty wears ; 
 And in new he ivens a brighter sun 
 
 Leads on the piomised years.
 
 The kingdom of Jlessiah come 
 
 The new creation glows. 
 
 Let Israel to the Prince of Peace 
 The loud Hosannah sing ! 
 
 With Hallelujahs and with hymns, 
 O Zion, hail thy King! 
 
 ^V■HE^• Jestis, by the Virgin brought. 
 So runs the law of Heaven, 
 
 Was offer'd holy to the Lord, 
 And at the altar given ; 
 
 Simeon the Just and the Devout, 
 Who, fremient in the fane. 
 
 Had for the Saviour waited long, 
 But waited still in vain. 
 
 Came, Heaven directed, at the hour 
 Wlien JIarv held her Son ; 
 
 He stretched forth his aged arras. 
 While tears of gladness run : 
 
 With holy joy upon his face 
 The good old father smiled, 
 
 UTiile fondlv in his wither'd arms 
 He claspeil the promised Child. 
 
 And then he lifted up to Heaven 
 
 An earnest asking eye ; 
 M> joy is full, my hour is come. 
 
 Lord, let thy servant die. 
 
 At last my arms embrace my Lord, 
 Now le"t their vigour cease ; 
 
 At last my eyes my Saviour see. 
 Now let them close in peace !
 
 HOINS. 
 
 The star and glory of the land 
 Hath now begun to shine; 
 
 The morning that shall gild the glob<» 
 Breaks on these eyes of mine 1 
 
 Where high the heavenly temple stands 
 The house of God not made with hands, 
 A great Hign Priest our nature wears, 
 The Patron of mankind appears. 
 
 He who for men in mercy stood. 
 And pour'd on earth his precious blood, 
 Pursues in heaven his plan of grace. 
 The guardian God of human race. 
 
 Though now ascended up on high. 
 He bends on earth a brother's eye. 
 Partaker of the human name, 
 He knows the frailty of our frame. 
 
 Our fellow-sufferer yet retains 
 A fellow-feeling of our pains ; 
 And still remembers in the skies 
 His tears, and agonies, and cries. 
 
 In every pang that rends the heart. 
 The Man of Sorrows had apart; 
 He sympathises in our grief, 
 Andto the suflferer sends relief. 
 
 With boldness, therefore, at the throne 
 Let us make all our sorrows known. 
 And ask the aids of heavenly power. 
 To help us in the evil hour.
 
 RUNNAMEDE, 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Vincit amor patriae.
 
 PERSONS IN THE DRAMA. 
 
 King John. 
 
 Ambassadob. 
 
 Lanoton, a rchbUhop cf Canterbury. 
 
 Albkmarlb, ndih Nonyian Lords. 
 
 A KDEN, rvith the Sajcon Lords. 
 
 Elvdje. 
 
 E DO Ail. 
 
 FbSXCH AaiBASSADOB. 
 
 Elvixa. 
 Emma.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Bevorb the records of renown were kept. 
 
 Or theatres for dying heroes wept, 
 
 The race of fame hy rival chiefs was run. 
 
 The world by former Alexanders won ; 
 
 Ages of glory in long order roll'd. 
 
 New empires rising on the wreck of old ; 
 
 Wonders were wrought by nature in her prime, 
 
 Nor was the ancient world a wilderness of time. 
 
 Yet lost to fame is virtue's orient reign ; 
 The patriot lived, the hero died in vain. 
 Dark night descended o'er the human day. 
 And wiped the glory of the world away: 
 Whirled round the gulf, the acts of time were toi 
 Then in the vast abyss for ever lost. 
 
 Virtue, from fame disjoin'd, began to plain 
 Her votaries few, and unfrequented fane. 
 Her voice ascended to almighty Jove; 
 He sent the muses from the throne above. 
 
 The bard arose ; and full of heavenly fir^ 
 With hand immortal touch'd th' immortal lyre; 
 Heroic deeds in strains heroic sung, 
 All earth resounded, all heaven's arches rung; 
 The world applaud what they approved before : 
 Virtue and fame took separate paths no more. 
 
 Hence to the bard, interpreter of Heaven, 
 The chronicle of fame by Jove is given; 
 His eye the volume of the past explores. 
 His hand unfolds the everlasting doors ; 
 In Minos' majesty he lifts the head. 
 Judge of the world, and sovereign of the dead ; 
 On nations and on kings in sentenre sits. 
 Doom? to perdition, or to heaven admiu ; 
 D 2
 
 5-i PROLOGUE. 
 
 Dethrones the tyrant, though in triumph hurl'd. 
 Calls up the hero from th' eternal world, 
 Surrounds his head with wreaths that ever bloom. 
 And vows the verse that triumphs o'ei the tomb. 
 
 While here the muses warbled from their shrine, 
 Oft have you listen'd to the voice divine. 
 O nameless youth beheld with noble rage, 
 One subject, still a stranger to the stage ; 
 A name that's music to the British ear ! 
 A name that's worshipp'd in the British sphere 
 Fair Liberty ; the Goddess of the Isle, 
 Who blesses England with a guardian smile. 
 \ 
 
 Britons! a scene of glory draws to-night! 
 The fathers of the land arise to tight : 
 The legislators and the chiefs of old. 
 The roll of patriots and the barons bold. 
 Who greatly girded with the sword and shield. 
 At storied Runnamede's immortal field. 
 Did the grand charter of your freedom draw. 
 And found the base of liberty on law. 
 
 Our author, trembling for the virgin muse, 
 Hopes in the favourite theme a fond excuse. 
 If whUe the tale the theatre commands. 
 Your hearts applaud him, he'll acquit your handj 
 Proud on his country's cause to build his name, 
 'ind cidd the patriot's to the poet's fame.
 
 RUNNAMEDE. 
 
 ACT I.-SCENE I. 
 
 The Hall of a Baron't Castle. Martial mtinc. En- 
 ter at opposite doors, Albemarle rvith Norman 
 Lordu, and Ardkn with the Sajco7i, Archbishop, 
 Barons, Knights, and Squires, in complete ar- 
 ■mour, aiid rvitli the train of chivalry, 
 
 Archb. Barons of England's realm, high Lords 
 of Parliament, 
 Hereditary guardiaas of the kingdom ! 
 Your country calls you to her last defence. 
 Our ancient'laws, our liberties, our lives, 
 May in a moment fall. Red o'er our heads 
 The ruthless tyrant holds oppression's rod. 
 Which, if not warded by heroic hand, 
 AVill crush the British Uberties for ever. 
 Ourselves, our children, our posterity. 
 Are slaves or free from this decisive hour ; 
 For now the crisis of our fate is come. 
 And England's in the scale. 
 
 Albcm. 1 boast no more 
 The fire and sjiirit of my youthful days; 
 Days when, with Richard in the grand croisade, 
 M'e raised the siege of Ascalon ; displayed 
 The BritUh banners in the Holy Land, 
 Drove from the field the millions of the East, 
 CompeU'd the mighty Saladine to fly. 
 And o'er the crescent raised the glorious cross. 
 Uly arm refuses now to diaw the sword ; 
 But let my counsel weigh : our quarrels dropp'd, 
 Let factions now unite ; with one accord 
 Let us deliberate for public good ; 
 We stand united, or divided fall. 
 
 Arden. Deliberation does not suit the timo; 
 This is the hour of action and of war. 
 D3
 
 M RU.VNAMEDE. 
 
 While we consult, the tvrant, on his march. 
 Comes like a confla^ation through the land, 
 Marking his way with ruin. Every step 
 Treads on the mangled bodies of tlie dying. 
 The wail of England weeping o'er her' sons. 
 The voice of justice, and the cry of blood. 
 Call loud, ' To arms, to arms I' 
 
 Baron. The voice we hear ; 
 It sounds not to the deaf. You gallant host 
 Return this answer which we now return. 
 
 [Draning their srunriie, and coming forward, 
 
 Archb. 1 love your zeal : It is a flame firom 
 heaven ; 
 'Tis the high temper of the Britons bold ; 
 And while this ardour in your bosom bums. 
 You never will be slaves. At such a time, 
 HTien order's fled, when government dissolves, 
 WTien the great course of justice thwarted stops. 
 And in the roar and riot of misrule 
 The voice of law is silent. Nature then 
 Resumes her ancient rights, ascends anew 
 A sovereign on her throne ; recalls the sword 
 WTiich with the sceptre to the king she gave. 
 And whirls it flaming in her own right hand. 
 To dash the tyrant from his blood-stain'd car. 
 And guard her free-bom sons. 
 
 Arden. The glorious sons 
 Of Gothic sires, who broke the Roman arm. 
 Stretch 'd out to wield the sceptre of the world. 
 Who on the ruins of Imperial Rome, 
 And in the blood of nations and of kings 
 The firm foundation of their freedom laid. 
 Will never bend beneath a tyrant's yoke. 
 Rather than wear dishonourable chains, 
 (1r follow captives at the trophied car. 
 Give us again the wildness of our woods, 
 And the fierce freedom of our great forefathers! 
 
 Archb. Forbid it, Heaven, that Britain see anew 
 What these sad eyes have seen! When o'er the 
 
 land, 
 The dire devoted land, the curse of Rome 
 Flew like the thunder of avenging Heaven, 
 And smote the people. Then religion fled. 
 No bell did summon to the house of prayer; 
 No vested priest atoned the wrath of Heaven 
 But sitting solitary, wept and wail'd
 
 A TRAGEDY. 55 
 
 His fane forsaken, and his altar low. 
 Unnamed, uniprinkled in the fount of lite, 
 The infant raised the lamentable shriek. 
 The bridegroom and the bride bewail'd apart 
 Their rites unlinish'd, and their luckless love. 
 Against the dying saint Heaven's gate was shut. 
 They sung no requiem to the parting soul. 
 Nor laid the ashes in the hallowed ground ; 
 Earth seem'd a charnel-house, and men like ghosts 
 Who cross in silence at the midnight hour. 
 And beckon with the hand. 
 
 Arden. Yes, Barons, Britons, 
 The history of the tyrant's ruign has run 
 A period marked with the tears, the groans. 
 The blood of Britons. He began in blood 
 His direful reign, and with unnatural hand 
 Stabb'd his own nephew kneeling at his feet, 
 And pleading for his life. Have you not seen hi:!) 
 The mighty hunter of the human prey 
 In a waste forest ? Has not England seen 
 The cradle of her infanU stain'd with blood; 
 The bower of chastity, the bed of love 
 Assaulted, violated ? Lo ! you stand 
 Upon the recent tomb of parents slain ! 
 Had such dire bloodshed cursed the former age. 
 Our valiant fathers would have shook the throne. 
 
 Albvm. ^Ve are as valiant as our fathers were ; 
 Nor does the Norman to the Saxon yield. 
 To curb the tyrant, not to shake the throne, 
 We draw the sword Arden, reraembei— 
 
 Arc/lb. Barons, 
 This is no time for quarrel. Have you heard 
 That the perfidious Dauphin 
 
 Albcm. What! Pertidious ! 
 
 Archb. The Dauphin, whom you courted to ;, :ur 
 aid. 
 He whom your great deliverer you hail'd. 
 Means to make you his ministers, to gain 
 A kingdom to himself, and then to take 
 Your heads, as traitors, to your native Prince. 
 Melun, entrusted with the bloody secret. 
 In his last hour reveal'd it. 
 
 Arden. God of heaven' 
 
 Archb. I mark your wonder: Hear what 1 
 advise, — 
 Too long the land hath sufTer'd, and hath bled, 
 D4
 
 ^ RUNNA.MEDE. 
 
 With deadly strife, with battles fiercely fought 
 Between the Saxon and the Norman race. 
 Bv feud and faction all the land is torn ; 
 The nation's genius acts against itsel£ 
 Rhook from its central poise, reels all the isle. 
 The noble Romans, when the foe approach d. 
 Forgot their strife ; and, holding out ihe hand, 
 Wi3i girt patrician, girt plebeian march'd. 
 The common sons of Rome : But, fierce and fell. 
 While the conspiring nations hem you round. 
 You wage with one another horrid war. 
 The vaunting foe rejoices in your strife. 
 And lists yoiur agents to your own destruction. 
 Proof against foreign power, the nation stands : 
 Bv Britons only Britain e'er can fall ; 
 Sound in itselfj this island is the world. 
 
 Albem. With dire intestine ills the nation groans. 
 And would to Hea-ven the remedy were found ; 
 
 Arden. So every lover of his country prays. 
 
 Archb. Then hear the oracle of heavenly truth : 
 You both are brave . both through the woiid ro- 
 
 nown'd : 
 And now the time demands an union firm. 
 Never to be dissolved. The past forgot. 
 And ever blotted from the book of fame. 
 In cordial concord let the future run. 
 Your wisdom will suggest some solemn rite. 
 Or public deed, to ratify th' event, 
 A bond of union and a pledge of peace. 
 
 For ages to remain You, Albemarle, 
 
 Are happy in a daughter fair, the boast 
 And beauty of the isle : On whom can you 
 So well bestow her hand, as on the roan 
 To whom the bravest of our warriors bow ^ 
 Your rival houses will be reconciled. 
 And one the Norman and the *^axon prove. 
 
 Albem. There is a bar which cannot be remoTC<l. 
 Elvine, the gallant lover of her youth 
 Returning laurei'd, from the ho'ly war. 
 Reigns in her heart. 
 
 Baron. He's in the Dauphin's camp. 
 And fights the battles of perfidious France 
 Against his native land. 
 
 Another Baron. The brave rA)iraine, 
 His chosen friend in distant Palestine, 
 ■Whose bcautuous sister is the flower of France, 
 Haj won that hero to the Dauphin's side.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 57 
 
 Albem. Though William's royal blood flow in his 
 veins. 
 And he ranks nearest to the Norman line. 
 Vet to my country I devote myself, 
 Devote my all. Give me thy hand, my son, 
 I know that thou art brave. 
 
 [Saxont and Normans meet with one another 
 and embrace. 
 Archb. Illustrious chiefs, 
 I praise your wisdom, equal to your zeal. 
 Propitious Providence ! I hail the day 
 That makes one nation of the BritUh race. 
 Now quarrels cease, and faction is no more. 
 For freedom and the laws, we draw the sword. 
 And lose the private in the public cause. 
 One effort more remains : So great jm host 
 Requires a general to lead them forth. 
 This day determines that important choice. 
 
 [To Ardtn. 
 To you two nations, now in union join'd. 
 Look up, and hail their leader and their chief. 
 
 [Barons express their content. 
 Arden. Baions, the soldier of your choice will 
 strive 
 To prove him equal to supreme command. 
 And worthy of your trust. When I behold 
 The warlike spirit spread from man to man. 
 And wide the flame of liberty extend, 
 I hear, with joy, the trumpet's sound, which calls 
 The host to freedom, and the chiefs to fame. 
 Archb. Then to the holy altar let us march. 
 And in the fane, which future times will reverence^ 
 Renew our league, and seal our sacred blood. 
 
 [Gates of liie cluipel open. Procession to the at- 
 tar. Uarons kneel around. Archbishop ad- 
 ministering the oath. 
 Now, at the altar, in the name of Heaven, 
 And in the presence of th' Eternal Power, 
 You ratify vour bond of peace ! Vou swear 
 To march the champions of your native land. 
 Never to sheathe the sword, till you restore 
 The ancient rights and liberties of England ; 
 And while you bind a tyrant by the laws. 
 To guard the glory of the British crown ! 
 
 Barons. This in the presence of High HeaTra 
 we swear ',
 
 W RUNXAMEDE. 
 
 SCtNE II. 
 Trumpet* — French AuBAsaABOR, Baeo.vs. 
 
 Amb. The Dauphin, anxious for his noble friends, 
 And eager for the hours that shall restore 
 To rescued England liberty and law. 
 Entreats you, Lords, to name the fittest time 
 To join our forces for the future fight. 
 
 Arden. Our forces never shall with his be join 'd ; 
 Nor English freedom e'er depend on France. 
 
 Amt. What means my gracious Lord ? 
 
 Arden. My meanings plain. 
 We have detected his de:>if:ns. We know him. 
 Go tell your master— instant to depart. 
 And waft his eirray to the coast of France. 
 Tell him tliat Britain never will become 
 The province of a foreign kingdom. TeU him. 
 That when he wields the thunder, and gives law 
 To tiie wild ocean, and the wind of heaven : 
 Then let him think on Britain. 
 
 Amh. (To AWem.) Noble Lord, 
 The iUustrious Dauphin, and the heir of France, 
 Intrusts a message to your private ear. 
 
 AWem. I have no secret with him. Speak it out. 
 
 Amb. I best may speak it to yourself alone. 
 
 Albem. Speak it to all the world. 
 
 Amb. Illustrious Lord, 
 On you the Dauphin's happiness depends. 
 
 Alhem. On me ! 
 
 Amb. You have a daughter — FairElvina — 
 The crown of France n-.ay sit upon her head 
 
 Albem. ^ly daughter's to that noble Lord be- 
 trothed. 
 
 Arden (To the Amb.) You may withdraw. 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 Bakons, Archbishop. 
 
 Arden. Barons, we now are one; 
 H'-> are invincible. An host like ours, 
 ^league of patriots, and a band of friends.
 
 A TRAGEDY. i 
 
 Will front the world. We need no foreign aid. 
 Biitaia's almighty in the cause of Britain. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 AlBEMAill.E, ArDEN. 
 
 Albem. By my command my daughter hiihei 
 comes. 
 Arden, the affection of a friend I've shown ; 
 Now let the counsel of a parent weigh. 
 Valiant thou art ; invincible in war ; 
 But that avails not now. The accent stern. 
 The fierce demeanour, and the loftv look, 
 Will not invite th' affection of the fair. 
 Now let the warrior to the lover yield; 
 Put on the gay caparison of courtship ; 
 Caress and conquer. Women, to be won. 
 Must first he woo'd. Engage the tender sex 
 Bv tender cares, and merit love by Icving. 
 When soften'd to a smile, the brave and bold 
 Assume the accents, and the looks of love. 
 They win at once the hea: t of woman-Sind. 
 
 Arden. I do not know these arts. Ihe pliani 
 face. 
 The honey'd accent, and the silken smile. 
 The sport of boys and girls, are not for me. 
 The manners of my fathers 1 retain. 
 The S?xon spirit, and the Saxon garb. 
 They did not bow the knee to woman-kind, 
 Nor'at the gate of beauty beg a boon. 
 In ancient days the day of mighty men. 
 Love was the ineed of valour and renown; 
 The bravest varrior clasp'd the fairest maid. 
 But what the honour of a Baron owes, 
 And what tht daughter of a Baron clf.ims. 
 Shall be perfoim'd. Behold the virgin ccn.es. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Albesiari.e, Akeen, Elvi>a. 
 Elvina. You sent for rr.e, my father ?
 
 60 RUXXAMEDS. 
 
 Albem. Yes, my child, 
 (n these heroic but disastrous times 
 All have their part to act: Kor who would wish 
 To let such great occasion pass away. 
 Nor mark it with renown ? Who does not hear 
 The voice of glory when hLs country calls? 
 A change of times arranges human minds, 
 And noblest spirits find the highest place. 
 Yours, as becomes you, is a brilliant sphere. 
 This hero, chosen to the chief command 
 Of England's patriot host, intreats your hand 
 In noble love ; the Barons have agreed. 
 The time requires, and I have pledged my word 
 That he shall be your husband. 
 
 Elvina. Heavens ! my husband ! — 
 
 Arden. Let not my honeit speech offend thoc. 
 Lady. 
 Bred in a camp, my business has been war. 
 The tent has been my home ; and oft this hand 
 Has reap'd the harvest of the bloody field. 
 If high respect for your illustri us line. 
 And true affection 'to a form so fair. 
 Win your approving smile, you send me forth 
 Vour champion to the lield, at once to gain 
 The palm of beauty and the prize of arms. 
 
 Elvina. ^fy Lord, ray heart yet trembles from 
 tlie shock 
 Of such a serious unforeseen event. 
 On which my future destiny may turn. 
 Forgive me, if alarm'd, I seek to pour 
 ."Mj' secret accents in a father's ear. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Alsrharlb, Elvima. 
 
 Elvina. Alas ! I have no more a father's ear 
 To hear my voice ; no more a parent's breast 
 That yearns with pity for his daughter's woes ! 
 And will you give me to the deadly foe 
 Of all your house, and wed me to despair ? 
 
 Albem. Be calm, my child. Heisnomorea^ 
 Thmk of the noble and the patriot ends 
 Of such an union : Ancient fcuds will cease ;
 
 A TRAGSDY. 61 
 
 Our rival houses will be reconciled. 
 And from the Normans and the Saxons join'd. 
 One mighty nation will go conquering forth ; 
 And the whole land will raise a grateful eye 
 To thee, the cause of all. 
 
 Elvina. To quell the feuds, 
 And reconcile the families of foes. 
 Am I the sacrifice ? Alas', my father, 
 And will you offer up with your own hands. 
 Your child a victim P— What have I to do 
 With states or nations ?— I've a single heart, 
 
 And it is Elvine's Dost thou then forsake 
 
 Thine ancient friend ? 
 
 Albem. He hath forsaken us. 
 Now in the Dauphin's camp he draws the sword 
 Against his native country ; if thou hast 
 The sense of honour glowing in thy frame, 
 Thy country's spirit, or thy father's blo«i. 
 Thou too wilt cast him otf'. 
 
 Elvina. I cast him off 
 
 I cast off Elvina I O ! thou knowest him not. 
 
 Albem. I know him false. A traitor to his coun 
 Will ne'er to friendship or to love be true. [tt; 
 
 Elvina. He is no traitor. He hath been belied. 
 Soaring above the sphere of common men. 
 They aim the secret and the venom'd shafts 
 To bring that eagle from his sky of fame. 
 Ah ! once he was beloved I 
 
 Albem. My child, no more. 
 Think of that passion as a toy of youth. 
 And with the gewgaws of thy early days 
 Be it dismiss'd. Think of thy duty now, 
 Kespect thy father, and regard thyself. 
 
 Elvina. I need not try to alter your resolves. 
 Which now seem firm, inflexible, and arm'd 
 Against your daughter : let nie just recall. 
 That, in'your eye, and with your kind consent, 
 I loved my hero with the love of youth. 
 ' Twas you that kindled first the tender sparks 
 Of an eternal flame. Blooming you brought. 
 In infant beauty, to Aldamo's vale. 
 The noble orphan of the Norman race. 
 The lovely sun-beam of a setting line. 
 When hand in hand we sported in your hall. 
 You fondly marked with paternal smiles 
 The young Elvina for young Elvine's Liide.
 
 Ci RU>fNAMEDE. 
 
 Albem. My child, you trespass on a parent's lore 
 To name the' trifles of your earlv days. 
 
 Eh-ina. Let me, at' least, repeat your gracious 
 ■words. 
 Would, too, I could recall the tender loots 
 With which you spoke them. Sometimes yon have 
 
 deign d 
 To bless Elvina with a fonder glance. 
 My mother too : and here you will not blame, 
 For I have seen you weep upon her grave j 
 And now she shines above, a saint in heaven ! 
 My mother, sitting on that ghastly bed 
 From which she never rose ; call'd us around ; 
 Held us embraced with cold and dying hands ; 
 Then lifted up her closing eyes to heaven— 
 ' O God ! lo thee, to thee I leave my children." 
 
 She spoke no more One parting ki'ss she gave ; 
 
 Then join'd our hands, and died. I see you wee;). 
 I see the father melting in jour eye. 
 
 [Falling at hU feet. 
 I am vet vour child— O ! if you ever loved me ! 
 Oh ! if m'v life be precious i'n thy sight; 
 If e'er mv'woes did wet a father's cheek ! 
 If e'er my shrieks did pierce a parent's ear ! — 
 Oh ! if the future fortune of ray life. 
 My peace on earth, or happiness in heaven, 
 Can aught avail to -win me to thy heart, 
 
 ! save me, save me from the worst of woes. 
 Save me, my father ! 
 
 Albem. Rise, my lovely child ! 
 Come to thv raaniion in a parent's heart ! 
 But, ha :— Alas —What can thy father do ? 
 I've sworn that ycu shall be the wife of Arden. 
 
 Elvina. Sworn? 
 
 Albem. At the altar. 
 
 Eh-ina. Sworn that IbeArden's? — 
 
 Albem. Hear me, Elvina: hear a parent speak. 
 
 1 ill now vou've ever been a duteous daughter. 
 And often made this aged heart o'erflow 
 ■With secret gladness : In the lonelv hour, 
 I've lifted up my hands, and blest t^e day 
 
 When thou wert bom. Not often have I bla r.ed 
 
 thee. 
 Or used the harsh tone of authority. 
 It is not so that we have lived Elvina ; 
 But here the Baron issues his commands.
 
 A TRAGEDV. 
 
 You are no child of mine : I cast you off. 
 You hear my fix'd, irrevocable word. 
 
 Elvina. If I am doom'd to wretchedness and vo. 
 And doom'd by you ! — your will shall be obey'd. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Elvina, Emma. 
 
 Elvina' Oh! Emma! I am wretched. Arden — 
 Heavens ! 
 Shall Arden be my husband ? Gracious powers! 
 Forbid that hour. Now in my deep distress. 
 Ah ! where is he who used to bring relief? 
 'Tis well, by Heaven I he's in the Dauphin's camp. 
 
 Invite th'Ambassador 
 
 [Writes a letter in great agilalion, tears it, and 
 
 writes again. 
 [Emma returns niith the Ambassador. 
 Elvina. Pay, is not Elvine in the Dauphin's 
 camp ? [sence. 
 
 Amb. Lady, the camp is honour'd with his pre- 
 Elvina. May an unfortunate and friendless maid 
 Interest the favour of a gallant knight 
 To give these letters to his secret hand ? 
 
 Amb. Lady, by beauty and by birth renown'd, 
 His hand shall hold them ere the day decline. 
 Elvina. (giving him the letter.) Forlorn, forsaker, 
 to your care 1 trust 
 My future fate, the secret of my sou). 
 Howe'er by faction or by feuds disjoined, 
 No deadly hale in man to woman dwells ; 
 The knight is courteous to the hapless maid. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 ambassador alone, looking at the letter. 
 
 No superscription here. Her troubled mind 
 Forge it to add the name. Ha! Yes, by Heaven ;— 
 It dawns, the work of fortune and of fate — 
 This to the Dauphin I will straight advance.
 
 &^ RUXNAMEDE. 
 
 And warn the wishing hridegroom of the secret. 
 A passion slighted, and a rixal loTed ! 
 This is the insult, the fell injury 
 Which man or Mroman never can forgive. 
 With Albemarle then Arden is at war ; 
 The Normans hence and Saxons will divide. 
 And thus divided may be conquer-d stUl. 
 Ardent in arms irapetuoui Britain fights. 
 Refined in arts, France plots and overcomes. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 
 
 Trumpets. Enter Archbishop and Albemabls at 
 one door, Abden and Baroxs at the other. 
 
 Albem. \Vhzt from the camp, my Lord ? 
 Arden. The hosts are join'd. 
 All friends and fellow soldiers, they compose 
 One mighty armv. Rivals now are friends. 
 And brothers of 'the war. Yon field displays 
 A scene of glory to a soldier's eye. 
 I never saw the face of war so gay. 
 So beauteous. Glancing in the sun, behold 
 The camp in motion, and the field on fire. 
 The soul of freedom animates them all. 
 Impatient for the trumpet's sound, thev act 
 The future fights ; and, brandishing their arms. 
 With flaming circles sweep the empty air. 
 
 Arch. Bold is the heart for liberty that beaU, 
 And strong his arm who draws his country's sword. 
 When for a nation's rights the banner flies. 
 The victor's laurel with the olive twines: 
 The host of freedom is the host of God. 
 
 [Enter a Messenger n-ith a letter to An DBS. 
 
 Arden. The news I have received concern us 
 deeplv. 
 Barons, we tremble on the verge of fate. 
 In this confederate host a traitor lurks, 
 Who has betrav'd our measure to the foe. 
 And holds a correspondence with the Dauphin. 
 
 Albem. A traitor among us ? 
 
 Mrrfeij. A secret fje, Ldor : 
 
 Who plots our ruin. Guards, arrest th' Ambassa- 
 Bring him before us. Now, before we know 
 This great offender. Barons, it is meet
 
 A TRAGEDY. &5 
 
 That we pronounce his doom, lest he should sland 
 Too near our heart, by friendship or by blood, 
 And so elude the sentence of the laws. 
 
 Albem. Although my nature leads me to be mild. 
 Yet here the highest punishment is due. 
 And timely rigour is humanity. 
 By this our high authority we guard. 
 And strike astonishment and tenor round 
 To all offenders in the time to come. 
 No favour or affection will seduce 
 The steady patriot from the public good. 
 He to his country his own life devotes ; 
 Nor will he spare a traitor's. 
 
 Arch. Instant death 
 He merits. Rousing at the c?.ll of Heaven, 
 Kow when the noblest spirits of the world 
 Plan for the public ; when the bravest hanas 
 Are raised to strike for freedom and mankind; 
 M'hen just pronounced in the fane of Heaven, 
 The recent vow yet trembles on the tongue ; 
 If meanly lurking, mid a chosen bar.d 
 Of patriots and of heroes, one be found. 
 False to his trust, his honour, and his oalh, 
 AYho, scorning sanctions, human and divme, 
 Betravs his country to her foes, divides 
 Th' inheritance of future times, and sells 
 Eternal honour for eternal shame; 
 'Tis then that justice, reddening into wrath. 
 Demands a victim for the public good : 
 A great example will restore the h. st: 
 A traitor'* blood will reinstate the laws. 
 
 Ardeiu Does then the general voice pronoun -e 
 his doom ? 
 
 Barons. One is our voice ; and deaih is the award, 
 
 Arden. The bonds of friendship, and the ties of 
 blood 
 Cancell'd, then awful justice holds its course. 
 His country is the parent of the brave. 
 Who march devoted where she points the way — 
 
 {Noise behind the scenes. Ambassador brought in- 
 
 Amb. This is the insolence of anarchy ! 
 Though you have ri>en against your rightful King 
 I hope you still regard the law of nations. 
 Why, even in barbarous, and in savage states. 
 Ambassadors are sacred
 
 6^ RUNNAMEDE. 
 
 ^rJen. When they're honest. 
 But, if thev plot against the kingdom s weal, 
 TheV ansWer with their life. There is a letter 
 Sent bT some traitor to your prince the Dauphin. 
 Produce that letter, and in peace depart. 
 
 lAmhiisador gives it to Arden, nho ferutet u 
 Ti'Uh marks of agitation. 
 
 Albem. You start ! From whom, my Lord ?— 
 
 Arden. ( giving it to him.) Inform your^lf. 
 
 Albem. (reads the letter.) " To the Dauphin. 
 
 " A dark design is going on against us ; 
 WhT art thou absent in the day of war ? 
 Conie on the wings of love to save the fond. 
 Ah ' If you come not, the undone— 
 
 Eltina." 
 Mt daughter ? Heavens ! It L^ impossible ! 
 
 BLVmA, entering unseen by Albemarle. 
 
 Elvina. What means this tumult ? Oh ! Eternal 
 Powers I 
 I am betraj'd ! The fatal secret's known— 
 
 AtBBMARLB (recoveHng from hi3 astonUhmeni 
 reads again.) 
 ■' A dark design is going on against us; 
 n-hv art thou absent in the day of war.-" 
 r.-.-ne on the wings of love to save the fond, 
 Ah ' If you come not, the undone— 
 
 ■' El\-i>-a." 
 
 L-ndone Elvina! Ah! Undone indeed !^^^^.^^ ^^_ 
 H.. ! Take her from my sight Alas ! mv daughter. 
 Thou wast an angel once -Ye shadesof death 
 Fail round, and wrap me m your glooi" for e% er ! 
 
 Arch. Unhappy father ! we lament thy woes. 
 The sacred season of the hoary hair 
 Such shocks of destiny can ill sustain. 
 In this dark hour of trouble and despair 
 We look to thee alone. 
 
 Alhem. Support me. Heaven, 
 In this tremendous hour, and give me strength 
 Vor such a trial ! Ah! what have I done .•< 
 Ail righteous God ! what have I done.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 67 
 
 That, in the fall of life, thy lieaTy hand 
 
 In wrath should crush me to the ground, an . 
 
 bring 
 My hoary head with sorrow to the grave ? 
 You wonder at me : Tell me how to act ; 
 Ye that are fathers, tell me what to do?— 
 Shall my Elvina ? — Must ray daughter die ? 
 Oh ! must the parent doom his child to death ?— 
 You answer not. Your silence, and your tears. 
 Point out my path — I was a fatiier fond. 
 Fond to distraction of an only cnild— 
 But I am just; and I have not forgot 
 What to my country and iny oath I owe. 
 Nature may cry, but justice must he heard : 
 Dear, dear as she is to me — she shall die ! 
 
 Arch. Hard is thy duty now, heroic father ; 
 But high the part appointed thee of Heaven. 
 Resume thj spirit : Call thy virtue forth. 
 Now in the conscious eye of Heaven and earth. 
 Thou actest for the glory, for the good 
 Of ages yet to come : Thou standest forth 
 A great example to the wondering world. 
 —I see it plain : Behold the hand of Heaven 
 btretch'd from the sky, and beckoning ihee to treal 
 A high heroic path ! — The latter days. 
 The fate of England in succeeding times. 
 The fame and glory of the British isle. 
 Hang on the passing hour. 
 
 Albem. (in attonithment.J What means mj 
 Lord ?— 
 
 Arch. Lo ! now 'tis thine, by one immortal deed 
 To form the character of future times. 
 And raise a spirit that shall never die. 
 See ! what a family you will embrace ; 
 You rise the founder of a mightv state. 
 The father of the free ! The nation takes 
 From you its temper ; and the ages rise 
 To call you patriot. Ah ! who would not wish 
 A destiny so high ? 
 
 Albem. I wish it not. 
 
 Aich. 'Twas thus, when Rome her liberty re 
 gain'd, 
 A father doom'd his darling son to death ; 
 He won immortal glory, and inspired 
 Home with his spirit. From his patriot deed 
 Went sudden virtue living o'er the land, 
 E2
 
 68 RUNXAMEDE. 
 
 The Roman kindled when he heard the tale, 
 And stepp'd a hero forih ; and eager hurn'd 
 For Rome to combat, and for Rome to die. 
 Hence heroes, patriots, croud the historic page ; 
 hence consuls, senators, a God-like train ! 
 Hence a great people rose, the Lords of earth ; 
 Hence many centuries of glory roli'd 
 In long procession ; and eternal Rome, 
 The Queen of nations, did ascend the throne, 
 And sway the sceptre of the sea-girt world. 
 
 Albem'. Thou hast no daughter — 
 
 Ardcn. In the dreadful shock 
 Of this disaster. Barons, it is meet 
 That to a parent's feelings we appeal. 
 And bid the father of his country judge. 
 
 [The B'lrona retire to 'the botiom of the 
 Theatre. 
 
 Albem. fon the front.) Am I the judge ? my 
 country, at thy voice. 
 This old grey head shall wear the helm again : 
 Bare in the field these scars shall ble d anew. — 
 O powerful nature ! I'm a father still — 
 Thou bleeding innocence ! Ah ! should the sword 
 Just aim to touch that tender tremblmg boiom, 
 'Tis mine to ward the blow — Shall I direct 
 The dagger to the bosom of my child. 
 And stop the dearest current of my blood ? 
 But justice, truth, imperious honour, call — 
 Forgive me, O my country, if I stain 
 A Roman's virtue with unmanly drops ! — 
 'Tis done. The irrevocable doom is seal'd. 
 —Where am I ? Ha ! the shades of death sur- 
 
 round me. 
 And graves, and monuments, and ghastly forms — 
 That path leads down to blood— Thou sainted 
 
 shade. 
 Who gav'st a blooming cherub to my arms, 
 O turn thy tender eyes from this sad scene. 
 Nor look upon trie deed ! — Ah ! piteous sight ! 
 Stretch'd on the block, the trembling victim's laid ; 
 The pale hand waves thai should have closed my 
 
 eyes. 
 That was the sign of death ! — AMiat do I see ? 
 A headless trunk ; a mangled corpse — Oh ! Oh ! 
 —Barons, the dreadful sacrifice is made : 
 *Jut spare me, spare a father rhe sad sight I —
 
 A TRAGEDY. G9 
 
 Yet ah ! before I go let me behold her. 
 
 To take a long last look of my Elvina 
 
 Before she dies, before we part for ever. 
 
 —I hear her step. The trembler comes. She 
 
 looks 
 As she were innocent. Her fane is woeful. 
 Yet it is loTelv ; I could look for ever — 
 My daughter— Thou art doom'd— These tears will 
 
 tell thee— 
 I\Iy child ! my child ! 
 
 iLooking earnestly upon her as he goes out. 
 
 Baron. Alas ! unha-,ipy man ! 
 Thy age is desolate. Ill-fated maid. 
 In prime of youth and beauty doom'd to death ! 
 
 Arden. Now, as the law of chivalry ordains. 
 And honour's cause demands. Barons, prepare 
 A place of combat in the listed field ; 
 If any knight or baron of the land 
 Will stand a champion to defend the fair. 
 
 ARUEX, ELVIKA, 
 
 Arden. This happy morning. Lady, you appear'd 
 The wife of Arden in the eye of England, 
 And though our hands were not in wedlock join'd. 
 Our interest is one. I have a right 
 To interpose in your concerns ; and more, 
 I feel your sorro'ws as they were my own. 
 For I lament you more than I can blame. 
 
 Elvina. I hope, my Lord, you come not to dis- 
 turb 
 The dying moments of a wretched maid, 
 And wring a heart that soon shall i.e?.se to beat. 
 
 Arden. I come not to renew, but end your woes. 
 I've a proposal for thy serious ear. 
 On which the fortune of thy life depends. 
 
 Elvina. My Lord, I Usten to it. 
 
 Arden. You are young, 
 Elvina, you are beautiful ; allured 
 And dazzled with false glory, you have err'd 
 One step from duty; if reflection soon 
 Recalls you to thepath from which you've straj'd, 
 E 3
 
 70 RUXXAMEDE. 
 
 j'ou add one beauty to a Tirtuous life, 
 vVhich spotless innocence can never boast, 
 {f Tou renounce, if from your heart renotince. 
 Renounce for ever that opprobrious love. 
 Then I this instant to the plain descend. 
 The champion of your cause : A husband's arm 
 H'ill wipe the stain that rests upon thy name, 
 And upon mine : My honour is at stake : 
 A Baron of the realrn, an English chieftain, 
 Arm'd, and invested with supreme command. 
 Will never brook dishonour, never bear 
 The shadow of atfrant; nor suffer man 
 To point the finger, or to lift the 4ook 
 Of scorn a^inst him. 
 
 Elvina. In this hour of wo, 
 Vour noble generosity, my Lord, 
 Hath given another pang to this sad bosom, 
 ^^Tiich yet, alas ! no just return can make. 
 Inviolable vows oppose your claim : 
 Stronger than vows, unalterable love 
 Reigns in a heart that owns no second lord. 
 
 Arden. That is the language of aversion fix'd. 
 
 Elvina. It is the language of Elvina's soul. 
 
 Arden. And have I merited thy steadfast scorn ?_ 
 
 Elvina. I scorn thee not. I can distinguish 
 well 
 A lover's passion from a baron's pride. 
 The candid bosom opens to the day ; 
 Nor clothes ambition in the garb of love. 
 Your virtues I revere ; your rank respect ; 
 But who can teach a tender heart to throb ? 
 I look upon thee as my father's friend, 
 My country's champion : Never as my knight. 
 Or as my husband. 
 
 Ard n. Then behold your judge. 
 Guards, watch the prisoner. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Now the die is cast ; 
 
 And I have seai'd the sontence of my death. 
 
 O Thou that helper of the helpless art .'
 
 A TRAGEDV, TI 
 
 be not absent in the hour of wo 1 
 Forsake me not when by the world forsaken. 
 No hope have 1 on earth : To thee I fly. 
 
 As to my father's arms : I have no father, 
 Ko friend, but thee alone. God of my youth ' 
 Thou didst receive me wiih jiatemal arms 
 \\'hen cast an infant on a wretched world ; 
 And when a stt anyer thou didst guide my ftet 
 Through the wild maze of life : O leave me not. 
 My God, in my last hour !— 
 
 [Going qffrvith the Gvards, Albemaklb er.irrs, 
 takes 'her by tlie hand, and leads her in tiUnce 
 to the front of the Stage. 
 Albem. Alas ! my daughter. 
 The day of trouble now hath come upon us: 
 
 1 am an old man : 1 am miserable '. 
 
 And thou art fallen, friendless, and forlorn ! 
 Alas ! Elvina ! thou hast brought Ub lew. 
 
 Elvina. I'm every way unhappy and undone. 
 
 Albem. After what pass'd this n'loming, vi!;at 
 you've done 
 8o wild, so nionstrous seems — it is incredible. 
 Alas ! it was the effort of despair. 
 I would not shock thee now— 'twould be an ii..->uU. 
 O Heaven ! what agony the bosom rends 
 M'hen the curse comcs'upon the hoary head. 
 
 Ehina. Oh I I ani doubly wretched to involvt 
 BIy father in despair 
 
 Alhem. () fond old man, 
 
 fooUsh father ! I, delighted, thought. 
 
 This tempest o'er my evening would be bright. 
 And my departure like the setting sun. 
 
 1 fondly thought, when better days return'd. 
 Safe under shadow of the Tine to sing, 
 
 And bless my children's children ; fondly thought 
 To see a race of thine around me r^^e, 
 The young Elvinas of the age to come ; 
 'J'race niy own features in their opening looks, 
 J' car the first accents of their lisping tongues. 
 Woo their embraces, fold thtm in my arms, 
 <\nd like an old man prattle in their praise. 
 Then lookini; heaven-ward, to depart in peace 
 1 n his good hour : Vithin their arms and thine, 
 Th' embrace of nature! look my last adieus 
 A nd smile, and fall asleep— O God of heaven, 
 Kow I am childless !— 
 
 £ i
 
 72 RUXXAMEDE. 
 
 Elvina. 'Tis too much, ray father ! 
 1 was prepared to meet thy stern rebuke; 
 ; could have borne the looks and words of wrath. 
 But shield me. Heaven ! for I can ne'er supixirt 
 A father's tenderness, a father's tears. 
 That look forlorn that marks the bursting heart. 
 
 Albein. To what is age reserved? I never 
 thought 
 That thou wouldst prove a parricide, ray daughter. 
 That thou wouldst pluck these while hairs by the 
 
 root. 
 And dig thy father's grave. 1 thought not so. 
 
 iSlarttng hack. 
 UTiat hast thou done ?— Yet fhou art still iny child : 
 Thou art my only child ! . 
 
 [Taktng her m m3 arms. 
 By Arden awed. 
 None of our barons will defend thy cause : 
 I wi'.; defend thee ; I will be thy champion. 
 Old is my arm but in a cause like this, 
 A daughter's cause, it still can draw the sword. 
 I'm young again — 
 
 [Dratving hU ttvord. 
 
 Ehina. A combat so unjust, 
 A i-pectacle so dire, I must forbid, 
 In this alone J from your voice appeal. 
 Never to yield. O you have ever been 
 The noblest friend, the best, the fondest father ! 
 And can you think that I would poorly prove 
 Such an ungrateful and unnatural child 
 As e'er enda^iger, in the strife of death, 
 Vour life for mine one instant? All I ask 
 In my last moments, O forget my fault. 
 The fault of too much love ; at last forgive 
 A child— who never can ofTend you more ! 
 WTien I am silent, as I shall be soon. 
 Let not reproach assail my virgin fame, 
 And heap dishonour on the head laid low. 
 Defend your daughter when she's in the dust. 
 Let not the voice of slander pierce my toiiib. 
 To break the peaceful Sabbath of the grave. 
 And call my spirit from the land of rest. 
 I would confer in secret with my maid. 
 Adieu, my father ! If we meet no more. 
 Adieu forever ! 
 
 Albem. O my lovely child, 
 
 (Ettihracins hfr.t
 
 A TRAGEDY. 73 
 
 Adieu !— Th* Eternal eve alone beholds 
 When we shall meet again 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Eltima, Emma. 
 
 Elvina. My faithful Emma, 
 ]\[y dear companion in the days of youth. 
 Before distinction of our birth was known, 
 I would depart in peace with all the world. 
 If ever I have treated you with rigour. 
 Or chid you without cause — 
 
 Emma. O never, never ! 
 My noble Ladv, vou have ever been 
 The be^t, the kindest, and the sweetest mistress. 
 And less your servant than your friend I've lived. 
 O would to God that I could die for you ! 
 
 Elvina. I have a last request to make, my Emma, 
 A dving charge to give ! Find out that youth 
 ForVHom m early \ears I'm doom'd to die ; 
 
 tell him, charge him, if he ever loved me. 
 To guard, to pity, and solace the age 
 
 Of my poor father ! as another child 
 
 Mv place to fill, my duly to perform. 
 
 Tell that for him I would have wish'd to live; 
 
 Tell that for him I died ; and all I ask 
 
 Is for mv sake, for his Elvina's sake. 
 
 To love my faiher, and remember me. 
 
 1 know his tender heart ; I would not wish him 
 To mourn my fate in bitterness of soul, 
 
 And waste his days in solitude and sorrow. 
 Yet I would have' him— sometimes to be sad — 
 To think of her who died fur him ; to come 
 A midnight mourner to my silent tomb. 
 And wet my ashes with a lover's tears. 
 Then in th' appointed house I'll rest in peace. 
 And wait the morning that awakes the dead. 
 
 ACT iir. 
 
 FlonrUh of TrumpeU. Enter Er.viNH, lih Squire, 
 bearing his armour. Alteiidanis. 
 Elvine. Haii,, native land ! O scenes of early 
 days ! 
 Ye haunts of friendship, and letrcats of love,
 
 74 RUXNAMEDE. 
 
 Ueteive a stranger to your shades again ! 
 You I revisit with a throbbing heart. 
 In youthful days, in your inspiring bowers. 
 Rapt to the world of fancy, I have wish'd 
 For such occasion high ; my country's cause. 
 The cause of liberty, the cause of love, 
 
 And of El Vina ! Providence divine. 
 
 Be thine the praise ! who hast before me set 
 The deeds that never die; unsheathed my sword 
 For ages yet to come, and sent the voice 
 VVhicn calls the brave to freedom and to fame. 
 
 Enter Edgar. 
 Come, Edfjar ! hast thou found my ancient friends ? 
 Hast thou beheld ? — 
 
 Edgar. Alas ! unhappy youth .' 
 These hostile lowers contain no friends of thine. 
 
 EMne. What 1 has three seasons changed them ^ 
 Am I then 
 So soon forgotten ? 
 
 Edear. Thou art not forgotten ! 
 
 Elvine. My God > What dost thou mean? Thy 
 faltering tongue 
 Forgets its office : IMy old friend, thou weep'st. 
 
 Edgar. And I have cause to weep. These three- 
 score years, 
 The humble native of your father's house. 
 Or follower of your fortune, have I lived. 
 Full manv changes in the tract of time 
 Sad have I seen ; but ah ! I little thought 
 That 1 should live to see my nohie master 
 Penied the honours which his birth demands, 
 Excluded from th' assembly of the Barons — 
 Another lead the army. 
 
 Elvine. Heavens! Another? 
 Who is appointed to that high command ? 
 
 Edgar. Think of the man whom least you could 
 expect. 
 Think of the enemy of all your race ; 
 The Saxon Arden— 
 
 Elvine. Arden! Gracious powers ! 
 Ah ! where was Albemaile, my ancient friend ? 
 
 Edgar. His favour raised him to that high com- 
 mand. 
 
 Elvine. My father's friend, the father of Elvina, 
 My mortal foe I The stroke of fate is come. 
 And now the measure of rnv woes is full.
 
 TRAGEDY. Ih 
 
 Edgar. O thou hast heard as yet but half thy sor- 
 I have a tale to tell, which I couW wish [rows! 
 To hide forever from thine ear— Elviiia — 
 
 Elvine. \\Tiat of Elvina ? 
 
 Edgar. Arden's nan^ed her husband. 
 
 Elvine. Elvina false ! Elvina Arden's T^ife ! 
 Then there is nothing in the world for me : 
 I've no connection with the human kind ; 
 No friend ujion the earth. Let us depart. 
 1 spread my banners for the Holy Laud. 
 Let us be gone. 
 
 Edgar. Elvina is not false. 
 Ah ! she alone was faithful to her friend. 
 This day declares her honour and her love. 
 Her father doom'd her to the arms of Arden, 
 Whom she abhorr'd, and she refused to wed — 
 
 Elvine. Then she's not wedded ? 
 
 Edgar. No. 
 
 Elvine. All-gracious powers! 
 She's constai*, and she's mine ! O God of heaven. 
 What thanks are equal to a gift so great : 
 The fair, the faithful, and the fond Elvina ! 
 
 Edgar. In her distress she wiote to thee to save 
 her; 
 The messenger was stopp'd ; the letter found. 
 She is condemn'd to chains ! Yon prison holds her \ 
 I saw her looking from the iron grate, 
 Kcr hands in fetters, and her eyes in tears: 
 1 could not bear the sight; I went apart, 
 AikI wept alone. 
 
 Elvine. My love, my love, for me 
 Thy hands in fetters, and thine eyes in tears ! 
 No chains, no prison, shall confine thee long — 
 
 \_Svunds of lamentation heard behind the Stage. 
 What venerable father stands aghast 
 In yonder porch ? Beneath the weight of years. 
 And crush of soirow to the earth he bends. 
 h e wrings his hands ; casts a wild look to heaven. 
 And rends his hoary locks. He comes this way. 
 Heavens, it is Albemarle ! — 
 
 Enter Albemarle. 
 
 Alhem. 'Tis over now. 
 Cursed be the hour that ever I was bom ! 
 Eternal Justice ! hast thou spared my youth. 
 Vet doom'd thy servant in the dregs of fife 
 To drain the bitter cup ? Hast thou reserved
 
 76 RUNNAMEDE. 
 
 Tho vials of thy wrath to pour them down 
 Up'in this blasted head ?— 
 
 Ehiiie. My heart bleeds for hira. 
 He was mv ancient friend. 
 
 Albem. Almighty Power! 
 WTio on the feelings of a parent's heart 
 Hast founded human life ! and strongly bound 
 By love's embrace the families of men : 
 If thou art worshipp'd by a Father's name ! 
 Regard mv anguish, and support my soul, 
 For I am in despair ! 
 
 Elvine. Unhappy father ! 
 Whose woes bring tears into a stranger's eyes, 
 May I inquire the cause ? Can this right arm 
 Redress the wrongs of age ? 
 
 Albein. Alas! Alas 
 No human hand can save me from the gulph, 
 WTiich deep and dark discloses to my view. 
 —Before vou stands the father most forlorn 
 That ever bore the name. I had a daughter. 
 The jov, the blessing, and the pride of age : 
 I gave her hand to an illustrious Lord ; 
 But she betrav'd us ; she is doom'd to death— 
 
 Eliine. Elvina doom'd to death ? — 
 
 Albem. A shameful death. 
 But Oh ! what deepiv wounds a Baron's honour ? 
 Heavens! am I fallen so low J No English youth. 
 Or noble of the land, asserts her cause. 
 And comes a champion of the lists of war. 
 I rose in arms, and claim'd the cause myself: 
 I am forbid the field — 
 
 Eli-ine. Klvina's cause 
 \\'ill bring a champion from the gate of heaven. 
 
 Albem. Thou art the onlv comforter I've touno ; 
 Thv voice al-.-ne relieves a fathef* heart. 
 Let me embrace thee in my aged arms : 
 I'll call thee son '—But, oh ! a dreadful scene 
 Begins to draw ; the scaffold is prepared 
 Soon to be dved with biood ; the axe is laid : 
 The prison opens : The grim soldiers seize her. 
 They drag mv daughter forth— to execution. 
 And I— must' I behold it ?— Let me die ! 
 1) death ! thou angel of the wretched, come 
 To mv relief, and lay me with my fathers . 
 Thou'rt thunderstruck, n)y son I 
 
 Elvtnc. No power on earth —
 
 A TRAGEDY. 77 
 
 A scaffold ! by th' Alrnighn- ! ere that day 
 L'ngland shall stream, the scaffold of her sons. 
 
 Albem. V'onder they come, the harbingers of 
 death, 
 In sad procession, and with engines drear, 
 The rea-robed judges, and theinilred priests. 
 The grim, the ghastly ministers of fate. 
 Support me, O my son 1 — 
 
 Enter Baronsi Judges, S,-c. rvilh Atlendanlt. 
 
 Arden. (to Albem.) Depart, my friend ; 
 O, if your daughter, or yourself you love. 
 Let me intreat your absence in this hour ! 
 
 Elvine. Do not depart. 
 
 Albem. I will not leave this youth ; 
 He is my friend — alas ! my only friend 
 In this 3ire day. 
 
 Arden. My duty binds me here. 
 A sad spectator I must now remain. 
 To give due rites and dignity to law. 
 But how wilt thou support a scene so dire ? 
 'Twould make thy mortal enemy relent; 
 Alas ! it is not for a father's eye. 
 
 Albem. After what I have seen and felt this dav, 
 The flash that melts the globe, the voice that 
 
 sountls 
 The knell of nature and the close of time, 
 Would not amaze me — Heaven^ ! is that the sound '. 
 [Dead march ii heard. Hack ecene opening 
 alondy, discovers a scnjf'olil, engines of tor- 
 ture, exenitioners, cS-c._ Enfrr at the si.Ie- 
 scene Elvina dressed in tvltite, surrounded 
 ri'ith guards. 
 
 Elvina. Barons of England, hear my dying 
 words, 
 A virgin, bold in conscious innocence. 
 Will never stand a suppliant in your sight. 
 To move your pity by her prayers or tears ; 
 Nor will she tremble at a human bar, 
 Who, gently confident in him who made 
 Her spotless heart, will on the moment's wing 
 Ascend a spirit at the throne ofheaven. 
 —Barons, you pave a husband to my band; 
 My heart was wedded to another lord. 
 From all unnatural rule the soul revolts: 
 The law of nature is the law of love. 
 ~Tlu noble mind determines it« own deeds :
 
 78 RUNXAMEDE. 
 
 Appeals to no tribunal upon earth, 
 
 But answers to itself: There sits the judge. 
 
 And the high counsellor who cannot err. 
 
 Vile fetters you may throw on noble hands, 
 
 And as a prison'd criminal contine 
 The daughter of illustrious Albemarle. 
 But the high mind, free and invincible, 
 Spurns at the chain, the prison, and the axe. 
 — Here I avow it, dying I arow 
 M» love unaltered to that noble youth. 
 And glory in the flame which makes me fall 
 A virgin martvr to the man I loved. 
 And, Barons, be assured, when you behold 
 On yonder block the bloody axe descend, 
 The death felt blow will be the awful pang 
 Which rends a father's and a lover's heart. 
 
 Albem. Tremendous destiny ! Alas ! my son. 
 Thy spirit groans. Big drops rush from diine eye. 
 I am a parent, vet no tear I shed. 
 
 Elviaa. [kii'-eling.] Eternal Father, now 1 come 
 to thee ! 
 Receive me to thyself; into thy hands 
 I give my parting spirit; I resign 
 >Iyself a'vlctim to my native land ; 
 Accept the sacrifice ! .-Vvert my doom 
 Far from the heads of those who shed my blood ; 
 Support my father's age when I am gone. 
 And he is desolate : Whatever years, 
 Whatever joys, thou takest from my life. 
 Repay to him with manifold increase. 
 () mav he never, never, never feel, 
 In lonely sadness, that he wants a daughter. 
 And is a' father now, alas ! no more ! 
 
 \_Risitig, she looks towards the scaffold. The 
 sii^nalfor exccittion is heard. 
 
 ET.rine. ( Drannn^ his srvord. ) This is my time: 
 Unhand me ! 
 
 Albem. Do not leave 
 The helpless. I am dying. Oh ! support me ! 
 [Falling into the arms of Elvine, is carried off. 
 
 Elvina. (The executioners approaching.) I come. 
 Indulge me with a parting moment. 
 My father, I have one request to make — 
 Has he, too, left me ? Now I am alone. 
 Almightv Father I thou art with me still. 
 My eye, thr.t closes in the sleep of death.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 79 
 
 Looks up to thee to guide me through the gloom 
 That frowns before my face ; the dreary vale 
 That darkly opens is the path to thee. 
 Yet it is awful. — O sustain ray soul ! 
 Stretch from the sky thine everlasting arms. 
 Receive a martyr to the land of peace I 
 
 [The executioncrt throwing a veil over her, 
 Eltine advances suddenly and removes them. 
 Elvine. Avaunt ! ye ministers of death ' avaunt ! 
 She shall not die. 
 
 Elvina. O heavens ! Whom do I see ? 
 'Tis he ! Almighty God ! 'tis he — 
 
 \_FaUs down in a swoon. Elvine bean her off. 
 Arden. What youth is this ? A noble of the land 
 His garb denotes. The lady seem'd to know bim. 
 Methinks he's too familiar for a stranger. 
 Barons. We know him not. 
 
 Elvine. (returning with his sword drarvn.J No» 
 bles, where is the man 
 Who can accuse this Lady ? 
 
 Arden. I accuse her. 
 And who dare say my accusation's false ? 
 
 Elvine. 'Tis one who dares whatever valour 
 dared, 
 'Tis one who does whatever honour did — 
 'Tis I. I throw my gauntlet on the ground 
 To prove thine accusation false as hell ; 
 False as thyself. 
 
 Arden. Young man, I know thee not. 
 Elvine. 'My friends have known me, and my fofs 
 have known me. 
 Thou, too, shalt know me soon. 
 
 Arden. Hast thou a name ? 
 It ill becomes the chieftain of an host 
 With a raw wandering knight to break a spear. 
 Elvine. Hear, then, and tremble. You beholj 
 in me 
 The man whom you have wrong'd, have deeplj 
 wrong'U. 
 Arden. Young man, 1 never saw thee till thla 
 hour. 
 No human form can say that I have wrong'd him. 
 Elvine. So bold? 11a! didst thou not traduce 
 this Lady ? 
 Defame her basely ? wantonly ? maliciously ? 
 And, with a villain's dagger, stab her fame ?
 
 80 RUNNAMEDE. 
 
 —Eternal God ! because a lovely maid 
 Shrunk all-abborreni from th\ loathed arms. 
 Thou, like a traitor, like a coward t>o ; 
 A cool, a cruel, cowardly assassin, 
 Wouldst murder beauty, and, by form of law, 
 Shed the pure blood of Virgin innocence. 
 Even like a criminal's upon the scaffold ! — 
 
 Arden. I did what justice, did what honotir bade, 
 I did mv dutv. What is that to thee ? 
 
 Elviiie. To me ?— I meant not to declare my 
 birth 
 Till I had proved it. I have ever been 
 Discover'd by my deeds. Like him in heaven, 
 Who in the mafestv of darkness dwells. 
 But sends the thunder to reveal the God, 
 — Behold the man whom all of you have wrong'J, 
 The sole remains of an illustrious house. 
 The last descendant of a noble line, 
 H'ho merits by his birth, and by his sword. 
 To lead the banners of the British host — 
 Elvine. 
 
 Arden. (taking up the gauge.) 'Tis weU. Thou'rt 
 worthy of mv swotd. 
 
 Eh-ine. There is a time, and this is sure tho 
 When nob'.e virtue may assert itself, [time. 
 
 And conscious honour glow with its own fires. 
 —Barons of England, you have wrong'd me deeply 
 Who, crediting the lie" of rumour false. 
 Deprived a Briton of a Britons right, 
 Expeird a baron from a baron's rank. 
 He is a traitor to his native land, 
 A traitor to mankind, who in a cause 
 That down the course of time will fire the world. 
 Rides not upon the lightnirg of the sky. 
 To save his country. What, what had I done 
 To merit such a name ? 
 
 Archb. Misled by fame. 
 Indeed, we injured you. 
 
 Elvine. AVhy, then, redress 
 The injury you have done. If, in the strife, 
 UTiich must be mortal, Arden falls by me, 
 I claim the honour which my birth demands, 
 To lead the army. 
 
 Barom. 'Tis indeed your due. 
 
 Arden. Thou speak'st it vauntingly. The strife 
 of tongues,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 81 
 
 The war of women, I did ever scorn. 
 Now let the sword decide. 
 
 Elvine. 'Tis drawn. 
 
 Arddi. Lead on. 
 
 Elvine. I follow thee. Elvina comes this way. 
 I would not meet her now. Edgar remain. 
 
 Edgar, Er.viNA, Emma. ^ 
 
 Edgar. Unhappy maid ! She comes from death. 
 She looks 
 As she indeed were risen from the grave 
 A saint in glory ! Let me kneel before her. 
 Alost noble Lady, graciously permit 
 An old domestic of your father's house 
 To kiss your garment, at your feet to fall 
 With flowing tears. I hope your goodness still 
 Remembers me. 
 
 Elvinti. I have not forgot you, Edgar, 
 Nor will I e'er forget you. Rise, my friend. 
 
 Edgar, Lovely and gentle ! You was ever thus. 
 Your face still shone upon your father's house. 
 The face of a good angel. "() what tnen. 
 What murderers, could doom that beauteous form 
 To such a death ? 
 
 Elvina. I have forgotten them, Edgar. 
 
 Edgar, But Heaven will not forgive them — 
 
 Elvina, Where is Elvine ? 
 Where has my father with the Barons gone ? 
 Thy colour changes. Ah I my heart forebodes 
 The fear'd event. Is this the appohited hour 
 For mortal combat ?— 
 
 Edgar. 'Tis indeed the time. 
 
 [Tritmxiets heard. 
 
 Elvina. The trumpets sound. The dreadful sig- 
 nal's given. 
 Now life or death. Help, help me, powerjs of 
 
 hsaven! 
 Support me, Emma ! — 
 
 Emma. Angels hover o'er him. 
 And guard the hero with the shield of Heaven ! 
 
 Elvina, Run, Edgar, to the lists, and brmg us4 
 tidings. 
 Fain would I look — I dare not look that way. 
 Hush ! Hark ! O Emma ! Didst thou hear a groan ? 
 
 Etnmt. 'Tis midniuht silence 
 
 Elvina. Let me look again. 
 Yonder they meet. Behold the flash of arms i
 
 82 RUNNAMEDE. 
 
 And lo the sword that shall be dyed in blood ! 
 V.'hose blood, O heavens! Turn, Emma, to the 
 
 field: 
 I'll look no more. 
 
 Emmi. Heavens! How I tremble ! Ha! 
 A mortal stroke ! There rose the shriek of death !— 
 
 Elt-ina. Now all is over, and my fate is fis'd. 
 I'm destined now to rapture or despair. 
 For eter and for ever ! 
 
 [.4 loud shout heard. 
 O my heart ! 
 
 The armv triumphs in their General's joy. 
 My hero's fallen. I am gone again. 
 My God ! twice in one day ! — 
 
 'Emma. I hear the sound 
 Of feet approaching fast. 
 Eli'ina. Let us be gone. 
 
 As they go out— Enter El vine. 
 Elvine. Where is ray love? my life? Where 
 dost thou At, 
 Thou first of women ? J'airer in my sight 
 Than e'er thou wast, and dearer to my soul ! 
 Hetum and bless my arms that stretch to strain 
 thee. 
 Eb-ina. .Alive? O God— 
 Elvine. Thou hast no foe. Thy catose, 
 The cause of beauty, innocence, and love. 
 Has made thy knight victorious m the field. 
 
 Elvina. How shall I thank the saviour of my 
 life? 
 Tis thus ! 'tis thus ! my Elvine ! 
 
 [Running from the side-tcene into his anni. 
 Elvine. -My Elvina ! 
 At last we meet in joy. 
 
 Elvina. To part no more. 
 Oh ! Elvine, but for thee, my love, for thee, 
 Alas! this dav—0 how shall I repay 
 Thv matchlesi truth, thy tenderness, thy love ? 
 Elvine. In this embrace 'tis mote than all repaid. 
 
 Enter Archbishop and Barons. 
 
 Archb. Much injured youth, the victory is thine ! 
 l\'e iudged before we knew. Let loose from hell 
 A Ijlnc spirit had deceived the land.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 83 
 
 We know thee now, the hero of the host. 
 Exulting England owns her darling son. 
 This day confirms what we have oflen heard. 
 Thy deeds of prowess in the Holy Land ; 
 For thy renown tlew grateful from the East, 
 
 Like incense wafted on the wings of mom 
 
 We meant to serve our country, when, misled 
 By rumours false, we blotted out thy name 
 From the confederate Barons. Now in truth 
 We serve our country, when, with one accord. 
 We hail thee leader of the British host. 
 
 Elvine. Your bounty. Barons, with a bedting 
 heart, 
 I now accept : It was my early wish 
 To lead an array in my country's cause ; 
 But hardly hoped for s'uch a glorious day. 
 To lift the banners of the free, and mark 
 The patriot spirit spread from man to man.— 
 Alike the danger, and the honour's dear, 
 I march the foremost in the ranks of war. 
 To live with freedom, or to die with fame. 
 
 Archb. King John's ambassador has reaih'd the 
 camp. 
 Now let us claim the hour of conference 
 To have the charter of our freedom seal'd. 
 
 SCESB—Runnamede. 
 Kino John, Nobles, and Courtiers. 
 
 John. Shall I resign the sceptre of my sires. 
 And give the haughty Barons leave to reign ? 
 No I I'erish all before that fatal hour. 
 The majesty of Kingi I will sustain, 
 And be a monarch, while I am a man. 
 
 [His Ambassador return 
 What from the Barons ? 
 
 Ami). I have search'd their soul, 
 And to their passions spoke; but spoke in vain. 
 Haughty and high, like victors from the field, 
 F2
 
 64 RUNNAMEDE. 
 
 Thej- speak iii thunder, raise the eye to heaven, 
 And' tread with giant stei)S. 
 
 John. So bold and fierce ? 
 Are not my veteran and victorious troops 
 Superior to a military mob 
 That never saw a camp ? 
 
 Amb. Superior far. 
 But yet their spirit's high. No terms of truce, 
 No composition will they now accept. 
 
 John. Is not the leader of their army slain ? 
 
 Ami). Yes : But a braver general succeeds. 
 The noblest name that Britain now can boast. 
 The gallant Elvine. 
 
 John. Thou hast named a hero. 
 
 Amb. Loudly they talk'd of grievances and 
 wrongs. 
 And praj'd to pour them in your royal ear. 
 I named this hour for friendly conference. 
 Forgive me, gracious King, the time requires 
 A union with your Barons. Loud and bold 
 The Dauphin sends defiance to your host. 
 And gives you battle at the evening hour. 
 ■While France prefers a title lo your crown. 
 And comes to claim it with the pointed sword. 
 My liege, vour subjects must not be your foes. 
 
 [Trumpeft. 
 
 John. The time will teach us: Hark! the Ba- 
 
 EnUr Messenger, 
 
 Mess. My liege, the trumpets of the host of Eng- 
 land. 
 John, (to his Minister.) Receive the Birons, 
 
 [He retires into the Royal Tent. 
 
 Enter Elvixb, Albemarle, Ajicbbisbof, 
 and Baro.n'S. 
 
 Baron. Darker than the storm 
 The monarch frown'd, as he could shake the earth. 
 And move the kingdoms with his scepter'd hand. 
 He does not deign to hear us. 
 
 Elvine. He shall hear us.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 85 
 
 Loud as the trumpet that awakes the dead, 
 His people's voice shall thunder in his ears. 
 
 King John') MinUler. Barons, the sacred Majes- 
 ty of England, 
 Still watching for the'people's weal, demands 
 Why you have brought your forces to the field ; 
 Why you've unsheath'd the sword of civil rage? 
 Against the brother raised the brother's hand. 
 And arnn'd the son against the father's life ? 
 
 Elvine. Compell'd by dire necessity, at last. 
 We draw the sword— we draw it for ourselves. 
 We draw it for our countrj-, for our children; 
 For every Briton down through every age. 
 
 Amb. And do you rise with rash rebellious zeal 
 To wrest the sceptre from your rightful prince. 
 The delegate of Heaven ? 
 
 Elvine. Long live the King, 
 Our rightful prince ! But let the monarch know. 
 That tor his subjects, not himself, he reigns. 
 Let monarchs nu'er forget, that first the throne 
 Kose in the camp ; — the Captain was the ICing ; 
 He wore the laurel as his only crown. 
 And sway'd the sceptre when he drew his sword. 
 
 Ami). And has a monarch not his rights ? 
 
 Baron. He has — 
 Even for the rights of majesty we rise. 
 
 Amb, Do suDJects thus address their sovereign 
 Lord ? 
 
 Baron. "Tis not to thee, but to the King, we 
 come. 
 Nor come we suppliants at the throne to kneel. 
 We beg not favours ; we demand our rights ; 
 Rights ancient, indefeasible, divine: 
 We come to treat, the Barons with the Prince, 
 The host of England with the royal host. 
 
 Ami). Averse to draw the sword, averse to ahcd 
 His people's blood, our gracious Sovertign deigns 
 An hour of audience to his Barons bold. 
 VVhalever suits the dignity of Kings, 
 The King will grant ; your real grievances 
 The royal ear Ls open to" receive. 
 The royal hand is stretched to redress. 
 
 [The Riiyal Tent Of en* 
 
 Knco JoH.v (dctcendingfrmn hit throne.) 
 What do my people from their ICing require ? 
 
 F3
 
 85 RUXXAMEDE. 
 
 Elmne. My sovereign liege, the noble* of the 
 land. 
 And all your faithful subjects, humbly greet 
 Your gracious Majesty, who has vouchsafed 
 To hear their prievances : If we at last 
 Kind grace and favour in our Sovereign's sight. 
 Our joy will be complete ; the civil sword 
 Will then be sheath'd ; Britannia rest in peace ; 
 The King be glorious, and the people free. 
 
 John. What are the grievances that need re- 
 dress? 
 Hare I e'er wrong'd you ? What are your peti- 
 
 Arehb. The ancient peers and barons of the 
 realm. 
 The reverend fathers of the Holy Church, 
 The hoary-headed counsellors of state. 
 And ministers of law, in council met. 
 With one consent adopt the plan of righis 
 Which our forefathers have delivered down, 
 A sacred charge, and ratified with blood; 
 A plan which guards the freedom of the isle, 
 VV'hich shields the subject, and enthrones the ICing. 
 
 John. My Lord, it suits not with your holy func- 
 tion, 
 To rise in arms against your lawful prince, 
 V\ ho might remove the mitre from your head. 
 
 Archb. Then he should mark the' helmet in its 
 place. 
 
 John. Is not the priest the minister of peace ? 
 
 Archb. The priest of Jesus is the friend of man. 
 
 John. And does the friend of man in honid arms 
 Let loose the wrath of war, and shake the land 
 With dire commotion ? 
 
 Archb. If I judge aright, 
 From such commotions revolutions rise, 
 J.nd still will rise, congenial to the isle. 
 Though Britain's genius slumber in the calm. 
 He rears his front to the congenial storm. 
 The voice of freeilom's not a still small voice. 
 'Tis in the fire, the thunder, and the storm. 
 The goddess liberty delights to dwell. 
 If rightly I foresee Britannia's fate. 
 The hour of peril is the Halcyon hour; 
 The shock of parties brings her best repose ; 
 Like her wild wavBS, when working iu a storm.
 
 A TKAGEDV. 87 
 
 That foam and roar, and mingle eaith and heaven, 
 Yet guard the island wLich they seem to shake. 
 Eluine. Sf ost gracious Sovereign, let me ict«r 
 
 Look to the host in yonder camp array'd ! 
 In such a cause the sword was never drawn : 
 And never did the cavalry of England 
 
 But England arming in the cause of freedom. 
 No vassal train attending on their lord. 
 But yeoman, knighu, and all the noble youth. 
 J,o ! thousands press on thotLsands to the field ! 
 From every cloud of dust an army comes ; 
 The nation's on its march — 
 
 John. Unfold your claims. 
 WTiat does this charter to my subjects grant ? 
 
 Elvine. (jresenting it to him.) Uur ancient rights 
 and liberties derived, 
 Down from Great Alfred through the Saxon line, 
 Confirm'd and seal'd by Edward Ihe Confessor. 
 
 John, (perusing it in silence.) Your rights ! Your 
 liberties ! This is rebellion. 
 Presumptuous men ? Why do you not demand 
 My kingdom too ? 
 
 Ehine. We are not foes to Kings, 
 O King of England ! have not stretched forth 
 A rebel hand to overset the throne. 
 Or of one jewel rob the British crown. 
 Thine is the kingdom ; may it long be thine ! 
 'Tis liberty we ask ; 'tis liberty. 
 The kingdom of the people. "Lo ! the rights 
 Our fathers have bequeath'd us. Lo ! the rights 
 V\'hich wc bequeath to ages yet unborn. 
 
 John. ^\niat rights do yoia, or did your fathers 
 claim. 
 But what a King can give and take away ' 
 
 Elvine. The rights of Britons, and the righu of 
 men, 
 ■Which never King did give, and never King 
 fan take away. \V'hat, if a tyrant Prince 
 JMay rule at will, and lord it o'er the land, 
 Where's the grand charter of the human kind ? 
 Where the high birthrights of tlTe brave? and 
 
 where 
 The majesty of man ? 
 
 FA
 
 S8 RUXNAMEDE. 
 
 John. My ancestor, 
 William the Norman, won the British crown 
 By dint of conquest. How did you obtain 
 These rights of yours ? 
 
 Barons, (drawing their swords. J Bv these we 
 gain'd our rights. 
 With these we will defend them. 
 
 John. Come you thus 
 To dash rebellion in the sacred face 
 Of sovereignty, and kneeling at the throne 
 Conspire against the King ? 
 Etihie. May not the King 
 Conspire against the people ? 
 
 John. Kings may err; 
 But Where's the power superior to the Prince ? 
 
 Ehtne. The King of England is the tirst of men : 
 \ et there's a power above the King, the laws. 
 Which, to the Monarch, as their subject, say, 
 ' Thus far, no farther, does thy power extend. 
 John. At whose tribunal can a King appear ' 
 Ehine. At the tribunal of the kingdom. 
 John. Ha ! 
 Before whose majesty can he be brought ^ 
 Elvine. Before the majesty of all the people. 
 John. The voice of Kings alone should speak of 
 
 Kings. 
 Elvine. It is not mine with Monarchs to con- 
 tend. 
 Our cause is brief. The nation's up in arms. 
 The sword is drawn. This day decides our fate. 
 'Tis liberty, or death ! 
 
 John. Have you resolved 
 To shed the blood of England, or to save ? 
 
 Elvine. Prepared for peace, prepared for war, 
 we stand. 
 Von camp obeys the signal of their chief. 
 And, at the moUon of mv lifted hand. 
 Ten thousand swords will Iji;htfcn in the field. 
 My arm is stretched forth, and, if I draw 
 The sword, I draw it to be .-heath'd no more. 
 John, (after a pause.; Reluctant still to risk mv 
 people's life. 
 Or shed their blood, I stand. Read vour petitions. 
 Whateer the laws require, the King'will give. 
 Archi. (holding Magna Chnrta.) O King! O 
 Chiefs ! O Barons bold I O Britons •
 
 A TRAGEDY. 89 
 
 This Code of Freedom is that glorious prize 
 For which the nations, from the first of time, 
 Have toU'd, have fought, have conquer'd, and have 
 
 bled- 
 The Sages, Lawgivers, and Kings of old, 
 Minos, Lycurgus, Solon, Numa, Alfred, 
 Dion, Epaminondas, Cato, Brutus, 
 Founders of nations, fathers of the laws. 
 Patriots devoted to the public good. 
 Heroes, who for their country fought or bled. 
 Martyrs of liberty who died tor man. 
 The glorious guardians of the human race. 
 Look down divine, and bending from the sky^ 
 Their hoary figures consecrate the scene, 
 And bless the passing hour. 
 
 John. 'Tis well, 'tis well. 
 What does vour purpose aim at ? 
 
 Archb. To revive 
 Our ancient liberties ; to found anew 
 An empire of the laws ; restore the rights 
 Our ancestors from age to age enjoy'd ; 
 To settle England on a solid base. 
 The land of freedom ; firm upon his throne 
 To make the Sovereign of the British isle, 
 The greatest Monarch of the greatest people. 
 
 John. Deliver the peu-liculars of your charter. 
 
 Archb. Let every Briton, as his mind, be free. 
 His person safe, his property secure ; 
 H is house as sacred as the fane of heaven ; 
 Watching, unseen, his ever open door, 
 Watching the realm, the spirit of the laws ; 
 His fate determined by the rules of right. 
 His voice enacted in the common voice 
 And general suffrage of ih' assembled realm. 
 No hand invisible to write his doom ; 
 No demon starling at the midnight hour. 
 To draw his curtain, or to drag him down 
 To mansions of despair. Wide to the world 
 Disclose the secrets of the prison-walls. 
 And hid the groanings of the dungeon strike 
 The public ear. Inviolable preserve 
 The sacred shield that covers all the land. 
 The heaven-conferr'd palladium of the isle. 
 To Briton's sons, the judgment of their peers. 
 ()n these great pillars, freedom of the mind. 
 Freedom of speech, and freedom of the pen.
 
 RUNNAMEDE. 
 
 John. These are the laws 
 Of the Confessor, and to these I give 
 A. free, a full, and Sovereign consent. 
 But, while the foe approaches nigh. 
 Such a consent would seem th' effect of fear. 
 Or trick of policy. Let us unite, 
 And join our forces for the hour of war ; 
 The common foe dispersed, your charter shall bo 
 seal'd. 
 
 Elvine. Prompted by duty, we have drawn (he 
 sword 
 To save our country ; the same sword we draw 
 To guard our King : In every common cause 
 Britains will join against their native foes. 
 And sull the people in the King confide. 
 
 John. United now, both armies bend their march 
 To meet the Dauphm. None so fit I know 
 ^ , J [To Elvine. 
 
 To lead the war as you, illustrious youth. 
 The hour of evening bids the trumpets sound. 
 
 Albemarle and Elvink. 
 
 Alhem. Ms noble kinsman, hail ! I knew thee not 
 Beneath my roof, and with my daughter bred. 
 Thou wast a son ! Alas! at thought of thee 
 Reproach knocks at my heart. Canst thou forgive ? 
 I need not ask, for thou art brave, mv son. 
 When we had wrong'd you deeply, sent of Heavea, 
 You came, the better genius of the land. 
 To save your country. 
 
 Elvine. Clad in arms, I came 
 To do my duty. 
 
 Albem. You have snved the land. 
 Your country, grateful to the sorts of fame, 
 Will charge herself with your Uluitrious meed. 
 But, Elvine, how shall ever I repay 
 The love and friendship you have shown to me ? 
 
 Elvine. There's one reward — but, 'tis too mucb 
 for man. 
 My highest hope, the treasure of my life- 
 All that my heart beats for beneath" the sun 
 Tis yours to give, my Lord. 
 
 Albem Name it, tny son.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 91 
 
 Elvine. The race of honour I have earlv run ; 
 I've lived to glory, I would live to love 
 Your davighter, fair Elvina, — in the days 
 Of youth I loved her — Were that matchless maid— 
 
 Albem. Think of another choice — Alas ! my son { 
 This is the Pang that parents only feel ! {Aside . 
 
 Elvine. To me there is no other choice. Ah ! 
 ■where, 
 Where shall I find the rose of innocence. 
 Youth in the flower, or btautj in the bloom, 
 As in that peerless maid ? Is she not fair ? 
 Is she not perfect in the prime of years. 
 The spring of beauty, and the morn of youth ? 
 
 Albem. My son ! the secret cannot be conceal'd. 
 I have no daughter — worthy of thy arms. 
 
 Elviite. What ? God of heaven ! Elvina ? is 
 she not 
 The grace and glory of the female kind. 
 As angels radiant and as angels pure ? 
 
 Albem. I thought so once. 
 
 Elvine. Defend me, powers of heaven ! 
 What has she done ? 
 
 Albem. Done ? she has done a deed 
 That never can be named--has rem my heart — 
 
 Elvine. O ' she has been belied. I know her well 
 She is not to be judged by common rules ; 
 She left the crowd of womankind below; 
 She walk'd aloft in a peculiar path. 
 And sprung to excellence — 
 
 Albem. Alas! my son, 
 It cannot be conceal'd. The burst of fate 
 Will oome upon thee like the bolt of Heaven. 
 I cannot utter — 
 
 [Delivering a letter. 
 These— these will convey 
 A horrid tale — but words cannot express 
 A father's anguish fur a child that's lost — 
 
 [He goes nvi, 
 
 Elvine. (alnne, reads the leilcr.) Tremendous 
 this! incredilile ! impossible! 
 These to the Dauphin— after these pretend 
 To love me ! God of nature I what is woman ? 
 At once to sink the vilest of her sex ! 
 To plunge precipitant down to the deep 
 Of hideous hell, tb'j dungeon of the damn'd • — 
 
 \TLaring the Utter
 
 92 RUNNAMEDE. 
 
 Thus do I Uar her from my soul for ever. 
 WTiere am I now ? There's not one beam of hope 
 To light me through the inhnite abyss 1 — 
 
 One path there is, ■which all the brave must tread. 
 It smL'es upon my sight — down, down, my heart, 
 A little while, thou shalt repose in peace. 
 Nor feel the blow that false Elvina gave. 
 
 ScESB,— ^ tolilary Heath, markt'd with the ruiiu of 
 an old CasiU, hire arid there a blasted tree. 
 
 Elvtsb, Edcas. 
 
 SJgar. Forgive me, noble youth ! If I presume 
 To rush unbidden on your secret hour. 
 Alas ! my Lord, you come not near the camp. 
 From lovers and from friends you stand afar. 
 Even from their tents you turn awav your eye. 
 Alone you stalk, with a disorder'd step. 
 And a wild eye, as if indeed you stood 
 A friendless man, and outcast from the -world. 
 
 Blvine. 'Tis past. What have I more to do with 
 I am no member of the living world. [man ? 
 
 No fric-nc. have I among the human kind. 
 
 Edgar. My gracious master! Heaven prevent 
 my fe;^s ! 
 Alas ! my aged heart will burst in twain 
 To see this day !— 
 
 Say, dost thou know me ? 
 
 Edgar. Know you ■' good my Ixjrd ! 
 Descend, ye bleised angels to his aid. 
 
 EMne. Edgar, the time has been when I wns 
 
 blest : 
 
 That time can come no more. In yonder camp 
 They think me happy, and they call me grest, 
 —There is not sucli a" wretch in the wide world !—
 
 If rig!. 
 
 Ojudg 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 93 
 
 Edgar. O might I know what wounds your peace, 
 
 Elvine. 'Tis here, 
 The unseen dart that gives the mort.il wound — 
 The malady of mind — You've known Elvina — 
 She is a fiend of hell — 
 
 Edgar. My gracious master, 
 "»ht you study your repose or peace, 
 I judge not lashiy of the maid you love ! 
 
 Elvine. I judged not rashly. Gods ! what would 
 I give 
 To think her innocent ! But, I've such proof: 
 Such shining, flaming, damning proof; her hand. 
 Her own hand-writing — Ah ! departed liours 
 That saw us happy, ye can ne'er return ! 
 The circle of mv friends was all my world ; 
 That world hasWanish'd— Oh ! the dreadful fall 
 Of those we love from honour and from fame. 
 Comes like the general wreck — No future time. 
 Not all the vast variety of thought 
 Can bring one smiling image to ra\ mind ; 
 Can raise one ray of hope to break the gloom 
 That closes o'er my head — From thought to 
 
 thought 
 Restless I plimge ; 'tis darkness ; 'tis depair. 
 ^Vould I could think no more I — 
 
 Edgar. Forget the false one. 
 A worthless woman merits not a thought ; 
 Your country calls you. Rise to higher thoughts. 
 The Dauphin comes. 
 
 Etfine. Perdition on his name ! | 
 By heaven ! he shall not find me unprepared ! 
 O'for the trumpet's sound ! that 1 might rush 
 To victory, to vengeance, and the grave ! 
 — False as she is, yet I would wish to meet her ; 
 To see Elvina e'er we part for ever ! 
 To pierce her with her perfidy, her baseness ; 
 To utter all the fulness of my heart. 
 To vent the secret fondness of my soul ' 
 To let her know how blest she might have been ! 
 Heaven bless her still 1 — 
 
 Behold she comes ! Depart — 
 Eiitr Elyiwa 
 
 Elnna. And have I lived to hear the jiublic voice 
 Proclaim thy praise, and join a people's joy, 
 Tn hail thee hero of this happy day I 
 While with the shouts of freedom "and erf fame
 
 94 RUNXAMHDE. 
 
 The camp re-echoes, and the nation rings ; 
 Say, Elvine, will the gentle voice of love 
 Be pratefal to thine ear ? From tent to tent, 
 Round all the camp, I ran to meet my love. 
 And spring into his arms ! 
 
 [He turns aside from her. 
 Defend me. Heaven ! 
 ■What secret stroke has blasted all the joy 
 Amid th\ fame? Whs dost thou turn thine e^es 
 From thy Elvina ? Dost thou hide a grief 
 Which I cannot partake, cannot console ? 
 O mv heart beats for thee ; Look on my face, 
 O Elvir.e; O my love ;— 
 
 Elvine. I've known the time 
 ^\^len Elvine's name, from his Elvina's voice. 
 Which knows its tender way yet to my heart. 
 Would have seduced me from my post in war. 
 Now thou art changed '. — 
 
 Elvina. Changed ' I can never change, 
 
 Kivine, let me know — 
 
 El line. Yes. Thou shalt know 
 And thou shalt hear me— for the last time hear me; 
 Ftir to the field of battle straight I go. 
 From which, if steel can pierce an open breast, 
 
 1 never shall return. For Oh ! Elvina, 
 
 I cannot with thee, nor without thee, live ! 
 
 Ehiiia, My Lord, thy words I cannot compre 
 hend; 
 But, Oh ! I tremble at thy look so wild. 
 
 Elvir.e. Oh! once I loved thee I Gods! Gods, 
 how I loved thee '. 
 Each night, retiring from the ranks of war. 
 You came an aiigel to my constant dream. 
 The dear idea met me in the morning. 
 I ne'er put on my armour but I thought 
 On her whose knight I was, whose scarf I wore. 
 Even in the wildness of my youthful mind 
 I never wandered from Elvina's charms. 
 While she— O heavens ! 
 
 Elvina. Guard me, ye gracious powers . 
 Dark are your words, but they are dagg.>rs, Elvine ! 
 Have I de'served reproach from him I loved ? 
 O it was all my plea-ure, all my pride; 
 My joy in secret, and my public vaunt : 
 It soothed me in the hour of my despair. 
 That when your friends forsook you, I alone
 
 A TRAGEDV. 93 
 
 \Vas just and grateful to an injured youth ; 
 More just, more ffrateful. than he proves to me 
 
 Elvine. The child of fancy, and the fool of lore, 
 ^V^lat golden scenes I figured to myself! 
 In the day-dreams of ray romantic mind. 
 You rose in beauty, smiling by my side. 
 My sweet companion in the path of life, 
 Tht wife of youth, the mistress of my mind. 
 The friend that never failed. O God ! O (rod ! 
 The thought was heaven, when wearied of the 
 
 world, 
 Upon that bosom to recline my head. 
 To hear the music of that tender tongue, 
 To drink enchantment from those radiant eyes, 
 To fee! the pressure of those circling arms ! 
 —My God ! from what a dream do I awake 1 
 Thespell is broken, and the vision's fled. 
 Witness these tears wrung from a tortured heart. 
 The first that Elvine for himself has shed ! 
 Wriat hast thou done, Elviua ? 
 
 Ehina. Done, my Lord ; 
 I am afraid you are disturbed in mind. 
 
 Elvine. Disturbed in mind ! Yes, I am disturbed 
 in mind. 
 I've that within which none of all the damn'd 
 
 Can bear in burning hell — for I have lost 
 
 O, I have lost the treasure of tny soul 1 
 
 My heart is torn from all that it held dear 
 
 Elviiia. 1 fear some traitor has abused thine ear. 
 Come to particulars, I charge thee — Speak. 
 
 Elvine. O woman ! woman ! woman ! ask thy 
 heart. 
 
 Elvina. O Elvine, 'tis a kind one ! how it beats. 
 
 Elvine. Yes it can beat— can beat for all-mankind. 
 I am your fool no more 
 
 Elvina. Suspicion, Heavens! 
 Dost thi u not know me ? What is there on earth 
 Whcrton to rest, but that eternal lock. 
 The heart of those we love ? And can that fail !— 
 Alas ! why didst thou save me from the sword, 
 To kill me thus ? Would I had died this day; 
 For then I suffered, then I would have died 
 For thee ! 
 
 Elvine. Forme! This is th' extreme of guUt; 
 Th' unpardonable crime : Serene to give 
 The front of virtue to the soul of vice. 
 For me I
 
 96 RUXNAMEDE. 
 
 Elvina. Perhaps we ne'er shall meet a»ain ; 
 In this last moment, Elvine ; I conjure thee 
 By the bless'd memory of wliat we were ; 
 Bv all the tender hours that we have pass'd : 
 The days of deamess, and the loves ot youth ; 
 Our fond romantic hopes of future bli-i ; 
 The sighs we breathed in sympathy of soul. 
 The tears we mingled in that tender hour 
 You laid your cheek to mine, and fervent seal'd 
 The sacred vow of everla-ting love. 
 By all that's past, I charge thee, tell me, tell 
 \V'hat is that crime, so flagrant and so foul. 
 To cast me from thy bosom ? 
 
 Elvine. (in tender emotion.) Oh! Elvina I 
 
 Elvina. Oh ! by the pre>ent sorrows ot my soul. 
 Plaints which have sometimes touch'd a lover'i 
 
 heart. 
 Tears, which a tender hand has wiped away— . 
 And am I now an alien to thy love P 
 Unfelt, unpitied, canst thou hear my voice 
 Of lamentation, and unmoved behold 
 The tears of her thou lovedst ! 
 
 Ehine. Oh! Elvina, 
 Though lost, I cannot see thee thus. 
 
 Elvina. Then thus, 
 Elvine, I claim my empire in thy arms. 
 
 \_Ruihin^ to hit armt. 
 
 Elvine. f repulsing her.) Oft', off, false woman. 
 An ! There was a time 
 
 Elvina. (with a broken voice.) Heavens! 
 
 Elvine. Hell ! that is thj element. 
 
 Elvina. UTiat crime ? 
 
 Elvine. Oh ! infidelity. 
 
 Elvina. UTiat villain hath belied me ? 
 
 Elvine. Xo villam. 
 
 Elvina. NtTio then ? 
 
 Ehine. Thy father. 
 
 Elvina. What evidence ? 
 
 Elvine. Thv letter. 
 
 EMna. Where' 
 
 Elvine. I tore it in my wrath, 
 As I will rend that ruffian of a lover, 
 And give his spirit to the shades of hell. 
 
 [The tnimp.'t sounds for balUe. 
 Lady, we part for evei and for ever '. 
 I go without a tear; for thou art fallen
 
 A TRAGEDY. 97 
 
 Below the most abandon'd of thy kind. 
 God ! has that ses thy sanction to deceive ? 
 To show a dserrion in the shape of heaven, 
 And look like angels, while they're devils damn'd! 
 [ELV1J.A standing fixed in astonishment and 
 despair, Albemarle and Emma comes up to 
 her : she faints in their arms. 
 Emma. She's gone ! mj noble Lady, gone ; — 
 Albem. Help, Heaven 1 
 Ye saints and angels, help. 
 
 iBending over her in silence. 
 Ha ! she revives ! 
 
 Elvina. Where am 1 now ? Ah I it avails me 
 For I can never be what once I was. [not, 
 
 Elvine is parted, never to return, 
 
 Albem. The battle is begun. The sword is drawn. 
 Convicted of thy falsehood, Elvine goes. 
 Wild in the field to throw his life away. 
 And bare his bosom to the certain sword 
 
 Held out 
 
 Elvina. He might have known, he should have 
 known. 
 That his Elvina never would prove false. 
 
 Albem. How could he doubt it when I told him so ? 
 Elvina. My father my accuser I 
 Albem. O, my child ? 
 
 Thy letter to the Dauphin 
 
 Elvina. To the Dauphin ! 
 No letter to the Dauphin I e'er sent. 
 
 Albem. This morn the French Ambassador pro- 
 duced it 
 Before the Barons : We had read it all. 
 
 Elvina. O Heaven ! that letter was address'd to 
 
 To Elvine [him, 
 
 Albem. Elvine ? Have a care my child I 
 
 Elvina. To Elvine it was written — Emma 
 knows it. 
 
 Ha ! when 1 ponder; My disordered mind 
 
 Forgot th' address The cursed Ambassador 
 
 Supplied the blank, and mark'd it for the Dauphin. 
 
 Albem. O, this unfolds the mystery ; 
 Jly child is innocent. 
 
 [Taking her in hu ariv.s, 
 Elvina. But I am undone. 
 Eternal destiny ! this is thy work. 
 Ready to rush upon the certain sword, 
 G
 
 9S RUXXAMEDE. 
 
 He goes devoted — Oh ! he never knew 
 How much I loved him— to distraction loTed him ; 
 Kne'v not the throbs, the palpitations wild, 
 Th' unutterable heavings of a heart 
 
 Where reign'd his image Now to death he goes. 
 
 And thinks me false — O Heaven, amid mj woes, 
 My flowing miseries, for him 1 weep ; 
 Kor Elvine is as wretched — as Elvina ! 
 
 Albem. (Sounds heard.) 'Tis o'er. The signal of 
 pursuit is given. 
 
 Emma. Crowds chasing crowds, and flashing 
 arms I see, [storm. 
 
 And garments stain'd with blood. 'Tis like the 
 When heaven, and earth, and ocean mingle war. 
 
 Enter suddenly Edgas. 
 
 Edgar. The battle's over, and the foe is fled. 
 Her sudden effort made, vain-glorious France 
 Forsook the field. 
 
 Elvina. Ha! Elvine? Where? 
 
 Edgar. Aghast, 
 Long' did he look this way, with aspect wild : 
 His hands in agony extreme he wrung ; 
 With faultering voice, in broken sounds, he cried, 
 ' I've conquer'd — now I perish — Oh ! Elvina !' 
 Then, with determined band, his sword he drew, 
 And instant plunged amid the hostile ranks, 
 UTiich closea behind him. 
 
 Alhem. Ah ! illustrious youth. 
 Cut off untimely in thy bright career. 
 And all thy honours withered in the dust ; 
 Cold in the silent tomb, thou shalt not hear 
 The song of triumph which thy country sings 
 In honour of thv deeds ; shalt not behold 
 The tears of England which embalm thy name. 
 Almighty ! where was thine outstretched arm, 
 ^^'^len virtue struggled in the toils of fate. 
 When honour perish'd in the villain's snare ? 
 — Elvina, mute and motionless you stand. 
 No tender drops bedew thy filed eye. 
 A sullen sorrow darkens all thy features. 
 Ah ! save me Heaven, from that foreboding look— 
 My daughter, shun the hour of desperation. 
 Let us withdraw our steps.
 
 A TRAGEDV. 99 
 
 Elvina, Ay— to the graye. 
 
 Albem. O look not on me with that eye forlorn i 
 
 Elvina. Never, ah ! never shall I see him more. 
 
 Albem. No fiiend, no comforter have I on earth 
 But thee, my child ; My daughter, live for me. 
 
 Elvina. It glooms ! shall I not find thee in the 
 Oh ! Elvine, Elvine ! [tomb. 
 
 EnUr suddenly Elvine. 
 
 Elvine. Hear I am, Elvina — 
 Forgive me, O my love ; I knew thee not. 
 I sought the Dauj-^iin through the ranks of war; 
 We fought J ne fell the victim of my sword: 
 It was th' Ambassador, like him array 'd. 
 Who told his guilt ; thy innocence; and died. 
 Angelic goodness ! What can e'er atone 
 For foul suspicion of thy spotless fame ; 
 Thou fairest, and ihou best of womankind ? 
 
 Elvina. Words cannot speak the language of 
 my heart. 
 'Twas fatal destiny. Vet Elvine, know. 
 The pang which pierced me most, was what thou 
 felt. 
 
 Elvine, Look on the past as but a dreeiry dre&m, 
 Oh ! let me find forgiveness in thy arms 
 
 [Embracing. 
 
 Albem. Heaven bless you both, my children! 
 Now, in peace 
 My hoary head shjill to the grave descend. 
 
 Enter in procession, Arcrbishop, Baroks, 
 Kniohts. 
 
 Archbishop {rvilh Manna Charta in his hand, U 
 
 Elvine.) 
 By thee, ppreat chief, the victory is won. 
 And lo; the charter of our freedom seal'd; 
 To Heaven, to Heaven ascend eternal praise: 
 Barons, the tears which trickle from those ey(s. 
 Are patriot drops ; for Britain now is free. 
 
 Albem. Let unborn agc^ echo iq the sound ! 
 Gii
 
 100 RVNNAMESE. 
 
 Now England rising from the dust resumes 
 Her name among tne nations, and unfolds 
 The page of glory to remotest time. 
 The memory of this day will raise a race 
 Of daring spirits in the dregs of time. 
 A nation of the brave, a kingly people. 
 Bold in the cause of freedom and their fathers. 
 And for their country prodigal of blood. 
 
 Archb. (in emotion.) From future time the veil k 
 drawn aside. 
 The hidden volume opens to mine eye, 
 A nd lo ! they rise ! 
 
 Albem. He trembles, and he glows. 
 Like ancient prophets when they felt the God. 
 
 Archb. Barons, this glorious 'day, this hallowed 
 ground 
 Shall never be forgot;— to Runnamede, 
 The field of freedom, Britain's sons shall come, 
 Shall tread where heroes and where patriots trod. 
 To worship as they walk ! 
 
 Albem. Rapt into heaven. 
 High visions pass before the holv man ; 
 His tranced accent is the voice divine. 
 
 Archb. The day of Britain now begins to dawn, . 
 Red in its rise. Heaven opens: and behold 
 The hours of glory and the mom of men 
 Ascending o'er the globe. An era new. 
 The last of ages now begins to roll. 
 The reign of libertv. "The goddess comes 
 Down from high heaven ; her garment dyed in 
 
 blood; 
 The Eword refulgent in her lifted hand 
 She looks : and fixes, never to remove. 
 Her throne and sceptre in Britannia's isle. 
 
 Elvinc. O bless'd of heaven, who shall behold 
 the day 
 Of Britain shine I 
 
 Archb. The Queen of isles behold. 
 Sitting sublime upon her rocky throne. 
 The region of the storms ! She stretches forth 
 In her right hand the sceptre of the seas. 
 And in Her left the balance of the earth. 
 The guardian of the globe, she gives the law : 
 She calls the winds, the winds obey her call. 
 And bear the thunder of her power, to burst 
 O'er the devoted lands, and carry fate
 
 4. TRAGEDY. 15 
 
 I'o Kinffs, to nations, and llie subject world. 
 
 Above the Grecian or the Roman name. 
 
 Unlike the great destroyers of the globe, 
 
 She fights and conquers in fair fveedom's cauft. 
 
 Her song of victory the nations sing: 
 
 Her triumphs are the triumphs of mantind.
 
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