JOAN OE AEQ,: ' 
 
 lalfairs, f irrks, aiiir pincr ^oms. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THALABA," "MADOC," KTC. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN GILBERT. 
 
 UNIVERIITT 
 •2lQALlP«n2i> 
 
 LONDON : 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, 
 
 BROADWAY, LTJDGATE HILL. 
 
 NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET. 
 
 1866. 
 
DEDICATOEY SO:^'NET 
 
 10 
 
 HIS WIFE. 
 
 With way-worn feet, a pilgrim woe-begone. 
 
 Life's upward road I journeyed many a day, 
 
 And hymning many a sad yet sootliing lay 
 Beguiled my wandering with the charms of Koug. 
 
 Lonely my heart, and rugged was my way, 
 Yet often plucked I, as I passed along, 
 
 The wild and simple flowers of Poesy; 
 And as beseemed the wayward Fancy's cliild, 
 
 Entwined each ramdom weed that pleased mme *^y' 
 Accept the wreath, Beloved ! it is wild 
 
 And rudely garlanded ; yet scorn not thou 
 The humble oflering, where the sad rue weaves 
 'Mid gayer flowers its intermingled leaves, 
 
 And I have twined the myrlle for thy brow* 
 
CONTENTS. jfkjPtlrJ 
 
 JOAN OF ARC .......... c ... . 1 
 
 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 The Retrospect . . . , „ ■ , 141 
 
 — Romance . . . ^ . . - . . 145 
 
 "To Urban. 150 
 
 - TnB Miser's Mansion .,...<. 15] 
 
 To Hymen , 155 
 
 _, Hospitality ...:.„ 156 
 
 Sonnets .'..,.... 159 
 
 To Lycon K'3 
 
 Rosamond to Henry o . - . • -167 
 
 The Race of Odin 174 
 
 The Death of Moses . . ^ 180 
 
 The Death of Mattathias ... ..... 185 
 
 The Triumph of Woman 191 
 
 Poems on the Slave Trade • '202 
 
 Eclogues. The Convicts at New South Wales . QIO 
 English Eclogues 2"22 
 
 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Jaspar 256 
 
 Lord William . . . : 261 
 
 St. Michael's Chair 261 
 
 The Destruction op Jerusalem 267 
 
 The Spanish Armada 269 
 
 A Ballad showing how an Old Woman rode double 
 
 and who rode before her 270 
 
 The Surgeon's Warning 275 
 
 Mary the Maid of the Inn 280- 
 
 '^fiO'R!^ 
 
M CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGF 
 
 DoNicA 284 
 
 RUDIGER 287 
 
 - The Spirit 293 
 
 King Henry V. and the Abbot of Dreux .... 295 
 
 Don Christoval's Advice 297 
 
 King Charlemagne 299 
 
 A Ballad of a Young Man 303 
 
 The Lover's Rock 304 
 
 Henry the Hermit 306 
 
 The Cross Roads 307 
 
 —^-The Well of St. Keyne 311 
 
 The Pious Painter 313 
 
 St. .Juan Gualberto 317 
 
 jpf^HE Battle of Blenheim ^37^ 
 
 St. Romuald 329 
 
 The King of the Crocodiles 331 
 
 r-^'GoD's Judgment on a Bishop 333 
 
 •HBishop Bruno 336 
 
 The Old Man's Comforts 338 
 
 LYRICAL AND OTHER MINOR PIECES. 
 
 Youth and Age 339 
 
 The Ebb Tide 340 
 
 The Pig 341 
 
 -^ Ode to a Pig 342 
 
 The Holly Tree 344 
 
 Lucretia 34.') 
 
 To Recovery 347 
 
 The Filbert ... - 348 
 
 The Battle of Pultowa , . 349 
 
 St. Bartholomew's Day 350 
 
 The Complaints of the Poor 351 
 
 To a Bee 353 
 
 ' Metrical Letter from London 353 
 
 The Victory 355 
 
 To A Spider 356 
 
 The Soldier's Funeral , . 358 
 
 - Elegy on a Qum 359 
 
C0NTEKT3. VU 
 
 TAGB 
 
 -^ To A Friend in the Country 360 
 
 Cool Reflections 361 
 
 Snuff 362 
 
 ' To A Friend on his wish to Travel 363 
 
 The Death of Wallace 364 
 
 To A Friend 365 
 
 The Oak of our Fathers 366 
 
 Remembrance 367 
 
 The Rose 369 
 
 The Traveller's Return 371 
 
 Autumn 372 
 
 History 373 
 
 Stanzas on the 1st of Dec. 1793 374 
 
 Stanzas on the 1st of "Sfiikl 1794 376 
 
 Written on a Sunday Morning 377 
 
 On my own Miniature 378 
 
 ^ The Pauper's Funeral ili9 
 
 On a Spaniel e 380 
 
 On a Landscape by Poussin 381 
 
 - Musings on a Scare-Crow 383 
 
 To Contemplation 384 
 
 To Horror 386 
 
 To A Friend 388 
 
 - The Morning Mist 389 
 
 - To the Burnie Bee 390 
 
 The Dancing Bear 391 
 
 Hymn to the Penates 393 
 
 Sappho 400 
 
 Translation of a Greek Ode on Astronomy, by 
 
 S. T. Coleridge . . . ■ 403 
 
 The Wife of Fergus 405 
 
 The Soldier's Wife ... * 407 
 
 The Widow 407 
 
 The Chapel Bell 408 
 
 The Race of Banquo 409 
 
 - The Poet Perplext 410 
 
 Lewti, or the Circassian Love-Chant 411 
 
VIU CONTENTS. 
 
 TAGB 
 GoOSEBERRT-PlE .... 413 
 
 - The Killcrop ^1-5 
 
 The Huron's Address to the Dead 421 
 
 The Old Chickasah to his Grandson 422 
 
 The Peruvian's Dirge over the Body of his Father 423 
 
 Song of the Chickasah Widow 424 
 
 Song of the Araucans during a Thunder Storm . 420 
 Chimalpoca 427 
 
 - Lines Written in the 16th Century . . . . 420 
 
 Parodied in the 18th Century 430 
 
 - Inscription for the Apartment in Chepstow Castle, 
 
 WHERE Henry Martin, the Regicide, was Im- 
 prisoned Thirty Years 431 
 
 SONNETS 432 — 437 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS 438—446 
 
 THE SONNETS AND ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLE- 
 BOTTOM. 
 
 I. Delia at Play 44') 
 
 II. To A Painter attempting Delia's Portrait . 417 
 
 III. He proves the Existence of a Soul from his 
 
 Love for Delia 443 
 
 IV. The Poet expresses his feelings respecting 
 
 A Portrait in Delia's Parlour 448 
 
 LOVE ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. 
 
 I. The Poet relates how he obtained Delia's 
 
 Pocket-handkerchief 449 
 
 II. The Poet invokes the Spirits of the Ele- 
 
 ments to approach Delia. He describes 
 
 her singing 450 
 
 III. The Poet expatiates on the beauty of Delta's 
 
 Hair 451 
 
 IV. The Poet relates how he stole a lock of 
 
 Delia's Hair, and her anger 452 
 
 FUNERAL SONG for the Princess Charlotte of Wales 453 
 NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC 457 
 
SOUTHEY. 
 
 It lias been well said, " that the Life of Egbert Southet is 
 a picture the very first sight of which elicits boundless 
 satisfaction ; frequent and very close inspection qualifies 
 delight ; a last and parting look would seem to justify 
 the early admiration." 
 
 Eobert Southey was born on the 12th of August, 1774; 
 through both his parents he descended from respectable 
 families of the county of Somerset. His father was in 
 business as a linendraper in Bristol, but though a man of 
 the highest integrity, was unsuccessful in trade ; and the 
 oare of young Southey in his childhood was undertaken 
 by his mother's maiden aunt, Miss Tyler. Of this lady, 
 Southey, in his Autobiography, has drawn a very speaking 
 portrait. She appears to have had a great passion for 
 theatres and actors, and as the Bristol stage was frequently 
 honoured by visits of the great actors of the day, they 
 became visitors at Miss Tyler's, and at those times her ap- 
 pearance and manners were those of the well-bred lady ; but 
 at other times she lived in her kitchen, and her attire was 
 literally rags. But ragged as she might be, yet her 
 notions of un cleanness were rigid in the extreme: a chair 
 used by one she thought an unclean person was sent to 
 the garden to be aired ; and on one occasion, a man who 
 had called on business, and had the temerity to seat 
 
X SOUTHEY. 
 
 himself in the lady's own chair, threw her into a paroxysm 
 of wild distress and despair ; and Southey tells us that she 
 once buried a cup for six weeks in order to puiify it from 
 the lips of some one (no favourite, we suj^pose) who was 
 considered dirty. With this oddity Southey lived till his 
 sixth or seventh year, and to keep him from contact 
 with dirt, he was not permitted to have playmates, nor to 
 make any noise that might disturb the old lady. He had 
 no propensity for boyish sports. However, as soon as he 
 could read, he was furnished with the History of the Seven 
 Champions of England, Goody Two-shoes, and much more 
 such delectable literature for children, all which was 
 splendidly bound in the flowered and gilt Dutch paper of 
 former days. Trivial as this kind of reading may now 
 appear, it laid the foundation of a love of books which 
 grew with the child's growth and ceased not in age. As 
 the boy accompanied his aunt before he was seven years 
 old, he had been to the theatre more frequently than from 
 the age of twenty till the day of his death. This fami- 
 liarity with the drama of coarse directed his reading, so 
 that by the time he was eight years old, he had read 
 through Sliakspeare, and Beaumont and Fletcher ; and at 
 nine he set about a tragedy, the subject of which was the 
 Continence of Scipio. He had in the meantime been sent 
 to a small day-school in Bristol, and afterwards removed to 
 another at Corstone, near Bath. So ardent was his pursuit 
 of knowledge, that at thu^teen he had mastered Spenser, 
 and, through translations, Tasso and Ariosto, and become 
 acquainted with Ovid and Homer, besides all the light 
 literature of the day that came in his way. In 1787, 
 when in his tourtecnth year, Southey was sent to AVest- 
 minster School, where he remained four years, when he 
 
SOUTHEY. XI 
 
 was dismissed for contributing a sarcastic article on cor- 
 poral punishment to a publication the boys had set on 
 foot. In 1792 he returned to Bristol, having formed some 
 most enduring friendships at Westminster: one was a Mr. 
 Grosvenor Bedford, and another Mr. C. W. Wynn. By the 
 latter an annuity of 160?. was for many years generously 
 allowed Southey — in fact, until provision was made for 
 him by the government. His father died shortly after he 
 had left Westminster, ruined and broken-hearted. 
 
 The kindness of a maternal uncle, the Rev. Mr. Hill, 
 supplied his fatlier's place, and provided for entering him 
 at Baliol College, Oxford, where he proceeded in 1793 ; it 
 was his uncle's wish he should go into the church, but 
 Southey had no religious opinions to justify this:-^he, 
 however, was assiduous in his studies, and at first turned 
 his attention to medicine, but the dissecting-room turned 
 his stomach from that direction. At Easter, 1794, Cole- 
 ridge, who had just abandoned Cambridge, came on a visit 
 to Oxford, wdiere his fame for extraordinary powers of 
 conversation and his stupendous talents had preceded him. 
 He was visited by the young Oxonians, more particularly 
 those who were admirers of the French revolution, and 
 among them the author of the Satire on corporal punish- 
 ment, who had gone to Oxford an honest republican. 
 These young and ardent lovers of liberty formed a society 
 among themselves, mutually addressing each other by 
 the title of Citizen, and set up a club to debate questions, 
 meeting at each other's rooms. This Jacobinical assembly 
 created great alarm among the heads of the university, 
 and the more so, as the exemplary moral conduct of the 
 members prevented notice being taken of their proceed- 
 ings. Southey soon after abandoned his studies at the 
 
Xll SOUTHET. 
 
 university, and joined Coleridge at Bristol. The result of 
 this intimacy was the suggestion of a wild scheme for the 
 regeneration of society. In conjunction with Robert 
 Lovell, a young quaker, Eobert Allen, George Burnett, and 
 some few others, they formed a plan — worthy of Eobert 
 Owen — to establish a pantisocratical society on the banks 
 of the Ohio, and there in the New World establish a com- 
 munity on a thoroughly social basis. The intended 
 colonists were all to marry, and as Southey had become 
 acquainted with a family of the name of Fricker, in which 
 there were three daughters of a marriageable age, it was pro- 
 posed that Lovell should be united to the elder, that Cole- 
 ridge should marry Sara, and Southey Edith. The ladies 
 were to cook and perform all household work, and the 
 men cultivate the land, everything being in common ; but 
 as money — that huge evil, as Southey calls it — was needed, 
 Lovell engaged to supply it. In this poetical paradise 
 they were to live without either kings or priests, or any 
 of the other evils of the Old World society, and to renew 
 the patriarchal or golden age. However, Lovell's death 
 shortly afterwards put an end to this grand scheme, which 
 died where it was born — in the heads of its concoctors. 
 Miss Tyler, when she became acquainted with her nephew's 
 intended marriage and his socialist opinions, shut the door 
 in his face, and never opened it to him again. 
 
 In 1795 was published a post 8vo volume of 125 pages: 
 "Poems ; containing The Retrospect, Odes, Sonnets, Elegies, 
 &c. By Robert Lovell, and Robert Southey, of Baliol 
 College, Oxford. Printed by R. Cruttwell, Bath." At the 
 end of the preftice there is a note : the signature of Bion, 
 distinguishes the pieces of R. Southey ; Ifoschus, R. 
 Lovell, 
 
SOUTHEY. Xiu 
 
 Soutliey, Coleridge, and Burnett lived together with 
 great simplicity in Bristol, in 1795, and to obtain means 
 for existence, they started as public lecturers, Southey on 
 History, and Coleridge on Politics and Ethics ; the lectures 
 are said to have been well attended. Southey had two 
 <ryears before written Joan of Arc, an epic of considerable 
 llength, but had not means to get it printed. He however 
 became acquainted with Joseph Cottle, a bookseller in 
 Bristol, who, to his praise be it recorded, not only assisted 
 Coleridge with money, but offered fifty guineas for Joan of 
 Arc, and fifty copies for the author's subscribers. Joan of 
 Arc was published in 1796; "a work," says Mr. Hazlitt, 
 " in which the love of liberty is inhaled like the breath of 
 Spring, mild, balmy, heaven-born — that is, full of fears, 
 and virgin-sighs, and yearnings of affection after truth and 
 good, gushing warm and crimsoned from the heart." 
 
 Soon after the sale of the copyright of his poems, 
 Southey's uncle, the Eev. Mr. Hill, who held the appoint- 
 ment of a chaplain in Portugal, arrived in England. He 
 found his nephew with but little belief in revealed religion, 
 and with political sentiments of the wildest order. Acting 
 the part of a father, Mr. Hill proposed a visit to Portugal, 
 to wean him from what was supposed to be an imprudent 
 attachment ; and to gratify his mother, who urged the 
 removal, Southey consented, but on the morning of the 
 day of his departure, he was married to Edith Fricker. 
 They parted immediately after the ceremony, and the wife 
 retired, wearing her wedding-ring attached to a ribbon 
 round her neck. After a stay of six months in Lisbon, 
 Southey returned, and, accompanied by his wife, went to 
 London, and entered himself a student at Gray's Inn, to 
 bedn the study of the law, by the wish of his uncle, who 
 
Xir SOUTHEY. 
 
 had agreed to furnisli the required funds. After a year's 
 torture, Southey gave up this — to him — irksome toil. He 
 had become an occasional contributor to the Monthly 
 Magazine, and in conjunction with Charles Lamb, Hum- 
 phrey Davy, Taylor of Norwich, and Coleridge, he pub- 
 lished two volumes of poetry, under the title of The 
 Annual Anthology. In 1800-1 he again visited Portugal 
 for the benefit of his health, accompanied by his wife ; and 
 on his return at the latter end of 1801, through the interest 
 of, we believe. Sir James Macintosh, he obtained the 
 ai:)pointment of Private Secretary to the then Chancellor 
 of the Exchequer in Ireland, with a salary of 400^. a year. 
 On his arrival in Dublin, he not only found that in his 
 office he had nothing to do, but that the minister was so 
 sensible of the fact, that he proposed that Southey should 
 undertake the tuition of his son. This proposition Southey 
 manfully rejected, and threw up his appointment a few 
 months after. He returned to Bristol, and ere long 
 obtained a connexion with Messrs. Longman and Eees, 
 producing the romance of Amadis de Gaid, from a Spanish 
 version, and his metrical romance of Thalaba the Destroyer. 
 At this time, while struggling for himself, he learnt the 
 forlorn condition of Mrs. Newton, sister of the unfortunate 
 Chatterton, and to aid her, he, in conjunction with Mr. 
 Cottle, undertook to publish by subscription a complete 
 edition of Chatterton's writings, and they were enabled by 
 this means to hand over 300^. to the family. He had now 
 settled himself at Greta, in Cumberland, where he resided 
 to the end of his life : and here he afforded an asylum for 
 his wife's sister, Mrs. Lovell, and her child, who had been 
 left without the slightest provision ; and the wife and 
 childien of Coleridge, whom he had in a wayward mood 
 
SOUTHEY. XT 
 
 deserted, ■were saved mucli of the knowledge of their 
 hardships by finding a home in the Sanctuary of ilobert 
 Southey. His life exhibits many traits of his \,ympathy 
 for misfortune ; for in 1811, when William Taylor fell into 
 distress, he offered to contribute a yearly 10^., and the same 
 thing he did for John Morgan ; and in 1821 he directs his 
 friend Bedford to transfer to Mr. May, who had in early 
 life rendered Southey substantial service, 625^., in the 
 3 per cents, — his whole savings, — and wishes it was more. 
 When mentioning these circumstances, an able writer in the 
 leading journal of our time says, — " If biography be not 
 utterly worthless, these illustrations of Southey's character 
 have an inestimable value. Look at him, pen in hand, the 
 indefatigable day labourer in his literary seclusion, with no 
 inheritance but his vigorous intellect, no revenue but such 
 as his well-stored mind and matchless industry can furnish, 
 perfect in the manifold relation of husband, brother, 
 father, friend, and by his chosen labours delighting and 
 instructing the world, as well as ministering to the daily 
 happiness of his needy circle, — Look, we say, and confess 
 that heroism is here which conquerors might envy." 
 
 To another young and ardent poet — poor Henry Kirke 
 White, whose volume had been most unmercifully attacked 
 in a Review, Southey offered his kind assistance, and 
 White's early death enabled him to prove his sympathy in 
 collecting the scattered fragments, and in a memoir vindi- 
 cated his title to genius. In fact, Southey's correspondence 
 exhibits numerous instances of his kind-heartedness to all 
 young aspirants for literary fame. 
 
 After he had fairly settled himself down amongst the 
 mountains, he set to work for the booksellers, and what 
 with prose and verse, the result of his labours was really 
 
^yi SOUTHEY. 
 
 marvellous. In 1806, lie was at the same time engaged in 
 wi'iting The History of Portjignl, EspriellcCs Letters, The 
 Chronicle of the Cid, and The Curse of Kehema. When 
 writing to his friend, Mr. Bedford, communicating the 
 tasks he had undertaken, he says, " I tell you I can't afford 
 to do one thing at a time ; no, nor two neither ; and it's 
 only by doing many things I continue to do as much ; for 
 I cannot work long at anything without hurting myself, 
 and I do everything by heats ; then by the time I am tired 
 of one my inclination for another is at hand." Whether 
 liis works succeeded or failed it was all the same; his 
 courage or perseverance never deserted him. He religiously 
 believed future generations would recognise his talents, 
 and he continued his almost gigantic epics. 
 
 In 1807 he -produced /Specime7is of the later B7iglish Poets, 
 and Palmerin of England, a translation from the Por- 
 tuguese ; and we learn that in the same year he had a 
 proposal from Walter Scott to contribute to the Edinburgh 
 Review. But Southey had some time before abandoned his 
 democratic creed and taken up one diametrically opposite, 
 and for the remainder of his life he became a most uncom- 
 promising monarchist, and in his political opinions an 
 extreme conservative. In his answer to Scott, Southey 
 says, " To Jeffery, as an individual, I shall ever be ready 
 to show individual courtesy, but of Judge Jeffery of the 
 Edinburgh Review, I must ever think and speak as of a 
 bad politician, a worse moralist, and a critic, in matters of 
 taste, equally incompetent and unjust." Scott, who was 
 one of Southey's most sincere friends, knowing the large 
 claims on his income, through Canning, had an opportunity 
 of offering Southey some appointment worth 300^. a-year, 
 but that, as well as another of a Drofessor at one of the 
 
SOUTHEY. XVll 
 
 universities, was declined. Soutliej had at this time a 
 government pension of 160?. a-year, for literary services ; 
 but a more certain income was opened to him, in the well- 
 paid remuneration provided by the Quarterly Review, which 
 was set on foot, chiefly at his instigation. 
 
 In 1813, on the death of Mr. Pye, the offer of the ap- 
 pointment of Poet Laureate was made to Scott, but was 
 by him declined ; at the same time he recommended Southey 
 as the most competent, therefore upon Southey it was 
 conferred. 
 
 For the remainder of his life the labour of Southey was 
 incessant, and by degrees the happiness of his home was 
 flying away. First, he loses one child, of whom he was 
 " foolishly fond ;" then another — ^his daughter marries, and 
 his " best days are over ;" and at last, his wife, Edith, who 
 had for forty years been the light of his life, was placed in 
 a lunatic asylum. Ui3on this latter event, writing to his 
 friend, Grosvenor Bedford, he says, " God, who has visited 
 me with this affliction, has given me strength to bear it, 
 and will, I know, support me to the end, whatever that 
 may be. . . . Mine is a strong heart. I will not say the 
 last week has been the most trying of my life, but I will 
 say that the heart which could bear it can bear anything.' 
 
 AVhile suffering under this trying affliction, the offer ol 
 a baronetcy was made him by Sir Robert Peel, then First 
 Lord of the Treasury ; and at the same time a private letter, 
 requesting Southey to tell him (Sir R. Peel) frankly how 
 the minister could serve him. Southey, declining the 
 proffered distinction, replied by a clear statement of his 
 position : Sir Robert, without loss of time, attached his 
 name to a warrant, adding 300?. per annum to Southev's 
 income. 
 
 b 
 
Xlii SOUTHET. 
 
 In 1837, his beloved wife, Edith, who had returned to 
 her home, died in a pitiable state, after three years' afflic- 
 tion. After the death of his wife he became an altered 
 man. He says, " There is no one to partake with me the 
 recollections of the best and happiest portion of my life ; 
 and for that reason, were there no other, such recollections 
 must henceforth be purely painful, except when I connect 
 them with the prospects of futiu-ity." To divert his mind, 
 his friends proposed a continental journey, which took 
 place in 1838. On the 5th of June, 1839, he was married 
 a second time to ]VIiss Caroline Anne Bowles, a lady long 
 well known in the literary world, as the author of " Ellen 
 Eitz-Arthur, and other Poems," "Chapters in Church- 
 yards," &c. ; Southey being then in his sixty-fifth year. 
 
 Southey never recovered the loss of his wife Edith, and 
 his friends could see that the vigour of his faculties was 
 evidently now gone, and his melancholy decline became 
 rapidly progressive : forty-five years' incessant literary toil 
 nad done its work — the candle was burnt to the socket — 
 the brain was worn out. For the last year of his life it 
 was an utter blank. He died on the 21st of March, 1843, 
 and was buried in Crossthwaite churchyard, where lie his 
 beloved Edith and some children that preceded him. 
 
 "VVe have seen that in 1806 Southey had begun his 
 History of Portugal, and his correspondence frequently 
 mentions the progress of this achievement; every spare 
 moment from work of the moment was devoted to this 
 cherished object, from which he always expected permanent 
 profit ; he laboured at it to the last, and it was left un- 
 finished. 
 
PREPACK 
 
 The history of Joan of Arc is one of those problems that 
 render investigation fruitless. That she believed herself 
 inspired, few will deny ; that she was inspired, no one will 
 venture to assert ; and who can believe that she was her- 
 self imposed on by Charles andDunoisI That she dis- 
 covered the king when he disguised himself among the 
 courtiers to deceive her, and that, as a proof of her mission, 
 she demanded a sword from a tomb in the church of St. 
 Catharine, are facts in which all historians agree. If this 
 had been done by collusion, the maid must have known 
 herself an impostor, and with that knowledge could not 
 have performed the enterprise she undertook. Enthusiasm, 
 and that of no common kind, was necessary, to enable a 
 young maiden at once to assume the profession of arms, 
 to lead her troops to battle, to fight among the foremost, 
 and to subdue with an inferior force an enemy then 
 believed invincible. It is not possible that one who felt 
 herself the puppet of a party, could have performed these 
 things. The artifices of a court could not have persuaded 
 her that she discovered Charles in disguise ; nor could they 
 have prompted her to demand the sword which they might 
 have hidden, without discovering the deceit. The maid, 
 then, was not knowingly an impostor ; nor could she have 
 been the instrument of the court; and to say that she 
 believed herself inspired, will neither account for her 
 singling out the king, or prophetically claiming the sword. 
 
XX PREFACE. 
 
 After crowniug Charles, she declared that her mission was 
 accomplished, and demanded leave to retire. Enthusiasm 
 would not have ceased here ; and if they who imposed on 
 her, could persuade her still to go with their armies, they 
 could still have continued her delusion. 
 
 This mysteriousness renders the story of Joan of Arc 
 peculiarly fit for poetry. The aid of angels and devils is 
 not necessary to raise her above mankind; she has no 
 gods to lackey her, and inspire hei' with courage, and heal 
 her wounds: the Maid of Orleans acts wholly from the 
 workings of her own mind, from the deep feeling of 
 -inspiration. The palpable agency of superior powers 
 would destroy the obscurity of her character, and sink her 
 to the mere heroine of a fairy tale. 
 
 The alterations which I have made in the history are 
 few and trifling. The death of Salisbury is placed later, 
 and of the Talbots earlier than they occurred. As the 
 battle of Patay is the concluding action of the poem, I 
 have given it all the previous solemnity of a settled en- 
 gagement. Whatever appears miraculous is historically 
 true ; and my authorities will be found in the notes. 
 
 It is the common fault of Epic poems that we feel little 
 interest for the heroes they celebrate. The national 
 vanity of a Greek or a Roman might have been gi-atified 
 by the renown of Achilles or ^Eneas ; but to engage the 
 unprejudiced, there must be more of human feelings than 
 is generally to be found in the character of a warrior. 
 From this objection the Odyssey alone may be excepted. 
 Ulysses appears as the father and the husband, and the 
 affections are enlisted on his side. The judgment must 
 applaud the well-digested plan and splendid execution of 
 the Iliad, but the heart always beais testimony to the 
 merit of the Odyssey: it is the poem of nature, and its 
 personages inspire love rather than command admiration. 
 The good herdsman Eumseus is worth a thousand heroes ! 
 
PREFACE. XXI 
 
 Homer is, indeed, the best of poets, for he is at once digni- 
 fied and simple ; but Pope has disguised him in fop-linery, 
 and Cowper has stripped him naked. 
 
 There are few readers who do not prefer Turnus to 
 ^neas; a fugitive, suspected of treason, who negligently 
 . left his wife, seduced Dido, deserted her, and then forcibly 
 took Lavinia from her betrothed husband. What avails 
 a man's piety to the gods, if in all his dealings with men 
 he prove himself a villain ? If we represent Deity as 
 commanding a bad action, this is not exculpating the man, 
 but criminating the God. 
 
 The ill chosen subjects of Lucan and Statius have pre- 
 vented them from acquiring the jDopularity they would 
 i otherwise have merited ; yet in detached parts the former 
 of these is perhaps unequalled, certainly unexcelled. The 
 French court honoured the poet of liberty by excluding 
 him from the edition in Usum Delphini ; perhaps, for the 
 same reason, he may hereafter be published in Usum 
 Republicse. I do not scruple to prefer Statius to Virgil ; 
 with inferior taste, he appears to me to possess a richer 
 and more powerful imagination ; his images are strongly 
 conceived and clearly painted, and the force of his language, 
 while it makes the reader feel, proves that the author felt 
 himself. 
 
 The power of story is strikingly exemplified in the 
 Italian heroic poets. They please universally, even in 
 , translations, when little but the story remains. In the 
 proportioning his characters, Tasso has erred : Godfrey 
 is the hero of the poem, Einaldo of the poet, and Tancred 
 of the reader. Secondary characters should not be intro- 
 duced, like Gyas and Cloanthus, merely to fill a proces- 
 sion ; neither should they be so prominent as to throw the 
 principal into shade. 
 
 The lawless magic of Ariosto, and the singular theme, 
 as well as the singular excellence of Milton, render it 
 
XXU PREFACE. 
 
 impossible to deduce any rules of epic poetry from these 
 authors. So likewise with Spenser, the favourite of my 
 childhood, from whose frequent perusal I have always 
 found increased delight. 
 
 Against the machinery of Camoens,a heavier charge must 
 be brought than that ot profaneness or incongruity. His 
 floating island is but a floating brothel, and no beauty can 
 maks atonement for licentiousness. From this accusation 
 none but a translator would attempt to justify him ; but 
 Camoens had the most able of translators. The Tiusiad, 
 though excellent in parts, is uninteresting as a whole : it 
 is read with little emotion, and remembered with little 
 pleasure. But it was composed in the anguish of disap- 
 pointed hopes, in the fatigues of war, and in a country 
 far from all he loved ; and we should not forget, that as 
 the poet of Portugal was among the most unfortunate of 
 men so he should be ranked among the most respectable. 
 Neither his own country or Spain has yet produced his 
 equal : his heart was broken by calamity, but the spirit 
 of integrity and independence never forsook Camoens. 
 
 I have endeavoured to avoid what appears to me the 
 common fault of epic poems, and to render the Maid of 
 Orleans interesting. With this intent I have given her, 
 not the passion of love, but the remembrance of subdued 
 afiection, a lingering of human feelings not inconsistent 
 with the enthusiasm and holiness of her character. 
 
 The multitude of obscure epic w^-iters copy with the 
 most gross servility their ancient models. If a tempest 
 occurs, some envious spirit procures it from the god of 
 the winds or the god of the sea : is there a town besieged 1 
 the eyes of the hero are opened, and he beholds the powers 
 of heaven assisting in the attack ; an angel is at hand to 
 heal his wounds, and the leader of the enemy in his last 
 combat is seized with the sudden cowardice of Hector. 
 Even Tasso is too often an imitator. But notwithstanding 
 
PREFACE. XXIU 
 
 the censure of a satyrist, the name of Tasso will still be 
 ranked among the best heroic poets. Perhaps Boileau 
 only condemned him for the sake of an antithesis ; it is 
 with such writers, as with those who affect point in their 
 conversation, they will always sacrifice truth to the gratifi- 
 cation of their vanity. 
 
 I have avoided what seems useless and wearying in 
 other poems, and my readers will find no descriptions of 
 armour, no muster-rolls, no geographical catalogues, lion, 
 tiger, bull, bear, and boar similes ; Phoebuses and Auroras. 
 Where in battle I have particularized the death ot an 
 individual, it is not I hope like the common lists of killed 
 and wounded;/ my intention has been to impress upon 
 the reader's mind a feeling of the private wretchedness 
 occasioned by the war systems of Europe. 
 
 It has been established as a necessary rule for the epic, 
 that the subject be national. To this rule I have acted 
 in direct opposition, and chosen for the subject of my 
 poem the defeat of the English. If among my readers 
 there be one who can wish success to an unjust cause, 
 because his country supj)orted it, I desu-e not that man's 
 approbation. 
 
 On the 8th of May, the epoch of its deliverance, an 
 annual fete is held at Orleans ; and monuments have been 
 erected to the memory of the maid. Her family was 
 ennobled by Charles; but it should not be forgotten in 
 the history of this monarch, that, in the hour ot misfor- 
 tune, he abandoned to her fate the woman who had saved 
 his kingdom. 
 
 4 
 
 Since the first publication of this poem, it has under- 
 gone a long and laborious correction. Everything mira- 
 culous is now omitted, and the reader who is acquainted 
 with the former edition may judge by this circumstance 
 
XXIV PREFACE. 
 
 the extent of the alterations. Some errors with regard 
 to the costume of the time had escaped me : in this point 
 the work is now, I trust, correct. The additional notes 
 are numerous; they are inserted as authorities for the 
 facts related in the text, and as explanatory to those 
 readers who are not conversant with the ancient chronicles 
 of this country ; for we may be well read in Hume and 
 Rapin, and yet know little of our ancestors. Whenevsr I 
 felt, or suspected an idea not to be original, I have placed 
 the passage underneath by which it was suggested. With 
 respect to the occasional harshness of the versification, it 
 must not be attributed to negligence or haste. I deem 
 such variety essential in a long poem. 
 
 TO 
 
 EDITH SOUTHEY. 
 
 Edith ! I brought thee late a humble gift, 
 
 The songs of earlier youth ; it was a wreath 
 
 "With many an unripe blossom garlanded 
 
 And many a weed, yet mingled with some flowers 
 
 That will not wither. Now, my love, I bring 
 
 A worthier offering ; thou wilt value it, 
 
 For well thou knowest it is a work that sooth'd 
 
 Times of hard care and strange inquietude, 
 
 With most sweet solace : and though to mine e;ir 
 
 There is no music in the hollo wness 
 
 Of common praise, yet I am well content 
 
 To think that I have past in such employ 
 
 The green and vigorous season of my mind, 
 
 And hope that there are those in whom the song 
 
 Has woke some not unprofitable thoughts. 
 
 EGBERT S0UTHP:Y, 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 i lint gjjflit. 
 
 The Maid announces her mission to the Lord of Vauconleur. She 
 Jleparts for Chinon with Dunois. Narrative of the Maid. 
 
 There was high feasting held at Yaucouleur, 
 ;• For old Sir Eobert had a noble guest, 
 / The Bastard^ Orleans; and the festive hours, 
 Cheer'd with the Trouveur's merry minstrelsy, 
 Pass'd lightly at the hospitable board. 
 But not to share the hospitable board 
 And hear sweet mmstrelsy, Dunois had sought 
 j Sir Robert's hall; he came to rouse Lorraine, 
 And glean what force the wasting war had left 
 Eor one last effort. Little had the war 
 Left m Lon-aine, but age, and youth unripe 
 For slaughter yet, and widows, and young maids 
 Of widowed loves. And now with this high guest 
 The Lord of Vaucouleur sat communing 
 / On -what might profit France, and knew no hope. 
 Despairing of his country, when he heard 
 An old man and a maid awaited him 
 , In the castle hall. He knew the old man v. ell, 
 ' His vassal Claude, and at his bidding Claude 
 Approach'd, and after meet obeisance made, 
 Bespake Sir Eobert. 
 
 " Good my Lord, I come 
 With a strange tale; I pray you pardon me 
 I If it should seem impertinent, and like 
 An old man's weakness. But, in truth, this Maid 
 Did with most earnest words importune me, 
 And with such boding thoughts impress'd my hearty 
 I think that I could not have slept in peace 
 
 B 
 
 v 
 
 / 
 
^4........... .'. 
 
 Denying what she sought. Her parents make 
 
 A mock of her; — it is not well to mock 
 
 The damsel, and altho' her mother be 
 
 My sister, yet in honesty I think 
 
 It is unkindly done to mock the Maid. 
 
 / And then her father Confessor, — he says 
 
 ' She is possess'd; indeed he laioAvs her not. 
 Possess'd ! my niece by evil spiiits possess'd I 
 
 I My darling gu'l ! there never was a thought 
 Of evil yet found entrance in her heart. — 
 I knew her, good my Lord, before her smile. 
 Her innocent smile, and bright black-sparkling eye 
 That talk'd before the tongue had learnt its office. 
 Did tell me she did love me." 
 
 Whilst he spake 
 Curious they mark'd the Damsel. She appear'd 
 
 / Of eighteen^' 3"ears; there was no bloom of youth 
 Upon her cheek, yet had the loveliest hues 
 Of health with lesser fascination fix'd 
 The gazer's eye; for wan the Maiden was, 
 
 I Of samtly paleness, and there seem'd to dwell 
 
 1 In the strong beauties of her countenance 
 ' \ Something that was not earthly. 
 
 " I have heard 
 Of this your niece's malady," replied 
 The Lord of Vaucouleur; "that she frequents 
 
 ' The loneliest haunts and deepest solitude. 
 Estranged from human kind and human cares 
 With loathing most like madness. It were besti 
 To place her with some pious sisterhood, 
 "Wlio duly morn and eve, for her soul's health 
 Soliciting Heaven, ma}'' likeliest remedy 
 The stricken mind, or frenzied or possess'd.** 
 So as Sir Robert ceas'd, the Maiden cried, 
 " I am not mad. Possess'd indeed I am ! 
 
 I The hand of God is strong upon my soul, 
 And I have wrestled vainl}'- with the Lord, 
 And stubbornl}', I fear me. I can save 
 This country, sir ! I can deliver France ! 
 Yea — I must save this country ! God is in me — 
 
 J I speak not, think not, feel not of myself. 
 He knew and sanctified me ere my birth. 
 He to the nations hath ordained me, 
 And unto whom He sends me, I must go, 
 
iiirl:h.ffli'hil 
 
 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 And tliat which He commands me, I must speak. 
 And that which He shall will, I must perform. 
 Most fearless in the fulness of my faith 
 Because the Lord is with me !" 
 
 At the first 
 With pity or with scorn Dunois had heard 
 I The inspu-ed Maid; but now he in his heart 
 ' Felt that misgiving that precedes belief 
 In what was disbelieved and scoff'd at late 
 As folly. " Damsel !" said the Chief, methints 
 That it were wisely done to doubt this call. 
 Haply of some ill spirit prompting thee 
 / To self-destruction." 
 
 " Doubt !" the maid exclaim'd; 
 ** It were as easy, when I gaze around 
 On aU this fair variety of things, 
 \ Green fields and tufted woods, and the blue depth 
 Of heaven, and yonder glorious sun, to doubt 
 Creating wisdom ! when in the evening gale 
 I breathe the mingled odours of the spring, 
 And hear the wUd wood melody, and hear 
 The populous air vocal with insect life, 
 To doubt God's goodness ! there are feelings, Chief, 
 That may not lie ; and I have oftentimes 
 Pelt in the midnight silence of my soul 
 ThecaUofGod." 
 
 They listened to the Maid, 
 And they almost believed. Then spake Dunois; 
 *' Wilt thou go with me, Maiden, to the king. 
 And. there announce thy mission?" Thus he said, 
 For thoughts of politic craftiness arose 
 Within him, and his unconfirmed faith 
 Determin'd to prompt action. She replied: 
 *' Therefore I sought the Lord of Vaucouleur, 
 That with such credence as prevents delay, 
 Ho to the king might send me. Now, beseech you. 
 Speed our depai-ture." 
 
 Then Dunois address'd 
 Sir Eobert: "Fare thee well, my friend and host! 
 It were ill done to linger here when Heaven 
 . Has sent such strange assistance. Let what force 
 ' Lon-aiue may yield to Chinon follow us; 
 And with the tidings of this holy Maid, 
 Kais'd up by God, fill thou the country; soon 
 
 B 2 
 
JOAN- OF ARC. 
 
 / The coTintrj shall awake as from the sleep 
 
 ^ Of death.. Now, Maid ! depart we at thy will." 
 
 " God's blessing go with thee !" exclaim'd old Claude; 
 " Good angels guard my girl !" — and as he spake 
 V Tha.tears stream'd fast adown his aged cheeks, — 
 " And if I do not live to see thee more, 
 As sure I think I shall not, yet sometimes 
 Eemember thine old uncle. I have loved thee 
 Even from thy childhood, Joan ! and I shall lose 
 The comfort of mine age in losing thee. 
 But God be with thee, Maid !" 
 
 He had a heart 
 Warm as a child's affections, and he Avept. 
 Nor was the Maid, although subdued of soul, 
 Unmoved; but soon she calmed her, and bespake 
 The good old man. " Now go thee to thine home, 
 And comfort thee mine uncle, with the thought 
 Of what I am, for what high enterprise 
 Chosen from among the people. Oh, be sure 
 I shall remember thee, in whom I found 
 A parent's love, when parents were unkind ; 
 And when the ominous broodings of my soul 
 Were scoff 'd and made a mock of by all else, 
 Those most mysterious feelings thou the while 
 Still didst respect. Shall I forget these things ?" 
 They pass'd without the gate, as thus she spake, 
 Prepar'd for their departure. To her lips 
 She press'd his hand, and as she press'd there fell 
 A tear; the old man felt it on his heart. 
 And dimly he beheld them on their steeds 
 Spring up and go their way. 
 
 So on they went; 
 And now along the mountain's Avmding path 
 Upward they journeyed slow, and now they paus'd 
 And gazed where o'er the plain the stately towers 
 Of Vaucouleur arose, in distance seen, 
 Dark and distinct; below the castled height. 
 Thro' fair and fertile pastures, the deep Meuse 
 Roll'd glittering on. Domremi's cottages 
 Gleam'd in the sun hard by, white cottages. 
 That in the evenmg traveller's weary mind 
 Had waken'd thoughts of comfort and of home, 
 Till his heart ached for rest. But on one spot, 
 
J0A17 OF ARC. 
 
 One little spot, the Virgin's eye was fix'd, 
 Her native Arc; embowered the hamlet lay 
 Upon the forest edge, whose ancient woods. 
 With all their infinite varieties, 
 Now form'd a mass of shade. The distant plain 
 Eose on the horizon rich with pleasant groves/ 
 And vine-yards in the greenest hue offspring, 
 And streams, now hidden on their devious way, 
 Now winding forth in light. 
 
 The Maiden gazed 
 Till all grew dim upon her dizzy eye. 
 " Oh what a blessed world were this !" she cried, 
 « But that the great and honourable men 
 Have seiz'd the earth, and of the heritage 
 Which God, the Sire of all, to all had given. 
 Disherited their brethren ! happy those ^ 
 Who in the after-days shall live when Time 
 Has spoken, and the multitude of years 
 Taught wisdom ! Sure and certain though that hope. 
 Yet it is sad to gaze upon a scene 
 So very good, and think that Want and Guilt 
 And Wretchedness are there ! unhapi^y France ! 
 Fiercer than evening wolves thy bitter foes 
 Bush o'er the land and desolate and kill; 
 Long has the widow's and the orphan's groan 
 Accused Heaven's justice; — but the hour is come; 
 God hath inclmed his ear, hath heard the voice 
 Of mourning, and His anger is gone forth." 
 
 Then said the Son of Orleans: " Holy Maid ! 
 I would fain know, if blameless I may seek 
 Such knowledge, how the heavenly call was heard 
 Fii'st in thy waken'd soul; nor deem in me 
 Aught idly curious, if of thy past days 
 I ask the detail. In the hour of age. 
 If haply I sm-vive to see this realm 
 By thee deliver'd, dear will be the thought 
 That I have seen the delegated Maid, 
 And heard from her the wondrous ways of Heaven." 
 
 " A simple tale," the mission'd Maid replied, 
 "Yet may it well employ the journeying hour; 
 And pleasant is the memory of the past. 
 
JOAN OF AUG. 
 
 " Seest thou, Sir Chief, where yonder forest skirts 
 The Meuse, that in its winding mazes shows 
 As on the farther bank the distant towers 
 Of Yaucouleur ? there in the hamlet Arc 
 Mj father's dwelling stands; a lowly hut. 
 Yet nought of needful comfort wanted it, 
 Tor in Lorraine there lived no kinder lord 
 Than old Su* Robert, and my father Jaques 
 In flocks and herds was rich. A toiling man, 
 Intent on worldly gains, one in whose heart 
 Affection had no root. I never knew 
 A parent's love ; for harsh my mother was. 
 And deem' d the cares that infancy demands 
 ' Irksome, and ill-repaid. Severe they were. 
 And would have made me fear them, but my soul 
 Possess'd the germ of steady fortitude. 
 And stubbornly I bore unkmd rebuke 
 And wrathful chastisement. Yet was the voice 
 That spake in tones of tenderness most sweet 
 To my young heart; how have I felt it leap 
 With transport, when mine uncle Claude approach'd ! 
 J Tor he would place me on his knee, and tell 
 ' The wondrous tales that childhood loves to hear. 
 Listening with eager eyes and open lips 
 In most devout attention. Good old man ! 
 Oh, if I ever pour'd a prayer to Heaven 
 Unhallowed by the grateful thought of him, 
 Methinks the righteous winds wovdd scatter it ! 
 He was a parent to me, and his home 
 Was mine, when, in advancing years, I found 
 No peace, no comfort, in my father's house. 
 With him I pass'd the pleasant evening hours. 
 By day I drove my father's flock afield 
 Aiid this was happiness. 
 
 Amid these wilds 
 Often to summer pasture have I driven 
 The flock; and well I know these mountain wilds, 
 , And every bosom'd vale, and valley stream 
 / Is dear to memory. I have laid me down 
 Beside yon valley stream, that up the ascent 
 Scarce sends the sound of waters now, and watch'd 
 The tide roll glittering to the noon-tide sun, 
 And listened to its ceaseless murmurinfj. 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Till all was husli'd and tranquil in my soul, 
 Fill'd with a strange and undefined delight 
 That pass'd across the mind like summer clouds 
 Over the lake at eve: their fleeting hues 
 The traveller cannot trace with memory's eye, 
 Yet he remembers well how fair they were. 
 How very lovely. 
 
 Here in solitude 
 My soul was nurst, amid the loveliest scenes 
 Oi" unpolluted nature. Sweet it was, 
 / As the white mists of morning roU'd away, 
 To see the mountain's wooded heights appear 
 Dark in the early dawn, and mark its slope 
 Rich with the blossom'd fiu'ze, as the slant sun 
 On the golden ripeness pour'd a deepening light. 
 Pleasant at noon, beside the vocal brook 
 To lie me down, and watch the floating clouds. 
 And shape to Fancy's wild similitudes 
 Their ever-varying forms ; and oh, most sweet ! 
 To drive my flock at evening to the fold, 
 And hasten to our little hut, and hear 
 The voice of kindness bid me welcome home. 
 
 " Amid the village playmates of my youth 
 
 Was one whom riper years approved my fi'iend ; 
 ' A very gentle maid was Madelon. 
 
 I loved her as a sister, and long time 
 
 Her undivided tenderness possess'd. 
 
 Till that a better and a holier tie 
 
 Gave her one nearer friend ; and then my heart 
 
 Partook her happiness, for never lived 
 \ A happier pair than Arnaud and his wife. 
 
 " Lorraine was call'd to arms, and with her youth 
 Went Arnaud to the war. The morn was fair, \ 
 Bright shone the sun, the birds sung cheerily, I 
 And all the fields look'd lovely in the spring j 
 But to Domremi wretched was that day. 
 For there was lamentation, and the voice 
 Of anguish, and the deeper agony 
 That spake not. Never will my heart forget 
 The feelings that shot through me, when the sound 
 Of cheerful music burst upon our ears 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Sudden, and from the arms that round their nechs 
 Hung close entwined, as in a last embrace, 
 Priends, brethren, husbands went, 
 
 More frequent now 
 Sought I the converse of poor ]\Iadelou, 
 For much she needed now the soothing voice 
 Of friendship. Heavily the summer pass'd, 
 To her a joj^ less one, expecting still 
 Some tidings from the war; and as at eve 
 She with her mother by the cottage door 
 Sat in the smishine, I have seen her eye. 
 If one appear'd along the distant path, 
 Shape to the form she loved his lineaments. 
 Her cheek faint flush'd by hope, that made her iiearfc 
 Seem as it sunk within her. So the days 
 And weeks and months pass'd on, and when the leaves 
 Fell in the autumn, a most painful hope 
 That reason own'd not, that with expectation 
 Did never cheer her as she rose at morn, 
 StiU lingered in her heart, and still at night 
 Made disappointment dreadful. Winter came. 
 But Amaud never from the war return'd. 
 He far away had perish'd ; and when late 
 The tidings of his certain death arriv'd. 
 Sore with long anguish underneath that blow 
 She sunk. Then would she sit and think all day 
 Upon the past, and talk of happiness 
 That never would return, as tho' she found 
 Best solace in the thoughts that minister'd 
 To sorrow: and she loved to see the sun 
 Go down, because another day was gone. 
 And then she might retii'e to solitude 
 And wakeful recollections, or perchance 
 To sleep more wearjdng far than wakefulness. 
 For in the visions of her heart she saw 
 Her husband, saw him as escaped the war. 
 To his own home return'd. Thus day nor night 
 Keposed she, and she pined and pined away. 
 
 " Bitter art thou to him that lives in rest, 
 Death ! and grievous in the hour of joy 
 The thought of thy cold dwelling; but thou comest 
 Most welcome to the wretched ; a best friend 
 To him that wanteth ouej a comforter, 
 
JOAN OF AEG. » 
 
 For in the grave is peace. By the bed-side 
 
 Of Madelon I sat : when sure she felt 
 
 The hour of her deliverance di-awing near, 
 
 I saw her eye kindle with heavenly hope, 
 
 I had her latest look of earthly love, 
 
 I felt her hand's last pressure. Son of Orleans ! 
 
 I would not wish to live to know that hour. 
 
 When I could think upon a dear friend dead. 
 
 And weep not. 
 
 I remember, as her corse 
 
 Went to the grave, there was a lark sprung up. 
 
 And soaring in the sunshine, caroU'd loud 
 
 A joyful song; and in mine heart I thought, 
 
 That of the multitude of beings, man 
 
 Alone was wretched. 
 
 Then my soul awoke. 
 
 For it had slumber'd long in happiness. 
 
 And never feeling misery, never thought 
 
 What others suffer. I, as best I might, 
 ^. Solaced the keen regret of Elinor; 
 
 And much my cares avail'd, and much her son's. 
 
 On whom, the only comfort of her age. 
 
 She centred now her love. A younger birth. 
 
 Aged nearly as myself, was Theodore, 
 
 An ardent youth, who with the kindest cares 
 • Had sooth'd his sister's sorrows. We had knelt 
 
 By her death-bed together, and no bond 
 
 In closer union knits two human hearts 
 
 Than fellowship in grief. 
 
 It chanc'd as once 
 
 Beside the fire of Elinor I sat, 
 
 The night was comfortless; the loud blast howl'd; 
 
 And as we di-ew around the social hearth. 
 
 We heard the rain beat hard; driven by the storm 
 
 A warrior mark'd our distant taper's light. 
 
 We heapt the fire: the friendly board was spread : 
 
 The bowl of hospitality went round. 
 
 * The storm beats hard/ the stranger cried; ' safe hous'd, 
 J Pleasant it is to hear the pelting rain. 
 / I too were well content to dwell in peace. 
 
 Resting my head upon the lap of Love, 
 
 But that my country calls. When the winds roar. 
 
 Remember sometimes what a soldier suffers. 
 
 And think of Conrade.' 
 
10 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 f Theodore replied, 
 
 • * Success go with thee ! Something I have kuown 
 Of war, and of its dreadful ravages; 
 
 My soul was sick at sach ferocity: 
 And I am well content to dwell m peace, 
 Albeit inglorious, thanking that good God 
 Who made me to be happy.' 
 
 * Did that God,' 
 
 • Cried Conrade, * form thy heart for happiness. 
 When Desolation royally careers 
 
 Over thy wretched country ? Did that God 
 
 Form thee for peace when Slaughter is abroad, 
 
 When her brooks run with blood, and Rape and Murdei 
 
 Stalk thro' her flaming towns ? Live thou in peace. 
 
 Young man ! my heart is human : I do feel 
 
 For what my brethren sufier.' 
 
 As he spake. 
 Such mingled passions charactered his face 
 Of fierce and terrible benevolence, 
 That I did tremble as I listen'd to him. 
 Then in mine heart tumultuous thoughts arose 
 Of high achievements, indistinct, and wild. 
 And vast, yet such they were as made me pant 
 As though by some divinity possess'd. 
 
 " * But is there not some duty due to those 
 We love?' said Theodore; and as he spake 
 
 = His warm cheek crhnson'd. ' Is it not most right 
 To cheer the evening of declining age. 
 With filial tenderness repaying thus 
 Parental care ?' 
 
 * Hard is it,' Conrade cried, 
 'Ay, very hard, to part from those we love; 
 
 ' And I have suffer'd that severest pang. 
 1 have left an aged mother; I have left 
 One, upon whom my heart has centred all 
 Its dearest, best affections. Should I live 
 'Till France shall see the blessed hour of Peace, 
 I shall return: my heart will be content, 
 My highest duties will be well discharg'd. 
 And I may dare be happy. There are those 
 Who deem these thoughts wild fancies of a mind 
 Strict beyond measure, and were well content. 
 If I should soften down my rigid nature 
 
JOAK OF ARC. 11 
 
 Even to inglorious ease, to honour me. 
 But pure of h-^art and high of self-esteem 
 I must be honoured by myself: all else, 
 The breath of Fame, is as the unsteady wind, 
 Worthless.' 
 
 So saying, from his belt he took 
 The encumbering sword. I held it, listening to him 
 And, wistless what I did, half from the sheath 
 Drew the well-temper'd blade. I gazed upon it, 
 ; And shuddering as I felt its edge, exclaim' d, 
 
 * It is most horrible with the keen sword 
 To gore the finely-fibred human frame ! 
 I could not strike a lamb.' 
 
 He answer'd me, 
 
 * Maiden, thou hast said well. I could not strike 
 , A lamb. But when the invader's savage fury 
 
 '' Spares not grey age, and mocks the infant's shriek 
 As he does writhe upon his cursed lance, 
 And forces to his foul embrace the wife 
 Even on her murder'd husband's gasping corse ! 
 Almighty God ! I should not be a man 
 If I did let one weak and pitiful feeling 
 Make mine arm impotent to cleave him down. 
 Think well of this, yomig man !' he cried, and seiz'd 
 . The hand of Theodore; ' thmk well of this. 
 As you are human, as you hope to live 
 In peace, amid the dearest joys of home; 
 Think well of this ! You have a tender mother; 
 As you do wish that she may die in peace. 
 As you would even to madness agonize 
 To hear this maiden call on you in vain 
 For aid, and see her di'agg'd, and hear her scream 
 In the blood-reeking soldier's lustful arms. 
 Think that there are such horrors {^ that even now. 
 Some city flames, and haply as in Eoan, 
 Some famish'd babe on his dead mother's breast 
 Yet hangs for food."* Oh God ! I would not lose 
 These horrible feelings tho' they rend my heai't.' 
 
 ** When we had all betaken us to rest. 
 Sleepless I lay, and in my mind revolv'd 
 The high-soul'd warrior's speech. Then Madelon 
 ( Rose in remembrance; over her the grave 
 Had closed J her sorrows were not register'd 
 
12 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 In tlie rolls of Fame: but when the tears run dov/n 
 
 The widow's cheek, shall not her cry be heard 
 
 In Heaven against the oppressor ? will not God 
 
 In sunder smite the unmerciful, and break 
 
 The sceptre of the wicked? Thoughts like these 
 
 Possess'd my soul, till at the break of day 
 
 I slept ; nor then reposed my heated brain, 
 
 For visions rose, sent as I do believe 
 
 From the Most High. I saw a high-tower'd town 
 
 Hemmed in around, with enemies begirt, 
 
 Where Famine, on a heap of carcases. 
 
 Half envious of the unutterable feast, 
 
 Mark'd the gorged raven clog his beak with gore. 
 
 I turn'd me then to the besieger's camp. 
 
 And there was reveby: the loud lewd laugh 
 
 Burst on my ears, and I beheld the chiefs 
 
 Even at their feast plan the device of death. 
 
 My soul grew sick within me : then methought 
 
 From a dark lowering cloud, the Avomb of tempests, 
 
 A giant arm bm'st forth, and di'opt a sword 
 
 That pierced like lightning thro' the midnight air. 
 
 Then was there heard a voice, which in miue ear 
 
 ShaU echo, at that hour of dreadful joy 
 
 When the pale foe shall wither in my rage. 
 
 " From that night I could feel my bui'then'd soul 
 Heaving beneath incumbent Deity. 
 I sat in silence, musing on the days 
 To come, unheeding and unseeing aU 
 Around me, in that di'eaminess of soul 
 ' When every bodily sense is as it slept. 
 
 And the mind alone is wakeful, I have heard 
 Strange voices in the evening wind; strange forms 
 Dimly discovered throng'd the twilight air. 
 They wondered at me who had known me once 
 A cheerful, careless damsel. I have seen 
 Mine uncle gaze upon me wistfully, 
 A heaviness upon his aged brow. 
 And in his eye such meaning, that my heart 
 Sometimes misgave me. I had told him all 
 The mighty future labouring in my breast. 
 But that methought the hour was not yet come. 
 
 " At length I heard of Orleans, by the foe 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 13 
 
 Wall'd in from human succour; to the event 
 All look'd with fear, for there the fate of France 
 Hung m the balance. Now my troubled soul 
 Grew more disturb'd, and shunnmg every eye, 
 I loved to wander where the forest shade 
 Frown'd deepest; there on mightiest deeds to brood 
 Of shadowy vastness, such as made my heart 
 Throb loud: anon I paused, and in a state 
 Of half expectance, listen'd to the wind. 
 
 " There is a fountain in the forest, call'd 
 The fountain of the Fairies :^ when a child, 
 "With most delightful wonder I have heard 
 Tales of the Elfin tribe that on its banks 
 Hold midnight revelry. An ancient oak. 
 The goodliest of the forest, grows beside; 
 Alone it stands, upon a green grass plat. 
 By the woods bounded like some little isle. 
 It ever hath been deem'd their favourite tree;* 
 They love to lie and rock upon its leaves. 
 And bask them in the moonshine. Many a time 
 Hath the woodman shown his boy where the dark round 
 On the green-sward beneath its boughs, bewrays 
 Their nightly dance, and bade him spare the tree. 
 Fancy had cast a spell upon the place 
 And made it holy; and the villagers 
 Would say that never evil thing approached 
 Unpunish'd there. The strange and fearful pleasure 
 That fill'd me by that solitary spring, 
 Ceas'd not in riper years; and now it woke 
 Deeper delight, and more mysterious awe* 
 
 " Lonely the forest spring: a rocky hiU 
 Eises beside it, and an aged yew 
 Bursts from the rifted crag that overbrows 
 The waters; cavern'd there, unseen and slow 
 And silently they well. The adder's tongue, 
 Eich with the wrinkless of its glossy glen, 
 Hangs down its long lank leaves, whose wavy dip 
 Just breaks the tranquil surface. Ancient woods 
 Bosom the quiet beauties of the place, 
 Nor ever sound profanes it, save such sounds 
 As Silence loves to hear, the passing wind, 
 Or the low murmuring of the scaix-e-heard stream. 
 
14c JOAN OF AKC. 
 
 " A "blessed spot ! oli, liow my soul enjoy *d 
 Its lioly quietness, with what delight, 
 Escaping humankind, I hastened there 
 To solitude and freedom ! Thitherward 
 On a spring eve I had betaken me, 
 
 / And there I sat, and mark'd the deep red clouds 
 Gather before the wind, the rising wind, 
 Whose sudden gusts, each wilder than the last, 
 Seem'd as they rock'd my senses. Soon the night 
 Darken'd around, and the large rain-di-ops feU 
 Heavy; anon with tempest rage the storai 
 Howl'd o'er the wood. Methought the heavy raia 
 Tell with a grateful coolness on my head. 
 And the hoarse dash of waters, and the rush 
 Of winds that mingled with the forest roar. 
 Made a wild music. On a rock I sat, 
 The glory of the tempest fill'd my soul. 
 
 / And when the thunders peal'd, and the long flash 
 Hung durable in heaven, and to mine eye 
 Spread the grey forest, all remembrance left 
 My mind, aimihilate was every thought, 
 A most full quietness of strange delight; 
 Suspended ail my powers; I seem'd as though 
 Difi'used into the scene. 
 
 At length a light 
 Approach'd the spring; I saw my uncle Claude; 
 
 / His grey locks di'ipping with the midnight storm.. 
 He came, and caught me in his arms, and cried, 
 * My God ! my child is safe !' 
 
 I felt his words 
 Pierce in my heai't; my soul was overcharged; 
 I fell upon his neck and told him all; 
 
 ^ God was within me; as I felt I spake. 
 And he believed. 
 
 Ay, Chieftain, and the world 
 ohall soon believe my mission ; for the Lord 
 
 . "Will raise up indignation, and pour out 
 
 ■ His wrath, and they shall perish who oppress." 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 15 
 
 "^llt |er0iiJr §00L 
 
 Dunois and the Maid rest at a cottage. Their host speaks of the battle 
 of Azincour, and the siege of Eoan. 
 
 And now, beneath tlie horizon westering slow, 
 Had sunk the orb of day : o'er all the vale 
 A purple softness spread, save where the tree 
 Its giant shadow stretch'd, or wdnding stream 
 Mirror'd the light of heaven, still traced distinct 
 
 , When twilight dimly shrouded all beside. 
 
 v~ / A grateful coolness freshen'd the calm air, 
 fl I And the hoarse grasshoppers their evening song 
 
 '''"^ Sung shrill and ceaseless, as the dews of night 
 1 Descended. On their way the travellers wend, 
 Cheering the road with converse, till far off 
 They mark a cottage taper's glimmering light 
 j Gleam through the embower'd gloom: to that they turn. 
 ■ An aged man came forth; his thin grey locks 
 Waved on the night breeze, and on his shrunk face 
 The characters of age were ^^^•itten deep. 
 Them, louting low with rustic courtesy, 
 He welcom'd in; on the white-ember'd hearth 
 Heapt up fresh fuel; then, with friendly care, 
 Spread out the homely board, and fiU'd the bowl 
 With the red produce of the vine that arched 
 His evening seat; they of the plain repast 
 Partook, and qualf'd the pui-e and pleasant bowL 
 
 " Strangers, your fare is homely," said their host 
 / " But such it is as we poor countr^Tuen 
 
 Earn with hard toil: m faith, ye are welcome to it I 
 I love a soldier ! and at sight of one 
 My old heart feels as it were young again. 
 Poor and decrepit as I am, my arm 
 Once grasp'd the sword full firmly, and my limbs 
 Were strong as thine, sir warrior ! God be with thee, 
 And send thee better fortune than old Bertram ! 
 I I would that I were young again, to meet 
 These haughty English in the field of fight; 
 
16 JOAJf OF ARC. 
 
 Such as I was when on the fatal plain 
 I Of Azincour I met them." 
 
 "Wert thou, then, 
 A sharer in that dreadful day's defeat P" 
 Exclaim'd the Bastard. " Didst thou know the chi-^f 
 Of Orleans?" 
 
 " Know him !" the old veteran cried; 
 " I saw him, ere the bloody fight began, 
 Eiding fi'om rank to rank, his beaver up, 
 The long lance quivering in his mighty grasp, 
 TuU was his eye, and fierce, yet beaming still 
 On aU his countrymen cheerful and mild, 
 "Winning all hearts. Looking at thee, sir knight, 
 Methinks I see him now; such was his eye. 
 So mild in peace; such was his manly brow. 
 Beshrew me, but I weep at the remembrance.'* 
 " Full was his eye," exclaimed the Bastard Son 
 
 I Of Orleans, " yet it beamed benevolence. 
 I never yet saw love so dignified ! 
 There lived not one his vassal, but adored 
 The good, the gallant <.hief. Amid his halls 
 High blazed the hospitable hearth; the pilgrim 
 Of other countries, seeing his high towers, 
 Eejoiced, for he had often heard of Orleans. 
 He lives, my brother ! bound ia the hard chain, 
 
 / He lives most wretched." 
 
 The big tear roll'd down 
 The warrior's cheeks. " But he shall live, Dunois/* 
 Exclaim'd the mission'd Maid; " but he shall live 
 To hear good tidings; hear of liberty, 
 
 I Of his own liberty, by his brother's arm 
 Achiev'd in hard-fought battle. He shall live 
 Happy: the memory of his prison'd years 
 Shall heighten all his joys, and his grey hairs 
 Go to the grave in peace." 
 
 " I would fain live 
 To see that day," replied their aged host. 
 *' How would my heart leap once more to behold 
 , The gallant, generous chieftain ! I fought by him 
 ' When all the hopes of victory were lost, 
 
 And down his batter'd arms the blood stream'd fast 
 From many a wound. Like wolves they hemm'd us in, 
 Fierce in unhoped-for conquest: all around 
 Our dead and dying countrymen lay heap'dj 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 17 
 
 Yet still he strove ; — I wondered at his valour! 
 There was not one who on that fatal day 
 Fought bravelier." 
 
 " Fatal was that day to France," 
 Exelaim'd the Bastard ; " there Alencon died, 
 Valiant in vain ; and he, the haughty chief, 
 D' Albert, who, rashly arrogant of strength. 
 Impetuous rushed to ruin. Brabant fell, 
 Vaudemont, and Marie, and Bar, and Faquenberg, 
 Her noblest warriors ; daring in despair 
 Fought the fierce foe ; ranks ioll on ranks before them ; 
 The prisoners of that shameful day out-summ'd 
 Their victors !"7 
 
 "There are those," old Bertram cried, 
 " Who for his deeds will honour Henry's name. 
 That honour that a conqueror may deserve 
 He merits, for right valiantly he fought 
 On that disastrous day. Nor deem thou, Chief, 
 That cowardice disgraced the sons of France ; 
 They, by their leaders' arrogance led on 
 With heedless fury, found all numbers vain. 
 All efforts fruitless there ; and hadst thou seen. 
 Skilful as brave, how Henry's ready eye 
 Lost not a thicket, not a hillock's aid ; 
 From his hersed^ bowmen how the arrows fled 
 Thick as the snow flakes, and with lightning force ! 
 Thou wouldst have known such soldiers, such a chief, 
 ISiight never be subdued. j / ^^ — 
 
 But when the field I {^(UXH 
 
 Was won, and those who had escaped the carnage 
 Had yielded up their arms, it was most foul 
 To glut on the defenceless^ prisoners 
 The bTunted sword of conquest. Girt around 
 I to their mercy had surrendered me, 
 When lo ! I heard the dreadful groan of death. 
 Not as amid the fray, when man met man 
 And in fair combat gave the mortal blow ; 
 Here the poor captives, weaponless and bound, 
 Saw their stern victors draw again the sword, 
 And groan'd and strove in vain to free their hands, 
 And bade them think upon their plighted faith, 
 And pray'd for mercy in the name of God, 
 In vain : the king^'^ had bade them massacre ; 
 And in their helpless prisoners' naked breasts 
 
 c 
 
18 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 They drove the sword. Then I expected death, 
 
 And at that moment death was terrible ; 
 
 For the heat of fight was over: of my home 
 
 I thought, and of my w^ife and little ones, 
 
 In bitterness of heart. The gallant man, 
 
 Whose by the chance of war I had become, 
 
 Had pity, and he loosed my hands, and said, 
 
 * Frenchman! I would have killed thee in the battle, 
 
 But my arm shrinks at murder! Get thee hence.' 
 
 It was the will of Heaven that I should live, 
 
 Childless and old, to think upon the past, 
 
 And wish that I had perish'd!'' 
 
 The old man 
 Wept as he spake. " Ye may perhaps have heard 
 Of the hard siege so long by Eoan endur'd. 
 I dwelt there, strangers ; I had then a wife, 
 And I had children tenderly beloved, 
 W^ho I did hope should cheer me in old age 
 And close mine eyes. The tale of misery 
 Mayhap were tedious, or I could relate 
 Much of that dreadful siege." 
 
 The Maid replied, 
 Anxious of that devoted town to learn. 
 / Thus then the veteran : 
 
 " So by Heaven preserved. 
 From that disastrous plain of Azincour,^^ 
 I speeded homewards and abode in peace. 
 Henry ,^- as wise as brave, had back to England 
 Led his victorious army ; well aware 
 That France was mighty, that her warrior sons, 
 Impatient of a foreign victor's sway, 
 Might rise impetuous, and with multitudes 
 Tread down the invaders. Wisely he return'd, 
 For the proud Barons in their private broils 
 Wasted the strength of France. I dwelt at home. 
 And, with the little I possess'd content. 
 Lived happily. A pleasant sight it was 
 To see my children, as at eve I sat 
 Beneath the vine, come clustering round my knee. 
 That they might hear again the oft-told tale 
 Of the dangers I had past: their little eyes 
 Did with such anxious eagerness attend 
 The tale of lite preserved, as made me feel 
 Lite's value. My poor children ! a hard fate 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 19 
 
 Had they ! But oft and bitterly I wish 
 
 That God had to his mercy taken me 
 
 In childhood ; for it is a heavy thing 
 
 To linger out old age in loneliness! 
 
 Ah me ! when war the masters ot mankind, 
 
 Wo to the poor man! II he sow the field, 
 
 He shall not reap the harvest ; if he see 
 
 His blooming children rise around, his heart 
 
 Aches at the thought that they are multiplied 
 
 To the sword ! Again from England the fierce lue 
 
 , Eush'd on our ravaged coasts. In battle bold, 
 
 ' Savage in conquest, their victorious king 
 Swept like the desolating tempest round. 
 Dambieres submits ; on Caen's subjected wall 
 The flag of England waved. Roan still remain'd, 
 
 I Embattled Roan, bulwark of Normandy ; 
 Nor unresisted round our massy walls 
 Pitched they their camp. I need not tell, sir knight, 
 How oft and boldly on the invading host 
 We burst with fierce assault impetuous forth. 
 For many were the warrior^^ sons ot Roan. 
 O'er all that gallant citizen was famed, 
 Eor virtuous hardihood pre-eminent, 
 ; Blanchard. He, gathering round his countrymen. 
 With his own courage kindling every breast. 
 Had bade them'^ vow before Almighty God 
 Never to yield them to the usurping foe 
 While yet their arms could lift the spear, while yet 
 Life was, to think of every pledge that man 
 Most values. To the God of Hosts we vow'd; 
 And we had baffled the besieging power. 
 But our cold-hearted foeman drew around 
 i His strong entrenchments. From the watch-tower's top 
 In vain with fearful hearts along the Seine 
 We strain'd the eye, and every distant wave 
 That in the sunbeam glitter'd, fondly thought 
 The white sail of supply. Ah me ! no more 
 Rose on our aching sight the food-fraught bark ; 
 For guarded was the Seine, and our stern foe 
 Had made a league with Famine,^^ How my heart 
 Sunk in me when at night I carried home 
 -The scanty pittance of to-morrow's meal! 
 You know not, strangers! what it is to see 
 The asking eye of hunger ! 
 
 c 2 
 
i./-' 
 
 20 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 " Still we strove, 
 Expecting aid ; nor longer force to force, 
 Valour to valour in the fight oppos'd, 
 But to the exasperate patience of the foe, 
 Desperate endurance. Though with Christian zeal 
 Ursino would have pour'd the balm of peace 
 Into our wounds, Ambition's ear, best pleas'd 
 With the War's clamour and the groan of Death, 
 Was deaf to prayer. Day after day fled on ; 
 We heard no voice of comfort. From the walls 
 Could we behold the savage Irish Kernes,'^ 
 Eufiians half-clothed, half-human, half-baptised. 
 Come with their spoil, mingling their hideous shouts 
 With the moan of weary flocks, and the piteous low 
 Of kine sore-laden, in the mirthful camp 
 (Scattering abundance; while the loathliest food 
 j We prized above all price, while in our streets 
 The dying groan of hunger, and the scream 
 i Of famishing infants echoed, and we heard, 
 '' '' With the strange selfishness of misery, 
 i We heard and heeded not. 
 
 Thou wouldst have deem'd 
 Roan must have fallen an easy sacrifice. 
 Young warrior! hadst thou seen our meagre limbs, 
 / And pale and shrunken cheeks, and hollow eyes ; 
 Yet still we struggled nobly! Blan chard still 
 Spake of the savage fury of the foe, 
 / Of Harfleur's wretched race, cast on the workU^ 
 Houseless and destitute, while that fierce king 
 Knelt at the altar,^^'^ and with impious prayer 
 Gave God the glory, even while the blood 
 That he had shed was reeking up to Heaven. 
 He bade us think what mercy they had found 
 Who yielded on the plain of Azincour, 
 And what the gallant sons of Caen, by him. 
 In cold blood'^ murder'd. Then, his scanty food 
 Sharing with the most wretched, he would bid us 
 Bear with our miseries cheerly. 
 
 Thus distressed 
 Lest all should perish thus, our chiefs decreed 
 Women and children, the infirm and old, 
 All who were useless in the work of war, 
 ^ . Should forth and find their fortunes. Age, that makes 
 \ The joys and sorrows of the distant years 
 \ Like a half -remembered dream yet on my heart 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 21 
 
 Leaves deep impress'd the horrors of that hour. 
 Then as our widow wives clung round our necks, 
 And the deep sob of anguish interrupted 
 The prayer of parting, even the pious priest, 
 As he implored his God to strengthen us, 
 And told us we should meet again in heaven, 
 He groan'd and curs'd in bitterness of heart 
 That merciless man. The wretched crowd pass'd on : 
 My wife — ^my children — thro' the gates they pass'd, 
 / Then the gates clos'd. — Would I were in my grave, 
 
 ' That I might lose remembrance. 
 
 What is man, 
 That he can hear the groan of wretchedness 
 And feel no fleshly pang ! Why did the All-Good 
 Create these warrior scourges of mankind, 
 These who delight in slaughter ? I did think 
 There was not on this earth a heart so hard 
 Could hear a famish'd woman cry for bread. 
 And know no pity. As the outcast train 
 Drew near, the English monarch bade his troops 
 Torce^'^ back the miserable multitude. 
 
 / They drove them to the walls — ^it was the depth 
 Of winter — we had no relief to grant. 
 The aged ones groan'd to our foe in vain ; 
 The mother pleaded for her dying child, 
 And they felt no remorse !" 
 
 The mission'd Maid 
 Starts from her seat — " The old and the infirm, 
 The mother and her babes ! — and yet no lightning 
 
 f Blasted this man !" - 
 
 " Ay, lady," Bertram cried ; 
 " And when we sent the herald to implore 
 His mercy on the helpless, he relax'd 
 , His stern face into savage merriment, 
 ■ Scoffing their agonies. On the high wall 
 I stood and mark'd the miserable outcasts, 
 And every moment thought that Henry's heart, 
 Hard as it was, must feel. All night I stood — 
 Their deep groans sounded on the midnight gale ; 
 "Fainter they grew, for the cold wintry wind 
 Blew bleak ; fainter they grew, and at the last 
 All was still, save that ever and anon 
 Some mother shriek'd o'er her expiring child 
 The shriek of frenzying anguish. 
 
 From that hour 
 
i JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 On all the busy turmoil of the world 
 I gaz'd with strange indifference ; bearing want 
 With the sick patience of a mind worn out. 
 Nor'-^ when the traitor yielded up our town, 
 Ought heeded I as through our ruin'd streets, 
 Through putrid heaps of famish'd carcases, 
 Pass'd the long pomp of triumph. One keen pang 
 I felt, when by that bloody king's command 
 The gallant Blanchard died. Calmly he diea, 
 And as he bow'd beneath the axe, thank'ci God 
 That he had done his duty. 
 
 I survive, 
 A solitary, friendless, wretched one, 
 Knowing no joy save in the faith I feel 
 That I sliall soon be gather'd to my sires, 
 And soon repose there, where the wicked cease 
 From troubling, and the weaiy are at rest." 
 
 " And happy," cried the delegated Maid, 
 " And happy they, who in that holy faith 
 Bow meekly to the rod ! A little while 
 Shall they endure the proud man's contumely, 
 The hard wi'ongs of the great. A little while, 
 Though shelterless they feel the wintry wind, 
 The wind shall whistle o'er their turf-grown grave, 
 And all beneath be peace. But wo to those. 
 Wo to the mighty ones, who send abroad 
 Their train'd assassins, and who give to Fury 
 The flaming firebrand ; these indeed shall live 
 The heroes of the wandering minstrel's song ; 
 But they have their reward : the innocent blood 
 Steams up to Heaven against them. — God shall hear 
 The widow's groan." 
 
 " I saw him," Bertram cried, 
 " Heury of Azincour, this conqueror-king. 
 Go to his grave. The long procession past 
 Slowly from town to town, and when I hear'" 
 The deep-toned dirge, and saw the banners wave 
 A pompous shade, and the high torches glare 
 In the mid-day sun a dim and gloomy light, 
 I thought what he had been on earth who now 
 Was gone to his account, and blest my God 
 I was not such as he !" 
 
 So spake the old man. 
 And they betook them to their homely rest. 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 23 
 
 ®I]^ ®prt §ML 
 
 Dunois and tlie IVIaid arrive at Chinon. Duuois announces the mission 
 of Joan. Despondency and incredulity of tlie King. She discovers 
 and addresses him. Charles convenes the Doctors of Tiieology 
 They examine the Maid. 
 
 Fair dawn'd the morning, and the early sun 
 Pour'd on the latticed cot a cheerful gleam, 
 
 • And up the travellers rose, and on their way 
 Hasten'd, their dangerous way, thro' fertile tracks 
 The waste of war. They pass'd the Auxerrois ; 
 The autumnal rains had beaten to the earth 
 The unreap'd harvest, from the village church 
 No even-song bell was heard, the shepherd's dog 
 Prey'd on the scatter'd flock, for there was now 
 No hand to feed him, and upon the hearth 
 "Where he had slumber'd at his master's feet 
 The rank weed flourish 'd. Did they sometimes find 
 A welcome, he who welcomed them was one 
 Wlio lingered in the place where he was born, 
 For that was all that he had left to love. 
 They past the Yonne, tliey past the rapid Loire, 
 Still urging on their way with cautious speed, 
 Shunning Auxerre and Bar's embattled wall 
 And Komorantin's towers. 
 
 So journeying on, 
 Fast by a spring, that welling at his feet 
 With many a winding crept along the mead, 
 A knight they saw, who at his plain repast 
 Let the west wind play round his ungirt brow. 
 
 I Approaching neai.:, the Bastard recognis'd 
 The gallant friend of Orleans, the brave chief 
 
 ■ Du Chastel ; and, the mutual greeting pass'd, 
 They, on the streamlet's mossy bank reclin'd, 
 Paus'd on their way, the frugal fare partook, 
 And drank the running waters. 
 
 " Art thou bound 
 
 , For the Court, Dunois "?" exclaimed the aged knight ; 
 
24 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 " I deem'd thee far away, coop'd in the walls 
 Of Orleans ; a hard siege her valiant sons 
 Right loyally endm-e !" 
 
 " I left the town," 
 Dunois replied, " thinking that my prompt speed 
 !Might seize the hostile stores, and with fresh lorce 
 Be-enter. Fastoffe's better fate prevail'd. 
 And from the field of shame my maddening horse 
 "Bore me, for the barb'd arrow gored his flank. 
 Fatigued and faint with that day's dangerous toil, 
 My deep wounds bleeding, vainly with weak houd 
 Check'd I the powerless rein. Nor aught availed 
 When heal'd at length, defeated and alone 
 Again to enter Orleans. In Lorraine 
 I sought to raise new powers, and now, return'd 
 With strangest and most unexpected aid 
 Sent by high Heaven, I seek the Court, and thence 
 Tc that beleaguered town shall lead such force, 
 That the proud English in their fields of blood 
 Shall perish." 
 
 " I too," Tanneguy replied, 
 " May haply in the battle once again 
 Serve him my royal Master ; in his cause 
 My youth adventur'd much, nor can my age 
 Find better close than in the clang of arms 
 To die for him whom I have liv'd to serve. 
 Thou art for the Court ; Son of the Chief I lov'd! 
 Be wise by my experience. He who seeks 
 Court favour, ventures like the boy who leans 
 Over the brink of some high precipice 
 To reach the o'er-hanging fruit. Thou seest me here 
 A banish'd man, Dunois ! so to appease 
 The proud and powerfid Eichemont, who, long time 
 ]\Iost sternly jealous of the royal ear. 
 With midnight murder leagues, and down the Loire, 
 EoUs the black carcase of his strangled foe. 
 Now confident of strength, at the king's feet 
 He stabs the king's best friends, and then demands, 
 As with a conqueror's imj)erious tone. 
 The post of honour. Son of that lov'd chief 
 Whose death my arm avenged, may thy days 
 Be happy ; serve thy country in the field, 
 
 Ind in the hour of peace, amid thy friends 
 
 )well thou without ambition." 
 
JOAN OF AEC, 25 
 
 So he spake. 
 But when the Bastard told the wondrous tale, 
 How interposing Heaven had its high aid 
 Vouchsafed to France, the old man's eyes flash'd fire, 
 And rising from the bank, the stately steed 
 That grazed beside he mounts. " Farewell, Dunois, 
 Thou, too, the delegate of Heaven, ftirewelll 
 I go to raise the standard ! we shall meet 
 At Orleans." O'er the plain he spurr'd his steed. 
 
 They journey on their way till Chinon's towers 
 !Rose to the distant view ; imperial seat 
 Of Charles ; for Paris, with her servile sons, 
 A headstrong, mutable, ferocious race, 
 Bow'd to the invader's yoke, since that sad hour^ 
 When Faction o'er her streets with giant stride 
 Strode terrible, and Murder and Eevenge, 
 As by the midnight torches' lurid light 
 They mark'd their mangled victims writhe convuls'd, 
 Listen'd the deep death-groan. Ill-fated scene ! 
 Thro' many a dark age drenched with innocent blood, 
 And one day doom'd to know the damning guilt 
 Of Brissot murder'd, and the blameless wife 
 Of Roland ! Martyr'd patriots, spirits pure, 
 Wept by the good ye fell ! Yet still survives, 
 Sown by your toil, and by your blood manur'd. 
 The imperishable seed ; and now its roots 
 fSpread, and strike deep, and soon shall it become 
 'That Tree beneath whose shade the sons of men 
 Shall pitch their tents in peace. 
 
 In Paris now 
 Triumphed the Invader. On an infant's head 
 Had Bedford placed the crown of Charlemagne, 
 And factious nobles bow'd the subject knee 
 In homage to their king, their baby lord, 
 Their cradled mighty one! 
 
 "Belov'd of Heaven," 
 So spake the Son of Orleans as they pass'd, 
 " Lo these the walls of Chinon, this the abode 
 Of Charles our monarch. Here in revelry 
 He of his armies vanquish'd, his fair towns 
 Subdued, hears careless, and prolongs the dance. 
 And little marvel I that to the cares 
 Of empire still he turns the unwilling ear; 
 
26 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 For loss on loss, defeat upon defeat, 
 
 His strong holds taken, and his bravest chiefs 
 
 Or dead or captur'd, and the hopes of youth 
 
 All blasted, have subdued the royal mind, 
 
 Undisciplin'd in Fortitude's stern school. 
 
 So may thy voice arouse his sleeping virtues !" 
 
 The mission'd maid replied, " Go thou, Dunois, 
 Announce my mission to the royal ear. 
 I on the river's winding banks the while 
 
 i Would roam, collecting for high enterprise 
 My thoughts, troubled though fii-m. He who essays 
 Achievements of vast import, will perforce 
 Feel his heart heave ; and in my breast I feel 
 Such perturbation." 
 
 On the banks of Vienne 
 Devious the Damsel turn'd. Through Chinon's gates 
 The Son of Orleans press'd with rapid step, 
 Seeking the king. Him from the public view 
 He found secluded with his blameless queen, 
 
 , And her, partaker of the unlawful bed, 
 The lofty-minded Agnes. 
 
 "Son of Orleans!" 
 So as he enter'd cried the haughty fair, 
 " Thou art well come to witness the disgrace, 
 J The weak, unmanly, mean despondency 
 Of this thy Sovereign Liege. He will retreat 
 To distant Dauphine and fly the war ! 
 
 ' Go then, unworthy of thy rank ! retreat 
 To distant Dauphine, and fly the war, 
 Eecreant from battle ! I will not partake 
 A fugitive's fate ; when thou hast lost thy crown 
 Thou hast lost Agnes. — Dost not blush, Dunois I 
 To bleed in combat for a Prince like this. 
 Fit only, like the Merovingian race, 
 On a May^^ morning deck'd with flowers, to mount 
 His gay-bedizened car, and ride abroad 
 And make the multitude a holyday. 
 Go, Charles — and hide thee in a woman's garb, 
 And these long locks-^ will not disgrace thee then!" 
 
 " Nay, Agnes !" Charles replied, " reproach me no 
 I have enough of sorrow. Look around. 
 See this fair country ravaged by the foe. 
 
JOAIT OF ARC. 27 
 
 My strong holds taken, and my bravest chiefs 
 Fall'n in tlie field, or captives far away. 
 Dead is the Douglas ; cold thy warrior frame. 
 Illustrious Buchan ; ye from Scotland's hills. 
 Not mindless of your old ally distress'd, 
 Eush'd to his succour : in his cause ye fought, 
 For him ye perish'd. Eash, impetuous Narbonne 
 Thy mangled corse waves to the winds of heaven. 
 Cold, Graville, is thy sinewy arm in death ; 
 FaU'n is Ventadaur ; silent in the grave 
 Eambouillet sleeps : Bretagne's unfaithful chief 
 Leagues with my foes, and Richemont, or in arms 
 Defies my weak control, or from my side, 
 A friend more dreaded than the enemy, 
 Drives my best servants with the assassin sword. 
 Soon must the towers of Orleans fall! — But now 
 These sad thoughts boot not. Welcome to our court, 
 Dunois ! We yet can give the friendly feast, 
 And from the heavy cares of empire win 
 One hospitable day of merriment." 
 
 The Chief replied : " So may thy future years 
 Pass from misfortune free, as all these ills 
 Shall vanish like a vision of the night ! 
 To thee, to France I come the messenger 
 Of aid from Heaven. The delegated Maid 
 With me, whom Providence all-wise decrees 
 The saviour of the realm ; — a holy Maid, 
 Bearing strange promise of miraculous things ; 
 One whom it were not possible to hear 
 And disbelieve." 
 
 Astonish'd by his speech 
 Stood Charles. "At one of me;iner estimation 
 I should have smil'd, Dunois. Thy well-known worth, 
 The loyalty of all thy noble house. 
 Compel me even to this, a most strange tale. 
 To lend a serious ear. A woman sent 
 From Heaven, the Saviour of tkis wasted realm, 
 One whom it were not possible to hear 
 And disbelieve ! Dunois, ill now beseems 
 Ought wild and hazardous ; the throne of France 
 Totters upon destruction. Is my person 
 Ejiown to this woman?" 
 
 « She has liv'd retir'd," 
 
 ><^ -, ,i -A A ;<i y'^'v 
 f UNIVERSITY J 
 
% 
 
 5 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 The Bastard answer'd, " ignorant ol courts, 
 And little heeding, till the spirit of God 
 Eous'd her to this great work." 
 
 To him the king : 
 " If, then, she knows me not, abide thou here, 
 And hither, by a speedy messenger, 
 Summon the Maiden. On the throne, meantime, 
 I the while mingling with the menial throng. 
 Some coui'tier shall be seated. If this Maid 
 Be by the holy spirit of God inspir'd. 
 That holy spirit will gift her with the power 
 To pierce deception. But if, strange oi mind, 
 Enthusiast fancy fire her wilder'd brain, 
 Thus proved, she to obscurity again 
 'May guiltlessly retire. Our English foes 
 IVIight well exult to see the sons oi France 
 Led by a frenzied female." So he said ; 
 And, with a doubtful hope, the son of Orleans 
 Dispatched a speedy messenger, to seek 
 Beside the banks of Vienne, the mission'd Maid. 
 
 Soon is the court convened ; the jewell'd crown 
 Shines on a menial's head. Amid the throng 
 The monarch stands, and anxious for the event, 
 His heart beats high. She comes, the inspked Maid! 
 And as the Bastard led her to the throne, 
 Quick glancing o'er the mimic Majesty, 
 Fix'd full her eye on Charles. 
 
 "Thou art the King. 
 I come the avenging delegate of Heaven, 
 Wielding the wrathful weapon, from whose death, 
 Theu^ stern arts palsied by the arm oi God, 
 Far, far from Orleans shall the English wolves 
 Speed their disastrous flight. Monarch of France! 
 Spread the good tidings through thy ravaged realm! 
 The Maid is come, the mission'd Maid, whose hand 
 Shall in the consecrated walls of Kheims 
 Crown thee the anointed king." 
 
 In wonder mute 
 The courtiers heard. The astonish'd king exclaim'd, 
 " This is indeed the agency of Heaven! 
 Hard, Maiden, were I of belief," he cried, 
 " Did I not now, with full and confirm'd faith, 
 Thee the redeemer oi this ravaged realm 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 29 
 
 Believe. Not doubting, therefore, the strange will 
 Oi the all-wise Providence, delay I now 
 Instant to marshal the brave sons o£ France 
 Beneath thy banners ; but to satisfy 
 Those who at distance from this most clear proof 
 May hear and disbelieve, or yield at best 
 A cold assent. These fully to confirm, 
 And more to manifest thy holy power. 
 Forthwith with all due speed I shall convene 
 The Doctors of Theology, wise men. 
 And skilful in the mysteries ol Heaven. 
 By these thy mission studied and approved, 
 As needs it must, their sanction to all minds 
 Shall bring conviction, and the firm belief 
 Lead on thy lavour'd troops to mightiest deeds, 
 Surpassing human credibility." 
 
 Well pleas'd the Maiden heard. Her the king leads 
 From the disbanding throng, meantime to dwell 
 With Mary. Watchful for her lord's return 
 She sat with Agnes ; Agnes, proud of heart, 
 Majestically fair, whose large full eye 
 Or flashing anger, or with scornful scowl, 
 Deform'd her beauteous features. Yet with her, 
 The lawless idol of the monarch's heart, 
 Mary, obedient to her husband's will. 
 Dwelt peaceful, from the proudly-generous mind 
 Of Agnes winning friendship. Soon the Maid 
 Lov'd the mild queen, and sojourning with her, 
 Expects the solemn summons. 
 
 Through the realm 
 Meantime the king's convoking voice was heard, 
 And from their palaces and monasteries 
 Swarm'd forth the doctors, men acute and deep, 
 Grown grey in study ; priests and bishops haste 
 To Chinon : teachers wise and with high names^ 
 Seraphic, Subtile, or Irrefragable, 
 By their admiring pupils dignified. 
 
 The doctors met ; from cloister gloom recluse, 
 Or from the haunts luxurious of the abode 
 Episcopal, they met, and sought the place 
 Of judgment. Very ancient was the domo, 
 The floor with many a monumental stone 
 
30 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 O'erspread, and brass-ensculptur'd effigy 
 
 Of holy abbots honour'd in their day, 
 
 Now to the grave gone down. The branching arms 
 
 Of many a ponderous pillar met aloft, 
 
 Wreath'd on the roof emboss'd. The windows gleam'd 
 
 Awful and dim their many-colour'd light. 
 
 Through the rich robes of eremites and saints , 
 
 Trees, mountains, castles, ships, sun, moon, and stars — 
 
 Splendid confusion ! the i3ure wave beneath 
 
 Reflects and trembles in the purpling beam. 
 
 On the altar burns that mystic lamp whose flame 
 
 May not be quenched. 
 
 Circling round the vase 
 They bow the knee, uttering the hali-heard prayer ; 
 Mysterious power communicating thus 
 
 , To the hallowed water, deem'd a mightier spell 
 O'er the fierce fiends of Satan's fallen crew, 
 Than e'er the hell-hags taught in Thessaly, 
 Or they who, sitting on the rifled grave, 
 Dim seen by the blue tomb-fire's lurid light, 
 Partake the Vampire's banquet. 
 
 This pertorm'd, 
 The Maid is summon'd. Eound the holy vase 
 
 ' Mark'd with the mystic tonsure, and enrob'd 
 In sacred vests, a venerable train. 
 They stand. The delegated Maid obeys 
 Their summons. As she came, a loveliest blush 
 O'er her fair cheek suffus'd, such as became 
 
 r One mindful still of maiden modesty, 
 
 Though of her own worth conscious. Thro' tl; e aisle 
 
 The cold wind moaning, as it pass'd along 
 
 "Waved her dark flowing locks. Belore the train, 
 
 In reverend silence waiting their sage will, 
 
 With half-averted eye she stood composed. 
 
 So have I seen the simple snow-drop rise 
 
 Amid the russet leaves that hide the earth 
 
 In early spring, so seen its gentle bend 
 
 Of modest loveliness amid the waste 
 
 Of desolation. 
 
 By the maiden's side 
 The Son of Orleans stood, prepar'd to vouch 
 That when on Charles the Maiden's eye had ^x'd, 
 As led by power miraculous, no fraud, 
 No juggling artifice of secret sign 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 31 
 
 Dissembled inspiration. As he stood 
 
 Steadily viewing the mysterious rites, 
 
 Thus to the attentive Maid the Arch-Priest spake 
 
 Severe. 
 
 " Woman, if any fiend oi hell 
 Lurk in thy bosom, so to prompt the vaunt 
 01 inspiration, and to mock the power 
 Of God and holy church, thus by the virtue 
 Of water hallowed in the name of God 
 That damned spirit adjure I to depart 
 From his possessed prey." 
 
 Slowly he spake, 
 And sprinkled water on the virgin's iace. 
 Indignant at the unworthy charge, the Maid 
 Felt her cheek flush, but soon, the transient glow 
 Fading, she answered meek : 
 
 " Most holy sires, 
 Ye reverend fathers of the Christian church, 
 Most catholic ! before your view I stand 
 A poor, weak woman. Of the grace vouchsafed 
 How far unworthy, conscious : yet though mean, 
 Guiltless of fraud, and chosen by highest Heaven 
 The minister of aid. Strange voices heard, 
 The dark and shadowing visions of the night, 
 And feelings that T may not dare to doubt — 
 These portents make me conscious of the God 
 Within me ; he who gifted my purged eye 
 To know the monarch 'mid the menial throng, 
 Unseen before. Thus much it boots to say. 
 The life of simple virgin ill deserves 
 To call your minds from studies wise and deep, 
 Not to be fathom'd by the weaker sense 
 Of man profane." 
 
 " Thou speakest," said the Priest, 
 " Of dark and shadowing visions of the night. 
 Canst thou remember, Maid ! what Vision first 
 Seem'd more than Fancy's shaping ? from such tale, 
 Miimtely told with accurate circumstance, 
 Best judgment might be formed." 
 
 The Maid replied : 
 " Amid the mountain valleys I had driven 
 My father's flock. The eve was drawmg on, 
 When, by the sudden storm surprised, I sought 
 A. chapel's neighbouring shelter ; ruined now ; 
 
o2 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 But I remember when its vesper bell 
 Was heard among the hills, a pleasant sound, 
 That made me pause upon my homeward road, 
 Awaking in me comfortable thoughts 
 Of holiness. The unsparing soldiery- 
 Had sack'd the hamlet near, and none was left. 
 Duly at sacred seasons to attend 
 St. Agnes' chapel. In the desolate pile 
 I drove my flock, with no irreverent thoughts, 
 Nor mindless that the place on which I trod 
 Was holy ground. It was a fearful night! 
 Devoutly to the virgin saint I pray'd, 
 Then heap'd the wither'd leaves that the autumn wind 
 Had drifted in, and laid me down upon them, 
 And sure I think I slept. But so it was 
 That, in the dead of night, Saint Agnes stood 
 Before mine eyes, such and so beautiful 
 As when, amid the house of wickedness, 
 The power whom with such fervent love she served 
 Veiled her with glory. And she seem'd to point 
 To the moss-grown altar, and the crucifix 
 Half hid by the long grass ; — and then I thought 
 I could have withered armies with a look. 
 For from the present samt such divine power 
 I felt infused — 'twas but a dream, perhaps. 
 And yet methought that when a louder peal 
 Burst o'er the roof, and all was left again 
 Utterly dark, each bodily sense was clear 
 And sensible to every circumstance 
 Of time and place." 
 
 Attentive to her words 
 Thus the Priest answered : 
 
 " Brethren, ye have heard 
 The woman's tale. Beseems us now to ask 
 Whether of holy church a duteous child 
 Before our court appears, so not unlike 
 Heaven might vouchsafe its gracious miracle ; 
 Or silly heretic, whose erring thoughts, 
 Monstrous and vain, perchance might stray beyond 
 Al\ reason, and conceit strange dreams and signs 
 Impossible. Say, woman, from thy youth 
 Hast thou, as rightly mother church demands, 
 Confess'd to the holy priest each secret sin, 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 33 
 
 That by the grace vouchsafed to him from Heaven, 
 He might absolve thee ?" 
 
 " Father," she replied, 
 " The forms of worship in mine earlier years 
 "Waked my young mind to artificial awe, 
 
 / And made me fear my God. Warm with the glow 
 Ot health and exercise, whene'er I pass'd 
 The threshold of the house of prayer, I lelt 
 A cold damp chill me ; I beheld the flame 
 That with a pale and leeble glimmering 
 Dimmed the noonlight : I heard the solemn mass, 
 And with strange feelings and mysterious dread 
 Telling my beads, gave to the mystic prayers 
 Devoutest meaning. Often when I saw 
 
 ' The pictured flames writhe round a penanced soul, 
 Have I retired, and knelt before the cross 
 And wept for grace, and trembled and believed 
 A God of Terrors. But in riper years. 
 When as my soul grew strong in solitude, 
 I saw the eternal energy pervade 
 The boundless range of nature, with the sun 
 Pour life and radiance from his flamy path, 
 And on the lowliest flowTet of the field 
 The kindly dew-drops shed. And then I felt 
 That He who form'd this goodly frame of things 
 Must needs be good, and with a Father's name 
 I call'd on Him, and from my burthen'd heart 
 
 ' Pour'd out the yearnings of unmingled love. 
 Methinks it is not strange, then, that I fled 
 The house of prayer, and mad<* the lonely grove 
 My temple, at the foot of so_^e old oak 
 Watching the little tribes that had their world 
 Within its mossy bark ; or laid me down 
 Beside the rivulet, whose murmuring 
 Was silence to my soul, and mark'd the swarm 
 Whose light-edged shadows on the bedded sand 
 Mirror'd their mazy sports ; the insect hum, 
 The flow of waters, and the song of birds 
 Making most holy music to mine ear : 
 Oh ! was it strange, if for such scenes as these, 
 Such deep devoutness, such intense delight 
 Of quiet adoration, I forsook 
 The house oi worship ? strange, that when I feK 
 
 D 
 
34 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 That God had made my spirit quick to feel 
 And love whate'er was beautiful and good, 
 And from ought evil and deform'd to shrink 
 Even as with instinct; — father! was it sti-ange 
 That in my heart I had no thought of sin 
 And did not need forgiveness'?" 
 
 As she spake, 
 The doctors stood astonish'd, and some while 
 They listen'd still in wonder. But at length 
 A priest rej)lied : 
 
 " Woman, thou seemst to scorn 
 The ordinances oi the holy church, 
 And, if I rightly understand thy words. 
 Thou sayest that solitude and nature taught 
 Thy feelings of religion, and that now 
 Masses and absolutions and the use 
 Of mystic wafer, are to thee unknown. 
 How, then, could Nature teach thee true religion, 
 ^- Deprived of chesel Nature can teach to sin, 
 But 'tis the priest alone can teach remorse, 
 Can bid St, Peter ope the gates of heaven. 
 And from the penal fires oi purgatory 
 Absolve the soul. Could Nature teach thee this ? 
 Or tell thee that St. Peter holds the keys. 
 And that his successor's unbounded power 
 Extends o'er either world ? Although thy life 
 Of sin were tree, if of this holy truth 
 Ignorant, thy soul in liquid flames must rue 
 Transgression." 
 
 Thus he spake; the applauding look 
 Went round. Nor dubious to reply the Maid 
 Was silent. 
 
 " Fathers of the holy church, 
 If on these points abstruse a simple maid 
 Like me, should err, impute not you the crime 
 To self-will'd reason, vaunting its own strength 
 ^bove the eternal wisdom. True it is 
 That for long time I have not heard the sound 
 Of mass high-clianted, nor with trembling lips 
 Partook the mystic wafer : yet the bird 
 I That to the matin ray prelusive pour'd 
 His joyous song, methought did warble forth 
 Sweeter thanksgiving to religion's ear 
 In his wild melody of happiness, 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 35 
 
 Than ever rung along the high-arched roofs 
 Of man. Yet never from the bending vine 
 Pluck'd I its ripen'd clusters thanklessly, 
 Of that good God unmmdful, who bestow'd 
 The bloodless banquet. Ye have told me, sirs, 
 That Nature only teaches man to sin ! 
 If it be sin to seek the wounded lamb. 
 To bind its wounds, and bathe them with my tears. 
 This is what Nature taught ! No, fathers ! no, 
 It is not Nature that can teach to sin : 
 Nature is all benevolence, all love, 
 / All beauty ! In the greenwood's simple shade 
 There is no vice that to the indignant cheek 
 Bids the red current rush ; no misery there ; 
 No wretched mother, that with pallid face 
 And famine-fall'n, hangs o'er her hungry babes 
 With such a look, so wan, so wo-begone. 
 As shall one day, with damning eloquence. 
 Against the mighty plead ! Nature teach sin ! 
 Oh blasphemy against the Holy One, 
 Who made us in the image of Himself, 
 Who made us all for happiness and love — 
 Infinite happiness, infinite love. 
 Partakers of his own eternity." 
 
 Solemn and slow the reverend priest replied : 
 " Much, woman, do I doubt that all-wise Heaven 
 Would thus vouchsafe its gracious miracles 
 
 V On one fore-doom'd to misery ; for so doom'd 
 Is that deluded one, who, of the mass 
 Unheeding, and the church's saving power. 
 Deems Nature sinless. Therefore, mark me well. 
 Brethren, I would propose this woman try 
 The holy ordeal. Let her, boimd and stript. 
 Lest haply in her clothes should be conceal'd 
 
 \ Some holy relic so profaned, be cast 
 In the deep pond ; there if she float, no doubt 
 Some fiend upholds, but if she instant sink. 
 Sure sign is that that Providence displays 
 
 \ Her free from witchcraft. This done, let her walk 
 Blinded and bare o'er ploughshares heated red, 
 And o'er these past, her naked arm plunge desp 
 
 , In scalding water. If from these she pass 
 Unhui't, to holy father of the church, 
 
 D 2 
 
36 JOAN OF AEG. 
 
 Most blessed Pope, we then refer the cause 
 For judgment : and this ehiei, the Son of Orleans, 
 Who comes to vouch the royal person known 
 By her miraculous power, shall pass with her 
 The sacred trial." 
 
 " Grace of God !" exclaim'd 
 The astonish'd Bastard ; " plunge me in the pool, 
 O'er red-ho-^ ploughshares make me dance, to please 
 ; Your dotard fancies ! Fathers of the church, 
 Where is your gravity ? W^hat ! elder-like, 
 This fairer than Susannah would you eye ? 
 Ye call for ordeals ; and I too demand 
 The noblest ordeal, on the English host 
 In victory to prove the mission sent 
 From favouring Heaven. To the Pope refer 
 For judgment ! Know ye not that France even no w 
 Stands tottering on destruction!" 
 
 Starting wild. 
 With a strange look, the mission'd Maid exclaim'd, 
 " The sword ot God is here ! the grave shall speak 
 To manifest me!" 
 
 Even as she spake, 
 A pale blue flame rose from the trophied tomb 
 ' Beside her. A deep silence through the dome 
 Dwelt awful : sudden from that house of death 
 The clash oi arms was heard, as though within 
 The shrouded warrior shook his mailed limbs. 
 
 "Hear ye!" the damsel cried; "these are the arms 
 That shall flash terror o'er the hostile host — 
 These, in the presence of our lord the king, 
 And the assembled people, I shall take 
 From this the sepulchre, where many an age 
 Incorruptible they have lain conceal'd. 
 Destined for me, the delegate of Heaven." 
 
 Pecovering from amaze, the priest replied: 
 " Thou art indeed the delegate oi Heaven ! 
 What thou hast said surely thou shalt perform I 
 We ratify thy mission. Go in peace." 
 
JOAN OF AKC. 37 
 
 %\t imict\ §mL 
 
 A Messenger from Orleans requests immediate succour. The Maid 
 takes her armour from a tomb in the church of St. Catharine. She 
 announces her intention of marciiing on the morrow. 
 
 The Feast was spread, the sparkling bowl went round, 
 And to the assembled court the minstrel harp'd 
 The song of other days. Sudden they heard 
 The horn's loud blast. " This is no time for cares ; 
 Feast ye the messenger without !" cried Charles, 
 
 / " Enough is given of the wearying day 
 To the public weal." 
 
 Obedient to the king 
 The guard invites the traveller to his fare. 
 " Nay, I shall see the monarch," he replied, 
 " And he shall hear my tidings ; duty-urged, 
 For many a long league have I hasten'd on. 
 Not now to be repell'd." Then with strong arm 
 Eemoving him who barr'd his onward way, 
 
 ' The hall he enters. 
 
 " King of France, T come 
 From Orleans, speedy and effectual aid 
 
 , Demanding for her gallant garrison. 
 Faithful to thee, though thinn'd in many a fight. 
 And wither'd now by want. Thee it beseems. 
 For ever anxious for thy people's weal. 
 To succour these brave men, whose honest breasts 
 Bulwark thy throne." 
 
 He said, and from the hall 
 With upright step departing, in amaze 
 At his so bold deportment, left the Court. 
 The king exclaim'd, " But little need to send 
 Quick succour to this gallant garrison, 
 
 . li to the English half so firm a front 
 
 ^ They bear in battle !" 
 
 " In the field, my liege,'* 
 
 \ Dunois replied, " that man has serv'd thee welL 
 
38 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Him have I seen the foremost of the fight, 
 
 Wielding so fearfully his death-red axe, 
 
 His eye so fury-fired, that the pale foe 
 
 Let fall their palsied arms with powerless stroke, 
 
 Desperate of safety. I do marvel much 
 
 That he is here : Orleans must be hard press'd 
 
 When one, the bravest of her garrison, 
 
 Is thus commission'd." 
 
 ^wift the Maid exclaim'd, 
 " T tell thee, Chief, that there the English wolves 
 Shall never pour their yells of victory ! 
 
 ! The will of God defends those fated walls, 
 And resting in full faith on that high will, 
 I mock their efforts. But the night draws on ; 
 Retire we to repose. To-morrow's sun. 
 Breaking the darkness of the sepulchre, 
 Shall on that armour gleam, through many an age 
 Kept holy and inviolate by time." 
 
 ' She said, and rising, from the board retired. 
 
 Meantime the herald's brazen voice proclaim'd 
 Coming solemnity, and far and wide 
 Spread the strange tidings. Every labour ceas'd ; 
 The ploughman from the unfinish'd furrow hastes ; 
 The armorer's anvil beats no more the din 
 Of future slaughter. Through the thronging streets 
 The buzz of asking wonder hums along. 
 
 On to St. Catherine's sacred fane they go ; 
 ^ The holy fathers with the imaged cross 
 Leading the long procession. Next, as one 
 Suppliant for mercy to the King of Kings, 
 And grateful for the benefits of Heaven, 
 The monarch pass'd, and by his side the Maid, 
 Her lovely limbs robed in a snow-white vest. 
 Wistless that every eye on her was fix'd, 
 With stately step she moved : her labouring soul 
 To high thoughts elevate ; and gazing round 
 With the wild eye, that of the circling throng 
 And of the visible world imseeing, saw 
 The shapes of holy phantasy. By her 
 The warrior Son of Orleans strode along 
 Pre-eminent. He, nerving his young frame 
 With manly exercise, had scaled the cliff, 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 39 
 
 And dashing in the torrent's foaming flood, 
 
 Stemm'd with broad breast its fury ; so his form, 
 
 Sinewy and firm, and fit for loftiest deeds, 
 
 Tower'd high amid the throng eifeminate ; 
 
 No dainty bath had from his hardy limbs 
 
 Effaced the hauberk's honourable marks ; 
 
 His helmet bore of hostile steel the dints 
 
 Many and deep ; upon his pictur'd shield 
 
 A lion vainly struggled in the toils. 
 
 Whilst b}^ his side the cub, with pious rage 
 
 His young mane floating to the desert air,^ ,,. _ , 
 
 Rends the fallen huntsman. Tremouille him behind, 
 
 The worthless favourite of the slothful jDrince, 
 
 Stalk'd arrogant, in shining armour clasp'd, 
 
 Emboss'd with gold and gems of richest hue, 
 
 Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade 
 
 Defaced, and rusted by no hostile blood ; ' 
 
 Trimly-accoutred court habiliments, - 1 
 
 Gay lady-dazzling armour, to adorn / 
 
 In dangerless manoeuvres some review, / 
 
 The mockery of murder ! follow'd him 
 
 The train of courtiers ; summer-flies, that sport 
 
 In the sun beam oi favour ; insects, sprung 
 
 From the court dunghill; greedy blood suckers, 
 
 The foul corruption-gender'd swarm of state. 
 
 As o'er some flowery field the busy bees 
 Pour their deep music, pleasant melody 
 To the tired traveller, under some old oak 
 Stretch'd in the chequer'd shade ; or as the sound 
 Of many waters down the far-ofl' steep 
 Dash'd with loud uproar, rose the murmur round 
 Oi admiration. Every gazing eye 
 Dwelt on the mission'd Maid ; of all beside. 
 The long procession and the gorgeous train. 
 Though glittering they with gold and sparkling gems, 
 And their rich plumes high waving to the air. 
 Heedless. 
 
 The consecrated dome they reach, 
 Eear'd to St. Catharine's holy memory. 
 Her tale the altar told ; when Maximin, 
 His rais'd lip kindled with a savage smile, 
 In such deep fury bade the tenter'd wheel 
 Tear her life piecemeal, that the very face 
 
40 JOAN OF AEC. 
 
 Of the hard executioner relax'd 
 With horror; calm she heard; no drop of blood 
 Forsook her cheek ; her steady eye was turu'd 
 Heavenward, and Hope and meekest Piety 
 Beam'd in that patient look. Nor vain her trust : 
 For lo ! the Angel oi the Lord descends 
 And crumbles with his fiery touch the wheel I 
 One glance ol holy triumph Catharine cast, 
 Then bow'd her to the sword ol martyrdom. 
 
 Her eye averting from the storied wo, 
 The delegated damsel knelt, and pour'd 
 To Heaven the earnest prayer. 
 
 A trophied tomb 
 Close to the altar rear'd its ancient bulk. 
 Two pointless javelins and a broken sword. 
 Time-mouldering now, proclaim'd some warrior slept 
 The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone 
 And rude-ensculptur'd effigy o'erlaid 
 The sepulchre. In silent wonderment 
 The expectant multitude with eager eye 
 Gaze, listening as the mattock's heavy stroke 
 Invades the tomb's repose : the heavy stroke 
 Sounds hollow ; over the high-vaulted roof 
 EoU the repeated echoes : soon the day 
 ' Dawns on the grave's long night, the slant sunbeam 
 Beams on the enshrined arms, the crested helm, 
 The bauldrick's strength, the shield, the sacred sword. 
 A sound oi awe-repress'd astonishment 
 Rose from the crowd. The delegated Maid 
 Over her robes the hallowed breast-plate threw, 
 Self-fitted to her form ; on her helm'd head 
 The white plumes nod majestically slow; 
 She lifts the buckler and the sacred sword, 
 Gleaming portentous light. 
 
 The amazed crowd 
 Baise the loud shout of transport. " God of Heaven ! 
 The Maid exclaim'd; " Father all-merciful ! 
 Devoted to whose holy will, I wield 
 The sword of Vengeance, go before our host ! 
 All-just Avenger of the innocent. 
 Be thou our Champion ! God of Love, preserve 
 Those whom no lust of glory leads to arms." 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 41 
 
 She ceas'd, and with an eager hush the crowd 
 Still listened ; a briei while throughout the dome 
 Deep silence dwelt ; then with a sudden burst, 
 Devout and full, they rais'd the choral hymn — 
 " Thee, Lord, we praise, our God !" The throng without 
 Catch the strange tidings, join the hymn oi joy, 
 And thundering transport peals along the heavens. 
 
 As thro' the parting crowd the virgin pass'd, 
 He who from Orleans on the yesternight 
 Demanded succour, clasp'd with warmth her hand, 
 And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim'd, 
 " Ill-omen'd Maid ! victim of thine own worth, 
 Devoted for the king-curst realm of France ! — 
 Ill-omen'd Maid, I pity thee !" So saying. 
 He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange words 
 Disturb'd, the warrior-virgin pass'd along, 
 And much revolving in her troubled mind. 
 Retreads the court. 
 
 And now the horn announced 
 The ready banquet ; they partook the feast, 
 Then rose, and in the cooling water cleansed 
 Their hands, and seated at the board again. 
 Enjoyed the bowl, or scented high with spice, 
 Or flavour'd with the fragrant summer fruit, 
 Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich. 
 Meantime the Trouveur struck the harp : he sung 
 Of Lancelot du Lake, the truest knight 
 That ever loved fair lady; and the youth 
 Of Cornwall, underneath whose maiden sword 
 The strength of Ireland fell; and he who struck 
 The dolorous stroke, the blameless and the brave, 
 "Who died beneath a brother's erring arm. 
 Ye have not perish'd. Chiefs of Carduel ! 
 The songs of earlier years embalm your fame, 
 A nd haply yet some poet shall arise, 
 Like that divinest Tuscan, and enwreathe 
 The immortal garland for himself and you. 
 
 The full sound echoed o'er the arched roof, 
 And listening eager to the favourite lay, 
 The guests sat silent, when into the hall 
 The inesseneer from that besieo:ed town 
 
4:2 JOAN OF AKC, 
 
 Stalk'd stately. " It is pleasant, King of France, 
 To feast at ease and hear the harper's song; 
 Far other music hear the men of Orleans ! 
 Death is among them ; there the voice of Wo 
 Moans ceaseless." 
 
 " Eude, unmannerly intruder !'* 
 Exclaim'd the monarch : " Cease to interrupt 
 
 / The hour of merriment ; it is not thine 
 To instruct me in my duty." 
 
 Of reproof 
 Heedless, the stranger to the minstrel cried : 
 " Why harpest thou of good King Arthur's fame 
 Amid these walls ? Virtue and Genius love 
 
 / That lofty lay. Hast thou no loose lewd tale 
 To pamper and provoke the appetite ? 
 Such should procure thee worthy recompence ! 
 Or rather sing thou of that mighty one. 
 Who tore the ewe lamb from the poor man's bosom, 
 That was to him even as a daughter ! Charles, 
 This holy tale would I tell, prophet-like. 
 And look at thee, and cry, ' Thou art the man !' " 
 
 He said, and with a quick and troubled step 
 / Retired. Astonish'd at his daring phrase. 
 The guests sat heedless of the minstrel's song, 
 Pondering the words mysterious. Soon the harp 
 Beguil'd their senses of anxiety. 
 
 The court dispers'd : retiring from the hall, 
 Charles and the delegated damsel sought 
 The inner palace. There awaited them 
 The Queen : with her Joan loved to pass the hours, 
 By various converse cheer'd ; for she had won 
 The Virgin's heart by her mild melancholy, 
 The calm and duteous patience that deplor'd 
 A husband's cold half-love. To her she told 
 With what strange words the messenger from Orleans 
 Had rous'd uneasy wonder in her mind ; 
 For on her ear yet vibrated the voice, 
 " Ill-omened Maid, I pity thee !" when lo ! 
 Again that man stalk'd to the door, and stood 
 Scowling around. 
 
 " Why dost thou haunt me thus ]" 
 The monarch cried. " Is there no place secure 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 43 
 
 From thy rude insolence ? Unmanner'd man ! 
 I know thee not !" 
 
 " Then learn to know me, Charles !" 
 Solemnly he replied. " Eead well my face, 
 That thou mayest know it on that dreadful day, 
 When at the throne of God I shall demand 
 His justice on thee !" Turning from the king, 
 To Agnes as she enter'd, in a tone 
 More low, more awfully severe, he cried, 
 " Dost thou, too, know me not 1" 
 
 She glanced on him, 
 And pale and breathless hid her head, convuls'd. 
 In the Maid's bosom. 
 
 " King of France !" he said, 
 " She lov'd me ! Day by day I dwelt with her ; 
 Her voice was music, very sweet her smiles! 
 I left her ! left her, Charles, in evil hour, 
 To fight thy battles. Thou meantime didst come, 
 Staining most foul her sjDotless purity ; 
 For she was pure. — Alas ! these courtly robes 
 Hide not the hideous stain of infamy. 
 Thou canst not with thy golden belt put on 
 An honourable name, unhappy one ! 
 My poor, polluted Agnes! — Thou bad man! 
 Thou hast almost shaken my faith in Heaven. 
 I see thee rioting in sloth and guilt, 
 And yet thou restest pillowing thy head 
 Even on her bosom ! I, though innocent 
 Of ill, the victim of another's vice, 
 Drag on the loathsome burthen of existence, 
 And doubt Heaven's justice I" 
 
 So he said, and frown'd 
 Dark as that man who at Mohammed's door 
 Knock'd fierce and frequent; from whose fearful look, 
 Bath'd with cold damps, every beholder fled. 
 Even he the Prophet, almost terrified, 
 Endur'd but half to view him ; for he knew 
 Azrael, stern-brow'd Messenger of Fate, 
 And his death-day was come. Guilt-petrified 
 The monarch sat, nor could endure to face 
 His bosom-probing frown. The mission'd Maid 
 Eead anxious his stern features, and exclaim'd 
 " I know thee, Conrade !" Eising from her seat, 
 She took his hand, for he stood motionless, 
 
44 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Gazing on Agnes now with full-fix'd eye, 
 
 Dreadful, though calm : him from the court she drew. 
 
 And to the river's banks, resisting not, 
 
 Both sadly silent, led ; till at the last, 
 
 As from a dream awaking, Conrade look'd 
 
 , Full on the Maid, and ialling on her neck, 
 He wept. 
 
 " I know thee, damsel !" he exclaim'd. 
 •* Dost thou remember that tempestuous night, 
 
 ' When I, a weather-beaten traveller, sought 
 Your hospitable doors 1 Ah me ! I then 
 "Was happy! You too sojourn'd then in peace. 
 Fool that I was ; I blam'd such happiness ; 
 Arraign'd it as a guilty, selfish sloth, 
 Unhappily prevailing ; so I fear me ; 
 Or why art thou at Chinon ?" 
 
 Him the Maid 
 Answering, address'd : " I do remember well 
 That night , for then the holy spirit first 
 Waked by thy words, possess'd me." 
 
 Conrade cried : 
 "Poor Maiden, thou wert happy! thou hadst liv'd 
 Blessing and blest, if I had never stray'd 
 Needlessly rigid from my peacelal path. 
 And thou hast left thine home, then, and obey'd 
 The feverish fancies oi thine ardent brain ! 
 And hast thou left him, too, the youth, whose eye 
 For ever glancing on thee, spake so well 
 Aflfection's eloquent tale ? 
 
 So as he said, 
 Eush'd the warm purple to the Virgin's cheek. 
 " I am alone," she answer'd, " for this realm 
 Devoted." Nor to answer more the Maid 
 Endur'd ; for many a melancholy thought 
 Throng'd on her aching memory. Her mind's eye 
 Beheld Domremi and the fields of Arc : 
 Her burthen'd heart was full ; such grief she felt, 
 Yet such sweet solacing of self applause 
 As cheers the banish'd patriot's lonely hours 
 When Fancy pictures to him all he loved, 
 Till the big tear-drop rushes o'er its orb. 
 And drowns the soft enchantment. 
 
 With a look, 
 T'hat spake solicitous wonder, Conrade eyed 
 
JOAN OF AEG. 45 
 
 The silent Maid ; nor -would the Maid suppress 
 
 The thoughts that swell'd within her, or irom him 
 
 Hide her soul's workings. " 'Twas on the last night 
 
 Before I left Domremi's pleasant home, 
 
 I sate beside the brook, my labouring soul 
 
 Full, as inebriate with Divinity. 
 
 Then, Conrade ! I beheld the ruffian herd 
 
 Circle a flaming pile, where at the stake 
 
 A female stood ; the iron briused her breast, 
 
 And round her limbs ungarmented, the fire 
 
 Curl'd its fierce flakes. I saw her countenance ; 
 
 I knew myself." Then, in subdued tones 
 
 Of calmness, " There are moments when the soul 
 
 From her own impulse with strange dread recoils, 
 
 Suspicious of herself: but with most full 
 
 And perfect faith I know this vision sent 
 
 From Heaven, and feel of its unerring truth, 
 
 As that God liveth, that I live myself, 
 
 The feeling that deceives not." 
 
 By the hand 
 Her Conrade held, and cried, " Ill-fated Maid, 
 That I have torn thee from Afiection's breast, 
 My soul Avill groan in anguish. Thou wilt serve, 
 Like me, the worthless Court, and having serv'd, 
 In the hour of ill abandon'd, thou shalt curse 
 The duty that deluded. Of the world 
 Fatigued, and loathing at my fellow men, 
 I shall be seen no more. There is a path — 
 The eagle hath not mark'd it, the young wolf 
 Knows not its hidden windings: I have trod 
 That path, and mark'd a melancholy den, 
 Where one whose jaundiced soul abhors itself, 
 May pamper him in complete wretchedness. 
 There sepulchred, the ghost of what he was, 
 Conrade shall dwell ; and in the languid hour, 
 "When the jarr'd senses sink to a sick calm, 
 Shall mourn the waste of frenzy!" 
 
 Then the Maid 
 Fix'd upon Conrade her commanding eye : 
 "I pass'd the fertile Auxerrois," she cried; 
 " The vines had spread their interwoven shoots 
 Over the impruned vineyards, the rich grapes 
 Ptotted beneath the leaves, for there was none 
 To tread the vintage, and the birds of heaven 
 
46 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Had glutted them. I saw tlie cattle start 
 As they did hear"-^ the loud alarum-bell, 
 And with a piteous moaning vainly seek 
 To fly the death to come. I have look'd back 
 Upon the cottage where I had partook 
 The peasant's meal, and seen it wrapt in flames ; 
 And then I thank'd my God that I had burst 
 The stubborn ties that fetter down the soul 
 To selfish happiness, and on this earth 
 Was as a pilgrim. — Conrade ! rouse thyself ! 
 Cast the weak nature oft' ! a time like this 
 Is not for gentler feelings, for the glow 
 Of love, the overflowings of the heart. 
 There is oppression in thy country, Conrade ! 
 There is a cause, a holy cause, that needs 
 The just man's aid. Live for it, and enjoy 
 Earth's noblest recompence, thine own esteem ; 
 Or die in that good cause, and thy reward 
 Shall sure be found in heaven." 
 
 He answer'd not, 
 But clasping to his heart the Virgin's hand. 
 Sped rapid o'er the plain. She with dim eyes. 
 For gushing tears obscur'd them, follow'd him 
 Till lost in distance. With a weight of thought 
 Opprest, along the poplar-planted Vienne 
 Awhile she wandered ; then upon the bank 
 She laid her down, and watch'd the tranquil stream 
 Flow with a quiet murmm-ing, by the clouds 
 Of evening purpled. The perpetual flow, 
 The ceaseless murmuring, lull'd her to such dreams 
 As Memory, in her melancholy mood 
 Most loves^y The wonted scenes of Arc arose ; 
 She saw the forest brook, the weed that waved 
 Its long green tresses in the stream, the crag 
 That overbrow'd the spring, and the old yew 
 That through the bare and rifted rock had forced 
 Its twisted trunk, the berries cheerful red 
 Starring its gloomy green. Her pleasant home 
 She saw, and those who made that home so dear, 
 Her loved, lost friends. The mingled feelings fill'd 
 Her eye, when from behind a voice address'd her : 
 "Forgive the intrusion, lady! I would ask 
 Where I might meet that Heaven-commission'd Maidj 
 Call'd to deliver France." 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 47 
 
 The well-known tones 
 Thrill'd her; her heart throbb'd fast ; she started up, 
 And fell upon the neck oi Theodore. 
 
 "Oh! I have found thee!" cried the enraptur'a youth, 
 And I shall dare the battle by thy side, 
 And shield thee from the war ! but tell me, Joan, 
 Why didst thou brood in such strange mystery, 
 Over thy Heaven-doom'd purpose ? Trust me, Maiden, 
 I have shed many tears for that wUd gloom 
 That so estranged thee from thy Theodore ! 
 If thou couldst know the anguish I endur'd 
 "When thou wert gone ! in sooth, it was unkind 
 To leave us thus!" 
 
 Mindless of her high call, 
 Again the lowly shepherdess of Arc, 
 In half-articulated words the Maid 
 Express'd her joy. 01 Elinor she ask'd. 
 How from a doting mother he had come 
 In arms array'd. 
 
 " Thou wakest in my mind 
 A thought that makes me sad," the youth replied, 
 For Elinor wept much at my resolve. 
 And, eloquent with all a mother's fears, 
 Urged me to leave her not. My wayward heart 
 Smote me, as I look'd back and saw her wave 
 Adieu ! but high in hope I soon beguil'd 
 These melancholy feelings, by the thought 
 That we should both return to cheer her age, 
 Thy mission well fulfill'd, and quit no more 
 The copse-embosom'd cottage." 
 
 But the Maid 
 Soon started from her dream of happiness, 
 For on her memory flash'd the flaming pile. 
 A death-like paleness at the dreadful thought 
 Wither'd her cheek ; the dews on her cold brow 
 Started, and on the arm of Theodore, 
 Feeble and faint, she hung. His eager eye. 
 Concentring all the anguish of the soul, 
 And strain'd in anxious love, on her wan cheek 
 Fearfully silent gazed. But by the thought 
 Of her high mission rous'd, the Maiden's soul 
 Collected, and she spake. 
 
 " My Theodore, 
 
48 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Thou hast done wrong to quit thy mother's home! 
 
 Alone and aged, she will weep for thee, 
 
 Wasting the little that is left oi lite 
 / In anguish. Go thee back again to Arc, 
 
 And cheering so her wintry hour of age. 
 
 Cherish my memory there." 
 
 Swift he exclaim'd^ 
 
 " Nay, Maid ! the pang ol parting is o'erpast, 
 
 And Elinor looks on to the glad hour 
 - When we shall both return. Amid the war 
 
 How many an arm will seek thy single life, 
 
 How many a sword pierce thro' thy brittle mail, 
 
 Wound thy fair face, or, driven with impious rage. 
 
 Gore thy white bosom ! Joan, I will go with thee, 
 
 And spread the guardian shield!" 
 
 Again the Maid 
 
 Grew pale ; for of her last and terrible hour 
 
 The vision'd scene she saw. " Nay," she replied, 
 
 " I shall not need thy succour in the war. 
 , Me Heaven, if so seem good to its high will, 
 
 Will save. I shall be happier, Theodore, 
 
 Thinking that thou dost sojourn safe at home, 
 
 And make thy mother happy." 
 
 The youth's cheek 
 
 A rapid blush disorder'd. " ! the Court 
 
 Is pleasant, and thy soul would fain forget 
 
 An obscure villager, who only boasts 
 
 The treasure of the heart!" 
 
 She look'd at him 
 
 With the reproaching eye of tenderness ; 
 
 " Devoted for the realm of France, I go 
 
 A willing victim. The unpierced veil 
 
 To me was rais'd, my gifted eye beheld 
 
 The fearful features of Futurity. 
 
 Yes, Theodore, I shall redeem my country. 
 
 Abandoning for this the joys of life. 
 
 Yea, life itself !" Then on his neck she fell. 
 
 And with a faltering voice, " Pteturn to Arc! 
 
 I do not tell thee there are other maids 
 i As fair ; for thou wilt love my memory. 
 
 Hallowing to it the temple of thy heart. 
 
 Worthy a happier, not a better love, 
 
 My Theodore!" — Then, pressing his pale lips, 
 
 A last and holy kiss the virgin fix'd. 
 
 And rush'd across the plain. 
 
y^t4/iL^ 
 
 t^:A/^4^ 
 
 
THE CROSS ROAOS. 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 49 
 
 She reacli'd the court 
 Breathless. The mingled movements of her mind 
 Shook every fibre. Sad and sick at heart, 
 Fain to her lonely chamber's solitude 
 The Maiden had retir'd; but her the king 
 Met on the threshold. He of the late scene 
 Forgetful and his crime, as cheerful seem'd 
 As though there had not been a God in Heaven ! 
 "Enter the hall," he cried, " the maskers there 
 Join in the dance. Why, Maiden, art thou sad? 
 Has that rude madman shook thy gentle ii'ame 
 With his strange frenzies ?" 
 
 Ere the Maid replied. 
 The son of Orleans came with joyful speed. 
 Poising his massy javelin. 
 
 " Thou hast rous'd 
 The sleeping virtue of the sons of France; 
 They crowd around the standard," cried the chief. 
 " My lance is ponderous, I have sharp'd my sword 
 To meet the mortal combat. Mission'd Maid, 
 Our brethren sieged in Orleans, every moment 
 Gaze from the watch-tower with the sick'uing eye 
 Of expectation." 
 
 Then the King exclaim'd, 
 " chosen by Heaven ! defer one day thy march. 
 That humbled at the altar we may join 
 The general prayer. Be these our holy rites 
 To-morrow's task; — to-night for merriment!" 
 
 The Maid replied, " The wretched ones in Orleans, 
 In fear and hunger and expiring hope. 
 Await my succour, and my prayers would plead 
 In Heaven against me, did they waste one hour 
 When active duty calls. For this night's mirth 
 Hold me excused; in truth I am not fit 
 For merrunent; a heavy charge is on me. 
 And I must let go from me mortal thoughts." 
 
 Her heart was full, and pausing, she repress'd 
 The unbidden anguish. " Lo ! they crowd around 
 The standard ! Thou, Dunois, the chosen troops 
 Marshal in speed, for early with the dawn 
 We march to rescue Orleans from the foe." 
 
 B 
 
50 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 f ic m §ff0L 
 
 The Maid receives a consecrated Banner. The troops under her com- 
 mond march towards Orleans. Tliey meet with one of the female 
 outcasts from that city. Her history, including that of the siege. 
 
 Scarce had the earliest ray from Chinon's towers 
 Made visible the mists that curl'd along 
 The wmding waves of Vienne, when from her couch 
 Started the martial maid. She mail'd her limbs; 
 
 ^ The white plumes nodded o'er her helmed head; 
 She girt the sacred falchion by her side, 
 And, like some youth that from his mother's arms. 
 For his first field impatient, breaks away, 
 Poising the lance went forth. 
 
 Twelve hundred men, 
 Eearing in order'd ranks their well-sharp'd spears, 
 Await her coming. Terrible in ai'ms, 
 Before them towered Dunois, his manly face 
 
 / Dark-shadow'd by the helmet's iron cheeks. 
 
 The assembled court gaz'd on the marshall'd train. 
 
 And at the gate the aged prelate stood 
 
 To pour his blessing on the chosen host. 
 
 And now a soft and solemn symphony 
 
 Was heard, and chanting high the hallow'd hymn, 
 
 Erom the near convent came the vestal maids. 
 
 A holy banner, woven by virgin hands, 
 
 I Snow-white they bore. A mingled sentiment 
 Of awe, and eager ardour for the fight, 
 Thrill'd through the troops, as he the reverend man 
 Took the white standard, and with heaven-ward eye 
 Call'd on the God of Justice, blessing it. 
 The Maid, her brows in reverence unhelm'd. 
 Her dark hair floating on the morning gale. 
 Knelt to his prayer, and stretching forth her hand, 
 * Eeceiv'd the mystic ensign. From the host 
 A loud and uni\ ersal shout burst forth. 
 As rismg from the ground, on her white brow 
 She placed the plumed casque, and waved on high 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 51 
 
 The banner'd lilies. On tlieir way they march, 
 And dim in distance, soon the towers of Chinon 
 Fade from the eye reverted. 
 
 The sixth sun. 
 Purpling the sky with his dilated light. 
 Sunk westering; when embosomed in the depth 
 Of -^ that old forest, that for many a league 
 Shadows the hUls and vales of Orleaimois, 
 They pitch then* tents. The hum of occupation 
 Sounds ceaseless. Waving to the evening gale. 
 The streamers wanton; and, ascending slow 
 Beneath the foliage of the forest trees. 
 With many a light hue tinged, the cm-ling smoke 
 Melts in the impurpled air. Leavmg her tent. 
 The martial Maiden wander'd through the wood; 
 There, by a streamlet, on the mossy bank 
 Reclined, she saw a damsel; her long locks 
 Engarlanded, and as she nearer came, 
 The Virgin knew it for the willow weed. 
 Resting his head upon her lap, there lay 
 A dark-hair'd man, listening as she did sing 
 Sad ditties, and enwreathe to bind his brow 
 The melancholy rue. Scared at the sound 
 Of one in arms approaching, she had fled; 
 But Conrade, lookmg upward, recognis'd 
 The Maid of Arc. " Fear not, poor Isabel," 
 Said he, " for this is one of gentle kind, 
 Whom even the wretched need not fear to love," 
 
 So saying, he arose and took her hand, 
 And held it to his bosom. " My weak heart. 
 Though school'd by wrongs to loath at human kind, 
 Beats high, a rebel to its own resolves. 
 Come hither, outcast one ! and call her friend. 
 And she shall be thy friend more readily 
 Because thou art unhappy." 
 
 Isabel 
 Saw a tear starting in the Virgin's eye. 
 And glancing upon Conrade, she too wept. 
 Wailing his wilder'd senses. 
 
 " Mission'd Maid !" 
 The warrior cried, " be happy ! for thy power 
 Can make this wanderer so. From Orleans driven, 
 Orphan'd by war, and torn away from one 
 
 E 2 
 
52 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Her only friend, I found her in the wilds, 
 
 Worn out with want and wretchedness. Thou, Joan, 
 
 ^ Wilt his beloved to the youth restore; 
 And trust me, Maid ! the miserable feel 
 Wlien they on others bestow happiness. 
 High joys and soul ennobling." 
 
 She replied. 
 Pressing the damsel's hand, in the mild tone 
 Of equal friendship, solacing her cares. 
 
 I " Soon shall we enter Orleans," said the Maid; 
 " A few hours in her dream of victory 
 England shall triumph; then to be awahed 
 By the loud thunder of Almighty wrath ! 
 Irksome meantime the busy camp to me 
 A solitary woman. Isabel, 
 Wert thou the while companion of my tent, 
 Lightly the time would pass. Eetm-n with me, 
 
 / I may not long be absent." 
 
 So she spake. 
 The wanderer in half-uttered words express'd 
 Grateful assent. " Art thou astonish'd. Maid, 
 That one though powerful is benevolent ? 
 In truth thou well mayst wonder !" Conrade cried. 
 " But little cause to love the mighty ones 
 Has the low cottager ! for with its shade 
 Does Power, a barren, death-dew-dropping tree. 
 Blast ev'ry herb beneath its baleful boughs ! 
 Tell thou thy sufferings, Isabel ! Eelate 
 How warr'd the chieftains, and the people died. 
 
 . The mission'd Virgin hath not heard thy woes ; 
 And pleasant to mine ear, the twice-told tale 
 Of sorrow." 
 
 Gazing on the martial Maid, 
 She read her wish and spake. " A wanderer now, 
 Friendless and hopeless; still I love to think 
 Upon my pleasant home, and call to mind 
 Each haunt of careless youth; the woodbin'd wall. 
 The jessamine that round the straw-roof 'd cot 
 
 * Its fragrant branches wreath'd, beneath whose shad© 
 I wont to sit and watch the setting sun. 
 And hear the redbreast's lay. Nor far remote. 
 As o'er the subject landskip round I gazed, 
 
 J The towers of Jenville rose upon the view. 
 A foreign master holds my father's home ! 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 53 
 
 I, far away, remember the past years, 
 And weep. 
 
 Two brethren form'd our family; 
 Humble we were, and happy. Honest toil 
 Procur'd our homely sustenance ; our herds. 
 Duly at morn and evening to my hand 
 Gave their full stores ; the vinej^ard he had rear'd. 
 Purpled its clusters in the southern sun. 
 And, plenteous produce of my father's toil. 
 The yellow harvest billow'd o'er the plain. 
 How cheerful, seated round the blazing hearth. 
 When all the labour of the day was done, 
 We past the evening hours ! for they would sin». 
 Or cheerful roundelay, or ditty sad, 
 Of maid forsaken and the willow weed; 
 Or of the doughty Paladins of France, 
 Some warlike fit, the while my spinning wheel 
 Humm'd not unpleasing round ! 
 
 Thus long we lived. 
 And happy. To a neighbouring youth my hand. 
 In holy wedlock soon to be conbin'd, 
 Was plighted : my poor Francis !" Here she paus'd. 
 And here she wept awhile. 
 
 " We did not dream 
 The desolating sword of War would stoop 
 To us; but soon, as with the whirlwind's speed, 
 Euin'^'' rushed round us. Mehun, Clery, fell. 
 The banner'd Leopard waved on Gergeau's wall ; 
 Baugenci yielded; soon the foe approach'd 
 The towers of Jenville. 
 
 Fatal was the hour 
 To wretched Isabel : for from the wall 
 The rusty sword was taken, and the shield, 
 That long had mouldered on the mouldering nail. 
 To meet the war repair'd. No more was heard 
 The ballad, or the merry roundelay; 
 The clattering hammer's clank, the grating file. 
 Harsh sounded through the day a dismal din. 
 I never shall forget their mournful somid ! 
 
 " My father stood encircling his old limbs 
 In long-forgotten arms. ' Come, boys,' he cried, 
 * I did not think that this grey head again, 
 Should bear the helmet's weight ! but in the field, 
 
54 JOAN OF AEC, 
 
 Better to boldly die a soldier's death. 
 
 Than here be tamely butcher'd. Thou, my child. 
 
 Go to the Abbey; here is gold to buy 
 
 The safe protection of the holy church. 
 
 Fare thee well, Isabel ! if we survive 
 
 And conquer, we shall meet again: if not. 
 
 There is a better world !' 
 
 In broken words, 
 Lifting his looks to Heaven, my father breath'd 
 His blessing on me. As they strode away, 
 
 I My bretliren gazed on me and prest my hand 
 In silence, for they lov'd their Isabel. 
 Trom the near cottage Francis join'd the troop. 
 
 I Then did I look on our forsaken home. 
 And almost sob my very soul away ! 
 For all my hopes of happiness were fled. 
 Like a vain dream !" 
 
 " Perish these mighty ones," 
 Cried Conrade, " these prime ministers of death. 
 Who stalk elated o'er their fields of fame, 
 And count the thousands they have massacred. 
 And with the bodies of the mnocent, rear 
 Their pyramid of glory ! perish these. 
 The epitome of all the pestilent plagues 
 That Eg}^t knew ! who pour their locust swarms 
 O'er ravaged realms, and bid the brooks run blood. 
 Fear and Destruction go before their path. 
 And famine dogs their footsteps. God of Justice, 
 Let not the innocent blood cry out in vain !" 
 
 Thus whilst he spake the murmur of the camp 
 , Rose on their ear: first like the distant sound 
 ' Wlien the full-foliaged forest to the storm 
 Shakes its hoarse head; anon with louder din; 
 And through the opening glade gleamed many a fire. 
 The virgin's tent they enter 'd; there the board 
 Was spread, the wariderer of the fare partook. 
 Then thus her tale renew'd. 
 
 " Slow o'er the hili 
 Whose rising head conceal'd our cot I past. 
 Yet on my journey paus'd awhile, and gaz'd 
 And wept; for often had I crost the hill 
 With cheerful step, and seen the rising smoke 
 Of hospitable fire; alas ! no smoke 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 55 
 
 Curl'd o'er the melancholy chimneys now ! 
 
 Orleans I reach'd. There in the subiu-bs stood 
 ; The abbey; and ere long I learnt the fall 
 
 Of Jenville. 
 
 On a day, a soldier ask'd 
 
 For Isabel. Scarce could my faltering feet 
 " Support me. It was Francis, and alone — 
 
 The sole survivor of the fatal fight ! 
 
 " And soon the foes approach'd: impending war 
 Soon sadden'd Orleans. There the bravest chiefs 
 
 I Assemble: Thouars, Coarase, Chabannes, 
 And the Sire Chapelle in successful war 
 Since wounded to the deatli, and that good knight 
 Giresme of Rhodes, who in a better cause 
 Can never wield the crucifix-^ that hilts 
 His hallowed sword, and Xaintrailles ransom'd now. 
 And Fayette late releas'd, and that young duke 
 Who at Verneuil senseless with many a wound 
 Fell prisoner, and La Hire, the merriest"^^ man. 
 That ever yet did win his soldiers' love, 
 And over all for hardihood renown'd 
 
 f The Bastard Orleans. 
 
 These within the town 
 Expect the foe. Twelve hundred chosen men 
 Well tried in war, uprear the guardian shield 
 Beneath their banners. Dreadful was the sight 
 
 ' Of preparation. The wide suburbs stretch'd 
 Along the pleasant borders of the Loire, 
 Late throng'd with multitudes, now feel the hand 
 Of ruin,^'^ These preventive care destroys. 
 Lest England, shelter'd by the friendly walls. 
 Securely should approach. The monasteries 
 
 1 Fell in the general waste. The holy monks 
 Unwillingly their long-accustomed haunts 
 Abandon, haunts where every gloomy nook 
 Call'd to awakened memory some trace 
 Of vision seen, or sound miraculous. 
 Trembling and terrified, their noiseless cells 
 For the rude uproar of a world unknown. 
 The nuns desert: their abbess, more composed, 
 Collects her maids around, and tells her beads. 
 And pours the timid prayer of piety. 
 The citizens with strong and ceaseless stroka 
 
56 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Dug np the violated earth, to impede 
 The foe : the hollow chambers of the dead 
 Echoed beneath. The brazen-trophied tomb 
 Thrown in the furnace, now prepares to give 
 The death it late recorded. It was sad 
 To see so wide a waste; the aged ones 
 Hanging their heads, and weeping as they went 
 O'er the fall'n dwellings of their happier yearsj 
 The stern and sullen silence of the men 
 Musing on vengeance: and, but ill represt. 
 The mother's fears as to her breast she clasp'd 
 Her Ul-doom'd infant. Soon the subui'bs lay 
 One ample ruin ; the huge stones remov'd, 
 ! Wait in the town to rain the storm of death. 
 
 " And now without the walls the desolate plain 
 Stretch'd wide, a rough and melancholy waste. 
 With uptorn pavements and foundations deep 
 Of many a ruined dwelling: nor within 
 Less dreary was the scene; at evening hour 
 No more the merry viol's note was heard, 
 No more the aged matron at her door 
 Humm'd cheery to her spinning wheel, and mark'd 
 Her children dancing to the roundelay. 
 The chieftains strengthening still the massy walls. 
 Survey them with the prying eye of fear. 
 The eager youth in dreadiul preparation 
 Strive in the mimic war. Silent and stern, 
 With the hurrying restlessness of fear, they urge 
 Their gloomy labours. In the city dwelt 
 A most dead silence ot all pleasant sounds, 
 
 j But all day long the armourer's beat was heard, 
 And all the night it echoed. 
 
 Soon the foe 
 Led to our walls the siege : as on they move 
 
 ; The clarion's clangor, and the cheerful fife. 
 
 According to the thundering drum's deep sound, ^ 
 Direct their measm-'d march. Before the ranks 
 Stalks the stern form of Salisbury, the scoui'ge 
 
 , Oi France; and Talbot towered by his side, 
 Talbot, at whose dread name the froward child 
 Clings mute and trembling to his nurse's breast. 
 Sufiolk was there, and Hungeribrd, and Scales, 
 
JOAN OP ARC. 57 
 
 And Fastolft'e, victor in the frequent fight. 
 Dark as the autumnal storm they roll'd along, 
 A countless host! From the high tower I mark'd 
 The dreadful scene ! I saw the iron blaze 
 Of javelins sparkling to the noontide sun, 
 Their banners tosshig to the troubled gale. 
 And — fearful music — heard upon the wind 
 The modulated step of multitudes. 
 
 " There in the midst, shuddering with fear, I saw 
 The dreadful stores of death; tremendous roll'd 
 Over rough roads the harsh wheels; the brazen tubes 
 Flash'd in the sun their fearful splendour far. 
 And last the loaded waggons creak' d along 
 
 "Nor were our chieftains, whilst their care procur'd 
 Human defence, neglectful to implore 
 That heavenly aid, deprived of which the strength 
 Of man is weakness. Bearing through our streets 
 The precious relics of the holy dead. 
 The monks and nuns pour'd many an earnest prayer 
 Devoutly join'd by all. Saint Aignan's shrine 
 Was throng'd by supplicants: the general voice 
 Call'd on Saint Aignan's name again to save 
 His people, as of yore, before he past 
 Into the fulness of eternal rest. 
 When by the Spirit to the lingering camp 
 Of ^tius borne, he brought the timely aid. 
 And Attila with all his multitudes 
 Far off retreated to their field of shame." 
 
 And now Dunois, for he had seen the camp 
 Well-order'd, enter'd. " One night more in peace 
 England shall rest," he cried, " ere yet the storm 
 Bursts on her guilty head ! then their proud vamits 
 Forgotten, or remember'd to their shame, 
 Yainly her chiefs shall curse the hour when fii'st 
 They pitch'd their tents roimd Orleans." 
 
 " Of that siege," 
 The Maid of Arc replied, " gladly I hear 
 The detail. Isabel, proceed ! for soon 
 Destin'd to rescue that devoted town. 
 All that has chanced, the ills she has endur'd^ * 
 
 I listen sorrowing for the past, and feel 
 
58 JOAN OF AEG. 
 
 Higli satisfaction at the saviom* power 
 To me commission'd." 
 
 Thus the virgin spake, 
 Nor Isabel delayed. " And now more near 
 The hostile host advancing pitch their tents. 
 Unnumber'd streamers wave, and clamorous shouts. 
 Anticipating conquest, rend the air 
 With universal uproar. From their camp 
 A herald comes ; his garb emblazon'd o'er 
 With leopards and the lilies of our realm; 
 Foul shame to France ! The summons of the foe 
 
 I He brought." 
 
 The Bastard, interrupting, cried: 
 " I was with Gaucoui' and the assembled chiefs. 
 When by his office, privileged and proud. 
 That herald spake, as certain of success 
 As he had made a league v/ith victory. 
 * Nobles of France rebellious ! from the chief 
 Of yon victorious host, the mighty earl 
 Of Salisbury, now there in place of him 
 
 } Your regent John of Bedford: in his name 
 I come, and in our sovereign Lord the king's, 
 Henry. Ye know full well our master's claim. 
 
 ^ Incontrovertible to this good realm, 
 By right descent, and solemnly confirm'd 
 By your great monarch, and our mighty king. 
 Fifth Hemy, in the treaty ratified 
 
 ^ At Troyes, wherein your monarch did disclaim 
 All future right and title to this crown, 
 His own exempted, for his son and heirs 
 Down to the end of time. This sign'd and seal'd 
 At the holy altar, and by nuptial knot 
 Of Henry and your Princess, yields the realm, 
 
 * Charles dead and Henry, to his infant son, 
 Henry of Windsor. Who then dares oppose 
 My master's title, in the face of God, 
 Of wilful perjury, most atrocious crime. 
 Stands guilty, and of flat rebellion 'gainst 
 The Lord's anointed. He at Paris crown'd, 
 With loud acclaim from the duteous multitude 
 Thus speaks by me. Deliver up your town 
 To Salisbury, and jdeld yourselves and arms, 
 ' So shall your lives be safe : and — mark his grace ! 
 H of your free accord, to him yoa pay 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 69 
 
 Due homage as your sovereign lord and king, 
 Your rich estates, your houses shall be safe. 
 And you in favour stand, as is the duke, 
 Philip of Burgundy. But — mark we well ! 
 If obstinately wilfid, you persist 
 To scorn his profier'd mercy, not one stone 
 Upon another of this wretched town 
 Shall then be left: and when the English host 
 Triumphant in the dust have trod the towers 
 Of Orleans, who survive the dreadful war 
 Shall die like traitors by the hangman's hand. 
 Ye men of France, remember Caen and Eoan !' 
 
 **He ceased: nor Gaucour for a moment paus'd 
 To form reply. 
 
 ' Herald ! to all thy vaunts 
 Of English sovereignty let this suffice 
 For answer: France will only own as king 
 Him whom the people choose. On Charles's brow 
 Transmitted through a long and good descent. 
 The crown remains. We know no homage due 
 To English robbers, and disclaim the peace 
 Inglorious made at Troyes by factious men 
 Hostile to France. Thy master's profFer'd grace 
 Meets the contempt it merits. Herald, yes. 
 We shall remember Meaux, and Caen, and Roan ! 
 Go, tell the mighty Earl of Salisbury, 
 That as like Blanchard, Gaucour dares his power j 
 Like Blanchard, he can mock his cruelty. 
 And triumph by enduiing. Speak I well. 
 Ye men of Orleans ?' 
 
 " Never did I hear 
 A shout so universal as ensued 
 Of approbation. The assembled host 
 As with one voice pour'd forth their loyaltj, 
 And struck their sounding shields. The towers of Orleans 
 Echoed the loud uproar. The herald went. 
 The work of war began." 
 
 " A fearful scene," 
 Cried Isabel. " The iron storm of death 
 Clash'd in the sky; from the strong engines hurl'd 
 Huge rocks with tempest force convulsed the airj 
 Then was there heard at once the clang of arms. 
 The bellowing cannons, and the soldier's shout. 
 
60 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 The female's shriek, the affrighted infant's cry, 
 The groan of death : discord of dreadful sounds 
 That jarr'd the soul ! 
 
 Nor while the encircling foe 
 Leaguer'd the walls of Orleans, idly slept 
 Our friends; for winning down the Loire its way 
 The frequent vessel with provision fraught, 
 
 , And men, and all the artillery of death, 
 
 / Cheer'd us with welcome succour. At the bridge 
 These safely stranded mock'd the foeman's force. 
 This to prevent, Salisbury, their watchful chief. 
 Prepares the amazing work. Around our walls 
 Encircling walls he builds, surrounding thus 
 The city. Firm'd with massiest buttresses, 
 At equal distance, sixty forts protect 
 The pile. But chief where in the sieged town. 
 The six great avenues meet in the midst. 
 Six castles there he rear'd impregnable. 
 With deep-dug moats and bridges drawn aloft, 
 
 / Where over the strong gate suspended hung 
 The dread portcullis. Thence the gunner's eye 
 From his safe shelter could with ease survey 
 Intended sally, or approaching aid, 
 And point destruction. 
 
 It were long to tell 
 And tedious, how with many a bold assault 
 The men of Orleans rush'd upon their foes; 
 How after difficult fight the enemy 
 
 f Possess'd the ^' Tournelles, and the embattled tower 
 That shadows from the bridge the subject Loire; 
 Though numbering now three thousand daring men, 
 Frequent and fierce the garrison repell'd 
 
 ' Their far-outnumbering foes. From every aid 
 Included, they in Orleans groan'd beneath 
 .Ail ills accumulate. The shatter'd roofs 
 Gave to the dews of night free passage there. 
 And ever and anon the ponderous stone. 
 Ruining where'er it fell, Avith hideous crash 
 Came like an earthquake, startling from his sleep 
 The affrighted soldier. From the brazen slings 
 The wild fire-balls shower'd through the midnight sky, 
 And often their huge engines cast among us 
 The dead and loathsome cattle of their camp, 
 As though our enemies, to most deadly league 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 61 
 
 Forcing the common air, would make us breathe 
 Poisonous pollution. Through the streets were seeii 
 The frequent fire, and heaps of dead, in haste 
 Piled up and steaming to infected Heaven. 
 For ever the incessant storm of death 
 Pours down, and shrouded in unwholesome vaults 
 The wretched females hide; not idle there. 
 Wasting the hours in tears, but all employ'd, 
 Or to provide the hungry soldier's nieal, 
 Or tear their garments to bind up his wounds; 
 J A sad equality of wretchedness ! 
 
 " Now came the worst of ills, for famine came 1 
 The provident hand deals out its scanty dole, 
 
 I yielding so little a supply to life 
 As but protracted death. The loathliest food 
 Hunted with eager eye, and dainty deem'd; 
 The dog is slain, that at his master's feet 
 Howling with hunger lay; with jealous fear. 
 Hating a rival's look, the husband hides 
 His miserable meal; the famished babe 
 Clings closely to his dying mother's breast; 
 And — horrible to tell ! — where, thrown aside 
 There lay unburied in the open streets 
 Huge heaps of carcasses, the soldier stands 
 
 *t Eager to seize the carrion crow lor food. 
 
 "Oh, peaceful scenes of childhood ! pleasant fields! 
 Haunts of mine infancy, where I have stray'd 
 Tracing the brook along its winding way. 
 Or pluck'd the primrose, or with giddy speed 
 Chased the gay butterlly from flower to flower I 
 Oh days in vain remember'd ! how my soul, 
 Sick with calamity, and the sore ills 
 Of hunger, dwelt upon you ! quiet home ! 
 Thinking of you amid the waste of war, 
 I could in bitterness have cursed the great 
 Who made me what I was — a helpless one. 
 Orphan' d, and wanting bread !" 
 
 " And be they curst," 
 Conrade exclaim'd, his dark eye ilashmg rage, 
 " And be they curst ! groves and woodland shades. 
 How blest indeed were you, if the iron rod 
 Should one day from oppression's hand be wrenched 
 
62 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 By everlasting justice ! come that hour 
 
 When in the sun the angel of the Lord 
 
 Shall stand and cry to all the fowls of heaven, 
 
 * Gather ye to the supper of your God, 
 
 That ye may eat the flesh of mighty men, 
 
 Of captains, and of kings !' Then shall be peace.** 
 
 " And now, lest all should perish," she pursued, 
 " The females and the infirm must from the town 
 Go forth, and seek their fate. 
 
 I will not now 
 Eecal the moment when on my poor Francis 
 With a long look I hung ! At dead of night. 
 Made mute by fear, we mount the secret bark. 
 And glide adown the stream with silent oars. 
 Thus thrown upon the mercy of mankind, 
 I wandered reckless where, till wearied out 
 And cold at heart, I laid me down to die: 
 So by this warrior found. Him I had known 
 And loved, for all loved Conrade who had known him; 
 Nor did I feel so pressing the hard hand 
 Of want in Orleans, ere he parted thence 
 On perilous envoy. For of his small fare" — 
 
 " Of this enough," said Conrade. " Holy Maid 1 
 One duty yet awaits me to perform. 
 (: Orleans her envoy sent me, claiming aid 
 From her inactive sovereign. Willingly 
 Did I achieve the hazardous enterprise, 
 For rumour had abeady made me fear 
 The ill that has fallen on me. It remains, 
 Ere I do banish me from human kmd. 
 That I re-enter Orleans, and announce 
 Thy march. 'TIs night — and havk ! how dead a silence ! 
 Fit hour to tread so perilous a path !" 
 
 'i So saying, Conrade from the tent went forth. 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 63 
 
 ^i s>M\ §rait. 
 
 Conrade on his way to Orleans releases a French soldier. Council of 
 the leaders. Summons of the Maid to the English Generals. The 
 Maid attacks, defeats them, and enters Orleans in triumph at mid- 
 night, amid thunder and lightning. 
 
 The night was calm, and many a moving cloud 
 Sliadowed the moon. Along the forest glade 
 With swift foot Conrade past, and now had reach'd 
 The plain, where whilome by the pleasant Loire, 
 
 Cheer'd with the song, the rustics had beheld 
 The day go down upon their merriment: 
 No song of peace now echoed on its banks. 
 There tents were pitched, and there the sentinel. 
 Slow pacing on his sullen rounds, beheld 
 The frequent corse roll down the tainted stream. 
 Conrade with wider sweep pursued his way, 
 Shunning the camp, now hush'd in sleep and still. 
 And now no sound was heard save of the Loire, 
 Murmuring along. The noise of comiag feet 
 Alarm'd him; nearer drew the fearful sound 
 As of pm-suit; anon — the clash of arms ! 
 That instant rising o'er a broken cloud 
 The moonbeams shone, where two with combined force 
 Prest on a single foe; he, warding still 
 Their* swords, retreated in the unequal fight, 
 As he would make the city. Conrade shook 
 His long lance for the war, and strode along. 
 Full in the breast of one with forceful arm 
 Plunged he the spear of death; and as, dismayed 
 The other fled, " Now haste we to the gates, 
 ' Frenchman !" he cried. On to the stream they speed. 
 And plunging stemm'd with sinewy stroke the tide. 
 Soon on the opposite shore arrived and safe. 
 
 " Whence art thou?" cried the warrior; " on what charge 
 Commission'd ?" 
 
64 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 " Is it not the voice of Conrade ?" 
 Francis exclaim'd; " and dost thou bring to n.s 
 \ Tidings of speedy aid ? oh ! had it come 
 A few hours earlier ! Isabel is gone !" 
 
 "Nay, she is safe," cried Conrade; "her I found 
 Wlien wilder'd in the forest, and consign'd 
 To the protection of that holy Maid, 
 The delegate of Heaven. One evening more 
 And thou shalt have thine Isabel. Now say, 
 \ Wherefore alone ? A fugitive from Orleans, 
 Or sent on dangerous service from the town ?" 
 
 " There is no food in Orleans," he replied. 
 *• Scarce a meal more ! the assembled chiefs resolved. 
 If thou shouldst bring no tidings of near aid, 
 To cut their way to safety, or by death 
 Prevent the pang of famine.^^ One they souglit 
 Who venturous in the English camp should spy 
 Where safest they might rush upon the foe. 
 The perilous task I chose, then desperate 
 Of happiness." 
 
 So saying, they approach'd 
 The gate. The sentinel, soon as he heard 
 Thitherward footsteps, with uplifted lance 
 Challenged the darkling travellers. At their voice 
 He draws the strong bolts back, and painful tui'ns 
 
 \ The massy entrance. To the careful chiefs 
 They pass. At midnight of their extreme state 
 Counselling they sat, serious and stern. To them 
 
 * Conrade. 
 
 " Assembled warriors ! sent from God 
 There is a holy Maid by miracles 
 
 y Made manifest. Twelve hundred chosen men 
 
 ' FoUow her hallowed standard. These Dunois, 
 The strength of France, arrays. With the next nooE 
 Ye shall behold their march." 
 
 Astonishment 
 Seized the convened chiefs, and joy by doubt 
 Little repress'd. " Open the granaries !" 
 
 ^ Xaintrailles exclaim'd; " give we to all the host 
 With hand unsparing now the plenteous meal; 
 To-morrow we are safe ! for Heaven all just 
 Has seen our sufierings and decreed their end. 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 65 
 
 Let the glad tidings echo through the tovra ! 
 God is with us !" 
 
 " Rest not in too full faith," 
 Graville replied, " on this miraculous aid. 
 Some frenzied femalo whose wild phantasy, 
 Shaping vain dreams, infects the credulous 
 With her own madness ! that Dunois is there, 
 Leading in arms twelve hundred chosen men. 
 Cheers me : yet let not we our little food 
 Be lavish'd, lest the warrior in the fight 
 Should haply fail, and Orleans he the prey 
 Of England !" 
 
 " Chiel ! I tell thee," Conrade cried, 
 " I did myself behold the sepulchre, 
 Tulfilling what she spake, give up those arms 
 That surely for no common end the grave 
 Through many an age has held inviolate. 
 She is the delegate of the Most High, 
 And shall deliver Orleans !" 
 
 Gaucour then, 
 " Be it as thou hast said. High hope I foci. 
 For to no vulgar tale would Conrade yield 
 Belief, or he the Bastard. Our small stores 
 Must yield us, ere another week elapse. 
 To death or England. Tell through aU our troops 
 There is a holy Virgin sent from God; 
 They in that faith invincible shall war 
 With more than mortal fury." 
 
 Thus the chief. 
 And what he said seemed good. The men of Orleans, 
 Long by their foemen bayed, a victim band 
 To war, and woe, and want, such transport felt. 
 As when the Mexicans,^^ with eager eye 
 Gazing to Huixachtla's distant top, 
 On that last night, doubtful if ever morn 
 Again shall cheer them, mark the mystic are 
 Elame on the breast of some brave prisoner, 
 A dreadful altar. As they see the blaze 
 Beaming on Iztapalapan's near towers. 
 Or on Tezcuco's calmy lake flasli'd far. 
 Songs of thanksgiving and the shout of joy 
 Wake the loud echo; the glad husband tcjrs 
 The mantling aloe from the female's face, 
 And children, now delivered from the di-eaJ 
 
66 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Of everlasting darkness, look abroad, 
 Hail the good omen, and expect the sun 
 Uninjured still to run his flaming race. 
 Thus whilst in that besieged town the night 
 
 . Wan'd sleepless, silent slept the hallowed host. 
 
 I And now the morning came. From his hard couch, 
 Lightl}' upstarting and bedight in arms. 
 The Bastard moved along, with provident eye 
 
 J Marshalling the troops. All high in hope they march j 
 And now the sun shot from the southern sky 
 His noon-tide radiance, when afar they hear 
 The hum of men, and mark the distant towers 
 Of Orleans, and the bulwarks of the foe, 
 And many a streamer wantoning in air. 
 
 f These as they saw and thought of all the ills 
 Their brethren had endured, beleaguer'd there 
 For many a month ; such ardour for the fight 
 Burnt in each bosom, as young Ali felt 
 When to the assembled tribe Mohammed spake. 
 Asking for one his Vizir. Fierce in faith 
 Forth from the race of Hashem stept the youth, 
 *' Prophet of God ! lo, I will be the man I" 
 And well did Ali merit that high post, 
 Victorious upon Beder's fertile vale. 
 And on mount Ohud, and before the w^alls 
 Of Chaibar, then wdien cleaving to the chest 
 His giant foe, he grasp'd the massy gate. 
 Shook with strong arm and tore it from the fort. 
 And lifted it in aii-, portentous sliield ! 
 
 " Behold the towers of Orleans," cried Bunois. 
 " Lo ! this the vale where on the banks of Loii-e, 
 / Of 3'ore, at close of day the rustic band 
 Danced to the roundelay. In younger years 
 As oft I glided down the silver stream, 
 Frequent upon the lifted oar I paus'd 
 Listening the sound of far-off merriment. 
 There wave the Enghsh banners ! martial Maid, 
 Give thou the signal — let me rush upon 
 f These ministers of murder, who have sack'd 
 The fruitful fields, and made the hamlet haunts 
 Silent — or hearing but the widow's groan. 
 Give thou the signal. Maiden !" 
 
 Her dark eye 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 67 
 
 Fix'd sadly on the foe, tlie holy Maid 
 
 Answer 'd liim. " Ere the bloody sword be drawn, 
 
 Ere slaughter be let loose, befits us send 
 
 Some peaceful messenger, who shall make known 
 
 The will of Heaven. So timely warn'd, oui- foes 
 
 Haply may yet repent, and quit in peace 
 
 Besieged Orleans. Victory is sad 
 
 When even one man is murder'd." 
 
 So she said. 
 And as she spake a soldier from the ranks 
 Advanced. " I will be thy messenger. 
 Maiden of God ! I to the English camp 
 Will bear thy bidduig." 
 
 " Go," the Virgin cried, 
 " Say to the chief of Salisbury, and the host 
 Attending, Suffolk, Fastolffe, Talbot, Scales, 
 Invaders of the country, say, thus says 
 The Maid of Orleans. ' With yom* troops retire 
 In peace. Of every captm*'d town the keys 
 Eestore to Charles; so bloodless you may seek 
 Your native England; for the God of Hosts 
 Thus has decreed. To Charles the rightful heir, 
 By long descent and voluntary choice. 
 Of duteous subjects hath the Lord assign'd 
 His conquest. In his name the Virgia comes 
 Arm'd with his sword ; yet not of mercy void. 
 Depart in peace: for ere the morrow dawns, 
 Victorious upon Orleans' wall shall wave 
 The holy banner.' " To the Enghsh camp 
 Fearless the warrior strode. 
 
 At midday-meal, 
 With all the dissonance of boisterous mirth. 
 The British chiefs carous'd and quaff 'd the bowl 
 To future conquest. By the sentuiel 
 Conducted came the Erank. 
 
 "Chiefs," he excl^ini'd, 
 " Salisbury, and ye the representatives 
 Of the English king, usurper oi this realm; 
 To ye the leaders of the invaduig host 
 I come, no welcome messenger. Thus says 
 The Maid of Orleans. * With yom- troops retire 
 In peace. Of every captur'd town the keys 
 Kestore to Charles; so bloodless you may seek 
 Your native England; for the God of Hosts 
 
 F 2 
 
68 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Thus lias decreed. To Charles the rightful heir. 
 By long descent and voluntary choice 
 Oi" duteous subjects, hath the Lord assign'd 
 His conquest. In his name the Virgin conies, 
 Arm'd with his sword, yet not of mercy void. 
 Depart in peace: for ere the morrow dawns, 
 
 ' Victorious upon Orleans' wall shall wave 
 The holy banner.' " 
 
 "Wonder made a pause; 
 To this the laugh succeeds. " What !" Fastolffe cried, 
 " A woman warrior has your monarch sent 
 To save devoted Orleans ? By the rood, 
 I thank his Grace. If she be young and fair, 
 No worthless prize, my lords ! Go tell your Maid, 
 Joyful we wait her coming." 
 
 Thore was one 
 Among the English chiefs, who had grown old 
 In arms, yet had not age unnerved his lunbs. 
 But from the flexile nimbleness of youth 
 Braced to unjdelding strength. One, who had seen 
 The warrior at the feast, might well have deem'd 
 
 J That Talbot with his whole collected might 
 
 ' Wielded the sword in war; for on his neck 
 The veins were full, and every muscle bore 
 Most powerful character He his stern eye 
 Fix'd on the herald, and before he spake, 
 His silence threaten'd- 
 
 " Get thee gone !" exclaimed 
 The indignant chief; " away ! nor think to scare 
 With girlish phantasies the English host 
 
 . That scorns your bravest warriors. Hie thee hence. 
 Insolent herald ! tell this frantic girl, 
 This com'tly minion, to avoid my wrath, 
 For if she dares the war, I will not stain 
 M3' good-blood-rusted sword — but she shall meet 
 The mockery of the camp !" 
 
 " Nay, scare her not," 
 Eeplied their chief; " go tell this Maid of Orleans, 
 That Salisbury longs to meet her in the fight. 
 Nor let her fear that rude and iron chains 
 Shall gall her tender limbs ; for I myself 
 
 Will be her prison, and " 
 
 " Contemptuous man ! 
 No more," the Frank exclaimed, as to his cheek 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 69 
 
 Eush'd the red anger. " Bearing words of peace 
 And timely warning, came I to your camp, 
 Here with rude mockery and stern insolence 
 Eeceived. Bear witness, chieftains ! that the French, 
 Free from blood-guiltiness, shall meet the war." 
 
 "And who art thou?" cried Suffolk, and his eye 
 Grew fierce and wrath-inflamed; " what fool art thou 
 That at this woman's bidding com est to brave 
 The host of England ? Thou shalt have thy meed !" 
 Then, turning to the sentinel, he cried, 
 "Prepare the stake! and let the men of Orleans, 
 And let this woman, who believes her name 
 May privilege her apostle, see the fire 
 Consume him. Build the stake ! for by my God 
 He shall be kalendered of this new faith 
 First martyr." 
 
 As he spake, a sudden flush 
 Came o'er the herald's cheek, and his heart beat 
 With quicker action; but the sudden flush. 
 Alarmed Nature's impulse, faded soon 
 To such a steady hue as spake the soul 
 Eous'd up with all its powers, and unsubdued. 
 And glor3dng in endurance. Through the camp 
 Soon as the tidings spread, a shout arose, 
 A hideous shout, more savage than the howl 
 Of midnight wolves; and round the Frank they throng'd 
 To gaze upon their victim. He pass'd on, 
 And as they led him to the appointed place 
 Look'd round, as though forgetful of himself. 
 And cried aloud, " Oh ! I am sad to think 
 So many men shall never see the sun 
 Go down ! Ye English mothers, mourn ye now. 
 Daughters of England, weep ! for hard of heart 
 Still your mad leaders urge the impious war. 
 And for their folly and their wickedness, 
 Your sons, yom- husbands, by the sword must falL 
 Long-sufiering is the Lord, and slow to wrath. 
 But heavy are his judgments !" 
 
 He who spake 
 Was young and comely; had his cheek been pale 
 With di-ead, and had his eye look'd fearfully, 
 Sure he had Avon compassion; bvit the blood 
 Gave now a livelier meanino^ to his cheek. 
 
70 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 As with a prophet's look and prophet's voice 
 He spake the ominous words : and they who heard, 
 Wonder'd, and they who rear'd the stake urged on 
 With half-unwilling hands their slacken'd toil. 
 And doubted what might follow. 
 
 Not unseen 
 Eear'd they the stake, and piled around the wood; 
 jLn sight of Orleans and the Maiden's host, 
 
 { Had SuiFolk's arrogant fierceness hade the work 
 Of death he done. The Maiden's host beheld : 
 At once in eager wrath they rais'd the loud 
 And general clamour, " Lead us to the foe !" 
 "Not upon us, God!" the Maid exclaim'd, 
 
 » " Not upon us cry out the innocent blood !" 
 And bade the signal sound. In the English camp 
 The clarion and the trumpet's blare was heard, 
 In haste they seize their arms, in haste they form. 
 Some by bold words seeking to hide their fear 
 
 ) Even from themselves, some silently in prayer, 
 For much their hearts misgave them. 
 
 But the rage 
 Of Suffolk swell'd within him, " Speed your work I" 
 Exclaim'd the savage earl ; " kindle the pile, 
 
 I That France may see the fii*e, and in defeat 
 Feel aggravated shame !" 
 
 And now they bound 
 The herald to the stake : he cried aloud. 
 And fix'd his eye on Suffolk, " Let not him 
 
 \ Wlio girdeth on his harness boast himself 
 As he that puts it off ! They come ! they come ! 
 God and the Maid !" 
 
 The host of France approached. 
 And Suffolk eagerly beheld the fire 
 Draw near the pile : sudden a fearful shout 
 
 \ Towards Orleans turn'd his eye, and thence he saw 
 A mailed man upon a maded steed 
 Come thundering on. 
 
 As when Chederles comes 
 To aid the righteous on liis deathless steed. 
 Swaying his sword with such resistless arm, 
 Such mightiest force, as he had newly quafi"d 
 The hidden waters of eternal youth, 
 Till with the copious di'aught of life and strength 
 Inebriate; such, so fierce, so terrible. 
 
JOAN OF AUG. 7X 
 
 Came Conrade through the camp; aright, aleft 
 The affrighted English scatter from his spear. 
 
 I Onward he drives, and now the circling throng 
 Fly from the stake; and now he checks his coarse, 
 And cuts the herald's bonds, and bids him live, 
 
 / And arm, and fight, and conquer. 
 
 " Haste thee hence 
 ** To Orleans," cried the warrior, " Tell the chiefs 
 There is confusion in the English camp. 
 
 1 Bid them come forth." On Oonrade's steed the youth 
 Leapt up and hasten'd onward. He the while 
 Turu'd to the war. 
 
 Like two conflicting clouds, 
 Pregnant with thunder, rush'd the hostile hosts. 
 Then man met man, then, on the batter'd shield, 
 Rung the loud lance, and through the darken'd slvy 
 East fell the arrowy storm. Amid his foes 
 The Bastard's arm sway'd irresistible 
 The strokes of death; and by his side the Maid 
 ' Led the fierce fight — the Maid, though all unused 
 To the rude conflict, now inspired by Heaven, 
 Flashing her flamy falchion through the troops. 
 That like the thunderbolt, where'er it fell, 
 Scattered the trembling ranks; the Saracen, 
 Though arm'd from Cashbin or Damascus, wields 
 A weaker sword ; nor might that magic blade 
 Compare with this that Oriana saw 
 Flame in the brutal Ardan's robber hand. 
 When, sick and cold as the grave, she turn'd away 
 Her dizzy eyes, lest they should see the death 
 Of her own Amadis. Nor plated shield. 
 Nor the strong hauberk, nor the crested casque. 
 Stay that descending sword. Dreadful she moved, 
 Like as the angel of the Lord went forth 
 And smote his army, when the Assyrian king. 
 Haughty of Hamath and Sepharvaim fallen, 
 Blasphem'd the God of Israel. 
 
 _ Yet the fight 
 Hung doubtful where, exampling hardiest deeds, 
 Salisbmy mow'd down the foe, and FastolfFe strove, 
 
 I And in the hottest domgs of the war 
 Towered Talbot. He, remembering the past day 
 When from his name the afl'righted sons of France 
 Fled trembling, all astonish'd at their force 
 
rj JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 And wontless valour, rages round tlie field 
 Dreadful in fm*y; yet in every man 
 Meeting a foe fearless, and in the faith 
 Of Heaven's assistance firm. 
 
 The clang of arms 
 Eeaches the walls of Orleans. For the war 
 Prepared, and confident of victory, 
 
 j Speed forth the troops. Not when afar exhaled 
 The hungry raven snuffs the steam of blood 
 That from some carcass-cover'd field of fame 
 Taints the pure air, wings he more eagerly 
 To riot on the gore, than rush'd the ranks; 
 Impatient now, for many an HI endured 
 In the long siege, to wreak upon their foes 
 
 I Due vengeance. Then more fearful grew the fray; 
 The swords that late flash'd to the evening sun. 
 Now quenched in blood their radiance. 
 
 O'er the host 
 Howl'd the deep wind that, ominous of storms, 
 EoU'd on the lurid clouds. The blacken'd night 
 Frown'd, and the thmider from the troubled sky 
 Roar'd hollow. Javelins clash'd and bucklers rang; 
 Shield prest on shield; loud on the helmet jarr'd 
 The ponderous battle-axe; the frequent groan 
 Of death commingling with the storm was heard, 
 
 f And the shi-iU shriek of fear. 
 
 Even such a storm 
 Before the walls of Chartres quell'd the pride 
 Of the third Edward, when the heavy hail 
 Smote down his soldiers, and the conqueror heard 
 God in the tempest, and remembered him 
 Of the widows he had made, and, in the name 
 Of blessed Mary, vowed the vow of peace. 
 XiO ! where the holy banner waved aloft, 
 The lambent lightnings play'd. Irradiate round. 
 As with a blaze of glory, o'er the field 
 It stream'd miraculous splendour. Then their hearts 
 Sunk, and the English trembled ; with such fear 
 ■ Possessed, as when the combined host beheld 
 The smi stand still on Gibeon, at the voice 
 Of that king-conquering warrior, he who smote 
 The country of the hUls, and of the south, 
 From Baal-gad to Halak, and their kings, 
 Even as the Lord commanded. Swift they fied 
 
JOAN- OP ARC. 73 
 
 From that portentous banner, and the sword 
 Of France; though Talbot, with vain valiancy. 
 Yet urged the war, and stemm'd alone the tide 
 Of conquest. Even their leaders felt dismay; 
 Fastolfle fled fast, and Salisbury in the rout 
 Mingles, and, all impatient of defeat, 
 
 , Borne backward, Talbot turns. Then echoed loud 
 
 ' The cry of conquest; deeper grew the storm; 
 And darkness, hovering o'er on raven wing. 
 Brooded the field of death. 
 
 Nor in the camp 
 Deem themselves safe the trembling fugitives. 
 On to the forts they haste. Bewilder'd there 
 Amid the moats by fear, and the dead gloom 
 Of more than midnight darkness, plunge the troops, 
 Crush'd by fast following numbers, who partake 
 
 { The death they give. As rushing from the snows 
 Of winter liquefied, the torrent tide 
 Resistless down the mountain rolls along. 
 Till at the brink of giddy precipice 
 Arrived, with deafening clamour down it falls : 
 Thus borne along, the aftrighted English troops. 
 Driven by the force behind them, plunge amid 
 The liquid death. Then rose the dreadful cries 
 More di-eadful, and the dash of breaking waves 
 That to the passing lightning as they broke 
 Gleam'd horrible. 
 
 Nor of the host so late 
 Triumphing in the pride of victory. 
 And swoln with confidence, had now escaped 
 One wretched remnant, had not Talbot's mind, 
 
 "\ Slow as he moved unwilling from the war, 
 Wliat most might profit the defeated ranks 
 Pondered. He, reaching safe the massy fort. 
 By St. John's name made holy, kindled up 
 The guiding fire. Not unobserved it blazed; 
 
 I The watchful guards on Tournelles, and the pile 
 Of that proud city, in remembrance fond 
 Call'd London, light the beacon. Soon the fires 
 Flame on the summit of the cu'cling forts 
 That, firm entrenched with walls and deep-delved moats 
 Included Orleans. O'er the shadowy plain 
 
 I They cast a lurid splendour; to the troops 
 
 ^ Grateful, as to the way-worn traveller. 
 
74 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Wandering witli parcliecl feet o'er tlie Arabian sands. 
 The far-seen cistern; he for many a league 
 Travelling the trackless desolate, where heaved 
 With tempest swell the desert billows round. 
 Pauses, and shudders at his perils past, 
 Then wild with joy speeds on to taste the wave 
 So long bewail'd. 
 
 Swift as the affrighted herd 
 Scud o'er the plain, when frequent through the sky 
 Flash the fierce lightnings, speed the routed host 
 
 t Of England. To the sheltering forts they haste. 
 Though safe, of safety doubtful, still appall'd 
 And trembling, as the pilgrim, who by night 
 On his way wilder'd, to the wolf's deep howl 
 Hears the wood echo, when from the fell beast 
 Escaped, of some tall tree the topmost branch 
 He grasps close clinging, still of that keen fang 
 Eearful, his teeth jar, and the big drops stand 
 On his cold quivering limbs. 
 
 Nor now the Maid, 
 Greedy of vengeance, urges the pursuit. 
 She bids the trumpet of retreat resound; 
 
 ' A pleasant music to the routed ranks 
 Blows the loud blast. Obedient to its voice 
 The Erench, though eager on the invaders' heacls 
 To wreak their wrath, stay the victorious sword. 
 
 Loud is the cry of conquest, as they turn 
 To Orleans. There what few to guard the town. 
 Unwilling had remained, haste forth to meet 
 The triumph. Many a blazing torch they held. 
 That rais'd aloft, amid the midnight storm, 
 Elash'd far a festive light. The Maid advanced; 
 Deep''^'^ through the sky the hollow thunders roH'd; 
 Innocuous lightnings round the hallowed banner 
 Wreathed their red radiance. 
 
 Through the opened gate 
 Slow past the laden convoy. Then was heai'd 
 The shout of exultation, and such joy 
 The men of Orleans at that welcome sight 
 Possess'd, as when from Bactria late subdued. 
 The Macedonian Madman led his troops 
 Amid the Sogdian desert where no stream 
 Wastes on the wild its fertilizing waves: 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 75 
 
 Fearful alike to pause, or to proceed; 
 Scorch'd by the suii that o'er their morning march 
 Steam'd his hot vapours, heart-subdued and faint; 
 Such joy as then they felt, when from the heights 
 Burst the soul-gladdening somid! for thence was seen. 
 The evening sun silvermg the vale below. 
 Where Oxus roll'd along. 
 
 Clamours of joy 
 Echo along the streets of Orleans, wont 
 Long time to hear the infant's feeble cry. 
 The mother's frantic shriek, or the dread sound. 
 When from the cannon bm'st its stores of death. 
 Ear flames the fke of joy on ruin'd piles. 
 And high-heap'd carcasses, whence scared away 
 Erom his abhorred meal on clattering wing 
 Rose the night-raven slow. 
 
 In the English forts 
 Sad was the scene. There all the livelong night 
 Steals in the stragghng fugitive ; as when 
 Past is the storm, and o'er the azure sky 
 Serenely shines the sun; with every breeze 
 The waving branches drop their gather'd rain, 
 Eenewing the remembrance of the storm. 
 
76 JOAS OF AMC 
 
 f&t S>tiint\ §elt. 
 
 Description of the English forts. The French troops attack and cap- 
 ture the forts of St. Loup and St. John. Attack of Fort London. 
 Salisbury encounters the Maid Event of that encounter. The 
 Touruelles surrounded by the French, who despatch a troop to 
 Orleans for provisions, and encamp before it for the night. 
 
 Strong were the English forts, by daily toil 
 Of thousands rear'd on hif^h, when arrogant 
 With fancied conquest, Salisbury bade rise 
 The amazing pile, from succour to include 
 Besieged Orleans. Round the city walls 
 Stretched the wide circle, massy as the fence 
 Erst by the fearful Eoman on the bounds 
 Of Caledonia rais'd, for soul-enslaved, 
 Her hireling plunderers fear'd the car-borne chiefs 
 Who rush'd from Moi-ven down. 
 
 Strong battlements 
 Crested the mighty bulwark, on whose top 
 Secure the charioteer might wheel along. 
 The frequent buttress at just distance rose. 
 Declining from its base, and sixty forts 
 Lifted aloft their turret-crowned heads, 
 All fu-m and massy. But of these most firm, 
 As though of some large castle each the keep, 
 Stood six square fortresses with turrets flank'd, 
 Piles of unequall'd strength, though now deem'd weak 
 'Gainst puissance more than mortal. Safely hence 
 The sldh'ul archer, entering with his eye 
 The city, might, himself the while unseen. 
 Through the long opening shower his wmged deaths. 
 Loire's waves diverted, fill the deep-dug moat. 
 Circling the pile, a bulwark vast, as what 
 Bound their disheartened camp and stranded ships 
 The Greeks uprear'd, a common sepulchre 
 Of thousands slaughtered, and the doom'd death-place 
 Of many a chief, when Priam's patriot son 
 Rush'd in his wrath, and scattered their pale tribes. 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 77 
 
 But, cowering now amid their sheltering forts. 
 Tremble the English host. Their leader's care. 
 In anxious vigilance, prepares to ward 
 Assault expected. Nor the Maid's intent 
 Did he not rightly areed; though vain the attempt 
 To kindle in their breasts the wonted flame 
 Of valour, for by prodigies unmann'd. 
 They wait the morn ; the soldiers' pride was gone. 
 The blood was on their swords, their bucklers lay 
 Unburnish'd and defiled, they sharpened not 
 Their blunted spears, the affrighted archer's hand 
 Relaxed not his bent bow. To them, confused 
 With fears of unknown danger, the long night 
 Was dreadful; but more dreadful dawn'd the day. 
 The morning came. The martial Maid arose. 
 Lovely in arms she moved. Around the gate, 
 Eager again for conquest, throng the troops. 
 High towered the Son of Orleans, in his strength 
 Poising the ponderous spear. His batter 'd shield. 
 Witnessing the fierce fray of yesternight, 
 Hung on his smewy arm. 
 
 "Maiden of Arc," 
 So as he spake, approaching, cried the chief, 
 " Well hast thou prov'd thy mission, as, by words 
 And miracles attested, when dismayed, 
 The stern theologists forget their doubts. 
 So in the field of slaughter now confirm'd. 
 Yon well-fenced forts protect the fugitives, 
 And seem as in then- strength they mock'd our force. 
 Yet must they fall." 
 
 " And fall they shall!" replied 
 The Maid of Orleans. " Ere the sun be set 
 The lily on that shattered wall shall wave 
 Triumphant. — Men of France ! ye have fought well 
 On that blood-reeking plain. Your humbled foes 
 Lurk trembling now amid their massy walls ; 
 Wolves that have ravaged the neglected flock ! 
 The Shepherd — the great Shepherd is arisen ! 
 Ye fly ! yet shall not ye by flight escape 
 His vengeance. Men of Orleans ! it were vain 
 By words to waken wrath within your breasts. 
 Look round ! Your holy buildings and your homes- 
 Ruins that choke the way ! your populous town — • 
 One open sepulclire ! Who is there here 
 
78 JOAN OP ARC. 
 
 That does not monrn a friend, a brother slain, 
 A x^arent famisli'd, or his dear loved wife 
 Torn from his bosom — outcast — broken hearted-— 
 Cast on the mercy of mankind ?" 
 
 She ceased. 
 The cry of indignation from the host 
 Burst forth, and all impatient for the war 
 \ Demand the signal. These Dunois arrays 
 In four battalions. Xaintrailles, tried in war, 
 I Commands the first; Xaintrailles, who oft subdued 
 By adverse fortune to the captive chain, 
 Still more tremendous to the enemy. 
 Lifted his death-fraught lance, as erst from earth 
 Antaeus, vaunting in his giant bulk, 
 When graspt by force Herculean, down he fell 
 Vanquishtj anon uprose more fierce for war. 
 
 Gaucour o'er one presides, the steady friend 
 r To long-imprison'd Orleans ; of his town 
 Beloved guardian; he the dreadful siege 
 Firmly abiding, prudent still to plan 
 Irruption, and with youthful vigour swift 
 To lead the battle; from his soldiers' love 
 Prompter obedience gained, than ever fear 
 Forced fr-om the heart reluctant. 
 
 The third band 
 Alencon leads. He on the fatal field 
 Verneuil, when Buchan and the Douglas died, 
 Fell senseless. Guiltless he of that daj's loss. 
 Wore undisgraced awhile the captive chain. 
 The monarch him mindful of his high rank 
 Had ransom'd, once again to meet the foe 
 With better fortune. 
 
 O'er the last presides 
 Dunois the Bastard, might}'^ in the war. 
 \ His prowess knew the foes, and his fair fame 
 Contess'd, since when before his stripling arm 
 Fled Warwick. Warwick, he whose fafr renown 
 Greece kncAV, and Antioch, and the holy soil 
 Of Palestine, since there in arms he pass'd 
 On gallant pilgrimage, yet by Dunois 
 Baffled, and yielding him the conqueror's prai'se* 
 And by his side the martial Maiden pass'd, 
 Lovely in ai'ms as that Ai'cadian boy 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 79 
 
 Parfhenopseus, ^yhen the war of beasts 
 Disdaining, he to murder man rush'd forth. 
 Bearing the bow, and those Dictsean shafts 
 Diana gave, when she the youth's fair form 
 Saw softened, and forgave the mother's fault. 
 
 Saint Loup's strong fort stood first. Here Gladdisdale 
 
 /■ Commands the fearful troops. 
 
 As lowering clouds 
 Swept by the hoarse wind o'er the blacken'd plain 
 Mov'd on the host of France: they from the lort 
 Through secret opening, shower their pointed shafts. 
 Or from the battlements the death-tipt spear 
 Hurl fierce. Nor from the strong arm only launch'd 
 The javelin fled, but driven by the strained force 
 Of the bahsta, in one carcass spent, 
 Stay'd not; through arms and men it makes its way. 
 And leaving death behind, still holds its course. 
 By many a death unclogg'd. With rapid march 
 Eight onward they advanced, and soon the shafts, 
 Impell'd by that strong stroke beyond the host. 
 Wasting their force, fell harmless. Now they reach'd, 
 
 / Where by the bayle's embattled wall in arms, 
 The knights of England stood. There Poynings shook 
 His lance, and Gladdisdale his heavy mace, 
 For the death-blow prepar'd. Alencon here, 
 And here the Bastard strode, and by the Maid 
 
 . That daring man, who to the English host. 
 Then insolent of many a conquest gain'd. 
 Bore her bold bidding. A rude coat of mail, 
 Unhosed, unhooded, as of lowly line 
 Arm'd him. Though here amid the high-born chiefs 
 Pre-eminent for prowess. On his head 
 A black plume shadowed the rude-featur'd helm. 
 Then was the war of men, when front to front 
 They rear'd the hostile hand, for low the wall 
 IVhere the bold Frenchman's upward-ch'iven spear 
 Kight pierce the foemen. 
 
 As Alencon moved, 
 On his crown-crested helm, with ponderous blow. 
 Fell Gladdisdale's huge mace. Back he recoil'd 
 
 \ Astounded; soon recovering, his keen lance 
 Till us t on the warrior's shield: there fast infix 'd, 
 Kor could Alencon the deep-driven spear 
 
so JOAX OF AEC. 
 
 Eecover, nor the foeraan from his grasp 
 
 Wrench the contended weapon. Fierce again 
 
 He lifts the mace, that on the ashen hilt 
 
 Fell full; it shiver'd, and the Frenchman held 
 
 A pointless truncheon. Where the Bastard fought, 
 
 / The spear of Formings, through his plated mail 
 Pierced, and against the iron fence beneath, 
 Blunted its point. Again he speeds the spear; 
 At once Dunois on his broad buckler bears 
 
 I The unharming stroke, and aims with better fate, 
 His javelin. Through his sword-arm did it pierce 
 Maugre the mail. Hot from the streaming wound 
 Again the weapon fell, and in his breast. 
 Even through the hauberk drove. 
 
 But there the war 
 Eaged fiercest where the martial Maiden moved, 
 The minister of wrath; for thither throng'd 
 
 ' The bravest champions of the adverse host. 
 And on her either side two warriors stood 
 Of unmatch'd prowess, still with eager eye 
 Shielding her Ibrm, and aiming at her foes 
 Their deadly weapons, of themselves the wliile 
 Little regarding. One was that bold man 
 
 .; Wlio bade deliance to the English chiefs. 
 Firmly he stood, untir'd and undismay'd, 
 Though on his burgonet the frequent spear 
 Drove fierce, and on his arm the buckler hung 
 Heavy, thick-bristled with the hostile shafts. 
 Even like the porcupine, when in his rage 
 Rous'd, he collects within him all his force, 
 Himself a quiver. And of loftier port. 
 On the other hand towered Conrade. Fii-mly fenced, 
 
 \ A jazerent of double mail he wore, 
 Beneath whose weight one but of common strength 
 Had sunk. Unth'd the conflict he endur'd. 
 Wielding a battle-axe ponderous and keen. 
 That gave no second stroke ; f jr where it fell, 
 Not the strong buckler nor the plated mail 
 Might save, nor crested casque. On Molpi's head, 
 As at the Maid he aimed his javelin, 
 Forceful it fell, and shiver'd with the blow 
 The iron helm, and to his brain-pan drove 
 The fragments. At their comrade's death amaz'd, 
 And for a moment fearful shrunk the foes. 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 81 
 
 That instant, Conrade, with an active bound, 
 
 / Sprung on the battlements ; there firm he stood. 
 Guarding ascent. The warrior Maid of Arc, 
 And he the partner of that battle's fame, 
 Pollowed, and soon the exulting cry of France 
 Along the lists was heard, as waved aloft 
 
 / The holy banner. Gladdisdale beheld, ; 
 
 And hasting from his well-defended post, . 
 
 Sped to the fiercer conflict. To the Maid ^^^' c 
 
 He strode, on her resolved to wreak his rage, - ^**W 
 
 J With her to end the war. Nor did not Joan 
 
 ^ Areed his purpose : lifting up her shield, 
 Prepar'd she stood, and pois'd her sparkling spear. 
 The English chief came on; he raised his mace; 
 With circling force, the iion weight swung high, 
 As Gladdisdale with his collected might 
 
 . Drove the full blow. The man of lowly line, 
 That instant rush'd between, and rear'd his shield 
 And met the broken blow, and thrust his lance 
 Fierce through the gorget of the English knight. 
 A gallant man, of no ignoble line. 
 Was Gladdisdale. His sires had lived in peace. 
 They heap'd the hospitable hearth, they spread 
 The feast, their vassals loved them, and afar 
 The traveller told their fame. In peace they died ; 
 For them the venerable fathers pour'd 
 A requiem when they slept, and o'er them rais'd 
 The sculptured monument. Now far away 
 Their offspring falls, the last of all his race, 
 
 ; Slain in a foreign land, and doom'd to share 
 The common grave. 
 
 Then terror seized the host 
 Their chieftain dead. And lo ! where on the wall, 
 Bulwark'd of late by Gladdisdale so well, 
 The son of Orleans stood, and swayed around 
 
 I His falchion, keeping thus at bay the foe. 
 Till on the battlements his comrades sprang, 
 And rais'd the shout of conquest. Then appall'd 
 The English fled; nor fled they unpursued. 
 For mingling with the foremost fugitives, 
 The gallant Conrade rush'd; and with the throng, 
 
 I The knights of France together o'er the bridge 
 Fast speeded. Nor the gan-ison within 
 Durst let the ponderous portcullis fall. 
 
82 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 For in the entrance of the fort the fight 
 Eaged fiercely, and together through the gate 
 The vauquish'd English and their eager foes 
 Pass'd in the flying conflict. 
 
 Well I deem 
 And wisely did that daring Spaniard act 
 At Vera-Cruz, when he his yet sound ships 
 Dismantling, left no spot where treacherous fear 
 Might still with wild and wistiiil eye look back. 
 For knowmg no retreat, his desperate troops 
 In conquest sought then- safet3\ Victors hence 
 At Tlascala, and o'er the Cholulans, 
 And by Otompan, on that bloody field 
 When Mexico her patriot thousands pour'd. 
 Fierce in vain valour on their rufiian ibes. 
 There was a portal to the English fort 
 That opened on the wall; a speedier path 
 In the hour of safety, whence the charmed eye 
 Might linger down the river's pleasant course. 
 Fierce in the gate- way raged the deadly war; 
 For there the Maiden strove, and Com-ade there. 
 And he of lowly line, bravelier than whom 
 Fought not in that day's battle. Of success 
 Desperate, for fit'om above, the gamson 
 Could wield no arms, so certain to bestow 
 Equal destruction, of the portal's aid 
 The foe bethought them: then with lesser force 
 Their weapons fell; abandoned was the gate; 
 And soon irom Orleans the glad citizens 
 Beheld the hallowed banner on the to'^ver 
 Triumphant. Swift along the lofty wall, 
 The English haste to St. John's neighbom-ing furt, 
 Flymg with fearful speed. Nor fi-om pursuit 
 The victors ceased, but with the fugitives 
 Mmgled, and waged the war : the combatants, 
 Lock'd in the hostile grasp, together fall 
 Precipitate. 
 
 But foremost of the French, 
 Deahng destruction, Conrade rush'd along: 
 Heedless of danger, he to the near fort 
 Pass'd in the fight; nor did not then the chief 
 What most might serve bethink him! firm he st -od 
 In the portal, and one moment looking back. 
 Lifted his loud voice: thiice the waa.'rior cried. 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 83 
 
 Then to the war addrest him; now assail'd 
 By numerous foes, who arrogant of power, 
 Threatened his single valour. He the while 
 
 I Stood firm, not vamly confident, or rash. 
 But of his own strength conscious, and the post 
 Friendly; for narrow was the portal way. 
 To one alone fit passage, from above, 
 O'erbrow'd by no out -jutting parapet 
 Whence death might crush hun. He in double mail 
 Was arm'd; a massy burgonet, well tried 
 In many a hard-fought field, helming his head; 
 
 , A buckler broad, and fenced with ii'on plates, 
 Bulwark'd his breast. Nor to dislodge the chief 
 Could the English pour then- numbers, for the way 
 By upward steps, presented from the fort 
 
 f Narrow ascent, where one alone could meet 
 
 ' The war. Yet were they of their numbers proud, 
 Though useless numbers were in that strait path. 
 Save by assault unceasing to outlast 
 A single warrior, who at length must sink. 
 Fatigued with conquering, by long victory 
 Vanquish'd. 
 
 There was amid the garrison 
 A fearless knight, who at Verneuii had fought. 
 And high renown for his bold chivalry 
 Acquir'd in that day's conquest. To his fame 
 
 i The thronging EngHsh yield the foremost place. 
 He his long javelin to transpierce the Frarni 
 Tln-ust forceful: harmless in his shield it fix'd. 
 Advantaging the foe, for Com-ade lilts 
 The battle-axe, and smote upon the lance. 
 And huii'd its severed pomt with mighty arm 
 Fierce on the foe. With wary bend, the foe 
 Shrunk from the flying death; yet not in vain 
 From that strong hand the fate-fraught weapon fi'?d; 
 Full on the corselet of a meaner man 
 It fell, and pierced, there where the heaving lungs, 
 With purer an* distended, to the heart 
 Eoll back then- pm-ged tide : from the deep woimd 
 The red blood gush'd: prone on the steps he fell. 
 And in the strong convulsive grasp of death, 
 Grasp'd his long pike. Of unrecorded name 
 Died the mean man; yet did he leave behind 
 One who did never say her daily prayers 
 
 G 2 
 
84 JOAN OF AEC. 
 
 Of him forgetful; wlio to every tale 
 Of the distant war, lending an eager ear, 
 Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door. 
 The wretched one shall sit, and with dim eye 
 Gaze o'er the plain, where on his parting steps, 
 Her last look hung. Nor ever shall she know 
 Her husband dead, but tortur'd with vain hope, 
 Gaze on — then heart-sick, turn to her poor babe. 
 And weep it fatherless ! 
 
 The erjaged knight 
 Drew his keen falchion, and with dauntless step 
 Moved to the closer conflict. Then the Frank 
 Held foi-th his buckler, and his battle-axe 
 Uplifted. Where the buckler was below 
 Rounded, the falchion struck, but impotent 
 To pierce its plated folds; more forceful driven, 
 Fierce on his crested helm, the Frenchman's stroke 
 Fell; the helm shivered; from his eyes the blood 
 Started ; with blood, the chambers of the brain 
 Were fill'd; his breast-plate, with convulsive throes. 
 Heaved as he fell; victorious, he the prize. 
 At many a tournament had borne away 
 In the mimic war : happy, if so content 
 With bloodless glory, he had never left 
 The mansion of his sires. 
 
 But terrified 
 The English stood ; nor durst adventure now 
 Near that death-doing man. Amid their host 
 Was one who well could from the stubborn bow 
 Shower his sharp shafts: well skill'd in wood-craft he, 
 Even as the merry outlaws, who their haunts 
 In Sherwood held, and bade theii' bugles rouse 
 The sleeping stag, ere on the web-woven gi-ass 
 The dew-drops sparkled to the rising sun. 
 He safe in distance at the warrior aim'd 
 The feather'd dart; with force he di-ew the bow; 
 Loud on his bracer struck the sounding string: 
 And swift and strong the well-winged arrow fled. 
 Deep in his shield it hung : then Conrade rais'd 
 Again his echoing voice, and call'd for aid, 
 Nor was the call unheard : the troops of France, 
 From St. Loup's captm-ed fort along the wall 
 Haste to the portal; cheering was the sound 
 Of their near footsteps to the chief; he di'ew 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 85 
 
 His falchion forth, and down the steps he rush'd. 
 Then terror seized the English, for their foes 
 Swarm'd through the open portal, and the sword 
 Of Conrade was among them. Not more fierce 
 The injured Turnus swayed his angry arm, 
 Slaughtering the robber fugitives of Troy; 
 Nor with more fury through the streets of Paris 
 Bush'd he, the King of Sarza, Rodomont, 
 Clad in his dragon mail. 
 
 Like some tall rock. 
 Around whose billow-beaten foot the waves 
 Waste their wild fury, stood the unshaken man; 
 Though round him prest his foemen, by despair 
 Hearten'd. He, mow ing through the throng hi s path, 
 Call'd on the troops of France, and bade them haste 
 Where he should lead the way. A daring band 
 Followed the adventm-ous chieftain: he moved on 
 TJnterrified, amid the arrowy shower. 
 Though on his shield and helm the darts fell fast. 
 As the sear'd leaves that from the trembling tree 
 The autumnal whirlwind shakes. 
 
 Nor Conrade paus'd, 
 Still through the fierce fight urging on his way, 
 Till to the gate he came, and with strong hand 
 Seiz'd on the massy bolts. These as he di-ew, 
 FuU on his helm the weighty English sword 
 Descended; swift he turn'd to wreak his wrath. 
 When io ! the assailant gasping on the gro^ond, 
 ^ Cleft by the maiden's falchion: she herself 
 To the foe opposing with that lowly man, 
 For they alone following the adventm-ous steps 
 Of Conrade, still had equall'd his bold coiurse. 
 Shielded him, as with eager hand he drew 
 The bolts: the gate turn'd slow: forth leapt the chief 
 And shivered with his battle-axe the chains 
 . That hung on high the bridge. The impetuous troops. 
 By Gaucour led, rush'd o'er to victory. 
 
 The banner'd lilies m the captur'd wall 
 Toss'd to the T\ind. " On to the neighbouring fort !" 
 Cried Com-ade, " Xamtrailles ! ere the night di-aws on 
 Once more to conquest lead the troops of Erance ! 
 Force ye the lists, and fill the deep-dug moat. 
 And with tlie ram shake down their batter'd walls. 
 
86 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Anon I shall be with you" Thus he said; 
 Then to the damsel. " Maid of Arc ! awhile 
 Cease we fifom battle, and by short repose 
 \ Renew our strength." So sajang he his helm 
 Unlaced, and in the Loire's near-flowing stream 
 Cool'd his hot face. The Maid her head unhelm'd. 
 And stooping to the stream, reflected there 
 Saw her white plumage stain'd with human blood! 
 Shuddering she saw, but soon her steady soul 
 Collected: on the banks she laid her down. 
 Freely awhile respiring, for her breath 
 Quick panted from the fight : silent they lay, 
 For gratefully the cooling breezes bathed 
 Their thi'obbing temples. 
 
 It was now the noon: 
 The sun-beams on the gently-waving stream 
 Danced sparkling. Lost in thought the warrior lay, 
 ■ And softening sadly his stem face, exclaim'd, 
 " Maiden of Arc ! at such an hour as this, 
 Beneath the o'er-arching forest's chequer'd shade. 
 With that lost woman have I Avandered on, 
 Talking of years of happiness to come ! 
 Oh hours for ever fled ! delightful dreams 
 Of the unsuspecting heart ! I do believe 
 If Agnes on a worthier one had fix'd 
 Her love, that though mine aching heart had nurst 
 Its sorrows, I had never on her choice 
 Pour'd one upbraiding — but to stoop to biTn I 
 A harlot ! — an adulteress !" 
 
 In his eye 
 Eed anger flash'd; anon of what she was 
 Ere yet the foul pollution of the Court 
 Stain'd her fair fame, he thought. " Oh, happy age !** 
 He cried, " when all the family of man 
 Freely enjoyed their goodly heritage. 
 And only bow'd the knee in prayer to God ! 
 Calm flow'd the unruffled stream of years along, 
 Till o'er the peaceful rustic's head, grew grey 
 The hairs in full of time. Then he would sit 
 Beneath the coetaneous oak, whilst round, 
 Sons, grandsons, and their offspring join'd to form 
 The blameless merriment; and learnt of him 
 What time to yoke the oxen to the plough, 
 What hollow moanings of the western wind 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 87 
 
 Foretel tlie storm, and in what lurid clouds 
 
 The embryo lightning lies. Well pleas'd, he taught. 
 
 The heart-smile glowing on his aged cheek. 
 
 Mild as the summer's sun's decaying light. 
 
 Thus quietly the stream of life flow'd on 
 
 Till in the shoreless ocean lost at length. 
 
 Around the bed of death his numerous race 
 
 Listen'd, in no unprofitable grief, 
 
 His last advice, and caught his latest sigh: 
 
 And when he died, as he had fallen asleep, 
 
 Beneath the aged tree that grew with him 
 
 They delved the narrow house: there oft at eve 
 
 Drew round their children of the after days 
 
 And pointing to the turf, told how he lived. 
 
 And taught by his exam.ple how to die. 
 
 Maiden ! and such the evening of my days 
 
 Fondly I hoped; and would that I had lived 
 
 In those old times, or till some better years 
 
 Slumber'd unborn; for this is a hard race. 
 
 An evil generation ! nor by day 
 
 Nor in the night have respite from their cares 
 
 And wretchedness. But I shall be at rest 
 
 Soon, in that better world of peace and love 
 
 Where evil is not : in that better world 
 
 Joan ! we shall meet, and he too will be there. 
 
 Thy Theodore." 
 
 Sooth'd by his words, the Maid 
 Had listened sadly, till at that loved name 
 She wept. " Nay, Maid !" he cried, " I did not think 
 To wake a tear; but pleasant is thy grief! 
 Thou knowest not what it is, round thy warm heart 
 To have a talse one wreath in viper folds. 
 But to the battle ! in the clang of arms. 
 We win forgetfulness." 
 
 Then from the bank 
 He sprung, and helm'd his head. The Maid arose, 
 Bidding awhile adieu to milder thoughts. 
 On to the fort they speed, whose name recall'd 
 England's proud capital to the English host. 
 Now half subdued, anticipating death, 
 And vainly wishing they from her white cliffs 
 Had never spread the sail. Cold terror creeps 
 Through every vein : already they turn back 
 Their eager eyes to meditate the ilight, 
 
8S JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Though Talbot there presided, with their chief, 
 ' The gallant Salisbury. 
 
 " Soldiers famed in arms ** 
 Thus, in vain hope to renovate the strength 
 Of England, spake the chief: " Victorious friends, 
 So oft victorious in the hard-fought fight. 
 What — shrink ye now dismay'd ? have ye forgot 
 The plains of Azincour, when vanquish'd France 
 Fled with her thousands from yom* fathers' arms, 
 Though worn with sickness ? or your own exploits. 
 When on Verneuil, the flower of chivalry 
 Fell by your daring prowess ? when the Scot 
 Bit the red earth in death, and Narbonne died; 
 And the young boaster this Alencon felt 
 The weight of English fetters ? then we broke 
 The plated shield, and cleft the warrior's helm. 
 For ever victors. On Baugenci's wall 
 Ye placed the English flag; beneath your force 
 Fell Jenville and Gergeau, the neighbouring towns 
 Of weU-nigh captured Orleans. I omit 
 To speak of Caen subdued, and vanquish'd Roan, 
 And that late day when Clermont fled the fight, 
 And the young Bastard of that prison'd duke. 
 Shame ! shame ! that beaten boy is here in arms. 
 And ye will fly before the fugitives; 
 Fly from a woman ! from a frenzied girl ! 
 That with her empty mummeries, Avould blast 
 Your courage; or if miracles she brings. 
 Aid of the devil ! who is there among you 
 False to his country — to his former fame — 
 To me — your leader in the frequent field, 
 The field of glory ?" 
 
 From the heartless host 
 A timid shout arose; then Talbot's cheek 
 
 I Grew red with indignation. " Earl !" he cried. 
 Addressing him the chief: " there is no hope 
 From these white-liver'd dastards; and this fort 
 Will fall an easy conquest: it were well 
 To reach the Tournelles, better fortified, 
 
 - Fit to endure long siege: the hope in view- 
 To reach a safer fortress, these our troops 
 Shall better dare the battle." 
 
 So he spake. 
 Wisely advising. Him the chief replied : 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 89 
 
 ** Well hast thou said: and, Talbot, if our swords 
 
 Could through the thickest ranks tliis sorceress reach 
 
 The hopes of France were blasted. I have strove 
 
 In many a field, yet never to a foe 
 
 Stoop'd my proud crest: nor difficult to meet 
 
 This wizard girl, for, from the battlements. 
 
 Her have I mark'd the foremost in attack, 
 
 Playing right valiantly the soldier's part; 
 
 Yet shall not all her witcheries avail 
 
 To blunt my good sword's edge." 
 
 Thus communed they. 
 And through the host the gladdening tidings ran. 
 That they should seek the Tournelles. Then their hearts 
 Gathered new strength, placing on those strong walls 
 Dependence; empty hope ! nor the strong wall, 
 Nor the deep moat can save, if fear within 
 Palsy the soldier's arm. 
 
 Them issuing forth, 
 As from the river's banks they past along. 
 The Maid beheld ! " Lo ! Conrade !" she exclaim'd, 
 " The foes advance to meet us — look ! they lower 
 The bridge — and now they rush upon the troops: 
 A gallant onset ! Dost thou mark that man 
 Who all the day has by our side endur'd 
 The hottest conflict ? I did then behold 
 His force, and wonder: now his deeds of death 
 Make all the actions of the former fight 
 Seem as of no account : know'st thou the man ? 
 There is not one amid the host of France, 
 Of fairer promise." 
 
 " He," the chief replied, 
 "Wretched and prodigal of life, achieves 
 The exploits of despair: a gallant youth 
 Widowed like me of hope, and but for whom, 
 I had been seen among mankind no more. 
 Maiden ! with me thy comrade in the war. 
 His arm is vowed to Heaven ! Lo ! where he stands 
 Bearing the battle's brunt in unmoved strength. 
 Firm as the mountain round whose misty head, 
 The unharmmg tempest breaks !" 
 
 Nor paus'd they now 
 In farther converse, to the perilous fray 
 Speeding, not unobserved; them Salisbury saw 
 Ajid call'd on Talbot. Six, the bravest knights 
 
90 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 And vow'd witli them against the Virgin's life, 
 
 Bent their fierce course. She by that unknown man 
 
 Now urged the war, when on her plumed helm 
 
 The hostile falchion fell. On high she lifts 
 
 Her hallowed sword, the tenant of the tomb. 
 
 And di'ench'd it in his bosom. On the front 
 
 Of one, his comrade, fell the battle-axe 
 
 Of him, the dark-brow'd chief; the ponderous blow 
 
 Shattered his brain. With Talbot's giant force 
 
 The daring herald urged unequal fight; 
 
 For like some oak that fii'm with deep-fix'd roots 
 
 Mocks at the storm, the undaunted earl endur'd 
 
 His rude assault. Warding with wary eye 
 
 The angry sword, the Frank around his foe 
 
 Wheels rapid, flashing his keen weapon fast; 
 
 Now as he marks the earl's descending stroke 
 
 Bending, anon more fierce in swift attack. 
 
 Hl-fated man ! one deed of glory more 
 
 Shall with the short-lived lightning's splendour grace 
 
 This thy death-day; for slaughter even now 
 
 Stands o'er the loom of life, and lifts his sword. 
 
 Upon her shield the martial maiden bore 
 An English warrior's blow, and in his side 
 
 , Pierced him: that instant Salisbury speeds his sword 
 
 ' That glancing from her helm fell on the folds 
 That arm'd her neck, and making there its way, 
 Stain'd with her blood its edge. The herald saw, 
 
 ! He saw her red blood gushing from the wound, 
 And turn'd from Talbot heedless of himself. 
 And lifting up his falchion, all his force 
 Concenter'd. On the breast of Salisbury 
 It fell, and pierced his mail, and through the plate 
 Beneath drove fierce, and in his heart's-blood plunged. 
 
 -■ Lo ! as he struck the strength of Talbot came : 
 Full on his treacherous helm he smote: it burst. 
 And the stern earl against his fenceless head 
 Drives with strong arm the murderous sword. She saw, 
 Nor could the Maiden save her Theodore. 
 
 Conrade beheld, and from his vanquish'd foe 
 Strode terrible in vengeance. Front to front 
 They stood, and each for the death-blow prepar'd 
 His angry might. At once their weapons fell, 
 
JOAN OF AUC. 91 
 
 The Frank's huge battle-axe, and tlie keen sword 
 Of Talbot. He, stunn'd by the weighty blow, 
 Sunk senseless; by his followers from the field 
 Conveyed with fearful speed: nor did his stroke 
 Fall vainly on the Frenchman's crested helm, 
 Though weak to wound, for from his eyes the fire 
 Sparkled, and back recoiling with the blow. 
 He in the Maiden's arms astounded fell. 
 
 But now their troops all captainless confus'd. 
 Fear seized the English. Not with more dismay, 
 When over wUd Caftraria's wooded hills, 
 Echoes the lion's roar, the timid herd 
 Fly the death-boding sound. The forts they seek, 
 Now reckless which, so from that battle's rage 
 A present refuge. On their flying ranks 
 The victors press, and mark their course with blood. 
 
 But loud the trumpet of retreat resounds, 
 For now the westering sun with many a hue 
 Streak'd the gay clouds. 
 
 " Dimois !" the Maiden cried, 
 " Form we around yon stronger pile the siege. 
 There for the night encamping." So she said. 
 The chief to Orleans for their needful food. 
 And enginery to batter that huge pile, 
 Dismiss'd a troop, and round the Tournelles led 
 The host beleaguering. There they pitch theu' tents. 
 And plant their engines for the morrow's war. 
 Then to their meal, and o'er the cheerful bowl, 
 Recount the tale of danger; soon to rest 
 Betaking them, for now the night drew on. 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 ®|t (Bk\i\ §flaL 
 
 Transactions of the night. Attack of the Tournelles. The garrison 
 retreat to the tower on the bridge. Their total defeat there. 
 
 Now was the noon of night; and all was still, 
 Save where the sentinel paced on his rounds 
 Humming a broken song. Along the camp 
 High flames the frequent fire. The warrior Franks, 
 On the hard earth extended, rest their limbs 
 Fatigued; their spears lay by them, and the shield 
 Pillowed the helmed head: secure they slept. 
 And busy fancy in her dream renewed 
 The fight of yesterday. 
 
 But not to Joan, 
 But not to her, most wretched, came thy aid, 
 Soother of sorrows, Sleep ! no more her pulse, 
 
 • Amid the battle's tumult throbbing fast, 
 AUow'd no pause for thought. With clasped hands 
 And fixed eye she sat; the while aroimd 
 The spectres of the days departed rose, 
 A melancholy train ! upon the gale 
 The raven's croak was heard; she started up, 
 And passing through the camp with hast}'- step 
 Strode to the field of blood. 
 
 The night was cahn; 
 Fair as was ever on Chaldea's plain 
 When the pale moon-beams o'er the silvery scene 
 Shone cloudless, whilst the watchful shepherd's eye 
 Survey 'd the host of heaven, and mark'd them rise 
 Successive, and successively decay; 
 Lost in the stream of hght, as lesser springs 
 Amid Euphrates' current. The high wall 
 Cast a deep shadow, and her faltering feet 
 Stumbled o'er broken arms and carcasses ; 
 And sometimes did she hear the heavy groan 
 Of one yet struggling in the pangs of death. 
 
 : She reach'd the snot where Theodore had fallen 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 93 
 
 Before fort London's gate; but vainly there 
 Sought she the youth, on every clay-cold face 
 Gazing with such a look, as though she fear'd 
 The thing she sought. Amazement seiz'd the Maid, 
 For there, the victim of his vengeful arm, 
 Known by the buckler's blazon'd heraldiy, 
 Salisbury lay dead. So as the Virgin stood 
 Gazing around the plain, she marked a man 
 Pass slowly on, as burthened. Him to aid 
 She sped, and soon with unencumber'd speed 
 O'ertaking, thus bespake: " Stranger! this weight 
 Impedes thy progress. Dost thou bear away 
 Some slaughter'd friend ? or lives the sufferer 
 With many a sore wound gash'd ? oh ! if he lives 
 I will, with earnest prayer, petition heaven 
 To shed its healing on him !" 
 
 So she said, 
 And as she spake stretched forth her careful hands 
 To ease the burthen. " Warrior !" he replied, 
 " Thanks for this proffered succour : but this man 
 i Lives not, and I, with unassisted arm, 
 Can bear him to the sepulchre. Farewell ! 
 The night is far advanced; thou to the camp 
 Eeturn: it fits not darkling thus to stray." 
 
 " Conrade !" the Maid exclaim'd, for well she knew 
 1 His voice: — with that she fell upon his neck 
 • And cried, " my Theodore ! but wherefore thus 
 Through the dead midnight dost thou bear his corse ?" 
 
 "Peace, Maiden !" Conrade cried, " collect thy soul I 
 He is but gone before thee to that world 
 Whither thou soon must follow ! in the morn, 
 Ere yet from Orleans to the war we went, 
 He pour'd his tale of sorrow on mine ear 
 ' Lo, Conrade, where she moves — beloved Maid ! 
 Devoted for the realm of France she goes 
 Abandoning for this the joys of life, 
 Yea, life itself ! yet on my heart her words 
 Yibrate. If she must perish in the war, 
 I will not live to bear the dreadful thought. 
 Haply my arm had saved her. I shall go 
 Her unknown guardian. Conrade, if I fall. 
 And trust me, I have little love of life. 
 
94 JOAN OF AKC. 
 
 Bear me in secret from the gory fieM, 
 Lest haply I might meet her wandering eye 
 A mangled corse. She must not know my fate. 
 Do this last act of friendship — in the flood 
 Wlielm me : so shall she think of Theodore 
 Unanguish'd.' Maiden, I did vow with him 
 That I would dare the battle by thy side, 
 And shield thee in the war. Thee of his death 
 
 ; I hoped unknowing." 
 
 As the warrior spake, 
 He on the earth the clay- cold carcass laid. 
 With fixed eye the wi'etched Maiden gazed 
 The life-left tenement: his batter'd arms 
 Were with the night-dews damp; his brown hair clun ;■ 
 Gore-clotted in the wound, and one loose lock 
 Played o'er his cheek's black paleness. " Gallant yoi:lh !' 
 She cried, " I would to God the hour were como 
 When I might meet thee in the bowers of bliss ! 
 
 [ No, Theodore ! the sport of winds and waves. 
 Thy bod}^ shall not roll adown the stream. 
 The sea-wolf's banquet. Conrade, bear with me 
 The corse to Orleans, there in hallowed ground 
 To rest; the priest shall say the sacred prayer, 
 And hymn the requiem to his parted soul. 
 So shall not Elinor in bitterness 
 Lament that no dear friend to her dead child 
 Paid the last office." 
 
 From the earth they lift 
 The mournful burden, and along the plain 
 Pass with slow footsteps to the city gate. 
 The obedient sentinel, at Conrade's voice, 
 Admits the midnight travellers; on they pass, 
 Till in the neighbouring abbey's porch arrived. 
 They rest the lifeless load. 
 
 Loud rings the bell: 
 The awakened porter tmnis the heavy door. 
 To him the Virgm: " Father, from the slain 
 On yonder reeking field a dear-loved friend 
 
 I I bring to holy sepultm*e: chant ye 
 The requiem to his soul: to-morrow eve 
 Will I retarn, {.i. i in the narrow house 
 Behold him laid to rest." The father knew 
 The mission'd Maid, and himibly bow'd asbcnt. 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 95 
 
 Now from the city, o'er the shadowy plain, 
 Backward they bend their way. Erom silent thoughts 
 The Maid, awakening, cried : " There was a time, 
 When thinking on my closing hour of life, 
 
 ■ Though with resolved mind, some natural fears 
 Shook the weak frame; now that, the happy hour, 
 Wlien my emancipated soul shall burst 
 The cumbrous fetters of mortality. 
 Wishful I contemplate. Conrade ! my friend, 
 My wounded heart would feel another pang, 
 
 ' Shouldst thou forsake me !" 
 
 " Joan !" the chief replied, 
 " Along the weary pilgrimage of life 
 Together will we journey, and beguile 
 The dreary road, telling with what gay hopes 
 We in the mornmg eyed the pleasant fields 
 Vision'd before ; then wish that we had reach'd 
 The bower of rest !" 
 
 Thus communing, they gain'd 
 The camp, yet hush'd in sleep; there separating, 
 Each in the post allotted, restless waits 
 
 ^The day-break. 
 
 Morning came : dim through the shade 
 The first rays glimmer; soon the brightening clouds 
 Drink the rich beam, and o'er the landscape spread 
 The dewy light. The soldiers from the earth 
 
 , Leap up invigorate, and each his food 
 Eeceives, impatient to renew the war. 
 Dunois his javelin to the Tournelles points, 
 " Soldiers of France ! your English foes are there ;" 
 
 ' As when a band of hmiters, round the den 
 Of some wood-monster, point their spears, elate 
 In hope of conquest and the futm-e feast; 
 Wlien on the hospitable board their spoil 
 Shall smoke, and they, as the rich bowl goes romid. 
 Tell to their guests their exploits in the chase; 
 They with their shouts of exultation, make 
 The forest ring; so elevate of heart. 
 With such loud clamours for the fierce assault 
 The French prepare; nor, guarding now the lists. 
 Durst the disheartened English man to man 
 
 ; Meet the close conflict. From the barbican. 
 Or from the embattled wall they their yew bows 
 
96 JOAN OF AEG. 
 
 Bent forceful, and their deatli-frauglit enginery 
 Discharged; nor did the Gallic archers cease, 
 With well-directed shafts, their loftier foes 
 To assad: behind the guardian pavais fenced. 
 They at the battlements their arrows aim'd, 
 Showering an iron storm, whilst o'er the bayle. 
 The bayle now levell'd by victorious France, 
 Pass'd the bold troops with all their mangonels; 
 , Or tortoises,^'' beneath whose roofing safe, 
 They, filling the deep moat, might for the towers 
 Make fit foundation, or their petraries, 
 War-wclfs, and beugles, and that murderous sling. 
 The matafunda, whence the ponderous stone 
 Fled fierce, and made one wound of whom it struck. 
 Shattering the frame, so that no pious hand 
 Gathering his mangled limbs, might him convey 
 To where his fathers slept :^^ a dreadful train 
 Prepared by Salisbury over the sieged town 
 To hurl his ruin; but that dreadful train 
 Must hurl their ruin on the invaders' heads, 
 Such retribution righteous Heaven decreed. 
 
 Nor lie the English trembling, for the fort 
 Was ably garrison'd. Glacidas, the chief, 
 A gallant man, sped on from place to place. 
 Cheering the brave ; or if the archer's hand. 
 Palsied with fear, shot wide the ill-aim'd shaft. 
 Threatening the coward who betrayed himself. 
 He drove him from the ramparts. In his hand 
 The chief a cross-bow held; an engine dread 
 Of such wide- wasting fury, that of yore 
 The assembled fathers of the Christian chm'cli 
 Pronounced that man accm-s'd whose impious hand 
 Should point the mm-derous weapon. Such decree? 
 Befits the men of God to promulgate. 
 And with a warning voice, though haply vain. 
 To cry aloud and spare not, woe to them 
 Whose hands are full of blood ! 
 
 An English king. 
 The lion-hearted Eichard, their decree 
 First broke, and heavenly retribution doom'd 
 His fall by the keen quarrel; since that day 
 Frequent in fields of battle, and from far 
 To many a good knight, beai'iag his death wound 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 97 
 
 From hands unknown. Witli such an instrument, 
 Ai'm'd on the ramparts, Glacidas his eye 
 Cast on the assailing host. A keener glance 
 Darts not the hawk when from the feather'd tribe 
 He marks his victim. 
 
 On a Frank he fix'd 
 His gaze, who, kneeling by the trebuchet, 
 Charged its long sling with death. Him Glacidas 
 Secure behmd the battlements, beheld. 
 And strung his bow; then, bending on one knee. 
 He in the groove the feather'd quarrel placed. 
 And levelling Avith firm eye, the death-wound marlc'd. 
 The bow-string twang'd, on its swift way the dart 
 ^Vliizzed fierce, and struck, there where the helmet's clasps 
 Defend the neck; a weak protection now; 
 For through the tube that the pure air inhales 
 Pierced the keen shaft; blood down the unwonted way 
 Gush'd to the lungs : prone fell the dying man 
 Grasping, convuls'd, the earth: a hollow groan 
 In his throat struggled, and the dews of death 
 Stood on his livid cheek. The days of youth 
 He had passed peaceful, and had known what joys 
 Domestic love bestows, the father once 
 Of two fair infants; in the city hemm'd 
 Dm-ing the hard siege; he had seen their cheeks 
 Grow pale with famine, and had heard their cries 
 For bread ! his wife, a broken-hearted one. 
 Sunk to the cold grave's quiet, and her babes 
 With hunger pined, and followed ; he smwived, 
 A miserable man, and heard the shouts 
 Of joy in Orleans, when the Maid approach'd, 
 As o'er the corse of his last little one 
 He heap'd the unhallowed earth. To him the foe 
 Perform'd a friendly part, hastening the hour 
 Grief else had soon brought on. 
 
 The English chief. 
 Pointing again his arbalist, let loose 
 The string; the quarrel, di'iven by that strong blow. 
 True to its aim, fled fatal: one it struck 
 Dragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix'd 
 Deep in his liver ; blood and mingled gall 
 Flow'd from the wound; and writhing with keen pangs,. 
 Headlong he fell; he for the wintry hour 
 Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale: 
 
 H 
 
98 JOAN OF AEG. 
 
 A man in his small circle well-teloved. 
 None better laiew with prudent hand to guide 
 The vine's young tendi'ils, or at vintage time 
 To press the full-swoln clusters; he, heart-glad, 
 Taught his young boys the little all he knew, 
 Enough for happiness. The English host 
 Laid waste his fertile fields : he, to the war. 
 By want compell'd, adventur'd, in his gore 
 Now weltering. 
 
 Nor the Gallic host remit 
 Their eager efforts; some, with watery fence. 
 Beneath the tortoise roof'd, with engines apt 
 Drain painful; part, laden with wood, throw there 
 
 • Theii' buoyant burdens, laboui'ing so to gain 
 Eirm footing: some the mangonels supply. 
 Or charging with huge stones the murderous sling. 
 Or petraiy, or in the espringal 
 Eix the brass-winged arrows. Hoarse around 
 Eose the confused dm of multitudes. 
 Eearless along the ramparts Gargrave moved, 
 Cheering the English troops. The bow he bore; 
 The quiver rattled as he moved along. 
 He knew aright to aim the feathered shafts, 
 Well skiil'd to pierce the mottled roebuck's side, 
 O'ertaken in his flight. Him passing on, 
 Erom some huge martinet, a ponderous stone 
 
 / Crush'd: on his breast-plate falling, the vast force, 
 Shatter'd the bone, and with his mangled lungs 
 The fragnients mingled. On the sunny brow 
 Of a fair hill, wood-circled, stood his home; 
 A pleasant dwelling, whence the ample ken 
 Gazed o'er subjected distance, and surveyed 
 Streams, hills, and forests, fair variety ! 
 The traveller knew its hospitable towers, 
 Eor open were the gates, and blazed for all , 
 The friendly fii*e. By glory lured, the youth 
 Went forth; and he had bathed his falchion's edge 
 In many a Frenchman's gore; now crush'd beneath 
 The ponderous fragment's force, his mangled limbs 
 Lie quivering. 
 
 Lo ! towai'ds the levelled moat, 
 A moving tower"' the men of Orleans wheel, 
 ; Eom- stages elevate. Above was hung, 
 
 Equallmg the walls, a bridge; in the lower stage 
 
JOAN OF ARC, 99 
 
 The ponderous battering-ram: a troop, witliin, 
 
 Of archers, through the opening, shot their shafts. 
 
 In the loftiest part was Conrade, so prepar'd 
 
 To mount the rampart; for he loath'd the chase, 
 
 And loved to see the dappled foresters 
 
 Browse fearless on theu' lair, with friendlj eye. 
 
 And happy in beholding happiness, 
 
 Not meditating death : the bowman's art, 
 
 Therefore, he little knew, nor was he wont 
 
 To aim the arrow at the distant foe. 
 
 But uprear in close conflict, front to front, 
 
 His death-red battle-axe, and break the shield, 
 
 Tu'st in the war of men. There, too, the Maid 
 
 Awaits, impatient on the wall to wield 
 
 Her falchion. Onward moves the heavy tower. 
 
 Slow o'er the moat and steady, though the foe 
 
 Showered there their javelins, aim'd their engines there, 
 
 And from the arbalist the fire-tipt dart^^ 
 
 Shot lightning through the sky. In vain it flamed, 
 
 For well with many a reeking hide secured, 
 
 Pass'd on the dreadful pile, and now it reached 
 
 The wall. Below, with forceful impulse di'iven. 
 
 The iron-horned engine swings its stroke. 
 
 Then back recoils, whilst they within, who guide, 
 
 In backward step collecting all their strength, 
 
 Anon the massy beam, with stronger arm. 
 
 Drive full and fierce; so rolls the swelluig sea 
 
 Its curly billows to the unmoved foot 
 
 Of some huge promontory, whose broad base 
 
 Breaks the rough wave; the shiver'd surge rolls back, 
 
 Till, by the coming billow borne, it bm'sts 
 
 Again, and foams with ceaseless violence. 
 
 The wanderer, on the smmy clifl" outstretch'd, 
 
 Harks to the roaring surges, as they rock 
 
 His weary senses to forgetfulness. 
 
 But nearer danger threats the invaders now. 
 For on the ramparts, lowered from above, 
 The bridge reclines. An universal shout 
 Rose from the hostile hosts. The exultant Franks 
 Clamour then- loud rejoicing, whilst the foe 
 Lift up the warning voice, and call aloud 
 For speedy succour there, with deafening shout 
 Cheering their comrades. Not with louder din 
 
 h2 
 
100 JOAN OF AEG. 
 
 The mountain torrent flings precipitate 
 Its bulk of waters, though, amid the fall, 
 Shattered, and dashmg silvery from the rock. 
 
 Lo ! on the bridge he stands, the undaunted man, 
 Conrade ! the gathered foes along the w^all 
 Throng opposite, and on him point theu' pikes, 
 Crestmg with armed men the battlements. 
 He, undismayed, though on that perilous height. 
 Stood firm, and hurl'd his javelin; the keen point 
 Pierced through the destmed victim, where his arm 
 Join'd the broad breast : a wound that skilful care 
 j Haply had heal'd; but, him disabled now 
 ' For farther service, the unpitying throng 
 Of his tumultuous comrades from the wall 
 Thrust headlong. Nor did Conrade cease to hurl 
 His deadly javelins fast, for well within 
 ! The tower was stored with weapons, to the chief 
 Quickly supplied: nor did the mission'd j\Iaid 
 Eest idle from the combat; she, secure, 
 Aim'cl the keen quarrel, taught the cross-bow's use 
 By the willing mind that what it well deshes 
 Gains aptly: nor amid the numerous throng, 
 Though haply erring from their destm'd mark. 
 Sped her sharp arrows frustrate. From the tower 
 Ceaseless the bow-strings twang: the knights below. 
 Each by his pavais bulwark'd, thither aimed 
 Their darts, and not a dart fell wouiidless there; 
 So thickly throng'd they stood, and fell as fast 
 As when the monarch of the East goes forth 
 From Gemna's banks and the proud palaces 
 Of Delhi, the wild monsters of the wood 
 Die in the blameless warfare: closed within 
 The still-contracting circle, their brute force 
 Wasting in mutual rage, they perish there, 
 Or by each other's fury lacerate. 
 The archer's barbed arrow, or the lance 
 Of some bold youth of his first exploits vain. 
 Rajah or Omrah, for the war of beasts 
 Venturous, and learning thus the love of blood. 
 The shout of terror rings along the wall, 
 For now the French their scaling ladders place, 
 » And bearing high their bucklers, to the assault 
 * Mount fearless: from above the fuiious troops 
 
JOAN O^- AtlC. "^01 
 
 Hurl doAvn such weapons as inventive care 
 
 Or frantic rage supplies : huge stones and beams 
 
 Crush the bold foe; some, thrust adown the height. 
 
 Fall living to their death: some in keen pangs 
 
 And wildly-writhing, as the liquid lead 
 
 Gnaws thi'ough their members, leap down desperate. 
 
 Eager to cease from suffering. Still they mount. 
 
 And by theii- fellows'^ fate unterrified. 
 
 Still dare the perilous way. Nor dangerless 
 
 To the English was the fight, though from above 
 
 Easy to crush the assailants: them amidst 
 
 Fast fled the arrows; the large brass-wing'd darts. 
 
 There driven resistless from the esprmgal. 
 
 Keeping their impulse even in the wound, 
 
 "Whu'l as they pierce the victim. Some fall crush' d 
 
 Beneath the ponderous fragment that descends 
 
 The heavier from its height: some, the long lance. 
 
 Impetuous rushing on its viewless way, 
 
 Transfix'd. The death-fraught cannon's thundering roar 
 
 Convulsing au% the soldier's eager shout. 
 
 And terror's wild shriek echo o'er the plain 
 
 In dreadful harmony. 
 
 Meantime the chief. 
 Who equall'd on the bridge the rampart's height. 
 With many a well-aim'd javelin dealing death, 
 Made through the throng his passage: he advanced 
 In wary valour o'er his slaughtered foes, 
 On the blood-reeking wall. Him drawing near, 
 
 / Two youths, the boldest of the English host, 
 Prest on to thrust him from that perilous height; 
 At once they rush'd upon him: he, his axe 
 Dropping, the dagger di-ew : one through the throat 
 He pierced, and swinging his broad buckler round, 
 Dash'd down his comrade. So, unmoved he stood. 
 The sire of Guendolen, that daring man, 
 Corineus; grappling with his monstrous foe. 
 He the brute vastness held aloft and bore, 
 And headlong hurl'd, all shatter'd, to the sea, 
 Down from the rock's high summit, since that day 
 Him, hugest of the giants, chronicling. 
 Called Langoemagog. 
 
 The Maid of Arc 
 
 , Bounds o'er the bridge, and to the wind unfurls 
 Her hallowed banner. At that welcome sigfht 
 
IQ?, JO/J«- OF MIC. 
 
 A general shout of acclamation rose, 
 
 And loud, as when the tempest-tossing forest 
 
 Eoars to the roaring wind; then terror seiz'd 
 
 The garrison; and fired anew with hope. 
 
 The fierce assailants to their prize rush on 
 
 Resistless. Vainly do their English foes 
 
 Hurl there their beams, and stones, and javelins. 
 
 And fire-brands; fearless in the escalade, 
 
 Firm mount the French, and now upon the wall 
 
 ; Wage equal battle. 
 
 Burning at the sight 
 With indignation, Glacidas beheld 
 
 . His troops fly scattered; fast on every side 
 The foes up-rushing eager to their spoil; 
 The holy standard waving; and the Maid 
 Fierce in pursuit. " Speed but this arrow. Heaven !" 
 The chief exclaim'd, " and I shall fall content." 
 So saying, he his sharpest quarrel chose. 
 And fix'd the bow-string, and against the Maid 
 Levelling, let loose: her arm was rais'd on high 
 To smite a fugitive; he glanced aside, 
 Sliunrsing her deadly stroke, and thus receiv'd 
 
 • The chieftain's arrow: through his ribs it pass'd. 
 And cleft that vessel, whence the pm-er blood, 
 Through many a branching channel, o'er the frame 
 Meanders. 
 
 " Fool !" the enraged chief exclaim'd, 
 " Would she had slaia thee ! thou hast lived too long." 
 Again he aim'd his arbalist : the string 
 Struck forceful: swift the erring arrow sped. 
 Guiltless of blood, for lightly o'er the court 
 Bounded the warrior Virgin. Glacidas 
 Levelled his bow again; the fated shaft 
 
 I Fled true, and difiicultly through the mail 
 
 ' Pierced to her neck, and tmged its pomt with blood. 
 " She bleeds ! She bleeds !" exulting cried the chief; 
 " The sorceress bleeds ! Nor all her hellish arts 
 Can charm my arrows from their destined course." 
 Ill-fated man ! In vain, with murderous hand 
 Placing thy feathered quarrel in its groove, 
 Dream'st thou of Joan subdued ! She from her neck 
 Plucking the shaft unterrified, exclaim'd: 
 " This is a favour ! Frenchmen, let us on ! 
 \ Escape they camiot from the hand of God 1" 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 103 
 
 But Conrade, rolling round his angry eyes. 
 
 Beheld the English chieftain as he aim'd 
 
 Agam the bow: with rapid step he strode; 
 
 Nor did not Glaeidas the Frank perceive: 
 
 At him he drew the string: the powerless dart 
 
 Fell blunted from his buckler. Fierce he came 
 
 And lifting high his ponderous battle-axe, 
 
 Full on his shoulder drove the furious stroke 
 , Deep-buried in his bosom: prone he fell; 
 
 The cold au* rushed upon his heaving heart. 
 
 One whose low lineage gave no second name 
 
 Was Glaeidas, a gallant man, and still 
 ^ His memory in the records of the foe 
 
 Survives. 
 
 And now disheartened at his death 
 
 The vanquish'd English fly towards the gate, 
 
 Seeking the inner court, as yet in hope 
 ■ Again to dare the siege, and with their friends 
 
 Find present refuge there. Mistaken men ! 
 
 The vanquish'd have no friends ! defeated thus, 
 
 Brest by pursuit, in vain, with eager voice, 
 
 They call their comrades in the suppliant tones 
 
 Of pity now, now in the mdignant phrase 
 
 Of fruitless anger; they indeed within 
 ; Fast fi'om the ramparts on the victor troops 
 
 Hurl their keen javelins, — but the gate is barr'd — 
 
 The huge portcullis down ! 
 
 Then terror seiz'd 
 
 Their hopeless hearts: some, furious in despair, 
 
 Turn on their foes; fear-palsied, some await 
 » The coming death; some di'op the useless sword 
 
 And cry for mercy. 
 
 Then the Maid of Arc 
 
 Had pity on the vanquish'd; and she call'd 
 f Aloud, and cried unto the host of France, 
 
 And bade them cease from slaughter. They obeyed 
 
 The delegated damsel. Some there were 
 
 Apart that communed murmuring, and of these 
 
 Graville addi-ess'd her. " Mission'd Maid ! our troops 
 
 Are few in number; and to well secm-e 
 
 These many prisoners such a force demands, 
 
 As should we spare might shortly make us need 
 \ The mercy we bestow; not mercy then, 
 
 Eather to these our soldiers, cruelty. 
 
104 JOAN OF AKC. 
 
 Justice to them, to France, and to our king. 
 And that regard wise Nature has in each 
 Implanted of self-safety, all demand 
 Their deaths." 
 
 " Foul fall such evil policy !" 
 The indignant Maid exclaim'd. " I tell thee, chief, 
 
 -! God is with us ! hut God shall hide his face 
 From him who sheds one di'op of hmnan blood 
 In calm cold-hearted wisdom; him who weighs 
 The right and the expedient, and resolves, 
 Just as the Avell-pois'd scale shall rise or fall. 
 These men shall live — live to he happy, chief, 
 And in the latest hour of life, shall bless 
 Us who preserved. What is the conqueror's name. 
 Compared to this when the death horn- shall come ? 
 
 ; To think that we have from the murderous sword 
 Eescued one man, and that his heart-pour'd prayers. 
 Already with celestial eloquence, 
 Plead for us to the All-just !" 
 
 Severe she spake. 
 Then tmni'd to Conrade. " Thou from these our troops 
 Appoint fit escort for the prisoners: 
 I need not tell thee, Conrade, they are men. 
 Misguided men, led from their Httle hom.es. 
 The victims of the mighty ! thus subdued 
 They are oui- foes no longer : be they held 
 
 , In Orleans. From the war we may not spare 
 
 * Thy valour long." 
 
 She said: when Conrade cast 
 His eyes around, and mark'd amid the court 
 From man to man where Francis rush'd alonp-, 
 
 , Bidding them spare the vanquish 'd. Him he hail'd. 
 " The Maid hath bade me choose a leader forth 
 To guai'd the captives; thou shalt be the manj 
 For thou wilt guard them with due diligence. 
 Yet not forgetting they are men, our foes 
 No longer !" 
 
 Nor meantime the garrison 
 Ceas'd from the war; they, in the hour of need. 
 Abandoning their comrades to the sword, 
 A daring band, resolved to bide the siege 
 In desperate valour. Fast against the walls 
 The battering-ram drove fierce; the enginery 
 Ply'd at the ramparts fast; the catapults 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 105 
 
 Drove there their dreadful darts; the war-wolfs there 
 Hurl'd their huge stones ; and, through the kindled sky. 
 The engines showered their sheets of liquid fire. 
 
 " Feel ye not, comrades, how the ramparts shake 
 Beneath the ponderous ram's unceasing stroke ?" 
 Cried one, a venturous Englishman. " Our foes. 
 In woman-like compassion, have dismissed 
 A powerful escort, weakening thus themselves. 
 And giving us fair hope, in equal field, 
 Of better fortune. Sorely here annoyed, 
 And slaughtered hj their engines from afar. 
 We perish. Vainly does the soldier boast 
 Undaunted com^age and the powerful arm, 
 If thus pent up, like some wild beast he falls, 
 Mark'd for the hunter's arrows: let us rush 
 And meet them in the battle, man to man. 
 Either to conquer, or, at least, to die 
 A soldier's death." 
 
 " Nay, nay — not so," replied 
 One of less daring valour. " Though they point 
 Their engines here, our archers, not in vain. 
 Speed then- death-doing shafts. Let the strong walls 
 Fhst by the foe be won ; 'twill then be time 
 To meet them in the battle man to man. 
 When these shall fail us." 
 
 Scarcely had he spoke 
 When fuU upon his breast a ponderous stone 
 Fell, fierce impell'd, and di'ove him to the earth, 
 All shattered. Horror the spectators seiz'd, 
 For as the dreadful weapon shivered him. 
 His blood besprinkled round, and they beheld 
 His mangled lungs lie quivering ! 
 
 " Such the fate 
 Of those who trust them to their walls' defence," 
 Again exclaimed the soldier: " Thus they fall. 
 Betrayed by their own fears. Courage alone 
 Can save us." 
 
 Nor to draw them from the fort 
 Now needed eloquence; with one accord 
 They bade him lead to battle. Forth they rush'd 
 Impetuous. With such fury o'er the plain, 
 Swoha by the autumnal tempest, Yega roUs 
 His rapid waters, when the gathered storm, 
 
106 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 On the black hills of Cambria bursting, swells 
 The tide of desolation. 
 
 Then the Maid 
 Spake to the son of Orleans, " Let our troops 
 Fall back, so shall the English in pursuit 
 i Leave this strong fortress, thus an easy prey." 
 Time was not for long counsel. From the court, 
 Obedient to Dunois, a band of Franks 
 Eetreat, as at the irruption of their foes 
 /Disheartened; they, with shouts and loud uproar, 
 Eush to then- fancied conquest: Joan, the while. 
 Placing a small, but gallant garrison. 
 Bade them secm-e the gates: then forth she rush'd. 
 With such fierce onset charging on their rear. 
 That terror smote the English, and they wish'd 
 Again that they might hide them in their walls 
 Eashly abandoned; for now wheeling round. 
 The son of Orleans fought. All captainless, 
 lU-marshall'd, ill-directed, in vain rage. 
 They waste their furious efforts, falling fast 
 Before the Maid's good falchion and the sword 
 Of Com'ade : loud was heard the mingled somid 
 Of arms and men; the earth, that trampled late 
 By multitudes, gave to the passing wind 
 Its dusty clouds, now reek'd with their hot gore. 
 
 High on the fort's far summit Talbot mark'd 
 The fight, and call'd impatient for his arms. 
 Eager to rush to war; and scarce withheld: 
 For now, disheartened and discomfited. 
 The troops fled fearful. 
 
 On the bridge there stood 
 A strong-built tower, commanding o'er the Loire. 
 The traveller sometimes lingered on his way, 
 Markmg the playful tenants of the stream, 
 Seen in its shadow, stem the sea-ward tide. 
 This had the invaders won in hard assault, 
 Ere she the delegate of heaven, came forth 
 - And made them fear who never fear'd before. 
 
 Hither the English troops with hasty steps 
 . Eetir'd, j-et not forgetful of defence, 
 ' But waging still the war: the garrison 
 Them thus retreating saw, and open threw 
 Their guarded gates; and on the Gallic host, 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 107 
 
 Covering their vanquisli'd fellows, pour'd tlieir shafts 
 Check'd ia pursuit, they stopt. Then Graville cried, — 
 " 111, maiden, hast thou done ! those valiant troops 
 
 ■^ Thy womanish pity has dismissed, with us 
 Conjom'd might press upon the vanquish'd foes. 
 Though aided thus, and plant the lilied flag 
 Victorious on yon tower." 
 
 " Dark-minded man !" 
 The Maid of Orleans answered, " to act well 
 Brings with itself an ample recompence. 
 I have not rear'd the oriflamme^^ of death, 
 
 j^ The hutcher flag ! the banner of the Lord 
 Is this; and come what will, me it behoves, 
 Mindiul of that good power who delegates. 
 To spare the fallen foe: that gracious God 
 Sends me the minister of mercy forth, 
 Sends me to save this ravaged realm of France; 
 To England friendly as to all the world. 
 Foe only to the great blood-guilty ones. 
 The masters and the murderers of mankind." 
 
 She said, and suddenly threw off* her helm; 
 Her breast heaved high — her cheek grew red — her eyes 
 Flash'd forth a wilder lustre. " Thou dost deem 
 That I have illy spar'd so large a band. 
 Disabling from pursuit our weakened troops — 
 
 V God is with us :" she cried — " God is with us ! 
 
 ' Our champion manifest !" 
 
 Even as she spake. 
 The tower, the bridge, and all its multitudes, 
 
 * Sunlv with a mighty crash. 
 
 Astonishment 
 Seized on the"^" French — an universal cry 
 
 J Of terror burst from them. Crush'd in the fall. 
 Or by their armour whelm'd beneath the tide. 
 The sufferers sunk, or vainly plied then- arms, 
 Caught by some sinking wretch, who grasp'd them fast 
 And dragg'd them down to death : shrieking they sunk; 
 Huge fragments frequent dash'd with thundermg roar. 
 Amid the foammg current. From the fort 
 Talbot beheld, and gnash'd his teeth, and cm-sed 
 
 i The more than mortal Virgin; whilst the towers 
 Of Orleans echoed to the loud uproar. 
 And all who heard, trembled, and cross'd their breasts. 
 
108 JOAN OF AEC. 
 
 And as they hastened to the city walls, 
 Told fearfully their beads. 
 
 'Twas now the hour 
 When o'er the plain the pensive hues of eve 
 Shed their meek radiance; when the lowing herd, 
 Slow as they stalk to shelter, di'aw behind 
 The lengthening shades; and seeking his high nest 
 As heavily he flaps the dewy air, 
 The hoarse rook pours his not unpleasant note. 
 "'Now then, Dunois, for Orleans !" cried the Maid, 
 f *' And give we to the flames these monuments 
 ' Of soiTow and disgrace. The ascending flames 
 Shall to the dwellers of yon rescued town 
 Blaze with a joyful splendoui-, while the foe 
 Behold and tremble." 
 
 As she spake, they rush'd 
 To fire the forts; they shower their wild fire there. 
 And high amid the gloom the ascending flames 
 Blaze up; then joyful of their finish'd toil, 
 The host retire. Hush'd is the field of fight 
 As the calm'd ocean, when its gentle waves 
 Heave slow and silent, wafting tranquilly 
 The shattered fragments of the midnight wreck. 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 109 
 
 ^t fiiui soffit. 
 
 Transactions of the ni,2:ht. Jlurmurs, council and retreat of the 
 English. Advance of Burgundy to their assistance prevented. Buiial 
 of the dead. Their funeral oration pronounced by the Maid. 
 
 Fae tliroiigli the shadowy sky the ascending flames 
 Stream'd their fierce torrents, by the gales of night 
 Now curl'd, now flashing their long lightnings up. 
 That made the stars seem pale; less frequent now. 
 Through the red volumes the brief splendour shot. 
 And blacker waves roll'd o'er the darkened heaven. 
 Dismay'd amid the forts that yet remain'd. 
 The invaders saw, and clamoured for retreat. 
 Deeming that aided by invisible powers 
 ^ The Maid went forth to conquer. Not a sound 
 Moved on the air, but filled them with vague dread 
 Of unseen dangers; if the blast arose 
 Sudden, thi-ough every fibre a deep fear 
 Crept shivermg, and to theii- expecting minds 
 Silence itself was dreadful. One there was. 
 Who, learning wisdom in the hour of ill, 
 Exclaimed, "I marvel not, that. the Most High 
 Hath hid his fece fi-om England ! wherefore thus 
 Quitting the comforts of domestic life. 
 Swarm we to desolate this goodly land, 
 Makmg the drenched earth rank with human blood. 
 Scatter pollution on the winds of heaven ? 
 Oh ! that the sepulchre had closed its jaws 
 On that foul priest, "^^ that bad blood-guilty man, 
 ^ Who, trembling for the church's ill-got wealth, 
 I Bade Henry look on France, ere he had di-awn 
 The desolating sword, and sent him forth 
 To slaughter ! Sure he spake the will of God, 
 That holy hermit,'^' who in his career 
 Of conquest met the king and bade him 
 The work of death, before the wrath divine 
 Fell heavy on his head; and soon it fell. 
 
110 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 And sunk him to the gi-ave; and soon tliat wrath 
 On us, alike in sin, alike shall fall: 
 For thousands and ten thousands, by the sword 
 Cut off, and sent before the eternal Judge, 
 With all their unrepented crimes upon them. 
 Cry out for vengeance ! for the widow's groan, 
 Though here she groan unpitied or unheard, 
 Is heard in Heaven against us ! o'er this land, 
 For hills of human slain, unsepulchred. 
 Steam pestilence, and cloud the blessed sun ! 
 The wrath of God is on us — God has call'd 
 1 This Virgin forth, and gone before her path — 
 Our brethren, vainly valiant, fall beneath them. 
 Clogging with gore their weapons, or in the flood, 
 Whelm'd like the Egj^tian t}T.'ant's impious host, 
 Mangled and SAvoln, their blackened carcasses 
 Toss on the tossing billows ! We remain, 
 For yet our rulers will pursue the war. 
 We still remain to perish by the sword. 
 Soon to appear before the throne of God; 
 Lost, guilty wretches, hireling murderers, 
 Uninjur'd, unprovok'd, who dared to risk 
 The life his goodness gave us, on the chance 
 Of war, and in obedience to our chiefs, 
 Dui'st disobey our God." 
 
 Then terror seized 
 
 . The troops and late repentance : and they thought 
 The spirits of the mothers and their babes 
 Famish'd at Roan, sat on the clouds of night. 
 Circling the forts, to hail with gloomy joy 
 The hour of vengeance. 
 
 Nor the English chiefs 
 Heard their loud murmurs heedless: counselling, 
 , They met despondent. Suffolk, now their chief. 
 Since conquered by the arm of Theodore, 
 Fell Salisbury, thus began. 
 
 " It were now vain 
 Lightly of this our more than mortal foe. 
 To speak contemptuous. She has vanquish'd us. 
 Aided by HeU's leagued powers, nor aught avails 
 Man unassisted 'gainst the powers of Hell, 
 To dare the conflict : were it best remain 
 Waiting the doubtful aid of Bm*gundy, 
 
 * Doubtful and still delayed^ or from this scene. 
 
JOAN OF ARC. Ill 
 
 Scene of our shame, retreating as we may, 
 Yet struggle to preserve the guarded towns 
 Of Orleannois ?" 
 
 He ceas'd, and with a sigh 
 Struggling with pride that heav'd his gloomy hreast, 
 Talbot replied — " Our council little boots; 
 I For by the numbers now made bold in fear, 
 The soldiers will not fight, they will not heed 
 Our vain resolves, heart-withered by the spells 
 Of this accursed sorceress soon will come 
 The expected host from England: even now 
 i Perchance the tall bark scuds across the deep 
 
 That bears my son: young Talbot comes — he comes 
 
 . To find his sire disgraced ! but soon mine arm. 
 By vengeance nerved, and shame of such defeat. 
 Shall, fi-om the crest-fallen courage of yon witch, 
 Regain its ancient glory. Near the coast 
 Best is it to retreat, and there expect 
 
 ? The coming succour." 
 
 Thus the warrior spake. 
 Joy ran through all the troops, as though retreat 
 
 ; Were safety. Silently in ordered ranks 
 They issue forth, favoured by the deep clouds 
 That mantled o'er the moon. With throbbing hearts 
 Fearful they speeded on: some, thinking sad 
 Of distant England, and, now wise too late, 
 Cursing in bitterness that evil horn- 
 That led them from her shores : some in faint hope, 
 Callmg to mind the comforts of theii- home. 
 Talbot went musing on his blasted fame, 
 
 i Sullen and stern, and feeding on dark thoughts, 
 And meditatmg vengeance. 
 
 In the walls 
 Of Orleans, though her habitants with joy 
 
 I Humbly acknowledged the high aid of heaven, 
 Of many a heavy ill and bitter loss 
 Mindful, such mingled sentiments they felt, 
 As one from shipwreck saved, the fii'st warm glow 
 Of transport past, who contemplates himself, 
 Preserved alone, a solitary wretch. 
 Possessed of life, indeed, but reft of all 
 That makes man love to live. The chieftains shared 
 The social bowl, glad of the town relieved, 
 And communing of that miraculous Maid, 
 
112 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Wlio came, the saviour of tlie realm of France, 
 Wlien vanquisli'd iii the frequent field of shame. 
 Her bravest warriors trembled. 
 
 Joan the while 
 Foodless and silent to the convent pass'd: 
 
 f Coniade with her, and Isabel; both mute. 
 Yet gazing on her oft with eloquent eye. 
 Looking the consolation that they fear'd 
 To give a voice to. Now they reach'd the dome : 
 The glaring torches o'er the house of death 
 Stream'd a sad splendom\ Flowers and funeral herbs 
 
 . Bedeck'd the bier of Theodore : the rue, 
 
 / The dark green rosemary, and the violet, 
 
 That pluck'd like him withered in its first bloom. 
 
 Dissolved in sorrow, Isabel her grief 
 
 Pour'd copious; Conrade wept: the Maid alone 
 
 Was tearless, for she stood miheedingly, 
 
 Gazing the vision'd scene of her last hour, 
 
 Absorb'd in contemplation; from her eye 
 
 Intelligence was absent; nor she seem'd 
 
 To hear, though listening to the dirge of death. 
 
 Laid in his last home now was Theodore, 
 
 And now upon the coffin thrown, the earth 
 
 I Fell heavy: the Maid started — for the sound 
 Smote on her heart; her eye one lightning glance 
 Shot wild, and shuddering, upon Isabel 
 She hung, her pale lips trembling, and her cheek 
 As wan as though untenanted by life. 
 
 Then in the priest arose the earnest hope. 
 That weary of the world and sick with woe, 
 j The Maid might dwell with them a vestal vowed. 
 "Ah, damsel !" slow he spake, and cross'd his breast, 
 ** Ah, damsel ! favoured as thou art of Heaven, 
 Let not thy soul beneath its sorrow smk 
 Despondent; Heaven by sorroAV disciplines 
 The froward heart, and chastens whom it loves; 
 Therefore, companion of thj'- way of life, 
 Affliction thee shall Avean from this vain world, 
 Where happiness provokes the traveller's chase, 
 And like the midnight meteor of the marsh, 
 Allures his long and perilous pursuit, 
 Then leaves hun dark and comfortless. Maid ! 
 Fix thou thine eyes upon that heavenly dawn 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 113 
 
 Beyond the night of life ! thy race is run. 
 
 Thou hast delivered Orleans : now perfect 
 
 Thyself; accomplish all, and be the child 
 
 Of God. Amid these sacred haunts the gi'oan 
 / Of woe is never heard; these hallowed roofs 
 
 Ee-echo only to the pealing quire, 
 
 The chanted mass, and Virgin's holy hymn, 
 
 Celestial sounds ! secluded here, the soul 
 
 Eeceives a foretaste of her joys to come I 
 • This is the abode of piety and peace : 
 
 Oh ! be their inmate. Maiden ! come to rest, 
 / Die to the world, and live espous'd to Heaven !" 
 
 Then Conrade answered, " Father ! Heaven has doom'd 
 f This Maid to active virtue." 
 
 " Active !" cried 
 The astonish'd priest; "thou dost not know the toils 
 This holy warfare asks; thou dost not know 
 How powerful the attacks that Satan makes 
 By sinful nature aided ! dost thou deem 
 It is an easy task from the fond breast 
 To root affection out ? to burst the cords 
 That grapple to society the heart 
 Of social man ? to rouse the unwilling spirit. 
 That, rebel to devotion, faintly pours 
 The cold lip-worship of the wearying prayer ? 
 To fear and tremble at him, yet to love 
 A God of Terrors ? Maid, beloved of heaven ! 
 Come to this sacred trial ! share with us 
 The day of penance and the night of prayer ! 
 Humble thyseK ! feel thine own worthlessness, 
 A reptile worm ! before thy bh-th condenm'd 
 To all the horrors of thy Maker's wrath, 
 The lot of fallen mankind ! oh hither come ! 
 Humble thyself in ashes, so thy name 
 Shall live amid the blessed'' host of saints, 
 And unborn pilgrims at thy hallowed shrine 
 Pour forth their pious offerings." 
 
 " Hear me, priest !'* 
 Exclaim'd the awakened Maid; " amid these tombs, 
 t Cold as their clayey tenants, know, my heart 
 ' Must never grow to stone ! chill thou thyself. 
 And break thy midnight rest, and tell thy beads. 
 And labour through thy still repeated prayer; 
 
 X 
 
114 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Fear tliOu thy God of Ten-ors; spurn the gifts 
 He gave, and sepulclire thyself alive ! 
 But far more valued is the vine that bends 
 Beneath its swelling clusters, than the dark 
 And joyless ivy, round the cloister's wall 
 Wreatliing its barren arms. For me I know 
 Mine own worth, priest ! that I have well perform'd 
 My duty, and untrembling shall appear 
 f Before the just tribunal of that God, 
 Whom grateful Love has taught me to adore !" 
 
 Severe she spake, for sorrow in her heart 
 Had wrought unwonted sternness. From the dome 
 They past in silence; when, with hasty steps, 
 Sent by the assembled chieftains, one they met 
 Seekuig the mission'd Virgin, as alarm' d. 
 The herald of iU tidings. 
 
 " Holy Maid !" 
 He cried, " they ask thy counsel. Burgundy 
 Comes in the cause of England, and his troops. 
 Scarce three leagues from our walls, a fearful power, 
 Eest tented for the night." 
 
 " Say to the chiefs. 
 At mom I will be with them," she replied. 
 " Meantime their welfare well shall occupy 
 My nightly thoughts." 
 
 So saying, on she past. 
 Thoughtful and silent. A brief while she mus'd. 
 Brief, but sufficmg to impel the soul, 
 As with a strange and irresistible force. 
 To loftiest daring. " Conrade !" she exclaim'd, 
 . " I pray thee meet me at the eastern gate 
 ' With a swift steed prepared: for I must hence." 
 
 Her voice was calm; nor Conrade through the gloom 
 Saw the faint flush that witness'd on her cheek 
 \ High thoughts conceived. She to her home repair'd, 
 And with a light and unplumed casquetel 
 She hehn'd her head; hung Irom her neck"*^ the shield, 
 And forth she went. 
 
 Her Conrade by the wall 
 Awaited. " May I, Maiden, seek unblamed 
 ^ Whither this midnight journey ? may I share 
 " The peril ?" cried the warrior. She rejoin'd, 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 115 
 
 " This, Conrade, may not be. Alone I go. 
 That impulse of the soul that comes from God 
 Hath summon'd me. Of this remain assured. 
 If ought of patriot enterprise required 
 Associate fu-mness, thou shouldst be the man, 
 Best — last — and only friend I" 
 
 So up she sprung 
 And left him. He beheld the warden close 
 The gate, and listened to her com-ser's tramp, 
 I Till soon upon his ear the far-off sound 
 Tell faintly, and was lost. 
 
 Swift o'er the vale 
 Sped the good com-ser; eagerly the Maid 
 Gave the loose rein, and now her speed attain'd 
 The dark encampment. Through the sleeping ranhs 
 Onward she past. The trampling of the steed 
 Or mhigled with the soldier's busy dreams. 
 Or with vague terrors iill'd his startled sense. 
 Prompting the secret prayer. 
 
 So on she past 
 To where in loftier shade arose the tent 
 Of Bm-gundy : light leaping from her seat 
 She entered. 
 
 On the earth the chieftain slept. 
 His mantle scarf around him; armed all, 
 Save that his shield hung near him, and his helm: 
 And by his side, in warrior readmess, 
 The sheathed falchion lay. Profound he slept, 
 Nor heard the speeding courser's sounding hoof. 
 Nor entering footstep. " Burgundy," she cried, 
 " What, Burgundy ! awake !" He started up 
 And caught the gleam of arms, and to his sword 
 Reach'd the quick hand. But soon his upward glancp 
 ThriU'd him, for full upon her face the lamp 
 Stream'd its deep glare, and in her solemn look 
 Was most unearthly meaning. Pale she was. 
 But in her eye a saintly lustre beam'd, 
 And that most calm and holiest confidence 
 That guilt knows never. " Bm'gundy, thou seest 
 The Maid of Orleans !" 
 
 As she spake, a voice 
 Exclaim'd, " Die, sorceress !" and a knight rush'd m 
 Whose name by her illustrated yet lives, 
 Franquet of Arras. With uplifted arm 
 
 I 2 
 
116 JOAN OF AKC. 
 
 Furions he came; her buckler broke the bloTV, 
 And forth she flash'd her sword, and with a stroke 
 Swift that no eye could ward it, and of strength 
 No mail might blunt, smote on his neck, his neck 
 Unfenced, for he in haste aroused had cast 
 An armet^'* on; resistless there she smote 
 And to the earth prone fell the headless trunk 
 Of Franquet. 
 
 Then on Bm-gundy she fix'd 
 Her eye severe. " Go, chief, and thank thy God 
 ^ That he vnth. lighter judgments visits thee 
 Than fell on Sisera, or by Judith's hand 
 He wrought upon the Ass}T.-ian ! thank thy God 
 That when his vengeance smote the ruffian sons 
 Of England, equalled though thou wert in guUt, 
 Thee he has spared to work by penitence 
 And better deeds atonement." 
 
 Thus she spake. 
 Then issued forth, and bounding on her steed 
 Sped o'er the plain. Dark on the upland bank 
 The hedge-row trees distinct and colourless 
 Eose o'er the grey horizon, and the Loire 
 Fonn'd in its Avinding w^ay islands of light 
 Amid the shadowy vale, when now she reach 'd 
 The walls of Orleans. 
 
 From the eastern clouds 
 The sun came forth, as to the assembled chiefs 
 The Maiden past. Her bending thitherwards 
 , The Bastard met. " New perils threaten us," 
 ' He cried, " new toils await us; Burgundy " 
 
 " Fear not for Burgundy !" the Maid exclaim'd, 
 " Him Avill the Lord direct. Om- earliest scouts 
 
 : Shall tell his homeward march. What of the troops 
 
 * Of England?" 
 
 " They," the son of Orleans cried, 
 "By darkness favour'd, fled: yet not by flight 
 Shall England's robber sons escape the arm 
 Of retribution. Even now om* troops. 
 By battle unfatigued, unsatisfied 
 With conquest, clamour to pui'sue the foe." 
 
 The delegated damsel thus replied: 
 " So let them fly, Duuois ! but other toils 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 117 
 
 Than those of battle, these our hallowed troops 
 Await. Look yonder to that carnaged plain I 
 Behoves us there to delve the general grave. 
 Then, chieftain, for pursuit, when we have paid 
 The rites of burial to our fellow men. 
 And hymned our gratitude to that All-just •» 
 
 Who gave the conquest. Thou, meantime, dispatch 
 Tidings to Chinon: bid the king set forth. 
 That, crowning him before assembled France, 
 In Eheims delivered from the enemy, 
 I may accomplish all." 
 
 So said the Maid. 
 Then to the gate moved on. The assembled troops 
 Beheld their coming chief, and smote their shields, 
 Clamoming their admiration ; for they thought 
 That she would lead them to the instant war. 
 She waved her hand, and silence still'd the host. 
 Then thus the mission'd Maid, " Fellows in arms ! 
 We must not speed to joyful victory. 
 Whilst om- unburied comrades, on yon plain. 
 Allure the carrion bird. Give we this day 
 To our dead fiiends !" 
 
 Nor did she speak in vain; 
 For as she spake, the thirst of battle dies 
 In every breast, such awe and love pervade 
 The listening troops. They o'er the corse-strewn plain 
 Speed to their sad employment: some dig deep 
 The house of death; some bear the lifeless load; 
 One little troop search carefully around, 
 If haply they might find surviving yet 
 Some wounded wretches. As they labour thus, 
 They mark far off the iron-blaze of arms; 
 See distant ' tandards waving on the air. 
 And hear tiie clarion's clang. Then spake the Maid 
 To Conrade, and she bade him speed to view 
 The coming army; or to meet their march 
 With friendly greeting, or if foes they camo 
 With such array of battle as short space 
 Allowed: the warrior sped across the plain. 
 And soon beheld the bannered lilies wave. 
 
 Their chief was Richemont: he, when as he hoard 
 \ What rites employed the Virgin, straightw;iy bade 
 His troops assist in burial; they, though grieved 
 
118 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 At late arrival, and the expected day 
 Of conquest past, yet give their willing aid: 
 They dig the general grave, and thither bear 
 English or French alike commingled now, 
 
 \ And heap the mound of death. 
 
 ' Amid the plain 
 
 There was a little eminence, of old 
 Piled o'er some honoured chieftain's narrow house. 
 His praise the song had ceased to celebrate. 
 And many an unknown age had the long grass 
 Waved o'er the nameless mound, though barren now 
 Beneath the frequent tread of multitudes. 
 There, elevate, the martial Maiden stood. 
 Her brow unhelmed, and floating on the wind 
 Her long dark locks. The sUent troops around 
 Stood thickly throng'd, as o'er the fertile field 
 Billows the ripen'd corn. The passing breeze 
 Bore not a murmur from the numerous host. 
 Such deep attention held them. She began. 
 
 " Glory to those who in their country's cause 
 Fall in the field of battle ! Citizens, 
 I stand not here to mourn these gallant men, 
 Our comrades, nor with vain and idle phrase 
 Of pity and compassion, to console 
 The friends who loved them. They, indeed, who faU 
 Beneath oppression's banner, nierit well 
 Our pity; may the God of peace and love 
 Be merciful to those blood-guilty men 
 Who came to desolate the realm of France, 
 To make us bow the knee, and crouch like slaves, 
 Beibre a tyrant's footstool ! Give to these. 
 And to their wives and orphan little-ones 
 That on their distant father vainly cry 
 For bread, give these your pity. Wretched men. 
 Forced or inveigled from their homes, or driven 
 By need and hunger to the trade of blood; 
 Or, if with free and Avilling mind they came. 
 Most wretched — lor before the eternal throne 
 They stand, as hii'eling murderers arraigu'd. 
 But our dead comrades for then* freedom fought; 
 No arts they needed, nor the specious bribes 
 Of promise, to allure them to this fight, 
 This holy waifare ! them theii* parents sent, 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 119 
 
 And as they raised their streaming eyes to heaven, 
 Bade them go forth, and from the ruffian's sword 
 Save their grey hairs : these men tlieir wives sent forth, 
 Fix'd their last kisses on their armed hands, 
 And bade them in the battle think they fought 
 Tor them and for their babes. Thus rous'd to rage 
 By every milder feeling, they rush'd forth, 
 They fought, they conquer'd. To this high-rear'd mound 
 I The men of Orleans shall in after days 
 
 Bring their young boys, and tell them of the deeds 
 Our gallant friends achieved, and bid them learn 
 Like them to love then* country, and like them. 
 Should wild oppression pour again its tide 
 Of desolation, to step forth and stem 
 Fearless, the furious torrent, Men of France ! 
 Mourn not for these our comrades; boldly they 
 Fought the good fight, and that eternal One, 
 ' Wlio bade the angels harbinger his word 
 With * Peace on earth,' rewards them. We sm'vive. 
 Honouring theh' memories to avenge their fall 
 On England's ruffian hordes; in vain her chiefs 
 Madly will drain her wealth, and waste her blood. 
 To conquer this vast realm ! for, easier were it 
 To hurl the rooted mountain from its base. 
 Than force the yoke of slavery upon men 
 Determin'd to be Iree : yes, — let them rage, 
 And di*ain their country's wealth, and waste her blood. 
 And pour their hireling thousands on our coasts. 
 Sublime amid the storm shall France arise. 
 And like the rock amid sm'rounding waves, 
 Repel the rushing ocean — she shall wield 
 The thunder — she shall blast her despot foes." 
 
120 JOAN OP ARC. 
 
 ^t %t\\t]^ §00i 
 
 The English succours arrive. Battle of Patay. The King arrives. 
 The Poem, concludes with the coronation of Charies at ilheims. 
 
 Thus to the martyrs in theii? country's cause 
 The Maiden gave their fame ; and when she ceas'd. 
 Such murmur from the multitude arose, 
 As when at twilight hour the summer breeze 
 Moves o'er the elmy vale : there was not one 
 Who mourn'd with feeble sorrow for his friend, 
 Slain in the fight of freedom ; or if chance 
 Kemembrance with a tear sufFus'd the eye. 
 The patriot's joy flash'd through. 
 
 And now the rites 
 Of sepulture perform'd, the hymn to heaven 
 They chanted. To the town the Maid retuni'd, 
 Dunois with her, and Richemont, and the man, 
 Conrade, whose converse most the Virgin lov'd. 
 They of pursuit, and of the future war 
 Sat communing; when loud the trumpet's voice 
 Proclaim'd approaching herald. 
 
 " To the Maid," 
 Exclaim'd the messenger, " and thee, Dmiois, 
 Son of the chief he loved ! Du Chastel sends 
 Greeting. The aged warrior has not spared 
 All active efforts to partake your toil. 
 And serve his country; and though late arrivedj 
 He share not in the fame your arms acquire, 
 His heart is glad that he is late arrived. 
 And France preserved thus early. He were here 
 To join your host, and follow on their flight. 
 But Richemont is his foe. To that high lord 
 Thus says my master : We, thoiigh each to each 
 Be hostile, are alike the embattled sons 
 Of this our common country. Do thou join 
 The conquerhig troops, and prosecute success; 
 I will the while assault what guai'ded towns 
 
JOAN OP ARC. 121 
 
 Bedford yet holds in Orleannols; one day, 
 Perhaps the constable of France may leani 
 
 \ He wrong'd Du Chastel." 
 
 As the herald spalce. 
 The crimson current rush'd to Richemont's cheek. 
 " Tell to thy master," eager he replied, 
 
 ? " I am the foe of those court parasites 
 Who poison the king's ear. Him who shall serve 
 Our country in the field, I hold my friend: 
 
 / Such may Du Chastel prove." 
 
 So said the chief. 
 And pausing as the herald went his way, 
 Gaz'd on the Virgin. " Maiden ! if aright 
 I deem, thou dost not with a friendly eye 
 
 I Scan my past deeds." 
 
 Then o'er the damsel's cheek 
 A faint glow spread. " True, chieftain !" she replied, 
 " Eeport bespeaks thee haughty, of thy power 
 Jealous, and to the shedding human blood 
 
 / Eevengeful." 
 
 " Maid of Orleans !" he exclaim'd, 
 ** Should the wolf slaughter thy defenceless flock, 
 * Were it a crime if thy more mighty force 
 Destroyed the fell destroyer ? if thy hand 
 Had pierced the ruffian as he burst thy door 
 Prepar'd for midnight murder, wouldst thou feel 
 The weight of blood press heavy on thy soul ? 
 I slew the wolves of state, the murderers 
 Of thousands. Joan ! when rusted in its sheath 
 The sword of justice hung, blamest thou the man 
 That lent his weapon for the virtuous deed ?" 
 
 Conrade replied. "Nay, Eichemont, it were well 
 To pierce the ruffian as he burst thy doors; 
 
 ) But if he bear the plunder safely thence. 
 And thou shouldst meet him on the future day. 
 Vengeance must not be thine: there is the law 
 To punish ; and if thy impatient hand, 
 Unheard and uncondemn'd, should execute 
 Death on that man, justice will not allow 
 The judge in the accuser !" 
 
 " Thou hast said 
 
 \ Bight wisely, warrior!" cried the constable; 
 ** But there are guilty ones above the law, 
 
122 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Men whose black crimes exceed the utmost bonnd 
 Of private guilt; court vermin that buzz round 
 And fly-blow the king's ear, and make him waste. 
 In this most perilous time, his people's wealth 
 And blood: immers'd one while in criminal sloth, 
 • Heedless though ruin threat the realm they rule; 
 And now projecting some mad enterprise. 
 To certain slaughter send their wretched troops. 
 These are the men that make the king suspect 
 His wisest, faithfullest, best counsellors; 
 And for themselves and their dependents, seize 
 All places, and all profits; and they wrest 
 To their own ends the statutes of the land. 
 Or safely break them: thus, or indolent. 
 Or active, ruinous alike to France. 
 Wisely thou sayest, warrior, that the law 
 Should strike the guilty; but the voice of justice 
 Cries out, and brings conviction as it cries, 
 Whom the laws cannot reach the dagger should." 
 
 The Maid replied, *' I blame thee not, oh chief I 
 If, reasoning to thine own conviction thus. 
 Thou didst, well- satisfied, destroy these men 
 Above the law : but if a meaner one. 
 Self-constituting him the minister 
 Of justice to the death of these bad men, 
 Had wrought the deed, him would the laws have seized, 
 And doom'd a murderer — thee, thy power preserved ! 
 And what hast thou exampled ? Thou hast taught 
 All men to execute what deeds of blood 
 Their will or passion sentence: right and wropg 
 Confounding thus, and making power of all 
 
 . Sole arbiter. Thy acts were criminal; 
 
 ' Yet, Richemont, for thou didst them self- approved, 
 I may not blame the agent. Trust me, chiel^ 
 That when a people sorely are opprest, 
 The hour of violence will come too soon. 
 And he does wrong who hastens it. He best 
 Performs the patriot's and the good man's part, 
 Who, in the ear of rage and faction, breathes 
 The healing words of love." 
 
 Thus communed they: 
 Meantime, all panic-struck and terrified, 
 
 : The English m-ge their flight; by other thoughts 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 123 
 
 Possess'd than when, ehite with arrogance. 
 
 They dreamt of conquest, and the crown of France 
 
 At their disposah Of their hard-fought fields, 
 
 Of glory hardly-earn'd, and lost with shame. 
 
 Of friends and brethren slaughter'd, and the fate 
 
 Threatenmg themselves, they brooded sadl}^, now 
 
 Repentant late and vainly. They whom fear 
 
 Erst made obedient to their conquering march, 
 
 At their defeat exultant, wreak what ills 
 
 Their power allow 'd. Thus many a league they fled. 
 
 Marking their path with ruin, day by day 
 
 Leavuig the weak and wounded destitute 
 
 To the foe's mercy ; thinking of their home. 
 
 Though to that far-olf prospect scarcely hope 
 
 Could raise her sickly eye. Oh then what joy 
 
 Inspir'd anew their bosoms, when, like clouds 
 
 Moving in shadows down the distant hill. 
 
 They mark'd their coming succours ! in each heart 
 
 Doubt rais'd a busy tumult; soon they knew 
 
 The friendly standard, and a general shout 
 
 Burst from the joyful ranks; yet came no joy 
 
 To Talbot: he, with dark and downward brow. 
 
 Mused sternly, till at length arous'd to hope 
 
 Of vengeance, welcoming his warrior son. 
 
 He brake a sullen smile. 
 
 " Son of my age ! 
 Welcome young Talbot to thy first of fields, 
 Thy father bids thee welcome, though disgraced. 
 Baffled, and flying from a woman's arm ! 
 Yes, by my former glories, from a woman ! 
 The scourge of France ! the conqueror of men ! 
 Flying before a woman ! Son of Talbot, 
 Had the winds wafted thee a few days sooner. 
 Thou hadst seen me high in honoui', and thy name 
 Alone had scattered armies; yet, my child, 
 I bid thee welcome ! rest we here our flight. 
 And lift again the sword." ' 
 
 So spake the chief; 
 And well he counsell'd: for not yet the sun 
 Had reach'd meridian height, when, o'er the plain 
 Of Patay they beheld the troops of France 
 Speed in pursuit. Soon as the troops of France 
 Beheld the dark battalions of the foe 
 Shadowing the distant plain, a general shout 
 
124 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Burst from the expectant host, and on they prest. 
 
 Elate of heart and eager for the fight. 
 With clamours ominous of victory. 
 Thus urging on, one from the adverse host 
 Advanced to meet them : they his garb of peace 
 Knew, and they stayed them as the herald spake 
 His bidding to the chieftains. " Sirs," he cried, 
 " I bear defiance to you from the earl, 
 William of Sufiblk. Here on this fit plain. 
 He wills to give you battle, power to power, 
 
 ■ So please you, on the morrow." 
 
 " On the morrow 
 We will join battle, then," replied Danois, 
 " And God befriend the right !" then on the herald 
 A robe rich-furred and broidered he bestowed, 
 A costly guerdon. Through the army spread 
 The unwelcome tidings of delay : possessed 
 With agitating hopes they felt the hours 
 Pass heavily; but soon the night waned on, 
 And the loud trumpets' blare from broken sleep 
 Eoused them; a second time the thrilling blast 
 
 ) Bade them be armed, and at the third deep sound 
 They ranged them in their ranks. From man to man 
 With pious haste hurried the confessor 
 To shrive'^^ them, lest with unprepared souls 
 They to their death might go, Dunois meantime 
 Bode through the host; the shield of dignity 
 
 . Before him borne, and in his hand he held 
 The white wand of command. The open helm 
 Disclosed that e3'e that tempered the strong lines 
 Of steady valour, to obedient awe 
 Winnmg the will's assent. To some he spake 
 Of late-earned glory; others, new to war, 
 He bade bethink them of the feats achieved 
 When Talbot, recreant to his former fame. 
 Fled from beleaguer'd Orleans. Was there one 
 Whom he had known in battle ? by the hand 
 Him did he take, and bid him on that day 
 Summon his wonted courage, and once more 
 Support hit: chief and comrade. Happj^ he 
 Who caught his glance, or from the chieftain's lips 
 Heard his own name ! joy more inspiriting 
 Fills not the Persian's soul, when sure he deems 
 That Mitln-a hears propitiously his prayer, 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 125 
 
 And o'er the scattered cloud of morning pours 
 A brighter ray responsive. 
 
 Then the host 
 Partook due food, this their last meal belike 
 Eeceiving with such thoughtful doubts, as make 
 The soul, impatient of uncertainty, 
 
 ^ Eush eager to the event; prepared thus 
 Upon the grass the soldiers laid themselves. 
 Each in his station, wtiiting there the sound 
 Of onset, that in undiminished strength 
 Strong, they might meet the battle:'*'' silent some. 
 Pondering the chances of the coming day. 
 Some whiling with a careless gaiety 
 The fearful pause of action. Thus the French 
 In such array and high in confident hope 
 Await the signal ; whilst, with other thoughts. 
 And ominous awe, once more the invading host 
 
 \ Prepare them in the field of fight to meet 
 The Maid of Gocl. Collected in himself 
 Appeared the might of Talbot. Through the ranks 
 
 . He stalks, reminds them of their former fame, 
 
 ^ Their native land, their homes, the Mends they loved. 
 All the rewards of this day's victory. 
 But awe had fill'd the English, and they struck 
 Faintlj^ their shields; for they who had beheld 
 The hallowed banner with celestial light 
 Irradiate, and the missioned Maiden's deeds, 
 Felt their hearts sink within them, at the thought 
 Of her near vengeance ; and the tale they told 
 
 ' Eoused such a tumult in the new-come troops. 
 As fitted them for fear. The aged chief 
 Beheld their drooping valour: his stern brow, 
 Wrinkled with thought, bewray'd his inw^ard doubts: 
 Still he was firm, though all might fly, resolved 
 That Talbot should retrieve his old renown. 
 And period life with glory. Yet some hope 
 Inspired the veteran, as across the plain 
 Casting his eye, he marked the embattled strength 
 J Of thousands ; archers of unequalled skill, 
 Brigans, and pikemen, from whose lifted points 
 A fearful radiance flashed, and young esquires. 
 And high-born warriors, jjright in blazoned arms. 
 Nor few, nor tameless were the English chiefs: 
 In many a field victorious, he was there. 
 
126 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 The gartered FastolfFe; Huiigerford, and Scales, 
 
 Men who had seen the hostile squadrons fly 
 
 Before the arms of England. Suflolk there, 
 
 The haughty chieftain towered ; blest had he fallen 
 
 Ere yet a courtly minion he was marked 
 
 By public hatred, and the murderer's name ! 
 
 There, too, the son of Talbot, young in ai^ns. 
 
 Moved eager, he, at many a tournament, ' ^ 
 
 With matchless force, had pointed his strong lancei 
 
 O'er all opponents, victor: confident 
 
 In strength, and jealous of his future fame, 
 
 His heart beat high for battle. Such array 
 
 Of marshalled numbers fought not on the field 
 
 Of Crecy, nor at Poictiers ; nor such force 
 
 \ Led Henry to the fight of Azincour, 
 
 ' When thousands fell before him. 
 
 Onward move 
 The host of France. It was a goodly sight 
 To see the embattled pomp, as with the step 
 Of stateliness the barbed steeds came on: 
 
 " To see the pennons^^ rolling their long waves 
 Before the gale; and banners broad and bright 
 Tossing their blazonry; and high-plumed chiefs; 
 Vidames, and seneschals, and cliastellains. 
 Gay with their bucklers' gorgeous heraldry. 
 And silken surcoats on the buoyant wind 
 Billowing. 
 
 And now the knights of France dismount. 
 For not to brutal strength they deemed it right 
 
 , To trust their fame and their dear country's weal; 
 
 ' Rather to manly courage, and the glow 
 Of honourable thoughts, such as inspire 
 Ennobling energy. Unhors'd, unspurr'd. 
 Then* javelins lessen'd to a wieldy length, 
 They to the foe advanced. The Maid alone. 
 Conspicuous on a coal-black courser, meets 
 
 . The war. They moved to battle with such sound 
 
 ' As rushes o'er the vaulted firmament. 
 When from his seat, on the utmost verge of heaven 
 That overhangs the void, father of winds ! 
 Drsesvelger starting, rears his giant bulk, 
 And from his eagle pinions shaliiCs the storm. 
 High on her stately steed the martial Maid 
 Rode foremost of the war : her burnish'd arms 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 127 
 
 Shone like the "brook that o'er its pehbled course 
 
 Euns glittering gaily to the noon-tide sun. 
 
 Her foaming courser, of the guiding hand 
 
 Impatient, smote the earth, and toss'd his mane, 
 
 And rear'd aloft with many a froward bound, 
 
 Then answered to the rein with such a step, 
 
 As, in submission, he were proud to show 
 
 His unsubdued strength. Slow on the air 
 
 Waved the white plumes that shadow'd o'er her helm. 
 
 Even such, so fair, so terrible in arms 
 
 Pelides moved from Scyros, where, conceal'd 
 
 He lay obedient to his mother's fears 
 
 A seemly virgin ; thus the youth appear'd 
 
 Terribly graceful, when upon his neck 
 
 Deidameia hung, and with a look 
 
 That spake the tumult of her troubled soul, 
 
 Fear, anguish, and upbraiding tenderness. 
 
 Gazed on the father of her unborn babe. 
 
 An English knight, who, eager for renown. 
 Late left his peaceful mansion, mark'd the Maid, 
 
 . Her power miraculous, and fearful deeds, 
 
 ' He from the troops had heard incredulous. 
 And scoff'd their easy fears, and vow'd that he, 
 Proving the magic of this dreaded girl 
 In equal battle, wou.ld dissolve the speU, 
 Powerless oppos'd to valour. Forth he spurr'd 
 Before the ranks ; she mark'd the coming foe, 
 And fix'd her lance in rest, and rush'd along. 
 
 . Midway they met ; full on her buckler driven, 
 
 I Shiver'd the English spear : her better force 
 Drove the brave foeman senseless from his seat. 
 Headlong he fell, nor ever to the sense 
 Of shame awoke, for rushing multitudes 
 Soon crush'd the helpless warrior. 
 
 Then the Maid 
 Eode through the thickest battle : fast they fell. 
 Pierced by her forceful spear. Amid the troops 
 
 I Plunged her strong war-horse, by the noise of arms 
 Elate and rous'd to rage, he tramples o'er. 
 Or with the lance protended from his front, 
 Thrusts dawn the thronging squadrons. Where she turns 
 The foe tremble and die. Such ominous fear 
 Seizes the traveller o'er the trackless sands, 
 
128 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Who marks the dread simoom across the waste 
 Sweep its swift pestilence: to earth he falls, 
 Nor dares give utterance to the inward prayer. 
 Deeming the genius of the desert breathes 
 The purple blast of death. 
 
 Such was the sound 
 As when the tempest, mingling air and sea, 
 Flies o'er the uptorn ocean : dashing high 
 Their foamy heads amid the incumbent clouds, 
 The madden'd billows, with their deafenuig roar. 
 Drown the loud thunder's peal. In every form 
 Of horror, death was there. They fall, transfix 'd 
 By the random arrow's point, or herce-thrust lance. 
 Or sink, all battered by the ponderous mace: 
 Some from their coursers thrown, lie on the earth. 
 Unwieldy in their arms, that, weak to save. 
 Protracted all the agonies of death. 
 But most the English fell, by their own fears 
 Betrayed ; for fear the evil that it di-eads 
 Increases. Even the chiefs, who many a day 
 Had met the war and conquered, trembled now, 
 Appall'd by her, the Maid mu-aculous. 
 As the blood-nurtured monarch of the wood, 
 ' That o'er the wilds of Afric, in his strength 
 Resistless ranges, when the mutinous clouds 
 Bui'st, and the lightnings through the midnight sky- 
 Dart their red fires, lies fearful in his den, 
 And howls in terror to the passing storm. 
 
 But Talbot, fearless where the bravest feared, 
 Mowed do^vn the hostile ranks. The chieftain stood 
 ' Like the strong oak, amid the tempest's rage. 
 That stands unharm'd, and while the forest falls. 
 Uprooted round, lifts its high head aloft. 
 And nods majestic to the warring wind. 
 He fought, resolved to snatch the shield of death 
 And shelter him from shame. The very herd 
 Who fought near Talbot, though the Yii'gin's name 
 Made their cheeks pale, and drove the curdling blood 
 Back to their hearts, caught from his daring deeds 
 . New force, and went like eaglets to the prey 
 -* Beneath their mother's wing: to him they look'd. 
 Their tower of strength, and followed where his sword 
 Made through the foe a way. Nor did the son 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 129 
 
 Of Talbot shame his lineage ; by his sire 
 f Emulous he strove, like the young lionet 
 ' When first he bathes his murderous jaws in blood. 
 They fought intrepid, though amid their ranks 
 Fear and confusion triumphed ; for such awe 
 Possess'd the English, as the Etruscans felt, 
 When eelf-devoted to the infernal gods 
 The gallant Decius stood before the troops, 
 Eobed in the victim garb of sacrifice, 
 And spake aloud, and call'd the shadowy powers 
 To give to Rome the conquest, and receive 
 Their willing prey ; then rush'd amid the foe, 
 And died upon the hecatombs he slew. 
 
 But hope inspir'd the assailants. XaintraiUes there 
 Spread fear and death ; and Orleans' valiant son 
 
 ( Fought as when Warwick fied before his arm. 
 O'er all pre-eminent for hardiest deeds 
 Was Conrade. Where he drove his battle-axe, 
 Weak was the buckler or the helm's defence, 
 
 • Hauberk, or plated mail ; through all it pierced, 
 Besistless as the forked flash of heaven. 
 The death-doom'd foe, who mark'd the coming chief. 
 Felt such a chill run through his shivering frame, 
 As the night traveller of the Pyrenees, 
 Lone and bewildered on his wintry way, 
 When from the mountains round reverberates 
 The hungry wolves' deep yell ; on every side, 
 Their fierce eyes gleammg as with meteor fires, 
 The famish'd troop come round : the affrighted mule 
 Snorts loud with terror, on his shuddering limbs 
 The big sweat starts, convulsive pant his sides. 
 Then on he rushes, wild in desperate speed. 
 
 Him dealing death an English knight beheld. 
 And spurr'd his steed to cru.sli him: Conrade leap'a 
 I Lightly aside, and through the warrior's greeves 
 Fixed a deep wound : nor longer could the foe, 
 Tortur'd with anguish, guide his mettled horse, 
 Or his rude plunge endure ; headlong he fell, 
 And perish'd. In his castle-hall was hung 
 \ On high his father's shield, with many a dint 
 Graced on the blood-drench'd field of Azincour: 
 His deeds the son had hexird; and when a boy, 
 
130 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Listening delighted to the old man's tale 
 His little hand would lift the weighty spear 
 In warlike pastime : he had left behind 
 An infant offspring, and did fondly deem 
 He, too, in age, the exploits ot his youth 
 Should tell, and in the stripling's bosom rouse 
 The fire of glory. 
 
 Conrade the next foe 
 Smote where the heaving membrane separates 
 The chambers of the trunk. The dying man, 
 In his lord's castle dwelt, for many a year, 
 A well-beloved servant: he could sing 
 Carols for Shrove-tide, or for Candlemas, 
 Songs for the "VYassail, and when the boar's head, 
 Crown'd with gay garlands, and with rosemary, 
 Smoked on the Christmas board : he went to war 
 Following the lord he loved, and saw him iall 
 Beneath the arm of Conrade, and expir'd, 
 Slain on his master's body. 
 
 Nor the fight 
 Was doubtful long. Fierce on the invading host 
 Press the French troops impetuous, as of old. 
 When, pouring o'er his legion slaves on Greece, 
 The Eastern despot bridged the Hellespont, 
 The rushing sea against the mighty pile 
 Eoll'd its full weight of waters ; far away 
 The fearful satrap mark'd on Asia's coasts 
 The floating fragments, and with ominous fear 
 Trembled for the great king. 
 
 Still Talbot strove. 
 His foot firm planted, his uplifted shield 
 Fencing that breast that never yet had known 
 The throb of fear. But when the warrior's eye, 
 ^ Quick glancing round the fight, beheld the foe 
 Pressing to conquest, and his heartless troops 
 Striking with feebler force in backward step, 
 Then o'er his cheek he felt the patriot flush 
 Of shame, and loud he lifted up his voice, 
 And cried, " Fly, cravens ! leave your aged chief 
 Here in the front to perish ! his old limbs 
 Are not like yours, so supple in the flight.r 
 Go tell your countrymen how ye escaped 
 When Talbot feU !" 
 
 In vain the warrior spake, 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 131 
 
 In thie uproar of the fight his voice was lost ; 
 And they, the nearest, who had heard, beheld 
 The martial Maid approach, and every thought 
 
 ' Was overwhelm'd in terror. But the son 
 Of Talbot marked her thus across the plain 
 Careering fierce in conquest, and the hope 
 Of glory rose within him. Her to meet 
 He spurr'd his horse, by one decisive deed 
 Or to retrieve the battle, or to fall 
 With honour. Each beneath the other's blow 
 Bowed down ; their lances shivered with the shock. 
 To earth their coursers fell: at once they rose, 
 He from the saddle-bow his falchion caught 
 Rushing to closer combat, and she bared 
 
 i The lightning of her sword. In vain the youth 
 Essayed to pierce those arms that even the power 
 Ot time was weak to injure: ahe the while 
 Through many a wound beheld her foeman's blood 
 Ooze fast. "Yet save thee, warrior I" cried the Maid, 
 " Me canst thou not destroy : be timely wise, 
 
 I And live !" He answered not, but lifting high 
 His weapon, drove with fierce and forceful arm 
 Full on the Virgin's helm : fire from her eyes 
 riash'd with the stroke : one step she back recoiled. 
 Then in his breast plunged deep the sword of death. 
 
 Him falling Talbot saw. On the next foe, 
 ' With rage and anguish wild, the warrior turned ; 
 His ill-directed weapon to the earth 
 Drove down the unwounded Frank : he lifts the sword 
 And through his all-in-vain imploring hands 
 Cleaves the poor suppliant. On that dreadful day 
 / The sword of Talbot,'^'^ clogged with hostile gore, 
 Made good its vaunt. Amid the heaps his arm 
 Had slain, the chieftain stood and swayed around 
 His furious strokes : nor ceased he from the fight, 
 Though now discomfited the English troops 
 Fled fast, all panic-struck and spiritless ; 
 And mingling with the routed, Fastolfi'e fled, 
 I Fastolffe, all fierce^^ and haughty as he was, 
 i False to his former fame ; for he beheld 
 The Maiden rushing onward, and such fear 
 Ean through his frame, as thrills the African, 
 When, grateful solace in the sultry hour, 
 
132 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 He rises on the buoyant billow's breast, 
 If then his eye behold the monster shark 
 Gape eager to devour. 
 
 But Talbot now 
 A. moment paused, for bending thitherwards 
 He mark'd a warrior, such as well might ask 
 i His utmost force. Of strong and stately port 
 The onward foeman moved, and bore on high 
 A battle-axe, in many a field of blood 
 Known by the English chieftain. Over heaps 
 Of slaughtered, strode the Frank, and bade the troops 
 Retire from the bold earl : then Conrade spake. 
 " Vain is thy valour, Talbot 1 look around. 
 See where thy squadrons fly! but thou shalt lose 
 ■ No glory by then* cowardice subdued, 
 Performing well thyself the soldier's part." 
 
 "And let them fly!" the indignant earl exclaimed, 
 " And let them fly ! but bear thou witness, chief! 
 That guiltless of this day's disgrace, I fell, 
 i But, Frenchman ! Talbot will not tamely fall. 
 Or unrevenged." 
 
 So saying, for the war ; 
 
 He stood prepared : nor now with heedless rage 
 The champions fought, for either knew full well 
 , His foeman's prowess : now they aim the blow 
 ' Insidious, with quick change then drive the steel 
 Fierce on the side exposed. The unfaithful arms 
 Yield to the strong-driven edge ; the blood streams down 
 Their battered mails. With swift eye Conrade marked 
 The lifted buckler, and beneath imjDeird 
 His battle-axe ; that instant on his helm 
 I The sword of Talbot fell, and with the blow 
 Shivered. "Yet yield thee, Engiislnnan!" exclaimed 
 The generous Frank — " vain is this bloody strife : 
 .Me shouldst thou conquer, little would my death 
 ^ Avail thee, weak and wounded!" 
 
 " Long enough 
 Talbot has lived," replied the sullen chief: 
 " His hour is come ; yet shalt not thou survive 
 To glory in his fall!" So, as he spake, 
 \ He lifted from the ground a massy sjiear, 
 And rushed again to battle. 
 
 Now more fierce 
 
JOAN OP ARC. 13"^ 
 
 The conflict raged, for careless of himself, 
 And desperate, Talbot fought. Collected still 
 Was Conrade. Wheresoe'er his foeman aimed 
 
 j His barbed javelin, there he swung around 
 The guardian shield : the long and vain assault 
 Exhausted Talbot now ; foredone with toil 
 He bare his buckler low for weariness, 
 His buckler now splintered with many a stroke 
 Fell piecemeal ; from his riven arms the blood 
 / Streamed fast : and now the Frenchman's battle-axe 
 Drove unresisted through the shieldless mail. 
 Backward the Frank recoiled. " Urge not to death 
 This fruitless contest," cried he ; " live, oh chief! 
 Are there not those in England who would feel 
 Keen anguish at thy loss ? a wife perchance 
 Who trembles for thy safety, or a child 
 Needing a father's care !" 
 
 Then Talbot's heart 
 Smote him. "Warrior!" he cried, "if thou dost think 
 That life is worth preserving, hie thee hence, 
 
 I And save thyself: I loath this useless talk." 
 
 So saying, he addressed him to the fight, 
 
 Impatient of existence : from their arms 
 
 Flashed fire, and quick they panted ; but not long 
 
 Endured the deadly combat. With full force 
 ' Down through his shoulder even to the chest, 
 
 Conrade impelled the ponderous battle-axe ; 
 
 And at that instant underneath his shield 
 \ Beceived the hostile spear. Prone fell the earl, 
 
 Even in his death rejoicing that no foe 
 
 Should live to boast his fall. 
 
 Then with faint hand 
 
 Conrade unlaced his helm, and from his brow 
 
 Wiping the cold dews, ominous of death, 
 / He laid him on the earth, thence to remove, 
 
 While the long lance hung heavy in his side, 
 
 Powerless. As thus beside his lifeless foe 
 
 He lay, the herald of the English earl 
 
 With faltering step drew near, and when he saw 
 
 His master's arms, " Alas I and is it you. 
 
 My lord ?" he cried. " God pardon you your sins I 
 
 I have been forty years your officer, 
 I And time it is I should surrender now 
 
134 JOAN OF ABC. 
 
 The ensigns of my office !" So he said, 
 
 And paying thus his rite of sepulture, 
 
 Threw o'er the slaughtered chief his blazoned'® coat. 
 
 Then Conrade thus bespake him : " Englishman, 
 
 Do for a dying soldier one kind act ! 
 
 Seek for the Maid of Orleans, bid her haste 
 
 Hither, and thou shalt gain what recompence 
 
 It pleases thee to ask." 
 
 The herald soon 
 Meeting the missioned Virgin, told his tale. 
 Trembling she hastened on, and when she knew 
 The death-pale face of Conrade, scarce could Joan 
 Lift up the expiring warrior's heavy hand, 
 And press it to her heart. 
 
 " I sent for thee, 
 My friend !" with interrupted voice he cried^ 
 " That I might comfort this my dying hour 
 With one good deed. A fair domain is mine ; 
 Let Francis and his Isabel possess 
 
 , That, mine inheritance." He paused awhile 
 
 Struggling for utterance ; then with breathless speed. 
 And pale as him he mourned for, Francis came, 
 And hung in silence o'er the blameless man, 
 
 . Even with a brother's sorrow : he pursued, 
 " This Joan will be thy care. I have at home 
 An aged mother — Francis, do thou soothe 
 Her childless age. Nay, weep not for me thus : 
 Sweet to the wretched is the tomb's repose !" 
 
 So saying, Conrade drew the javelin forth 
 And died without a groan. 
 
 By this the scouts, 
 Forerunning the king's march, upon the plain 
 
 ., Of Patay had arrived ; of late so gay 
 With marshalled thousands in their radiant arms, 
 And streamers glittering in the noon-tide sun, 
 And blazon'd shields, and gay accoutrements. 
 The pageantry of murder : now defiled 
 With mingled dust and blood, and broken arms, 
 And mangled bodies. Soon the monarch joins 
 His victor army. Eound the royal flag, 
 TJprear'd in conquest now, the chieftains flock, 
 
 I Profi'ering their eager service. To his arms, 
 Or wisely fearful, or by speedy force 
 
JOAN OF ARC. 135^ 
 
 Compelled, the embattled towns submit and own 
 Their rightful king. Baugenci strives in vain: 
 Jenville and Mehun yield ; from Sully's wall 
 Hurl'd is the bannered lion : on they pass. 
 Auxerre, and Troyes, and Chalons, ope their gates, 
 
 I And by the mission'd Maiden's rumoured deeds 
 
 ' Inspirited, the citizens of Rheims 
 Feel their own strength ; against the English troops 
 With patriot valour, irresistible, 
 They rise, they conquer, and to their liege lord 
 } Present the city keys. 
 
 The morn was fair 
 When Eheims re-echoed to the busy hum 
 Of multitudes, for high solemnity 
 
 \ Assembled. To the holy fabric moves 
 The long procession, through the streets bestrewn 
 With flowers and laurel boughs. The courtier throng 
 Were there, and they in Orleans, who endured 
 The siege right bravely ; Gaucour, and La Hire 
 The gallant Xaintrailles, Boussac, and Chabannes, 
 La Fayette, name that freedom still shall love, 
 Alencon, and the bravest of the brave, 
 The Bastard Orleans, now in hope elate, 
 
 ■ Soon to release from hard captivity 
 A dear-beloved brother ; gallant men, 
 And worthy of eternal memory ; 
 For they, in the most perilous times of France, 
 Despaired not of their country. By the king 
 The delegated damsel passed alone 
 [ Clad in her batterea arms. She bore on high 
 Her hallowed banner to the sacred pile. 
 And fixed it on the altar, whilst her hand 
 Poured on the monarch's head the mystic oil,^* 
 Wafted of yore by milk-white dove from heaven, 
 (So legends say) to Clovis, when he stood 
 At Eheims for baptism ; dubious since that day, 
 When Tolbiac plain reek'd with his warriors' blood, 
 And fierce upon their flight the Alemanni prest, 
 And reared the shout of triumph ; in that hour 
 Clovis invoked aloud the Christian God, 
 And conquered : waked to wonder thus, the chief 
 Became love'fe convert, and Clotilda led 
 Her husband to the font. 
 
 The missioned Maid 
 
136 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Then placed on Charles's brow the crown of France, 
 
 And back retiring, gazed upon the king 
 
 One moment, quickly scanning all the past, 
 
 Till, in a tumult of wild wonderment, 
 
 She wept aloud. The assembled multitude 
 
 In awful stillness witnessed : then at once, 
 
 As with a tempest rushing noise of winds. 
 
 Lifted their mmgied clamours. Now the Maid 
 
 Stood as prepared to speak, and waved her hand, 
 
 And instant silence followed. 
 
 " King of France I'* 
 She cried, " at Chinon, when my gifted eye 
 Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the Spirit 
 
 , Prompted, I spake — armed with the sword of God, 
 To drive from Orleans far the English wolves. 
 And crown thee in the rescued walls of Rheims. 
 All is accomplished. I have here this day 
 Fulfilled my mission, and anointed thee 
 Chief servant of the people. Of this charge, 
 Or well performed or wickedly, high heaven 
 Shall take account. If that thine heart be good, 
 I know no limit to the happiness 
 Thou mayest create. I do beseech thee, king !" 
 The Maid exclaimed, and fell upon the ground 
 And clasped his knees, " I do beseech thee, king ! 
 
 , By all the millions that depend on thee 
 ■ For weal or woe, consider what thou art, 
 And know thy duty ! If thou dost oppress 
 Thy people, if to aggrandize thyself 
 Thou tearest them from their homes, and sendest them 
 To slaughter, prodigal of misery ! 
 If, when the widow and orphan groan 
 In want and wretchedness, thou turnest thee 
 To hear the music of the flatterer's tongue ; 
 If, when thou hear'st of thousands massacred. 
 Thou sayest, ' I am a king, and fit it is 
 That these should perish for me !' if thy realm 
 Should, through the counsels of thy government. 
 Be filled with woe, and in thy streets be heard 
 The voice of mourning and the feeble cry 
 Of asking hunger ; if at such a time 
 Thou dost behold thy plenty-covered board, 
 And shroud thee in thy robes of royalty. 
 And say that all is well; Oh, gi\acious God I- 
 
JOAN OF AEC. 137 
 
 Be merciful to such a monstrous man, 
 When the spirits of the murdered innocent 
 Cry at thy throne for justice ! 
 
 King of France ! 
 Protect the lowly, feed the hungry ones, 
 And be the orphan's father ! Thus shalt thou 
 Become the representative of heaven, 
 And gratitude and love establish thus 
 Thy reign. Believe me, king, that hireling guards, 
 Though fleshed in slaughter, would be weak to save 
 A tyrant on the blood-cemented throne 
 That totters underneath him." 
 
 Thus the Maid 
 Eedeemed her country. Ever may the All-just 
 Give to the arms of freedom such success. 
 
MINOE POEMS. 
 
THE RETROSPECT. 
 
 As on I journey through the vale of years, 
 By hopes enlivened or deprest by fears, 
 Allow me, Memory, in thy treasured store 
 To view the days that will return no more. 
 And yes ! before thine intellectual ray, 
 The clouds of mental darkness melt away ! 
 As when, at earliest day's awakening dawn 
 The hovering mists obscure the dewy lawn. 
 O'er all the landscape spread their influence chill, 
 Hang o'er the vale, and wood, and hide the hill ; 
 Anon, slow-rising, comes the orb of day, ^ 
 
 Slow fade the shadowy mists and roll away. 
 The prospect opens on the traveller's sight, 
 And hills, and vales, and woods reflect the living light* 
 
 thou, the mistress of my future days. 
 Accept thy minstrel's retrospective lays ; 
 To whom the minstrel and the lyi-e belong, 
 Accept, my Edith, Memory's pensive song. 
 Of long-past days I sing, ere yet I knew 
 Or thought and grief, or happiness and you ; 
 Ere yet my infant heart had learnt to prove 
 The cares of life, the hopes and fears of love. 
 
 Corston, twelve years in various fortunes fled 
 Have past in restless progress o'er my head, 
 Since in thy vale beneath the master's rule 
 
 1 roamed an inmate of the village school. 
 Yet still will memory's busy eye retrace 
 Each little vestige of the well-known j)lace ; 
 Each wonted haunt and scene of youthful joy 
 Where merriment has cheered the careless boy ; 
 Well-pleased vnll fancy still the spot survey 
 Where once he triumphed in the childish play 
 
14:2 THE RETROSPECT. 
 
 Without one care where every morn he rose, 
 Where every evening sunk to calm repose. 
 Large was the house, though fallen by varying fate 
 From its old grandeur and manorial state. 
 Lord of the manor here, the jovial squire 
 Once called his tenants round the crackling fire ; 
 Here while the glow of joy sufiused his face 
 He told his ancient exploits in the chase, 
 And proud his rival sportsmen to surpass 
 He lit again the pipe, and filled again the glass. 
 
 But now no more was heard at early morn 
 The echoing clangour of the huntsman's horn ; 
 No more the eager hounds with deej)ening cry 
 Leapt round him as they knew their pastime nigh ; 
 The squire no more obeyed the morning call, 
 Nor favourite sjDaniels tilled the sportsman's hall ; 
 For he, the last descendant of his race, 
 Slept with his fathers and forgot the chase. 
 There now in petty empire o'er the school 
 The mighty master held despotic rule ; 
 Trembling in silence all his deeds we saw, 
 His look a mandate, and his word a law ; 
 Severe his voice, severe and stern his mien, 
 And wondrous strict he was, and wondrous wise I ween. 
 
 Even now through many a long long year I trace 
 The hour when first with awe I viewed his face ; 
 Even now recall my entrance at the dome, 
 'Twas the first day I ever left my home ! 
 "Years intervening have not worn away 
 The deep remembrance of that wretched day. 
 Nor taught me to forget my earliest fears, 
 A mother's fondness, and a mother's tears ; 
 When close she prest me to her sorrowing heart 
 As loath as even I myself to part. 
 And I, as I beheld her sorrows flow, 
 With painful eff"ort hid my inward woe. 
 
 But time to youthful troubles brings relief^ 
 And each new object weans the child from grief. 
 Like April showers the tears of youth descend. 
 Sudden they fall, and suddenly they end; 
 A fresher pleasure cheers the following hour, 
 As brighter shines the sun after the April shower, 
 
THE KETROSPECT. 143 
 
 Methinks even now the interview I see, 
 The mistress's kind smile, the master's glee ; 
 Much of my future happiness they said, 
 Much of the easy life the scholars led, 
 Of spacious play-ground, and of wholesome air, 
 The best instruction, and the tenderest care; 
 And when I followed to the garden door 
 My father, till through tears I saw no more, 
 How civilly they soothed my parting pain. 
 And how they never spake so civilly again. 
 
 Why loves the soul on earlier years to dwell. 
 When memory spreads around her saddening spell. 
 When discontent, with sullen gloom o'ercast, 
 Turns from the present and prefers the past ? 
 Why calls reflection to my pensive view 
 Each trifling act of infancy anew, 
 Each trifling act with pleasure pondering o'er, 
 Even at the time when trifles please no more ? 
 Yet is remembrance sweet, though well I know 
 The days of childhood are but days of woe ; 
 Some rude restraint, some petty tyrant sours 
 The tranquil calm of childhood's easy hours ; 
 Yet is it sweet to call those hours to mind, 
 Those easy hours for ever left behind ; 
 Ere care began the spirit to oppress 
 When ignorance itself was happiness. 
 
 Such was my state in those remembered years 
 
 When one small acre bounded all my fears ; 
 
 And therefore still with pleasure I recall 
 
 The tapestried school, the bright brown boarded hall, 
 
 The murmuring brook, that every morning saw 
 
 The due observance of the cleanly law, 
 
 The walnuts, where, when favour would allow, 
 
 Full oft I wont to search each well-stript bough ; 
 
 The crab-tree whence we hid the secret hoard 
 
 With roasted crabs to deck the wintry board. 
 
 These trifling objects then my heart possest, 
 
 These trifling objects still remain imprest ; 
 
 So when with unskilled hand the idle hind 
 
 Carves his rude name within the sapling's rind, 
 
 In after years the peasant lives to see 
 
 The expanding letters giow as grows the tree. 
 
144 THE RETROSPECT. 
 
 Though every winter's desolating sway 
 Shake the hoarse grove and sweep the leaves away, 
 That rude inscription uneffaced will last. 
 Unaltered by the storm or wintry blast. 
 
 Oh, whUe well pleased the lettered traveller roams 
 
 Among old temples, palaces, and domes. 
 
 Strays with the Arab o'er the wreck of time, 
 
 Where erst Palmyra's towers arose sublime, 
 
 Or marks the lazy Turk's lethargic pride, 
 
 And Grecian slavery on Ilyssus' side, 
 
 Oh, be it mine aloof from public strife 
 
 To mark the changes of domestic life, 
 
 The altered scenes where once I bore a part, 
 
 Where every change of fortune strikes the heart. 
 
 As when the merry bells with echoing sound 
 
 Proclaim the news of victory around, 
 
 Eejoicing patriots run the news to spread 
 
 Of glorious conquest, and of thousands dead, 
 
 All join the loud huzza with eager breath, 
 
 And triumph in the tale of blood and death ; 
 
 But if extended on the battle-plain, 
 
 Cut oflF in conquest, some dear fi^iend be slain, 
 
 Affection then will fill the sorrowing eye. 
 
 And suffering natui-e gTieve that one should die. 
 
 Cold was the morn and bleak the ■v\antry blast 
 Blew o'er the meadow, when I saw thee last. 
 My bosom bounded as I wandered round 
 AVith silent step the long-remembered ground^ 
 Where I had loitered out so many an hour, 
 Chased the gay butterfly, and cuU'd the flower, 
 Sought the swift arrow's erring course to trace, 
 Or with mine equals vied amid the chase. 
 I saw the church where I had slept away 
 The tedious service of the simimer day ; 
 Or listening sad to all the preacher told. 
 In winter waked, and shivered with the cold. 
 Oft have my footsteps roamed the sacred ground 
 Where heroes, kings, and poets sleep ai'ound, 
 Oft traced the moulderuig castle's ivied wall, 
 Or aged convent tottering to its fall. 
 Yet never had my bosom felt such paiu, 
 As, Corston, when I saw thy scenes again ; 
 
THE KETROSPECT. 145 
 
 For many a long-lost pleasure came to view. 
 For many a long-past sorrow rose anew; 
 Where whilome all were friends I stood alone, 
 I^nknowing all I saw, of all I saw unknown. 
 
 There where my little hands were wont to rear 
 With pride the earliest salad of the year; 
 Where never idle weed to spring was seen, 
 Eank thorns and nettles rear'd their heads obscene : 
 Still aU around was sad, I saw no more 
 The playful groupe, nor heard the playful roar; 
 There echoed round no shout of mii'th and glee, 
 It seemed as though the world were changed like me. 
 
 Enough ! it boots not on the past to dwell, 
 Fair scene of other years a long farewell. 
 Eouse up, my soul ! it boots not to repine. 
 Eouse up ! for worthier feelings should be thine. 
 Thy path is plain and straight — that light is given- 
 Onward in faith — and leave the rest to heaven. 
 
 EO]\IA^CB. 
 
 What wildly-beauteous form. 
 High on the summit of yon bicrown'd hill, 
 Lovely in horror, takes her dauntless stand ? 
 
 Though speds the thunder there its deep'ning way, 
 Though round her head the lightnings play. 
 Undaunted she abides the storm; 
 She waves her magic wand. 
 The clouds retire, the storm is still; 
 Bright beams the sun unwonted light around, 
 And many a rising flower bedecks the enchanted ground. 
 
 Eomance ! I know thee now, 
 
 I know the terrors of thy brow; 
 I know thine awful mien, thy beaming eye; 
 
 And lo ! whUst mists arise around 
 
 Yon car that cleaves the pregnant ground ! 
 Two fiery dragons whirl her through the sky; 
 
 L 
 
146 ROMANCE. 
 
 Her milder sister loves to rove 
 
 Amid Parnassus' laurell'd grove. 
 
 On Helicon's harmonious side, 
 
 To mark the gurgling streamlet glide; 
 Meantime thi'ough wilder scenes and sterner skies, 
 From clime to clime the ardent genius flies. 
 
 She speeds to yonder shore, 
 Where ruthless tempests roar, 
 YvTiere sturdy whiter holds his northern reign, 
 Nor vernal suns relax the ice-piled plain: 
 Dim shadows circle round her secret seat. 
 Where wandering, who approach shall hear 
 The wild wolf rend the air; 
 Through the cloudy-mantled sky 
 Shall see the imps of darlmess fly, 
 And hear the sad scream from the grim retreat; 
 
 Around her thi*one 
 Ten thousand dangers lurk, most fearful, most unknown. 
 
 Yet lovelier oft in milder sway. 
 She wends abroad her magic way; 
 The holy prelate owns her power; 
 
 In soft'ning tale relates 
 The snowy Ethiop's matchless charms. 
 The outlaw's den, the clang of arms. 
 
 And love's too-varying fates ; 
 The storms of persecution lower. 
 Austere devotion gives the stem command, 
 " Commit yon impious legend to the fii*es !" 
 Calm in his conscious worth, the sage retires, 
 And saves the invalu'd work, and quits the thankless landj 
 
 High tow'rs his name the sacred list above. 
 And ev'u the priest* is prais'd who wrote of blameless love. 
 
 Around the tower, whose wall infolds 
 
 Young Thora's blooming channs, 
 Komance's serpent winds his glittering folds; 
 
 The warrior clasps his shaggy arms. 
 The monster falls, the damsel is the spoil, 
 Matcliless reward of Kegner'sf matchless toil. 
 
 * Heliodorus chose rather to be deprived of his see thun burn lus 
 Ethiopics. 
 
 t First exploit of the celebrated Kegner Lodbrog. 
 
ROMANCE. 147 
 
 Around the patriot board, 
 The knights* attend their lord; 
 The martial sieges hov'ring o'er, 
 
 Enrapt the genius views the dauntless hand; 
 Still prompt for innocence to fight. 
 Or quell the pride of proud oppression's might. 
 
 They rush intrepid o'er the land; 
 She gives them to the minstrel lore. 
 Hands down her Launcelot's peerless name, 
 Eepays her Tristram's woes with fame; 
 Borne on the breath of song. 
 To future times descends the memory of the thi-ong. 
 
 Foremost 'mid the peers of France, 
 Orlando hurls the death-fraught lance; 
 Where Durlindana aims the blow. 
 To darkness sinks the faithless foe; 
 The horn with magic sound 
 Spreads deep dismay around; 
 Unborn to bleed, the chieftain goes, 
 And scatters wide his Paynim foes; 
 The genius hovers o'er the purple plain 
 Where Olivero tramples on the slain; 
 Bayardo speeds his furious course. 
 High towers Kogero in his matchless force. 
 
 Eomance the heighten'd tale has caught. 
 Forth from the sad monastic cell. 
 Where fiction with devotion loves to dwell. 
 
 The sacred legendf flies with many a wonder fraught; 
 Deep roll the papal;]; thunders round, 
 
 And everlasting wrath to rebel reason sound. 
 
 Hark ! Superstition sounds to war's alarms. 
 
 War stalks o'er Palestine with scorching breath. 
 And triumphs in the feast ot death ; 
 All Em'ope flies to arms: 
 Enthusiast courage spreads her piercing sound. 
 Devotion caught the cry, and woke the echo around. 
 
 * Knights of the Eound Table, 
 t Instead of forging the life oi a saint, Archbisliop Turpin was better 
 employed in falsifying the history of Charlemagne. 
 
 t A bull was issued, commanding all good citizens to believe Arioeto'8 
 poem, founded upon Turpin's history. 
 
 l2 
 
148 KOMANCE. 
 
 Eomance before the army flies, 
 New scenes await her wondering eyes; 
 Awhile she firms her Godfrey's throne. 
 And make's Arabia's magic lore her own. 
 
 And hark ! resound, in mingled sound. 
 The clang of arms, the shriek of death; 
 
 Each streaming gash bedews the ground. 
 And deep and hollow groans load the last struggling breath: 
 
 Wide through the ah' the arrows fly. 
 Darts, shields, and swords, commix'd appear; 
 
 Deep is the cry, when thousands die, 
 "V\nien Coeur de Lion's arm constrains to fear: 
 
 Aloft the battle-axe in air 
 
 Whirls around confused despair; 
 
 Nor Acre's walls can check his course. 
 
 Nor Sarzin millions stay his force. 
 
 Indignant, firm the warrior stood. 
 
 The hungry Hon gapes for food ; 
 
 His fearless eye beheld him nigh, 
 Unarm'd, undaunted, saw the beast proceed: 
 
 Eomance, o'erhovering, saw the monster die. 
 And scarce herself behev'd the more than wond'rous deed. 
 
 And now, with more terrific mien. 
 
 She quits the sad, degenerate scene; 
 With many a talisman of mightiest pow'r. 
 
 Borne in a rubied car, Fublime she flies, 
 
 Fire-breathmg griffins waft her through the skies; 
 Around her head the innocuous tempest lowers, 
 
 To GaUia's favom-'d realm she goes. 
 And quits her magic state, and plucks her lovely rose.* 
 
 Imagination waves her wizard wand. 
 
 Dark shadows mantle o'er the land; 
 
 The lightnings flash, the thunders sound. 
 
 Convulsive throbs the labouring ground; 
 
 What fiends, what monsters, circhng round, arise ! 
 
 High towers of fixe aloft aspire. 
 
 Deep yells resound amid the skies, 
 
 Yclad in arms, to fame's alarms 
 
 Her magic warrior flies. 
 
 » Komance of the Kose, written soon after the Cnisades. 
 
KOMANCE. "^49 
 
 By fiction's shield secure, for many a year 
 
 O'er cooler reason held the genius rule; 
 But lo ! Cervantes waves his pointed spear, 
 
 Nor fiction's shield can stay the spear of ridicule. 
 
 The blameless warrior comes ; he first to wield 
 His fateful weapon in the martial field; 
 
 By him created on the view, 
 
 Arcadia's valleys bloom anew, 
 
 And many a flock o'erspreads the plain, 
 And love, with innocence, assumes his reign; 
 
 Protected by a warrior's name, 
 
 The kindred warriors live to fame : 
 Sad is the scene, where oft from pity's eye 
 
 Descends the sorrowing tear, 
 
 As high the unhooding chieftain lifts the spear, 
 And gives the deadly blow, and sees Parthenia die ! 
 
 Where, where such virtues can we see. 
 
 Or where such valour, Sidney, but in thee ? 
 Oh, cold of heart, shall pride assail thy shade. 
 Whom all romance could fancy Nature made ? 
 
 Sound, fame, thy loudest blast, 
 For Spenser pours the tender strain, 
 And shapes to glowing forms the motley train; 
 The elfin tribes around 
 Await his potent sound, 
 And o'er his head Romance her brightest splendours cast. 
 Deep through the air let sorrow's banner wave ! 
 For penury o'er Spenser's friendless head 
 Her chilling mantle spread; 
 
 For genius cannot save ! 
 Yu'tue bedews the blameless poet's dust ; 
 But fame, exulting, clasps her favourite's laurel'd bust. 
 
 Fain would the grateful muse to thee, Eousseau, 
 
 Pour forth the energic thanks of gratitude; 
 Fain would the raptur'd lyre ecstatic glow. 
 
 To whom romance and Nature form'd all good: 
 
 Guide of my life, too weak these lays. 
 
 To pour the unutterable praise; 
 
 Thine aid divine for ever lend. 
 
 Still as my guardian sprite attend; 
 
 Unmov'd by fashion's flaunting throng, 
 Let my calm stream of life smooth its meek course along; 
 
150 ROMANCE. 
 
 Let no weak vanity dispense 
 Her vapours o'er my better sense; 
 But let my bosom glow with fire, 
 Let me strike the soothing lyre, 
 Although by all unheai'd the melodies expire. 
 
 TO UEBAN. 
 
 Lo ! where the livid lightning flies 
 
 With transient furious force, 
 A moment's splendour streaks the skies. 
 
 Where ruin marks its coui'se: 
 Then see how mild the font of day 
 
 Expands the stream of light; 
 Wliilst living by the genial ray, 
 
 AU nature smiles delight. 
 
 So boisterous riot, on his course 
 
 Uncurb'd by reason, flies; 
 And lightning-like its fatal force. 
 
 Soon lightning-like it dies: 
 Whilst sober Temperance, still the same. 
 
 Shall shun the scene of strife ; 
 And, like the sun's enlivening flame, 
 
 Shall beam the lamp of life. 
 
 Let noise and folly seek the reign 
 
 vVhere senseless riot rules; 
 Let them enjoy the pleasm-es vain 
 
 Enjoy'd alone by fools. 
 Urban ! those better joys be ours. 
 
 Which virtuous science knows. 
 To pass in milder bliss the hours, 
 
 Nor fear the future woes. 
 
 So when stem time then- frames shall seize. 
 
 When sorrows pay for sin; 
 When every nerve shall feel disease. 
 
 And conscience shrink within; 
 
TO URBAN. 151 
 
 Shall health's best blessings all be ours. 
 
 The soul serene at ease, 
 Whilst science gilds the passing hours, 
 
 And every hour shall please. 
 
 Even now from solitude they fly, 
 To drown each thought in noise; 
 
 Even now they shun Reflection's eye, 
 Depriv'd of man's best joys. 
 
 So, when Time's unrelenting doom 
 Shall bring the seasons' course. 
 
 The busy monitor shall come 
 
 Friendship is ours: best friend, who knows, 
 
 Each varied hour to employ; 
 To share the lighted load of woes. 
 
 And double every joy; 
 And science too shall lend her aid, 
 
 The friend that never flies. 
 But shines amid misfortune's shade 
 
 As stars in midnight skies. 
 
 Each joy domestic bliss can know 
 
 Shall deck the future hour; 
 Or if we taste the cup of woe. 
 
 The cup has lost its power; 
 Thus may we Kve, till death's keen spear, 
 
 Unwish'd, unfear'd, shall come; 
 Then sink, without one guilty fear. 
 
 To slumber in the tomb. 
 
 THE MISER'S MANSIO:CT. 
 
 Thoit mouldering mansion, whose embattled side 
 Shakes as about to fall at every blast; 
 
 Once the gay pile of splendour, wealth, and pride. 
 But now the monumeut of grandeur past. 
 
152 THE misek's mansion. 
 
 Fall'ii fabric ! pondering o'er thy time trac'd walls. 
 Thy mouldering, mighty, melancholy state j 
 
 Each object to the musing mind recalls 
 The sad vicissitudes of varying fate. 
 
 Thy tall towers tremble to the touch of time, 
 The rank weeds rustle in thy spacious courts: 
 
 Fill'd are thy wide canals with loathly slime, 
 
 Where, battening undisturb'd, the foul toad sports. 
 
 Deep from her dismal dwelling yells the owl, 
 The shrill bat flits around her dark retreat; 
 
 And the hoarse daw, when loud the tempests howl. 
 Screams as the wild winds shake her secret seat. 
 
 *Twas here Avaro dwelt, who daily told 
 His useless heaps of wealth in selfish joy; 
 
 Who lov'd to ruminate o'er hoarded gold, 
 And hid those stores he dreaded to employ. 
 
 In vain to him benignant heaven bestow'd 
 The golden heaps to render thousands blest; 
 
 Smooth aged penuiy's laborious road. 
 
 And heal the sorrows of affliction's breast. 
 
 For, like the serpent of romance, he lay 
 
 Sleepless and stern to guard the golden sight ; 
 
 With ceaseless care he watched his heaps by day. 
 With causeless feai's he agoniz'd by night. 
 
 Ye honest rustics, whose diumal toil 
 
 Enrich'd the ample fields this churl possest; 
 
 Say, ye who paid to him the annual spoil. 
 With all his riches, was Avaro blest ? 
 
 Eose he, like you, at morn, devoid of fear. 
 His anxious vigils o'er his gold to keep ? 
 
 Or sunk he, when the noiseless night was near. 
 As calmly on his couch of down to sleep ? 
 
 Thou wretch ! thus curst with poverty of soul, 
 Wliat boot to thee the blessings fortune gave ? 
 
 What boots thy wealth above the world's control. 
 If riches doom their chui'lish lord a slave ? 
 
THE miser's MANSION". 153 
 
 Chill'd at thy presence grew the stately halls, 
 
 JN^or longer echo'd to the song of mirth; 
 The hand of art no more adorn'd thy walls, 
 
 Nor blazed with hospitable fires the hearth. 
 
 On well-worn hinges turns the gate no more, 
 Nor social friendship hastes the friend to meet 
 
 Nor, when the accustom'd guest draws near the door, 
 Kun the glad dogs, and gambol round his feet. 
 
 Sullen and stern Avaro sat alone, 
 
 In anxious wealth amid the joyless hall. 
 
 Nor heeds the chilly hearth with moss o'ergrown. 
 Nor sees the greexi slime mark the mouldering wall. 
 
 For desolation o'er the fabric dwells. 
 
 And time, on restless pinion, hurried by; 
 
 Loud from her chimney'd seat the night-bird yells. 
 And through the shatter'd roof descends the sky. 
 
 Thou melancholy mansion ! much mine eye 
 Delights to wander o'er thy sullen gloom. 
 
 And mark the daw from yonder turret fly. 
 And muse how man himself creates his doom. 
 
 For here, had justice reign'd, had pity known 
 With genial power to sway Avaro's breast, 
 
 These treasur'd heaps which fortune made his own, 
 By aiding misery might himseK" have blest. 
 
 And charity had oped her golden store, 
 
 To work the gracious will of heaven intent. 
 
 Fed from her superflux the craving poor, 
 And paid adversity what heaven had lent. 
 
 Then had thy turrets stood in all their state. 
 Then had the hand of art adorn'd thy wall. 
 
 Swift on its well-worn hinges turn'd the gate, 
 And friendly converse cheer'd the echoing hall. 
 
 Then had the village youth at vernal hour 
 
 Hung round with flowery wreaths thy friendly gate, 
 
 And blest in gratitude that sovereign power 
 That made the man of mercy good as great. 
 
154: THE miser's mansion. 
 
 The traveller then to view thy towers had stood, 
 Whilst babes had lispt their benefactor's name. 
 
 And call'd on Heaven to give thee every good. 
 And told abroad thy hospitable fame. 
 
 In every joy of life the hours had fled, 
 
 Whilst time on do\vny pinions hurried by, 
 
 'Till age with silver hau-s had grac'd thy head, 
 
 Wean'd from the world, and taught thee how to die. 
 
 And, as thy liberal hand had shower'd around 
 The ample wealth by lavish fortune given. 
 
 Thy parted spirit had that justice found 
 And angels hymn'd the rich man's soul to heaven. 
 
 TO HYIMEN. 
 
 God of the torch, whose soul-illuming flame 
 Beams brightest radiance o'er the human heart; 
 
 Of every woe the cure. 
 
 Of every joy the source; 
 
 To thee I sing: if haply may the muse 
 
 Pour forth the song unblamed from these dull haunts. 
 
 Where never beams thy torch 
 
 To cheer the sullen scene; 
 
 From these dull haunts, where monkish science holds. 
 In sullen gloom her soKtary reign; 
 
 And spurns the reign of love, 
 
 And spurns thy genial sway. 
 
 God of the ruddy cheek and beaming eye. 
 
 Whose soft sweet gaze thrills through the bounding heart, 
 
 With no unholy joy 
 
 I pour the lay to thee. 
 
 I pour the lay to thee, though haply doom'd 
 In solitary woe to waste my years; 
 
 Though doom'd perchance to die 
 
 Unlov'd and unbewail'd. 
 
TO HYMEX. 155 
 
 Yet will the lark, in iron cage intlirall'd, 
 Chaunt forth her hymn to greet the morning sun. 
 
 As wide his brilliant beam 
 
 Illumes the landskip round; 
 
 As distant 'mid the woodland haunts is heard 
 
 The feather'd quire, she chaunts her prison'd hymn, 
 
 And hails the beam of joy, 
 
 Of joy to her denied. 
 
 Friend to each noblest feeling of the soul. 
 To thee I hymn, for every joy is thinej 
 
 And every virtue comes 
 
 To join thy generous train. 
 
 Lur'd by the splendour of thy beamy torch, 
 Beacon of bliss, young love expands his plumes, 
 
 And leads his willing slaves 
 
 To wear thy flowery bands; 
 
 And then he yields the follies of his reign, 
 Throws down the torch that scorches up the soul, 
 
 And lights the purer flame 
 
 That glows serene with thee. 
 
 And chasten'd Friendship comes, whose mildest sway 
 Shall cheer the hour of age, when fainter beam 
 
 The fading flame of love. 
 
 The fading flame of life. 
 
 Parent of every bliss ! the busy soul 
 
 Of Fancy oft will paint, in brightest hues. 
 
 How calm, how clear, thy torch 
 
 Illumes the wintry hour; 
 
 Will paint the wearied labourer, at that hour 
 When friendly darkness yields a pause to toil, 
 
 Retm-ning blithely home 
 
 To each domestic joy; 
 
 Will paint the well-trimm'd fire, the frugal meal 
 Prepar'd by fond solicitude to please, 
 
 The ruddy children round 
 
 That climb the father's knee: 
 
156 TO HYMEN. 
 
 And oft will Fancy rise above the lot 
 Of honest poverty, oft paint the state 
 
 Where happiest man is blest 
 
 With mediocrity J 
 
 When toil, no longer irksoir.e and constrain d 
 By hard necessity, but comes to please, 
 
 To vary the still hour 
 
 Of tranquil happiness. 
 
 Why, Fancy, wilt thou, o'er the lovely scene 
 Pouring thy vivid hues, why, sorceress sweet ! 
 
 Soothe sad reality 
 
 With visionary bliss ? 
 
 Ah ! rather gaze where science, hallow'd light 
 Resplendent shines : ah ! rather lead thy sou 
 
 Through all her mystic paths. 
 
 To drink the sacred spring. 
 
 Let calm philosophy supply the void, 
 And fill the vacr:nt heart ; lead calmly on 
 
 Along the unvaried path. 
 
 To age's drear abode; 
 
 And teach how dreadful death to happiness. 
 What thousand horrors wait the last adieu. 
 
 When every tie is broke. 
 
 And every charm dissolv'd. 
 
 Then only dreadful; friendly to the wretch 
 Who wanes in solitary listlessness, 
 Nor knows the joys of life, 
 Nor knows the dread of death. 
 
 HOSPITALITY. 
 
 " Lay low yon impious trappings on the ground. 
 Bend, Superstition, bend thy haughty head, 
 Be mine supremacy, and mine alone :" 
 Thus fi'om his firm-establish'd throne, 
 
HOSPITALITY. 157 
 
 Eeplete with vengeful fury, Henry said. 
 High Reformation lifts her iron rod, 
 
 But lo ! with stern and threatful mien. 
 
 Fury and rancour desolate the scene, 
 Beneath their rage the Gothic structures nod. 
 
 Ah ! hold awhile your angry hands ; 
 
 Ah ! here delay your king's commands. 
 For Hospitality will feel the wound ! 
 
 In vain the voice of reason cries, 
 Whilst uncontroll'd the regal mandate flies. 
 
 Thou, Avalon ! in whose polluted womb 
 
 The patriot monarch found his narrow tornb ; 
 
 Where now thy solemn pile, whose antique head 
 
 With niche-fraught turrets awe-msphing spread, ^ 
 
 Stood the memorial of the pious age ? m 
 
 Where wont the hospitable fire . ^ 
 
 In cheering volumes to aspire. 
 And with its genial warmth the pUgrim's woes assuage. ,, 
 
 Low lie thy turrets now. 
 The desart ivy clasps the joyless hearth; 
 
 The dome which luxury yrear'd. 
 
 Though Hospitality was there rever'd, 
 Now, from its shatter 'd brow. 
 With mouldering ruins loads the unfrequented earth. 
 
 Ye minstrel throng, 
 In whose bold breasts once glow'd the tuneful fire, 
 No longer struck by you shall breathe the plaintive lyre: 
 
 The \vu\s, whose trophied sides along 
 
 Once rung the harp's energic sound, 
 
 Now damp and moss-ymantled load the ground; 
 
 No more the bold romantic lore 
 
 Shall spread from Thule's distant shore; 
 
 No more intrepid Cambria's hills among, 
 In hospitable hall, shall rest the child of song. 
 
 Ah, Hospitality ! soft Pity's child ! 
 
 Where shall we seek thee now ? 
 Genius ! no more thy influence mild 
 
 Shall gUd affliction's clouded brow; 
 
 No more thy cheering smiles impart 
 
 One ray of joy to sorrow's heart; 
 
 No more within the lordly pile 
 Wnt thou bestow the bosom-warming smile. 
 
158 HOSPITALITY. 
 
 Whilst haughty pride his gallery displays, 
 
 Where hangs the row in sullen show 
 Of heroes and of chiefs of ancient days. 
 
 The gaudy toil of Turkish loom 
 
 Shall decorate the stately room; 
 Yet there the traveller, with wistful eye, 
 Beholds the guarded door, and sighs, and passes by, 
 
 Not so, where o'er the desart waste of sand 
 
 Speeds the rude Arab wild his wandering way; 
 Leads on to rapine his intrepid band. 
 
 And claims the wealth of India for his prey; 
 
 There, when the wilder'd traveller distrest. 
 Holds to the robber forth the friendly hand. 
 
 The generous Arab gives the tent of rest. 
 Guards him as the fond mother guards her child, 
 Believes his every want, and guides him o'er the wild. 
 
 Not so amid those climes where rolls along 
 
 The Oronoko deep his mighty flood; 
 Where rove amid then- woods the savage throng, 
 
 Nurs'd up in slaughter, and inur'd to blood ; 
 
 Tierce as their torrents, wily as the snake 
 
 That sharps his venom'd tooth in every brake. 
 Aloft the dreadful tomahawk they rear; 
 Patient of hunger, and of pain, 
 
 Close in their haunts the chiefs remain. 
 And lift in secret stand the deadly spear. 
 Yet, should the unarm'd ti'aveUer di-aw near. 
 
 And proffering forth the friendly hand. 
 
 Claim their protection from the warrior band; 
 The savage Indians bid their anger cease, 
 Lay down the ponderous spear, and give the pipe of peace. 
 
 Such virtue Nature gives : when man withdraws 
 To fashion's circle, far from nature's laws, 
 
 How chang'd, how fall'n the human breast ! 
 Cold prudence comes, relentless foe ! 
 Forbids the pitjdng tear to flow, 
 
 And steals the soul of apathy to rest; 
 Mounts in relentless state her stubborn throne. 
 And deems of other bosoms by her own. 
 
159 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 TO AEISTE. 
 I. 
 
 Aeiste ! soon to sojourn with the crowd, 
 
 In soul abstracted must thy minstrel go ; j 
 
 Mix in the giddy, fond, fantastic show, H 
 
 Mix with the gay, the envious, and the proud, ^ 
 
 I go : but stiU my soul remains with thee. 
 
 Still will the eye of fancy paint thy charms. 
 Still, lovely maid, thy imaged form I see, 
 
 And every pulse will vibrate with alarms, 
 When scandal spreads abroad her odious tale. 
 
 When envy at a rival's beauty sighs, 
 When rancour prompts the female tongue to rail. 
 
 And rage and malice fire the gamester's eyes, 
 I turn my wearied soul to her for ease. 
 Who only names to praise, who only speaks to please. 
 
 11. 
 
 Be his to court the Muse, whose humble breast 
 
 The glow of genius never could inspire; 
 Who never, by the future song possest. 
 
 Struck the bold strings, and waked the daring lyre. 
 Let him invoke the Muses from their grove, 
 Wlio never felt the inspirmg touch of love. 
 If I would sing how beauty's beamy blaze 
 
 Thrills through the bosom at the lightning view. 
 Or harp the high-ton'd hymn to virtue's praise, 
 
 Wliere only from the minstrel praise is due, 
 I would not court the Muse to prompt my lays. 
 
 My Muse, Ai'iste, would be found in you ! 
 And need I court the goddess when I move 
 The warbling lute to sound the soul of love ? 
 
160 SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Let ancient stories sound the painter's art, 
 
 Who stole from many a maid his Venus' charms, 
 'Til warm devotion fir'd each gazer's heart, 
 
 And every bosom bounded v,"\th alarms. 
 He cull'd the beauties of his native isle, 
 
 From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes. 
 From some the lovely look, the winning smile. 
 
 From some the languid lustre of the eyes. 
 Low to the finish'd form the nations round 
 
 In adoration bent the pious knee; 
 With myrtle wi'eaths the artist's brow they crown'd, 
 
 Whose skill, Ariste, only imaged thee. 
 Ill-fated artist, doom'd so wide to seek 
 The charms that blossom on Aiiste's cheek! 
 
 lY. 
 
 I PEAisE thee not, Ariste, that thine eye 
 Knows each emotion of the soul to speak; 
 
 That lilies with thy face might fear to vie. 
 And roses can but emulate thy cheek. 
 
 I praise thee not because thine auburn hair 
 In native tresses wantons on the wind; 
 
 Nor yet because that face, surpassing fair. 
 Bespeaks the inward excellence of mind: 
 
 'Tis that soft charm thy minstrel's heart has won, 
 That mild meek goodness that perfects the rcbtj 
 Soothing and soft it steals upon the breast. 
 
 As the soft radiance of the setting sun, 
 
 Wlien varying through the purple hues of light. 
 
 The fadhig" orbit smiles serenely bright. 
 
 V. 
 
 DUNNINGTON CASTLE. 
 
 Thou ruin'd relique of the ancient pile, 
 
 Rear'd by that hoary bard, whose tuneful lyre 
 First breath'd the voice of music on our isle ; 
 Where, wai-n'd in life's calm evenmg to retire. 
 
SONNETS. 161 
 
 Old Chaucer slowly sunk at last to night; 
 
 Still shall his forceful line, his varied strain, 
 
 A fii'mer, nobler monument remain, 
 When the high grass waves o'er thy lonely site; 
 And yet the cankering tooth of envious age 
 
 Has sapp'd the fabric of his lofty rhyme; 
 Though genius still shall ponder o'er the page, 
 
 And piercing through the shadowy mist of time, 
 The festive Bard of Edward's court recall. 
 As fancy paints the pomp that once adorn'd thy walL 
 
 VL 
 
 As slow and solemn yonder deepening knell Ql 
 
 Tolls through the sullen evening's shadowy gloom, '' 
 
 Alone and pensive, in my silent room, 
 
 On man and on mortality I dwell. 
 
 And as the harbinger of death I hear, 
 
 Frequent and full, much do I love to muse 
 
 On life's distemper'd scenes of hope and fear; 
 And passion varying her chameleon hues. 
 
 And man pm*suing pleasui'e's empty shade, 
 'Till death dissolves the vision. So the child 
 In youth's gay morn with wondering pleasure smil'd. 
 
 As with the shining ice well-pleas'd he play'd; 
 
 Nor, as he grasps the crystal in his play, 
 
 Heeds how the faithless bauble melts away. 
 
 YII. 
 
 TO THE riEB. 
 
 My friendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright. 
 
 Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grateful flame ; 
 Thy temperate splendour cheers the gloom of night. 
 
 Thy genial heat enlivens the chill'd frame. 
 I love to muse me o'er the evening hearth, 
 
 I love to pause in meditation's sway; 
 And whilst each object gives reflection birth, 
 
 Mai'k thy brisk rise, and see thy slow decay: 
 
 M 
 
162 SONNETS 
 
 And I would wish, like thee, to shine serene, 
 
 Like thee, within mine influence, all to cheer; 
 And wish at last, in life's declinmg- scene, 
 
 As I had beam'd as bright, to fade as clear: 
 So might my children ponder o'er my shrine. 
 And o'er my ashes muse, as I will muse o'er thine. 
 
 vm. 
 
 THE FADED FLOWEE. 
 
 Ungeateful he who pluckt thee from thy stalk. 
 
 Poor faded flow'ret ! On his careless way, 
 Inhal'd awhile thine odours on his walk, 
 
 Then past along, and left thee to decay. 
 Thou melancholy emblem ! had I seen 
 
 Thy modest beauties dew'd with evening's gem, 
 I had not rudely cropt thy parent stem. 
 
 But left thy blossom still to grace the green; 
 And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom. 
 
 And drop the tear, as fancy, at my side 
 Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Emma's tomb; 
 
 " Like thine, sad flower ! was that poor wanderer's pride 2 
 Oh, lost to love and truth ! whose selfish joy 
 Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy." 
 
 IX. 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Sad songstress of the night, no more I hear 
 Thy soften'd warblings meet my pensive ear, 
 
 As by thy wonted haunts again I rove; 
 Why art thou silent ? Wherefore sleeps thy lay 
 For faintly fades the sinking orb of day, 
 
 And yet thy music charms no more the grove. 
 The shrill bat flutters by; from yon dark tower 
 The shrieking owlet hails the shadowy hour; 
 
 Hoarse hums the beetle as he di'ones along. 
 The hour of love is flown ! thy full-fledg'd brood 
 
SONNETS. 163 
 
 Ko longer need tliy care to cull their food, 
 
 And nothing now remains to prompt the song: 
 But di'ear and sullen seems the silent grove, 
 No more responsive to the lay of love. 
 
 TO EEFLECTION. 
 
 Hence, busy torturer, wherefore should mine eye 
 
 Revert again to many a sorrow past ? 
 Hence, busy torturer, to the happy fly, 
 
 Those who have never seen the sun o'ercast 
 
 By one dark cloud, thy retrospective beam. 
 
 Serene and soft, may on their bosoms gleam, 
 As the last splendour of the summer sky. 
 
 Let them look back on pleasure, ere they know 
 To mourn its absence; let them contemplate 
 The thorny windings of our mortal state, 
 
 Ere unexpected bursts the cloud of woe; 
 
 Stream not on me thy torch's baneful glow. 
 Like the sepulchral lamp's funereal gloom, 
 In darkness glimmering to disclose a tomb. 
 
 TO LYCON. 
 L 
 
 On yon wild waste of ruin thron'd, what form 
 
 Beats her swoln breast, and tears her unkempt hair ? 
 
 Why seems the spectre thus to court the storm ? 
 Why glare her fuU-fix'd eyes in stern despaii' ? 
 
 The deep dull groan I hear, 
 I see her rigid eye refuse the soothing tear. 
 
 Ah ! fly her dreadful reign, 
 For desolation rules o'er all the lifeless plain; 
 For deadliest nightshade forms her secret bower, 
 For oft the iU-omen'd owl 
 Yells loud the dreadful howl. 
 And the night spectres shriek amid the midnight hoiu'. 
 
 M 2 
 
164 TO LYCOK 
 
 Pale spectre, Grief! thy dull abodes I know, 
 
 I know the horrors of thy barren plain, 
 I know the dreadful force of woe, 
 
 I know the weight of thy soul-binding chain; 
 But I have fled thy drear domams. 
 Have broke thy agonizing chains, 
 Drain' d deep the poison of thy bowl, 
 Yet wash'd in Science' stream the poison from my so'jI. 
 
 Fair smiles the morn along the azui'e sky. 
 
 Calm and serene the zephyrs whisper by, 
 And many a flow'ret gems the painted plain; 
 
 As down the dale, with perfumes sweet, 
 
 The cheerful pilgrim turns his feet. 
 His thhsty ear imbibes the throstle's strain; 
 
 And every bird that loves to sing 
 
 The choral song to coming spring. 
 Tunes the wild lay symphonious through the grove. 
 Heaven, earth, and natm-e, all incite to love. 
 
 Ah, pilgrim ! stay thy heedless feet. 
 
 Distrust each soiil- subduing sweet. 
 Dash down alluring pleasure's deadly bowl, 
 
 For through thy frame the venom'd juice will creep, 
 
 LuU reason's powers to sombrous sleep. 
 And stain with sablo hue the spotless soul; 
 
 For soon the valley's charais decay, 
 
 In haggard grief's ill-omen'd sway. 
 And barren rocks shall hide the cheering light of day: 
 
 Then reason strives in vain, 
 
 Extinguish'd hope's enchanting beam for aye. 
 And vii'tue sinks beneath the galling chain. 
 
 And sorrow deeply drains her lethal bowl. 
 And sullen lix'd despair benumbs the nerveless soul. 
 
 Yet on the summit of yon craggy steep 
 
 Stands Hope, surrounded with a blaze of light 
 She bids the wretch no more despondent weep. 
 Or linger in the loathly realms of night; 
 
 And Science comes, celestial maid ! 
 As mild as good she comes to aid. 
 To smooth the rugged steep with magic power, 
 And fill with many a wile the longlj-lingering hour. 
 
TO LYCON-. 165 
 
 Fair smiles the morn, in all the hues of day 
 Array 'd, the wide horizon streams with light; 
 
 Anon the dull mists blot the living ray, 
 
 And darksome clouds presage the stormy night: 
 
 Yet may the sun anew extend his ray, 
 
 Anew the heavens may shine in splendour bright; 
 
 Anew the sunshine gild the lucid plain, 
 -Vnd nature's frame reviv'd, may thank the genial rain. 
 
 And what, my friend, is life ? 
 What but the many-weather'd April day ! 
 
 Now darkly dimm'd by clouds of strife, 
 Now glowing in propitious fortune's ray; 
 
 Let the reed yielding bend its weakly form, 
 For, firm in rooted strength, the oak defies the storm. 
 
 If thou hast plann'd the morrow's dawn to roam 
 
 O'er distant hill or plain. 
 Wilt thou despond in sadness at thy home, 
 
 Whilst heaven drops down the rain ? 
 Or will thy hope expect the coming day, 
 AVlien bright the sun may shine with unremitted ray ? 
 
 Wilt thou float careless down the stream of time. 
 
 In sadness borne to dull oblivion's shore. 
 Or shake off grief, and " build the lofty rhj^me," 
 And live 'till Time himself shall be no more ? 
 If thy light bark have met the storm. 
 If threatening clouds the sky deform, 
 Let honest truth be vain; look back on me. 
 Have I been " sailing on a summer's sea?" 
 Have only zej)hyi's fill'd my swelling sails. 
 
 As smooth the gentle vessel glides along H 
 Lycon, I met unscar'd the wintry gales, 
 
 And sooth'd the dangers with the song: 
 So shall the vessel sail sublime, 
 And reach the port of fame adown the stream of time. 
 
 n. 
 
 And does my friend again demand the strain, 
 Still seek to list the sorrow-soothing lay ? 
 
 Still would he hear the woe-worn heart complain, 
 When melancholy loads the hngering day ? 
 
166 TO LYCON. 
 
 Shall partial friendsliip turn tlie favouring eye, 
 No fault behold, but every charm descry j 
 And shall the thankless bard his honour'd strain deny ? 
 
 " No single pleasure shall your pen bestow:" 
 Ah, Lycon ! 'tis that thought affords delight; 
 
 "Tis that can sooth the wearying weight of woe, 
 When memory reigns amid the gloom of night: 
 
 For fancy loves the distant scene to see. 
 
 Far from the gloom of solitude to flee, 
 And think that absent friends may sometimes think of me. 
 
 Offc when my steps have trac'd the secret glade. 
 What time the pale moon glimmering on the plain 
 
 Just mark'd where deeper darkness dyed the shade. 
 Has contemplation lov'd the night-bird's strain: 
 
 Still have I stood, or silent mov'd and slow, 
 
 Whilst o'er the copse the thi'illing accents flow, 
 Nor deem'd the pensive bird might pour the notes of woe. 
 
 Yet sweet and lovely is the night-bird's lay. 
 The passing pilgrim loves her notes to hear. 
 
 When mirth's rude reign is sunlc with parted day. 
 And silence sleeps upon the vacant ear; 
 
 For staid reflection loves the doubtful light, 
 
 When sleep and stillness lull the noiseless night. 
 And breathes the pensive song a soothing sad delight. 
 
 Fearful the blast, and loud the torrents roar, 
 And sharp and piercing di'ove the pelting rain. 
 
 When wildly wandering on the Volga's shore. 
 The exil'd Ovid pour'd his plaintive strain; 
 
 He mourn'd for ever lost the joys of Rome, 
 
 He mom-n'd his widow'd wife, his distant home. 
 And all the weight of woe that load the exile's doom. 
 
 Oh ! could my lays, like Sulmo's minstrel, flow. 
 
 Eternity might love her Bion's name; 
 The muse might give a dignity to woe, 
 
 And gi'ief 's steep path should prove the path to fame: 
 But I have pluck'd no baj^s from Phoebus' bower. 
 My fading garland, form'd of many a flower, 
 May haply smile and bloom to last one little hour. 
 
TO LYCON. 167 
 
 To please that little hour is all I crave, 
 
 Lov'd by my friends, I spurn the love of fame; 
 
 High let the grass o'erspread my lonely grave, 
 
 Let cankering moss obscure the rough-hewn name: 
 
 There never may the pensive pilgrim go, 
 
 Nor future minstrel drop the tear of woe, 
 For all would fail to wake the slumbering earth below. 
 
 Be mine, whilst journeying life's rough road along. 
 O'er hill and dale the wandering bard shall go. 
 
 To hail the hour of pleasure with the song. 
 
 Or soothe with sorrowing strams the hour of woe; 
 
 The song each passing moment shall beguile. 
 
 Perchance, too, partial friendship deigns to smile, 
 Let fame reject the lay, I sleep secure the while. 
 
 Be mine to taste the humbler joys of life, 
 
 Lull'd in oblivion's lap to wear away, 
 And flee Irom grandeur's scenes of vice and strife. 
 
 And flee from fickle fashion's empty sway: 
 Be mme, in age's drooping hour, to see 
 The lisping children climb their grandsire's knee, 
 And train the future race to live and act like me. 
 
 Then, when the inexorable hour shall come 
 To tell my death, let no deep requiem tolL 
 
 No hireling sexton dig the venal tomb, 
 
 Nor priest be paid to hymn my parted soul; 
 
 But let my children, near their little cot, 
 
 Lay my old bones beneath the turfy spot: 
 So let me live unknown, so let me die forgot. 
 
 KOSAMUND DE CLIFFOED to KING HENEY III. 
 
 AFTEE SHE HAD TAKEN THE VEIL. 
 
 Henry, 'tis past ! each painful effort o'er. 
 Thy love, th}^ Eosamimd, exists no more: 
 She lives, but lives no longer now for you; 
 She writes, but writes to bid the last adieu. 
 
168 EOSAMUND DE CLIFFORD 
 
 Why bursts the big tear from my gnilty eye ? 
 Why heaves my love-lorn breast the impious sigh ? 
 Down, bosom ! down, and learn to heave in prayerj 
 riow, flow, my tears, and wash away despair: 
 Ah, no ! still, still the lurking sin I see, 
 My heart will heave, my tears will fall for thee. 
 Yes, Henry ! through the vestal's guilty veins. 
 With burning sway the furious passion reigns; 
 For thee, seducer, still the tear will fall. 
 And love torment in Godstow's hallow'd wall. 
 
 Yet virtue from her deathlike sleep awakes, 
 Eemorse comes on, and rears her whip of snakes. 
 Ah, Henry ! fled are all those fatal charms 
 That led their victim to the monarch's armsj 
 No more responsive to the evening air 
 In wanton ringlets waves my golden hair; 
 No more amid the dance m_y footsteps move, 
 No more the languid eye dissolves with love; 
 Fades on the cheek of Rosamund the rose. 
 And penitence awakes fi'om sm's repose. 
 
 Harlot ! adultress ! Henry ! can I bear 
 Such aggravated guilt, such full despair ! 
 By me the marriage-bed defil'd, by me 
 The laws of heaven forsook, defiled for thee ! 
 Dishonour fix'd on Clifibrd's ancient name, 
 A lather sinking to the grave with shame; 
 These ai'e the crimes that harrow up my heart. 
 These are tlie crimes that poison memory's dartj 
 For these each pang of penitence I prove, 
 yet these, and more than these, are lost in lov3. 
 
 Yes, even here amid the sacred pile. 
 The echoing cloister, and the long-drawn aisle; 
 Even here, when pausing on the silent air. 
 The midnight bell awakes and calls to prayer; 
 As on the stone I bend my clay-cold knee, 
 Love heaves the sigh, and drops the tear for thee: 
 All day the penitent but wakes to weep, 
 'Till nature and the woman smk in sleep; 
 Nightly to thee the guilty dreams repair, 
 And morning wakes to sorrow and despair! 
 
TO KING HEKRY III. 169 
 
 Lov'd of my lieart, tlie conflict soon must cease. 
 Soon must this liarrow'd bosom rest in peace ; 
 Soon must it lieave tlie last soul-rending breath, 
 And sink to slumber in the arms of deaths 
 
 To slumber ! oh, that I might slumber there ! 
 Oh, that that diTadAil thought might lull despair ! 
 That death's chill dews might quench this vital Hame, 
 And life lie mouldering with this lifeless irame ! 
 Then would I strike with joy the friendly blow. 
 Then rush to mingle with the dead below. 
 Oh, agonizing hour ! when round my head 
 Dark-brow'd despair his shadowing wings shall spread; 
 When conscience fi'om herself shall seek to fly, 
 And, loathing life, still more shall loath to die I 
 Already vengeance lifts his iron rod. 
 Already conscience sees an angry God ! 
 No vii-tue now to shield my soul I boast, 
 No hope protects, for innocence is lost ! 
 
 Oh, I was cheerful as the lark, whose lay 
 Ti'ills through the ether, and awakes the day ! 
 Mine was the heartfelt smile, when earliest light 
 Shot thi'ough the fading curtain of the night ; 
 Mine was the peaceful heart, the modest eye 
 That met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why. 
 At evening hour I struck the melting lyre, 
 Whilst partial wonder Ull'd my doating sire, 
 'Till he would press me to his aged breast. 
 And cry, " My chUd, in thee my age is blest ! 
 Oh ! may kind Heaven protract my span of life 
 To see my lovely Eosamund a Avife; 
 To view her children climb their grandsire's knee. 
 To see her husband love, and love like me ! 
 Then, gracious Heaven, decree old Clifford's end. 
 Let his grey hairs in peace to death descend." 
 
 The dreams of bliss are vanish'd from his view. 
 The buds of hope are blasted all by you; 
 Thy child, Clifford ! bears a mother's name, 
 A mother's anguish, and a harlot's shame; 
 Even when her darling children climb her knee. 
 Feels the full force of guilt and infamy I 
 
 
170 EOSAMUXD DE CLIFFORD 
 
 Wretch, most unliappy ! tlius condemn'd to know. 
 Even in lier dearest bliss, her keenest woe; 
 Curst be this fonn, accm-st these fatal charms 
 That buried virtue in seduction's arms; 
 Or rather curst that sad, that fatal hour, 
 When Henry first beheld and felt their power; 
 When mj 'too-pai-tial brother's doating tongue 
 On each perfection of a sister hung; 
 Told of the graceful form, the rose-red cheek, 
 The ruby lip, the eye that knew to speak, 
 The golden locks, that, shadowing half the face 
 Display'd their charms, and gave and hid a grace. 
 'Twas at that hour when night's englooming sway 
 Steals on the fiercer glories of the day; 
 Sad all around, as silence stills the whole. 
 And pensive fancy melts the softening soul; 
 These hands upon the pictured aiTas wove 
 The mom-nful tale of Edwy's hapless love; 
 When the fierce priest, inflam'd with savage pride, 
 From the young monarch tore his blushing bride: 
 Loud rung the horn, I heai'd the coursers' feet. 
 My brothers came — o'erjoyed I ran to meet; 
 But when m.j sovereign met my wandering eye, 
 I blush'd, and gaz'd, and fear'd, yet knew not why; 
 O'er all his form with wistful glance I ran, 
 Kor knew the monarch, till I lov'd the man. 
 Pleas'd with attention, overjoy 'd I saw 
 Each look obey'd, and every word a law. 
 Too soon I felt the secret flame advance, 
 Drank deep the poison of the mutual glance; 
 And still I ply'd my pleasing task, nor knew 
 In shadowing Edwy I had portray 'd you. 
 
 Thine, Henry, is the crime: 'tis thine to bear 
 The aggravated weight of full despau'; 
 To wear the day in woe, the night in tears. 
 And pass in penitence the joyless years; 
 Guiltless in ignorance, my love-led, eyes 
 Knew not the monarch in the knight's disguise: 
 Fraught with deceit, th' insidious monarch came. 
 To blast his faithful subject's spotless name; 
 To pay each service of old Clifford's race 
 With all the keenest anguish of disgrace ! 
 Of love he talk'd; abash'd my down-cast eye, 
 Kor seem'd to seek, nor yet had power to fly; 
 
^TO KING HENRY III. 171 
 
 Still, as he urg'd his suit, his wily art 
 Told not his rank till victor o'er my heart: 
 Ah, known too late ! in vain my reason strove, 
 Fame, honour, reason, all were lost in love. 
 
 How heav'd thine artful breast the deep-drawn sigh ? 
 How spoke thy looks ? how glow'd thine ardent eye ? 
 When skill'd in guile, that soft seductive tongue 
 Talk'd of its truth, and Clifford was undone. 
 Oh, cursed hour of passion's maddening sway, 
 GuUt which a life of tears must wash away ! 
 Gay as the morning lark no more I rose, 
 No more each evening sunk to calm repose; 
 No more in fearless innocence mine eye. 
 Or met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why; 
 No more my fingers struck the trembling lyre. 
 No more I ran with joy to meet my sire; 
 But guilt's deep poison ran through every vein. 
 But stern reflection claim' d his ruthless reign j 
 Still vainly seeking fi-om myself to fly, 
 In anxious guilt I shunn'd each friendly eye; 
 A thousand torments still my steps pursue, 
 And guilt, still lovely, haunts my soul with jou. 
 Harlot, adultress, each detested name. 
 Stamps everlasting blots on Clifford's fame ! 
 How can this wretch prefer the prayer to Heaven ? 
 How, self-condemned, expect to be forgiven ? 
 
 And yet fond hope, with self-deluding art, 
 Stm sheds her opiate poison o'er my heart; 
 Paints thee most wretched in domestic strife. 
 Curst with a kingdom, and a royal wife; 
 And vainly whispers comfort to my breast — • 
 " I cui-st myself that Henry might be blest." 
 Too fond deluder ! impotent thy power 
 To whisper comfort in the mom-nful hour ; 
 Weak, vain seducer, hope ! thy balmy breath. 
 To soothe reflection on the bed of death ; 
 To calm stern conscience' self- afflicting care. 
 Or ease the raging pangs of wild despair. 
 
 Why, Nature, didst thou give this fatal face ? 
 Why heap with charms to load me with disgrace ? 
 Why bid mine eyes two stars of beauty move ? 
 Why form the melting soul too apt for love ? 
 
172 KOSAMUND DE CLIFFORD 
 
 Thy last l)est blessing meant, the feeling breas*. 
 Gave way to guilt, and poison'd all the rest. 
 Now bound in sin's indissoluble chains, 
 Fled are the charms, the guilt alone remains ! 
 
 Oh ! had fate plac'd amidst Earl Clifford's hall 
 Of menial vassals, me most mean of all; 
 Low in my hopes, and homely rude my face. 
 Nor form, nor wishes rais'd above my place j 
 How happy, Rosamund, had been thy lot, 
 In peace to live unknown, and die forgot ! 
 Guilt had not then mfix'd her piercing stmg, 
 Nor scorn revil'd the harlot of a king; 
 Contempt had not revil'd my fallen fame. 
 Nor infamy debas'd a Clifford's name. 
 
 Oh, Clifford ! Oh, my sire ! thy honours now 
 Thy child has blasted on thine ancient brow; 
 Fallen is that darling child from virtue's name, 
 And thy grey hairs sink to the grave with shame I 
 Still busy fancy bids the scene arise. 
 Still paints the father to these wretched eyes. 
 Methinks I see him now, with folded arms. 
 Think of his child, and curse her fatal charms: 
 Those charms, her ruin ! that in happier days. 
 With all a father's love, he lov'd to praise : 
 Unkempt his hoary locks, his head hung low 
 In all the silent energy of woe; 
 Yet still the same kind parent, stiU all mild. 
 He prays forgiveness for his sinful child. 
 And yet I live ! if this be life, to know 
 The agonizing weight of hopeless woe : 
 Thus far, remote from every friendly eye. 
 To drop the tear, and heave the ceaseless sigh. 
 Each dreadful pang remorse mflicts to prove. 
 To weep and pray, yet still to weep and love: 
 Scorn'd by the virgins of this holy dome, 
 A living victim in the cloister'd tomb. 
 To pray, though hopeless, justice should forgive, 
 Scorn'd by myself: if this be life, I live ! 
 
 Oft will remembrance, in her painful hour. 
 Cast the keen glance to Woodstock's lovely bower; 
 
TO KING HENRY III. 173 
 
 Recal each sinful scene of life to view, 
 And give the soul again to guilt and you. 
 Oh ! I have seen thee trace the bower around. 
 And heard the forest echo Eosamund; 
 Have seen thy trantic looks, thy wildering eye, 
 Heard the deep groan and bosom-rending sigh ; 
 Vain are the searching glance, the love-lorn e;voan, 
 I live — but live to penitence alone; 
 Depriv'd of every joy which life can give. 
 Most vile, most wretched, most despis'd, I live- 
 Too weU thy deep regret, thy grief, are icnown. 
 Too true I judge thy sorrows by my own ! 
 Oh ! thou hast lost the dearest charm of life, 
 Tlie fondest, tenderest, loveliest, more than wifej 
 One who, with every virtue, only knew 
 The fault, if fault it be, of loving you; 
 One whose soft bosom seem'd as made to share 
 Thine every joy, and solace every care; 
 For crimes like these secluded, doom'd to know 
 The aggravated weight of guilt and woe. 
 
 StiU dear, stiU lov'd, I learnt to sin of thee. 
 Learn, thou seducer, penitence from me ! 
 Oh 1 that my soul this last pure joy may know. 
 Sometimes to soothe the di'eadful hour of woe. 
 Henry ! by all the love my life has shown, 
 By all the sinful raptm'es we have known. 
 By all the parting pangs that rend my breast, 
 Hear, my lov'd lord, and grant my last request; 
 And, when the last tremendous hour shall come. 
 When all my woes are buried in the tomb, 
 Then grant the only boon this wretch shall crave — 
 Drop the sad tear to dew my humble grave; 
 Pause o'er the tm-f in fulness bent of woe. 
 And think who lies so cold and pale below ! 
 Think from the grave she speaks the last decree, 
 " What I am now, soon, Henry, thou must be !"" 
 Then be this voice of wonted power pcssest, 
 To melt thy heart, and triumph in thy breast: 
 So should my praj^ers with just success be crown'd 
 Should Henry learn remorse from Eosamund; 
 Then shall thy sorrow and repentance prove, 
 That even death was weak to end our love. 
 
174 
 
 THE RACE OF ODIN. 
 
 Loud was the hostile clang of arms. 
 
 And hoarse the hollow sound, 
 "When Pompey scatter'd wild alarms 
 
 The ravag'd East around, 
 
 The criuison deluge dreadful dy'd the ground; 
 An iron forest of destructive spears 
 
 Rear'd their stern stems, where late 
 The bending harvest wav'd its rustling ears: 
 
 Rome, through the swarming gate, 
 Pour'd her ambitious hosts to slaughter forth : 
 
 Such was the will of fate ! 
 From the cold regions of the North, 
 At length, on raven wings, shall vengeance come. 
 And justice pour the m^n of bitterness on Rome. 
 
 ** Roman !" ('twas thus the chief of Asgard cried) 
 
 " Ambitious Roman ! triumph for awhile. 
 Trample on freedom in thy victor pride j 
 Yet, though now thy fortmie smile, 
 Though Mithridates fly forlorn. 
 Once thy di'ead, but now thy scorn, 
 Odin will never live a shameful slave; 
 Some region will he yet explore, 
 
 Beyond the reach of Rome ; 
 Wliere, upon sonie colder shore. 
 Freedom yet thy force shall brave. 
 Freedom yet shall find a home : 
 There, where the eagle dares not soar, 
 Soon shall the raven find a safe retreat. 
 Asgard, farewell ! Farewell, my native seat ! 
 Farewell for ever ! Yet, whilst life shall roll 
 Her warm tide through thine injm-ed chieftain's breast. 
 Oft will he to thy memory drop the tear. 
 Never more shall Odin rest, 
 Never quaff the sportive bowl. 
 Or soothe ui peace his slothful soul. 
 Whilst Rome triumphant lords it here. 
 
THE RACE OF ODIN. 175 
 
 Triumph in thy victor might, 
 Mock the chief of Asgard's flight; 
 But soon the seeds of vengeance shall be sown, 
 And Odin's race hurl down thy blood-cemented thi'one." 
 
 Nurtur'd by Scandinavia's hardy soil. 
 Strong grew the vigorous plant; 
 Danger could ne'er the nation daunt, 
 For war, to other realms a toil, 
 Was but the pastime here ; 
 Skill'd the bold youth to hurl the unerring spear. 
 To wield the falchion, to dhect the dart, 
 rirm was each warrior's frame, yet gentle was his heart. 
 
 Freedom, with joy, beheld the noble race, 
 And fill'd each bosom with her vivid fire; 
 
 Nor vice, nor luxury, debase 
 
 The fi-ee-born offspring of the free-born sire; 
 
 There genuine poesy, in freedom bright, 
 DifFus'd o'er all her clear, her aU-eulivening light. 
 
 From Helicon's meandering rills 
 The inspiring goddess fled; 
 
 Amid the Scandinavian hills 
 In clouds she hid her head; 
 There the bold, the daring muse, 
 Ever}^ daring warrior wooes ; 
 The sacred lust of deathless fame 
 Bm-nt in every warrior's soul: 
 *' Whilst future ages hymn my name, 
 (The son of Odui cries) 
 I shall quaff" the foaming bowl 
 With my forefathers in yon azm-e skies; 
 Methinks I see my foeman's skull 
 With the mantling beverage full; 
 I hear the shield-roof'd hall resound 
 To martial music's echoing sound; 
 I see the virgins, valour's meed,— 
 Death is bliss — I rush to bleed." 
 
 See where the murderer Egill stands. 
 He grasps the harp with skilful hands, 
 
 And pours the soid-emoving tide of song; 
 
 Mute admiration holds the listening throng: 
 
176 THE RACE OF ODIN. 
 
 The royal sire forgets his murder 'd son; 
 Eric forgives; a thousand years 
 
 Their swift revolving course have run, 
 Since thus the bard could check the father's tears, 
 
 Could soothe his soul to peace, 
 
 And never shall the lame of Egill cease. 
 
 Dark was the dungeon, damp the ground. 
 
 Beneath the reach of cheering day, 
 
 Where Eegner dymg lay; 
 Poisonous adders all around 
 On the expiring warrior hung. 
 Yet the full stream of verse flow'd from his dauntless tongue: 
 " We fought with swords," the warrior cr3''d, 
 " We fought with swords," he said — he died. 
 
 Jomshurg lifts her lofty walls, 
 Sparta revives on Scandinavia's shore; 
 
 Undismay'd each hero falls, 
 And scorns his death in terror to deplore. 
 
 " Strike, Thorchill, strike ! drive deep the blow, 
 Jomsburg's sons shall not complain, 
 
 Never shall the brave appear 
 Bound in slavery's shamefiil chain. 
 
 Freedom ev'n in death is dear. 
 Strike, Torchill, strike ! di-ive deep the blow. 
 We joy to quit this world of woe; 
 We rush to seize the seats above. 
 And gain the warrior's meed of happiness and love." 
 
 The destin'd hour at length is come. 
 And vengeful heaven decrees the queen of cities' doom; 
 No longer heaven withholds the avenging blow 
 
 From those proud domes whence Brutus fled; 
 
 Where just Cherea bow'd his head. 
 And proud oppression laid the Graccni low: 
 
 In vain the timid slaves oppose. 
 
 For freedom led their sinewy foes. 
 For valour fled with liberty: 
 
 Rome bows her lofty walls. 
 
 The imperial city falls. 
 She falls — and lo, the world again is free V* 
 
177 
 
 THE DEATH OF ODIIT. 
 
 Soul of my much-lov'd Freya ! yes, I come ! 
 
 No pale disease's slow-consuming power 
 
 Has liasten'd on thy husband's hour; 
 
 Nor pour'd by victor's thirsty hand 
 
 Has Odin's life bedew'd the land: 
 I rush to meet thee by a self-will'd doom. 
 
 No more my clattering iron car 
 
 Shall rush amid the throng of war; 
 No more, obedient to my heavenly cause. 
 Shall crimson conquest stamp his Odin's laws. 
 
 I go— I go ; 
 Yet shall the nations own my sway 
 Far as yon orb shall dart his all- enlivening ray: 
 
 Big is the death-fraught cloud of woe 
 That hangs, proud Rome, impending o'er thy wall. 
 For Odin shall avenge his Asgard's fall. 
 Thus burst from Odm's lips the fated sound, 
 
 As high in air he rear'd the gleaming blade; 
 His faithful friends around 
 In silent wonder saw the scene, affray 'd: 
 He, unappall'd, towards the skies 
 Uplifts his death-denouncing eyes; 
 " Ope wide Valhalla's shield-roof'd hall, 
 Virgins of bliss ! obey your master's call; 
 From these injurious realms below 
 The sire of nations hastes to go." 
 
 Say, falters now your chieftain's breath ? 
 
 Or chills pale terror now his death-like face ? 
 Then weep not, Thor, thy friend's approaching death; 
 
 Let no unmanly tears disgrace 
 
 The first of mortal's valiant race: 
 
 Dauntless Heimdal, mourn not now. 
 
 Balder! clear thy cloudy brow; 
 
 I go to happier realms above, 
 
 To realms of friendship and of love. 
 
 This unmanly grief dispelling. 
 
 List to glory's rapturous call; 
 So with Odin ever dwelling, 
 
 Meet him in the shield-roof'd haU: 
 
178 THE DEATH OF ODIN. 
 
 Still shall Odin's fateful lance 
 Before his daring friends advance; 
 When the bloody fight beginning, 
 Helms and shields, and hauberks ringing 
 Streaming life each fatal wound 
 Pours its current on the ground; 
 Still in clouds portentous riding 
 O'er his comrade host presiding. 
 Odin, from the stormy air, 
 O'er your affrighted foes shall scatter wild despair. 
 
 'Mid the mighty din of battle. 
 Whilst conflicting chariots rattle, 
 Ploods of purple slaughter streaming, 
 Fate-fraught falchions widely gleaming; 
 When Mista marks her destin'd prey, 
 When di'ead and death deform the dayj 
 Happy he amid the strife, 
 Who pours the cm-rent of his life; 
 Every toil and trouble ending, 
 Odin from his hall descending. 
 Shall bear him to his blest retreat, 
 Shall place him in the warrior's seat. 
 
 Not such the destin'd joys that wait 
 The wretched dastard's future fate: 
 Wild shrieks shall yell in every breath, — 
 The agonizing shrieks of death. 
 Adown his wan and livid face 
 Big drops their painful way shall trace 
 Each limb in that tremendous hour 
 Shall quiver in disease's power. 
 Grim Hela o'er his couch shall hang. 
 Scoff at his groans, and point each pang; 
 No vu'gin goddess him shall call 
 To join you in the shield-roof 'd hall; 
 No Valkery for him prepare 
 The smiling mead with lovely care: 
 Sad and scorn'd the wretch shall lie, 
 Despau-ing shriek — despairing die ! 
 Ko Scald in never- dymg lays 
 Shall rear the temple of his praise; 
 No vii'gin in her vernal bloom 
 Bedew -with tears his high-reai-'d tombs 
 
THE DEATH OP ODIK 179 
 
 No soldier sound his honour'd name; 
 No song shall hand him down to fame; 
 But rank weeds o'er the inglorious grave 
 Shall to the blast their high heads wave; 
 And swept by time's strong stream away. 
 He soon shall sink — oblivion's prey; 
 And deep in Nillehim — dreary cell, 
 Aye shall his sprite tormented dwell. 
 Where grim remorse for ever wakes, 
 Where anguish feeds her torturing snakes. 
 Where disappointment and delay 
 For ever guard the doleful way; 
 Amid the joyless land of woe 
 Keen and bleak the chill blasts blow; 
 Drives the tempest, pours the rain, 
 Showers the hail with force amain; 
 Yell the night-birds as they fly 
 Flitting in the misty sky; 
 Glows the adder, swells the toad, 
 For sad is Hela's cold abode. 
 
 Spread then the Gothic banners to the sky, 
 Iiifb your sable banners high ; 
 Yoke your coursers to the car, 
 Strike the sounding shield of war; 
 Go, my lov'd companions, go, 
 Ti'ample on the opposing foe; 
 Be like the raging torrent's force. 
 That, rushing from the hills, speds on its foaming course. 
 
 Haste, my sons, to war's alarms. 
 Triumph in the clang of arms; 
 Joy amid the warlike toil. 
 Feed the raven with your spoil; 
 Go, prepare the eagle's food, 
 Go, and drench the woK with blood, 
 *Till ye shall hear dark Hela's call. 
 And vu'gins waft ye to my hall; 
 There, wrapt in clouds, the shadowy throng 
 To airy combat glide along ; 
 'Til wearied with the friendly fight, 
 Serimner's flesh recruits their might; 
 There, whilst I gi*asp the Roman skull. 
 With hydi'omel sweet-smiling full, 
 
 N 2 
 
180 THE DEATH OP ODIN. 
 
 The festive song shall echo round, 
 
 The Scald repeat the deathless sound : 
 
 Then, Thor, when thou fi'om fight shalt cease. 
 
 When death shall lay that arm in peace, 
 
 StiU shaU the nations fear thy nod, 
 
 The first of warriors now, and then their god; 
 
 But be each heart with rage possest, 
 
 Let vengeance glow in every breast ; 
 
 Let conquest feU the Roman wall, 
 
 Eevenge on Kome my Asgard's fall. 
 
 The Druid throng shall fall away. 
 
 And sink beneath your victor sway; 
 
 No more shaU nations bow the knee, 
 
 Vanquish'd Taranis, to thee ; 
 
 No more upon the sacred stone, 
 
 Tentates, shall thy victims groan ; 
 
 The vanquish'd Odin, Eome, shall cause thy fall. 
 And his destruction shake thy proud imperial wall. 
 
 Yet, my faithful friends, beware 
 
 Luxury's enerving snare; 
 
 'Twas this that shook our Asgard's dome 
 
 That drove us from our native home; 
 'Twas this that smooth'd the way for victor Eome : 
 
 Gaul's fruitful plains invite your sway, 
 
 Conquest points the destin'd way; 
 
 Conquest shall attend your call, 
 And your success shall gild still more Valhalla's halL 
 
 So spake the dauntless chief, and pierc'd his breast, 
 Then rush'd to seize the seat of endless rest. 
 
 THE DEATH OF MOSES. 
 
 Israel, my hour is come ! 
 
 Borne on the wings of time, 
 
 Death marks his destined prey, 
 Now, in the fulness of my age. 
 Ere faint my slirunken limbs wax weak. 
 
 Ere dim my rayless eye, 
 Of years and honours full, I seek the tomb 
 
THE DEATH OF MOSES. 181 
 
 Offspring of Abram, Moses' guardian voice, 
 No more shall breathe the will 
 Of your protecting God. 
 For not to me is given 
 On Canaan's promis'd land 
 At last to rest in peace : 
 For not to me is given 
 O'er Jordan's barrier flood 
 To reach the abundant clime: 
 On Moab's pathless plains 
 Must Moses rest in peace. 
 
 Wlien wandering o'er the desert wilds of ZIn 
 
 Faint grew your parched frames, 
 Then Israel sinn'd against the God of E ost^, 
 
 Have ye forgot the hour 
 
 When murmuring anger buzz'd 
 
 Along the busy tents ? 
 
 Have ye forgot the hour 
 
 When, bold in secrecy, 
 
 Sedition's impious feet 
 
 Stole on from tent to tent ? 
 Then Israel sinn'd against the God of Hosts? 
 
 On me his vengeance fell. 
 
 'Twas there where Miriam died. 
 
 Where o'er a sister's corse 
 I rear'd in grief the monumental stone. 
 
 'Twas then — the prophet's ardour lest — 
 
 I felt the brother's grief: 
 For memory's painful gratitude recall'd 
 
 The succour Miriam gave. 
 
 The succour Miriam gave. 
 When haven'd on the sedgy banks of Nile 
 
 Reposed my infant ark. 
 
 I call'd to mind her care, 
 
 I call'd to mind her love; 
 How sweetly soft she touch'd the lute 
 How graceful moved amid the dance. 
 
 Sedition's impious feet 
 
 Stole on from tent to tent. 
 
 Till, boldened by success. 
 Aloud the fui-y lifts her daring voice. 
 
182 THE DEATH OF MOSES. 
 
 " Why, Moses, did thy treach'rous art 
 Lead us fi-om Eg}^t's fertile clime. 
 
 Amid these pathless wilds 
 
 To sink, wan famine's prey ? 
 
 Amid these pathless wilds, 
 
 Where even Natm-e dies ! 
 For here no seeds enrich the earth, 
 No fig-tree spreads its grateful shade, 
 No vine depends its cluster'd boughs, 
 Nor frigid fountain winds 
 Its murmuring course along. 
 
 Our parch'd frames sink — ■ 
 
 We die for tlurst." 
 
 'Twas thus, blaspheming Heaven, ye spake:— 
 Heaven burst in twain by me the rock; 
 The spring rush'd forth. 
 " But never, Moses, shall thy feet 
 Possess the promis'd land:" 
 For Israel sinn'd against the God of Hosts : 
 On me his vengeance fell. 
 From Nebo's mountain top 
 I view'd the promis'd land; 
 O'er Palestine's luxm'iant soil 
 
 I cast the eagle ken. 
 Far as the distant ocean's shore. 
 O'er Gilead's fertile soil I gaz'd: 
 The southward plains I saw, 
 And Jericho's rich plain, 
 Where, bower'd in palm-trees, rise her lofty towers. 
 
 Blest are Abram's favour'd race. 
 
 Blest above the sons of men ; 
 
 For theirs are Canaan's fertile lands. 
 
 For theirs the aid of Heav'n. 
 From stern oppression's tyrant sway. 
 From ignominy, bonds, and death. 
 
 Heaven led the people forth. 
 Through pathless deserts wild and waste. 
 Through the wide wilderness of dearth. 
 Where desolation blasted all around. 
 
 Heaven led the people forth. 
 E'en as the eagle's parent care 
 
 Hangs o'er the lofty nest. 
 
THE DEATH OF MOSES. 183 
 
 And flutters fondly o'er her young. 
 
 And spreads her guardian wings. 
 And leads them from the eyiy forth. 
 
 And bids them face the sun. 
 
 OlTsprhig of Israel ! have your thankless hearts 
 Forgot the bounteous gifts of Heaven ? 
 When frighted ocean stopt his waves. 
 
 And rushing seas stood still ? 
 
 Have ye forgot the fires 
 
 That led yom- nightly march ? 
 
 Forgot the heavenly food 
 
 That fell like evening dew. 
 
 For Israel's chosen race ? 
 Oh ! write his mercies on your hearts. 
 Treasure his bounties in your soul. 
 
 Obey the will of Heaven. 
 
 Sons of my care ! to you, from highest heaven, 
 
 Jeshurun's God has spoke. 
 By me Jehovah gave the words of life: 
 
 Observe his sacred laws, 
 And fly the snares which superstition spreads. 
 
 Fly Moloch's horrid rites, 
 
 Astarte's orgies lewd. 
 
 And Thammuz' annual dirge, 
 
 And Cheraos' wanton wiles. 
 
 Is Sittim's field forgot ? 
 Forgot the fatal hour when thousands fell ; 
 
 And Heaven's avenging arm 
 
 Hurl'd down the shafts of death ? 
 For then in Chemos' wanton rites 
 
 The sons of Israel join'd, 
 And caught the harlot's melting eye. 
 
 And gave the soul to love. 
 Then, subdued by s^a-en pleasure. 
 Captive reason bow'd to beauty. 
 
 Forgot the laws of God ! 
 
 Forgot avenging Heaven — 
 For woman's mildly-melting eye 
 
 Thrill'd thi'ough' the soiten'd soul. 
 
184 THE DEATH OF MOSES. 
 
 Then Zimri died. 
 Then Cozbi's voice. 
 That stole resistless o'er the Hebrew's heart, 
 In vain for pity pray'd. 
 The zealous priest arose; 
 E'en through her lover's breast 
 He pierc'd the lovely fair idolater. 
 
 Blest, Phineas, be thy name; 
 Blest be thy heart of adamantine faith. 
 That spmTi'd the woman's prayer. 
 
 Israel, be thine to shun 
 
 Alluring beauty's wiles, 
 
 To fly the melting glance, 
 
 The loosely languid look. 
 *Tis thine to wreak the wrath of Heaven, 
 'Tis thine to lift aloft the sword. 
 
 Lay low the despot chiefs. 
 
 Lay low the lofty tow'rs. 
 
 Let the despots assemble their hosts, 
 
 Let them marshal their thousands in pride; 
 
 Let the offspring of Aiiak arise 
 
 From Jericho's palm-bower'd throne, 
 
 And Ai and Solyma's towers. 
 
 Let them rush from their mountains to war. 
 
 Let them cover the valley with arms. 
 
 For Jehovah will war for his sons. 
 
 Low Ai's walls shall lie; 
 Devouring flames shall waste 
 Huge Hazor's strength to dust: 
 Of Jericho's tall towers 
 No relics shall remain. 
 There shall the pilgrim, tempest-torn, 
 
 "When on the lightning flash destruction rides. 
 In vain for shelter seek. 
 
 O'er ruin'd palaces the fox shall roam; 
 Amid the desert halls. 
 Where once was spread the feast, 
 Where once was heard the song, 
 Now shall the wild wolf's howl resound, 
 
 Now build the bird obscene her secret nest. 
 
THE DEATH OF MOSES. 185 
 
 Yet, from the storm of war reserv'd, 
 With added strength Jerusalem shall rise. 
 The city of your God ! 
 To guard her favour'd tow'rs 
 Shall Heaven protecting spread th' immortal shield: 
 Her trees with honey ooze, 
 Her rivers flow with milk. 
 There, Israel, shall the fig-tree bend 
 
 To you its laden boughs ; 
 There shall the cluster'd vine expand 
 Its wildly-wanton arms. 
 
 O'er Moses' clayey corse 
 
 Drop ye the grateful tear. 
 And hide his relics in the narrow house. 
 O'er Jordan then rush for the prize, 
 Spread terror o'er Canaan afar, 
 Ajid triumphantly fight for the Lord. 
 
 THE DEATH OF MATTATHIAS.* 
 
 Sons of my age, attend; 
 Come round tlie bed of death, 
 Ere yet his cold damp dews 
 Extinguish life's weak flame. 
 
 For Mattathias' arm no more 
 Shall scatter terror o'er the host 
 
 Of Israel's foes. 
 Now triumphant pride disdainful 
 
 Lifts elate his royal head; 
 Lawless might and rufiian rapine 
 
 Stalk o'er Israel uncontroll'd. 
 
 Jehovah hides his face. 
 And stern destruction shakes the spear; 
 Wide-wasting vengeance pours the show'r of death — 
 
 Jehovah hides his face. 
 
 * Jlattathias, one of the race of priests, opposed the persecution of 
 Antiochus Epiphanes, and fin ling his deatli approacliing, assembled his 
 five sons, and exhorted them to continue the defence of the covenant 
 of tlieir ancestors. 
 
186 THE DEATH OF MATTATHIAS. 
 
 Now, then, my sons, be firm; 
 
 Be lilve the mighty rock. 
 
 Against whose foot the waves 
 
 For ever dash in vain. 
 Now, then, in your God confiding, 
 Lift the sword, and break the shield: 
 Look upon your great forefathers, 
 
 Call each long-past deed to view; 
 
 Let remembrance fire your souls — 
 
 Lift the sword, and break the shield. 
 
 On Moriah moimt is laid 
 The father's only child ! 
 Down Abraham's aged cheek 
 KoU'd the paternal tear; 
 The big sob spoke his grief. 
 And nature rived his heart, but rived in vain — • 
 For faith prevail'd. 
 He rear'd the pile, 
 He bound the silent child; 
 The child whose silence spoke 
 Most moving eloquence. 
 Nor did not Abraham feel 
 The father's mighty grief, 
 Nor paint the ^vretehed mother's woe-fraught cries 
 
 Nor did he not perceive 
 The deadly blow more deep would rive his heart: 
 Yet faith prevail'd — 
 He lifts the knife of sacrifice ! 
 Jehovah saw and saved. 
 
 O'er Joseph's robe, bedied with guileful blood, 
 
 The aged patriarch wept: 
 
 He rear'd the fancied tomb. 
 
 And tore his hoary locks, 
 Yet bow'd resigned to Heaven's high will. 
 
 Meantime, in foreign land, 
 
 Joseph forgot not God. 
 Vice, her tinsel charms displaying. 
 Vainly sought to melt his mind ; 
 Vainly plann'd the wile deceitful. 
 Seeking soft to soothe the soul. 
 
 To soothe the soul to sin. 
 
 He saw the languid eye. 
 
 The breast that heav'd with love; 
 
THE DEATH OF MATTATHIAS. 187 
 
 White as the new-fallen snow, 
 
 Unchill'd by modesty. 
 
 Her hot grasp seiz'd his arms: 
 He fled— 
 And when seducing pleasure to his lips 
 
 Held forth the honey'd draught. 
 
 He dash'd the poison down. 
 Nor Heaven, all-just, withheld relief: 
 
 He mark'd the father's woe. 
 
 He lov'd the virtuous child; 
 And Joseph clos'd, in peace, the patriarch's eyes. 
 
 Hark ! the hurtling din of battle ! 
 Clanging shields and biting falchions 
 Eend the air with fiai'ful terror. 
 
 Joshua leads the war: 
 His voice controls the orbs of heaven ! 
 The sun stood still. 
 The moon obedient held her chariot back ; 
 
 Then fell the royal power. 
 To Makkedah's dark cave the monarchs fled; 
 Upon the fatal tree. 
 They wave with every wind. 
 Eound Jericho was borne the mystic ark. 
 Was blown the blaii-ing blast; 
 Proud on the blairing blast 
 Triumphant ruin rode. 
 From their foundations hurl'd. 
 The mighty bulwarks load the ground. 
 
 By prodigies announc'd, ere yet 
 
 Rank'd in existence, roll, 
 Manoah's offspring tow'rs in giant strength: 
 His crisp locks wave amid the wind, 
 His crisped air of strength. 
 On rushes Philistia's host, 
 They environ the warrior unarm'd; 
 He grasps the jaw-bone in his hand. 
 He levels their thousands in death. 
 
 Fatigued with deeds of death. 
 
 The victor's limbs relax, 
 
 His parch'd mouth gapes with thirst; 
 
 Heaven saw and sent relief. 
 And from the wondrous weapon flow'd the spring. 
 
188 THE DEATH OF MATTATHIAS. 
 
 By Cheritli's hidden stream recluse, 
 
 The faithful prophet lay ; 
 
 He di-ank the running brook, 
 The ravens brought the due s apply. 
 
 Firm in the path of faith 
 
 Through life Elijah trod. 
 TSTor through the narrow portals of the grave 
 
 He past to realms of bliss; 
 For ravish' d in the car of flames. 
 
 He fled the gate of death; 
 Thus mortal rapt to immortality. 
 
 High from his lofty throne 
 
 The impious tyrant cries, 
 
 " Fall down, ye men of earth, 
 Kevere the image of your King and God." 
 Faith stood firm. 
 
 " Heap the fierce furnace high," 
 
 (The angry despot cries) 
 " Fan the red flames till the hot fm-nace pales. 
 
 Sickening itself with heat." 
 The fire flames fierce ! 
 
 Amid the pallid flames 
 
 The faithful friends are hurl'd ! 
 
 But blasted fall the slaves, 
 
 The slaves of tjn-anny: 
 God stretch'd the robe of preservation forth. 
 
 And mantled o'er his sons. 
 
 Amid the lions hurl'd, 
 In conscious faith serene the prophet lay. 
 
 Nor Daniel knew to fear, 
 Nor did his pale limbs quiver with aflfright; 
 
 He dar'd for God to die. 
 And Heaven, for ever good, preserv'd the seer: 
 
 The gaunt beasts, famine-fairn, 
 Creep at his feet, and suppliant lick his hand. 
 
 Sons of my age, look back; 
 
 Call up the shadowy scenes 
 
 Of ages now no more: 
 For never, since yon font of light 
 
 Fhst shed the new-born stream. 
 For never, since the breath of life 
 
THE DEATH OF MATTATHIAS. 189 
 
 Breatli'd through the realms of space. 
 Has virtue trusted in her God in vain. 
 Amid the storm serene she goes, 
 Nor heeds black malice' sharpest shafts. 
 
 Nor envy's venom'd tooth; 
 The warring winds roar round her head. 
 Nor knows the constant maid to fear. 
 
 But lifts her looks to God. 
 Not 'til the sun, for ever quench'd. 
 
 In darkness cease to shine; 
 'Til nature feel no more the breath 
 
 Of life pervade her frame : 
 
 'Til time himself expii-'d 
 
 Sink in eternity, 
 Shall faith be firm in vain. 
 
 Now then, indeed, be men, 
 
 Grasp firm the shield of faith. 
 
 Lift high the sword of hope. 
 Nor fear yon haughty tyrant's impious vaunts ; 
 
 To-day elate he stalks. 
 
 Lifts his tiared brows. 
 
 Self-deemed a more than man: 
 
 To-morrow, fall'n in dust. 
 
 Food for the worm corrupt. 
 Sunk to primeval nothing, low he lies. 
 And, sometimes, when your lips repeat the deeds 
 
 Your forefathers achiev'd. 
 Of me the meanest think, not wholly mean: 
 
 Let Mattathias' name 
 
 Full-fill your souls with fire, 
 
 Recal that hour to view 
 
 When this indignant hand 
 Drench'd deep my dagger in apostate blood. 
 
 Even at the altar's foot, 
 
 The tyrant chief I stabb'd, 
 
 I hurl'd the altar down. 
 
 Nor then, in sacred sloth subdued. 
 Upon the sabbath fell we unreveng'd. 
 We serv'd our God in fight. 
 We sacrific'd his foes. 
 We pray'd amid the war. 
 Then through these limbs burnt high 
 
190 THE DEATH OF MATTATHIAS. 
 
 Indignant valour's flame; 
 Then glow'd the lamp of life, 
 Now pale and wavering as the dews of deathj 
 Slow quench its fading light. 
 
 God of my fathers, thou hast seen my life 
 
 Worn in defence of thee; 
 Thou hast beheld me firm in danger's face, 
 
 Maintain thy holy cause. 
 
 Amid embattled hosts 
 
 Defend thy mystic rites. 
 
 Now to the unknown world, 
 
 Unchill'd by fear, I sink: 
 And whilst my chilly limbs grow faint, 
 Whilst death's dull mists bedim my eye, 
 
 Hope lifts my soul to thea 
 
191 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN. 
 
 TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT. 
 
 The lily cheek, the " purple light of love," 
 The liquid lustre of the melting eye — 
 Mary ! of these the poet sung, for these 
 Did woman triumph. With no angry frown 
 View this degrading conquest ! At that age 
 No Maid of Arc had snatched from coward man 
 The avenging sword of freedom; woman-kmd 
 Recorded then no Roland's martyrdom; 
 No Corde's angel and avenging arm 
 Had sanctified again the murderer's name, 
 As erst when Csesar perished : yet some strains 
 May even adorn this theme, befitting me 
 To ofier, nor unworthy thy regard. 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN. 
 
 The subject from the third and fourth chapters of the Book of Esdras. 
 
 Glad as the weary traveller, tempest-tost, 
 To reach secure at length his native coast. 
 Who wandering long o'er distant lands has sped. 
 The night-blast wildly howling round his head. 
 Known all the woes of want, and felt the storm 
 Of the bleak mnter parch his shivering form; 
 The journey o'er, and eveiy peril past, 
 Beholds his little cottage-home at last; 
 And as he sees afar the smoke cmd slow, 
 Feels his full eyes with transport overflow; 
 So from the scene where death and anguish reign. 
 And vice and folly drench with blood the plain. 
 
192 THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN. 
 
 Joyful I turn, to sing how woman's praise 
 Availed again Jerusalem to raise, 
 Called forth the sanction of the despot's nod, 
 And freed the nation best beloved of God. 
 
 Darius gives the feast: to Persia's court. 
 Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort: 
 Attending satraps swell the prince's pride, 
 And vanquish'd monarchs grace their conqueror's side. 
 No more the warrior wears the garb of war. 
 Girds on the sword, or mounts the scythed car; 
 No more Judaea's sons dejected go, 
 And hang the head, and heave the sigh of wo. 
 From Persia's rugged liills descend the train. 
 Prom wner e Orontes foams along the plain. 
 Prom where Choaspes rolls his royal waves, 
 And India sends her sons, submissive slaves. 
 Thy daughters, Babylon, to grace the feast 
 Weave the loose robe, and paint the flowery vest; 
 With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair. 
 They tinge the cheek which nature formed so fair. 
 Learn the soft step, the soul-subduing glance. 
 Melt in the song, and swim adown the dance. 
 Exalted on the monarch's golden throne. 
 In royal state the fair Apame shone; 
 Her form of majesty, her eyes of fire, 
 Chill with respect, or kindle with desire. 
 The admiring multitude her charms adore. 
 And own her worthy of the crown she wore. 
 
 Now on his couch reclined Darius lay, 
 Tired with the toilsome pleasures of the day; 
 Without Judaea's watchful sons await. 
 To guard the sleeping pageant of the state. 
 Three youths were these of Judah's royal race, 
 Three youths whom nature dowered with every grace. 
 To each the form of symmetry she gave. 
 And haughty genius cursed each favourite slave; 
 These filled the cup, around the monarch kept. 
 Served as he spake, and guai'ded whilst he slept. 
 
 Yet oft for Salem's hallowed towers laid low 
 The sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would flow; 
 
THE TRIUMPH OP WOMAN. 192 
 
 And when the dull and wearying round of Power 
 Allowed Zorobabel one vacant hour. 
 He loved on Babylon's high wall to roam, 
 And stretch the gaze towards his distant home; 
 Or on Euphrates' willowy banks reclined. 
 Hear the sad harp moan fitful to the wind. 
 
 As now the perfumed lamps stream wide their h'ght. 
 And social converse cheers the livelong night. 
 Thus spake Zorobabel : " Too long in vain 
 For Zion desolate her sons complain; 
 In anguish worn the joyless years lag slow. 
 And these proud conquerors mock their captive's woe. 
 WhUst Cyrus triumphed here in victor state 
 A brighter prospect cheered our exUed fate, 
 Om- sacred walls again he bade us raise. 
 And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise. 
 Quickly these fond hopes laded from our eyes. 
 As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies, 
 And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain. 
 Soon hid by clouds which dim the scene again. 
 
 " Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign. 
 We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain. 
 Now when Darius, chief of mild command. 
 Bids joy and pleasure fill the festive land, 
 Still shall we di'oop the head in sullen grief. 
 And, sternly silent, shun to seek relief? 
 What if amid the monarch's mirthful throng 
 Our harps should echo to the cheerful song ? 
 
 " Fair is the occasion," thus the one replied, 
 " Now then let aU our tuneful skill be tried. 
 While the gay courtiers quaff the smiling bowl. 
 And wine's strong fumes inspire the maddened soul 
 Where all around is merriment, be mme 
 To strike the lute, and praise the power of wine." 
 
 " And while," his friend replied, " in state alone. 
 Lord of the earth, Darius fills the throne. 
 Be yom-s the mighty power of wine to sinj^. 
 My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's king." 
 
 o 
 
194 THE TEIUMPH OF WOMAN. 
 
 To them Zorobabel: " On themes like these 
 Seek ye the monarch of mankind to please; 
 To wine superior, or to power's strong arms. 
 Be mine to sing resistless woman's charms. 
 To him victorious in the rival lays 
 Shall just Darius give the meed of praise; 
 The purple rohe his honoured frame shall fold. 
 The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold; 
 A golden couch support his bed of rest, 
 The chain of honour grace his favoured breast; 
 His the soft turban, his the car's array. 
 O'er Babylon's high wall to wheel its way, 
 And for his wisdom seated on the throne, 
 For the king's cousin shall the bard be known." 
 
 Intent they meditate the future lay, 
 And watch impatient for the dawn of day. 
 The morn rose clear, and slirill were heard the flute. 
 The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute ; 
 To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort. 
 Swarm through the gates, and fill the festive court. 
 
 High on his throne Darius towered in pride. 
 The fair Apame graced the sovereign's side; 
 And now she smiled, and now with mimic frown 
 Placed on her brow the monarch's sacred crown. 
 In transport o'er her fauitness form he bends. 
 Loves every look, and every act commends. 
 
 And now Darius bids the herald call 
 
 Judaea's bard to grace the tlirongmg hall. 
 
 Husht is each sound — the attending crowd are mute. 
 
 The Hebrew lightly strikes the cheerful lute : 
 
 When the traveller on his way, 
 
 Wlio has toiled the livelong day, 
 
 Feels around on every side 
 
 The chilly mists of eventide. 
 
 Fatigued and faint his weary mind 
 
 Recurs to all he leaves behind; 
 
 He thinks upon the well-trimmed hearth, 
 
 The evening hour of social mnth, 
 
 And her who at departing day 
 
 Weeps for her husband far away; 
 
THE TKIUMPH OF WOMAN. 195 
 
 O give to him the flowing bowl. 
 Bid it renovate his soul; 
 Then shall sorrow sink to sleep, 
 And he who wept no more shall weep; 
 For his care-clouded brow shall clear, 
 And his glad eye shall sparkle through the tear. 
 
 When the poor man heart-opprest 
 Betakes him to his evening rest. 
 And worn with labour thinks in sorrow 
 Of the labour of to-morrow; 
 When sadly musing on his lot 
 He hies him to his joyless cot. 
 And loathes to meet his children there, 
 The rivals for his scanty fare; 
 give to him the flowing bowl, 
 Bid it renovate his soul; 
 The generous juice with magic power 
 Shall cheat with happiness the hour. 
 And with each warm affection fill 
 The heart by want and wretchedness made chill. 
 
 When, at the dim close of day. 
 The captive loves alone to stray 
 Along the haunts recluse and rude 
 Of sorrow and of solitude; 
 When he sits with moveless eye 
 To mark the lingering radiance die. 
 And lets distempered fancy roam 
 Amid the ruins of his home, — 
 O give to him the flowing bowl, 
 Bid it renovate his soul; 
 The bowl shall better thoughts bestow, 
 And lull to rest his wakeful woe, 
 And joy shall bless the evening hour. 
 And make the captive fortune's conqueror. 
 
 When the wearying cares of state 
 Oppress the monarch with their weight. 
 When from his pomp retired alone 
 He feels the duties of the throne, 
 Feels that the multitude below 
 Depend on him for weal or woe; 
 
 o2 
 
196 THE TRIUMPH OP WOMAN". 
 
 When his powerful will may bless 
 A realm with peace and happiness, 
 Or with desolating breath 
 Breathe ruin round, and woe, and death: 
 give to him the flowing bowl. 
 Bid it humanize his soul; 
 He shall not feel the empire's weight. 
 He shall not feel the cares of state, 
 The bowl shall each dark thought beguile. 
 And nations live and prosper from his smile. 
 
 Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceased the song. 
 Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng; 
 Each tongue the liberal words of praise repaid. 
 On every cheek a smile applauding played; 
 The rival bard approached, he struck the string. 
 And poured the loftier song to Persia's king. 
 
 Why should the wearying cares of state 
 
 Oppress the monarch with their weight ? 
 
 Alike to him if peace shall bless 
 
 The multitude with happmess; 
 Alilce to him if phrensied war 
 
 Careers triumphant on the embattled plain 
 
 And rolling on o'er mp'iads slain, 
 With gore and wounds shall clog his scythed car. 
 
 What though the tempest rage ! no sound 
 Of the deep thunder shakes his distant throne. 
 
 And the red flash that spreads destruction round, 
 Eeflects a glorious splendour on the crown. 
 
 Where is the man who, with ennobling pride. 
 Beholds not his own nature ? where is he 
 
 Who without awe can see 
 The mysteries of the human mind. 
 
 The miniature of Deity ? 
 For man the vernal clouds descending 
 
 Shower doAvn their fertilizing rain. 
 For man the ripened harvest bending 
 Waves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain. 
 
 He spreads the sail on high. 
 The rude gale wafts him o'er the main; 
 For him the winds of heaven subservient blow, 
 
 Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow. 
 
 He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below ! 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAX. 197 
 
 Where is tlie king who, with elating pride, 
 
 Sees not this man — this godlike man his slave ? 
 Mean are the mighty by the monarch's side. 
 
 Alike the wise, alike the brave 
 
 With timid step and pale, advance. 
 
 And tremble at the royal glance; 
 
 Suspended millions watch his breath 
 Whose smile is happiaess, whose frown is death. 
 
 Wliy goes the peasant from that little cot. 
 Where peace and love have blest his humble life ? 
 
 In vain his agonizing wife 
 
 With tears bedews her husband's face. 
 And clasps him in a long and last embrace; 
 
 In vain his childi'en round his bosom creep. 
 
 And weep to see their mother weep. 
 Fettering their father with their little arms. 
 
 What are to him the war's alarms ? 
 
 Wliat are to him the distant foes ? 
 
 He at the earliest davm of day 
 
 To daily labom- went his way; 
 
 And when he saw the sun decline. 
 
 He sat in peace beneath his vine. 
 The kmg commands, the peasant goes. 
 From all he loved on earth he flies. 
 And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds, and dies. 
 
 What though yon city's castled wall 
 
 Cast o'er the darkened plain its crested shade ? 
 Wliat though their priests in earnest terror call 
 
 On all their host of gods to aid ? 
 Vain is the bulwark, vain the tower; 
 
 In vain her gallant youths expose 
 
 Their breasts, a bulwark, to the foes. 
 In vain at that tremendous hour, 
 Clasped in the savage soldier's reeking arms, 
 
 Slu'ieks to tame Heaven the violated maid. 
 By the rude hand of ruin scattered round 
 Their moss-grown towers shall spread the desert ground. 
 
 Low shall the mouldering palace lie. 
 
 Amid the princely halls the grass wave high. 
 And through the shattered roof descend the inclement sky. 
 
198 THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAJT. 
 
 Gay o'er tlie embattled plain 
 
 Moves yonder warrior train, 
 Their banners wanton on the morning gale ! 
 
 Full on their bucklers beams the rising ray. 
 
 Their glittering helms give glories to the day. 
 The shout of war rings echoing o'er the vale: 
 Far reaches as the aching eye can strain 
 
 The splendid horror of their wide array. 
 
 Ah ! not in vain expectant, o'er 
 
 Their glorious pomp the vultures soar ! 
 
 Amid the conqueror's palace high 
 
 Shall sound the song of victory: 
 Long after journeying o'er the plain 
 
 The traveller shall with startled eye 
 See their white bones then blanched by many a wdnter sky. 
 
 Lord of the earth ! we will not raise 
 
 The temple to thy bounded praise. 
 
 For thee no victim need expire, 
 
 For thee no altar blaze with hallowed fire ! 
 
 The burning city flames for thee — 
 
 Thine altar is the field of victory I 
 
 Thy sacred Majesty to bless 
 Man a self-ofiered victim freely flies. 
 
 To thee he sacrifices happiness 
 And peace, and love's endearing ties. 
 To thee a slave he lives, to thee a slave he dies. 
 
 Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceased to sing. 
 The shout rushed forth — For ever live the king ! 
 Loud was the uproar, as when Rome's decree 
 Pronounced Achaia once again was free; 
 Assembled Greece enrapt with fond belief 
 Heard the false boon, and blessed the villain chief; 
 Each breast with freedom's holy ardour glows. 
 From every voice the cry of rapture rose; 
 Their thundering clamours bm-st the astonished sky, 
 And birds o'erpassing hear, and di-op, and die. 
 Thus o'er the Persian dome then- plaudits ring. 
 And the high hall re-echoed — Live the king ! 
 The mutes bowed reverent dovm before their lord, 
 The assembled satraps envied r.nd adored, 
 Joy sparkled in the monarch's conscious eyes, 
 And his pleased pride already doomed the prize. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN. 19D 
 
 Silent they saw Zorobabel advance: 
 Quick on Apame shot his timid glance. 
 With downward eye he paused a moment mute. 
 And with light finger touched the softer lute. 
 Apame knew the Hebrew's gi-ateful cause, 
 And bent her head, and sweetly smiled applause. 
 
 Why is the warrior's cheek so red ? 
 Why downward di'ops his musing head ? 
 Why that slow step, that faint advance, 
 That keen yet quick retreating glance ? 
 That crested hand in war towered high, 
 No backward glance disgraced that eye, 
 No flushing fear that cheek o'erspread 
 When stern he strode o'er heaps of dead: 
 Strange tumult now his bosom moYes — 
 The warrior fears because he loves. 
 
 Why does the youth delight to rove 
 Amid the dark and lonely grove ? 
 Why in the throng where all are gay, 
 
 His wandering eye with meaning fi-aught. 
 
 Sits he alone in silent thought ? 
 
 Silent he sits; for far away 
 
 His passioned soul delights to stray; 
 
 Recluse he roves, and strives to shun 
 
 All human-kind because he loves but One ! 
 
 Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest; 
 But not because the sparkling bowl 
 To rapture lifts thy wakened soul. 
 
 But not because of power possest. 
 
 Not that the nations di-ead thy nod. 
 
 And princes reverence thee their earthly God. 
 
 Even on a monarch's solitude 
 
 Care, the black spectre, will intrude. 
 
 The bowl brief pleasure can bestow. 
 
 The purple cannot shield from woe. 
 
 But, King of Persia, thou art blest, 
 For Heaven, who raised thee thus the world above. 
 Has made thee happy in Apame's love ! 
 
 Oh ! I have seen his fond looks trace 
 Each angel feature of her face, 
 
200 THE TRIUMPH OP WOMAN. 
 
 Eove o'er her form with eager eye, 
 And sigli and gaze, and gaze and sigh, 
 Lo ! from his brow with mimic fi-own 
 Apame takes the sacred cro^vn ; 
 Her faultless form, her lovely face 
 Add to the diadem new grace : 
 And subject to a woman's laws 
 Darius sees and smiles applause ! 
 
 He ceased, and silent still remained the throng. 
 Whilst rapt attention owned the power of song. 
 Then loud as when the wintry whirlwinds blow. 
 From every voice the thundering plaudits flow; 
 Darius smiled, Apame's sparkling eyes 
 Glanced on the king, and woman won the prize. 
 
 Now silent sat the expectant crowd : Alone 
 The victor Hebrew gazed not on the throne; 
 With deeper hue his cheek distempered glows. 
 With statelier stature loftier now he rose; 
 Heavenward he gazed, regardless of the throng. 
 And poui-ed with awful voice sublimer song. 
 
 Ancient of Days ! Eternal Truth ! one hymn. 
 One holier strain the bard shall raise to thee. 
 Thee powerful ! thee benevolent ! thee just ! 
 Friend ! Father ! all in all ! the vine's rich blood. 
 The monarch's might, and women's conquering charms^ 
 These shall we praise alone ! ye who sit 
 Beneath your vine, and quaff at evening hour 
 The healthful bowl, remember Him whose dews, 
 Whose rains, whose smi, matured the growing fruit. 
 Creator and Preserver ! reverence Him, 
 Thou, who from Thy throne dispensest life 
 And death, for He has delegated power. 
 And thou shalt one day, at the throne of God, 
 Eender most strict account ! ye who gaze 
 Enrapt on beauty's fascinating form. 
 Gaze on with love, and loving beauty, learn 
 To shun abhorrent all the mental e3^e 
 Beholds deformed and foul ; for so shall love 
 Climb to the source of virtue. God of truth 1 
 All-just ! all-mighty ! I should iU deserve 
 Thi^ noblest gift, the gift divine of song. 
 
THE TKIUMPH OF WOMAN. 201 
 
 If, SO content with * ear-deep melodies 
 
 To please all profitless, I did not pour 
 
 Severer strains; of truth — eternal truth, 
 
 Unchanging justice, universal love. 
 
 Such strains awalie the soul to loftiest thought; 
 
 Such strains the blessed spirits of the good 
 
 Waft, grateful mcense ! to the halls of Heaven. 
 
 The dying notes still murmured on the string. 
 When from his throne arose the raptured king. 
 About to speak he stood, and waved his hand. 
 And all expectant sat the obedient band. 
 
 Then just and generous, thus the monarch cries, 
 
 Be thine, Zorobabel, the well-earned prize. 
 
 The purple robe of state thy form shall fold. 
 
 The beverage sparkle in thy cup of gold ; 
 
 The golden couch, the car, and honoui'ed chain. 
 
 Requite the merits of thy favoured strain, 
 
 And raised supreme the ennobled race among, 
 
 Be called my cousin, for the victor song. 
 
 Nor these alone the victor song shall bless, 
 
 Ask what thou wilt, and what thou wilt possess." 
 
 "Fallen is Jerusalem!" the Hebrew cries. 
 And patriot anguish fills his streaming eyes, 
 *' Hmied to the earth, by rapine's vengeful rod. 
 Polluted lies the temple of our God. 
 Far in a foreign land, her sons remain. 
 Hear the keen taunt, and drag the captive chain; 
 In fruitless woe they wear the wearying years. 
 And steep the bread of bitterness in tears. 
 O monarch, gi'eatest, mildest, best of men, 
 Bestore us to those ruined walls again ! 
 Allow our race to rear that sacred dome. 
 To live in liberty, and die at home." 
 
 So spake Zorobabel. — Thus woman's praise 
 Availed again Jerusalem to raise, 
 Called forth the sanction of the despot's nod, 
 And freed the nation best beloved of God. 
 
 « This expression is from Owen Felltliam. 
 
202 
 
 POEMS ON THE SLAVE-TRADE. 
 
 I am innocent of this blood, see ye to it ! 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Hold your mad Hands ! for ever on your plain 
 
 Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood ? 
 For ever must your Niger's tainted flood 
 
 Eoll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain ? 
 
 Hold your mad hands ! what demon prompts to rear 
 The arm of slaughter ? on your savage shore 
 Can hell-sprung glory claim the feast of gore. 
 
 With laurels watered by the widow's tear 
 
 Wreathing his helmet crown ? lift high the spear ! 
 And like the desolating whirlwind's sweep, 
 Plunge ye yon bark of anguish in the deep; 
 
 For the pale fiend cold-hearted Commerce there 
 
 Breathes his gold-gendered pestilence afar. 
 And calls, to share the prey, his kindred demon War. 
 
 11. 
 
 Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair. 
 
 And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries ? 
 
 Before the gale the laden vessel flies; 
 The heavens all-favouring smile, the breeze is fair; 
 Hark to the clamom's of the exulting crew ; 
 
 Hark how their thunders mock the patient skies ; 
 
 Why dost thou shriek, and strain thy red-swoln eyes, 
 As the white sail dim lessens from thy view ? 
 Go pine in want, and anguish, and despair. 
 
POEMS ON THE SLAVE-TRADE. 203 
 
 There is no mercy found in human-kind — 
 Go, widow, to thy grave, and rest thee there ! 
 
 But may the God of justice bid the wind 
 Whelm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave. 
 And bless with liberty and death the slave ! 
 
 HI. 
 
 Oh, he is worn with toil ! the big drops run 
 
 Down his dark cheek; hold — hold thy merciless hand. 
 Pale tyrant ! for beneath thy hard command 
 
 O'erwearied natm-e sinks. The scorching sun. 
 
 As pitiless as proud prosperity. 
 
 Darts on him his lull beams; gasping he lies. 
 Arraigning with his looks the patient skies. 
 
 While that inhuman trader lifts on high 
 
 The mangling scourge. ye who at your ease 
 
 Sip the blood-sweetened beverage ! thoughts like these 
 
 Haply ye scorn: I thank thee, gracious God, 
 That I do feel upon my cheek the glow 
 
 Of indignation, when beneath the rod 
 A sable brother writhes in silent woe. 
 
 rv. 
 
 'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep 
 As undisturbed as justice ! but no more 
 The wretched slave as on his native shore. 
 
 Rests on his reedy couch : he wakes to weep ! 
 
 Though through the toil and anguish of the day 
 No tear escaped him, not one suffering groan 
 Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone 
 
 In bitterness; thinking that far away. 
 
 Though the gay Negroes join the midnight song, 
 Though merriment resounds on Niger's shore. 
 
 She whom he loves, far from the cheerful thi'ong 
 Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door 
 
 With dim-grown eye, silent and woe-begone. 
 And weeps for him who will return no more. 
 
204 POEMS ON THE SLAYE-TEADE. 
 
 V. 
 
 Did tten the Negro rear at last the sword 
 
 Of vengeance ? di-enched he deep its thii-sty blade 
 In the hard heart of his tyrannic lord ? 
 
 Oh ! who shall blame him? thi'ough the midnight shade 
 Still o'er his tortured memory rushed the thought 
 Of every past delight; his native grove, 
 Friendship's best joys, and liberty and love. 
 All lost for ever ! then remembrance wrought 
 His soul to madness: round liis restless bed 
 
 Freedom's pale spectre stalked, with a stern smile 
 Pointmg the wounds of slavery, the while 
 She shook her chains and hung her sullen head: 
 No more on Heaven he calls with fi-uitless breath. 
 But sweetens vnth. revenge the di-aught of death. 
 
 VI. 
 
 High in the air exposed the slave is hung. 
 
 To all the bii'ds of heaven their living lood ! 
 He groans not, though awaked by that fierce sun. 
 New tortm-ers live to drink their parent blood ! 
 He groans not, though the gorging vulture tear 
 The quivering fibre ! Hither gaze, O ye 
 Who tore this man from peace and liberty ! 
 Gaze hither, ye who weigh with scrupulous care 
 The right and prudent; for beyond the grave 
 There is another world ! and call to mind. 
 Ere your decrees proclaim to aU mankind, 
 Murder is legalized, that there the slave. 
 Before the Eternal, " thunder-ton gued shall plead 
 Against the deep damnation of your deed." 
 
POEMS ON THE SLAVE-TRADE. 205 
 
 TO THE GENIUS OF AFRICA. 
 
 THOU, who from the mountain's height 
 
 Holiest down thy clouds with all their weight 
 Of waters to old Nile's majestic tide; 
 
 Or o'er the dark sepulchral plain, 
 Eecallest Carthage in her ancient pride. 
 
 The mistress of the main ; 
 Hear, Genius, hear thy children's cry ! 
 
 Not always shouldst thou love to brood 
 
 Stern o'er the desert solitude. 
 Where seas of sand toss their hot surges high; 
 
 Nor, Genius, should the midnight song 
 Detain thee in some milder mood 
 
 The palmy plains among, 
 Wliere Gambia to the torches' light 
 Flows radiant through the awakened night. 
 Ah linger not to hear the song ! 
 Genius, avenge thy children's wrong ! 
 The demon Commerce on your shore 
 
 Pom's all the horrors of his train : 
 And hark, where from the field of gore 
 
 Howls the hyena o'er the slain; 
 Lo ! where the flaming village fires the skies ! 
 Avenging Power, awake ! arise ! 
 
 Arise, thy children's wrongs redress ! 
 Ah heed the mother's wretchedness. 
 When in the hot infectious air. 
 
 O'er her sick babe she bows opprest— 
 Ah hear her when the Christians tear 
 
 The drooping infant from her breast; 
 
 Whelmed in the waters he shall rest ! 
 Hear thou the wretched mother's cries. 
 Avenging Power, awake! arise! 
 
 By the rank infected air 
 That taints those dungeons of despair. 
 By those who there imprisoned die, 
 Where the black herd promiscuous lie 
 
206 POEMS ox THE SLAVE-TEAL H. 
 
 By the scourges blackened o'er. 
 And stiff and hard with human gore. 
 By every groan of deep distress, 
 By every cm-se of wretchedness. 
 By all the train of crimes that flow 
 From the hopelessness of woe, 
 By every drop of blood bespilt, 
 By Afric's wrongs and Europe's guilt. 
 Awake! arise! avenge! 
 
 And thou hast heard : and o'er their blood-fed plains 
 
 Swept thine avenging hurricanes ; 
 
 And bade thy storms, with whiiiwind roar. 
 
 Dash their proud navies on the shore; 
 
 And where their ai-mies claimed the fight, 
 
 Withered the wanior's might; 
 
 And o'er the unholy host, with baneful breath, 
 
 There, Genius, thou hast breathed the gales of death. 
 
 THE SAILOR WHO SERVED IN THE 
 SLAVE-TRADE. 
 
 In September, 1798, a dissenting minister of Bristol discovered a sailor 
 in tlie neiglibourliood of that city, groaning and praying in a hovel. 
 The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in 
 the annexed ballad, without the slightest addition or alteration. 
 By presenting it as a poem, the story is made more public ; and such 
 stories ought to be made as public as possible. 
 
 He stopt, ... it surely was a groan. 
 
 That from the hovel came ! 
 He stopt and listened anxiously, 
 
 Again it sounds the same. 
 
 From yonder hovel sure it camie, . . . 
 
 And now he hastens there, 
 And thence he hears the name of Christ 
 
 Amid a broken prayer. 
 
POEMS ON THE SLAVE-TRADE. 207 
 
 And entering in the outliouse then, 
 
 A sailor there he sees, 
 His hands were lifted up to Heaven, 
 
 And he was on his knees. 
 
 Nor did the sailor so intent 
 
 His entering footsteps heed, 
 But now the Lord's prayer said, and now 
 
 His half-forgotten creed. 
 
 And often on his Saviour call'd 
 
 With many a bitter groan, 
 And in such anguish as could spring 
 
 From deepest guilt alone. 
 
 He ask'd the miserable man 
 
 Why he was kneeling there. 
 And what the crime had been that caus'd 
 
 The anguish of his prayer. 
 
 Oh, I have done a cursed thing ! 
 
 It haunts me night and day. 
 And I have sought this lonely place 
 
 Here undistui-b'd to pray. 
 
 I have no place to pray on board. 
 
 So I came here alone, 
 That I might freely kneel and pray. 
 
 And call on Christ and groan. 
 
 If to the main-mast head I go. 
 
 The wicked one is there. 
 Prom place to place, from rope to rope. 
 
 He follows everywhere. 
 
 I shut my eyes, ... it matters not . . • 
 
 Still still the same I see, . . . 
 And when I lie me down at night, 
 
 'Tis always day with me. 
 
 He follows, follows everywhere. 
 
 And every place is hell ! 
 God . . . and I must go with him 
 
 In endless fire to dwell. 
 
208 POEMS ON THE SLAVE-TRADE. 
 
 He follows, follows everywhere. 
 
 He's still above . . . below, 
 Oh tell me where to fly from him ! 
 
 Oh tell me where to go ! 
 
 But teU me, quoth the stranger then. 
 What this thy crime hath been. 
 
 So haply I may comfort give 
 To one that grieves for sin. 
 
 Oh I have done a cursed deed ! 
 
 The A\Tetched man replies. 
 And night and day, and everywhere, 
 
 'Tis still before my eyes. 
 
 I sail'd on board a Guinea-man 
 
 And to the slave-coast went; 
 Would that the sea had swallowed me 
 
 When I was innocent! 
 
 And we took in our cargo there. 
 
 Three hundred negro slaves. 
 And we sail'd homeward merrily 
 
 Over the ocean waves. 
 
 But some were sulky of the slaves 
 And would not touch their meat, 
 
 So therefore we were forced by tlueats 
 And blows to make them eat. 
 
 One woman, sulkier than the rest. 
 Would still refuse her food, . . . 
 
 O Jesus God ! I hear her cries . , • 
 I see her in her blood ! 
 
 Tbe captain made me tie her up, 
 
 And flog while he stood by. 
 And then he curs' d me if I staid 
 
 My hand to hear her cry. 
 
 She groan'd, she shriek'd ... I could not spare. 
 For the captain he stood by . . . 
 
 Pear God ! that I might rest one night 
 From that poor woman's cry. 
 
rOEMS ON THE SLAVE-TRADE. 209 
 
 She twisted from the blows — her blood. 
 
 Her mangled flesh I see — 
 Aiid still the captain would not spare — 
 
 Oh, he was worse than me ! 
 
 She could not be more glad than I 
 
 When she was taken down, 
 A blessed minute ! 'twas the last 
 
 That I have ever known ! 
 
 I did not close my eyes all night 
 
 Thinking what I had done; 
 I heard her groans, and they grew faint. 
 
 About the rising sun. 
 
 She groan'd and groan'd, but her groans grew 
 
 Fainter at morning tide, 
 Fainter and fainter still they came. 
 
 Till at the noon she died. 
 
 They flung her overboard; — poor wretch! 
 
 She rested from her pain, — 
 But when— Christ ! blessed God! 
 
 Shall I have rest again ! 
 
 I saw the sea close over her. 
 
 Yet she is still in sight ; 
 I see her twisting everywhere 
 
 I see her day and night. 
 
 Go where I will, do what I can, 
 
 The wicked one I see- 
 Dear Christ, have mercy on my soul, — 
 
 God, deliver me ! 
 
iJlO 
 
 ECLOGUEa 
 
 THE COIsTVICTS OF NEW SOUTH WALEa 
 
 ELmOR. 
 
 Time, Morning. Scene, the Shore. 
 
 Once more to daily toil, once more to weai 
 The livery of shame, once more to search 
 With miserable task this savage shore ! 
 Oh Thou, who mountest so triumphantly 
 In yonder heaven, beginning thy career 
 Of glory, Oh thou blessed Sun ! thy beams 
 Fall on me Avith the same benignant light 
 Here, at the fm-thest limits of the world. 
 And blasted as I am with infamy, 
 As when in better years poor Elinor 
 Gazed on thy glad uprise with eye undimmed 
 By guilt and sorrow, and the opening morn 
 Woke her from quiet sleep to days of peace. 
 In other occupation then I trod 
 The beach at eve; and then, when I beheld 
 The billows as they rolled before the storm 
 Burst on the rock and rage, my timid soul 
 Shrunk at the perils of the boimdless deep, 
 And heaved a sigh for suffermg mariners. 
 Ah ! little thinking I mj'self was doomed 
 To tempt the perils of the boundless deep, 
 Au outcast, unbeloved and uubevv^ailed. 
 
THE CONVICTS OF NEW SOUTH WALES. 211 
 
 Still will thou haunt me, memory ! still present 
 The fields of England to my exiled eyes, 
 The joys which once were mine ! Even now I see 
 The lowly lovely dwelling ! even now 
 Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls, 
 Wliere fearlessly the red-breasts chirp around 
 To ask their morning meal: and where at eve 
 I loved to sit and watch the rook sail by. 
 And hear his hollow croak, what time he sought 
 The church-yard elm, that with its ancient boughs 
 Eull-foliaged, half concealed the house of God: 
 That holy house, where I so oft have heard 
 My father's voice explain the wondrous works 
 Of heaven to sinful man. Ah ! little deemed 
 His virtuous bosom that his shameless child 
 So soon should spurn the lesson ! sink, the slave 
 Of vice and infamy ! the hireling prey 
 Of brutal appetite ! At length, worn out 
 With famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt. 
 Should dare dishonesty — yet dread to die ! 
 
 Welcome, ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes. 
 Where angry England sends her outcast sons, 
 I hail your joyless shores ! My weary bark. 
 Long tempest-tost on life's inclement sea. 
 Here hails her haven ! welcomes the drear scene. 
 The marshy plain, the brier-entangled wood, 
 And all the perils of a world unknown, — 
 For Elinor has nothing new to fear 
 Prom fickle fortune ! All her rankling shafts 
 Barbed with disgrace, and venomed with disease. 
 Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death 
 Has lost its terrors to a wretch like me. 
 
 Welcome, ye marshy heaths ! ye pathless woods. 
 
 Where the rude native rests his weaiied frame. 
 
 Beneath the sheltering shade; where, when the storm, 
 
 As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky. 
 
 Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seek 
 
 The di'ipping shelter. Welcome, ye wild plains 
 
 Unbroken by the plough, undelved by hand 
 
 Of patient rustic ; where, for lowing herds, 
 
 And for the music of the bleating flocks. 
 
 Alone is heai'd the kangaroo's sad note 
 
 p2 
 
212 ECLOGUES. 
 
 Deepening In distance. Welcome, ye rude climes. 
 
 The realm of Nature ! Tor — as yet unkno^\'ll 
 
 The crimes and comforts of luxurious life — 
 
 Natm-e benignly gives to all enough, 
 
 Denies to all a superfluity. 
 
 What though the garb of infamy I wear, 
 
 Though day by day along the echoing beach 
 
 I cull the wave-worn shells ; yet day by day 
 
 I earn in honesty my frugal food, 
 
 And lay me down at night to calm repose. 
 
 No more condemned the mercenary tool 
 
 Of brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heart 
 
 With virtue's stifled sigh, to fold my arms 
 
 Eound the rank felon, and for daily bread 
 
 To hug contagion to my poisoned breast ; 
 
 On these wild shores repentance' saviour hand 
 
 Shall probe my secret soul; shall cleanse its wounds. 
 
 And fit the faithful penitent for heaven. 
 
 HUMPHEEY AND WILLIAM. 
 
 Time, Koon. 
 HUMPHEEY. 
 
 See'st thou not, William, that the scorching sun 
 By this time half his daily race has run ? 
 The savage thrusts his light canoe to shore. 
 And hurries homeward with his fishy store. 
 Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soil, 
 To eat om- dinner and to rest from toil. 
 
 WILLIAM. 
 
 Agreed. Yon tree, whose purple gum bestows 
 A ready medicine for the sick man's woes, 
 Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreat 
 To shield us from the noontide's sultry heat. 
 Ah, Humphrey ! now, upon old England's shore, 
 The weary labourer's morning work is o'er; 
 
THE CONVICTS OF NEW SOUTH WALES. 213 
 
 The woodman now rests from his measured stroke. 
 Flings down liis axe and sits beneath the oak. 
 Savoured mth hunger there he eats his food. 
 There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood. 
 To us no cooling streamlet winds its way. 
 No joys domestic crown for us the day. 
 The felon's name, the outcast's garb we wear. 
 Toil all the day, and all the night despair. 
 
 HUMPHREY. 
 
 Ah, William ! labouring up the furrowed ground, 
 I used to love the village clock's dull sound, 
 Eejoice to hear my morning toil was done. 
 And trudge it homewards when the clock went one. 
 'T was ere I turned a soldier and a sinner ! 
 Pshaw ! curse this whuimg — let us fall to dinner. 
 
 WILLIAM. 
 
 I, too, have loved this hour, nor yet forgot 
 
 Each joy domestic of my little cot. 
 
 For at this hour my wife, with watchful care. 
 
 Was wont each humbler dainty to prepare; 
 
 The keenest sauce by hunger was supplied. 
 
 And my poor childi-en prattled at my side. 
 
 Methinks I see the old oak table spread, 
 
 The clean white trencher and the good brown bread, 
 
 The cheese my daily food which Mary made, 
 
 For Mary knew fuU well the housewife's trade: 
 
 The jug of cider — cider I could make — 
 
 And then the knives — I won 'em at the wake. 
 
 Another has them now ! I, toiling here. 
 
 Look backward like a child, and di'op a teax. 
 
 HUMPHEEY. 
 
 I love a dismal story: tell me thine. 
 Meantime, good Will, I'll listen as I dine. 
 I, too, my friend, can tell a piteous story — 
 When I turned hero how I purchased glory. 
 
 WILLIAM. 
 
 But, Humphrey, sure thou never canst have known 
 The comforts of a little home thine own: 
 A home so snug, so cheerlul, too, as mine; 
 'Twas always clean, and we could make it finej 
 
214 ECLOGUES, 
 
 For there King Charles's golden rules were seen, 
 
 And there — God bless 'em both — the king and queen. 
 
 The pewter plates, our garnished chimney's grace, 
 
 So nicely scom-ed, you might have seen your face; 
 
 And over all, to frighten thieves, was hung. 
 
 Well cleaned although but seldom used, my gun. 
 
 Ah ! that damned gun ! I took it down one morn — 
 
 A desperate deal of harm they did my corn ! 
 
 Our testy squire too loved to save the breed, 
 
 So covey upon covey ate my seed. 
 
 I marked the mischievous rogues, and took my aim; 
 
 I fired, they fell, and — up the keeper came. 
 
 That cursed morning brought on my undoing; 
 
 I went to prison, and my farm to ruin. 
 
 Poor Mary ! for her grave the parish paid, 
 
 No tombstone tells where her cold corpse is laid ! 
 
 My children — ^my dear boys — 
 
 HUMPHEEY. 
 
 Come — grief is dry. — 
 You to your dinner — to my story I. 
 To you, my friend, who happier days have known. 
 And each calm comfort of a home your own. 
 This is bad living: I have spent my life 
 In hardest toil and unavailing strife. 
 And here (from forest ambush safe at least) 
 To me this scanty pittance seems a feast. 
 I was a plough-boy once; as free from woes 
 And blithesome as the lark with whom I rose. 
 Each evening at return a meal I found; 
 And, though my bed was hard, my sleep was sound. 
 One Whitsuntide, to go to fair, I drest 
 Like a great bumpkin, in my Sunday's best; 
 A primrose posey in my hat I stuck. 
 And to the revel went to tr}'- my luck. 
 From show to show, from booth to booth I stra}^, 
 See, stare, and wonder, all the live-long day. 
 A Serjeant to the fair recruiting came. 
 Skilled in man-catching, to beat up for game; 
 Our booth he entered and sat down by me; — 
 Methinks even now the very scene I see ! 
 The canvass roof, the hogshead's running store. 
 The old blind fiddler seated next the door. 
 
THE CONVICTS OF NEW SOUTH WALES. 215 
 
 The frothy tankard passing to and fro, 
 
 And the rude rabble round the puppet-show. 
 
 The Serjeant eyed me well — the punch-bowl comes. 
 
 And as we lauq-hed and drank, up struck the di'ums. 
 
 And now he gives a bumper to his wench, 
 
 God save the king, and then — God damn the French ! 
 
 Then tells the story of his last campaign, 
 
 How many wounded and how many slain, 
 
 Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating. 
 
 The Enghsh marching on, the French retreating,-— 
 
 " Push on — push on, my lads ! they fly before ye, 
 
 March on to riches, happiness and glory !" 
 
 At first I wondered, by degrees grew bolder. 
 
 Then cried — " 'Tis a fine thing to be a soldier !" 
 
 " Aye, Humphrey !" says the serjeant — " that's your name ?" 
 
 'Tis a fine thing to fight the French for fame ! 
 
 March to tlie field — knock out a mounseer's brains. 
 
 And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains. 
 
 Come, Humphrey, come, thou art a lad of sphit; 
 
 Else to a halbert — as I did — by merit ! 
 
 Wouldst thou believe it ? even I was once 
 
 As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce; 
 
 But courage raised me to my rank. How now, boy ! 
 
 Shall hero Humphrey still be jSTumps the plough-boy ? 
 
 A proper-shaped young fellow ! tall and straight ! 
 
 Why, thou wert made for glory ! — five feet eight I 
 
 The road to riches is the field of fight, — 
 
 Didst ever see a guinea look so bright ? 
 
 Why, regimentals, Numps, would give thee grace, 
 
 A hat and feather would become that face; 
 
 The guds would crowd aromid thee to be kist — 
 
 Dost love a girl ?" " Od zounds !" I cried, " I'U list !" 
 
 So passed the night: anon the morning came. 
 
 And ofi' I set a volunteer for fame. 
 
 " Back shoulders, turn out yom- toes, hold up your head, 
 
 Stand easy !" so I did — tiU almost dead. 
 
 O how I longed to tend the plough again, 
 
 Trudge up the field and whistle o'er the plain. 
 
 When tired and sore amid the piteous throng. 
 
 Hungry and cold and wet I limped along, 
 
 And growing fahiter as I passed and colder. 
 
 Cursed that ill hour when I became a soldier ! 
 
 In town I found the hours more gaily pass. 
 
 And time fled swiftly with my gud and glass; 
 
216 ECLOGUES. 
 
 The girls were wondrous kind and wondrous fair. 
 
 They soon transferr'd me to the doctor's care; 
 
 The doctor undertook to cm-e the evil, 
 
 And he almost transferred me to the devil. 
 
 'Twere tedious to relate the dismal story 
 
 Of fighting, fasting, wretchedness, and glory. 
 
 At last discharged, to England's shores I came. 
 
 Paid for my wounds with want, instead of fame; 
 
 Foimd my fair friends, and plundered as they hade me. 
 
 They kist me, coaxed me, robbed me, and betrayed me. 
 
 Tried and condemned, his majesty ti-ansports me, 
 
 And here in peace, I thank him, he supports me. 
 
 So ends my dismal and heroic story. 
 
 And Humphrey gets more good from guilt than glory. 
 
 JOHN, SAMUEL, AND EICHARD. 
 
 Time, Evening. 
 
 JOHN. 
 'Tis a calm pleasant evening, the light fades away, 
 And the sun going down has done watch for the day. 
 To my mind, we live wondrous weU when transported; 
 It is but to work, and we must be supported. 
 rUl the can, Dick ! Success here to Botany Bay ! 
 
 EICHAED. 
 
 Success if you will, — ^but God send me away I 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 You lubberly landsmen don't know when you're well ! 
 
 Hadst thou known half the hardships of which I can tell ! 
 
 The sailor has no place of safety in store — 
 
 From the tempest at sea, to the press-gang on shore ! 
 
 When roguery rules aU the rest of the earth, 
 
 God be thanked, in this corner I've got a good berth. 
 
 SAMUEL. 
 
 Talk of hardships ! what these are the sailor don't know; 
 'Tis the soldier, my friend, that's acquainted with woe, 
 
THE CONVICTS OF NEW SOUTH WALES. 217 
 
 Long journeys, short halting, liard work, and small pay. 
 To be popt at like pigeons for sixpence a day ! — 
 Thank God ! I'm safe quartered at Botany Bay. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Ah ! you know but little : I'll wager a pot 
 I have suffered more evils than fell to your lot, 
 Come, we'll have it all fairly and properly tried. 
 Tell story for story, and Dick shall decide. 
 
 SAMUEL. 
 
 Done. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Done. *Tis a wager, and I shall be winner; 
 Thou wilt go without grog, Sam, to-morrow, at dioner. 
 
 SAMUEL. 
 
 I was trapped by the sergeant's palavering pretences. 
 He listed me when I was out of my senses. 
 So I took leave to-day of all care and all sorrow. 
 And was drilled to repentance and reason to-morrow. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 I would be a sailor and plough the wide ocean, 
 
 But was soon sick and sad with the billows' commotion; 
 
 So the captain he sent me aloft on the mast, 
 
 And cursed me, and bid me cry there — and hold fast ! 
 
 SAMUEL. 
 
 After marching all day, faint, and hungry, and sore, 
 I have lain down at night on the swamps of the moor. 
 Unsheltered, and forced by fatigue to remain. 
 Ail chilled by the wind and benumbed by the rain. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 I have rode out the storm when the billows beat high, 
 And the red gleaming lightnings flashed through the dark 
 When the tempest of night the black sea overcast, [sky; 
 Wet and wearj I laboured, yet sung to the blast. 
 
 SAMUEL. 
 
 I have marched, trumpets sounding, drums beating, flags 
 
 flying. 
 Where the music of war di'owned the shneks of the dying, 
 
218 ECLOGUES. 
 
 When the shots whizzed around me all dangers defied. 
 Pushed on when my comrades fell dead at my side; 
 Drove the foe from the mouth of the cannon away. 
 Fought, conquered, and hied, all for sixpence a day. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 And I, too, friend Samuel ! have heard the shots rattle, 
 
 But we seamen rejoice in the play of the battle; 
 
 Though the chain and the grape-shot roll splintering around, 
 
 With the blood of our messmates though slippery the ground. 
 
 The fiercer the fight, still the fiercer we grow. 
 
 We heed not our loss so we conquer the foe; 
 
 And the hard battle won, if the prize be not sunk, 
 
 The captain gets rich, and the sailors get drunk. 
 
 SAMUEL. 
 
 God help the poor soldier when backward he goes 
 In disgraceful retreat through a comitry of foes ! 
 No respite from danger by day or by night, 
 He is still forced to fly, still o'ertaken to fight; 
 Every step that he takes he must battle his way. 
 He must force his hard meal from the peasant away; 
 ISTo rest and no hope, from all succour afar, 
 God forgive the poor soldier for gomg to the war ! 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 But what are these dangers to those I have past 
 When the dark billows roared to the roar of the blast; 
 When we worked at the pumps, worn with labour and weak. 
 And with dread still beheld the increase of the leak ? 
 Sometimes, as we rose on the wave, could our sight 
 From the rocks of the shore catch the light-house's light; 
 In vam to the beach to assist us they press. 
 We fire faster and faster our guns of distress ; 
 StiU, with rage unabating, the wind and waves roar; 
 How the giddy wreck reels, as the biUows burst o'er ! 
 Leap — leap — for she yawns — for she sinks in the wave ! 
 Call on God to preserve — for God only can save. 
 
 SAMUEL, 
 
 There's an end of all troubles, however, at last ! 
 And when I in the waggon of wounded was cast. 
 
THE CONVICTS OF NEW SOUTH WALES. 219 
 
 When my wounds with the chilly night- wind smarted sore. 
 And I thought of the friends I should never see more, 
 No hand to relieve — scarce a morsel of bread- 
 Sick at heart I have envied the peace of the dead ! 
 Left to rot in a jail till by treaty set free, 
 Old England's white cliffs with what joy did I see ! 
 I had gained enough glory, some wounds, but no good. 
 And was turned on the public to shift how I could. 
 Wlien I think what I've sutfored, and where I am now, 
 I curse him who snared me away from the plough. 
 
 When I was discharged I went home to my wife. 
 There in comfort to spend all the rest of my life, 
 My wife was industrious ; we earned what we spent. 
 And though little we had, were with little content; 
 And whenever I listened, and heard the wind roar, 
 I blessed God for my little snug cabin on shore. 
 At midnight they seized me, they dragged me away. 
 They wounded me sore when I would not obey, 
 And because for my country I'd ventured my life, 
 I was dragged like a thief from my home and my wife. 
 Then the fair wind of fortune chopped round in my face. 
 And want at length drove me to guilt and disgrace — 
 But all's for the best! — on the world's wide sea cast, 
 I am liavened in peace in this corner at last. 
 
 SAMUEL. 
 
 Come, Dick ! we have done — and for judgment we call, 
 
 RICHARD. 
 
 And in faith I can give you no judgment at all; 
 
 But that as you're now settled, and safe from foul weather. 
 
 You drink up youi- grog and be merry togotlier. 
 
220 
 
 FEEDEEIC. 
 
 Time, Night. Scene, the Woods. 
 
 Wheee shall I tiirn me ? whither shall I bend 
 My weary way ? thus worn with toil and faint, 
 How through the thorny mazes of this wood 
 Attain my distant dwelling ? That deep cry 
 That rings along the forest, seems to sound 
 My parting knell : it is the midnight howl 
 Of hungry monsters prowling for their prey ! 
 Again ! save me — save me, gracious Heaven ! 
 I am not fit to die. 
 
 Thou coward wretch, 
 Why heaves thy tremhhng heart ? why shake thy limbs 
 Beneath their palsied bm'den ? Is there aught 
 So lovely in existence ? Wouldst thou drain 
 . Even to its dregs the bitter draught of life ? 
 Stamped with the brand of vice and infamy, 
 Why should the villain Frederic shrink from death ? 
 
 Death ! Where the magic in that empty name 
 That chills my inmost heart ? Why at the thought 
 Starts the cold dew of fear on every limb ? 
 There are no terrors to siuTound the grave. 
 When the calm mind, collected in itself, 
 Sm'veys that narrow house : the ghastly train 
 That haunt the midnight of delirious guilt 
 Then vanish. In that home of endless rest 
 AU sorrows cease. — Would I might slumber there ! 
 
 Why, then, this panting of the fearful heart ? 
 
 This miser love of life, that dreads to lose 
 
 Its cherish'd torment ? Shall the diseased man. 
 
 Yield up his members to the sm^geon's knife. 
 
 Doubtful of succom-, but to ease his li-ame 
 
 Of fleshly anguish; and the coward wretch. 
 
 Whose ulcerated soul can know no help. 
 
 Shrink from the best Physician's certain aid ? 
 
 Oh, it were better far to lay me dowoi 
 
 Here on this cold damp earth, till some wild beast 
 
 Seize on his willing victim ! 
 
 If to die 
 Were all, it were most sweet to rest my head 
 On the cold clod, and sleep the sleep of death. 
 
THE CONVICTS OF NEW SOUTH WALES. 221 
 
 But if the archangel's trump at the last hour 
 Startle the ear of death, and wake the soul 
 To phrensy ! — dreams of infancy: iit tales 
 For garrulous beldames to affrighten babes ! 
 What if I warred upon the world ? the world 
 Had wronged me fii'st: I had endured the ilk 
 Of hard injustice: all this goodly earth 
 Was but to me one wild waste wilderness; 
 I had no share in nature's patrimony, 
 Blasted were all my morning hopes of youth. 
 Dark disappointment followed on my ways. 
 Care was my bosom inmate, and keen want 
 Gnawed at my heart. Eternal one, thou knovrest 
 How that poor heart, even in the bitter hour 
 Of lewdest revelry, has inly yearned 
 For peace. 
 
 My Father ! I will call on thee, 
 Pour to thy mercy-seat my earnest prayer. 
 And wait thy righteous will, resigned of soul. 
 Oh, thoughts of comfort ! how the afflicted heart. 
 Tired with the tempest of its passions, rests 
 On you with holy hope ! The hollow howl 
 Of yonder harmless tenant of the woods 
 Bm'sts not with terror on the sobered sense. 
 If I have sinned against mankind, on them 
 Be that past sin — they made me what I was. 
 In these extremest climes can want no more 
 Urge to the deeds of darkness, and at length 
 Here shall I rest. What though my hut be poor — 
 The rains descend not through its humble roof: 
 Would I were there again ! The night is cold; 
 And what if in my wandeiings I should rouse 
 The savage from his thicket ! 
 
 Hark ! the gun ! 
 And lo, the fire of safety ! I shall reach 
 My little hut again ! again by toil 
 Force from the stubborn earth my sustenance. 
 And quick-eared guilt will never start alarmed 
 Amid the well-earned meal. This felon's garb — 
 Will it not shield me from the winds of heaven ? 
 And what could purple more ? Oh, strengthen me, 
 Eternal One, in this serener state ! 
 Cleanse thou mine heart, so penitence and faith 
 Shall heal my soul, and my fast days be peace. 
 
222 
 
 ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 The following Eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems 
 in GUI language. This species of composition has become popular iu 
 Germany, and I was induced to attempt it by an account of the Ger- 
 man Idylls given me in conversation. They cannot properly be styled 
 imitations, as I am ignorant of that language at present, and have 
 never seen any translations or specimens in this kind. 
 
 With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from Tityrus and 
 Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsisses. Ko kind of 
 poetry can boast of more illustrious names, or is more distinguished 
 by the servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers, " more 
 silly than their sheep," have like their sheep gone on in the same 
 track one after another. Gay stumbled into a new path. His eclogues 
 were the only ones which interested me when I was a boy, and did 
 not know they v.^ere burlesque. The subject would fm-nish matter for 
 a long essay, but this is not the place for it. 
 
 How far poems requiring almost a colloquial plainness of language 
 may accord with the public taste, I am doubtful. They have been 
 subjected to able criticism, and revised with care. , 
 
 THE OLD MANSION. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Old friend ! why, you seem bent on parish dutr^^ 
 Breaking the highw-ay stones; and 'tis a task 
 Somewhat too hard, methinks, for age like youi's. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 Why, yes ! for one with such a weight of years, 
 Upon his back .... I've lived here, man and bc}', 
 In this same parish, near the age of man; 
 For I am hard upon threescore and ten. 
 I can remember, sixty years ago. 
 The beautilying of this mansion here, 
 "When my late lady's father, the old squire. 
 Came to the estate. 
 
THE OLD MANSIOK. 223 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 Wliy, then you have outlasted 
 AH his improvements, for you see they're making 
 Great alterations here. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 Aye, great indeed ! 
 And if my poor old lady could rise up — 
 God rest her soul ! — 'twould grieve her to behold 
 The wicked work is here. 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 They've set ahout it 
 In right good earnest. All the front is gone : 
 Here's to be turf, they tell me, and a road 
 Eound to the door. There were some yew-trees, too. 
 Stood in the coui't. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 Aye, master ! fine old trees ! 
 My grandfather could just remember back 
 When they were planted there. It was my task 
 To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me : 
 All straight and smooth, and like a great green wall ! 
 My poor old lady many a time would come 
 And tell me where to shear; for she had played 
 In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride 
 To keep them in then- beauty. Plague, I say, 
 On their new-fangled wlumsies ! We shall have 
 A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs 
 And your pert poplar trees. I could as soon 
 Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them dovv^n ! 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 But 'twill be lighter and more cheerful now — 
 
 A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road 
 
 Eound for the carriage — now it suits my taste. 
 
 I like a shrubbery, too, it looks so fresh j 
 
 And then there's some variety about it. 
 
 In sprmg the lilac and the Gueldres rose. 
 
 And the laburnum with its golden flowers 
 
 Waving in the wind. And v/hen the autumn cornea, 
 
 The bright red berries of the mountain ash, 
 
224 ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 Witli firs enough in winter to look green, 
 
 And show that something lives. Sui'e this is better 
 
 Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look 
 
 All the year round like winter, and for ever 
 
 Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs 
 
 So dry and bare ] 
 
 OLD MAN, 
 
 Ah ! so the new squire thinks j 
 And pretty work he makes of it. What 'tis 
 To have a stranger come to an old house! 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 It seems you know him not ? 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 No, sir, not I. 
 They tell me he's expected daily now ; 
 But in my lady's time he never came 
 But once, for they were very distant kin. 
 If he had played about here when a cliild 
 In that fore court, and eat the j^ew-berries, 
 And sate in the porch thi-eading the jessamine flowers. 
 That feU so thick, he had not had the heart 
 To mar all thus. 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 Come — come ! all is not wrong. 
 Those old dark windows — 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 They're demolish'd too, — 
 As if he could not see through casement glass I 
 The very red-breasts that so regular 
 Came to my lady for her morning crumbs. 
 Wont know the window now ! 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 Nay, they were high. 
 And then so darken'd up with jessamine, 
 Harbouring the vennin. That was a fine tree. 
 However. Did it not grow in and line 
 The porch ? 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 AU over it: it did one good 
 To pass within ten yai'ds when 'twas in blossom. 
 
THE OLD MANSION. 225 
 
 There was a sweet-brier, too. that grew beside: 
 
 My lady loved at evening to sit there 
 
 And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet 
 
 And slept in the sun — 'twas an old favourite dog: 
 
 She did not love him less that he was old 
 
 And feeble, and he always had a place 
 
 By the fire-side, and when he died at last 
 
 She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. 
 
 Ah ! she was good to all ! a woful day 
 
 'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went ! 
 
 STRANGEE. 
 
 They lost a friend then P 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 You're a stranger here. 
 Or you wouldn't ask that question. Were they sick P 
 She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs 
 She could have taught the doctors. Then at winter. 
 When weekly she distributed the bread 
 In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear 
 The blessings on her ! And I warrant them 
 They were a blessing to her when her wealth 
 Had been no comfort else. At Chi-istmas, sir ! 
 It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen 
 Her Christmas kitchen; how the blazing fire 
 Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs 
 So cheerful red; and as for mistletoe. 
 The finest bough that grew in the country round 
 Was mark'd for madam. Then her old ale went 
 So bountiful about ! a Christmas cask, — 
 And 'twas a noble one ! — God help me, sir! 
 But I shall never see such days again. 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 Things may be better yet than you suppose. 
 And you should hope the best. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 It don't look well. 
 These alterations, sir ! I'm an old man 
 And love the good old fashions; we don't find 
 Old bounty in new houses. They've destroyed 
 All that my lady loved; her favourite walk 
 
 Q 
 
ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 Grubt'd up, and they do say that the great row 
 Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top. 
 They must faU too. ^ Well ! weU ! I did not think 
 To live to see all this ; and 'tis, perhaps, 
 A comfort I shan't live to see it long. 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 But sure all changes are not needs for the worse, 
 My friend. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 Mayhap they mayn't, sir; — ^for all that, 
 I like what I've been used to. I remember 
 All this from a child up ; and now to lose it, 
 'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left 
 As 'twas. I go abroad and only meet 
 With men whose fathers I remember boys; 
 The brook that used to run before my door. 
 That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt 
 To climb are down; and I see nothing now 
 That tells me of old times, except the stones 
 In the churchyard. You are young, sir, and I hope. 
 Have many years in store; but pray to God 
 You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 Well ! well ! you've one friend more than you're aware of. 
 
 If the squire's taste don't suit with yours, I warrant 
 
 That's all you'll quarrel with: walk ia and taste 
 
 His beer, old friend! and see if your old lady 
 
 E'er broached a better cask. You did not know me. 
 
 But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy 
 
 To make you like the outside; but within — 
 
 That is not changed, my friend ! you'll always find 
 
 The same old bounty and old welcome there. 
 
227 
 THE GEANDMOTHEE'S TALE. 
 
 Haery ! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round 
 The fire ; and grandmamma, perhaps, will tell us 
 One of her stories. 
 
 HAERY. 
 
 Ay, dear grandmamma ! 
 A pretty story: something dismal now; 
 A bloody murder. 
 
 JANE 
 
 Or about a ghost. 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. 
 Nay, nay, I should but frighten ye. You know 
 The other night when I was telling ye 
 About the light in the churchyard, how you trembled 
 Because the screech-owl hooted at the window. 
 And would not go to-bed. 
 
 JANE. 
 
 Wliy, grandmamma. 
 You said yourself you did not like to hear him. 
 Pray now ! we wont be frightened. 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 Well, well, children ! 
 But you've heard all my stories. Let me see, — 
 Did I never tell you how the smuggler mmdered 
 The woman down at Pill ? 
 
 HARRY. 
 
 No, — never ! never ' 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 Not how he cut her head off in the stable ? 
 
 HARRY. 
 
 Oh ! — now ! — do teU us that ! 
 
 GEANDMOTHEB. 
 
 You must have heard 
 Your mother, children ! often tell of her. 
 
 <i2 
 
228 ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 She used to weed in the garden here, and worm 
 Your uncle's dogs,* and serve the house with coal: 
 And glad enough she was m winter time 
 To drive her asses here; it was cold work 
 To follow the slow beasts through sleet and snow; 
 And here she found a comfortable meal. 
 And a brave fire to thaw her, for poor Moll 
 Was always welcome. 
 
 Oh ! 'twas blear-ej^ed Moll, 
 The collier woman — a great ugly woman. 
 I've heard of her. 
 
 GEANDMOTHEE. 
 
 Ugly enough, poor soul. 
 At ten yards' distance you could hardly tell 
 If it were man or woman, for her voice 
 Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore 
 A man's old coat and hat, — and then her face ! 
 There was a meriy story told of her, 
 How when the press-gang came to take her husband, 
 As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, 
 Drest John up in her night -cap, and herself 
 Put on liis clothes, and went before the captain. 
 
 JANE. 
 
 And so they prest a woman I 
 
 GEANDMOTHEE. 
 
 *Twas a trick 
 She dearly loved to tell, and aU the country 
 Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel 
 For miles around. All weathers and all hours 
 She crossed the hill, as hardy as her beasts, 
 Bearing the wind and rain and winter frosts. 
 And if she did not reach her home at night. 
 She laid her down in the stable with her as^scs, 
 Ajid slept as sound as they did. 
 
 HAEEY. 
 
 With her asses ? 
 
 * I know not Avhether this cruel and stupid custom is common in 
 other pnrts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs liom 
 doing any mischief should they afterwards become mad. • 
 
THE grandmother's TALE. 229 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 Yes, and she loved her beasts. For though, poor wretch, 
 
 She was a terrible reprobate, and swore 
 
 Like any trooper, she was always good 
 
 To the dumb creatures, never loaded them 
 
 Beyond their strength, and rather, I believe, 
 
 Would stint herseli' than let the poor beasts want. 
 
 Because, she said, they could not ask for food, 
 
 I never saw her stick fall heavier on them 
 
 Than just with its own weight. She little thought 
 
 This tender-heartedness would be her death. 
 
 There was a fellow who had oftentimes. 
 
 As if he took delight in cruelty, 
 
 Ill-used her asses. He was one who lived 
 
 By smuggling, and, for she had often met him 
 
 Crossing the down at night, she threatened him. 
 
 If he tormented them again, to inform 
 
 Of his unlawful ways. Well — so it was — 
 
 *Twas what they both were born to ; he provoked her, 
 
 She laid an information, and one morning 
 
 They found her in the stable, her throat cut 
 
 From ear to ear, 'till the head only hung 
 
 Just by a bit of skin. 
 
 JANE. 
 
 Oh dear ! oh dear ! 
 
 HARRY. 
 
 I hope they hung the man ! 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 They took him up; 
 There was no proof, no one had seen the deed, 
 And he was set at liberty. But God, 
 Whose eye beholdeth all things, he had seen 
 The murder, and the murderer knew that God 
 Was witness to his crime. He fled the place; 
 But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand 
 Of Heaven ! but nowhere could the murderer rest. 
 A guilty conscience haunted him; by day. 
 By night, in company, in solitude, 
 Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him 
 The weight of blood; her cries were in his ears; 
 Her stifled groans, as when he knelt upon her. 
 Always he heard ; always he saw her stand 
 
230 ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 Before his eyes; even in the dead of night. 
 Distinctly seen as though in the hroad sun, 
 She stood heside the murderer's bed and yavvn'd 
 Her ghastly wound; tiU life itself became 
 A punishment at last he could not bear, 
 And he confess'd* it all, and gave himself 
 To death; so terrible, he said, it was 
 To have a guilty conscience. 
 
 HAEEY. 
 
 Was he hung then ? 
 
 GEANDMOTHEE. 
 
 Hung and anatomized. Poor, wretched man ! 
 Your uncles went to see him on his trial; 
 He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed. 
 And such a horror in his meagre face, 
 They said he look'd like one who never slept. 
 He begfg'd the prayers of all who saw his end, 
 And met his death with fears that well might warn 
 From guilt, though not without a hope in Christ. 
 
 THE FUNEEAL. 
 
 The story related in this Eclogue is strictly true. I met the funeral, 
 and learnt the circumstances, in a village in Hampshire. The indif- 
 ference of the child was mentioned to me ; indeed no addition what- 
 ever has been made to the story. 
 
 The coffin, as I past across the lane. 
 
 Came sudden on my view. It was not hero 
 
 A sight of every day, as in the streets 
 
 Of the great city, and we paused and ask'd 
 
 Who to the grave was going. They replied. 
 
 It was a village girl, one who had borne 
 
 An eighteen months' strange illness, and had pined 
 
 * There may probably be some persons li\ing who remember these 
 circumstances. They liappened many years ago, in the neighbourhood 
 of Bristol. The woman's name was Bees. The stratagem by whicU 
 she preserved her husband from the press-gang is also related of her. 
 
THE FUNERAL. 231 
 
 With sucli slow wasting, tliat the hour of death 
 
 Came welcome to her. We pm-sued our way 
 
 To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk 
 
 Which passes o'er the mind and is forgot. 
 
 We wore away the time. But it was eve 
 
 When homewardly I went, and in the air 
 
 Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade. 
 
 That makes the eye turn inward. Then I heard 
 
 Over the vale the heavy toll of death 
 
 Sound slow; it made me thmk upon the dead. 
 
 I questioned more, and learnt her sorrowful tale. 
 
 She bore unhushanded a mother's name, 
 
 And he, who should have cherished her, far oif 
 
 Sail'd on the seas, self-exiled from his home. 
 
 For he was poor. Left, thus, a wretched one. 
 
 Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues 
 
 Were busy with her name. She had one ill 
 
 Heavier — neglect — forgetfulness from him 
 
 Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he -wrote. 
 
 But only once that di'op of comfort came 
 
 To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; 
 
 And when his parents had some tidings from him. 
 
 There was no mention of poor Hannah there. 
 
 Or 'twas the cold inquiry, bitterer 
 
 Than silence. So she pined and pined away. 
 
 And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd, 
 
 Nor did she, even on her death-bed, rest 
 
 From labour, knitting there with arms outstretch'd. 
 
 Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother 
 
 Omitted no kind office, working for her. 
 
 Albeit her hardest working barely earn'd 
 
 Enough to keep life struggling and prolong 
 
 The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay 
 
 On the sick bed of poverty, so worn 
 
 With her long sutiering and those painful thoughts 
 
 Which at her heart lay rankling, and so weak. 
 
 That she could make no effort to express 
 
 Affection for her infant; and the child. 
 
 Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her. 
 
 With natural infantine ingratitude 
 
 Shunn'd her as one indifferent. She was past 
 
 That anguish, for she felt her hour di-aw on. 
 
 And 'twas her only comfort now to think 
 
 Upon the grave. " Poor girl !" her mother said. 
 
232 ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 " Thou hast suffered much !" " Aj, mother ! there Is none 
 Can tell what I have suffered !" she replied; 
 " But I shall soon be where the weary rest." 
 And soon the rest she prayed for was vouchsafed. 
 For it pleased God to take her to his mercy. 
 
 THE SAILOR'S MOTHEE. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 SiE, for the love of God, some small relief 
 To a poor woman ! 
 
 TRAVELLEE. 
 
 Whither are you bound ? 
 'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, 
 No house for miles around us, and the way 
 Dreary and wild. The evening wind already 
 Makes one's teeth chatter, and the very sun. 
 Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, 
 Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night ! 
 
 Ay, sir, 
 'Tis cutting keen ! I smart at every breath; 
 Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end. 
 For the way is long before me, and my feet, 
 God help me ! sore with travelling. I would gladly, 
 K it pleased God, lie down at once and die. 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 '^''ny, nay, cheer up ! a little food and rest 
 Will comfort you; and then your journey's end 
 Will make amends for all. You shake j^our head, 
 And weep. Is it some evil business, then, 
 That leads you from your home ? 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Sir, I am going 
 To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt 
 In the late action, and in the hospital 
 Dying, I fear me, now. 
 
THE sailor's mother. 233 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 Perhaps your fears 
 Hake evil worse. Even if a limb be lost 
 There may be still enough for comfort left; 
 An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart 
 To keep life warm, and he may live to talk 
 With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd him, 
 Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude 
 Makes the maim'd sailor happy. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 'Tis not that, — 
 An arm or leg — I could have borne with that. 
 'Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing 
 "Which bursts and burns, that hurt him. Something, sir. 
 They do not use on board our English ships, 
 It is so wicked. 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 Pascals ! a mean art 
 Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain ! 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Yes, sir ! and they should show no mercy to them 
 
 For making use of such unchristian arms. 
 
 I had a letter from the hospital, — 
 
 He got some friend to write it, — and he tells me 
 
 That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes — 
 
 Burnt out. Alas ! that I should ever live 
 
 To see this wretched day; — they tell me, sir. 
 
 There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed, 
 
 *Tis a hard journey that I go upon 
 
 To such a dismal end. 
 
 TEAVELLE.S. 
 
 He yet may live. 
 But if the worst should chance, why you must bear 
 The will of Heaven with patience. Were it not 
 Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen 
 Fighting his country's cause ? and for yourself. 
 You will not in unpitied poverty. 
 Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful coimtry. 
 Amid the triumph of her victory, 
 Pemembers those who paid its price of blood. 
 And with a noble charity relieves 
 The widow and the orphan. 
 
234: ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 God reward theui I 
 God bless them ! it will help me in my age; 
 But sir, it will not pay me for my child 1 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 Was he your only child ? 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 My only one, 
 The stay and comfoi*t of my widowhood, 
 A dear good boy ! When first he went to sea, 
 I felt what it would come to — something told me 
 I should be childless soon. But tell me, sir. 
 If it be true that for a hm-t like his 
 There is no cure ? Please God to spare his life. 
 Though he be blind, yet I should be so thankful ! 
 I can remember there was a blind man 
 Lived in our village, one from his youth up 
 Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man. 
 And he had none to tend on him so well 
 As I would tend my boy ! 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 Of this be sure, 
 His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help 
 The land affords, as rightly is his due, 
 Ever at hand. How happened it he left you ? 
 Was a seafaring life his early choice ? 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 No, sir. Poor fellow, he was wise enough 
 
 To be content at home, and 'twas a home 
 
 As comfortable, sir, even though I say it. 
 
 As any in the country. He was left 
 
 A little boy when his poor father died. 
 
 Just old enough to totter by himself 
 
 And caU his mother's name. We two were all. 
 
 And as we were not left quite destitute, 
 
 We bore up well. In the summer time I worked 
 
 Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting. 
 
 And in long winter nights my spinning wiieei 
 
 Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours, too, 
 
 And never felt distress. So he grew up 
 
 b» 
 
THE sailor's mother. 235 
 
 A comely lad, and wondrous well disposed; 
 I taught him well; there was not in the parish 
 A child who said his prayers more regular. 
 Or answered readier through his catechism. 
 If I had foreseen this ! But 'tis a blessing 
 We don't know what we're born to ! 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 But how came it 
 He chose to be a sailor ? 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 You shall hear, sirj 
 As he grew up he used to watch the birds 
 In the corn, — child's work you know, and easily done. 
 'Tis an idle sort of task ; so he built up 
 A little hut of wicker-work and clay 
 Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain. 
 And then he took, for very idleness. 
 To making traps to catch the plunderers: 
 All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make,— 
 Propping a stone to fall and shut them in. 
 Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe 
 Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly, — • 
 And I, — poor, foolish woman ! I was pleased 
 To see the boy so handy. You may guess 
 What followed, sir, from this unlucky skill. 
 He did what he should not when he was older: 
 I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught 
 In wiring hares at last, and had his choice— 
 The prison or the ship. 
 
 TRAVELLER. 
 
 The choice at least 
 Was kindly left him, and for broken laws 
 This was, methinks, no heavy punishment. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 So I was told, sir. And I tried to think so. 
 But 'twas a sad blow to me ! I was used 
 To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child, — 
 Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start 
 And think of my poor boy, tossing about 
 Upon the roarmg seas. And then I seem'd 
 To feel that it was hard to take him from me 
 
236 ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 For such a little fault. But he was wrong. 
 Oh, very wrong, — a murrain on his traps 1 
 See what they've brought him to ! 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 Well ! well ! take comfort, 
 He will he taken care of if he lives ; 
 And should you lose your child, this is a country 
 Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent 
 To weep for him in want. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Sir, I shall want 
 No succour long. In the common course of years 
 I soon must be at rest; and 'tis a comfort, 
 Wlien grief is hard upon me, to reflect 
 It only leads me to that rest the sooner. 
 
 THE WITCH. 
 
 NATHANIEL. 
 
 Fathee ! here, father ! I have found a horse-shoe! 
 Faith, it was just in time, for t'other night 
 I laid two straws across at Margery's door. 
 And afterwards I fear'd that she might do me 
 A mischief for't. There was the miller's boy 
 Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, 
 I met him upon crutches, and he told me 
 'Twas aU her evil eye. 
 
 fathee. 
 
 'Tis rare good luck; 
 I would have gladly given a crown for one 
 If 'twould have done as well. But where didst find it ? 
 
 NATHANIEL. 
 
 Down on the common; I was going a-field 
 And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare; 
 He had hardly said " Good day," before I saw 
 
THE WITCH. 237 
 
 The shoe drop off; 'twas just upon my tongue 
 To call him back; — it makes no difference, does it. 
 Because I know whose 'twas ? 
 
 FATHEE. 
 
 Why no, it can't. 
 The shoe's the same, you loiow, and you did find it. 
 
 NATHANIEL. 
 
 That mare of his has got a })laguy road 
 To travel, father, and if he should lame her. 
 For she is but tender-footed, — 
 
 FATHEB. 
 
 Ay, indeed ! 
 I should not like to see her limping back. 
 Poor beast ! but charity begins at home ; 
 And, Nat, there's our own horse in such a way 
 This morniag ? 
 
 NATHANIEL. 
 
 Why he ha'n't been rid again ! 
 Last night I hung a pebble by the manger 
 With a hole through, and everybod}^ says 
 That 'tis a special charm against the hags, 
 
 FATHEE. 
 
 It could not be a proper natural hole, then, 
 Or 'twas not a right pebble, — for I found him 
 Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb. 
 And panting so ! God knows where he had been 
 When we were all asleep, through bush and brake, 
 Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch 
 At such a deadly rate ! 
 
 NATHANIEL. 
 
 By land and water. 
 Over the sea, perhaps ! — I have heard tell 
 That 'tis some thousand miles, almost at the end 
 Of the world, where witches go to meet the devil. 
 They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear 
 Some ointment over them, and then away 
 Out of the wmdow ! But 'tis worse than all 
 To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it. 
 That in a Chi'istian country they sliould let 
 Such creatures live ! 
 
238 ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 FATHEE. 
 And when there's such plain proof! 
 I did but threaten her because she robb'd 
 Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind 
 That made me shake to hear it in my bed ! 
 How came it that that stonn unroofed my barn, 
 And only mine in the parish ? Look at her. 
 And that's enough; she has it in her face, — 
 A pair of large dead eyes, sunk in her head. 
 Just like a corpse, and pm-sed with wrinldes round, 
 A nose and chin that scarce leave room between 
 For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff; 
 And when she speaks ! I'd sooner hear a raven 
 Croak at my door ! She sits there, nose and knees 
 Smoke-di'ied and shrivell'd over a starved fire, 
 With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes 
 Shine like old Beelzebub's; and to be sure 
 It must be one of his imps ! Ay, nail it hard. 
 
 NATHANIEL. 
 
 I wish old Margery heard the hammer go ! 
 She'd curse the music. 
 
 FATHEE. 
 
 Here's the curate coming, 
 He ought to rid the parish of such vermin. 
 In the old times they used to hunt them out 
 And hang them without mercy. But, Lord bless us 
 The world is grown so wicked ! 
 
 CUEATE. 
 
 Good day, farmer ? 
 Nathaniel, what art nailing to the threshold ? 
 
 NATHANIEL. 
 
 A horse-shoe, sir; 'tis good to keep off witchcraft, 
 And we're afraid of Mtu'gery. 
 
 CUEATE. 
 
 Poor old woman. 
 What can you fear from her ? 
 
 FATHEE. 
 
 What can we fear ! 
 Who lamed the miller's boy ? Wlio raised the wind 
 That blew my old barn's roof down ? Wlio d'ye think 
 
THE WITCH. 239 
 
 Rides my poor horse a'nights ? Wlio mocks the hounds ? 
 
 But let me catch her at that trick again, 
 
 And I've a silver bullet ready for her, 
 
 One that shall lame her, double how she will. 
 
 NATHANIEL. 
 
 What makes her sit there moping by herself. 
 With no soul near her but that great black cat ? 
 And do but look at her ! 
 
 CUEATE. 
 
 Poor wretch; half blind 
 And crooked with her years, without a child 
 Or friend in her old age, 'tis hard indeed 
 To have her very miseries made her crimes ! 
 I met her but last week in that hard frost 
 Which made my young Hmbs ache, and when I ask'd 
 Wliat brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman 
 Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad 
 And pick the hedges, just to keep herself 
 Erom perishing with cold, because no neighbour 
 Had pity on her age; and then she cried. 
 And said the children pelted her with snow-balls. 
 And wish'd that she were dead. 
 
 FATHEE. 
 
 I wish she was ! 
 She has plagued the parish long enough ! 
 
 CUEATE. 
 
 Shame, farmer ! 
 Is that the charity your Bible teaches ? 
 
 FATHEE. 
 
 My Bible does not teach me to love witches. 
 I know what's charity. Who pays his tithes 
 And poor-rates readier ? 
 
 CUEATE. 
 
 Who can better do it ? 
 You've been a prudent and industrious man, 
 And God has blest yom- labour. 
 
 FATHEE. 
 
 Why, thank God, sir, 
 I've had no reason to complain of fortune. 
 
240 ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 CUEATE. 
 
 Complain ! Why you are wealthy. All the parish 
 Look up to you. 
 
 FATHEE. 
 
 Perhaps, sir, I could tell 
 Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. 
 
 CUEATE. 
 
 You can afford a little to the poor, 
 
 And then, what's better still, you have the heart 
 
 To give from your abundance. 
 
 FATHEE. 
 
 God forbid 
 I should want charity ! 
 
 CUEATE. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis a comfort 
 To think at last of riches well employed ! 
 I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth 
 Of a good deed at that most awful horn- 
 When riches profit not. 
 
 Farmer, I'm going 
 To visit Margery. She is sick, I hear — 
 Old, poor, and sick ! a miserable lot. 
 And death will be a blessing. You might send her 
 Some small matter, something comfortable, 
 That she may go down easier to the grave. 
 And bless you when she dies. 
 
 FATHEE. 
 
 What ! is she going ! 
 Well, God forgive her then I if she has dealt 
 In the black art. I'll tell my dame of it. 
 And she shall send her something. 
 
 CUEATE. 
 
 So I'll say; 
 And take my thanks for hers. [(/oes. 
 
 FATHEE. 
 
 That's a good man. 
 That curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit 
 The poor in sickness; but he don't believe 
 In witchcraft, and that is not lUie a Christian. 
 
THE RUINED COTTAGK 241 
 
 NATHANIEL. 
 
 And SO old Margery's dying ! 
 
 FATHEE. 
 
 But you lmo"w 
 She may recover; so drive t'other nail in! 
 
 THE RUINED COTTAGE. 
 
 At, Charles ! I knew that this would fix thine eye,- 
 This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch, 
 Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower 
 StiU fresh and fragrant; and yon hollyhock 
 That through the creeping weeds and nettles taU 
 Peers taller, and uplifts its column'd stem 
 Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen 
 Many a fallen convent reverend in decay. 
 And many a time have trod the castle courts 
 And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike 
 Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts 
 As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch 
 Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss ; the roof 
 Part moulder'd in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds, 
 House-leek, and long thin grass, and greener moss; 
 So Nature steals on aU the works of man. 
 Sure conqueror she, reclaiming to herself 
 His perishable piles. 
 
 I led thee here, 
 Charles, not without design; for this hath been 
 My favourite walk even since I was a boy; 
 And I remember, Charles, this ruin here. 
 The neatest, comfortable dwelling place; 
 That when I read in those dear books which first 
 Woke in my heart the love of poesy, 
 How with the villagers Ermuiia dwelt. 
 And Calidore for a fair shepherdess 
 Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd's lore; 
 My fancy drew from this the little hut 
 Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love, 
 Or where the gentle Calidore at eve 
 
 B 
 
242 ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 Led Pastorella home. There was not then 
 
 A weed where all these nettle^ overtop 
 
 The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet 
 
 The morning air, rosemary and marjoram, 
 
 All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath'd 
 
 So lavishly around the pillared porch 
 
 Its fragrant flowers, that when I pass'd this way, 
 
 After a truant absence hastening home, 
 
 I could not choose but pass with slacken'd speed 
 
 By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed 
 
 Is this poor cottage ! and its dwellers, Charles ! — 
 
 Theu's is a simple, melanchoty tale, — 
 
 There's scarce a village but can fellow it, 
 
 And yet methinks it will not weary thee, 
 
 And should not be untold. 
 
 A widow woman 
 Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want, 
 She lived on some small pittance that sufficed. 
 In better times, the needful calls of life. 
 Not without comfort. I remember her 
 Sitting at evening in that open door-way. 
 And spinning in the sun ; methinks I see her 
 Eaising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles 
 To see the passer-by, yet ceasing not 
 To twii-1 her lengthening thread. Or in the garden, 
 On some diy summer evening, walking round 
 To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean'd 
 Upon the ivory handle of her stick. 
 To some carnation whose o'erheavj^ head 
 Needed support, while with the watering-pot 
 Joanna followed, and refresh'd and trimm'd 
 The di'ooping plant; Joanna, her dear child. 
 As lovely and as happy then as youth 
 And innocence could make her. 
 
 Charles ! it seems 
 As though I were a boy again, and all 
 The mediate years, with then* vicissitudes, 
 A half- forgotten dream. I see the maid 
 So comely in her Smiday di-ess ! her hair. 
 Her bright brown hair, wreath'd in contracting curls. 
 And then her cheek ! it was a red and white 
 That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome. 
 The countrymen who, on their way to church. 
 Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear 
 
THE RUINED COTTAGE. 243 
 
 The bell's last summons, and in idleness 
 Watching the stream below, would all look up 
 When she pass'd by. And her old mother, Charles ! 
 When I have heard some erring infidel 
 Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed, 
 Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness. 
 Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love 
 The sabbath-day, and many a time hath cross'd 
 These fields m rain and through the winter snovrs, 
 When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself 
 By the fire- side, have wonder'd why she came 
 Who might have sate at home. 
 
 One only care 
 Hung on her aged spirit. For herself, 
 Her path was plain before her, and the close 
 Of her long journey near. But then her child. 
 Soon to be left alone in this bad world, — 
 That was a thought which many a winter night 
 Had kept her sleepless; and when prudent love 
 In something better than a servant's state 
 Had placed her well at last, it was a pang 
 Like parting life to part with her dear girl. 
 
 One summer, Charles, when at the holydays 
 
 Beturn'd fi'om school, I visited again 
 
 My old accustom'd walks, and found in them 
 
 A joy almost like meetmg an old friend, 
 
 I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds 
 
 Already crowding the neglected flowers. 
 
 Joanna, by a villain's wHes seduced, 
 
 Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach'd 
 
 Her mother's heart. She did not suffer long; 
 
 Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow 
 
 Brought her grey hau's with sorrow to the graye. 
 
 I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes, 
 
 And think of other days. It wakes in m.e 
 
 A transient sadness; but the feelings, Charles, 
 
 Which ever with these recollections rise, 
 
 I trust in God they wiU not pass away. 
 
 E 2 
 
244 ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE FAMILY. 
 
 JAMES. 
 
 What, Gregory ! you are come, I see, to join ug 
 On this sad business. 
 
 GEEGOEY. 
 
 Ay, James, I am come. 
 But with a heavy heart, God knows it, man ! 
 Where shall we meet the corpse ? 
 
 JAMES. 
 
 Some hour from hence; 
 By noon, and near about the elms, I take it. 
 This is not as it should be,. Gregory, 
 Old men to follow young ones to the grave ! 
 This morning, when I heard the bell strike out, 
 I thought that I had never heai'd it toll 
 So dismally before. 
 
 GEEGOEY. 
 
 WeU, well ! my friend — 
 *Tis what we all must come to, soon or late. 
 But when a young man dies, in the prime of life. 
 One born so well, who might have blest us all 
 Many long years ! — 
 
 JAMES. 
 
 And then the family, 
 Extinguish'd in him, and the good old name 
 Only to be remember'd on a tomb-stone ! 
 A name that has gone down from sire to son 
 So many generations ! — many a time 
 Poor Master Edward, who is now a corpse, 
 Wlien but a child, would come to me and lead me 
 To the great family tree, and beg of me 
 To tell him stories of his ancestors; 
 Of Eustace, he that went to the Holy Land 
 With Eichard Lion-heart, and that Sir Henry, 
 Who fought at Crecy, in King Edwai'd's wai'.s; 
 And then his little eyes would kindle so 
 To hear of their brave deeds ! I used to think 
 The bravest of them all would not out-do 
 My darling boy. 
 
THE LAST OF THE FAMILY. 245 
 
 GEEGOET. 
 
 This comes of your great schools 
 And college breeding. Plague upon his guardians, 
 That would have made him wiser than his fathers ! 
 
 If his poor father, Gregory ! had but lived, 
 Things would not have been so. He, poor good man. 
 Had little of book-learning, but there lived not 
 A kinder, nobler-hearted gentleman, 
 One better to his tenants. When he died, 
 There was not a dry eye for miles around. 
 Gregory, I thought that I could never know 
 A sadder day than that: but what was that, 
 Compared with this day's sorrow ? 
 
 GEEGOEY. 
 
 I remember. 
 Eight months ago, when the young Squii-e began 
 To alter the old mansion, they destroy'd 
 The martin's nests, that had stood undisturb'd 
 Under that roof, — ay ! long before my memory. 
 I shook my head at seeing it, and thought 
 No good could follow. 
 
 JAMES. 
 
 Poor young man ! I loved him 
 Like my own child. I loved the family ! 
 Come Candlemas, and I have been their servant 
 For five and forty years. I lived with them. 
 When his good father brought my Lady home. 
 And when the young Squire was born, it did me good 
 To hear the bells so merrily announce 
 An heir. This is indeed a heavy blow — 
 I feel it Gregory, heavier than the weight 
 Of threescore years. He was a noble lad, 
 I loved him dearly. 
 
 GEEGOEY. 
 
 Everybody loved him 
 Such a fine, generous open-hearted youth ! 
 When he came home from school at holydays. 
 How I rejoiced to see him ! he was sure 
 To come and ask of me what birds there were 
 About my fields; and when I found a covey, 
 
246 ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 There's not a testy Squire preserves Hs game 
 More charily than I have kept them safe 
 For Master Edward. And he look'd so well 
 Upon a fine sharp morning after them, 
 His brown hair frosted, and his cheek so flush'd 
 With such a wholesome ruddiness ! — Ah ! James, 
 But he was sadly changed when he came down 
 To keep his birthday. 
 
 JAMES. 
 
 Changed ! why Gregory, 
 'Twas like a palsy to me, when he stepp'd 
 Out of the carriage. He was grown so thin. 
 His cheeks so delicate sallow, and his eyes 
 Had such a dim and rakish hollowness ; 
 And when he came to shake me by the hand. 
 And spoke as kindly to me as he used, 
 I hardly knew the voice. 
 
 GEEGOEY. 
 
 It struck a damp 
 On all our merriment. 'Twas a noble ox 
 That smok'd before us, and the old October 
 Went merrily in overflowing cans; 
 But 'twas a skin-deep merriment. My heart 
 Seem'd as it took no share. And when we drank 
 His health, the thought came over me what cause 
 We had for wishing that, and spoilt the draught. 
 Poor gentleman ! to think ten months ago 
 He came of age — and now ! 
 
 JAMES. 
 
 I fear'd it then. 
 He look'd to me as one that was not long 
 For this world's business. 
 
 GEEGOEY. 
 
 When the doctor sent him 
 Abroad to try the air, it made me certain 
 That all was over. There's but little hope 
 Methmks that foreign parts can help a man 
 When his own mother-country will not do. 
 The last time he came down, these bells rang so, 
 I thought they would have rock'd the old steeple down; 
 And now that dismal toU ! I would have stayed 
 
THE WEDDING. 247 
 
 Beyond its reach, but this was a last duty; 
 
 I am an old tenant of the family, 
 
 Born on the estate, and now that I've out-lived it, — 
 
 Why 'tis but right to see it to the grave. 
 
 Have you heard aught of the new Squire ? 
 
 JAMES. I .. 
 
 But little, Vp^ 
 
 And that not well. But be he what he may, ^S^^/-^ , 
 Matters not much to me. The love I bore 
 To the good family will not easily fix .^ 
 Upon a stranger. Wliat's on the opposite hill ? 
 Is it not the limeral ? 
 
 GREGORY. 
 
 'Tis, I think, some horsemen. 
 Ay ! there are the black cloaks ; and now I see 
 The white plumes on the hearse. 
 
 JAMES. 
 
 Between the trees; — 
 'Tis hid behind them now. 
 
 GREGORY. 
 
 Ay ! now we see it, 
 And there's the coaches following, we shall meet 
 About the bridge. Would that this day were over ! 
 I wonder whose turn's next ! 
 
 JAMES. 
 
 God above knows ! 
 When youth is summon'd, what must age expect ! 
 God make us ready, Gregory, when it comes. 
 
 THE WEDDING, 
 
 TRAVELLER. 
 
 I PRAY you, wherefore are the village bells 
 Ringing so merrily ? 
 
 vroMAN. 
 A wedding, sir — 
 Two of the village folk. And they are right 
 To make a merry time on't while they may. 
 
248 ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 Come twelve months hence, I warrant them they'd" go 
 To church again more willingly than now 
 So all might be undone. 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 An ill-match'd pair. 
 So I conceive you. Youth, perhaps, and age ? 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 "No — ^both are young enough. 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 Perhaps the man then — 
 A lazy idler, one who better likes 
 The alehouse than his work ? 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Why, sir, for that. 
 He always was a well-conditioned lad. 
 One who'd work hard and well ; and as for drink. 
 Save now and then, mayhap at Christmas time. 
 Sober as wife could wish. 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 Then is the girl 
 A shrew, or else untidy ? One who'd welcome 
 Her husband with a rude, unruly tongue. 
 Or di'ive him from a foul and wretched home 
 To look elsewhere for comfort ? Is it so ? 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 She's notable enough; and as for temper, 
 
 The best good-humour'd girl ! D'ye see that house ? 
 
 There by the aspen-tree, whose grey leaves shine 
 
 In the wind ? She lived a servant at the farmj 
 
 And often as I came to weeding here, 
 
 I've heard her singing as she milk'd her cows 
 
 So cheerfully. I did not like to hear her. 
 
 Because it made me think upon the days 
 
 When I had got as little on my mind. 
 
 And was as cheerful too. But she would marry. 
 
 And folks must reap as they have sown. God help her! 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 Why, mistress, if they both are well inclined. 
 Why should not both be happy ? 
 
THE WEDDING. 24& 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 They've no money. 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 But "both can work; and sure as cheerfully 
 She'd labour for herself as at the farm. 
 And he wont work the worse because he knows 
 That she wiU make his fire-side ready for him, 
 And watch for his return. 
 
 A little while. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 All very well. 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 And what if they are poor ? 
 Riches can't always purchase happiness; 
 And much we know will be expected there 
 Where much was given. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 All this I have heard at church ! 
 And when I walk in the church-yard, or have been 
 By a death-bed, 'tis mighty comforting. 
 But when I hear my children cry for hunger, 
 And see them shiver in their rags — God help me ! 
 I pity those for whom these bells ring up 
 So merrily upon their wedding-day. 
 Because I think of mine. 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 You have known trouble ; 
 These haply may be happier. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Why, for that, 
 I've had my share ; some sickness and some sorrow; 
 Well will it be for them to know no worse. 
 Yet had I rather hear a daughter's knell 
 Than her wedding peal, sir, if I thought her fate 
 Promised no better things. 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 Sure, sure, good woman. 
 You look upon the world with jaundiced eyes ! 
 All have their cares; those who are poor want wealth 
 
250 ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 Those who have wealth want more; so are we all 
 Dissatisfied, yet all live on, and each 
 Has his own comforts. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Sir, d'ye see that horse 
 Turn'd out to common here by the way- side ? 
 He's high in bone; you may tell every rib 
 Even at this distance. Mind him ! How he turns 
 His head, to drive away the flies that feed 
 On his gall'd shoulder ! There's just grass enough 
 To disappoint his whetted appetite. 
 You see his comforts, sir ! 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 A wretched beast ! 
 Hard labour and worse usage he endures 
 From some bad master. But the lot of the poor 
 Is not like his. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 In truth it is not, sir ! 
 For when the horse lies down at night, no cares 
 About to-morrow vex him in his dreams. 
 He knows no quarter-day; and when he gets 
 Some musty hay or patch of hedge-row grass, 
 He has no hungry childi^en to claim part 
 Of his half meal ! 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 'Tis idleness makes want. 
 And idle habits. If the man will go 
 And spend his evenings by the alehouse fire. 
 Whom can he blame if there is want at home ? 
 
 Ay ! idleness ! The rich folks never fail 
 
 To find some reason why the poor deserve 
 
 Their miseries ! Is it idleness, I pray you. 
 
 That brings the fever or the ague fit ? 
 
 That makes the sick one's sickly aj)petite 
 
 Turn at the dry bread and potato meal ? 
 
 Is it idleness that makes small wages fail 
 
 For growing wants ? Six years agone, these bells 
 
 Eung on my wedding-day, and I VN-as told 
 
 What I miarht look tor, — but I did not heed 
 
THE WEDDING. 251 
 
 Good counsel. I had. lived in service, sir; 
 
 Knew never what it was to want a meal; 
 
 Laid down without one thought to keep me sleepless 
 
 Or trouble me in sleep; had for a Sunday 
 
 My linen gown, and when the pedlar came, 
 
 Could buy me a new ribbon: — and my husband,— 
 
 A towardly young man and well to do; 
 
 He had his silver buckles and his watch; 
 
 There was not m the village one who look'd 
 
 Sprucer on holydays. We married, sir. 
 
 And we had childi-en; but as wants increased. 
 
 Wages did not. The silver bucldes went. 
 
 So went the watch; and when the holyday coat 
 
 Was worn to work, no new one in its place. 
 
 For me — you see my rags ! But I deserve them. 
 
 For wilfully, like this new-married pair, 
 
 I went to my imdoing. 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 But the parish • 
 
 WOMAN, 
 
 Ay, it falls heavy there, and yet their pittance 
 Just serves to keep life in. A blessed prospect. 
 To slave while there is strength, m age the workhouse 
 A parish shell at last, and the little bell 
 ToU'd hastily for a pauper's funeral I 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 Is this your child ? 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Ay, sir, and were he dress'd 
 And clean, he'd be as fine a boy to look on 
 As the squire's young master. These thin rags of 
 Let comfortably in the summer wind ; 
 But when the winter comes, it pinches me 
 To see the little wretch ! I've three besides. 
 And — God forgive me ! but I often wish 
 To see them in their coffins. — God reward you ! 
 God bless you for your charity ! 
 
 TEAVELLEE. 
 
 You have taught me 
 To give sad meaning to the villas-e bells ! 
 
252 ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 THE ALDERMAN'S FUNERAL. 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 Whom are they iisliermg from the world, with all 
 This pageantry and long parade of death ? 
 
 TOWNSMAN. 
 
 A long parade, indeed, sir, and yet here 
 
 You see but half; round yonder bend it reaches 
 
 A furlong farther, carriage behiud carriage. 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 *Tis but a mournful sight, and yet the pomp 
 Tempts me to stand a gazer. 
 
 TOWNSMAN. 
 
 Yonder schoolboy 
 Who plays the truant, says the proclamation 
 Of peace was nothing to the show; and even 
 The chairing of the members at election 
 Would not have been a finer sight than this. 
 Only that red and green are prettier coloui's 
 Than aU this black. There, sh, you behold 
 One of the red-gown'd worthies of the city, 
 The envy and the boast of our exchange; — 
 Ay, what was worth, last week, a good half- million ,- 
 Screw'd do^vn in. yonder heai'se ! 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 Then he was born 
 Under a lucky planet, who to-day 
 Puts mourning on for his inheritance. 
 
 TOWNSMAN. 
 
 When first I heard his death, that very wish 
 Leapt to my lips ; but now the closing scene 
 Of the comedy hath waken'd wiser thoughts: 
 And I bless God, that when I go to the grave, 
 There will not be the weight of wealth like his 
 To sink me dowTi. 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 The camel and the needle,— 
 Is that, then, in your mind ? 
 
THE alderman's FUNERAL. 253 
 
 TOWNSMAN. 
 
 Even so. The t\?xt 
 Is gospel-wisdom. I would ride the camel, — 
 Yea, leap him Hying, — through the needle's eye 
 As easily as such a pampered soul 
 Could pass the narrow gate. 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 Pardon me, sir. 
 But sure this lack of Christian charity 
 Looks not like Christian truth. 
 
 TOWNSMAN. 
 
 Your pardon, too, sir. 
 If, with this text hefore me, I should feel 
 In the preaching mood ! But for these barren fig-trees. 
 With all their flourish and their leafiness. 
 We have been told their destiny and use. 
 When the axe is laid unto the root, and they 
 Cumber the earth no longer. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Was his wealth 
 Stored fraudfuUy, — the spoil of orphans wrong'd. 
 And widows who had none to plead their right? 
 
 TOWNSMAN. 
 
 AU honest, open, honourable gains. 
 Fair legal interest, bonds and mortgages. 
 Ships to the east and west. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Why judge you then 
 So hardly of the dead ? 
 
 TOWNSMAN. 
 
 For what he left 
 Undone. — For sins, not one of which is mentioned 
 In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him. 
 Believed no other Gods than those of the Creed: 
 Bow'd to no idols — but his money-bags: 
 Swore no false oaths, — except at the custom-house j 
 Kept the Sabbath idle : built a monument 
 To honom' his dead father: did no murder: 
 Was too old-fashion'd for adultery: 
 Never pick'd pockets; never bore false-witness; 
 And never, with that all-commanding wealth, 
 Coveted his neie"hboui-'s house, nor ox, nor ass! 
 
2oi ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 You knew him, then, it seems ? 
 
 TOWNSMAN. 
 
 As all men knoTT 
 The virtues of your hundred-thousanders; 
 They never hide their lights beneath a busheL 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 Nay, nay, uncharitable sir ! for often 
 Doth bounty, like a streamlet, flow unseen 
 Freshening and giving life along its course. 
 
 TOWNSMAN. 
 
 We track the streamlet by the brighter gi'een 
 And livelier gi'owth it gives ; — but as for this — ■ 
 This was a pool that stagnated and stimk; 
 The rains of heaven engendered nothing in it 
 But slime and foul corruption. 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 Yet even these 
 Are reservoirs whence public charity 
 Still keeps her channels lull. 
 
 TOWNSMAN. 
 
 Now, sii', you touch 
 Upon the point. This man of half a million 
 Had all these public virtues which you praise: 
 But the poor man rung never at his door; 
 And the old beggar, at the pubhc gate. 
 Who, all the summer long, stands hat in hand. 
 He knew how vain it was to Lift an eye 
 To that hard face. Yet he was always found 
 Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers, 
 Yom- benefactors in the newspapers. 
 His alms were money put to interest 
 In the other world,— donations to keep open 
 A running charity-account with heaven: — 
 Ketaining fees against the last assizes. 
 When, for the trusted talents, strict account 
 Shall be required from all, and the old arch-lawyer 
 Plead his own cause as plaintiff. 
 
 STEANGEE.. 
 
 I must needs 
 Believe you, sir — these are your witnesses. 
 
THE alderman's FUNERAL. 255 
 
 These mourners here, who from their carriages 
 Stare at the gaping crowd. A good March wind 
 Were to be prayed for now, to lend their eyes 
 Some decent rheum. The very hireling mute 
 Bears not a face blanker of all emotion 
 Than the old servant of the family ! 
 How can this man have lived, that thus his death 
 Costs not the soiling one white handkerchief! 
 
 TOVTNSMAN, 
 
 Who should lament for him, sir, in whose heart 
 
 Love had no place, nor natural charity ? 
 
 The parlour spaniel, when she heard his step. 
 
 Rose slowly from the hearth, aud stole aside 
 
 With creeping pace; she never raised her eyes 
 
 To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head 
 
 Upraised upon his knee, with fondling whine. 
 
 How could it be but thus ! Arithmetic 
 
 Was the sole science he was ever taught ; 
 
 The multiplication-table was his Creed, 
 
 His Pater-noster, and his Decalogue. 
 
 When yet he was a boy, and should have breathed 
 
 The open air and sunshine of the fields, 
 
 To give his blood its natural spring and play. 
 
 He in a close and dusky counting-house, 
 
 Smoke-di'ied and sear'd and shrivell'd up his heart. 
 
 So, from the way m which he was train'd up. 
 
 His feet departed not; he toil'd and moil'd, 
 
 Poor muck-worm ! tlirough his tlireescore years and ten : 
 
 And when the earth shall now be shovell'd on him, — 
 
 If that which served him for a soul were still 
 
 Within its husk, — 'twould still be dirt to dirt. 
 
 STEANGEE. 
 
 Yet your next newspapers will blazon him 
 For industry and honourable wealth 
 A bright example. 
 
 TOWNSMAN. 
 
 Even half a million 
 Gets him no other praise. But come this way 
 Some twelve-months hence, and you will find his virtues 
 Trimly set forth in lapidary lines, 
 Faith, with her torch beside, and little Cupids 
 Dropping upon Hs ui-n their mai'ble tears. 
 
256 
 
 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 JASPAR. 
 
 Jaspae was poor, and vice and want 
 Had made his heart like stone, 
 
 And Jaspar look'd with envious eyes 
 On riches not his own. 
 
 On plunder bent abroad he went 
 
 Towards the close of day, 
 And loitered on the lonely road 
 
 Impatient for his prey. 
 
 No traveller came, he loiter'd long. 
 
 And often look'd around. 
 And paused and listen'd eagerly 
 
 To catch some coming sound. 
 
 He sat him down beside the stream 
 That cross'd the lonely way. 
 
 So fair a scene might weU have charm'd 
 All evil thoughts away: 
 
 He sat beneath a willow tree 
 That cast a trembling shade. 
 
 The gentle river full in fi-ont 
 A little island made, 
 
 Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone 
 
 Upon the poplar trees, 
 Whose shadow on the stream below 
 
 Play'd slowly to the breeze. 
 
 He listen'd — and he heard the wind 
 That waved the willow tree; 
 
 He heard the waters flow along 
 And murmur quietly. 
 
JASPAR. 257 
 
 He listen'd for the traveller's tread, 
 
 The nightingale sung sweet, — 
 He started up, for now he heard 
 
 The sound of coming feet ; 
 
 He started up and graspt a stake 
 
 And waited for his prey : 
 There came a lonely traveller 
 
 And Jaspar crost his way. 
 
 But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd 
 
 The traveller to appal, 
 He would not lightly yield the purse 
 
 That held his little all. 
 
 Awhile he struggled, but he strove 
 With Jaspar's strength in vain ; 
 
 Beneath his blows he fell and groaa'd. 
 And never spoke again. 
 
 He lifted up the murdered man 
 And plunged him in the flood, 
 
 And in the running water then 
 He cleansed his hands from blood. 
 
 The waters closed around the corpse 
 And cleansed his hands from gore, 
 
 The willow waved, the stream flowed on 
 And murmured as before. 
 
 There was no human eye had seen 
 The blood the murderer spilt, 
 
 And Jaspar's conscience never knew 
 The avenging goad of guilt. 
 
 And soon the rufiian had consum'd 
 
 The gold he gain'd so ill, 
 And years of secret guilt pass'd on 
 
 And he was needy still. 
 
 One eve beside the alehouse fire 
 
 He sat as it befell, 
 "When in there came a labouring man 
 
 Whom Jaspar knew full well. 
 
258 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES 
 
 He sat him down by Jaspar's side 
 
 A melancholy man, 
 For spite of honest toil, the world 
 
 Went hard with Jonathan. 
 
 His toil a little earn'd, and he 
 
 With little was content, 
 But sickness on his wife had fallen 
 And all he had was sjDent. 
 
 Then with his wife and little ones 
 
 He shared the scanty meal, 
 And saw their looks of wretchedness, 
 
 And felt what wretches feel. 
 
 Tliat very morn the landlord's power 
 
 Had seized the little left. 
 And now the sufterer tound himself 
 
 Of everything bereft. 
 
 He leant his head upon his hand, 
 
 His elbow on his knee, 
 And so by Jaspar's side he sat, 
 
 And not a word said he. 
 
 Nay — why so downcast? Jaspar cried, 
 
 Come — cheer up, Jonathan I 
 Drink, neighbour, drink ! 'twill warm thy heart, 
 
 Come ! come ! take courage, man ! 
 
 He took the cup that Jaspar gave, 
 And down he drain'd it quick ; 
 
 I have a wife, said Jonathan, 
 And she is deadly sick. 
 
 She has no bed to lie upon, 
 
 I saw them take her bed : — 
 And I have children — would to God 
 
 That they and I were dead ! 
 
 Our landlord he goes home to-night. 
 
 And he will sleep in peace — 
 T would that I were in my grave, 
 
 For there all troubles cease. 
 
 J 
 
JASPAR. 259 
 
 In vain I pray'd him to forbear, 
 
 Though wealth enough has he ! 
 God be to him as merciless 
 
 As he has been to me ! 
 
 When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul 
 
 On all his ills intent, 
 He plied him with the heartening cup, 
 
 And with him forth he went. 
 
 This landlord on his homeward road 
 
 'Twere easy now to meet. 
 The road is lonesome, Jonathan ! — 
 
 And vengeance, man ! is sweet. 
 
 He listen'd to the tempter's voice, 
 
 The thought it made him start. 
 His head was hot, and wretchedness 
 
 Had hardened now his heart. 
 
 Along the lonely road they went 
 
 And waited for their prey, • 
 They sat them down beside the stream 
 
 That crossed the lonely way. 
 
 They sat them down beside the stream, 
 
 And never a word they said, 
 They sat and listen'd silently 
 
 To hear the traveller's tread. 
 
 The night was calm, the night was dark. 
 
 No star was in the sky, 
 The wind it waved the willow boughs, 
 
 The stream flowed quietly. 
 
 The night was calm, the air was still, 
 
 Sweet sung the nightingale. 
 The soul of Jonathan was sooth'd. 
 
 His heart began to fail. 
 
 'Tis weary waiting here, he cried. 
 
 And now the hour is late, — 
 Methinks he will not come to-night, 
 
 'Tis useless more to wait. 
 
 s2 
 
260 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Have patience, man! the ruffian said, 
 
 A little we may wait, 
 But longer shall his wife expect 
 
 Her husband at the gate. 
 
 Then Jonathan grew sick at heart, 
 My conscience yet is clear, 
 
 Jaspar — it is not yet too late — 
 I will not linger here. 
 
 How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought 
 Thy conscience was asleep. 
 
 No more such qualms, the night is dark, 
 The river here is deep. 
 
 What matters that, said Jonathan, 
 Whose blood began to freeze, 
 
 Wlien there is one above whose eye 
 The deeds of darkness sees ? 
 
 We are safe enough, said Jaspar then. 
 
 If that be all thy fear ; 
 Kor eye below, nor eye above. 
 
 Can pierce the dai'kness here. 
 
 That instant as the murderer spake 
 There came a sudden light ; 
 
 Strong as the mid-day sun it shone, 
 Though all around was night. 
 
 It hung upon the willow-tree, 
 
 It hung upon the flood, 
 It gave to view the poplar isle 
 
 And all the scene of blood. 
 
 The traveller who journies there, 
 
 He surely has espied 
 A madman who has made his home 
 
 Upon the river's side. 
 
 His cheek is pale, his eye is wild, 
 His look bespeaks despair ; 
 
 For Jaspar since that hour has made 
 His home unshelter'd there. 
 
LORD WILLIAM. 261 
 
 And fearful are his dreams at night 
 
 And dread to him the day ; 
 He thinks upon his untold crime 
 
 And never dares to pray. 
 
 The summer suns, the winter storms, 
 
 O'er him unheeded roll, 
 Tor heavy is the weight of blood 
 
 Upon the maniac's souL 
 
 LORD WILLIAM. 
 
 No eye beheld when William plunged 
 Young Edmund in the stream, 
 
 No human ear but William's heard 
 Young Edmund's drowning scream. 
 
 Submissive all the vassals own'd 
 The murderer for their lord. 
 
 And he, the rightful heir, possessed 
 The house of Erlingford. 
 
 The ancient house of Erlingford 
 
 Stood in a fair domain, 
 And Severn's ample waters near 
 
 EoU'd through the fertile plain. 
 
 And often the way-faring man 
 Would love to linger thera 
 
 Forgetful of his onward road 
 To gaze on scenes so fair. 
 
 But never could Lord William dare 
 To gaze on Severn's stream ; 
 
 In every wind that swept its waves 
 He heard young Edmund scream. 
 
 In vain at midnight's silent hour 
 Sleep closed the murderer's eyes; 
 
 In every dream the murderer saw 
 Young Edmund's form arise. 
 
262 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES, 
 
 In vain by restless conscience driven 
 Lord William left his home, 
 
 Ear from the scenes that saw his guilt, 
 In pilgrimage to roam. 
 
 To other climes the pilgrim fled, 
 
 But could not fly despair ; 
 He sought his home again, but peace 
 
 Was still a stranger there. 
 
 Each hour was tedious long, yet swift 
 The months appear'd to roll ; 
 
 And now the day returned that shook 
 With terror William's soul. 
 
 A day that William never felt 
 
 Eeturn without dismay, 
 For well had conscience kalendered 
 
 Young Edmund's dying day. 
 
 A fearful day was that ! The rains 
 Fell fast with tempest roar, 
 
 And the swoln tide of Severn spread 
 Far on the level shore. 
 
 In vain Lord William sought the feast, 
 In vain he quaff' d the bowl, 
 
 And strove with noisy mirth to drown 
 The anguish of his soul. 
 
 The tempest as its sudden swell 
 
 In gusty howlings came. 
 With cold and death-like feelings seem'd 
 
 To thrill his shuddering frame. 
 
 Keluctant now, as night came on, 
 
 His lonely couch he prest. 
 And wearied out, he sunk to sleep. 
 
 To sleep, but not to rest. 
 
 Beside that couch his brother's form 
 Lord Edmund seem'd to stand, 
 
 Such and so pale as when in death 
 He grasp'd his brother's hand; 
 
LORD WILLIAM. 2G3 
 
 Sucli and so pale his face as when 
 
 With faint and faltering tongue, 
 To William's care, a dying charge 
 
 He left his orphan son. 
 
 " I bade thee with a father's love 
 
 My orphan Edmund guard 
 
 Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge! 
 
 Now take thy due reward." 
 
 He started up, each limb convuls'd 
 
 With agonizing fear, 
 He only heard the storm of night, — 
 
 'Twas music to his ear. 
 
 When, lo ! the voice of loud alarm 
 
 His inmost soul appals : 
 " What ho I Lord William, rise in haste ! 
 
 The water saps thy walls! 
 
 He rose in haste ; beneath the walls 
 
 He saw the flood appear. 
 It hemm'd him round. 'Twas midnight now, 
 
 No human aid was near. 
 
 He heard the shout of joy; for now 
 
 A boat approached the wall, 
 And eager to the welcome aid 
 
 They crowd for safety all. 
 
 " My boat is small," the boatman cried, 
 
 " 'Twill bear but one away: 
 Come in. Lord William, and do ye 
 
 In God's protection stay." 
 
 Strange feeling fill'd them at his vo-ce 
 
 Even in that hour of woe, 
 That, save their Lord, there was not one 
 
 Who wish'd with him to go. 
 
 But WiUiam leapt into the boat 
 
 His terror was so sore ; 
 Thou shalt have half my gold, he cried, 
 
 Haste, haste to yonder shore. 
 
264 - BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 The boatman plied the oar, the boat 
 Went light along the stream, 
 
 Sudden Lord William beard a cry 
 Like Edmund's drowning scream. 
 
 The boatman paus'd, methougbt I beard 
 
 A child's distressful cry ! 
 'Twas but the howling wind of night 
 
 Lord William made reply. 
 
 Haste, haste ! ply swift and strong the oar ! 
 
 Haste, haste across the stream ! 
 Again Lord William heard a cry 
 
 Like Edmund's drowning scream. 
 
 I heard a child's distressful scream 
 
 The boatman cried again. 
 Nay hasten on — the night is dark — 
 
 And we should search in vain. 
 
 Oh God I Lord William dost thou know 
 
 How dreadful 'tis to die 1 
 And canst thou without pity hear 
 
 A child's expiring cry I 
 
 How horrible it is to sink 
 
 Beneath the chilly stream, 
 To stretch the powerless arms in vain, 
 
 In vain for help to scream ? 
 
 The shriek again was heard : it came 
 More deep, more piercing loud; 
 
 That instant o'er the flood the moon 
 Shone through a broken cloud: 
 
 And near them they beheld a child, 
 
 Upon a crag he stood, 
 A little crag, and all around 
 
 Was spread the rising flood. 
 
 The boatman plied the oar, the boat 
 Approach'd his resting place, 
 
 The moon-beam shone upon the child 
 And show'd how pale his face. 
 
ST. Michael's chair. 265 
 
 Now reach thine hand ! the boatman cried, 
 
 Lord William reach and save ! 
 The child stretch'd forth his little hands 
 
 To grasp the hand he gave. 
 
 Then William shriek 'd ; the hand he touch 'd 
 
 Was cold and damp and dead ! 
 He felt young Edmund in his arms 
 
 A heavier weight than lead. 
 
 The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk 
 
 Beneath the avenging stream ; 
 He rose, he scream'd, no human ear 
 
 Heard William's drowning scream. 
 
 ST. MICHAEL'S CHAIR, 
 
 AND WHO SAT THERE. 
 
 Merrily, merrily rung the bells, 
 
 The bells of St. Michael's tower, 
 When Eichard Penlake and Eebecca his wife 
 
 Arrived at the church door. 
 
 Richard Penlake was a cheerful man, 
 
 Cheerful, and frank, and free, 
 But he led a sad life with Rebecca his wife, 
 
 For a terrible shrew was she. 
 
 Richard Penlake a scolding would take, 
 
 Till patience avail'd no longer. 
 Then Richard Penlake his crab-stick would take, 
 
 And show her that he was the stronger. 
 
 Rebecca his wife had often wish'd 
 
 To sit in St. Michael's chair ; 
 For she should be the mistress then, 
 
 li she had once sat there. 
 
266 BALLADS AXD METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 It chanced that Richard Penlake fell s ick, 
 They thought he would have died ; 
 
 Rebecca, his wife, made a vow -for his life, 
 As she knelt by his bed-side. 
 
 " Now hear my prayer, St. Michael ! and spare 
 
 My husband's life," quoth she ; 
 " And to thine altar we will go, 
 
 Six marks to give to thee." 
 
 Richard Penlake repeated the vow. 
 
 For woundily sick was he ; 
 " Save me, St. Michael, and we will go. 
 
 Six marks to give to thee." 
 
 "VVlien Richard grew well, Rebecca his wife 
 Teased him by night and by day: 
 
 " O mine own dear ! for you I fear, 
 If we the vow delay." 
 
 Merrily, merrily rung the bells, 
 The bells of St. Michael's tower, 
 
 When Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife 
 Arrived at the church door. 
 
 Six marks they on the altar laid. 
 
 And Richard knelt in prayer: 
 She left him to pray, and stole away 
 
 To sit in St. Michael's chair. 
 
 Up the tower Rebecca ran. 
 
 Round and roimd and round ; 
 'Twas a giddy sight to stand a-top. 
 
 And look upon the ground. 
 
 " A curse on the ringers for rocking 
 
 The tower!" R becca cried, 
 As over the church battlements 
 
 She strode with a long stride. 
 
 '' A blessing on St. Michael's chair !" 
 
 She said as she sat down : 
 Merrily, merrily, rung the bells, 
 
 And Rebecca was shook to the ground. 
 
THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM. 267 
 
 Tidings to Eichard Penlake were brought 
 
 That his good wife was dead: 
 " Now shall we toll for her poor soul 
 
 The great church bell?" they said. 
 
 '* Toll at her burying," quoth Richard Penlake, 
 
 "Toll at her burying," quoth he ; 
 " But don't disturb the ringers now, 
 
 In compliment to me." 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM. 
 
 The rage of Babylon is rous'd, 
 The king puts forth his strength ; 
 And Judah bends the bow, 
 And points her arrows for the coming war. 
 
 Her walls are firm, her gates are strong, 
 Her youth gird on the sword ; 
 High are her chiefs in hope, 
 Eor Egypt soon will send the promised aid. 
 
 But who is he whose voice of woe 
 Is heard amid the streets ? 
 Whose ominous voice proclaims 
 Her strength and arms and promised succours vain ? 
 
 His meagre cheek is pale and sunk, 
 Wild is his hollow eye, 
 Yet fearful its strong glance ; 
 And who could bear the anger of his frown ? 
 
 Prophet of God ! in vain thy lips 
 Proclaim the woe to come ! 
 In vain thy warning voice 
 Summoned her rulers timely to repent ! 
 
 The Ethiop changes not his skin. 
 Impious and idiot still, 
 The rulers spurn thy voice, 
 And now the measure of their crimes is full. 
 
BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 And now around Jerusalem 
 The countless foes appear; 
 Far as the eye can reach 
 Spreads the wide horror of the circling siege. 
 
 Why is the warrior's cheek so pale ? 
 Why droops the gallant youth 
 Who late so high of heart 
 Made sharp his javelin for the welcome war ? 
 
 'Tis not for terror that his eye 
 Swells with the struggling woe ; 
 Oh ! he could bear his ills, 
 Or rush to death, and in the grave have peace 
 
 His parents do not ask for food, 
 But they are weak with want ; 
 His wife has given her babes 
 Her wretched meal, — she utters no complain 
 
 The consummating hour is come ! 
 Alas for Solyma ! 
 How is she desolate, — 
 She that was great among the nations fallen ! 
 
 And thou — thou miserable king — 
 Where is thy trusted flock. 
 Thy flock so beautiful, 
 Thy father's throne, the temple of thy God ? 
 
 Repentance calls not back the past; 
 It will not wake again 
 Thy murdered sons to life. 
 Or bring back vision to thy blasted sight! 
 
 Thou wretched, childless, blind, old man — 
 Heavy thy punishment ! 
 Dreadful thy present woes — 
 Alas, more dreadful thy remember 'd guilt 1 
 
269 
 
 THE SPANISH AKMADA. 
 
 Clear shone the morn, the gale was fair, 
 When from Corunna's crowded port, 
 With many a cheerful shout and loud acclaim, 
 The huge Armada past. 
 
 To England's shores their streamers point, 
 To England's shores their sails are spread ; 
 They go to triumph o'er the sea-girt land, 
 And Kome has blest their arms. 
 
 Along the ocean's echoing verge, 
 Along the mountain range of rocks 
 The clustering multitudes behold their pomp 
 And raise the votive prayer. 
 
 Commingling with the ocean's roar 
 Ceaseless and hoarse their murmurs rise, 
 And soon they trust to see the winged bark 
 That bears good tidings home. 
 
 The watch-tower now in distance sinks, 
 And now Galicia's mountain rocks 
 Faint as the far-off clouds of evening lie, 
 And now they fade away. 
 
 Each like some moving citadel, 
 On through the waves they sail sublime ; 
 And now the Spaniards see the silvery cliffs, 
 Behold the sea-girt land ! 
 
 O fools! to think that ever foe 
 Should triumph o'er that sea-girt land! 
 O fools ! to think that ever Britain's sons 
 Should wear the stranger's yoke ! 
 
 For not in vain hath nature rear'd 
 Around her coast those silvery cliffs ; 
 ±'or not in vain old Ocean spreads his waves 
 To guard his lavourite isle ! 
 
 On come her gallant mariners ! 
 What now avail Eome's boasted charms ? 
 Where are the Spaniard's vaunts oi eager wrath ? 
 His hopes oi conquest now I 
 
270 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 And hark ' the angry winds arise, 
 Old Ocean heaves liis angry waves ; 
 The winds and waves against the invaders fight, 
 To guard the sea-gu^t land. 
 
 Howling around his palace towers 
 The Spanish despot hears the storm 
 He thinks upon his navies far away, 
 And boding doubts arise. 
 
 Long over Biscay's boisterous surge 
 The watchman's aching eye shall strain ! 
 Long shall he gaze, but never ^^inged bark 
 Shall bear good tidings home. 
 
 A BALLAD, SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN 
 EODE DOUBLE, AND WHO EODE BEFORE 
 HER. 
 
 FROM A STORY RELATED BY OLAUS MAGNUS. 
 
 The raven croak'd as she sat at her meal, 
 And the old woman knew what he said, 
 
 And she grew pale at the raven's tale. 
 And sicken'd and went to her bed. 
 
 Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed, 
 
 The old woman of Berkeley said. 
 The monk my son, and my daughter the nun. 
 
 Bid them hasten, or I shall be dead. 
 
 The monk her son, and her daughter the nun. 
 
 Their way to Berkeley went, 
 And they have brought with pious thought 
 
 The holy sacrament. 
 
 The old woman shriek'd as they entered her dooc. 
 
 'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear, 
 Now take the sacrament away 
 
 Eor mercy, my childi'en dear I 
 
A BALLAD, ETC. 271 
 
 Her lip it trembled with agony, 
 
 The sweat ran down her brow, 
 I have tortures in store for evermore. 
 
 Oh ! spare me my children now ! 
 
 Away they sent the sacrament, 
 
 The fit it left her weak, 
 She look'd at her children with ghastly eyc» 
 
 And faintly struggled to speak. 
 
 All kind of sin I have rioted in, 
 
 And the judgment now must be, 
 But I secured my children's souls, 
 
 Oh ! pray my children for me. 
 
 I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes. 
 
 The fiends have been my slaves, 
 I have nointed myself with infant's fat, 
 
 And feasted on rifled graves. 
 
 And the Devil will fetch me now in fire 
 
 My witchcrafts to atone, 
 And I who have rifled the dead man's grave 
 
 Shall never have rest in my own. 
 
 Bless I intreat my winding sheet, 
 
 My children I beg of you ! 
 And with holy water sprinkle my shroud. 
 
 And sprinkle my coliiu too. 
 
 And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone, 
 
 And fasten it strong I implore 
 With iron bars, and with three chains 
 
 Chaiu it to the church floor. 
 
 And bless the chains and sprinkle them, 
 
 And let fifty priests stand round, 
 "Who night and day the mass may say 
 
 Where I lie on the ground. 
 
 And see that fifty choristers 
 
 Beside the bier attend me, 
 And day and night by the taper's light 
 
 With holy hymns defend me. 
 
272 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Let the chiircli bells all both great and small 
 
 Be toll'd by night and day, 
 To drive from thence the fiends who come 
 
 To bear my body away. 
 
 And ever have the church door barr'd 
 
 After the even song, 
 And I beseech you, children dear, 
 
 Let the bars and bolts be strong. 
 
 And let this be three days and nights 
 
 My wretched corpse to save, 
 Keep me so long from the fiendish throng 
 
 And then I may rest in my grave. 
 
 The old woman of Berkeley laid her down, 
 
 And her eyes grew deadly dim, 
 Short came her breath and the struggle of death 
 
 Did loosen every limb 
 
 They blessed the old woman's winding sheet 
 
 With rites and prayers due, 
 With holy water they sprinkled her shroud 
 
 And they sprinkled her cofiin too. 
 
 And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone, 
 
 And with iron barr'd it down. 
 And in the church with three strong chains 
 
 They chain'd it to the ground. 
 
 Ajid they blest the chains and sprinkled them. 
 
 And fifty priests stood round. 
 By night and day the mass to say 
 
 W^here she lay on the ground. 
 
 And fifty sacred choristers 
 
 Beside the bier attend her, 
 Who day and night by the taper's light 
 
 Should with holy hymns defend her. 
 
 To see the priests and choristers 
 
 It was a goodly sight 
 Each holding, as it were a staff, 
 
 A taper bui-ning bright. 
 
A BALLAD, ETC. ~ 273 
 
 And the churcli bells all, both great and smalls 
 
 Did toll so loud and long, 
 And they have barr'd the church door hard. 
 
 After the even song. 
 
 And the first night the tapers' light 
 
 Burnt steadily and clear, 
 But they without a hideous rout 
 
 Of angry fiends could hear; 
 
 A hideous roar at the church door. 
 
 Like a long thunder peal. 
 And the priests they pray'd and the choristers sung 
 
 Louder in feai'ful zeal. 
 
 Loud toU'd the bell, the priests pray'd well. 
 
 The tapers they burnt bright. 
 The monk her son, and her daughter the nun. 
 
 They told their beads all night. 
 
 The cock he crew, away they flew. 
 
 The fiends from the herald of day. 
 And undisturb'd the choristers sing. 
 
 And the fifty priests they pray. 
 
 The second night the tapers' light 
 
 Burnt dismally and blue, 
 And every one saw his neighbour's face 
 
 Like a dead man's face to view. 
 
 And yells and cries without arise 
 
 That the stoutest heart might shock. 
 And a deafemng roar like a cataract pouring 
 
 Over a mountain rock. 
 
 The monk and nun they told their beads. 
 
 As fast as they could tell, 
 And aye as louder grew the noise 
 The faster went the bell. 
 
 Louder and louder the choristers sung 
 
 As they trembled more and more. 
 And the fifty priests pray'd to Heaven for aid^ — 
 
 They never had pray'd so belore. 
 
 T 
 
274 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 The cock he crew, away they flew 
 
 The fiends from the herald of day. 
 And undisturb'd the choristers smg, 
 
 And the fifty priests they pray. 
 
 The third night came, and the tapers' flame 
 
 A hideous stench did make, 
 And they burnt as though they had been dipt 
 
 In the burning brimstone lake. 
 
 And the loud commotion, like the rushing of oceanj 
 
 Grew momently more and more. 
 And strokes as of a battering ram 
 
 Did shake the strong church door? 
 
 The bellmen they for very fear 
 
 Could toll the bell no longer, 
 And still as louder grew the strokes 
 
 Their fear it grew the stronger. 
 
 The monk and nun forgot their beads. 
 
 They fell on the ground dismay' d. 
 There was not a smgle saint in heaven 
 
 Whom they did not call to aid. 
 
 And the choristers' song, that late was so strong. 
 
 Grew a quaver of consternation, 
 For the church did rock, as an earthquake shock 
 
 Uplifted its foundation. 
 
 And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast 
 That shall one day wake the dead, 
 
 The strong church door could bear no more, 
 And the bolts and the bars they fled. 
 
 And the tapers' light was extinguish' d quite. 
 
 And the choristers faintly sung. 
 And the priests dismay'd, panted and pray'd 
 
 Till fear froze every tongue. 
 
 And in he came with eyes of flame 
 
 The devil to fetch the dead. 
 And all the church with his presence glow'd 
 
 Like a fiery furnace red. 
 
THE surgeon's WARNING. 275 
 
 He laid "his hand on the iron chains, 
 
 And like flax they moulder'd asunder, 
 And the coffin lid that was harr'd so firm 
 
 He burst with his voice of thunder. 
 
 And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise 
 
 And come with her master away, 
 And tjx cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse. 
 
 At the voice she was forced to obey. 
 
 She rose on her feet in her winding sheet, 
 
 Her dead flesh quiver'd with fear, 
 And a groan like that which the old woman gave 
 
 Never did mortal hear. 
 
 She follow'd the fiend to the church door. 
 
 There stood a black horse there, 
 His breath was red like furnace smoke, 
 
 His eyes like a meteor's glare. 
 
 The fiend he flung her on the horse, 
 
 And he leapt up before. 
 And away like the lightning's speed they went, 
 
 And she was seen no more. 
 
 They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks 
 
 For four miles round they could hear. 
 And childi-en at rest at then' mother's breast, 
 
 Started and screamed with fear* 
 
 THE SURGEON'S WAENING. 
 
 The doctor whisper 'd to the nurse. 
 
 And the surgeon knew what he said. 
 And he grew pale at the doctor's tale. 
 
 And trembled in his sick bed. 
 
 Now fetch me my brethren, and fetch them with speed, 
 
 The surgeon affrighted said. 
 The parson and the undertaker. 
 
 Let them hasten, or I shall be dead. 
 
 T 2 
 
276 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 The parson and the undertaker 
 
 They hastily came complying. 
 And the surgeon's apprentices ran up stairs 
 
 When they heard that their master was dyings 
 
 The 'prentices all they enter'd the room, 
 
 By one, by two, by three, 
 With a sly grin came Joseph in, 
 
 First of the company. 
 
 The surgeon swore, as they enter'd his door,— 
 'Twas fearful his oaths to hear, — 
 
 Now send these scoundrels to the de\dl, 
 For God's sake, my brethren dear. 
 
 He foam'd at the mouth with the rage he felt. 
 And he wrinkled his black eyebrow, 
 
 That rascal Joe would be at me, I know. 
 But, zounds, let him spare me now. 
 
 Then out they sent the 'prentices, 
 
 The fit it left him weak ; 
 He look'd at his brothers A\4th ghastly eyes. 
 
 And faintly struggled to speak. 
 
 All kinds of carcasses I have cut up. 
 And the judgment now must be I 
 
 But, brothers, I took care of you. 
 So pray take care of me ! 
 
 I have made candles of infants' fat. 
 The sextons have been my slaves, 
 
 I have bottled babes unborn, and dried 
 Hearts and livers from rilled graves. 
 
 And my 'prentices will sm-ely come. 
 
 And carve me bone from bone. 
 And I, who have rifled the dead man's grave, 
 
 Shall never rest in my own. 
 
 Bury me in lead when I am dead. 
 
 My bretlu^en, I entreat. 
 And see the coffin weigh' d, I beg. 
 
 Lest the plumber should be a cheat. 
 
THE surgeon's WARNING. 277 
 
 And let it be solder'd closely down, 
 
 Strong as strong Ccan be, I implore. 
 And put it in a patent coffin, 
 
 That I may rise no more. 
 
 If they carry me off in the patent coffin, 
 
 Their labom- wiU be in vain. 
 Let the undertaker see it bought of the maker. 
 
 Who lives in St. Martin's lane. 
 
 And bury me in my brother's church. 
 
 For that will sal'er be, 
 And, I implore, lock the church door. 
 
 And pray take care of the key. 
 
 And aU night long let three stout men. 
 
 The vestry watch within. 
 To each man give a gaUon of beer 
 
 And a keg of Holland's gin; 
 
 Powder, and ball, and blunderbuss. 
 
 To save me if he can. 
 And eke five guineas if he shoot 
 
 A resun-ection man. 
 
 And let them watch me for three weeks. 
 
 My wretched corpse to save, 
 For then I think that I may stinit 
 
 Enough to rest in my grave. 
 
 The surgeon laid him down in his bed, 
 
 His eyes grew deadly dim. 
 Short came his breath, and the struggle of death 
 
 Distorted every Hmb. 
 
 They put him in lead when he was dead, 
 
 Ajid shrouded up so neat. 
 And they the leaden coffin weigh, 
 
 Lest the plumber should be a cheat. 
 
 They had it solder'd closely down, 
 
 Ajid examined it o'er and o'er. 
 And they put it in a patent coffin, 
 
 That he mii^ht rise no more. 
 
278 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 For to carry tim off in a patent coffin 
 
 Would, they thought, be but laboiu' in vain. 
 
 So the undertaker saw it bought of the maker 
 Who lives by St. Martin's lane. 
 
 In his brother's church they buried him. 
 
 That ?afer he might be. 
 They lock'd the door, and would not trust 
 
 The sexton with the key. 
 
 And three men in the vestry watch. 
 
 To save him if they can, 
 And should he come there to shoot they swear 
 
 A resurrection man. 
 
 And the first night, by lantern light, 
 Through the churchyard as they went, 
 
 A guinea of gold the sexton showed 
 That Mr. Joseph sent. 
 
 But conscience was tough, it was not enough. 
 
 And their honesty never swerved. 
 And they bade him go, with Mister Joe, 
 
 To the devil as he deserved. 
 
 So aU night long, by the vestry fire. 
 
 They quaff'd their gin and ale, 
 And they did drink, as you may thinly. 
 
 And told full many a tale. 
 
 The second night, by lantern light. 
 Through the churchyard as they went, 
 
 He whisper'd anew, and show'd them two 
 That Mister Joseph sent. 
 
 The guineas were bright, and attracted their sight, 
 
 They look'd so heavy and new. 
 And their fingers itch'd as they were bewitch'd, 
 
 And they knew not what to do. 
 
 But they waver'd not long, for conscience was strong. 
 And they thought they might get more; 
 
 And they refused the gold, but not 
 So rudely as before. 
 
THE surgeon's WARNING. 279 
 
 So all night long, by the vestry fire, 
 
 They quaff 'd their gin and ale, 
 And they did drink, as you may think. 
 
 And told full many a tale. 
 
 The third night, as by lantern light 
 Through the churchyard as they went, 
 
 He bade them see, and show'd them tlii*ee 
 That Mister Joseph sent. 
 
 They look'd askance with greedy glance. 
 
 The guineas they shone bright, 
 For the sexton on the yellow gold 
 
 Let fall his lantern light. 
 
 And he look'd sly, with his roguish eye. 
 
 And gave a well-timed wink, 
 And they could not stand the sound in his hand. 
 
 For he made the guineas chinli. 
 
 And conscience late, that had such weight, 
 
 All in a moment fails. 
 For well they knew, that it was true 
 
 A dead man told no tales. 
 
 And they gave aU their powder and ball, 
 
 And took the gold so bright, 
 And they drank their beer and made good cheer 
 
 Till now it was midnight. 
 
 Then, though the key of the church door 
 
 Was left with the parson his brother. 
 It opened at the sexton's touch, — 
 
 Because he had another. 
 
 And in they go with that villain Joe, 
 
 To fetch the body by night. 
 And all the church look'd dismally. 
 
 By his dark-lantem Hght. 
 
 They laid the pick-axe to the stones. 
 
 And they moved them soon asunder. 
 They shovell'd away the hard-prest clay, 
 
 Ajad came to the coffin mider. 
 
280 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 They burst the patent coffin first, 
 
 Audi they cut through the lead, 
 And they laugh'd aloud when they saw the shroud 
 
 Because they had got at the dead. 
 
 And they allow'd the sexton the shroud, 
 
 And they put the coffin back, 
 And nose and knees they then did squeeze 
 
 The surgeon m a sack. 
 
 The watchmen as they past along 
 
 Full four yards off could smell, 
 And a curse bestow'd upon the load 
 
 So disagreeable. 
 
 So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back, 
 And they carved him bone from bone; 
 
 But what became of the sm^geon's soul 
 Was never to mortal known. 
 
 MAEY THE MAID OF THE INIT. 
 
 I. 
 
 Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly-fiji'd eyee 
 
 Seem a heart overcharged to express ? 
 She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs : 
 She never complains — but her silence implies 
 
 The composure of settled distress. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ko aid, no compassion the maniac uill seek; 
 
 Cold and hunger awake not her care ; 
 Through her rags do the wmds of the winter blow bleak 
 On her poor \vither'd bosom half bare, and her cheek 
 
 Has the deathy pale hue of despair. 
 
 III. 
 Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day. 
 
 Poor Mary the maniac has been. 
 The traveller remembers who journeyed this way 
 No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay. 
 
 As Mai-y the maid of the inn. 
 
MAKY THE MAID OP THE INIT. 281 
 
 IV. 
 
 Her cheerful address filled her guests with delight 
 
 As she welcomed them in with a smile ; 
 Her heart was a stranger to childish aiii'ight. 
 And Mary would walk by the abbey at night 
 
 When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. 
 
 V. 
 
 She loved; and young Eichard had settled the day, 
 
 And she hoped to be happy for life : 
 But Eichard was idle and worthless, and they 
 Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say 
 
 That she was too good for his wife. 
 
 VI. 
 
 'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night. 
 
 And fast were the windows and door; 
 Two guests sat enjoying the fii-e that burnt bright. 
 And smoking in silence with tranquil dehght 
 
 They listened to hear the wind roar. 
 
 VII. 
 
 *' 'Tis pleasant," cried one, " seated by the fire-side. 
 
 To hear the wind whistle without." 
 *' A fine night for the abbey !" his comrade replied; 
 ** Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried 
 
 Who should wander the ruins about. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear 
 
 The hoarse ivy shake over my head; 
 And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear. 
 Some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear, — 
 
 For this wind might awaken the dead I" 
 
 IX. 
 
 " I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, 
 " That Mary would venture there now." 
 
 " Then wager and lose !" with a sneer he replied; 
 
 " I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side. 
 And faint if she saw a white cow." 
 
282 BALLADS AND METEICAL PIECES. 
 
 X. 
 
 * Will Mary this charge on lier courage allow ?** 
 
 His companion exclaimed with a smile; 
 ** I shall win, — for I know she will venture there now. 
 And earn a new honnet by bringing a bough 
 From the elder that grows in the aisle." 
 
 XI. 
 
 With fearless good humour did Mary comply, 
 
 And her way to the abbey she bent ; 
 The night it was dark, and the wind it was hi gh. 
 And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky 
 
 She shivered with cold as she went, 
 
 XII. 
 
 O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid 
 Where the abbey rose dim on the sight; 
 
 Through the gateway she entered, she felt not afraid; 
 
 Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade 
 Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 AU around her was silent, save when the rude blast 
 
 Howled dismally round the old pile; 
 Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she past. 
 And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, 
 
 Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Well-pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew neaar 
 
 And hastily gathered the bough; 
 When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear : 
 She paused, and she listened, all eager to hear. 
 
 And her heart panted fearfully now. 
 
 The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head. 
 
 She listened, — nought else could she hear. 
 The wind ceased; her heart svmk inker bosom with dread, 
 For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread 
 Of footsteps approaching her near. 
 
MAEY THE MAID OF THE INK. 283 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, 
 
 She crept to conceal herself there : 
 That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear. 
 And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear. 
 
 And between them a corpse did they bear. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold ! 
 
 Again the rough wind hurried by, — 
 It blew off the hat of the one, and behold. 
 Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled- 
 She felt, and expected to die. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " Curse the hat !" he exclaims ; " nay, come on here, and hide 
 
 The dead body," his comrade repHes. 
 She beholds them in safety pass on by her side- 
 She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied. 
 
 And fast through the abbey she flies. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door. 
 
 She gazed horribly eager around. 
 Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more. 
 And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor. 
 
 Unable to utter a sound. 
 
 Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart. 
 
 For a moment the hat met her view; — 
 Her eyes from that object convulsively start, [heart 
 
 For — O God ! what cold horror then thrilled through her 
 
 When the name of her Richard she knew ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Where the old abbey stands on the common hard by. 
 
 His gibbet is now to be seen; 
 His irons you still from the road may espy. 
 The traveller beholds them, and thinks with a sigh. 
 
 Of poor Mary the maid of the um. 
 
284 
 
 DONICA. 
 
 In Finland there is a castle which is called the New Eock, moated 
 about with a river of unsounded depth, the water black, and the fish 
 therein very distasteful to the palate. In this are spectres often seen, 
 which foreshow either the death of the governor, or some prime officer 
 belonging to the place ; and most commonly it appeareth in the shape 
 of a harper, sweetly singing and dallying and playing under the water. 
 
 It is reported of one Donica, that after she was dead, the Devil walked 
 in her body for the space of two years, so that none suspected but she 
 was still alive ; for she did both speak and eat, though very sparingly ; 
 only she had a deep paleness on her countenance, which was the only 
 sign of death. At length a magician coming by where she was then in 
 the company of many other virgins, as soon as he beheld her he said, 
 " Fair maids, why keep you company with this dead virgin, whom you 
 suppose to be ahve ?" when taking away the magic charm wliich was 
 tied under her arm, the body fell down lifeless and without motion. 
 
 The following ballad is founded on these stories. They are to be found 
 in the notes to The Hierarchies of the blessed Angels ; a pcem by Thomas 
 Heywood, 1635. 
 
 High on a rock whose castled shade 
 
 Darkened the lake below, 
 In ancient strength majestic stood 
 
 The towers of Arlinkow. 
 
 The fisher in the lake below 
 
 Durst never cast his net, 
 Nor ever swallow in its waves 
 
 Her passing wings would wet. 
 
 The cattle from its ominous banks 
 
 In wild alarm would run. 
 Though parched with thirst, and faint beneath 
 
 The summer's scorching sun. 
 
 For sometimes when no passing breeze 
 
 The long lank sedges waved, 
 All white with foam, and heavmg high 
 
 Its deafening billows raved; 
 
 All when the tempest from its base 
 
 The rooted pine would shake, 
 The powerless storm unruffled swept 
 
 Across the calm dead lake. 
 
DONICA. 285 
 
 And ever then when death drew near 
 
 The house of Aiiinkow, 
 Its dark -anlathomed depths did send 
 
 Strange music from below. 
 
 The Lord of Arlmkow was old 
 
 One only child had he, 
 Donica was the maiden's name. 
 
 As fair as fair might be. 
 
 A bloom as bright as opening mom 
 
 Flushed o'er her clear white cheek; 
 The music of her voice was mild. 
 
 Her full dark eyes were meek. 
 
 Far was her beauty kno^^m, for none 
 
 So fan- could Finland boast; 
 Her parents loved the maiden much, 
 
 Yomig Eberhard loved her most. 
 
 Together did they hope to tread 
 
 The pleasant path of life, 
 For now the day drew near to make 
 
 Donica Eberhard's wife. 
 
 The eve was fair and mild the airs 
 
 Along the lake they stray; 
 The eastern hill reflected bright 
 
 The fading tints of day. 
 
 And brightly o'er the water streamed 
 
 The liquid radiance wide; 
 Bonica's little dog ran on 
 
 And gamboled at her side. 
 
 Youth, Health, and Love bloomed on her cheek, 
 
 Her full dark eyes express 
 In many a glance to Eberhard 
 
 Her soul's meek tenderness. 
 
 Nor sound was heard, nor passing gale 
 Sighed through the long lank sedgej 
 
 The au* was hushed ; no little wave 
 Dimpled the water's edge. 
 
286 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Sudden the imfathomed lake sent forth 
 Strange music from beneatli, 
 
 And slowly o'er the waters sailed 
 The solemn sounds of death. 
 
 As the deep sounds of death arose, 
 
 Donica's cheek grew pale, 
 And in the anus of Eberhard 
 
 The senseless maiden fell. 
 
 Loudly the youth in terror shrieked. 
 
 And loud he called for aid, 
 And with a wild and eager look 
 
 Gazed on the death-pale maid. 
 
 But soon again did better thoughts 
 
 In Eberhard arise, 
 And he wdth ti-embling hope beheld 
 
 The maiden raise her eyes. 
 
 And on his arm reclined she moved 
 
 With feeble pace and slow. 
 And soon vrith. strength recovered reached 
 
 The towers of Arlmkow. 
 
 Yet never to Donica's cheek 
 
 Eetumed the lively hue; 
 Her cheeks were deathy w^ldte, and wan. 
 
 Her lips a Hvid blue. 
 
 Her eyes so bright and black of yore, 
 Were now more black and bright, 
 
 And beamed strange lustre in her face 
 So deadly wan and w^hite^ 
 
 The dog that gamboled by her side. 
 And loved with her to stray, 
 
 Now at his altered mistress howled. 
 And fled in fear away. 
 
 Yet did the faithful Eberhard 
 
 Not love the maid the less; 
 He gazed with sorrow, but he gazed 
 
 With deeper tenderness. 
 
RUDIGER. 287 
 
 And when lie found her health unharmed 
 
 He would not brook delay, 
 But pressed the not unwilling maid 
 
 To fix the bridal day. 
 
 And when at length it came, with joy 
 
 They hailed the bridal day, 
 And onward to the house of God 
 
 They went their willing way. 
 
 And as they at the altar stood 
 
 And heard the sacred rite, 
 The hallowed tapers dimly streamed 
 
 A pale sulphureous hght. 
 
 And as the youth with holy warmth 
 
 Her hand in his did hold, 
 Sudden he felt Donica's hand 
 
 Grow deadly damp and cold. 
 
 And loudly did he shriek, for lo ! 
 
 A spu'it met his view, 
 And Eberhard in the angel form 
 
 His owTi Donica knew. 
 
 That instant from her earthly fi'ame 
 
 Howling the demon fled. 
 And at the side of Eberhard 
 
 The Hving form fell dead. 
 
 EUDIGEE. 
 
 Divers princes and noblemen being assembled in a beautiful and fair 
 palace, which was situate upon the river Rhine, they beheld a boat or 
 small barge make toward the sliore, drawn by a swan in a silver 
 chain, the one end fastened about her neck, the other to the vessel ; 
 and in it an unknown soldier, a man of a comely personage and graceful 
 presence, who stept upon the shore ; which done, the boat guided by 
 the swan left him, and floated down the river. This man fell after- 
 wards in league with a fiiir gentlewoman, married her, and by her had 
 many children. After some years the same swan came with the same 
 barge unto the same place; the soldier entering into it was carried 
 thence the way he came, left wife, children and family, and was never 
 Been amongst them after. 
 
 Bright on the mountain's heathy slope 
 
 The day's last splendours shine. 
 And rich Avith many a radiant hue. 
 
 Gleam gaily on the Ehine. 
 
288 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 And many a one fi'om Waldhurst's walls 
 
 Along- the river strolled, 
 As ruffling o'er the pleasant stream 
 
 The evening gales came cold. 
 
 So as they strayed, a swan they saw 
 Sail stately up and strong, 
 
 And hy a silver chain she drew 
 A Httle boat along; 
 
 Whose streamer to the gentle breeze 
 Long floating fluttered hght, 
 
 Beneath whose crimson canopy 
 There lay rechned a knight. 
 
 With arching crest and swelling breast 
 On sailed the stately swan, 
 
 And hghtly up the parting tide 
 The Httle boat came on. 
 
 And onward to the shore they drew. 
 And leapt to land the knight. 
 
 And down the stream the httle boat 
 Fell soon beyond the sight. 
 
 Was never a knight in Waldhurst's walls 
 Could with this stranger vie, 
 
 Was never youth at aught esteemed 
 When Eudiger was by. 
 
 Was never a maid in Waldhurst's walls 
 Might match wdth Margaret, 
 
 Her cheek was fair, her eyes were dark. 
 Her silken locks Hke jet. 
 
 And many a rich and noble youth 
 Had strove to win the fan-; 
 
 But never a rich and noble youth 
 Could rival Eudiger. 
 
 At every tilt and tomniey he 
 
 Still bore away the prize. 
 For knightly feats superior still. 
 
 And knightly courtesies. 
 
RUDIGER. 289 
 
 His gallant feats, his looks, his love. 
 
 Soon won the willing lair; 
 And soon did Margaret become 
 
 The wife of Rudiger. 
 
 Like morning dreams of happiness 
 
 Fast rolled the months away; 
 For he was kmd, and she was kind. 
 And who so blest as they ? 
 
 Yet Eudiger wonld sometimes sit 
 
 Absorbed in silent thought. 
 And his dark downward eye would seem 
 
 With anxious meaning fraught. 
 
 But soon he raised his looks again 
 
 And smiled his cares away; 
 And, mid the hall of gaiety 
 
 Was none hke him so gay. 
 
 And onward rolled the waning months. 
 
 The hour appointed came. 
 And Margaret her Rudiger 
 
 Hailed with a father's name. 
 
 But silently did Rudiger 
 
 The little infant see ; 
 And darkly on the babe he gazed.—' 
 
 A gloomy man was he. 
 
 And when to bless the little babe 
 
 The holy father came. 
 To cleanse the stains of sin away 
 
 In Christ's redeeming name. 
 
 Then did the cheek of Rudiger 
 
 Assume a death-pale hue, 
 And on his clammy forehead stood 
 
 The cold convidsive dew; 
 
 And faltering in his speech, he bade 
 
 The priest the rites delay, 
 Till he could, to right health restored. 
 
 Enjoy the festive day. 
 
290 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 When o'er the many-tinted sky 
 
 He saw the day decline, 
 He called upon his Margaret 
 
 To walk beside the Ehine. — 
 
 " And we will take the little babe. 
 For soft the breeze that blows, 
 
 And the mild murmurs of the stream 
 Will lull him to repose." 
 
 And so together forth they went. 
 The evening breeze was mild. 
 
 And Rudiger upon his arm 
 Pillowed the little child. 
 
 And many a one from Waldhm'st's walls 
 Along the banks did roam; 
 
 But soon the evening wind came cold. 
 And all betook them home. 
 
 Yet Eudiger, in silent mood 
 Along the banks would roam, 
 
 Nor aught could Margaret prevail 
 To tm-n his footsteps home. 
 
 " Oh turn thee, turn thee, Rudiger, 
 
 The rising mists behold, 
 The evening wind is damp and chill. 
 
 The little babe is cold!" 
 
 " Now hush thee, hush thee, Margai'et^ 
 The mists will do no harm. 
 
 And from the wind the little babe 
 Lies sheltered on my arm." 
 
 ** Oh, turn thee, turn thee, Rudiger, 
 Wliy onward wilt thou roam ? 
 
 The moon is up, the night is cold. 
 And we are far from home." 
 
 He answered not; for now he saw 
 A swan come sailing strong. 
 
 And by a silver chain she drew 
 A Uttle boat along. 
 
EUDIGER. 291 
 
 To shore they came, and to the boat 
 
 Fast leapt he with the child, 
 Aiid in leapt Margaret — breathless now, 
 
 And pale with fear, and wild. 
 
 With arching crest and swelling breast 
 
 On sailed the stately swan, 
 And lightly down the rapid tide 
 
 The little boat went on. 
 
 The full orb'd-moon, that beamed around 
 
 Pale splendour through the night, 
 Cast through the crimson canopy 
 
 A dim, discoloured light. 
 
 And swiftly down the hurrying stream 
 
 In silence still they sail, 
 And the long streamer fluttering fast, 
 
 Flapped to the heavy gale, — 
 
 And he was mute in sullen thought. 
 
 And she was mute with fear, 
 Kor sound but of the parting tide 
 
 Broke on the listening ear. 
 
 The little babe began to cry. 
 
 Then Margaret raised her head. 
 And with a quick and hollow voice, 
 
 " Give me the child," she said. 
 
 ** Now hush thee, hush thee, Margaret, 
 
 Nor my poor heart distress — 
 I do but pay perforce the price 
 
 Of former happiness; 
 
 And hush thee, too, my little babe ! 
 
 Thy cries so feeble cease ! 
 Lie still, lie still; — a little while 
 
 And thou shalt be at peace." 
 
 So as he spake to land they drew. 
 
 And swift he stept on shore, 
 And him behind did Margai'et 
 
 Close follow evermore. 
 
 V 2 
 
292 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 It was a place all desolate, 
 Nor house nor tree was there, 
 
 And there a rocky mountam rose, 
 Barren, and bleak, and bare. 
 
 And at its base a cavern yawned, 
 No eye its depth might view, 
 
 For in the moonbeam shining round 
 That darkness darker grew. 
 
 Cold horror crept through Margaret's blood. 
 Her heart it paused with fear, 
 
 When Eudiger approached the cave. 
 And cried, " Lo, I am here !" 
 
 A deep sepulchral sound the cave 
 
 Eeturned, " Lo, I am here !" 
 And black from out the cavern gloom 
 
 Two giant arms appear. 
 
 And Eudiger approached and held 
 
 The little infant nigh ; 
 Then Margaret shrieked, and gathered then 
 
 New powers from agony. 
 
 And round the baby fast and close 
 Her trembling arms she folds, 
 
 And with a strong convulsive grasp 
 The little infant holds. 
 
 **Now help me, Jesus !" loud she cries. 
 
 And loud on God she calls; 
 Then from the grasp of Eudiger 
 
 The Httle infant falls. 
 
 And loud he shrieked, for now his frame 
 The huge 1)1 ack arms clasped round, 
 
 And dragged the wi-etched Eudiger 
 Adown the dark profound. 
 
293 
 THE SPIEIT. 
 
 FOUNDED ON FACT. 
 
 " Now wliicli is the road across the common. 
 
 Good woman ! in pity declare; 
 No path can I trace, for the night is dark. 
 And I fear me, before the far turnpike I mark. 
 
 Some grim-visaged ghost will appear." 
 
 " The ghost never wallvs till the clock strikes twelve. 
 
 And this is the fii'st of the night," 
 Cried the woman. " Now, why dost thon look at me so ? 
 And why do thine eyes so fearfully glow ? 
 
 Good stranger, forbear thy aifright. 
 
 " I tell thee that across the common, 
 
 This cart-track thy horse must pursue. 
 Till close by thy feet two gibbets thou meet, 
 Where the rains and the tempests the highwayman beat, 
 
 That a traveller once mm-der'd like you." 
 
 The horseman replied, " I have no terror 
 
 Of men who in midnight plan; 
 But a ghost that pops on one before or behind. 
 And around him sees clearly while mortals are bluid, — 
 
 Ay, that tries the heart of the man. 
 
 " Is there no road but by those gibbets ?'* 
 
 " No road," the woman replied. 
 " But though with the wind each murderer swings 
 They both of them are harmless things, 
 
 And so are the ravens beside." 
 
 " What ! are there ravens there ? — those creatures 
 
 That are so black and blue ! 
 But, are they ravens ? I inquire, 
 For I have heard by the winter's fire. 
 
 That phantoms the dead pursue." 
 
 The woman replied, " They are night-ravens 
 
 That pick the dead men's ej^es; 
 'And they cry qua, with their hollow jaw; 
 Methinks I one this moment saw ! 
 
 To the banquet at hand he flies. 
 
294 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 " Now fare thee well !" The traveller silent. 
 
 Whilst terror consumed his soul, 
 Went musing on. The night was still. 
 And every star had drunk his fill 
 At the brim of oblivion's bowl. 
 
 And now he near to the gibbets approach'd ! 
 
 The black men waved in the air; 
 He raised his head, and cast a glance. 
 Yet heeded them not, though they seem'd to dance. 
 
 For he determined not to fear. 
 
 Wherefore, he cried, should men incline 
 
 To fear where no danger is found ! 
 He scarce had said, when in the dark night. 
 Beside him appear'd a spirit in white ! 
 
 He trembled, and could not look round. 
 
 He gallop' d away ! the spirit pursued ! 
 
 And the murderer's irons they screak ! 
 The gibbets are past, and now fast and more fast. 
 The horseman and spirit outstrip the loud blast. 
 
 Though neither have corn-age to speak. 
 
 Now both on the verge of the common arrive, 
 
 Where a gate the free passage denied: 
 The horseman his arm outstretch'd to expand 
 The gate to admit him, when cold o'er his hand. 
 The mouth of the spu'it did glide. 
 
 He started ! and swift through the still darker lane 
 
 Gallop'd fast from the being he fear'd: 
 But yet, as the shadow the substance pursues. 
 The sphit behind, by a side-glance he views. 
 And more luminous now it appear'd ! 
 
 The turnpike he reach'd; " Oh, tell me," he cried, 
 
 " I can neither look round nor go on; 
 Wliat spu-it is this which has followed me here 
 From the common ? Good master, I di'eadfuUy fear; 
 Speak ! speak ! or my sense will be gone I 
 
KING HENRY V. AND THE HERMIT OF DREUX. 295 
 
 " Ah, Jenny !" he cried, " thou crafty old jade I 
 
 Is it thee ? I'll beat thy bones bare. 
 Good gentleman, fear not; no spu'it is nigh, 
 Wliich has follow'd you here from the coma' on hard by, 
 
 'Tis only old Gaffer's grey mare !" 
 
 Kma HEXRY V. AND THE HERMIT OF DREUX. 
 
 While Henry V.lay at the siege of Dreux, an honest hermit unknown 
 to him, came and told him the great evils he brought on Christendom by 
 his unjust ambition, who usurped the kingdom of France, against all 
 manner of right, and contrary to the will of God ; wherefore in his holy 
 name he threatened him with a severe and sudden punishment, if he 
 desisted not from his enterprise. Henry took tliis exhortation either as 
 an idle whimsy, or a suggestion of the Dauphin's, and was but the more 
 confirmed in his design. But the blow soon followed the threatening ; 
 for within some few months after, he was smitten with a strange and 
 incurable disease. — Mezeray. 
 
 He past unquestioned through the camp. 
 
 Their heads the soldiers bent 
 In silent reverence, or begg'd 
 
 A blessing as he went; 
 And so the hermit past along, 
 
 And reach'd the royal tent. 
 
 King Henry sate in his tent alone, 
 
 The map before him lay, 
 Fresh conquests he was plannmg there 
 
 To grace the future day. 
 
 King Henry lifted up his eyes 
 
 The intruder to behold. 
 With reverence he the hermit saw. 
 
 For he was very old; 
 His look was gentle as a saint's. 
 
 And yet his eye was bold. 
 
 Repent thee, Henry, of the wrongs 
 
 That thou hast done this land; 
 O King, repent in time, for know 
 
 The judgment is at hand. 
 
296 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 I have past forty years of peace 
 Beside the river Blaise, 
 
 But what a weight of woe hast thou 
 Laid on my latter daj'S. 
 
 I used to see along the stream, 
 The white sail sailing down. 
 
 That wafted food in better times 
 To yonder peaceful town. 
 
 Henry ! I never now behold 
 The white sail sailing down; 
 
 Famine, disease, and death, and thou. 
 Destroy that wretched town. 
 
 I used to hear the traveller's voice. 
 
 As here he past along; 
 Or maiden, as she loiter'd home. 
 
 Singing her even song. 
 
 I never hear the traveller's voice. 
 
 In fear he hastens by; 
 But I have heard the village maid 
 
 In vain for succour cry. 
 
 I used to see the youths row here. 
 And watch the dripping oar. 
 
 As pleasantly their viols' tones 
 Came softened to the shore. 
 
 King Henry, many a blacken'd corpse 
 I now see floating doAvn ! 
 
 Thou bloody man ! repent in time. 
 And leave this leaguer'd town. 
 
 I shall go on, King Henry cried. 
 And conquer this good land: 
 
 Seest thou not, hermit, that the Lord 
 Has given it to my hand ? 
 
 The hermit heard King Henry speak; 
 
 And angrily look'd down; 
 His face was gentle, and for that 
 
 More solemn was his frown. 
 
OLD CHRISTOVAL's ADVICE. 297 
 
 Wliat, if no mii'acle from heaven 
 
 The mui'derer's arm control, 
 Think you for that the weight of blood 
 
 Lies lighter on his soul ? 
 
 Thou conqueror King, repent in time. 
 
 Or di'ead the coming woe; 
 For, Henry, thou hast heard the threat, 
 
 And soon shalt feel the blow. 
 
 King Henry forced a careless smUe, 
 
 As the hermit went his way; 
 But Henry soon remembered him, 
 
 Upon his dying day. 
 
 OLD CHRISTOVAL'S ADVICE, 
 
 AND THE EEASON WHY HE GAVE IT. 
 
 If thy debtor be poor, old Christoval cried, 
 
 Exact not too hardly thy due, 
 For he who preserves a poor man from want 
 
 May preserve him fi'om wickedness too. 
 
 If thy neighbour should sin, old Christoval cried, 
 
 Never, never unmerciful be ! 
 For remember, it is by the mercy of God, 
 
 That thou art not as wicked as he. 
 
 At sixty and seven the hope of heaven 
 Is my comfort, old Christoval cried. 
 
 But if God had cut me off in my youth, 
 I might not have gone there when I died. 
 
 You shall have the fai*m, young Christoval, 
 
 My good master Hem-ique said. 
 But a surety provide, in whom I can confide, 
 
 That duly the rent shall be paid. 
 
298 BALLADS AND METKICAL PIECES. 
 
 I was poor, and I liad not a friend on earth. 
 
 And I knew not what to say; 
 We stood by the porch of St. Andres' chm-ch, 
 
 And it was on St. Isidro's day. 
 
 Accept for my surety St. Isidi'o, 
 
 I ventured to make reply; 
 The saint in heaven may perhaps be my friend. 
 
 But friendless on eai'th am I. 
 
 We entered the church and came to his grave, 
 
 And I fell on my bended knee; 
 I am friendless, holy St. Isidi'O, 
 
 And I venture to call upon thee, 
 
 I call upon thee my surety to be, 
 
 Thou knowest my honest intent. 
 And if ever I break my pKghted word 
 
 Let thy vengeance make me repent I 
 
 I was idle; the day of payment came on. 
 And I had not the money in store, 
 
 I fear'd the -wrath, of St. Isidi'O, 
 But I fear'd Heniique more. 
 
 On a dark, dark night I took my flight. 
 
 And hastily fled away, 
 It chanced by St. Andres' church 
 
 The road I had chosen lay. 
 
 As I pass'd the door I thought what I had swore 
 
 Upon St. Isidi'o's day, 
 And I seem'd to fear because he was near, 
 
 And faster I hasten'd away. 
 
 So aU night long I hun-ied on. 
 
 Pacing fuU many a mile, 
 I knew not his avenguig hand 
 
 Was on me all the while. 
 
 Weary I was, and safe I thought; 
 
 But when it was daylight 
 I had, I found, been running round 
 
 And round the church aU night. 
 
KING CHARLEMAGNE. 299 
 
 I shook like a palsy and fell on my knees, 
 
 And for pardon devoutly I pray'd: 
 When my master came up — What ! Christoval, 
 
 You are here betimes, he said. 
 
 I have heen idle, good master ! I cried, 
 
 Good master, and I have been wrong; 
 And I have been running round the chui-ch 
 
 In penance all night long. 
 
 If thou hast been idle, Henrique said, 
 
 Go home and thy favilt amend; 
 I wiU not oppress thee, Christoval, 
 
 May the Saint thy labour befriend. 
 
 Homeward I went a penitent. 
 
 And I never was idle more; 
 St. Isidro blest my industry 
 
 As he punish' d my fault before. 
 
 When my debtor was poor, old Christoval said, 
 
 I have never exacted my due, 
 I remembered Henrique was good to me. 
 
 And copied his goodness too. 
 
 When my neighbour has sinn'd, old Christoval said, 
 
 I have ever forgiven his sin. 
 For I thought of the night by St. Andres' church, 
 
 And remember'd what I might have been. 
 
 KING CHAELEMAGNE. 
 
 T was strange that he loved her, for youth was gone by. 
 
 And the bloom of her beauty was fled, 
 'Twas the glance of the harlot that gleam'd in her eye, 
 And all but the monarch disgusted descry 
 
 The art that had tinged her cheek red. 
 
 Yet he thought with Agatha none might compare. 
 That kings might be proud of her chain; 
 
 The coui-t was a desert if she were not there. 
 
 She only was lovely, she only was fair. 
 Such dotage possess'd Charlemagne. 
 
300 BALLADS AND METEICAL PIECES. 
 
 The soldier, the statesman, the corn-tier, tlie maid, 
 
 Alike this their rival detest; 
 And the good old archbishop who ceased to uphraid 
 Shook his grey head in sorrow, and silently pray'd 
 
 To sing her the requiem of rest. 
 
 A joy iU-dissembled soon gladdens them all. 
 
 For Agatha sickens and dies. 
 And now they are ready with bier and with pall, 
 The tapers gleam gloomy amid the high hall, 
 
 And the bell tolls long through the skies. 
 
 They came, but he sent them in anger away, 
 Eor she should not be buried, he said ; 
 
 And despite of all counsel, for many a day, 
 Array' d in her costly apparel she lay. 
 
 And he would go sit by the dead. 
 
 The cares of the kingdom demand him in vain. 
 
 The army in vain ask their lord; 
 The Lombards, the fierce misbelievers of Spain, 
 Now ravage the realms of the proud Charlemagne, 
 
 And still he unsheathes not the sword. 
 
 The soldiers they clamour, the priests bend in prayer. 
 
 In the quiet retreats of the cell; 
 The physicians to counsel together repair, 
 They pause and they ponder, at last they declai'e 
 
 That his senses are bound by a spell. 
 
 With relics protected, and confident grown. 
 
 And telling devoutly his beads. 
 The archbishop prepares him, and when it was known 
 That the king for awhile left the body alone, 
 
 To search for the spell he proceeds. 
 
 Now careful he searches with tremulous haste 
 
 For the spell that bewitches the king; 
 And under the tongue for security placed, 
 Its margin with mystical characters faced, 
 
 At lensth he discovers a rini;. 
 
KING CHARLEMAGNE. 301 
 
 Exulting he seiz'd it and hasten'd away, 
 
 The monarch re-entered the room; 
 The enchantment was ended, and suddenly gay. 
 He bade the attendants no longer delay 
 
 But bear her with speed to the tomb. 
 
 Now merriment, joyaunce, and feasting again 
 
 Enlivened the palace of Aix ; 
 And now by his heralds did king Charlemagne 
 Invite to his palace the courtier tram 
 
 To hold a high festival day. 
 
 And anxiously now for the festival day 
 
 The highly-born maidens prepare; 
 And now all apparell'd in costly array, 
 Exulting they come to the palace of Aix, 
 
 Young and aged, the brave and the fair. 
 
 Oh ! happy the damsel who 'mid her compeers 
 
 For a moment engaged the kmg's eye ! 
 Now glomng with hopes and now fever 'd with fears. 
 Each maid or triumphant or jealous appears 
 
 As noticed by him or past by. 
 
 And now as the evening approach'd, to the ball 
 
 In anxious suspense they advance; 
 Each hoped the king's choice on her beauties might fall, 
 Wlien, lo ! to the utter confusion of all, 
 
 He ask'd the archbishop to dance. 
 
 The damsels they laugh and the barons they stare, 
 
 'Twas mirth and astonishment all; 
 And the archbishop started and muttered a prayer, 
 And, wroth at receiving such mockery there. 
 
 Withdrew him in haste from the hall. 
 
 The moon dimpled over the water with light 
 
 As he wandered along the lake side, 
 Wlien, lo ! where beside him the king met his sight, 
 " Oh, turn thee, archbishop, my joy and dehght ! 
 
 Oh, turn thee, my charmer !'' he cried. 
 
302 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 " Oh come where the feast, and the dance, and the song 
 
 Invite thee to mirth and to love; 
 Or at this happy moment, away from the throng. 
 To the shade of yon wood let us hasten along — 
 
 The moon never pierces that grove." 
 
 Amazement and anger the prelate possest, 
 
 With terror his accents he heard. 
 Then Charlemagne warmly and eagerly prest 
 The archbishop's old wither'd hand to his breast, 
 
 And kiss'd his old gray grizzle beard. 
 
 " Let us well, then, these fortunate moments employ !" 
 
 Cried the monarch with passionate tone: 
 " Come away, then, dear charmer — my angel — my joy, 
 Nay, struggle not now — 'tis in vain to be coy — 
 And remember that we are alone." 
 
 " Blessed Mary, protect me !" the archbishop cried; 
 
 " What madness is come to the kmg !" 
 In vaia to escape fi'om the monarch he tried, 
 "VMien luckily he on his finger espied 
 
 The ghtter of Agatha's ring. 
 
 Overjoy'd, the old prelate remembered the spell. 
 
 And far in the lake flung the ring; 
 The waters closed round it, and wond'rous to teU, 
 Eeleased from the cui'sed enchantment of heU, 
 
 His reason retm-ned to the king. 
 
 But he built him a palace there close by the bay. 
 
 And there did he 'stablish his reign; 
 And the traveller who will, may behold at this day 
 A monument now in the ruins at Aix 
 
 Of the spell that possess'd Charlemagne. 
 
303 
 
 A BALLAD, 
 
 OF A YOUNG MAN THAT WOULD EEAD UNLAWFUL BOOKS, 
 AND HOW HE WAS PUNISHED. 
 
 CoENBLius Agrippa went out one day. 
 His study lie lock'd ere he went away, 
 And he gave the key of the door to his wife, 
 And charged her to keep it lock'd on her hfe. 
 
 And if any one ask my study to see, ' 
 
 I charge you trust them not Avith the key. 
 Whoever may beg, and entreat, and implore. 
 On your life let nobody enter that door. 
 
 There Kved a young man m the house who in vain 
 Access to that study had strove to obtain. 
 And he begg'd and pray'd the books to see, 
 Till the foolish woman gave him the key. 
 
 On the study-table a book there lay. 
 Which Agrippa himself had been reading that day. 
 The letters were written with blood within. 
 And the leaves were made of dead men's skin. 
 
 And these horrible leaves of magic between 
 Were the ugKest pictures that ever were seen. 
 The likeness of things so foul to behold 
 That what they were is not fit to be told. 
 
 The young man, he began to read 
 He knew not what, but he would proceed, 
 When there was heard a sound at the door 
 Which as he read on grew more and more. 
 
 And more and more the knocking grew. 
 
 The young man knew not what to do; 
 
 But trembling in fear he sat within, 
 
 Till the door was broke and the Devil came in. 
 
 Two hideous horns on his head he had got, 
 Like ii-on heated nine times red hot; 
 The breath of his nostrils was brimstone blue. 
 And his tail like a fiery serpent ^'ew. 
 
304 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 What "woTildst thou with me ? the -wicked one crie-'. 
 But not a word the young man replied ; 
 Every hair on his head was standing upright, 
 And his limbs like a palsy shook with affright. 
 
 What wouldst thou with me ? cried the author <)i ill, 
 But the wi'etched young man was silent still; 
 JSTot a word had his lips the power to say, 
 And his marrow seem'd to be melting away. 
 
 What wouldst thou with me ? the thu'd time he crif»«, 
 
 And a flash of hghtning came from his eyes, 
 
 And he lifted his griffin claw in the air, 
 
 And the young man had not strength for a prayer. 
 
 His eyes with a furious joy were possest 
 
 As he tore the young man's heart fi'om his breast, 
 
 He grinn'd a horrible grin at his prey. 
 
 And in a clap of thunder vanished away. 
 
 Henceforth let all young men take heed 
 How in a conjurer's books they read. 
 
 THE LOVER'S EOCK 
 
 The maiden through the favouring nig^.if 
 From Granada took her flight. 
 She bade her father's house farewell. 
 And fled away with Manuel. 
 
 "No Moorish maid might hope to vie 
 With Laila's cheek or Laila's eye, 
 No maiden loved with purer truth. 
 Or ever loved a lovelier youth. 
 
 In fear they fled across the plain 
 The father's w^ath, the captive's chain 
 In hope to Murcia on they flee, 
 To peace, and love, and liberty. 
 
THE lover's eock. 305 
 
 And now they reach the mountain's height. 
 And she was weary with her flight, 
 She laid her head on Manuel's breast. 
 And pleasant was the maiden's rest. 
 
 But while she slept, the passing gale 
 Waved the maiden's flowing veil. 
 Her father, as he crost the height. 
 Saw the veil so long and white. 
 
 Young Manuel started from his sleep. 
 He saw them hastening up the steep, 
 And Laila shriek'd, and desperate now 
 They climb'd the precipice's brow. 
 
 They saw him raise his angry hand. 
 And follow with his ruffian band, 
 They saw them climbing up the steep. 
 And heard his curses loud and deep. 
 
 Then Manuel's heart grew wild with woe. 
 He loosen'd crags and roll'd below. 
 He loosen'd rocks, for Manuel strove 
 For life, and libei'ty, and love. 
 
 The ascent was steep, the rock was high, 
 The Moors they durst not ventm-e nigh, 
 The fugitives stood safely there. 
 They stood in safety and despair. 
 
 The Moorish chief, unmoved could see 
 His daughter bend the suppliant knee ; 
 He heard his child for pardon plead, 
 And swore the Christian slave should blesvi. 
 
 He bade the archers bend the bow. 
 And make the Cliristian fall below. 
 He bade the archers aim the dart, 
 And pierce the maid's apostate heart. 
 
 The archers aim'd their arrows there. 
 She clasp'd yomig Manuel in despair, 
 *' Death, Manuel, shall set us free ! 
 Then leap below, and die with me." 
 
 X 
 
306 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 He clasp'd her close and groan'd farewell. 
 In one another's arms they fell ; 
 They leapt adown the craggy side, 
 In one another's arms they died. 
 
 And side by side they there are laid, 
 The Christian youth and Moorish maid. 
 But never cross was planted there, 
 To mark the victims of despair. 
 
 Yet every Murcian maid can tell 
 Where Laila lies who loved so well, 
 And every youth who passes there. 
 Says for Manuel's soul a prayer. 
 
 HENRY THE HERmT. 
 
 It was a little island where he dwelt, 
 
 A solitary islet, bleak and bare, 
 
 Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots 
 
 Its gray stone sm-face. Never mariner 
 
 Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast. 
 
 Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark 
 
 Anchored beside its shore. It was a place 
 
 Befitting well a rigid anchoret, 
 
 Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys. 
 
 And purposes of life; and he had dwelt 
 
 Many long years upon that lonely isle; 
 
 For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms, 
 
 Honom's and friends and country and the world, 
 
 And had grown old in solitude. That isle 
 
 Some solitary man in other times 
 
 Had made his dwelling-place ; and Hemy found 
 
 The little chapel which his toil had built 
 
 Now by the storms unroofed ; his bed of leaves 
 
 Wind- scattered; and his grave o'ergro^vn with grass. 
 
 And thistles, whose white seeds, mnged in vain. 
 
 Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost. 
 
 So he repaired the chapel's ruined roof, 
 
 Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone. 
 
 And underneath a rock that shelter 'd him 
 
 From the sea-blast, he built his hermitage. 
 
HENRY THT. HERMIT. 
 
i d Fi 
 
 Vr: 
 
 
THE CROSS KOAnS. 307 
 
 The peasants from the shore would bring him food. 
 
 And beg his prayers ; but human converse else 
 
 He knew not in that utter solitude. 
 
 Nor ever visited the haunts of men. 
 
 Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed 
 
 Implored his blessing and his aid in death. 
 
 That summons he delayed not to obey. 
 
 Though the night tempest or autumnal wind 
 
 Maddened the waves; and though the manner. 
 
 Albeit relying on his saintly load. 
 
 Grew pale to see the peril. Thus he lived 
 
 A most austere and self-denying man. 
 
 Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness 
 
 Had worn him down, and it was pain at last 
 
 To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves 
 
 And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less. 
 
 Though with reluctance of infirmity, 
 
 Eose he at midnight from his bed of leaves, 
 
 And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal. 
 
 More self- condemning fervour, raised his voice 
 
 For pardon for that sin, 'tUl that the sin 
 
 Eepented was a joy like a good deed. 
 
 One night upon the shore his chapel bell 
 
 Was heard ; the air was calm, and its far sounds 
 
 Over the water came, distinct and loud. 
 
 Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear 
 
 Its toU irregular, a monk arose. 
 
 The boatmen bore him willingly across. 
 
 For well the hermit Henry was beloved. 
 
 He hastened to the chapel; on a stone 
 
 Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff, and dead. 
 
 The bell-rope in his hand, and at his feet 
 
 The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light. 
 
 THE CROSS ROADS. 
 
 Theee was an old man breaking stonea 
 
 To mend the turnpike way; 
 He sate him down beside a brook 
 And out his bread and cheese he took. 
 
 For now it was mid-day. 
 
 x2 
 
308 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 He leant Hs back against a post. 
 
 His feet the brook ran by; 
 And there were water-cresses growing. 
 And pleasant was the water's flowing, 
 Tor he was hot and dry. 
 
 A soldier with his knapsack on. 
 Came travelling o'er the down; 
 
 The sun was strong and he was tiied; 
 
 And he of the old man inquired 
 How far to Bristol town. 
 
 Half an hour's walk for a young man, 
 By lanes and fields and stiles; 
 
 But you the foot-path do not know, 
 
 And if along the road you go, 
 Why then 'tis three good miles. 
 
 The soldier took his knapsack off. 
 
 For he was hot and dry; 
 And out his bread and cheese he took. 
 And he sat down beside the brook 
 
 To dine in company. 
 
 Old friend ! in faith, the soldier s:-ys, 
 
 I em'y you almost; 
 My shoulders have been sorely x)rest. 
 And I should like to sit and rest 
 
 My back against that post. 
 
 In such a sweltering day as this, 
 
 A knapsack is the devil ! 
 And if on t'other side I sat. 
 It would not only spoil our chat. 
 
 But make me seem uncivil. 
 
 The old man laugh'd and moved — I wish 
 It were a great arm'd-chair ! 
 
 But this may help a man at need ! 
 
 And yet it was a cm-sed deed 
 That ever brought it there. 
 
THE CROSS EOADS. 309 
 
 There's a poor girl lies buried here 
 
 Beneath, this very place. 
 The earth upon her corpse is prest. 
 The stake is di-iven into her breast. 
 
 And a stone is on her face. 
 
 The soldier had but just leant back, 
 
 And now he half rose up. 
 There's sure no harm in dining here. 
 My friend ? and yet to be sincere 
 
 I should not like to sup. 
 
 God rest her ! she is still enough 
 
 Who sleeps beneath my feet ! 
 The old man cried. No harm I trow 
 She ever did herself, though now 
 
 She lies where four roads meet. 
 
 I have past by about that hour 
 
 Wlien men are not most brave ; 
 It did not make my heart to fail, 
 And I have heard the nightmgale 
 Sing sv/eetly on her grave. 
 
 I have past by about that born* 
 
 When ghosts their freedom have; 
 But there was nothing here to fright, 
 And I have seen the glow-worm's light 
 Shine on the poor girl's grave. 
 
 There's one who like a Christian lies 
 
 Beneath the church- tree's shade; 
 I'd rather go a long mile round 
 Than pass at evening through the ground 
 Wherein that man is laid. 
 
 There's one who in the churchyard lies 
 
 For whom the bell did toll; 
 He lies in consecrated ground, 
 But for all the wealth in Bristol town 
 
 I would not be with his soul I 
 
310 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Didst see a house below the hill, 
 
 Which the winds and the rains destroy ? 
 
 *Twas then a farm where he did dwell. 
 
 And I remember it full well 
 When I was a growing boy. 
 
 And she was a poor parish girl 
 Who came up from the west; 
 From service hard she ran away. 
 And at that house in evil day. 
 Was taken in to rest. 
 
 The man he was a wicked man, 
 
 And an evil life he led; 
 Eage made his cheek grow deadly white. 
 And his gray eyes were large and light, 
 
 And in anger they grew red. 
 
 The man was bad, the mother worse, 
 
 Bad fruit of a bad stem; 
 *Twould make your hair to stand on end 
 If I should tell to you, my friend, 
 
 The things that were told of them ! 
 
 Didst see an out-house, standing by ? 
 
 The walls alone remain; 
 It was a stable then, but now 
 Its mossy roof has fallen through 
 
 All rotted by the rain. 
 
 The poor girl she had served with them 
 
 Some half-a-year or more, 
 Wlien she was found hung up one day 
 Still' as a corpse and cold as clay 
 
 Behind that stable door ! 
 
 It is a wild and lonesome place, 
 
 No hut or house is near; 
 Should one meet a murderer there alone 
 'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan 
 
 Would never reach mortal ear. 
 
THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 311 
 
 And there were strange reports about; 
 
 But still the coroner found 
 That she by her own hand had died, 
 And should buried be by the wayside. 
 
 And not in Christian ground. 
 
 This was the very place he chose, 
 
 Just where these four roads met. 
 And I was one among the throng 
 That hither followed "them along, 
 
 I shall never the sight forget ! 
 
 They carried her upon a board, ^ 
 
 In the clothes in which she died; 
 I saw the cap blow off her head, 
 Her face was of a dark, dark red, 
 
 Her eyes were starting wide: 
 
 I think they could not have been closed 
 
 So widely did they strain. 
 I never saw so dreadful a sight, ^ 
 And it often made me wake at night, 
 
 For I saw her face again. 
 
 They laid her here where four roads meet. 
 
 Beneath this very place. 
 The earth upon her corpse was prest. 
 This post is driven into her breast. 
 
 And a stone is on her face. 
 
 THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 
 
 I know not whether it be worth reporting, that tliere is in Cornwall, 
 near the parish of St. Neots, a well arched over with the robes of four 
 kinds of trees, withy, oak, elm, and ash, dedicated to St. Keyne. Ihe 
 reported virtue of the water is this, that whether husband or wife coma 
 first to drmk thereof, they get the mastery thereby.— i^wiier. 
 
 A WELL there is in the west-country, 
 
 And a clearer one never was seen; 
 There is not a Avife hi the west-country 
 
 But has heard of the well of St. Keyue, 
 
BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 An oak and an elm tree stand beside. 
 And behind does an ash tree grow. 
 
 And a willow from the bank above 
 Droops to the water below. 
 
 A traveller came to the well of St. Keynej 
 
 Pleasant it was to his eye, 
 For I'rom cock-crow he had been travelling 
 
 And there was not a cloud in the sky. 
 
 He drank of the water so cool and clear. 
 
 For thirsty and hot was he, 
 And he sat down upon the bank, 
 
 Under the willow tree. 
 
 There came a man from the neighbouring town 
 
 At the well to fill his pail. 
 On the well- side he rested it, 
 
 And bade the stranger hail. 
 
 Now art thou a bachelor, stranger ? quoth he, 
 
 For an if thou hast a wife, 
 'f he happiest draught thou hast drank this day 
 
 That ever thou didst in thy life. 
 
 Or has your good woman, if one you have. 
 
 In Cornwall ever been ? 
 For an if she have, I'll venture my iif3 
 
 She has di-ank of the well of St. Keyne. 
 
 I have left a good woman who never was here. 
 
 The stranger he made reply; 
 But that my draught should be better for that, 
 
 I pray you answer me why. 
 
 St. Keyne, quoth the countrjTnan, many a time 
 
 Drank of this crystal well. 
 And before the angel summoned her 
 
 She laid on the water a spell. 
 
 If the husband of this gifted well 
 
 Shall drink before his wife, 
 A happy man thenceforth is he. 
 
 For he shall be master for life. 
 
THE PIOUS PAINTER. 313 
 
 But if the wife should drink of it first, 
 
 God help the husband then ! 
 The stranger stoop'd to the well of St. Keyne, 
 
 And drank of the waters again. 
 
 You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ? 
 
 He to the countryman said. 
 But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake. 
 
 And sheepishly shook his head. 
 
 I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done. 
 
 And left my wife in the porch. 
 But i'falth she had been wiser than me, 
 
 Eor she took a bottle to church. 
 
 THE PIOUS PAINTEE. 
 
 The story of the Pious Painter is related in the Fabliaux of Le Grand. 
 PAET THE FIRST. 
 
 There once was a painter in Catholic days, 
 
 Like Job, who eschewed all evil; 
 Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze 
 With applause and Avith pleasure, but chiefly his praise 
 
 And dehght was in painting the devil. 
 
 They were angels, compared to the devils he drew. 
 
 Who besieged poor St. Anthony's cell ; 
 Such burnuig hot eyes, such a damnable hue ! 
 You could even smell brimstone, their breath was so blue. 
 
 He painted the devil so well. 
 
 And now had the artist a picture begun, 
 
 'Twas over the Virgin's church door; 
 She stood on the dragon embracing her son. 
 Many devils aheady the artist had done, 
 
 But this must out-do all before. 
 
 The old dragon's imps, as they fled through the air. 
 
 At seeing it paused on the wing, 
 Tor he had the likeness so just to a hair. 
 That they came as Apollyon himself had been there. 
 
 To pay their respects to their king. 
 
314 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Every child at beholding it, shivered with dread. 
 
 And scream' d as he turn'd away quick. 
 Not an old woman saw it, but raising her head, 
 Dropt a bead, made a cross on her wrinkles, and said, 
 God keep me from ugly Old Nick ! 
 
 What the painter so earnestly thought on by day. 
 
 He sometimes would dream of by night; 
 But once he was startled, as sleeping he lay, 
 'Twas no fancy, no di-eam, he could plainly survey 
 That the devil himself was in sight. 
 
 You rascally dauber ! old Beelzebub cries, 
 
 Take heed how you wrong me again ! 
 Though your caricatures for myself I despise, 
 Make me handsomer now in the multitude's eyes. 
 Or see if I threaten in vain ! 
 
 Now the painter was bold, and religious beside. 
 
 And on faith he had certain reliance; 
 So earnestly he all his countenance eyed. 
 And thank' d him for sitting, wdth Catholic pride. 
 
 And sturdily bade him defiance. 
 
 Betimes in the morning the painter arose. 
 
 He is ready as soon as 'tis light. 
 Every look, every line, every feature he knows, 
 'Tis fresh in his eye, to his labours he goes. 
 
 And he has the old Wicked One quite. 
 
 Happy man ! he is sure the resemblance can't fail. 
 
 The tip of the nose is red hot. 
 There's his grin and his fangs, his skin cover'd with scale. 
 And that the identical curl of his tail — 
 
 Not a mark, not a claw is forgot. 
 
 He looks and retouches again with delight, 
 
 'Tis a portrait complete to his mind ! 
 He touches again, and again feeds his sight, 
 He looks round for applause, and he sees with affright. 
 
 The origmal standing behind. 
 
THE PIOUS PAINTER. 3L 
 
 Fool ! idiot ! old Beelzebub grinn'd as he spoke. 
 
 And stampt on the scaffold in ire. 
 The painter grew pale, for it knew it no joke, 
 'Twas a terrible height, and the scaffolding broke. 
 
 The devil could wish it no higher. 
 
 Help — ^help me ! Mary ! he cried in alarm. 
 
 As the scaffold sunk under his feet. 
 From the canvas the Virgin extended her arm. 
 She caught the good painter, she saved him from harm. 
 
 There were hundreds who saw in the street. 
 
 The old dragon fled when the wonder he spied. 
 
 And cursed his own fruitless endeavour. 
 While the painter call'd after his rage to deride, 
 Shook his pallet and brushes in triumph and cried, 
 
 I'll paint thee more ugly than ever ! 
 
 PAET THE SECOND. 
 
 The painter so pious all praise had acquired. 
 
 For defying the malice of hell ; 
 The monks the unerring resemblance admired: 
 Not a lady lived near but her portrait desired 
 
 From one who succeeded so weU. 
 
 One there was to be painted the number among 
 
 Of features most fair to behold; 
 The country around of fair Marguerite rung, 
 Marguerite she was lovely, and lively, and young, 
 
 Her husband was ugly and old. 
 
 O painter, avoid her ! painter, take care ! 
 
 For Satan is watchful for you ! 
 Take heed lest you faU in the Wicked One's snare. 
 The net is made ready, O painter, beware 
 
 Of Satan and Marguerite too. 
 
 She seats herself now, now she lifts up her head 
 
 On the artist she fixes her eyes; 
 The colours are ready, the canvas is spread. 
 He lays on the white, and he lays on the red. 
 
 And the features of beauty aiise. 
 
316 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 He is come to her eyes, eyes so bright and so "blue ! 
 
 There's a look that he cannot express ; — 
 His colours are dull to their quick- sparkling hue, 
 More and more on the lady he fixes his view. 
 
 On the canvas he looks less and less. 
 
 In vain he retouches, her eyes sparlde more, 
 And that look that fair Marguerite gave ! 
 Many devils the artist had painted of yore, 
 But he never attempted an angel before — 
 St. Anthony help him and save ! 
 
 He yielded, alas ! for the truth must be told, 
 
 To the woman, the tempter, and fate. 
 It was settled the lady so fair to behold, 
 Should elope from her husband so ugly and old. 
 With the painter so pious of late ! 
 
 Now Satan exults in his vengeance complete. 
 
 To the husband he makes the scheme known; 
 Night comes, and the lovers impatiently meet. 
 Together they fly, they are seized in the street. 
 And in prison the painter is thrown. 
 
 With repentance, his only companion, he lies. 
 
 And a dismal companion is she ! 
 On a sudden he saw the old serpent arise, 
 Now you villanous dauber ! old Beelzebub cries. 
 
 You are paid for your insults to me ! 
 
 But my tender heart it is easy to move, 
 
 If to what I propose you agree; 
 That picture, — be just ! the resemblance improve, 
 Make a handsomer portrait, your chains I'll remove. 
 
 And you shall this instant be free. 
 
 Overjoyed, the conditions so easy he hears, 
 I'll make you quite handsome ! he said. 
 He said, and his chain on the devil appears. 
 Released from his prison, released from his fears. 
 The painter is snug in his bed. 
 
ST. JUAN GUALBERTO. 317 
 
 At mom he arises, composes his look. 
 
 And proceeds to his work as before; 
 The people beheld him, the culprit they took, 
 They thought that the painter his prison had broke 
 
 Ajid to prison they led him once more. 
 
 They open the dungeon, behold in his place. 
 
 In the corner old Beelzebub lay. 
 He smirks and he smiles, and he leers with a grace, 
 That the painter might catch all the charms of his face. 
 
 Then vanished in lightning away. 
 
 Quoth the painter, I trust you'll suspect me no more. 
 
 Since you find my assertions were true. 
 But I'll alter the picture above the church door. 
 For I never saw Satan so closely before. 
 
 And I must give the devil his due. 
 
 ST. JUAN GUALBERTO. 
 
 I. 
 The work is done, the fabric is complete; 
 
 Distinct the traveller sees its distant tower, • 
 Yet ere his steps attain the sacred seat. 
 
 Must toil lor many a league and many an hour. 
 Elate the abbot sees the pile and knows 
 Stateliest of convents now, his new Moscera rose. 
 
 II. 
 Long were the tale that told Moscera's pride. 
 
 Its columns' clustered strength and lofty state.. 
 How many a saint bedeck'd its sculptured side, 
 
 What intersecting arches graced its gate ; 
 Its tower how high, its massy waUs how strong, 
 These fairly tc describe were sure a tedious song. 
 
 Yet while the fane rose slowly from the ground. 
 But little store of charity, I ween. 
 
 The passing pilgrim at Moscera found; 
 And often there the mendicant was seen 
 
 Hopeless to turn him from the convent door. 
 For this so costly work still kept the brethren poor. 
 
318 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now all is perfect, and from every side 
 
 They flock to view the fabric, young and old. 
 
 Who now can tell Eodulfo's secret pride. 
 When on the sabbath day his eyes behold 
 
 The multitudes that crowd his chapel floor, 
 Some sure to serve their God, to see Moscera more. 
 
 So chanced it that Gualberto pass'd that way. 
 Since sainted for a life of holy deeds; 
 
 He paused the new-rear'd convent to survey, 
 Aiid, whilst o'er all its bulk his eye proceeds. 
 
 Sorrows, as one whose holier feelings deem 
 That ill so proud a pile did humble monks beseeni. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Him, musing as he stood, Eodulfo saw. 
 And forth he came to greet the holy guest 
 
 For he was known as one who held the law 
 Of Benedict, and each severe behest 
 
 So duly kept with such religious care. 
 That Heaven had oft vouchsafed its wonders to his prayer. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Good brother, welcome !" thus Rodulfo cries, 
 " In sooth it glads me to behold you here; 
 
 It is Gualberto ! and mine aged eyes 
 
 Did not deceive me : yet full many a year 
 
 Has slipt away since last you bade farewell 
 To me your host and my uncomfortable cell. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " *Twas but a sorry welcome then you found. 
 
 And such as suited ill a guest so dear; 
 The pile was ruinous old, the base unsound. 
 
 It glads me more to bid you welcome here 
 That you can call to mind our former state — 
 Come, brother, pass with me the new Moscera's gate.'* 
 
ST. JUAN GUALBERTO. 319 
 
 So spake the cheerful abbot, but no smile 
 Of answering joy softened Gualberto's brow; 
 
 He raised his hand, and pointed to the pile, 
 " Moscera better pleased me then, than now ! 
 
 A palace this, befitting kingly pride ! 
 Will holiness, my friend, in palace pomp abide ?" 
 
 "Ay," cries EoduHb, " 'tis a goodly place ! 
 
 And pomp becomes the house of worship well. 
 Nay, scowl not round with so severe a face ! 
 
 When earthly kings in seats of grandeur dwell. 
 Where art exhausted decks the sumptuous haU, 
 Can poor and sordid huts beseem the Lord of all?" 
 
 XI. 
 
 " And ye have rear'd these stately towers on high 
 To serve your God ?" the monk severe replied. 
 ** It rose from zeal and earnest piety. 
 
 And prompted by no worldly thoughts beside ? 
 Abbot, to him who prays with soul sincere 
 In humble hermit cell, God wiU incline his ear. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Kodulfo ! whilst this haughty building rose, 
 Still was the pilgrim welcome at your door ? 
 
 Did charity relieve the oqAans' woes ? 
 
 Clothed ye the naked ? did ye feed the poor ? 
 
 He who with alms most succours the distrest. 
 Proud abbot, know, he serves his heavenly Father best, 
 
 XIII. 
 
 ** Did they in sumptuous palaces go dwell 
 Who first abandoned all to serve the Lord ? 
 
 Their place of worship was the desert cell. 
 
 Wild fruits and berries spread their frugal board. 
 
 And if a brook, like this, ran murmuring by. 
 They blest their gracious God, and thought it luxury." 
 
320 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then anger darkened in Eodulfo's face, 
 
 "Enough, of preaching," sharply he replied, 
 
 "Thou art gi'own envious; — 'tis a common case, 
 Humihty is made the cloak of pride. 
 
 Proud of our home's magnificence are we, 
 But thou art far more proud in rags and beggary." 
 
 XV. 
 
 With that Gualherto cried in fervent tone, 
 " Father, hear me ! if this splendid pile 
 
 Was for thine honour rear'd, and thine alone. 
 Bless it, Father, with thy fostering smile ! 
 
 Still may it stand, and never evil know. 
 Long as beside its walls the eternal stream shall flow." 
 
 " But, Lord, if vain and worldly-minded men 
 
 Have wasted here the wealth which thou hast lent, 
 
 To pamper worldly pride; frown on it then ! 
 Soon be thy vengeance manifestly sent. 
 
 Let yonder brook that flows so calm beside. 
 Now from its base sweep down the unholy house of pride!* 
 
 XVII. 
 
 He said — and lo ! the brook no longer flows; 
 
 The waters pause, and now they swell on high; 
 High and more high the mass of water grows. 
 
 The affi'ighted brethren from ]\Ioscera fly, 
 And on their saints and on theu' God they call. 
 For now the mountain bulk o'ertops the convent wall. 
 
 It falls, the mountain bulk, with thunder sound ! 
 
 Full on Moscera's pile the vengeance falls ! 
 Its lofty tower now rushes to the ground. 
 
 Prone lie its columns now, its high arched walls, 
 Earth shakes beneath the onward-rolling tide. 
 That fit'om its base swept down the unholy house of pride 
 
ST. JUAN GUALBERTO. 321 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Were old Gualberto's reasons built on truth, 
 Dear George, or like Moscera's base unsound ? 
 
 This sm^e I know, that glad am I, in sooth, 
 He only play'd his pranks on foreign ground; 
 
 For had he turn'd the stream on England too, 
 The Vandal monk had spoilt full many a goodly view. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Then Malmesbury's arch had never met my sight, 
 
 Nor Battle's vast and venerable pile; 
 I had not traversed then with such delight 
 The hallowed ruins of our Arthur's isle, 
 Where many a pilgrim's curse is well bestow'd 
 On those who rob its walls to mend the tm-npike roa^L 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Wells would have fallen, dear George, thy country's pride; 
 
 And Canning's stately church been rear'd in vain. 
 Kor had the traveller Ely's tower descried. 
 
 Which when thou seest far o'er the fenny plain. 
 Dear George, I counsel thee to turn that way. 
 Its ancient beauties sure w^ill well reward delay. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And we should never then have heard, I think, 
 At evening hour, great Tom's tremendous knell; 
 
 The fountain streams that now in Christ-Church stink. 
 Had niagara'd o'er the quadrangle; 
 
 But, as 'twas beauty that deserved the flood, 
 I ween, dear George, our own old college might have stood. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Then had not Westminster, the house of Gcd, 
 Served for a concert room, or signal post; 
 
 Old Thames, obedient to the father's nod, 
 
 Had swept down Greenwich, England's noblest boast; 
 
 And eager to destroy the unholy walls. 
 Fleet-ditch had roll'd up liiR to overwhelm St. Paul's. 
 
 Y 
 
 ^\ B n A rt y- 
 
 "mhTTTrKrr.^ifiT'T" v V 
 
322 BALLADS AKD METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 George, dost thou deem the legendary deeds 
 
 Of Romish saints a useless medley store 
 Of lies, that he flings time away who reads ? 
 
 And wouldst thou rather bid me puzzle o'er 
 Matter and mind, and all the eternal round. 
 Plunged headlong down the dark and fathomless profound ? 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Now do I bless the man who undertook 
 These monks and mai-t^TS t") biographize. 
 
 And love to ponder o'er his ponderous book. 
 The mingled mass of nature and of lies, 
 
 Where angels now, now Beelzebubs appear, 
 And blind and honest zeal, and holy faith sincere. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 'Tis not all Euclid truth, and yet 'twere hard 
 
 The fabling monks for fabling to abuse; 
 What if a monk, fi'om better theme debarred. 
 
 Some pious subject for a tale should chuse. 
 How some good man the flesh and fiend o'ercame, 
 His taste methinks, and not his conscience, were to blame. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 In afler years, what he, good man ! had wrote, 
 As we write novels to instruct our youth. 
 
 Went travelling on, its origin forgot, 
 
 Till at the length it past for gospel truth. 
 
 A fair accomit ! and shouldst thou like the plea, 
 Thank thou thy valued friend, dear George, who taught it me. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 All is net false that seems at first a lie. 
 
 One Antolinez, once a Spanish knight, 
 Knelt at the mass, when lo ! the troops hard by. 
 
 Before the expected hour began the fight. 
 Though courage, dut}^ honour summoned there, 
 He chose to forfeit all, not leave the unlinish'd prayer. 
 
ST. JUAN GUALBERTO. 323 
 
 XXIX, 
 
 But whilst devoutly tlius the unarm'd knight 
 Waits till the holy service should be o'er, 
 
 Even then the foremost in the furious fight 
 Was he beheld to bathe his sword in gore, 
 
 First in the van his plumes were seen to play, 
 And Spain to him decreed the glory of the day. 
 
 The truth is told, and all at once exclaim. 
 
 His guardian angel heaven had deign'd to send," 
 
 And thus the tale is handed down to fame. 
 Now if this Antolinez had a friend, 
 
 Who in the hour of danger served him well. 
 Deal- George, the tale is true, and yet no miracle. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 I am not one who scan with scornful eyes 
 
 The dreams that make the enthusiast's best delightj 
 
 Nor thou the legendary lore despise 
 If of Gualberto yet again I write, 
 
 How first impell'd he sought the convent cell; 
 It is a simple tale, and one that pleased me well. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Fortune had smiled upon Gualberto's birth. 
 
 The heii* of Valdespesa's rich domain. 
 An only child, he grew in years and worth, " 
 
 And well repaid a father's anxious pain. 
 Oft had his sh-e m battle forced success, 
 Well for his valour known, and known for haughtiness. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 It chanced that one in kindred near allied 
 
 Was slain by his hereditary foe ; 
 Much by his sorrow moved, and more by pride, 
 
 The father vow'd that blood for blood should flow; 
 And from his youth Gualberto had been taught 
 That Avith miceasing hate should just revenge be sought. 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Long did they wait; at length the tidings came 
 That through a lone and unfrequented wa}'', 
 
 Soon would Anselmo, — such the murderer's name, — 
 Pass on his journey home, an easy pi'ey. 
 
 "Go," cried the father, " meet him in the wood !" 
 And young Gualberk) went, and laid in wait for blood 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Wlien now the youth was at the forest shade 
 Arrived, it drew towards the close of day; 
 
 Anselmo haply might be long delay'd. 
 And he, abeady wearied with his way, 
 
 Beneath an ancient oak his limbs reclmed. 
 And thoughts of near revenge alone possess'd his mind. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Slow sunk the glorious sun, a roseate light 
 Spread o'er the forest from his lingermg rays, 
 
 The glowing clouds upon Gualberto's sight 
 
 Soften'd in shade, — he could not choose but gaze; 
 
 And now a placid grepiess clad the heaven. 
 Save where the west retain'd the last green light of even. 
 
 Cool breathed the grateful air, and fresher now 
 The fragrance of the autumnal leaves ai'ose ; 
 
 The passing gale scarce moved the o'erhanging bough 
 And not a sound disturb 'd the deep repose, 
 
 Save when a falling leaf came fluttering b}*, 
 Save the near brooklet's stream that murmur'd quietly. 
 
 Is there who has not felt the deep delight. 
 
 The hush of soul, that scenes like these impart ? 
 The breast they %\'ill not soften, is not right; 
 
 And young Gualberto was not hard of heart — 
 Yet sm-e he thinks revenge becomes him well, 
 Wlien fi-om a neighbouring church he heard the vesper bell. 
 
ST. JUAN GUALBERTO. 
 
 325 
 
 The Catliolic who hears that vesper bell, 
 
 Howe'er employed, must put a prayer to heaven. 
 In foreign lands I liked the custom well, 
 
 For with the calm and sober thoughts of even 
 It well accords; and shouldst thou journey there. 
 It will not hui-t thee, George, to join that vesper-prayer. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Gualberto had been duly taught to hold 
 
 Each pious rite with most religious care. 
 And — for the young man's feelings were not cold- 
 He never yet had miss'd his vesper-prayer. 
 But strange misgivings now his heart invade, 
 And when the vesper bell had ceased, he had not pray'd. 
 
 And wherefore was it that he had not pray'd ? 
 
 The sudden doubt arose within his mind. 
 And many a former precept then he weigh'd, 
 
 The words of Him who died to save mankind, 
 How 'twas the meek who should inherit heaven, 
 And man should man forgive, if he would be forgiven. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Troubled at heart, almost he felt a hope 
 
 That yet some chance his victim might delay. 
 
 So as he mused, adown the neighbouring slope 
 He saw a lonely traveller on his way; 
 
 And now he knows the man so much abhorr'd,— 
 His holier thoughts ai'e gone; he bares the murderuus sword. 
 
 ** The house of Yaldespesa gives the blow ! 
 
 Go, and our vengeance to our kinsman teU I" 
 Despah and ten-or seized the unann'd foe, 
 
 Aiid prostrate at the young man's knees he fell. 
 And stopt his hand and cried — " Oh, do not take 
 A wi-etched sinner's life ! Mercy, for Jesus' sake 1" 
 
326 BALLADS AND ^lETRICAL PIECES. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 At that most blessed name, as at a spell, 
 
 Conscience, the God within him, smote his heart. 
 His hand for murder raised unharming fell. 
 
 He felt cold sweat- drops on his forehead start, 
 A moment mute in holy horror stood. 
 Then cried, " Joy, joy, my God ! I have not shed his blood !' 
 
 XLV. 
 
 He raised Anselmo up, and bade him live, 
 
 And bless, for both preserved, that holy name; 
 
 And pray'd the astonish'd foeman to forgive 
 The bloody purpose led by which he came. 
 
 Then to the neighbouring chm*ch he sped away. 
 His overburthen'd soul before his God to lay. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 He ran with breathless speed, — he reach'd the door. 
 
 Tumultuous tides his throbbing pulses swell — 
 He came to crave for pardon, to adore 
 
 For grace vouchsafed; before the cross he fell. 
 And raised his swimming eyes, and thought that there 
 He saw the imaged Christ smile favoui'ing on his prayer. 
 
 A blest illusion ! From that very night 
 
 The monk's austerest life devout he led; 
 And still he felt the enthusiast's deep delight, 
 And seraph- visions floated round his head ; 
 The jo3's of heaven foretasted fill'd his soul, 
 And still the good man's name adorns the sainted rolL 
 
THE BATTLE UF BLENHEIM. 
 
327 
 
 THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 
 
 It was a svumner evening, 
 Old Kaspar's work was done; 
 
 And lie before his cottage door 
 Was sitting in the sun, 
 
 And by him sported on the green 
 
 His little grandchild Wilhebnine. 
 
 II. 
 
 She saw her brother Peterkin 
 KoU something lar|e and round. 
 
 That he beside the rivoilet, 
 In playing there, had found ; 
 
 He came to ask what he had found, 
 
 That was so large, and smooth, and round. 
 
 III. 
 
 Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 
 
 Who stood expectant by; _ 
 And then the old man shook his head, 
 
 And with a natural sigh, 
 *Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he, 
 Who fell in the great victory. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I fmd them in the garden, for 
 
 There's many here about. 
 And often when I go to plough. 
 
 The ploughshare turns them out; 
 For many thousand men, said he. 
 Were slain in the great victory. 
 
 V, 
 
 Now tell us what 'twas aU about, 
 
 Young Peterkin he cries. 
 And httle Wilhebnine looks up 
 
 With wonder- waiting eyes; 
 Now tell us all about the war. 
 And what they kill'd each other for. 
 
328 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 VI. 
 
 It was the English, Kaspar cried. 
 That put the French to rout; 
 
 But what they kill'd each other for, 
 I could not well make out. 
 
 But everybody said, quoth he. 
 
 That 'twas a famous victory. 
 
 VII. 
 
 My father lived at Blenheim then. 
 Yon little stream hard hy, 
 
 They burnt his dwelling to the ground. 
 And he was forced to fly; 
 
 So with his wife and child he fled, 
 
 Nor had he where to rest his head. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 With fire and sword the country rotmt''- 
 Was wasted far and wide, 
 
 And many a childing mother then. 
 And new-bom infant, died. 
 
 But things like that, you know, must be 
 
 At every famous victory. 
 
 IX. 
 
 They say it was a shocking sight. 
 
 After the field was won, 
 For many thousand bodies here 
 
 Lay rotting in the sun; 
 But things like that, you know, must bt 
 After a famous victory. 
 
 Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won 
 And our good Prince Eugene. — 
 
 Why, 'twas a very wicked tiling ! 
 Said little Wilhelmiae. 
 
 Nay — nay — my little girl, quoth he. 
 
 It was a famous victory. 
 
ST. ROMUALD. 329 
 
 XI. 
 
 And everybody praised the Duke 
 Who such a fight did wm. 
 
 But what good came of it at last ?— 
 Quoth little Peterkiu. 
 
 Why that I cannot tell, said he. 
 
 But 'twas a famous victory. 
 
 ST. EOMUALD. 
 
 One day, it matters not to know 
 
 How many hundred years ago, 
 A Spaniard stopt at a posada door: 
 
 The landlord came to welcome him, and chat 
 
 Of this and that, 
 For he had seen the traveller there before. 
 
 Does holy Eomuald dwell 
 
 StiU in his cell ? 
 The traveller ask'd, or is the old man dead ? 
 
 No, he has left his loving flock, and we 
 
 So good a Christian never more shall see. 
 The landlord answer'd, and he shook his head. 
 
 Ah, sir ! we knew his worth. 
 
 If ever there did live a saint on earth ! 
 
 Why, sir, he always used to wear a shirt 
 For thirty days, all seasons, day and night: 
 Good man, he knew it was not right 
 
 For dust and ashes to fall out with dirt. 
 And then he only hung it out in the rain. 
 And put it on again. 
 
 There used to be rare work 
 
 With him and the Devil there in yonder cell. 
 For Satan used to maul him like a Turk. 
 
 There they would sometimes fight 
 
 All through a winter's night. 
 
 From sunset until morn, 
 
 He with a cross, the Devil with his hoinj 
 
330 BALLADS AXD METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 The Devil spitting fire witli might and main, 
 Enough to make St. Michael half afraid; 
 He splashing holy water till he made 
 
 His red hide hiss again, 
 And the hot vapour fiU'd the little ceU. 
 
 This was so common, that his face became 
 
 All black and yellow with the brimstone flame. 
 And then he smelt— Oh Lord ! how he did smell I 
 
 Then, sir ! to see how he would mortify 
 The flesh ! If any one had dainty fare. 
 Good man, he would come there, 
 And look at all the delicate things, and cry. 
 Oh, beUy! belly! 
 
 You would be gormandizing now, I know. 
 But it shall not be so; — 
 Home to your bread and water — ^home, I teU ye ! 
 
 But, quoth the traveller, wherefore did he leave 
 
 A flock that knew his saintly worth so weU ? 
 
 Why, said the landlord, sii-, it so befell 
 He heard unluckily of our intent 
 
 To do him a great honour, and you know 
 
 He was not covetous of fame below. 
 And so by stealth one night away he went. 
 
 "What was this honour, then ? the traveller cried. 
 
 Why, su% the host replied, 
 We thought, perhaps, that he might one day leave usj 
 
 And then should strangers have 
 
 The good man's grave; 
 A loss like that would natm-ally grieve us. 
 
 For he'U be made a saint of, to be sure. 
 
 Therefore we thought it prudent to secm'e 
 His rehcs while we might. 
 And so we meant to strangle him one night. 
 
331 
 
 THE KING OF THE CEOCODILES. 
 
 The people at Isna, in Upper Egypt, have a superstition concerning 
 crocodiles similar to that entertained in the West Indies ; they say 
 there is a king of them, who resides near Isna, and who has ears, but 
 no tail; and he possesses an uncommon regal quality — that of doing 
 no harm. Some are bold enough to assert that they have seen him. 
 
 Now, woman, why without yoar veil ? 
 And wherefore do you look so pale ? 
 And woman, why do you groan so sad, 
 And beat your breast, as you were mad ? 
 
 Oh ! I have lost my darling boy. 
 
 In whom my soul had all its joy; 
 
 And I for sorrow have torn my veil. 
 
 And sorrow hath made my very heart pale* 
 
 Oh, I have lost my darling child. 
 And that's the loss that makes me wild; 
 He stoop'd to the river down to drink, 
 And there was a crocodile by the brink. 
 
 He did not venture in to swim. 
 
 He only stoop'd to drink at the brim; 
 
 But under the reeds the crocodile lay. 
 
 And struck with his tad and swept him away. 
 
 Now take me in your boat, I pray. 
 For down the river lies my way; 
 And me to the reed-island bring, 
 For I will go to the crocodile king. 
 
 The king of the crocodiles never does wrong- 
 He has no tail so stitr and strong, 
 He has no tail to strike and slay. 
 But he has ears to hear what I say. 
 
 And to the king I will complain 
 How my poor child was wickedly slain; 
 The king of the crocodiles he is good. 
 And I shall have the murderer's blood. 
 
 The man replied, No, woman, no. 
 To the island of reeds I will not go; 
 I would not, for any worldly thing. 
 See the face of the crocodile king. 
 
332 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Then lend me now your little boat, 
 And I will down the river float. 
 I tell thee that no worldly thing 
 Shall keep me from the crocodile king. 
 
 The woman she leapt into the boat, 
 And down the river alone did she float, 
 And fast with the stream the boat proceeds. 
 And now she is come to the island of reeds. 
 
 The king of the crocodiles there was seen. 
 He sat upon the eggs of his queen, 
 And all around, a numerous rout, 
 The young prince crocodiles crawl'd about. 
 
 The woman shook every limb with fear, 
 As she to the crocodile king came near, 
 Tor never man without fear and awe 
 The face of his crocodile majesty saw. 
 
 She fell upon her bended knee. 
 And said, king, have pity on me. 
 For I have lost my darling child. 
 And that's the loss that makes me wild. 
 
 A crocodile ate him for his food, 
 ^ow let me have the murderer's blood. 
 Let me have vengeance for my boy. 
 The only thing that can give me joy. 
 
 I know that you, sire ! never do wrong; 
 You have no tail so stiff" and strong, 
 You have no tail to strike and sla}^. 
 But you have ears to hear what I say. 
 
 You have done well, the king replies, 
 And fix'd on her his little eyes; 
 Good woman, yes, you have done right, 
 But you have not described me quite. 
 
 I have no tail to strike and slay, 
 And I have ears to hear what you say; 
 I have teeth, moreover, as you may see. 
 And I will make a meal of thee. 
 
333 
 
 GOD'S JUDGMENT OIT A BISHOP. 
 
 Here followeth the History o/Hatto, Arclibislioji of Mentz. 
 
 It hapned in the year 914, that there was an exceeding great famine 
 in Germany, at what time Otho, smTiamed the Great, Avas Emperor, and 
 one Hatto, once Abbot of Fulda, was Archbishop of Mentz, of the 
 bishops after Crescens and Crescentius tlie two and tliirtieth, of the 
 archbishops after St. Bonifacius the thirteenth. This Hatto, in the time 
 of this great famine aforementioned, when he saw the poor people of 
 the country exceedingly oppressed with famine, assembled a great com- 
 pany of them together into a barne, and Uke a most accursed and mer- 
 cilesse caitifl'e burnt up those poor innocent souls, that Avere so far from 
 doubting any such matter, that they rather hoped to receive some 
 comfort and reUef at his hands. The reason that moved the prelate to 
 commit that execrable imi^iety, was because he thought the famine 
 would the sooner cease, if those unprofitable beggars that consumed 
 more bread than they were worthy to eat, were dispatched out of the 
 world. For he said that those poor folks were like to mice, that were 
 good for nothing but to devour corne. But God Almighty, the just 
 avenger of the poor folks quarrel, did not long suifer this hainous 
 tyranny — this most detestable fact — unpunished. For he mustered up 
 an army of mice against the archbishop, and sent them to persecute him 
 as his furious Alastors, so that they afflicted him both day and night, 
 and would not suffer him to take his rest in any place. "Whereupon the 
 prelate, thinking that he should be secure from the injury of mice if he 
 were in a certain tower, that standeth in the Rhine, near to the towne, 
 betook himself unto the said tower as to a safe refuge and sanctuary 
 from his enemies, and locked himself in. But the innumerable troupes 
 of mice chaced him continually very eagerly, and swumme unto him upon 
 the top of the water to execute the just judgment of God, and so at last 
 he was most miserably devoured by those siHie creatures ; Vv-ho pursued 
 him with such bitter hostility, that it is recorded they scraped and 
 gnawed out his very name from the walls and tapistry wherein it was 
 written, after they had so cruelly devoured his body. Wherefore the 
 tower wherein he was eaten up by the mice is shoAvoi to this day, for a 
 perpetual monument to all succeeding ages of the barbarous and inhu- 
 man tyranny of this impious prelate, being situate in a little green island 
 in tlie midst of the Rhine, near to towne of Bing, and is commonly called 
 in the German tongue, the Mowse-turn. — CoryaVs Cruel. 
 
 Other authors who record this tale say that the bishop was eaten by 
 
 rats. 
 
 The summer and autumn had been so wet. 
 That in winter the corn was growing yet, 
 'Twas a piteous sight to '^ee all around 
 The com lie rottmg on the ground. 
 
334 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Every day tlie starving poor 
 They crowded around bishop Hatto's door, 
 For he had a plentiful last -year's store. 
 And all the neighbourhood could tell 
 His granaries were furnished well. 
 
 At last bishop Hatto appointed a day 
 
 To quiet the poor without delay, 
 
 He bade them to his great barn repair. 
 
 And they should have food for the winter there. 
 
 Eejoiced the tidings good to hear, 
 The poor folks flocked from far and near, 
 The great barn was full as it could hold 
 Of women and children, and young and old. 
 
 Then when he saw it could hold no more. 
 Bishop Hatto he made fast the door, 
 And whilst for mercy on Christ they call, 
 He set fire to the barn and bui'nt them alL 
 
 I' faith 'tis an excellent bonfire ! quoth he. 
 And the country is greatl}^ obliged to me, 
 For ridding it, in these times forlorn. 
 Of rats that only consume the corn. 
 
 So then to his palace returned he. 
 
 And he sate down to supper merrOy, 
 
 And he slept that night like an innocent man. 
 
 But bishop Hatto never slept again. 
 
 In the morning as he entered the hall, 
 Where his picture hung against the wall, 
 A sweat like death all over him came, 
 For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. 
 
 As he look'd, there came a man from his farmj. 
 He had a countenance white with alarm, 
 My lord, I opened your granaries this morn, 
 And the rats had eaten all your com. 
 
 Another came running presently, 
 And he was as pale as pale could be, 
 Fly ! my lord bishop, fly ! quoth he, 
 Ten thousand rats are coming this way — 
 The Lord forgive you for yesterday I 
 
god's judgment on a bishop. 335 
 
 I'U £?o to my tower in the Ehine, replied he, 
 'Tis the safest place in Germany, 
 The walls are high, and the shores are steep. 
 And the tide is strong, and the water deep. 
 
 Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, 
 And he crost the Ehine without delay 
 And reach'd his tower m the island, and ban C 
 All the gates secure and hard. 
 
 He laid him down and closed his eyes— 
 
 But soon a scream made him arise, 
 
 He started, and saw two eyes ot tlame ^ 
 
 On his pillow, fi-om whence the screammg came. 
 
 He listen'd and look'd ;-it was only the cat j 
 But the bishop he grew more fearful for that, 
 Tor she sate screaming, mad with tear 
 At the army of rats that were di-awmg near. 
 
 Tor they have swum over the river so deep. 
 And they have clhnb'd the shores so steep. 
 And now by thousands up they crawl 
 To the holes and the ^vmdows m the waiL 
 
 Down on his knees the bishop fell, 
 
 And faster and faster his beads did he tell. 
 
 As louder and louder di-awmg near. 
 
 The saw of their teeth without he could hear. 
 
 And in at the windows, and in at the door, 
 And throuo-h the waUs, by thousands they pour, 
 ind Wrom the ceili/g, a.id up through he floor, 
 p^m the right and the left, from behmd and befoie, 
 y\Z within and without, from above and below, 
 And aU at once to the bishop they go. 
 
 They have whetted their teeth against the stones, 
 And now tliev pick the bishop's bones, 
 Thev "-nawed the flesh from every hmb, ^ 
 Tor they were sent to do judgment on him ! 
 
336 
 
 BISHOP BEUNO. 
 
 Bruno, the Bishop of Herbipolitanum, sailing in the river of Danubius, 
 with Henry the Third, then emperonr, being not far from a place 
 which the Germanes call Ben Strudel, or the devouring gulfe, which 
 is neere unto Grinon, a castle in Austria, a spirit was heard clamour- 
 ing aloud, ' Ho, ho, Bishop Bruno, whither art thou traveUing? But 
 dispose of th3^selfe how thou pleasest, thou shalt be my prey and spoile.' 
 At the hearing of these words they were all stupified, and the bishop 
 with the rest crost and blest themselves. The issue was, that withiik 
 a short time after, the bishop feasting with the emperor in a castle 
 belonging to the Countesse of Esburch, a rafter fell from the roof of 
 the chamber wherein they sate, and strooke him dead at the table."— 
 Heywood's Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels. 
 
 Bishop Beuno awoke in the dead midniglit, 
 And lie heard his heart beat loud with afiiight: 
 He dreamt he had rung the palace bell, 
 And the sound it gave was his passing knelL 
 
 Bishop Bruno smiled at his fears so vain. 
 He turn'd to sleep, and he dreamt again: 
 He rung at the palace gate once more. 
 And Death was the porter that open'd the door. 
 
 He started up at the fearful dream, 
 
 And he heard at his window the screech owl scream I 
 
 Bishop Brmio slept no more that night, — 
 
 Oh ! glad was he when he saw the daylight I 
 
 Now he goes forth in proud array, 
 For he with the emperor dines to-day; 
 There was not a baron m Germany 
 That went with a nobler traiu than he. 
 
 Before and behind his soldiers ride. 
 The people throng'd to see their pride, 
 They bow'd the head, and the knee they benl. 
 But nobody blest him as he went. 
 
 So he went on stately and proud, . 
 
 When he heard a voice that cried aloud, 
 
 Ho ! ho ! Bishop Bruno ! you travel with ghe — - 
 
 But I would have ^ou know, you travel to me 1 
 
BISHOP BRUNO. 3 37 
 
 Behind and before, and on either side, 
 He look'd, but nobody he espied. 
 And the bishop at that grew cold with fear, 
 For he heard the words distinct and clear. 
 
 And when he rung at the palace bell, 
 He almost expected to hear his knell ; 
 And when the porter turn'd the key, 
 He almost expected death to see. 
 
 But soon the bishop recover'd his glee. 
 For the emperor welcom'd him royally ; 
 And now the tables were spread, and there 
 Were choicest wines and dainty fare. 
 
 And now the bishop had blest the meat. 
 When a voice was heard as he sat in his seat, — 
 With the emperor now you are dining in glee. 
 But know, bishop Bruno, you sup with me ! 
 
 The bishop then grew pale with affright, 
 
 And suddenly lost his appetite ; 
 
 All the wine and dainty cheer 
 
 Could not comfort his heart so sick with fear. 
 
 But by little and little recovered he. 
 For the wine went flowing merrily, 
 And he forgot his former dread. 
 And his cheeks again grew rosy red. 
 
 When he sat down to the royal fare 
 Bishop Bruno was the saddest man there, 
 But when the masquers entered the hail, 
 He was the merriest man of all. 
 
 Then from amid the masquer's crowd 
 
 There went a voice hollow and loud — 
 
 You have past the day, bishop Bruno, with glee I 
 
 But you must pass the night with me ! 
 
 His cheek grows pale and his eye-balls glare, 
 And stiff round his tonsure bristles his hair ; — - 
 With that there came one from the masquer's band, 
 And he took the bishop by the hand. 
 
 z 
 
338 BALLADS AND METRICAL PIECES. 
 
 The bony hand suspended his breath, 
 His marrow grew cold at the touch of death ; 
 On saints in vain he attempted to call, 
 Bishop Bruno fell dead in the palace hall. 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S COMFOETS, 
 
 AND HOW HE GAINED THEM. 
 
 You are old. Father William, the young man cried, 
 The few locks that are left you are gray ; 
 
 You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man, 
 Now tell me the reason, I pray. 
 
 In the days of my youth, Father William replied, 
 I remember'd that youth would fly fast, 
 
 And abused not my health and my vigour at first, 
 That I never might need them at last. 
 
 You are old, Father William, the young man cried. 
 And pleasures with youth pass away, 
 
 And yet you lament not the days that are gone, 
 Now tell me the reason, I pray. 
 
 In the days of my youth, Father William replied, 
 I remember'd that youth could not last ; 
 
 I thought of the future, whatever I did. 
 That I never might grieve for the past. 
 
 You are old. Father William, the young man crie:l, 
 
 And life must be hastening away ; 
 You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death! 
 
 Now tell me the reason, I pray. 
 
 I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied; 
 
 Let the cause thy attention engage ; 
 In the days of my youth I remember'd my God! 
 And he hath not forgotten my age. 
 
339 
 
 LYKICAL PIECES. 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 With cheerful step the traveller 
 
 Pursues his early way, 
 "When first the dimly-dawning east 
 
 Eeveals the rising day. 
 
 He bounds along his craggy road. 
 
 He hastens up the height, 
 And all he sees and all he hears, 
 
 But only give delight. 
 
 And if the mist retiring slow, 
 Roll round its wavy white, 
 
 He thinks the morning vapours hide 
 Some beauty from his sight. 
 
 But when behind the western clouds 
 
 Departs the fading day, 
 H ow wearily the traveller 
 
 Pursues his evening way ! 
 
 Then sorely o'er the craggy road 
 His painful footsteps creep, 
 
 And slow with many a feeble pause, 
 He labours up the steep. 
 
 And if the mists of night close round. 
 They fill his soul with fear ; 
 
 He dreads some unseen precipice, 
 Some hidden danger near. 
 
 So cheerfully does youth begin 
 Life's pleasant morning stage ; 
 
 Alas ! the evening traveller feels 
 The fears of wary age ! 
 
 z2 
 
340 
 
 THE EBB TIDE, 
 
 Slowly thy flowing tide 
 Came in, old Avon ! scarcely did mine eyes, 
 As watchfully I roam'd thy green-wood side, 
 
 Behold the gentle rise. 
 
 With many a stroke and strong 
 The labouring boatmen upw^ard plied their oara, 
 And yet the eye beheld them labouring long 
 
 Between thy winding shores. 
 
 Now down thine ebbing tide 
 The unlaboured boat falls rapidly along, 
 The solitary helms-man sits to guide 
 
 And sings an idle song. 
 
 Now o'er the rocks, that lay 
 So silent late, the shallow current roars ; 
 East flow" thy waters on their sea-ward way 
 
 Through wider-spreading shores. 
 
 Avon ! I gaze and know 
 The wisdom emblemed in thy varying way, 
 It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, 
 
 So rapidly decay. 
 
 Kingdoms that long have stood 
 And slow to strength and power attaiu'd at last, 
 Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood 
 
 Ebb to theu' ruin fast. 
 
 So tardily appears 
 The course of time to manhood's envied stag?, 
 Alas ! how hurryingly the ebbing years 
 
 Then hasten to old age 1 
 
341 
 
 THE PIG. 
 
 A COLLOQUIAL POEM. 
 
 Jacob ! I do not love to see thy nose 
 Turned up in scornful curve at yonder pig. 
 It would be well, my friend, if thou and I 
 Had, like that pig, attained the perfectness 
 Made reachable by Nature ! why dislike 
 The sow-born grunter 1 — he is obstinate, 
 Thou answerest, ugly, and the filthiest beast 
 That banquets upon offal. Now I pray you 
 Hear the pig's counsel. 
 
 Is he obstinate? 
 We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words, 
 By sophist sounds. A democratic beast, 
 He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek 
 Their profit, and not his. He hath not learnt 
 That pigs were made for man, born to be brawn'd 
 And baconiz'd ; that he must please to give 
 Just what his gracious masters please to take ; 
 Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave 
 For self-defence, the general privilege ; 
 Perhaps — hark, Jacob ! dost thou hear that horn 1 
 Woe to the young posterity of pork ! 
 Their enemy is at hand. 
 
 Again. Thou say'st 
 The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him ! 
 Those eyes have taught the lover flattery. 
 His face, — nay, Jacob, Jacob ! were it fair 
 To judge a lady in her dishabille ? 
 Fancy it drest, and with saltpetre rouged. 
 Behold his tail, my friend ; with curls like that 
 The wanton hop marries her stately spouse ; 
 So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair 
 Pings round her lover's soul the chains of love. 
 And what is beauty but the aptitude 
 Of parts harmonious? give thy fancy scope, 
 And thou wilt find that no imagineil change 
 Can beautify this beast. Place at his end 
 The starry glories of the peacock's pride ; 
 Give him the swan's white breast for his liorn-hoofs ; 
 Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves 
 
342 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss, 
 When Venus from the enamour'd sea arose ;— 
 Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him; 
 All alteration man could think, would mar 
 His pig-perfection. 
 
 The last charge — ^he lives 
 A dirty life. Here I could shelter him 
 "With noble and right-reverend precedents, 
 And show, by sanction of authority, 
 That 'tis a very honourable thing 
 To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest 
 On better ground the unanswerable defence : 
 The pig is a philosopher, who knows 
 No prejudice. Dirt] Jacob, what is dirt ? 
 If matter, — why the delicate dish that tempts 
 An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel 
 That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more. 
 If matter be not, but as sages say 
 Spirit is all, and all things visible 
 Are one, the infinitely modified, 
 Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire 
 In which he stands knee-deep 1 
 
 And there ! that breeze 
 Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile 
 That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field 
 Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise. 
 
 ODE TO A PIG, 
 
 WHILE HIS NOSE WAS BEING CORED. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! that pig — that pig ! the hideous note, 
 More loud, more dissonant, each moment grows — 
 
 Would one not think the knife was in his throat ? 
 And yet they are only boring through his nose. 
 
 You foolish beast, so rudely to withstand 
 Your master's will, to feel such idle fears ! 
 
 Why, pig, there's not a lady in the land 
 
 Who has not also bored and ring'd her ears. 
 
ODE TO A PIG. 343 
 
 Pig ! 'tis yonr master's jDleasure — then be still, 
 And hold your nose to let the u^on through ! 
 
 Dare you resist your lawful sovereign's will ? 
 Eebellious swine ! you know not what you do 1 
 
 To man o'er every beast the power was given, 
 Pig, hear the truth, and never murmur more ! 
 
 Would you rebel against the will of Heaven ? 
 You impious beast, be still, and let them bore ! 
 
 The social pig resigns his natural rights 
 When tii'st with man he covenants to live; 
 
 He barters them for safer stye delights, 
 
 For grains and wa.sh, which man alone can give. 
 
 Sure is provision on the social plan. 
 
 Secure the comforts that to each belong : 
 
 ■ Oh, hapi:)y swine ! the impartial sway of man 
 Alike protects the weak pig and the strong. 
 
 And you resist ! you struggle now because 
 
 Your master has thought fit to bore your nose ! 
 
 You grunt in flat rebellion to the laws 
 Society finds needful to impose ! 
 
 Go to the forest, piggy, and deplore 
 
 The miserable lot of savage swine ! 
 See how the young pigs fly from the great boar, 
 
 And see how coarse and scantily they dine ! 
 
 Behold their hourly danger, when who will 
 May hunt, or snare, or seize them for his food ! 
 
 Oh, hajDpy pig ! whom none presumes to kill 
 Till your protecting master thinks it good ! 
 
 And when, at last, the closing hour of life 
 Arrives (for pigs must die as well as man), 
 
 When in your throat you feel the long sharp knife, 
 And the blood trickles to the pudding pan ; 
 
 And, when at last, the death wound yawning wide, 
 Fainter and fainter grows the expiring cry, 
 
 Is there no grateful jo.v, no loyal pride, 
 
 To think tiiat lor your master s good you die ? 
 
344 
 
 THE HOLLY TREE. 
 
 READER ! hast thou ever stood to see 
 
 The holly tree ? 
 The eye that contemplates it well perceives 
 
 Its glossy leaves 
 Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
 As might confound the atheist's sophistries. 
 
 Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 
 
 Wrinkled and keen, 
 No grazing cattle through their prickly round 
 
 Can reach to wound ; 
 But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
 Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear. 
 
 III. 
 
 I love to view these things with curious eyes, 
 
 And moralize ; 
 And in the wisdom of the holly tree 
 
 Can emblems see 
 Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, 
 Such as may profit in the after-time. 
 
 So, though abroad perchance I might appear 
 
 Harsh and austere, 
 To those who on my leisure would intrude 
 
 Eeserved and rude; 
 Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, 
 Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 
 
 And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, 
 
 Some harshness show, 
 All vain asperities I day by day 
 
 Would wear away. 
 Till the smooth tem})er of my age should be 
 Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 
 
LUCRETIA. 345 
 
 VI. 
 
 And as when all the summer trees are seen 
 
 So bright and green 
 The holly leaves their fadeless hues displav 
 
 Less bright than they, 
 But when the bare and wintry woods we see 
 What then so cheerful as the holly tree 1 
 
 VII. 
 
 So serious should my youth appear among 
 
 The thoughtless throng, 
 So would I seem amid the young and gay 
 
 More grave than they. 
 That in my age as cheerful I might be 
 As the green winter of the holly tree. 
 
 LUCEETIA. 
 
 A MONODRAMA. 
 Scene, the house of COLLATINE. 
 
 Welcome, my father ! good Valerius, 
 Welcome ! and thou too, Brutus ! ye were both 
 My wedding guests, and fitly ye are come. 
 My husband — Collatine — alas ! no more 
 Lucretia's husband, for thou shalt not clasp 
 Pollution to thy bosom, — hear me on I 
 For I will tell thee all. 
 
 I sate at eve 
 Spinning amid my maidens as I wont, 
 When from the camp at Ardea Sextus came. 
 Curb down thy swelling feelings, Collatine ! 
 I little liked the man ; yet, for he came 
 From Ardea, for he brought me news of thee, 
 I gladly gave him welcome, gladly listen'd, 
 Thou c^nst not tell how gladly ! to his tAles 
 Of battles, and the long and perilous siege, 
 And when I laid me down at night to sleep, 
 'Twas with a lighten'd heart, — I knew thee safe. 
 My visions were of thee. 
 
346 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Nay hear me out ! 
 And be thou wise in vens^eance, so thy wife 
 Not vainly shall have suffered. I have wrought 
 My soul up to the business of this hour 
 That it may stir your noble spirits, prompt 
 Such glorious deeds that ages yet unborn 
 Shall bless my fate. At midnight I awoke — 
 For by my bed the villain Tarquin stood. 
 My chamber lamp gleam'd on his unsheath'd sword ; 
 That was not half so fearful as his eye, 
 His hot, red, eye ! — O Collatine — my husband ! 
 Where wert thou then ! gone was my rebel strength — 
 All power of utterance gone ! astonish'd — stunn'd, 
 I saw the coward ruffian, heard him urge 
 His damned suit, and bid me tamely yield — 
 Yield to dishonour. When he proffer'd death — 
 Oh I had leapt to meet the merciful sword ! 
 But that with most accursed vows he vow'd 
 That he would lay a dead slave by my side, 
 Murdering my spotless honour. — Collatine ! 
 Prom what an anguish have I rescued thee ! 
 And thou, my father — wretched as thou art — 
 Thou miserable, childless, poor old man — 
 Think, father, what that agony had been ! 
 Now thou mayst sorrow for me, thou mayst bless 
 The memory of thy poor, polly'^ed child. 
 
 Look if it have not kindled Brutus' eye ! 
 Mysterious man I at last I know thee now, 
 I see thy dawning glories, — to the grave 
 Not unrevenged Lucretia shall descend — 
 Not always shall her wretched country wear 
 The Tarquins' yoke, — ye will deliver Eome — 
 And I have comfort in this dreadful hour. 
 
 Thinkest thou, my husband, that I dreaded death ? 
 O Collatine ! the weapon that had gored 
 My bosom, had been ease, been happiness — 
 Elysium to the hell of his hot grasp. 
 Judge if Lucretia could have fear'd to die ! 
 
 {Stabs herself.) 
 
347 
 
 TO RECOYERY. 
 
 Recovery, where art thou ? 
 Daughter of Heaven, where shall we seek thy !ielp 1 
 Upon what hallowed fountain hast thou laid 
 
 nymph adored, thy spell 1 
 
 By the grey ocean's verge, 
 Daughter of Heaven, we seek thee, hut in vain ; 
 V/e find no healing in the breeze that sweeps 
 
 Thy thymy mountain's brow. 
 
 Where are the happy hours, 
 The sunshine that so cheer'd the morn of life ! 
 For health is fled, and with her fled the joys 
 
 That made existence dear. 
 
 1 saw the distant hills 
 
 Smile in the radiance of the orient beam, 
 And gazed delighted that anon our feet 
 Should visit scenes so fair. 
 
 I look'd abroad at noon. 
 The shadow and the storm were on the hills , 
 The crags that like a faery fabric shone 
 
 Darkness had overwhelm'd. 
 
 On you, ye coming years. 
 So fairly shone the April gleam of hope, 
 So darkly o'er the distance late so bright, 
 
 Now settle the black clouds. 
 
 Come thou and chase away 
 Sorrow and pain, the persecuting powers 
 That make the melancholy day so long, 
 
 So long the restless night. 
 
 Shall we not find thee here. 
 Recovery, on the ocean's breezy strand ? 
 Is there no healing in the gales that sweep 
 
 The thymy mountain's brow ] 
 
 I look for thy approach, 
 O life-preserving Power ! as he who strays 
 Alone in darkness o'er the pathless marsh 
 
 Watches the dawn of day. 
 
348 
 
 THE FILBERT. 
 
 Nat gather not that filbert, Nicholas, 
 
 There is a maggot there, — it is his house — 
 
 His castle — Oh commit not burglary ! 
 
 Strip him not naked, 'tis his clothes, his shell, 
 
 His bones, the very armour of his life. 
 
 And thou shalt do no murder, Nicholas ! 
 
 It were an easy thing to crack that nut, 
 
 Or with thy crackers or thy double teeth, 
 
 So easily may all things be destroyed ! 
 
 But 'tis not in the power of mortal man 
 
 To mend the fracture of a filbert shell. 
 
 There were two great men once amused themKelves 
 
 With watching maggots run their wriggling race 
 
 j^ nd wagering on their speed ; but Nick, to us 
 
 It were no sport to see the pampered worm 
 
 Roll out and then draw in his folds of fat. 
 
 Like to some barber's leathern powder bag 
 
 Wherewith he feathers, frosts, or cauliflowers 
 
 Spruce beau, or lady fair, or doctor grave. 
 
 Enough of dangers and of enemies 
 
 Hath Nature's wisdom for the worm ordained, 
 
 Increase not thou the number ! him the mouse 
 
 Gnawing with nibbling tooth the shell's defence 
 
 May from his native tenement eject ; 
 
 Him may the nut-hatch piercing with strong bill 
 
 LTnwittingly destroy, or to his hoard 
 
 The squirrel bear, at leisure to be crack'd. 
 
 Man also hath his dangers and his foes, 
 
 As this poor maggot liath, and when I muse 
 
 Upon the aches, anxieties, ana tears. 
 
 The maggot knows not, Nicholas, methinks 
 
 It were a happy metamorphosis 
 
 To be enkernelled thus : never to hear 
 
 Of wars, and of invasions, and of plots, 
 
 Kings, Jacobines, and tax-commissioners, 
 
 To feel no motion but the wind that sliook 
 
 The filbert tree, and rocked me to my rest ; 
 
 And in the middle of such exquisite food 
 
 To live luxurious ! the perfection this 
 
 Of snugness ! it were to unite at once 
 
 Hermit retirement, aldermanic bliss, 
 
 And stoic independence of mankind. 
 
349 
 
 THE BATTLE OF PULTOWA. 
 
 On Yorska's glittering waves 
 The morning sun-beams play ; 
 Pultowa's walls are throng'd 
 With eager multitudes : 
 Athwart the dusty vale 
 They strain their aching eyes, 
 Where to the fight he moves 
 The conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede.] 
 
 Him famine hath not tamed 
 
 The tamer of the brave ; 
 
 Him winter hath not quell'd, 
 When man by man his veteran troops sunk down, 
 
 Frozen to their endless sleep, 
 
 He held undaunted on ; 
 
 Him pain hath not subdued, 
 
 What though he mounts not now 
 
 The fiery steed of war, 
 Eorne on a litter to the fight he goes. 
 
 Go, iron-hearted king ! 
 
 Full of thy former fame. 
 
 Think how the humbled Dane 
 
 Crouch'd to thy victor sword ; 
 
 Think how the wretched Pole 
 
 Eesign'd his conquer'd crown ; 
 
 Go iron-hearted king ! 
 Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast — 
 The death-day of thy glory, Charles, hath dawn'J ; 
 
 Proud Swede, the sun hath risen 
 
 That on thy shame shall set ! 
 
 Now bend thine head from heaven, 
 Now Patkul be revenged ! 
 For o'er that bloody Swede 
 Ruin hath rais'd his arm — • 
 For ere the night descends 
 His veteran host subdued. 
 His laurels blasted to revive no mor 
 He flies before the foe I 
 
350 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Long years of hope deceived 
 That conquered Swede must provGj 
 Patkul thou art avenged I 
 Long years of idleness 
 That restless soul must bear, 
 Patkul thou art avenged ! 
 The despot's savage anger took thy life, 
 Thy death has stabb'd his fame. 
 
 ST. BAETHOLOMEWS DAY. 
 
 The night is come, no fears disturb 
 
 The dreams of innocence ; 
 They trust in kingly faith and kingly oaths^ 
 
 They sleep — alas ! they sleep ! 
 
 Go to the palace wouldst thou know 
 
 How hideous night can be ; 
 Eye is not closed in those accursed walls, 
 
 Nor heart at quiet there. 
 
 The monarch from the window leans, 
 
 He listens to the night, 
 And with a horrible and eager hope 
 
 Awaits the midnight bell. 
 
 Oh, he has hell within him now ! 
 
 God, always art thou just ! 
 For innocence can never know such pangs 
 
 As pierce successful guilt. 
 
 He looks abroad and all is still. 
 
 Hark ! — now the midnight bell 
 Sounds through the silence of the night alone | 
 
 And now the signal gun ! 
 
 Thy hand is on him, righteous God ! 
 
 He hears the frantic shriek, . 
 He hears the glorying yells of massacre, 
 
 And he repents too late. 
 
THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR. 351 
 
 He hears the murderer's savage shout, 
 
 He hears the groan of death ; 
 In vain they fly, — soldiers defenceless now. 
 
 Women, old men, and babes, 
 
 Bighteous and just art thou, O God ! 
 . For at his dying hour 
 
 Those shrieks and groans re-echoed in his ear 
 He heard that murderous yell ! 
 
 They throng'd around his midnight couch 
 
 The phantoms of the slain, — 
 It preyed like poison on his powers of life, — 
 
 Righteous art thou, O God ! 
 
 Spirits who suffered at that houi' 
 
 For freedom and for ftiith. 
 Ye saw your country bent beneath the yoka, 
 
 Her faith and freedom crush'd. 
 
 And like a giant from his sleep 
 
 Ye saw when France awoke ; 
 Ye saw the people burst their double chain, 
 
 And ye had joy in heaven. 
 
 THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOF.. 
 
 And wherefore do the poor complain ? 
 
 The rich man asked of me ; — 
 Come walk abroad with me, I said, 
 
 And I will answer thee. 
 
 'Twas evening and the frozen streets 
 
 Were cheerless to behold. 
 And we were wrapt and coated well. 
 
 And yet we were a-cold. 
 
 We met an old bare-headed man, 
 His locks were few and white, 
 
 I ask'd him what he did abroad 
 In that cold winter's night: 
 
352 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 'Twas bitter keen, indeed, he said, 
 But at home no fire had he, 
 
 And therefore he had come abroad 
 To ask for charity. 
 
 "We met a young bare-footed child, 
 And she begg'd loud and bold, 
 
 I ask'd her what she did abroad 
 When the wind it blew so cold ; 
 
 She said her father was at home, 
 
 And he lay sick in bed. 
 And therefore was it she was sent 
 
 Abroad to ]beg for bread. 
 
 "We saw a woman sitting down 
 
 Upon a stone to rest, 
 She had a baby at her back 
 
 And another at her breast ; 
 
 I ask'd her why she loiter'd there, 
 When the night-wind was so chill - — 
 
 She turn'd her head and bade the child 
 That scream'd behind be still. 
 
 She told us that her husband served 
 
 A soldier, far away, 
 And therefore to her parish she 
 
 Was begging back her way. 
 
 We met a girl, her dress was loose^ 
 And sunken was her eye. 
 
 Who with the wanton's hollow voice 
 Addi'ess'd the passers by; 
 
 I ask'd her what there was in guill 
 That could her heart allure 
 
 To shame, disease, and late remorse ? 
 She answer'd, she was poor. 
 
 I turn'd me to the rich man then. 
 
 For silently stood he, — 
 You ask'd me why the poor compLiin, 
 
 And these have answer'd thee I 
 
353 
 
 TO A BEE. 
 
 Thou -wert out betimes, thou busy busy bee ! 
 
 As abroad I took my early way, 
 
 Before the cow from her resting place 
 
 Had risen up and left her trace 
 
 On the meadow, with dew so gray, 
 I saw thee, thou busy busy bee. 
 
 Thou wert working late, thou busy busy bee ! 
 
 After the fall of the cistus flower, 
 
 When the primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst, 
 
 I heard thee last, as I saw thee first ; 
 
 In the silence of the evening hour, 
 I heard thee, thou busy busy bee. 
 
 Thou art a miser, thou busy busy bee ! 
 
 Late and early at employ ; 
 
 Still on thy golden stores intent, 
 
 Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent. 
 
 What thy winter will never enjoy; 
 Wise lesson this for me, thou busy busy bee ! 
 
 Little dost thou think, thou busy busy bee ! 
 
 What is the end of thy toil. 
 
 When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone 
 
 And all thy work for the year is done, 
 
 Thy master comes for the spoil. 
 Woe then for thee, thou busy busy bee ! 
 
 METEICAL LETTEE. 
 
 WRITTEN FROM LONDON. 
 
 MARGA.21ET I my cousin, — nay you must not smile, 
 I love the homely and familiar phrase ; 
 And I will call thee cousin Margaret, 
 However quaint amid the measured line, 
 The good old term appears. Oh ! it looks ill 
 When deUcate tongues disclaim old term of kin, 
 Sirring and madaming as civilly 
 As if the road between the hes-rt and lips 
 
 A A 
 
4- LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Were siTcli a weary and Laplandish way, 
 
 That the poor travellers came to the red gates 
 
 Half frozen. Trust me, Cl usin Margaret, 
 
 For many a day my memory hath played 
 
 The creditor with me, on your account, 
 
 And made me shame to think that I should owe 
 
 So long a debt of kindness. But in truth, 
 
 Like Christian on his pilgrimage, T bear 
 
 So heavy a pack of business, that albeit 
 
 I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours' race 
 
 Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I 
 
 That for a moment you should lay to me 
 
 Unkind neglect : mine, Margaret, is a heart 
 
 That smokes not, yet methinks there should be so:iie 
 
 Who know how warm it beats. I am not one 
 
 Who can play off my smiles and courtesies 
 
 To every lady of her lap-dog tired, 
 
 Who wants a plaything ; I am no sworn friend 
 
 Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love ; 
 
 Mine are no mushroom feelings which spring up 
 
 At once without a seed and take no root, 
 
 Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere, 
 
 The little circle of domestic life, 
 
 I would be known and loved ; the world beyond 
 
 Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think 
 
 That you should know me well, for you and I 
 
 Grew up together, and when we look back 
 
 Upon old times our recollections paint 
 
 The same familiar faces. Did I wield 
 
 The wand of Merlin's magic I would make 
 
 Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, 
 
 Ay, a new ark, as in that other flood 
 
 Which cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth ; 
 
 The sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle 
 
 Like that where whilome old Apollidoia 
 
 Built up his blameless spell ; and I woL'ld bid 
 
 The sea nymphs pile around their corai bowers, 
 
 That we might stand upon the beach, and mark 
 
 The far-off breakers shower their sdver spray 
 
 And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound 
 
 Told us that never mariner should reach 
 
 Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle 
 
 We might renew the days of infancy, 
 
 And life like a long childhood pass away, 
 
THE VICTORY. 355 
 
 "Without one care. It may be, Margaret, 
 That I shall yet be gathered to my friends ; 
 For I am not one of those who live estranged 
 Of choice, tUl at the last they join their race 
 In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, 
 Like my old friend the pilgrim, this huge pack 
 So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine 
 Eight pleasantly will end our pilgrimage. 
 If not, if I should never get beyond 
 This Vanity town, there is another world. 
 Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, 
 I gaze at night into the boundless sky, 
 And think that I shall there be born again, 
 The exalted native of some better star ; 
 And like the rude American I hope 
 To find in heaven the thinos I loved on earth. 
 
 THE VICTORY. 
 
 Hark ! how the church-bells' thundering harmony 
 Stuns the glad ear ! tidings of joy have come, 
 Good tidings of great joy ! two gallant ships 
 Met on the element, — they met, they fought 
 A desperate fight ! — good tidings of great joy ! 
 Old England triumphed ! yet another day 
 Of glory for the ruler of the waves ! 
 For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause, 
 They have their passing paragraphs of praise 
 And are forgotten. 
 
 There was one who died 
 In that day's glory, whose obscurer name 
 No proud historian's page will chronicle. 
 Peace to his honest soul I I read his name, 
 'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God 
 The sound was not familiar to mine ear. 
 But it was told me after that this man 
 "Was one whom lawful violence had forced 
 From his own home and wife and little ones, 
 Who by his labour lived ; that he was one 
 Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel 
 
 aa2 
 
356 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 A husband's love, a father's anxiousnessj 
 That from the wages of his toil he fed 
 The distant dear ones, and would talk of them 
 At midnight when he trod the silent deck 
 "With him he valued, — ^talk of them, of joys 
 Which he had known — oh God ! and of the hour 
 When they should meet again, till his full heart 
 His manly heart, at last would overflow 
 Even like a child's with very tenderness. 
 Peace to his honest spirit ! suddenly 
 It came, and merciful the ball of death, 
 For it came suddenly and shattered him, 
 And left no moment's agonizing thought 
 On those he loved so well. 
 
 He ocean-deep 
 Now lies at rest. Be thou her comforter, 
 Who art the widow's friend ! Man does not know 
 What a cold sickness made her blood run back, 
 When first she heard the tidings of the fight ; 
 Man does not know with what a dreadful hope 
 She listened to the names of those who died; 
 Man does not know, or knowing, will not heed, 
 With what an agony of tenderness 
 She gazed upon her children, and behold 
 His image who was gone. Oh God ! be thou. 
 Who art the widow's friend, her comforter I 
 
 TO A SPIDEE. 
 
 Spider ! thou need'st not run in fear about 
 
 To shun my curious eyes, 
 I wont humanely crush thy bowels out. 
 Lest thou should'st eat the flies, — 
 Nor will I roast thee with a damn'd delight 
 Thy strange instinctive fortitude to see, 
 For there is one who might 
 One day roast me. 
 
 Thou art welcome to a rhymer sore-perplext, 
 
 The subject of his verse: 
 There's many a one who on a better text 
 
 Perhaps might comment worse. 
 
TO A SPIDER. 357 
 
 Then shrink not, old free-mason, from my view. 
 But quietly like me spin out the line ; 
 Do thou thy work pursue 
 As I will mine. 
 
 Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the waya 
 
 Of Satan, sire of lies ; 
 Hell's huge black spider for mankind he lays 
 
 His toils as thou for flies. 
 When Betty's busy eye runs round the room 
 Woe to that nice geometry, if seen ! 
 But where is he whose broom 
 The earth shall clean 1 
 
 Spider ! of old thy flimsy webs were thought, 
 
 And 'twas a likeness true, 
 To emblem laws in which the weak are caught 
 
 But which the strong break through. 
 A.nd if a victim in thy toils is ta'en, 
 Like some poor client is that wretched fly— 
 I'll warrant thee thoult draiu 
 His life-blood dry. 
 
 And is not thy weak work like human schemes 
 
 And care on earth employ'd ? 
 Such are young hopes and love's delightful dreams 
 
 So easily destroyed ! 
 So does the statesman, whilst the avengers sleep, 
 Self-deem'd secure, his wiles in secret lay. 
 Soon shall destruction sweep 
 His work away. 
 
 Thou busy labourer ! one resemblance more 
 
 Shall yet the verse prolong, 
 For spider, thou art like the poet poor, 
 
 Whom thou hast help'd in song. 
 Both busily our needful food to win. 
 
 We work, as nature taught, with ceaseless pdius, 
 Thy bowels thou dost spin, 
 I spin my brains. 
 
358 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. 
 
 It is the funeral march. T did not think 
 
 That tliere had been such magic in sweet sounds ! 
 
 Hark ! from the blacken'd cymbal that dead tone — 
 
 It awes the very rabble multitude, 
 
 They follow silently, their earnest brows 
 
 Lifted in solemn thought. 'Tis not the pomp 
 
 And pageantry of death that with such force 
 
 Arrests the sense, — the mute and mourning train, 
 
 The white plume nodding o'er the sable hearse 
 
 Had past unheeded, or perchance awoke 
 
 A serious smile upon the poor man's cheek 
 
 At pride's last triumph. Now these measur'd sounds 
 
 This universal language, to the heart 
 
 Speak instant, and on all these various minds 
 
 Compel one feehng. 
 
 But such better thoughts 
 Will pass away, how soon ! and these who here 
 Are following their dead comrade to the grave, 
 Ere the night fall, will in their revelry 
 Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life 
 Unnaturally rent, a man who knew 
 No resting place, no dear delights of home, 
 Belike who never saw his children's face, 
 Whose children knew no father, he is gone, 
 Dropt from existence, like the withered leaf 
 That from the summer tree is swept away. 
 Its loss unseen. She hears not of his death 
 Who bore him, and already for her son 
 Her tears of bitterness are shed : when fii'st 
 He had put on the livery of blood, 
 She wept him dead to her. 
 
 We are indeed 
 Clay in the potter's hand ! one favour'd mind 
 Scarce lower than the angels, shall explore 
 The ways of nature, whilst his fellow-man 
 Fram'd with like miracle the work of God, 
 Must as the unreasonable beast drag on 
 A life of labour, like this soldier here. 
 His wondrous faculties bestow'd in vain 
 Be moulded by his fate till he becomes 
 A mere machine of murder. 
 
359 
 
 ELEGY ON A QUID OF TOBACCO. 
 
 It lay before me on the close-grazed grass. 
 
 Beside my path, an old tobacco quid : 
 And shall I by the mute adviser pass 
 
 Without one serious thought ? now heaven forbid ! 
 
 Perhaps some idle drunkard threw thee there, 
 Some husband, spendthrift of his weekly hu-e, 
 
 One who for wife and children takes no care. 
 But sits and tipples by the alehouse fire. 
 
 Ah ! luckless was the day he learnt to chew ! 
 
 Embryo of ills the quid that pleas'd him first ! 
 Thirsty from that unhajDpy quid he grew, 
 
 Then to the alehouse went to quench his thirst. 
 
 So great events from causes small arise, 
 The forest oak was once an acorn seed: 
 
 And many a wretch from drunkenness who dies, 
 Owes all his evils to the Indian weed. 
 
 Let not temptation, mortal, ere come nigh ! 
 
 Suspect some ambush in the parsley hid ! 
 From the first kiss of love ye maidens fly ! 
 
 Ye youths avoid the first tobacco quid ! 
 
 Perhaps I wrong thee, O thou veteran chaw, 
 
 And better thoughts my musings should engage ; 
 
 That thou wert rounded in some toothless jaw, 
 The joy, perhaps, of solitary age. 
 
 One who has suffered fortune's hardest knocks, 
 Poor, and with none to tend on his grey hairs, 
 
 Yet has a friend in his tobacco-box, 
 
 And whilst he rolls his quid, forgets his cares. 
 
 Even so it is with human happiness, 
 
 Each seeks his own according to his whim ; 
 
 One toils for wealth, one fame alone can bless. 
 One asks a quid, a quid is all to him. 
 
S60 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 O veteran chaw, thy fibres savoury strong. 
 
 Whilst ought remain'd to chew thy master chew'd, 
 
 Then cast thee here, when all thy juice was gone, 
 Emblem of selfish man's ingratitude ! 
 
 A happy man, O cast-oflf quid, is he 
 
 Who, like as thou, has comforted the poor. 
 
 Happy his age, who knows himself like thee, 
 Thou didst thy duty, man can do no more. 
 
 TO A FEIEND SETTLED IN THE C0U:NTRY. 
 
 EiCHARD, the lot which fate to thee has given, 
 Almost excites my envy. This green field 
 Sweet solace to the wearied mind must yield ; 
 
 And yonder wide circumference of heaven, 
 At morn or when the day-star rides on high, 
 
 Or when the calm and mellowed light of even 
 Softens the glory of the western sky. 
 Spreads only varied beauties to thine eye. 
 
 And when these scenes, these lovely scenes so fair, 
 Hill, vale, and wood, are hidden from thy sight, 
 
 Still through the deepness of the quiet air. 
 Canst thou behold the radiant host of night, 
 And send thy spirit through the infinite, 
 
 Till lofty contemplation end in prayer. 
 
 Eichard, the lot which fate to thee has given, 
 
 I not unenvying shall recall to mind, 
 
 In that foul town, by other fate confined. 
 
 Where never running brook, nor verdant field, 
 Nor yonder wide circumference of heaven, 
 
 Sweet solace to the weai'ied soul can yield. 
 
361 
 
 COOL KEFLECTIONS DUEING A 
 MIDSUMMER WALK. 
 
 O spare me — spare me, Phoebus ! if, indeed, 
 
 Thou hast not let another Phaeton 
 
 Drive earthward thy fierce steeds and fiery car ; 
 
 Mercy ! I melt ! I melt ! no tree — no bush, 
 
 No shelter ! not a breath of stuTing air 
 
 East, west, or north, or south ! dear god of day, 
 
 Put on thy night-cap ! — crop thy locks of light, 
 
 And be in the fashion ! turn thy back upon us, 
 
 And let thy beams flow upward ! make it night 
 
 Instead of noon ! one little miracle, 
 
 In pity, gentle Phoebus ! 
 
 What a joy. 
 Oh, what a joy to be a seal and flounder, 
 On an ice-island ! or to have a den 
 With the white bear, cavern'd in polar snow! 
 It were a comfort to shake hands with death — 
 He has a rare cold hand ! to wrap one's self 
 In the gift shirt Deianeira sent. 
 Dipt m the blood of Nessus, just to keep 
 The sun ofi", — or toast cheese for Beelzebub, 
 That were a cool employment to this journey 
 Along a road whose white intensity 
 Would now make platina uncongelable. 
 Like quicksilver. 
 
 Were it midnight, I should walk 
 Self-lanthorn'd, saturate with sun-beams. Jove! 
 O gentle Jove ! have mercy, and once more 
 Kick that obdurate Phoebus out of heaven. 
 Give Boreas the wind-cholic, till he roars 
 Eor cardimum, and drinks down peppermint, 
 Making what's left as precious as Tokay. 
 Send Mercury to salivate the sky 
 Till it dissolves in rain. O gentle Jove ! 
 But some such little kindness to a wi-etch 
 Who feels his marrow spoiling his best coat — 
 Who swells with calorique as if a Prester 
 Had leavened every limb with poison-yeast — 
 Lend me thine eagle just to flap his wings. 
 And ikn me, and I will build temples to thee 
 And turn true pagan. 
 
362 LYKICAL PIECES. 
 
 Not a cloud nor breeze — 
 
 you most heathen deities ! if ever 
 
 My bones reach home (for, for the flesh upon them 
 That hath resolved itself into a dew), 
 
 1 shall have learnt owl-wisdom. Most vile Phoebus, 
 Set me a Persian sun-idolater 
 
 Upon this turnpike road, and I'll convert him 
 
 With no inquisitorial argument 
 
 But thy own fires. Now woe be to me, wretch, 
 
 That I was in a heretic country born ! 
 
 Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach, 
 
 And burn away the calx of their offences 
 
 In that great purgatory crucible, 
 
 Help me, O Jupiter! my poor complexion I 
 
 I am made a copper-Indian of already. 
 
 And if no kindly cloud will parasol me, 
 
 My very cellular membrane will be changed— 
 
 I shall be negrofied. 
 
 A brook ! a brook ! 
 Oh what a sweet cool sound! 
 
 'Tis very nectar! 
 It runs like life through every streugthen'd limb — 
 Nymph of the stream, now take a grateiul prayer. 
 
 SNUFF. 
 
 A DELICATE pinch ! oh how it tingles up 
 The titillated nose, and fills the eyes 
 And breast, till in one comfortable sneeze 
 The full collected pleasure bursts at last I 
 Most rare Columbus ! thou shalt be for this 
 The only Christopher in my kalendar. 
 Why, but for thee, the uses of the nose 
 Were half unknown, and its capacity 
 Of joy. The summer gale that from the heath, 
 At midnoon glittering with the golden furze. 
 Bears its balsamic odours, but provokes, 
 Not satisfies the sense ; and all the flowers, 
 That with their unsubstantial fragrance tempt 
 And disappoint, bloom for so short a space, 
 
TO A FRIEND EXPRESSING A WISH TO TRAVEL. 3G3 
 
 That half the year the nostrils would keep lent, 
 
 But that the kmd tobacconist admits 
 
 No winter in his work ; when nature sleeps 
 
 His wheels roll on, and still administer 
 
 A plenitude of joy, a tangible smell. 
 
 What is Peru and those Brazilian mines 
 
 To thee, Virginia ? miserable realms. 
 
 They furnish gold for knaves and gems for fools ' 
 
 But thine are common comforts ! to omit 
 
 Pipe-panegyric and tobacco praise. 
 
 Think what the general joy the snuff-box gives, 
 
 Europe, and far above Pizarro's name 
 
 Write Raleigh in thy records of renown ! 
 
 Him let the school-boy bless if he behold 
 
 His master's box produced, for when he sees 
 
 The thumb and finger of authority 
 
 Stuff'd up the nostrils, when hat, head, and wig 
 
 Shake all ; when on the waistcoat black the dust 
 
 Or drop falls brown, soon shall the brow severe 
 
 Eelax, and from vituperative lips 
 
 Words that of birch remind not, sounds of praise, 
 
 And jokes that must be laugh'd at shall proceed.. 
 
 TO A FEIEND EXPRESSING A WISH TO 
 TRAVEL. 
 
 Dost thou, ihen, listening to the traveller's tale 
 Of mountainous wilds, and towns of ancient fxme, 
 And spacious bays, and streams renown'd of name 
 
 That roll their plenty through the freshen'd vale ; 
 
 Dost thou then long to voyage far away, 
 
 And visit other lands, that thou mayest view 
 These varied scenes so beautiful and new ? 
 
 Thou dost not know how sad it is to stray 
 Amid a foreign land, thyself unknown, 
 
 And when o'erwearied with the toilsome day, 
 To rest at eve and feel thyself alone. 
 
 Delightful sui-e it is at early morning 
 
364 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 To see the sun-"beam shine on scenes so fair, 
 And when the eve the mountain heights adorning 
 
 Sinks slow, empurpling the luxurious air. 
 Pleasant it is at times like these to roam, 
 
 But wouldst thou not at night, confined within 
 
 Thy foul and comfortless and lonely inn, 
 Eemember with a sigh the joys of home ? 
 
 THE DEATH OF WALLACE. 
 
 Jot, joy in London now! 
 He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to death, 
 At length the traitor meets the traitor's doom, 
 
 Joy, joy in London now.' 
 
 He on a sledge is drawn. 
 His strong right arm unweapon'd and in chains, 
 And garlanded around his helmless head 
 
 The laurel wreath of scorn. 
 
 They throng to view him now 
 Who in the field had fled before his sword. 
 Who at the name of Wallace once grew pale 
 
 And faltered out a prayer. 
 
 Yes, they can meet his eye. 
 That only beams with patient courage now ; 
 Yes, they can gaze upon those manly limbs 
 
 Defenceless now and bound. 
 
 And that eye did not shrink 
 As he beheld the pomp of infamy, 
 !Nor did one rebel feeling shake those limbs 
 
 When the last moment came. 
 
 What though suspended sense 
 Was by their danmed cruelty revived ; 
 What though ingenious vengeance lengthened life 
 
 To fell protracted death — 
 
TO A FRIEND. 365 
 
 Wliat though the hangman's hand 
 Graspt in his living breast the heaving heart, 
 In the last agony, the last sick pang, 
 
 Wallace had comfort still. 
 
 He called to mind his deeds 
 Done for his country in the embattled field ; 
 He thought of that good cause for which he died, 
 
 And it was joy in death ! 
 
 Go, Edward, triumph now ! 
 Cambria is fallen, and Scotland's strength is crush'd ; 
 On Wallace, on Llewellyn's mangled limbs 
 
 The fowls of heaven have fed. 
 
 Unrivalled, unopposed, 
 Iro, Edward, full of glory, to thy grave ! 
 The weight of patriot blood upon thy soul, 
 
 Go, Edward, to thy God! 
 
 TO A FRIEND, 
 
 INQUIRING IF I WOULD LIVE OVER MY YOUTH AGAIN. 
 
 Do I regret the past ? 
 
 Would I again live o'er 
 
 The morning hours of life ? 
 
 Nay, William, nay, not so! 
 In the warm joyaunce of the summer sua 
 
 I do not wish again 
 
 The changeful April day. 
 
 Nay, William, nay, not so! 
 
 Safe haven'd from the sea 
 
 I would not tempt again 
 
 The uncertain ocean's wrath. 
 Praise be to him who made me what I am, 
 
 Other I would not be. 
 Why is it pleasant then to sit and talk 
 
 Of days that are no more ? 
 
 When in his own dear home 
 
 The traveller rests at last, 
 And tells how often in his wanderings 
 
366 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 The thought of those far off 
 
 Has made his eyes o'erflow 
 
 With no umnanly tears ; 
 
 Delighted, he recalls 
 Tliroiigh what fair scenes his charmed feet have trod. 
 But ever when he tells of perils past, 
 
 And troubles now no more, 
 His eyes most sparkle, and a readier joy 
 
 Flows rapid to his heart. 
 
 'No, William, no, I would not live again 
 
 The morning hours of life ; 
 
 I would not be again 
 
 The slave of hope and fear ; 
 
 T would not learn again 
 The wisdom by experience hardly taught. 
 
 To me the past presents 
 
 No object for regret ; 
 
 To me the present gives 
 
 All cause for full content ; — 
 The future, — it is now the cheerful noon^ 
 And on the sunny-smiling fields I gaze 
 
 With eyes alive to joy; 
 
 When the dark night descends, 
 My weary lids I willingly shall close, 
 
 Again to wake in light. 
 
 THE OAK OF OUR FATHEES. 
 
 Alas for the oak of our fathers that stood 
 
 In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood ! 
 
 It grew and it flourish'd for many an age, 
 
 And many a tempest wreak'd on it its rage, 
 
 But when its strong branches were bent with the blast, 
 
 It struck its roots deeper and flourish'd more fast. 
 
 Its head tower'd high, and its branches spread round, 
 For its roots were struck deep, and its heart it was sound ; 
 The bees o'er its honey-dew'd foliage play'd, 
 And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade. 
 
EEMEMBRANCE. 367 
 
 The oak of our fathers to freedom was dear, 
 
 Its leaves were her crown, and its wood was lier spear. 
 
 Alas for the oak of our fathers that stood 
 
 In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood ! 
 
 There crept up an ivy and clung round the trunk, 
 It struck in its mouths and its juices it drunk ; 
 The branches grew sickly, deprived of their food, 
 And the oak was no longer the pride of the wood. 
 
 The foresters saw and they gather'd around, 
 Its roots still were fast, and its heart still was sound 
 They lopt off the boughs that so beautiful spread, 
 But the ivy they spared on its vitals that fed. 
 
 No longer the bees o'er its honey-dews play'd. 
 Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its shade ; 
 Lopt and mangled the trunk in its ruin is seen, 
 A monument now what its beauty has been. 
 
 The oak has received its incurable wound ; 
 They have loosened the roots, though theheart maybe sound; 
 What the travellers at distance green-flourishing see, 
 Are the leaves of the ivy that ruined the tree. 
 
 Alas for the oak of our fathers that stood 
 
 In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood ! 
 
 EEMEMBRANCE. 
 
 " The remembrance of youth is a sigh." — Alt. 
 
 Man hath a weary pilgrimage 
 
 As through the world he wends ; 
 On every stage from youth to age 
 
 Still discontent attends ; 
 With heaviness he casts his eye 
 
 Upon the road before, 
 And stiU remembers with a sigh 
 
 The days that are no more. 
 
 To school the little exile goes, 
 
 Torn from his mother's arms, — 
 
 What then shall soothe his earliest woes. 
 When novelty hath lost its charms ? 
 
368 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Condemn'd to suffer through the day 
 Kestraints which no rewards repay, 
 
 And cares where love has no concern, 
 Hope lightens as she counts the hours 
 
 That hasten his return. 
 From hard control and tyrant rules 
 The unfeeling discipline of schools, 
 
 The child's sad thoughts will roam, 
 And tears will struggle in his eye 
 While he remembers with a sigh 
 
 The comforts of his home. 
 
 Youth comes ; the toils and cares of life 
 
 Torment the restless mind : 
 Where shall the tu-ed and harass'd heart 
 
 Its consolation find ? 
 Then is not youth as fancy tells 
 
 Life's summer prime of joy ? 
 Ah no ! for hopes too long delayed 
 And feelings blasted or betrayed, 
 
 The fabled bliss destroy, 
 And he remembers with a sigh 
 The careless days of infancy. 
 
 Maturer manhood now arrives, 
 
 And other thoughts come on, 
 But with the baseless hopes of youth 
 
 Its generous warmth is gone ; 
 Cold calculating cares succeed. 
 The timid thought, the wary deed, 
 
 The dull realities of truth ; 
 Back on the past he tui-ns his eye 
 Bemembering with an envious sigh 
 
 The happy dreams of youth. 
 
 So reaches he the latter stage 
 Of this our mortal pilgrimage 
 
 With feeble step and slow ; 
 New ills that latter stage await 
 And old experience learns too late 
 
 That all is vanity below. 
 Life's vain delusions are gone by, 
 
 Its idle hopes are o'er, 
 Yet age remembers with a sigh 
 
 The days that are no more. 
 
3G9 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 " Betaitene the cytee and the cliirche of Bethlehem, is the felde 
 Floridus, tliat is to seyue, the felde floriched. For als moche as a fayre 
 mayden was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that she hadde don 
 lornicacioun, for wliiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be 
 brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre 
 began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that 
 als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synns, that he wold help hire, 
 and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfuUe grace : and 
 whanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon was 
 the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, 
 becomen white Roseres, fuUe of roses, and theise werein the first 
 fioseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. 
 And thus was this maiden saved be the grace of God." — The Voiage 
 and Travaile of Sir John Maimdeville. 
 
 Nat Edith I spare the rose ; — it lives, it lives, 
 
 It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh'd 
 
 The dews of night ; let not thy gentle hand 
 
 Tear its life-strings asunder, and destroy 
 
 The sense of being ! — Why that infidel smile ? 
 
 Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful, 
 
 And thou shalt have a tale of other times, 
 
 For I am skill'd in legendary lore, 
 
 So thou wilt let it live. There was a time 
 
 Ere this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms, 
 
 Bedeck'd the bowers of earth. Thou hast not lieard 
 
 How first by miracle its fragrant leaves 
 
 Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness. 
 
 There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid 
 
 And Zillah was her name, so passing fair 
 
 That all Judea spake the damsel's praise. 
 
 He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance 
 
 How it revealed her soul, and what a soul 
 
 Beam'd in the mild effulgence, woe was he ! 
 
 For not in solitude, for not in crowds. 
 
 Might he escape remembrance, nor avoid 
 
 Her imaged form which followed every where, 
 
 And filled the heart, and fix'd the absent eye. 
 
 Woe was he, for her bosom own'd no love 
 
 Save the strong ardours of religious zeal, 
 
 For Zillah on her God had centered all 
 
 Her spirit's deep affections. So for her 
 
 Her tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverenced 
 
 The obdm^ate virtue that destroyed their hopes. 
 
 B B 
 
370 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 One man there was, a vain and wretched man, 
 
 Who saw, desh-ed, despair'd, and hated her. 
 
 His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek 
 
 Even till the flush of angry modesty 
 
 Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. 
 
 She loath'd the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, 
 
 And the strong workings of brute selfishness 
 
 Had moulded his broad features ; and she feai-'d 
 
 The bitterness of wounded vanity 
 
 That with a fiendish hue would overcast 
 
 His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, 
 
 For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plot 
 
 Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad 
 
 Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports 
 
 "W fiich soon obtain belief ; how Zillah's eye 
 
 Wli^n in the temple heaven-ward it was rais'd 
 
 Did -'wim with rapturous zeal, but there were those 
 
 Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance 
 
 With other feelings filled ; — that 'twas a task 
 
 Of easy sort to play the saint by day 
 
 Before the public eye, but that all eyes 
 
 Were closed at night ; — that Zillah's life was foul. 
 
 Yea, forfeit to the law. 
 
 Shame — shame to man 
 That he should trust so easily the tongue 
 Which stabs another's fame ! the ill report 
 Was heard, repeated, and believed, — and soon. 
 For Hamuel by his damned artifice 
 Produced such semblances of guilt, the maid 
 Was judged to shameful death. 
 
 Without the walls 
 There was a barren field ; a place abhorr'd, 
 For it was there where wretched criminals 
 Eeceived their death ; and there they built the stake, 
 And piled the fuel round, which should consume 
 The accused maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd, 
 By God and man. The assembled Bethlemites 
 Beheld the scene, and when they saw the maid 
 Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness 
 She lifted up her patient looks to heaven, 
 They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts 
 Stood Hamuel near the pile ; him savage joy 
 Led thitherward, but now within his heart 
 Unwonted feelings stirr'd, and the first pangs 
 
THE traveller's RETURN. 371 
 
 Of wakening guilt, anticipating hell. 
 
 The eye of Zillah as it glanced around 
 
 Fell on the murderer once, but not in wrath ; 
 
 And therefore like a dagger it had fallen, 
 
 Had struck into his soul a cureless wound. 
 
 Conscience ! thou God within us ! not in the hour 
 
 Of triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch, 
 
 Not in the hour of mfamy and death 
 
 Forsake the virtuous ! they draw near the stake, — 
 
 And lo I the torch ! — hold hold your erring haads ! 
 
 Yet quench the rising flames ! — they rise ! they spread ! 
 
 They reach the suffering maid I Oh God protect 
 
 The innocent one I 
 
 They rose, they spread, they raged ;— 
 The breath of God went forth ; the ascending fii-e 
 Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames 
 In one long lightning flash concentrating, 
 Darted and blasted Hamuel, — him alone. 
 Hark ! — what a fearful scream the multitude 
 Pour forth ! — and yet more miracles ! the stake 
 Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves, and bowers. 
 The innocent maid, and roses bloom around, 
 Now first beheld since Paradise was lost. 
 And fill with Eden odours all the air. 
 
 THE TEAYELLER'S EETUEN. 
 
 Sweet to the morning traveller 
 
 The sky-lark's early song. 
 Whose twinkling wings are seen at fits 
 
 The dewy light among. 
 
 And cheering to the traveller 
 The gales that round him play, 
 
 When faint and heavily he drags 
 Along his noon-tide way. 
 
 And when beneath the unclouded sun 
 
 Full wearily toib he. 
 The flowing water makes to him 
 
 A pleasant melody. 
 
 bb2 
 
372 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 And when the evening light decays 
 And all is calm around, 
 
 There is sweet music to his ear 
 In the distant sheep-bells' sound. 
 
 But oh ! of all delightful sounds 
 Of evening or of morn, 
 
 The sweetest is the voice of love. 
 That welcomes his return. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Kay William, nay, not so ; the changeful year 
 
 In all its due successions to my sight 
 
 Presents but varied beauties, transient all, 
 
 All in their season good. These fading leaves 
 
 That with then- rich variety of hues 
 
 Make yonder forest in the slanting sun 
 
 So beautiful, in you awake the thought 
 
 Of winter, cold, drear winter, when these trees 
 
 Each like a fleshless skeleton shall stretch 
 
 Its bare brown boughs ; when not a flower shall spread 
 
 Its colours to the day, and not a bird 
 
 Carol its joyaunce — but all nature wear 
 
 One sullen aspect, bleak and desolate, 
 
 To eye, ear, feeling, comfortless alike. 
 
 To me their many-coloured beauties speak 
 
 Of times of merriment and festival. 
 
 The year's best holyday: I call to mind 
 
 The school-boy days, when in the falling leaves 
 
 I saw with eager hope the pleasant sign 
 
 Of coming Christmas, when at morn I took 
 
 My wooden kalender, and counting up 
 
 Once more its often-told account, smooth'd off 
 
 Each day with more delight the daily notch. 
 
 To you the beauties oi the autumnal year 
 
 Make mournful emblems, and you think of man 
 
 Doom'd to the grave's long winter, spirit-broke, 
 
 Bending beneath the burthen of his years, 
 
 Sense-duird and fretful, " fall of aches and pains " 
 
HISTORY. 373 
 
 Yet clinging still to life. To me they shew 
 
 The calm decay of nature, when the mind 
 
 Retains its strength, and in the languid eye 
 
 Eeligion's holy hopes kindle a joy 
 
 That makes old age look lovely. All to you 
 
 Is dark and cheerless ; you in this fair world 
 
 See some destroying principle abroad. 
 
 Air, earth, and water full of living things, 
 
 Each on the other preying ; and the ways 
 
 Of man, a strange perplexing labyrinth. 
 
 Where crimes and miseries, each producing each, 
 
 Kender life loathsome, and destroy the hoj)e 
 
 That should in death bring comfort. Oh my frien 
 
 That thy faith were as mine ! that thou couldst see 
 
 Death still producing life, and evil still 
 
 Working its own destruction ; couldst behold 
 
 The strifes and tumults of this troubled world 
 
 With the strong eye that sees the promised day 
 
 Dawn through this night of tempest ! all things then 
 
 Would minister to joy ; then should thine heart 
 
 Be healed and harmonized, and thou shouldst feel 
 
 God; always, everywhere, and all in all. 
 
 HISTORY. 
 
 Thou chronicle of crimes ! I read no more — 
 Tor I am one who willingly would love 
 His fellow kind. O gentle poesy, 
 Receive me from the court's polluted scenes, 
 From dungeon horrors, from the fields of war, 
 Receive me to your haunts, — that I may nurse 
 My nature's better feelings, for my soul 
 Sickens at man's misdeeds ! 
 
 I spake — when lo ! 
 She stood before me in her majesty, 
 Clio, the strong-eyed muse. IJi3on her brow 
 Sate a calm anger. Go — young man, she cried, 
 Sigh among myrtle bowers, and let thy soul . 
 Effuse itself in strains so sorrowful sweet. 
 That love-sick maids may weep upon thy page 
 in most delicious sorrow. Oh shame ! shame ! 
 
LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Was it for this I waken'd tliy young mind 1 
 Was it for this I made tliy swelling heart 
 Throb at the deeds of Greece, and thy boy's eye 
 So kindle when that glorious Spartan died ? 
 Boy ! boy ! deceive me not ! what if the tale 
 Of murder'd millions strike a chilling pang, 
 What if Tiberius in his island stews, 
 And Philip at his beads, alike inspire 
 Strong anger and contempt ; hast thou not risen 
 With nobler feelings 1 with a deeper love 
 For freedom ? Yes — most righteously thy soul 
 Loathes the black history of human crimes 
 And human misery ! let that spirit fill 
 Thy song, and it shall teach thee, boy ! to raise 
 Strains such as Cato might have deign'd to hear, 
 As Sidney in his hall of bliss may love. 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE FIEST OF 
 DECEMBER, 1793. 
 
 Though now no more the musing ear 
 Delights to listen to the breeze, 
 That lingers o'er the green wood shade, 
 I love thee, winter ! well. 
 
 Sweet are the harmonies of spring, 
 Sweet is the summer's evening gale, 
 And sweet the autumnal winds that shake 
 The many-colom^ed grove. 
 
 And pleasant to the sobered soul 
 The silence of the wintry scene, 
 When nature shrouds her in her trance 
 In deep tranquillity. 
 
 Not undelightful now to roam 
 The wild heath sparkling on the sight; 
 Not undelightful now to pace * 
 
 The forest's ample rounds ; 
 
STANZAS. 375 
 
 And see the spangled branches shine, 
 And mark the moss of many a hue 
 That varies the old tree's brown bark, 
 Or o'er the gray stone spreads. 
 
 And mark the clustered berries bright 
 Amid the holly's gay green leaves ; 
 The ivy round the leafless oak 
 That clasjDs its foliage close. 
 
 So virtue diffident of strength 
 Clings to religion's firmer aid, 
 And by religion's aid upheld 
 Endures calamity. 
 
 Nor void of beauties now the spring, 
 Whose waters hid from summer sun 
 Have soothed the thirsty pilgrim's ear 
 With more than melody. 
 
 The green moss shines with icy glare ; 
 The long grass bends its spear-like form ; 
 And lovely is the silvery scene 
 When faint the sun-beams smile. 
 
 Reflection, too, may love the hour 
 When nature, hid in winter's grave. 
 No more expands the bursting bud, 
 Or bids the flowret bloom. 
 
 For nature soon in spring's best charms 
 Shall rise revived from winter's grave, 
 Again expand the bursting bud, 
 And bid the flowret bloom. 
 
376 
 
 STANZAS WEITTEN ON THE FIRST OF 
 JANUARY, 1794. 
 
 Come melanclioly moralizer, come I 
 
 Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath ; 
 
 With me engarland now 
 
 The sepulchre of Time ! 
 
 Come, moralizer, to the funeral song ! 
 
 I pour the dirge of the departed days; 
 For well the funeral song- 
 Befits this solemn hour. 
 
 But hark ! even now the merry bells ring round 
 "With clamorous joy to welcome in this day, 
 
 This consecrated day. 
 
 To mu-th and indolence. 
 
 Mortal ! whilst fortune with benignant hand 
 Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness, 
 
 Whilst her unclouded sun 
 
 Illumes thy summer day. 
 
 Canst thou rejoice, — ^rejoice that time flies fixst ? 
 That night shall shadow soon thy summer sun ? 
 
 That swift the stream of years 
 
 Rolls to eternity ? 
 
 If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish, 
 If power be thine, remember what thou art ! 
 
 Remember thou art man, 
 
 And death thine heritage ! 
 
 Hast thou known love ! doth beauty's better sun 
 Oheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile, 
 
 Her eye all eloquence, 
 
 All harmony her voice ? 
 
 Oh state of happiness ! — ^liark how the gale 
 Moans deep and hollow o'er the leafless grove ! 
 
 Winter is dark and cold ; 
 
 W^here now the charms of SDrinsf ! 
 
WKITTEN ON SUNDAY MORNING. 3i 
 
 Sayest thou that fancy paints the future scene 
 In hues too sombrous ? that the dark-stoled maid 
 
 With stern and frowning front 
 
 Appals the shuddering soul ? 
 
 And wouldst thou bid me court her fairy form 
 When, as she sports her in some haj)pier mood, 
 
 Her many-coloured robes 
 
 Dance varying to the sun ? 
 
 Ah ! vainly does the pilgrim, whose long road 
 Leads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height, 
 
 With anxious gaze survey 
 
 The quiet vale, far off. 
 
 Oh there are those who love the pensive song, 
 To whom all sounds of mirth are dissonant ! 
 
 They at this solemn hour 
 
 Will love to contemplate ! 
 
 For hopeless sorrow hails the lapse of time, 
 Rejoicing when the fading orb of day 
 
 Is sunk again in night, 
 
 That one day more is gone. 
 
 And he who bears affliction's heavy load 
 With patient piety, well pleased he knows 
 
 The world a pilgrimage, 
 
 The grave the inn of rest»^ 
 
 WRITTEN ON SUNDAY MORNING. 
 
 Go thou and seek the house of prayer I 
 
 I to the woodlands wend, and there 
 In lovely nature see the God of love. 
 
 The swelling organ's peal 
 
 Wakes not my soul to zeal, 
 Like the wild music of the wind-swept grove. 
 The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest 
 Rouse not such ardour in my bi-east, 
 
378 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 As where the noon-tide beam 
 Flashed from the broken stream, 
 Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight ; 
 Or where the cloud-suspended rain 
 Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain ; 
 Or when reclining on the cliff's huge height 
 I mark the billows burst in silver light. 
 Go thou and seek the house of prayer ! 
 I to the woodlands shall repair, 
 Feed with all nature's charms mine eyes, 
 And hear all nature's melodies. 
 The primrose bank shall there dispense 
 Faint fragrance to the awakened sense ; 
 The morning beams that life and joy impart, 
 Shall with their influence warm my heart, 
 And the full tear that down my cheek will steal, 
 Shall speak the prayer of praise I feel ! 
 
 Go thou and seek the house of prayer ! 
 I to the woodlands bend my way, 
 
 And meet religion there. 
 She needs not haunt the high-arched dome to pray 
 "Where storied windows dim the doubtful day: 
 With liberty she loves to rove, 
 
 Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipt dale ; 
 Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove, 
 
 Or with the streamlet wind along the vale. 
 Sweet are these scenes to her ; and when the night 
 Pours in the north her silver streams of light, 
 She woos reflection in the silent gloom, 
 And ponders on the world to come. 
 
 ON IIY OWN MINIATURE PICTURE, 
 
 TAKEN AT TWO TEARS OF AGE. 
 
 And I was once like this ! that glowing cheek 
 Was mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes ; that brow 
 Smooth as the level lake, when not a breeze 
 Dies o'er the sleeping surface ! Twenty years 
 Have wrought strange alteration ! Of the friends 
 Who once so dearly prized this miniature. 
 
THE pauper's funeral. » 379 
 
 And loved it for its likeness, some are gone 
 
 To their last home ; and some, estranged in heart, 
 
 Beholding me, with quick-averted glance 
 
 Pass on the other side. But still these hues 
 
 Bemain unaltered, and these features wear 
 
 The look of infancy and innocence. 
 
 I search myself in vain, and find no trace 
 
 Of what I was : those lightly-arching lines 
 
 Dark and o'erhanging now; and that sweet face 
 
 Settled in these strong lineaments ! — There were 
 
 Who formed high hopes and flattering ones of thee, 
 
 Young Eobert ; for thine eye was quick to speak 
 
 Each opening feeling : should they not have known, 
 
 If the rich rainbow on the morning cloud 
 
 Beflects its radiant dyes, the husbandman 
 
 Beholds the ominous glory, and foresees 
 
 Impending storms. — They augured happily, 
 
 That thou didst love each wild and wondrous tale 
 
 Of fairy fiction, and thine infant tongue 
 
 Lisped with delight the godlike deeds of Greece 
 
 And rising Rome ; therefore they deemed, forsooth. 
 
 That thou should tread preferment's pleasant path. 
 
 Ill-judging ones ! they let thy little feet 
 
 Stray in the pleasant paths of poesy, 
 
 And when thou shouldst have prest amid the crowd, 
 
 There didst thou love to linger out the day, 
 
 Loitering beneath the laurel's barren shade. 
 
 Spirit of Sj)enser ! was the wanderer wrong ? 
 
 THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 
 
 What ! and not one to heave the pious sigh ! 
 Not one whose sorrow-swoln and aching eye 
 Eor social scenes, for life's endearments fled. 
 Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead ! 
 Poor wretched outcast! I will weep for thee, 
 And sorrow for forlorn humanity. 
 Yes, I will weep ; but not that thou art come 
 To the stern sabbath of the silent tomb : 
 Eor squalid want, and the black scorpion care, 
 Heart-withering fiends ! shall never enter ther( 
 
380 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 I sorrow for the ills thy life has known, 
 As through the world's long pilgrimage, alone, 
 Haunted by poverty and woe-begone, 
 Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on: 
 Thy youth in ignorance and labour past, 
 And thine old age all barrenness and blast ! 
 Hard was thy fate, which, while it doomed to woe, 
 Denied thee wisdom to support the blow ; 
 And robbed of all its energy thy mind, 
 Ere yet it cast thee on tjiy fellow-kind, 
 Abject of thought, the victim of distress. 
 To wander in the world's wide wilderness. 
 
 Poor outcast, sleep in peace I the wintry storm 
 Blows bleak no more on thine unsheltered form ; 
 Thy woes are past ; thou restest in the tomb ; — 
 I pause — and ponder on the days to come. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A FAYOUEITE 
 OLD SPANIEL. 
 
 Anl they have drowned thee then at last ! poor Phillis ! 
 
 Tlie burthen of old age was heavy on thee, 
 
 And yet thou shouldst have lived ! What though thine eye 
 
 Was dim, and watched no more with eager joy 
 
 The wonted call that on thy dull sense sunk 
 
 With fruitless repetition, the warm sun 
 
 Might still have cheered thy slumber: thou didst love 
 
 To lick the hand that fed thee, and though past 
 
 Youth's active season, even life itself 
 
 Was comfort. Poor old friend! how earnestly 
 
 Would I have pleaded for thee ! thou hadst been 
 
 Still the companion of my childish sports ; 
 
 And as I roamed o'er Avon's woody cliffs, 
 
 From many a day-dream has thy short quick bark 
 
 Kecalled my wandering soul. I have beguiled 
 
 Often the melancholy hours at school, 
 
 Soured by some little tyrant, with the thought 
 
 Of distant home, and I remembered then 
 
 Thy faithful fondness: for not mean the joy, 
 
ON A LANDSCAPE OF CASPAR POUSSIN. 381 
 
 Eeturning at the pleasant holidays, 
 
 I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively 
 
 Sometimes have I remarked thy slow decay, 
 
 Feeling myself changed too, and musing much 
 
 On many a sad vicissitude of life ! 
 
 Ah, poor companion ! when thou followedst last 
 
 Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate 
 
 Which closed for ever on him, thou didst lose 
 
 Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead 
 
 For the old age of brute fidelity! 
 
 But lare thee well! Mine is no narrow creed; 
 
 And He who gave thee being did not frame 
 
 The mystery of life to be the sport 
 
 Of merciless man ! There is another world 
 
 For all that live and move — a better one ! 
 
 Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine 
 
 Infinite Goodness to the little bounds 
 
 Of their own charity, may envy thee! 
 
 ON A LANDSCAPE OF GASPAR POUSSIN. 
 
 PoussiN ! how pleasantly thy pictured scenes 
 Beguile the lonely hour ! I sit and gaze 
 With lingermg eye, till charmed fancy makes 
 The lovely landscape live, and the rapt soul 
 From the foul haunts of herded human-kind 
 Flies far away with spirit speed, and tastes 
 The untainted an-, that with the lively hup 
 Of health and happiness illumes the cheek 
 Of mountain liberty. My willing soul. 
 All eager, follows on thy faii-y flights, 
 Fancy ! best friend ; whose blessed witcheries 
 With loveliest prospects cheat the traveller 
 O'er the long wearying desert of the world. 
 Nor dost thou, fancy ! with such magie mock 
 My heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew, 
 Or Alquif, or Zarzafiel's sister sage. 
 Whose vengeful anguish for so many a year 
 Held in the jacinth sepulchre entranced 
 Lisvart and Perion, pride of chivalry. 
 
382 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Friend of my lonely hours ! thou leadest me 
 
 To such calm joys as nature, wise and good, 
 
 Proffers in vain to all her wretched sons; 
 
 Her wretched sons who pine with want amid 
 
 The abundant earth, and blindly bow them down 
 
 Before the Moloch shrines of wealth and power, 
 
 Authors of evil. Oh, it is most sweet 
 
 To medicine with thy wiles the wearied heart. 
 
 Sick of reality. The little pile 
 
 That tops the summit of that craggy hill 
 
 Shall be my dwelling: craggy is the hill 
 
 And steep ; yet through yon hazles upward leads 
 
 The easy path, along whose winding way, 
 
 Now close embowered, I hear the unseen stream 
 
 Dash down, anon behold its sparkling foam 
 
 Gleam through the thicket ; and ascending on, 
 
 Now pause me to survey the goodly vale 
 
 That opens on my vision. Half-way up, 
 
 Pleasant it were upon some broad smooth rock 
 
 To sit and sun myself, and look below, 
 
 And watch the goatherd down yon high-banked path 
 
 Urging his flock grotesque ; and bidding now 
 
 His lean rough dog from some near cliff to drive 
 
 The straggler ; while his barkings loud and quick 
 
 Amid their trembling bleat arising oft, 
 
 Fainter and fainter, from the hollow road 
 
 Send their far echoes, till the waterfall, 
 
 Hoarse bursting from the caverned cliff beneath, 
 
 Their dying murmurs drown. A little yet 
 
 Onward, and I have gained the upmost height. 
 
 Fair spreads the vale below : I see the stream 
 
 Stream radiant on beneath the noontide sky. 
 
 A passing cloud darkens the bordering steep, 
 
 Where the town-spires behind the castle towera 
 
 Pise graceful ; brown the mountain in its shade, 
 
 "Whose circling grandeur, part by mists concealed. 
 
 Part with white rocks resplendent in the sun, 
 
 Should bound mine eyes, — ay, and my wishes too, — 
 
 For I would have no hope or fear beyond. 
 
 The empty turmoil of the worthless world, 
 
 Its vanities and vices, would not vex 
 
 My quiet heart. The traveller, who beheld 
 
 The low tower of the little pile, migh b deem 
 
 It were the house of God : nor would ne err. 
 
MUSINGS ON THE WIG OP A SCARECROW. 333 
 
 So deeming, for that home woiihl be the home 
 
 Of peace and love, and they would hallow it 
 
 To Him. Oh, life of blessedness ! to reap 
 
 The fruit ot honourable toil, and bound 
 
 Our wishes with our wants ! Delightful thoughts, 
 
 That soothe the solitude of maniac hope, 
 
 Ye leave her to reality awaked, 
 
 Like the poor captive, from some fleeting dream 
 
 Of friends and liberty and home restored, 
 
 Startled and listening, as the midnight storm 
 
 Beats hard and heavy through his dungeon bars. 
 
 MUSINGS ON THE WIG OF A SCARE-CEO \V. 
 
 Alas for this world's changes and the lot 
 
 Of sublunary things ! yon wig that there 
 
 Moves with each motion of the inconstant air, 
 Invites my pensive mind to serious thought. 
 Was it for this its curious caul was wrought 
 
 Close as the tender tendrils of the vine 
 With cluster'd curls 1 Perhaps the artist's cane 
 Its borrowed beauties for some lady fair 
 
 Arranged with nicest art and fingers fine ; 
 
 Or for the forehead fram'd of some divine 
 Its graceful gravity of grizzled grey ; 
 
 Or whether on some stern schoolmaster's brow 
 
 Sate its white terrors, who shall answer now ? 
 On yonder rag-robed pole for many a day 
 
 Have those dishonour'd locks endur'd the rains 
 And winds, and summer sun, and winter snow, 
 Scaring with vain alarms the robber crow. 
 
 Till of its former form no trace remains. 
 None ot its ancient honours ! I survey 
 
 Its alter'd state with moralizing eye, 
 And journey sorrowing on my lonely Avay, 
 
 And muse on fortune's mutability. 
 
S8i 
 
 TO CONTEMPLATION. 
 
 Fatnt gleams the evening radiance tlirougli the sky, 
 
 The sober twilight dimly darkens round ; 
 In short quick circles the shrill bat flits by, 
 
 And the slow vapour curls along the ground- 
 Now the pleased eye from yon lone cottage sees 
 
 On the green mead the smoke long-shadowing play j 
 The red-breast on the blossomed spray 
 Warbles wild her latest lay, 
 And sleeps along the dale the silent breeze. 
 Calm contemplation, 'tis thy favourite hour ! 
 Come tranquillizing power ! 
 
 view thee on the calmy shore 
 
 When ocean stills his waves to rest ; 
 Or when slow-moving on the serges hoar 
 Meet with deep hollow roar 
 
 And whiten o'er his breast ; 
 For lo ! the moon with softer radiance gleams, 
 And lovelier heave the billows in her beiims. 
 
 When the low gales of evening moan along, 
 I love with thee to feel the calm cool breeze, 
 
 And roam the pathless forest wilds among 
 Listening the mellow murmur of the trees 
 
 FuU-foliaged, as they lift their arms on high 
 And wave thsir shadowy heads in wildest melody. 
 
 Or lead me where amid the tranquil vale 
 The broken stream flows on in silver light. 
 
 And I will linger where the gale 
 O'er the bank of violets sighs. 
 
 Listening to hear its softened sounds arise ; 
 And hearken the dull beetle's drowsy flight: 
 And watch the horn-eyed snail 
 Creep o'er his long moon-glittering trail. 
 And mark where, radiant through the night, [light. 
 
 Moves in the ^rass-p"reen Ijedge the fiflow-worm's liviu"- 
 
^■ii^V ^'vA' 
 
 TO tONTEMPI \TIOX. 
 
TO CONTEMPLATION. 385 
 
 Thee, meekest power ! I love to meet, 
 
 As oft with even solitary pace 
 
 The scattered abbey's hallowed rounds I trace 
 And listen to the echoings of my feet. 
 
 Or on the half-demolished tomb. 
 
 Whose warning texts anticipate my doom, 
 
 Mark the clear orb of night 
 Cast through the storying glass a faintly-varied light. 
 
 Nor will I not in some more gloomy hour 
 
 Invoke with fearless awe thine holier power, 
 
 Wandering beneath the sainted pile 
 
 When the blast moans along the darksome aisle, 
 
 And clattering patters all around 
 
 Tho midnight shower with dreary sound. 
 
 But sweeter 'tis to Avander wild 
 
 By melancholy dreams beguiled, 
 
 While the summer moon's j)ale ray 
 
 Faintly guides me on my way 
 
 To the lone romantic»glen 
 
 Far from all the haunts of men, 
 
 Where no noise of uproar rude 
 
 Breaks the calm of solitude. 
 
 But soothing silence sleeps in all, 
 
 Save the neighbouring waterfall. 
 
 Whose hoarse waters fallmg near 
 
 Load with hollow sounds the ear, 
 
 And with down-dasht torrent white 
 
 Gleam hoary through the shades of night. 
 
 Thus wandering silent on and slow 
 
 I'll nurse reflection's sacred woe, 
 
 And muse upon the perisht day 
 
 When hope would weave her visions gay. 
 
 Ere Fancy chilled by adverse fate 
 
 Left sad Reality my mate. 
 
 O Contemplation ! when to memory's eyes 
 The visions of the long-past days arise. 
 Thy holy power imparts the best relief. 
 And the calmed spiriL loves the joy of grief. 
 
 tfC 
 
386 
 
 TO HOEEOR 
 
 Dark Horror^ hear my call ! 
 
 Stern genius hear from thy retreat 
 
 On some old sepulchre's moss-cankered seat 
 Beneath the abbey's ivied wall 
 
 That trembles o'er its shade ; 
 Where wrapt in midnight gloom, alone, 
 
 Thou lovest to lie and hear 
 
 The roar of waters near, 
 And listen to the deep dull groan 
 
 Of some perturbed sprite 
 Borne fitful on the liRavy gales of night. 
 
 Or whether o'er some wide waste hill 
 Thou markest the traveller stray, 
 BeAvildered on his lonely way. 
 
 When, loud and keen and chill, 
 
 The evening winds of winter blow. 
 
 Drifting deep the dismal snow. 
 
 Or if thou foUowest now on Greenland's shore, 
 With all thy terrors, on the lonely way 
 
 Of some wrecked mariner, when to the roar 
 Of herded bears, the floating ice-hills round 
 Pour their deep echoing sound, 
 And by the dim drear boreal light 
 
 Givest half his dano;ers to the wretch's siofht. 
 
 Or if thy fury form, 
 
 When o'er the midnight deep 
 
 The dark-vringed tempests sweep, 
 Watches from some high cliff the increasing storm^ 
 
 Listening A\dth strange delight. 
 As the black billows to the thunder rave 
 
 When by the lightning's light 
 Thou seest the tall ship sink beneath the wave. 
 
 Dark Horror ! bear me where the field of fight 
 Scatters contagion on the tainted gale, 
 When to the moon's faint beam. 
 
TO HORROR. oS7 
 
 On many a carcase shine the dews of night, 
 And a dead silence stills the vale 
 Save when at times is heard the glutted raven's scream. 
 
 Where some wrecked army from the conqueror's might 
 Speed their disastrous flight, 
 
 With thee, fierce genius ! let me trace their way, 
 And hear at times the deep heart-groan 
 Of some poor sufferer left to die alone, 
 
 His sore wounds smarting with the winds of night ; 
 And we will pause, where, on the wild, 
 
 The mother to her frozen breast. 
 On the heaped snows reclining clasps her child, 
 
 And with him sleeps, chilled to eternal rest ! 
 
 Black Horror ! speed we to the bed of death, 
 
 Where he whose murderous power afar 
 
 Blasts with the myriad plagues of war, 
 Struggles with his last breath ; 
 
 Then to his wildly-starting eyes 
 
 The phantoms of the murdered rise ; 
 
 Then on his phrensied ear 
 Their groans for vengeance and the demon's yell 
 In one heart-maddening chorus swell. 
 Cold on his brow convulsing stands the dew. 
 And night eternal darkens on his view. 
 
 Horror ! I call thee yet once more I 
 
 Bear me to that accursed shore 
 
 Where round the stake the impaled negro writhes 
 
 Assume thy sacred terrors then ! dispense 
 
 The blasting gales of pestilence I 
 
 Arouse the race of Afric ! holy power, 
 
 Lead them to vengeance ! and in that dread hour 
 
 When ruin rages wide, 
 
 I will behold and smile by Mercy's side. 
 
 cc2 
 
388 
 
 TO A FEIEND. 
 
 And -wouldst thou seek the low abode 
 
 Wliere peace delights to dwell ? 
 Pause traveller on thy way of life I 
 With many a snare and peril rife 
 
 Is that long labyrinth of road : 
 Dark is the vale of years before ; 
 
 Pause traveller on thy way [ 
 Nor dare the dangerous path explore 
 Tin old experience comes to lend his leading ray. 
 
 Not he who comes with lanthorn light 
 Shall guide thy groping pace aright 
 
 With faltering feet and slow ; 
 No ! let him rear the torch on high, 
 And every maze shall meet thine eye, 
 
 And every snare and every foe ; 
 Then with steady step and strong, 
 Traveller, shalt thou march along. 
 
 Though power invite thee to her hall, 
 Pegard not thou her tempting call 
 
 Her splendour's meteor glare ; 
 Though courteous flattery there await 
 And wealth adorn the doom of state, 
 
 There stalks the midnight spectre, Care ; 
 
 Peace, traveller ! does not sojourn there. 
 
 If fame allure thee, climb not thou 
 To that steep mountain's craggy brow. 
 
 Where stands her stately pile ; 
 For far from thence does peace abide. 
 
 And thou shalt find fame's favouring smile 
 Cold as the feeble sun on Hecla's snow-clad side, 
 
 4nd, traveller I as thou hopest to find 
 That low and loved abode, 
 Eetire thee from the thronging road. 
 
 And shun the mob of human-kind. 
 
 Ah 1 hear how old experience schools, 
 
 " Fly, fly the crowd of knaves and fools, 
 
THE MORNING MIST. 389 
 
 And thou slialt fly from woe ; 
 The one thy heedless heart will greet 
 With Judas smile, and thou wilt meet 
 
 In every fool a foe !" 
 
 So safely mayst thou pass from these, 
 
 And reach secure the home of peace, 
 And friendship find thee there. 
 
 No happier state can mortal know, 
 No happier lot can earth bestow, 
 
 If love thy lot shall share. 
 Yet still content ^\dth him may dwell 
 
 Whom Hymen will not bless, 
 And virtus sojourn in the cell 
 
 Of hermit happiness. 
 
 THE MORNING MIST. 
 
 Look, William, how the morning mists 
 
 Have covered all the scene, 
 Nor house nor hill canst thou behold, 
 
 Grey wood, or meadow green. 
 
 The distant spire across the vale 
 These floating vapours shroud, 
 
 Scarce are the neighbouring poplars seen, 
 Pale shadowed in the cloud. 
 
 But seest thou, William, where the mists 
 Sweep o'er the southern sky. 
 
 The dim effulgence of the sun 
 That lights them as they fly ? 
 
 Soon shall that glorious orb of day 
 
 In all his strength arise, 
 And roll along his azure way. 
 
 Through clear and cloudless skies. 
 
 Then shall we see across the vale 
 
 The village spire so white, 
 And the grey wood and meadow green 
 
 Shall live again in light. 
 
»90 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 So, William, from the moral world 
 
 The clouds shall pass away ; 
 The light that struggles through them now 
 
 Shall beam eternal day. 
 
 TO THE BUENIE* BEE. 
 
 Blithe son of summer, furl thy filmy wing, 
 Alight beside me on this bank of moss ; 
 
 Yet to its sides the lingering shadows cling, 
 
 And siDarkliag dews the dark-green tufts emboss. 
 
 Here mayst thou freely quaff the nectar'd sweet 
 That in the violet's purple chalice hides. 
 
 Here on the lily scent thy fringed feet. 
 
 Or with the wild-thyme's balm anoint thy sides. 
 
 Back o'er thy shoulders throw those ruby shards 
 With many a tiny coal-black freckle deckt, 
 
 My watchful look thy loitering saunter guards, 
 My ready hand thy footstep shall protect. 
 
 Daunted by me beneath this trembling bough 
 On forked wing no greedy swallow sails, 
 
 No hopping sparrow pries for food below, 
 Nor evet lurks, nor dusky blindworm trails. 
 
 Nor shall the swarthy gaoler for thy way 
 
 His grate of twinkling threads successful strain, 
 
 With venom'd trunk thy writhing members slay, 
 Or from thy heart the reeking liie's-blood drain. 
 
 Forego thy wheeling in the sunny air. 
 
 Thy glancing to the envious insects round, 
 
 To the dim calmness of my bower repair. 
 
 Silence ?nd coolness keep its hallowed ground. 
 
 Here to the elves who sleep in flowers by day 
 Thy softest hum in lulling whispers pom-. 
 
 Or o'er the lovely band thy shield display, 
 
 When blue-eyed twilight sheds her dewy shower. 
 
 * A provincial name of the beetle cocciuella, or lady-bird. 
 
THE DANUNC BEAR. 
 
THE DANCING BEAR. 391 
 
 60 shall the fauy-train by glow-worm liglit 
 With rambow tints thy folding pennons fret, 
 
 Thy scaly l)reast in deeper azure dight, 
 
 Thy burnish'd armour speck with glossier jet. 
 
 With viewless fingers weave thy vsrintry tent, 
 And line with gossamer thy pendant cell, 
 
 Safe in the rift of some lone ruin pent 
 
 Where ivy shelters from the storm-vdnd fell. 
 
 Blest if like thee I cropt with heedless spoil 
 The gifts of youth and pleasure in their bloom, 
 
 Doom'd for no coming wmter's want to toil, 
 Fit for the spring that waits beyond the tomb. 
 
 THE DANCING BEAR. 
 
 RECOMMENDED TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE SLAVE TRADE. 
 
 Rare music ! I would rather hear cat-courtship 
 
 Under my bed-room window in the night, 
 
 Than this scraped cat-gut's screak. Rare dancing too ! 
 
 Alas, poor bruin ! how he foots the pole 
 
 And waddles round it with unwieldy steps 
 
 Swaying from side to side ! — The dancing master 
 
 Hath had as profitless a pupil in thee 
 
 As when he would have tortured my poor toes 
 
 To minuet grace, and made them move like cloLk-wori> 
 
 In musical obedience. Bruin ! bruin I 
 
 Thou art but a clumsy biped ! — and the mob 
 
 With noisy merriment mock his heavy pace. 
 
 And laugh to see him led by the nose, — themselves 
 
 Led by the nose, embruted, and in the eye 
 
 Of reason from their nature's pm-poses 
 
 As miserably perverted. 
 
 Bruin-bear, 
 Now could I sonnetize thy piteous plight, 
 And prove how much my sympathetic heart 
 Even for the miseries of a beast can feel, 
 
392 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 In fourteen lines of sensibility. 
 
 But we are told all things were made for man, 
 
 And I'll be sworn there's not a fellow here 
 
 Who would not swear 'twere hanging blasphemy 
 
 To doubt that truth. Therefore as tliou wert bom, 
 
 Bruin ! for man, and man makes nothing of thee 
 
 In any other way, most logically 
 
 It follows, that thou must be born to dance, 
 
 That that great snout of thine was form'd on purpose 
 
 To hold a ring, and that thy fat was given thee 
 
 Only to make pomatum ! 
 
 To demur 
 Were heresy. And politicians say, 
 (Wise men who in the scale of reason give 
 No foolish feelings weight,) that thou art here 
 Far happier than thy brother bears who roam 
 O'er trackless snows for food ; that being born 
 Inferior to thy leader, unto him 
 Rightly belongs dominion ; that the compact 
 Was made between ye, when thy clumsy feet 
 First fell into the snare, and he gave up 
 His right to kill, conditioning thy life 
 Should thenceforth be his property : — ^besides, 
 'Tis wholesome for thy morals to be brought 
 From savage climes into a civilized state, 
 Into the decencies of Christendom. — 
 Bear ! bear ! it passes in the parliament 
 For excellent logic this ! what if w^e say 
 How barbarously man abuses power, 
 Talk of thy baiting, it will be replied, 
 Thy welfare is thy owner's interest, 
 But wert thou baited it would injure thee. 
 Therefore thou art not baited. For seven years 
 Hear it, O heaven, and give ear, O earth ! 
 For seven long years this precious syllogism 
 Has baffled justice and humanity ! 
 
393 
 
 HYMN TO THE PENATES. 
 
 Yet one song more ! one high and solemn strain 
 
 Ere, Phoebus ! on thy temple's ruined wall 
 
 I hang the silent harp : there may its strings, 
 
 When the rude tempest shakes the aged pile, 
 
 Make melancholy music. One song more ! 
 
 Penates ! hear me ! for to you I hymn 
 
 The votive lay. Whether, as sages deem, 
 
 Ye dwell in the inmost heaven, tL •z counsellors 
 
 Of Jove ; or, if, supreme of deities. 
 
 All things are yours, and in your holy train 
 
 Jove i^roudly ranks, and Juno, white-armed queen, 
 
 And wisest of immortals, the dread maid, 
 
 Athenian Pallas. Venerable powers ! 
 
 Hearken your hymn of praise ! Though from your rites 
 
 Estranged, and exiled from your altars long, 
 
 I have not ceased to love you, household gods ! 
 
 In many a long and melancholy hour 
 
 Of solitude and sorrow, hath my heart 
 
 With earnest longings prayed to rest at length 
 
 Beside your hallowed hearth. . .for peace is there! 
 
 Yes, I have loved you long. I call on you 
 
 Yourselves to witness with what holy joy, 
 
 Slnmning the polish'd mob of human kind, 
 
 I have retired to watch your lonely fires, 
 
 And commune with myself. Delightful hours, 
 
 That gave mysterious pleasure, made me know 
 
 All the recesses of my wayward heart, 
 
 Taught me to cherish with devoutest care 
 
 Its strange unworldly feelings, taught me too 
 
 The best of lessons — to respect myself. 
 
 Nor have I ever ceased to reverence you. 
 
 Domestic deities ! from the first da^vTi 
 
 Of reason, through the adventurous paths of youth, 
 
 Even to this better day, when on mine ear 
 
 The uproar of contending nations sounds 
 
 But like the passing wind, and wakes no pulse 
 
 To tumult. When a child — (and still I love 
 
 To dwell with fondness on my childish years), 
 
 When first a little one, I left my home, 
 
394 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 I can remember the first grief I felt. 
 
 And the first painful smile that clothed my front 
 
 With feelings not its own : sadly at night 
 
 I sat me down beside a stranger's hearth ; 
 
 And when the lingering hour of rest was come, 
 
 First wet with tears my pillow. As I grew 
 
 In years and knowledge, and the course of time 
 
 Developed the young feelings of my heart, 
 
 "When most I loved in solitude to rove 
 
 Amid the woodland gloom ; or where the rocks 
 
 Darkened old Avon's stream, in the ivied cave 
 
 Eecluse, to sit and brood the future song, — 
 
 Yet not the less, Penates, loved I then 
 
 Your altars, not the less at evening hour 
 
 Delighted by the well-trimmed fire to sit, 
 
 Absorbed in many a dear deceitful dream 
 
 Of visionary joys: deceitful dreams — 
 
 And yet not vain — for j)ainting purest joys, 
 
 They formed to fancy's mould her votary's heart. 
 
 By Cherwell's sedgy side, and in the meads 
 
 Where Isis in her calm clear stream reflects 
 
 The willow's bending boughs, at early dawn, 
 
 In the noontide hour, and when the night-mist rose, 
 
 I have remembered you: and when the noise 
 
 Of lewd intemperance on my lonely ear 
 
 Burst with loud tumult, as recluse I sat, 
 
 Pondermg on loftiest themes of man redeemed 
 
 From servitude, and vice, and wretchedness, 
 
 I blest you, household gods I because I loved 
 
 Your peaceful altars and serener rites. 
 
 Nor did I cease to reverence you, when driven 
 
 Amid the jarring crowd, an unfit man 
 
 To mingle with the world ; still, still my heart 
 
 Sighed for your sanctuary, and inly pined ; 
 
 And loathing human converse, I have strayed 
 
 Where o'er the sea-beach chilly howled the blast, 
 
 And gazed upon the world of waves, and wished 
 
 That I were far beyond the Atlantic deep, 
 
 In woodland haunts^ a sojourner with peace. 
 
 Not idly fabled they the bards inspired, 
 
 Who peopled earth with deities. They trod 
 
 The wood with reverence where the Dryads dwelt; 
 
HYMN TO THE PENATES. 395 
 
 At day's dim dawn or evening's misty hour 
 
 They saw the Oreads on their mountain haunts, 
 
 And felt their holy influence ; nor impure 
 
 Of thought, or ever with polluted hands 
 
 Touched they without a prayer the Naiad's spring : 
 
 Yet was their influence transient ; such brief awe 
 
 Inspiring as the thunder's long loud peal 
 
 Strikes to the feeble spirit. Household gods, 
 
 Not such your empire ! in your votaries' breasts 
 
 No momentary impulse ye awake ; 
 
 Nor fleeting, like their local energies, 
 
 The deep devotion that your fanes impart. 
 
 O ye, whom youth has wildered on your way, 
 
 Or vice with fair-masked foulness, or the lure 
 
 Of fame, that calls ye to her crowded paths 
 
 With folly's rattle, to your household gods 
 
 Return ; for not in vice's gay abodes, 
 
 Not in the unquiet unsafe halls of fame 
 
 Doth happiness abide ! O ye who weep 
 
 Much for the many miseries of mankind, 
 
 More for their vices ; ye whose honest eyes 
 
 Frown on oppression, — ye whose honest hearts 
 
 Beat high when freedom sounds her dread alarm ; 
 
 O ye who quit the path of peaceful life 
 
 Crusading for mankind — a spaniel race 
 
 That lick the hand that beats them, or tear all 
 
 Alike in phrensy — to your household gods 
 
 Return, for by their altars virtue dwells. 
 
 And happiness with her ; for by their flres 
 
 Tranquillity, in no unsocial mood. 
 
 Sits silent, listening to the pattering shower ; 
 
 For, so suspicion sleeps not at the gate 
 
 Of wisdom, falsehood shall not enter there. 
 
 As on the height of some huge eminence, 
 Reached with long labour, the wayfarmg man 
 Pauses awhile, and gazing o'er the plain. 
 With many a sore step travelled, turns him then 
 Serious to contemplate the onward road, 
 And calls to mind the comforts of his home. 
 And sighs that he has left them, and resolves 
 To stray no more : I on my way of life 
 Muse thus, Penates, and with firmest faith. 
 Devote myself to you. I will iiot quit, 
 
39 G LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 To mingle with tlie crowd, your calm abodes, 
 Where by the evening hearth contentment sits 
 And hears the cricket chirp ; where love delights 
 To dwell, and on your altars lays his torch 
 That burns with no extinguishable flame. 
 
 Hear me, ye powers benignant ! there is one 
 Must be mine inmate — for I may not choose 
 But love him. He is one whom many wrongs 
 Have sickened of the world. There was a time 
 When he would weep to hear of wickedness, 
 And wonder at the tale ; when for the opprest 
 He felt a brother's pity, to the oppressor 
 A good man's honest anger. His quick eye 
 Betrayed each rising feeling, every thought 
 Leapt to his tongue. When first among mankind 
 He mingled, by himself he judged of them. 
 And loved and trusted them, to wisdom deaf, 
 And took them to his bosom. Falsehood met 
 Her unsuspecting victim, fair of front, 
 And lovely as Apega's sculptured form, 
 Like that false image, caught his warm embracs 
 And gored his open breast. The reptile race 
 Clung round his bosom, and, with viper folds 
 Encircling, stung the fool who fostered them. 
 His mother was simplicity, his sire 
 Benevolence ; in earlier days he bore 
 His father's name ; the world who injured him 
 Call him misanthropy. I may not choose 
 But love him, household gods ! for we were nurst 
 In the same school. 
 
 Penates! some there are 
 Who say, that not in the inmost heaven ye dwell. 
 Gazing with eye remote on all the ways 
 Of man, his guardian gods ; wiselier they deem 
 A dearer interest to the human race 
 Links you, yourselves tlie spirits of the dead. 
 No mortal eye may pierce the invisible world, 
 No light of iiuman reason penetrate 
 The depth where truth lies hid. Yet to this faith 
 My heart with instant sympathy assents ; 
 And I would judge all systems and all faiths 
 By that best touchstone, from whose test deceit 
 Shrinks like the arch-fiend at Itliuriel's spear, 
 
HYMN TO THE PENATES. 397 
 
 And sopliis try's gay glittering bubble bursts, 
 As at the spousals of the Nereid's son, 
 When that false Florimel, by her prototype 
 Displayed in rivalry, with all her charms 
 Dissolved away. 
 
 Nor can the halls of heaven 
 Give to the human soul such kindred joy, 
 As hovering o'er its earthly haunts it feels, 
 When with the breeze it wantons round the brow 
 Of one beloved on earth ; or when at night 
 In dreams it comes, and brings with it the days 
 And joys that are no more. Or when, perchance 
 With power permitted to alleviate ill 
 And ht the sufferer for the coming woe, 
 Some strange presage the Spirit breathes, and fills 
 The breast with ominous fear, and disciplines 
 For sorrow, pours into the afflicted heart 
 The balm of resignation, and inspires 
 With heavenly hope. Even as a child delights 
 To visit day by day the favourite plant 
 His hand has sown, to mark its gradual growth, 
 And watch all-anxious for the promised flower ; 
 Thus to the blessed spii-it, in innocence 
 And pure affections, like a little child, 
 Sweet will it be to hover o'er the friends 
 Beloved; then sweetest, if, as Duty prompts, 
 With earthly care we in their breasts have sown 
 The seeds of truth and virtue, holy flowers. 
 Whose odour reacheth heaven. 
 
 WTien my sick heai't 
 (Sick with hope long delayed, than which no care 
 Presses the crushed heart heavier;) from itself 
 Seeks the best comfort, often have I deemed 
 That thou didst witness every inmost thought, 
 Seward ! my dear dead friend ! for not in vain, 
 O early summoned on thy heavenly course ! 
 Was thy brief sojourn here : me didst thou leave 
 With strengthened step to follow the right path 
 Till we shall meet again. Meantime I soothe 
 The deep regret of nature, with belief, 
 O Edmund! that thine eye's celestial ken 
 Pervades me now, marking with no mean joy 
 The movements of the heart that loved thee well ! 
 
398 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 SucK feelings nature prompts, and hence jour rites. 
 
 Domestic gods ! arose. When for his son 
 
 "With ceaseless grief Syrophanes bewailed, 
 
 Mourning his age left childless, and his wealth 
 
 Heapt for an alien, he with fixed eye 
 
 Still on the imaged marble of the dead 
 
 Dwelt, pampering sorrow. Thither from his wrath, 
 
 A safe asylum, fled the offending slave, 
 
 And garlanded the statue, and implored 
 
 His young lost lord to save : remembrance then 
 
 Softened the father, and he loved to see 
 
 The votive wreath renewed, and the rich smoke 
 
 Curl from the costly censer slow and sweet. 
 
 From Eg}^t soon the sorrow-soothing rites 
 
 Divulging spread ; before your idol forms 
 
 By every hearth the blinded pagan knelt, 
 
 Pouring his prayers to these, and offering there 
 
 Vain sacrifice or impious, and sometimes 
 
 With human blood your sanctuary defiled : 
 
 Till the first Brutus, tyrant-conquering chief, 
 
 Arose ; he first the impious rites put down ; 
 
 He fitliest, who for freedom lived and died, 
 
 The friend of human kind. Then did your feasts 
 
 Frequent recur and blameless ; and when came 
 
 The solemn festival, whose happiest rites 
 
 Emblemed equality, the holiest truth ! 
 
 Crowned with gay garlands were your statues seen. 
 
 To you the fragrant censer smoked, to you 
 
 The rich libation flowed: vain sacrifice! 
 
 For nor the poppy MT?eath nor fruits nor wine 
 
 Ye ask, Penates ! nor the altar cleansed 
 
 With many a mystic form ; ye ask the heart 
 
 jNIade pure, and by domestic peace and love, 
 
 Hallowed to you. 
 
 Hearken your hymn of praise, 
 Penates! to your shrines I come for rest, 
 There only to be found. Often at eve. 
 Amid my wanderings I have seen far ofi" 
 The lonely light that spake of comfort there ; 
 It told my heart of many a joy of home, 
 And my poor heart was sad. When I have gazed 
 From some high eminence on goodlv vales 
 And cots and villages embowered below, 
 
HYMN TO THE PENATES. 399 
 
 The thonglit would rise that all to me was strange 
 Amid the scene so fair, nor one small spot 
 Where my tired mind might rest and call it home. 
 There is a magic in that little word ; 
 It is a mystic circle that surrounds 
 Comforts and virtues never known beyond 
 The hallowed limit. Often has my heart 
 Ached for that quiet haven ! — havened now, 
 I think of those in this world's wilderness 
 "Wlio wander on and find no home of rest 
 Till to the grave they go ! them poverty, 
 Hollow-eyed fiend, the child of wealth and power, 
 Bad offspring of worse parents, aye afflicts, 
 Cankering with her foiil mildews the chilled heart — 
 Them want with scorpion scourge drives to the den 
 Of guilt — them slaughter for the price of death 
 Throws to her raven brood. Oh, not on them, 
 God of eternal justice ! not on them 
 Let fall thy thunder ! 
 
 Household deities ! 
 Then only shall be happiness on earth 
 When man shall feel your sacred power, and love 
 Your tranquil joys ; then shall the city stand 
 A huge void sepulchre, and rising fair 
 Amid the ruins of the palace pile 
 The olive grow ; there shall the tree of peace 
 Strike its roots deep and flourish. This the state 
 Shall bless the race redeemed of man, when wealth 
 And power, and all their hideous progeny 
 Shall sink annihilate, and all mankind 
 Live in the equal brotherhood of love. 
 Heart-calming hope, and sure ! for hitherward 
 Tend all the tumults of the troubled world, 
 Its woes, its wisdom, and its wickedness 
 Alike: so He hath willed whose will is just. 
 
 Meantime, all hoping and expecting all 
 In patient faith, to you, domestic gods! 
 I come, studious of other lore than song. 
 Of my past years the solace and support : 
 ,Yet shall my heart remember the past years 
 With honest pride, trusting that not in vaiu 
 Lives the pui-e song of liberty and truth. 
 
400 
 
 SAPPHO. 
 
 A- MONODRAMA. 
 Scene — the Froinontoi-y of Leiicadia. 
 
 This is the spot : — 'Tis here tradition says 
 That hopeless love from this high towering rock 
 Leaps headlong to oblivion or to death. 
 Oh, 'tis a giddy height ! my dizzy head 
 Swims at the precipice — 'tis death to fall ! 
 
 Lie still, thou coward heart ! this is no time 
 
 To shake with thy strong throbs the frame con\^iloed. 
 
 To die, — to be at rest, — oh, pleasant thought ! 
 
 Perchance to leap and live ; the soul all still, 
 
 And the wild tempest of the passions husht 
 
 In one deep calm ; the heart, no more diseased 
 
 By the quick ague fits of hope and fear, 
 
 Quietly cold ; 
 
 Presiding powers, look down ! 
 In vain to you I poured my earnest prayers, 
 In vain I sung your praises : chiefly thou, 
 Venus, ungrateful goddess, whom my lyre 
 Hymned with such full devotion ! Lesbian groves, 
 Witness how often, at the languid hour 
 Of summer twilight, to the melting song 
 Ye gave your choral echoes. Grecian maids. 
 Who hear with downcast look and flushing cheek 
 That lay of love, bear witness ! and ye youths, 
 AVho hang enraptured on the empassioned strain, 
 (dazing with eloquent eye, even till the heart 
 Sinks in the deep delirium ! and ye, too, 
 Ages unborn, bear witness ye, how hard 
 Her fate who hymn'd the votive hymn in vain ! 
 Ungrateful goddess ! I have hung my lute 
 In yonder holy pile : my hand no more 
 Shall wake the melodies that failed to move 
 The heart of Phaon — yet when riunour tells 
 How from Leucadia Sappho hurled her down 
 
401 
 
 SAPPHO. 
 
 A self-devoted victim, — he may melt 
 Too late in pity, obstinate to love. 
 
 haunt his midnight dreams, black Nemesis I 
 Whom, self-conceiving in the inmost depths 
 Of chaos, blackest nio-ht long-laboui'ing bore. 
 When the stern desthiies, her elder brood, 
 
 And shapeless death, from that more monstrous birth 
 Leapt shuddermg ? haunt his slumbers, Nemesis ! 
 Scorch with the lii-es of Phlegethon his heart, 
 Till helpless, hopeless, heaven-abandoned wretch, 
 He, too, shall seek beneath the unfathomed deep 
 To hide him fi-om thy fury. 
 
 How the sea 
 Far distant glitters as the sun-beams smile 
 And gaily wanton o'er its heaving breast ! 
 Phoebus shines forth, nor wears one cloud to mom'n 
 His votary's sorrows. God of day, shine on; — 
 By men despised, forsaken by the Gods, 
 
 1 supplicate no more. 
 
 How many a day, 
 pleasant Lesbos ! in thy secret streams 
 Delighted have I plunged, from the hot sun 
 Screened by the o'er-arching grove's delightful shade. 
 And pillowed on the waters ! Now the waves 
 Shall chill me to repose. 
 
 Tremendous height ! 
 Scarce to the brink will these rebellious limbs 
 Support me. Hark ! how the rude deep below 
 Eoars round the rugged base, as if it called 
 Its long-reluctant victim ! I will come. 
 One leap, and all is over ! The deep rest 
 Of death, or tranquil apathy's dead calm. 
 Welcome alike to me. Away, vam fears ! 
 Phaon is cold, and why should Sappho live ? 
 Phaon is cold, or with some fairer one — 
 Thought worse than death ! 
 
 \_She throws herself from the precijpice. 
 
 D D 
 
402 
 
 TEANSLATION OP A GEEEK ODE ON 
 ASTRONOMY, BY S. T. COLERIDGE; 
 
 Written for tJie ^^^ize at Cambridge, 1793. 
 
 Hail venerable niglit ! 
 
 first-created hail ! 
 Thou who art doom'd in thy dark breast to veil 
 
 The dying beam of light. 
 The eldest and the latest thou, 
 
 Han venerable night ! 
 
 Ai'ound thine ebon brow, 
 Glittering plays with lightning rays 
 
 A wreath of flowers of fire. 
 The varying clouds with many a hue attire 
 
 The many-tinted veil. 
 
 Holy are the blue graces of thy zone ! 
 
 But who is he whose tongue can tell 
 The dewy lustres which thine eyes adorn ? 
 Lovely to some the blushes of the mom; 
 
 To some the glory of the day, 
 
 When blazing with meridian ray 
 The gorgeous sun ascends his highest throne; 
 But I with solemn and severe delight 
 Still watch thy constant cai*, immortal night I 
 
 For then to the celestial palaces 
 Urania leads, Urania, she 
 The goddess who alone 
 Stands by the blazing throne, 
 Efiulgent with the light of deity. 
 Whom wisdom, the creatrix, by her side 
 
 Placed on the heights of yonder sky. 
 And smiling with ambrosial love, unlock'd 
 The depths of natm'e to her piercing eye. 
 Angelic myi'iads struck their harps ai'ound. 
 And with triumphant song 
 The host of stars, a beauteous throng. 
 Around the ever-living mind 
 
TRANSLATION OF A GREEK ODE ON ASTRONOMY. 403 
 
 In jubilee their mystic dance begun; 
 
 When at thy leaping forth, sun ! 
 
 The morning started in affright, 
 Astonished at thy birth, her child of light. 
 
 Hail Urania hail ! 
 Queen of the muses ! mistress of the song ! 
 For thou didst deign to leave the heavenly throng, 
 
 As earthward thou thy steps wert bendnag, 
 A ray went forth and harbingered thy way; 
 All ether laughed with thy descending. 
 Thou hadst wreathed thy hair with roses, 
 The flower that in the immortal bower 
 Its deathless bloom discloses. 
 Before thine awful mien, compell'd to shrink; 
 Pled ignorance abashed and all her brood; 
 Dragons, and hags of baleful breath, 
 Fierce di*eams that wont to drink 
 The sepulchre's black blood; 
 Or on the wings of storms 
 Eiding in fury forms 
 Shi'ieked to the mariner the shriek of death. 
 
 I boast, goddess, to thy name 
 That I have raised the pile of fame ! 
 
 Therefore to me be given 
 To roam the starry path of heaven. 
 To charioteer with wings on high 
 And to rein in the tempests of the sky. 
 
 Chariots of happy gods ! fountains of light ! 
 
 Ye angel-temples bright ! 
 May I unblamed your flamy threshold tread? 
 
 I leave earth's lowly scene; 
 
 I leave the moon serene, 
 
 The lovely queen of night; 
 
 I leave the wide domains 
 Beyond where Mars his fiercer light can fling, 
 
 And Jupiter's vast plains, 
 
 (The many-belted kmg;) 
 Even to the solitude where Saturn reigns. 
 Like some stern tjraut to just exile diiven; 
 
 D s 2 
 
404 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Dim seen the sullen power appears 
 In that cold solitude of heaven. 
 And slow he drags along 
 The mighty ch'cle of long-lmgering years. 
 
 Nor shalt thou escape my sight, 
 Who at the tlireshold of the sun-trod domes 
 Art trembling, — youngest daughter of the night ! 
 And you, ye fiery-tressed strangers, you 
 
 Comets who wander wide, 
 Win I along your pathless way pursue. 
 
 Whence bending I may view 
 The worlds whom elder suns have vivified. 
 
 For hope, with loveliest visions soothes my mind 
 That even in man, life's wiaged power^ 
 When comes again the natal horn-. 
 
 Shall on heaven- wandering feet 
 
 In undecaying youth. 
 
 Spring to the blessed seat ; 
 
 Where round the fields of truth 
 The fiery essences for ever feed ; 
 
 And o'er the ambrosial mead. 
 
 The breezes of serenity 
 Silent and soothing glide for ever by. 
 
 There priest of nature ! dost thou shine 
 Newton ! a king among the kmgs divine. 
 Whether with harmony's mild force. 
 He guides along its course 
 The axle of some beauteous star on high; 
 Or gazmg in the spring 
 Ebullient with creative energy. 
 Feels his pure breast with rapturous joy possest. 
 Inebriate in the holy ecstasy ! 
 
 I may not call thee mortal, then, my soul ! 
 Immortal longings lift thee to the skies : 
 Love of thy native home inflames thee now. 
 
 With pious madness wise. 
 Know then thyself! expand thy wings divine ! 
 Soon mingled with thy fathers thou shalt shine 
 A star amid the starry thi'ong, 
 
 A god the gods among. 
 
405 
 
 THE WIFE OF FEEGUS. 
 
 A MONJDEAMA. 
 
 Scene, the Palace Court. The Queen speaking from the Battlements. 
 
 Cease — cease your torments ! spare the sufferers I 
 Scotchmen, not theirs the deed; — the crime was mine. 
 Mine is the glory. 
 
 Idb threats ! I stand 
 Secure. All access to utiese battlements 
 Is barr'd beyond your sudden strength to force, 
 And lo ! the dagger by which Fergus died ! 
 
 Shame on you, Scotchmen, that a woman's hand 
 Was left to do this deed ! Shame on you, Thanes, 
 Who with slave-patience have so long endured 
 The wrongs, the insolence of tyranny ! 
 Ye coward race ! — that not a husband's sword 
 Smote that adulterous king ! that not a wife 
 Eevenged her own pollution; in his blood 
 Wash'd her soul pure; and for the sin compeU'd, 
 Atoned by virtuous murder ! Oh, my God ! 
 Of what beast-matter hast thou moulded them, 
 To bear with wrongs like these ? There was a time 
 When, if the bard had feign'd you such a tale. 
 Your eyes had throbb'd with anger, and your hands 
 In honest instinct would have grasped the sword. 
 O miserable men who have disgraced 
 Your fathers, whom your sons must blush to name ! 
 
 Ay, ye can threaten me ! ye can be brave 
 
 In anger to a woman ! one whose virtue 
 
 Upbraids your coward vice; whose name will live 
 
 Honour'd and prais'd in song, when not a hand 
 
 Shall root from your forgotten monuments 
 
 The cankering moss. Fools ! fools ! to think that deati* 
 
 Is not a thing familiar to my mind ! 
 
 As if I knew not what must consummate 
 
 My glory ! as if aught that earth can give 
 
406 LYPICAL PIECES. 
 
 Could tempt me to endure the load of life ! 
 Scotchmen ! ye saw when Fergus to the altar 
 Led me, his maiden queen. Ye blest me ther^ 
 I heard jov bless me, and I thought that Heaven 
 Had heard you also, and that I was blest, 
 For I loved Fergus. Bear me witness, God ! 
 With what a sacred heart-sincerity 
 My lips pronounced the unrecallable vow- 
 That made me his, him mine ; bear witness, Th ou ' 
 Before whose throne I this day must appear, 
 Stain'd with his blood and mine ! my heart was hi& 
 His in the strength of all its first affections. 
 In all obedience, in all love, I kept 
 Holy my marriage vow. Behold me. Thanes ! 
 Time hath not changed the face on which his eye 
 So often dwelt, when with assiduous care 
 He sought my love, with seeming truth, for one. 
 Sincere herself, impossible to doubt. 
 Time hath not changed that face; — I speak not now, 
 With pride, of beauties that will feed the worm 
 To-morrow ! but with joyful pride I say 
 That if the truest and most perfect love 
 Deserved requital, such was ever mine. 
 How often reeking from the adulterous bed, 
 Have I received him ! and with no complaint. 
 Neglect and insult, cruelty and scorn, 
 Long, long did I endure, and long curb down 
 The indignant nature. 
 
 Tell your countrymen, 
 Scotchmen, what I have spoken — say to them, 
 \ e saw the queen of Scotland lift the dagger. 
 Bed from her husband's heart ; that in her o^vn 
 She plunged it. 
 
 stabs herself. 
 
 Tell them also, that she felt 
 No axiilty fear in death- 
 
THE SOr.DIER S WIFF. 
 
407 
 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 DACTYLICS. 
 
 Weary way-wanderer languid and sick at heart, 
 Travelling painfully over the rugged road, 
 Wild-visaged wanderer ! ah, for thy heavy chance ! 
 
 Sorely thy little one drags by thee bare-footed, 
 Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back. 
 Meagre and livid, and screaming its wretchedness. 
 
 Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony, 
 
 As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe. 
 
 Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy haggard face. 
 
 ' ?hy husband will never return from the war again, 
 .'old is thy hopeless heart even as charity — 
 Cold are thy famished babes — God help thee, widowed one. 
 
 THE WIDOW. 
 
 SAPPHICS. 
 
 Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell, 
 "Wide were the cIomtis and shelterless and naked, 
 When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey, 
 Weary and way-sore. 
 
 Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections ; 
 Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom : 
 She had no home, the world was aU before her, 
 She had no shelter. 
 
 Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her ; 
 " Pity me !" feebly cried the poor night wanderer. 
 " Pity me, strangers ! lest with cold and hunger 
 Here I should perish. 
 
408 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 " Once I had friends, — but they have all forsook me ! 
 Once I had parent.-,-— they are now in heaven! 
 I had a home once — I had once a husband — 
 Pity me, strangers ! 
 
 " I had a horae once — I had once a husband — 
 I am a widow poor and broken-hearted!" 
 Loud ble-'v the wind, unheard was her complaining, 
 On drove the chariot. 
 
 Then on the snow she laid her down to rest her ; 
 She heard a horseman, " Pity me !" she groaned out^ 
 Loud was the wind, unheard was her complaining, 
 On went the horseman. 
 
 Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold, and hunger, 
 Down sunk the wanderer, sleep had seized her senses; 
 There did the traveller find her in the morning, 
 God had released her. 
 
 THE CHAPEL BELL. 
 
 Lo T, the man who erst the muse did ask 
 
 Her deepest notes to swell the patriot's meeds, 
 
 And now enforced, a far unfitter task. 
 
 For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds ; 
 
 For yon dull tone that tinkles on the air 
 Bids me lay by the lyre, and go to morning prayer. 
 
 Oh, how I hate the sound ! it is the knell 
 That still a requiem tolls to comfort's hour ; 
 
 And loth am I, at superstition's bell, 
 
 To quit or Morpheus or the muse's bower: 
 
 Better to lie and doze than gape amain. 
 Hearing still mumbled o'er the same eternal strain. 
 
 Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers, 
 Say, hast thou ever summoned from his rest 
 
 One being wakening to religious cares ? 
 
 Or roused one pious transport in the breast] 
 
 Or rather, do not all reluctant creep 
 To linger out the hour in listlessness or sleep 1 
 
THE EACE OF BANQUO. 409 
 
 I love fhe bell that calls the poor to pray, 
 
 Chiming from village church its cheerful sound, 
 When the sun smiles on labour's holy-day, 
 
 And all the rustic train are gathered round. 
 Each deftly dizened in his Sunday's best, 
 And pleased to hail the day of piety and rest. 
 
 And when, dim shadowing o'er the face of day, 
 The mantling mists of eventide rise slow, 
 
 As through the forest gloom I wend my way, 
 The minster curfew's sullen voice I know,_ 
 
 And pause, and love its solemn toll to hear, 
 As, made by distance soft, it dies upon the ear. 
 
 Nor with an idle nor unwilling ear 
 
 Do I receive the early passing-bell; 
 For sick at heart with many a secret care, 
 
 When I lie listening to the dead man's knell, 
 I think that in the grave all sorrows cease. 
 And would full fain recline my head, and be at peace. 
 
 But thou, memorial of monastic gall ! 
 
 What fancy sad or lightsome thou hast given ! 
 Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recal 
 
 The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven ! 
 And this dean's gape, and that dean's nasal toiie, 
 And Eoman rites retained, though E-oman faith be flown. 
 
 THE EACE OF BANQUO. 
 
 Elt, son of Banquo ! Fleance, fly! 
 Leave thy guilty sire to die. 
 O'er the heath the stripling fled, 
 The wild storm howling round his head. 
 Fear mightier through the shades of night 
 Urged his feet, and winged his flight; 
 And still he heard his father cry. 
 Fly, son of Banquo ! Fleance, fly ! 
 
 Fly, son of Banquo ! Fleance, fly! 
 
 Leave thy guilty sire to die. 
 
 On every blast Avas heard the moan. 
 
 The anguished shriek, the death-fraus^ht groan ; 
 
410 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Loathly night-hags join the yell, 
 And see — the midnight rites of hell. 
 Forms of magic ! spare my life ! 
 Shield me from the murderer's knife! 
 Before me dim in lurid light 
 Float the phantoms of the night — 
 Behind I hear my fatlier cry, 
 Fly, son of Banquo — Fleance, fly ! 
 
 Parent of the sceptred race, 
 Boldly tread the circled sj)ace : 
 Boldly, Fleance, venture near — ■ 
 Sire of monarchs — spurn at fear. 
 
 Sisters, with prophetic breath. 
 Pour we now the dirge of death ! 
 
 THE POET PERPLEXT. 
 
 Brain ! you must work ! begin, or we shall lose 
 The day while yet we only think upon it. 
 
 The hours run on, and yet you will not chuse 
 The subject — come — ode, elegy, or sonnet. 
 
 You must contribute, brain ! in this hard time ; 
 
 Taxes are high, food dear, and you must rhyme. 
 
 'Twere well if when I rubb'd my itchless head, 
 The fingers with benignant stimulation 
 
 Could through the medullary substance spread 
 The motions of poetic inspiration ; 
 
 But scratch, or knock, or shake my head about, 
 
 The motions may go in, but nought comes out. 
 
 The natural head, consider good my brain, 
 To the head politic bears some allusion ; 
 
 The limbs and body must support your reign. 
 And all when you do wrong is in confusion. 
 
 But caput mine, in truth I can't support 
 
 A head as lazy as if born at court. 
 
LEWTI, OK THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHANT. 411 
 
 The verse goes on, and we shall have, m.j friend, 
 A poem ere the subject we determine. 
 
 But everything should have some useful end. 
 That single line itself is worth a sermon ! 
 
 The moral point as obvious is as good, — 
 
 So gentle brain I I thank you and conclude. 
 
 LEWTI, on THE CIECASSIAN LOYE-CHANT. 
 
 At midnight by the stream I rov'd 
 
 To forget the form I lov'd. 
 Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
 Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 
 The moon was high, the moonlight gleam, 
 
 And the shadow of a star 
 Heav'd upon Tamaha's stream ; 
 
 But the rock shone brighter far, 
 The rock half shelter'd from my view, 
 By pendant boughs of tressy yew. — 
 So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, 
 Gleaming through her sable hair. 
 Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
 Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 
 
 I saw a cloud of palest hue. 
 
 Onward to the moon it pass'd. 
 Still brighter and more bright it grew, 
 "With floating colours not a few. 
 
 Till it reach'd the moon at last ; 
 Then the cloud was wholly bright, 
 With a rich and amber light ; 
 And so with many a hope I seek. 
 
 And with such joy I tind my Lewti; 
 And even so my pale wan cheek 
 
 Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! 
 Nay, treach'rous image ! leave my mhi'i. 
 If Lewti never will be kind. 
 
 The little cloud — it floats away, 
 Away it goes — away so soon ! 
 
LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 ^las! it has no power to stay: 
 
 Its hues are dim, its hues are grey — 
 
 Away it passes from the moon. 
 How mournfully it seems to fly, 
 
 Ever fading more and more, 
 To joyless regions of the sky — 
 
 And now 'tis whiter than before, 
 As white as my poor cheek will be, 
 
 When, Lewti ! on my couch I lie, 
 A dpng man for love of thee. 
 Nay, treach'rous image ! leave my mind — 
 And yet thou didst not look unkmdl 
 
 I saw a vapour in the sky, 
 
 Thin, and white, and very high. 
 I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud — 
 
 Perhaps the breezes that can fly 
 
 Now below, and now above. 
 Have snatch'd aloft the lawny shroud 
 
 Of lady fair — that died for love ; 
 
 Tor maids, as well as youths, have perish'd 
 
 From fruitless love too fondly cherish'd ! 
 
 Nay, treach'rous image ! leave my mind — 
 
 For Lewti never will be kind. 
 
 Hush ! my heedless feet from imder 
 Slip the crumbling banks for ever; 
 
 Like echoes to a distant thunder, 
 They plunge into the gentle river. 
 
 The river swans have heard my tread. 
 
 And startle from their reedy bed. 
 
 O beauteous birds ! methinks ye measure 
 Your movements to some heavenly tune ! 
 
 beauteous birds I 'tis such a pleasure 
 To see you move beneath the moon, 
 
 1 would it were your true delight 
 To sleep by day and wake all night. 
 I know the place where Lewti lies, 
 When silent night has clos'd her eyes — 
 It is a breezy jasmin bower, 
 
 Tlie nightingale sings o'er her head ; 
 Had I the enviable power 
 
 To creep, unseen, with noiseless tread, 
 Then should I view her bosom white 
 
GOOSEBERRY-PIE, 413 
 
 Heaving lovely to the sight, 
 As these two swans together heave 
 On the gently-swelling wave. 
 Oh that she saw me in a dream, 
 
 And dreamt that I had died for caie I 
 All pale and wasted I would seem, 
 
 Yet fair withal, as spirits are. 
 I'd die, indeed, if I might see 
 Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! 
 Soothe, gentle miage ! soothe my mmd ! 
 To-morrow Lewti may be kind. 
 
 GOOSEBEREY-PIE. 
 
 A PINDARIC ODE. 
 
 GoosEBERiiT-PiE is best. 
 
 Full of the theme, O muse begin the song ' 
 What though the sunbeams of the west 
 Mature within the turtle's breast 
 
 Blood glutinous and fat of verdant hue ? 
 
 What though the deer bound sportively along 
 O'er springy turf, the park's elastic vest l 
 
 Give them their honours due — 
 But gooseberry pie is best. 
 
 Behind his oxen slow 
 
 The patient ploughman plods ; 
 
 And as the sower followed by the clods ^ 
 Earth's genial womb received the swelling s-3'ju. 
 The rains descend, the grains they grow ; 
 
 Saw ye the vegetable ocean 
 
 Boll its green billows to the April gale . 
 The ripening gold with multitudinous motion 
 
 Sway o'er the summer vale 1 
 
 It flows through alder banks along 
 Beneath the copse that hides the hill ; 
 
 The gentle stream you cannot see, 
 
 You only hear its melody, 
 
 The stream that turns the mill. 
 
414 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Pass on, a little way pass on, 
 
 And you shall catch its gleam anon; 
 
 And hark ! the loud and agonizing groan 
 
 That makes its anguish known. 
 
 Where tortur'd by the tyrant lord of meal 
 
 The brook is broken on the wheel ! 
 
 Blow fair, blow fair, thou orient gale ! 
 On the white bosom of the sail 
 
 Ye winds enamour'd, lingering lie ! 
 Ye waves of ocean spare the bark ! 
 
 Ye tempests of the sky ! 
 From distant realms she comes to bring 
 
 The sugar for my pie. 
 For this on Gambia's arid side 
 
 The vulture's feet are scaled with blood. 
 And Beelzebub beholds with pride. 
 
 His darling planter brood. 
 
 First in the spring thy leaves were seen, 
 Thou beauteous bush, so early green ! 
 Soon ceas'd thy blossom's little life of love. 
 O safer than the Alcides-conquer'd tree 
 That grew the pride of that Hesperian grove — 
 
 No dragon does there need for thee 
 With quintessential sting to work alarms, 
 
 And guard thy fruit so fine, 
 
 Thou vegetable porcupine ! 
 And didst thou scratch thy tender arms, 
 
 Jane ! that I should dine ! 
 
 The floui', the sugar, and the fruit. 
 Commingled well, how well they suit. 
 
 And they were well bestow'd. 
 O Jane, with truth I praise your pie. 
 And will not you in just reply 
 
 Praise my Pindaric ode ? 
 
415 
 
 THE KILLCEOR 
 
 A SCENE BETWEEN BENEDICT, A GERMAN PEASANT, AND 
 FATHER KARL, AN OLD NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 Eight years since (said Luther) at Dessaw, I did see and touch a changed 
 childe, which was twelv years of age : hee had his eies and all his members 
 like anotlier childe : hee did nothing but feed, and would eat as much 
 as two clowns, or threshers, were able to eat. When one touched it, 
 then it cried out. When any evil happened in the hous, then it 
 laughed and was joiful; but when all went well, then it cried, and was 
 very sad. 
 
 In Saxonia, near unto Halberstad, ;vas a man that also had a killcrop, 
 who sucked the mother and five other woman drie : and besides, de- 
 voured very much. This man was advised thar hee should in his 
 pilgrimage at Halberstad make a premiss of the killcrop to the Virgin 
 Marie, and sliould cause him there to bee rocked. This advice the man 
 followed, and carried the changeling thither in a basket. But going over 
 a river, beeing upon the bridg, another divel that was below in the river 
 called, and said, Killcrop, Killcrop ! Then the childe in the basket (which 
 never before spake one word) answered, ho, ho. The divel in the water 
 asked further, whither art thou going ? The childe in the basket said, 
 I am going towards Hocklestad to our loving mother to be rocked. 
 
 The man beeing mucli affrighted thereat, threw the childe with the 
 basket, over the briilg into the water. Whereupon the two divels flew 
 away together, and cried, ho, ho, ha, tumbling themselves one over 
 another, and so vanished. — Ltither's Divine Discourses. 
 
 In justice, however, to Luther, it should be remembered, that this su- 
 perstition was common to the age in which he lived. 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 You squalling imp, lie still ! isn't it enough 
 
 To eat two pounds for a breakfast, but again 
 
 Before the sun's half-risen, I must hear 
 
 Tliis cry? as though your stomach was as empty 
 
 As old Karl's head, that youder limps along 
 
 Mouthing his crust. I'll haste to Hocklestad ! 
 
 A short mile only. {Writer Father Karl.) 
 
 KARL. 
 
 Benedict, how now ! 
 Earnest and out of breath, why in this haste ? 
 What have you in your basket ? 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 StaLcI aside ! 
 No moment this for converse. Ask to-morrow 
 And I win answer you, but I am now 
 
416 LYEICAL PIECES. 
 
 Al^out to punlsli Beelzebub. Take care. 
 My business is important. 
 
 KAEL. 
 
 What! about 
 To punish the arch fiend old Beelzebub ? 
 A thing most rare — but can't I lend a hand 
 On this occasion ? 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 Father, stand aside ' 
 1 iiate this pai'ley ! stand aside, I say ! 
 
 KARL. 
 
 Good Benedict, be not o'ercome by rage, 
 But listen to an old man. What is't there 
 Within your basket ? 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 'Tis the devil's changeling, 
 A thumping killcrop ! {uncovers t/ie basket.) 
 
 Yes, 'tween you and I, {tohispering) 
 
 Our neighbour Balderic's, changed for his son Will ! 
 
 e:ael. 
 An idle thought ! I say it is a child. 
 A fine one too ! 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 A child ! you dreaming grey -beard ! 
 Nothing will you believe like other people. 
 Did ever mortal man see cliild like this ! 
 Why 'tis a killcrop, certain, manifest; 
 Look there ! I'd rather see a dead pig snap 
 At th' butcher's knife, than call this thing a child. 
 View how he stares ! I'm no young cub d'ye see. 
 
 KAEL. 
 
 Why, Benedict ! this !;• most wonderful 
 
 To my plain mind. I've often heard of killcrops 
 
 And laugh'd at the tale most heartily; but now 
 
 I'll mark him well, and see if there's any truth 
 
 In these said creatures. {looks at tJie basket,) 
 
 A finer child ne'er breathed ! 
 Thou art mistaken, Benedict ! thine eyes 
 See things confused ! But let me hear thee say 
 What are the signs by which thou know'st the diff'rence 
 'Twixt crop and child. 
 
THE KILLCROP. 417 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 The diff 'rence ! mercy on us ! 
 That I should talk to such a heretic — 
 D'ye know the difference 'twixt the moon and stars 1 
 
 KARL. 
 
 Most certainly. 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 Then these are things so near, 
 That I might pardon one who hesitates, 
 Doubting between them. But the crop and child ! 
 They are so opposite, that I should look 
 Sooner to hear the frog teach harmony, 
 Than meet a man with hairs so grey as thine, 
 Who did not know the difference. 
 
 KARL. 
 
 Benedict ! 
 The oldest 'ere he die, something might learn; 
 And I shall hear, gladly, the certain marks 
 That show the killcrop. 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 Father, listen then — 
 Tlie killcrop, mark me, for a true man's child 
 At first might be mistaken — has two eyes 
 And nose and mouth, but these are semblances 
 Deceitful, and, as father Luther says, 
 There's something underneath. 
 
 KARL. 
 
 Good Benedict I 
 If killcrops look like children, by what power 
 Know you they are not ? 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 This from you old father I 
 Why when they are pinch'd they squeak. 
 
 KARL. 
 
 This is not strange, 
 All children cry when pinch'd. 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 But then, their maws; 
 The veriest company of threshing clown 
 Would think they had no appetite, compared 
 With this and the rest ol 'em — ^gormandizing beast ! 
 See how he yawns for food ! 
 
418 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 KARL. 
 
 But Benedict ! 
 When hunger stings you^ don't you ope your moutli 1 
 What other evidence ? 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 Why, devil-like, 
 When any evil happens, by his grin 
 'Twill always tell ye, and when tidings good 
 Come near, the beasts oi twins delivered, or 
 Corn sold at market, or the harvest in, 
 The raven never croaked more dismally 
 Before the sick man's window, than this crop, 
 With disappointment howls. And then, a mark 
 Inlallible, that shows the killcrop true, 
 Is this, old man. he sucks his mother dry! 
 'Twas but the other day, in our village, 
 A killcrop suck'd his mother and five more 
 Dry as a whet-stone. Do you now believe ?' 
 
 EARL. 
 
 Good Benedict, all children laugh and cry ! 
 I have my doubts. 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 Doubts have you ? well-a-day 1 
 In t'other world you'll sink ten fathoms deeper 
 I promise you for this foul heresy. 
 But nothing will move you, you wont be moved. 
 I'll tell 'ye as true a story as ever man 
 Told to another. I had a changeling once 
 Laid in my cradle, but I spied him out; 
 Thou'st never seen a creature so foul-mouth'd 
 And body'd too. But, knowing Satan's drift, 
 I balk'd him : to tlie lofty church that stands 
 Over yon river, I the killcrop took 
 To ask advice, how to dispose of him 
 Of th' holy pastor. When by the moon on high, 
 ('Tis true I fear'd him) as I past the bridge, 
 Bearing him in my arms, he gave a leap 
 And over tlie rails jump'd headlong, laughing loud 
 With a fellow-fiend, that from the waves beneath 
 Bawl'd Killcrop Killcrop ! 
 
 KARL. 
 
 Are you sure he laugh'cl ? 
 Might it not be a cry 1 
 
THE KILLCROP. 419 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 Why! that it might, 
 I wont be certain, but that he jump'd over 
 And splash'd and dash'd into the water beneath 
 Making fierce gestures and loud bellowings j 
 X could as soon, a witch's innocence, 
 Believe, as doubt it. 
 
 KARL. 
 
 Benedict I now say ' 
 Didst thou not throw him over ? 
 
 BENEDICT, 
 
 Throw him over ! 
 Why, man, I could as easily have lield 
 A struggling whale. It needed iron arms 
 To hold the monster. Doubt whate'er you will, 
 He surely laugh'd. And when he reach'd the water 
 Graspmg the fiend, I never shall forget 
 The cries, the yells, the shouts ; it seem'd to me 
 That thunder was dove's cooing to the noise 
 These killcrops made, as splashing, roaring, laughing 
 With their ha, ha, ha, so ominous ! they rush'd 
 Down the broad stream. That very night our cow 
 Sicken'd and died. Saints aid us ! whilst these crops 
 Poison the air, they'll have enough to do 
 To stay the pestilence. 
 
 KARL. 
 
 But Benedict, 
 Be not outrageous ! I am old d'ye see. 
 Trust me, thou art mistaken, 'tis no killcrop, 
 See how he smiles ! poor infant, give him me. 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 Stand off! the devil lent him, and again 
 J will return him honestly, and rid 
 Earth of one bane. 
 
 KARL. 
 
 Thou dost not mean to kill ! 
 Poor infant, spare him ! I have young and old. 
 The poor, a houseful, yet I'll not refuse 
 To take one more, if thou wilt give him me. 
 Let me persuade ! 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 Away ! I say, away ! 
 Even if an angel came to beg him of me, 
 
 E e2 
 
420 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 I should s aspect imposture, for I know- 
 He could not ask a killcrop. 'Tis a thing 
 Heaven hath no need of. Ere an hour be past, 
 From yon tall rock I'll hyl him to perdition. 
 
 KARL. 
 
 Eepeat it not ! oh spare the infant ! spare 
 His innocent laughter ! my cold creeping blood 
 Doth boil with indignation, at the thought 
 Most horrible. Thou must not do the deed ! 
 
 BENEDICT. 
 
 Not punish Satan ! I have learnt too well 
 
 From father Luther. Once again, stand off ! 
 
 I'll rocket him, (exit.) 
 
 THE HUEON*S ADDEESS TO THE DEAD. 
 
 Brother, thou wert strong in youth ! 
 Brother, thou wert brave in war ! 
 Unhappy man was he 
 For whom thou hadst sharpened the tomahawk's edge j 
 Unhappy man was he 
 On whom thine angry eye was fix'd in fight ', 
 And he who from thy hand 
 Eeceived the calumet, 
 Blest heaven, and slept in peace. 
 
 When the evil spmts seized thee, 
 Brother, we were sad at heart: 
 
 We bade the Jongler come, 
 
 And bring his magic aid ; 
 We circled thee in mj^stic dance. 
 
 With songs and shouts and cries, 
 
 To free thee from their power. 
 Brother, but in vain we strove. 
 The number of thy days was full. 
 
 Thou sittest amongst us on thy mat, 
 The bear-skin from thy shoulder hangs, 
 Thy feet are sandal'd, ready for the way. 
 Those are the unfatiguable feet 
 
 That traversed the forest track, 
 
 Those are the lips that late 
 
THE Huron's address to the dead, 421 
 
 Thundered the yell of war; 
 And that is the strong right arm 
 That never was lifted in vain. 
 
 Those lips are silent now, 
 The limbs that were active are stiff, 
 
 Loose hangs the strong right arm ! 
 
 And where is that which in thy voice 
 The language of friendship spake ? 
 That gave the strength of thine arm ? 
 
 That fill'd thy limbs with life 1 
 It was not thou, for thou art here, 
 
 Thou art amongst us still, 
 But the life and the feeling are gone. 
 
 The Iroquois will learn 
 
 That thou hast ceas'd from war, 
 'Twill be a joy like victory, 
 For thou wert the scourge of their race. 
 
 Brother, we sing thee the song of death, 
 In thy coffin of bark we lay thee to rest. 
 The bow shall be placed by thy side. 
 And the shafts that are pointed and feather'd for flight. 
 To the country of the dead 
 Long and painful is thy way ! 
 Over rivers wide and deep 
 Lies the road that must be past. 
 By bridges narrow-wall'd, 
 "Where scarce the soul can force its way, 
 "While the loose fabric totters under it. 
 
 Safely may our brother pass ! 
 Safely may he reach the fields, 
 Where the sound of the drum and the shell 
 Shall be heard from the country of souls ! 
 The spirits of thy sires 
 Shall come to welcome thee ; 
 The God of the dead in his bower 
 Shall receive thee and bid thee join 
 The dance of eternal joy. 
 
 Brother, we pay thee the rites of death, 
 Best in the bower of delight ! 
 
422 
 THE OLD CHICKASAH TO HIS GKA]NDSON. 
 
 Now go to the battle, my boy ! 
 Dear child of my son, 
 
 There is strength in thine arm, there is hope in thy heart, 
 Thou art ripe for the labours of war. 
 Thy sire was a stripling like thee 
 When he went to the first of his fields. 
 
 He return'd, in the glory of conquest return'd, 
 Before him his trophies were borne ; 
 
 These scalps that have hung till the sun and the rain 
 Have rusted their raven locks. 
 
 Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arrived, 
 The day of the warrior's reward, 
 When the banners sun-beaming were spread, 
 And all hearts were dancing in joy 
 To the sound of the victory drum. 
 
 The heroes were met to receive their reward. 
 
 But distinguish'd among the young heroes that day, 
 
 The pride of his nation thy father was seen : 
 The swan-feathers hung from his neck, 
 His face like the rainbow was tinged, 
 And his eye — how it sparkled in pride ! 
 
 The elders approach'd, and they placed on his brow 
 The crown that his valour had won, 
 And they gave him the old honour'd name. 
 
 They reported ithe deeds he had done in the war, 
 And the youth of the nation were told 
 To respect him, and tread in his j)ath. 
 
 My boy ! I have seen, and with hope, 
 
 The courage that rose in thine eye 
 
 When I told thee the tale of his death. 
 
 His war-pole now is grey with moss, 
 
 His tomahawk red with rust. 
 
 His bow-string whose twang was death 
 
 Now sings as it cuts the wind, 
 
 But his memory is fresh in the land. 
 
 And his name with the names that we love. 
 
 Go now and revenge him, my boy ! 
 
 That his spirit no longer may hover by day 
 
 O'er the hut where his bones are at rest, 
 Nor trouble our dreams in the night. 
 
 My boy, I shall watch for the warrici^'s leturn, 
 A nd my soul will be sad 
 Till the steps of thy coming I see. 
 
423 
 
 THE PERUVIAN'S DIEGE OVER THE BODY 
 OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 Rest in peace, my father, rest ! 
 With danger and toil have I borne thy corpse 
 From the stranger's field ol death. 
 
 I bless thee, O wife of the sun, 
 For veiling thy beams with a cloud, 
 While at the pious task 
 Thy votary toil'd in fear. 
 Thou badest the clouds of night 
 Enwrap) thee, and hide thee from man; 
 But didst thou not see my toil, 
 And put on the darkness to aid, 
 O wife of the visible god 1 
 
 Wretched, my father, thy life! 
 Wretched the life of the slave ! 
 All day for another he toils ; 
 Overwearied at night he lies down 
 And dreams of the freedom that once he enjoy'd. 
 Thou wert blest in the days of thy youth, 
 My father ! for then thou wert free. 
 In the fields of the nation thy hand 
 Bore its part of the general task ; 
 And when, with the song and the dance, 
 Ye brought the harvest home, 
 As all in the labour had shared, 
 So justly they shaKd in the fruits. 
 
 Thou visible lord of the earth, 
 Thou god of my lathers, thou god of my heart, 
 O giver of light i,nd of life ! 
 When the strangers cime to our shores, 
 Why didst thou not put (orth thy power? 
 Thy thunders should then lave been liurl'd. 
 The fires should in lightnings .lave flash'd! — 
 Visible god of the eaith. 
 The strangers mock at thy might ! 
 
 To idols and beams of wood 
 They force us to bow the knee ! 
 
424 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 They plunge us in caverns and dens, 
 Where never thy blessed light 
 Shines on our poisonous toil ! 
 But not in the caverns and dens, 
 O sun, are we mindless of thee I 
 "We pine for the want of thy beams, 
 We adore thee with anguish and groans. 
 
 My father, rest in peace ! 
 Best with the dust of thy sires ! 
 They placed their cross in thy dying grasp ; 
 They bore thee to their burial place, 
 
 And over thy breathless frame 
 Their bloody and merciless priest 
 
 Mumbled his mystery words. 
 Oh ! could thy bones be at peace 
 In the fields where the strangers are laid] — 
 Alone, in danger and in pain, 
 My father, I bring thee here : 
 So may our god, in reward, 
 Allow me one faithful friend 
 To lay me beside thee when I am released ! 
 So may he release me soon. 
 That my spirit may join thee there, 
 Where the strangers never shall come ! 
 
 SONG OF THE CHICKASAH WIDOW. 
 
 'TwAS the voice of my husband that came on the gale. 
 The unappeased spirit in anger complains! 
 
 Best, rest, Ollanahta, be still ! 
 
 The day of revenge is at hand. 
 
 The stake is made ready, the captives shall die 
 To-morrow the song of their death shalt thou hear, 
 
 To-morrow thy widow shall wield 
 
 The knife and the fire ; — be at rest ! 
 
 The vengeance of anguist shall soon have its course,— 
 The fountains of grief ani of fury shall flow, — 
 
 I will think, Ollanalta ! of thee. 
 
 Will remember the days of our love. 
 
SONG OF THE CHTCKASAH WIDOW. -t2o 
 
 Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sat, 
 
 Where icUy thy hatchet of battle is hung ; 
 I gazed on the bow of thy strength 
 As it waved on the stream of the wind- 
 
 The scalps that we number'd in triumph were there, 
 And the musket that never was levell'd in vain, — 
 
 What a leap has it given to my heart 
 
 To see thee suspend it in peace. 
 
 When the black and blood-banner was spread to the gile, 
 When thrice the deep voice of the war-di'um was hearvi, 
 
 I remember thy terrible eyes 
 
 How they flash'd the dark glance of thy joy. 
 
 I remember the hope that shone over thy cheek 
 As thy hand from the pole reach'd its doers of death ; 
 Like the ominous gleam of the cloud 
 Ere the thunder and lightning are born. 
 
 He went, and ye came not to warn him in dreams, 
 Kindred spirits of him who is holy and gi-eat ! 
 
 And where was thy warning, O bird, 
 
 The tunely announcer of ill ? 
 
 Alas ! when thy brethren in conquest return'd ; 
 
 When I saw the white plumes bending over their heads. 
 And the pine-boughs of triumph before, 
 Where the scalps of their victory swung. — 
 
 The war-hymn they pour'd, and thy voice was not there ! 
 I call'd thee, — alas, the white deer-skin was brought ; 
 
 And thy grave was prepared in the tent 
 
 Which 1 had made ready for joy I 
 
 Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sit, — 
 OUanahta, all night I weep over thy grave ! 
 
 To-morrow the victims shall die, 
 
 And I shall have joy in revenge. 
 
^2Q 
 
 bONG OF THE AEAUCANS DUEING A 
 THUNDER STORM. 
 
 "Eespecting storms, the people of Chili are of opinion that the de- 
 parted souls are returning from tlieir abode beyond the sea to assist 
 their relations and friends. Accordingly, when it thunders over the 
 mountains, they think that the souls of their forefathers are taken in 
 an engagement with those of the Spaniards. The roaring of the winds 
 they take to be the noise of horsemen attacking one another, the howling 
 of the tempest for the beating of drums, and the claps of thunder for 
 the discharge of muskets and cannons. When the wind drives the 
 clouds towards the possessions of the Spaniards, they rejoice that the 
 souls of their forefathers have repulsed those of their enemies, and call 
 out aloud to them to give them no quarter. When the contrary 
 happens, they are troubled and dejected, and encourage the yielding 
 souls to rally their forces, and summon up the last remains of their 
 strength." — Meiner, 
 
 The storm cloud grows deeper above, 
 Araucans ! the tempest is ripe in the sky, 
 Our forefathers come from their islands of bliss, 
 
 They come to the war of the winds. 
 
 The souls of the strangers are there, 
 In their garments of darkness they ride through the heaven, 
 The cloud that so lurid rolls over the hill. 
 
 Is red with their weapons of fire. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! in the howl of the wind 
 The shout of the battle — the clang of their drums — 
 The horsemen are met, and the shock oi the fight 
 
 Is the blast, that disbranches the wood. 
 
 Behold from the clouds of their power 
 The lightning — the lightning is lanced at our sires, 
 Aud the thunder that shakes the broad pavement of heaven, 
 
 And the darkness that shadows the day ! 
 
 Ye souls of our fathers be brave ! 
 Ye shrunk not before the invaders on earth, 
 Ye trembled not then at their weapons of fire, 
 
 Brave spirits ye tremble not now I 
 
CHIMALPOCA. 427 
 
 "We gaze on voiir warfare in hope, 
 We send up our shouts to encourage your arms ! 
 Lift the lance of your vengeance, O fathers ! with force, 
 
 For the wrongs of your country strike home ! 
 
 Eemember the land was your own 
 "When the sons of destruction came over the seas, 
 That the old fell asleep in the fulness of days, 
 
 And their children wept over their graves. 
 
 Till the strangers came into the land 
 With tongues of deceit and with weapons of fire, 
 Then the strength of the people in youth was cut off 
 
 And the father wept over his son. 
 
 It thickens — the tumult of fight, 
 Loud and louder the blast of the battle is heard — 
 Eemember the wrongs that your country endures 
 
 Eemep*^er the fields of your fame. 
 
 Joy! joy! for the strangers recoil — 
 They give way — they retreat to the land of their life ! 
 Pursue them ! pursue them! remember your wrongs I 
 
 Let your lances be drunk with their wounds. 
 
 The souls of your wives shall rejoice 
 As they welcome you back to your islands of bliss. 
 And the breeze that refreshes the toil-throbbing brow 
 
 Waft thither the song of your praise. 
 
 CHIMALPOCA. 
 
 A MONODRAMA — FOUNDED ON AN EVENT IN THE 
 MEXICAN HISTORY. 
 
 Scene, the Temple of Mexitli. 
 
 Subjects ! friends ! children ! I may call you children 
 
 For I have ever borne a father's love 
 
 Towards you ; it is thirteen years since first 
 
 You saw me in the robes of royalty, 
 
 Since here the multitudes of Mexico 
 
 HaiFd me their king. I thank you friends that now 
 
 In equal numbers and with equal love 
 
 You come to grace my death. 
 
428 LYKICAL PIECES. 
 
 For thh'teen years 
 What I have been, ye know : that with all care, 
 That with all justice and all gentleness 
 Seeking your weal I govern'd. Is there one 
 Whom I have injured ? one whose just redress 
 I have denied, or baffled by delay? 
 Let him come forth, that so no evil tongue 
 Speak shame of me hereafter. O my jDeople, 
 Not by my deeds have I drawn down upon me 
 The wrath ot heaven. 
 
 The wrath is heavy on mo! 
 Heavy ! a burthen more than I can bear ! 
 T have endured contempt, insult and wrongs 
 "From that Acolhuan tyrant ! should I seek 
 Eevenge ? alas, my people, we are few. 
 Feeble our growing state ! it hath not yet 
 Eooted itself to bear the hurricane ; 
 It is the lion-cub that tempts not yet 
 The tiger's full-aged fury. Mexicans, 
 He sent to bid me wear a woman's robe ; — 
 Wlien was the day that ever I look'd back 
 In battle ? Mexicans, the wife I loved. 
 To faith and friendship trusted, in despite 
 Of me, of heaven, he seized, and spurned her back 
 Polluted ! — coward villain I and he lurks 
 Behind his armies and his multitudes. 
 And mocks my idle wrath ! — it is not fit 
 It is not possible that I should live ! 
 Live ! and deserve to be the finger-mark 
 Of slave-contempt ! his blood I cannot reach, 
 But in my own all stains shall be efi^iced, 
 It shall blot out the marks of infamy, 
 And when the warriors of the days to come 
 Shall speak of Chimalpoca, they shall say 
 He died the brave man's death ! 
 
 Not of the god 
 Unworthy, do I seek his altar thus, 
 A voluntary victim. And perchance 
 The sacrifice of life may profit you, 
 My people, though all living efforts fail'd 
 By fortune, not by fault. 
 
 Cease your lament ! 
 And if your ill-doomed king deserved your love. 
 
LINES WRITTEN IN THE 16tH CENTURY. 429 
 
 Say of him to your children, " he was one 
 
 "Who bravely bore misfortune ; who when life 
 
 Became dishonour, shook his body off. 
 
 And join'd the spirits of the heroes dead." 
 
 Yes ! not in Miclanteuctli's* dark abode 
 
 With cowards shall your king receive his doom , 
 
 Not in the icy caverns of the north 
 
 Suffer through endless ages ! he shall join 
 
 The spirits of the brave, with them at morn 
 
 Shall issue from the eastern gate of heaven. 
 
 And follow through his fields of light the sun, 
 
 AVith them shall raise the song and weave the dance, 
 
 Sport in the stream of splendour, company 
 
 Do\vn to the western palace of his rest 
 
 The prince of glory, and with equal eye 
 
 Endure his centered radiance. Not of you 
 
 Forgetful, O my people, even then, 
 
 But often in the amber cloud of noon 
 
 Diffused, will I o erspread your summer fields. 
 
 And on the freshened maize and brightening meads 
 
 Shower plenty. 
 
 Spirits of my valiant sires, 
 I come ! Mexitli, never at thy shrine 
 Flow'd braver blood ! never a nobler heart 
 Steam'd up its life to thee ! priests ot the god, 
 Perform your office ! 
 
 LINES WEITTEN IN THE 16th CENTUEY, 
 
 For aye be hynce ye vayne delyghts 
 So short as seeme the guiltie nyghtea 
 
 Yatte men forweare inne folie ! 
 This lowlie world hath nothyng swote 
 Hadde mortals onlie wytte to know yt 
 
 But halie melancholic. 
 
 Then welcome armes yatte folded lye 
 From heavie breste the long-drawn sye, 
 
 * The Mexican god of hell. 
 
430 LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 The purses of the browe, 
 The loke yrooted to the growne, 
 The tong ychaynde withouten sowne, 
 
 Unguided steps and slowe. 
 
 The moonlight walk in pathless grove 
 Where aye pale passion yearnes to rove, 
 
 The well hede-kele and still. 
 The midnyghte howre when all the fowles 
 Are housde and hushte save battes and owJea 
 
 Yatte screche theyre bodynges shrille. 
 
 The fadyng clink of dystaunt bell 
 Whose knell the tale of dethe doth tell, 
 
 The grone of partyng ghoste, 
 These sownes aleyne the sowle doth feede 
 Yatte of a higher world hath hede, 
 
 Forlettying erthlie loste. 
 
 PARODIED IN THE I8th CENTURY. 
 
 Hither frolics and delights ! 
 Day is dying, and by nights 
 
 I my 5J|ars would number ; 
 What have earth and time to give 
 But the when that pleasures live 
 
 Toil and trouble slumber ? 
 
 Welcome arms asunder thrown, 
 Lifted chin, and locks adown 
 
 The forehead sleek and free, 
 Crimson cheek and glancing eye, 
 Lips where smiles aye lurking lie, 
 
 The tiptoe tread of glee. 
 
 The taper'd hall that music haunts, 
 Where sparkles wine, where beauty pants. 
 
 And feast and dance abound ; 
 The midnight hour when sages sour 
 Are hush'd abed or hous'd in bower, 
 
 But wi-^ runs giggling round. 
 
PARODIED IN Tnn ISth century. 431 
 
 The clink of an unheeded clock, 
 That vainly gives a threefold knock. 
 
 The toast that glows the breast, 
 The jolly-chorused roundelay, 
 The curtain that keeps out the day, 
 
 Let ansels have the rest. 
 
 INSCEIPTION 
 
 FOR THE APARTMENT IN CHEPSTOW CASTLE WHERE HENRY 
 
 MARTEN THE REGICIDE WAS IMPRISONED 
 
 THIRTY YEARS. 
 
 For thirty years secluded from mankind, 
 
 Here Marten linger'd. Often have these walls 
 
 Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread 
 
 He paced around his prison : not to him 
 
 Did nature's fair varieties exist: 
 
 He never saw the sun's delightful beams. 
 
 Save when through yon high bars it pour'd a sad 
 
 And broken splendour. Dost thou ask his crime ? 
 
 He had rebell'd against the king, and sat 
 
 In judgment on him ; for his ardent mind 
 
 Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth, 
 
 And peace and liberty. Wild dreams ! but such 
 
 As Plato loved ; such as, with holy zeal 
 
 Our Milton worshipp'd. Blessed hopes ! awhile 
 
 Prom man withheld, even to the latter dp.yi^, 
 
 When Christ shall come and all things be fidfdled. 
 
432 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 .SONNET I. 
 
 Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely maid 
 
 Whom fancy still will portray to my sight, 
 How here I linger in this sullen shade, 
 
 This dreary gloom of dull monastic night. 
 Say, that from every joy of life remote 
 
 At evening's closing hour I quit the throng, 
 Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note, 
 
 Who pours like me her solitary song. 
 Say, that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh ; 
 
 Say, that of all her charms I love to speak, 
 In fancy feel the magic of her eye, 
 
 In fancy "^ew the smile illume her cheek, 
 (.""ourt the lone hour when silence stills the grove. 
 And heave the sigh of memory and of love. 
 
 II. 
 
 Think, Valentine, as speeding on thy way 
 
 Homeward, thou hastest light oi heart along, 
 If heavily creep on one little day 
 
 The medley crew of travellers among. 
 Think on thine absent friend : reflect that here 
 
 On life's sad journey comfortless he roves. 
 Remote from every scene his heart holds dear 
 
 From him he values, and from her he loves. 
 And when, disgusted with the vain and duU 
 
 Whom chance companions of thy way may doom, 
 Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full, 
 
 Turns to itself and meditates on home. 
 Ah, think what cares must ache within his breast 
 Who loathes the lingering road, yet has no home ot rest! 
 
SONNETS. 433 
 
 III. 
 
 Not to thee, Bedford ! mournful is the tale 
 Of days departed. Time in his career 
 Arraigns not thee tliat the neglected year 
 Hath past unheeded onward. To the vale 
 Of years thou journey est; may the future road 
 Be pleasant as the past ! and on my friend 
 Friendship and love, best blessings ! still attend, 
 Till full of days he reach the calm abode 
 Where natui-e slumbers. Lovely is the age 
 Of virtue : with such reverence we behold 
 The silver hairs, as some gray oak grown old 
 That whilom mocked the rushing tempest's rage. 
 Now like the monument of strength decayed, 
 "With rarely- sprinkled leaves, castmg a trembluig shade. 
 
 IV. 
 
 What though no sculptured monument proclaim 
 
 Thy fate — yet, Albert, in my breast 1 bear 
 Inshrined the sad remembrance : yet thy name 
 
 Will fill my throbbing bosom. When despair. 
 The child of murdered hope, fed on thy heart. 
 
 Loved, honoured friend, I saw thee sink forlorn. 
 Pierced to the soul by cold neglect's keen dart, 
 
 And penury's hard ills, and pitying scorn. 
 And the dark spectre of departed joy, 
 
 Inhuman memory. Often on thy grave 
 Love I the solitary hour to employ 
 Thinking on other days ; and heave the sigh 
 
 Responsive, when I mark the high grass wave 
 Sad sounding as the cold breeze rustles by. 
 
 Hard by the road, where on that little mound 
 The high grass rustles to the passing breeze, 
 The child of misery rests her head in peace. 
 
 Pause there in sadness: that unhallowed ground 
 
 Inshrines what once was Isabel. Sleep on. 
 Sleep on, poor outcast ! lovely was thy cheek, 
 And thy mild eye was eloquent to speak 
 
 The soul of pity. Pale and woe-begone, 
 
'^^^ ' SONNETS. 
 
 Soon did thy fair cheek fade, and thine eye weep 
 The tear of anguish for the babe unborn. 
 The helpless heir of povei'ty and scorn. 
 She drank the draught that chilled her soul to sleep, 
 I pause, and wipe the big drop from mine eye. 
 Whilst the proud Levite scowls and passes by. 
 
 VI. 
 
 TO A BROOK NEAR THE VILLAGE OF COESTON. 
 
 As thus I bend me o'er thy babbling stream 
 
 And watch thy current, memory's hand portrays 
 The faint-formed scenes of the departed days. 
 
 Like the far forest by the moon's pale beam 
 
 Dimly descried, yet lovely. I have worn. 
 Upon thy banks, the livelong hour away. 
 When sportive childhood wantoned through the day. 
 
 Joyed at the opening splendour of the morn. 
 
 Or, as the twilight darkened, heaved the sigh, 
 Thinking of distant home; as down my cheek. 
 At the fond thought, slow stealing on, would speak 
 
 The silent eloquence of the full eye. 
 
 Dim are the long past days, yet still they please [breeze. 
 As thy soft sounds half heard, borne on the inconstant 
 
 VII. 
 
 TO THE EVENING EAINBOW. 
 
 Mild arch of promise ! on the evening sky 
 
 Thou shinest fair, with many a lovely ray. 
 Each in the other melting. Much mine eye 
 
 Delights to linger on thee; for the day. 
 Changeful and many- weathered, seemed to smile. 
 Flashing brief splendour through its clouds awhile. 
 
 Which deepened dark anon, and fell in rain: 
 But pleasant it is now to pause, and view 
 Thy various tints of frail and watery hue, 
 
 And think the storm shall not return again. 
 Such is the smile that piety bestows 
 
 On the good man's pale cheek, when he, in peace. 
 Departing gently from a world of woes. 
 
 Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease. 
 
SONNETS. 435 
 
 VIII. 
 
 With many a weary step, at length I gain 
 
 Thy summit, Lansdown; and the cool breeze plays, 
 Gratefully round my brow, as hence the gaze 
 
 Eeturns to dwell upon the journeyed plain. 
 'Twas a long way and tedious ! To the eye 
 
 Though fair the extended vale, and fair to view 
 
 The falling leaves of many a faded hue, 
 That eddy in the wild gust moaning by. 
 
 Even so it fared with life ! in discontent. 
 
 Restless through fortune's mingled scenes I went .... 
 Yet wept to think they would return no more ! 
 
 But cease, fond heart, in such sad thoughts to roam; 
 
 For surely thou ere long shalt reach thy home, 
 And pleasant is the way that lies before. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Tair is the rising morn, when o'er the sky 
 The orient sun expands his roseate ray, 
 
 And lovely to the bard's enthusiast eye 
 Fades the meek radiance of departing day; 
 
 But fairer is the smile of one we love. 
 
 Than all the scenes in nature's ample sway. 
 
 And sweeter than the music of the grove. 
 
 The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight, 
 Edith! is mine; escaping to thy sight 
 
 From the hard durance of the empty throng. 
 Too swiftly then towards the silent night. 
 
 Ye hours of happiness ! ye speed along; 
 
 Whilst I, from all the world's cold cares apart^ 
 Pour out the feelings of my burthened heart. 
 
 How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns 
 The gathered tempest ! from that lurid cloud 
 The deep-voiced thunders roll, awful and loud. 
 
 Though distant; while upon the misty downs 
 
 Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain. 
 I never saw so terrible a storm ! 
 
 Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain 
 
 Wraps his torn raiment round his shivering form. 
 
43G 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Cold even as hope within him ! I the while 
 Pause me m sadness, though the sun-beams smile 
 
 Cheerily round me. Ah, that thus my lot 
 Might be with peace and solitude assigned, 
 
 Where 1 might, from some little quiet cot, 
 Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind ! 
 
 XL 
 
 Stately yon vessel sails adown the tide 
 
 To some far-distant land adventurous bound. 
 The sailors' busy cries, from side to side, 
 
 Pealing among the echoing rocks resound ; 
 A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band. 
 
 Joyful they enter on their ocean way. 
 With shouts exulting leave their native land. 
 
 And know no care beyond the present day. 
 But is there no poor mom'iier left behind. 
 
 Who sorrows for a child or husband there ? 
 Who at the howling of the midnight wind 
 
 Will wake and tremble in her boding prayer ? 
 So may her voice be heard, and heaven be kind — 
 
 Go gallant ship, and be thy fortune fail- 1 
 
 XIL 
 
 Bewaee a speedy friend, the Arabian said. 
 And wisely was it he advised distrust. 
 The flower that blossoms earliest fades the first. 
 Look at yon oak that lifts its stately head 
 And dallies with the autumnal storm, whose rage 
 
 Tempests the ocean waves; slowly it rose. 
 Slowly its strength increased, through many an age, 
 
 And timidly did its light leaves unclose, 
 As doubtful of the spring, their palest green. 
 They to the summer cautiously expand. 
 And by the warmer sun and season bland 
 Matured, their foliage in the grove is seen. 
 When the bare forest by the wintry blast 
 Is swept, still lingering on the boughs the last. 
 
SONNETS. 437 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A WRINKLED crabbed man they picture thee. 
 
 Old winter, with a ragged beard as gray 
 As the long moss upon the apple tree; 
 
 Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way, 
 Blue lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose. 
 Plodding alone through sleet and di-ifting snows. 
 They should have di-awn thee by the high-heapt hearth, 
 
 Old winter ! seated in thy great arm'd chair, 
 Watchmg the children at their Christmas mirth, 
 
 Or circled by them as their lips declare 
 Some merry jest or tale of murder dire. 
 
 Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night. 
 Pausing at times to move the languid fire, 
 
 Or taste the old October brown and bright. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 DURING A TEMPEST. 
 
 God ! have mercy in this dreadful hour 
 On the poor mariner ! — In comfort here, 
 Safe sheltered as I am, I almost fear 
 
 The blast that rages with resistless power. 
 What were it now to toss upon the waves, — 
 
 The maddened waves, — and know no succour near; 
 
 The howling of the storm alone to hear, 
 And the wild sea that to the tempest raves, 
 
 To gaze amid the horrors of the night, 
 
 And only see the billows' gleaming light; 
 And in the dread of death to think of her 
 
 Who as she listens sleepless to the gale. 
 
 Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale ! 
 God ! have mercy on the mariner. 
 
438 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 The three utilities of poetry — the praise of virtue and goodness, the 
 memory of things remarkable, and to invigorate the aflections. — Welsh 
 Triad. 
 
 INSCRIPTION I. 
 
 FOE A COLUMN AT NEWBUEY. 
 
 Aet thou a patriot, traveller ? on this field 
 
 Did Falkland fall, the blameless and the brave. 
 
 Beneath a tjTant's banners : dost thou boast 
 
 Of loyal ardour ? Hampden perished here, 
 
 The rebel Hampden, at whose glorious name 
 
 The heart of every honest Englishman 
 
 j3eats high with conscious pride. Both uncorrupt, 
 
 Friends to their common country both, they fought. 
 
 They died in adverse armies. Traveller ! 
 
 If with thy neighbour thou shouldst not accord. 
 
 In charity remember these good men. 
 
 And quell each angry and injurious thought. 
 
 XL 
 
 TOE A CAVEEN THAT OVEELOOES THE EIVEE AVON. 
 
 Entee this cavern, stranger ! the ascent 
 Is long and steep and toilsome ; here awhile 
 Thou mayst repose thee from the noontide heat, 
 O'ercanopied by this arched rock that strikes 
 A grateful coolness : clasping its rough arms 
 Eound the rude portal, the old ivy hangs 
 Its dark green branches down. No common spot 
 Eeceives thee, for the power who prompts the song 
 
INSCRIPTIONS. 439 
 
 Loves this secluded haunt. The tide helow 
 Scarce sends the sound of waters to thine ear; 
 And yon high-hanging forest to the wind 
 Varies its many hues. Gaze, stranger, here ! 
 And let thy softened heart intensely feel 
 How good, how lovely, nature ! Wlien from hence 
 Departing to the city's crowded streets. 
 Thy sickening eye at every step revolts 
 From scenes of vice and wretchedness; reflect 
 That man creates the evil he endures. 
 
 III. 
 
 FOB A TABLET AT SILBUEY-HILL. 
 
 This mound in some remote and dateless day 
 Eeared o'er a chieftain of the age* of hills, 
 May here detain thee, traveller ! from thy road 
 Not idly lingering. In his narrow house 
 Some warrior sleeps helow; his gallant deeds 
 Haply at many a solemn festival 
 The bard has harped, but perished is the song 
 Of praise, as o'er these bleak and barren downs 
 The wind that passes and is heard no more. 
 Go, traveller, and remember when the pomp 
 Of earthly glovj fades, that one good deed 
 Unseen, unheard, unnoted by mankind. 
 Lives in the eternal register of heaven. 
 
 IV. 
 
 FOE A MONUMENT IN THE NEW FOREST. 
 
 This is the place where William's kingly power 
 
 Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel. 
 
 Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless, 
 
 The habitants of all the fertile tract 
 
 Far as these wilds extend. He levelled down 
 
 Their little cottages, he bade their fields 
 
 * The northern nations distinguished the two periods when the bodies 
 of the dead were consumed by fire, and when tliey were buried beneath 
 the tumuli so common in tliis country, by the age of fire and the age of 
 hills. 
 
INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 Lie barren, so that o'er the forest waste 
 He might more ro^^ally parsue his sports ! 
 If that thine heart be human, passenger ! 
 Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips 
 Will mutter cm^ses on him. Think thou, then, 
 What cities flame, what hosts unsepulchred 
 Pollute the passing wind, when raging power 
 Drives on his blood-hounds to the chase of manj 
 And as thy thoughts anticipate that day 
 When God shall judge aright, in charity 
 Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind. 
 
 rOE THE BANKS OF THE HAMPSHIRE AVON. 
 
 A LITTLE while, traveller ! linger here. 
 And let thy leisure eye behold and feel 
 The beauties of the place ; yon heathy hill 
 That rises sudden from the vale so green, 
 The vale far stretching as the view can reach 
 Under its long dark ridge, the river here 
 That, like a serpent, through the grassy mead 
 Winds on, now hidden, glitterins: now m lis:ht. 
 
 ha; 
 This river rolls; an unobtrusive tide. 
 Its gentle charms may soothe and satisfy 
 Thy feelings. Look ! how bright its pebbled bed 
 Gleams through the ruffled current; and that bank 
 With flag-leaves bordered, as with tAvo-edged sv.'ords! 
 See where the water wrinkles round the stem 
 Of yonder water lil}^, whose broad leaf 
 Lies on the wave, — and art thou not refresh'd 
 By the fresh odour of the runnmg stream ? 
 Soon, traveller ! does the river reach the end 
 Of all its windings ; from the near ascent 
 Thou "svilt behold the ocean, where it pours 
 Its waters and is lost. Eemember thou. 
 Traveller ! that even so thy restless years 
 Flow to the ocean of eternity. 
 
INSCRIPTIONS. 441 
 
 VI. 
 
 FOE A TABLET ON THE BANKS OF A STEEAM, 
 
 Steangee ! awhile upon this rnossy bank 
 
 Eecline thee. If the sun rides high, the breeze. 
 
 That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet, 
 
 Will play around thy brow, and the cool sound 
 
 Of running waters soothe thee. ]\Iark how clear 
 
 It sparkles o'er the shallows ; and behold 
 
 Where o'er its surface wheels with restless speed 
 
 Yon glossy insect; on the sand below 
 
 How the swift shadow flits. The stream is pure 
 
 In solitude, and many a healthful herb 
 
 Bends o'er its course and drinks the vital wave: 
 
 But passing on amid the haunts of man. 
 
 It finds pollution there, and rolls from thence 
 
 A tainted tide. Seek'st thou for happiness r 
 
 Go, stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot 
 
 Of innocence, and thou shalt find her there. 
 
 VII. 
 
 FOE THE CENOTAPH AT EEMENONVILLE. 
 
 Steangee ! the man of nature lies not here; 
 Inshrined far distant by his* rival's side 
 His relics rest, there by the giddy throng 
 With blind idolatry alike revtrd ! 
 WiseHer directed have thy pilgrim feet 
 Explored the scenes of Ermonville, Eousseau 
 Loved these calm haunts of solitude and peace; 
 Here he has heard the murmurs of the lake, 
 And the soft rustling of the poplar grove, 
 When o'er their bending boughs the passing wind 
 Swept a grey shade. Here, if thy breast be full. 
 If in thine eye the tear devout should gush, 
 His spirit shall behold thee, to thine home 
 From hence returning purified of heart. 
 
 * Voltaire 
 
 ^'^ \ S H A 
 
 Ox- 
 
 aK 
 
442 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 FOn A MONUMENT AT OXFOED OPPOSITE BALLIOL GATEWAY 
 
 Heee Latimer and Ridley in the flames 
 
 Bore witness to the truth. If thou hast walk'd 
 
 Uprightly through the world, proud thoughts of joy 
 
 Will fill thy breast in contemplating here 
 
 Congenial virtue. But if thou hast swerved 
 
 From the right path, if thou hast sold thy soul 
 
 And served, a hirehng, with apostate zeal, 
 
 The cause thy heart disowns, oh ! cherish well 
 
 The honourable shame that sure this place 
 
 Will wake within thee, timely penitent. 
 
 And let the future expiate the past. 
 
 IX. 
 
 FOE A MONUMENT IN THE VALE OF EWIA3 
 
 Heee was it, stranger, that the patron saint 
 
 Of Cambria past his age of penitence, 
 
 A solitary man; and here he made 
 
 His hermitage, the roots his food, his drink 
 
 Of Hodney's mountain stream. Perchance thy youth 
 
 Has read with eager wonder how the knight 
 
 Of Wales in Ormandine's enchanted bower 
 
 Slept the long sleep ; and if that in thy veins 
 
 Flows the pvire blood of Britain, sure that blood 
 
 Has flow'd with quicker impulse at the tale 
 
 Of David's deeds, when through the press of war 
 
 His gallant comrades followed his green crest 
 
 To conquer. Stranger ! Hatterill's mountain heights 
 
 And this fair vale of Ewias, and the stream 
 
 Of Hodney, to thine after-thoughts will rise 
 
 More grateful, thus associate with the name 
 
 Of David and the deeds of other days. 
 
 X. 
 
 epitaph on KING JOHN. 
 
 John rests below. A man more infamous 
 Has never held the sceptre of these realms. 
 And bruised beneath the iron rod of power, 
 The oppressed men of England. Englishman ! 
 Curse not his memory. Murderer as he was, 
 
INSCRIPTIONS. 443 
 
 Coward and slave, yet he it was who signed 
 
 That charter which should make thee, morn and night. 
 
 Be thankful for thy birth-place: Englishman ! 
 
 That holy charter, which, shouldst thou permit 
 
 Force to destroy, or fraud to undermine, 
 
 Thy children's groans will persecute thy soul. 
 
 For they must bear the burthen of thy crime. 
 
 XL 
 
 IN A FOEEST 
 
 Stranger ! whose steps have reach'd this solitude. 
 
 Know that this lonely spot was dear to one 
 
 Devoted with no imrequited zeal 
 
 To nature. Here, delighted he has heard 
 
 The rustling of these woods, that now perchance 
 
 Melodious to the gale of summer move. 
 
 And underneath their shade on yon smooth rock 
 
 With grey and yellow lichens overgrown. 
 
 Often reclined, watching the silent flow 
 
 Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals 
 
 Along its verdant course, till all around * 
 
 Had fill'd his senses with tranquillity, 
 
 And ever sooth'd in spu'it he return'd 
 
 A happier, better man. Stranger, perchance 
 
 Therefore the stream more lovely to thine eye 
 
 Will glide along, and to the summer gale 
 
 The woods wave more melodious. Cleanse thou then 
 
 The weeds and mosses from this letter'd stone. 
 
 XII. 
 
 FOR A MONUMENT AT TAUNTON. 
 
 They perish'd here whom Jefferies doom'd to death 
 
 In mockery of all justice, when he came 
 
 The bloody judge, the minion of his king, 
 
 Commission'd to destroy. They perish'd here. 
 
 The victims of that judge and of that king. 
 
 In mockery of all justice perish'd here. 
 
 Unheard ! but not unpitied, nor of God 
 
 Unseen, the innocent suffered ! not in vain 
 
 The widow and the orphan, not in vam 
 
 The innocent blood cried vengeance ! for they rose. 
 
444 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 At length, they rose, the people in their power, 
 
 Eesistless. Then in vain that hloody judge 
 
 Disguised, sought flight: not always is the Lord 
 
 Slow to revenge ! a miserable man 
 
 He fell beneath the people's rage, and still 
 
 The children curse his memory. From his throne 
 
 The sullen bigot who commission'd him, 
 
 The t}Tant James was driven. He lived to di'ag 
 
 Long years of frustrate hope, he lived to load 
 
 More blood upon his soul. Let tell the Boyne, 
 
 Let Londonderry tell his guilt and shame, 
 
 And that immortal day when on thy shores. 
 
 La Hogue, the purple ocean dash'd the dead! 
 
 xm. 
 
 rOE A TABLET AT PENSHUEST. 
 
 Aee days of old familiar to thy mind, 
 reader ? hast thou let the midnight horn- 
 Pass unperceived, whilst thy young fancy lived 
 With high-bom beauties and enamour'd chiefs, 
 Shared all their hopes, and with a breathless joy 
 Whose eager expectation almost pain'd, 
 Follow'd their dangerous fortunes ? if such lore 
 Has ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread 
 As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts 
 The groves of Penshurst. Sidney here was born, 
 Sidney, than whom no gentler, braver man 
 His own delightful genius ever feign'd 
 Illustrating the vales of Arcady 
 With courteous courage and A\dth loyal loves. 
 Upon his natal day the acorn here 
 Was planted. It grew up a stately oak, 
 And in the beauty of its strength it stood 
 And flourish'd, when his perishable part 
 Had moulder'd dust to dust. That stately oak 
 Itself hath moulder'd now, but Sidne3^'s fame 
 Lives and shall live, immortalized in song. 
 
INSCRIPTIONS. 445 
 
 XIV. 
 
 FOB A TABLET AT GODSTOW NUNNEBY. 
 
 Hebe, stranger, rest thee ! from the neighbouring towers 
 
 Of Oxford, haply thou hast forced thy bark 
 
 Up this strong stream, whose broken waters here 
 
 Send pleasant murmurs to the listening sense : 
 
 Rest thee beneath this hazel ; its green boughs 
 
 Afford a grateful shade, and to the eye 
 
 Fail- is its ii'uit: stranger ! the seemly fruit 
 
 Is worthless, all is hoUowness within, 
 
 For on the grave of Rosamund it grows ! 
 
 Young, lovely, and beloved, she fell seduced. 
 
 And here retired to wear her wretched age 
 
 In earnest prayer and bitter penitence, 
 
 Despised and self-despising: think of her, 
 
 Young man, and learn to reverence womankind ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 TJNDEB AN OAK. 
 
 Hebe, traveller ! pause awhile. This ancient oak 
 
 Will parasol thee if the sun ride high, 
 
 Or should the sudden shower be falling fast. 
 
 Here mayst thou rest umbrella'd. All around 
 
 Is good and lovely: hard by yonder wall 
 
 The kennel stands; the horse-flesh hanging near 
 
 Perchance with scent unsavoury may offend 
 
 Thy delicate nostrils, but remember thou 
 
 How sweet a perfume to the hound it yields. 
 
 And sure its useful odours will regale 
 
 More gratefully thy philosophic nose. 
 
 Than what the unprofitable violet 
 
 Wastes on the wandering wind, Nor wilt thou want 
 
 Such music as benevolence will love. 
 
 For from these fruitful boughs the acorns fall 
 
 Abundant, and the swine that grub around. 
 
 Shaking with restless pleasure their brief tails 
 
 That like the tendrils of the vine curl up. 
 
 Will grunt their greedy joy. Dost thou not love 
 
 The sounds that speak enjoyment ? oh if not. 
 
 If thou wouldst rathft^ with inhuman ear 
 
446 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 Hark to the warblings of some wretched bird 
 Bereft of freedom, sure thine heart is dead 
 To each good feeling, and thy spirit void 
 Of all that softens or ennobles man. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 FOE A MONUMENT AT OLD SAEUM. 
 
 Header, if thou canst boast the noble name 
 
 Of Englishman, it is enough to know 
 
 Thou standest in Old Sarum. But if chance 
 
 'Twas thy misfortune in some other land, 
 
 Inheritor of slavery, to be born, 
 
 Bead and be envious ! dost thou see yon hut, 
 
 Its old mud mossy vv^alls with many a patch 
 
 Spotted ? know, foreigner ! so wisely well 
 
 In England it is ordered, that the laws 
 
 Which bind the people, from themselves should spring; 
 
 Know that the dweller in that little hut. 
 
 That wretched hovel, to the senate sends 
 
 Two delegates. Think, foreigner, where such 
 
 An individual's rights, how happy all ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 FOE A MONUMENT AT TOEDESILLAS. 
 
 Spaniaed ! if thou art one who bows the knee 
 Before a despot's footstool, hie thee hence ! 
 This ground is holy: here Padilla died, 
 MartjT of freedom. But if thou dost love 
 Her cause, stand then as at an altar here. 
 And thank the Almighty that thine honest heart, 
 Full of a brother's feelings for mankind, 
 Eebels against oppression. Not unheard 
 Nor unavailing shall the grateful prayer 
 Ascend; for loftiest impulses will rise 
 To elevate and strengthen thee, and prompt 
 To virtuous action. Relics silver-shrined. 
 And chanted mass, would wake within the soul 
 Thoughts valueless and cold compared with these. 
 
447 
 
 THE SONNETS AND ELEGIES 
 
 OF 
 
 ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. 
 
 SONNET I. 
 
 DELIA AT PLAT. 
 
 She held a cup and ball of ivory white, 
 
 Less white the ivory than her snowy hand ! 
 
 Enrapt I watch'd her from my secret stand. 
 As now, intent, in innocent delight, 
 
 Her taper fingers twirl'd the giddy ball. 
 Now tost it, following still with eagle sight, 
 
 Now on the pointed end infix'd its fall. 
 Markuig her sport I mused, and musing sigh'd, 
 
 Methought the ball she play'd with was my heart ! 
 (Alas ! that sport like that should be her pride !) 
 And the keen point which steadfast still she eyed 
 
 Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's dartj 
 Shall I not then the cruel fair condemn 
 Who on that dart impales my bosom's gem ? 
 
 IL 
 
 TO A PAINTEE ATTEMPTING DELIA's PORTEAIT, 
 
 Eash painter ! canst thou give the orb of day 
 
 La all his noontide glory .P or portray 
 
 The diamond, that athwart the taper'd hall 
 
 Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light ? 
 
 Even if thine art could boast such magic might. 
 Yet if it strove to paint my angel's eye, 
 Here it perforce must fail. Cease ! lest I call 
 
448 SONNETS AND ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOSu 
 
 Heaven's vengeance on thy sin: must tliou be toid 
 
 The crime it is to paint divinity ? 
 Kash paniter ! should the world her charms behold. 
 
 Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be. 
 They to their old idolatry would fall, 
 
 And bend before her form the pagan knee. 
 
 Faher than Venus, daughter of the sea. 
 
 III. 
 
 HE PEOVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FEOM HIS LOVE 
 FOE DELIA. 
 
 Some have denied a soul ! they never loved. 
 Far from my Delia now by fate removed, 
 
 At home, abroad, I vieAV her everywhere; 
 Her only in the flood of noon I see. 
 
 My goddess-maid, my omnipr3sent fair. 
 For love annihilates the world to me I 
 And when the weary Sol around his bed 
 
 Closes the sable curtains of the night, 
 
 Sun of my slumbers, on my dazzled sight 
 She shines confest. When every sound is dead. 
 The spirit of her voice comes then to roll 
 
 The surge of music o'er my Avavy brain. 
 
 Far, far from her my body drags its chain, 
 But sure with Delia I exist a soul ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE POET EXPEESSES HIS FEELINGS EESPECTING A POETEAIT 
 
 IN Delia's paeloue. 
 
 I WOULD I were that reverend gentleman. 
 With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane, 
 
 Who hangs in Delia's parlour ! For whene'er 
 From book or needlework her looks arise, 
 On him converge the sunbeams of her eyes, 
 
 And he unblamed may gaze upon my fair. 
 And oft my lair his favour'd form surveys. 
 
 happy pictm-e ! still on her to gaze ! 
 I envy him! and jealous fear alarms. 
 
 Lest the strong glance of those divinest charms 
 Warm him to life, as in the ancient daj^s. 
 When marble melted in Pygmalion's arms. 
 
 1 would I were that reverend gentleman 
 With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane ! 
 
449 
 
 LOVE ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. 
 
 ELEGY L 
 
 THE rOET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIa's POCKET- 
 HANDKEECHIEF. 
 
 *Tis mine ! what accents can my joy declare ? 
 
 Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout ! 
 Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair, 
 
 That left the tempting corner hanging out ! 
 
 I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels, 
 
 After long travel to some distant shrine, 
 When to the relic of his saint he kneels. 
 
 For Delia's pocket-handkerchief Is mine. 
 
 When first with filching fingers I drew near, 
 Keen hope shot tremulous through every vein. 
 
 And when the finish'd deed removed my fear, 
 Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain. 
 
 What though the eighth commandment rose to mind, 
 It only served a moment's qualm to move, 
 
 For thefts like this it could not be design'd. 
 
 The eighth commandment was not made for love ! 
 
 Here when she took the macaroons from me. 
 
 She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet; 
 
 Dear napkin ! yes, she wiped her lips in thee ! 
 Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat. 
 
 And when she took that pinch of Mochabaugh 
 
 That made my love so dehcately sneeze. 
 Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw. 
 
 And thou ai't doubly dear for things like these. 
 
 No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er, 
 
 Sweet pocket-handkerchief! thy worth profane ; 
 
 For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair. 
 And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er a^ain. 
 G G 
 
450 LOVE ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. 
 
 IT. 
 
 THE POET INVOKES THE SPIKITS OF THE ELEMENTS TO 
 APPEOACH DELIA. HE DESCEIBES HEK SINGING. 
 
 Ye sylphs who banquet on my Delia's blush. 
 Who on her locks of floating gold repose. 
 
 Dip in her cheek your gossamery brush, 
 
 And with its bloom of beauty tinge the rose. 
 
 Hover around her lips on rainbow wing, 
 
 Load from her honeyed breath your viewless feet. 
 
 Bear thence a richer fragrance for the spring, 
 And make the lily and the violet sweet. 
 
 Ye gnomes, whose toil through many a dateless your 
 
 Its nurture to the infant gem supplies. 
 From central caverns bring yom- diamonds here. 
 
 To ripen in the sun of Delia's eyes. 
 
 And ye who bathe in Etna's lava springs, 
 Spuits of fii'e ! to see my love advance, 
 
 riy, salamanders, on asbestos wings, 
 To wanton in my Delia's fieiy glance. 
 
 She weeps, she weeps ! her eye with anguish swells. 
 Some tale of sorrow melts my feeling girl ! 
 
 Nymphs ! catch the tears, and in youi' lucid shells 
 Enclose them, embryos of the orient pearL 
 
 She sings ! the nightingale with envy hears. 
 The cherubim bends from his starry throne, 
 
 And motionless are stopt the attentive spheres. 
 To hear mere heavenly music than their own. 
 
 Cease, Delia, cease ! for all the angel throng. 
 Listening to thee, let sleep then- golden wh-es ! 
 
 Cease, Delia ! cease that too surpassing song, 
 
 Lest, stung to envy, they should break their lyres. 
 
 Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven 
 By tiie strong joy ! cease, Delia, lest my sou' 
 
 Env.rnpt, already think itself in heaven, 
 And burst my feeble body's fi-ail control. 
 
LOVE ELEGIES OF ABEL SIIUFFLEBOTTOM. 451 
 
 III. 
 
 THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA's HAIR, 
 
 The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains 
 The straightening curls of gold so beamy bright, 
 
 Not spotless merely from the touch remains, 
 But issues forth more pm*e, more milky white. 
 
 The rose-pomatum that the friseur spreads 
 Sometimes with honour'd fingers for my fair, 
 
 !N"o added perfume on her tresses sheds. 
 
 But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair. 
 
 Happy the friseur who in Delia's hair 
 
 With licensed fingers uncontroU'd may rove. 
 
 And happy in his death the dancing bear 
 Who died to make pomatum for my love. 
 
 Oh could I hope that e'er my favour'd lays 
 
 Might curl those lovely locks with conscious prid*} 
 
 Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan shepherd's praise 
 I'd envy then, nor wish reward beside. 
 
 Cupid has strung from you, tresses fine. 
 The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart; 
 
 From you, sweet locks ! he wove the subtile line 
 Wherewith the urchin angled for my heart. 
 
 Fine are my Delia's tressos as the threads 
 
 That from the silk- worm, seK-interr'd, proceed, 
 
 Fine as the gleamy gossamer, that spreads 
 Its filmy web-work o'er the tangled mead. 
 
 Yet with these tressef* Cupid's power elate 
 My captive heart has handcuffed in a chain. 
 
 Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate, 
 That bears Britannia's thunders o'er the main. 
 
 The sylphs that round her radiant locks repair. 
 In flowing lustre bathe their brightening wing3 
 
 And elfin minstrels with assiduous care 
 The ringlets rob for faery fiddle-strings. 
 
452 LOVE ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOiL 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE POET EELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK OF DELIa's 
 HAIE, AND HEE ANGEE, 
 
 Oh ! be the day accurst that gave me bii-th ! 
 
 Yd seas, to swallow me in kindness rise ! 
 Fall on me, mountains ! and thou, merciful earth. 
 
 Open and hide me A'om my Delia's eyes I 
 
 Let universal chaos now return, 
 
 Now let the central fii'es their prison burst, 
 
 And earth and heaven, and air and ocean, bum — 
 For Delia frowns — she frowns, and I am curst ! 
 
 Oh ! I could dare the fury of the fight. 
 
 Where hostile millions sought my single life ; 
 
 Would storm volcano batteries with delight. 
 And grapple with grim death in glorious strife. 
 
 Oh ! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove, 
 
 When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies; 
 
 What is his wrath to that of her I love ? 
 What is his lightning to my Delia's eyes ? 
 
 Go, fatal lock ! I cast thee to the wind; 
 
 Ye serpent curls, ye poison-tendrils go — 
 Would I could tear thy memor3^ from my mind, 
 
 Accm-sed lock — thou cause of all my woe ! 
 
 Seize the curst curls, ye furies, as they fly ! 
 
 Daemons of darkness, guard the infernal roll. 
 That thence your cruel vengeance when I die. 
 
 May knit the knots of torture for my soul. 
 
 Last night — Oh hear me Heaven, and grant my prayer ! 
 
 The book of fate before thy suppliant lay. 
 And let me from its ample records tear 
 
 Only the single page of yesterday ! 
 
 Or let me meet old Time upon his flight, 
 And I will stop him on his restless way; 
 
 Omnipotent in love's resistless might, 
 I'll force him back the road of yesterday. 
 
FUNERAL SONG. 453 
 
 Last night, as o'er the page of love's despair. 
 
 My Delia bent deliciously to grieve; 
 I stood a treacherous loiterer by her chair, 
 
 And drew the fatal scissars from my sleeve. 
 
 And would that at that instant o'er my thread 
 
 The shears of Atropos had open'd then; 
 And when I reft the lock from Delia's head. 
 
 Had cut me sudden from the sons of men ! 
 
 She heard the scissars that fair lock divide. 
 
 And whilst my heart with transport panted big. 
 
 She cast a fury frown on me, and cried, 
 
 ** You stupid puppy — you have spoil'd my wig !" 
 
 iFuneral ^oncf. 
 
 FOR THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES 
 
 In its summer pride arrayed 
 Low our Tree of Hope is laid. 
 Low it lies; in evil hour, 
 Visiting the bridal bower, 
 Death hath levell'd root and flower. 
 Windsor, in thy sacred shade, 
 (Thus the end of pomp and power !) 
 Have the rites of death been paid : 
 Windsor, in thy sacred shade 
 Is the Flower of Brunswick laid ' 
 
 Ye whose relics rest around, 
 Tenants of the funeral ground ! 
 Know ye, Spirits, who is come, 
 By immitigable doom 
 Summoned to the untimely tomb ? 
 Late with youth and splendour crown'd, 
 Late in beauty's vernal bloom, 
 Late with love and joyaunce blest; 
 Never more lamented guest 
 Was in Windsor laid to rest. 
 
 Henry, thou of saintly worth. 
 Thou, to whom thy Windsor gave 
 
454 FUNERAL SONG. 
 
 Nativity, and name, and grave; 
 Thou art in this hallowed earth 
 Cradled for the immortal bh'th. 
 Heavily upon his head 
 Ancestral crimes were visited. 
 He, in spirit like a child. 
 Meek of heart and undefiled. 
 Patiently his crown resign'd. 
 And fix'd on heaven his heavenl}' minc^ 
 Blessing, while he kiss'd the rod. 
 His Kedeemer and his God. 
 Now may he in realms of bliss 
 Greet a soul as pure as his. 
 
 Passive as that humble spirit. 
 Lies his bold dethroner too; 
 A dreadful debt did he inherit 
 To his injured lineage due: 
 111 starred Prince, whose martial merit 
 His own England long might rue ! 
 Mournliil was that Edward's fame. 
 Won in fields contested well, 
 While he sought his rightful claim: 
 Witness Aire's unhappy water. 
 Where the ruthless Clifford fell; 
 And when Wharfe ran red with slaughter. 
 On the day of Towcester's field; 
 Gathering, in its guilty flood. 
 The carnage and the ill-spilt blood. 
 That forty thousand lives could yield. 
 Cressy was to this but sport, 
 Poictiers but a pageant vain. 
 And the victory of Spain 
 Seem'd a strills for pastime meant. 
 And the work of Agincourt 
 Only like a tournament: 
 Half the blood which there was spent. 
 Had sufliced again to gain 
 Aiijou and ill-yielded Maine: 
 Normandy and Aquitaine, 
 And our Lady's ancient towers, 
 Maugre all the Valois' powers. 
 Had a second time been ours. 
 The gentle daughter of th}' line, 
 Edward, lays her dust with thine. 
 
FUNERAL SONG. "^55 
 
 Thou, Elizabetli, art here: 
 Thou to whom all griefs were known: 
 Who wert placed upon the bier 
 In happier hour than on the throne. 
 Fatal Daughter, fatal Mother, 
 Eaised to that ill-omen'd station, 
 Father, uncle, sons, and brother, 
 Mourn'd in blood her elevation; 
 Woodville, in the realms of bliss, 
 To thine oUspring thou mayst say, 
 Early death is happiness; 
 And favour'd in their lot are they 
 Who are not left to learn below, 
 That length of life is length of woe. 
 Lightly let this ground be prest; 
 A broken heart is here at rest. 
 
 But thou, Seymour, with a greetin^j. 
 Such as sisters use at meeting; 
 Joy, and Sympathy, and Love, 
 Wilt hail lier in the seats above. 
 Like in loveliness were ye, 
 By a like lamented doom. 
 Hurried to an early tomb; 
 While together spirits blest. 
 Here your earthly relics rest. 
 Fellow angels shall ye be 
 In the angelic company. 
 
 Henry, too, hath here his part; 
 At the gentle Seymour's side. 
 With his best beloved bride, 
 Cold and quiet, here are laid 
 The ashes of that fiery heart. 
 Not with his tyrannic spirit, 
 Shall our Charlotte's soul inherit; 
 No, by Fisher's hoary head. 
 By More, the learned and the good, 
 By Katharine's wrongs and Boleyn's blood, 
 By the life so basely shed 
 Of the pride of Norlolk's line. 
 By the axe so often red, 
 By the fire with martyrs fed. 
 Hateful Henry, not with fliee. 
 May her happy spirit be ! 
 
FUNERAL SONG. 
 
 And here lies one whose tragic name 
 A reverential thought may claim; 
 The murdered monarch, whom the giave, 
 Revealing its long secret, gave 
 Again to sight, that we may spy 
 This comely face, and waking eye; 
 There, thrice fifty years it lay. 
 Exempt from natural decay, 
 Unclosed and bright, as if to say, 
 A plague, of bloodier, baser birth 
 Than that beneath whose rage he blec^ 
 Was loose upon our guilty earth; 
 Such awful warning from the dead 
 Was given by that portentous eye; 
 Then it closed eternally. 
 
 Ye, whose relics rest around, 
 Tenants of this funeral ground; 
 Even in your immortal spheres, 
 What fresh yearning will ye feel. 
 When this earthly guest appears ! 
 Us she leaves in grief and tears; 
 But to you will she reveal 
 Tidings of old England's weal; 
 Of a righteous war pursued, 
 Long, through evil and through good, 
 With unshaken fortitude; 
 Of peace, in battle here achieved; 
 Of her fiercest foe subdued, 
 And Europe from the j^oke relieved, 
 Upon that Brabantme plain: 
 Such the proud, the virtuous story. 
 Such the great, the endless glory 
 Of her father's splendid reign. 
 He, who wore the sable mail, " 
 Might, at this heroic tale. 
 Wish himself on earth again. 
 
 One who reverently, for thee. 
 Raised the strain of bridal verse. 
 Flower of Brunswick ! mournfully 
 Lays a garland on thy herse. 
 
iS7 
 
 NOTES TO JOAN OF AEG. 
 
 Note 1, page 1. 
 
 " Lewes Duke of Orleance murthered in Paris, by Jhon Duke of 
 Burgoyne, was owner of the Castle Coney, on the frontiers of Fraunce 
 toward Arthoys, whereof he made Constable the Lord of Ca^vny, a man 
 not so wise as his wife was faire, and yet she was not so faire, but she 
 was as well beloved of the Duke of Orleance, as of her husband. Be- 
 twene the duke and her husband (I cannot tell who was father) she 
 conceived a child, and brought furthe a prety boye called Jlion, whiche 
 child beyng of the age of one yere the duke deseased, and not long after 
 the mother and the Lord of Cawny ended their lives. The next of kynne 
 to the Lord Cawny chalenged the inheritaunce, which was worth foure 
 thousande crounes a yere, alledgyng that the boye was a bastard: and 
 the kynred of the mother's side, for to save her honesty, it plainly 
 denied. In conclusion, this matter was in contencion before the presi- 
 dentes of the Parliament of Paris, and there hang in controversie till 
 the child came to the age of eight years old. At whiche tyme it was 
 demanded of hym openly whose sonne he was ; his frendes of his mother's 
 side advertised hym to require a day, to be advised of so great an answer, 
 whiche he asked, and to hym it was granted. Li the mean season, his 
 said frendes persuaded him to claime his inheritance as sonne to the 
 Lorde of Cawny, whiche Avas an honorable livyng, and an auncient patri- 
 mony, iffirraing that if he said contrary, he not only slaundered his 
 mother, shamed hyniself, and stained his blcud, but also should have no 
 livyng, nor anything to take to. The scholemaster thinkyng that his 
 disciple luid wel learned his lesson, and would reherse it according to his 
 instruccion, brought hym before tlie judges at the dale assigned, and 
 when the question was repeted to hym again, he boldly answered ' my 
 harte geveth me, and my tonge telleth me that I am the sonne of the 
 noble Duke of Orleaunce, more glad to be his bastarde with a meane 
 livyng, than the lawful sonne of tliat coward cuckolde Cawny, with his 
 four thousand crownes.' The judges much merveiled at his bolde an- 
 ewere, and his mother's cosyns detested hym for shamyng of his mother, 
 and his father's supposed kinne rejoysed in gaining the patrimony and 
 possessions. Charles Duke of Orleaunce heryng of his judgment, took 
 
458 NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 hym into his family, and gave hym greate offices and fees, whiche he well 
 deserved, for (during his captivitie) he defended liis landes, expiilsed the 
 Englislimen, and in conclusion procured his deliverance." — Hall, Chron. 
 
 Perhaps Shakspeare recollected tliis anecdote of Dunois when he drew 
 the character of the Bastard Falconbridge. 
 
 Note 2, page 2. 
 
 This agrees with the account of her age given by Holinshed, who calls 
 her " a young wench of an eighteene years old, of favour was she counted 
 likesome, of person stronglie made and manlie, of courage great, hardie, 
 and stout Avithall ; an understander of counsels though she were not at 
 them, greet semblance of chastitie both in body and behaviour, the name 
 of Jesus in hir mouth about all her business, humble, obedient, and fasting 
 divers daies in the weeke." — Holinshed, 600. 
 
 De Serres sp -nks thus of her, " A young maiden named Joan of Arc, 
 borne in a village upon the Marches of Barre, called Domremy, neere to 
 Yaucouleurs, of the age of eighteene or twenty years, issued from bare 
 parents, her father was named James of Arc, and her mother Isabel, 
 poore countrie folkes, who had brought her up to keep their cattel. She 
 said with great boldnesse that she had a revelation how to succour the 
 king, how he might be able to chase the English from Orleaunce, and 
 after that to cause the king to be crowned at Rheims, and to put him 
 fully and wholly in possession of his realme. 
 
 " After she had delivered this to her father and mother, and their 
 neighbours, she presumed to go to the Lord of Baudricourt, Provost of 
 Vaucouleurs ; she boldly delivered unto him, ater an extraordinaiy 
 manner, all these great mysteries, as much wished for of all men as not 
 hoped for : especially commingfrom the mouth of a poore country maide, 
 whom they might with more reason beleeve to be possessed of some 
 melancholy humour than divinely inspired ; being the instrument of so 
 many excellent remedies, in so desperat a season, afrer the vaine striving of 
 so great and famous personages. At the first he mocked her and rtproved 
 her, but having heard her with more patience, and judging by her tem- 
 perate discourse and modest countenance that she spoke not idely, in the 
 end he resolves to present her to the king for his discharge. So she ar- 
 rives at Cliinon the sixt day of May, attired like a man. 
 
 " 8he had a modest countenance, sweet, civill, and resolute ; her dis- 
 course was temperate, reasonable: and retired, her actions cold, shewing 
 great chastity. Having spoken to the king or noblemen with whom shv 
 was to negociate, she presently retired to her lodging with an old woman 
 that guided her, without vanity, affectation, babling. or courtly light- 
 nesse. These are the manners which the original attributes to her." 
 
 Note 3, page 11. 
 
 I translate the following anecdote of the Black Prince from Froissart: 
 — The Prince of Wales was about a month, and not longer, before the city 
 of Limoges, and he did not assault it, but always continued mining. 
 When the miners of the I'rince had finished their work they said to 
 him,"Sir, we will throw down a great part ot the wall into the moat when- 
 ever it shall please you, so that you may enter into the city at your ease, 
 wiUiout danger." These words greatly pleased the prince who said to 
 
NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 459 
 
 them, " I chuse that your work should be manifested to-morrow at the 
 hour of daybreak." Then the miners set fire to their mines the next 
 morning as the prince had commanded, and overthrew a great pane of 
 the wall, which filled the moat where it had fallen. The English saw- 
 all tills very willingly, and they were there all armed and ready to enter 
 into the town ; those who were on foot could enter at their ease, and 
 they entered and ran to the gate and beat it to the earth and all the 
 barriers also ; for there was no defence, and all this was done so sud- 
 denly that the people of the town were not upon their guard. And then 
 you might have seen the Prince, the Duke of Lancaster, tlie Count of 
 Canterbury, the Count of Pembroke, Jlessire Guischart Dangle and all 
 the other chiefs and their people who entered in, and rufiians on foot 
 who were prepared to do mischief, and to run through the town, and to 
 kill men and women and children, and so they had been commanded to 
 do. There was a very pitiful sight, for men and women and children 
 cast themselves on their knees before the prince and cried " mercy !" but 
 he was so enflamed with so great rage that he heard them not, neither 
 man nor woman was heard, but they were all put to the sword wher- 
 ever they were found, and these people had not been guilty. I know 
 not how they could have no pity upon poor people, who had never been 
 powerful enough to do any treason. Tliere was no heart so hard in the 
 city of Lymoges which had the remembrance of God, that did not lament 
 the great mischief that was there ; for more than three thousand men 
 and women and children had their throats cut that day, God has their 
 souls, for indeed they were martyred. In entering the town a party of 
 the English went to the palace of the bishop and found him there and 
 took him and led him before the prince, who looked at him with a mur- 
 derous look {felonneusemeiit), and the best word what he could say to him 
 was that his head should be cut off, and then he made him be taken from 
 his presence. — /. 235. 
 
 The crime which the people of Limoges had committed was that of 
 surrendering when they had been besieged by the Duke of Berry and in 
 consequence turning French. And this crime was thus punislied at a 
 period when no versatility of conduct was thought dishonourable. The 
 phrases tourner Anglois — tourner Francois — retourner Anglois, occur 
 repeatedly in Froissart. I should add that of all the heroes of this 
 period the Black Prince was the most generous and the mo.st humane. 
 
 Note 4, page 11. 
 
 Holinshed says, speaking of the siege of Roanne, "If I should rehearse 
 how deerelie dogs, rats, mise, and cats were sold Avithin the towne, and 
 how greedilie they were by the poore people eaten and devoured, and 
 liow the people dailie died for fixult of food, and young infants laie suck- 
 ing in the. streets on their mothers' breasts, being dead starved for hunger, 
 the reader might lament their extreme miseries. — p. 5G6. 
 
 Note 5, page 13. 
 
 In the Journal of Paris in the reigns of Charles VI. and VII., it is as- 
 serted that tlie Maid of Orleans, in answer to an intrrrogatory of tlie 
 Doctors, whether she had ever assisted at tlie assemblies held at the 
 Fountain of the Fairies near Domprein, round which the evil spirits 
 
460 NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 dance, confessed that she had often repaired to a beautiful fountain in 
 the country of Lorraine, which she named the good Fountain of the 
 Fairies of our Lord. 
 
 Note 6, page 13. 
 Being asked /hether she had ever seen any fairies, she answered no; 
 but tliat one of her godmothers pret>ended to have seen some at the 
 I'airy tree, near the village of Dompre. — Rapin. 
 
 Note 7, page 17. 
 According to Holinshed the English army consisted of only 15,000 
 men, harassed with a tedious march of a month, in very bad weatlier, 
 through an enemy's country, and for the most part sick of a flux. He 
 statt's the number of the French at 60,000, of whom 10,000 were slain 
 and 150 ot the higher order taken prisoners. Some historians make 
 the (1 iq)roportion in numbers still greater. Goodwin says, that among 
 the slain there were one archbishop, three dukes, six earls, ninety barons, 
 fifteen hundred knights, and seven thousand esquires or gentlemen. 
 
 Note 8, page 17. 
 
 This was the usual method of marshalling the bowmen. At Crecy, 
 "tlie archers stood in manner of an herse, about two liundred in front 
 and but forty in depth, which is undoubtedly the best way of embatell- 
 ing archers, especially when the enemy is very numerous, as at this 
 time: for by the breadth of the front the extension of tlie enemy's front 
 is matclied; and by reason of the thinness in flank, the arrows do more 
 certain execution, being more likely to reach home." — Barnes. 
 
 Tlie victory at Poictiers is chiefly attributed to the herse of archers. 
 After mentioning the conduct and courage of the Enghsh leaders in that 
 battle, Barnes says " but all this courage had been thrown away to no 
 purpose, had it not been seconded by the extraordinary gallantry of the 
 English arcliers, who behaved themselves that day with wonderful con- 
 stancy, alacrity, and resolution. So that by their means in a manner 
 all the French battails received their first foil, being by the barbed arrows 
 so galled and terrified, that they were easily opened to the men ol arms." 
 
 " Without all question, the guns which are used now-a-days, are 
 neither so terrible in battle, nor do such execution, nor work such con- 
 fusion as arrows can do: for bullets being not seen only hurt where they 
 hit, but arrows enrage the horse, and break the array, and terrify all 
 that behold them in the bodies of their neighbours. Not to say that 
 every archer can shoot thrice to a gunner's once, and that wliole 
 squadrons of bows may let fly at one time, wlien only one or two files 
 of mu>queteers can discharge at once. Ali^o, that whereas guns 
 are useless when your pikes join, because they only do execution 
 point blank, the arrows which will kill at ranf;om, may do good service 
 even behind your men of arms. And it is notorious, that at the famous 
 battle of Lepanto, the Turkish bows did more mischief than the Cliri.stian 
 artillery. Besides it is not the least observable, that whereas the weakest 
 may use guns as well as the strongest, in those days your lusty and tall 
 yeomen were chosen for the bow, whose liose being fastened with one 
 point, and their jackets long a d easy to shoot in, they had their limbs 
 at full liberty, so tliat they might easily draw bows ol great strength and 
 ehoot arrows of a yard long beside the head." — Joshua Barnes.. 
 
NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 461 
 
 Note 9, page 17. 
 
 A company of fugitives, headed by Robert de Bournonville, who had 
 retired by times out ot tlie battle, knowing the Engh.sh camp was but 
 M'eakly guarded, pillaged it during the engagemeat; in consequence of 
 this alarm, Henry ordered the prisoners to be slain except the most 
 eminent. 
 
 Note 10, page 17. 
 
 Henry of Monmouth deserves every commendation for his calm and 
 active courage in the fight of Azincour; but after the engagement we 
 no longer discover the rival of the Edwards. The Black Prince may be 
 suspected ol ostentation when he waited upon his captive John , but t-he 
 uncharitable suspicion will cease when we reflect that he must have 
 treated him either as a prisoner or as a guest, and that he conformed to 
 the custom of the age in waiting upon a superior. But of the conduct 
 of Henry to those prisoners who had escaped the massacre at Azincour, 
 only one opinion can be formed. The night after the battle " when the 
 king sate at his refection in the aforesaid village, he was served at his 
 boord of those great lords and princes that were taken in the field." 
 — Eamond Howes. 
 
 Note 11, page 18. 
 
 Perhaps one consequence of the victory at Azincour is not generally 
 known. Immediately on his return Henry sent his legates to the council 
 of Constance : " at this councell, by the assent of all nations there present, 
 it was authorised and ordained, that England should obtaine the name 
 of a nation, and should be said one of the five nations that owe their 
 devotion to the Church of Rome, which thing untiU that time men of 
 other nations, for envy, had delayed and letted." — Edmond Howes. 
 Elmham. 
 
 Note 12, page 18. 
 
 Henry judged, that by fomenting the troubles of France, he should 
 procure more cei'tain and lastmg advantages, than by means of his arms. 
 The truth is, by pushing the French vigorously, he ran the risk of uniting 
 them all against him ; in which case, his advantages, probably, would 
 have been inconsiderable, but by granting them some respite, he gave 
 them opportunity to destroy one anotln^r; therefore, contrary to every 
 one's expectation, he laid aside his military affairs for near eighteen 
 months, and betook himself entirely to negotiation, which aflorded him 
 the prospect ol less doubtful advantages. — Rapin. 
 
 Note 13, page 19. 
 
 " Yet although the armie was strong without, there lacked not within 
 both bardie capteins and manfull soldiers, and as for people, they had 
 more than inough : for as it is written by some that had good cause to 
 know the truth, and no occasion to erre from the same, there were in the 
 citi« at the time of the siege 210,000 persons. Dailie were issues made 
 out of the citie at diverse gates, sometime to the losse of the one partie 
 and sometimes of the other, as chances of warre in such adventures 
 happen." — Holinshed, 566. 
 
462 NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Note 14, page 19. 
 " The Frenclimen indeed preferring fame before worldlie riches, and 
 despising pleasure (the enemy to warlike prowesse) sware ech to otlier 
 never to render or deliver the citie, while they might either hold sword 
 in hand or speare in rest." — Eolinshed, 566. 
 
 Note 15, page 19. 
 
 " The king of England, advertised of their hautie courages, determined 
 to conquer them by famine which would not be tamed by weapon. 
 Wherefore he stopped all the passages, both by water and land, that 
 Dovittels could be conveied to the citie. He cast trenches round about 
 the walls, and set them full of stakes, and defended them with archers, 
 so that there was left neither waie for them within to issue out, nor for 
 anie that were abroad to enter without his license. The kmg's coosine 
 germane and alie (the king of Portugale) sent a great navie of well- 
 appointed ships unto the mouth of the river of Seine, to stop that no 
 French vessel should enter the river and passe up the same, to the aid 
 of them within Rouen. 
 
 " Thus was the faire citie of Eouen compassed about with enemies, 
 both by water and land, having neither comfort nor aid of king, dol- 
 phin, or duke." — Holinshed. 
 
 Note 16, page 20. 
 
 " With the English sixteen hundred Irish Kernes were enrolled from 
 the Prior of Kilmainham ; able men, but almost naked; their arms 
 were targets, darts, and swords, their horses little and bare no saddle, 
 yet nevertheless nimble, on which upon every advantage they plaied 
 with the French, in spoiling the country, rifeling the houses, and carry- 
 ing away children with their baggage upon their cowes backs." 
 
 Note 17, page 20. 
 
 " Some writing of this yeelding up of Harflue, doo in like sort make 
 mention of the distresse whereto the people, then expelled out of their 
 habitations were driven : insomuch as parents with their children, yong 
 maids and old folke went out of the towne gates withheavie harts (God 
 wot), as put to their present shifts to seek them a new abode." — 
 Holinshed, 550. 
 
 This act of despotic barbarity was perpetrated by Henry that he 
 mi'iht people the town with English inhabitants. There is a way of 
 telling truth so as to convey falsehood. After the capture of Harfleur 
 Edmoud Howes says, "all the soldiers and inhabitants, both of the 
 towne and towers, u-ere suffered to goe freely, V7ihanned u-lnther they 
 iiould," 348. Henry's conduct was the same at Caen : he "commanded 
 all women and children to bee avoyded out of the towne, and io the 
 towne was inhabited of new possessors." — Howes. 
 
 Note 18, page 20. 
 Before Henry took possession of Harfleur he went barefooted to the 
 church to give God thanks. — De Serres. 
 
 Note 19, page 20. 
 Henry, not satisfied with the reduction of .Caen, put several of the 
 inhabitants to death, who had signalized their valour in the defence of 
 their liberty. — //. Clarendon. 
 
NOTES TO JOAN OF AUG. 433 
 
 Note 20, Page 21. 
 
 "A great number of poore sillie creatures were put out of the gates, 
 which were by the Englishmen that kept the trenches, beaten and 
 driven back againe to the same gates, which they found closed and shut 
 against them, and so they laie betweene the wals of the citie and the 
 trendies of the enemies, still crieing for help and releefe, for lack whereof 
 great numbers of them dailie died." 
 
 Note 21, page 22. 
 
 Eoanne was betrayed by its Burgundian Govem^i Bouthellier. During 
 this siege fifty thousand men perislied through fatigue, want, and the 
 use of unwholesome provisions. 
 
 Note 22, page 25. 
 
 A dreadful slaughter of the Armagnacs had taken place when Lisle 
 Adam entered Paris at midnight, May IS, 1418. This, however, was 
 only a ijrelude to a much greater commotion in the same city some days 
 after. Upon news of what had passed, the exiles being returned to 
 Paris from all quarters, the massacre was renewed June the 12th. The 
 constable Armagnac was taken out of prison, murdered, and shamefully 
 dragged through the streets. The chancellor, several bishops, and other 
 persons, to the number of two thousand, underwent the same barbarous 
 treatment. Women and children died smothered in dungeons. Many 
 of the nobles were forced to leap from high towers upon the points of 
 spears. The massacre being ended, the queen and the Duke of Bur- 
 gundy entered Paris in triumph. — Mezeray. — Bapin. 
 
 Note 23, page 26. 
 
 " Here in this first race you shall see our kings but once a year, the first 
 day of May, in their chariots dcckt with flowres and greene, and drawn 
 by four oxen. Whoso hath occasion to treat with them let him seeke 
 them in their chambers, amidst their delights. Let him talke of any 
 matters of state, he shall be sent to the Slaire." — De Serves. 
 
 Fuller calls this race " a chain of idle kings well linked together, who 
 gave themselves over to pleasure privately, never coming abroad, but 
 onely on May-day they shewed themselves to the people, riding in a 
 chariot, adorned with fiowers, and drawn with oxen, slow cattel, but good 
 enough for so lazy luggage." — Holy Warre. 
 
 Note 24, page 23. 
 
 Long hair was peculiar to the kings in the first ages of the French 
 monarchy. When Frcdcgonda had murthered Clovis and thrown him 
 into the river, the fishermen who found his body, knew it by the long 
 hair. — Mezeray. 
 
 Note 25, page 4C. 
 
 "In sooth the estate of France was then most miserable. There 
 appeared nothing but a horrible face, confusion, poverty, desolation, 
 solitarinesse, and feare. The lean and bare labourers in the country did 
 terrifie even theeves themselves, who had nothing left them to spoile but 
 the carkasses of these poore miserable creatures, wandering up and down 
 like gliostes di-awne out of their graves. Tlie least iarra<?«: and hanileta 
 
464 NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 were fortified by these robbers, English, Bourguegnons, and French, 
 every one striving to do his worst : All men of war were well agreed to 
 spoile the countryman and merchant. Even the cattell, accustomed to the 
 larume hell, the signe of the enemy's approach, would run home of themselves 
 without any guide by this accustomed misery. 'J'his is the perfect descrip- 
 tion of those times, taken out of the lamentations of oui ancestors, set 
 dovtn in the original, says De Serres. But amidst this horrible calamity, 
 God did comfort both the king and realme, for about the end of the 
 yeere, he gave diaries a goodly sonne by Queen Mary his wife." 
 
 Note 26, page 51. 
 
 The forest of Orleans contains even now fourteen thousand acres of 
 various kinds of wood, 
 
 Note 27, page 53. 
 
 "To succeed in the siege of Orleans, the English first secured the 
 neighbouring places, which might otherwise have annoyed the besiegers. 
 The months of August and September were spent in this work. During 
 that space they took Mehun, Baugenci, Gergeau, Clery, Sully, Jenville, 
 and some other small towns, and at last appeared before Orleans on the 
 12th of October." — Rapin. 
 
 Note 28, page 55. 
 
 " At the creation of a knight of Rhodes a sword with a cross for the 
 hilt was deUvered to him in token that his valour must defend religion. 
 No bastard could be a knight hospitaller, from whose order that of 
 Rhodes was formed, except a bastard to a prince, there being honour in 
 that dishonour, as there is light in the very spots of the moon." — Fuller's 
 History of the Holy Warre. 
 
 Note 29, page 55. 
 
 "In the late warres in France between King Henry the Fifth of 
 England and Charles the Seventh of France, the French armie being in 
 distresse, one Captain La Hire, a Frenchman, was sent to declare unto 
 the said French king, the estate and affaires of the warre, and how for 
 want of victuals, money, and other necessaries, the French had lost 
 divers townes and battailes to the EngUsh. The French king being 
 disposed to use his captaine famiharly, showed him such tliinges as 
 himself was delighted in, as his buildings, his banquets, faire ladies, &c., 
 and then asked the captaine how hee liked them : ' Trust me, sir,' 
 quoth the captaine, speaking his mind freely, ' I did never know any 
 prince more delighted himself with his losses, than you doe with yours,' " 
 — Howes. 
 
 Note 30, page 55. 
 
 " They pulled down all the most considerable buildings in the suburbs, 
 and among the rest twelve chiu-ches and several monasteries ; that the 
 English might not make use of them in carrying on the siege." — Eapin. 
 Monstrellet. 
 
 Note 31, page 60. 
 
 " The bulwark of the Tournelles being much shaken by the besiegers* 
 wuiQon, and the besieged thinking it proi^er to set it on fire, the Euglish 
 
NOTES TO JOAN OF AEC. 465 
 
 extinguished the flames, and lodged themselves in that post. At the 
 same time tliey became masters of the tower oa the bridge, from whence 
 the whole city could be viewed." — Rapin. 
 
 Note 32, page 64. 
 Fuller calls this "resolving rather to lose their lives by wholesale on 
 the point of the sword, than to retail them out by famine." 
 
 Note 33, page 65. 
 " It was the belief of the Mexicans, that at the conclusion of one of 
 their centuries the sun and earth would be destroyed. On the last night 
 of every century they extinguished all their fires covered the faces of 
 the women and children, and expected the end of the world. The 
 kindling of the sacred fire on the mountain of Huixachtla was believed 
 an omen of their safety." 
 
 Note 34, page 74. 
 
 The circumstance of the maid's entering Orleans at midnight in a 
 storm of thunder and liglitning is historically true. 
 
 " The Englishmen perceiving that tliei within could not long continue 
 for faute of vitaile and pouder, kepte not their watche so diligently as thei 
 were accustomed, nor scoured not the countrey environed as tliei before 
 had ordained. Whiche negligence the citezens shut in perceiving, sent 
 worde thereof to the French capitaines, which with Pucellein the dedde 
 tyme of the nighte, and in a greate rayne and thundre, with all their 
 vitaile and artilery entered into the citie." — Hall. 
 
 Note 35, page 96. 
 
 The tortoise was a machine composed of very strong and solid timber 
 work. The heiglit of it to its highest beam, wliich sustained the roof, 
 was twelve feet. The base was square, and each of its fronts twenty- 
 five feet. It was covered with a kind of quilted mattress made of raw 
 hides, and prepared with different drugs to prevent its being set on tire 
 by combustibles. This heavy machine was supported upon four wlieels, 
 or perhaps upon eight. It was called tortoise from its serving as a 
 very strong covering and defence against the enormous vveights thrown 
 down on it; those under it being safe in tlie same manner as a tortoise 
 under his shell. It was used both to fill up the fosse, and for sapping. 
 It may not be improper to add, that it is believed, so enormous a weiglit 
 could not be moved from place to place on wheels, and tliat it was 
 puslied forward on rollers. Under tliese wheels or rollers, the way was 
 laid with strong planks to facilitate its motion, and prevent its sinking 
 into the ground, fi-om whence it would liave been very difficult to have 
 removed it. The ancients have observed that the roof had a tliicker 
 covering, of hides, hurdles, sea-weed, &c., than the sides, as it was 
 exposed to much greater shocks from the weights thrown upon it by 
 the besieged. It had a door in front, whicli was drawn up by a chain 
 as far as was necessary, and covered the soldiers at work in filling up 
 the fosse with fascines. — RoUin. 
 
 Tiiis is the tortoise of the ancients, but that of the middle ages dif- 
 fered from it in nothing material. 
 
 H H 
 
4 06 NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 Note 3(5, page 96. 
 
 " The besiegers having carried the bayle, brought up their machines 
 and establislied themselves in the counterscarp, began under cover of 
 tlieir cats, sows, or tortoises, to drain the ditch, if a wet one, and also 
 to fill it up with hurdles and fascines, and level it for the passage of 
 their moveable towers. Whilst this was doin/, the archers, attended 
 by young men carrying shields (pavoises), attempted with their arrows 
 to drive the besieged from the towers and ramparts, being themselves 
 covered by these portable mantelets. The garrison on their part essayed 
 by the discharge of machines, cross and long bows, to keep the enemy 
 at a distance." — Grose. 
 
 Note 37, page 98. 
 
 "The following extract from the History of Edward III. by Joshua 
 Barnes will convey a full idea of these moving towers. " Now the 
 Earl of Darby had layn before Reule more than nine weeks, in which 
 time he had made two vast belfroys or bastilles of massy timber, with 
 three stages or floors ; eacli of the belfroys running on four huge wheels, 
 bound about with thick hoops of iron ; and the sides and other parts 
 that any ways respected the town were covered with raw hides, tliick 
 laid, to defend the entrines from fire and shot. In every one ot these 
 stages were placed an hundred archers, and between the two bastilles 
 there were two hundred men with pickaxes and mattocks. From 
 these six stages six lunidred arciiers shot so fiercely all together, that 
 no man could appear at his defence without a sudicient punishment : so 
 that the belfreys being brought upon wheels by the strength of men 
 over a part of the ditch, whicli was purposely made plain and level by 
 the faggots and earth and stones cast upon them, the two hundred 
 pioneers plyed their work so well under the protection of tiiese engines, 
 that they made a considerable breach through tlie walls of the town. 
 The archers and cross bowmen from the upper stories in the moveable 
 towers essayed to drive away the garrison from the parapets, and on a 
 proper opportunity to let fall a bridge, by tliat means to enter the town. 
 In the bottom story was often a large ram." — Grose. 
 
 Note 38, page 99. 
 
 Against the moveable tower there were many modes of defence. 
 The chief was to break up the ground over which it was to pass, or by 
 undermining it to overthrow it. Attempts were likewise made to set it 
 on fire, to prevent which it was covered with raw hides, or coated over 
 with alum. — Grose. 
 
 Note 39, page 107. 
 
 The Oriflamme was a standard erected to denote that no quarter 
 would be given. It is said to have been of red silk, adorned and beaten 
 with very broad and fair lilies of gold, and bordi-red about witli gold 
 and vermilion. The Oriflamme was originally used only in wars against 
 the infidels, for it was a sacred banner, and believed to have been sent 
 from heaven. 
 
 Note 40, page 107. 
 
 At this woman's voice amidst the sound of war, the combat grcwa 
 i^ery hot. Our men, greatly encouraged by the virgin, run headlonj.^ to 
 the bastion, and force a point thereof; then fire and stones rain o 
 
NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 467 
 
 violently, as the English being amazed, forsake their defences: some 
 are slain upon the place, some throw themselves down headlong, and 
 fly to the tower upon the bridge. In the end this brave Glacidas aban- 
 dons this quarter, and retires into the base court upon the bridge, and 
 after him a great number of his soldiers. The brid'je, greatly shaken 
 with artillery, tried by fire, and overcharged with tlie weight of this 
 multitude, sinks into the water with a fearful cry, carrying all this 
 multitude with it. — De Serves. 
 
 Note 41, page 109. 
 
 The Parliament, when Henry V. demanded supply, entreated him to 
 seize all the ecclesiastical revenues, and convert them to the use of 
 the crown. The clergy were alarmed, and Chichely, Archbishop of 
 Canterbury, endeavoured to divert the blow, by giving occupation to the 
 king, and by persuading him to undertake a war against France. — 
 Hume. 
 
 Note 42, page 109. 
 
 While Henry "V. lay at the siege of Dreux, an honest hermit un- 
 known to him, came and told him the great evils he brought upon 
 Christendom by his unjust ambition, who usurped the kingdom of France 
 against all manner of right, and contrary to the will of God; where- 
 fore in his holy name he threatened him with a severe and sudden 
 punishment, if he desisted not from his enterprise. Henry took this 
 exhortation either as an idle whimsey, or a suggestion of the Dauphin's, 
 and was but the more confirmed in his design. But the blow soon 
 followed the threatening ; lor within some few months after, he was 
 smitten in the tundament with a strange and incurable disease. — 
 Mezeray. 
 
 Note 43, page 114. 
 
 The shield was often worn thus. "Among the Frenchmen there was 
 a young lusty esquire of Gascoigne, named William Marchant, who came 
 out among the foremost into the field, well mounted, his shield about his 
 neck, and liis spear in his hand." — Barnes. 
 
 Note 44, page 116. 
 
 The armet, or chapelle de fer, was an iron hat, occasionally put on by 
 kniglits when they retired from the heat of the battle to take breath, 
 and at times when they could not with propriety go unarmed. 
 
 Note 45, page 124. 
 
 Religious ceremonies seem to have preceded all settled engagements 
 at this period. On the night before the battle of Crecy " King Edward 
 made a supper in his royal pavilion for all his chief barons, lords, and 
 captains: at which he appeared wonderful cheerful and pleasant, to the 
 great encouragement of his people. But when they were all dismissed 
 to their several quarters, the king himself retired into his private oratory, 
 and came before the altar, and there prostrated himself to Almighty God 
 and devoutly prayed, 'that of his infinite goodness he would vouchsafe 
 to look down on the justice of his cause, and remember his unfeigned 
 endeavours for a reconcilement, although they bad all been rendered 
 
4G8 NOTES TO JOAN OF AEG. 
 
 frustrate by his enemies : that if he should be brought to a battle the 
 next day, it would please him of his great mercy to grant him the 
 victory, as his trust was only in liim, and in tlie right wiiich he had given 
 him.' Being thus armed with faith, about midnight he laid himself 
 upon a pallet or mattress to take a little repose ; but he rose again be- 
 times and heard mass, with his son the j'oung prince, and received ab- 
 solution, and the body and blood of his Redeemer, as did the prince also, 
 and most of the lords and others who were so disposed," — Barnes. 
 
 Note 46, page 125. 
 
 The conduct of the English on the morning of the battle of Crecy is 
 followed in the text. " All things being thus ordered, every lord and 
 captain under his own banner and pennon, and the ranks duly settled, 
 the valorous young king mounted on a lusty white hobby, and with a 
 white wand in his hand, rode between his two marshalls from rank to 
 rank, and from one battalia unto another, exhorting and encouraging 
 every man that day to defend and maintain his right and honour : and 
 this he did with so chearful a countenance, and with such sweet and 
 obliging words, that even the most fainthearted of the army were suffi- 
 ciently assured thereby. By that time the English were thus prepared, 
 it was nine o'clock in the morninsr, and then the king commanded them 
 all to take their refreshment of meat and drink, which being done, with 
 small disturbance they all repaired to their colours again, and then laid 
 themselves in their order upon tlie dry and warm grass, with their bows 
 and helmets by their side, to be more fresh and vigorous upon the 
 approach of the enemy." — Joshua Barnes, 
 
 Note 47, page 126. 
 The pennon was long, ending in two points, the banner square. 
 
 Note 48, page 131. 
 
 This inscription was upon the sword of Talbot — " Sum Talboti pro 
 vincere inimicos suos." A sword with bad Latin upon it, but good steel 
 within it, says Fuller. 
 
 Note 49, page 131. 
 
 In the original letters published by Mr. Fenn, FastolfTe appears in a 
 very unfavourable light. Henry Windsor writes thus of him : " Hit is not 
 unknown tliat cruelle and vengible he hath byn ever, and for the most 
 part with ante pite and mercy. I can no more, but vade etcorripe eum, 
 for truly he cannot bryng about his matiers in tiiis word {world), for the 
 word is not for him. I suppose it wolnot cliaunge yett be likelenes, but 
 i beseeche you sir help not to amend hym onely, but every other man yf 
 ye kno any mo mysse disposed." 
 
 The order of the garter was taken from Fastolffe for his conduct at 
 Patay. He suffered a more material loss in the money he expended in 
 the service of the state. In 1455, 40S3/. 15.?. 7rf. were due to him for 
 co.sts and charges during his services in France, "whereof the sayd 
 Fastolff hath had nouther payement nor assignation." So he complams. 
 
NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 469 
 
 Note 50, page 134. 
 
 This fact is mentioned in Andrews' History of England. I have 
 merely versified the original expressions. The herald of Talbot sought 
 out his body among the slain. " Alas, my lord ! and is it you ! I pray 
 God pardon you all your misdoings. 1 have been your officer of arms 
 forty years and more • it is time that I should surrender to you the 
 ensigns of ray office." Thus saying, with the tears gushing from his 
 eyes, he threw his coat of arms over the corpse, thus perfoi-miug one of 
 the ancient rites of sepulture." 
 
 Note 51, page 135. 
 
 " The Frenchmen wonderfully reverence this oyle ; and at the corona- 
 tion of their kings, fetch it from the church where it is kept, with great 
 solemnity. For it is brought (saith Sleiden in his Commentaries) by the 
 prior sitting on a white ambling palfrey, and attended by his monkes; 
 the archbishop of the town (Rheims) and such bishops as are present, 
 going to the church door to meet it, and leaving for it with the prior 
 some gage, and the king, when it is by the archbishop brought to the 
 altar, bowing himself before it with great reverence." — I^eter Heylyn. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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