^^^^^ UTc Jrjr'ji?'^^is^«»:^ijr.8^i«^j^^ "mm ^-^ A<^' ..;!4S^ WSB LIBRARY THE POEMS eillfEBGILllSMITS. WITH THE PLEASURES OF HOPE, BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. PLEASURES OF MEMORY, BT SAMUEL ROGERS. PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION, BT MARK AKENSIDE WORLD PUBLISHING HOUSE, 139 EIGHTH STREET, NEW YORK. 1875. CONTENTS. The Traveller , or, a Prospect of Society • . 7 The Deserted Village . . . .28 The Haunch of Venison, a Poetical Ep/rtle to Lord Clare 49 Retaliation ...... 56 Postscript . . . . - 68 The Hermit, a Ballad • . • .75 The Double Transformation, a Tale . . 81 The Gift : to Iris, in Bow-street, Covent-garden 85 ITie Logicians Refuted : in Imitation of Dean Swift 86 Stanzas on the taking of Quebec . . 88 Description of an Author's Bed-Chamber . 89 A new Simile, in the Manner of Swift . . 90 The Clown's Reply . . . . .92 An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog . . 93 Stanzas on Woman . . . 94 C0KTKTT8. Prolo^e to Zobeide, & Tragedy . . 95 Song Of Epilogue, spoken by Mr. Lee Lewes, in the Cha- racter of Harlequin, at his Benefit . . fl7 Seng from the Oratorio of the Captivity . 99 Song intended to have been sung in the Conxedy of 'She Stoops to Conquer' . . .101 On a beautiful youth struck blind by Lightning it A. Prologue, written and spoken by the Poet La- berius, a Roman Knight whom Cssar forced upon the Stage . . . .101 Epitaph on Edward Purdon . . .103 Epilogue to the 'Comedy of the Sisters' . . 104 Sonnet . . .106 An Elegy on the Glory o' her Sex — Mr«. Mary Blaise . . . . .107 Epiuph on Dr. Parnell . .101 THE TRAVELLE»} CE, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETYf FXB8T FSINTSS XX MPCCLZY. 10 TBB REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH DEAR SIR, I am sensible that the friendship between ua eai acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a Dedi- cation ; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you decline giving with your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader understands that it is addressed to a man, who, despising Fame and Fortune, has retired early to Happiness and Obscurity, witb an mcoms of forty pounds a year. a I DEDICATION. I now percteive, my dear brother, the wlsd-im of your humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers are but few ; while you have left the field of Ambition, ^bere the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, from different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of partv» that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpo- lished nations; but in a country versing to the extremes of refinement, Painting and Music come in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a lesa laborious entertainment, they at first rival Poetry and at length supplant her ; they engross all that 'avour once shown to her, and, though but younger listers, seize upon the elder's birth-right. Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is stUl in greater danger from the mis- taken efforts of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of Dlank verse, and Pindaric odes, caoruaes, anapestS; and iambics, alliterative care and happy n<».gligence1 L=^ DEDICATION. 5 Eirery absurdity has now a chainpi>n to defend it; And as he is generally much in the wrong, so he hag always much to say; for error is ever talkative. But there is an enemy to this art still more dan- gorous — I mean Party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind ia once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the distem- per. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from pur- suing man after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader who has once gratilie J his appetite with calumny, makes, ever after, the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers gene- rally admire some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet: ' his tawdry lampoons are called satires ; his turbulence b said to be force, and his phrensy fire. What reception a poem may find, which has neithei ftbuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have , ttempted to moderate '.he rage of all. I have en- f DEDICATIOir. deavoured to show, that there may be equal happi ness in states that are differently governed from out own ; that every state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few caa judge better than yourself how far these positionf U9 llluatrated in this Poem. I am, Dear Sir, Imu most aflectionate brother, QUVER GOLDSMITH THE TRAVELIEK, OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.* Remote, unlnenaed, meiancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, A weary waste expanding to the skies ; Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart, untravell'djfondly turns to thee, Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain. And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend , * In this poem several alterations were made, and some new verses added, as it passed through different editions. — We have printed from the last edition published in the life-time of the author. 7 8 THE TEAVELLER. Blest be that spot, where tneerful guests letire To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ; Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger tinds a ready chair ; Blest be those feasts whh simple plenty crown'd, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh \nth puy at some mournful tale ; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good. But me, not destin'd such dehghts to share, My prime of life in wandering spent and care; Empell'd with steps unceasing to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, Allures from far, yet as I follow, flics ; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, And find no spot of all the world my own. E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, [ sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; And plac'd on high, above the storm's career, Lookdownwardwherea hundred realmsappeai , Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, Th' pomp ofkings.th' shepherd's humbler pride. When thus Creation's charms around com- bine, Amidst the store should thankless pride repinef Bay, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom va!n t rni. TRAVELLER- 5 Lei school-taught pride dissemble all it caa, These little things are great to little man ; And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye ghttering towns, with wealth and splendour crown' d ; Ye fields, wiiere summer spreads profusior. round ; Ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale; Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale; For me your tributary stores combine ; Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine. As some lone miser, visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er; Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still: Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, Pleas' d with each good that Heaven to man supplies ; Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the hoard of human bhss so small And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find Some spot to real happmess consign' d, Wheremywornsoul,eachwand'ringhopeatres% May gather bhss to see my fellows blest. But where to find that liappiest spot below Who can direct when all pretend to know? The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease : 10 THE TKA TELLER. The naked negro, panting at the hne, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wme, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country ever is at home. And yet. perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall %\nsdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; As different good, by art or nature given. To different nations, makes their blessings even. Nature, a mother kind ahke to all, Still grants her bhss at labour's earnest call; With food as well the peasant is supphed On Ida's chffs as Arno's shelvy side ; And though the rocky-crested summits frown, These rocks, by custom turn to beds of down. From art more various are the blessings sent ; Wealth, commerce, honour, Uberty, content, yet these each other's power so strong contest, That either seems destructive of the rest. Where wealth and freedom reign, contentmen* fails ; Andhonour sinks wherecommercelongprevails Hence every state, to one lov'd blessing prone Conforms and models Ufe to that alone. Each to the fav'rite happiness attends, And spurns the plan that aims at other ends Till, carried to excess in each domain. This fav'rite good beo»=< peculiar pain. IHE TRAVELLER. ll But let us try these truths with closer eyes, A.nd trace them through the prospect as it lies Here for xwhile, my proper cares resign' d, Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; LiKe yon neglected shrub, at random cast, That shades the steep, and sighs at every blasl Far to the right, where Appenine ascends, Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; Whileoftsometemple'smould'ringtopsbeiwoen With memorable grandeur mark the scene. Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast ; The sons of Italy were surely blest : Whatever fruits in different chmes are found. That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; Whatever blooms in torrid traces appear. Whose bright succession decks the varied year; Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die : These here disporting own the kindred soil. Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. But small the bhss that sense alone bestows And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear : Man seems the only growth that dwindles here Contrasted faults through all his manners reign Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, 12 THE TRAVELLER. Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue And even in penance planning sins anew. All evils here contaminate the mind. That opulence departed leaves behind ; For wealth was their' s, not far remov'd the date, When Commerce proudly flourish' d through the state ; At her command the palace learnt to rise ; Again the long-fall' n column sought the skies ; The canvas glow'd, beyond e'en nature warm ; The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form ; Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores display' d her sail ; While nought remain'd of all that riches gave But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave And late the nation found, whh fruitless skill, Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied, By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade : Processions formed for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd The sports of children satisty the child : Each nobler aim. represt by long controul, Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul, While low delights succeeding fast behind, [n happier meanness occupy the mind : THE TRAVELLER. 1? As in those domes where Caesars once bore sway, Defac'd by time, and tott'ring in decay, There in tiie ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; And, wondering man could want the larger pile. Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display ; Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, And force a churhsh soil for scanty bread. No product here the barren hills afford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter hngering, chills the lap of May ; No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm. Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho* small, He sees his little lot the lot of all ; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal. To make him loathe his vegetable meal : But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short reposo, Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; •14 THE TRAVELLER. With patient aYigle trolls the finny deep, Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the 3teep , Or seeks the den, where snow-tracks mark tha way, And drags the struggling savage into day. At night returning, every labour sped. He sits him down, the monarch of a shed ; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, Displays her cleanly platter on the board : And haply too, some pilgrim thither led, With many a tale repays tiie nightly bed. Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; And e'en those ills that round his mansion nse. Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies : Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms. And dear that hill -v.'hich lifts him to the storms ; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to he mother's breast, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, But bind him to his native mountains more. Such are the charms to barren states assign'd. Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'dr Yet let them only share the praises due ; If few their wants, their pleasures are but few; For every want that stimulates the breast, Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest, THE TKAVELLER. 15 Whence frum such lands each pleasing scienoa flies, That first excites desire, and then supplies ; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Catch every neri'e, and vibrate thro' the frame. Their level life is but a mouldering fire, Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire , Unjfit for raptures, or, if rapt-ires cheer On some high fes'ival of once a year, In v/ild ex-^esn the vulvar breast takes fir«, Till, buried in de' auch. the bliss expire. But not their joys akme this coarsely flow ; Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; For. as refi'iev.ie It s'cps from sire to son, Unalter'd. unimnrov'd. the manners run ; And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dait Fall blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast May sit. hke falcons cowering, on the nest ; But all the gentler morals, such as play Through life's more cul ur'd walks, and charm the way. These, far dispers'd. on timorous pinions fly, To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, **Jeas'd with thyself, whom all the world ca» please, 16 THK TRAVELLER. How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire Where shading ehns along the margin grew, And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew. A.nd haply, though my harsh touch falt'ring still, But niock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancers' fekiU, Yet would thevijlage praise my wondrov.s power. And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. Alike all ages : dames of ancient days Have led their children thro' the mirthful maze : And the grey granusiie. skill' d in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. So blest a life these thoughtless realms display ; Thus idly busy rolls their world away ; Theirs are those arts th>: mind to mind endear, For honour forms the sociil temper here. Honour, that praise which real merit gains. Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land. From courts to camps, to cottages, it strays, And all are taught an avarice of praise ; They please, are pleas' d ; they give to get esteem, Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. But while this softer art their bliss supplies. It gives their follies also room to rise ; For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought, Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; THE TRAVELLER. 1^ J\nd the weak soul, within itself unblest, LiCans for all pleasure on another's breast. Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; He'f vanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; flere beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer. To boast one splendid banquet once a year ; The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, Nor weighs the solid worth of solf-applause. To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosom' d in the deep wllere Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land. And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, Lift the tal' rampire's artificial pride. Onward methinks, and dihgently slow, The firm, connected bulwark seems to grow ; Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore ; While the pent Ocean, rising o'er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding <5ail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, A new creation rescued from his Feign. Thus while around the wave-subjected ai)3 Impels 'he native to repeated toil, Indust lous habits in each bosom reign, And mdustry begets a love of gain. 13 THE TRAVELLER. Hence aK (he good from opulence that springs With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here display' d. Their much- loved wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance and arts; But view them closer, craft and fraud appear Even liberty itself is barter' d here. At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, The needy sell it, and the rich man buys : A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, Here wretches seek dishonourable graves, And calmly bent, to serAitude conform, Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. Heavens I how unlike their Belgic sires of old Rough, poor, content, ungovernably, bold ; War in each breast, and freedom on each brow, How much unhke the sons of Britain now ! Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the westeia spring ; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And brighterstreams than fam'dHydaspesglide There all around the gentlest breezes stray, There gentle music melts on every spray. Creation's mildest charms are there combin'd, Extremes are only in the master's mind. Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state With daring aims irregularly great. Pride ht their port, aefiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by ; THE TRAVELLER. 19 Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's haml. Fierce in their native hardiness of soul. True to imagin'd right, above controul, While even the peasant boasts these rights t there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways 22 THE TRAVELLER. Where beasts with man divided empire claim, And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim ; There, while above the giddy tempest flies, And all around distressful yells arise, The pensive exile, bendins: with his woe, To stop too fearful, and too faint to go. Casts a long look where England's glories shine^ And bids his bosom sympathise with mine. Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bhss which only centres in the mind: Why have I stray' d from pleasure and repose To seek a good each government bestows ? In every government though terrors reign, Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain, How small, of all mat human hearts endure, That part, which laws or kings car. cause or cure '. Still to ourselves in every place consign' d, Our own felicity we make or find : With secret course, which no 1 jud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. The lifted axe, the agonising \\ heel, Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, To men remote from power but rarely known. Leave reason, faith, and consc'euce, all our own, THE DESERTED VILLAGE Jl poem. FIBST FSINTEl IN MDCCLXUL ?0 SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. DEAR SIR» 1 CAN have no expectations in an address of Ihla Kind, either to add to your rt;putanon, or to estallish my own. You can gain nothing from my admiral on, as I am ignorant of that art in which vou aie said to excel; and 1 may lose much by the severity of your judgment, as feAV have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which! never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in following my affections. The only dedica- tion I ever made was to my brother, because I loved him better than most other man. lie is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this poem to you. How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not 25 26 DEDICATION. prctei.d lo enquire : but I know you will object (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion) that the depopulation it deplores is nowhere to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the pool's own imagination. To this I can scarce make any other answer than that I sincerely believe what I have written ; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I allege ; and that all my views and enquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which 1 here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an enquiry, whether the country be depopu- lating, or not ; the discussion would take up much room ; and I should prove myself, at best, an indiffe- rent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem. Ill regretting the depopulation of the country, I in- veigh against the increase of our luxuries ; and here also I expect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages ; and all the wisdom of antiquity. In that particular, as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head; and continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states by which so many vicf s are introduced, and so many kingdom.s have been undone. Indeed, so much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would eometimes wish to be in the right. lam Dear sir, Voui sincere friend, and ardent admirer, OLIVER GOLDSMITH THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain. Where health and plenty cheer' d the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earhest visit paid, And parting summer's Uagering blooms delay'd. Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of mv youth, when every sport could piease ; How often have I loiter' d o'er thy green. Where humble happiness endear'd each scene* How often have I paus'd on every charm, The shelter' d cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy milL The decent church that topt the ueighb'ring hill ; The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath tha shade, For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made ! How often have I bless'd the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their spcrts beneath the spreading tree ? 29 5U THE DiSEBTED VILLAGE. V^''hil(! many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey'd ; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the grouml, And sleights of art, and feats of stn-;ngth wer round ; And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd. The dancing pair that simply sought renown, By holding out to tire each other down ; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter'd round the place • The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love ; The matron's glance that would those looks reprove ; These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed. These were. thy charms, but all these charms are fled. Sv.-eet smiling \illage, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with drawn : Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand Js seen, And Desolation saddens aii thy green : One onl> master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thv smiling plain ; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But chok'd w.th sedges works its weed/ way; Lr-^ THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 3J Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards hs nest ; iHiidst thy desert v/alks the lapwing flics, And tires their echoes with unvaned cries ; Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mould' ring i\'all. And , trembling, shrinkingfrom the spoiler' s ban d, Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares I'ire land, to hast'ning ills a prey. Where v/ealth accumulates, and raen decay. Princes and lords maj' flourish, or may fade ; A breath can make them, as a breath has made ■ But a bold peasantry, their country's pri:!e. When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began When every rood of ground maintai.i'd its man For him light Labnur spread her wholesome store. Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more His best componions, innocence and health; And his best rici:es, ignoran -e of wealth. But times are aiter'd ; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose. Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repose; And every vv^ant to luxury alhed. And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentler hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires thai ask'd but little room, Those healthful sports that grac'd the peacefu, scene, Liv'd in each look, an 1 brighten'd all the green 52 THE DESERTED 7ILLAGF. These far departing, seek a kinder shore, And ruial mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn, parent of the blissful houi . Thy g4ades forlorn confess the tyrant's powti. Here, as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst iny tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds And many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. Swells at my b'reast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings through this world of care. In all my griefs — and God has giv'n my share — I still had hopes, my litest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close. And keep the flame from wasting by repose: I still had hopes for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill ; Around my lire an evening irroup to draw, " And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; And. as a hare when hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew I still had hopes, my long vexations past. Here to return — and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to Ufe's dechne, [{.etroat from cares, that never must be mine, How blest is he who crowns, in shades like thesoi A. youth of labour with an age cf ease ; THE DESEKTED VILLAGE. 3S Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state. To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; But on he moves to meet his latter end. Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; Smks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, While resignation gently slopes the way ; And all his prospects bright' ning to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past. Sweet was the so-'^d. when oft, at evenin/r'j* close, Up yonder hill tne village murmur rose ; There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, The mingled notes came soften'd from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that low'd to meet their young. The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring whid, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fiU'd each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail. No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, But all the blooming flush of life is fled : » 34 I'HE DESERTED VILLAGE. All but yon \\'idow'd, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; She, wretched matron, forc'd. in age, for bread To strip the brook with manthng cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till mom; She only left of all the harmless train. The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, A.nd still where many a garden- flower grows wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was. to all the countTy dear, And passing rich wirh forty pounds a-year ; Remote from towns he ran liis godly race. Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place ; Unskilful he to hvm, or .seek for -power By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn' d to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand' rings, but reUev'd their pain The long-remember'u beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast The ruin'd spendthrift now no longer proud, Claim'd kmdred there, and nad his clain allow' d. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 35 1 he broken soldier, kir.dly bid to slay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder' d his crutch and show'd liow fields were won. Pleas' d with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow. And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. And even his faihngs lean'd to virtue's side ; But in his duty prompt at every call. He watch'd and wept, he pray'd, and felt, for all And, as a bird each fond endearment tries. To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies; He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid And sorrow, guilt, and pains, by turns dismay'd, The reverend champion stood. At his controu' Despair and anguish fled the struggUng soul ; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise. At church with meek and unaffected grace. His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevail' d with double sway And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray, The service past, around the pious man, vVith steady zeal, each honest rustic rajas S6 THE DESERTEE VILLAGE. Even children follow'd, with endearing wile, And plucked his go\vii, to sha.3 the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest ; Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest : To them his heart, Jiis love, his griefs were given. But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. Swells from the valf and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom' d furze unprofitably gay. There, in his noisy mansion skill' d to rule, The ^-illage master taught his httle school ; A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew, Well had the boding tremblers learn' d to trace The day's disasters in his morning face ; Full well they laugh' d with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; Full well the busy whisper, circling re nnd, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he fl0^vn'd : Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, The love he l^ore to learning was in fault ; The village all declar'd how much he knew ; Twas certain he ^onld write and cipher too: THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 3") t/and he could measure, terms and tidea presage, And even the stor^ ran that he could guage ; In arguing too the parson own'd his skill, For, e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue stiih While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around. And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew That one small head should carry all he knew But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd, Where grey-beard mirth, and smiling toil, retir'd ; Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound. And news much older than their ale went round Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour-splendours of that festive place ; The white-washed wall, the nicely-sanded floor, The varnish' d clock that chck'd behind the door. The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; The pictures plac'd for ornament and use. The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day. With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay 88 IflE DE.SERTED VILLAGF. While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew, Rang'd o'er the chimney, ghsten'd in a row. V^ain transitory splendours I could not all Reprieve the tott'iing mansion from its fail ? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart Tluther no more the peasant shall repair. To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale. No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear, The host himself, no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bhss go round; Nor the coy maid, half wilUng to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes ! let the ricii deride, tlie proud disdain, These simple blessings of tlie lov.ly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart. One native charm, tiian all the gloss of art. Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; Lightly they frohc o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconhn'd: But the long pomp, tiie midnight masque" ade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd In these, ere tritiers half their wish obtain, The toiJuig pleasure sickens into pain; And, even while fashion's brightest arts decof The heart distrusting asks, il" this be joy ? THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 3S Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who gurvey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the hmits stand, Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards, even beyond the miser's wish, abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride. Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; Space tor his lake, iiis park's e.\ ■ ended bounds, Space for his horse?, ennipage, and hounds; The robe that wraps his iuabs in silken cloth, Has robb'd the nei;,^h!.ouring fields of half theii growth ; His seat, where solitary sports are seen. Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world suppUes ; While thus the laad. adorn'd for pleasure all, In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female unadorn'd and plain. Secure to please while youtii confirn.s her reign Slights every borrow' d charm that c" ress supplie Nor shares with art the triumph o .-.er eyes ; But when those charms are past, fr .harms are fraU, W^hen time advances, ana when iovuta fail, 40 THE BESERTEl VILLAGE. She tnen shines forth, sohchous to b'ess, In all the glaring impotence of dres^: Thus fares the land by luxury betray'd ; I In nature's simplest charms at first array'd; I But, verging to decline, its splep.J-v.irs rise, ■{ Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; I While, scourg'd by famine from the smiljig land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms — 'a garden and a grave. Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contign-^ is pride ? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, He drives hi3 flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And even the bare- worn common is denied. If to the city sped, what waits him there ? To see profusion that he must not share ; To see ten thousand baneful arts combm'd To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know. Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe. Here, whi^e the courtier ghtters m brocade, j There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; j Here while the proud their long-drawn pompe display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the w^iy • The dome where Pleasure holds her midnighi reign, tlere. richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train , THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 4. Tun.altuousgrandeui crowdsthe blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes lik^ these no troubles e'er annoy ! Sure these denote one universal joy !— Are these thy serious thoughts ? ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shiv' ring female lies. She once, periiaps, in village plenty blest, j Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; I Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, | Sweet as ttie primrose p.3cps 'eneath the thorn. j Now lost to ali, her friends, her virtue fled, | Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, j And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the j shower, I With heavy heart depbre.-^, that luckless hour, \ When idly first, ambitijus of the town, j She left her wlieel, and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auijurn, thine, the loveliest i train, j Do thy fiir tribes participate her pain ? j Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors thev ask a little bread ! Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene. Where half the co!ivex world intrudes between, Thro'igli torrid tracts with fainting steps they go., Where wild Altama murm\irs to their woe. ["ar diifcront there from all that charm'd before. The various terrors of thnt horrid shore , Those blazing suns that dart a ilowuvvard ray And fiercely shed intolerable day ; €3 THE DESrKfED TILI AGE. Those irmtted woods where birds forget to sing But silent bats in drowsy clusters chng ; Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown' d, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around : Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The ratthng terrors of the vengeful snake ; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, A.nd savage men, more murd'rous still than they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Minghng the ravag'd landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The coohng brook, the grassy-ves;ed gi-een: The breezy covert of the war hng greve, That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Good Heav'n! what sorrows gloom'd thai parting day. That cail'd them from their native walks away ; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain For seats like these beyond the w&stern main ; And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep ! The good old sire, the first, prepar'd to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe THE DESERVED VILLAGE. 13 But for liimseif, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for worlds beyond the graA 3. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, SLent went next, neglectful of her charms. And left a lover's for a- father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke hei woes, And blest the cot where every pleasure rose ; And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; Whilst her fond husl>and strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. — O Luxury ! thou curs' d by Heaven's decree, How ill exchang'd are things nke these for thee ! How do thy potions, with insidious joy , Diffuse their pleasures only to deotroy ! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown. Boast of a florid vigour not tbeir own ; At every draught large ant' more large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unw eldy woe ; Til. sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun, And hall the busuiess of destruction done : 44 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Even now, methinks, as pond'ring heie 1 stand, I see the rural Virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchormg vessel spreads the sail, That idl) waiting, flaps with every gale, Downwa d they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the ?hore. and darken all the strand. Contented Toil, and hospitable Care, And kind connubial Tenderness, are there; And Piety, with wishes plac'd above. And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou lovehest maid. Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame. To catch the heart, or stiike for honest fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried. My shame in crowds, my soUtary pride ; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so : Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel. Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well: Farewell; and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Fambamarca's side ; Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow ; Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. Redress the rigours of the inclement clirn'^ ; Aid slighted Truth with thy persuasive strain, Teach erring mar. to b| urn the rage of gain; THE DESERTED f ILL AGE. 45 Teach him that stales, of native strength possest, Though very poor, may still be very blest , That trade's proud empire hastes to switt decay, As ocean sweeps the labour' d mole away ; While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the skf. THE HAUNCH OF VENISONi TO LORD CLARE. riEST PRINTED IP MDCCLIT. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer oi fatter Never rang'd in a forest, or sniok'd in a platter ; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so rudJy ; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting To spoil suf'.h a deliVate picture by eating : I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view, To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu ; As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in. They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. But hold — let me pause — don't I hear vou pronounce. This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce I £ 49 50 THa HAUNCH OF VENISON. Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my turn, It's a truth — and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.* To go. on with my tale — as I gaz'd on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch ; So I cut if, and sent h to Reynolds undrest, To paint it or eat it, just as he lik'd best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dis- pose ; 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's ; But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There's H — d. and C — y, and H — rth, ana H— fit, I think they love venison — I know they love beef. There's my countryman Higgins — Oh ! let hini alone. For making a blunder, or picking a bone. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 51 But hang it — to poets who seldom can eat, iTour very good mutton's a very good treat ; Buch dainties to them their heahh it might hurt, It's Uke sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt. While thus I debated, in reverie centred, A.n acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself enter' d ; An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and me. ' What have we got here ? — Why this is good eating ! Four own I suppose — or is it in waiting?' ' Why whose should it be ?' cried I, with a flounce : 'I get these things often' — but that was a bounce : ' Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation. Are pleas'd to be kind — but I hate ostentation.' ' If that be the case then,' cried he, very gay, * I am glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; No words — I insist on't — precisely at three : We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wit» will be th ?re ; My acquaintance is sUght, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. n THE HAUNCH OF VENISOW. And, now that I think on' t, as I am a -sinner, We wanted this venison to make out a dinner What say you ? a pasty, it shall, and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for cnist. Here, porter — this venison with me to Milo- End: No stirring — I beg — my dear friend — my deat friend ! ' Thus snatching his hat, he brush' d oif Uke the wind, And the porter and eatables follow' d behind. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And ' nobody with me at sea but myself;' * Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I nevei dislik'din my life, Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine, (A chair-lumber' d closet, just twelve feet by nine,) ♦ See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry Duke of Cumberland, and ladj Rroavenor ; 12m )., 1769. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 53 My friend bade me welcome, but struck ne quite dumb, With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; *For I knew it,' he cried, ' both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale ; But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They'rebothof them merry, andauthorslikeyou; TheonewritestheSnarler,theotherthe Scourge; Some think he writes Cinna — he owns to Pan- urge.' While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name. They enter'd, and dinnerwasserv'das they came. At the top a fried Uver and bacon were seen ; At the bottom was tripe, in a swingcng tureen ; At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot ; In the middle a place where the pasty — 'was not Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate hke a Turk or a Persian, So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round But what vex'd me most was that d 'a Scottish rogue. With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue : H THE HAUXCH 0? VEXISC NT. And, ' Madam,' quoth he, ' may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; Pray a slice of your Uver, though may I be curst But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst. 'There tripe,' quoth the Jew, with his choco- late cheek, ' I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week ; I like these here dinners so pretty and small ; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all,' * O ho!' quoth my friend, ' he'll come on in a trice. He's keeping a corner foi something that's nice: There's pasty.' — ' A pasty !' repeated the Jew: ' I don't care if I keep a corner for't too.' ' What the de'il, mon, a pasty ?' re-echoed the Scot : ' Tho' splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.* ' We'll all keep a corner,' the lady cried out ; ' We'll all keep a corner,' was echoed about. While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid : A visage so sad. and so pale with affright, Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out (for who could mis- take her ?) That she came %vith some terrible news from the baker : And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. THS BAUirCH OF VENISON. 5fl .Sad Philomel thus — ^but let similes drop— And now that I think on't, the story may stop To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour mis- plac'd, To send such good verses to one of your taste ; You've got an odd something — a kind of dis earning — A relish — a taste — sicken' d over by learning ; At least, it's your temper, as very well known, That you think very slightly of all that's your own : So, perhaps, m your habits of thinking ami5«3, Vou may make a mistake, and think sUghtlf of this. RETALlATIOlf ; tmn PRINTED Uf MDCCLZXiy.» AFTER AUTHOR'! DRATH. RETALIATION. Of old, when Scarron his companions invited, Elach guest brought his dish, and the feast was united : If cur landlord* suppUes us with beef and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish Our deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains, Our Burke I shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains, Our Will^ shall bi wild-fowl, of excellent flavour, And Dickll with his pepper shall heighten the savour : * The master of Si. James's coffee-house, where the doctor, and the friends he has characterised 'n this poem, occasionally dined. t Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry in I-eiani. t Mr. Edmund Burke. ^ Mr. William Burke, late secretary ' > jencsra* Conway, and member for Bedwin. II Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada. 59 M RETALIATION. Oui Cumberland's* sweet-bread its praise shall obtain, And Douglast is pudding, substantial and plain : Our Garrick'st a salad : for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : To make out the dinner, full certain I am, That Ridged is anchovy, and Reynoldsll is Iamb ; That Hickey'slI a capon, and by the same rule, Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry-fool. A-t a dinner so various, at such a repast, Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last t Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, Till all my companions sink under the table ; Then,\vithchaosandblundersencirclingmyhead, Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. * Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West Indian, Fasliionable I^nver, the Brothers, and other dramatic pieces. I Doctor Doufflas, canon of Windsor, an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, m detecting several literary mistakes (or rather for- Ijeries) of his countrymen : particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes. t David Garrick, Esq. ^ Counsellor John Ridge, a gent'emaa belongiog iO the Irish bar. II Sir Joshua Reynolds. TI An eminent attornev. RETALIATION. 6j Here lies the good dean,* re-united .o earth. ^Vho mLx'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth : If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt ; At least, in six weeks 1 could not find 'em out , Vet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em Here hes our good Edmund, t whose geniua was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; Who, born for the universe, narrow'dhis mind, And to party gave up what was meant for man- kind ; Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat To persuade Tommy Townshendt to lend hira a vote ; Who too deep for his hearers, still went on re- fining, And thought of convincing while they thought of dining : Though equal to all things, "or all things unfit. Too nice for a statesmaii, too proud for a wit ; For a patriot, too cool ; for a drudge, disobe- dient ; And too fond of the right to pursue the expe dient. * Vide page 59. + Ibid. X Mr. T. Townsbend, Member for Whitchurch. 69 retahattow. In fehort, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or bl place, sir. To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest VViUiam,* whose heart waa a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't ; The pupil of impulse, it fofc'd him along. His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam. The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home. Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none : What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at ; Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet! What spirits were his! what wit and what whim! Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb;t Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ; Now teazing and vexing, yet laughing at all. * Vide page 59. \ Mr. Richard Burke ; vide page 59. This gentle' man having sl*3htly fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times, the doctor had rallied him o» those accidents, as a kind of retributive justice fot breaking bis je^ts upon other people RETALIATTOX. 63 fn short, so provoking a devil tvas Dick, That we wish'd him full ten times a day at old Nick ; But, missing his mirth and agreeable vv^in, As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. Here Cumberland* lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are; His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And Comedy wonders at being so fine : Like a tragedy-queen he has dizen'd her out, Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that Folly grows proud ; And coxcombs, ahke in their failings alone, Adoptinghis portraits, are pleas'dwiththeir own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? Or wherefore his characters thus without fiiult ? Say, was it that, vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? Here Douglast retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks ; Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines. Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines. 64 RETALIATION. When satire and censure encircled his tij"0ne, I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own ; But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall lecture ; MacphersonI write bombast, and call it a style, Our Townshend"5t. make speeches, and I shaU compile ; New Landers and BowersH the Tweed shall cross over, No countryman living their tricks to discover ; Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark. Here lies David Garrick.*^ describe him who can, \n abridgement of all that was pleasant in man ; As an actor; contest without rival to shine : As a wit, if not tirst, in the very first line ; Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. * The R(!V. Dr. Dodd. t Dr. Kenrick, who read Lectures al the Devil Ta- vern, under the title of 'The School of Shakespean t James Macpherson, Esq., who lately, from t^ mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. i Vide page 61. j|60. U 60. RETALIATION. 65 Like an iK-judged beauty, his colours he spread, And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affec-ting ; *Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turn'd and he varied full ten times a-day ; Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick If they were not his own by finessing and trick , He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack ; For he knew, when he pleas'd he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came, And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 'Till, his rehsh grown callous, almost to disease. Who pepper' d the highest was surest to please. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind. If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks,* ye Kellys,t and Woodfallst so grave. What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ! ♦ Vide page 64. t Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word W) the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c. t Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chro nicle. 66 RETAI.IATION. How did Grub-Street re-echo the shouts that yoii rais'd, Wliile he was be-Roscius'd, and you were beprais'd! But peace to his sph-it, wherever it flies, To act as an angel and mix with the skies : Those poets who owe their best fame to hia skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys* above. Here Hickey t rechnes, a most blunt, pleasaut creature. And slander itself must allow him good-nature ; He cherish'd hisfriend,and herelish'd a bumper, Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser : I answer. No, No, for he always was wiser. Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. Perhaps he confided in men as they go. And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah, no ? Then what was his faihng ? come tell it, and burn ye, He was, could ne help it ? a special attorney. • Vide page 65. f Vide page 60. EeiiLIATiON. 67 Here Reynolds* is laid, and, to tell yja ray mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind ; fJis pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; His manners were gentle, complying and bland Still born to improve us in every part. His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering; When they judg'd without skill, he was still hard of hearing : When they talked of their Raphaels, Gorre- gios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpett, and only took snuff. ♦ Vide page 60. f Sir Joshua Reynolds was bo remarkably deaf aa to be under the i ece.Bsity of ueinf &n ear-trumpet in company. POSTSCRIPT. After the fourth edition of this poem teas printed^ the publisher received the followins epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord* from a friend of the lata doctor Goldsmith. Here Whitefoord reclines ; and deny it who can, Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a gravet man : Rare compound of oddity, frolic and fun Who reUsh'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun ; Whose temper was generous, open, sincere; A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear ; Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will; Whose daily ho ?i mots half a column might fill; A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. What pity, alas ! that so lib'ral a mind Should so long be to newspaper-essays confin'd' * Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humour ous essays. t Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that doctor Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company without being infected with the itch of Dunning 68 • POSTSCRIPT. 69 WTio perhaps to the summit of science could soar, Yet content if ' the table he set in a roar ;' Whose talents to fill any station were fit. Yet happy if Woodfall* confess' d him a v/it. Ye newspaper-witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs and re-echoed his jokes; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, Still follow your master, and visit his tomb ; To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; Then strew all around it (you can do no less) Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit ; This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse. Thou best-humour'd man with the vorst- humour' d muse.' * Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Adver- tiser. + Mr. Whitefoord has frf quently indulged the town with humourous pieces uider those titles in th« Publi( Advertiser. THE HERMIT 8 3i 3ttUal». FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLJT. The folLowivg Letter, t^ddressed t the Printer if tJu St. Jameses Chronicle, appeared in that Paper, in Tune, 1767. As there is nol hin? I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspond- ent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Tra vels, because I thought the book was a good one ; and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published ; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not exten- sive enough to set me right. Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad, I published some time ago from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy.* I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago ; ♦ The Friar of Orders Gray. "Reliq. of Anc Fo. etry,' vol. - :. 243. 7S nnd he (as we both conaldered theae things as triflei at best) told me, with his usual good-humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballud of his own. He then read me his little cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it Such petty anec- dotesas these are scarce worth printing : and, were it not for the busy disposition of some of your corre- spondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that 1 am oblig- ed to his friendship and learning for communication! of a much more important nature. I am Sir, Yours, &c. OLIVER GOLDSMITH THE HERMIT. ' Ti RN, gentle hermit of tlie dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vala With hospitable ray. ' For here forlorn and lost I tread. With fainting steps and slow ; Where wilds, immeasurably spread; Seem length' ning as I go. ' * Forbear, my son,' the Hermit criea. ' To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder fahhless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. ' Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still ; And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good.will ' Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows ; My rushy couch and frugal fare My blessing and repose. 79 ' THE HERMIT. * N o flocks that "^ange the valley free, To slaughter 1 condemn : Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them : But from the mountain's grassy side A guihless feast I bring ; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied. And water from the spring. 'Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong; Man wants but httle here below, ^ Nor wants that little long.' Soft as the dew from heaven descendt^ His gentle accents fell : The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay ; A refuge to the neighb'ring poor, And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Reqiur'd a master's care ; The wicket op'ning with a latch. Received the harmless pair. An.d now when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, And cheer'd his pensive guest* THE BEHMIT. And Spread his regetable store, And gauy press' d and smil'd , And, skill' d in legendary lore. The lingering hours beguil'd. Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries ; The cricket chirrups in the hearth ; The crackhng faggot flies. But nothing coul^J a charm impart, To soothe the stranger's woe ; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spied, With answermg care opprest : And, ' Whence, unhappy youth,' he crwd ' The sorrows of thy breast ? * From better habhations spurn'd, Reluctant dost thou rove ; Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love ? 'Alas ! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay : And thosf who prize the paltry thiiigu, More trifling still than they. * And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep ; A shade that follows wealth or fame, And leaves the wretch to weep ? 78 THE HiJRMIT. * And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair one's jest ; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest. 'For shame, fond youth ! thy sorrows hush And spurn the sex,' he said: But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray'd. i Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view; Like colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate ?pread alarms : The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms. And, 'Ah, forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn,' she cried ; ' Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where heaven and vou reside. ' But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray ; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. My father liv'd beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, He had but only mo THE HERMIT, To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came ; Who prais'd me for imputed charms. And felt or feign' d a flame. ' Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove ; Among the rest young Edvsnn bow'd. But never talk'd of love. • In humble, simplest habit clad, No weahh or power had he ; Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me. ' The blossom opening to the day. The dews of heav'n refin'd, Could nought of purity display, To emulate his mind. • The dew, the blossoms of the tree, With charm? inconstant shine ; Their charms were his, but, woe to me. Their constancy was mine. For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain ; And, while his passion touch' d my heart, I triumph' d in his pain. ' Till, quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride ; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret where he died. 80 THE HERMIT. * But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay : I'll seek the soUtude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. * And there forlorn, despairing, nid, I'll lay me down and die ; * Twas so for me that Edwin djQ, And so for him will I.' * Forbid it. Heaven I' the Hermit cried, And clasp' d her to his breast : The wondering fair one turned to chide J 'T was Edwin's self that prest ! * Turn, AngeHna, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restored to love and thee. ' Thus let me hold thee to my heart, j And every care resign : And shall we never, never part. My life — my all that's mine ? ' No, never from this hour to part. We'll live and love so true ; The sigii that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too.* THE DOUBLE TRA.NSFORMATION SECLUcrD from domestic strife. Jack Bookworm led a college life ; A fellowship at tweniy-tive Made him the happiest man alive ; He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke^ And freshrneu v/ouJer'd as he spoke. Such pleasures, unallay'd with care, JCould any accident impair ? Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix Our swain arriv'd at thirty-six? had the archer ne'er come down To ravage in a country town, Or Flavia been content to stop At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop ! O had her eyes forgot to blaze, Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! O ! But let exclamation cease, Her presence banish' d all his peace : So, with decorum all things carried. Miss frown'd, and blush'd, a ad then was- married. Q 81 62 DOJBLE TKANsrORMATIO:!. Need we expose to vulgar sight The raptures of the bridal night ? Need we intrude on hallow' d ground, Or draw the curtains close around ? Let it suffice, that each had charms ] He clasp' d a goddtss in his arms ; And, though she felt his usage rough, Yet in a man 'twas well enough. The honey-moon like lightning flew; The second brought its transports too. A third, a fourth, were not amiss, The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away, Jack found his goddess made of clay : Found half the charms that deck'd her face Arose from powder, shreds, or lace; But still the worst remain' d behind, That very face had robb'd her mind. Skill' d in no other arts was she, But dressing, patching, repartee ; And, just as humour rose or fell, i By turns a slattern or a belle ; ' 'Tis true she dress' d with modern grace, Half naked at a ball or race ; But when at home, at board or bed, Five greasy night-caps wrapp'd her head. Could so much beauty condescend To be a dull domestic friend ? Could any curtain- lectures bring To decency so fine a thing ? *.OUBLE TRANSFOEMATIOIi. 83 In short, by night 'twas fits or fretting ; By day 'twas gadding or coquetting. Fond to be seen, Bhe kept a bevy Of powder' d coxcombs at her levee; The 'squire and captain took their stations, And twenty other near relations ; Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke A sigh in suffocating smoke ; While all their hours were past between Insulting repartee or spleen. Thus as her faults each day were knovvn. He thinks her features coarser grown : He fancies every vice she shows, Or thins her lip, or points her nose : Whenever rage or envy rise, How wide her mouth how wild her eyes ; He knows not how, but so it is, Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; And, though her fops are wondrous civi!, He thinks her ugly as the devil. Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, As each a different way pursues, While sullen or loquacious strife Promis'd to hold them on for Hfe, That dire disease whose ruthless power Withers the beauty's transient flower, Lo I the small-pox, whose horrid glare Levell'd its terrors at the fair ; A.nd, rifling every youthful grace, Lefr but the remnant of a face. 64 DOUBLE TRANSFORM ATlOif. The glasjs, grown hateful to her sight Reflected now a perfect fright : Each former art she vainly tries, To bring back lustre to her eyes. In vain she tries her paste and creams, To smooth her skin, or hide its seams ; Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens : The 'squire himself was seen to yield, And e'en the captain quit the field. Poor madam now, condemn' d to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown. Attempted pleasing hira alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old ; With modesty her cheeks are dy'd, Humility displaces pride ; For tawdry rinery, is seen A person ever neatly clean: No more presuming on her sway. She learns good- nature every day: Serenely gay, and strict in duty, Jack fijids his wife a perfei t beautj^o THE GIFT. TO mis, IN BOVi -.STREET, COVENT-GAEDK*^ SkJ, cruel Iris, pretty rake, Dear mercenary beauty, What annual off'ring shall I make. Expressive of my duty ? My heart, a victim to thine eyes, Should I at once deliver. Say, would the angry fair-one prize The gift, who slights the giver ? A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, My rivals give — and let 'em. If gems, or gold, impart a joy, I'll give them — when I get 'em. I'll give — but not the full-blown rose. Or rose-bud more in fashion ; Suchshort-liv'd off 'rings but disclose A transitory passion : I'll give thee something yet unpaid. Not less sincere than civil : I'll give thee — ah ! too charming maid, I'll give thee — to the devil, 85 THE LOGICIANS RLFUTED. 'TN IMITAXrON OF DEAN SWIFT.) Lo&iciANS have but ill defin'd As rational the human mind : Reason the V say, belongs to man; But let them prove it if they can. Wise Arist 'tie and Smiglesius, By ratiocinations specious. Have strove to prove with great precision, Wise definition and division, Homo est ratione prcBditum ; But for my soul I cannot credit 'em, And must in spite of them maintain, That man and all his ways are vain ; And that this boasted lord of nature Is both a weak and erring creature ; That instinct is a surer guide Than reason, boasting mortals' pride ; And that brute beasts are far before 'em, Dens est anima brutorum. Who ever knew an honest brute At law his neighbour prosecute, Bring action for assault and battery, Di friend beguile with lies and flattery t 86 THE LOGICIANS REFDTED. O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd, No politics disturb their mind ; They eat their meals, and take their aport. Nor know who's in or out at court. They never to the levee go, To treat as dearest friend a foe ; They never importune his grace, Nor ever cringe to men in place ; Nor undertake a dirty job, Nor draw the quill to write for Bob. Fi aught with invective they ne'er go To folks at Paternoster -row : No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, No pickpockets, or poetasters, Are known to honest quadrupeds ; No single brute his fellows leads. Brutes never meet in bloody fray, Nor cut e'ich other's thioats for pay. Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape Comes nearest us in human shape ; Like man he imitates each fashion. And malice is his ruling passion : But both in malice and grimaces, A courtier any ape surpasses. Behold him, humbly, cringing wah Upon the minister of state : View him soon after to inferiors Aping the conduct of superiors : He promises with equal air, And to perform takes equal care. 88 STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBKC He in his turn finds imitators : At court the porters, lacqueys, waiters. Their masters' manners still contract, And footmen, lords and dukes can act. Thus at the court, both great and small. Behave aUke, for all ape all. STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. Amtdst the clamour of exulting joys, Which triumph forces from the patriot heart Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. O Wolfe ! to thee a streaming flood of woe, Sighing, we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow, While thy sad fate extorts the heart-'wrung tear. Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled. And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead ; Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's blach champaign. Regale the drabs and bloods of Dniry-lane ; There, in a lonely room, from bailiff snug. The muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug. A w^indow patch' d with paper lent a ray. That dimly show'd the state in which he lay. The sanded Boor that grits beneath the tread, The humid wall with paltry pictures spread, The royal game of goose was there in view. And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ; The Seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place, And brave prince William shew'd his lamp black face. The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire : With beer and milk arrears the frieze wa« scor'd, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney board ; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, A cap by night --a stocking all the day ! 89 A NEW SIMILE. I (in the manner of swift/' ! Long had I sought in vain to find I A likeness for the scribbUng kind ; j The modern scribbUng kind, who writ€ I In wit, and sense, and nature's spite ! 'Till reading, I forget what day on, t A chapter outof Tooke's Pantheon, I I think I met with something there j To suit my purpose to a hair. But let us not proceed too furious, First please to turn to god Mercurius . You'll find him pictur'd at full length In book the second, page the tenth: The stress of all my proofs on him I lay^ And now proceed we to our simile. Imprimis, pray observe his hat. Wings upon either side — mark that. Well ' what is it from thence we gather \ Why, these denote a brain of feather. A brain of feather ! very right, With wit that's flighty, learning light ; Such as to modern bard 's decreed. A. just comparif on, — proceed. 90 A NEW SIMILE. 91 In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes ; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air : And here my simile unites, For, in a modern poet's flights, I'm sure it may !;e justly said, His feet are useful as his head. Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand, Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand ; By classic authors term'd Caduceus And highly fam'd for several uses. To wit, most wondrously endu'd. No poppy-water half so good ; For, let folks only get a touch, Its soporific virtue 's such, Though ne'er so much awake before, That quickly they begin to snore. Add too, what certain writers tell. With this he drives men's souls to helL Now to apply, begin we then : His wand 's a modern author's pen ; The serpents round about it twin'd, Denote him of the reptile kind ; Denote the rage with which he writes His frothy slaver, venom' d bites , An equal semblance still to keep, Alike too both conduce to sleep. This difference only : as the god Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod. ^ THE CLOVjy S REPLT. With his goose -quill the scribbling elf, Instead of others, damns himself. And here my simile almost tript. Yet grai t a word by way of postcript. Moreover, Merc'ry had a faihng: Well ! what of that ? out ^^•ith it— Stealing ; In which all modern bards agree, Being each as great a thief as he. But e'en this deity's existence Shall lend my simile assistance. Our modern bards ! why. what a pox Are they but senseless stones and blocks t THE CLOWN'S REPLY. John Trot was desired by two ^vitty peers To tell them the reason why asses had ears- 'A'nt please you, 'quoth John, ' I'm not given to letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters ; Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be sav'd, without thinking on Edi?iour !iO«^ liooD people all, of every sort, Give ear unto mj' song ; And if you find it wond'rous short It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say That still a godly race he ran, Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes ; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends. But when a pique began. The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. L^ 94 STANZAS ON WOM&IT. Around from all the neighbouring street* The womiering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The wound it seem'd both sore and sad, To every Christian eye ; And wane iney swore the dog was mad They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to Hght, That show'd the rogues they lied The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died. STANZAS ON WOMAN. When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy NVhut art can wash her guilt away 1 The only art her guilt to cover. To hide her shame from every eve, To give repentance tc her lover, And wriner his buscm — is, to dJe PR 3L0GUE TO ZOBRIDE, A TRAGEDY. In these bold timjs, when Learning's soiu explore The distant climates, and the savage shore ; When wise astronomers to India steer, And quit for Venus many a brighter here ; While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling Forsake the fair, and patiently go simpling; Our bard into the general spirit enters, And fits his little frigate for adventures. With Scythian stores and trinkets deeply laden, He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading ; Yet, ere he lands, has order' d me before To make an observation on the shore. Where are we driven ? our reckoning sure ia lost? This seems a rogky and a dangerous coast. Lord, what a sultry cUmate am I under ! Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder ; [ Upper gallery. There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em — [Pit. Here trees of stately size, and billing turtles in 'em- - [Balconies 96 SONG. Here ill- condition d oranges abound — [Stage. And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground : [Tasting them. The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear : I heard a hissing — there are serpents here ! 0, there the people are — best keep my distance ; Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance ; Our ship's well-stored — in yonder creek we've laid her. His honour is no mercenary trader. This is his first adventure : lend him aid, And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, and broughl from far. Equally fit for gallantry and war. What, no reply to promises so ample ? — I'd best step back, and order up a sample. SONG. O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver, Still importunate and vain, * To former joys, recurring ever, And turning all the past to pain ! Thou, Uke the world, the opprest oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe ; ii od he who wants each other blessing, In thee must ever find a foe. RflLOGUE; •POKKIi ^r MB. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARi CTM OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. Hold ! prompter, hold ! a word before youf nonsense ; I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. My pride forbids it ever should be said, My heels ecUps'd the honours of my head ; That I found humour in a piebald vest, Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. [Takes off his mask. Whence and what art thou, visionary birth ? Nature disowns, and reason scorns, thy mirth In thy black aspect every passion sleeps, The joy that dimples, and' the woe that weeps. How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood, Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu'd! Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses Whose only plot it is to break our noses ; Whilst from ^low the trap-door demons rise, And from above the dangling deities. H 97 98 EPILOGUE. And shall I m-x in this unhallow'd crew? May rosin' d lightning blast me, if I do ! No — I will act, I'll vindicate the stage : Bhakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage Off, off, vile trappings : a new passion reigns ! The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins. Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme : 'Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds I — soft — 'twas but a dream.' Aye, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no re- treating : If I cejise Harlequin, I cease from eating. Twas thus that iEsop's stag, a creature blame- less, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless. Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavill'd at his image in the flood. *The deuse confound,' he cries, ' these drum- stick shanks, They neither have my gratitude nor thanks : They're perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead! But for a head, — yes, yes, I have a head. How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow ! My horns ! I'm told, horns are the fashion now.' Whilst thus he spoke, astonish' d to his view, If oar, and more near, the hounds and huntsman drew. SOITQ. 99 Hoicks ! hark forward ! came thundering from behind ; He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind : He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; "He starts, he pants, he takes the circhng maze. At length his silly head, so priz'd before, [s taught his former folly to deplore ; Whilst his strong limbs cor\spire to set him free, A.nd at one bound he saves himself, Uke me. [Taking a jump through the stage door SONG. FROM THE ORATOKIO OF THE CAPTIVITY. The wretch conderaa'd vvdth life to part. Still, still on hope relies ; And every pang that renda the heart, Bids expectation rise. Hope, Uke the glimm'ring taper's light Adorns and cheers the way : And still, as darker grows the night Euiits a brighter ray. A lettf:r. I SEND you a small production ol ihe late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been pi blished, and which might perhaps have been tota'ly lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admi- rable comedy of ' She Stoops to Conquer,' but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself, in private companies, very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called ' The Humours of Bala- magairy,' to which he told me he found it very difficult to adapt words : but he has succeeded very happily in these few hues. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little reUc, in nis own hand -writing, with an affectionate care. I am. Sir, STotr humble servant, JAMES BOSWELL. 100 SONG, IKTBWrEU TC HAVE BEEN SUrS IN tHE COMBDl OF 'she stoops to conquer.' Ah me ! when shall I marry me ? Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me. He, fond youth, that could carry me, Offers to love, but means to deceive me. But I will rally and combat the miner : Not a look , not a smile , shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing herj Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING. {Imitated from the Spanish) Sure 'twas by Providence designM, Rather in pity than in hate, That he should be, like Cupid, blind. To save him from Narcissus' fate. 101 A PROLOGUE, wairrEN and spoken by thb POET LABERIUS, A EOMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CiESAR FCBCEE UPON THE STAGE Preserved by 3Iacrobtus. What ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage And save from infamy my sinking age ! Scarce half-alive, oppress' d with many a year, What in the name of dotage drives me here ? A time there was, when glory was my guide. Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside. Unaw'd by power, and unappall'd by fear, With honest thrift, I held my honour dear: But this vile hour disperses all my store, And all my hoard of honour is no more ; ♦ This translaticn was first printed in one of car iuthor's earliest works, 'The Present State 0/ Liarning in Europe,' 12mo. 1759 EPITAPH ON PURDON. lOU For Ah ! too partial to my life's decline, CcBBar persuades, submission must be mine • Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys, Hopeless of pleasing, yet incUn'd to please. Here then at once I welcome every shame, And cancel at threescore a life of fame ; No more my titles shall my children tell, ' The old buffoon' will fit my name as well ; This day beyond its term my fate extends, For life is ended when our honour ends. EPITAPH ON PURDON. Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller's hack ; He led such a damnable life in this world, J don't think he'll wish to come back. ♦ liAs gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin ; but, having wasted his patrimony, he enlist- ed as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employ- ment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scrib- bler in the newspapers. He tranalated Voltaire't Henriade EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS. What! five long acts — and all to make 01 wiser ! OxiT authoress sure has wanted an adviser. Had she consulted me, she should have made Her moral play a speaking masquerade ; VVarm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. My life onV this had kept her play from sink- ing ; Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of thinking. Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, What if I give a masquerade ? — I will. But how ? aye, there's the rub! [pausing] — I've got my cue : The world's a masquerade ; the masquers, you, you, you. [To Boxes, Fit, and Gallery 104 EPIL0&T7E. 105 Liud ! what a group the motley scene discloses, False wit, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses ! Statesmen with bridles on ; and close beside 'em^ Patriots in party-colour' d suits that ride 'em. There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore. These in their turn, with appetites as keen, Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen. Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, Flings down her sampler, and takes up the wo man ; The httle ur-liin smiles, and spreads her lure, And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure, Thus 'tis with all — their chief and constant care Is, to seem every thing but what they are. Yon broad, 'nold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion ; Who frowns, and talks and swears, with round parade, Looking, as who should say, Dara'me who's afraid ? [Mimicking. Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am You'll find his lionship a very lamb. Yon pohtician famous in debate. Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state, Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. JOS A SONNET. Yon patriot too, who presses on your sight, And seems to every gazer, all in white, If with a bnbe his candour you attack, He bows, turns round, and, whip — the man's ii black ! Yon critic too — but whither do I run ? If I proceed, our bard will he undone. Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too: Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you A SONNET. Weeping, murmuring, complaining, Lost to every gay delight ; Mira, too sincere for feigning. Fears th' approaching bridal night. Yet why impair thy bright perfection, Or dim thy beauty with a tear ? Had Mira follow' d my direction, She long had wanted cause of few. AN ELEGY OH THE GI/ORY CF HER SEX— MRS MARY BLAIIt Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word — From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom pass'd her door, And always found her kind ; She freely lont to all the poor — Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighbourhood to please, With manners wondrous winning ; And never follow' d wicked ways, Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size ; She never slumber' d in her pew— But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more ; The king himself has follow'd her— When she has walk'd before. 107 108 But now her wealth and finery fled. Her hangers-on cut short all : The doctors found when she was dead-" Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That Irnd she liv'd a twelve-month more— She had not died to-day. EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. This tomb inscribed to gentle Parnell's nam« May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay, Fhat leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way ! Celestial themes confess' d his tuneful aid ; And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid Needless to him, the tribute we bestow, The transitory breath of fame below: More lasting rapture from his works shall rise While converts thank their poet in the skie*. THB BOOK PLEASURES L THE PLEASURES OF HOPS, BT THOMAS CXJtnKIJ^ 1. THE PLEASURES OF MEMORT. BT SABfUEL BOGERS. ft THB PLEASURES OF IMAGINATIOirs BT MABK AKENSIDE. WORLD PUBLISHING HOUSE, 139 EIGHTH STREET, NEW YORK. 1875. CONTENTS PLEASURES OF IIOPR, FAhf I Paga 9 ... PART II 43 PLEASURES OF '.TF,:^IbRY. PARI I . . . 69 . . . PART II . . 97 PLEASDRHS OF IMAGINATION, BOOK I. . . 123 BOOK n 143 ...... . . BOOK III 181 €5AMPflELL'S PLEASURES OF HOPI ANALYSIS OF PART I. The poem opens with a comparison between tiM biauty of remote objects in a laniiscape, and those ideal scenes of felicity which the imagination delights to contemplate— the influence of anticipation upon the other passions is next delineated — an illusion is made to the well-known fiction in pagan tradition that, when all the guardian deities of mankind aban- doned the world, Hope alone was left behind — the consolations of this passion in situationsof danger and distress — the seaman on his midnight watch — the Boldier marching into battle— allusion to the interest- ing adventures of Byron. The inspiration of Hope, as it actuates the efforts of genius, whether in the department of science or of taste — domestic felicity, how intimately connecte<* with views of future happiness — picture of a mother watching her. infant when asleep — pictures of the prisoner, the maniac, and the wanderer. From the consolations of individual misery, a tran- sition is made to prospects of political improvement in the future state of society— the wide field that is yet open for the progress of humanizing arts among uncivilised nations— from these views of ameliora- tion of society, and the extension of liberty and truth wet despotic and barbarous countries, by melan- 7 6 &5?;l«,i'lJL5. choly fconlra?t of ideas we are led to refJoct uponttK hard fate of a brave people, recently conspicaoua in their struggles for indepenience— description of the capture of Warsaw, of the last contest of the oppres- sors and tlie oppressed, and the massacre of the Pol- ish patriots at the bridge of Prague— apostrophe to the self-interested enemies of human improvement — the wrongs of Africa — the barbarous policy of Eu- ropeans in India — propnecy in the Hindoo mythology of the expected descent of the Deity, to redress tha miseries f their race, and to take vengeance on ttM tfiolator» ^f justice and laeref . ¥1S1 PLEASURES OF HOPE. PART I. At summer eve, when Heaven's aerial bow Spans with bright arch the gUttering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky f Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near f 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes Axe mountain ia its azure hue. Thus, with delight, we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; Thus, from afar, each dim-discover' d scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been; And every form, that fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. What potent spirit guides the raptured eyo To oierce the shades of dim futurity? 9 lU CAMPBEU S Can Wisdom k.id, with all her heavenly power, The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour ? Ah, no ! she daritiy sees the fate of man — H( 1 dim horizon bounded to a span ; Or, ii she hold an image to tiie view, 'Tis Nature pictured too severely true. With ihee, swe-jt Hope I resides the heavenl| hght That pours rernotest rapture on the sight : Thine is the charm of life's bewilder'd way, That calls each slumbering passion into play : Waked by thy touch, 1 see tiie sister band, On tiptoe watching, start at thy command, And fly where'er thy mandate bids them steei To Pleaisiire's path, or Glory's bright career. Primeval Hope, the Aonian Muses say, W' hen Man and Nature mourn'd their first decay, When every form of death, and every woe. Shot from malignant stars to earth below ; When Murder bared his arm, and rampant War Yoked the red dragons of her iron car ; When Peace and .Alercy, banish'd from the plain, Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again i All, all forsook the friendless guilty mmd, But Hope, the charmer, linger'd still behind. Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare From Carmel's height to sweep the fields of »ir PLEASURES .)F HOIE. a1 The Propnet's mantle, ere liis Plight began, Dropp'd on the world — a sacred gift to man. Auspicious Hope ! in thy sweet garden grove Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe : Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour The way- worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower; There, as the wild-bee murnmrs on the wing, What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits briiig' What viewless forms th' .-Eolian organ play, And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious thought away. Angel of life ! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds, and ocean's wildest shore. Lo ! to the wint'ry wind the pilot yields His bark careering o'er unfathom'd fields ; Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar, Where Andes, giant of the western star, With meteor standard to the winds unfurl' d Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half tht world. Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summe* smiles, On Behring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isle«j Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow, From wastes that slumber in eternal snow ; And wait across the waves' tumultuous roar, The wolfs long howl from Oonalaska s shore. •2 campbev.l's Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, Sad are the wops that wreck thy manly form ! Rocks, waves, and wind, the shatter'd bark delay ; Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep, A.nd sing to charm the spirit of the deep. Swift as your streamer Ughts the starry pole, Her \nsion3 warm the watchman's pensive soul: His native hills thai rise in happier chmes, The grot that heard his song of other times. His cottage-home, his bark of slender sail, His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossom'd vale, Rush on his thought ; he s .veeps before the wind, Treads the loved shore he sigh'd to leave behind, Meets at each step a friend's familiar face, And flies at last to Helen's long embrace: Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear! And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear While, long neglected, but at length caress'd. His faithful dog salutes the smihng guest, Points to his master's eyes (where'er they roam; His wistful face, and whines a welcome home. Fnend of the brave ! in peril's darkest hour, Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power ; To thee the heart its trembling homage yields, C a stormy floods, and carnage-cover'd fields. PLEASURES OF HOPE. 13 W^henfronl to front the banner' d hosts coi.ibin*, Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line • When all is ^t'ul on Death's devoted soil, The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil; As rings his yliitering tube, he lifts on high The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye, Hails in his hcnrt the triumph yet to come, And hcarc^ tiiy siorniy music in the drum. And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore The hardy Byron to his native shore. — (a) In horrid clime?, where Chiloe's fempests sweej: Tumultuous murmurs o'er the trouMed deep 'Twas his to mourn mislortune's rudest shock. Scourged by the wind, and cradled on the rock, To wake each joyle.-s morn, and search again The famish'd luumts of solitary men, W!i;}::c ra-e, unyielding as their na-ive storm, Knows not a trace df Nature but the form ; Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pur-sued, Pale but intrepid, sad but unsubdued, Pierced the deep woods, and, hailing from afar The moon's pile planet and the northern star; Paused at eacli dreary cry. unheard before. Hyenas in the svijd, and mermaids on (he shore Till, led '.-y th"o o'er niai-sy aclifTsu'dime. He found a warmer world, a milder clime. A home to rest, a shelter to defend. Peace and repose, a Briion and a friend ! v61 14 Campbell's Congenial Hope ! thy passion-kindling p. jwer, How bright, how strong, in youth's untroubled hour On yon proud height, with Genius hand in hand, I see thee light, and wave thy golden wand. " Go, Child of heaven (thy winged worda proclaim) Tis thine to search the ooundless fields of fame ! Lo ! Newton, priest of Nature, shines afar, Scans the wide world, and number? every star ! Wilt thou, with him, mysterious riies apply. And watch the shrine with wonder-beaming eye? Vo-i-, thou shah mark, with magic art profound. The speed of Hght, right spires that gild the Delphian height. From streams that wander in eternal fight, Ranged on their hill, Harrnonia's daughters swell The mingling tones of horn, and harp, and shell ; Deep fi-om his vaults the Loxian murmura flow, (e) An^ Pythia's awful organ peals below. " Beloved of Heaven ! the smiling Muse shall shed Her moonliglit halo on thy beauteous head : Shall swell thy heart to raptnre unconfined, And breathe a holy madness o'er thy mind. I see thee roam her guardian power beneath. And talk with spirits on tlie midnight heath ; l:]n luire of guilty wanderers whence they came, .\nd ask each b'ood sfain'd form his earthly name J 6 Campbell's Then weave in rapid verse the .- eeds they .ell, Aivl read the Jrenibiinjr world the tales of hell, " When ^'enus, throned in clouds of rosy hue, Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew, And bids fo:id man her glimmering noon employ Sacred to love and walks of tender joy ; A milder mood the goddess shall recall. And soft as dew thy tones oi music fall ; While Beauty's deeply-pictured smiles impart A pang more dear than pleasure to the heart— - Warm as thy sighs shall flow the Lesbian strain, And plead in Beauty's ear, nor plead in vain. *• Or wik thou Orphean hymns more sacred deem And steep thy song in r\Iercy's mellow stream ; To pensive drops the radiant eye. beguile — For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile ; On Nature's throbr.ing anguish pour relief, And teach impassion' d souis ;he joy of grief ? " Yes ; to thy tongue shall seraph words be given, - And power on earth to plead the cause o^heaven: The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, That never muse 1 on sorrov,- but its own, Unlocks a cenerous store at thy command, Like Hore})'f 'ocka beneath the prophet'a hand. ,/• P^EASUPvf.S OF HOPr 17 The li%'ing lumber of his kindred eaith, Charni'd into soul, receives ii second birth ; Feels tiiy dread power another heart afford, Whose passion-tonch'd harmor.ious string* accord True as the circling spheres to Nature's plan : And man, the brother, lives the friend of man! " Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven's com niand, When Israel march'd along 'he desert land. Blazed through the iiigln on lonely wilds afar, And told the path — a never-setiing star : So, heavenly Genius, in thy course divine, Hope iii thy star, her light is ever thine." Propitious Power ! when rankling cares annoy The sacred home of Hymenean joy ; When doom'd to Poverty's sequester'd aell, The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell, Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame. Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same — Oh there, prophetic hope ! thy sr lile bestow, And chase the pang that worth should never know — There, as the parent deals his scanty store To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more, Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage Thtir father's wrongs; and shield his later ago. }3 CSX-^-R-EI.'Js What though for liiiu no Hybl.i's s^vecis distil, Nor t)loomy vines wave purple on the hill ; Tell, that wheii silent years have pass'd away, That when his eyes grow dun, his trepses gray These i-usy iiands a ioveher cot shall build, A.ud deck with iairer flowers his little field, \nd call from Heaven propitious dews to breallie \rcadian beauly on tlie barren heath; leli, that while Loves spontaneous sniile endears The dajs ot peace, the sabbath of his years. Health -hall prolong io many a festive hour The social pleasures of his humble bower. Lo ! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the niourntul mother keeps ; She. while the lovely babe unconscious hes, Smiles on her slunib'ring child with pensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy jo_\ — " Sleep, in»age of thy father, sleep, my boy: No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine ; No sight that rends thy father's heart and mine; Bright as his manly sire, the son shall be In term and soul ; but, ah! more blest than he* Thy tame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last, Shall soa:he this aching heart lor all the past — VVitIi many a smile my solitude repay, A.U I chase the world's ungenerous scorn away- PLE .SUUES OF nOPE. 19 ' An] say, when sunimon'd from the world and tiiee, I lay my head beneath the willow tree, Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear, And soothe my parted spirit lingering near ? Oh, wilt thou come, at eveniiig liour, to shed The tears oi Memory' o'er my narrow bed ; With ach ng temples Oii ihy hand recHned, Muse on the last farewell I leave behind, Breathe a deep iiigh to winds that murmur low, And think ou all my love, and all ney woe?'* So speaks affeciion, ere the iirfant eye Can look regard, or brighten in reply ; But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim A mother's ear by that endearing name; ■^oon as the pla-'ful innocent can prove A tear of pity, or a smile of love, •Or cons his murmuring task l'Ian ! ca!i thy doom no brighter soul allow ? Still rnus' thou live a Ijlot on Nature's brow ? Shall War's polluted banner ne'er be fiirl'd ? Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world ? What ! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied ? *Vhy then bith Plito lived— or Sidney died? Ye fond adorers of departed fame, Who warm at Scioio's worth, or Tally's name ; Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre * Wrapt in historic ardour, who adore Each classic haunt, and well-remember'd shore^ Where Valour tuned, amiJ her chosen throng, The Thtacian trumpet and the Spartan song; Or, wandering thence, behold the later charms Of England's glory, and Helvetia's arms I See Roman tire in Hampden's bosom swell, And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell! Say, ye fond zealots fo the wor'h of yore. Hath Valour left the world— to live no more? 28 CAMT BKLL S No mere sh.-ill Brutus bid a ryrarit die, And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye ? Hampden no more, when suffering Freedom calls, Encounter fate, and triiimpb as lie 'alls? Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm, The might that slumbers in a peasant's arm ? Yes ! in that generous cause for ever strong. The patriot's virtue, and the poet's song. Still, as the tide of ages rolls away. Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay ! Yea ! there are hearts, prophetic Hope may trust, That slumber yet in uncreated d-jst, Ordain'd lo fire th' adoring sons of earth With every charm of uisdom and of worth; Ordain'd to hght, with mtellectual day. The mazy wheels of Nature as they play, Or, warm with Fancy's energy, to glow. And rival all but Shakspeare's name below ! And say, supernal Powers', who deeplv scan Heaven's dark decrees, unfathom'd yet by man When shall the world call dcwn, to cleanse hei shame, That embryo spirit, yet without a name, — That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands Shall burst the Libyan's adamirtine banc^ ? PLEASURKS OF HOPE, 33 V'v'ho. sterr.ly innrkinrr on his rja'ive soil, The blood, the toars, the anguish, and the toil, Shall bid e-i^'b. righteous heart exult, to see Peace to ihc skive, and ver.geance on the free ? Yet, j-et, degraded men! th' expected day That breaks 3'onr !>itter fup, is far away ; Trade, wc;i!!l,,. and fashion, ask you still to bleed, Aiid holy rv.cu give scripture for the deed ; Scourged and debased, on Briton stoops to save A wretch, a coward ; yes, because a slave 1 Eternal Natnre! when thy giant hand Had heaved the floods, and fix'd ihe trembling land, When life sprung startling at thy plastic call, Endless herlorms, and Man the lord of all ; Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee To wear eternal chains, arjd iiow the knee ? Was man ordain'd the slave of mail to toil, Yoked with the brutes, and feiter'd to the soil; Weigh'd hi a tyrant's balance with his gold? No I — Nature stamp'd us hi a heavenly mould She bade no wretch his thankless labour urge, Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge ! No homeless Lybian, on thestor'my deep, To call upon his oountrv's name, and weeD ' 30 f.VMT3EI.T/g TjO ! oncp in fri-rnph on his bound ess plain, T'.ie quiver'ti chief of Co'!gi loved to reign ' With fires prop jrtioii'u to his native sky, Strength in his arm, ?.:iJ ii^hM^ini^ in !iis eye! Ssovir'dl with wild ler;t his sun-illumined zone, The spear, the Ho i nn 1 the woods his own ! Or led the comical, bol i ■•ithout a plan, Aa artless savage, but a fearless man ! The plunderer came : alas ! no glory smiles For Congo's chief on yonder Indian isles! For ever fallen ! no son of Xature now, With Freedom charter'd on his manly brow; Faint, bleeding, boa;id, he weeps the night away And, when the sea-'wi:id wafs the lewless day Starts, with a bursdng heart, f)r ever more To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore. The shrill horn blaw! {7.) at thi' alarum knell His guardian angel took a last farewell ! That funeral dirge to darkness hatli resign'd The liery grandeur of a generous mind! — Poor fetter' d man I I hear thee whispering low Unhallow'd vows to Guilt, the cliild of Woe ! Friendless thy heart ' and cam-.t thou harbour there A wish but death — a passion but despair? The widow' d Indian, when her lord expires, Mouni i the dreac" ode, and braves the faner*! fir en! PLEASURES OF HOPE, 31 So falls. .he heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh ! So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty ' Bat not to Libya's barren climes alone, To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone, Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye, Degraded worth, and poor jnisi'ortune's sigh ! Ye orient realms, where Ganges' waters run ! Prolilic fields ! dominions of the sun ! How long your tribes have !reml)le(l, and obey'd How long was Timour'siroa sceptre sway'd ! (J) Whose marshali'd hosts, the lions of the plain, From Scythia's northern mountains to the main, Ragedo'eryourplunder'dslirinesandaltarsbare, With blazing torcb and gory scimitar, — Stunn'd with the cries oi' death each gentle gale. And bathed in blood the 'erdure of the vale! Yet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame, When Brama's children perish'd for his name The martyr smiled beneath avenging power, A.nd braved the tyrant in his torturing hour ! When Europe sought your subject realms to gain, /\.nd stretch'd her giant sceptre o'er the main, Taught her proud barks their winding way t' shape And braved the stormy spirit of the Cape ; ',m) Children of Brama ! then was iMercy nigh To vash the stain of blood's eternal dye '. r=^ 32 CAMPBELL S Did Pea.e descend, to tjiumph and to save, \^ hen froe-burv: Bri:ons cro^s'd the Indian wave f Ah, ro ! — to more thaii Rome's aniijiiion true, The Nurse o< Freedom gave it not to jou i She the hold route of Europe's guilt began, And. ill ihii march oi nations, led the van! Rich 1)1 ihe i,-ems of India's gaudy zone, And plunder piled from kip.gdoms not iheir own, Degeneraie Trade ! thy minions could despise The heart-born anguish of a' tiiousand cries ; Could lock, with impious hands, their teeming store, While famish' d nations died along the shore ; (n) Could mock the groans of fellow- men, and bear The curse of kingdoms jvjopled with despair ! Could stamp disgrace ni man's polluted name, And barter, with thei: ^>'ld, eternal shame ! But hark I asbowM ' / rarththe Bramin kneels, From heavenly chmeu oropitious thunder peals' Of India's fate her gu.u-dian spirits tell, Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell, And solemn sounds, that awe the lisining mind, Roll on the azure paths ot every wind. Fots ot maikr.id 1 (.her grardjan spu-its say; Revolving ages bring the '»'trf>r r'.iy, When Heaven's; unerring i\w sh ill fal' op yoa. And idood for blood thes« j 1 1 ,.- pla'd/ jeiew; PLEASURES OF HOPE. 33 Nine times have Brama's wheel" cf lightning hurld His awful presence o'er the alarr id world ! (o) Nine times hath Guilt, throw all his giant frame, Convulsive trembled as the IV hty came I Nine times hath sutfering Me ,y spared in vain: But Heaven shall burst her irry gates again •. He comes ! dread Brama shaKes the sunless sky With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high ! Heaven's fiery horse, beneath his wamor form, Paws the light clouds, and gallops on the storm ! Wide waves his flickering gword, his bright arms glow Like summer suns, and light the world below ! Earth, and her trembUng isles in Ocean's bed, Are shook, and Nature rocks beneath his tread. " To pour redress on India's injured realm. The oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm ; To chase destruction from her plunder'd shore, Whh arts and arms that triumph' d once before, The tenth Avater comes ! at Heaven's com- mand Shall Seriswattee ip] wave her hallow'd wand ! And Camdeo bright I and Genesa sublime, Shall bless with joy their own propitious clime ! Come Heavenly Powers! primeval peace restorej Love! — Mercy!-— Wisdom! rule forever more!" 3 NOTES TO PLEASURES OF HOPE. PART I. Note 'a) And such thy streagtb-inspiiing aid that bore The hardy Byron to his native shore. The following picture of his own distress, give« by Byron in liis simple and interesting narrative jus- tifies the description in page 13. After relating the barbarity of the Indian cacique to his child, he proceeds thus : — " A day or two after, we put to sea again, and crossed ihe great bay I men- tioned we had been at the bottom of when we first hauled away to the westward The land here waa very low and sandy, and sometliing like the mouth of a river which discharged itself into th j sea, and whicji had been taken no notice of by us before, as it was 80 shallow that the Indians were obliged to take NOTbS TO PLEASURES OF HOPE. 33 ever^ thing out of their canoes, and carry it over land. We rowed up the river fuur or five leagues, and then took into a branch of it that ran first to the eastward, and then to the nortliward ; here it became much narrower, and the stre3.fn excessively rajiid, so that we gained but little 'vvay, though we wrou^rlit very hard. At night we landed upon its banks, and had a most uncomfortable lodging, it being a perfect swamp; and we had nothing to cover us, though it rained ex- cessively. The Indians were little better offthan we, as there was no wood here to make their w igwams ; so that all they could do was to prop up the bark which they carry in the bottom of their canoes, and shelter themsdivt;s as v.dil as il:ey coald to the lee- ward of it. Knowing the difiiculties they had to en- counter here, they had provided themselves with Bomeseal, but we had not a morsel to eat, after the heavy fatigads uf ihe day, excepting a sort of root we saw the Indians make use of, which was very disagree- ^able to the taste. Wd it:,oai>;d all next day against the stream, and fared as we had done the day before. The next il.;y :>roUj;lii: us lo .lie c irryiiij,' place. Here was plenty of wood, but nothing lo be got for suste- nance. We passed this night as we had frequently done, under a tree ; but what we suffered at this time is not easy to be expressed. I had been three days a» the oar, without any kind of nourishment, except tha wretched root above mentioned. I Lad no shirt, fo» it had rotted off by bits. All my clothes consisted oi a short grieko, (something like a bear-skin, )a piece of red cloth which had once been a waistcoat, and a rag- ged pair of trowsers, without shoes or stock'ngs." iNots (fc.; A Britjn aul a (rieni!. Don Patricio Ge ad, a Scotch phvsician in una of 36 NOTES TC the Spanish setlleinsms, hospilahh- relieved Byron and his wretched associules, of wiiiclj the Commo- dore speaks in the warmest leruis of gratitude. Noe (f.j c).- yield iiic lyre . f h<;.;vcu .;:.o lu r siring. The seven strings oi'ApoMo's harp were the sym- bolical representation ofthu seven jilanels. Herschel by discovering an eighth, might be said to add another Hiring to the instrument No;e (d.) The Swedish sage. I.iunaeus. Ao!e (e.) Deep from his vaults the Loxian murmurs flow. Loxias is a name frequently given to Apollo by Greek writers : it is met with more than once in the Choephorae of .Eschylus. Note (/.) Un'ocks a generous store at 'hy command. Like Hoi eu's rock beneath the prophet's band. See Exodus, chap. xvii. 3, 5, fi Note (t.) Wi d Obi flies. Among the negroes of the West Indies, Obi oi Obiah, is the name of a magical power, which is be- lieved by them to alfect the object of its malignity with dismal calamities. Such a belief must undoubt. edly have been deduced from the superstitious my- thology of their kinsmen on the coast of Africa. I have therefore personified Obi as the evil spirit of the African, although the history of the African f.ribei mentions the evil spirit of their religious creed by a different appellation. Note (f.) Sitir's dreirv ni lies Mr. Bell of Antermony, in his travel 5 through Sibe ria, informs us that the name of the country is univer eally pronounced Sihir by the Russians. PLEASURES or ROPE. 37 Note (A.) Presaging wrath to Poland- and to man! The histo'-y of the partition of Poland, of the mas- sacre in the suburbs of Warsaw, and on the bridge of Praeue, the triumphant entry of RsMvarrow into the Polish capital, and thr; insult otiered to human nature, by the blasphemous thanks offered up to Heaven, for victories obtained over men fijliting in the sacred cause of liberty, ')y murderers and oppressors, aie events generally knovjii. Note (k.) The shrill horn blew. The negroes in the West Indies are summoned to IJieir mornin-g work by a shell or horn. N'^-'-a.) IH'.vlotir wa-.-^^m •-'? :.■ ■.:■ s ■ -p're sway'd ? To elucidate this passage, I shall subjoin a quota- tion from the Prefare to letters from a Hindoo Rajah, u work of elegance and celebrity. " The Impostor of Mecca had established, as one oi the principles nf his dnrtrine, the merit ofextending «t, either by persuasion, or the sword, to all parts ot the earth. JTow steadily this injunction was adhered to by his followers, and with what success it was pursued, is well known to all who are in the leas', conversant in history. "The same overwhelminstorrent which had inun- dated the greater part of Africa, burst its way int the very heart of Europe, and covered many king- doms of Asia with unbounded desolation, directed its baleful course to the flourishinjr orovinces of Hin los- tan. Here these fierce and hard> otdventurers, whose only improvement had been in tlie science of destruc- tion, who added the fury nf fanaticism to the ravages of war, found the great -and of their conquest opposed 58 NOTIS TO by objects whicli neither the ardoi jf their persever. ing zeal, nor savage barbarity cou d surmount. Mul- titude;: V ere ?-irri!icftd by the cruel hand of religious persecution, and whole countries were deluged in blood, in the vain hope, that by ti»e destruction of a part, the remainder might be persuaded, or terrified, into profest^ion of Mihoniedanism ; but all these san- guinary efforts were inetfectiial ; and at length, being fully convinced, thai thoujfh thes-tnight extirpate, they rould never hope to convert any number of the Hin- doos, they relinquished the impracticable idea,witn which they had entered upon their career of conquest, and contented themselves with the acquirement of the civil dominion and almost universal empire o! Hindostan." Letters from a Hindoo Rajah, by Eliza Hamilton. yci'e (r;i.) And braved the stcrmv spirit of the Cape, See the description of the Cape of Good Hope, translated from Camoens, by Mickle. Note {»!.) While famisb'd nations died xlcnj the shore. The following account of the Bri ish conduct, and Its consequences, 'n Bengal, will afford a sufficient idea of the fact alluded to in this passage. After de- gcribing the monopoly of salt, betel-nut, and tobacco, the historian proceeds thus : — " Money In this current came but by drops; it could not quench the thirst ot those who waited in India to receive it. An expedi- ent, such as it was, remained to quicken its pace. The natives could live with little salt, but could not want food. r?ome of the agents saw themselves well situ- ated for collect tn? the rice into stores: they did so. Thev knew \he Gentoos would ratner die tnan violate PLEASURES OF HOPE. 39 Ihe principles of their relii;!:':! by eating flesh. The alternative would therefore he between giving what the> had or dying. Tho ir''n!-hants sunk ;— they that culiivated the laii'', .'.■.;! s v.- ;he harvest at the disposal of others, planted in doubt— scarcity ensued- Then the monopoly was easier managed — sickness ensued. In some districts sift languid living left the bodies oftheir numerous dead unburied." Short History of Evfflish Transacfiovs in the East Indieey page 145. Nn'e (0.) Nil e times ha' li rrama's wheels of lightning hurl'd His awful presence o'er the prostrate world ! Amongthe sublime fictions of the Hindoo mythology^ t is one arricl^ of bf^liof tb-^i ^.^:'i' Dfity Prnma has de- Bcended nii'e ;:.;i^;s a,;i.ii ihe \\; ild i.n v^: .v« is forms, and that he is ye>. to n.nprnr atertls rime, in the figure of a warrior upon a white horse, ierf ct beauty, in the picture of Venus, by an assemblage of the most beautiful features he could find — a summer and winter evening described as they may be supposed to arise in the mind of one who wishes, with enthusiasm, for the union of friendship and retiren:i!at. Hope and Imagination inseparable agents— even in those contemplative moments when our imagination wanders beyond the boundaries of this world, our minds are not unattended with an impression that we shall some day have a wider and distinct prospect of the universe, instead of the partial glimpse we now enjoy. The last and most sublime influence of Hope, is the concluding topic of the Poem,— the predominance of a belief in a future state over the terrors attendant on dissolution— the baneful influence of that scepti- cal phi! )Sopliy which bars us froui such comforts— al- lusion to thf^ fite of a suicide— Episode of Conrad and Ellenore—ronclusion PLEASURES OF HO^E PART n. In joyous youth, what soul hath never known Thought, feeUng, tas;e, hannosiious to its own! Who hath not paused while Beauty's pensive eye Ask'd from his heart the homage of a sigh ? Who hath not ovvn'd, with rapture -smitten frams, The power of grace, the magic of a name ? There be perhaps who barren hearts avow, Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow ; There be whose loveless wisdom never fail'd In self-adoring pride securely raail'd; But, triumph not, ye peace-eiiamour'd few! Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you' For you no fancy consecrates the scene Where rapture utter'd vows, and wept between 'Tis yours, unmoved to sever and to meet ; No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet ' 43 A CAMPSEi.L^S Who that would ask a heart to dullness wed The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead t No : the wnld bliss of Nature needs alloy, And care and sorrow fan the fire of joy ! And say, without our hopes, without our fears, Without the home that plighted love endears, Without the smiles frcm partial beauty won, O 1 what were man !- -a world without a sun ! Till flymen brought his love-dehghted hour, There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower ! In vain the viewless seraph lingering there, At starry midnight charm' d the silent air ; In vain the wild-bird caroU'd on the steep, To hail the sun, slow-wheeling from the deep In vain, to soothe the soHtary shade, Aerial notes in mingling measure play'd ; The summer wind that ?hook the spangled tree. The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee; Still slowly pass'd the melancholy day. And still the stranger wist notv>hereto stray,— The world was sad I — the garden was a wild ! And Man, the hermit, sigh'd — till Woman smiled ! True, the sad power to generous hearts may bring Delirious anguish on his f ery win^! PLEASURES OF HOPE. 45 Barr'd from delight by Fate's untimely hand, By wealtliless lot, or pitiless commaad ! Or dooij'd to o-aze on beauties that adorn The smile of triumph, or the frown oi scorn ; While Alemory watches o'er the sad review Of joys that faded like the morning dew! Peace may depart — and life and nature seem A barren path — a wildncss, and a dream ! But, can tht noble mind for ever brood; The w^illing victim of a weary mood, On heartless cares that squander life away. And cloud young Genius brightening into day f Shame to the coward thought that e'er betray'd The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade ! (a) If Hope's creative spirit cannot raise One trophy sacred to thy future days, Scorn the dull crowdthat haunt the gloomy shrine Of hopeless love to murmur and repine ! But, should a sigh of milder mood express Thy heart-warm wishes, true to happiness, Should Heave ii's fair harbinger delight to pour Her bhssful visions on thy pensive hour, No tear to blot thy memory's pictured page, No fears but such as fancy can assuage ; Though thy wild heart some hapiess hour maf miss The peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss, (For love pursues an ever-devious race, "True to the witiding line uneits ol grace;) 46 cahpbeil's Yti still may Hope her talisman employ To snatch from Heaven anticipa ^ed joy, And all her kindred energies impart That burn the brightest in the purest heart ! When first the Rhodian's mimic art array'd The queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade, The happy master mingled on his piece Each look that charm' d him m the fair of Greece^ To feultless Nature true, he stole a grace From every finer form and sweeter face ! And, as he sojourned on the iEgean isles, Woo'd all their love, and treasured all theij smiles ! Then glow'd the tints, pure, precious, and re fined, And mortal charms seem'd heavenly when com- bined. Love on the picture snuled I Expression pour'4 Her mingling spirit there — and Greece adored ! So thy fair hand, enamour' d Fan^'v ! gleans The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes; Thy pencil traces on the Lover's thought Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote, Where Love and Lore may claim alternate hours, With Peace embosom'd in Idalian bowers! Remote from busy Life's bewilder'd vvay, O'er all his heart shall Tasis and Beauty sway; PLEASURES OF HOPE. 47 Free on the sunny slope, or winding ahoip, , With hermit steps to wander and adore ; j There shall he love, when genial morn appears, j Like pensive Beauty smiling in her *er,i\j. To watch the bright'ning roses of the sky, And muse on Nature with a poet's eye I And when the sun's last splendour lights the deep, The woods; and waves, and murmuring winds asleep ; When fairy harps th' Hesperian planets hail, And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale, His path shall be where streamy mountains swell Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell, Where moulderhig piles and forests intervene, Ming jng with darker tints the living green ! No circhng hills his ravish' d eye to bound. Heaven, earth, and ocean, blazing all around ! The moon is up — the waich-tower dimly burns — And down the vale his sober step returns ; But pauses oft as winding rocks convey The still sweet fall of Music far away ' And oft he lingers from his home awhile To watch the dying notes ! and start, and smile Let Winter come ! let polar spirits sweep The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep ! 48 Campbell's Though boundless snows thft wither' d heath deform, And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm ! Y"et shall the smile of social love repay. With mental light, the melancholy day ' And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er, The ice-chain'd waters slumbering on the shore, How bright the fagots in his httle hall Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall! How blest he names, in Love's familiar tone, The kind fair friend, by nature mark'd his own ! And, in the waveless mirror of his mind. Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind, Since Anna's empire o'er his heart began ! Since first he call'd her his before the holy man ! Trim the gay taper in his rust'o, dome, And Ught the wint'ry paradise of home ! And let the half-uncurtain'd window hail Some way-worn man benighted in the vale ! Now, while the moaning nisht-wind rages high! As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky. While fiery hosts in Heaven's \v\de circle play, And bathe in livid li^lit the milk v- way. Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower. Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour With pathos shall command, wi'h wi* beguile A generous tear of anguish, or a smile — PLEASURES OF HOPE. 49 Thy woes, Arion! and thy simple tale, (b) O'er al! the heart shall triumph and prevail ! Charm' d as they read the verse too sadly true, Bow gallant Albert, and his weary crew, Heaved all thejr guns, their foundering bark to save. And toil'd — and shriek' d — and pcrish'd on the wave I Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna's steep, The seaman's cry was heard along the deep; There on his funeral waters, dark and vvild, The dying father blest his darhng child ! Oh! Mercy, sliield her innocence, he cried, Spent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died! Or will they learn how generous worth sub- limes The robber Moor, (c; and pleads for all hiscrimesl How poor Amelia kiss'd, with many n tear, His hand blood-stained, but ever, ever dear ! Hung on the tortured bosom of her tord, And wept, and pray'd perdition from his sword! Nor sought in vain ! at that heart -piercing cry The strings of nature crack' d with agony ! He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurl'd. And burst the t\es that bound him to the world "^ CAMPBELL'S Turn fror i his dying words, that smite with steel The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the v,'heel — Turn to the gentler melodies that suit Thalia's harp, or Pan's Arcadian lute ; Or, down the stream of Truth's historic page, From chnie to clime descend, from age to age! Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood ; There shall he pause, with horrent brow, to rate What millions died, that Caesar might be great! {d'l Orlearn the late that !)leeding thousands bore, (e) March' d by their Charles to Dneiper's swampy shore ; Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast, The Swedish soldier sunk — and groan' d his last File after file, the stormy sho.vers benumb. Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum Horsemen and horse confess'd the bitter pang, And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang Yet, ere he sunk in Nature's last repose, Ere life's warm torrent to the fountain froze, The dying man to Sweden turn'd his eye, Thought of his home, and closed it wirh a sigh Imperial pride look'd sullen on his p4ight, And Charles behold —nor shudder' d at the sight I-1.EASUKES OF HOPE. 5. Above, below, -n Ocean, Earth, and sky, 1'hy fairy worlds. Imagination, lie, AndHopn attends, companion of the-way, Thy dream by I'ight, thy visions of the day ! In yonder pensiie orb, and every sphere That gems the starry girdle of the year ! In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell, Pure from their God, created millions dwell, Whose names and natures, unreveal'd below, We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know ; For, as tona's Saint, a giant form, (/) Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm. (When o'er each Runic altar, weed-entwined, The vesper-clock tolls mournful to the wind,) Counts every wave- worn isle, and mountain h<.fii From Kilda4o the green lerne's shore ; So, when thy pure and renovated mind Thi.s perishable dust hath left behind. Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train, Like distant isles embosom'd in the main ; Rapt to the shrine where motion first began, And light and life in mingling torrent ran. From whence each bright rotundity was hurl'c^ The throne of God, — the centre of the world ! Oh ! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung That suasiv ? Hope hath bu' a Syren tongu3 ' 52 Campbell's True ; she may sport \v\\h life s yntutor'd day, Nor heed the solace of its last decay,- The guileless heart her happy mansion spiim. And pan like Ajut — never to return ! ig) But yet, methiriks, when Wisdom shall a» suage The griefs and passions of our greener age, Though dull the close of life, and far away Each flower that hail'd the dawning of the day; Yet o'er her lovely hopes that once were dear, The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe, With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill. And weep their falsehood, though she love then still ! Thus, %\'ith forgi\ing tears, and r^onciled, The king of Judah mourn'd his rebel child ! Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boy Smiled on his sire, and fiU'd his heart with joy. My Absalom ! (the voice of nature cried !) Oh ! that for thee thy father could have died ! For bloody was the deed and rashly done, That slew my Absalom ! — my sou I — my son ! Unfading Hope ; when life's last embers bum, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return ! Heaven to thy charse resigns the awful hour ! OhI then, thy kingduiu comes' Immortal Power' PLEASURES OF HOPE. 53 What though each spark ofeanh-bornra^turefly The quivering Hp, pale cheek, and closing eye. Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal day — Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin 1 And all the Fhcenix spirit burns within I Oh ! deep enchanting prelude to repose, The dawn of bUss, the twilight of our woes! Yet half I hear the partinff spirit sigh, It is a dread and awful thing to die I Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun ! Where Time's far-wanderinsr tide has neverrun, From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres, A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud. Like Sinai's thunder, peahng from the cloud ! While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; And, like the trembUng Hebrew, when he trod The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God, With mortal terrors clouds immortal bhss, A.id shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abvs?! Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chao? of the tomb ! Melt, and dispel, ye spectre doubts, tha^ /,>ll Uhnmerian darkness on the partir.g soni I f5l CA3TrEZLT/s Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Disrrif^y; Chased on his night-steed by the star of day ! The strife is o'er — the pangs of Nature close, And life's Past rapture triumphs o'er her woe& Hark ! as the spirit eyes, v/ith eagle gaze, The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, On Heavenly winds that waft her to the sky Kloat the sweet tones of star-born melody; Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnigh. stid Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill I Poul of the just I companion of the dead ! Where is thy home, and whther art thou fled ! Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ; Doom'd on his airy path av/hile to burn. And doom'd like thee, to travel and return. — Hark I from the world's exploding centre driven, With sounds that shook the firmament of Hea- ven, Careers the fiery giant, fast and far. On bick'rincT wheels, and adamantine car; From planet whirl'd to planet more remote, He visi's realms beyond the reach of thought; But. wheeHng homeward, when hiscourseis run, Curbs the red voke, and mingles wiih the sun '. PLEASURES OF HOPE. 55 So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd Her trembling wings, emerging from the world ; And o'er the path by mortal never trod, Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God! Oh . lives there, Heaven ! beneath thy dread expanse. One hopeless, dark Idolater of Chance, Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined. The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind; Who, mould'ring earthward, 'reft of every trust. In joyless union wedded to the dust, Could all his parting energy dismiss. And call this barren world sufficient bliss ? There live, alas ! of Heaven-directed mien. Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene, Who hail'd thee, Man ! the pilgrim of a day, Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay ■ Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower, Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower ! A friendless slave, a child without a sire, Whose mortal life, and momentary fire. Lights to the grave hi? chance-created forta As ocean-wrecks illuminate! the storm ; And when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er, To Night aud Silence sink for ever more ' Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, Lights ofthe worhl, and demi-gods of Fame ? Is this your triumph-— this your proud applause. Childrer of Truth, ai d champions of her cause I 56 CAMPBELL S For this hath Science search'd on weary >ving» By shore and sea — each mute and Hving thing ? Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the r-teep, To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the det p ? Or round the cope her living chariot driven, And wheel' d in triumph through the signt. of tleaven ? Oh ! star-eyed Science, ha^t thou wander'd there, To waft us home the message of despair ? Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit. Of blasted leaf, and death-disiilling fruit ! Ah me ! the laurell'd wreaih that murder rears, Blood-nursed, and water'dby the widow's tears. Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, As waves the night-shade round the sceptic head What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain? I smile on death, if Heaven- ward Hope remain' But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife Be all the faithless charier of my life, If Chance awaked, inexorable power I This frail and feverish being of an hour, Doom'd o'er the world's precarious sceno t« sweep. Swift as tne tempest travels on the deep. To know Delight but by her parting smile, . And toil, and wish, and weep a little while Then melt, ye elements, that form'd in -wain This troubled pulse, and visionary brain . PLEASURES OF HOPE. 61 Faie, ye wiid-flowers, memorials of my doom And sink, ye stars, that light mc to the tomb 1 Truth, ever lovely, since the world began, The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man, — How can thy words from balmy slumber start Reposing Virtue, pillow'd on the heart ! Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder roll'd, And that were true which NaUire never told, Let Wisdom smile not on her conquer' d field ; No rapture dawns, no pleasure is reveal'd I Oh ! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate, The doom that bars us from a better fate ; But, sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in ! And well may Doubt, the mother of Dismay, Pause at her martyr's tomb, and read the lay Down by the wilds of yon deserted vale, It darkly hints a melancholy tale ! There, as the homeless madman sits alone. In hollow winds he hears a spirit moan I And there, they say, a wizard orgie crowds, When the moon lights her watch-tower in the clouds. Pour, lost Alonzo ! Fate's neglected child ! Mild be the doom of Heaven — asthouwert mild. For oh ! thy heart in holy mould was cast, And all thy deeds were blameless, l.:miLr, Colle, che i.ii pincesti, Ov' aiicor per usanza Amor mi mens 5 fc-'t! rio^nosfo in vai I'ueate formCj . Hitij, lUESO, ill me. ANALYSIS OF PART f. The Poem begins with tne aescription of an obscure tiliage, and of the pleasing melancholy which it excites on being revisited after a long absence. This mixed sensatiori is an elT;ct of tb > Memory. From. an effect we naturally ascend to the cause ; and the subject proposed, is then unfolded with an investigation of the nature and leridiiig principles of this faculty. It is evident that our ideas flow in continual succes- Bion, and introduce each other with a certain degree of regularity. They are sometimes excited by sensi- ble objects, and sometimes by an internal operation of the mind. Of th.' foi uK^r specis^s is most probabl-y the memory of brutes ; and its many sources of plea- sure to them, as well as to us, are considered in the first jxart. The latter is the most perfect degree of memory, and forms the subject of the second. When ideas hnve any relation whatever they are attractive of each other i" the mind ; and the percep- tion of any object nHii;,.illy leads to the idea of another, which was connected with it either in time or place, or which can he compared or contrasted with it. Hence arises our attachment to inanimate objects; hence also, in some decree, the love of our country, and the emotion with which we contemplate 67 158 AWALTSrs. the celebrated scenes of antiqiiiTy. Hfliice j picttrg directs our thnushts to the original ; and, as cold and darkness suggest forcibly the ideas of heat and li^ut, he, who feels the infirmities of age, dwells most ou whatever reminds him of the vigour and vivacity ol his youth. The associating principle, as here e«nployed, is no less conducive to virtue then to happiness ; and, as such, it frequently discovers itself in the niosttMaiul- tuous scenes oflifs. It addresses our 'finer feelings, and gives exercise to every mild and generous ptopen- sity. Not confined to man, it extends through all aaima- ted nature; and its eifects ar*r peculiarly striking ia tbe doiue»tic tribes THZ PLEA.SURES OF MEMORY. PART 1. Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village' green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broKe When round liie ruins ol' their ancient oak The peasants flock' d to hear the minstrel play And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at re=:t. th^ matron thrill? no more With treasured tales, and legendary lore. All, all are fled ; nor mirth nor music flows To chase the dreams of innocent repose. All, all are fled ; yet still I linger here I What secret charms this silent spot endear ! Mark yon old Mansion frowning through the trees, Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze. That casement arch d with ivy's brownestshade, first to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd J) 70 RO&ERS S The iiioulderiiig gateway slrews he grass grown court, Once the cahn §ceae o: inaiiy a simple sport; When nature pleased, for life itselt was new A-iid the heart promised what the fancy drew. See, through the fractured pediment reveal'd, Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, The martin's old, hereditary nest : Long may the ruin spare its hallow' d guest ! As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call I Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall I That hall, where once, in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate. Now stain' d with dews, with cobwebs darkJj hung, Oft has its f oof with peals of rapture rung ; When round yon ample board, in due degree, We sweeten' d every meal with social glee. The heart's light laugh pursued the cu-cling jest ; And all was- sunshine m each little breast. *Twas there we chased the slipper by the sound ; And turn'd the bhndibld hero njund and round. Twas here, at eve, we forni'd our fairy ring ; And Fancy flutter' d on her wildest wing. Giants and genii chain' d each wondering ear ; A.nd orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 71 Oft with the babe we w,\nder'd in the wood Or view'd the forest-feats of Robiti Hood : Oft fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startHng ptep we scaled the lonely tower; O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murder'd by ruffian hands, when smihng in its sleep. Ye Household Deities ! whose guardian eye Mariv'd each pure thought, ere register'd on high; Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, And breathe the soul of Inspiration round. As o'er the dusky furniture I bend Each chair awakes the feehngs of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight, With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight* And still, with Heraldry's rich hues imprest, On the dim window glows the pictured crest. The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart, The clock siill points its moral to the heart. That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near ; And has its sober hand, its simple chime. Forgot to trace the feather' d feet of Time ? That massive beam, with curious carvingt wrought, Whence the caged linnet soothed my peneiv* thought ! 72 ROGERS S Those muskets, cased with vene ruble rust. Those once-loved forms, still breathing through their dust, Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, Starting to Ufe — all whisper of the Past ! As through the garden's desert paths Ir:ve, What fond illusions swarm in every grove . How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest ; Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, Laden \sath sweets, the choicest of the spring! How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme, The bark now silver'd by the touch of Time ; Soar'd m the swing, half pleased and half afraid, Through sister elms that waved their summer- shade ; Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat. To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat ! Childhood's loved group revisits every scene, The tangled wood- walk, aiid ib.e tufted green! Indulgent Memoky wakes, and lo, they hve ! Clothed with iiir softer hues than Light can give. Thou first best fri' nd that Heaven assigns below, To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades, and life forgets to charin ; PLEASURES OF >;emory. 73 Tnee wouid the Muse invoke ! — to thee belong The sige's precept, and the poet's song. What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals, When o'er the landscape Time's meek t viHghl steals ! As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, Long on the wave reflected lustres play ; Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign' d, Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind. The School's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray. Just tell the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn ; Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship form'd and cherish'd here ; And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions, and romantic dreams! Down oy yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed The Gipsy's fagot — there we stood and gazed ; Gazed on her sun -burnt face with silent awe, Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; [ler moving Hps, her caldron ^'imming o'er ; The drowsy brood that on he/ oack she bore, tmps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ; Whose dark eyes flash'd throng ti ocks of black est shade, When in the bieeze the distant %vatch-dog bay'd : — And heioes fled the Sibyl's mutter' 1 call. Whose elfin prowess scaled thu orchard-waif. As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, And traced the line of life with searching view, How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears, To learn the colour of my future years! Ah, then, what honest triumph flush' d my breast ; This truth once known — To bless is to b« blest ! We led the bending beggar on his way, (Bare were his feel, his tresses silver-gray,) Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. As in his scrip we dropt our httle store. And sigh'd to think that little was no more. He breathed his prayer, " Long may such good- ness live !" Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. Angels, when Mercy's mandate wing'd theil flight. Had elopt to dwell with p'easure ouOe sight. PLEASURES (.*• MEMOilY. /D But iicirk 1 ihro'jgh those old firs, with sullen swell, Thkj church-clock strikes ! ye. tender s^;eneR, farewell I It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond hues that Time may soon efface On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel- door. Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, Each eve we shot the marble through the ring, When the heart danced, and life was in ita spring ; Alas 1 unconscious of the kindred earth. That faintly echo'd to the voice of mirth. The glow-worm loves her emerald -light to shed, Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade He lectured every youth that round himplay'd; And calmly pointing where our fathers lay, Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day. Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush ! while here alone I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my Ufe ! Instructors of my youth ! Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of Truth 76 ROfiEKs'S VVliose eiery word eniighten'd and endear'd In age beloved, in poverty revered ; In Friendsnip's silent register ye live. Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give. But when the sons of peace, of plea -sure sleep When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep What spells entrance my visionary mind With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined Ethereal Power I who at the noon of night Recall' st the far-fled spirit of delight ; From whom that musing, melancholy mood Which charms the wise, and elevates the good Blest jMemory, hail ! Oh grant the gratefu Muse. Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues, To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, And trace its airy precincts in the soul. Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain. Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise !* Each stamps its image as the oiher flies. Each, as the various avenues of sense Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, * Namqiie illic posiiit solium, et sun templa sacravlt Mens ai.imi : hanr. circuin coeunt, densoque feruntm Agmine notitjae, siinulacraque tenuia rerum. PIEASFKES OF MEMORY. 77 Brightens or fades ; yet all, with magic art. Control the latent tibres of the heart. Asstiifjious rRosrECo's mysterious spell Drew every sii' ject-spirit to his cell; Each at thy call, advances or retires, As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires. Each thri!':^: ilie seat of sense, that sacred source Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course^ And ihroug'n tlie frame invisibly convey The subtle, quick vibrations as they play ; Man's little universe at once o'ercast, At once illumined whe i the cloud is past. Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore , From Reason's fair.test ray to Ne\vtOi\ soar. What diti'erent spheres tu human bhss assign'd , What slow gradations in the scale of mind ! Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought; Oh mark the sleepless energies of thought ! The adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer, Turns on the neighbuurmgliili, once moretosee The dear abode of peace and p4-ivacy ; And as he turns, the thatch among the trees, The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze. The village-common spotted white with sheep, The church-yard yews round which his fathers fileet' : 78 ROGERS S A!', rouse Reflection's sadly-pleasing train. And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again. feo, when the mild TrpiA dared explore Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before, And, with the sons of Science, woo'd the gale That, rising, swnll'd their strange expanse of sail: So, when he breathed his firm yet iond adieu, Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe. And all his soul best loved — such tears he shed, While each soft scene of summer-beauty fled. Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast, Long watch' d the streaming signal from the mast. Till twihght's dewy tints deceived his eye, And fairy-forests fringed the evemng-sky. So Scotia's Queen, as slowly dawn'd the day, Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away. Her eyes had bless' d the beacon's gliminering height. That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light ; But now the morn with orient hues portray' d Each castle clifl', and brown monastic shade : All touch'd the talisman's resistless spring, And lo, w^hat busv tribes were instant on the Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire. As summer 1 ^uds flash forth electric fire. PLEASTTRKS OF ME:M0RY. i3 And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth, Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth. Hence home-feh pleasure prompts the Patriot's sigh ; This nakes liim wish to live, and dare to die For tnis young FoscAr.i, whose hapless fate Venice should 'lush to hear the Muse relate. When exile wore his blooming years away, To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey, When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause, For this he roused her sanguinary laws ; Glad to return, though Hope could grant no more. And chains and torture hail'd him to the shore. And hence the charm historic scenes impart ; Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart. Aerial forms in Tempo's classic vale, Glance through the gloom, and whisper in tha gale; In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell, And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell. "I'was ever thus. Young AmmOxV, when he sought . Where Ilium stood, and where Pelfdes fought, Sate at the helm himself. No meaner hand Steer'd through the waves ; and when he struck the land, Such in his soul the ardour to explore, PELiDES-hke, he leap'd the first ashore; 80 KOGERS'S 'Twds ever thus. As now at Virg.l's tomb We bless the shade, and bid the verdure bloom: So TrLLY paused, anwd the wrecks of Time, On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime; When at his feet, in honour' d dust disclosed, The immortal Sage of Syracuse reposed. And as he lon^ in sweet delusion hung, Where once a Plato taught, a Pixdar sung ; Who now but meets him musing, when he roves His ruin'd Tusculan's romantic groves ! In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll His moral thunders o'er the subject soul I And hence that calm dehght the portrait gives : We gaze on every feature till it lives ! Still the fond lover sees the absent maid ; And the lost friend still lingers in the shade ! Say why the pensive widow loves to weep, When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep. Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace The father's features in his infant face. The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away, Won by the raptures of a game at play ; He bends to meet each artless burst of joy, Forgets his age, and acts again the boy. What though the iron school of War ertjse Each milder virtue, and each softer grace; What though the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest Eac^ gentler finer impulse of thp breast : PLEASURES JF MEMORY. 81 Still shall this aciive principle preside, And wake the tear to Pity's self denied. The intrepid Swiss, who guiirdsa foreign shore, Condemird toclinibhis mountain-chffs no more, If chance lie hears the sonij so sweetly wild. Which on those chffs his infant Hours beguiled, Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise, And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs. Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm: Say why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm ; Why great Navarre, when France and free- dom bled, Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed. When Diocletian's self-corrected mind The imperial fasces of a world resign'd, Say why we trace the labours of his spade, In calm Solona's philosophic shade. Say, when contentious Charles renounced a throne. To muse wdth monks unletter'd and unknown; What from his soul the parting tribute drew ? What claim'd the sorrows of a last adieu ? The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppress'd. Undamp'd by time, the generous Instinct glowa Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows ; J lows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest, On every form of varied life imprest jTlifi social Tibes its choi^^est infl lonce hail :— And when the drum lieats briskly in the gale, The war-worn courser charges at the sound, And with young vigour wheels the pastur« round. Oft has the aged tenant of the vale Lean'd on his staff to lengthen out the tale ; Oft have his lips the grateful trilnite breathed, From sire to son with pious zeal bequeathed. When o'er the blasted heath the day declined, And on the scathed oak warr'd the winter-wind; When not a distant taper's twinkling ray Gleam' d o'er the furze to light him on his way ; When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear, And the big rain-drops told the tempest near; Then did his horse the homeward track descry, The track that shunn'd his sad, enquiring eye, And wii^ each wavering purpose to relent, With warmth so mild, so gently violent, That his charm' d hand the careless rein resign'd And doubts and terrors vanish' d from his mind Recall the traveller, whose alter'd form Has borne the buffet of the mountain-storm ! And who will first his fond impatience meet? His faithful dog's already at his feet I Yes. though the porter spurn him from the door. Though all that knew him, know his face nc mere pleastjtvP:s of memory. 83 fits faitiiful dog shall tell his joy to each, With that mute eloquence wh'ch passes speech. And see, the n.iaster "Dut returns to die ! Yet who shall !;id the warchtul servant ^.y ? The blasts of heaven, the drenchir^ dews of earth, The wanton insults of unleehng mirth, These, when to guard Misfortune's sacred gravp, Will firm Fidelity exult to brave. Led by what chart, transports the timid dove The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love ? Say, through the clouds what compass points her flight ? Monarchs have gazed, and nations bless'd the sight. Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise, Eclipse her native shades, her native skies : — 'Tis vain ! through Ether's pathless wilds she goes, And lights at last where all her cares repose. Sweet bird! thy truth shall Harlem's walli attest, And unboni ages consecrate thy nest. When with the silent energy of grief, With looks that ask'd, yet dured not hope re lief. 84 Rogers's pleasures it memory. Want with her babes round generous Valour clung, To wring the slow surrender from his tongue, 'Twas thine to aniuiaie her closing eye ; Alas ! 'twas i\ ne perchance the first to die, Crush' d by he nieagre hand, when welcomed from th J sky. Hark ! the oee winds her small but mellow horn, Bhthe to salute the sunny smile of mom. O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course, And many a stream allures her to hs source. 'Tisnoon. 'tis night. That eye so finelj' wrought Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought. Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind ; Its orb so full, its vision so confined! Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell ? *Vho bids her soul with conscious triumph swell ? ♦Vith conscious truth retrace the mazy clue Of summer-scents, that charm'd her as she flew? Hail Memory, hail ! thy universal reign Guards the \eitst link of Being's glorious chain. NOTES TO PLEASURES OF MEMORY. PART I. P. 72, 1.8. How oft, when purple evening tinged the west. Virgil, in one of his Eclogues, describes a romantic attachment as conceived in such circumstances ; and the description is so true to nature, that we must Burely be indebted for it to some early recollection. "You were little when I first saw you. You were v'ith your mother gathering fruii in our orchard, and I was your guide. I wasjust entering my thirteenth year, and just able to reach the boughs from the ground." So also Zappi, an Italian Poet of the last century. "When I used to measure myself with my goat, and my goat was the tallest, even then I loved Clori." P. 73, 1.17. Up springs, at every step, tochim a tear. I came to fie place i)f my birth, and cried, "The friends of mj Youth, where are they ?" — Andanechr answered, " Where are they 1" — From an ^^abic MS 85 86 NOTES TO P. 76, 1.20. ■ Awakp !iu' (iiif.. anJ in, \v)ia: n;yr:2j< i je ! When a tiaveller, who w;is surveying the ruins of Rome, expresseil a desire to possess some relic of its Ancient grrindeur, Poussin, who attended him, Btooped down, and gatherinor up a handful of earth shining with small grains of porphyry, "Take this home," said he, " for your cabinet ; and say boldly, Questa e Roma Jlnlica.''^ P. 77, 1.27. The church-yard yews round which his filhers sleep. Every man like Gulliver in Lilliput, is fastened to some spot of earth, by the thousand small threads which habit and association are continually stealing over him Of these, perhaps, one of the strongest ia here alluded to. When the Canadian Indians were once solicited to emigrate, " What !" they replied, "shall we say to the bones of our fathers. Arise, and go with us mto a foreign land"?" P. 78, 1.7. So, when he hreathal liis firm yet fond adieu. See Cook's first voyage, book i. chap. 16. Another very alfecting instance of local attachment is related of his fellow-countryman Potaveri, who came to Europe with M. de Bougainvil'?.— See //C« Jardins, chant, ii. P. 78, 1.16. So Sci'ia's Queen. &c. Ellfc se leve sur son lict, etse met a contemplcr ll Frk.aco enco'-e, et tant qu'ellc peul. — Brantome. PLEASL'RES OF MEMORY. 87 P. 78, 1. 26. This (fi jJieJ objects kinJred thoughts iospiie. To an accicienlal association may be ascribed some of the noblesj eflurt of human genius. The Historian ofthe Decline ami Fall ofthe Rontan Empire first con- ceived his liesign among the ruins of the Capitol; and to the tones of a Welsh harp are we indebted for the BurdofGray. P. 79, 1.. -5. HeriCf home felt pleasure, &c. Who can enough admire the afffctionate attachment of Plutarch, who thus concludes his enumeration of the advantages of a great (ity to men of letters'? "As to myself, I live in a little town ; and 1 choose to live there, lest it should become still less."— ^U. Demosth. P.79, 1. 6. For this young foscari, &c. He was suspected of murder, and at Venice suspi- cion was good evidence. iSeiiher the interefit o! the Doge, his father, nor tlie intrepidity of conscious inno- cence, which he o.xhil>ited in th.^ dungeon and on t5'« rack, could procure his acquittal. He was Larishe i to the island of Candia toi i:le. But here his resolution failed him. At such a dis> tance from home he could not live ; and, as it was a criminal offence to solicit the intercession of any foreign prince, in a fit of despair he addressed a lettei to the Duke of Milan, and intrusted it to a wretch whose perfidy, he knew, would occasion his beinfc .emandcd a prisoner to Vetuce. P. 79, 1. 15. And hence the charm historic scenes im^Arr. Whatever wiihdraive us from the power of aui 88 >roTES TO senseri ; whatever :i;.ikes the past, the distant, or the future, predouilnate over the present, advances us in the dignity nfihinkins beings. Far from nie and from my friends be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indiiferent and unmoved over any ground which has been digrified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of J/ara^Aon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of lona.-' Johnson. P. 79,1. 21. And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell. The Paraclete, founded by Abelard,in Champagne. P. 79,1 22. Twas ever thus. Yoan< Ammon. when he sought. Alexander, when he crossed the Hellespont, was in the twenty-second year of his age ; and with what feelings must the Scholar of Aristotle have approached the ground described by Homer in that poem which had been his delight from his childhood, and w^hich records the achievements of Him from whom he claimed his descent ! It was his fancy, if we may believe tradition, to take the tiller from Menostius, and be himself the steersman during the passage. It was his fancy also to be the Iirst to land, and to land full -armed.— ^r- rian^t i- H- P. 80, 1.1. As now at Vir^il't tomb. Vows and pilgrimages are not peculiar to the wM- gious enthusiast. Silius Italicus performed annual PLEASrRKd OF MEMORY. 89 ceremonies on the mountain of Posilipo; and it waa lliere that Boccaccio, quasi da un divino estro inspirator resolved to dedicate his life to the Muses. P. 80, 1.3. So Tully pausfi, .nmij ihe wrecks n( time. When Cicero \vasqua?stor in Sicily, he discovered the tomb of Archimedes by its mathematical inscrip- tion. — Tusc. QucEst. V. 3. P. 80, 1.17. Say why Ihe pensive widow loves to weep. The influence of the associating principle is finely ex- emplified in the faithful Penelope, when she shed tears over the bow of Ulysses. — Od. xxi.55. P. 81, 1.5. If chance he hears Ihe stin? so sweetly wild. The celebrated Ranz des Vaches ; cet air si cheri des Suisses qu'il fut defendu sous peine de niort de la jouer dans leurs troupes, parce qui I'fuisoit fondre en larmes, deserter ou mourir ceux qui I'entendoient, tant Jl excitoit en eux I'ardent desir de revoir leur pays. — Rousseau. Themaladie de pays is as old as the human hea^t Juvenal's little cup-bearer Suspirat lonKO non visani tempore matreai Et casulam, ef iiotos trisfis desiderat hoedos. And the Argive, in the heat of battle, Dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos. P. 81, 1.10. Say why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm. Thii emperor, according to Suetonius, constantly 90 NOTES TC passed the summer in a small villu near R^ a'e,v\tere he was born, and to which he would never add any embellishment ; ve qui-l scilicet oculorum consueiudini de- ytrire-. — Suet, in Vit. V-:sp. cap. ii. A similir instance occurs in the life of the vene- rable Pertinax,as related by J. Capitolinus. Postea- quam in Liguriam venit, multis agris coemptis, tabcr- nam paternam, /nrtnenfe /or/ni priore,infinitis asdificiia circundedit. — Hist. Amriist.b^. And it is said of Cardinal Richelieu, that, when he built his magnilicent palace on the site of the old family chateau at Richelieu, he- sacrificed its symmetry to preserve the room in which he was bom.— .Ve7H. dt Mile. deJMontpensier, i.'il. An attachment of this nature is generally the cha- racteristic of a benevolent mind ; and a long acquaint- ance with the world cannot always extinguish it. "To a friend," says John duke of Buckingham, "I will expose my weakness : 1 am oftener missing a pretty sallery in the old house I pulled down, than pleased with asaloon which I built in its stead, though a thousand times better in all respects."— See his Letter to the D. of Sh. This is the language of tlie heart ; and will remind the reader of that good-humoured remark in one of Pope's letters—" I should hardly care to have an old post pulled up, that I remembered ever since 1 was a child." The Author of Telemachus has illustrated thig subject with equal fancy and fet ling, ij the story o( Alibee, Penan. P 81,1.11. Why ?reat N.ivaire. &c Tba* amiable and accomplished monarch, Henry PLEASURE!^ OF MEMOUY. 9 \ the Fourtli, of France, made an excursion from hit camp, darin? the Ions? sidge of Laon, to dine at a h^use in the forest of Folamhray ; where he had oiTlen been •■egaled, when a boy, with fruit, milk, and new cheese; and in revisiting which he promised himself great pleasure. — Mem de Sully. P. 81, 1.14. Wheu Diocletian'B self-corrected miDd Diocletian retired into his native province, and there amused himself with buildins, planting, and garden- ing. His answer to Ma.ximian is deservedly celebrat- ed. "If," said he, "I could show him the cabbages which I have planted with my own hands at Salona, he would no longer solicit me to return to a throne." P. 81, 1.15. Siy, when C'.j'ci iM.s Claries, &c. When the Empernr, (Miirlcs the Fifth hai executed nis memorable resolution, and had set out for the monastery of Juste, he stopt a few days at Ghent to indulge that tender and pleasant melancholy, which arises in the mind of every man in the decline of life, on visiting the place of his birth, and the objects fami- liar to him in his early youth. P. 81, 1.20. To muse with monks, &c Monjes solitaries del glorioso padre San GeroniniUi says i?andova in a corner of the convent-garden there is this 'n- scription. En esta santa casa de S. Geronimo de Juste se retiro a acabar tu vida Carlos V. Empera« dor. far man is not eminently distinguished from other a limals : but, with respect to man, she has a higher province ; and is often busily employed, when excited by no external cause what- ever. She preserves, for hi3 use, the treasures of art and science, history and philosophy. She colours all the prospects of life ; for we can only anticipate the future by concluding what is possible from what is past. On her agency dei)ends every effusion of the Fancy, who with the boldest effort can only compoand or transpose, augment or diminish the ma- terials which she has collected. When the first einotion.s of des;iair have subsided, and sorrow has softened into nvelancholy, she amuses with a retrospect of innocent pleasures, and inspiiea that noble confidence which results from the con- sciousness of having acted well. When sleep has suspended the organs of sense from their office, she not only supplies the mind with images, but assists in their combination. And even in madness itself, when the soul is resigned over to the tyranny ofa distem- pered imagin;'tio:>, she revive:) past perceptions, and 9o 96 ANALYSIS. awakens (hat train of thought which was formerly most familiar. Nor are we pleased only with a review of the brighter passagi-s of life. Events, the most dis- tressing in th .'ir immediate consequences, are often cherished in reniLMnbrance with a degree of enthu- siasm. But the world and its occupations give a mechanical impulse to the passions, which is not very favourable to the indulgence of this feeling. It is in a calm and well-regulated mind that the Memory is most perfect ; and solitudeis her best sphereof action. With this sen- timent is introduced a Tiile illustrative of herinfluence in solitude, sickness, and sorrow. And the subject having now been considered, so far as it relates to man and the animal world, the Poem concludes with a conjecture that superior beings are blest with ■ nobler *».verciae of this faculty. PLEASURES OF MEMORY, PART TT, Sweet M;i"' Rv,\vat.ed liy ihy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I Uirn my sail, To view xhr fairy haunts of lo"g-!ost hours. Blest wi.hiaigrcei.er shades, lar licslier ilowerfti Ages nrid rlimes remote to Thee impart What ciiiiiinsin Genius, and rehnes in Art; Thee, in whose hair' the keys of Science dwells The pensive portress oi ner noly ceil ; Whose constant vigils chase the chilUng damp Oblivion steals upon her vestal- lamp. They in their glorious course the guides oi Yonrh, Whose language breathed- the eloquence of Truth ; Whose life, beyond perceptive wisdom, taught The great in conduct, and \he pure in thought,' 7 97 98 KOGEKS'S These Still exist, by Thee to Fame consign'd, Siill speak and act the models of mankind. From thee gay Hope her airy colouring drawf And Fancy's flights are ?!ubiect to thy la\v3. From thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows, Which only V^irtue, tranquil Virtue, knows. Il When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening- [\ \\ And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play ; 11 When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect ',! close, l| Still through the gloom thy star serenely glows; Il Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of nighl K With the mild magic of reflected light. l! ■i The beauteous maid, who bids the world adieu. Oft of that world will snatch a fond review ; Oft at the shrine neglect her heads, to trace Some social scene, some dear, familiar face ; And ere, with iron tongue, the vesper-bell Bursts through the cypress- walk, the convent- cell, II Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive, [| To love and joy still trem lingly alive ; '':> The whisper'd vow. the chaste caress prolong. Weave the light dance, and swell the choral song PLtASTJKES OF MEMORY. 95 With tapt ear drink, the enchanting serenade. And. as it melts along the nioonlighr-glade, To each soft note return as soft a sigh, And bless the youth that b'ds Iter slumbers fly. Bu. not till Time has calm'd the ruffled breast, Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. Not till the rushing winds forget to rave, [s ileaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave. From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail And catch the sounds that sadden every gale. Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there ; Mark the fix'd gaze, the wild and frenzied glare. The racks of thought, and freezings of despair ! But pause not -hen — beyond the western wave, Go, seethe captive barter' d as a slave ! Crush' d till his high, heroic spirit bleeds, And from his nerveless frame indignantlyrecedes Yet here, even here, with pleasures long re- sign'd, Lo ! Memory bursts the twiUght of the mind Her dear delusions soothe his sinking soul, When the rude scourge assumes its base con trol ; And o'er Futurity's blank page diffuse * The full reflection of her vivid hues. 'Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more, Then will he wake on Congo's distant shore; JOO ROStRs's Beneaih his plantain's ancient shade renew The simple transports fh^t with freedom flew ; Catch the cool breeze that musky Evening blows, And quaff the palm's rich nec.ar as it glows ; The oral tale of elder time rehearse, And chant the rude, traditionary verse With those, the loved companions of his youth, When life was luxury, and friendship truth. Ah! why should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate! Hers what no wealth can buy, no power create'. A little world of clear and cloudless dav, Nor wreck'd by storms, nor moulder'd by de- cay , A world, with Memory's ceaseless stn-shiue blest, The home of Happiness, an honest breast. But most we mark the wonders of her reign, •When Sleep has lock'd the senses in her chain. When sober Judgment has his throne resign'd, She smiles away the chaos of the mind ; And, as warm Fancy's bright Elysium glovti, From her each image springs, each colour flows. She is the sacred guest ! the immortal hicnd 1 Oft seen o'er sleeping Innocence to bend, [n that dead hour of night to Silence given, Whispering seraphic visions of her heaven. PLEASURES OF MEIV.ORY-. 101 When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round With humble wares and pipe of merry sound, From his green vale and shelter' d cabin hies, And scales the Alps to visit Ibreign skies : Though far below the forked lighiniiigs play, And at his I'eet the thunder die., away, Oft, in the saddle rudely rock'd to sleep, While his mule browses oa the dizzy steep, With Memory's aid, he sits at home, and sees His children sport beneath their native trees. And bends lo hear their cherub-voices call, O'er the loud lury of liie torrent" s lall. But can her smile wiih gloomy Madness dwell ? Say, can she chase the horrors of his cell ? Each fiery flight on r rjii/y's wing restrain. And mould the coinage of the fever'd brain ? Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam suppUes, There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies ! He whose arresting hand divinly wrought Each bold concepiion in the sphere of thought ; And round, in colours of the rainbow, threw Forms ever fair, creations ever new ! But, as he fondly snatch' d the wreath of ir'ame. The sceptre Povert» unnerved his frame. lOi KUGERS'3 Cold was lier grasp, a witheniig sc owi she wore And Hope's soft energies were felt no more. Yi t etill how SNvee; the sojtliiags of his art ! From the rude wall whit bright ideas start ! Even now he claims the amaranthine wreath, With scenes that glow, with images that breathe! And whence these scenes, ihese images, declare, Whence but from Her who triumphs o'er despair? Awake, arise I with grateful fervour fraught. Go, spring the mine of elevating thought. He, who, through Nature's various walks, sur veys The good and fair her faultless Une portrays ; Whose mind, profaned by no unhallow'd guest Culls from the crowd the purest and the best ; May range, at will, bright r ancy'sgolden clime, Or, musing, mount where Science sits subUme, Or wake the spirit of departed Time. Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral Muse, A blooming Eden in his life reviews ! So rich the culture, though so small the space, Its scanty hmiis he forgets to trace. But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh ! The weary waste, that lengthened as he ran, Fades to a blank, and dwindles to a span ! Ah ! who can tell the triumphs of the mind. By truth illumined, and by taste refined ? PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 103 When age has quench'd the eye, and closed the ear, Still nerved for action in her native sphere, Olt will she rise — with searching glance pursue Some long-loved image vanish' d from her view ; Dart through the deep recesses of the past, O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast ; With giant-grasp fling back the folds of night, And snatch the faithless fugitive to light. So through the grove the impatient mother flies, Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries ; Till the thin leaves the truant boy disclose, Long on the wood- moss stretch' d in sweet re- pose. Nor yet to pleasing objects are confined The silent feasts of the reflecting mind. Danger and death a dread delight inspire ; And the bald veteran glows with wonted fire, When, richly bronzed by many a summer-sun, He counts his scars and tells what deeds were done. Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glori ous pile ; And ask the shatter'd hero, whence his smile? Go, \iew the splendid domes of Greenwich-* go. And own what raptures from Reflection flow. J04 ROGERS'S Hail, nobles: structures imaged in the wave ! A nation's grateful tribute to the brave. Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck hail! That oft arrest the wondermg stranger's sail. Long have ye heard the narratives of age, The battle's havoc, and the tempest s rage ; Long have ye known Reflection's genial ray Gild the calm close of Valour's various day. Time's sombrous touches soon correct the piece, Mellow each tint, and bid each discord cease : A softer tone of light pervades the whole, And steals a pensive languor o'er the soul. Hast thou through Eden's wild-wood val«8 pursued Each mounlaiii-scene. majestically rude ; To note the sweet simplirity of life. Far from the din of Folly's idle strife ; Nor there awhile, with lifted eye. revered That modest s'one which pious Pr.MBROKB rear'd ; Which still re'^ords, boyor^d the pencil's power. The silent sorrows of a parting hour ; Still to the musing pilgrim points the place^ Her sajnted spirit most delights to trace ? Thus. \\'ith the manly glow of honest pride, O'er hijs dead son 'he gallant Crmo.nd sigh'd PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 105 lhu3, through the gloom of Shenstoae's fairy- grove, Makia's urn still breathes the voice of love. As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower, Awes us less deeply in its morning-hour, Than when the shades of Time serenely fall On every broken arch and ivied wall; The tender images we love to trace, Steal from each year a melancholy grace ! And as the sparks of social love expand, As the heart opens in a foreign land ; And, with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, The stranger greets each native of his isle ; So scenes of life, when present and confess'd, Stamp but their bolder features on the breast ; Yet not an image, when remotely view'd. However trivial, and however rude, But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh. With every claim of close affinity ! But these pure joys the world can never know, In gentler climes their silver currents flow. Oft at the silent, shadov/y close of day, When the hush'd grove has sung its parting lay ; When pensive Twiligbt, in her dusky car, Comes slowly on to meet the evening-star ; Above, below, aerial murmurs sweU, From hanging wood, brown heath and bushy dell! 106 ROGEKS'S A thousand nameless rills, that snun .he ight. Stealing soft music on the ear of night. So oft the finer movements of the soul, That shun the sphere of Pleasure's gay control, In the still shades of calm Seclusion rise, And breathe their sweet, seraphic harmonies' Once, and domestic annals tell the time, (Preserved in Cumbria's rude, romantic clime) When Nature smiled, and o'er the landscape threw Her richest fragance, and her brightest hue, A blithe and blooming Forester explored Those loftier scenes Salvator's soul adored ; The rocky pass half-hung with shaggy wood, And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood ; Nor shunn'd the track, unknown to human tread, That downward to the night of caverns led ; Some ancient cataract's deserted bed. High on exultirig wing the heath-cock rose. And blew his shrill blast o'er perennial snows; Ere the rapt youth, recoihng from the roar. Gazed on the tumbling tide of dread Lodore ; And through the rifted cliffs, that scaled the sky, Derwent's clear mirror charm' d his dazzled eye. Each osier isle, inverted on the wave, Through morn's gray mist its melting colours PLEASJRES OF MEMORY. 107 And, o'er the cygnet's haunt, the mantlinggrove Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance v/ove. Light -as the breeze that brush'd the orient dew, From rock to rock the young Aavenuirer flew ; And day's last suasliine slept along (he shore, When lo, a path the smile of welcome wore. Embowering shrubs with verdure veil'd the sky, And on the musk-rose shed a deeper dye ; Save when a bright and momentary gleam Glanced from the white loam of some shelter d stream. O'er the still lake the bell of evening toU'd, And on the moor the shepherd penn'd his fold : And on the green hill's side the meteor play'd ' When, hark ! a voice sung sweetly through thi shade. It ceased — yet still in Florio's fancy sung, Still on each ftote his captive spirit hung ; Till o'er the mead, a cool, sequester'd grot From its rich roof a sparry lustre shot. A crystal water cross'd the pebbled floor, And on the front these simple lines it bore. Hence away, nor dare intrude ! In this secret shadowy cell Musing Memory loves to dwell, With her sister Solifjde lOd ROG^ERS'S Far from the busy world she (lies, To taste that peace the world denies, Entranced she sirs ; trom youth to age, Reviewing Life s event/ul page ; And norins, ere ihey lade away, The little lines ot yesterday. Florio had gain'd a riide and rocky seat, When lo, the Genius of this still retreat ! Fair was her form — but who can hope to trace The pensive soitness of her angel-lace ? Can VirixIl's verse, can Raphael's touchimpart Those finer features of the feeling heart, Those tenderer tints that shon the careless eye, And in the world's contagious cUmaie die ? She left the cave, nor mark'd the stranger there ; Her pastoral beauty, and her artless air Had breathed a soft enchantment o'er his soul ! In every nerve he felt her blest control ! What pure and white- wing'd agents of the sky, Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy, Inform congenial spirits when they meet? Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet ' Florio, with fearful joy. pursued the maid, Till through a vista's moonlight-chequer'd shade Where the bat circled, and the rooks reposed, (Thrir wars suspended, and theij councils closed) PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 109 An antique mansion burst in awful sta e, A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate. Nor pauseJ lie there. The master of the scene Saw his Hglit sfep imprint the dewy green ; And, slow advcmcing, hail'd him as his guest, Won by the honest \varmt;i his looks express'd He wore the rustic manners of a Squire ; Age had not quench' d one spark of manly fire; But giant Goui had bound him in her chain, And his heart panted for the chase in vain. Yet here Remembrance, sweetly-soothing Power ! Wing'd with delight Confinement's lingering hour. The fox's brush still emulous to wear, He scour'd the county in his elbow-chair; And, with view-halloo, roused the dreaming hound, That rung, by starts, his deep-^oned music round. Long by the paddock's humble pale confined, His aged hunters coursed the viewless wind : And each, with glowing energy portray'd. The far famed triumphs of the field display'd, Ursurp'd the canvass of the crowded hall, And chased a Une of heroes from the wall. Ther« slept the horn each jocund echo knew, And manv a smile and many a story drew ! 110 KOftERS's High o'er the hearth his forest- trophies hting, And their fantastic branches widely Hung. How would he dA-ell on the vast antlers there These Jash'd the wave, those fann'd the moun tain ail. All, as they frown'd, unwriaeii records bore Of gallant feats and festivals of yore. But why the tale prolong ? — His only child, His darhng Julia on the stranger smiled. Her little arts a fretful sire to please, Her gentle gayety, and na'ive ease Had won his soui ; and rapturous Fancy shed Her golden lights, and tints of rosy red. But ah ! few days had pass'd, ere the bright vision fled I When Evening tinged the lake's ethereal bluCf And her deep shades irregularly threw ; Their shifting sail dropt gently from the cove, Down by St. Herbert's consecrated grove : Whence erst the chanted hymn, the taper'd rite Amused the fisher's sohtary night : And still the mitred window, richly wreathed, Asacred calm throughthe brown fohage breathed. Theu-ilddeer^starting throughthe silent glade With fearful saze their various course survey' d. High hung in air the hoary goat reclined. His streaming beat i the sport of every wind ; PLEASURES OF MEMORY. H And, while the coot her jet-wing loved to lave, Rock'd on the bosom of the sleepless wave : The eagle rush'd from Skiddaw's purple crest, A cloud still brooding o'er her giant-nest. And now the moon had di.mm'd with dewy ray The few fine flushes of departing day. O'er the wide water's deep serene she hung, And her broad lights on every mountain flung When lo, a sudden blast the vessel blew, And to the surge consign'd the httle crew. AH, all escaped— hut ere the lover bore His faint and faded Julia to the shore. Her sense had fled !— Exhausted by the storm, A fatal trance hung o'er her pallid form ; Her closing eye a trembling lustre fired : 'Twas life's last spark- -h flutte'r'd and expired! The father strew'd his white hairs in the wind, Call'd Oil his child— nor hnger'd long behind ; And Florid hved to see the willow wave. With many an evening- whisper, o'er their grave, yes, Florio lived— and, still of each poss'ess'd, The father cherish'd and the maid caress'd ! For ever would the fond enthusiast rove, VVhh Julia's spirit through the shadowy grove Gaze with dehght on every scene she plann'd. Kiss every flowrel planted by her hand. Ah ! still he traced her steps along the glade, When h?zy hues and glimmering lightsl)6tray'(J 112 ROGERS S Half- viewless forms ; still listen'd as the breez« Heaved its deep sobs among the aged trees ; And at each pause her melting accents caught, In sweet dehrium of romantic thought ! Dear was the grot that shunn'd the blaze of day, She gave its spars to shoot a trembling ray. The spring, that bubbled from its inmost cell, Murmur' d ol" Julia's virtues as it fell ; And o'er the dripping moss, the fretted stone, In Florio's ear breathed language not its own. Her charm around the enchantress MemjdrI threw, A charm that soothes the mind, and sweetens too. But is her magic only felt below ? Say, through what brighter realms she bids it flow ; To what pure beings, in a nobler sphere, She yields delight but faintly imaged here : All that till now their rapt researches knew. Not call'd in slow succession to review ; But, as a landscape meets the eye of day. At once presented to their glad survey ! Each scene of bliss reveal'd, since chaos fled And dawning light its dazzhng glories spread ; Each chain of wonders that sublimely glow'd, Since first Creation's choral anthem flow'd; Each ready flight, at Mercy's call divme, To distant worlds that undiscov?.r'd shine; PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 113 Fall on her tablet flings its living rays, And all, combined, with blest effulgence blaze. There thy bright train, immortal Friendship soar ; No more to part, to mingle tears no more ! And, as the softening hand of Time endears The joys and sorrows of our infant years. So there the soul, released from human strife, Smiles at the little cares and ills of life ; Its lights and shades, its sunshine audits showers; As at a dream that charm' d her vacant hours ! Oft may the spirits of the dead descend To watch the silent slumbers of a friend ; To hover round his evening-waik unseen. And hold sweet converse on the dusky green; To hail the spot where once their friendship grew. And heaven and nature open'd to their view ! Oft, when he trims his cheerful hearth, and sees A smihng circle emulous to please ; There may these gentle guests delight to dwell. And bless the scene they loved in hfe so well 1 Oh thou! with whom my heart was wont to share From Reason's dawn each pleasure and each care ; With whom, alas ! I fondly hoped to know The humble walks of happiness below ; 8 114 KOGE'a>'s If thy blest nature now unues above An angel's pity with a brother's love, Still o'er my life preserve thy mild conti(*l, Correct my viev/s, and elevate my soul ; Grant me thy peace and purity of mind, Devout yet cheerful, active yet resign'd; Cram me, like tliee, whose heart knew ne disguise, Whose blameless wishes ne*'er aim'd to rise, To meet the changes Time and Chance present, With modest dignity and calm content. When thy last breath, ere Nature sunk to rest, Thy meek su'unission to thy God^.\press'd ; When thy last look, ere thouglit and feeling fled, A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed ; What to thy soul its glad assurance gave. Its hope in death, iis triumph o'er the grave ? The sweet Remembrance of unblemish'd youth, The stil! inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth! Hail, Me.viORY, hail ! in thy cxhaustless mine From age to age unnumber'd treasures shine I Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obry, And Place and Time are subjects to thy sway ! Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone ; The only pleasures we can call our own. Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die, If l)ut a tleeiing cloud obs'ure the sky ; If but a beam of sober Reason play, Lo, Fanty's fairy frost-work mtlts awav I FLEASL^KES OF MEMORY. 115 But can the wiles of Art, the firasp of Power, Snatch the ricli relics of a well-spent hour ? These, when the trembling spirit winss her flight. Pour round l^-r path a stream of living light : And gild those pure and perfect realms oi rest, Where Virtue triumplis, and hei sons are blest* 2i O T R v^l TO PLEASURES OF MEMORY. PART 11. p. 98, 1. 1 Tfwse still exist, fw There is a future Existence even in this world, afl Existence in the hearts and minds of those who shall live after us. It is in reserve for every man, how- ever obscure ; and his portion, if he he dilieent, must be, equal to his desires. For in whose remembrance can we wish to hold a place, but such as know, and are known by us 7 These are within the sphere of our influence, and among these and their descendants V e n'dv live for evermore. . 's a state of rewards and punishments ; and, like that revealed to us in the Gospel, has the happiest influence on our lives. The latter excites us to gain the favou! of God, the former to gain the love and esteem c* ise and good men ; and both lead to the same eiic . for, in framing ouj conceptions of the Deity, we only ascribe to Him exalted degrees of Wisdom and Goodness. 117 118 \OTES TO P. 102, 1. 3. Yet 5!i)) how sweet the smiliiiiis of kis art ! The astronomer chalkinsr his tlsrures on the wall, n Hogarth's view of Befllani, is an admirable exero- plificaiion of this idea. — See the Rake's Progress^ plate 8. P. 102, 1. 24. Turns l^ut to start, and i^zes but to sish I The followinsT stanzas are said to have been writle'* »n a blank leaf of this Poem. They present so alfec - ing a reverse of the picture, that I cannot resist tM opportunity of introducins; them here. PJf-asures of Memory !— oh I supremely blest, And justly proud beyond a Pnet's praise ; If the pure confines of thy tranquil breast Contain, iudeei, the subject of thy lays ! By me ha«- envied '.—for to me, The herald stiJl of misery. Memory makes htr influence known By sizhs. and tears, and grief alone : I ^reet her as the fiend, to whom be oug The vuitur.-'s ravenin; beak, the r.iven's funeral soog. ^"ie tells of time mispent, of comfort lost, Of fair occasions gone for ever by ; Of hopes too fondly nursed, too ludely crossed. Of many a cause to wish yet f<-ar to die ; Fnr what, except 'he ii^stinctive fe»r Lest she survive, de'ain- n»e here. When "all the life of life" i* fled ?— What, but the deep inherent aread. Lest she beyond the grave rrs'jme her reis:n, And realize tie hell that p'ies's and beldames feign > P 104, 1. 14. Hast thau through Eden's wild wood vales pursued. On the road-side between Penrith and Appleby, there stands a small pillar with this inscription: PLEASURES OF MEMOKY. 119 "This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c. for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cum- berland, on the 2d of April, 1616 ; in memory whereof she haih left an annuity of 4L to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every ''d day of April for ever, upon the stone table placed hard by. Laus Deo!" The Eden is the principal river of Cumberland, and rises in the wildest part of Westmoreland. P. 104, 1. 27. O'er his dead son the gallant Ormond si;h'd. " I would not exchange my dead son" said he, " for *ny living son in Christendom."— //^ume. The same sentiment is inscribed on an urn at the Leasowes. "Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari, quam tui meminisse !" P. 110, 1. 19. Down by St. Herbert's consecrated grove ; A small island covered with trees, among which were formerly the ruins of a religious house. P. Ill, 1. 9. When lo ! a sudden blast the vessel biew. In a mountain-lake the agitations are often violent and momentary. The winds blow in gusts and eddies ; and the water no sooner swells, than it sub- sides.— See Eourn'i: Hist, of IVestmoreland. P. 112,1. 17. To whit pure tieings, in a .lobler sphere ; The sevcal deg.ees of angels miiy probably have 130 NOTES TO PLEASURES OF MEMORY. larger views, and some of them be endowed with ca- pacities able to retain together, and constantly sel fcefore them, as in one picture, all their past know- laUge at once.— Z,oci«. BMD OF PLEASURES Or HEMOBW AKENSIDE'S PTRASURES OF IMAGINATION A POEM IN THREE BOOKS. Q/n^LoJ^&t.i .—Epict. apucl Arrian. II. 13» ARGl MENT The subject proposed. Difficulty of treating it poetically. The ideas of the Divine mind, the origin of every quality pleasing to the imagination. The natural variety of constitution in the minds of men ; With its final cause. The idea of a fine imagination, and the state of the n;ind in the enjoyment of those pleasures which it aifords. All the primary pleasures ol the imagination result from the perception of greatness, or wonderl'ulness, or beauty, in objects The pleasure from greatness, with its final cause. Pleasure from novelty or wonderfulness, with its final cause. Pleasure from beauty, with its iinal cause. The connexion of beauty with truth and good, applied to the conduct of life. Invitation to l.ie study of mora! jiliilosoji-hy. The different degrees of beauty in different species of objects : colour; Ehape ; natural concretes ; vegetables ; animals ; the mind. Tlie sublime, the lair, the wonderJul of the mind. The connexion of the iniagination and tha Dinral facull} Cjdc fion 129 THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION. BOOK I. With what attractive charms this goodly frame Of Nature touches the consenting hearts Of mortal men; and what the pleasing stores Which beauteous imitation thence derives To deck the poet's, or the painter's toil; My verse unfolds. Attend, ye gentle powers Of musical delight ! and while I sing Your gifts, your honours, dance around my strain. Thou, smiling queen of every tuneful breast, Indulgent Fancy ! from the fruitful banks Of Avon, whence thy rosy fingers cull Fresh flowers and dews to sprinkle on the turf Where Shakspeare Hes, be present : and with thee Let Fiction come, upon her vagrant wings Wofting ten thcMsaiid colours through the air, 124 ak£A'side's Which by the glances of her mji^ic eye, She blends and shifts at will, through countless forms, Her w-ld creation. Goddess of the lyre, Which rules the accents of the moving sphere, Wilt thou, eternal Harmony ! descend. And join this festive train ? for with thee cornea Tlie guide, the guardian of their lovely sports, Majestic Truth ; and where Truth deigns to come, Her sister Liberty \yill not be far. Be present all ye genii, who conduct The wandering footsteps of the youthful bard, New to your springs and shad js : who touch bin ear With finer sounds : who heighten to his eye The bloom of Nature ; and before him turn The gayest, happiest attitude of things. Oft have the laws of each poetic strain The critic-verse employ'd ; yet still unsung Lay this prime subject, though importing most A poet's name : for fruitless is th' attempt, By dull obedience and by creeping toil Obscure to conquer the severe ascent Of high Parnassus. Nature's kindling breath Must fire the chosen genius ; Nature's hand Must string his nerves, and imp his eagle- wings, impatient of the painful steep to soar High as the summit there to breathe at large PLEASURES OF HVIAGINAT. ON. 125 Ethereal air ; with bards and sages old, Immortal sons of praise. These flattering scenes, To this neglected hiboui court my song ; Yet not unconscious what a doleful task To paint the finest features of the mind, And to most subtle and mysterious things Give colour, strength, and motion. But the love Of Nature and the muses bids explore. Through secret paths ere while untrod by man, The fair poetic region, to detect Untasted springs, to drink inspiring draughts, And shade my temples with unfading flowers Cull'd from the laureate vale's profound recess. Where never poet gain'd a wreath before. From Heaven my strains begin ; from Heaven descends The flame of genius to the human breast, And love and beauty, and poetic joy And inspiration. Ere the radiant Sun Sprang from the east, or 'mid the vault of night The Moon suspended her serener lamp ; Ere mountains, woods, or streams, adorn'd the globe, Or Wisdom taught the sons of men her lore ; Then lived th' Almighty One : then, deep retired In his unfathom'd essence, view'd the forms, The forms eternal of created things ; The radiimt Sun, the Moon's nocturnal lamp, 126 akexside's The mouiitair.s, woods, and streams, the rolling globe, And Wisdom's mien celestial. From the first Of days, on them his love divine he fix'd, His admiration : till in time complete, What he admired and loved, his vital smile Unfolded into being. Hence the breath Of life informing each organic frame, Hence the green earth, and wild resounding waves ; Hence light and shade alternate ; warmth and cold ; And clear autumnal skies, and vernal showers, And all the fair variety of things. But not ahke to every mortal eye Is this great scene unveil' d. For smce the claims Of social Ufe to different labours urge The active powers of man ; with \\ ise intent The hand of Nature on peculiar minds Imprints a different bias, and to each Decrees its province in the common toil. To some she taught the fabric of the sphere, The changeful moon, the circuit of the stars, The golden zones of Heaven ; to some she gave To weigh the moment of eternal things. Of time, and space, and Fate's unbroken chain, And Will's q jick impulse : others by the hand She led o'er \ales and moun ains, to explore PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION. 12" What lieaiing virtue swell the tender veins 01" herbs and flov/ers ; or what the beams of morn Draw forth, disiiUing from the clefted rind In balmy tears. But some to higher hopes Were destiufd ; some within a finer mould She wrought and temper'd with a purer flame. To these the Sire Omnipotent unfolds The world's harmonious volume, there to read The transcript of himself. On every part They trace the bright impressions of his hand : In earth or air, the meadow's purple stores, The Moon's mild radiance, or the virgin's form Blooming with rosy smiles, they see portray'd That uncreated beauty, which delights The mind supreme. They also feel her charins Enamour'd ; they partake the eteraaUjoy. For as old Memnon's image long renown'd By favouring Nilus, to the quivering touch Of Titan's ray, with each repulsive string Consenting, sounded through the warbling ail Unbidden strains ; even so did Nature's hand To certain species of external things, Attune the finer organs of the mind : So the glad impulse of congenial powers. Or of sweet sounds, or fair-proportion'd form. The grace of motion, or the bloom of light, Thrills through Imagination's tender frame, From nerve to lerve : all naked and alive, 128 akensipe's They catch the spieadiiig rays ; till now the soiil At length discJuses every tuneful spring, To that harmonious luovemeni iroui without Responsive. Then the inexpressive strain Diffuses its enchaiUme.it ; Fancy dreams Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves, And vales of bliss : the intellectual power Bends from his awful throne a wondering ear And smiles: ihe passions, gently soothed away, Sink to divine repose, and love and joy Alone are waking ; love and joy serene As airs that fan the summer. O ! attend, Whoe'er thou art, whom these deUghts can touch, Whose candid bosom the refining love Of Nature warms, listen to my song ; And i will guide thee to her favourite walks, And teach*liiy sohtude her voice to hear, And point her loveliest features to thy view. Know then, whate'er of Nature's pregnant stores, Whate'er of mimic Art's reflected forms With love and admiration thus, inflame The powers of fancy, her delighted sons To three illustrious orders have referr'd; Three sister-graces, whom the painter's hand. The poet's tongue, confesses ; the subhme, The wonderful, the fair. I see them dawiii [ see the radiant visions, where they rise. More lovely than wher Lucifer displays PLEASimES OF IMAGINAIION. 1S!9 His beaming forehead through the gates of morn To lead the train of Phrebns and the Spring, Say, \vhy was man so eminently raised Amid the vast creation ; why ordain'd Through life and death to dart his piercing eye, With thoughts beyond the limits of his frame ; But that tb? Hinnipotent mi-^ht Fend him forth In sight o! :n:.vta! dnd iniiaoi-'al :;;WLrs, As on a boundless theatre to run The great career of justice ; to exalt His generous aim to all diviner deeds ; To chase car'n nariia! M-njio'^e from I'.is breast, And through the mist of passion and of sense, And through the tossing lide of c/iance and pain, To hold '.lis course uPifaltering, while the voice Of Truth and Virtue, up the sreep ascent Of Nature, calls him to his high reward, The applauding smile of heaven ? Else where- fore burns In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope, That breathes from day to day sublimer things, And marks possession? wherefore darts the mind, With such resistless ardour to embrace Majestic forms; impatient to be free, Spuming the gross control of wilful might ; Proud of the strong contention of her toils ; Proud to be daring ? Who but rather turns To Heaven's broad fire his unconstrained view Than to the gUmmering of a waxen flame f 9 180 aee'-side's ; Will/, that from Alpine heights, his .abouringeyc I Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey [ Nilus or Ganges rolling liis bright wave [ Through mountains, plains, through empires black with shade. And continents of sand ; will turn his saze To mark the windinss of a scanty riil That murmurs at his feet ? The high born soul Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing Beneath its native quarry. Tired of Earth And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft Through fields of ni^ ; p irsues the flying storm; Rides on the voUey'd lightning through the heavens; \) Or, yoked with vvhirl winds, and the nothern blast, ;! Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she ■1 soars )i The blue profound, and hovering round the Sun, Beholds him pouring the redundant stream Of Ughi ; beholds his unrelenting sway Bend the reluctant planets to absolve The fated rounds of Time. Thence far effused She darts her swiftness up the long career Of devious comets ; through its burning sign* bixulting measures the perennial wheel Of Nature, and looks back on all 'he stars, Y Whose blended light, as with a n.ilky zone, 1; Invest the orient. Now amazed she views The empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold, Beyond th's concave heaven, their calm abode; PLEABUKE'S OF I5TAGINATI0N. 131 And fields of radiance, whose unfading light lias travell'd the profound six thousand years, Nor yet arrives hi sight of mortal things. Even on the barriers of the world untired She meditates the eternal depth below ; Till half recoiling, down the he'idlong steep She plunges; soon o'erwhelm'd and swaU low'd up In that immense of being. There hei' hopes Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said, That not in humlde nor in brief delight, Not in the fading echoes of Renown, Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap The soul should find enjoyment : but from these Turning disdai^iful to an equal good. Through all the ascent of tilings enlarge herview, Till every bound at length should disappear, And infinite perfection close the scene. Call now to mind what high capacious powers Lie folded up in man ; how far beyond The praise of mortals, may the eternal growth Of Nature to perfection half divine, Expand the blooming soul ? What pity then Should Sloth's ankindly fogs depress to Earth Her tender blossom ; choke the streams of life. And blast her spring ! Far otherwise design'd Almighty Wisdom ; Nature's happy cares The nbt dient heart far otherwise incline. 132 AKEN?lt)E'S Witnftas the sprightly joy when aught unkTiown Strikes the quick sense, a'-d wakes each active power To brisker measures ; \\'itness the nenlect Of all familiar prospects, though beheld With transport once ; the fond atteiuive gaze Of young astonishment ; the sober zeal Of age, comnienliug on prodigious things, For such the bounteous Providence of Heaven In every breast implanting this desire Of objects new, and strange, to urge us on With unremitted labour to pursue Those sacred stores that wait the ripening soul • In Trutlj's exhaust less bosom. What need words To pauit its power ? For this the daring youth Breaks from his weeping mother's anxious arms, In foreign climes to rove : the pensive sage, Heedless of sleep, or midnight's harmful damp, Hangs o'er the sickly taper ; and untired The virgin follows, with enchanted step, The mazes of soine wild and wondrous taie, From morn to eve ; unmindful of her form, Unmindful of the happy dress that stole The wishes of the youth, when every maid With envy pined. Hence, finally, by night The village matron, round the blazing hearth, Suspends the infant audience with her tales, Breathing astonishment ! of witching rhymea And evil spirits ; of the death-bed call Of aim wh robb'd the widow, and devour'd PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION. 133 The OTphans' portion ; oi unquiet souls Risen from ihe grave to ease the heavy guilt Of deeds in lite conceal'd ; of shapes that walk A.t dead of night, aiid clank, their chains, and wave The torch of Hell around the murderer's bed. At every solemn pause the crovd recoil, Gazing each other speechless, and congeal'd With shivering sighs ; till eager for the event, Around the beldame all erect they hang, Each trembling heart wi':h grateful terrors quell' d But lo ! disclosed ir. all her smiling pomp, Where beauty onward moving claims the verse Her charms inspire : the iieely-flowing verse In thy immortal praise, O form divine, Smooths her mellifluent stream. Thee, Beauty thee, The regal dome, and thy enlivening ray The mossy roofs ado:e: thou, i:e 'ler Sun! For ever beamest on the enchanted heart Love, and harmonious wonder, and delight Poetic. Brightest progeny of Heaven ! How shall I trace thy features ? where select The roseate hues to emulate thy bloom ? Haste then, my sons, through Nature's wide expanse. Haste then, and gather all her comeUest wealth, Whaie'er bright spoils the florid earth contains, Whate'er the waters, or the Uquid air. To deck thy lovely labour. Wilt thou fly 134 AK£-NSIli2'S With Ia\igning Autuaii) lo the Atiatitic /sles, And range wiih him ihe Hesperian field, and set Where'er his fingers lou; h ;he iruitlul grove, The branches shooi uiih gold ; where'er his step Marks ihe glud soil, liie tender clusters grow With purple ripeness, a!:d invest each hill As wirh the blushes of an evening sky ? Or wilt thou rather stoop thy vagrant plume, Where gUding through his daughter's honour'd shades, The smooih Peneus from his glassy flood Reflects purpureal Tempe's pleasant scene? Fair Tempe I haunt beloved oi sylvan powers, Of Nymphs and Fauns ; where iii the golden age They play'd in secret on the shady brink With ancient Fan ; while round their choral steps Young Hoursand genial Gales wiih constant hand Shower'd blossoms, odours, shower'd embrosial dews. And Spring's Elysi^n uloom. Her flowery store To thee nor I'empe shall refuse ; nor watch Of winged Hydra guard Hesperian fruits From thy free spoil. bear then, unreproved. Thy smiling treasures to the green recess Where young Dione stays. With sweetest air« Entice her forfh to lend her angel-ibrm For Beauty's honour'd image. Hither turn Thy graceful footsteps; hither, gentle maid. Incline thy polish' d forehead : let thine eyes Effuse the mildness of their azure dawn; PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION. 135 And may the fanning breezes waft, aside Thy radiant locks : disclosing, as it bends With airy softness from the marble neck, The cheek fair-blooming, and the rosy lip, Where winning smiles and pleasures sweet aa love, With sanctity and wisdom, tempering blend Their soft allurement. Then the pleasing force Of Nature, and her kind parental care, Worthier I'd sing: then all the enamour' d youth, With each admiring virgin, to my lyre Should throng attentive, while I point on high Where Beauty's living image, like the morn That wakes in Zephyr's arms the blushing May, Moves onward ; or as Venu«i, when she stood Effulgent on the pearly car, and smiled. Fresh from the deep, and conscious of her form To see the Tritons tune their vocal shells, And each cerulean sister of the flood With loud acclaim attend her o'er the waves, To seek the Idalian bower. Ye smiling band Of youths and virgins, who through all themaz* Of youns: desire with rival s'eps pursue This charm of beauty ; if the pleasing toil Can yield a moment's respite, hither turn Your favourable ear. and trust my words. I do not mean to wake the gloomy form Of Superstition dress'd in wisdom's garb, To damp your tender hopes ; I do not raenn To bid the jealous thunderer fire the heaven* r36 akenside's Or shapes inferna. rend the gioaning E]arth To fright you from your joys : my cheerful song With better omens calls you to the iield, Pleased with your generous ardour in the chase. And warm like you. Then tell me, for ye know. Does Beauty ever deign to dwell where health Ar.d active use are strangers ? Is her charm Confess'd in aught, whose most peculiar ends Are lame and fruitless ? Or did Nature mean This pleasing call the herald of a lie ; To hide the shame of discord and disease, And catch with fairy hypocrisy the heart Of idle faith ? O no: with better cares The indulgent mother, conscious how infirm Her offspring tread the paths of good and ill, By this illustrious image, in each kind Still most ilUistrious where the object holds Its native powers most perfect, she by this Illumes the headstrong impulse of desire, And sanctifies his choice. The generous glebe Whose bosom smiles with verdure, the clear tract Of streams delicious to the thirsty soul, The bloom of nectar'd fruitage ripe to sense. And every charm of animated things, Are only pledges of a state sincere, The integrity and order of their frame. When all is well within, and every end Accomplish'd. Thus was Beauty sent froxn heaven, The lovely rrinistress of truth and good PLEASI7JIES Of IMAGINATIO^r. 137 In this dark world : for truth and good are one And Beauty dwells in them, and the}' in her, With like participation. Vv^'herefore, th'^n, O sons of earth ! would ye dissolve l!'"- .ie ? O wherefore, with a rash impetuous aun, Seek ye those flowery joys with which the hand Of lavish Fancy paints each flattering scene Where Beauty seems to dwell, nor once enquire Where is the sanction of eternal truth, Or where the seal of undeceitful good. To save your search from folly ! Wanting these, Lo ! Beauty withers in your void embrace, And with the glittering of an idiot's toy Did Fancy mock your vows. Nor let the gleam Of youthful hope, that shines upon your hearts, Be chill' d or clouded at this awful task, To learn the lore of undeceitful good, And truth eternal. Though the poisonous charms Of baleful Superstition guide the feet Of servile numbers through a dreary way To their abode, through deserts, thorns, and mire; And leave the wretched pilgrim all forlorn To muse at last, amid the ghostly gloom Of graves, and hoary vaults, and cloister'd cells ; To walk wi'.h spectres through the midnight shade, And to the screaming owl's accursed song Attune the dreadful workings of his heart ; Yet be not ye dismay'd. A gentler star Your, lovely seavch illumines. From the grove 138 akenside's Where Wisdom talk'd with her Achenian ions, Could my ap.ibitious hand entwine a wreath Of Plato's olive with the Mantuan bay, Then should my powerful verse at once dispel Those ijio.ikiah horrors : then m light divine Disclose the Elysian prospect, where the steps Of those whom Nature charms, through bloom ing walks, Through fragrant mountains and poetic streamg, Amid the train of sages, heroes, bards, Led by their winged Genius and the choir Of laurel'd Science, and harmonious Art, Proceed, exulting, to the eternal shrine, Where Truth conspicuous with her sister-twina. The undivided partners of her sway. With Good and B^'auty reigns. O let not us, Lull'd by luxurious Pleasure's languid atrain, Or crouching to the frowns of Bigot rage, O let us not a moment pause to join That godlike band. And if the gracious Powef Who first awaken'd my untutor'd song. Will to my invocation breathe anew The tuneful spirit ; then through all our paths, Ne'er shall the sound of this devoted lyre Be wanting ; whether on the rosy mead, When summer smiles, to warm the melting heart Of Luxury's allurement , whether firni Against the torrent and the stubborn hill To urge told Virtue's unremitting nerve. PLEAStJHES OF li»l AGINATION. 139 And wake the strong divinity oi' soul That conquers Chance aud Fate ; or whether siruck For sounds of triumph, to proclaim her toils Upon the loiiy summit, rourid her brow To twine the wreath of incorruptive praise ; To trace her hallow'd light throughfuture worlds, And bless Heaven's image in the heart of man. Thus with a faithful aim have we presumed, Adventurous, to delineate Nature's form ; Whether in vast majestic pomp array'd, Or dresi for pleasing wonder, or serene In Beauty's rosy smile. It now remains.. Through various being's fair-proportion'd scale, To trace the rising lustre of her charms, From their first twilight, shining forth at length To full meridian splendour. Of Degree The least and lowliest, in the effusive warmth Of colours minghng with a random blaze, Doth beauty dwell. Then higher in the line And variation of determined shape. Where Truth's eternal measures mark the bound Of circle, cube, or sphere. The third ascent Unites this varied symmetry of parts With colour's bland allurement ; as the pearl Shines in the concave of its azure bed And painted shells indent their speckled wreath. Then more attractive rise the blooming forms, 140 akenside's Through which the breath of Nature nas infused Her genial power to draw with pregnant veins Nutritious muistfire from the bo'.inteous Earth, in fruit and seed proUtic : thus the flowers Their purple honours with the spring resume ; And thus the slatf ly tree with Autumn bends With blushing treasures. But more lovely stiK Is Nature's charm, where to the full consent Of comphcated members to the i.loora Of colour, and the vital change of growth, Life's holy flame and piercing sense are given, And active motion :?peaks iho temper'd soul : So moves the bird of Juno ; so the steed With rival ardour beats the dusky plain, And faithful dogs, with eager airs of joy, Salute their fellows. Thus doth Beauty dwell There most conspicuous, even in outward shape, Where dawns the high expression of a mind : By steps conducting our enraptured search To that eternal origin, whose pov/er, Through all the unbounded symmetry of things Like rays effulging from the parent Sun, This endless mixture of her charms diffused. Mind, mind alone, (bear ^^•itness Earth and Heaven !) The living fountains in itself contains Of beauteous and sublime: here, hand in hand Sit paramount the Graces ; here enthroned, Celestial Venus, with divinest airs. Invites the soul tc never-fading joy. PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION, 141 liOok then abroad through Nature, to tl e range Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, Wheehng unshaken through the void immense; And speak, O m»iii ! does this capacious scene With half tha* kindUng majesty dilate The strong conception, as when Brutus rose Refulgent from the stroke of Caesar's fate, Amid the crowd of patriots ; and his arm Aloft extending, Uke eternal Jove, When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud On Tully's name, and shook his crimson stee». And bade the father of his country hail ? For lo I the tyrant prostrate on the dust, And Rome again is free ! is aught so fair In all the dewy landscapes of the Spring, In the bright eye of Hesper or the Morn, In Nature's fairest forms, is aught so fair As virtuous Friendship ? as the candid blush Of him wiw strives with fortune to be just ? The graceful tear that streams for others' woes * Or the mild majesty of private hfe, Where Peace with ever-blooming olive crowns The gate ; where Honour's liberal hands effuse Unemded treasures, and the snowy wings Of Innocence and Love protect the scene ? Once more search, undismay'd, the dark pro found Where Nature works in secret ; view the beds Of mineral treasure, and the eternal vault 142 akenstie's That bounds the hoary Ocean ; tracie the forrm Of atoms moving with incessant change Their elemenlal round ; behold the seeds Of bein^, and the energy of hfe, Kindhng the mass with ever active flame : Then to the secrets of the working mind Attentive turn ; from dim ol livion call Her tieet, ideal band ; and bid them, go! Break through Time's barrier, and o'ertakc the hour That saw the heavens created : then declare If aught were found in those external scenes To move thy wonder now. For what are all The forms which brute, unconscious matte* wears, Greatness of bulk, or symmetry of parts? Not reaching to the heart, soon feeble grows The superficial impulse : dull their charms, And satiate soon, and pall the languid eye. Not so the moral species, nor rhe powers Of genius and design ; the ambitious mind There sees herself: by these congenial forms Touch' d and awaken' d with intenser act She bends each nerve, and meditates well-pleased Her features in the mirror. For of all The inhabitants of Earth, to man alone Crea'.ive Wisdom gave to lift his eye To Truth's eternal mensures; thence to fram* The sacred laws of action and of will, Discerning jv slice from unequal deetis. PIEAS».'"K.Xfc ()T rMAGTXATION, 143 And tttiiperanct- from hWy. But beyond This energy of Tiu:h, vvh.Tje dictates bind A-Ssenting roason, the benignaat sire, To deck the honour' d paths o\" just and good. Has added bright Irnaffination't) rays : Where Virtue, rising from the awful depth Of Truth's mysterious bosom, doth forsake The unadorn'd condition of her birth ; And, dress'd by Fancy in ten thousand bue». Assumes a various feature, to attract. With charms responsive to each gazor's eye. The hearts of men. Amid his rural walk, The ingenious you'h, whom solitude inspires With purest wishes, from the pensive shade Beholds her moving, like a virtrin-muse That wakes her lyre to some indulgent theme Of harmony and wonder ; while among The herd of servile minds her strenuous form Indignant flashes on the patriot's eye, And throusfh the roll of memory appeals To ancient honour, or, in act serene. Yet watchful, raises ihe majesuc sword Of public power, from dark ambition's reach To guard the sacred volume of the laws. f Jenius of ancient Greece ! whose faithful stept Well-pleased T follow through the sacred paths Of Nature and of Science ; nurse divine Of heroic deeds and fair desires ! O ! let the breath of thy extended praise (44 AKEXSIDE « tnspiie my kindling bosom to the height Ot this untenipied theme. Nor be my thoughts Presumptuous counted, it amid the calm That soothes this vernal evening into smilea I steal impatient from the sordid haunts Of Strite and low Ambition, to attend Thy sacred presence in the sylvan shade, By their malignant footsteps ne'er profaned. Descend propitious ! to my favoa''deye; Such in thy mien, thy warm exalted air, As when the Persian tyrant, foil'd and stung With shame and desperation, gnash' d his teett To see thee rend the pageants of his throne ; And at tiie lightning of thy lifted spear Crouch' d like a slave. Bring all thy martial spoils, Thy palms, thy laurels, thy triumphal songs, Thy smiUng band of a::s, thy godlike sires Of civil wisdom, thy heroic youth Warm from the schools of glory. Guide my way Throush fair Lyceum's walk, th^ £reen retreats Of Academus, and tne thytny vaie. Where, oft enchanted with Socratic so mds, Ilissus pure devolved his tuneful stream. In gentler murmurs. From the blooming store Of these auspicious fields, may I unblamed Transpla-t some living blossoms to adorn j\ly native clime : while far above the flight Of Fancy's pluuic aspiring 1 unlock The springs oi' ancient Wisdom ! while I join PUtASTJRES OF IMAGINATION. 146 Thy name, thrice - honour d ! witn me immortal praise Of Nature, while to my coiiip itriot youth I point the hifih example of thy sons, And tune to Attic themes the British iff. ARSNSIDE'P PlFASLRESOr .xM AGINATION! U06k ^1. ARGUMENT. The ocpaialkn of the works of imaginalion frcin philosophy, the cause of their abuse among the mo- derns. Prospect of their reunion under the influence of public liberty. Enumeration of accidental plea- sures, which increase the eflfect of objects delightful to the imagination. The pleasures of sense. Par- ticular circumstances of the mind Discovery of truth. Perception of contrivance and design. Eino- i^on of the passions. All the natural passions partake of a pleasing sensation; with the final cause of thii eorstil ation illustrated by an allegorical vision, an^ exeiu|ilm«d a sorrow, pity, terror, and indignation. 148 TH8 PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION BOOK II When shall the laurel and the vocal stnng Resume their honours ? When shall we be*Qold The tuneful tongue, the Promethean hand, Aspire to ancient praise ? Alas ! how faint, How slow, the dawn of Beauty and of Truth Breaks the reluctant shades of Gothic night, Which yet involve the nations ! Long they groan' d Beneath the furies of rapacious Force ; Oft as the gloomy North, with iron swarms Tempestuous pouring from her frozen caves, Blasted the Italian shore, and swept the works Of Liberty and Wisdom down the gulf Of all-devouring night. As long immured In noontide darkness by the ghmmering lamp. Each Muse and each fair Science pined away The sordid hours : while foul, barbarian hands 149 150 akenside's Their mysteries profaned, unstrung Vac lye, And chain'd the soaring oinion down to Earth. At last the Muses rose, an i spurn' d their bounds, And, wildly warbling, scatter'd as they flew, Their blooming wreaths from fair Valclusa'a bowers To Arno's myrtle border, and the shor^ Of soft Parthenope. But still the rage Of dire Ambition and gigantic Power, From public aims and from the busy walk Of civil Commerce, drove the bolder train Of penetrating. Science to the cells. Where studious Ease consumes the silent honr In shadowy searches and unfruitful care. Thus from their guardians torn, the tender arta Of mimic Fancy, and harmonious Joy, To priestly domination and the lust Of lawless courts, their amiable toii For three inglorious ages have resign'd, In vain reluctant : and Torquato's tongue Was tuned for slavish paeans at the throne Of tinsel pomp : and Raphael's magic hand Eflfused its fair creation to enchant The fond adoring herd in Latian fanes To blind behef ; while on their prostrate neckf The sable tyrant plants his heel secure. But now, behold ! the radiant era dawns, When Freedom's ample fabric, fix'd at length For endless years on Albion's happy shore In full proportion, once moi'e shall extend PLEASTTKES C :■ IMAGINATION. 151 To all the kindred powers of social bliss, A common mansion, a parental roof. There shall the Virtues, there shall Wisdom's train, Their long-lost friends rejoining, as of old, Embrace the smiling family of Arts, The Muses and the Graces. Then no more Shall Vice, distracting their dehcious gifts To aims abhorr'd, with high distaste and scorn Turn from their charms the philosophic eye, The patriot-bosom ; then no more the paths Of public care or intellectual toil. Alone by footsteps haughty and severe In gloomy state be trod : the harmonious Muee, And her persuasive sisters, then shall plant Their sheltering laurels o'er the black ascent, And scatter flowers along the rugged way. Arm'd with the lyre, already have we dared To pierce divine Philosophy's retreats, And teach the Muse her lore ; already strove Their long-divided honours to unite, Vhile tempering this deep argument we sang Of Truth and Beauty. Now the same glad task Impends ; now urging our ambitious toil, We hasten to recount the various springs Of adventitious pleasure which adjoin Their grateful influence to the prime efTect Of objects grand or beauteous, and enlarge The complicated joy. The svveets of sense, Do thev not oft with kind accession flow L52 akenside's To raise harmonious Fancy's ijative charm t So while we taste the fragrance of the rose, Glows not her blush the fairer ? While we v'ew Amid the noontide walk a Umpid rill Gush through the trickling herbage, to the thirs! Of Summer yielding the delicious draught Of cool refreshment ; o'er the mossy brink Shines not the surface clearer, and the waves With sweeter music murmur as they flow ? Nor this alone ; the various lot of hfe Oft from external circumstance assumes A moment's disposition to rejoice In those delights which at a different hour Would pass unheeded. Fair the face of Sprinj When rural songs and odours wake the Mora To every eye ; hut how much more to his Round whom the bed of sickness long diffused Its melancholy gloom ! how doubly fair, When first with fresh-born vigour he inhales The balmy breeze, and fr-els the blessed Sun Warm at his bosom, from the springs of life Chasing oppressive damp-s and languid pain ! Or shall I mention, where crleslial Truth Her awful light discloses, to bestow A more majestic pompon Beauty's frame ? For man loves knowledge, and the beams o! Truth More w jlcorae touch his understanding's p.)»«. PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION. 153 Than all the blandishments of sound his ear, Than all of taste his tongue. Nor ever yet The melting rainbow's vernal-liactared hues To me have shone so pleasing as whm Tirst The hand of Science pointed out the pa:h . In which the sunbeams gleaming from the west Fall on the watery cloud, whose darksome veil Involves the orient ; and that trickling shower Piercing through every crystalline convex Of clustering dew-drops to their flight opposed Recoil at length where concave all behind The internal surface on each glassy orb Repels their forward passage into air ; That thence direct they seek the radiant goal From which their course began ; and, as they strike In different lines, the gazer's obvious eye, Assumes a different lustre, through thebrede Of colours changing from the splendid rose, To the pale violet's dejected hue. Or shall we touch that kind access of jo*. That springs to each fair object, while we trace Through all its fabric. Wisdom's artful aim Disposing every part, and gaining still By means proportion'd her benignant end ? Bpeak, ye, the pure delight, whose favour'd steps The lamp of Science through the jealous maae Of Nat ire guides, when haply you reveal 154 akenside's Het geoiet honours : whether in the skv. The beauteous laws of hght, the central powerg That wheel the pensile planets round the year ; Whether in wonders of the rolUiig deep, Or the rijh fruits of all-sustaining earth, Or fine-adjusted springs of life and sense, Ye scan the counsels of their author's hand. What, when to raise the meditated scene, The flame of passion through the struggling soul Deep-kindled, shows across that sudden blaze The object of its rapture, vast of size, With fiercer colours and a nicrht of shade ? What ? Uke a ilo-m from their capacious bed The sounding seas o'erwlielming, when the might Of these eruptions, working from the depth Of man's strong apprehension, shakes hisfi^ame Even to the base ; from every naked sense Of pain or pleasure dissipating all Opinion's feeble coverings, and the veil Spun from the cobweb fashion of the times To hide the feeling heart ? Then Mature speaka Her genuine language, and the words of men. Big with the very motion of their souls, Declare with what accumulated force The impetuous nerve of passion urges on The native wiight and energy of things. Yet more : her honours where nor beauty clains PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION. 153 Noi shows of good the thirsty sense allure, From Passion's power alone our nature holds Essential pleasure. Passion's fierce illaspe Rouses the mind's whole fabric ; with supplies Of daily impulse keeps the elastic powers Intensely poised, and polishes anew By that colHsion all the fine machine : Else rust would rise, and foulness by degrees Encumbering, choke at last what Heaven de- sign' d For ceaseless motion and a round of toil. —But say, does every passion thus to man Administer delight ? That name indeed Becomes the rosy breath of Love ; becomes The radiant smiles of Joy, the applauding hand Of Admiration : but the bitter shower That Sorrow sheds upon a brother's grave, But the dumb palsy of nocturnal Fear, Or those consuming fires that gnaw the heart Of panting Indignation, find we there To move delight ? — Then listen while my tongua The nnalter'd will of Heaven -vith faithful awe Reveals ; what old Harmodius. wont to teach My early age ; Harmodius, who had weigh'd Within his learned mmd whate'er the schools Of Wisdom, or thy lonely- whispering voice O fahhful Nature ! dictate of the laws Which govern and support this mighty frame Of universal being. Oft the hours From morn to ave have stolen unmark'd away 56 akenside's While mute attention hung upon his lips As thus the sa^e his awful tale began. " 'Tvvasin the windings of an ancient wood, When spotless youth withsohtude resigns To sweet philosophy the studious day, What time pale Autumn shades the silent eve, Musing I roved. Of good and evil much, And much of mortal man, my thoughts re volved ; When starting full on Fancy's gushing eye Tiie mournful image of Parthenia'sfate, That hour, O long beloved and long deplored ! When blooming youth, nor gentlest Wisdom'i arts. Nor Hymen's honours gather'd for thy brow, Nor all thy' lover's, all thy father's tears. Avail'd to snatch thee from the cruel grave; Thy agonizing looks, thy last farewell, Struck to the inmost feeling of my soul As with the hand of Death. At once the shade More horrid nodded o'er me, and the winds With hoarser murmuring shook the branches Dark As midnight storms, the scene of human things Appear' d before me : deserts, burning sands, Where the parch'd adder dies : the frozen south, And Desolation blasting all the west W/th rapine and with murder : tyrant Power PLEASITRES OF IMAGHNAT:0N. 15? Here sits enthroned with blood ; the baleful charms Of Superstition there infect the skies, And turn the Sua to horror. Gracious Heaven * What is the life of man ? Or cannot these, Not these portents thy awful will suffice ? That, propagated thus beyond their scope, They rise to act their cruelties anew In my afHicted bosom, thus decreed The universal sensitive of pain. The wretched heir of evils not its own ! " Thus I impatient : when at once eflfused, A flashing torrent of celestial day Burst through the shadowy void. Whh slew descent A purple cloud came floating through the sky And, poised at length witnin the circUng trees, Hung obvious to my view ; till opening wide Its lucid orb, a more than human form Emerging lean'd majestic o'er my head, And instant thunder shook the conscious grove Then melted into air the liquid cloud. Then all the shining Nision stood reveal' d. A wreath of palm his ample forehead bound, And o'er his shoulder mantling to his knee, Flow'd the transparent robe, around his waist Collected with a radiant zone of gold Ethereal ; there in mystic signs engraved, ^ read his office High, and sacred name, 158 akexside's Genius of human-kind. Appafl'd I gazed The godlike presence ; for atlawarl his brow Displeasure, tempered %\'it_h a mild concern, Look'd down reluctant on'me, and his words Like distant thunders broke the murmuring " ' Vain are thy thoughts, child of mortal birth ! And impotent thy tongue. Is thy short span Capacious of this universal frame ? Thy wisdom all sufficient ? Thou, alas ! Dost thou aspire to judge between the Lord Of Nature and his works ? to hft thy voice Against the sovereign order he decreed, All good and lovely ? to blaspheme the bands Of tenderness innate, atid social love, Holiest of things I by which the general orb Of being, as by adamantine hnks, Was drawn to perfect union, and sustain'd From everlasting ? Hast thou felt the pangs Of softening sorrow, of indignant zeal, So grievous to the soul, as thence to wish The ties of Xature broken from thy frame ; That so thy selfish, unrelenting heart Might cease to mourn its lot, no longer theii The wretched heir of evils not its own ? O fair benevolence of generous minds! man by Na ure form'd for all mankiuil* PLEASUkES OF IMAGINATION, li>9 " lie spcke ; abash'd and silent I remain'd, A.S conscious of tny tongue's oifence, and awed Bel.bre his presence, though my secret soul Disdaui'd the imputation. On the ground I fix'd my eyes ; till from his airy couch He stoop'd sublime, and touching with his hand My dazzling forehead, ' Raise thy sight,' he cried, And let thy sense convince thy erring longte.' "I look'd, and lo ! the former scene waa changed ; For verdant alleys and surrounding trees, A sohtary prospect, wide and wild, Rush'd on my senses. 'Twas an horrid pile Of hills, with many a shaggy forest mix'd, With many a sable cliff and glittering stream. Aloft, recumbent o'er the hanging ridge, The brown woods waved ; while ever- trickling springs Wash'd from the naked roots of oak and pine The crumbhng soil ; and still at every fall Down the steep windings of the channel'd rock, Remurmuring rush'd the congregated floods With hoarser inundation ; till at last They reach'd a grassy plain, which from tha skirts Of that high d^^sert spread her verdant lap, And drank tbi gushing moisture where, con fined Ifirt akenside's [n one smooth current, o'er the lilied Aale Clearer than glass it flow'd. Autumnal spoils. Luxuriant spreading to the rays of morn, Blush' d o'er the cliffs, whose half encircliaf mound As in a sylvan theatre inclosed That flowery level. On the river's brink I spied a fair pavilion, which diffused Its floating umbrage 'rnid the silver shade Of osiers. Now the western Sun reveal'd Between two parting cliffs his golden orb. And pour'd across th« shadow of the hills, On rocks and floods, a yellow stream of light That cheer' d the solemn scene. My listening powers Were awed, and every thought in silence hung And wondering expectation. Then the ^oice Of that celestial power, the mystic show Declaring thus my deep attention call'd. " ' Inhabitants of Earth, to whom is given The gracious ways of Providence to learn, Receive my sayings with a steadfast ear — Know then, the sovereign Spirit of the woild. Though, self-collected from eternal time, Within his own deep essence he beheld The bounds of true felicity complete ; Yet by immense benignity inclined To spread around him that primeval joy Which fiU'd himself, he raised his plastic arm, PLEISTTRES OF IMAGINATION. 161 Ar.J sounded through the hollow depth of space The strong, creative mandate. Straight arose These heavenly orbs, the glad abodes of life Effusive kindled by his breath divine Through endless forms of being. Each inhaled From him its portion of the vital flame, In measure such, that, from the wide complex Of co-existent orders, one might rise, One Order, all-involving and entire, He too beholding in the sacred light Of his esse .iial reason, all the shapes Of swift contingence, all successive ties Of action propagated through the sum Of possible existence, he at once, Down the long series of eventful time, So fix'd the dates of being, so disposed, To every living soul of every kind The field of motion and the hour of rest, That all conspired to his supreme design, To universal good : with full accord Answering the mighty model he had chosen The best and fairest of unnumber'd worlds. That lay from everlasting in the store Of his divine conceptions. Nor content, By one exertion of creative power His goodness to reveal ; through every age. Through every moment up the tract of time. His parent-hand, with every new increase Of happiness and virtue, has adorn'd The vast harmonious frame : his parent-hand, 11 162 akenside's From the mute shell-fish gasping on tht shore, To men, to angels, to celestial minds, For ever leads the generations on To higher scenes of being ; while, supplied From day to day %vith his enhvening breath. Inferior orders in succession rise To fill the void below. As flame ascends, As bodies to their proper centre move, As the poised ocean to the attracting Moon Obedient swells, and every headlong stream Devolves its winding waters to the main ; So all things which have life aspire to God, The sun of being, boundless, unimpair'd, Centre of souls ! Nor does the faithful voice Of Nature cease to prompt their eager steps Aright ; nor is the care of Heaven withheld From granting to the task proportioned aid ; That in their stations all may persevere To chmb the ascent of being, and approach For ever nearer to the life divine. *' ' That rocky pile thou see'st, that verdant lawn, Fresh-waier'd from the mountams. Let Am scene Paint in thy fancy the primeval seat Of man. and where the will supreme ordain'd His mansion, that pavilion fair difirised Along the shady brink ; in this recess To wear 'he appointed season of his youth, PLEASURES OF IJMA , INATION, 163 Till riper hours should open to his toil The high communion of superior minds, Of consecrated heroes and of gods. Nor did the Sire Omnipotent forget His tender bloom to cherish ; nor withheld Celestial footsteps from his green abode. Oft from the radiant honours of his throne, He sent whom most he loved, the sovereign fail^ The effluence of his glory, whom he placed Before his eyes for ever to behold ; The goddess from whose inspiration flows The toil of patriots, the delight of friends , Without whose work divine, in Heaven or Earta, Naught lovely, naught propitious, comes to pass, Nor hope, nor praise, nor honour. Her the Sire Gave it in charge to rear the blooming mind, The folded powers to open, to direct The growth luxuriant of his young desires, And from the laws of this majestic world To teach him what was good. As thus the nymph Her daily care attended, by her side With constant steps her gay companions stay'd The fair Euphrosyne, the gentle queen Of smiles, and graceful gladness, and dehghts That cheer alike the hearts of mortal men And powers immortal. See the shining pair ! Behold, where from his dwelling now disclosed, They quit their youthful ;.harge and seek the skies.' IGi akenside's ' I look'd, aiid on the flowery turf there stood, Be Avecn two radiant forms, a saiiling youth, Whose tender cheeks display' d the vernal flowei Of beauty ; sweetest innocence llumed His bashful eyes, and on his polish'd brow Sate young Simplicity. With fond regard He -view'd the associates, as their steps tjey moved ; The younger chief his ardent eyes detain'd, With mild regret invoking her return. Bright as the star of evening she appear'd Amid the dusky scene. Eternal youlh O'er all her form its glowing honours breathed, And smiles eternal from her Caudid eyes Flow'd, hke the dewy lustre of the morn Effusive trembhng on the placid waves. The spring of Heaven had shed i:s blushing ppoils To bind her sable tresses : full diffused Her yellow mantle floated in thp breeze ; And in her hand she waved a living branch Kich with immortal fruits, of power to calm The wratht\il heart, and from the brightening eyes To chase the cloud of sadness. More sublime The heavenly partner moved. The prime of cige Composed tier steps. The preserce of a god, High on the circle of her brow enthroned, From each maiestic morion darted awe, Devoted awe till, cherish' d by her looks Benevoleiu "mi meet, confiding love L=. ■JtEASUKES OF IMAGIiXATlOir ]6o To filial rapture sol.'en'd all the soul. Free iu her graceiul hand she poised the •^woi'd Of chaste dominion. An heroic crown Display'd the old simplicity oi pomp Around her honour'd head. A matron's robe, White as the sunshine streams through vernal clouds, Her stately form invested. Hand in hand The immortal pair forsook the enamel' d green, Ascending slowly. Rays of limpid light Gleam'd round their path; celestial sounds wer^ heard, And through the fragrant air ethereal dews Distill'd around them ; till at once the clouds Disparting wide in midway sky withdrew Their airy veil, and left a bright expanse Of empyrean flame, where, spent and drown'd. Afflicted vision plunged in vain to scan What object it involved. My feeble eyes Endured not. Bendmg down to earth, I stood, With dumb attention. Soon a female voice, As watery murmurs sveet, or warbling shades, With sacred invocation ^hus began. " ' Father of gods and mortals I whose n'gh arm With reins eternal guides the moving heavens, Bend thy propitious ear. Behold well-pleased [ seek to fmish thy divine decree. With frequent steos 1 visit yonder seat IG6 AKEIfSl^iE'S Of man, thy offspring; Irurn the tender seeds Of justice and of wisdom, to evolve The latent honours ot his generous frame ; nil thy conducting hand shall raise his lot From earth's dim scene to those ethereal waiksi The temple of thy glory. But not me, Not my directing voice, he oft requires. Or hears de light ei' : this en;-hanting maid, l"he associate thou hast given me, her alone He loves, O Father ! absent, her he craves; Vnd but ir, ^er glad presence ever join'd, Rejoice? ,■ a in mine : that all my hopes This t'..- oenignant purpose to luldl, I de'.i^. uncertain : and my daily cares Ur .fitful all and vain, unless by thee F j\ further aided in the work divme.' " She ceased ; a voice m .re awful thus re fied ' O thou! in whom lOr ever 1 delight, Fairer than all the iiiliabitants oi Heaven Best miage of thy author ! tar Irom thee Be disappointment, or disiasie, or blame; Who, soon or late, siiall every wcrk luilil, And no resistance hnd. If man reiuse To hearken to thy dictates ; or allured By meaner joys, to any other power Transfer the honours due to thee alone ; That joy which he pursues he ne'er shall taste, That pover in wtiom deUghte'h ne'er beholiL Go then, )nce mora, and happ ' be 'hy toii • pleasuurs of imagij i rroN. 167 Go then! but let not this thy smiliag friend Partake thy footsteps. In her stead, behold . With thee the son of Nemesis I send ; The fiend abhorr'd! whose vengeance takea account Uf sacred Order's violated laws. See where he calls thee, burning to be gone. Fierce to e.xhaust the tempest of his wrath On yon devoted head. But thou, my child, Control his cruel frenzy, and protect Thy tender charge; that when Despair shall grasp His agonizing bosom, he may learn, Then he may learn to love the gracious hand Alone sufficient in the hour of ill To save his feeble spirit ; then confess Thy genuine honours, O excelling fair! When all the plagues that wait the deadly sviU Of this avenging demon, all the storms Of night infernal, serve but to display The energy of thy superior charms With mildest awe triumphant o'er his rage. And shining clearer in the horrid gloom.' " Here ceased that awful voice, and soon I felt The cloudy curtain of refresliing eve Was closed once more, from that immortal fire Bheltenng my eyelids. Looking up, I view'd A vast gigantic spectre striding on 168 akenside's Through murmuring thunders and :i wsste ol clouds, With dreadful action. Black as night, his bi jw Relentless frowns involved. His savage hmbs With sharp impatience violent he wTithed, 4.S through convulsive anguish ; and his hand, Arm'd with a scorpion- lash, full ufr he raised In madness to his bosom ; while his eyes Rain'd bhter tears, and bellowing loud, he shook The void \vith horror. Silent by his side The virgin came. No discomposure stirr'd Her features From the glooms which hung around No stain of darkness mingled with the beam Of her divine effulgence. Now they sroop Upon the river-bank ; and now, to hail His wonted guests, with eager steps advanced The unsuspecting inmate of the shade. " As when a famish'd wolf, that all night long Had ranged the Alpine snows, by chance at morn Sees from a cliff incumbent o er tlie smoke Of some lone village, a neglected kid That strays along the wild for herb or spring; Down from the winding ridge he sweeps amain, And thinks he tears him: so with tenfold rage, The monster sprung remorseless on his pxey. Amazed the stripUng stood : %\'ith pannng breasi Fefcbly he pourV; the lamentable wail PLEASURES OF IMi ilNA.ION. 169 Of Helpless consternation, struck at once. And rooted to the ground. The queen beheld His terror, and with looks of tenderesl care Advanced to save him. Soon the tyrant fek Her awful power. His keen, tempestuous arm Hung nerveless, nor descended where his rage Had aim'd the deadly blow : then dumb retired With sullen rancour. Lo ! the sovran maid Folds with a mother's arms the fainting boy, Till hfe rekindles in his rosy cheek ; Then grasps his hands, and cheers liim with hei tongue. " ' O wake thee, rouse thy spirit 1 Shall the spite Of yon tormenter thus appal thy heart. While I, thy friend and guardian, am al hand To rescue and to heal ? O let thy soul Remember, what the will of Heaven ordahis Is ever good for all ; and if for all, Then good for thee. Nor only by the warmth And soothing sunshine of delightful things, Do minds grow up and flom-ish. Oft mislea By that bland hght, the young unpractised viewa Of reason wander through a fatal road. Far from their native aim ; as if to he Inglorious in the fragrant shade, and wait The soft access ot ever-circUng joys, Were all the end of being. Avsk thyself This pleasing error did it uevei lull 170 AKENSIDE 5 Thy wishes ? Has thy constant heart refused The silken fetters of delicious ease ? Or when divine Euphrosyne appear'd Within this dwelling, did not '.hy desires Hang far below the measure of thy fate. Which I reveai'd before thee ? and thy eyes Impatient of m}' counsels, turn away To drink the soft effusion oi her smiles ? Know then, for this the everlasting Sire Deprives thee of her presence, and instead. O wise and still benevolent ! ordains This horrid visage hither to pursue My steps ; that so thy nature may discern Its real good, and what alone can save Thy feeble sjiint in this hour of ill From folly and despair. ye' beloved ! Let not this headlong terror qui'e o'erwhelm Thy scatter'd powers ; nor fatal deem the rage Of this tormenter, nor his proud assatilr, While I arr here to vindicate thy toil Above the generous question of thy arm. Brave by thy fears, and in thy_weakiiess strong This hour he triumphs ; but confront his might. And dare him to the combat, then with ea.se Disarm'd and quell'd, his fierceness he resigns To bondage and to scorn ; while thus inured By watchful danger, by unceasing toil, The immortal mmd, superior to his fate, Amid the outrage of external things, Fjrm as the soUd base of this great world. PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION. 171 Rests on his own foundations. Blow, ye ^iiids! Y"e waves ! ye thunders ! roll your tempests on j Shake, ye old pillars of the marble sky ! Till all its orbs and all its worlds of fire Be loosen'd from their sea-s ; yet still serene, The unconquer'd mind looks down upon the v/rei And ever stronger as the storms advance, (•'irm through the closing ruin holds his way, Where Nature calls him to the destined goal.' " So spake the goddess ; while through all her frame Celesrial raptures flow'd, in every word, In every motion kindling warmth divine To seize who listen' d. Vehement and swift. As lightning fires the nromaric shade In Ethiopian fields, the stripling felt Her inspiration catch his fervid soul, And, starting from his languor, thus exclaimed : " Then let the trial come ! and witness thou, If terror be upon me ; if 1 shrink To meet the storm, or falter in my strength When hardest it besets me. Do not think That I am fearful and infirm of soul, As late thy eyes beheld ; for thou hast changed My nature ; thy commanding voice has waked My languid powers to bear me boldly on. Where'er the will divine my path ordains i72 akensidk's Through toil or peril : only do not thou Forsake me ; O be thou for ever m ax, That I may hsten to thy sacred voice, And guide by thy decrees my cons^'i^ni fett But say, for ever are my eyes berea? Say, shall the fair Euphrosyne not onre Appear again to charm me ? Thou, in ITeaven ' O thou eternal arbiter of tilings ! Be thy great bidding done : for who am I To question thy appointment ? Let the f^oArii* Of this avenger every morn o'ercast The cheerful dawn, and every evci.i'^.g dan?f With double night my dwelUng; I will learn To hail them both, and unrepining bear His hateful presence ; but permit my tongue One glad request, and if my deeds may fiiid Thy awful eye propitious, O restore The rosy-featured maid, again to cheer This lonely seat, and bless me with her smiles "He spoke; when instant through the sabU glooms With which that furious presence had involved The ambient air, a flood of radiance came Swift as the lightning flash; the melting clouds Flew diverse, and amid the blue serene Euphrosyne appear'd. With sprir^hrly step The nymph alighted on the irrisfiou^ lawn, And to her woadering audience thus began. rLEASTTRES OF IMAGINATION 1*3 *' * Lo ! T am here to answer to your vow 5, And bo the meeting fortunate ! I .,ome With joyful tidings ; we shall part no more. — Hark ! how the gentle Echo from her cell Talks through the cliffs, and murmuring o'er the stream Repeats the accents — we shall part no more. O my delightful fricids ! we'il-pleased on high The Father has beheld you, while the might Of that stern-foe with bitter trial proved Your equal doings ; then for ever spake The high decree : That thou, celestial maid ! Howe'er that grisly pha'.itom on thy steps May sometimes dare intrude, yet never more Shalt thou, descending to the abode of man, Alone endure the rancour of his arm. Or leave thy loved Euphrosyne behind.' "She ended ; and the whole romantic scene Immediate vanish' d ; rocks, and woods, and rills.. The rnantling tent, and each mysterious form, Flew nke the pictures of a morning dream, When sunshine fills the bed. Awhile I stood Perplex' d and giddy ; till the radiant powe- Who bade the visionary landscape rise, As up to him I tum'd, with gentlest loolcs Preventing my inquiry, thus began. " ' There let *,hy soul acknowledge it? com plaint 174 AKEN side's Ho^v blind ! how impious I There beho.d tho ways Of Heaven's eternal destiny to man, For ever just, benevolent, and wise; That Virtue's awful steps, how e'er pursued By vexing Fortune and intrusive Pain, Should never be divided irom her chaste, Her fair attendant, Pleasure. Need I urge Thy lardy thought ihrough all the various roimd Of this existence, that thy softening soul At length may learn what energy the hand Of Virtue mingles in the bitter tide Of passion, swelling with distress and pain, To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops Of cordial pleasure ? Ask the faithful youth Why the cold urn of her whom long he loved So often fills his arms; so often draws His lonely footsteps at the silent hour, To pay the mournfui tribute of his tears ? Oh ! he will tell thee, that the v.ealth of worlaa Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego That sacred hour, when, steahng from ihf noise Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes With Virtue's kindest looks his achhig breast. And turns his tears to rapture. — Ask the crowd Which flies impatient from the village-walk To chmb the neighbouring cliffs, when far belo>* The cruel winds have Ivurl'd upon the coast Soir e helpless bark ; while sacred Pity \iielt8 Thj general eye, « r Terror's icy hand li^-^rzcr^ PLEASURES OF IMAGINATIO:^. i>5 Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair : While every mother closer to her breast Catches her child, and, pointing where me waves Foam through the shatter' d vessel, shrieks aloud. As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge, As now another, dash'd against tlic rock. Drops hfeless down : O ! deemest thou indeed No kind endearment here by Nature given To mutual terror and Compassion's tears? No sweetly-melting softness v/hich attracts, O'er all that edge of pain, the social powers To this their proper action and their end ? -A sk thy own heart ; when at the midnight hour, Slow through that studious gloom thy pausing eye, Led by the ghmmering taper, -roves around The sacred volumes of the dea !, the songs Of Grecian bards, and records writ by Fame For Grecian heroes, where the present power Of heaven and earth surveys th' immortial page, Even as a father blessing, while he reads The praises of his son. If then thy soul, Spurning the yoke of theso inglorious days, Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame; Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view, When rooted from the base, heroic states Mourn in the dust, and trerable at the frown Of curst Ambition ; who i the pious banil 176 A.KENSniE*S Of youths who fought for freedom and their sirca Lie side by side in gore ; m hen ruihan Pride Usurps the throne of Justice, turns tire pomp Of public power, the majesty of rule, The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe, To slavish, empty pageants, to adorn A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes Of such as bow the knee ; when honour'd urni Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust And stoned arch, to glut the coward rage Of regal Envy, strew the pul)lic way With hallow'd ruins; when the Mu;;c's haunt, The marble porch where Wisdom wont to tali. With Socrates or Tully, hears no more. Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks, Or female superstition's midnight prayer ; When ruthless Rapine from the hand of Time Tears the destroying scythe, with surer blow To sweep the works of glory from their base; Till Desolation o'er the grass-grown street Expands his raven-wings, and up the wail, where senates once the price of monarcha doom'd, Hi:">ses the gliding snake through honry weeds That clasp the mouldering column ; tiius defaced, Thas widely mournful when the prospect thrilll Thy beatuig bosom, when the pa'riot's tear Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm [n fancy hurls the thundeibolr of Jove, To fire the impious wTath ou Phihp's Virow, PIJIASURES OF IMA>.INATION. 177 Or dash Octavius from tiic ;rophied car ; Say, does thy secret soul repine to taste The big distress ? Or woii'.drt thou then ex- change Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot Of him who sits amid the ^audy herd Of mute barbarians bending to his nod, And bears aloft his gold-invested from, And says v/itiiin hiuisUi^ — I am a ki "4, And wherefore should the clamorous voice of woe Intrude upon mine ear V — The. baleful dregs Of these late ^.t^s. thiR i'ljxlorioup draught Of servitude and foiiy, have not yet, Blest be the eternal ilulcr of the world! Defiled io r;!"h a depth. ofeordiJ shams The native honours of the human soul. No eo effaced the image of its sire ' " AREN3IBE'3 PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION ARGUMENT Pleasure in observing the tempers and ma iners of men, even where vicious or ahsurd. The origin of vice, from false representations of the fancy, pro- ducing false opinions concerning good and evil, in- quiry into ridicule. The general sources of ridicule in the minds and cliaraciers of men, enumerated Final cause of the sense of ridicule. The ioscnil.'lince of certain aspects of inanimate things to the sensa- tions and properties of the luitid. The operations of the mind in the production of the works of im.acir i- tion, described. The secondary pleasure from imita- tion. The benevolent order of the world illustiatcd in the arbitrary conne.\ion of these pleasures with the objects which excite them. Th,; nature and con- duct of taste. Concluding with an account -^f the natural and moral advantages resulting from a se'ui- ble and well-formed imagination. 180 PLEASURES OP IMivGINATlON BOOK III. What wonder, therefore, since the endearing ties Of passion link the universal kind Of man so close, what wonder if to searcn This common nature through the various change Of sex, and age, and lortune, and ihe frame Of each pecuHar. d'-aw the bupv mind . With unresisted charms ? 'ihe spacious west, And all the teeming regions of the south, Hold" not a quarry, to the curious flight Of knowledge, half so tempting or to fair, As man to man. Nor only where the smiles Of Love invite ; nor. only where the applause Of cordial Honour turns the attentive eye On Virtue's graceful deeds. For since th« course Of thmgs external acts in different ways On human apprehensions, as the hand 181 182 AKExfSIKE'a Of Nature temper'd to a different frame Peculiar minds ; so haply where the powers Of Fancy neither lessen nor enlarge The images of things, but paint, in all Their genuine hues, the features which tlief wore In Nature ; there Opinion will be true, And Action right. For Action treads the path In which Opinion says he follows good, Or flies from evil ; and Opinion gives Report of good or evil, as the scene Was drawn by Fancy, lovely or deform'd : Thus her report can never there be true, AVhere Fancy cheats the intellectual eye With glaring colours and distorted lines. Is there a man, who at the sound of Death Sees ghastly shapes of terror conjured up. And black before him ; naught but death -bed groans And fearful prayers, and plunging from the brink Of light and being, down the gloomy air An unknown depth ? Alas ! in such a mind, If no bright forms of excellence attend The image of his country ; Jior the pomp Of sacred senates, nor the guardian voice Of Justice on her throne, nor aught that waket The conscious bosom with a patriot's flame; Will not Opinion tell him, that to die. Or stand the hazard, is a greater ill Than to betray his country ? And in act PLEASURES OF ItIAGI^ ITICN. 1S3 Will he not choose to be a wretch, i nd live : Here vice begins then, from the enchantincr cup Which Fancy holds to all, the unwary thirst Of youth oft swallows a Circa^an draught, That sheds a baleful tincture o'er the eye Of Reason, till no hnger he discerns, And only guides to err. Then revel forth A furious band that spuriis him from the throne And all is uproar. Thus Ambition grasps The empire of the soul : thus pale Revenge Unsheaths her murderous dagger ; and the hands Of Lust and Rapine, Vkdrh unholy arts. Watch to o'erturn the barrier of the laws That keeps them from their prey : thus all the plagues The wicked bear, or o'er the trembling scene The tragic Muse discloses, under shapes Of honour, safety, pleasure, ease, or pomp. Stole first into the mind. Yet not by all Those lying forms which Fancy in the brain Engenders, are the kindlmg passions driven To guilty deeds ; nor Reason bound in chains, That Vice alone may lord it ; oft adorn' d With solemn pageants, folly mounts the throne, And plays her idiot-antics, Uke a queen. A thousand garbs she wears ; a thousand ways She wheels her giddy empire. — Lo I thus far With bold adventure, to the Mantuan lyre si ig of Nature's charms, and touch well-pleased 184 AILENSiUii » A Stricter note ; now haply must mj soa» Unbend her serious measure, and re\eal In Ughter strauis, how Folly's awkward arts Excite impetuous Laughter's gay rebuke ; The sportive province of the comic Muse. See ! in what crowds the uncouth Ibrms ad vance : Each would outstrip the other, each prevent Our careful seavch, and offer to your gaze, Unmask' d, his motley features. Wait awhile. My curious friends ! and let us first arrange, In proper order, your promiscuous throng. Behold the foremost band ; of slender thought, And easy faith ; whom flattering Fancy soothes With lying spectres, in themselves to view Illustrious forms of excellence and good, That scorn the mansion. Wiih exuiiing hearts They spread their spurious ireasurcs to the Sun, And bid the world admire I but cliief" the glance Of wishful Envy drawG t.heir joy-lriv-h; eyes, And lifis wiih self- applause each lo.aly brow. In numbers boundless as the Moo:ns of £j>ring Behold their olaring idols, empty ^^haies By Fancy gilded o'er, and then set up For adoration. Some in Lear!!ii'.g'.s g'lrh, With formal band, and saLile-oiricrnre.l gown. And rags of mouldy volumes. Some elate With martial splendour, steely pikes iindsworda Of costly frame, and gay Photnician robes rLEASURES OF I MAG >'ATIOX. 183 (iiWTOught -with flowery gold, assume the port Of stately Valour : listetiing by his side There stands a female form ; to her, %vifh looka Of earnest import, pregnant \\\ih amizc, He talks of deadly deeds, of breaches, storms, And sulphurous mines, and ambush: then aJ once Breaks off, and smiles to see her look so pale, And asks some wondering question of her fears. Others of graver mien; behold, adorn 'd With holy ensigns, how sublime they move, And, bending oft their sanctimonious eyes. Take homage of the simple-minded throng ; Ambassadors of Heaven ! Nor much unlike Is he whose visage, in the lazy mist That mantles every feature, hides a brood Of poUtic conceits; of whispers, nods. And hints deep-omen' d with unwieldy schemes, And dark portents of state. Ten thousand more Prodigious habits and tumultuous tongues, Pour dauntless in, and swell the boastful band- Then comes the second order, all who seek The debt of praise, where watchful UnbeUef Darts through the thin pretence her squiniin^ eye On some retired appearance, which behes The boasted virtue, or annuls the applause That Justice else weald pay. Here side by side I eae two leaders of :he solemn train I8b akenside's A-pproaching : one a female old i.nd gr^y, With eyes domure, and wrinkle- iurrow'd brow. Pale as the cheeks of Death ; yet still she stims The sickening audience with a nauseous tale : How many youths her myrtle chains have worn, How many virgins at her triumphs pined ! Yet how resolved she guards her cautious heart; Such is her terror at the risks of love, And man's seducing tongue ! Ihe other seems A bearded sage, ungentle in his mien. And sordid all his habit ; peevish Want Grins at his heels, while down the gaziiig throxijr He stalks, resounding in maguilic praise The vanity of riches, the contempt Of pomp and power. Be prudent in your zeal. Ye grave associates ! let the silent grace Of her who blushes at the lond regard Her charms inspire, more eloquent unfold The praise of spotless honour : let the man Whose eye regards not his illustrious pomp And ample store, but as indulgent streams To cheer the barren soil and spread the fruita Of joy, let him by juster measures *ix The price ol riches and the end of power. Another tribe succeeds ; deluded long By Fancy's dazzling optic-s, these behold The images of some peculiar things With brighter hues resplendent, and Dortray'd With features nobler far than e'tr adorn'd PLEASURES OF IMARINATIO.V. l^" Their genuine objects. Hence the fevei d heai« Pants with deUrious hope for tinsel charms : ilence oft, obtrusive on the eye of Scorn, Untimely Zeal her witless pride betrays ! A.nd serious manhood from the towering aim Of Wisdom, stoops to emulate the boast Of childish toil. Behold yon mystic form, Bedeck'd with feathers, insects, weeds, and shells ! Not with intenser view the Samian sage Bent his fix'd eye on Heaven's inrenser fires, When first the order of that radiant scene Swell'd his exulting thought, than this surveys A muckworm's entrails or a spider's fang. Next him a youth, with flowers and rnyrtles crown' d. Attends that virgin form, and blushing kneels, With fondest gesture and a suppliant's tongus, To win her coy regard: adieu, for him, The dull engagements of the bustling world ' Adieu the sick impertinence of praise ! And hope, and action ! for with her alone, By streams and shades, to steal these sighing hours is all he asks, and all that Fate can give ! Thee too, facetious Momion, wandering here, Thee, dreaded censor, oft have I beheld Bewilder'd unawares: alas! too long Flush'd with thy comic triumphs and thf* "poila Of sly Derision! till on every side i88 akenside's Harling thy random bolts, offended Tri th Assign' d »hee here thy station with the slaves Of Folly. Thy once formidable name Shall grace her hmnble records, and be heard In scoffs and mockery, bandied from the lips Of all the vengeful brotherhood around, So oft the patient victims of thy scorn. But now, ye gay ! to whom indulgent Fate Of all the Muse's empire, hath assign'd The fields of folly, hither each advance Your sickles : here the treming soil affords Its richest growth. A favouriie brood appears In whom the demon, with a mother's joy, Views all her charms reflected, nil her cares At full repaid. Ye most illustrious band ! Who, scorning Reason's tame, pedantic rules, And Order's vulgar bondage, never meant For souls sublime as yours, with generous zeal Pay Vice the reverence Virtue long usurp'd, And yield Deformity the fond applause Which Beauty wont to claim ; forgive my song, That for the blushing diffidence of youth. It shuns the unequal province of your praise. Thus far triumphant in the pleasing guile Of bland Imagination, Folly's train Have dared our search ; but now a dastard kmj Advance reluctant, and wdth faltering feet Shrink from the gazer's eye ; enfeebled hearta PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION. 189 \Vhoin Fancy chills with visionary fears, Or bends to servile tameness with conceits Of shame, of evil, or of base defect. Fantastic and delusive. Here the slave Who droops abash'd when sullen Pomp sur* veys Ilia humbler habit ; here the trembhng wretch Unnerved and struck with Terror's icy bolts. Spent in weak waitings, drown'd in shameful tears. At every dream of danger ; here subdued By frontless Laughter, and the hardy scorn Of old, unfeelhig Vice, the abject soul, Who blushing half resigns the candid praise Of Temperance and Honour ; half disowns A freeman's hatred of tyrannic pride ; And hears v.Tth sickly smiles the venal mouth With foulest Hcense mock the patriot's name. Last of the motley bands on whom the power Of gay Derision bends her hostile aim, Is that where shameful ignorance presides. Beneath her sordid banners, lo ! they march, Like blind and lame. Whate'er their doubtful hand Attempt, Confusion straight appears behind, And troubles all the work. Through many a maze, Perplex' d they struggle, changing every path, O'er.urning every purpose ; then at last 190 akensthe s Sit down dismay'd, and leave the entangled scene For Scorn to sport with. Such then is the abode Of Folly in the mind ; and such the shapes In which she governs her obsequious train. Through every scene of ridicule in things To lead the teiiour of my devious lay ; Through every swift occasion, which the hand Of Laughter points at, when the mirthful sting Distends her sallying nerves and chokes her tongue ; What were it but to count each crys'al drop Which Morning's dewy fingers on the blooms Of May distil ? Suffice it to liave said, Where'er the power of Ridicule displays Her quaint -eyed visage, some inco;igruousform, Some stubborn dissonance f thini^s combined, Strikes on the quick observer : v/hether Pomp, Or Praise, or Beauty, mix their partial cla-m Where sordid fashions, where igno!)le deeds.', Where foul deformity are wont to dwell ; Or whether these \vith violation loth'd. Invade resplendent Pomp's imperious mien, The charnr.s of Beauty, or the boast of Praise. Ask we for what fair end, the Almighty Sire. In mortal bosoms wakes this gay contempt, These grateful stings of laughter, from disgust Educing pleasure ? Wherefore, but to aid PLF-ASUIIES CF IM.l OIXATION. 191 Tlie tardy steps of Reason, and at once By this prompt impulse urge us to ilepress The giddy aims of Folly ? Though the light Of Truth, slow dawning on the inquiring m. iKt; At length unfolds, through many a subtle tie. How these uncouth disorders end at last In public evil; yet benignant Heaven, Conscious how dun the dawn of Truth appears To thousands; conscious what a scanty pause From labours and from care, the wider lot Of humble life affords for studious thought To scan the maze of Nature ; therefore stamp'd The glaring scenes wiih characters of scorn, As broad, as obvious, to the pastjing clown, As to the letter'd sage's curious eye. Such are the variou? aspects of the mind — Some neavenly germs, whose nnclouded thoughrs Attain that secret bp.-mony which blends The ethereal spirit T'ith its mould of clay ; O ! teach me to re eal the graceful charm That searchless N/iture o'er the sense of man Diffuses, to beho'id, in lifeless things, The inexpressive semblance of himself, Of thought and passion. Mark the sable woodi That sliade sublhne yon mountain's nodding brow ; With what religious awe the solemn scene Commands your steps 1 as if the reverend forna ,92 akexsite's Of ^Vrinos or of Numa shcxild forsake The Elysian seats, and down th'^ embowt/mg glade Move to your pausing eye ! Behold the expanse Of yon gay landscape, where the silver clouds FUt o'er the heavens before the «!prightly breeze : Now their gray cincture skirts the ioubtiii' Sun; Now streams of splendour, through their open- ing veil Effulgent, sweep from off the gilded lawn The aerial shadows ; on the curling brook, And on the shady margin's quivering leaves With quickest lustre glancing ; while you view The prospect, say, within your cheerful breast Plays not the lively sense of winning mirth With clouds and sunshine chequer'd, while the round Of social converse, to the inspiring tongue Of some gay nymph amid her subject train. Moves all obsequious ? Whence is this effect. This kindred power of such discordant tilings ? Or flows their semblance from that mystic tone To which the new-born mind's harmoiiious powers A-t first were strung ? Or rather from the linkf Which artful custom twines around her frame 1 For when "he diflferent ima^-e? of things, PLEASURES OF IMA-GmATlOJJr. 193 By chance combined, have struck the attentive a KOBCBT SOm-iiET. XIX afterwards he fell into » ft»*e ack ! — I've Uved here, man and boy, In this same parish, well nigh the full age Of man, being hard upon threescore and ten, I can remember, sixty years ago. The beautifying of this mansion here. When my late lady's father, the old Squire, Came to the estate. 27 28 THE OLD MANSIO.V HOUSE. STRANGER. Why, then ycu have outlasted All his improvements, for you see they're making Great alterations here. Aye — great mdeed ! And if my poor lady could rise up — God rest her soul ! — 'twould grieve her to behold What wicked work is here. They've set about it In right good earnest. All the front is gone ; Here's to be turf, they tell me, and a road Round to the door. There were some yew trees too Stood in the court— Ay, Master : fine old trees ! Lord bless us ! I have heard my father say His 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 greea wall ! THE OLD MA ISION HOUSE. 29 My poor old lady many a time would come And teil me where to clip, tor she had play'd In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride To keep them in their beauty. Plague, I say, On their new-tangled whimseys I we shall have A modern shrubberry here stuck full of lirs And your pert poplar-trees ; — I could as soon j Have plough 'd my father's grave as cut thenn j down ! But 'twill be lighter and more cheerful now ; A tine smooth turf, and with a carriage road That sweeps conveniently from gate to gate, I like a shrubbery too, for it looks fresh ; And then there's some variety about it. In spring, the hlac, and the snow-ball flower, And the laburnum with its golden strings I I Waving in the wind; and when the autumn ! comes, I The bright red berries of the mountain-ash, With pines enough in winter to look green, ! And show that something hves. Sure this is | better j Than a great hedge of yew, making it look i All the year round hke winter, and forever I Dropping its poisonous leavrs from the und«»l | boughs, I Wither' d and bare. i so THE OLD MANSION HOIT9S. OLD MAN. Ay ! so the new Squire thinks , And pretty work he makes of it ! What 'tis To have a stranger come to an old house ! STRANGER. 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 pkiy'd about here when a child In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries. And sate in the porch, threading the jessamina flowers, Which fell so thick, he had not had the heart To mar all thus ! STRANGER. Come ! come ! all is not wrong ; Those old dark windows — They're demolish'd too,— As if he could not see through casement glass ! The very red-breasts, that so regular THE OLD MANSION HOUSE. Came to my lady for her morning crumbs, Won't know the windows now ! Nay, they were smallj And then so darken'd round with jessamine, Harboring the vermin ; — yet 1 could have wish*d That jessamine had been saved, which canopied} And bower' d, and hned the norch. It did one good To pass within ten yards, when 'twas in blossom. 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 favorite 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, For she was good to all ! a woful day 'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went . STBANGER. Thev lost a friend then ? OLD MAN. You're a stranger here, 1 1 I 32 THE OLD MANSION HOUSE. j Or you wouldn't ask that question. Were they sick? She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs She could have taught the Doctors. Then n 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 Christmas, sir! 'j It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen '■ j Her Christmas kitchen, — how the blazing fire Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs So cheerful red — and as for mistletoe, — The finest bush 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, STRANGER. Things may be better yet than you suppose, And you should hope the best. 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 destroy'd All that my lady loved ; her favorite walk THE OLD MANSION HOUSE. 33 Grubb'd up, — and they do say that the great row Of elms behind the house, which meet a-top, They must fall too. Well ! well ! I did not think To live to see all this; and 'tis perhaps A comk)rt I shan't live to see it long. STRANGER. But sure all changes are not needs for the worse, My friend ? Mayhap they mayn't, sir; — for all that, I hke what I've been used to. I remember A 11 this from a child up ; and now to lose it, 'Tip \os\r.'d 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, Thai'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, andl hope Have many years in store, — but pray to God You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. STRANGER. Well J well ! you've one friend more than you ro aware oC 3 S4 THE OLD MANSION HOUSE. If the Squire's taste don't suit with youis, 1 warrant That's all you'll quarrel with : walk in and taste His beer, old friend ! and see if your old lady E'er broach'd a better cask. You did not know roe, 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 welccme there. ITeitbury, nm. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. WOHAV. Sir, for the love of God, some small relief To a poo;, woman ! TRA.VELLER. Whither are you bound I *Ti8 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 » WOMAH Ay, Sir, •Tis cutting keen ! I smart at every breath ; Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey'* end, For the wav is \ons before me, and my feet. 36 THE SAILOR*S MOTHER. God help me I sore with travelling. I would gladly, If it pleased God, at once lie down and die. TRAVELLER. Nay, nay, cheer up! a little food and rest Will comfort yon ; and then your journey's end, May make amends for all. You shake your head, And weep. Is it some mournful business then That leads you from your home ? 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. TRAVELLER. Perhaps your fears Make 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 mav Hve 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. 'Ti? not that,— An arm or leg — I could have borne with that. THE sailor's mother. 37 It was no ball, Sir, but some cursed thing Which bursts* and burns, that hurt him. Some. thing-. Sir, They do not use on board our English ships, It is so wicked ! TRAVELLER. Rascals I a mean art Of cruel cowardice, yst all in vain ! Y"es, 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 ! — -^hey 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 ! ♦ The Slink-pots used on board the French ships. In \he enpaeement between tlie Mars and L'Hercule, soma of our sailors were shockinTly mangled by them ; one, in fiarticiilar, as described in the Eclodue, lost both his eyes. I would be risht and humane to employ means of de- j Btn;ction. could they be discovered, powerful enough to destrny flppis and armies; but to use any thing that only iuflictis additiona torture upon the r ufferers in war, is ai together wicked. 38 THE sailor's mother. TRAVELLER. 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 country, Amid the triumph of her victory, Remembers those who paid its price of blood, And with a noble charity relieves The widow and the orphan. God reward them ! God bless them ! It will help me in my age,— But, Sir ! it will not pay me for my child ! TRAVELLER. Was he your only child ? WOMAW. My only one, The stay and comfort of my widowhood, A dear, good boy ! — When first he went to sea, I fell what it would come .to — something told me I should be childless soon. But tell me, Sir, j THE sailor's mother, 39 If it be true that for a hurt like his There is no cure. Please God to spare his life. Though he be bUnd, 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 ! TRAVELLER. Of this be sure — His hurts are look'd to well, arid the best help The land affords, as rightly is his due, Ever at hand. How happen'd it he left you? Was a seafaring life his early choice ? No, Sir r 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 call 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 work'd Soaieinnes a-field. Then I was famed for knit- ting; And in long winter nights my spinning-wheel Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbors too, And never felt distress. So he grew up 40 THE sailor's mother. 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. Ill had foreseen this I but 'tis a blessing We don' I know what we'er born to I TRAVELLER. But how came it He chose to be a Sailor ? WOMAN. You shall hear, Sir. 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 ot cunning traps that boys can make,— Propping a stone to fall and shut them in. Or crush the4n with its weight, or else a spring 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 follow' d, Sir, Irom this unlucky skill. He did what he should not when he was older . I warn'd hun oft enough ; but he was caught In wiring hares at last, and had his choice. The prison or the s'aip. THE sailor's mother. 41 TRAVELLER. The choice at least Was kindly left him ; and for broken laws This was, methinks, no heavv punishment. So I was told, Sir. And I tried to think soj 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 roaring seas. And then I seem'd To feel that it was hard to take him from me For such a little fault. But he was wrong, Oh. very wrong, — a murrain on his traps! See what they've brought him to ! TRAVELLER. Well ! well ! take comfort. He will be 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. Sir, I shall want No succor long. In the common course of ynuv I soon must be at rest ; and 'tis a comibrt, When grief is hard upon me, to reflect It only leads me to that rest the sooner. M^esthu y, 1798. THE WITCH. HATBANIKL. Father ! here, father ! I have fo and a horae* shoe ! Faith, it was just in time ; for t'other night I laid two straws across at Margery's door ; And ever since 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 *Twa3 all her evil eye. *Ti8 rare good luck ! I would have gladly given a croMm for one, If 'twould have done as well. But where didst find it? NATHANIEL. Down on the common ; I was going a-field, 42 THE WITCH. 4d And neighbor Saunders pass'd me ou his mare ; He hod hardly said " Good day," before I saw The shoe drop off. 'Twas just upon my tongue To call him back; it makes no difference, does it, Because I know whose 'twas t FATHEIU Why, no, it can't. The shoe's the same, you know ; and you did find it. NATHANIEL. That mare of his has got a plaguy road To travel, father ; and if he should lame her,— For she is but tender-footed,- Ay, indeed t 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 morning ! NATHANIEL. Why, he han't been rid again ! Last night I hung a pebble by the manger. With a hole through, and every body says That 'tis a special charm against the hags. 14 THE WITCH. ft could not be a proper, natural hole then, jl Or 'twas not a right pebble ; — for I found him !j Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, |.| And panting feo ! Lord knows where he had been ; ' When we were all asleep, through bush and j: brake, j Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch At such a deadly rate I — NATHANIEL. | By land and water, Over the sea, perhaps! — I have heard tell ,■ 'Tis many thousand miles off at the end \<, Of the world, where witches go to meet the jj devil. !! They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear \\ Some ointment over them, and then away j! Out at the window ! but 'tis worse than all jj To worry the poor beast so. Shame upon it ij That in a Christian country they should let H Such creatures live I ;! FATHER. 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 storm unroofd my barn, And only mine in the parish ? — Look at her, i I THE WITCH. 45 And that's enough ; she has it in her face ' — A pair of large, dead eyes, sunk n her head, Just like a corpse, and pursed with wrinkles 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-dried 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 I 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 bles* us ! The world is grown so wicked ! Good day. Farmer' Natlianiel, what art nailing to the threshold ? I i6 THE WITCH. I NATHANIEL. |j A horse-shoe, Sir; 'tis good to keep off witdk j: ij craff; ■j And we're afraid of Margery. CUBATE. } I ii Poof oW woman j j What can you fear from her ? j ; Ii j! FATHKB. • Ii j 1 What can we fear ! !l Who lamed the Miller's boy? who raised the .. I wind I I That blew my old barn's roof down ? who d'ye i I think j ! Rides my poor horse a' nights ? who mocks the i ii hounds? i: L. 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 catf j And lo but look at her ! C17BATE. Poor wretch! halfblin^ THE "WTTCH. 47 And crooked with her year^, without a child, Or friend in hri- old aj^e, 'tis hard indeed To liave her very uii -tries made her crimes 1 I met her but last week in ihaf hard frost Which made m^ j'./uip^ limbs ache, and when I askd What broijgljt iter out in the snow, the poorold Worn ill Tcld me that .-lie was forced to crawl abroad And pick the iiedges, ju?t to keep herself From perishing with cold, — becau>e no neigbor Had pity on her a^fe ; and then slie cried, And said the children pelted her with snow- balls, And wishd that she were dead. FATHER. I wish she was She has plagued the parish long enough ! Shame, Farmer Is that the charity your Bible teaches? FATHER. My Bible does not teach me to love witches 1 I; now what'-^ charity; wljo pays his tithes And i*Mt ■ rates readier ? CHTKATiE. Who can better do it I 48 THE WITCH. You've been a prudent and industrious man, And God has blest your labor. Why, thank God, Sir, I've had no reason to complain of fortune. Complain ? why, you are wealthy ! All the parish Look up to you. Perhaps, Sir, I could tell Juinea for guinea with the warmest of them You can aflTord a little to the poor ; And then, what's better still, you have the heart To give from your abundance. FATHER. God forbid I should want charity ! CURATE. Oh ! 'tis a comfort To think at last of riches well employ'd ! THE wrrcn. 49 I have been by a death-bed. and know the ^orth Of a good deed at that mosi awful hour 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 little matter, something comfortable, That she may go down easier to the grave, And bless you when she dies. What ! is she going ! Well, God forgive her then, if she has dealt In the black art ! I'll tell my dame of it, And she shall send her something. CURATE. So I'll say ; And take my thanks for hers. [ Goes. FATHER. 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 hke a Christian. NATHANIEL. A.nd so old Margery's dying ! 4 50 TBE WITCH* FATHER. But you know She may recover : so drive t'other nail in. WeObury 1798 THE WEDDING. TRAVELLXR. I PRAT yon , wherefore are the village belb Ringing so merrily ? A wedding, Sir,— Two of the village folk. And they are right To make a merry time on't while they may ! Come twelve-months hence, I warrant theon they'd go To church ao;ain more willingly than now ; K all might be undone. TRAVELLER. An ill-match*d pair, tJo I conceive you. Youth perhaps and age f 51 ii ! li i 1; 92 THE W£DDlIf&. I WOMAN. No,— rboth are young enough. i li . !i TRAVELLER. >j Perhaps the man, fhen« jj A lazy idler, — one who better likes ij The alehouse than his work? ', I WOMAN. I Why, Sir, for that, \ He always was a well-conditioii'd lad, j One who'd work hard and well ; and-as for drink, } Sove now and then, mayhap, at Chrisinoas timet :• Sober as wife could wish. • 1 1 ii TRAVELLER. |i Then is the girl A shrew, or else untidy ; — one to welcome Her husband with a rude, unruly tongue, Or drive him from a foul and wretched home To look elsewhere for comfort. Is it so f She*s notable enough ; and as for temper, ij The best L'ood-bumor'd girl I You see yon house, f There by the aspen-tree, whose gray leaves shina h In the wind ? slie lived a servant at the farm. i! And often, as I came to weeding here, j' I,ve heard her singing as she milk'd her cows [} So cheerfully. I did not like to hear her, :! THE WEDDING. Because it maoe me think upon the days When I had got as Uttle on my mind, And was as cheerful too. But she would marry. And ffl Iks must reap as they have sown. God help her ! TEA.VELLER. Why, Mistress, if they both are well inclined, Why should not botn be happy ? They've no money. TRAVELLER. But both can work ; and sure as cheerfully She'd labor for herself as at the farm. And he won't work the worse because he knows That she will make his fire-side ready for him, And watch for his return. All very well, A little while. TRAVELLER, And what if they are poor? Riches can't always purchase happiness ; And m ich we know will be expected there Where much was given. 64 THE WEDDIW5, 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 I pity those for whom these bells ring up So merrily upon their wedding day, Because I think of mine. IRAVELLER. You have known trouble ; These haply may be happier. Why, for that, I've had my share ; some sickness and some sorrow. Well will it be for them to know no worse. Yet I had rather hear a daughter's knell Than her wedding-peal. Sir, if I thought her fate Promised no better things. TRAVELLER. Sure, sure, good woman, You look upon the world with jaundiced eyes ! AJl have their cares ; those who aie poor want wealth THE WEDL'lNff. 54 They who have wealth want more ; so are we all Dissatisfied ; yet all live on, and each Has his own comforts. 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 ! TRAVELLER. A wretched beast ! Hard labor and worse usage he endures From some bad master. But the lot of the poor Is not like this. 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 hiingry children to claim part Of his half meal ! 56 THE WEDDIN&. TRAVELLER. 'Tis idleness makes want, And idle habits. If the man will go And spend his evenings by the alehouse fire, Whom can he blame tf there be 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 appetite From dry bread and potatoes turn away ? Is it idleness that makes small wages fail For growing wants? — Six years agone, these bells Rung on my wedding-day, and I was told What I might look for ; but I did not heed Good counsel. I had lived in service. Sir ; Knew never what it was to want a meal ; Lay down without one thought to keep m« 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 hus- band, — A towardly young man, and well to do, — He had his silver buckles and his watch ; There was not in the village one who look'd Sprucer on holydays. We married, Sir, THE WEDDINCJ. 5? And wc had children ; but while wains increased Wages stood still. The silver buckles 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, hke this new married pair, I went to my undoing. TRAVELLER- But the parish — Ay, it falls heavy fchere ; and yet their pittance Just serves to keep life in. A blessed prospect, To slave while there is strength • in age the work- house ; A parish shell at last, and the little bell Toll'd hastily for a pauper's funeral ! TRAVELLER. Is this your child ? ♦ A farmer once told the author of Malvern Hill*, "that he almoei consuntly remarked a gradation of changes in those men he had been in the habit of employing. Young men, he s lid, were generally neat in their appearance, active and cheerful, till they became married and had a family, when he had observed that their silver buttons, buckles, and watches gradually disappeared, and their Sunday clothes became common, without anv other to sup- ply their p\^ce,—bul,a2ii(\ he, satne go(yl comes J rom thiSt . for they trill then work for whatever chey can get." Nota toCoTTi^'s iJioirem HilU. 58 THE WSDDUrO. WOMAN. Ay, Sir ; and were^ie dress*d And clean'd, he'd be as fine a boy to look on As the Squire's young master. These thin rags of his Let comfortably in the summer wind ; But when the winter comes, it pinches me To see the Uttle 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 ! TRAVELLER. You have taught me To give sad meaning to the village bells I Bristol, 180a IHE ALDERMAN S FUNERAL. STRAKaER. Whom are they ushering from the world, with all This pageantry and long parade of death ? TOWNSMAN. A long parade, indeed, Sir, and yet here You 8ee but half; round yonder bend it reaches A fiirlong further, carriage behind carriage. SmANGER. Tis but a mournful aight ; and yet the pon > Tempts me to stand a gazer. TOWNSMAN. Yonder school-boy, 59 60 THE alderman's icnekal. 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 colors Than all this mournirg. There, Sir. 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 down in yonder hearse ! stranger. 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 Leap'd 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 wall not be the weight of wealth like his To sink me down. stranger. The camel and the needle, — [s that then in your mind ? TOWNSMAN. Even so. The text THE alderman's FUNERAL. . 61 Is Gospel- wisdom. I would ride the camel, — Yea, leap him, flying, through the needle's eye, As easily as such a pamper'd soul Could pass the narrow gate. STRANGER. Your pardon, Sir, But sure this lack of Christian charity Looks not hke Christian truth. TOWNSMAN. Your pardon too. Sir, If, with this text before 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 fraudfully — the spoil of orphans wrong'd, And widows who had none to plead their right f TOWNSMAN. All honest, open, honorable gains. Fair, legal interest, bonds and trortgages, Ships to the East and West. Why judge you then So hardly of the dead ? 62 THE alderman's FUNERA"*. TOWNSMAN. *For what he left Undone ; — for sins, not one of which is written 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 ; Kept the Sabbath idle ; built a monument To honor his dead father ; did no murder ; Never sustain'd an action for crim-con ; Never pick'd pockets ; never bore false witness; And never, with that all-oommanding wealth, Coveted liis neighbor's house, nor ox, nor ass! STRAN&ER. You knew him, then, it seems ? TOWNSMAN. As all men kno\i The vu-tues of your hundred-thousanders ; They never hide their Ughts beneath a busbel. Nay, nay, uncharitable Sir ! for often Doth bounty, Uke a streamlet, flow unseen, Freshening and giving Ufe along its course. TOWNSMAN. We track the streamlet by the brighter green THE alderman's FrNERAL. 63 And livelier growth it gives ; — but as for thia— This was a pool that stagnated and slunk ; The rains of heaven engendered nothing in it But slime and foul corruption. STRANGER. Yet even these Are reservoirs whence public charity Still keeps her channels full. TOWNSMAN. Now, Sir, 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 public 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. Your benefactors in the newspapers. His alms were money put to interest In the other world, — donations to keep open A running charity account with Eeaven, — Retaining fees against the Last Assises, When, for the trusted talents, strict account Shall be required from all, and the old Arch* Lawyer Plead his own cause us plaintiff. STRANGER I must needs 64 THE alderman's funeral. Believe you, Sir: — these are your witnesses, These mourners here, who from their carriages Gape at the gaping crowd. A good March wind Were to be pray'd for now, to lend their eyes Some decent rheum ; the very hireling mute Bears not a face more blank of all emotion Than the old servant of the family ! How can this man have lived, that thus his death Cost not the soiling one white handkerchief? TOWNSMAN. Who should lament for him, Sir, in whose hean Love had no place, nor natural charity ? The parlor spaniel, when she heard his step, Rose slowly from the hearth, and 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 Paier-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-dried, and sear'd, and shrivell'd up hia heart. So from the way in which he was train'd np His feet departed not ; he toil'd and moil'd, Poor muck-worm I through his threescore yean and ten ; IHE ALDEKMAN*S FPNERAL. 65 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. STRANGER. Vet your next newspapers will blazon him For industry and honorable wealth A bright example. j TOWNSMAN. ! biven half a million Gets him no other praise. But come this way Some twelve months hence, aud you will find his virtues Trimly set forth in lapidary lines, Faith with her torch beside, and Httle Cupids Dropping upon his lifn their marble tears Bristol, 1803, BALLADS METRIC A.L TALES. BALLADS AND METRICAL TALES. THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. "I know not whether it be worth the reporting, that there is in Cornwall, near the parish of St. Neois, a Well, arched over with the robes of four kinds of trees, withy, oak, elm, and ash, dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is this, that whether husband or wife come first, to drink thereof, they get the ma&^ry thereby." FUU.BB. A Well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen ; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below. 70 THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne ; Joyfully he drew nigh, For from 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 house hard by, At the Well to fill his pail ; On the Well-side he rested it, And he bade the stranger hail. "Now art thou a bachelor, Stranger? " quoth he " For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life. " Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast. Ever here in Cornwall been ? For an if she have, I'll venture my life. She has drank 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 the better for that, I pray you answer me why." *' St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, " many a time Drank of this crystal Well ; THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. H ^nd before the Angel summon'd 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 he master for life. * 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 water agaiji. You drank of the Well, I warrant, betimes ?'* He to the Cornish- man said : But the Cornish-man smiled as the Strangef 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' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to shurch." Westbury, 1798. BISHOP BRUNO. "Brono, the Bishop of Herbipolitanum, sailing in the river of Danubius, with Henry the Third, then Emperor, being not far from a place which the Germanos call Ben Strudd or the devouring giilf, which is neere unto Grinon, a castle in Austria, a spirit was heard clamoring aloud, 'Ho, ho, Biehop Bruno, whither art thou travelling 7 but dispose of thyselfe how thou pleasest, thou shalt be my prey and spoil.' At the hearing of these words they were all stupified, and the Bishop with the rest crossed and blessed themselves. The issue was, that within a short lime after, the Bishop, feasting with the Emperor in a ca». tie belonging to the Countesse of Esburch, a rafter fell fromtheroof of thechamberwhereinthey sate, andslrooke him dead at the table."— Hbywood's Hierarehie of th* Blessed .Ingels. Bishop Bruno awoke in the dead midnight, And he heard his heart beat loud with affright i He dreamt he had rung at the palace bell, And the sound it gave was his passing knell. Bishop Bnino smiled at his fears so vain ; He turned tc sleep, and he dreamt again; 72 BISHOP BRUNO. 73 He rang 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 ; Bishop Bruno slept no more that night,— Oh ! glad was he when he saw the day-hght . Now he goes forth in proud array, For he with the Emperor dines to-day ; There was not a Baron in Germany That went with with a nobler train 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 bent. But nobody blees'd 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 glee But I would have you know, you travel to me . 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 rang at the palace bell, He almost exDscted to hear his knell ; And when the Porter turn'd the key. He almost expected death to see. 74 BISHOP BRUWO. But soon the Bishop recover'd his glee, For the Emperor welcomed him royally , And now the tables were spread, and there Were choicest wines and dainty fare. And now the Bishop had bless'd the meat, When a voice was heard as he sat in his seat,— ' ' With the Emperor now you are dining with 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, that was sick with fear. But by little and little recovered he, For the wine went flownng merrily. Till at length he forgot nis former dread, And his cheeks again grew rosy red. When he sat down to the royal fare. Bishop Bruno was the sadest man there ; But when the masnuers enter'd the hall, He was the merriest man of ail. Then from amid the masquers' crowd There went a voice hollov/ and loud, — " You have past the day. Bishop Bruno, in giea , But you must pass the night with me I" His cheek grows pale, and his eyeballs glare, And stiff round hia tonsure bristled his hair • visHOP Biaxo. 75 With that there came one from the masquert' band, And took the Bishop by the hand. The bony hand suspended his breath : His maiTow grew cold at the touch of Deatk On saints in vain he attempted to call ; Bishop Bruno fell dead in the palace halL Wettbury, i79& THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM It was a summer evening ; Old Kaspar's work was done^ And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sim ; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelraine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet, In playing there, had found ; He came to ask what he had found. That was so large, and smooth, and round 3. Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by ; And then the old man shook his head. And with a natural sigh, 7* THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 77 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, Who fell in the great victory. " I find 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 that great victory." " Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries ; And Uttle Wilhelmine looks up With wonder- waiting eyes ; " Now tell us all about the war. And what they fought each other for *• It was the English," Kaspar cried, " Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out ; But every body said," quoth he, " That 'twas a famous victory. 7. " My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little, stream hard by ; 78 THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM, They burnt his dweUing 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. 8. " With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then, And new-born baby died ; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victorv. •' They say i, 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 be After a famous victory. 10. " Great praise the Duke of Malbro* won, And our good Prince Eugene." " Why, 'twas a very wicked thing ! " Said little Wilhelmine. " Nay — nay — my little girl, uoth he, *' It was a famous victory. THB BATTLE OF BLENHEIM, 7S li. '* And every body praised the Dr a. Who this great fight did win ' "But what good came of it a' ast f " Quoth httle Peterkin. •* Why, that I cannot tell,' said \m'. •• But 'twas a famous victonr." WeMtbury, ITn. A TRUE BALLA5> OP St. AJrriDIUS, THE POPE AlsT) THE MYIL. A very incorrect copy of this Ballad was printed and fltld by J. Bailey, 116 Chancery Lane, price Cd , with a prim from a juvenile design by G. Cruikshank. I think myself fortunate in ha ins ziccidenially obtained this broadside, which, for its rarity, will one day be deemed valuable in a collection of the works of a truly original and inimitable artist. It is Antidius the Bishop Who now at even tide, Taking the air and saying a prayer. Walks by the river side. The Devil had business that evening, And he upon earth would go ; For it was in the month of August, And the weather was close below m ST. ANTIDIUS, THE POPE, AND IHE DEVILi 81 He had his books to settle ; And up to earth he hied, To do it there in the evening air, All by the river side. His imps came flying around him, Of his affairs to tell ; From the north, and the south, and the east, and the west, They brought him the news that he liked best, 01 things they had done. And the souls they had won. And how they sped well In the service of Hell. There came a devil posting in, Reiurn'd from his employ ; Seven years had he been gone from Hell ; And now he came grinning for joy. Seven years," quoth he, " of trouble and toU Have I labor'd the Pope to win ; And I to-day have caught him ; He hath done a deadly sin 1" And then he took the Devil's book, And wrote the deed therein. Oh, then King Beelzebub, for joy, H« drew his mouth so wide You might have seen his iron teeth, Four and forty from side to side. He wagg'd his ears, he twisted his tail, He knew not for joy what to do; 6 82 ST. ANTIDIUS, THE POPE, AND THE DEVIX. In his hoofs and his horns, in his heels and bis corns, It tickled him all through. The Bishop, who beheld all this, Straight how to act bethought him ; He leap'd upon the Devil's back. And by the horns he caught him- And he said a Pater-nof-fcr As fast as he could say, And made a cross on the Devil's head, And bade him to Rome away. Away, away^ the Devil flew 1 All through the clear moonlight ;' I I warrant who saw them on their way j He did not sleep that night. Without bridle, or saddle, or whip, or spur, Away they go like the wind ; The beads of the Bishop are hanging before, And the tail of the Devil behind. They met a Witch, and she hail'd them, As soon as she came within call ; "Ave Maria!" the Bishop exclaim'd; It frightened her broomstick, and she got a fall. He ran against a shooting star. So fast for fear did he sail, And he smged the beard of the Bishop Against a comet's tail ; 4nd he pass'd between the horns of the mooa ■T. ANTIDIUS, THE POPE, AND THE DEVIL. 83 With Antidkis on Ws back ; And there was an eclipse that night Which was not in the almanac. The Bishop, just as they set out, To tel! his beads begun, And he was by tiie bed of the Pope Before the string was done. The Pope fell down upon hiss knees^ la terror and confusion, And he confess' d the deadly sin, And he had absolution. And all the Popes in bliss that be, Sung, O be joyful ! then ; And all the Popes in bale that be, They howl'd for envy then ; For they before kept jubilee, Expecting his good company, Down in the Devil's den, But what was this the Pope had done To bind his soul to Hell ? 4b ? that is the mystery of this wonderful history And I wish that I could tell 1 But would you know, .here you must go; You can easily find the way ; It is a broad and a well-known road. That is travell'd by night and by day. 84 ST. ANTIDiUS, THE POPE, AND THE rBTIL. And you must look in the Devil's bDok ; You will find one debt that was never paid yet, If you search the leaves throughout ; iLnd that is the mys'ery of this wonderful histcwf , And the way to &nd il oc?. [ ■ ! GONZALO HERMIGUEZ. This Jtory is related at length by Bernardo de Briu, a his Crorncn de Cister., \ vi. c. 1, where he has preserved also, part of a poem by Gonzalo Hermteuez. The versw are said to be the oldest in the Ponugueae language ; and Briio says there were more of them, but he thought it suffi. cient to cite these for his purpose. If they had been cor- rectly printed, it might have been difficult to make out Iheir meaning; but from a text so corrupted, it is imDos- Bible. J Tn arms and in anger, in struggle and strife, Gonzalo Hermiguez won his wife ; He slew the Moor who from the fray Was rescuing Fatima that day ; In vain she shriek'd : Gonzalo press'd The Moorish prisoner to his breast ! That breast in iron was array'd ; The gauntiet was I loody th.at grasp'd the Maid; G0N2AL0 HERMIGUEZ. Through the beaver-sight his eye Glared fierce, and red, and wrathfully; And while he bore the captive away, His heart rejoiced, and he blest the day. 2. Under the lemon walk's odorous shade Gonzalo Hermiguez wooed the Maid ; The ringlets of his raven hair Waved upon the evening air, And gentle thoughts, that raise a sigh, i Soften'd the warrior's dark-brown eye, When he with passion and sweet song I Wooed her to forgive the wrong. Till she no more could say him nay; I And the Moorish Maiden blest the day When Gonzalo bore her a captive away. To the holy Church, with pomp and pride, Gonzalo Hermiguez led his bride. In the sacred font that happy day Her stain of sin was wash'd away ; There did the Moorish Maiden claim Another faith, another name; There, as a Christian convert, plight Her faith unto the Christian Knight; And Oriana blest the day When Gonzalo bore her a captive away. GONZALO HERMIGUEZ. 87 4. Of Affonso Henriques' court the pride Were Gonzalo Hermiguez and his bride ; In battle strongest of the strong, In peace the master of the song, Gonzalo of all was first in fame, The loveliest she and the happiest dame. But ready for her heavenly birth, She was not left to fade on earth ; In that dread hour, with Heaven in view, The comfort of her faith she knew, And blest on her death-bed the day When Gonzalo bore her a captive away. 5. Through a long and holy life, Gonzalo Hermiguez mourn'd his wife. The arms wherewith he won his bride, Sword, shield, and lance, were laid aside. Thai head which the high-plumed helm had worn Was now of its tresses shaven and shorn, A Monk, of Alcobaga he Eminent for sanctity. Contented in his humble cell The meekest of the meek to dwell, His business was, by night and day. For Oriana's soul to pray. Never day did he let pass But scored to her account a mass; Devoutly for the dear one dead 0» GONZAT.O HERMIGITBS. With self-inflicted stripes he bled , This was Gonzalo's sole employ, This was Gonzalo's only joy; Till love, thus purified, became A holy, yea, a heavenly flame ; And now in heaven doth bless the day When he bore the Moorish captive awaf^ Bristol, 1601. QUEEN ORRACA ▲HO THE FIVE MARTYRS OF MOROCCO. This legend is related in the Chronicle of Affonso D., and in die HiflU)ria Serafica of Fr. Manoel da Eaperanga. 1. The Friars five have girt their loins. And taken staff in hand; And never shall those Friars again Hear mass in Christiaa land. They went to Queen Orraca, To thank her and bless her then; And Queen Orraca in tears Knelt U> the holy men. so QUEEN ORRACA AKA TH£ FIVE MARTYR3. '' Three things, Queen Orraca, We prophesy to you : Hear us, in the name of God ! For time will prove them true. " In Morocco we must martyr'd be ; Christ hath vouchsafed it thus : We shall shed our blood for Him Who shed his blood for us. " To Coimbra shall our bodies be brought, Such being the will divine ; That Christians may behold and feel Blessings at our shrine. " And when unto that place of rest Our bodies shall draw nigh, Who sees us first, the King or ycu, That one that night must die. ' Fare nee well, Queen Orraca ! For ihy soul a mass we will say, Every day as long as we live, And on thy dying day.'' The Friars they blest her, one by one Where ahe knelt on her knee ; And they departed to the land Of the Moors beyond the sea. QUEEN ORRACA AND THE FIVE MARTYRS. 91 2. •* What news, O King Affonso, What news of the Friars five ? Have they preach'd to the Miramamolin ; And are they still aUve ?" *• They have fought the fight, O Queen ! They have run the race ; In robes of white they hold the palu Before the throne ot Grace. *' All naked in the sun and air Their mangled bodies lie ; What Christian dared to bury them, By the bloody Moors would die." ^« 3. " What news, O King Affonso, Of the Martyrs five what news ? Doth the bloody Miramamolin Their burial still refuse ?" *' That on a dunghill they should Irot, The bloody Moor decreed ; That their dishonor' d bodies should The dogs and vultures feed ; — ' But the thunder of God roUM over them, And the lightning of God flash'd round; Nor thing impure, nor man impure, Could approach the holy ground. 4. Every altar in Coimbra Is dress'd for the festival day; All the people in Coimbra Are dight in their richest arra} 92 QT7EEN ORRACA AND THE FIVE MARTTRft. j| !i " A thousand miracles appall' d Ji The cruel Pagan's mind ; jj Our brother Pedro brings them here, In Coimbra to be shrined." ! Every bell in Coimbra j Doth merrily, merrily ring; \\ • The Clergy and the Knights await ji I To go forth with the Queen and the King || " Come forth, come forth, Queen Orraca; We make the procession stay." j **I beseech thee, King AfFonso, : Go you alone to-day. ! *• I have pain in my head this morning I am ill at heart also ; Go without me. King Affonso, For I am too faint to go." " The relics of the Martyrs five i All maladies can cure ; They will requite the charity You show d them once, be sure : QUEEN ORRACA ftND THE FIVE MARTTfBS. 93 " Come forth, then Queen Orraca; ^ou make the procession slay : It were a scandal and a sin To abide at home to-day." Upon her palfrey she is set, And forward then they go ; And over the long bridge they pass. And up the long hill wind slow. '* Prick forward, King Affonso, And do not wait for me ; To meet them close by Coirabra, It were discourtesy ; — "A little while I needs must wait, • Till this sore pain be gone ; I will proceed the best I can ; ^^ But do you and your Knights prick on. The King and his Knights piick'd up the hill Faster than before ; , j . u-n The King and his Knights have topp d the hill, And now they are seen no more. As the King and his Knights went down the hill, A wild boar cross' d the way ; ♦ Follow him '. follow him '." cned the King ; «* We have time by the Queen's delay." A-hunting of the boar astray Is King AJSbnso gonfe : 94 QUEE.V ORRACA AND THE FIVE MARTYM. Slowly, slowly, but straiglu the while, Queen Orraca is ccming on. And winding now the train appears Between the olive-trees : Queen Orraca alighted then. And fell upon her knees. The Friars of Alanquer came first. And next the relics past ; — Queen Orraca look'd to see The King and his Knights come laat She heard the horses tramp behind ; At that she tuni'd her face : King Alibnso and his Knights came .j All pantmg from the chase. " Have pity upon my poor soul, Holy Martyrs five 1" cried she : " Holy Mary, Mother of God, Virgin, pray for me I" 5. That day in Coimbra Many a heart was gay ; But the heaviest heart in Coimbra Was that puor Queen's that day The festival is over, The sun hath sunk in the west ; U^ QUEEN ORRA.CA AND THE FIVE MARTYRS. 93 All the people in Coimbra Have betaken themselves to rest. Queen Orraca's Father Confessor At midnight is awake, KneeUng at the Martyrs' shrine. And prajnng for her sake. Just at the mio night hour, when all Was still as siill could be, Into the Church of Santa Cru2 Came a saintly company. All in robes of russet gray. Poorly wore they dight ; Each one girdled w^ith a cord, Like a Friar Minorite. But from those robes of russet gray; There flow'd a heavenly light ; For each one was the blessed souJ Of a Friar Minorite. Brighter than their brethren, Among the beautiful band, Five were there who each did boK A palm -branch in his hand. He who led the brethren, A liviiii,' ir-::in was he ; And yet h; shone the brightest Of all the company. r" 96 QTJEEN ORRJLCA AND THE FIVE MAKTYES. Before the steps of the altar, Each one bow'd his head ; And then with solemn voice they sung The Service of the Dead. " And who are ye, ye blessed Saints ?" The Father Confessor said ; *' And for what happy soul sing ye The Service of the Dead ?" " These are the souls of our brethren in blisa The Martyrs five are we : And this is our father Francisco, Among us bodily. " We are come hither to perform Our promise to the Queen ; Go thou to King Affonso, And say what thou hast seen." There was loud knocking at the door, As the heavenly vision fled ; And the porter called to the Confessor, To tell him the Queen was dead. Bristol, 1803. THE OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEY, , A BALIJ^D, 1 BOWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBTS, j AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. j This Story ig related by Olaiw Magnus, and in the Nu- remburg Chronicle. But "William of Malmesbury seems to have been the original authority, and he had the story from an eye witness. " When I shall have related it," he flays, " the creditof the narrative will not be shaken, though the minds of ihe hearers should be incredulous, for I have heard it from a man of such character xvko lamld swear he had seen it, that I should blush to disbelieve."— -S/wnp*'* William of Malmesbury, p. 26. 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 letch them with speed." 7 97 98 THE OLD Vv'OMAN OF BERKELEY. The Old Woman of Berkeley said ; * The Monk my son, and my daushter the Nun, Bid them hasten, or I shall be dead." The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nua, Their way to Berkeley went ; And they have brought, with pious thought, The holy sacrament. The Old Woman shriek'd as they enter'd hef door; And she cried with a voice of despair. " Now take away the sacrament, For its presence I cannot bear!" Her hp it trembled with agony ; The sweat ran down her brow ; ' I have tortures in store for evermore, But spare me, my children, now!" \way they sent the sacrament ; The fit ir left her weak; Shp look'il at her children with ghastly eyw, And faintly struggled to speak. "All kind of sin I have rioted in. And the judgment now must be , But 1 secured my children's souls; Oh ! pray, my children, for me ! " I have 'nointed myself with infants' fat; The fiends have been my slaves; From sleeping babes I have suck'd the breath ; THE OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEIT. 99 And, breaking by charms the sleep of death, I have call'd the dead from their graves. " And the Devil will fetch nje now in fire, My witchcrafts to atone ; And I, who have troubled the dead man's grave Shall never have rest in my own. " Bkss, I entreat, my winding sheet, My children, I beg of you; And with holy water sprinkle my shroud, And sprinkle my coffin too. " And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone, ij And fasten it strong, I implore, |j With iron bars, and with three chains j Chain it to the church floor. i| *' And bless the chains, and sprinkle them ; ii And let fifty Priests stand round, ! (Vho night and day the mass may say I Where I he on the ground. j •' And see that fifty Choristers j Beside the bier attend me, j And day and night, by the tapers' Ught, j With holy hymns defend me. i I •' Let the church bells all, both great and small, { Be toll'd by night and day, Ij To drive from thence the fiends who com© To hear uiy boiy away i I J 100 THE OLD WOMAN 07 BEKKILKT. " 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 ; Till the fourth morning keep me safe, And then I may rest in my grave." The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her dowr And her eyes grew deadly dim ; Short came her breath, and the struggle of deatli Did loosen every hmb. They bless' d the old woman's winding sheet With rites and prayers due ; With holy water they sprinkled her shroud. And they sprinkled her coffin 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 Th&y chain'd it to the ground. And they bless'd the chains, and sprinkled them And fifty Priests stood round. By night and day the mass to say j Where she lay on the ground. j And fifty sacred Choristers beside the bier attend her. THE 01 J) VOMAN OF BERKELEY. lul Who day and night, by the tapers' light, Should with holy hymns defend her. To see the Priests and Choristers It was a goodl}' sight, Each holdmg, as it were a staff, A taper burning bright. And thj church bells all, both great and small, Did toil 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 he Chorisleri sung Louder, in fearful zeal. Loud toU'd the bell ; the priests pray'd well ; The tapers they burnt bright ; The Monk her son, and her daughter the Naiij They told their beads all night. The cock he crew ; the Fiends they flew From thj voice -f the morning awav : I ! 102 THE OLD WJMAN OF BERKELEY. i Then undisturb'd the Choristers sing, J! And the fifty Priests they pray ; ij As they had sung and pray'd all night, They pray'd and sung all day. The second night the tapers' light ,, Burnt dismally and blue, ij And every one saw his neighbor's facfs Ij Like a dead man's face to view. And yells and cries without arise, That the stoutest heart might shock, And a deafening roaring Uke a cataract pouring Over a mountain rock. The Monk and Nun ihey 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 Priests as they pray'd to Heaven for aid, They smote their breasts full sore. The cock he crew ; the Fiends they flew From the voice of the morning away ; Then undisturb'd the Choristers sing, And the fifty Priests they pray :_ As they had sung and pray'd all night, They piay'd and sung all day. li . Ij THE OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEY. IM The third night came, and the tapers' flame A frightful stench did make ; \nd they burnt aa though they had been dipp'd In the burning brimstone lake. j And the loud commotion, Uke the rushing of ocean, 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 in dismay ; There was not a single Saint in heaven To whom they did not pray. And the Choristers' song, which late was so strong, Falter'd with 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 ; — 104 THE OI^D WOMAN OF BERKELEF. And the tapers' light was extinguish'd quite; And the Choristers faintly sung ; And the Priests, dismay'd, panted and pray'd, And on all Saints in Heaven for aid They call'd with trembling tongue. And in Pie came with eyes of flame, The Devil to fetch the dead ; And all the church with his presence glow'd Like a fierv furnace red. He lai 1 his hand on the iron chains, And like flax they moulder'd asunder. And the coffin lid, which was barr'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 ; A cold sweat started on that 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 WomaB gave Never did mortal hear. She fdUnw'd her blaster to the church door ; There stood a Mack horse there ; His breath was red like furnace smoke. His eyes hke a meteor's glare. ■ THE OLD WOMAN OF BERK«LET. lOS The Devil he flung her on the horse. And he le'ap'd 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 For four miles round they could hear ; And children at rest at their mothers' breMt Started, and scream' d with fear. Uerefitrd, 1798, THE SURGEON'S WARNING. !j The subject of this parody was suggested by a friend, ic [ ^hom also I am indebted for some of the stanzas. |! Respecting the patent cuffins herein mentioned, after » the manner of Catholic Poets, who c^mfess the actions j they attribute to their Saints and Deity to be but fiction, {! I hereby declare that it is by no means my design to de. {I preciate tliat useful invention; and all persons to whom ij this Ballad shall come are requested to take notice, tha« t' nothing herein asserted concerning the aforesaid cof. fins is true, except that the naker and t^tentee lives by St. Martin's Lane. 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." 106 THE surgeon's WARNING. 107 The Parson and the Undertaker They hastily canve complying, And the Surgeon's 'Prentices ran up stairs When they heard that their Master was dying. 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 out of my sigm, I beseech ye, 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 kriow, 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 with ghastly eyes, And faintly struggled to speak. "All kinds of carcasses I have cut up, And now my turn will be ; But, brothers, I took care of you; So pray take care of me. '« 1 have made candles of dead men's fat ; The Sextons have been my slaves ; 108 THE SUR&EON's WARNIWa. I have bottled babes unborn, and dried Hearts and livers from rifled graves. *' And my 'Prentices now will surely come And carve me bone from bone ; And I, who have rifled the dead man's grave, Shall never have rest in my own. " Bury me in lead when I am dead, My brethren, I entreat, And sec the coffin weigh' d, I beg, Lest the plumber should be a cheat. "And let it be solder'd closely down, Strong as strong can 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 labor will be in vain ; Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker Who Uves by St. Martin's Lane. • And bury me in my brother's church. For that will safer be ; And, I implore, lock the church door, And pray lake care of the key. •* And all night long let three stout men The vestry watch within ; To each man give a gallon of beei-, And a keg of Holland's gin ; — THE SURGEOK's WARNING. 109 ' * Powder and ball, and blunderbuss, To save me if he can, A.nd eke five guineas if he shoot A Resurrection Man. " And let them watch me for three weeks. My wretched corpse to save ; For then I think that I may stmk Enough to rest in my grave." The Surgeon laid him down in his bed ; Ilis eyes grew deadly dim ; Short came his breath, and the struggle of death Did loosen every hmb. They put him in lead when he was dead, And, wi;h precaution meet, First they the leaden coffin weigh, Lest the plumber should be a cheat. They had it solder'd closely down, And examin'd it o'er and o'er ; And they put it in a patent coffin, That he might rise no more. For to carry him off in a patent coffin. Would, they thought, be but labor in vain; So the Undertaker saw it bought of the mak* Who hves by St. Martin's Lane. In his brother's church they buried hinu That safer he might be ; JIO THE surgeon's WARNING. They lock'd the door, and would not tnut 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 church-yard as they went, A guinea of gold the Sexton show'd That Mister 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 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 cock he crew. Cock-a-doodle-doo ! Past five ! the watchman said ; And they went away, for while it was day They might safely leave the dead. The second night, by lantern Hght, Through the church-yard as they went, He whisper'd anew, and show'd them two, Tha^ Mister Joseph sent. I' i THE SUR&EON's warning. l!l The guineas were bright, and attracted theii 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 tlie gold, but not So rudely as before. 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 church-yard they went. He bade them see, and show'd them three, 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 rog,iish eye. And gave a well-timed wink ; And they couH not stand the sound in his hand, V - ho made the guineas chink. 112 . 7E surgeon's -warninj?. And conscience, late that had such weight, All in a moment fails ; For well they knew that it was true A dead man tells no tales. And they gave all their powder and ball, j And took the gold so bright ; I And they drank their beer, and made good chseT Till now it was midnight. I'hen, though the key of the church-door Was left with the Parson, his brother,. It open'd at the Sexton's touch, — Because lie had aiioth< r, ; And in they go, with that viilian Joe, i To fetch "the body by ni_^lit ; j! And all the ehurch luok'd dismally ! By his da:li lanttrn li-iit. ;| They bad the pick-are to the stones, ! And ;hfy ui'VO'i tl^.L-m so >ii -sunder; I The}" shoveird away the b !nl-pris='d clay, j And came to tiie cofnn uuder. • 'I'liey burst tlie patent <'.offin first, jj Add they cut ibrough Uie ie.id ; jj A:i<.i ti.cy ]au,.h'd aloud when they saw the j| bhroud, jl Because they had q.-ot at the dead. il Ij And they allow'd the Sexton the sliroud, jj And they put the coffin back ; jj 1 THB SUIIGEON's WARNIWS. 113 And nose and knees they then did squeeze Tlie Surgeon in a sack. The watchmen, as they pass'd 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 bon«. But what became of the Surgeon's sool Was never to mortal known. WeMtbury. HSS- HENRY THE HERMIT. It was a little isia^d where he dwelt, A solitary islet, bleal; and bare, Short, scanij' h rbage spotting with dark spota Its gray stoae surface. Never mariner Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast, Nor ever fisherman liis lo.iis'y bark Anchor' d 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 abandon' d arms, Honors, and friends, and country, and the world, And had grown old in sohtude. That isle Some sohtary man, in other times, Had made his dwelling-place ; and Henry found The little chapel which his toil had built Now by the storms unroofd, his bed of leaves Wind-scatter'd; and his grave o'ergrown wiik grass, U4 HENRY THE HERMIT. 115 A^nd thistles, whose white seeds there wing'd in vain, Wither'd on rocks, or in the waves were lost. 60 he repair'd the chapel's ruin'd roof, Clear'd the gray Uchens from the ahar-stone, And underneath a rock that shelter' d him From the sea-blast, he built his hermitage. The persants 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 sciiic sinful wretch on a sick bed Implored his blessing and his aid in death. That summons he delay'd not to obey, Though I ho night-tempest or autumnal wind Madden' d the waves ; and though the marineri 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, Rose he at midnight from his bed of leaves, And bent his knees in prayer ; but with mora zeal, More self-condemning fervor, raised his voice Imploring pardon for the natural sin Of that reluctance, till the atoning prayer 116 HEX«RY THE HERMIT. i Had satisfied his heart, and given it peace, li And the repented fault became a joy. ji 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. j AlEffm'd at that unusual hour, to hear i Its toll irregular, a monk arose, I And cross'd to the island-chapel. On a stone j Henry «vas sitting the>e, dead, cold, and stiff, The bell-rope in his hand, and at his feet The lamp* that stream'd a long, unsteady light. Westbury, 1799. • This BUxy ifl related in the EnglUi MaitTrclogy, IGOa ST GUALBERTO. ADDRESSED TO ffEOROE BURNFIT. IMIlfxjn has made the name of Vallumbroea familiar lo Eiigliah readers; few of whom, unless they have visits the^spot, know thai it is the chief seat of a religious order foundod by St. Gaulberto. A passage in one of Miss Se- ward's early letters shows how well Milton had observed the peculiar feature of its autu/imal scenery. "I have heard my father say, that when he was in Italy with Lord Charles Fitzroy, they travelled throuirh Vallumbrosa in autumn, after the leaves had begim to fall ; and that their guide was obliged to try what was land, and what water, by pushing a long pole bef ire him, which he carried in his hand, the vale being so very irriguous, and the leaves so totally covering the surface of the stTtiama."— Poetical Wo'ks /^Anne Seward, toith Extracts f rain her Literary C'orrespondefce, vol. L p. Ixxxvi. 1. The wQfk is done ; the fabric is complete ; Distinct the Traveller sees its distant tower, Yet, ere his steps attain the sacred seat, 117 tI8 ST. GUAtBERTO. Must toil for many a league and many an hour. Elate the Abbot sees the pile, and knows, Stateliest of convents now, his new Moscerarose. 2. Long were the tale that told Moscera's pride, Its columns' cluster' d strength and lofty state. How many a saint bedeck'd its sculptured side; What intersecting arches graced its gate ; Its towers how high, hs massy walls how strong. These fairly to describe were sure a tedious song. 3. Yet while the fane rose slowly from the ground. But Uttle 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, Because this costly work still kept the brethren poor. 4. Now all is finish' d, and from every side They flock to view the fabric, young and old. Who now can tell Rodulfo's secret pride, When, on the Sabbath-day, his eyes behold The multitudes that crowd his church's floor, Some sure to serve their God, to see Moscera more ? ST. GUALBERTO. 119 5. So chanceJ it that Gaulberto pass d /hat way, Since sainted for a life of saintly deeds. He paused, the new-rear'd convent to survey, And, o'er the structure whilst his eye pro- ceeds, Sorrowed, as one whose holier feelings deem That ill so proud a pile did Lumble monks be- 6. Him, musing as he stood, Rodulfo saw, And forth he came to greet the holy guest ; For him he knew as one who held the law Of Benedict, and each severe behest So duly kept with such religious care, Thai Heaven had oft vouchsafed its wonders to his prayer. 7. *' Good brother, welcome !" thus Rodulfo cries ; *' In sooth it glads me to behold you here ; It is Gaulberto ! and mine aged eyes Did not deceive me : yet full many a year Hath shpp'd away, since last you bade farewell To me your host and my uncomfortable cell. . 8. *♦ 'Twas but a sorry welcome then you found And such as suited ill a guest so dear. 120 ST. &UA.LBERTO. 1'he pile was ruinous the base unsound; It glads me more to bid you welcome here, For you can call to mind our former state ; Come, brother, pass with me the new Moscera's gate. 9, So spake the cheerful Abbot ; but no smile Of answering joy relax'd Gualberto's brow; He raised his hand rt^ 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?" 10. " Ay," cries Rodulfo, " 'tis a stately 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 docks the sumptuous hall, Jan poor and sordid huts beseem the Lord of all?" 11. A.nd ye have rear'd these stately towers on high To serve your God?" the Monk severe replied ; ST. GDALBERTO. 121 " It rose from zeal and earnest piety, And prompted by no worldly thoughts be« side ? Abbot, to him who prays with soul sincere, However poor the cell, God will incHne his ear. 12. *♦ Rodulfo ! while this haughty building rose, Still was the pilgrim welcome at your door ? Did charity relieve the orphan's woes ? Clothed ye the naked ? did ye feed the poor ? He who with alms most succors the distress'd, Proud Abbot ! know he serves his heavenly Father best. 13. •* Did they in sumptuous palaces go dwell Who first abandon'd all to serve the Lord ? Their place of worship was the desert cell ; Wild fruits and berries spread their fnigal board ; And if a brook, hke this, ran murmuring by, They bless'd their gracious God, and ' thought it luxury.' " 14. Then anger darken' d in Rodulfo' s face , *' Enough of preaching," sharply he replied* "Thou art grown envious; 'tis a common ca.se ; Humility is made the cloak of pride. 122 ST GU ALBERTO. Proud of our home's magnificeiue are we. But thou art far more proud in rags and beg gary." 15. With that Gualberto cried in fervent tone, " O Father, hear me ! If this costly pile Was for thine honor rear'd, and thine alone, Bless it, O Father, with thy fostering smile ! Still may it stand, and never evil know. Long as beside its walls the endless stream shall flow. 16. " 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 gently flows beside, Now from its base sweep down the unholy house of pride I" ■1. He said, — and io, the brcK)k no longer flows! The waters pause, and now they swell on high : Erect in one collected heap they ros<3 ; The affrighted brethren from Moscera fly, And upon all the Saints in Heaven they call, To save them in their flight from that impending fall. ST. aUALBERT>>. 123 18. Down the heap'd waters came, and, with a sound Like thunder, ovei thrown the fabric falls ; Swept far and wide, its fragments strow the ground, Prone lie its columns now, its high -arch' d walls ; Elarth shakes beneath the onward-rolling tide, That from its base swept down the unholy house of pride. * * * * 19. Were old Gualberto's reasons built on truth, Dear George, or like Moscera's base un sound ? This sure 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. 20. Then Malmesbury's arch had never met my sight. Nor Battle's vast jyid venerable pile ; I had not traversed then with such delight The hallowed ruins of our Alfred's isle. Where many a pilgrim's curse is well bestow'd On those who rob its wails to mend the turn pike road. 124 ST. GU ALBERTO. 21. Wells would have fallen, dear George, our country's pride ; And Canning's stately church been rear'd in vain ; Nor 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 will well reward delay. 22. And we should never then have heard, I think, At evening hour, great Tom's tremendous knell. The fountain streams that nowin Christ-church stink, Had Niagara' d o'er the quadrangle ; But, as 'twas beauty that deserved the flood, I ween, dear George, thy own old Pompey might have stood. 23. Then had not Westminster, the house of God, Served for a concert-room, or signal-post : Old Thames, obedient to the father's nod, Had swept down Greenwich, England'f noblest boast ; And, eager to destroy the unholy walls. Fleet Ditch had roU'd up hill to overwhelm St. Paul's. ST. GUALBERTO 12> 24= George, dost thou deem the legendary deeds Of saints hke this but rubbish, a mere store Of trash, 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 headlon^g down the dark and fathomlesa profound ? 25. Now do I bless the man who undertook These Monks and Martyrs to biographize; And love to ponder o'er his ponderous book. The mingle-mangle mass of truth and lies, Where waking fancies mix'd with dreams ap- pear. And blmd and honest zeal, and holy faith sincere. 26. All is not truth ; and yet, methinks, 'twere hard Of wilful fraud such fablers to accuse ; What if a Monk, from better themes debarr*a Should for an edifying story choose How some great Saint the Flesh and Fiend o'ercame ; ^lis taste I trow, and not his conscience, wete to blame 126 ST. GAULJERTO. 27. No fault of his, if what he thus design'd Like pious novels for the use of youth, Obtain'd such hold upon the simple mind That was received at length for gospel-truths A fair account ! andshouldst thou like the plea, Thank thouour valued friend, Dear George, who taught it me. . All is not false which se^ms at first a lie. Fernan Antolinez, a Spanish knight. Knelt at the mass, when, lo! the troops hard by Before the expected hour began the fight. Though courage, duty, honor, summon'd there, He chose to forfeit all, not leave the unfinish'd prayer. 29. But while devoutly thus 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 all to liim decreed the glory of the day. 30. The truth is tcld, and men at once exclaira'd, Heaven had his Guardian Angel deign'd to send ; ST. GA.UI.BERTO. 127 And thus ihe tale is handed down to fame. Now, if our good Sir Fernan had a friend Who in tins critical season served him well, Dear George, the tale is true, and yet no miracie- 31. I am not one who scan with scornful eyes The dreams which maiie the enthusicist'e best delight ; Nor thou the legendary lore despise, If of Gaulberto yet again 1 write, How first iinpell'd he sought the convent cell; A simple tale it is, but one that pleased me well. 32. Fortune had smiled upon Gaulberto's birth, The heir of Valdespesa'srich domains ; An only child, he grew in years and worth, And well repaid a father's anxious pains. In many a lield that father had been tried, Well for his valor known, and not less known for pride. 33. It chanced that one in kindred near allied Was slain by his hereditary foe ; Much by hi;i sorrow moved, and more by pride, The father vow'd that blood for blood should flow; 128 ST. GAULBERTO. And from his youth Gaulberto had been taught That with unceasing hate should just revenge be sought. 34. Long did iney wait ; at length the tidings came That, through alone and unfrequented way, Soon would Anselmo — such the murderer's name — Pass on his journey home, an easy prey. "Go," said the father, "meet hun in the wood !" And young Gaulberto went, and laid in wait for blood. 35. When now the youth was at the forest shnde I Arrived, it drew toward the close of day ; I Anselmo haply might be long delay'd, j And he, already wearied with his way, Beneath an ancient oak his hmbs recUned, And thoughts of near revenge alone possese'd his mmd. 36. Slow sunk 'he glorious sun ; a roseate light Spread o er the* forest from his Hngering ray»; The glowing clouds upon Gaulberto's sight Soften' d in shade, — he could not choose but gaze : ST. GAULBERTO. 129 And now a placid grayness clad the heaven, Save where the west retain'd the last green lighf of even. 37. Cool breathed the grateful air, and fresher now The fragrance of the autumnal leaves arose ; The passing gale scarce moved the o'erhang- ing bough. And not a sound disturb'd the deep repose, Save when a falling leaf came fluttering by, Save the near brooklet's stream that murmur'd quietly. 38, Is there who has not felt the deep delight, The hush of soul, that scenes hke these impart ? The heart they will not soften is not right ; And young Gualberto was not hard of heart. Yet sure he thinks revenge becomes him well, When from a neighboring church he heard the vesper-bell. 39. The Romanist who hears that vesper-bell, Howe'er employ'd, must send a prayer to Heaven. In foreign lands I Hked the custom well ; For with the calm and sober thoughts ofeven It well accords ; and wert thou journey ng there, 130 ST. &AULBERTO. It would not hurt thee, George, to join that ve» per-prayer. 40. Gualberto had been duly taught to hold All pious customs with religious care ; ind — for the young man's- feehngs were not cold, — He never yet had miss'd his vesp>er-prayer. But strange misgivings now his heart invade ; And when the vesper-bell had ceased, he had not pray'd. 41. And wherefore was it that he had not pray'd I The sudden doubt arose within his mind, And many a former precept then he weigh'd. The w ords of Him who died to save man- kind ; How 'twas the meek who should inherit Hea- ven, And man must man forgive, if he would be for- i given. |j ll 42. Troubled at heart, almost he felt a hope, That yet some chance his victim might delay. So as he mused adown the neighboring slope, He saw a lonely traveller on his way ; And now he knows the m^n so much ab- horr'd. — ST. OAULBERTO. 131 His holier thoughts are gone, he bares the mur- derous sword. 43, ♦' The house of Valdespesa gives the blow I Go, and our vengeance to our kinsman tell !'* Despair and terror seized the unarm' d foe, And prostrate at the young man's knees he fell, And sfopp'd his hand, and cried, " Oh, do not take A wretched sinner'slifel mercy for Jesus' sake!" 44 At that most blessed name, as at a spell. Conscience, the power 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!" 45. 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 neighboring church he s^ed awav: His overburden'd soul before his God o lay. 132 ST. OAULBBSTO. ,, 46. jj He ran with breathless speed. — La reach' d th« jj door, — j With rapid throbs his feverish pulses swell;— j! He came to crave for pardon, to adore jl For grace vouchsafed ; before the cross he fell, I And raised his swimming eyes, and thought jj that there i He saw the imaged Christ smile favoring on his prayer. 47. A blest illusion ! from that very night The Monk's austerest life devout he led ; And still he felt the enthusiast's deep delight Seraphic visions floated round his head ; The joys of heaven foretasted fiU'd his soul ; And still the good man's name adorns the ed roll. Weslbury, 17». THE ROSE. Between the C3rteeand the Chirche of Bethlehem, w the feldc Floridus, that is to 8eyne,lhe felde florsched. For ale moche as a fayre iMayden was blamed whh wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadd don fornicacioun, for whiche caus3 sche whs demed to the dethe,andtobe brent in ihat place, to the whiche she was ladd. And as the fyre began to brenne about hire, she made her preyeres to oure Lord, that als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help hire, and make it to be k no wen to alle menof his mercy fuUe grace: and whanne sche had thus seyc Bche entered into the fuyer, and anon was the fuyei quenched andoute,and the brondes that weren branny nge becomen white Roserew fuUe of roses, and theise werein the first Roseres and roses, both white and rede, that every ony man saiighe. Ana thus was this Maiden saved by the grace of Goi.^The Voiage and Traivaile of Sir John Mcaindeinlle. NTay, Edith ! spare the rose ; — perhaps it lives, And feels the noontide sun, and drinks refresh'd The dew s of night ; let not thy gentle hand Tear its lile-strings asunder, and destroy 133 134 THE ROSE. I The sense of being I — Why that infidel smile t jj Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful; :! And thou shah have a tale of other days, — 'i 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 i heard i How first by miracle its fragrant leaves I Spread to the sun their blushing lovehness. | There dwelt in Bethlehem a Jewish maid, ; And Zillah was her name, so passing fair That all Judea spake the virgin's praise. He who had seen her eye's dark radiance How it reveal'd her soul, and what a soul Beam'd in the mild effulgence, woe to him ! For nor 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. Alas for him 1 her bosom own'd no love Save the strong ardor of religious zeal, For Zillah on her God had centred all ; Her spirit's deep affections. So for her | Her tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverenced j The obdurate virtue that Jestroy'd their hopes. I One man there was, a vain and wretched man« Who saw, desired, despaired, and hated her. His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek j THE ROSE. 135 Sven ti.l the flush of angry modesty Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. She loathed the man ; for Hamuel's eye was bold, And the strong workings of brute selfishness Had moulded his broad features ; and she fear'd The bitterness of wounded vanity That with a fiendish hue would overcast His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear; For Harauel vow'd revenge, and laid a plot Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports That soon obtain belief; how Zillah's eye, When in the temple heaven-ward it was raised. Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those Who had beheld the •nthusiasi's melting glance With other feelings iill'd ; — 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 well-schemed villany. Produced such semblances of guilt, — the Maid Was to the fire condemn'd. 136 THE ROSE. rp, , Without the walls, 1 here way a barren field ; a place abhorr'd For It was there where wretched criminals' Receiv d their death ; and there they fix'd the stake, And piled the fuel round, which should consume 1 he injured Maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd By God and Man. The assembled Bethlehemitea geheld 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 savao-e joy Led thitherward, but now within his heart Unwonted feehngs stirr'd, and the first pangs Of wakening guilt, anticipant of Hell. The eye of Zillah, as it glanced around, Fell on the slanderer once, and rested there A moment ; like a dagger did it pierce, And 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 infamy and death Forsake the virtuous! They draw near the stake, They bring the torch !— hold, hold your erring hands ! Yet quench the rising flames !— they rise I they spread ! They reach the suffering Maid ! oh God protect The mnocent one ! nt BOSS. 137 They rose, they spread, they raged ;— I'he breath of God went forth ; the ascending fire 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 Branches and buds, and, spreading its green leaves, Embowers and canopies the innocent Maid, Who there stands glorified ; and Roses, then First seen on earth since Paradise was lost, Profusely blossom round her, white and red, In all their rich variety of hues ; And fragrance such as our first parents breathed In Eden she inhales, vouchsafed to her A. presage sure of Paradise regain' d> Wtstbury, 1798. THE LOVER'S ROCK. The Maiden, through the favoring night 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 wrath, the captive's chain; In hope to Seville on they flee, To peace, and love, and Uberty. Chiuma they have left, and now, Beneath a precipice's brow. Where Guadalhorce winds its way. There in the shade awhile they lay ;— For now the sun was near its height. And she was weary with her flight ; 138 THE lover's rock. 139 She laid her head on Manuel's bieast, And pleasant was the maiden's rest While thus the lovely Laila slept, A fearful watch young Manuel kept. Alas! her Father and his train He sees conne speeding o'er the plain. The Maiden started from her sleep ; They sought for refuge up the steep ; To scale the precipice's brow Their only hope of safety now. But them the angry Father sees; With voice and arm he menaces ; And now the Moors approach the steep ; Loud are his curses, loud and deep. Then Manuel's heart grew wild with woe He loosen'd stones and roll'd below; He loosen'd crags ; for Manuel strove For life, and liberty, and love. The ascent was perilous and high ; The Moors they durst not venture nigl ; The fugitives stood safely there ; They stood in safety and despair. The Moorish chief unmoved could see His daughter bend her suppliant knee ; He heard his child for pardon plead, And swore the offenders both should bleed 140 THE lover's rock. He bade the archers bend the bow, And make the Christian fall below ; He bade the archers aim the dart, A-nd pierce the Maid's apostate heart. The archers aim'd their arrows there ; She clasp' d young Manuel in despair; *' Death, Manuel, shall set us free ! Then leap below, and die with me." He clasp'd her close, and cried, Farewell In one another's arms they fell ; And falling o'er the rock's steep 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. Because they perish' d for despair. Yet every Moorish maid can tell Where Laila lies, who loved so well ; And every youth, who passes there, Says for Manuel's soul a prayer. WeBtbury, 1798. GARCI FERRANDE55. This rx)ry, which later hiBtorians have taken soine paini to disprove, may be found in the Coronica General di E«pana. PART I. 1. In an evil day and an hour of woe Did Garci Ferrandez wed ! He wedded the Lady Argentine, As ancient stories tell ; He loved the Lady Argentine ; Alas ! for what befell ! The Lady Argentine hath fled ; In an evil day and an hour of woe She hath left the husband who loved her well, To go to Count Aymerique's bed. 141 142 GABCI FEERANDEZ. Garci Ferrandez was brave and young, The comeliest of the land ; There was never a knight of Leon in fight Who could meet the force of his matchless might ; There was never a foe in the infidel band Who against his dreadful sword could stand ; And jet Coun* Garci's strong right hand Was shapuiv, and soft, and white; As white and as soft as a Lidy's hand Was the hand of the beautiful knight. i i In an evil dav and an hour of woe i! To Garci's Hall did Count Aymerique go I j In an evil hour and a luckless night li From Garci's Hall did he take his flight ; ji And bear with him that lady brigfci i| That lady false his bale and bane. |j There was feasting and joy in Count Aymi»- ji ri<|ue's bower, j! When he with triumph, and pomp, and prido I i Brought home the adulteress like a bride : jl His daughter only sat in her tower ; I She sat in her lonely tower alone, j| And for her dead mother she made her moan ; " Methiuks, ' said she, " my father for me Might have brought a bridegroom home. A stepmother he brings hither instead ; Conn* Aymerique will not his daughter should v^red. OARCI FERRANDEZ. 143 But he brings home a leman for his own bed." So thoughts of good and thoughts of ill Were working thus in Abba's will; And Argentine, with evil intent, Ever ro work her wos was bent ; That still she sat in her tower alone, And in that melancholy gloom, When for her mother she made her moan, She wish'd her father too in the tomb. ij 4. . II She watches the pilgrims and poor who wait i\ For daily food at her father's gate. \\ I would some Knight were there," though: i * she, I " Disguised in pilgrim-weeds for me ? For Aymerique's blessing I would not stay Nor he nor his lernan should say me nay, But I with him would wend away. 5. She watches her handmaid the pittance deal • They took their dole and went away; i But yonder is one who lingers still ; 'I As thouijh he had something in his will, Ji Some secret which he fain would say; !! And close to the portal she sees him go ; ; He talks wiiH her handmaid in accents low; Oh then r>;;i; thought thai time went slow, And long were the minutes that she must wait 1 I'il her handmaic came from the castle- gate, ij ij 144 OARCI FERRANBEZ. 6. From ttie oastle-gate her handmaid came, And told her that a Knight was there, Who sought to speak with Abba the fair, Count Aymeriqiie's beautiful daughter and heir, She bade the stranger to her bower ; His stature was tail, his features bold ; A goodlier form might never maid At tilt or tourney hope to see ; And though in pi'grim-weeds arrayed. Yet noble in his weeds was he, And did his arms in them enfold As they were robes of royahy. He told his name to the high-born fair ; He said that vengeance led him there. " Now aid me. lady dear," quoth he, " To smite the adulteress in her pride ; Your wrongs and mine avenged shall be, And T will take you for my bride." He pledged the word of a true Knight ; From out the weeds his hand he drew; She took the hand that Garci gave And then she knew his tale was true. For she saw the warrior's hand so white. And she knew the fame of the beautiful Knight OARCT FEBRANDEZ. 145 PART II. 1. 'Tis the hour of noon ; The bell of the convent hath done. And the Sexts are begun ; The Count and his len:ian are gone to tl>eir meat They look to their pages, and lo they see Where Abba, a stranger so long before, The ewer, and basin, and napkin bore ; She came and knelt on her bended knee, And first to her father minister' d she : Count Aymerique look'd on his daughter down } He look'd on her then without a frown. 2. And next to the Lady Argentine Humbly she went and knelt ; The Lady Argentine the while A haughty wonder felt ; ( Her face put on an evil smile ; j " I little thought that I should see The Lady Abba kneel to me In service of love and courtesy ? j Couni Aymerique," the leman cried, " Is she weary of her solitude, Or hath she quell' d her pride ?" Abba no angry word repHed ; j She only raised her eyes, and cried, •' Let not the Lady Argentine 10 146 BARCI FERRA-VDEZ. Be wroth at ministry of mine !" She look'd at Aymerique, and sigh'd " My father will not frown. I ween, That Abba again at his board should be seen !' '!!:?n' Aymerique raised her from her knee. And kiss'd her eyes, and bade her be The daughter she was wont to be. {I The wine hath warm' d Count Aymerique ; Ij That mood his crafty daughter knew ; Ij She came and kiss'd her father's cheek, :; And stroked his beard with gentle hand, j{ And winning eye and action bland, ij As she in childhood used to do. jj ** A boon ! Count Aymerique," quoth she ; II If I have found favor in thy sight, j; - Let me sleep at my father's feet to-night. Il Grant this," quoth she, " so I shall see ;! Thft you will let your Abba be ij The daughter she was wont to be." ij With asking eye did Abba speak ; jj Her voice was soft and sweet ; jl The wine had warm'd Count Aymerique, 1 1 And when the ho\ir of rest was come, ij She lav at her father's feet. 11 ■ ■ 4. In Aymerique's arms the aduUeress lay; il Their talk was of the distant day, jj ak-RCI FERRANDEZ. 147 How they from Garri fled away In the silent hour of night ; And then amid tht^ir wanton play They mock'd ihe beau iful Kjiight; Far, far away his castle lay, The weary road of many a day; '• And travel long,", they said, " to him, It seem'd, was small delight , And ' -2 liehi-.o v.is iiafh wi^h 'lood To stain his hands so while." They httle thought that Garci then Heard every scornful word ! They little thought the avenging hand Was on the avenc;ing sword ' Fearless, unpenitent, unblest, Wiihout a prayer they sunk to rest. The adulterer on the leman's breas:. Then Abba. listening still in tear. To hear the breathing long and slow, At length the appointed signal gave, And Garci rose and struck the blow. One blow sufficed for Aymerique,— He made no moan, he utter'd no groan; But his death-start waken'd Argentine, And by the chamber lamp she saw The bloody falchion shine I She raised for help her in-drawn breath ; But her shriek of fear was her shriek for death. [' 6- \\ In an evil day and an hour of woe ;| Did Garci Ferrandez wed ! !; One wicked wife he has sent to her ^rara; H He hath taken a worse to ma bed. KIN(; RAMIRO. Green gtjw the alder- trees, and close To the water-side by St. Joam da Foi, From the castle of Gaya the Warden sees The water and the alder-trees ; And only these the Warden sees ; No danger near doth Gaya fear ; No danger nigh doth the Warden spy ' He sees not where the galleys lie Under the alders silently ; For the galleys with green are cover'd o*er, They have crept by night along the shore ; And they lie at anchor, now it is morn. Awaiting the sound of Ramiro's horn. 2. In traveller's weeds Ramiro sate By the fountain at the castle -gate ; 149 150 KIN& RAMIRCI. But under the weeds was his breastf late, And the sword he had tried in so many fights, And the horn whose sound would ring aaround. And b-e known so well by his knights. 3. From the gate Aldonza's damsel came To fill her pitcher at tne spring, And she saw, but she knew not, her master the King. In the Moorish tongue Ramiro spake, And begg'd a draught tor mercy's sake, That he his burning thirst might slake. For, worn by a long malady. Not strength enow, he said, had he To lift it from the spring. 4. She gave her pitcher to the King, And from his mouth he dropp'd a ring Which he had with Aldonza broken ; So in the water from the spring Queen Aldonza found the token. With that she bade her damsel bring Secretly the stranger in. 5. " What brings thee hither, Ramiro ?" she cried; " The love of you," the King replied. ** Nay ! nay ! it is not so !" quoth she ; " Ramiro, say not this to me 1 I know your Moorish concubine KINtJ RAMIRO. ISl Hath now the love which once was mine. If you had loved me as you say, you would never have stolen Ortiga away ; If you had never loved another, I had not been here in Gaya to-day The wife of Ortiga' s brother ! But hide thee here, — a step I hear, King Alboazar draweth near." 6. In her alcove she bade him hide : "King Alboazar. my lord," she cried, " Wha° wouldst thou do, if at this hour King Ramiro were in thy power?" *' This 1 would do," the Moor replied " I would hew him hmb from lunb; As he, I know, would deal by me, So I would deal by him. *• Alboazar I" Queen Aldonza said. *' Lo : here I give him to thy will ; In yon alcove thou hast thy foe. Now thy vengeance then fulfil !" 7. With that up spake the Christian kmg " O Alboazar, deal by me As I would surely deal with thee. If I were you, and you were me ! Like a friend you guested me many a day , Like a foe 1 stole your sister away : The sin was great, and I felt its weight, l52 KIN& KAMIRC. I ! All joy by day the thought oppress'dj And all night long it troubled my rest ; 'Till I could not bear the burden of care But told my Confessor in despair. And he, my sinful sou! to save, This penance for atonement gave; That I before you should appear, And yield myself your prisoner here, If my repentance was sincere, 'I hat I might by a public death Breath shamefully out my latest breath. •'King Alboazar, this I would do, j If you were I, and I were you ; That no one should say you were meanly fed I would give you a roasted capon first I And a good ring loaf of wheaten bread, ! And a skinful of wine to quench your thirst, And after that I would grant you the thing I Which you came to me petitioning, j Ij Now this, O King, is what I crave, • :j That I m}' sinful soul may save : I I Let me be led to your bull-ring, ; I And call your sons and daughters all, i j And assemble the people, both great and small; I ,j And let me be set upon a stone, '; ij That by all the multitude I may be knowa, 'j And bid me then this horn to blow, j And I will blow a blast so strong, And wind the horn so loud and long, KING RAMIRO. 153 That the breath in my body at last shall be gone, And I shall drop dead in sight of the throng. Thus your revenge, O King, will be brave. Granting the boon which I come to crave. And the people a holyday sight shall have, And I my precious soul shall save ; For this is the penance my Confessor gave. King Alboazar, this I would do, If you were I, and I were you." 9. " This man repents his sin, be sure !** To Queen Aldonza said the Moor ; *' He hath stolen my sister away from me ; I have taken from him his wife ; Shame then it would be, when he comes to nie, And I his true repentance see, If I for vengeance should take his life.** 10. " O Alboazar !" then quoth she, " Weak of neart as weak can be! Full of revenge and wiles ia he. Look at those eyes beneath that brow ; I know Ramiro better than thou! Kill him, for thou hast him now ; He must die, be sure, or thou. Hast thou not heard the history How, to the throne that he might rise, He pluck'd out his brother Ordono's eyes f 154 KING RAMIRO. And (lost not remember his prowess in fight. How often he met thee and put ihee to flight, And plunder'd thy country for many a day ? And how many Moors he has slain in the strife. And how many more carried captives away ? How he came to show friendship — and thou didst believe him ? How he ravish' d thy sister — and wouldst thou forgive him ? And hast thou forgotten that I am his wife, And that no\^ by thy side I lie like a bride, The worst shame that can ever a Christian be- tide? And cruel it were, when you see his despair, If vainly you thought in compassion to spare, And refuse hira the boon he comes hither to crave, For no other way his poor soul can he save. Than by doing the penance his Confessor gave.*' n. As Queen Aldonza thus replies. The Moor upon her fixed his eyes, And he said in his heart, Unhappy is he Who putteth his trust in a woman ! Thou art King Ramiro's wedded wife, And thus wouldst thou take away his life : What cause have T to confide in thee ! I will put this woman away from ine. These were the thoughts that pass'd in his breast ; But he call'd to mind Ramiro's might; KING RAMIRO. 15ft And he fear'd to meet him hereafter in fight And he granted the King's requea:. 12. So he gave him a roasted capon fust, And a skinful of wine to quench his thirst; And he called for his sons and daughters all, And assembled the people, both great and small; And to the bull-ring he led the Ring ; ^ And he set him there upon a stone. That by all the multitude he might be known; And he bade him blow through his horn a blast, As long as his breath and his life should last. 13. Oh, then his horn Ramiro wound : The walls rebound the peahng sound, That far and wide rings echoing round; Louder and louder Ramiro blows, And farther the blast and farther goes; Till it reaches the galleys where they lie close Under the alders, by St. Joam da Foz. It roused his knights from their repose, And they and their merry men arose. Away to Gaya they speed them straight ; Like a torrent they burst, through the city gate ; And they rush among the Moorish throng, And slaughter their infidel foes. 14. Then his good sword Ramiro drew, Upon the Moorish King he flew. 156 B.IJIG KAMIBO. And he gaA"e him one blow, for there needed not two ; They killed his sons and his daughters too ; Every Moorish soul they slew ; Not one escaped of the infidel crew ; Neither old nor young, nor babe nor mother And they left not one stone upon another. 15. They carried the wicked Queen aboard, And they took counsel what to do to her ; They tied a millstone round her neck, And overboard in the sea they threw her. But a heavier weight than that millstone lay On Ramiro's soul at his dyuig day. Bristol 180S. THE INCHCAPF ROCK. An old writer mentidns a curious tradition which may be worth quoting. " By east the Isle of May," says he "twelve miles from all land in the German seas, lyefa great hidden rock, called Inchcape, very dangerous for navigators, because it is overflowed everie tide. It is re- ported, in old times, upon the saide rock there was a bell, fixed upon a tree or timber, which rang continually, being moved by the sea, given notice to the saylers of the danger. This bell or clocke was put there and maintained by the Abbott of Aberbrothok, and being taken down by a sea pirate, i yeare thereafter he perished upon the same rocke, with ship and goodes, in the righteous Judgement of God." — Stoddakd's Remarks on Scotland No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was still as she could be ; Her sails from heaven received no motion ; Her keel was steady in the ocean. Without either sign or sound of their shock, The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock ; 157 lyS THE INCHCAPE ROCK. 3o little they /ose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell. The Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that Bell on the Inchrape Rock ; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung. When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell, , The mariners heard the warning Bell ; i And then they knew the perilous Rock, And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. The Sun in heaven was shining gay ; All things were joyful on that day ; i The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round, i And there was joyance in their sound. i The buoy of the Tnchcape Bell was seen A darker speck on the ocean green ; Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck, And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. He felt the cheering power of spring , It made him whistle, it made him sing ; His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. His eye was on the Inchcape float : Quoth he, " My men, put out the boat, And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.*^ THE INCHCAPE ROCK. 159 Tne boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float. Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound ; The bubbles rose and burst around ; Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to tht Rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away; He scour'd the seas for many a day ; And now, grown rich with plunder'd store^ He steers his course for Scotland's shore. So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, They cannot see the Sun on high ; The wind hath blown a gale all day ; At evening it hath died away. On the deck the Rover takes nis stand ; So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon. For there is the diwn of the rising Moon." "Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore." " Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcar^i BelJ ' 160 THE INCH . /E ROCK. Tl«ey hear no sound ; the swell is strong , Though the wind ha.h faljen, they drift along^ Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,* " Oh Christ ! it is the Inchcape Rock ! Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair ; He curs'd himself in his despair ; The waves rushed in on every side J The ship is sinking beneath the tide. But, even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound could the Rover A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, The Devil below was ringing his koetl Brutol, IBQSk MARY, THE MAID OF fUE INN. The circumstances related in the folic wing Ballad were ^Id me, when a school-buy, as having happened in the north of England Either Fumes or Kirkstall Abbey (I forget which) was named as the scene. The original story, however, is in Dr. Plot's History of Staffordshire. • "Amongst the unusual accidents," says this amusing author, "that have attended the female sex in the coursa of their lives, I think I may also reckon the narrow escape* they have made from death. Whereof I met with one men- tioned with admiration by every body at Leek, that hap- pened not far off at the Black Meer of Morridge, which, though famous for nothing for which it is commonly re- puted so, (as that it is bottomless, no cattle will drink of it, or birds fly over or settle upon it, all which I found false,) yet is so, for the signal deliverance of a poor woman enticed thither in a dismal, stormy night, by a bloody ruffian, who had first gotten her with child, and intended, in this remote inhospitable place, to have despatched her by drowning. The same n.ght (Providence so ordering it) there were several persons of inferior rank drinking in an alehouse at Leek, whereof one having been out, and observing the darkness and other ill circumstances of the weather, coming in again, said to the rest of his companions, that he were a stout man indeed that would venture uo go to the Black Meer of Morridge in such a night as that to which 11 161 }62 MAKk, THE MAID OF THE INN. one of them replying, that, for a crown, or some such sum, he would undertake it, the reel, joining their purses, sala he should have his demand. The bargain bemg atruck, away he went on hi« journey with a slick in his hand, which he was to leave there as a testimony of his perform ance. At length, coming near the 31eer, he heard the lamentable cries of this distressed woman, begging for mercy, which at firs, put him to a stand ; but being a man of great resolution and some policy, he went boldly oUi however, counterfeiting the presence of divers other per- sons, calling Jack, Dick, and Tom, and crying, ' Here are the rogues we look'd for,' ifcc; which being heard by the murderer, he left the woman and fled ; whom the other man found by the 31eer side almost stripped of her clothes, and brought her with him to Leek as an ample testimony of his having been at the Meer, and of God's providence too."-P. 29L The metre is 3Ir. Lewis's invention ; and metre is one of the few things concerning which popularity may be admitted as a proof of merit. The ballad has become popu- lar owing to the metre and thestory ; and ithasbeenmaie the subject of a fine picture by air. Barker, 1, Who is yonder poor Maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes Seem a heart overcharged to express ? She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs f She never complains, but her silence inipUes The composure of settled distress. 2. No pity she looks for, no alms doth she see* Nor for raiment nor food doth she care : MAUT, THE MAID OF THE TNW. 163 Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak On that wither'd breast, and her weather-woriF cheek Hath the hue of a mortal despair. 3. Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, Poor Mary the Maniac hath been ; The Traveller remembers whojourney'd this way No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, As Mary, the Maid of the Inn. 4. Her cheerful address fiU'd the guests with delight As she welcomed them in with a smile ; Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. She loved, and young Richard had settled the day. And she hoped to be happy for life ; But Richard was idle and worthless, and they Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say That she was too good for his wife. 6. • Twas in autumn, and stormy ana dark was the night. And fast were the windows and door : I 164 MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN- ! I Two guests sat enjoying the fire that ^urntbright, 1 And smoking, in silence, with tranquil delight, ; They listen' d to hear the wind roar. ! ''• I •' 'Tis pleasant," cried one, " seated by the fire side, To hear the wind whistle without." "What a night for the Abbey!" his comraae replied ; '* Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried Who should wander the ruins about. 8. I ** 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 grim spirit appear; For this wind might awaken the dead !" 9. " I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, " That Mary would venture there now." •' Then wager and lose 1 with a sneer he replied , *' I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, And faint if she saw a white cow." I 10. I " Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?" I His companion exclaim' d, with a smile ; MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. 165 ** I shall win, — for I know she will venture there now, And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough From the elder that grows in the aisle." 11. With fearless good-humor d.d Mary comply, And her way to the Abbey she bent; The nigtit was dark, and the wind was high. And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, She shiver'd with cold as she went. 12. (J'er the path so well known still proceeded the Maid Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight ; Through the gateway she enter'd : she felt not afraid, yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night. 13. All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Elowl'd dismally round the old pile ; Over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlessly pass'd, And arrived at the innermost ruin at last. Where the elder-tree gr^w in the aisle. I. i 166 MARY, THE MAID OF THE IXN. i 14. Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near. And hastily gather'd the bough ; When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her i ! ear, ji She paused, and she hsten'd intently, in fear, !| And her heart panted painfully now. ii 15. || The wind blew ; the hoarse ivy shook over her jj head ; |1 She listen'd — nought else could she hear; {■ The wind fell ; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread .j Of footsteps approaching her near. ii 16. Behind a wide column, half breathless with tear, 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 ap» pear, ; And between them a corpse did they bear. ij ii 17. ji Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle jj cold ; 1 1 Again the rough wind hurried by ; ; J MART, THE MAID OF THE INN. 367 It blew off the hat of the one, and, behold, Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roU'd ; She felt, and expected to die. 18. •• Curse the hat !" he exclaims. " Nay, come on till we hide The dead body," his comrade replies. She beholds them in safety pass on by her side ; She seizes the hat, — fear her courage suppUed,— And fast through the Abbey she flies. 19. She ran with wild soeed ; she rush'd in at the door; She gaz'd in her terror around ; Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, ■ And exhausted and breathless she sank on tho floor. Unable to utter a souna. 20. Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, For a moment the hat met her view ; — Her eyes from that object convulsively start. For — what a cold horror then thrilled through her heart When the name of her Richard she knew ! 168 MA.RY, THE MAID OF THE 1KB. 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 ■ sigh, Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Ina, Bristol, 1?9§, DONICA. •In Finland there is a Castle which i» called the New Rock, moated about with a river of unsounded depth, the water black, and the fiflh therein very distasteful to the palate. In this is spectres often seen, which foreshow either the death of the Governor, or of some prime officer belong- ing to the place ; and most commonly it appeareth in the shape of a harper, sweetly singing and dallying and play- ing 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 com- pany with this dead Vii^in, whom you suppose to be alive V when, taking away the magic charm which was tied un- der her arm, the oody fell down lifeless and without mo- tion." The following Ballad is founded on these stories. They are to be found m the notes to the Hierarchies of the Bles- Mid Angels ; a Poem by Thomas Iley wood, printed in folio Adam Islip, 1635. 169 170 DOWICA. High on a rock whose castled shade Darken'd 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 wing would wet. The cattle from its ominous banks In wild alarm would run, Though parch' d with thirst, and faint beneatli The summer's scorching sun ; — For sometimes, when no passing breeze The long, lank sedges waved, All white with foam, and heaving high, Its deafning billows raved ; — And when the tempest from its base The rooted pine would shake. The powerless storm unrufHing swept Across the calm dead lake ; — And ever, then, when death drew near The house of Arlinkow, Its dark, unfathom'd waters sent Strange music from below. The Lord of Arlinkow was old ; One only child had he ; DONICA. ITl Donica was the Maiden's name, As fair as fair might be. A bloom as bright as opening moin Suffused her clear, white cheek ; The music of her voice was mild ; Her full, dark eyes were meek. Far was her beauty known, for none So fair could Finland boast ; Her parents loved the Maiden much ; Young 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 air ; Along the lake they stray ; The eastern hill reflected bright The tints of fading day. And brightly o'er the water stream'd The liquid radiance wide ; Donica's Uttle dog ran on, And gamboll'd at her side. Youth, health, and love bloom'd on her cheek Her full, dark eyes express, [n many a glance, to Eberhard Her soul's meek tenderness. 172 BONICA.. Nor sound was heard, nor passing gale Sigh'd through the long, lank sedge; The air was hush'd ; no little wave Dimpled the water's edge ; — When suddenly the .ase sent forth Its music from beneath, And slowly o'er the waters sail'd The solemn sounds of death. As those deep sounds of dea h arose, Donica's cheek grew pale, And in the arms of Eberhard The lifeless Maiden fell. Loudly the Youth in terror shriek' d, And loud he call'd for aid, And with a wild and eager look Gazed on the lifeless Maid. Bui soon again did better thoughts In Eberhard arise ; And he with trembUng hope beheld The Maiden raise her eyes. And, on his arm reclined, she moved With feeble pace and slow, And soon, with strength recover' d, reach'd The towers of Arlinkow. • Vet never to Donica's cheeks Return'd their lively hue ; i i 173 Her cheeks were deathy white and wan. Her lips a livid blue. Her eyes, so bright and b.ack of yore, Were now more black and bright. And beam'd strange lustre in her face. So deadly wan and white. The dog that gamboU'd by her side. And loved with her to stray, Now at his alter'd mistress howl'd, And fled in fear away. Vet did the faithful Eberhard Not love the Maid the less ; He gazed with sorrow, but he g devour come. But God Almighty, the just avenger of the p.x»r folks' quar- rel, did not long suffer this hainous tyranny, this moetd©. tesuble fact, unpunished. For he mustered up an army of 197 L. 198 god's judgment on a wicked bishop. Mice against Ihfi Archbishop, and sent them to persecute him as his furious Alastors, so that ihey afflicted him both day and ninfhl,and would not sutffr hrm to take his rest iu anyplace. Whereujxjn the Prflatp,thiiiking that he should be secure from the injury of Mice if he were in a certain lower, that standeth in the Rhine near to the towne, be- took himself unto the said tower as to a safe refuge and sanctuary from his enemies, and locked himself in. But j the innumerable troupes of IVIice chased him continually i very eagerly, and swumnie 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 these sillie creatures; who pu!'sued him with such bitter hostility, that it is record- ed they scraped and knawed out his very name from the walls and tapistry wherein it was written, after they had so crueUy devoured his body. Wherefjre the tower where- in he was eaten up by the Mice is shewn to this day, for a perpetual monument to all succeeding ages of the barbar- ous and inhuman tyranny if this impious Prelate, being situate in a little green Islan J in the midst of the Rhine near to the towne of Bingen, and is commonly called in the German Tongue the Mowseturv. Cortat's Crudities, pp. o71, 572. Other authors who record this tale say that the Bishop was eaten by Rats. The summer and autumn had been so we', That in winter the corn was growing yet • 'Twas a piteous sight, to see, all around, The grain lie rotting on the ground. Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door. For he had a pleii/iful last-years' store, god's JtTDGMENT ON A WICKED B^HOP. 199 A.nd all the neighborhood could tell His granaries were furnjsh'd well. At last Bishop Hatto appointed a d&y To quiet the poor without delay ; He bade them to his great Barn repair, And they should have food for the winter tber*. Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, The poor folk flock' d 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 while for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the Barn and burnt them all. " I faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire !" quoth he, " And the country is greatly 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 sat dov/n to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man; But Bishop Hatto never slept again. In the morning, as he enter'd 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. 200 god's judgme.n't on a wicked bishop. As he look'd, there came a man from his farm; He had a countenance white with alarm, '• My Lord, I open'd your granaries this morn, And the Rats had eaten all your corn." Another came running presently, And he was 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'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he, "Tis the safest place in Germany ; The walls arc high, and the shores are steep, And the stream is strong, and the water deep." Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away, And he cross'd the Rhine without delay. And he reach'd his tower, and barr'd with care All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there. He laid him down and closed his eyes ;— But soon a scream made him arise ; He started, and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow, from whence the screaming came. He listen'd and look'd ; — it was only the Cat ; But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that; For she sat screaming mad with fear At the Army of Rats that were drawing near. For they have swam over he river so deep, And they have chmb d the shores so steep, god's judgment on a wicked bishop. 20i And up the tower their waj is bent, To do the work for which they were sent. They are not to be told by the dozen or score ; By thousands they come, and by myriads and more. Such numbers had never been heard of before ; Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore. Down on his knees the Bishop fell. And faster and faster his beads did he tell As louder and louder drawing near The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. And in at the windows, and in at the door, And through the walls, helter-skelter they pour And down from the ceiUng, and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below, And all at once to the Bishop they go. They have whetted their teeth against the stones, And now they pick the Bishop's bones; They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb, For they were sent to do judgment on him! Wesibury, 1799. KING HENR> V. AND THE HERMIT JF DREUX. XMiile 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 niEinuer 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 this exhortation either as an idle whimsey, or a rag- gestion of the dauphin's, and was but the more confirmed in his design. But the blow soon followed the threaten- ing ; for, within some few months after, he was Vrtth a strange and incurable disease.— Mezbbay. He pass'd unquestion'd through the camp; Their heads the soldiers bent In silent reverence, or begg'd A blessing as he went : And so the Hermit pass'd along, And reached the royal tent. HENRY V. AND THE HERMIT OF DREUX. 203 King Henry sat in his tent alone ; • The map before him lay; Fresh conquests he was planning there To grace the future day. King Henry lifted up his eyes The intruder to behold ; With reverence he the hermit saw For the holy man was old ; His look was gentle as a Saint's, And yet his eye was bold. " Repent thee, Henry, of the wrongs Which thou hast done this land ! O King, repent in time, for know The judgment is at hand. " I have pass'd forty years of peace Beside the river Blaise ; But what a weight of woe hast thou Laid on mv latter days ! " I used to see along the stream The white sail gliding down, That wafted food, in better times, To yonder peacefu' town. '* Henry I I never now behold The white sail gliding down ; Famine, Disease, and Death, and Thou Destroy that wretched town. '• I used to hear the traveller's voice As here he pass'd along, 204 HENRY V. AND THE HERMIT OF DREUX. Or maiden, as she loiter' d home Singing her evening-song. " No traveller's voice may now be heard { In fear he hastens by ; But I have heard the village maid "In vain for succor cry. *' I used to see the youths row down, And watch the dripping oar, As pleasantly their viol's tones Came soften'd to the shore. " King Henry, many a blacken'd corpse I now see floating down ! Thou man of blood ! 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 Hath 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. " What if no miracle from Heaven The murderer's control ; Think you for that the weight of blood Lies lighter on his soul ? "lEY W. AND THE HERMIT OF DREUX. 3(35 I »ii conqueror King, repent in time, ^)«ad the coming woe ! For, rienry, thou hast heard the threat, And soon shalt feel the blow '" King Henry forced a careless smile. As the hermit went his way ; But Henry soon remember'd hJJS Upon his dying day. Wcstbury, 17m OLD OHRISTOVAL'S ADVICE, AUD THE REASON WHY HE GAVE IT. " If thy debtor be poor," old Christoval said, " Exact not too hardly thy due ; For he who preserves a poor man from want May preserve him from w. kedness too. " If thy neighbor should sin," old Christova] said, " O never unmerciful be ; But remember it is through the mercy of God That thou art not as sinful as he. "At sixty-and-seven, the hope of Heaven Is my comfort, through God's good grace My summons, in truth, had I perish'd in youth, Must have been to a different place." '' You shall have the farm, young Christoval," My master Henrique said ; 206 OLD CHRISTOVAL's ADVICE. 207 *' But a surety provide, in whom I can confide; That duly the rent shall be paid." I was poor, and I had not a friend upon earth, And I knew not what to say ; We stood in the porch of St. Andrew's Church, And it was St. Isidro's day, ** Take St. Isidro for my pledge," I ventured to make reply ; ** The Saint in Heaven may be my friend, But friendless on earth am I." We enter'd the Church, and went to his shrine And I fell on my bended knee — " I am friendless, holy Isidro, And therefore I call upon thee ! *' I call upon thee my surety to be ; I My purpose is honest and true; I And if ever I break my plighted word, O Saint, mayst thou make me rue!" I was idle, and quarter-day came on, And I had not the rent in store ; I fear'd St. Isidro's anger. But I dreaded my landlord more. So, on a dark nirrht, I took my flight, And stole hk.; a thief away ; It happen" d thai l)y St. Andrew's Church 'Ihe road 1 had chossn lay. ! 206 OLD CHRIS rOV/.L's ADVICE. As I past the Church door, I thought how I swore Upon St. Isidro's day ; That the Saint was so near increased my fear, And faster I hasten' d away. So all night long I hurried on, Pacing full many a mile, And knew not his avenging hand Was on me all the while. Weary I was, yet safe, I thought ; But v/hen it was day-light, I had, I found, been running round And round the Church all night. I shook hke 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 I" he said. " I have been idle, good Master," said I, " Good Master, and I have done wrong; And I have been running round the Church In penance all night long." i " If thou hast been idle," Henrique replied, j " Henceforth thy fault amend ! I will not oppress thee, Christoval, And the Saint may thy labor befriend." Homeward I went a penitent, And from that day I idled no more ; OLD CHRTSTOVAL's 4 D VICE. 809 St. Isidro bless'd my industry, As he punish' d my sloth before. " When my debtor was poor," old, Christoval said, " I have never exacted my due ; But remembering my master was good to me, I copied his goodness too. " When my neighbor hath sinn'd," old Christo val said, " I judged not too hardly his sin, But thought of the night by St. Andrew's Cnurch And consider'd what I might have been." Wetthury, 1798, 14 CORNELIUS AGRIPPA, jl A BALLAD. 3F A YOUNG MAX THAT WOUI.n REAP TJNLAWFUI BOOKS, AND HO^ HE WAS PONISHED. VERY PITHY AND PROFITABLE. Cornelius Agrippa went out one day; His Study he 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 life. " And if any one ask my Study to see, I charge you to trust them not with the key , Whoever may beg, and entreat, and implore, On your Ufe let nobody enter that door." There lived a young man in the house, who in vai'i Access to that Study had sought to obtain ; 210 CORNELIUS A.GRIPPA. 211 And he begg'd and pray'd the books to seCj Till the foolish woman gave him the key. On the Study-table a book there lay, Which Agrippa himself had been reading thai day ; The letters were written with blood therein, And the leaves were made of dead men's skin ;— And these h;irrible 'eaves of n'agic between Were the ugliest pictures that ever was 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 iron heated nine times red-hot; The breath of his nostrils was brimstone blue. And his tale like a fiery serpent grew. "What wouldst thou with me?" the Wicked One cried, But not a word the young man replied ; 212 CORNELIUS AGRIPPA. Every hair on his head was standing upright, And his Hmbs like a palsy shook with affright. " What wouldst thou with me ?" cried the Au thor of ill ; But the wretched young man was silent still ; Not a word had his lips the power to say ; And his marrow seem'd to be melting away. ** What wouldst thou with me ?" the third time he cries, And a flash of lightning 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 red fire and fury dart t As out he tore the young man's heart ; I He grinn'd a horrible grin at his prey ; And in a clap of thunder vanish' d away. ( i THE MORAi^. Henceforth let all young men take heed How in a Conj-arer's bcoks they read. Westbury PdS, ST. ROMUALD. One day, it matters not to know How many hundred years ago, A Frenchman stopp'd at an inn door : The Landlord came to welcome him, and chal Of this and that. For he had seen the Traveller there before. " Doth holy Romuald dwell Still in his cell ?" The Traveller ask'd, " or is the old man dead f " No ; he has left his loving flock, and we So great a Christian never more shall see,'* The Landlord answer'd, and he shook his bead, "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 wiih Dirt ; And then he only hung it out in the rain, And pat it yn again. 213 214 ST. ROMUALD. " There has been perilous work With him and the Devil there in yonder cell ; For Satan used to maul him like a Turk. There thev would sometimes fight • All through a winter's night, From sunset until morn, He with a cross, the Devil with his horn ; The Devil spitting fire with 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 vapor fill' d the smoking cell. This was so common that his face became All black and yellow with the brimstone flame And then he smeU, — O Lord ! how he did smell . " 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 j:he dehcate things, and cry ' O Belly, Belly, You would be gormandizing now, 1 know ; But it shall not be so ! — Homo to yoiir bread and watei — home, I tell ye!"* "But," quoth the Traveller, " wherefore didh« leave A flock that knew his saintly worth so well?" ** Why," said the Landlord, " Sir, it so befell He heard unluckily of our intent To do him a great honor ,* and, you know H-T. KOMUAID. 215 He was not covetous cf fame below, And so by stealth one night away he went." •'What might this honor be?" the Traveller cried. •' Why, Sir," the host replied, ■' We thought perhaps that he might one day leave us; And then should strangers have The good man's grave, A loss like that would naturally grieve us ; For he'll be made a Saint of, to be sure. Therefore we thought it prudent to secure His relics while we might ; And RO ■*« meant to strangle him one night." '^^ibu^y, 1798. BRCUGH BELLS 'The church al Brough is a pretty laree, handsome, an* ieni building. The steeple is not so old, having been built about he year 1513, under the direction of Thomas Blenkinsop, of Helbeck, Esq. There are in it four excel- lent bells, by much the latest in the county, except the great bell at Kirkby Thore. Concerning these bells at Brough, there is a tradition that they were given by one •Brunskill, who lived upon Stanemore, in the remotest part ( f the parish, and had a srreat many cattle. One time it happened that his Bull fell a bellowing, which in the dialect of the country is called cruning, this being the genuine Saxon word to denote that vociferation. There- upon he said to one of his neighbors, ' Hearest thou how loud this bull crimes'? If these cattle should all crune together, might they not be heard from Brough hither?' He answered, 'Yea.' 'Well then,' says Brunskill, 'I'll make them all crune together.' And he sold them all, and with the price there^'f he ijought the said bells, (or perhaps he might get the old bells new cast and made larger.") There is a monument in the body of the church, in the south wall, between the hiirhest and second window, *nd in which it is said the said Brunskill was the last that was interred."— Alcolsan and Butjis'' History and Anti tfuities of Westmoreland and Cumberland^ vol. i. p. 571 216 I BR0U6H BELLS. 217 One day to Helbeck I had stroll'd, Among the Crossfell Hills, And, resting in its rocky grove, Sat listening to the rills, — The while to their sweet undersong The birds sang blithe around, And the soft west wind awoke the wood To an intermitting sound. Louder or fainter, as it rose Or died away, was borne The harmony ^f merry bells. From BrOiigh, that pleasant morn. «* Why are the merry bells of Brough, My friend, so few ?" said I ; " They disappoint the expectant ear, Which they should gratify. " One, two, three, four; one, two, three, fo«» 'Tis still one, two, three, four; Mellow and silvery are the tones ; But I wish the bells were more !" ♦ What ! art thou critical ?" quoth he ; •' Eschew that heart's disease That seeketh for displeasure where The intent hath been to please. •♦ By those four bells there hangs a tale, Which being told, I guess, 218 BROaGH BELLS. Will make thee hear their scanty peal With proper thankfulness. " Not by the Cliffords were they giveiXf Nor by the Tuftons' Hne ; Thou hearest in that peal the crune Of old John Brunskill's kine. "On Stanemore's side, one summer eve John Brunskill sat to see His herds in yonder Borrodale Come winding up the lea. "Behind them, on the lowland's vergC; In the evening light serene, Brough's silent tower, then newly built By Blenkinsop, was seen. " Slowly they came in long array, With loitering pace at will ; At times a low from them was heard, Far off, for all was still. '* The hills retum'd that lonely sound Upon the tranquil air ; The only sound it was, which then Awoke the echoes there. " 'Thou hear'st that lordly bull of mme. Neighbor,' quoth Brunskill then ; 'How loudly to the hills he crunes. Thai crune to him again ! BROUGH BELLS. 219 " ' Thinkest thou if yon whole herd at once Their voices should combine, Were they at Brough, that we might not Hear plainly from this upland spot That cruning of the kine ?' " ' That were a crune, indeed,' replied His comrade, ' which, I ween, Might at the Spital well be heard, And in all dales between. " ' Up Mallerstang to Eden's springs, The eastern wind upon its wings The mighty voice would bear; And Appleby would hear the sound, Methinks, when skies are fair.' •' ' Then shall the herd,' John Bninskill cried, 'From yon dumb steeple crune, And thou and I, on this hill-side. Will hsten to their tune. *' * So, while the merry Bells of Brough, For many an age ring on, Johri Brunskill will remember'd be. When he is dead and gone,— •* * As one who, in his latter years, Contented with enough, Save freely what he well could spare To buy the bells of Brough.' 220 BROUGH BELLS, •* ' Thus it hath proved: three hundred years Since then have past away, And Brunskill's is a living name Among us to this day " *' ' More pleasure," I rep'xed, " shaii - From this time forth partake, Whe:i I remember Helbeck woods, For old John Brunskill's sake. " He knew how wholesome it would be. Among these wild, wide fells, And upland vales, to catch, at times, The sound of Christian bells ; — " What feelings and what impulses Their cadence m.ight convey To herdsmen or to shepherd boy, Whiling in indolent employ The soUtary day ; — " That, when his brethren were convened To meet for social prayer, He too, admonish'd by the call, In spirit might be there ; — " Or, when a glad thanksgiving sound; Upon the winds of Heaven, Was sent to speak a Nation's joy, For some great blessing given,— ** For victory by sea or land, And happy peace at length, BROUQH BELLS. 221 Peace hy his country's valor wen. And 'stablish'd by her strength; — " When such exultant peals were borne Upon the mountain air, Ti.e sound should stir his blood, and give An English impulse there." Such thoughts were in the old man's mind. When he that eve look'd down From Stanemore's side on Bonodale, And on the distant town. And had I store of wealth, methiuks, Another herd of kine, John Brunskill, I would freely give. That they might crune with thine. Keswick, 1828. 1 QUEEN MARY'S CHRISTENING, The atory is told at great length in La Histona del muy alto e invencible Rey Don Jayme de Aragon. In justice to the Queen, I ara bound to say that Miedes represents her as beautiful and of unblemished reputation, hermosa y honestissima ; and in justice \o the King, pro. fligate as he was, that there was a very strong suspicion of Donna Maria's being secretly married to another husband, by whom she had two daughters, a story which had reached the King, and which Miedes seenui to accredit. The first wish of Queen Mary's heart Is, that she may bear a son, Who shall inherit in his time The kingdom of Aragon. She hath put up prayers to all the Sainta This blessing to accord, . But chiefly she hath call'd upon The Apostles of our Lord. 222 QUEEN Mary's chkistening. 223 The second wish of Queen Mary's heart Is to have that son call'd James, Because she thought for a Spanish King 'Twas the best of all good names. To give him this name of hei own will Is what may not be done, For, having applied to all the Twelve, She may not prefer the one. By one of their names she hath vow'd to call Her son, if son it should be ; But which, is a point whereon she must let The Apostles themselves agree. Already Queen Mary hath to them Contracted a grateful debt ; And from their patronage she hoped For these further blessings yet. Alas ! it was not her hap to be As handsome as she was good ; And that her husband King Pedro thought 80, She very well understood. She had lost him from her lawful bed For the lack of personal graces. And by prayers to them, and a pious deceit, She had compass'd his embraces. But if this hope of a son should fail. All hope must fail with it then, 224 QUEEN Mary's christenino. For she could not expect by a second device To compass the King again. Queen Mary hath had her first heart's wish — She hath brought forth a beautiful boy ; And the bells have rung, and masses been sung And bonfires have blazed for joy. And many's the cask of good red wine, And many the cask of the white, Which was broach'd for joy that morning, And emptied before it was night But now for Queen Mary's second heart's It must be determined now ; And Bishop Boyl, her Confessor, Is tne person who taught her how. Twelve waxen tapers he hath had made, In size and weight the same ; vnd to each of these twelve tapers, He hath given an Apostle's name. Jne holy Nun had bleached the wax, Another the wicks had spun ; And the golden candlesticks were bless'd. Which they were set apon. From that which shoudl burn the longeaf ^ The infant his name must take ; And the Sair.t who own'd it was to bo . His patron for his rame's sake. QUEEN Mary's christening. 225 A godlier or a goodlier sight Was nowhere to be seen, Methinks, that day, in Christendom, Than in the chamber of that good Queen Twelve little altars have been there Erected, for the nonce ; And the twelve tapers are set thereon, Which are all to be lit at once. Altars more gorgeously dress' d You nowhere could desire ; At each there stood a ministering Priest In his most rich attire. A high altar hath there been raised, Where the Crucifix you see ; And the sacred Pix that shines with gold And sparkles with jewelry. Bishop Boyl, with his precious mitre Qa« Hath taken there his stand, In robes which were embroidered By the Queen's own royal hand. In one part of the ante-room The Ladies of the Queen, All with their rosaries in hand, Upon their knees are seen. In the other pari of the ante-room, The Chiefs of the realm you behold, 15 226 QUEEN mart's CHRISTENINa. Ricos Omes, and Bishops, and Abbots, And Knights, and Barons bold. Queen Mary could behold all this As she lay in her state bed ; And from the pillow needed not To lift her languid head. One fear she had, though still her heart The unwelcome thought eschew'd, That haply the unlucky lot Might fall upon St, Jude. But the Saints, she trusted, that ill chance Would certainly forefend ; And moreover there was a double hope Of seeing the wish'd for end ; — Because there was a double chance For the best of all good names ; If it should not be Santiago himself, It might be the lesser St. James. And now Bishop Boyl bath said the mass ■ And as soon as the mass was done, The priests, who by the twelve tapers stood Each instantly, Ughted one. The tapers were short and slender too, Yet to the expectant throng. Before they to the socket burnt, The time, I trow, seem'd long. QUEEN Mary's christening. 227 The first that went out was St. Peter, The second was St John ; And now St. Matthias is going, And now St. Matthew is gone. Next there went St. Andrew ; There goes St. Philip too; And see ! there is an end Of St. Bartholomew. St. Simon is in the snuff ; But it was a matter of doubt Whether he or St. Thomas could be said Soonest to have gone out. There are only three remaining, St. Jude, and the two St. James; And great was then Queen Mary's hope For the best of all good names. Great was then Queen Mary's hope. But greater her fear, I guess. When one of the three went out. And that one was St. James the Less. They are now within less than quarter*inch, The only remaining two ! When there came a thief in St. James. And it made a gutter too I Up started Queen Mary Up she sat in her bed ; 228 QUEEN mart's CHRISTEWIN*. *' I never can call him Judas !" She clasp' d her hands and said. " I never can call him Judas V* Again did she exclaim ; *' Holy Mother, preserve us I It is not B Christian name !" She spread her hands, and claspM them agwij And the Infant in the cradle Set up a cry, an angry cry. As loud as he was able. " Holy Mother, preserve us !" The Queen her prayer renew'd ; When in came a moth at the wnndow, And fluttered about St. Jude. St. James hath fallen in the socket, But as yet the flame is not out ; And St. Jude hath singed the silly moth That flutters so bUndly about. And before the flame and the molten wax That silly moth could kill. It hath beat out St. Jude with its wings. And St. James is burning still ! Oh, that was a joy for Q leen Mary's heart; The babe is christene'* James; The Prince of Aragon H'her with common paaturage for his swine in such places as the rector of the said church used that privil^e; that he should receive from the prior and con- vent of Bath one quarter of bretid-corn yearly, and have all the altarage, and all small tithes of beans and other blade growing in the cottage enclosures and cultivated curtilages throughout the parish ; that the religious aforesaid and their successors, as rectors of the said church, sl/juld have all the arable land, with a park belonging to the land, (the acre above mentioned only excepted,) and receive all great tithes, as well of corn as of hay ; the said religious to sustain all burdens, ordinary and extraordinary, incHimbent on the church as rectors thereof The prior of Bath had a yearly pension out of the vican^e oiAs.—Collvisan's Hist- qf SoTTiersetshire, vol. iii. pp. 341 — 347. On as I journey through the vale of years, By hopes enUven'd, or depress'd by fears, Allow me. Memory, in thy treasured store, To view the days that will return no more. And yes ! before thine imtellectual ray The clouds of mental darkness melt awtiy! As when, at earliest day's awakening dawn, The hovering mists obscure the dewy lawn, O'er all the landscape spread their influenca 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 RETROSPECT. 235 The prospect opens on the traveller's sight, And hills and vales and woods reflect the living light. ihou, the mistress of my future days, Accept thy minstrel's retrospective lays; To whom the minstrel and the lyre 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 with restless progress o'er my head, Since in thy vale, beneath the master's rule, 1 dwelt an inmate of the village school. Yet still will Memory's busy eye retrace Each little vestige of ihe well-known place; Each wonted haunt and sce..a of youthful joy, Where merriment has cheered the careless boy ; Well-pleased will fancy still the spot survey Where once he triumph' d in the boyish play, Without one care where every morn he rose, Wherp every evening sunk to calm repose. Large was the house, though fallen in course, of fate. From its old grandeur and mane rial state. Jjord of the manor, here the jovial Squire Once call'd hb tenants round the crackling fire; 236 THE RETROSPECT Here while the glow of joy suifused his face, He told his ancient exploits in the chase, And, proud his rival sportsmen to surpass, He lit again the pipe, and fiU'd again the glass. But now no more was heard at early mom The echoing clangor of the huntsman's horn ; No more the eager hounds with deepening cry Leap'd round him as they knew their pastime nigh ; The Squire no more obey'd the morning call, Nor favorite spaniels fill'd the sportsman's hall; For he, the last descendant of his race, Slept with his fathers, and forgot the chas« 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 lawj 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 view'd 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, THE RETfi»SPBCT. 237 A mother's fondness, and a mothei s tears ; "When close she press' d me to her sorrowing heart, As loath as even I myself to part ; And I, as I beheld her sorrows flow, With painful effort 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, And fresher pleasure cheers the foUowmg hour, 48 brighter shines the sun after the April shower. Methinks even now the interview I see. The Mistress's glad 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 1 saw no niore, • How civiiiy ihey soothed my parting pain! \nd never did they speak so civilly again. Why loves the soul on earlier years to dwell. When Memory spreads around her saddening spell When disconieni, wiih sullen gloom o'ercast, Turns from the present, and prefers the past I 238 THE RETROSFECT. 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 moref Yet is remembrance sweet, thoUi,^h well I know The days of childhood are but days of woe ; Some rude restraint, some petty tyrant soHra What else should be our sweetest, blithest hours ; Yet is it sweet to call those hours to mind,— Those easy hours forever left behind ; Ere care began the spirit to oppress. When ignorance itself was happiness. Such was my state in those remember'd years, When two small acres bounded all my fears ; And therefore still with pleasure, I recall The tapestried school, t^e bright, brown- boarded hall, The murmuring brook, that every morning saw The due observance of the cleanly law ; The walnuts, where, when favor would allow. Full oft I wont to search each well-strip'd bough ; The crab-tree, which supplied a secret hoard With roasted crabs to deck the wintry board ; These trifling objects then my heart possessed, These trifling objects still remain impress'd ; So when with unskill'd hand some idle hind Carves his rude name within a sapling's rindj In after years the ; easant lives to see THE BETROSPECT. 239 j The expanding letters grow as grows the tree ; Though every waiter's desolating sway Shake the hoarse grove and sweep the leaves away, That rude inscription unefFaced will last, Unalter'd by the storm or wintry blast. Oh, while well pleased the letter'd 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 Illyssus' side. Oh, be it mine, aloof from public strife, To mark the changes of domestic life, The alter'd 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, Rejoicing 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 off in conquest some dear friend be slain, Affection then will fill the sorrowing eye. And suffering N ature grieve that one should die. Cold was the morn, anc bleak the wintry blasl Blew o'er the meadow, when I saw thee last 240 THE RETROSPECT. My bosom bounded as I wandered round, With silent step, the long-remember'd ground, Where I had loiter' d 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 summer day ; Or, hearing sadly all the preacher told, In winter waked and shiver' d with the cold. Oft have my footsteps roam'd the sacred ground Where heroes, kings, and poets sleep around; Oft traced the mouldering castle's ivied wall, Or aged convent tottering to its fall ; Yet never had my bosom felt such pain, As, Corston, when I saw thy scenes again; For many a long-lost pleasure came to view, For many a long-past sorrow rose anew ; Where whilom all were friends I stood alone, Unknowing all I saw, of all I saw unknown. There, where my little hands were wont to roar With pride the earliest salad of the year ; Where never idle weed' to spring was seen. Rank thorns and nettles rear'd their heads ob scene. Still all around and sad, I saw no more The playful group, nor heard the playful roar; There echoed round no shout of mirth and glee* It seem'd as though the world were changed Uke me ! L- THE REIROSPECT. 241 »5nough ! it boots not on the paa. to dwell,— Fair scene of other years, a long farewell ! Rouse up, my soul ! it boots not to repine ; Rouse up! for worthier feelings should be thine; Thy path is plain end straight ,^that light ia given,— Onward in faith,— end leave the rest to Heaveik 16 Si INLETS, CORSTOV. A.S thus I stanG oeside the murmuring stream, And watch its current, memor)' here portrays Scenes faintly form'd of half- forgot ten days, Like far-oflf wooulands by the moon's bright beam Dimly descried, but lovely, i have worn Amid these haunts the heavy hours away. When childhood idled through the Sabbath day ; Risen to my tasks at winter's earliest morn ; And when the summer twilight darken' d herei Thinking of home, and all of heart forlorn, Have sigh'd and shed in secret many a tear. Dream-like ahd indistinct those days appear, As the faint sounds of this low brooklet, borne Upon the breeze reacii fitfully the ear. 1794. 242 SONNETS 243 2. Beware a speedy friend, the Arabian said, And wisely was it hie advised distrust : The flower that blossoms earliest fades the first. Look at yon Oak that lifts its stately he£id, And daUies with the autumnal storm, whose rage Tempests the great sea- waves ; slowly it rose, Slowlyits strength increased through many an age And timidly did its light leaves disclose, As doubtful of ihe spring, iheir pales: 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. 1798 I MARVEL not, O Sun I that unto tnee In adoration man should bow the knee. And pour his prayers of mingled awe and love ; For like a God thou art, and on thy way Of glory sheddest, with benignant ray, Beauty and life, and joyance from above No longer let-these mists thy radiance shroud, These cold, raw mists, that chill the comfortless aay, But shed thy splendor through the opening cloud, And cheer the earth once more, The languid flowers (T-' 244 son:»ets. Lie scentless, beaten down with heavy rain ; i Earth asks thy presence, saturate with showers ^ j O Lord of Light ! put forth thy beams again. For iamp and cheerless are the gloomy houra Westburyy 1798. A WRINKLED, crabbed man they picture thee, Old Winter, with a rugged beard as gray As the long moss upon the apple-tree ; Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp, blue nose, Close muflSed up, and on thy dreary way, Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt i hearth, ; Old Winter ! seated in thy great arm'd ckair, I Watching the children at their Christmas mirth ; ^ Or circled by them as thy lips declare I Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire, j Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, ^ Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire, I Or taste the old October brown and bright. 1 , Westbury, 1799. Stately yon vessel sails adown the tide. To some far distant land adventurous bound , SONNETS. 245 The sailors' busy cries from side to side. Pealing among the echoing rocks, resound : A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring bar.dy Joyful they enter on their ocean way, With shouts exulting leave their native .and, And know no care beyond the present day. But is there no poor mourner 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 f So may her voice be heard, and Heaven be kind! Go, gallant Ship, and be thy fortune fair; Weaibury, 1799. 6. O God ! have m ircy in this dreadful hour On the poor mariner ! in comfort here Safe shelter'd as I am, I almost fear The b.ast that rages with resistless power. What were it now to toss upon the waves. The madden'd waves, and know no succor 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 billow's gleaming light; Then 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 ?— O God ! have mercy on the mariner ! Westhury, 1799 246 80NNBT9. 7. She conies majes Ac with her swelling sails The gallant Ship ; along her watery way Homeward she drives before the favoring gales Now flirting at their length the streamers play. And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze. Hark to the sailors' shouts ! the rocks rebound, Thundering in echoes to the joyful sound. Long have they voyaged o'er the distant seas ; And what a heart-delight they feel at last, So many toils, so many dangers past, To view the port desired, he only knows Who on the stormy deep for many a day Hath tost, aweary of his watery way, And watch'd, allanxiouS; ever} wind thatblowf. fVesthuru, 1799. RExMEMBRANCE. The remembrance of Youth is a sigb^— ^AUi Man hath a weary pilgrimage As through the world he vifends; On every stage from youth to age Still discontent attends ; With heaviness he casts his eye Upon the road before, And still 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 Us charms ? Condemn' d to suffer through the day Restraints which no rewards repay, And cares where love has no concern, Hope lengthens as she counts the hours Before his wish'd return. 247 ==s I 248 REMEMBRANCE. From hard control and tyrant rules, The unfeeling discipline of schools, In thought he loves to roam, And tears will struggle in his eye While he remembers with a sigh The comforts of his home. Vouth comes ; the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind ; Where shall the tired and harass'd heart Its consolation find ? Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells, Life's summer prime of joy ? Ah no I for hopes too long delay'd And feelings blasted or betray'd. Its fabled bUss destroy ; And Youth 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 turns his eye, | Remembering with an envious sigh J The happy dreams of Youth. | So reaches he the latter stage I Of this our mortal pilgimage. XKMEMBRAMCE. 219 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. Westbury, 1796. THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. DACTYLICS. Weary way -wanderer, languid and sick at heart Travelling painfully over the rugged road, Wild-visaged Wanderer ! God help thee, wretch, ed one ! Sorely thy little one drags by thee barefooted ; Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back, Meagre, and livid, and screaming for niiserv. *Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony, As over ihy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe. Bleakly the blinding snow heats in iny haggard face. Ne'er will thy husband return from the war again, Cold is thy heart, and as frozen as Charity I Cold are thy children. — Now God be thy com forter! Bristol, 1795. ♦ This stanza was written by S. T. Coleridqb. 230 THE WIDOW. SAPPHICS. Cold was the night-wind, drifting fast the snow fell, Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked> When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey, Weary and way-sore. Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflec. tions ; Cold was the night-wind, colder was her bosom; She had no home, the world was all before her, She had no shelter. Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her, " Pity me !" feebly cried the lonely wanderer; " Pity me strangers ! lest with cold and hunger Here I should perish. " Once I had friends, — though now by all for- saken ! Once I had parents, — they are now in heaven! 251 252 THE WIDOW. " I had a home once — I had once a husband—- Pity me, strangers ! " I had a home once — I had once a husband— I am a widow, poor and broken-hearted I" Loud blew the wind ; unheard was her complain- ing ; On drove the chariot Then on the snow she laid her down to rest her; She heard a horseman : '* Pity me '" she groan'd out ; Loud was the wind ; unheard was her complain- ing ; On went the horseman. Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold, and hun- ger, Down sunk the Wanderer ; sleep had seized her senses ; There did the traveller find her in the morning ; God had released her, Bristol, 1795. THE CHAPEL BELL. Lo I, the man who from the Muse did ask Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot'^ meeds, Am 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. O how I hate the sound ! it is the knell That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour; And loath 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, dost thou ever summon from his rest One being wakening to religious cares ? Or rouse one pious transport in the breast f Or rather, do not all reluctant creep To Unger out the time in hstlessness or sleep t 253 254 THE CHAPEL BELL. I love the bell that calls the poor to pray, Chiming from village church its cheerful sound, When the sun smiles on Labor's holy-day, And all the rustic train are gather' d round Each deftly dizen'd 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 even-tide 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 nade 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 hstening to the dead man's knell, I think tha* in the grave all sorrows cease. And would full fain rechne my head and be at peace. But thou, memorial of monastic gall ! What fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given! Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven, The snuffling, snaffling Fellow's nasal tone, A.nd Romish rites retain' d, though Romish faith be flown. Oxford, 1793. WRITTEW ON SUNDAY MORNING. Go thou and seek the House of Prayei'. 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 sweet nriusic of the vernal grove. The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest Excite not such devotion in my breast, As where the noon-tide beam, Flash' d from some broken stream, 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 eves, And hear all Nature's melodies. 255 256 WRITTEN ON SCNDAY MORNINa. The primrose bank will there disper.se Faint fragrance to the awaken'd sense ; The morning beams that Hfe and joy impart Will with their influence warm my heart, And the full tear that down my cheek will steal, Will 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-arch'd dome to pray; Where storied windows dim the doubtful day At liberty she loves to rove, Wide o'er the healthy hill or cowslip'd 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 th« Night Pours in the North her silver streams of light She woos reflection in the silent gloom, And ponders on the world to come. Bristol 1795. YOUTH AND AJE, With cheerful 8tep the traveller Pursues his early way, When first the dimly -dawning ea»' Reveals the rising day. He bounds along his craggy road He hastens up the height. And all he sees and all he hears Administer delight. And if the mist, retiring slow, Roll round its wavy white, He thinks the morning vapors hide Some beauty from his sight. But when behind thft western clouds Departs the fading day, How wearily the traveller Purpuea his evening way ! 17 257 25S YOUTH AND AOk Sorely along the craggy road His painful footsteps creep, And slow, with many a feeble pause. He labors up the steep. And if the mists of nignt ciose round. They fill his soul with fear; He dreads some unseen precipice. Some hidden danger near. So cheerfully does youth begm Life's pleasant morning stage; Alas ! the evening traveller feele The fears of wary age ! Westbury, Hm THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS. AND HOW HE GAINED THEM. You are old, Father William, the young man cried ; The few locks which are left you are gray ; You are hale, Father Wilham, a hearty old man, Now tell me the reason, I pray. In the days of my youth, Father William rep/lied; I remember'd that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigor 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 remcraber'd that youth could not last ; 259 260 THE OLD MAN S COMFORTS. I thought of the future, whatever J did, That I never might grieve for the past. You are old, Father William, the young max cried. And life must be hastening away ; Vou are cheerful, and love to converse upon death ; Now tell me the reason, I pray. I am cheerful, young man, Father William Re- plied ; Let the cause thy attention engage ; In the days of my youth I remember'd my God ! And He hath not forgotten my age. freslbt^rtf, 1199 T]IE CCMPLAINTS OF THE POOR And wherefore do the Poor complain ? The Rich Man ask'd of me ; — Come walk abroad wiih me, I said, And, I will answer ihee. 'Twas evening, and the frozen streets Were cheerless to behold, And we were wrapp'd and coated well, And yet we were a-cold. We met an old, bare-headed man ; His locks were thin and white ; I ask'd him what he did abroad In that cold winter's night. The cold was 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 ; 261 262 THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR 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 a-bed ; And therefore was it she was sent Abroad to beg for bread. We saw a woman sittmg 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; — Then told us that her husband served, -jj A soldier, far away, j And therefore to her parish she i' Was begging back her way. ji We met a girl ; her dress was loose, ji Ij And sunken was her eye, jj h Who with a wanton's hollow voice '' ji Address'd the passers-by. : I ask'd her what there was in guilt That could her heart allure To shame, disease, and late remorse: ii She answer'd, she was poor THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR. 26o I warn'd me to the Rich Man then, For silently stood he, — You ask'd me why the poor complain, And these have answer' d thee ! 179& THE CATARACT OF LODORE. IX8CRIBED IN RHYMES FOR THE NURSKKT. " How does the Water { Come down at Lodore?" ■ My little boy ask'd me i Thus, once on a time ! And moreover he task'd me i To Jell him in rhyme. j Anon at the word, There first came one daughter, And then came another, i To second and third The request of their brother, And to hear how the water Comes down at Lodore, With its rush and its roar, As many a time ! They had seen it before. So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store ; And 'twas in my vocation i For their recreation ' 264 THE CATARACT OF lODORE. 265 That so I should sing ; Because I was Laureate To them and the King. From its sources which well In the Tarn on the fell ; From its fountains In the mountains. Its rills and its gills; Through moss and through brake. It runs and it creeps For awhile, till it sleeps In its own little Lake. And thence at departing. Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds. Through meadow and glade. In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry, Helter-skelter, Hurry-scurry. Here it comes sparkling. And there it lies darkUng ; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in, Till in this rapid race On which it is bent. It reaches the place Of its steep descent 266 THE CAIABACT OF LODORE. The Cataract strong Then plunges along, Striking and raging As if a war waging Its caverns and rocks among , Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging, "Writhing and ringing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting, Around and around With endless rebound : Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in ; Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding. And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And hitting and splitting. And shining and twining. And ratthng and battling, And shaking and quaking, THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 267 And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing. And flowing and going, And running and stunning. And foaming and roaming. And dinning and spinning. And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning ; And glittering and frittering. And gathering and feathering. And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering. And hurrying and skurrying. Ana ihundermg and floundering ; Dividing and gliding and sliding. And faUing and brawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubhng, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering ; Retreating and beating and meetmg and sheetmg, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Adv ancing and prancmg and glancmg and dancing, 268 THE CATARACT OF LODORE. Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gush- ing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slap- ping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirl- ing, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping. And dashing and flashing and splashing and clash- ing. And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions forever and ever are blend- ing, All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, And this way the Water comes dcwn at Lodore. Ketwick, 1820. ^ THE MARCH TO MOSCOW. 1. Tna Emperor Nap he would set off On a summer excursion to Moscow .• The fields were green, and the sky was alue, Morbleul Parbleu! What a pleasant excursion to Moscow ! 2. Four hundred thousand men and more Must go with him to Moscow : There were Marshals by the dozen, And Dukes by the score ; Princes a few, and Kings one or two ; While the fields are so green, and the sky so blao, Morbleu! Parbleu! What a pleasant excursion to Moscow ! 3. There was Junot and Augereau, Heigh-ho for Moscow ! 269 270 THE MARCH TO MOSCOW. Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky, Marshal Ney, lack-a-day ! General Rapp, and the Emperor Nap; Nothing would do, While the fields were so green, and the sky s4 blue, Morbleu ! Parbleu ! Nothing would do For the whole of this crew, But they must be marching to Moscow. The Emperor Nap he talk'd so big That he frighten'd Mr. Roscoe. John Bull, he cries, if you'll be wise, Ask the Emperor Nap if he will please To grant you peace, upon your knees, Because he is going to Moscow ! He'll make all the Poles come out of their holes And beat the Russians, and eat the Prussians; For the fields are green, and the sky is blue, Morbleu ! Parbleu ! And he'll certainly march to Moscow ! 5. And Counsellor Brougham was all in a futna At the thought of the march to Moscow : The Russians, he said, they were undone, And the great Fee-Faw-Fum Would presently come, With a hop, step, and jump, unto London For, as for his conquering Russia, THE MARCH TO MOSCOW. 271 However some persons might scoflTit, Do it he could, and do it he would, And from domg it nothing would come but good, And nothing could call him off it. Mr. Jeffrey said so, who must certainly know, For he was the Edinburgh Prophet. They all oi them knew Mr. Jeffrey's Review, Which with Holy Writ ought to be reckon'd ; L. was, through thick and thin, to its party true ; Its back was buff, and its sides were blue, Morbleu ! Parbleu ! It served them for Law and for Gospel too. 6. But the Russians stoutly they turned to Upon the road to Moscow. Nap had to fight his way all through ; They could fight, though they could not parlez vous ; Rut the fields were green, and the sky was blue, iviorbleu ! Parbleu ! And so he got to Moscow. 7. He found the place too warm for him, For they set fire to Moscow. To get there had cost him much ado, And then no better course he knew, While the fields were green, and the sky was blue, Morbleu ! Parbleu ! But to march back again from Moscow. 272 THE M&.RCH TO MOSX)W. 8. The Russians they stuck close to him All on the road from Moscow. There was Tormazow and Jemalow And all the others that end in ow ; Milarodovitch and Jaladovitch, And Karatschkowifch, And all the others that end in itch ; Schamscheff, Souchosaneff, And SchepalefF, And all the others that end in efF; Wasillschikoff, Kostomaroff, And Tchoglokoff, And all the others that end in off; Rajeffsky, and Novereffsky, And Rieffsky, And all the others that end in effsky,' Oscharoffsky and Rostoffsky, And all the others that end in offsky ; And Platoff he play'd them off, And Shouvaloff he shovell'd them off, And Markoff he mark'd them off, And Krosnoff he cross' d them off. And Tuchkoff he touch'd them off, And Boroskoff he bored them off, And Kutousoff he cut them off, And Parenzoff he pared them off. And Worronzoff he worried them off, And Doctoroff he doctor'd them off, And Rodionoff he flos;g'd them off. And, last r^all, an Admiral came, IHE MARCH TO MOSCOW. 273 A terrible man with a terrible n.ime, A name which you all know by sight very well, But which no one can speak, and no one can spell. They stuck close to Nap with all their might j They were on the left and on the right, Behind and before, and by day and by night ; He would rather parlez-vous than fight • But he look'd white, and he look'd blue. Morbleu ! Parbleu ! When parlez-vous no more would do, For they remember'd Moscow. 9. And then came on the frost and snow, All on the road from Moscow, The wind and the weather he tound, in that hour, Cared nothing for him, nor lor all his power ; For him who, while Europe crouch' d under hia rod, Put his trust in his Fortune, and not in his God. Worse and worse every day the elements grew, The fields were so white, and the sky so blue, Sacrebleu ! Ventrebleu ! What a horrible journey from Moscow ! 10. What then thought the Emperor Nap Upon the road from Moscow ? Why, I ween he thought it small delight To fight all day, and to freeze all night ; And he was besides in a very great fright, 18 274 THE MARCH TO MOSCOW. For a whole skin he liked to be in ; And so, not knowing what else to do, When the fields were so white, and the sky so blue, iVIorbleu ! Parbleu ! He stole away, — I tell you true, — Upon the road from Moscow. 'Tis myself, quoth he, I must mind most ; So the Devil may take the hindmost. 11. Too cold upon the road was he ; Too hot had he been at Moscow ; But colder and hotter he may be, For the grave is colder than Moscovy ; And a place there is to be kept in view, Where the fire is red, and the brimstone blae. Morbleu ! Parbleu ! Which he must go to, If the Pope say true, If he does not in time look about him ; Where his namesake almost He may have for his Host ; He has reckon'd too long without him; If that Host get him in Purgatory, He won't leave him there alone \vith his gloi7 But there he must stay for a very long day, For from thence there is no stealing away, As there was on the road from Moscow. Keswick ISn. TO MARY. Mary '. ten checker' d years have pait Since we beheld each other last ; Yet , Mary , I remember thee, Nor canst thou have forgotten me. The bloom was then upon thy face ; Thy form had every youthful grace ; I too had then the warmth of youth, And in our hearts was all its truth. We conversed, were there others by, With common mirth and random eye ; But when escaped the sight of men. How serious was our converse then ! Our talk was then of years to come, Of hopes which ask'd a humble doom, Themes which to loving thoughts might movej Although we never spake of love. At our last meeting sure thy heart Was even as loath as mine to part ; 2"% «76 And yet we little thought that then We parted — not to meet again. Long, Mary ! after that adieu, My dearest day-dreams were of you; In sleep 1 saw you still, and long Made you the theme of secret song. When manhood and its cares came on, The humble hopes of youth were gone; And other hopes and other fears Effaced the thoughts of happier year& Meantime through many a varied yeaf Of thee no tidings did 1 hear, And thou hast never heard my name Save from the vague reports of fame. But then, I trust, detraction's lie Hath kindled anger in thine eye ; And thou my praise wert proud to see, — My name should still be dear to thee. Ten years have held their course ; thus latil I learn the tidings of thy fate ; A Husband and a Father now, Of thee, a Wife and Mother thou. And, Mary, as lor thee I frame A prayer which hath no selfish aim, No happier lot can I wish thee Than such as Heaven hath granted me. London. 1802, TO MARGARET HILL ■WRITTEN FROM LONDON. 1798. Margaret ! 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 delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, Sir-ing and Madam-ing as civilly As if the road between the heart and lips Were such a weary and Laplandish way, That the poor travellers came to the red gates Half frozen. Trust me, Cousin Margaret, For many a day my memory hath play'd The creditor with me on your account, And made me shame to think that 1 should ow« So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear So heavy a pack of business, that albeit I toil on mainly, in our twelve hoars' race Time leaves n.e distanced. Loath indeed were I 277 278 T(- MARGARET HILl , That for a moment you should lay to me Unkind neglect ; mine, Margaret, is a heart That smokes not : yet methinks there should be some Who know its genuine warmth. 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 httle 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 swept the sons of Anak from the earth ; The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle Like that where whilom old ApoUidon, Retiring wisely from the troublous world, Built up his blameless spell ; and I would bid The Sea-Nymphs pile around their coral bowers, That we might stand upon the beach, and mark The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound ro MARGARET HIL). 279 Told us that never manner 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, Without one care. It may be, Margaret, That I shall yet be gather'd to my friends; For I am not of those who live estranged Of choice, till 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 Right 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, Uke the uiita.ight American, I look Tc fine ir Heaven the things I loved on eaith. EPITAPH This to a mother 3 sacred meniorf Her son hath hallow'd. Absent many a year Far over sea, his sweetest dreams v\ ere still Of that dear voice which soothed his infancy; And after many a fight against the Moor And Malabar, or that fierce caivalry Which he had seen coverincr the boundless plain; Even to the utmost Umits where the eye Could pierce the far horizon,— liis first thought In safetv was of her, who, when she heard The tale of that day's danger, would retire And pour her pious gratitude to Heaven In prayers and tears of joy. The lingering houf Of his return, long-look'd-for, came at length, And full of hope he reach'd his native shore. Vain hope that puts its trust in human life I For ere he came, the number of her days Was full. O Reader, what 2 world were this, How unendurable its weight, if they Whom Death hatV sunder' d did not meet again • Kiswick, ISIO. 280 TO A FRIEND. IHQIIBINO IP I WOULD LIVE OVERMT YOUTH AGAIN. 1. Do I regret the past ? Would T again live o'er The morning hours of life ? Nay, William ! nay, not so ! In the warm joyance of the summer son, 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. 2. Why is it pleasant then, to sit and talk Of days that are no more ? When in his own dear home The Uraveller rests at last, 281 282 TO A FRIEND. And tells how often in his wanderings. The thought of those far oft Hath made his eyes o'erflow With no unmanly tears ; Dehghted he recalls rhrough what fail- scenes his lingering feet haira trod; But ever when he tells of perils past And troubles now no more. His eyes are brightest, and a readier joy Flows thankful from his heart. 3. No, William ! no, I would not live again The mornmg hours of life ; I would not be again The slave of hope and fear ; I would not learn again The wisdom by Experience hardly taught, 4. To me the past prcsenrs No object for regret ; To me I he present ?ives 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, I willingly shall close my weary lids, In sure and certain hope to wake again. Westhury, 1798. THE VICTORY. Hark — how the church-bells, with redoubling peals, Stun the glad ear ! Tidings of joy have come, Good tidings of great joy ! two gallant ships Mei on the element,— they met, they fought A desperate fight ! — good tidings of great joy ! Old England triumph'd ! 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 read his name, — 'Twas in the list of slaughter, — and thank'd 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 ovin home, and wife, and httle ones, 263 r^ 284 THE VICTORV. Who by his labor Uved ; that he was one Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel A husband's love ; a father's anxiousness ; That from ihe wages of his toil he fed The distant dear ones, and would talk, of them At midaight when he trod the silent deck With him he valued, — talk of them, of joys Which he had known, — oh God ! and of the houf When they should meet again, till his full heart, His manly heart, at times would overflow, Even Uke a child's, with very tenderness. Peace to his honest spirit ! suddenly It came, and merciful the ball of death, That it came suddenly and shatter'd him, Nor left a 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 wuU not heed, With what an agony of tenderness She gazed upon her children, and beheld His image who was gone. O God ! be Thou, Who art the widow's friend, her comforter! Wetthnry, 1798. THE SOLDIER'S I UNERAL. It is the funeral march. I did not think That there had been such magic in sweet sounds I 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 withtsuch 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 measured 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 285 286 THE soldier's funeral. Are folk-' wing 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,— Dropp'd from existence, like a blasted 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 first He had put on the livery of blood, She wept him dead to her We are indeed Clay in the potter's hand ! One favor'd mind, Scarce lower than the Angels, shall explore The ways of Nature, whilst his fellow-man, Framed with like miracle, the work of God, Must as the unreasonable beast drag on A life of labor ; like this soldier here, His wondrous faculties bestow' d in vain, Be moulded by his fate till he becomes A mere machine of murder. And there are Who say that this is well ! as God has made All things for man's good pleasure, so of men The many for the few ! Court-moralists, Reverend lip-comforters, that once a week Proclaim how blessed are the poor, for they Shal have their wealth hereafter, and though THE SOLDIER S FUNERAL. 287 Toiling and troubled, they may pick the crambs That from the rich man's table fall, at length In Abraham's bosom rest with Lazarus. Themselves meantime secure their good things here. And feast with Dives. These are they, O Lord . Who in thy plain and simple Gospel see All mysteries, but who find no peace enjoin'd, No brotherhood, no wrath denounced on them Who shed their brethren's blood, — blind at noon-day As owls, lynx-eyed in darkness ! O my God' I thank thee, with no Pharisaic pride 1 ihank thee, that I am not such as these ; I thank thee for the eye that sees, the heart That feels, the voice that in these evil dayv. Amid these evil tongues, exalts itself, Aid cries aloud against iniquity. Bristol, 1795. THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN Sweet to the morning traveller The song amid the sky, Where, twinkling in the dewy light, The skylark soars on high. 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 sol Full wearily toils he, The flowing water makes to him A soothing melody. And when the evening light decays, And all is calm around. There is sweet music to his ear In the distant sheep-bell's sound. But oh ! of all delightful sounds Of evening or of morn, The sweetest is the voice of Love, That welcomes his return. Westbury, 1798. ^g„ ttrsB LionARt UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY B 000 006 448 5