The Poetical Works of Henry Kirke White

Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme

With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung

Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem

The lyre which I in early days have strung:

And now my spirit's faint, and I have hung

The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour,

On the dark cypress! and the strings which rung

With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er,

Or, when the breeze comes by, moan and are heard no more.

And must the harp of Judah sleep again?

Shall I no more reanimate the lay?

Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men,

Thou who dost listen when the humble pray,

One little space prolong my mournful day!

One little lapse suspend thy last decree!

I am a youthful traveller in the way,

And this slight boon would consecrate to thee,

Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free.

* * * * *

LINES WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS,

IN THE MORNING BEFORE DAYBREAK.

Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hold

Your brilliant places in the sable vault

Of night's dominions!-Planets, and central orbs

Of other systems!-big as the burning sun

Which lights this nether globe,-yet to our eye

Small as the glowworm's lamp!-To you I raise

My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd,

My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts;

Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind,

Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold,

And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring,

Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him,

The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze,

The great Creator! Him! who now sublime,

Wrapt in the solitary amplitude

Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres

Sits on his silent throne and meditates.

The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven,

Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime,

Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great,"

In varied harmonies.-The glorious sounds

Roll o'er the air serene-The ?olian spheres,

Harping along their viewless boundaries,

Catch the full note, and cry, "The Lord is great,"

Responding to the Seraphim. O'er all

From orb to orb, to the remotest verge

Of the created world, the sound is borne,

Till the whole universe is full of Him.

Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now

In fancy strikes upon my listening ear,

And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile

On the vain world, and all its bustling cares,

And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss.

Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height,

What even are kings, when balanced in the scale

Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God!

Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works!

Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm,

One look of kind benevolence?-Thou canst:

For Thou art full of universal love,

And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart

Thy beams as well to me as to the proud,

The pageant insects of a glittering hour.

Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime,

How insignificant do all the joys,

The gaudes, and honours of the world appear!

How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp

Outwatch'd the slow-paced night!-Why on the page,

The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd

The hours devoted by the world to rest,

And needful to recruit exhausted nature?

Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay

The loss of health? or can the hope of glory

Lend a new throb into my languid heart,

Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow,

Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye,

Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?

Say, foolish one-can that unbodied fame,

For which thou barterest health and happiness,

Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave?

Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs

Of everlasting punishment condign?

Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires!

How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God!

Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth,

And oh! assist me so to live on earth,

That I may die in peace, and claim a place

In thy high dwelling.-All but this is folly,

The vain illusions of deceitful life.

LINES SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS.

OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE.

Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave,

And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling,

The big tear in his eye.-Mary, awake,

From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight

On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low.

Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale,

Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love,

To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul,

And cheer his breaking heart.-Come, as thou didst,

When o'er the barren moors the night wind howl'd,

And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne

Of the startled night!-O! then, as lone reclining,

I listen'd sadly to the dismal storm,

Thou on the lambent lightnings wild careering

Didst strike my moody eye;-dead pale thou wert,

Yet passing lovely.-Thou didst smile upon me,

And oh! thy voice it rose so musical,

Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm,

That at the sound the winds forgot to rave,

And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd,

Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose,

Lock'd in the arms of silence.

Spirit of her!

My only love! O! now again arise,

And let once more thine a?ry accents fall

Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm,

The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence

With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling

On the still air, the distant waterfall

Mingles its melody;-and, high above,

The pensive empress of the solemn night,

Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds,

Shows her chaste face in the meridian sky.

No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll

Dare now assemble at their mystic revels.

It is a night when, from their primrose beds,

The gentle ghosts of injured innocents

Are known to rise and wander on the breeze,

Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch,

And strike grim terror to his guilty soul.

The spirit of my love might now awake,

And hold its custom'd converse.

Mary, lo!

Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave,

And calls upon thy name. The breeze that blows

On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him

In solemn music a funereal dirge,

Wild and most sorrowful. His cheek is pale,

The worm that prey'd upon thy youthful bloom

It canker'd green on his. Now lost he stands,

The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew,

Which bathes his aching temples, gives sure omen

Of speedy dissolution. Mary, soon

Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine,

And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death.

MY STUDY.

A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE.

You bid me, Ned, describe the place

Where I, one of the rhyming race,

Pursue my studies con amore,

And wanton with the muse in glory.

Well, figure to your senses straight,

Upon the house's topmost height,

A closet just six feet by four,

With whitewash'd walls and plaster floor.

So noble large, 'tis scarcely able

To admit a single chair and table:

And (lest the muse should die with cold)

A smoky grate my fire to hold:

So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose

To melt the icedrop on one's nose;

And yet so big, it covers o'er

Full half the spacious room and more.

A window vainly stuff'd about,

To keep November's breezes out,

So crazy, that the panes proclaim

That soon they mean to leave the frame.

My furniture I sure may crack-

A broken chair without a back;

A table wanting just two legs,

One end sustain'd by wooden pegs;

A desk-of that I am not fervent,

The work of, Sir, your humble servant;

(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler;)

A glass decanter and a tumbler,

From which my night-parch'd throat I lave,

Luxurious, with the limpid wave.

A chest of drawers, in antique sections,

And saw'd by me in all directions;

So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em

Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em.

To these, if you will add a store

Of oddities upon thee floor,

A pair of globes, electric balls,

Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls,

And crowds of books, on rotten shelves,

Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves;

I think, dear Ned, you curious dog,

You'll have my earthly catalogue.

But stay,-I nearly had left out

My bellows destitute of snout;

And on the walls,-Good Heavens! why there

I've such a load of precious ware,

Of heads, and coins, and silver medals,

And organ works, and broken pedals;

(For I was once a-building music,

Though soon of that employ I grew sick);

And skeletons of laws which shoot

All out of one primordial root;

That you, at such a sight, would swear

Confusion's self had settled there.

There stands, just by a broken sphere,

A Cicero without an ear,

A neck, on which, by logic good,

I know for sure a head once stood;

But who it was the able master

Had moulded in the mimic planter,

Whether 't was Pope, or Coke, or Burn,

I never yet could justly learn:

But knowing well, that any head

Is made to answer for the dead,

(And sculptors first their faces frame,

And after pitch upon a name,

Nor think it aught of a misnomer

To christen Chaucer's busto Homer,

Because they both have beards, which, you know,

Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,)

For some great man, I could not tell

But Neck might answer just as well,

So perch'd it up, all in a row

With Chatham and with Cicero.

Then all around, in just degree,

A range of portraits you may see,

Of mighty men and eke of women,

Who are no whit inferior to men.

With these fair dames, and heroes round,

I call my garret classic ground.

For though confined, 't will well contain

The ideal flights of Madam Brain.

No dungeon's walls, no cell confined

Can cramp the energies of mind!

Thus, though my heart may seem so small,

I've friends, and 't will contain them all;

And should it e'er become so cold

That these it will no longer hold,

No more may Heaven her blessings give,

I shall not then be fit to live.

DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE.

Down the sultry arc of day

The burning wheels have urged their way;

And eve along the western skies

Sheds her intermingling dyes.

Down the deep, the miry lane,

Creaking comes the empty wain,

And driver on the shaft-horse sits,

Whistling now and then by fits:

And oft, with his accustom'd call,

Urging on the sluggish Ball.

The barn is still, the master's gone,

And thresher puts his jacket on,

While Dick, upon the ladder tall,

Nails the dead kite to the wall.

Here comes shepherd Jack at last,

He has penn'd the sheepcote fast,

For 't was but two nights before,

A lamb was eaten on the moor:

His empty wallet Rover carries,

Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries.

With lolling tongue he runs to try

If the horse-trough be not dry.

The milk is settled in the pans,

And supper messes in the cans;

In the hovel carts are wheel'd,

And both the colts are drove a-field;

The horses are all bedded up,

And the ewe is with the tup.

The snare for Mister Fox is set,

The leaven laid, the thatching wet,

And Bess has slink'd away to talk

With Roger in the holly walk.

Now, on the settle all, but Bess,

Are set to eat their supper mess;

And little Tom and roguish Kate

Are swinging on the meadow gate.

Now they chat of various things,

Of taxes, ministers, and kings,

Or else tell all the village news,

How madam did the squire refuse;

How parson on his tithes was bent,

And landlord oft distrain'd for rent.

Thus do they talk, till in the sky

The pale-eyed moon is mounted high,

And from the alehouse drunken Ned

Had reel'd-then hasten all to bed.

The mistress sees that lazy Kate

The happing coal on kitchen grate

Has laid-while master goes throughout,

Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out,

The candles safe, the hearths all clear,

And nought from thieves or fire to fear;

Then both to bed together creep,

And join the general troop of sleep.

LINES,

Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr. Capel Lofft's beautiful and interesting Preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield's Poems, just published:-"It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the impression of its melancholy close. I could have wished, as I have said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of life less offend my taste than its sweets delight it."

Go to the raging sea, and say, "Be still!"

Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will;

Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair,

But tell not Misery's son that life is fair.

Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd,

And every year with new delight hast told,

Thou, who, recumbent on the lacquer'd barge,

Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge,

Thou mayst extol life's calm untroubled sea,

The storms of misery never burst on thee.

Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines,

Go to the shade obscure, where merit pines;

Abide with him whom Penury's charms control,

And bind the rising yearnings of his soul,

Survey his sleepless couch, and, standing there,

Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair!

Press thou the lonely pillow of his head,

And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled;

Mark his dew'd temples, and his half shut eye,

His trembling nostrils, and his deep drawn sigh,

His muttering mouth contorted with despair,

And ask if Genius could inhabit there.

Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleam'd,

And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd:

But now Neglect has stung him to-the core,

And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more;

Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round,

And added Grief compels him to the ground.

Lo! o'er his manly form, decay'd and wan,

The shades of death with gradual steps steal on;

And the pale mother, pining to decay,

Weeps for her boy her wretched life away.

Go, child of Fortune! to his early grave,

Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave;

Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head

On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed.

Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there,

And tell us then that life is wondrous fair!

Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd forth,

To encourage genius, and to foster worth;

On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend,

'T is just that every blessing should descend;

'T is just that life to thee should only show

Her fairer side but little mix'd with woe.

WRITTEN IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

Sad solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils.

Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind;

Communing lonely with his sinking soul,

And musing on the dubious glooms that lie

In dim obscurity before him,-thee,

Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call

At this still midnight hour, this awful season,

When, on my bed, in wakeful restlessness,

I turn me wearisome; while all around,

All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness;

I only wake to watch the sickly taper

Which lights me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand

Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals,

Slow sapping the warm current of existence.

My moments now are few-the sand of life

Ebbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little,

And the last fleeting particle will fall

Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented.

Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate,

While meditate we may.-We have now

-But a small portion of what men call time

To hold communion; for even now the knife,

The separating knife, I feel divide

The tender bond that binds my soul to earth.

Yes, I must die-I feel that I must die;

And though to me has life been dark and dreary,

Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive,

And Disappointment still pursued her blandishments,

Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me

As I contemplate the dim gulf of death,

The shuddering void, the awful blank-futurity.

Ay, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme

Of earthly happiness-romantic schemes,

And fraught with loveliness; and it is hard

To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps,

Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes,

And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades,

Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion.

Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry?

Oh! none;-another busy brood of beings

Will shoot up in the interim, and none

Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink

As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets

Of busy London:-Some short bustle's caused,

A few inquiries, and the crowds close in,

And all's forgotten.-On my grassy grave

The men of future times will careless tread,

And read my name upon the sculptured stone;

Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears,

Recall my vanish'd memory. I did hope

For better things!-I hoped I should not leave

The earth without a vestige;-Fate decrees

It shall be otherwise, and I submit.

Henceforth, oh, world, no more of thy desires!

No more of hope! the wanton vagrant Hope!

I abjure all. Now other cares engross me,

And my tired soul, with emulative haste,

Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for heaven.

VERSES.

When pride and envy, and the scorn

Of wealth my heart with gall imbued,

I thought how pleasant were the morn

Of silence, in the solitude;

To hear the forest bee on wing;

Or by the stream, or woodland spring,

To lie and muse alone-alone,

While the tinkling waters moan,

Or such wild sounds arise, as say,

Man and noise are far away.

Now, surely, thought I, there's enow

To fill life's dusty way;

And who will miss a poet's feet,

Or wonder where he stray:

So to the woods and wastes I'll go,

And I will build an osier bower,

And sweetly there to me shall flow

The meditative hour.

And when the Autumn's withering hand,

Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land,

I'll to the forest caverns hie:

And in the dark and stormy nights

I'll listen to the shrieking sprites,

Who, in the wintry wolds and floods,

Keep jubilee, and shred the woods;

Or, as it drifted soft and slow,

Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow.

* * * * *

FRAGMENT.

Oh! thou most fatal of Pandora's train,

Consumption! silent cheater of the eye;

Thou comest not robed in agonizing pain,

Nor mark'st thy course with Death's delusive dye,

But silent and unnoticed thou dost lie;

O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost diffuse,

And, while thou givest new lustre to the eye,

While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy hues,

E'en then life's little rest thy cruel power subdues.

Oft I've beheld thee, in the glow of youth,

Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there bloom'd;

And dropp'd a tear, for then thy cankering tooth

I knew would never stay, till all consumed,

In the cold vault of death he were entomb'd.

But oh! what sorrow did I feel, as swift,

Insidious ravager, I saw thee fly

Through fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow,

Preparing swift her passage to the sky.

Though still intelligence beam'd in the glance,

The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye;

Yet soon did languid listlessness advance,

And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant trance.

Even when her end was swiftly drawing near,

And dissolution hover'd o'er her head:

Even then so beauteous did her form appear,

That none who saw her but admiring said,

Sure so much beauty never could be dead.

Yet the dark lash of her expressive eye

Bent lowly down upon the languid-

* * * * *

FRAGMENT.

Loud rage the winds without.-The wintry cloud

O'er the cold northstar casts her flitting shroud;

And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale,

Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale;

Where now, shut out from every still retreat,

Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat,

Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood,

Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood?

Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askance

The drifted fleeces that around him dance,

And hurries on his half-averted form,

Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm.

Him soon shall greet his snow-topp'd [cot of thatch],

Soon shall his numb'd hand tremble on the latch,

Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame

Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame;

Round the light fire, while roars the north wind loud,

What merry groups of vacant faces crowd;

These hail his coming-these his meal prepare,

And boast in all that cot no lurking care.

What though the social circle be denied,

Even Sadness brightens at her own fireside,

Loves, with fix'd eye, to watch the fluttering blaze,

While musing Memory dwells on former days;

Or Hope, bless'd spirit! smiles-and still forgiven,

Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven.

Then heap the fire-shut out the biting air,

And from its station wheel the easy chair:

Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweet

To hear without the bitter tempest beat,

All, all alone-to sit, and muse, and sigh,

The pensive tenant of obscurity.

* * * * *

TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS,

WHO, WHEN THE AUTHOR REASONED WITH HIM CALMLY, ASKED, "IF HE DID NOT FEEL FOR HIM."

"Do I not feel?" The doubt is keen as steel.

Yea, I do feel-most exquisitely feel;

My heart can weep, when, from my downcast eye,

I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:

Deep buried there I close the rankling dart,

And smile the most when heaviest is my heart.

On this I act-whatever pangs surround,

'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound!

When all was new, and life was in its spring,

I lived an unloved, solitary thing;

Even then I learn'd to bury deep from day

The piercing cares that wore my youth away:

Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel;

Even then I wept I had not power to heal:

Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom,

I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's doom.

Who were my friends in youth?-The midnight fire-

The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir;

To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight,

To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;

I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn,

For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn;

The sacred source of woe I never ope,

My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope.

But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show,

Though the cold crowd the secret never know;

With them I laugh-yet, when no eye can see,

I weep for nature, and I weep for thee.

Yes, thou didst wrong me, ... I fondly thought,

In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought!

I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise,

And read the truth that in my bosom lies;

I fondly thought, ere Time's last days were gone,

Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!

Yes-and they yet will mingle. Days and years

Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears:

We then shall feel that friendship has a power

To soothe affliction in her darkest hour;

Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand,

And wait the passport to a better land.

Thine

H.K. WHITE.

Half past Eleven o'clock at Night.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

Yet once more, and once more, awake, my Harp,

From silence and neglect-one lofty strain;

Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven,

And speaking mysteries more than words can tell,

I ask of thee; for I, with hymnings high,

Would join the dirge of the departing year.

Yet with no wintry garland from the woods,

Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear,

Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now;

Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song,

And fearful joy, to celebrate the day

Of the Redeemer.-Near two thousand suns

Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse

Of generations, since the dayspring first

Beam'd from on high!-Now to the mighty mass

Of that increasing aggregate we add

One unit more. Space in comparison

How small, yet mark'd with how much misery;

Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence,

Over the nations hanging her dread scourge;

The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness,

Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong,

Forcing the scanty portion from the weak,

And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears.

So has the year been character'd with woe

In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes;

Yet 't was not thus He taught-not thus He lived,

Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer

And much thanksgiving. He, a man of woes,

Went on the way appointed,-path, though rude,

Yet borne with patience still:-He came to cheer

The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick,

And on the wandering and benighted mind

To pour the light of truth. O task divine!

O more than angel teacher! He had words

To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds;

And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas,

Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm,

He, pointing to the star of peace on high,

Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile

At the surrounding wreck.--

When with deep agony his heart was rack'd,

Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek,

For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd,

His persecutors-"Father, pardon them,

They know not what they do."

Angels of Heaven,

Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross,

And did him homage, say, may mortal join

The halleluiahs of the risen God?

Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard

Amid the seraphim in light divine?

Yes, he will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign,

For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith,

Low though it be and humble. Lord of life,

The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now

Fills my uprising soul.-I mount, I fly

Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs;

The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes,

And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more.

* * * * *

NELSONI MORS.

Yet once again, my Harp, yet once again

One ditty more, and on the mountain ash

I will again suspend thee. I have felt

The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last,

At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd,

I woke to thee the melancholy song.

Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe,

I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks

Of frolic fancy to the line of truth;

Not unrepining, for my froward heart

Stills turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow

Of spring-gales past-the woods and storied haunts

Of my not songless boyhood.-Yet once more,

Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones,

My long-neglected Harp. He must not sink;

The good, the brave-he must not, shall not sink

Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour

No precious dews of Aganippe's well,

Or Castaly,-though from the morning cloud

I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse:

Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows,

Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent

Of Britain, my loved country; and with tears

Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe

Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm

And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd

Fast from thy honest heart. Thou, Pity, too,

If ever I have loved, with faltering step,

To follow thee in the cold and starless night,

To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff;

And, as I heard the deep gun bursting loud

Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd

Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds,

The dying soul's viaticum; if oft

Amid the carnage of the field I've sate

With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung

To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul,

With mercy and forgiveness-visitant

Of Heaven-sit thou upon my harp,

And give it feeling, which were else too cold

For argument so great, for theme so high.

How dimly on that morn the sun arose,

'Kerchief'd in mists, and tearful, when-

* * * * *

EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

Bloomfield, thy happy omen'd name

Ensures continuance to thy fame;

Both sense and truth this verdict give,

While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live!

ELEGY

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. GILL, WHO WAS DROWNED IN THE RIVER TRENT, WHILE BATHING, 9TH AUGUST, 1802.

He sunk, the impetuous river roll'd along,

The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath;

And rising sad the rustling sedge among,

The gale of evening touch'd the cords of death.

Nymph of the Trent! why didst thou not appear

To snatch the victim from thy felon wave!

Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier,

And deck with waterflags his early grave.

Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey,

Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride;

While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay,

And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tide.

The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye,

The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved,

I mark them rise-I mark the general sigh!

Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved?

On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink,

When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade;

On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink

To hold mysterious converse with thy shade.

Of thee, as early, I, with vagrant feet,

Hail the gray-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale,

Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet,

And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale.

And, oh! ye nymphs of P?on! who preside

O'er running rill and salutary stream.

Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide

From the rude death-shriek and the dying scream.

INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT TO THE MEMORY OF COWPER.

Reader! if with no vulgar sympathy

Thou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth,

Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallow'd spot.

Here Cowper rests. Although renown have made

His name familiar to thine ear, this stone

May tell thee that his virtues were above

The common portion:-that the voice, now hush'd

In death, was once serenely querulous

With pity's tones, and in the ear of woe

Spake music. Now, forgetful, at thy feet,

His tired head presses on its last long rest,

Still tenant of the tomb;-and on the cheek,

Once warm with animation's lambent flush,

Sits the pale image of unmark'd decay.

Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part;

And, these sad garments of Mortality

Put off, we trust, that to a happier land

He went a light and gladsome passenger.

Sigh'st thou for honours, reader? Call to mind

That glory's voice is impotent to pierce

The silence of the tomb! but virtue blooms

Even on the wreck of life, and mounts the skies.

So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walk

With Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ.

"I'M PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD."

When twilight steals along the ground,

And all the bells are ringing round,

One, two, three, four, and five,

I at my study window sit,

And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit,

To bliss am all alive.

But though impressions calm and sweet

Thrill round my heart a holy heat,

And I am inly glad;

The tear-drop stands in either eye,

And yet I cannot tell thee why,

I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad.

The silvery rack that flies away,

Like mortal life or pleasure's ray,

Does that disturb my breast?

Nay, what have I, a studious man,

To do with life's unstable plan,

Or pleasure's fading vest?

Is it that here I must not stop,

But o'er yon blue hill's woody top

Must bend my lonely way?

No, surely no! for give but me

My own fireside, and I shall be

At home where'er I stray.

Then is it that yon steeple there,

With music sweet shall fill the air,

When thou no more canst hear?

Oh, no! oh, no! for then, forgiven,

I shall be with my God in heaven,

Released from every fear.

Then whence it is I cannot tell,

But there is some mysterious spell

That holds me when I'm glad;

And so the tear-drop fills my eye,

When yet in truth I know not why,

Or wherefore I am sad.

SOLITUDE.

It is not that my lot is low,

That bids this silent tear to flow;

It is not grief that bids me moan;

It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam,

When the tired hedger hies him home;

Or by the woodland pool to rest,

When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs,

With hallow'd airs and symphonies,

My spirit takes another tone,

And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sere and dead,

It floats upon the water's bed;

I would not be a leaf, to die

Without recording sorrow's sigh!

The woods and winds, with sullen wail,

Tell all the same unvaried tale;

I've none to smile when I am free,

And when I sigh, to sigh with me.

Yet in my dreams a form I view,

That thinks on me, and loves me too;

I start, and when the vision's flown,

I weep that I am all alone.

If far from me the Fates remove

Domestic peace, connubial love,

The prattling ring, the social cheer,

Affection's voice, affection's tear,

Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart,

To me your iron aid impart!

O teach me when the nights are chill,

And my fireside is lone and still;

When to the blaze that crackles near,

I turn a tired and pensive ear,

And Nature conquering bids me sigh

For love's soft accents whispering nigh;

O teach me, on that heavenly road,

That leads to Truth's occult abode,

To wrap my soul in dreams sublime,

Till earth and care no more be mine.

Let bless'd Philosophy impart

Her soothing measures to my heart;

And while with Plato's ravish'd ears

I list the music of the spheres,

Or on the mystic symbols pore,

That hide the Chald's sublimer lore,

I shall not brood on summers gone,

Nor think that I am all alone.

Fanny! upon thy breast I may not lie!

Fanny! thou dost not hear me when I speak!

Where art thou, love?-Around I turn my eye,

And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek.

Was it a dream? or did my love behold

Indeed my lonely couch?-Methought the breath

Fann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold

And hollow, and the livery of death

Invested her pale forehead. Sainted maid!

My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave,

Through the long wintry night, when wind and wave

Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid.

Yet, hush! my fond heart, hush! there is a shore

Of better promise; and I know at last,

When the long sabbath of the tomb is past,

We two shall meet in Christ-to part no more.

FRAGMENTS.1

Saw'st thou that light? exclaim'd the youth, and paused:

Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the stream

That skirts the woods it for a moment play'd.

Again, more light it gleam'd,-or does some sprite

Delude mine eyes with shapes of wood and streams,

And lamp far beaming through the thicket's gloom,

As from some bosom'd cabin, where the voice

Of revelry, or thrifty watchfulness,

Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour?

No sprite deludes mine eyes,-the beam now glows

With steady lustre.-Can it be the moon

Who, hidden long by the invidious veil

That blots the Heavens, now sets behind the woods?

No moon to-night has look'd upon the sea

Of clouds beneath her, answer'd Rudiger,

She has been sleeping with Endymion.

* * * * *

The pious man,

In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms

Hide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith

Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields

Of ether, where the day is never veil'd

With intervening vapours, and looks down

Serene upon the troublous sea, that hides

The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face

To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all;

But on whose billowy back, from man conceal'd,

The glaring sunbeam plays.

Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in gray,

Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes,

And from his tower of mist,

Night's watchman hurries down.

There was a little bird upon that pile;

It perch'd upon a ruin'd pinnacle,

And made sweet melody.

The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear,

For other note none swell'd the air but his.

It seem'd as if the little chorister,

Sole tenant of the melancholy pile,

Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind,

Yet withal cheerful. I have heard the note

Echoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn,

--Much musing--

O pale art thou, my lamp, and faint

Thy melancholy ray:

When the still night's unclouded saint

Is walking on her way.

Through my lattice leaf embower'd,

Fair she sheds her shadowy beam,

And o'er my silent sacred room

Casts a checker'd twilight gloom;

I throw aside the learned sheet,

I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet.

Sad vestal, why art thou so fair,

Or why am I so frail?

Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon,

And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards!

Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak

Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd;

So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud

Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far

From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave.

O give me music-for my soul doth faint;

I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine ear

Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint,

That may the spirit from its cell unsphere.

Hark how it falls! and now it steals along,

Like distant bells upon the lake at eve,

When all is still; and now it grows more strong,

As when the choral train their dirges weave,

Mellow and many-voiced; where every close,

O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows.

Oh! I am wrapt aloft. My spirit soars

Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind.

Lo! angels lead me to the happy shores,

And floating p?ans fill the buoyant wind. Farewell! base earth, farewell! my soul is freed,

Far from its clayey cell it springs,-

* * * * *

And must thou go, and must we part?

Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit;

The pang that rends in twain my heart,

Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it?

Thy sex is fickle,-when away,

Some happier youth may win thy--

* * * * *

Ah! who can say, however fair his view,

Through what sad scenes his path may lie?

Ah! who can give to others' woes his sigh,

Secure his own will never need it too?

Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue,

Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye

The illusive past and dark futurity;

Soon will they know-

* * * * *

Hush'd is the lyre-the hand that swept

The low and pensive wires,

Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires.

Yes-it is still-the lyre is still;

The spirit which its slumbers broke

Hath pass'd away,-and that weak hand that woke

Its forest melodies hath lost its skill.

Yet I would press you to my lips once more,

Ye wild, yet withering flowers of poesy;

Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour,

Mix'd with decaying odours: for to me

Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy,

As in the wood-paths of my native-

* * * * *

When high romance o'er every wood and stream

Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire,

Spell-struck, and fill'd with many a wondering dream,

First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre.

All there was mystery then, the gust that woke

The midnight echo was a spirit's dirge,

And unseen fairies would the moon invoke

To their light morrice by the restless surge.

Now to my sober'd thought with life's false smiles,

Too much ...

The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles,

And dark forebodings now my bosom fill.

Once more, and yet once more,

I give unto my harp a dark woven lay;

I heard the waters roar,

I heard the flood of ages pass away.

O thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell

In thine eternal cell,

Noting, gray chronicler! the silent years,

I saw thee rise,-I saw the scroll complete;

Thou spakest, and at thy feet

The universe gave way.

* * *

1 These Fragments were written upon the back of his mathematical papers, during the last year of his life.

FRAGMENT OF AN ECCENTRIC DRAMA.

WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE.

THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES.

Ding-dong! ding-dong!

Merry, merry go the bells,

Ding-dong! ding-dong!

Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale,

"Swinging slow with sullen roar,"

Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay!

Ding-dong, ding-dong calls us away.

Round the oak, and round the elm,

Merrily foot it o'er the ground!

The sentry ghost it stands aloof,

So merrily, merrily foot it round.

Ding-dong! ding-dong!

Merry, merry go the bells,

Swelling in the nightly gale,

The sentry ghost,

It keeps its post,

And soon, and soon our sports must fail:

But let us trip the nightly ground,

While the merry, merry bells ring round.

Hark! Hark! the deathwatch ticks!

See, see, the winding-sheet!

Our dance is done,

Our race is run,

And we must lie at the alder's feet!

Ding-dong! ding-dong!

Merry, merry go the bells,

Swinging o'er the weltering wave!

And we must seek

Our deathbeds bleak,

Where the green sod grows upon the grave.

They vanish-The Goddess of Consumption descends, habited in a sky-blue robe, attended by mournful music.

Come, Melancholy, sister mine!

Cold the dews, and chill the night!

Come from thy dreary shrine!

The wan moon climbs the heavenly height,

And underneath her sickly ray

Troops of squalid spectres play,

And the dying mortals' groan

Startles the night on her dusky throne.

Come, come, sister mine!

Gliding on the pale moonshine:

We'll ride at ease

On the tainted breeze,

And oh! our sport will be divine.

The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep glen in the rear, habited in black, and covered with a thick veil.-She speaks.

Sister, from my dark abode,

Where nests the raven, sits the toad,

Hither I come, at thy command:

Sister, sister, join thy hand!

I will smooth the way for thee,

Thou shalt furnish food for me.

Come, let us speed our way

Where the troops of spectres play.

To charnel-houses, churchyards drear,

Where Death sits with a horrible leer,

A lasting grin, on a throne of bones,

And skim along the blue tombstones.

Come, let us speed away,

Lay our snares, and spread our tether!

I will smooth the way for thee,

Thou shalt furnish food for me;

And the grass shall wave

O'er many a grave,

Where youth and beauty sleep together.

CONSUMPTION.

Come, let us speed our way,

Join our hands, and spread our tether!

I will furnish food for thee,

Thou shalt smooth the way for me!

And the grass shall wave

O'er many a grave,

Where youth and beauty sleep together.

MELANCHOLY.

Hist, sister, hist! who comes here?

Oh! I know her by that tear,

By that blue eye's languid glare,

By her skin, and by her hair:

She is mine,

And she is thine,

Now the deadliest draught prepare.

CONSUMPTION.

In the dismal night air dress'd,

I will creep into her breast:

Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin,

And feed on the vital fire within.

Lover, do not trust her eyes,-

When they sparkle most, she dies!

Mother, do not trust her breath,-

Comfort she will breathe in death!

Father, do not strive to save her,-

She is mine, and I must have her!

The coffin must be her bridal bed!

The winding-sheet must wrap her head;

The whispering winds must o'er her sigh,

For soon in the grave the maid must lie:

The worm it will riot

On heavenly diet,

When death has deflower'd her eye.

[They vanish. While Consumption speaks, Angelina enters.]

ANGELINA.

With 1 what a silent and dejected pace

Dost thou, wan Moon! upon thy way advance

In the blue welkin's vault!-Pale wanderer!

Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopeless love,

That thus, with such a melancholy grace,

Thou dost pursue thy solitary course?

Has thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook

Thy widow'd breast-on which the spoiler oft

Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds

Fantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night,

Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd round

With its thick fringe thy couch? Wan traveller,

How like thy fate to mine!-Yet I have still

One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st;

My woes will soon be buried in the grave

Of kind forgetfulness-my journey here.

Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn,

Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet

Will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest.

But thou, unhappy Queen! art doom'd to trace

Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night,

While many a lagging age shall sweep beneath

The leaden pinions of unshaken time;

Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hue

To cheat thy steps along the weary way.

O that the sum of human happiness

Should be so trifling, and so frail withal,

That when possess'd, it is but lessened grief;

And even then there's scarce a sudden gust

That blows across the dismal waste of life,

But bears it from the view. Oh! who would shun

The hour that cuts from earth, and fear to press

The calm and peaceful pillows of the grave,

And yet endure the various ills of life,

And dark vicissitudes! Soon, I hope, I feel,

And am assured, that I shall lay my dead,

My weary aching head, on its last rest,

And on my lowly bed the grass-green sod

Will flourish sweetly. And then they will weep

That one so young, and what they're pleased to call

So beautiful, should die so soon. And tell

How painful Disappointment's canker'd fang

Wither'd the rose upon my maiden cheek.

Oh, foolish ones! why, I shall sleep so sweetly,

Laid in my darksome grave, that they themselves

Might envy me my rest! And as for them,

Who, on the score of former intimacy,

May thus remembrance me-they must themselves

Successive fall.

Around the winter fire

(When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals,

And shrill the skater's irons on the pool

Ring loud, as by the moonlight he performs

His graceful evolutions) they not long

Shall sit and chat of older times, and feats

Of early youth, but silent, one by one,

Shall drop into their shrouds. Some, in their age,

Ripe for the sickle; others young, like me,

And falling green beneath the untimely stroke.

Thus, in short time, in the churchyard forlorn,

Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them down,

And dwell with me, a happy family.

And oh! thou cruel, yet beloved youth,

Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn,

Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse

And say that I was gentle, and deserved

A better lover, and I shall forgive

All, all thy wrongs;-and then do thou forget

The hapless Margaret, and be as bless'd

As wish can make thee-Laugh, and play, and sing

With thy dear choice, and never think of me.

Yet hist, I hear a step.-In this dark wood-

* * * * *

* * *

1 With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies,

How silently, and how wan a face!

Sir P. Sidney.

TO A FRIEND.

WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE.

I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian,

And many another noble Grecian,

Who wealth and palaces resigned,

In cots the joys of peace to find;

Maximian's meal of turnip-tops

(Disgusting food to dainty chops)

I've also read of, without wonder;

But such a cursed egregious blunder,

As that a man of wit and sense

Should leave his books to hoard up pence,-

Forsake the loved Aonian maids

For all the petty tricks of trades,

I never, either now, or long since,

Have heard of such a peace of nonsense;

That one who learning's joys hath felt,

And at the Muse's altar knelt,

Should leave a life of sacred leisure

To taste the accumulating pleasure;

And, metamorphosed to an alley duck,

Grovel in loads of kindred muck.

Oh! 't is beyond my comprehension!

A courtier throwing up his pension,-

A lawyer working without a fee,-

A parson giving charity,-

A truly pious methodist preacher,-

Are not, egad, so out of nature.

Had nature made thee half a fool,

But given thee wit to keep a school,

I had not stared at thy backsliding:

But when thy wit I can confide in,

When well I know thy just pretence

To solid and exalted sense;

When well I know that on thy head

Philosophy her lights hath shed,

I stand aghast! thy virtues sum to,

I wonder what this world will come to!

Yet, whence this strain? shall I repine

That thou alone dost singly shine?

Shall I lament that thou alone,

Of men of parts, hast prudence known?

LINES

ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON. AGE FOURTEEN.

Oh, Warton! to thy soothing shell,

Stretch'd remote in hermit cell,

Where the brook runs babbling by,

For ever I could listening lie;

And catching all the muses' fire,

Hold converse with the tuneful quire.

What pleasing themes thy page adorn,

The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn,

The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime,

And Melancholy's mournful chime!

Each with unwonted graces shines

In thy ever lovely lines.

Thy muse deserves the lasting meed;

Attuning sweet the Dorian reed,

Now the lovelorn swain complains,

And sings his sorrows to the plains;

Now the sylvan scenes appear

Through all the changes of the year;

Or the elegiac strain

Softly sings of mental pain,

And mournful diapasons sail

On the faintly dying gale.

But, ah! the soothing scene is o'er,

On middle flight we cease to soar,

For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep,

Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep,

In strains unheard before.

Now, now the rising fire thrills high,

Now, now to heaven's high realms we fly,

And every throne explore:

The soul entranced, on mighty wings,

With all the poet's heat upsprings,

And loses earthly woes;

Till all alarm'd at the giddy height,

The Muse descends on gentler flight,

And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose.

FRAGMENT.

The western gale,

Mild as the kisses of connubial love,

Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolved,

Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shade

I lie, exhausted with the noontide heat:

While rippling o'er its deep worn pebble bed,

The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet,

Dispensing coolness. On the fringed marge

Full many a floweret rears its head,-or pink,

Or gaudy daffodil. 'Tis here, at noon,

The buskin'd wood-nymphs from the heat retire,

And lave them in the fountain; here secure

From Pan, or savage satyr, they disport:

Or stretch'd supinely on the velvet turf,

Lull'd by the laden bee, or sultry fly,

Invoke the god of slumber....

* * * * *

And, hark! how merrily, from distant tower,

Ring round the village bells! now on the gale

They rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud;

Anon they die upon the pensive ear,

Melting in faintest music. They bespeak

A day of jubilee, and oft they bear,

Commix'd along the unfrequented shore,

The sound of village dance and tabor loud,

Startling the musing ear of Solitude.

Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide,

When happy Superstition, gabbling eld!

Holds her unhurtful gambols. All the day

The rustic revellers ply the mazy dance

On the smooth shaven green, and then at eve

Commence the harmless rites and auguries;

And many a tale of ancient days goes round.

They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spells

Could hold in dreadful thrall the labouring moon,

Or draw the fix'd stars from their eminence,

And still the midnight tempest. Then anon

Tell of uncharnel'd spectres, seen to glide

Along the lone wood's unfrequented path,

Startling the 'nighted traveller; while the sound

Of undistinguished murmurs, heard to come

From the dark centre of the deepening glen,

Struck on his frozen ear.

Oh, Ignorance!

Thou art fallen man's best friend! With thee he speeds

In frigid apathy along his way.

And never does the tear of agony

Burn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steel

Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast.

E'en now, as leaning on this fragrant bank,

I taste of all the keener happiness

Which sense refined affords-E'en now my heart

Would fain induce me to forsake the world,

Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds,

With a small flock, and short suspended reed,

To sojourn in the woodland.-Then my thought

Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss,

That I could almost err in reason's spite,

And trespass on my judgment.

Such is life:

The distant prospect always seems more fair,

And when attain'd, another still succeeds,

Far fairer than before,-yet compass'd round

With the same dangers, and the same dismay.

And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze,

Still discontented, chase the fairy form

Of unsubstantial Happiness, to find,

When life itself is sinking in the strife,

'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat.

COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR.

Some to Aonian lyres of silver sound

With winning elegance attune their song,

Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense,

And charm the soul with softest harmony:

'Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen

Roving through Fancy's gay futurity;

Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure,

Pleasure of days to come. Memory, too, then

Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad,

Pensively musing on the scenes of youth,

Scenes never to return.1

Such subjects merit poets used to raise

The attic verse harmonious; but for me

A deadlier theme demands my backward hand,

And bids me strike the strings of dissonance

With frantic energy.

'Tis wan Despair I sing, if sing I can

Of him before whose blast the voice of Song,

And Mirth, and Hope, and Happiness all fly,

Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard

At noon of night, where, on the coast of blood,

The lacerated son of Angola

Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind;

And, when the awful silence of the night

Strikes the chill death-dew to the murderer's heart,

He speaks in every conscience-prompted word

Half utter'd, half suppressed.

'Tis him I sing-Despair-terrific name,

Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord

Of timorous terror-discord in the sound:

For to a theme revolting as is this,

Dare not I woo the maids of harmony,

Who love to sit and catch the soothing sound

Of lyre ?olian, or the martial bugle,

Calling the hero to the field of glory,

And firing him with deeds of high emprise

And warlike triumph: but from scenes like mine

Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard

Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror.

Hence, then, soft maids,

And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers

By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream:

For aid like yours I seek not; 'tis for powers

Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine!

'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends.

Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron,

Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light,

And all the myriads of the burning concave:

Souls of the damned:-Hither, oh! come and join

The infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing!

He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang

Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair!

Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power;

Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks,

Till the loud p?an ring through hell's high vault,

And the remotest spirits of the deep

Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song.

* * *

1 Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and of Memory.

THE EVE OF DEATH.

IRREGULAR.

Silence of death-portentous calm,

Those airy forms that yonder fly

Denote that your void foreruns a storm,

That the hour of fate is nigh.

I see, I see, on the dim mist borne,

The Spirit of battles rear his crest!

I see, I see, that ere the morn,

His spear will forsake its hated rest,

And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked breast.

O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep,

No softly ruffling zephyrs fly;

But nature sleeps a deathless sleep,

For the hour of battle is nigh.

Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak,

But a creeping stillness reigns around;

Except when the raven, with ominous croak,

On the ear does unwelcomely sound.

I know, I know what this silence means;

I know what the raven saith-

Strike, oh, ye bards! the melancholy harp,

For this is the eve of death.

Behold, how along the twilight air

The shades of our fathers glide!

There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair,

And Colma with gray side.

No gale around its coolness flings,

Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees;

And hark! how the harp's unvisited strings

Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze!

'Tis done! the sun he has set in blood!

He will never set more to the brave;

Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death,

For to-morrow he hies to the grave.

THANATOS.

Oh! who would cherish life,

And cling unto this heavy clog of clay,

Love this rude world of strife,

Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day;

And where, 'neath outward smiles,

Conceal'd the snake lies feeding on its prey,

Where pitfalls lie in every flowery way,

And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles!

Hateful it is to me,

Its riotous railings and revengeful strife;

I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts

Dinning the ear;-away-away with life!

And welcome, oh! thou silent maid,

Who in some foggy vault art laid,

Where never daylight's dazzling ray

Comes to disturb thy dismal sway;

And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep,

In such forgetful slumbers deep,

That all thy senses stupefied

Are to marble petrified.

Sleepy Death, I welcome thee!

Sweet are thy calms to misery.

Poppies I will ask no more,

Nor the fatal hellebore;

Death is the best, the only cure,

His are slumbers ever sure.

Lay me in the Gothic tomb,

In whose solemn fretted gloom

I may lie in mouldering state,

With all the grandeur of the great:

Over me, magnificent,

Carve a stately monument;

Then thereon my statue lay,

With hands in attitude to pray,

And angels serve to hold my head,

Weeping o'er the father dead.

Duly too at close of day,

Let the pealing organ play;

And while the harmonious thunders roll,

Chant a vesper to my soul:

Thus how sweet my sleep will be,

Shut out from thoughtful misery!

ATHANATOS.

Away with Death-away

With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps,

Impervious to the day,

Where nature sinks into inanity.

How can the soul desire

Such hateful nothingness to crave,

And yield with joy the vital fire

To moulder in the grave!

Yet mortal life is sad,

Eternal storms molest its sullen sky;

And sorrows ever rife

Drain the sacred fountain dry-

Away with mortal life!

But, hail the calm reality,

The seraph Immortality!

Hail the heavenly bowers of peace,

Where all the storms of passion cease.

Wild life's dismaying struggle o'er,

The wearied spirit weeps no more;

But wears the eternal smile of joy,

Tasting bliss without alloy.

Welcome, welcome, happy bowers,

Where no passing tempest lowers;

But the azure heavens display

The everlasting smile of day;

Where the choral seraph choir

Strike to praise the harmonious lyre;

And the spirit sinks to ease,

Lull'd by distant symphonies.

Oh! to think of meeting there

The friends whose graves received our tear,

The daughter loved, the wife adored,

To our widow'd arms restored;

And all the joys which death did sever,

Given to us again for ever!

Who would cling to wretched life,

And hug the poison'd thorn of strife;

Who would not long from earth to fly,

A sluggish senseless lump to lie,

When the glorious prospect lies

Full before his raptured eyes?

MUSIC

WRITTEN BETWEEN THE AGES OF FOURTEEN AND FIFTEEN, WITH A FEW SUBSEQUENT VERBAL ALTERATIONS.

Music, all powerful o'er the human mind,

Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm,

Soothe anxious care on sleepless couch reclined,

And e'en fierce Anger's furious rage disarm.

At her command the various passions lie;

She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace;

Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstasy,

And bids the jarring world's harsh clangour cease.

Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire

With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise;

Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire

Urge on the warrior gray with length of days.

Far better she, when, with her soothing lyre,

She charms the falchion from the savage grasp,

And melting into pity vengeful ire,

Looses the bloody breastplate's iron clasp.

With her in pensive mood I long to roam,

At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline,

And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam,

In calm seclusion's hermit walks recline.

Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise,

Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd,

With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies,

And pleased attention claims the passive mind.

Soft through the dell the dying strains retire,

Then burst majestic in the varied swell;

Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre,

Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell.

Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give,

That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the soul,

With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live

For ever 'neath your undefiled control.

Oh! surely melody from heaven was sent,

To cheer the soul when tired with human strife,

To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent,

And soften down the rugged road of life.

ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL ONE PLEASANT MORNING IN SPRING.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.

The morning sun's enchanting rays

Now call forth every songster's praise;

Now the lark, with upward flight,

Gaily ushers in the light;

While wildly warbling from each tree,

The birds sing songs to Liberty.

But for me no songster sings,

For me no joyous lark upsprings;

For I, confined in gloomy school,

Must own the pedant's iron rule,

And far from sylvan shades and bowers,

In durance vile must pass the hours;

There con the scholiast's dreary lines,

Where no bright ray of genius shines,

And close to rugged learning cling,

While laughs around the jocund spring.

How gladly would my soul forego

All that arithmeticians know,

Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach,

Or all that industry can reach,

To taste each morn of all the joys

That with the laughing sun arise;

And unconstrain'd to rove along

The bushy brakes and glens among;

And woo the muse's gentle power

In unfrequented rural bower:

But, ah! such heaven-approaching joys

Will never greet my longing eyes;

Still will they cheat in vision fine,

Yet never but in fancy shine.

Oh, that I were the little wren

That shrilly chirps from yonder glen!

Oh, far away I then would rove

To some secluded bushy grove;

There hop and sing with careless glee.

Hop and sing at liberty;

And, till death should stop my lays,

Far from men would spend my days.

TO CONTEMPLATION.

Thee do I own, the prompter of my joys,

The soother of my cares, inspiring peace;

And I will ne'er forsake thee. Men may rave,

And blame and censure me, that I don't tie

My every thought down to the desk, and spend

The morning of my life in adding figures

With accurate monotony: that so

The good things of the world may be my lot,

And I might taste the blessedness of wealth:

But, oh! I was not made for money getting;

For me no much respected plum awaits.

Nor civic honour, envied. For as still

I tried to cast with school dexterity

The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts

Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt,

Which fond remembrance cherished, and the pen

Dropp'd from my senseless fingers as I pictured,

In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent

I erewhile wander'd with my early friends

In social intercourse. And then I'd think

How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide,

One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe;

They were set down with sober steadiness,

Each to his occupation. I alone,

A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries,

Remain'd unsettled, insecure, and veering

With every wind to every point of the compass.

Yes, in the counting-house I could indulge

In fits of close abstraction; yea, amid

The busy bustling crowds could meditate,

And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away

Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend.

Ay, Contemplation, even in earliest youth

I woo'd thy heavenly influence! I would walk

A weary way when all my toils were done,

To lay myself at night in some lone wood,

And hear the sweet song of the nightingale.

Oh, those were times of happiness, and still

To memory doubly dear; for growing years

Had not then taught me man was made to mourn;

And a short hour of solitary pleasure,

Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense

For all the hateful bustles of the day.

My opening mind was ductile then, and plastic,

And soon the marks of care were worn away,

While I was sway'd by every novel impulse,

Yielding to all the fancies of the hour.

But it has now assumed its character;

Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone,

Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend.

Yet still, O Contemplation! I do love

To indulge thy solemn musings; still the same

With thee alone I know to melt and weep,

In thee alone delighting. Why along

The dusky tract of commerce should I toil,

When, with an easy competence content,

I can alone be happy; where with thee

I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature,

And loose the wings of Fancy? Thus alone

Can I partake the happiness on earth;

And to be happy here is a man's chief end,

For to be happy he must needs be good.

MY OWN CHARACTER.

ADDRESSED (DURING ILLNESS) TO A LADY.

Dear Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf,

To give you a sketch-ay, a sketch of myself.

'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess,

And one it would puzzle a painter to dress;

But, however, here goes, and as sure as a gun,

I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun;

For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her,

She wont be a cynical father confessor.

Come, come, 'twill not do! put that curling brow down;

You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown.

Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction,

That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction;

Religious-deistic-now loyal and warm;

Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform:

This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus;

Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus;

Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a rattle;

Then vex'd to the soul with impertinent tattle;

Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay,

To all points of the compass I veer in a day.

I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child,

But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild;

As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute;

Then as for politeness-oh! dear-I'm a brute!

I show no respect where I never can feel it;

And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it.

And so in the suite, by these laudable ends,

I've a great many foes, and a very few friends.

And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feel

That this proud heart of mine is not fashion'd of steel.

It can love (can it not?)-it can hate, I am sure;

And it's friendly enough, though in friends it be poor.

For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds;

If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds;

And though far from faultless, or even so-so,

I think it may pass as our worldly things go.

Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss;

Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss!

I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say,

But in process of time I may get the wrong way.

I'm a general lover, if that's commendation,

And yet can't withstand you know whose fascination.

But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices,

In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices;

So as for the good, why, if I possess it,

I am not yet learned enough to express it.

You yourself must examine the lovelier side,

And after your every art you have tried,

Whatever my faults, I may venture to say,

Hypocrisy never will come in your way.

I am upright, I hope; I'm downright, I'm clear!

And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere;

And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast,

'Tis now when I swear--.

LINES WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCHYARD.

ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

Here would I wish to sleep. This is the spot

Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in.

Tired out and wearied with the riotous world,

Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred.

It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun,

From his meridian height, endeavours vainly

To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr

Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent,

And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook

Most pleasant. Such a one perchance did Gray

Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd.

Come, I will sit me down and meditate,

For I am wearied with my summer's walk;

And here I may repose in silent ease;

And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er,

My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find

The haven of its rest-beneath this sod

Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death.

I would not have my corpse cemented down

With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthworm

Of its predestined dues; no, I would lie

Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown,

Swath'd down with osiers, just as sleep the cotters.

Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave;

But there at eve may some congenial soul

Duly resort, and shed a pious tear,

The good man's benison-no more I ask.

And, oh! (if heavenly beings may look down

From where, with cherubim, inspired they sit,

Upon this little dim-discover'd spot,

The earth,) then will I cast a glance below

On him who thus my ashes shall embalm;

And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer,

Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine

In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe,

But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies.

Yet 't was a silly thought, as if the body,

Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth,

Could taste the sweets of summer scenery,

And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze!

Yet nature speaks within the human bosom,

And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond

His narrow verge of being, and provide

A decent residence for its clayey shell,

Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay

His body in the city burial-place,

To be thrown up again by some rude sexton,

And yield its narrow house another tenant,

Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust,

Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp,

Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness?

No, I will lay me in the village ground;

There are the dead respected. The poor hind,

Unletter'd as he is, would scorn to invade

The silent resting place of death. I've seen

The labourer, returning from his toil,

Here stay his steps, and call his children round,

And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes,

And, in his rustic manner, moralize.

I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken,

With head uncover'd, his respectful manner,

And all the honours which he paid the grave,

And thought on cities, where e'en cemeteries,

Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality,

Are not protected from the drunken insolence

Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc.

Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close!

Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones

May lie-or in the city's crowded bounds,

Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters,

Or left a prey on some deserted shore

To the rapacious cormorant,-yet still,

(For why should sober reason cast away

A thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my spirit

Shall wing its way to these my native regions,

And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think

Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew

In solemn rumination; and will smile

With joy that I have got my long'd release.

VERSES.

Thou base repiner at another's joy,

Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own,

Oh, far away from generous Britons fly,

And find on meaner climes a fitter throne.

Away, away, it shall not be,

Thou shalt not dare defile our plains;

The truly generous heart disdains

Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he

Joys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity.

Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed-

Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night,

Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed,

Thy happy victim will emerge to light;

When o'er his head in silence that reposes

Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear;

Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses,

Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe;

Then will thy baseness stand confess'd, and all

Will curse the ungenerous fate, that bade a Poet fall.

* * * * *

Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure:

Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey?

Alas! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor,

Who only boast what thou wouldst take away.

See the lone Bard at midnight study sitting,

O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp;

While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting,

Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp.

Yet say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd?

Does jocund Health in Thought's still mansion live?

Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest,

That short quick sigh-their sad responses give.

And canst thou rob a poet of his song;

Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise?

Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long;

Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays

While yet he lives-for to his merits just,

Though future ages join his fame to raise,

Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust?

* * * * *

LINES.

Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far

From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy!

And many a flower, which in the passing time

My heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chill

Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died.

Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceased

To hover o'er the many-voiced strings

Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still

Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell,

And with recalled images of bliss

Warm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw,

Once more would throw a quick and hurried hand

O'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased-

It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth

Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek;

Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy!

The summer and the spring, the wind and rain,

Sunshine and storm, with various interchange,

Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month.

Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired,

Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress!

I cannot burst thy bonds. It is but lift

Thy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault,

Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm,

And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme,

And I could follow thee, on thy night's work,

Up to the regions of thrice chasten'd fire,

Or, in the caverns of the ocean flood,

Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot.

Yet other duties call me, and mine ear

Must turn away from the high minstrelsy

Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly

Must turn away; there are severer strains

(And surely they are sweet as ever smote

The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil

Released and disembodied), there are strains

Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought,

Through the probation of revolving years,

And mighty converse with the spirit of truth,

Have purged and purified. To these my soul

Aspireth; and to this sublimer end

I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep

With patient expectation. Yea, sometimes

Foretaste of bliss rewards me; and sometimes

Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait,

And minister strange music, which doth seem

Now near, now distant, now on high, now low,

Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete,

And full fruition filling all the soul.

Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe

The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude

Of toil; and but that my fond heart

Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone,

When by clear fountain, or embower'd brake,

I lay a listless muser, prizing, far

Above all other lore, the poet's theme;

But for such recollections I could brace

My stubborn spirit for the arduous path

Of science unregretting; eye afar

Philosophy upon her steepest height,

And with bold step and resolute attempt

Pursue her to the innermost recess,

Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth.

THE PROSTITUTE.

DACTYLICS.

Woman of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot,

Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger,

Smiling while anguish gnaws at thy heavy heart;

Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery,

Vice and disease are wearing thee fast away,

While the unfeeling ones sport with thy sufferings.

Destined to pamper the vicious one's appetite;

Spurned by the beings who lured thee from innocence;

Sinking unnoticed in sorrow and indigence;

Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled;

Thou art an outcast from house and from happiness;

Wandering alone on the wide world's unfeeling stage!

Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here;

Thou hast no friend to soothe down the bed of death;

None after thee inquires with solicitude;

Famine and fell disease shortly will wear thee down,

Yet thou hast still to brave often the winter's wind,

Loathsome to those thou wouldst court with thine hollow eyes.

Soon thou wilt sink into death's silent slumbering,

And not a tear shall fall on thy early grave.

Nor shall a single stone tell where thy bones are laid.

Once wert thou happy-thou wert once innocent;

But the seducer beguiled thee in artlessness,

Then he abandoned thee unto thine infamy.

Now he perhaps is reclined on a bed of down:

But if a wretch like him sleeps in security,

God of the red right arm! where is thy thunder-bolt?

ODES.

TO MY LYRE.

Thou simple Lyre! thy music wild

Has served to charm the weary hour,

And many a lonely night has 'guiled,

When even pain has own'd, and smiled,

Its fascinating power.

Yet, O my Lyre! the busy crowd

Will little heed thy simple tones;

Them mightier minstrels harping loud

Engross,-and thou and I must shroud

Where dark oblivion 'thrones.

No hand, they diapason o'er,

Well skill'd I throw with sweep sublime;

For me, no academic lore

Has taught the solemn strain to pour,

Or build the polish'd rhyme.

Yet thou to sylvan themes canst soar;

Thou know'st to charm the woodland train;

The rustic swains believe thy power

Can hush the wild winds when they roar,

And still the billowy main.

These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep,

I, still unknown, may live with thee,

And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep

Thy solemn string, where low I sleep,

Beneath the alder tree.

This little dirge will please me more

Than the full requiem's swelling peal;

I'd rather than that crowds should sigh

For me, that from some kindred eye

The trickling tear should steal.

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay,

Perhaps from me debarr'd;

And dear to me the classic zone,

Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne,

Adorns the accepted bard.

And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwell

Where Cam or Isis winds along,

Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste,

I yet might call the ear of taste

To listen to my song.

Oh! then, my little friend, thy style

I'd change to happier lays,

Oh! then the cloister'd glooms should smile,

And through the long, the fretted aisle

Should swell the note of praise.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!

Whose modest form, so delicately fine,

Was nursed in whirling storms,

And cradled in the winds.

Thee when young spring first question'd winter's sway,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,

Serene thou openest to the nipping gale,

Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms

Of chill adversity, in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows

Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear

Serene the ills of life.

ODE ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A.

ON SEEING ENGRAVINGS FROM HIS DESIGNS.

Mighty magician! who on Torneo's brow,

When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night,

Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light

That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below;

And listen to the distant death-shriek long

From lonely mariner foundering in the deep,

Which rises slowly up the rocky steep,

While the weird sisters weave the horrid song:

Or, when along the liquid sky

Serenely chant the orbs on high,

Dost love to sit in musing trance,

And mark the northern meteor's dance

(While far below the fitful oar

Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore),

And list the music of the breeze,

That sweeps by fits the bending seas;

And often bears with sudden swell

The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell,

By the spirits sung, who keep

Their night-watch on the treacherous deep,

And guide the wakeful helmsman's eye

To Helice in northern sky;

And there upon the rock reclined

With mighty visions fill'st the mind,

Such as bound in magic spell

Him1 who grasp'd the gates of Hell,

And, bursting Pluto's dark domain,

Held to the day the terrors of his reign.

Genius of Horror and romantic awe,

Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep,

Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep,

Can force the inmost soul to own its law;

Who shall now, sublimest spirit,

Who shall now thy wand inherit,

From him2 thy darling child who best

Thy shuddering images expressed?

Sullen of soul, and stern, and proud,

His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd,

And now he lays his aching head

In the dark mansion of the silent dead.

Mighty magician! long thy wand has lain

Buried beneath the unfathomable deep;

And oh! for ever must its efforts sleep,

May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain?

Oh, yes, 'tis his! Thy other son!

He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on,

Fuesslin waves thy wand,-again they rise,

Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes.

Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep

Where round his head the vollied lightnings flung,

And the loud winds that round his pillow rung

Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of sleep.

Or on the highest top of Teneriffe

Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look

Where far below the weather-beaten skiff

On the gulf bottom of the ocean strook.

Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear

The death-sob, and, disdaining rest,

Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast,

And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear.

Then, Superstition, at thy call,

She bore the boy to Odin's Hall,

And set before his awe-struck sight

The savage feast and spectred fight;

And summoned from his mountain tomb

The ghastly warrior son of gloom,

His fabled runic rhymes to sing,

While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing;

Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees,

Laid on the stormy Hebrides,

Which on the mists of evening gleam,

Or crowd the foaming desert stream;

Lastly her storied hand she waves,

And lays him in Florentian caves;

There milder fables, lovelier themes,

Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams,

There pity's lute arrests his ear,

And draws the half reluctant tear;

And now at noon of night he roves

Along the embowering moonlight groves,

And as from many a cavern'd dell

The hollow wind is heard to swell,

He thinks some troubled spirit sighs,

And as upon the turf he lies,

Where sleeps the silent beam of night,

He sees below the gliding sprite,

And hears in Fancy's organs sound

A?rial music warbling round.

Taste lastly comes and smooths the whole,

And breathes her polish o'er his soul;

Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat,

The wondrous work is now complete.

The Poet dreams:-The shadow flies,

And fainting fast its image dies.

But lo! the Painter's magic force

Arrests the phantom's fleeting course;

It lives-it lives-the canvas glows,

And tenfold vigour o'er it flows.

The Bard beholds the work achieved,

And as he sees the shadow rise

Sublime before his wondering eyes,

Starts at the image his own mind conceived.

* * *

1 Dante.

2 Ibid.

TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K. G.

I. 1.

Retired, remote from human noise,

An humble Poet dwelt serene;

His lot was lowly, yet his joys

Were manifold, I ween.

He laid him by the brawling brook

At eventide to ruminate,

He watch'd the swallow skimming round,

And mused, in reverie profound,

On wayward man's unhappy state,

And ponder'd much, and paused on deeds of ancient date.

II. 1.

"Oh, 'twas not always thus," he cried,

"There was a time, when genius claim'd

Respect from even towering pride,

Nor hung her head ashamed:

But now to wealth alone we bow,

The titled and the rich alone

Are honour'd, while meek merit pines,

On penury's wretched couch reclines,

Unheeded in his dying moan,

As, overwhelmed with want and woe, he sinks unknown.

III. 1.

"Yet was the muse not always seen

In poverty's dejected mien,

Not always did repining rue,

And misery her steps pursue.

Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced

By the sweet honours of poetic bays,

When Sidney sung his melting song,

When Sheffield join'd the harmonious throng,

And Lyttelton attuned to love his lays.

Those days are gone-alas, for ever gone!

No more our nobles love to grace

Their brows with anadems, by genius won,

But arrogantly deem the muse as base;

How differently thought the sires of this degenerate race!"

I. 2.

Thus sang the minstrel:-still at eve

The upland's woody shades among

In broken measures did he grieve,

With solitary song.

And still his shame was aye the same,

Neglect had stung him to the core;

And he with pensive joy did love

To seek the still congenial grove,

And muse on all his sorrows o'er,

And vow that he would join the abjured world no more.

II. 2.

But human vows, how frail they be!

Fame brought Carlisle unto his view,

And all amazed, he thought to see

The Augustan age anew.

Fill'd with wild rapture, up he rose,

No more he ponders on the woes

Which erst he felt that forward goes,

Regrets he'd sunk in impotence,

And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence.

III. 2.

Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore

With ills which in the world he bore,

Again on futile hope to rest,

An unsubstantial prop at best,

And not to know one swallow makes no summer!

Ah! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam,

Which flash'd across the hemisphere,

Illumining the darkness there,

Was but a single solitary beam,

While all around remained in custom'd night.

Still leaden ignorance reigns serene,

In the false court's delusive height,

And only one Carlisle is seen

To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light.

TO CONTEMPLATION.

Come, pensive sage, who lovest to dwell

In some retired Lapponian cell,

Where, far from noise and riot rude,

Besides sequester'd solitude.

Come, and o'er my longing soul

Throw thy dark and russet stole,

And open to my duteous eyes

The volume of thy mysteries.

I will meet thee on the hill,

Where, with printless footsteps still,

The morning in her buskin gray

Springs upon her eastern way;

While the frolic zephyrs stir,

Playing with the gossamer,

And, on ruder pinions borne,

Shake the dewdrops from the thorn.

There, as o'er the fields we pass,

Brushing with hasty feet the grass,

We will startle from her nest

The lively lark with speckled breast,

And hear the floating clouds among

Her gale-transported matin song,

Or on the upland stile, embower'd

With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd,

Will sauntering sit, and listen still

To the herdsman's oaten quill,

Wafted from the plain below;

Or the heifer's frequent low;

Or the milkmaid in the grove,

Singing of one that died for love.

Or when the noontide heats oppress,

We will seek the dark recess,

Where, in the embower'd translucent stream,

The cattle shun the sultry beam,

And o'er us on the marge reclined,

The drowsy fly her horn shall wind,

While echo, from her ancient oak,

Shall answer to the woodman's stroke;

Or the little peasant's song,

Wandering lone the glens among,

His artless lip with berries dyed,

And feet through ragged shoes descried.

But oh! when evening's virgin queen

Sits on her fringed throne serene,

And mingling whispers rising near

Steal on the still reposing ear;

While distant brooks decaying round,

Augment the mix'd dissolving sound,

And the zephyr flitting by

Whispers mystic harmony,

We will seek the woody lane,

By the hamlet, on the plain,

Where the weary rustic nigh

Shall whistle his wild melody,

And the croaking wicket oft

Shall echo from the neighbouring croft;

And as we trace the green path lone,

With moss and rank weeds overgrown,

We will muse on penbive lore?

Till the full soul, brimming o'er,

Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear,

Embodied in a quivering tear.

Or else, serenely silent, sit

By the brawling rivulet,

Which on its calm unruffled breast

Rears the old mossy arch impressed,

That clasps its secret stream of glass,

Half hid in shrubs and waving grass,

The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat,

Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet,

We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid

The rich vermilion slowly fade;

Or catch, faint twinkling from afar

The first glimpse of the eastern star;

Fair vesper, mildest lamp of light,

That heralds in imperial night:

Meanwhile, upon our wondering ear,

Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear,

The distant sounds of pastoral lute,

Invoking soft the sober suit

Of dimmest darkness-fitting well

With love, or sorrow's pensive spell,

(So erst did music's silver tone

Wake slumbering chaos on his throne).

And haply then, with sudden swell,

Shall roar the distant curfew bell,

While in the castle's mouldering tower

The hooting owl is heard to pour

Her melancholy song, and scare

Dull silence brooding in the air.

Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car

Black-suited night drives on from far,

And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear,

Arrests the waxing darkness drear,

And summons to her silent call,

Sweeping, in their airy pall,

The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance,

To join her moonshine morris-dance;

While around the mystic ring

The shadowy shapes elastic spring,

Then with a passing shriek they fly,

Wrapt in mists, along the sky,

And oft are by the shepherd seen

In his lone night-watch on the green.

Then, hermit, let us turn our feet

To the low abbey's still retreat,

Embower'd in the distant glen,

Far from the haunts of busy men,

Where as we sit upon the tomb,

The glowworm's light may gild the gloom,

And show to fancy's saddest eye

Where some lost hero's ashes lie.

And oh, as through the mouldering arch,

With ivy fill'd and weeping larch,

The night gale whispers sadly clear,

Speaking dear things to fancy's ear,

We'll hold communion with the shade

Of some deep wailing, ruin'd maid-

Or call the ghost of Spenser down,

To tell of woe and fortune's frown;

And bid us cast the eye of hope

Beyond this bad world's narrow scope.

Or if these joys, to us denied,

To linger by the forest's side;

Or in the meadow, or the wood,

Or by the lone, romantic flood;

Let us in the busy town,

When sleep's dull streams the people drown,

Far from drowsy pillows flee,

And turn the church's massy key;

Then, as through the painted glass

The moon's faint beams obscurely pass,

And darkly on the trophied wall

Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall,

Let us, while the faint winds wail

Through the long reluctant aisle,

As we pace with reverence meet,

Count the echoings of our feet,

While from the tombs, with confess'd breath,

Distinct responds the voice of death.

If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend

Thus on my footsteps to attend,

To thee my lonely lamp shall burn

By fallen Genius' sainted urn,

As o'er the scroll of Time I pore,

And sagely spell of ancient lore,

Till I can rightly guess of all

That Plato could to memory call,

And scan the formless views of things;

Or, with old Egypt's fetter'd kings,

Arrange the mystic trains that shine

In night's high philosophic mine;

And to thy name shall e'er belong

The honours of undying song.

TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE.

Oh! thou who, in my early youth,

When fancy wore the garb of truth,

Wert wont to win my infant feet

To some retired, deep fabled seat,

Where, by the brooklet's secret tide,

The midnight ghost was known to glide;

Or lay me in some lonely glade,

In native Sherwood's forest shade,

Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold,

Was wont his sylvan courts to hold;

And there, as musing deep I lay,

Would steal my little soul away,

And all my pictures represent,

Of siege and solemn tournament;

Or bear me to the magic scene,

Where, clad in greaves and gabardine,

The warrior knight of chivalry

Made many a fierce enchanter flee;

And bore the high-born dame away,

Long held the fell magician's prey.

Or oft would tell the shuddering tale

Of murders, and of goblins pale,

Haunting the guilty baron's side

(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed),

Which o'er the vaulted corridor

On stormy nights was heard to roar,

By old domestic, waken'd wide

By the angry winds that chide:

Or else the mystic tale would tell

Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell.

* * * * *

TO MIDNIGHT.

Season of general rest, whose solemn still

Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill,

But speaks to philosophic souls delight;

Thee do I hail, as at my casement high,

My candle waning melancholy by,

I sit and taste the holy calm of night.

Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails,

And gilds the misty shadows of the vales,

Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame;

To her, while all around in sleep recline,

Wakeful I raise my orisons divine,

And sing the gentle honours of her name;

While Fancy lone o'er me, her votary, bends,

To lift my soul her fairy visions sends,

And pours upon my ear her thrilling song,

And Superstition's gentle terrors come,-

See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom!

See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng!

Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay,

My flageolet-and as I pensive play,

The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene:

The traveller late journeying o'er the moors,

Hears them aghast,-(while still the dull owl pours

Her hollow screams each dreary pause between).

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light,

Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night,

Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep,

And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene,

Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene,

And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep.

TO THOUGHT.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

Hence, away, vindictive thought;

Thy pictures are of pain;

The visions through thy dark eye caught,

They with no gentle charms are fraught,

So pr'y thee back again.

I would not weep,

I wish to sleep,

Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?

Why dost o'er bed and couch recline?

Is this thy new delight?

Pale visitant, it is not thine

To keep thy sentry through the mine,

The dark vault of the night:

'Tis thine to die,

While o'er the eye

The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly.

Go thou, and bide with him who guides

His bark through lonely seas;

And as reclining on his helm,

Sadly he marks the starry realm,

To him thou mayst bring ease:

But thou to me

Art misery,

So pr'ythee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and from my pillow flee.

And, memory, pray what art thou?

Art thou of pleasure born?

Does bliss untainted from thee flow?

The rose that gems thy pensive brow,

Is it without a thorn?

With all thy smiles,

And witching wiles,

Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles.

The drowsy night-watch has forgot

To call the solemn hour;

Lull'd by the winds, he slumbers deep,

While I in vain, capricious sleep,

Invoke thy tardy power;

And restless lie,

With unclosed eye,

And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.

GENIUS.

AN ODE.

I. 1.

Many there be, who, through the vale of life,

With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go,

While jarring discord's inharmonious strife

Awakes them not to woe.

By them unheeded, carking care,

Green-eyed grief and dull despair;

Smoothly they pursue their way,

With even tenor and with equal breath,

Alike through cloudy and through sunny day,

Then sink in peace to death.

II. 1.

But, ah! a few there be whom griefs devour,

And weeping woe, and disappointment keen,

Repining penury, and sorrow sour,

And self-consuming spleen.

And these are Genius' favourites: these

Know the thought-throned mind to please,

And from her fleshy seat to draw

To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll,

Disdaining all but 'wildering rapture's law,

The captivated soul.

III. 1.

Genius, from thy starry throne,

High above the burning zone,

In radiant robe of light array'd,

Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made,

His melancholy moan.

He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,

Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days,

Pangs that his sensibility uprouse

To curse his being and his thirst for praise.

Thou gavest to him with treble force to feel

The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn,

And what o'er all does in his soul preside

Predominant, and tempers him to steel,

His high indignant pride.

I. 2.

Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life.

That Genius visits not your lowly shed;

For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife

Distract his hapless head!

For him awaits no balmy sleep,

He wakes all night, and wakes to weep;

Or by his lonely lamp he sits

At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps,

In feverish study, and in moody fits

His mournful vigils keeps.

II. 2.

And, oh! for what consumes his watchful oil?

For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath?

'T is for neglect and penury he doth toil,

'Tis for untimely death.

Lo! where dejected pale he lies,

Despair depicted in his eyes,

He feels the vital flame decrease,

He sees the grave wide yawning for its prey,

Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace,

And cheer the expiring ray.

III. 2.

By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame,

By gentle Otway's magic name,

By him, the youth, who smiled at death,

And rashly dared to stop his vital breath,

Will I thy pangs proclaim;

For still to misery closely thou'rt allied,

Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side,

And far resounding Fame.

What though to thee the dazzled millions bow,

And to thy posthumous merit bend them low;

Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe,

And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw,

Yet, ah! unseen behind thee fly

Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain,

And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky,

A melancholy train.

Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await,

Mocking thy derided state;

Thee chill Adversity will still attend,

Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend

And leaves thee all forlorn;

While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs,

And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides,

And while the cup of affluence he quaffs

With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides,

Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave,

To gain the meed of praise when he is mouldering in his grave.

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON.

Mild orb, who floatest through the realm of night,

A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild,

Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light,

Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled.

Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat,

Nocturnal study's still retreat,

It casts a mournful melancholy gleam,

And through my lofty casement weaves,

Dim through the vine's encircling leaves,

An intermingled beam.

These feverish dews that on my temples hang,

This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame;

These the dread signs of many a secret pang,

These are the meed of him who pants for fame!

Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul;

Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high;

My lamp expires;-beneath thy mild control

These restless dreams are ever wont to fly.

Come, kindred mourner, in my breast

Soothe these discordant tones to rest,

And breathe the soul of peace;

Mild visitor, I feel thee here,

It is not pain that brings this tear,

For thou hast bid it cease.

Oh! many, a year has pass'd away

Since I, beneath thy fairy ray,

Attuned my infant reed;

When wilt thou, Time, those days restore,

Those happy moments now no more-

* * * * *

When on the lake's damp marge I lay,

And mark'd the northern meteor's dance,

Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there

To inspirate my trance.

Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign

Your magic sweets on me to shed,

In vain your powers are now essay'd

To chase superior pain.

And art thou fled, thou welcome orb!

So swiftly pleasure flies,

So to mankind, in darkness lost,

The beam of ardour dies.

Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done,

And now, encurtain'd in the main,

Thou sinkest into rest;

But I, in vain, on thorny bed

Shall woo the god of soft repose-

* * * * *

TO THE MUSE.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

Ill-fated maid, in whose unhappy train

Chill poverty and misery are seen,

Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane

Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene.

Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel

So keenly all the scorns-the jeers of life?

Why not endow them to endure the strife

With apathy's invulnerable steel,

Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal?

Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys,

That lure the unwary to a wretched doom,

That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise,

Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb?

What is the charm which leads thy victims on

To persevere in paths that lead to woe?

What can induce them in that route to go,

In which innumerous before have gone,

And died in misery poor and woe-begone?

Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found;

I, who have drunk from thine ethereal rill,

And tasted all the pleasures that abound

Upon Parnassus' loved Aonian hill?

I, through whose soul the Muse's strains aye thrill!

Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied;

And though our annals fearful stories tell,

How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died,

Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide.

TO LOVE.

Why should I blush to own I love?

'Tis Love that rules the realms above.

Why should I blush to say to all,

That Virtue holds my heart in thrall?

Why should I seek the thickest shade,

Lest Love's dear secret be betray'd?

Why the stern brow deceitful move,

When I am languishing with love?

Is it weakness thus to dwell

On passion that I dare not tell?

Such weakness I would ever prove;

'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet to love.

ON WHIT-MONDAY.

Hark! how the merry bells ring jocund round,

And now they die upon the veering breeze

Anon they thunder loud

Full on the musing ear.

Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore

Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak

A day of jubilee,

An ancient holiday.

And lo! the rural revels are begun,

And gaily echoing to the laughing sky,

On the smooth shaven green

Resounds the voice of Mirth.

Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate,

That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they

Who now are in their graves

Kept up the Whitsun dance.

And that another hour, and they must fall

Like those who went before, and sleep as still

Beneath the silent sod,

A cold and cheerless sleep.

Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare

The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign

To smile upon us here,

A transient visitor?

Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power,

And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy;

In time the bell will toll

That warns ye to your graves.

I to the woodland solitude will bend

My lonesome way-where Mirth's obstreperous shout

Shall not intrude to break

The meditative hour.

There will I ponder on the state of man,

Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate

This day of jubilee

To sad reflection's shrine;

And I will cast my fond eye far beyond

This world of care, to where the steeple loud

Shall rock above the sod,

Where I shall sleep in peace.

TO THE WIND, AT MIDNIGHT.

Not unfamiliar to mine ear,

Blasts of the night! ye howl as now

My shuddering casement loud

With fitful force ye beat.

Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe,

The howling sweep, the sudden rush;

And when the passing gale

Pour'd deep the hollow dirge.

* * * * *

TO THE HARVEST MOON.

Cum ruit imbriferum ver:

Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum

Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent.

Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret.

VIRGIL.

Moon of Harvest, herald mild

Of plenty rustic labour's child,

Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam,

As soft it trembles o'er the stream,

And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide,

Where Innocence and Peace reside!

'Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic throng,

Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarating song.

Moon of Harvest, I do love

O'er the uplands now to rove,

While thy modest ray serene

Gilds the wide surrounding scene;

And to watch thee riding high

In the blue vault of the sky,

Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray,

But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way.

Pleasing 'tis, oh! modest Moon!

Now the night is at her noon,

'Neath thy sway to musing lie,

While around the zephyrs sigh,

Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat,

Ripen'd by the summer's heat;

Picturing all the rustic's joy

When boundless plenty greets his eye,

And thinking soon,

Oh, modest Moon!

How many a female eye will roam

Along the road,

To see the load,

The last dear load of harvest home.

Storms and tempests, floods and rains,

Stern despoilers of the plains,

Hence, away, the season flee,

Foes to light-heart jollity:

May no winds careering high

Drive the clouds along the sky,

But may all nature smile with aspect boon,

When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh Harvest Moon!

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies,

The husbandman, with deep-seal'd eyes:

He dreams of crowded barns, and round

The yard he hears the flail resound;

Oh! may no hurricane destroy

His visionary views of joy!

God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer,

And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blustering whirlwind spare.

Sons of luxury, to you

Leave I sleep's dull power to woo;

Press ye still the downy bed,

While feverish dreams surround your head;

I will seek the woodland glade,

Penetrate the thickest shade,

Wrapp'd in contemplation's dreams,

Musing high on holy themes,

While on the gale

Shall softly sail

The nightingale's enchanting tune,

And oft my eyes

Shall grateful rise

To thee, the modest Harvest Moon!

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.1

Sweet scented flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,

And I will bind thee round my brow;

And as I twine the mournful wreath,

I'll weave a melancholy song;

And sweet the strain shall be, and long,

The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell

With the pale corse in lonely tomb,

And throw across the desert gloom

A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me

Beneath the lowly alder tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,

And not a care shall dare intrude

To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind god, as he flies,

Moans hollow in the forest trees,

And sailing on the gusty breeze,

Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,

It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead:

My grave shall be in yon lone spot,

Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

* * *

1 The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead.

TO THE MORNING.

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.

Beams of the daybreak faint! I hail

Your dubious hues, as on the robe

Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe,

I mark your traces pale.

Tired with the taper's sickly light,

And with the wearying, number'd night,

I hail the streaks of morn divine:

And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths

That round my rural casement twine;

The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes,

It fans my feverish brow,-it calms the mental strife,

And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life.

The lark has her gay song begun,

She leaves her grassy nest,

And soars till the unrisen sun

Gleams on her speckled breast.

Now let me leave my restless bed,

And o'er the spangled uplands tread;

Now through the custom'd wood walk wend;

By many a green lane lies my way,

Where high o'er head the wild briers bend,

Till on the mountain's summit gray,

I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day.

Oh Heaven! the soft refreshing gale

It breathes into my breast!

My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale,

Is with new colours dress'd.

Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease!

Come thou, too, on the balmy breeze,

Invigorate my frame:

I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase,

With thee the distant clime will trace

Beyond those clouds of flame.

Above, below, what charms unfold

In all the varied view!

Before me all is burnish'd gold,

Behind the twilight's hue.

The mists which on old Night await,

Far to the west they hold their state,

They shun the clear blue face of Morn;

Along the fine cerulean sky

The fleecy clouds successive fly,

While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn.

And hark! the thatcher has begun

His whistle on the eaves,

And oft the hedger's bill is heard

Among the rustling leaves.

The slow team creaks upon the road,

The noisy whip resounds,

The driver's voice, his carol blithe,

The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe

Mix with the morning's sounds.

Who would not rather take his seat

Beneath these clumps of trees,

The early dawn of day to greet,

And catch the healthy breeze,

Than on the silken couch of Sloth

Luxurious to lie;

Who would not from life's dreary waste

Snatch, when he could, with eager haste,

An interval of joy!

To him who simply thus recounts

The morning's pleasures o'er,

Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close

To ope on him no more.

Yet Morning! unrepining still,

He'll greet thy beams awhile;

And surely thou, when o'er his grave

Solemn the whispering willows wave,

Wilt sweetly on him smile:

And the pale glowworm's pensive light

Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night.

ON DISAPPOINTMENT.

Come, Disappointment, come!

Not in thy terrors clad:

Come, in thy meekest, saddest guise;

Thy chastening rod but terrifies

The restless and the bad.

But I recline

Beneath thy shrine,

And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine.

Though Fancy flies away

Before thy hollow tread,

Yet Meditation, in her cell,

Hears with faint eye the lingering knell

That tells her hopes are dead;

And though the tear

By chance appear,

Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here.

Come, Disappointment, come!

Though from Hope's summit hurl'd,

Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven,

For thou severe wert sent from heaven

To wean me from the world;

To turn my eye

From vanity,

And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.

What is this passing scene?

A peevish April day!

A little sun-a little rain,

And then night sweeps along the plain.

And all things fade away.

Man (soon discuss'd)

Yields up his trust,

And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.

Oh, what is Beauty's power?

It flourishes and dies;

Will the cold earth its silence break,

To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek

Beneath its surface lies?

Mute, mute is all

O'er Beauty's fall;

Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.

The most beloved on earth

Not long survives to-day;

So music past is obsolete,

And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,

But now 'tis gone away.

Thus does the shade

In memory fade,

When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid.

Then since this world is vain,

And volatile, and fleet,

Why should I lay up earthly joys,

Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys,

And cares and sorrows eat?

Why fly from ill

With anxious skill,

When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still.

Come, Disappointment, come!

Thou art not stern to me;

Sad Monitress! I own thy sway,

A votary sad in early day,

I bend my knee to thee.

From sun to sun

My race will run,

I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done!

On another paper are a few lines, written probably in the freshness of his disappointment.

I dream no more-the vision flies away,

And Disappointment....

There fell my hopes-I lost my all in this,

My cherish'd all of visionary bliss.

Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below;

Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe.

Plunge me in glooms....

ON THE DEATH OF DERMODY THE POET.

Child of Misfortune! Offspring of the Muse!

Mark like the meteor's gleam his mad career;

With hollow cheeks and haggard eye,

Behold he shrieking passes by:

I see, I see him near:

That hollow scream, that deepening groan;

It rings upon mine ear.

Oh come, ye thoughtless, ye deluded youth,

Who clasp the syren pleasure to your breast,

Behold the wreck of genius here,

And drop, oh drop the silent tear

For Dermody at rest:

His fate is yours, then from your loins

Tear quick the silken vest.

Saw'st thou his dying bed! Saw'st thou his eye,

Once flashing fire, despair's dim tear distil;

How ghastly did it seem;

And then his dying scream:

Oh God! I hear it still:

It sounds upon my fainting sense,

It strikes with deathly chill.

Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death;

Saw'st thou an anxious father by his bed,

Or pitying friends around him stand:

Or didst thou see a mother's hand

Support his languid head:

Oh none of these-no friend o'er him

The balm of pity shed.

Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth,

Sarcastic smile on genius fallen low;

Now come around who pant for fame,

And learn from hence, a poet's name

Is purchased but by woe:

And when ambition prompts to rise,

Oh think of him below.

For me, poor moralizer, I will run,

Dejected, to some solitary state:

The muse has set her seal on me,

She set her seal on Dermody,

It is the seal of fate:

In some lone spot my bones may lie,

Secure from human hate.

Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear,

Where lies unwept the poet's fallen head:

May peace her banners o'er him wave;

For me in my deserted grave

No friend a tear shall shed:

Yet may the lily and the rose

Bloom on my grassy bed.

SONNETS.

SONNET TO THE RIVER TRENT.

WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

Once more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge

A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,

From the close sick-room newly set at large,

Woos to his wan worn cheek the pleasant gale.

O! to his ear how musical the tale

Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat!

And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail,

How wildly novel on his senses float!

It was on this that many a sleepless night,

As lone he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam,

And at his casement heard, with wild affright,

The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream,

On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire,

Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.

SONNET.

Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,

Where far from cities I may spend my days;

And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,

May pity man's pursuits and shun his ways.

While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,

List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise,

Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall not want the world's delusive joys;

But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;

And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,

I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,

And lay me down to rest where the wild wave

Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.

SONNET.1

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED BY A FEMALE LUNATIC TO A LADY.

Lady, thou weepest for the Maniac's woe,

And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young;

Oh! may thy bosom never, never know

The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung.

I had a mother once-a brother too-

(Beneath yon yew my father rests his head:)

I had a lover once, and kind and true,

But mother, brother, lover, all are fled!

Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye?

Oh! gentle lady-not for me thus weep,

The green sod soon upon my breast will lie,

And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep.

Go thou, and pluck the roses while they bloom-

My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.

* * *

1 This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnet, "occasioned by seeing a young female Lunatic," written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in the Monthly Mirror.

SONNET.

Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody in Storm, while on board a Ship in his Majesty's service.

Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds

Successive fly, and the loud piping wind

Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds,

While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined,

Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies

His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him, sad,

Of wife, and little home, and chubby lad,

And the half strangled tear bedews his eyes;

I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn,

View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep,

Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep,

For not for me shall wife or children mourn,

And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell,

Sweetly as solemn peal of pious passing-bell.

SONNET. THE WINTER TRAVELLER.

God help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far;

The wind is bitter keen,-the snow o'erlays

The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways,

And darkness will involve thee. No kind star

To-night will guide thee, Traveller,-and the war

Of winds and elements on thy head will break,

And in thy agonizing ear the shriek

Of spirits howling on their stormy car

Will often ring appalling-I portend

A dismal night-and on my wakeful bed

Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head,

And him who rides where winds and waves contend,

And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide

His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide.

SONNET.

BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.

This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this volume, and was occasioned by several little Quatorzains, misnomered Sonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. He begs leave to return his thanks to the much respected writer, for the permission so politely granted to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has been pleased to express of his productions.

Ye whose aspirings court the muse of lays,

"Severest of those orders which belong,

Distinct and separate, to Delphic song,"

Why shun the sonnet's undulating maze?

And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days,

Assume, its rules disown'd? whom from the throng

The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys

Of its full harmony:-they fear to wrong

The sonnet, by adorning with a name

Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet,

Yet not in magic texture taught to meet

Of that so varied and peculiar frame.

O think! to vindicate its genuine praise

Those it beseems, whose lyre a favouring impulse sways.

SONNET.

RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING ELEGANT ADMONITION.

Let the sublimer muse, who, wrapp'd in night,

Rides on the raven pennons of the storm,

Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm,

Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight;

Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight,

Disdain the plaintive sonnet's little form,

And scorn to its wild cadence to conform,

The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight.

But me, far lowest of the sylvan train,

Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade

With wildest song;-me, much behoves thy aid

Of mingled melody, to grace my strain,

And give it power to please, as soft it flows

Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close.

SONNET ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN ?OLIAN HARP.

So ravishingly soft upon the tide

Of the infuriate gust, it did career,

It might have soothed its rugged charioteer,

And sunk him to a zephyr; then it died,

Melting in melody;-and I descried,

Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear

Of Druid sage, who on the far-off ear

Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied:

Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell,

Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds,

By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds

Such as, 'tis said, at night are known to swell

By startled shepherd on the lonely heath,

Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death?

SONNET.

What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat?

Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands.

And thou dost bear within thine awful hands

The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet.

Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind,

Thou guidest the northern storm at night's dead noon,

Or, on the red wing of the fierce monsoon,

Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind.

In the drear silence of the polar span

Dost thou repose? or in the solitude

Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan

Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood?

Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace,

Who glows through all the fields of boundless space.

SONNET TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.

Lofft, unto thee one tributary song

The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring;

She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng,

And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring.

Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth,

Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild,

Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth,

And to thy bosom snatch'd Misfortune's child:

Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal,

Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire,

Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the lyre,

And show thy labours for the public weal,

Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme,

But ah! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous theme.

SONNET TO THE MOON.

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER.

Sublime, emerging from the misty verge

Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail,

As, sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale

Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge.

Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight,

And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way,

Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night,

With double joy my homage do I pay.

When clouds disguise the glories of the day,

And stern November sheds her boisterous blight,

How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray

Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height,

And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring

The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring.

SONNET WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.

Fast from the west the fading day-streaks fly,

And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway,

Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie,

And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay.

Oh! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd

The maid of musings by yon moaning wave;

And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which, now renew'd,

Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave!

The busy world pursues its boisterous way,

The noise of revelry still echoes round,

Yet I am sad while all beside is gay;

Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound.

Oh! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease,

And 'neath the greensward sleep the sleep of peace.

SONNET TO MISFORTUNE.

Misfortune, I am young, my chin is bare,

And I have wonder'd much when men have told.

How youth was free from sorrow and from care,

That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old.

Sure dost not like me!-Shrivel'd hag of hate,

My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long;

I am not either, beldame, over strong;

Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate,

For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate.

Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate;

I am yet young, and do not like thy face;

And, lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase,

I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage,

-Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.

SONNET.

As thus oppressed with many a heavy care

(Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet

To the dark woodland, longing much to greet

The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there;

Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair,

Fills my sad breast; and, tired with this vain coil,

I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil.

And as, amid the leaves, the evening air

Whispers still melody,-I think ere long,

When I no more can hear, these woods will speak;

And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek,

And mournful phantasies upon me throng,

And I do ponder, with most strange delight,

On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.

SONNET TO APRIL.

Emblem of life! see changeful April sail

In varying vest along the shadowy skies,

Now bidding summer's softest zephyrs rise,

Anon recalling winter's stormy gale,

And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail;

Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes,

While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes,

Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail.

So, to us, sojourners in life's low vale,

The smiles of fortune flatter to deceive,

While still the fates the web of misery weave.

So Hope exultant spreads her a?ry sail,

And from the present gloom the soul conveys

To distant summers and far happier days.

SONNET.

Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies,

At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear,

Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear,

As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies;

When he, who now invokes you, low is laid,

His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed;

Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head,

And chant a dirge to his reposing shade!

For he was wont to love your madrigals;

And often by the haunted stream, that laves

The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves,

Would sit and listen to the dying falls,

Till the full tear would quiver in his eye,

And his big heart would heave with mournful ecstasy.

SONNET TO A TAPER.

'Tis midnight. On the globe dead slumber sits,

And all is silence-in the hour of sleep;

Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits,

In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep.

I wake alone to listen and to weep,

To watch my taper, thy pale beacon burn;

And, as still Memory does her vigils keep,

To think of days that never can return.

By thy pale ray I raise my languid head,

My eye surveys the solitary gloom;

And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with dread,

Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb.

Like thee I wane;-like thine my life's last ray

Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away.

SONNET TO MY MOTHER.

And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think

That we, thy children, when old age shall shed

Its blanching honours on thy weary head,

Could from our best of duties ever shrink?

Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink

Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day,

To pine in solitude thy life away,

Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink.

Banish the thought!-where'er our steps may roam,

O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,

Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,

And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;

While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage,

And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.

SONNET.

Yes, 'twill be over soon.-This sickly dream

Of life will vanish from my feverish brain;

And death my wearied spirit will redeem

From this wild region of unvaried pain.

Yon brook will glide as softly as before,

Yon landscape smile, yon golden harvest grow.

Yon sprightly lark on mountain wing will soar

When Henry's name is heard no more below.

I sigh when all my youthful friends caress,

They laugh in health, and future evils brave;

Them shall a wife and smiling children bless,

While I am mouldering in the silent grave.

God of the just, Thou gavest the bitter cup;

I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.

SONNET TO CONSUMPTION.

Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head.

Consumption, lay thine hand!-let me decay

Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away,

And softly go to slumber with the dead.

And if 'tis true what holy men have said,

That strains angelic oft foretell the day

Of death to those good men who fall thy prey,

O let the a?rial music round my bed,

Dissolving sad in dying symphony,

Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear;

That I may bid my weeping friends good-by

Ere I depart upon my journey drear:

And, smiling faintly on the painful past,

Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.

SONNET.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX.

Thy judgments, Lord, are just; thou lovest to wear

The face of pity and of love divine;

But mine is guilt-thou must not, canst not spare,

While heaven is true, and equity is thine.

Yes, oh my God!-such crimes as mine, so dread,

Leave but the choice of punishment to thee;

Thy interest calls for judgment on my head,

And even thy mercy dares not plead for me!

Thy will be done, since 'tis thy glory's due,

Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow;

Smite-it is time-though endless death ensue,

I bless the avenging hand that lays me low.

But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood,

That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning blood?

SONNET.

When I sit musing on the chequer'd past

(A term much darken'd with untimely woes),

My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows

The tear, though half disown'd; and binding fast

Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart,

I say to her she robb'd me of my rest,

When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast

Received from her this wearying, lingering smart;

Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart;

Though wrong'd, I love her-yet in anger love,

For she was most unworthy.-Then I prove

Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams,

Throned in dark clouds, inflexible....

The native pride of my much injured heart.

SONNET.

Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile,

Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring;

But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile,

Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling.

Is it for me to strike the Idalian string-

Raise the soft music of the warbling wire,

While in my ears the howls of furies ring,

And melancholy waste the vital fire?

Away with thoughts like these-To some lone cave

Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the wave,

Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear,

I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse

Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse,

And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear.

SONNET.

Quick o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts-

Bleak blows the blast-now howls-then faintly dies-

And oft upon its awful wings it wafts

The dying wanderer's distant, feeble cries.

Now, when athwart the gloom gaunt Horror stalks,

And midnight hags their damned vigils hold,

The pensive poet 'mid the wild waste walks,

And ponders on the ills life's paths unfold.

Mindless of dangers hovering round, he goes,

Insensible to every outward ill;

Yet oft his bosom heaves with rending throes,

And oft big tears adown his worn cheeks trill.

Ah! 'tis the anguish of a mental sore,

Which gnaws his heart, and bids him hope no more.

BALLADS, SONGS, AND HYMNS.

GONDOLINE

A BALLAD.

The night it was still, and the moon it shone

Serenely on the sea,

And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock

They murmur'd pleasantly,

When Gondoline roam'd along the shore,

A maiden full fair to the sight;

Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek,

And turn'd it to deadly white.

Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear

It fill'd her faint blue eye,

As oft she heard, in fancy's ear,

Her Bertrand's dying sigh.

Her Bertrand was the bravest youth

Of all our good king's men,

And he was gone to the Holy Land

To fight the Saracen.

And many a month had pass'd away,

And many a rolling year,

But nothing the maid from Palestine

Could of her lover hear.

Full oft she vainly tried to pierce

The ocean's misty face;

Full oft she thought her lover's bark

She on the wave could trace.

And every night she placed a light

In the high rock's lonely tower,

To guide her lover to the land,

Should the murky tempest lower.

But now despair had seized her breast,

And sunken in her eye;

"Oh tell me but if Bertrand live,

And I in peace will die."

She wander'd o'er the lonely shore,

The curlew scream'd above,

She heard the scream with a sickening heart,

Much boding on her love.

Yet still she kept her lonely way,

And this was all her cry.

"Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live,

And I in peace shall die."

And now she came to a horrible rift

All in the rock's hard side,

A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread

The cavern yawning wide.

And pendant from its dismal top

The deadly nightshade hung;

The hemlock and the aconite

Across the mouth was flung.

And all within was dark and drear,

And all without was calm;

Yet Gondoline enter'd, her soul upheld

By some deep-working charm.

And as she enter'd the cavern wide,

The moonbeam gleamed pale,

And she saw a snake on the craggy rock,

It clung by its slimy tail.

Her foot it slipp'd, and she stood aghast,

She trod on a bloated toad;

Yet, still upheld by the secret charm,

She kept upon her road.

And now upon her frozen ear

Mysterious sounds arose;

So, on the mountain's piny top

The blustering north wind blows.

Then furious peals of laughter loud

Were heard with thundering sound,

Till they died away in soft decay,

Low whispering o'er the ground.

Yet still the maiden onward went,

The charm yet onward led,

Though each big glaring ball of sight

Seem'd bursting from her head.

But now a pale blue light she saw,

It from a distance came;

She follow'd, till upon her sight

Burst full a flood of flame.

She stood appall'd; yet still the charm

Upheld her sinking soul;

Yet each bent knee the other smote,

And each wild eye did roll.

And such a sight as she saw there

No mortal saw before,

And such a sight as she saw there

No mortal shall see more.

A burning cauldron stood in the midst,

The flame was fierce and high,

And all the cave so wide and long

Was plainly seen thereby.

And round about the cauldron stout

Twelve withered witches stood;

Their waists were bound with living snakes,

And their hair was stiff with blood.

Their hands were gory too; and red

And fiercely flamed their eyes:

And they were muttering indistinct

Their hellish mysteries.

And suddenly they join'd their hands,

And utter'd a joyous cry,

And round about the cauldron stout

They danced right merrily.

And now they stopp'd; and each prepared

To tell what she had done,

Since last the lady of the night

Her waning course had run.

Behind a rock stood Gondoline,

Thick weeds her face did veil,

And she lean'd fearful forwarder,

To hear the dreadful tale.

The first arose: She said she'd seen

Rare sport since the blind cat mew'd,

She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve,

And a jovial storm had brew'd.

She'd called around the winged winds,

And raised a devilish rout;

And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were heard

Full fifteen leagues about.

She said there was a little bark

Upon the roaring wave,

And there was a woman there who'd been

To see her husband's grave.

And she had got a child in her arms,

It was her only child,

And oft its little infant pranks

Her heavy heart beguiled.

And there was too in that same bark

A father and his son:

The lad was sickly, and the sire

Was old and woe-begone.

And when the tempest waxed strong,

And the bark could no more it 'bide,

She said it was jovial fun to hear

How the poor devils cried.

The mother clasp'd her orphan child

Unto her breast and wept;

And sweetly folded in her arms

The careless baby slept.

And she told how, in the shape of the wind,

As manfully it roar'd,

She twisted her hand in the infant's hair,

And threw it overboard.

And to have seen the mother's pangs,

'Twas a glorious sight to see;

The crew could scarcely hold her down

From jumping in the sea.

The hag held a lock of her hair in her hand,

And it was soft and fair:

It must have been a lovely child,

To have had such lovely hair.

And she said the father in his arms

He held his sickly son,

And his dying throes they fast arose,

His pains were nearly done.

And she throttled the youth with her sinewy hands,

And his face grew deadly blue;

And the father he tore his thin gray hair,

And kiss'd the livid hue.

And then she told how she bored a hole

In the bark, and it fill'd away:

And 'twas rare to hear how some did swear,

And some did vow and pray.

The man and woman they soon were dead,

The sailors their strength did urge;

But the billows that beat were their winding-sheet,

And the winds sung their funeral dirge.

She threw the infant's hair in the fire,

The red flame flamed high,

And round about the cauldron stout

They danced right merrily.

The second begun: She said she had done

The task that Queen Hecate had set her,

And that the devil, the father of evil,

Had never accomplished a better.

She said, there was an aged woman,

And she had a daughter fair,

Whose evil habits fill'd her heart

With misery and care.

The daughter had a paramour,

A wicked man was he,

And oft the woman him against

Did murmur grievously.

And the hag had work'd the daughter up

To murder her old mother,

That then she might seize on all her goods,

And wanton with her lover.

And one night as the old woman

Was sick and ill in bed.

And pondering solely on the life

Her wicked daughter led,

She heard her footstep on the floor,

And she raised her pallid head,

And she saw her daughter, with a knife,

Approaching to her bed.

And said, My child, I'm very ill,

I have not long to live,

Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die

Thy sins I may forgive.

And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek,

And she lifted the sharp bright knife,

And the mother saw her fell intent,

And hard she begg'd for life.

But prayers would nothing her avail,

And she scream'd aloud with fear,

But the house was lone, and the piercing screams

Could reach no human ear

And though that she was sick, and old,

She struggled hard, and fought;

The murderess cut three fingers through

Ere she could reach her throat.

And the hag she held her fingers up,

The skin was mangled sore,

And they all agreed a nobler deed

Was never done before.

And she threw the fingers in the fire,

The red flame flamed high,

And round about the cauldron stout

They danced right merrily.

The third arose: She said she'd been

To holy Palestine;

And seen more blood in one short day

Than they had all seen in nine.

Now Gondoline, with fearful steps,

Drew nearer to the flame,

For much she dreaded now to hear

Her hapless lover's name.

The hag related then the sports

Of that eventful day,

When on the well contested field

Full fifteen thousand lay.

She said that she in human gore

Above the knees did wade,

And that no tongue could truly tell

The tricks she there had play'd.

There was a gallant featured youth,

Who like a hero fought;

He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist,

And every danger sought.

And in a vassal's garb disguised,

Unto the knight she sues,

And tells him she from Britain comes,

And brings unwelcome news.

That three days ere she had embark'd

His love had given her hand

Unto a wealthy Thane:-and thought

Him dead in Holy Land.

And to have seen how he did writhe

When this her tale she told,

It would have made a wizard's blood

Within his heart run cold.

Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed,

And sought the battle's bed;

And soon all mangled o'er with wounds

He on the cold turf bled.

And from his smoking corse she tore

His head, half clove in two.

She ceased, and from beneath her garb

The bloody trophy drew.

The eyes were starting from their socks,

The mouth it ghastly grinn'd,

And there was a gash across the brow,

The scalp was nearly skinn'd.

'Twas Bertrand's head! With a terrible scream

The maiden gave a spring

And from her fearful hiding-place

She fell into the ring.

The lights they fled-the cauldron sunk,

Deep thunders shook the dome,

And hollow peals of laughter came

Resounding through the gloom.

Insensible the maiden lay

Upon the hellish ground,

And still mysterious sounds were heard

At intervals around.

She woke-she half arose-and wild

She cast a horrid glare,

The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled,

And all was stillness there.

And through an awning in the rock

The moon it sweetly shone,

And show'd a river in the cave

Which dismally did moan.

The stream was black, it sounded deep

As it rush'd the rocks between,

It offer'd well, for madness fired

The breast of Gondoline.

She plunged in, the torrent moan'd

With its accustom'd sound,

And hollow peals of laughter loud

Again rebellow'd round.

The maid was seen no more.-But oft

Her ghost is known to glide,

At midnight's silent, solemn hour,

Along the ocean's side.

A BALLAD.

Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds,

Ye pelting rains, a little rest;

Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts,

That wring with grief my aching breast.

Oh! cruel was my faithless love,

To triumph o'er an artless maid;

Oh! cruel was my faithless love,

To leave the breast by him betray'd.

When exiled from my native home,

He should have wiped the bitter tear;

Nor left me faint and lone to roam,

A heart-sick weary wanderer here.

My child moans sadly in my arms,

The winds they will not let it sleep:

Ah, little knows the hapless babe

What makes its wretched mother weep!

Now lie thee still, my infant dear,

I cannot bear thy sobs to see,

Harsh is thy father, little one,

And never will he shelter thee.

Oh, that I were but in my grave,

And winds were piping o'er me loud,

And thou, my poor, my orphan babe,

Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud!

THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD THE NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION.

Sleep, baby mine,1 enkerchieft on my bosom,

Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast;

Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother

To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest.

Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining?

Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled;

Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning,

And I would fain compose my aching head.

Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping,

When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be?

Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping

In her low grave of shame and infamy?

Sleep, baby mine-Tomorrow I must leave thee,

And I would snatch an interval of rest:

Sleep these last moments ere the laws bereave thee,

For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast.

* * *

1 Sir Philip Sidney has a poem, beginning, "Sleep, baby mine."

THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN.

Oh! yonder is the well known spot,

My dear, my long lost native home!

Oh, welcome is yon little cot,

Where I shall rest, no more to roam!

Oh! I have travell'd far and wide,

O'er many a distant foreign land;

Each place, each province I have tried.

And sung and danced my saraband.

But all their charms could not prevail

To steal my heart from yonder vale.

Of distant climes the false report

It lured me from my native land;

It bade me rove-my sole support

My cymbals and my saraband.

The woody dell, the hanging rock,

The chamois skipping o'er the heights;

The plain adorn'd with many a flock,

And, oh! a thousand more delights,

That grace yon dear beloved retreat,

Have backward won my weary feet.

Now safe return'd, with wandering tired,

No more my little home I'll leave;

And many a tale of what I've seen

Shall while away the winter's eve.

Oh! I have wandered far and wide,

O'er many a distant foreign land;

Each place, each province I have tried,

And sung and danced my saraband;

But all their charms could not prevail

To steal my heart from yonder vale.

A PASTORAL SONG.

Come, Anna! come, the morning dawns,

Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies;

Come, let us seek the dewy lawns,

And watch the early lark arise;

While nature, clad in vesture gay,

Hails the loved return of day.

Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade

Upon the moor, shall seek the vale;

And then, secure beneath the shade,

We'll listen to the throstle's tale;

And watch the silver clouds above,

As o'er the azure vault they rove.

Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute,

That with its tones, so softly sweet,

In cadence with my mellow flute,

We may beguile the noontide heat;

While near the mellow bee shall join,

To raise a harmony divine.

And then at eve, when silence reigns,

Except when heard the beetle's hum,

We'll leave the sober tinted plains,

To these sweet heights again we'll come;

And thou to thy soft lute shalt play

A solemn vesper to departing day.

MELODY.

Yes, once more that dying strain,

Anna, touch thy lute for me;

Sweet, when pity's tones complain,

Doubly sweet is melody.

While the Virtues thus enweave

Mildly soft the thrilling song,

Winter's long and lonesome eve

Glides unfelt, unseen, along.

Thus when life hath stolen away,

And the wintry night is near,

Thus shall virtue's friendly ray

Age's closing evening, cheer.

SONG.

BY WALLER.

A Lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to the Author, and when he returned them to her, she discovered an additional stanza written by him at the bottom of the song here copied.

Go, lovely rose!

Tell her, that wastes her time on me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired,

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she

The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share,

That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

[Yet, though thou fade,

From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;

And teach the maid

That Goodness Time's rude hand defies,

That Virtue lives when Beauty dies.

H. K. WHITE.]

THE WANDERING BOY.

A SONG.

When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor,

And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door;

When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye,

Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy.

The winter is cold, and I have no vest,

And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast;

No father, no mother, no kindred have I,

For I am a parentless Wandering Boy.

Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire,

A mother who granted each infant desire;

Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale,

Where the ringdove would warble its sorrowful tale.

But my father and mother were summoned away,

And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey;

I fled from their rigour with many a sigh,

And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy.

The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale,

And no one will list to my innocent tale;

I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie,

And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy.

CANZONET.

Maiden! wrap thy mantle round thee,

Cold the rain beats on thy breast:

Why should Horror's voice astound thee?

Death can bid the wretched rest!

All under the tree

Thy bed may be,

And thou mayst slumber peacefully.

Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee,

Now thy cheeks are pale and deep:

Love has been a felon to thee,

Yet, poor maiden, do not weep:

There's rest for thee

All under the tree,

Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully.

SONG.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

Softly, softly blow, ye breezes,

Gently o'er my Edwy fly!

Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly;

Softly, zephyrs, pass him by!

My love is asleep,

He lies by the deep,

All along where the salt waves sigh.

I have cover'd him with rushes,

Water-flags, and branches dry.

Edwy, long have been thy slumbers;

Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye!

My love is asleep,

He lies by the deep,

All along where the salt waves sigh.

Still he sleeps; he will not waken,

Fastly closed is his eye;

Paler is his cheek, and chiller

Than the icy moon on high.

Alas! he is dead,

He has chose his death-bed

All along where the salt waves sigh.

Is it, is it so, my Edwy?

Will thy slumbers never fly?

Couldst thou think I would survive thee?

No, my love, thou bid'st me die.

Thou bid'st me seek

Thy death-bed bleak

All along where the salt waves sigh.

I will gently kiss thy cold lips,

On thy breast I'll lay my head,

And the winds shall sing our death dirge,

And our shroud the waters spread;

The moon will smile sweet,

And the wild wave will beat,

Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed.

THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO THE NIGHT.

Thou, spirit of the spangled night!

I woo thee from the watchtower high,

Where thou dost sit to guide the bark

Of lonely mariner.

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,

The distant main is moaning low;

Come, let us sit and weave a song-

A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn,

And sweet the noontide's fervid beam,

But sweeter far the solemn calm

That marks thy mournful reign.

I've pass'd here many a lonely year,

And never human voice have heard;

I've pass'd here many a lonely year,

A solitary man.

And I have linger'd in the shade,

From sultry noon's hot beams; and I

Have knelt before my wicker door,

To sing my evening song.

And I have hail'd the gray morn high,

On the blue mountain's misty brow,

And tried to tune my little reed

To hymns of harmony.

But never could I tune my reed,

At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet,

As when upon the ocean shore

I hail'd thy star-beam mild.

The dayspring brings not joy to me,

The moon it whispers not of peace;

But oh! when darkness robes the heavens,

My woes are mix'd with joy.

And then I talk, and often think

A?rial voices answer me;

And oh! I am not then alone-

A solitary man.

And when the blustering winter winds

Howl in the woods that clothe my cave,

I lay me on my lonely mat,

And pleasant are my dreams.

And fancy gives me back my wife;

And fancy gives me back my child;

She gives me back my little home,

And all its placid joys.

Then hateful is the morning hour,

That calls me from the dream of bliss,

To find myself still lone, and hear

The same dull sounds again.

The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea,

The whispering of the boding trees,

The brook's eternal flow, and oft

The condor's hollow scream.

THE WONDERFUL JUGGLER.

A SONG.

Come all ye true hearts, who, Old England to save,

Now shoulder the musket, or plough the rough wave,

I will sing you a song of a wonderful fellow,

Who has ruin'd Jack Pudding, and broke Punchinello.

Derry down, down, high derry down.

This juggler is little, and ugly, and black,

But, like Atlas, he stalks with the world at his back;

'Tis certain, all fear of the devil he scorns;

Some say they are cousins; we know he wears horns.

Derry down.

At hop, skip, and jump, who so famous as he?

He hopp'd o'er an army, he skipped o'er the sea;

And he jump'd from the desk of a village attorney

To the throne of the Bourbons-a pretty long journey.

Derry down.

He tosses up kingdoms the same as a ball,

And his cup is so fashion'd it catches them all;

The Pope and Grand Turk have been heard to declare

His skill at the long bow has made them both stare.

Derry down.

He has shown off his tricks in France, Italy, Spain;

And Germany too knows his legerdemain;

So hearing John Bull has a taste for strange sights,

He's coming to London to put us to rights.

Derry down.

To encourage his puppets to venture this trip,

He has built them such boats as can conquer a ship;

With a gun of good metal, that shoots out so far,

It can silence the broadsides of three men of war.

Derry down.

This new Katterfelto, his show to complete,

Means his boats should all sink as they pass by our fleet;

Then, as under the ocean their course they steer right on,

They can pepper their foes from the bed of old Triton.

Derry down.

If this project should fail, he has others in store;

Wooden horses, for instance, may bring them safe o'er;

Or the genius of France (as the Moniteur tells)

May order balloons, or provide diving-bells.

Derry down.

When Philip of Spain fitted out his Armada,

Britain saw his designs, and could meet her invader;

But how to greet Bonny she never will know,

If he comes in the style of a fish or a crow.

Derry down.

Now if our rude tars will so crowd up the seas,

That his boats have not room to go down when they please,

Can't he wait till the channel is quite frozen over,

And a stout pair of skates will transport him to Dover.

Derry down.

How welcome he'll be it were needless to say;

Neither he nor his puppets shall e'er go away;

I am sure at his heels we shall constantly stick,

Till we know he has play'd off his very last trick.

Derry down, down, high derry down.

HYMN.

In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure the splendours of the Deity.

Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake,

Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake;

We sing the Saviour of our race,

The Lamb, our shield, and hiding-place.

When God's right arm is bared for war,

And thunders clothe his cloudy car,

Where, where, oh, where shall man retire,

To escape the horrors of his ire?

'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly,

While the dread tempest passes by;

God sees his Well-beloved's face,

And spares us in our hiding-place.

Thus while we dwell in this low scene,

The Lamb is our unfailing screen;

To him, though guilty, still we run,

And God still spares us for his Son.

While yet we sojourn here below,

Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow;

Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race,

We deeply need a hiding-place.

Yet, courage-days and years will glide,

And we shall lay these clods aside,

Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood,

And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood.

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,

We through the Lamb shall be decreed;

Shall meet the Father face to face,

And need no more a hiding-place.1

* * *

1 The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporaneously, by the Author, one summer evening, when he was with a few friends on the Trent, and singing as he was used to do on such occasions.

A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP.

O Lord, another day is flown,

And we, a lonely band,

Are met once more before thy throne,

To bless thy fostering hand.

And wilt thou bend a listening ear,

To praises low as ours?

Thou wilt! for thou dost love to hear

The song which meekness pours.

And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign,

As we before thee pray;

For thou didst bless the infant train,

And we are less than they.

O let thy grace perform its part,

And let contention cease;

And shed abroad in every heart

Thine everlasting peace!

Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine,

A flock by Jesus led;

The Sun of Holiness shall shine

In glory on our head.

And thou wilt turn our wandering feet,

And thou wilt bless our way;

Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet

The dawn of lasting day.

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

When marshal'd on the nightly plain,

The glittering host bestud the sky;

One star alone, of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.

Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,

From every host, from every gem;

But one alone the Saviour speaks,

It is the Star of Bethlehem.

Once on the raging seas I rode,

The storm was loud,-the night was dark,

The ocean yawn'd-and rudely blow'd

The wind that toss'd my foundering bark.

Deep horror then my vitals froze,

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem;

When suddenly a star arose,

It was the Star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all,

It bade my dark forebodings cease;

And through the storm and dangers' thrall