Of creatures that to man attend,His pastime, or his wealth;The Horse we cherish as a friend,To sickness and to health.Bless them, who shield a steed from woe.By age from toil releas'd!And hated be the proud, who shewNo mercy to their beast!A wretch once doom'd, tho' rich and strong,His faithful horse to bleed,But tell his fate, my moral song,For that atrocious deed!An antient knight, of Kentish race;Of his athletic frameProne to indulge the passions base,Sir Geoffrin his name,Against a priest indulg'd his rage,Who charitably good,To shield a widow's helpless age,His avarice withstood.With abject choler fierce and hot,The knight perforce would gain,And blend her little garden plot,With his superb domain.The priest, who, on that very ground,To soothe his wrath would strive,In frantic passion's fit he bound,And buried him alive!The wretch was seiz'd with shame and fear,Tho' he his crime would boast:When suddenly he chanc'd to hear,His king lay off the coast!'Twas gallant Harold, in that day,Elate with regal power;Becalm'd his stately vessel lay,Near Geoffrin's high tower.The royal mercy to surprize,He now resolves with speed;"Haste, hither bring," he wildly cries,"My strongest favourite steed."It was a steed of noblest kind,In spirit and in limb,On which the desp'rate knight design'dTo the king's ship to swim!Now by the swelling ocean's side,He mounts his courser brave!Spurs him with domineering pride,And plunges in the wave!Us'd to his bold caprices oft,And equal to his weight,The courser toss'd his mane aloft,And swam with breast elate.The knight now flourishes his sword,As near the ship he draws;The wond'rous sight strikes all on board,Who throng to find the cause:The sailors round their sov'reign croud,Who on the vessels stern,Now hails the knight's approach aloud,Eager, his aim to learn."Provok'd by villains, one I slew,And own him rashly slain;Hence to thy clemency I flew,My pardon to obtain!""Now by St. George, thou vent'rous knight,Thy steed has nobly done;Swim back, and pardon make thee light,Thy pardon he has won!"The knight now with a joyous springHis horse's neck embrac'd;Then blessing thrice his gracious king,He steer'd him back in haste.Now, as he touch'd his native sand,And near his castle gate,He saw the weeping widow stand,And mock'd her mournful state."Woman, thy threats touch me no more,I ride on safety's wing;My brave horse brings me safe to shore,With pardon from my king!""Kings seem to grant what God denies,Trust my prophetic breath,"(So the indignant dame replies)"That horse shall prove thy death!"She spoke, and with a voice so keen,It search'd his inmost soul,And caus'd a storm of fearful spleen,Thro' his dark brain to rollHalf credulous, half wildly brave,Now doubt, now rage prevails:He stood like a black suspended wave,Struck by two adverse gales.A doubt by superstition nurst,Made all just thoughts recede;Frantic he wav'd his sword, and pierc'dHis life-preserving steed!"Thy prophecies I thus destroy,"He cried, "thou wretched crone;Threats on my days no more employ,But tremble for thy own."Striding away, his steed he leftIn his pure blood to roll,He quickly, of all aid bereft,Breath'd out his nobler soul.The boastful knight, now gay with prideBy his successful crimes,Floating on folly's golden tide,Prosper'd in stormy times.Ungrateful both to man and beastHis sovereign he betray'd,And lent, ere Harold's empire ceas'd,The Norman treacherous aid.The Norman tyrant much carestThis proud and abject slave,And lands, by worthier lords possest,For his base succour gave.Now years, since that eventful hour,In which his courser bled,Had pour'd increase of wealth, and pow'rOn his aspiring head.As near, with much enlarged estate,To his domain he drew;He chanc'd, before his castle gate,A signal scene to view.The scene his war-steel'd nerves could shock,Seated on mossy stonesThe widow, leaning 'gainst a rock,Wept o'er his horse's bones.Enrag'd from his new steed he vaults,Quick with his foot to spurnThese bones, that bid his bloody faultsTo his base mind return.The head, now bleach'd, his proud foot strikesWith such indignant speed,The bone its fierce aggressor spikes;It is his turn to bleed.The trivial wound the wrathful knightDisdains to search with care.But soon he finds, the wound tho' slight,Death lurks in ambush there.Now to his bed of sorrow bound,By penitential pain,He seems, by this heart-reaching wound,A purer mind to gain.Near to his couch he bids, with care,The widow to be brought,And speaks to her, with soften'd air,His self-correcting thought."True prophetess! I feel thee now;So God my crimes forgive,As I with thee true concord vow:In comfort may'st thou live.""Behold upon this charter'd scroll,A pictur'd cottage stand,I give it thee, with all my soul,And its adjacent land.""The only rent I will assume,Be this. At close of day,Sit thou, with pity, on my tomb,And for my spirit pray!""That tomb be rais'd by sculpture's aid,To warn men from my guilt;My horse's head beside me laid,Whose blood I basely spilt!"He spoke, he died, the tomb was made,His statue look'd to Heaven!And daily then the widow pray'd,His crimes might be forgiven!
Lovely woman! how brave is thy soul,When duty and love are combin'd!Then danger in vain would controulThy tender, yet resolute mind.Boulla thus in an African glade,In her season of beauty and youth,In the deadliest danger display'dAll the quick-sighted courage of truth.Tho' the wife of a peasant, yet noneHer grandeur of heart rose above;And her husband was nature's true sonIn simplicity, labour, and love.'Twas his task, and he manag'd it well,The herd of his master to guide,Where a marshy and desolate dellDaily drink to the cattle supplied.In this toil a dear playfellow shar'd,A little, brave, sensible boy!Who nobly for manhood prepar'd,Made every kind office his joy.One day as the dell they drew near,They perceiv'd all the cattle aroundStarting wild, in tumultuous fear,As if thunder had shaken the ground.The peasant, in wonder and awe,Keenly search'd for the cause of their fright;Very soon it's just motive he saw,And he shudder'd himself at the sight;For couch'd in the midst of the gladeAn enormous fierce Lion he view'd;His eye-balls shot flame thro' the shade,And with gore his vast jaw was imbru'd."Fly boy to thy mother, be sure!Dear child do not tremble for me!I fear not if thou art secure;I shall 'scape in the limbs of a tree."He spoke, flying light as the breeze,His cattle were scatter'd before,Them he thought that the Lion would seize,And for human food hunger no more.But athirst for the blood of a man,All the herd he in fury disdain'd;And leapt at the bough, as he ran,Which the peasant had rapidly gain'd.He leapt, but he fail'd of his prey;For the peasant was happily higher:Beneath him, indignant, he lay,And watch'd him with vigilant ire.The boy had his father obey'd,And ran for his rustic abode;And oft turning, that father survey'd,And hardly remember'd his road.But when, with a burst of delight.His father he saw in a tree,He lost all his sense of affright,And his terror was turn'd into glee.Then quick to his mother he sped,And quickly his story he told:As she heard it, she shudder'd with dread;But love made her suddenly bold.She remember'd, that oft to her boyShe a lesson of archery gave:Then the bow she resolv'd to employ,And by courage his father to save.Soon forth from a curious old chestA bundle of arrows she drew;The gift of a warrior, their guest,And ting'd with a poisonous glue!With a bow, that the chief us'd alone,Which her arm could not easily draw:This bow she preferr'd to her own,In these moments of hope and of awe.And now they both haste from their cot,The stripling his mother before,And keenly he shew'd her the spot,As the bow he exultingly bore.More cautious as now they advance,The boy, to his eager desire,Espied, with a love-guided glance,The half-shrouded head of his sire.He leapt, with a rapturous joy;But, marking the Lion below,In silence the spirited boyMade ready the powerful bow.From his mother an arrow he caught,In hope's youthful extacy hot;And softly said, quick as his thought,"O grant to my hand the first shot."His entreaty she could not refuse,Yet hardly had time to consent;Impatient his aim not to lose,The stripling the bow would have bent.He labour'd to bend it in vain;It surpass'd all the strength of his years:The brave boy full of anguish and pain,Let it fall to the ground with his tears.His father beheld him with grief,Seeing both, he yet more and more grieves,While his eyes, as in search of relief,Look forth from his refuge of leaves.But Boulla, who caught his keen eye,Now grasp'd her adventurous bow,And, with prayers addrest to the sky,She aim'd at the Lion below.Good angels! her arrow direct!On its flight these dear beings depend,Whose kindness, by danger uncheck'd,Has deserv'd to find Heaven their friend.See the beast! Lo! his eye-balls yet burn,On his prey he still gloats, with a yawn,Yet the woman he does not discern;And her bow is undauntedly drawn.O love! it is thine to impartSuch force, as none else can bestow—She has shot with the strength of her heart,She has pierced her infuriate foe.While his jaws were enormously spread,(The truth of her archery see!)Thro' his cheek her sure arrow has sped;It fastens his flesh to the tree.Too soon of her conquest secure,She runs within reach of his claw,But in tortures he cannot endure,He has struck her to earth with his paw.Lo! anxious the peasant descends:Good peasant no more be afraid!Heaven sent her the bravest of friends,In the boy who has rush'd to her aid.Before thou couldst spring to the ground,Her boy made her triumph complete;And contriving a marvellous wound,He has stretch'd her foe dead at her feet.From the tree by his struggles releas'd,While he roll'd in his own blood afloatBrave Demba ran up to the beast,And darted ten shafts in his throat.Their poisons collected affordLethargic relief to his pangs;And Death! of all nature the lord!Thy shadows now rest on his fangs.Now love! thy own fancy employ!For words are too feeble to traceThe father, the mother, the boy,In triumph's extatic embrace.
Kind Heaven will oft a lesson giveIf mortals are inclined to learn;To shew how simplest things that live,To kindness make a rich return.Tho' fiction speaks of dying notes,Sung by the swan in death resign'd;Is there a tribe, that flies or floats,Of sense, or feeling, less refin'd?Yet simple as this bird we deem,My faithful ballad shall attest,One Swan displayed on Thames's stream,A feeling and a friendly breastCecilia liv'd on Thames's bank,A young and lovely married fair;To creatures kind of every rank,A favourite Swan had own'd her care.Her lord, a merchant, frank and young,By probity was known to thrive;Their bliss enliven'd every tongue,They were the happiest pair alive;For to increase their nuptial joyAnd their domestic scene adorn;Heaven crown'd their blessings with a boy,A finer boy was never born.His sportive life had only runTo six short months, how brief a date!When gay Cecilia's darling son,Was threaten'd with a deadly fate!Her garden had a terrace fair,Beneath it, full the river flow'd,There she enjoyed the evening air,Her favourite Swan there proudly row'd.The mother in her active arms,To make her boy benignly mild;And nobly proof 'gainst all alarms,There oft would exercise her child.A boat-house by the terrace side,Shelter'd a small and simple boat:And sometimes half way o'er the tideChain'd to its home, it us'd to float.Here she, her infant, and her maid,Sport with the Swan, and give it bread;While her gay boy, of nought afraid,With lively transport sees it fed.'Tis June—a sultry tempest wildImpends, Cecilia would retire,But checks herself to teach her child,The vivid light'ning to admire.Her noble mind delights to rearIn early fortitude, her boy;That he the voice of God may hear,With admiration's awful joy!While to regain the vessel's shed,Her maid an active pilot stands;She to the music o'er her head,Dances the child with dauntless hands.But whirlwinds rise: the vessel reel'd,Heaven! the sweet parent is o'erthrown:Her falling head she fails to shield,Attentive to her child alone.Tis the tornado's ruthless blast;The mother stunn'd, the babe it bearsFar from her senseless frame! aghastThe maid, in speechless horror glares!Yet swiftly to its proper shore,The whirlwind now the vessel drives,Where by the elemental roarAlarm'd, Cecilia's lord arrives.Into the boat behold him bound,He lifts his lifeless wife upright:She wakens to the thunder's sound;Her opening eyes regain the light."Where is my child?" she faintly cries;"Where is the child?" her lord rejoin'd:Poor heart-struck Susan nought replies,The child had vanished from her mind."My child! my child!" with terror's startShe shrieks, in accents wild and shrill;And at her agony of heart,The very tempest's self grew still!"Say if you saw him sink!" she cried,Wildly to Susan pale and wan:When quick her roving eye descried,The tall neck of her favourite Swan."My God! my God! 'tis thee I thank!"Exclaim'd the now exulting fair;"I see him wafted to the bank,His cradle form'd by heavenly care!"She spoke, and all who heard her cry,Now saw the babe divinely nurst;The extatic sight from every eye,Made tears of grateful transport burst.Between her silvery arching wings,The guardian bird had lodg'd the child;And forward as her broad foot springs,At every stroke the infant smil'd.And with a heaven-implanted pride,Superbly rowing now to land;The brave bird has her charge deniedTo all, but to the mother's hand.Cecilia feeling now no pains,Leans o'er the boat's advancing end;And aided by her lord reclaims,The present of her feather'd friend.Now with delight the rescued boy,To her maternal bosom springs:The conscious Swan partakes their joy,And claps her proud triumphant wings.Cecilia beads to weep and pray,She weeps with joy, no longer wan;And still on this returning day,Blesses the heaven-directed Swan!
Of dogs who sav'd a living friend,Most nobly, ye have read:Now to a nobler still attend,A guardian of the dead.As o'er wild Alpine scenes I stray'd,Not far from that retreat,Where Bruno, with celestial aid,First plann'd his sacred seat.An anchorite of noble mien,Attracted my regard;Majestic as that savage scene,Or as a Cambrian bard.He to no silent dome belongs,The rock is his domain;It echoes to his nightly songsDevotion's lonely strain.His mansion is a tranquil grot,Form'd in the living stone:My view of the sequester'd spot,I owe to chance alone.For happening near his cell to rove,Enamour'd of the wild;I heard within a piny groveWhat seem'd a plaintive child.The distant cry so struck my ear,I hasten'd to the ground,But saw surpris'd, as I drew near,The author of the sound.No human form, yet one I thought,With human feelings fill'd,And from his tongue, by nature taught,Strange notes of sorrow thrill'd.Unseen myself, I clearly sawA dog that couchant moan'd;He struck the hard earth with his paw,Then look'd at Heaven, and groan'd!With silent caution I drew near,To mark this friend of man,Expressing grief in sobs so clear,It through my bosom ran!The noble beast was black as jet,And as a lion large;He look'd as on a tombstone set,To hold the dead in charge.Grand was his visage, round his neckBroad silver rings he wore;These rings, that his dark body deck,The cross of Malta bore.I gaz'd, but soon my steps, tho' soft,Announced a stranger near;The brave beast bounded up aloft,Nor was I free from fear.But soon his master's voice represtAnd call'd him to his side:And soon I was the hermit's guest,He was my guard and guide.My own intrusion to excuse,The wond'rous dog I prais'd,Whose milder mien my eye reviews,Delighted and amaz'd!"If I disturb thy calm retreat,Divinely calm indeed,The noble servant at thy feet,May for my pardon plead.""That noble servant in my sightWhom strength and grace adorn,Announces, if I read aright,A master nobly born."The sire replied, with graceful bend,"No not my servant, he!A noble independent friend,He deigns to live with me!""But, stranger, if you kindly rest,His story you shall hear,And all that makes my sable guest,Most singularly dear.""Here it has been my chosen lot,Some awful years to spend!Few months have pass'd, since near this spotI gain'd this signal friend.""This friend, with whom to live and die,Is now my dearest aim;He likes the world no more than I,And Hero is his name.""Some two miles off, as near a wood,Of deepest gloom I stray'd;Struck by strange sounds, I wond'ring stood,They echoed from the shade.""First like a noise in troubled dreams,But soon distinct I heard,A dog's triumphant bark, and screams,That spoke a dying bird.""A bird of loud portentous note,One of the vulture race,Which shepherds will to death devote,In sanguinary chace.""I thought some shepherd's joy to share,And hurried to the sound:To what I had expected thereFar different scene I found.""A man, of blood-bespotted vest,I saw upon the earth;And Malta's cross upon his breast,Spoke him of noble birth.""Misfortune long had press'd him sore;I know not how he died;He had been dead two days or more,When I his corse descried.""Him, as their prey, two vultures seek,With ravenous rage abhorr'd;But Hero guarded from their beak,The visage of his lord!""When first my eyes on Hero glanc'd,One vulture he had slain:The second scar'd as I advanced,Flew off in fearful pain.""Enchanted with a guard so brave,So faithful to the dead:The wounded dog to soothe and save,With beating heart I sped.""He lick'd my hand, by me carest,But him with grief I sawHalf famish'd, and his gallant breastGor'd by the vulture's claw!""Tho' anxious o'er his wounds I bend;By kindness or by force,I could not tempt this generous friend.To quit the pallid corse!""The body to my cell I bear;This mourner with it moved;Then he submitted to my care,And all my aid approv'd.""In the soft stone, that's near my cell,I soon entomb'd the dead;With stone above I shield him well,And laurels round I spread.""Oft to the spot with mournful praise,The mindful Hero springs,And in such notes, as he can raise,A requiem he sings.""Dear faithful dog! if man to meHad half thy virtue shewn,From social life I should not flee,To roam the wild alone!""No! not alone, nor yet in woe,While here thy virtues shine,For I defy the world to shewAssociate like to mine!"The dog, he now press'd to his heart,Then utter'd this desire;"Stranger if thine a poet's art,Let Hero wake thy lyre!"His wish was kind—may love so true.Ne'er want its wishes long:Thus from his fond suggestion grew,This tributary song.
Not only men of stormy minds,The storms of trouble know,All creatures of this earth must findA share of earthly woe!Ye whose pure hearts with pity swell,For pain by all incurr'd;Hear how affliction once befell,Serenity's sweet bird.Ye fair, who in your carols praiseThe Halcyon's happy state;Hear in compassionate amaze,One Halcyon's hapless fate.A nymph, Selina is her name,Lovely in mind and mien,When spring, however early, came,Was fond of walks marine.Between a woman and a child,In tender charms she grew,And lov'd with fancy sweetly wild,The lonely shore to view.Nature she studied, every spring,To all her offspring kind,And taught the birds of wildest wing,To trust her gentle mind.Now brilliant in her youthful eye,The Halcyon's feathers flame;She wish'd a pair of these, tho' shy,Affectionately tame.Nor wish'd she long, for such her care;Such her attractive skill;She makes e'en rovers of the air,Attentive to her will.When stormy March had ceas'd to roar,Selina joy'd to rove;And watch a Halcyon on the shore,Within a little cove.Familiariz'd by slow degrees,They met in friendly mood;'Till her bright favourite on her knees,Would perch for offer'd food.How joyous was Selina's breast,When thus she had prevail'd;Each coming of her radiant guest,How tenderly she hail'd.It seem'd her guest, so frequent here,The damsel us'd to roam;And deem'd this little cove so dear,Her palace and her home.When April's sun the coast had warm'd,New joy the nymph possest:She saw her favourite bird had form'd,A curious downy nest.How did her tender heart rejoice,What prayers she then preferred,That she might with her tuneful voice,Delight the brooding bird.Gay nature smil'd, the prayer she blest,Selina softly sung;And felt delight of higher zest;She nurst the callow young.But Oh! when human pleasures rise,To enviable height;How subtly dark misfortune flies,To crush them in her flight.One morn, as nigh the cove so dear,The quick Selina came:A sight, which caus'd her grievous fear,Convuls'd her tender frame!Near it she draws, but entrance thereA swelling sea denies;For hostile to her callow care,The cruel waters rise.Close to this cove's contracted side,Three massive stones were laid;Oft in bare sand, now scarce descried,Fresh surges round them play'd.To one, the nearest to the cell,Alarm'd, Selina wades;To mark how far the wild wave's swell,Her darling cove invades.Behold she kneels! with folded hands,Kneels on the rugged stone:Whence now her anxious eye commands,The cell once deem'd her own!How keen her anguish to survey,The tide fill half the cove;Forth from its seat, with savage sway,Her Halcyon's nest it drove.The nest now floats, and from the shore,The tortur'd parent sprung,With wildest terror hovers o'er,And shrieks around her young!Selina marks the barbarous sea,The leaky nest divide;And bold her little friends to free,She plunges in the tide!The tender sinking tribe she caught,But ah! she caught too late!More rapid, than her generous thought,Was unrelenting fate.In vain, with tender pity's clasp,To her warm breast she holdsThe young, whom death's remorseless graspIn his dark shade infolds.Off flew the parent in despair,Her heart appears to burn;Nor can the sympathetic fairPersuade her to return.She, bearing in her robe the dead,The parent calls anew;'Till rising rocks, that near them spread,Conceals her from the view.Here she despairing now to healThe wretched parent's pain,Sat on a rock, in sorrowing zeal,And kiss'd the dead again!Her tender nerves confess'd a shock,To hear a sudden gun!A smuggler's vessel from the rock,She now perceives to run.But with what grief the sound she heard;How pants her heart with dread,As she beholds her favourite birdNow fluttering o'er her head.That flutter is the gasp of death!As conscious of it's nest,It breathes to her its parting breath,And falls upon her breast!Weep not sweet nymph, with vain regret,Your favourite's lifeless state;But rather think that it has metAn enviable fate.Yes! to this gentle bird indeed,It's mercy Heaven has shewn;And in it's end you now may readAn emblem of your own.When you, dear nymph, have suffer'd allYour share of earthly woe;O may that portion be as smallAs mortal e'er may know!Close in a death, like infant's rest,Those heaven-reflecting eyes;And dropping on an angel's breast,Be wafted to the skies!
Now blest be Providence divine,Surpassing human skill!That often takes from things malign,The privilege of ill.Good folks! who love a simple strain.That seems like fancy's sound;Rejoicing, when in nature's reign,The marvellous is found,As strange a tale, as history knows,Accept in artless rhyme:An honest Greek relates in prose,This wonder of old time.The antients gloried to describe,And held such wonders dear;For of the Psylli's signal tribe,'Twas their delight to hear.The Psylli were an Afric clan,Of wond'rous power possest;Fierce snakes, of enmity to man,They could with ease divest.This gift they boasted with delight,A gift to them confin'd;Exemption from the viper's bite,Of most malignant kind.This native gift they deem'd a test,To prove their genuine race;By everytrue-bornchild possest,Not granted to thebase!In brains that burn from Afric suns,Mad jealousy will rise,Till thro' the heart the frenzy runs,And bursts all tender ties.A Lybian of this far fam'd clan,Had dream'd his wife untrue,And soon the madd'ning wretch beganHis child with hate to view.That child, which till his fatal dreamWas from base slander bred;The happy sire, with joy extreme,Had fondled, blest, and fed.And never infant more deserv'dTo prove his father's joy:Of two years old, and nobly nerv'd,A brave Herculean boy.Nature, with passion, long at strife,Contended in his breast;Till to expose his infant's life,He form'd a deadly test!No common trial would suffice,For his suspicious mind;His rage a trial would devise,Of most tremendous kind.Sansado, so the wretch was nam'd,A cruel brother taught:With equal jealousy inflam'd,To aid his barb'rous thought.Him, many a deadly snake to feed,Sansado would engage;And more, by many a noxious weed,Exasperate their rage.And now the settled day arrives,Fixt for their savage joy;To risk two unprotected lives,Poor Neela and her boy.For if, so jealous rage decreed,One reptile wounds the child;Neela upon that couch must bleed,They think she has defil'd.God save thee Neela in a strife,By nature's heart abhorr'd:And God defend each hapless wife,Who has a jealous lord!But see the brothers, bent on ill!Neela yet kind and calm,Beholds a knot of Snakes, that fillA basket made of palm!No fear her blameless mind alarms:But quick with scornful joy,One basely holds her by the arms;One grasps her fondling boy.The sire himself, with gesture wild,His thoughtless offspring takes;And seats his unoffending childAmidst these angry Snakes!Angry at first, they foam'd aroundThe boy, who on them prest;He unappall'd sat gayly crown'd,With many a shining crest!Stretching his little hands he play'd,Unconscious of a fear,With all the monsters he survey'd,And smil'd at every spear.Now free, but with a fixt disdain,Behold the mother stand!She frowns upon the brothers twain,Nor takes the proffer'd hand."Do not, dear wife, my kindness shun,Henceforth my comfort be;And let us jointly bless my son,Who witnesses for thee;"So with quick speed Sansado cried,With mingled joy and shame:The noble Neela, thus replied,With eyes of temperate flame."No, I renounce thee, and thy roof:For Heaven who shields my young,Bids me abjure thy love, not proof'Gainst slander's vip'rous tongue.""It is my duty to desertA guard I must despise:Farewell weak man, my child unhurtOn Providence relies.""Now brave; a coward he might turnBeneath thy base controul;But from his mother he shall learn,The empire of the soul."She spoke, she kept, with truth most rare,Her purpose nobly wild,And made, by her maternal care,A hero of her child.
"Can mothers of our English isle,The pride of all the earth,From any tribe of tender brutes,A mother's duly learn?"So to a shepherd of the Alps,A guest of noble birth,A traveller of English raceSaid on the swain's return;When bringing to his simple cotA Goat of signal grace,He, to his foreign guest, display'dThe ornament she wore;It was a splendid silver toy,It's folds her neck embrace,And it's rich centre, highly wrought,This grateful motto bore:Dear animal! This trinket wear,Mark of thy mental beauty!For teaching to an English fair,A mother's highest duty!"Good shepherd thou hast much to tell,Some curious tender tale,Thy kindness I with joy accept,To rest beneath thy roof;For now I see an evening stormIs sweeping o'er the vale,And here in this thy airy nestI well can sleep aloof.""But tell me, who has so adorn'dThy tame and pretty Goat?"—"Ah! sir", (the white-hair'd shepherd said,)"It was a lovely fair;A lady of the sweetest faceThat ever eyes could note,But she was plung'd in darkest depthsOf cruel craz'd despair.""My Goat her guardian angel prov'd,As she herself allow'd,And hence her little neck appearsSo brilliant and so brave;No longer mine, she has a queen,Of whom she may be proud,And sure an angel might be proudSo sweet a soul to save.""But rest, sir, on my humble bench,And take my simple cheer,And I will tell you, all you ask,With hearty frank good will:A story of no trifling sort,In truth, you have to hear,Yet, like the most of mortal scenes,A mass of good and ill.""But say, my pleasant, honest friend,"(The traveller replied,)"Where is the lovely English fair,That you so much admire?"—"Before you hear where now she goes,(And God be still her guide!)Her sufferings here let me relate,"(Rejoin'd the sighing sire.)"Of all the sufferers I have seen,She was indeed the prime,That of a deeply wounded heart,Most keenly felt the throes:'Twas agony to see her grief;And even at this time,My foolish eyes grow full of tearsIn thinking of her woes!""No! ne'er shall I forget that eve,When I beheld her first,Ah! little thought my dame and ISuch guest with us would dwell;With pity my old woman's heartWas even like to burst,When this sweet lady first implor'd,A refuge in our cell.""'I do not ask to live with you,I am not fit to live!'(The beauteous mourner meekly criedApproaching to our cot:)'Your pity, to my babe and me,Good aged friends! may giveAll that we ask; to die with you,To die, and be forgot!'""'Twas so the piteous pilgrim spake,With eyes that glisten'd wild;For privilege to die with you,We give you all our gold;For bitterer want, than want of wealth,For want of love my child,My child, must, like his mother, waste,And both will soon be cold!""So speaking, to my dame she heldA lovely little boy,Who speechless, yet seem'd sorely griev'dTo see his mother weep;My good old dame is soft of heart.And children are her joy;So she, who cherished both her guests.Soon lull'd the babe to sleep.""But sleep to that sweet lady's eyesHad seem'd to bid farewell,And sometimes she would wildly say,There's but one sleep for me!So deep her woe sunk in her heart:Tho' she was loath to tell,My tender dame, discreetly guess'd,What that deep woe must be.""By cruel man, of cruel things,Most cruel in his love!This suffering innocent had beenTo darkest frenzy driven;Tho' in it's nature her soft heartIs gentle as a dove,And, save one frantic thought, ne'er hadA fault to be forgiven!""That frantic thought was a desire,To end her wretched life;But you shall hear how nature stroveTo soothe her stormy breast:For all her struggles, one and all,She told my good old wife,And how this little darling Goat,She as her guardian-blest.""To heal her grief we both had tried,But both had tried in vain.When this dear sufferer in our shedThree mournful weeks had spent:While sleep press'd on our aged eyes,One morn in heart-felt painBearing her baby in her arms,To yon high cliff she went.""Her purpose was, as since she said,From base mankind to fly,And with her nursling on her breastTo take a fatal leap;But when she scal'd the topmost crag,That seems to touch the sky,Her little infant shriek'd to viewA precipice so deep!""His voice wak'd nature in her heart,She wish'd to die alone,And in a safe, and hollow rock,Her lovely babe she plac'd;Then thinking his pure life preserv'd,Yet bent to end her own;She to the summit mounts again,In wild and breathless haste!""The horrid precipice belowShe deems the vale of peace,And having in a parting prayerPray'd fondly for her child,She feels a wish to look yet onceBefore her sufferings cease,If calm her heaven-commended babeIn solitude has smil'd.""With this desire she gently creepsWith anxious love to viewThe mossy cove of hollow stone,Where he is softly laid;Now near that most attractive spot,By slow degrees, she drew,And there an unexpected sightShe suddenly survey'd.""It was my little darling GoatWho cherishing the boy,With copious draughts of morning milkHis grateful lips supplied;Her tears burst forth: she kneel'd, she pray'd,But now she pray'd in joy,For Heaven had kindled in her breastA mother's vital pride.""O how angelic was the lightThat on her visage shone!When now returning to our cotHer old friends she carest:And, all her wild delirium past,With self-reproof made known,The gracious wonders God had wrought,In her enlighten'd breast!""Your blessed Goat, my friends", she said,"With your indulgent leave,My comrade, thro' my future lifeMy monitor shall be;For now with heart-reform'd, I hope,I, not too late, perceive,How Heaven this tender creature sent,Tho' dumb, to lecture me.""I wish that all the earth might know,For suffering pride's relief,How this heaven-guided animalIn scenes so roughly wild;A wicked mother has reclaim'dWho lost in selfish grief,Neglected nature's highest charge,The nursing of her child!""'Twas wounded pride, my good old friends,My heart you will not blame,That rack'd my agonizing breast,And set my brain on fire;The thought to fall from honour's sphereIn undeserved shame,And see my baby, and myself;The torment of his sire!""No! No! his torment tho' preserv'd,Our lives shall never prove,His hard desertion we forgive!Desertion by constraint:From every angry passion freeMy lips shall only move,To utter blessings on his head,And never breathe complaint.""Tho' of our marriage every proofHas basely been suppresst,By his proud father's cruel guileTo wrong my babe and me:"—"My God!" (the traveller exclaims)By hope and doubt distrest,"Shepherd, if you would save my life,That lady let me see!""You must be patient noble sir,"The gentle swain rejoins,"For she beneath her brother's care,With my good dame her guide,This morning to our city wentThat in the valley shines,Upon a safe and easy mule,By turns to walk and ride.""Beneath her brother's care—you say,Then all my hope is fled,Yet no—perchance from India come,Heard you that brother's name?""O yes! from India come, like oneReturning from the dead;My blest Horatio, oft to himHis sister would exclaim!"—"Enough, good Heaven!" in transport now,In transport fondly wild,The stranger clasp'd the good old swainWith tears of tender glee;"My father! yes!" he cried, "thy careHas sav'd my wife and child!And as a father to my heartHenceforward thou shalt be.""Their sufferings rose not from my fault,But from the fault of one,Whom Heaven has call'd to his account,Whose faults I wish to hide;But vanish all ye sorrows pastIn joy's effulgent sun,And that sweet sufferer quick to cheer,Good father be my guide!""Ah noble sir! if you bestowSo dear a name on me,Allow me, with a father's fears,To check your hasty joy;If you surprise her heart with blissSo wond'rous in degree,That tender frame, you wish to save,You surely will destroy.""Be patient here, good sir, to night,As was your first intent,And by to-morrow's noon your eyesShall look on their delight;For hither they will all return,As kindly as they went,And truly when you see them all,You'll see a goodly sight.""But you must let my careful ageYour eager love restrain,And suffer me in my odd guise.Your lady to prepare;To meet a burst of mortal blissThat might o'erset the brainOf such a tender feeling soul,Most delicately fair.""Ah sir! old shepherd as I seem,I know the sex full well,In truth I studied nought beside,In all my early life;And underneath the cope of Heaven,No lady can there dwell,More worthy of the fondest care,Than your angelic wife."The good old man so charm'd his guest,As they familiar grew,The stranger to his guidance bent,Tho' born of spirit high:At last the long'd-for hour was come,On what slow wings it flew!But now the dear returning group,They from the hill descry.When he his distant friends espied,The fondly anxious swain,Station'd his guest, with beating heart,Behind his cottage door;And, in concealment, made him vow,That he would fixt remain,While cautious age pursued its plan,Within the porch before.For these a spacious shady porch,Rais'd by the shepherd's skill,With creeping foliage sweetly grac'd,Presents a pleasant seat;Most grateful to the pilgrim's sightJust mounted up the hill,And there the shepherd and the Goat,Now wait their friends to greet.And soon his favourite dog announcedHis near approaching dame,Who mounted on her mule arrived,Before her youngest guest;Supported by her brother's armThe sweet Amelia came,And bearing; with maternal pride,Her baby on her breast.Seeing the Goat, the lively babePut forth his hands and smil'd;The mother blest the grateful actWith smiles of sweeter grace,And held him to his guardian nurse,While the delighted childSuffer'd the Goat's soft shaggy lipsTo fondle o'er his face!"My Goat and I are prophets both!"The eager shepherd cried,"We both discover wond'rous good,And time will make it clear:Good for this heaven-protected babe,Our nursling and our pride,We of Amelia's lord have heard,What she will joy to hear.""Yes, tho' he must not live for me,I in his life rejoice!"With eyes where sudden joy and pain,With mingled flashes shone,The fond Amelia faintly, said,And in a troubled voice:"He for his dear Amelia lives,And lives for her alone!"So cried her latent lord, who nowRush'd from the cottage sill,And all the extacy indulgedHe could no more contain;It was a scene of speechless joy,That words would paint but ill,A moment of such joy o'erpaysA century of pain.Supremely happy, one and all,All blest their present lot,And all for England soon exchanged,That scene so sweetly wild:And well ye judge, by all these friendsThe Goat was ne'er forgot,No, she and every kid she boreWas cherish'd as a child.