Louisa, while thy pliant fingers traceThe solemn beauties of the prospect round,Or, on thy instrument, with touching grace,Awaken all the witcheries of sound:Mild, as thy manners, do the colours rise,As soft and unobtrusive meet the view;And, when the varied notes the ear surprize,We own the harmony as strictly true.Be thine the praise, alas! a gift how rare!Artless, and unpretending, to excel!Forget the envied charm of being fair,To learn the noblest science,—acting well!And let no world the seal of truth displace,Or spoil the heart's accordance with the face!
Louisa, while thy pliant fingers traceThe solemn beauties of the prospect round,Or, on thy instrument, with touching grace,Awaken all the witcheries of sound:
Louisa, while thy pliant fingers trace
The solemn beauties of the prospect round,
Or, on thy instrument, with touching grace,
Awaken all the witcheries of sound:
Mild, as thy manners, do the colours rise,As soft and unobtrusive meet the view;And, when the varied notes the ear surprize,We own the harmony as strictly true.
Mild, as thy manners, do the colours rise,
As soft and unobtrusive meet the view;
And, when the varied notes the ear surprize,
We own the harmony as strictly true.
Be thine the praise, alas! a gift how rare!Artless, and unpretending, to excel!Forget the envied charm of being fair,To learn the noblest science,—acting well!And let no world the seal of truth displace,Or spoil the heart's accordance with the face!
Be thine the praise, alas! a gift how rare!
Artless, and unpretending, to excel!
Forget the envied charm of being fair,
To learn the noblest science,—acting well!
And let no world the seal of truth displace,
Or spoil the heart's accordance with the face!
Hail! sweet Louisa! o'er these votive flow'rsFriendship and Fancy weave the joyful song,Wing with fresh rose-leaves all the train of hours,That in the distant aether float along!Like those fair flowrets given by thy hand,Like thy own beauty, blooming and serene,The vision of thy future life is plann'd,And forms a clear, a bright, and varied scene!That countenance so gentle, and so kind,That heart, which never gave a harsh decree,Suit all the turns of thy harmonious mind,And must, perforce, with destiny agree.This from the Sibyl's leaves affection drew,O, be the omen just! the promise true!
Hail! sweet Louisa! o'er these votive flow'rsFriendship and Fancy weave the joyful song,Wing with fresh rose-leaves all the train of hours,That in the distant aether float along!
Hail! sweet Louisa! o'er these votive flow'rs
Friendship and Fancy weave the joyful song,
Wing with fresh rose-leaves all the train of hours,
That in the distant aether float along!
Like those fair flowrets given by thy hand,Like thy own beauty, blooming and serene,The vision of thy future life is plann'd,And forms a clear, a bright, and varied scene!
Like those fair flowrets given by thy hand,
Like thy own beauty, blooming and serene,
The vision of thy future life is plann'd,
And forms a clear, a bright, and varied scene!
That countenance so gentle, and so kind,That heart, which never gave a harsh decree,Suit all the turns of thy harmonious mind,And must, perforce, with destiny agree.This from the Sibyl's leaves affection drew,O, be the omen just! the promise true!
That countenance so gentle, and so kind,
That heart, which never gave a harsh decree,
Suit all the turns of thy harmonious mind,
And must, perforce, with destiny agree.
This from the Sibyl's leaves affection drew,
O, be the omen just! the promise true!
Let others hail the tranquil stream,Whose glassy waters smoothly flow,And, in the undulating gleam,Reflect another world below!The yellow Conway as it raves,Demands my tributary song!When, rushing forth, resistless wavesO'er rocky fragments foam along!Like him, whose vigorous mind reviewsThe troubles which around him roll;The ceaseless warfare still pursues,And keeps a firm, undaunted soul.Though sternly bent by toil and care,The brow hang darkly o'er his eye—His features the fix'd meaning wearOf one who knows not how to sigh.It is not apathy that reigns,O'erweening arrogance, or pride,For, in his warmly-flowing veins,The genial feelings all reside.It is the breast-plate fortitudeShould still to injury oppose;It is the shield with power imbu'd,To blunt the malice of his foes.And should the savage country round,A more engaging aspect show,O Conway! it will then be found,How sweet and clear thy waters flow!The birds will dip the taper wing—The pilgrim there his thirst assuage,The wandering minstrel sit and sing,Or muse upon a distant age!Bold River! soon within the deep,Each weary strife and conflict o'er,Thy venerable waves shall sleep,And feel opposing rocks no more!
Let others hail the tranquil stream,Whose glassy waters smoothly flow,And, in the undulating gleam,Reflect another world below!
Let others hail the tranquil stream,
Whose glassy waters smoothly flow,
And, in the undulating gleam,
Reflect another world below!
The yellow Conway as it raves,Demands my tributary song!When, rushing forth, resistless wavesO'er rocky fragments foam along!
The yellow Conway as it raves,
Demands my tributary song!
When, rushing forth, resistless waves
O'er rocky fragments foam along!
Like him, whose vigorous mind reviewsThe troubles which around him roll;The ceaseless warfare still pursues,And keeps a firm, undaunted soul.
Like him, whose vigorous mind reviews
The troubles which around him roll;
The ceaseless warfare still pursues,
And keeps a firm, undaunted soul.
Though sternly bent by toil and care,The brow hang darkly o'er his eye—His features the fix'd meaning wearOf one who knows not how to sigh.
Though sternly bent by toil and care,
The brow hang darkly o'er his eye—
His features the fix'd meaning wear
Of one who knows not how to sigh.
It is not apathy that reigns,O'erweening arrogance, or pride,For, in his warmly-flowing veins,The genial feelings all reside.
It is not apathy that reigns,
O'erweening arrogance, or pride,
For, in his warmly-flowing veins,
The genial feelings all reside.
It is the breast-plate fortitudeShould still to injury oppose;It is the shield with power imbu'd,To blunt the malice of his foes.
It is the breast-plate fortitude
Should still to injury oppose;
It is the shield with power imbu'd,
To blunt the malice of his foes.
And should the savage country round,A more engaging aspect show,O Conway! it will then be found,How sweet and clear thy waters flow!
And should the savage country round,
A more engaging aspect show,
O Conway! it will then be found,
How sweet and clear thy waters flow!
The birds will dip the taper wing—The pilgrim there his thirst assuage,The wandering minstrel sit and sing,Or muse upon a distant age!
The birds will dip the taper wing—
The pilgrim there his thirst assuage,
The wandering minstrel sit and sing,
Or muse upon a distant age!
Bold River! soon within the deep,Each weary strife and conflict o'er,Thy venerable waves shall sleep,And feel opposing rocks no more!
Bold River! soon within the deep,
Each weary strife and conflict o'er,
Thy venerable waves shall sleep,
And feel opposing rocks no more!
Farewell, my pilgrim guest, farewell,A few days since thou wert unknown,None shall thy future fortunes tell,But sweetly have the moments flown!And kindness, like the sun on flowers,Soon chas'd away thy tender gloom;New-fledg'd the sable-pinion'd hours,And wove bright tints in Fancy's loom.We sought no secrets to divine,Neither thy name nor lineage knew,Our hearts alone have question'd thine,And found that all was just and true.Pass not with hasty step, I pray,Across the threshold of my door!But pause awhile, with kind delay,We shall behold thy face no more!Once only in a hundred years,The aloe's precious blossoms swell,So, in thy presence it appears,That Time has blossom'd, fare thee well!*
Farewell, my pilgrim guest, farewell,A few days since thou wert unknown,None shall thy future fortunes tell,But sweetly have the moments flown!
Farewell, my pilgrim guest, farewell,
A few days since thou wert unknown,
None shall thy future fortunes tell,
But sweetly have the moments flown!
And kindness, like the sun on flowers,Soon chas'd away thy tender gloom;New-fledg'd the sable-pinion'd hours,And wove bright tints in Fancy's loom.
And kindness, like the sun on flowers,
Soon chas'd away thy tender gloom;
New-fledg'd the sable-pinion'd hours,
And wove bright tints in Fancy's loom.
We sought no secrets to divine,Neither thy name nor lineage knew,Our hearts alone have question'd thine,And found that all was just and true.
We sought no secrets to divine,
Neither thy name nor lineage knew,
Our hearts alone have question'd thine,
And found that all was just and true.
Pass not with hasty step, I pray,Across the threshold of my door!But pause awhile, with kind delay,We shall behold thy face no more!
Pass not with hasty step, I pray,
Across the threshold of my door!
But pause awhile, with kind delay,
We shall behold thy face no more!
Once only in a hundred years,The aloe's precious blossoms swell,So, in thy presence it appears,That Time has blossom'd, fare thee well!*
Once only in a hundred years,
The aloe's precious blossoms swell,
So, in thy presence it appears,
That Time has blossom'd, fare thee well!*
Footnote:See Preface.(return)
Since I married Palemon, though happy my lot,Though my garden is pleasant, and lightsome my cot,Though love's smile, like a sunshine, I constantly see,Those blessings are all insufficient for me,I repine not at labour, I ask not for gold,But I want the sweet eyes of my friends to behold.With Palemon I think o'er the world I could roam,Though he liv'd in a desert, would make it my home.From him no allurements his Lucy could bribe,And, though timid, no dangers, no menaces drive.But the heart that can love with devotion so true,Is not cold or forgetful, my parents, to you!Oh idle declaimers! how is it ye say,That affection and tenderness fade and decay?Though so easily pain'd, they endure like a gem,And the heart and the mind imbibe colour from them!In affliction they brighten, in absence refine,And are causes of sorrow too sweet to resign.
Since I married Palemon, though happy my lot,Though my garden is pleasant, and lightsome my cot,Though love's smile, like a sunshine, I constantly see,Those blessings are all insufficient for me,I repine not at labour, I ask not for gold,But I want the sweet eyes of my friends to behold.
Since I married Palemon, though happy my lot,
Though my garden is pleasant, and lightsome my cot,
Though love's smile, like a sunshine, I constantly see,
Those blessings are all insufficient for me,
I repine not at labour, I ask not for gold,
But I want the sweet eyes of my friends to behold.
With Palemon I think o'er the world I could roam,Though he liv'd in a desert, would make it my home.From him no allurements his Lucy could bribe,And, though timid, no dangers, no menaces drive.But the heart that can love with devotion so true,Is not cold or forgetful, my parents, to you!
With Palemon I think o'er the world I could roam,
Though he liv'd in a desert, would make it my home.
From him no allurements his Lucy could bribe,
And, though timid, no dangers, no menaces drive.
But the heart that can love with devotion so true,
Is not cold or forgetful, my parents, to you!
Oh idle declaimers! how is it ye say,That affection and tenderness fade and decay?Though so easily pain'd, they endure like a gem,And the heart and the mind imbibe colour from them!In affliction they brighten, in absence refine,And are causes of sorrow too sweet to resign.
Oh idle declaimers! how is it ye say,
That affection and tenderness fade and decay?
Though so easily pain'd, they endure like a gem,
And the heart and the mind imbibe colour from them!
In affliction they brighten, in absence refine,
And are causes of sorrow too sweet to resign.
Low, heavy clouds are hanging on the hills,And half-impatient of the sun's approach,Shake sullenly their cold and languid wings!Oh! it is fine to see his morning beamsBurst on the gloom, while, in disorder'd flight,The shuddering, mournful vapours steal away;Like the tenacious spirit of a man,Shrinking from the loud voice of cheerfulness,When it breaks in, so sadly out of tune,Upon his quiet musing, and dispelsThe waking dream of a dejected heart:The dream I cherish in this solitude,In all the wanderings of my little flock,That which beguiles my loneliness, and takesIts charm and change from the surrounding scene.Oh! how unwelcome often are to meThe gayest, most exhilarating sounds!When slow and sickly Memory, tempted forthBy dint of soft persuasion, brings to lightHis treasures—and, with childish eagerness,Arranges and collects—then suddenlyTo have him startled by discordance, drag,Without discrimination, all away—And with them leap to his deep hollow cave—Not easily to be withdrawn again,Grieves one who loves to think of other times,To talk with those long silent in the grave,And pass from childhood to old age again.Behold this stony rock! whose rifted crest,Lets the rough, roaring torrent force a way,And, foaming, pour its waters on the vale!Behold them tumbling from their dizzy height,Like clouds, of more than snowy whiteness, thrownPrecipitate from heav'n, which, as they fall,Diffuse a mist, in form of glory, round!This was my darling haunt a long time past!Here, when a boy, in pleasing awe, I sate,Wistfully silent, with uplifted eye,And heart attun'd to the sad, lulling soundThey made descending. Far below my feet,Near where yon little, ruin'd cottage lies,Oft, at the pensive hour of even-tideI saw young Osborne bearing on his harp,And, trusting to an aged mother's care,His darkling steps: Beneath that falling beech,Whose wide-spread branches touch the water's edge,He lov'd to sit, and feel the freshen'd galeBreathe cool upon him.Then that falling beechWas a young, graceful tree; which, starting up,Amid the looser fragments of the rock,Rear'd boldly in the air its lofty head,While, struggling with the stone, the nervous rootsPursued their own direction, elbowing out,Their flinty neighbour; who, o'erspread with moss,Of varied hues, and deck'd with flow'ring heath,That from each fissure hung luxuriant down,Became a seat, where, king of all the scene,The harper sate, and, in sweet melodies,Now like the lark rejoicing at the dawn,Now soothing as the nightingale's sad note,Hail'd the departing sun, whose golden raysGlitter'd upon the surface of the wave,And, as a child upon its mother's armSeeks to delay the coming hour of rest,Till sudden slumbers steal upon his smilesAnd veil him in a dream of love and joy,He seem'd reluctant to withdraw his beams;And, rich in roseate beauty, for awhileKept the green waves beneath his glowing head.Kind, gentle Osborne! half a centuryHas silver'd o'er the crisp and yellow locksOf thy young auditor, but memory stillGrasps the torn record of my weary life.And finds full many a page to tell of thee!Oh! ye who have a friend ye truly love,One whom your hearts can trust, whose excellenceWas not obtruded boastingly to view,But time and happy circumstance reveal'd,Rays of quick light upon a diamondWhich else had lain unnotic'd in the waste!Oh! hasten! hasten speedily to payEach debt of fond affection! lock not upSo cautiously the tribute due to worth!Nor let reserve, as I have often done,Enslave the sweetest feelings of the soul!And hang around them like an envious mist,O'er the bright radiance of the morning star,Leaving us nothing but a spot of lightBereav'd of all its lustre! For my friend,He never knew that there was one on earth,After a parent felt the touch of death,And Love, a weeping pilgrim, turn'd awayFar from his dwelling—Oh! he never knew,That there was one who would have follow'd him,With steady kindness, even to the grave!Thou dear, neglected friend! to whom I oweAll that sustains my heart, and makes me thinkThe gift of life a blessing, Oh! forgiveThat in thy sorrows, my forgetful tongueSpake not of zeal and service; of the debtWhich gratitude was emulous to pay!I might have trimm'd the dying lamp of hope,And cheer'd the bitter hours of banishment:But Oh! my youth was fearful, and I feltSo deep an awe of that unspotted worthAnd saint-like gentleness—such a mistrustOf my own powers to tell him what I wish'd,That I resisted all my feelings claim'd,In anguish I resisted; but a spellHung o'er me and compell'd me to be mute.Methinks I still behold him! tall and fair,He had a look so tranquil and so mild,That something holy stole upon the senseWhen he appear'd; his language had such powerIn converse, that the hearer, as entrancedSate lingering on to listen; while in song,Or skill upon the many-stringed harpWas never heard his equal! Then he knewAll our old ballads, all our father's tales,All the adventurous deeds of early times,The punishment of blood or sacrilege,And the reward of virtue, when it seem'dDeserted by the world, and left alone,A prey to scorn, oppression, contumelyAnd all the ills which make the good despair.When-e'er we circled round him, one young girlWas always present, of a nicer ear,And more refin'd perception than the rest.Now she was lost in thought, while on her cheekLay silent tears—and then that cheek grew paleIn wild amazement—but, when he beganTo speak of noble deeds, she rais'd her head,Bending with looks of mingled awe and love,And zealous admiration, on the youth,Alone insensible of all around,To the soft charm of symmetry and grace,The smile intelligent, the look benign,And all the outward raiment of the soul.Yet, though he saw her not, it was his fateTo have an inward and discerning sense,Which spake of Lora's gentleness and worth.He lov'd in her the fondness of his art,And taught her many wild and simple airs,Suiting the plaintive tenor of her voice,Which he would mimic with sweet minstrelsy.When she was absent, and with strange delight,Repeat her parting words, her kind adieu,Or sweetly-spoken promise of return.And that return was prompt: she linger'd oftTill evening wet the ground with heavy dew,Or came to take her lesson in the morn,Before her father's anxious eyes unclos'd,To look upon her beauty with delight,And soothe the rugged temper of his soul,By views of future grandeur for his child:Not thinking that her elegance of mind,The modest dignity of humble worthWhich fits the low-born peasant to becomeA crowned monarch, and to wield with graceThe golden sceptre, had instructed herTo feel no paltry jealousy of power,No bold aspiring, and no wish beyondThe bounded confines of her present state:Had counsell'd her, that even mines of wealth,Could purchase nothing to content the wise,Esteem or friendship, tenderness or love:That power at best was but a heavy weight;If well employ'd, a dubious, unpaid toil,If ill, a curse, to tempt men to their fate.Her cheek had often felt the blush of shame,At his proud boasting; and her heart had sunkAt the cold arrogance that scorn'd the poor;But she was fain to turn aside, and weep,To wring her hands in secret, and to raiseThe eye of silent anguish up to heaven;For though he dearly lov'd her, he would ne'erSubmit to hear a murmur at his will.Oft with her heart oppress'd, and her blue eyesFull of unshedden tears, she bent her wayAlone to Osborne's lowly cot, and whenHer faint voice call'd the fond inquiry forth,Would say, "'tis true, my friends, that I am sad,Nay sick, with vain repining. O! I wish,That I were either indigent myself,Or that I had the power, the blessed powerOf cheering the unhappy! for I want,By kindness to prevent the act of guilt,And ward the arrows of incroaching Death,Who comes, before the time, upon his prey.Think that there should be means to stay his wrath,To purchase health, life, comfort, innocence,And yet those means withholden!"O! my heart!It dies with sorrow! and where most I love,Sheds all its bitterness; delighting stillTo tell the many miseries that flitAt times across me! Those I lightly prizePartake the sunshine of my happier hours,Although I seek them with far less delight!The loud laugh dwells not here, the sportive dance,The carol of unconscious levity,And yet how oft, how willingly I come!""Know'st thou not, Lora," cried the youthful sage,"That there are things the mind must prize aboveWhat captivates the senses! That in themShe feels no interest, and she takes no care!That though sometimes an alien, she receivesDelighted back the ensigns of her power,And takes her truant vassals into grace!That when thou bring'st to us that wounded mind,The grave of many feelings, language isAs yet too poor to utter, thou canst giveNo richer, dearer token of regard.""Were man indeed the only hope of man,I never would reprove thee for thy tears!But, they are vain! man has a surer trust!The helpless, weary, miserable wretch,Left by his fellows in the wilderness,Shall be supported in that trying hour,By a right arm, which, in his days of strength,He did not lean upon! A gracious arm,Which wounds the sick, and heals them by the stroke.O! Lora! to the Father of the world,A Judge so patient and so merciful.That he refuses not the latest sigh.Nor suffers sorrow but as means to save,Canst thou not trust the objects of thy care!"Hadst thou the power to help them—it were well,To be most anxious. To collect thy freightOf human sorrow, and, by merchandize,Exchange it for the riches of the world:For health, for comfort, nay, perchance for life,That gem of countless value, which sometimes,Not all the treasures of the East can buy,Tendered with supplications and with tears,Is often purchas'd at a petty price,Nay, in exchange for courtesy. What joyMust in that moment fill the merchant's heart,To win a jewel, kings monopolizeThe sole disposal of! Be patient then!This glorious privilege may yet be thine!Deserve it only by fulfilling allThe gentler duties that have present claimsWith cheerfulness and zeal—Let no neglectPress on thy father's age, no discontentSour thee with thy companions, no mistrustGive pain to friendship, and thy usefulnessThough calm and bounded, has no mean award."Thus, like a prophet, did he still enforceOnly the virtues and rare qualitiesCongenial with her after destiny;Yet, not foreseeing evil, he himselfWas unprepared, and when her father led,Her opposition and entreaty past,The hapless Lora forth, to promise loveAnd honour to a man, whose vacant mind,Throughout a course of long succeeding years,She vainly strove to soften and to raise,Though he had taught her patience till that hour,His own at once forsook him, and he fled.She murmur'd not, nor even seem'd to mourn,But losing all her love of solitude,Appear'd so active in each new pursuit,So wholly what her anxious father wish'd,That he repented not his cruelty.Believing in her happiness, he feltHimself the author, and became more proudOf his own wisdom: yet she often heardHis wayward taunt or querulous complaint,And, from the lordly partner of her fate,The harsher sound of ignorant rebuke.She was a matchless woman, when she lostThe timid graces of retiring youth,She still was lovely, for her shaded eyesBeam'd with a lofty sweetness, a contentBeyond the pow'r of fortune to destroy.Careless of let or hindrance, she went on,Nor shrunk nor started at the many thornsStrew'd in her toilsome path; still looking forthTo others' weal, forgetful it would seem,Perchance in heart despairing of her own.The friend, the help, the comforter of all,No voice was heard so cheerful, nor a stepSo bounding and so light. 'Twas wonderful!For I have seen her, when her polish'd armHas clasp'd the nurseling, with her face conceal'dBent fondly o'er; and I have mark'd each limbTo boast a fine expansion, as if thrill'dWith the deep feelings of maternal loveAnd aching tenderness, too highly wroughtFor happy souls to cherish! they delightIn painless joys, and, on the infant's cheek,Rounded and glowing with a finer bloomThan the wild-rose, careless imprint the kiss,Which sorrow always sanctions by a prayer.They in the radiance of its glancing eyesSee nothing to suffuse with their own tears!Borne forward on the easy wing of Time,They travel on, they scarcely meet with Thought,Or, like a summer cloud, he passes by,His shadow rests one instant, and againThe scene is calm and brilliant as before!Not so with Lora, trouble, sickness, death,Were busy with the residue of peace,When years and care had weaken'd her regrets,Veil'd the sad recollection of past days,And overgrown the softness of her mind,As the close-creeping ivy hides and rustsThe smooth and silver surface of the beech.An orphan and a widow—she becameDecisive, watchful, prudent, nay severeTo wilful disobedience or neglect;Though generous where she perceiv'd desert.She taught her children with unceasing zeal,Sought knowledge for their sakes, and, more than all,Anxious, inquisitive about the heart,Search'd all the motives, all the incidentsIn which it was unfolded; fencing stillEach treacherous failing with a double guard,And oft repeated warnings; well conceal'd,Or given with so much kindness, that they serv'dTo draw more closely every knot of love.Nor did she cease to urge her pious caresBy constant vigilance, till riper ageHad fix'd the moral sense, when, as a bowFor a long active season tightly strain'dRelaxes, tumult and contention o'er,She sunk into indulgence, glad to yieldTo mildness, nature, and herself again.Youth, e'en when wise and good, requires a change,Delights in novelty, and hears of noughtWhich suddenly it asks not to behold;And Lora's children oft assail'd her earTo let them journey to some rumour'd scene,Some feast, or village wake, or sprightly dance,Urging her still to bear them company.She lov'd to give them pleasure, and one time(The fav'rite legend of our country folkHath oft the tale repeated) as they mix'dCarelessly in the crowd, remember'd notesStruck by a harper in a distant tent,Sweet and soul-piercing as the midnight songsWhich are, they say, the harbingers of death,Flow'd on her ear—when, with impulsive spring,As if a magic spell had wing'd her feet,Fearing the sounds would vanish into air,And prove delusion ere she reach'd the spot,She forward rush'd, and soon beheld the friend,The dear companion of her youth. She seiz'dThe hand that lay upon the quivering chords,Stopping their melody and resting mute.The pause was awful—He at length exclaim'd,In a deep, laboured cry, "Ye heavenly powers!If Lora lives, the hand I feel is hers!"She could not speak, but with her other handClasp'd his, and sigh'd and rais'd her eyes to heaven,When straight the big, round tears began to flow;"And is it thee, dear Lora! Art thou comeAgain to gladden one, who never found'Mid countless who are good, a heart like thine!Oh! speak! that I may know if still my earRetains a true remembrance of that voice!For since, it has not drank so sweet a sound.""Hail happy day!" cried Lora, "which restoresThe friend whose absence I have mourn'd so long!For thou, O! Osborne! must with me return,Me and my children! They shall hear againThose counsels which inform'd their mother's heart;Gave courage in the hour of enterprize,Calmness in danger, patience under illsThat like a swarm of insects buz around,And vex the spirit which they cannot rouse.Return, my early, long-lost friend! with usThou shalt enjoy repose: our cheerful homeShall gather round thee many an honest heartWhich knows thy virtues, and will hold thee dear."She paus'd, and Osborne joyful gave assent.Fair hopes of joy engaged his faultering mind,For long-time had he dragg'd a weary life,Lone, or bereav'd of relative or friend,Careful to tend his health, and to divertHis sadness; each succeeding hour had press'dWith its slow-passing wing his gentle headDrooping and prematurely silver'd o'er,(Like snows depending on the autumn leaf)Yet warm, benevolent, serene, resign'd,And like an angel save in youth and joy.A winding path round yonder wooded hill,Leads to a spot where Nature decks herselfIn loveliness and beauty: far belowSpreads the green valley, where a silent streamTurns, like a serpent writhing in its course;And, rarified by distance, kissing heaven,In many noble and fantastic shapes,A giant range of purple mountains sleeps.Grand is the scene, and in the centre standsThe tomb of Osborne—after many yearsOf happiness and friendship, Lora rais'dThis plain memorial, and her children plac'dA mother's near, to tell succeeding yearsTheir talents and their virtue. They themselvesMore forcibly express the worth of both,For they are wise and good, without a shadeOf cold severity or selfish pride.
Low, heavy clouds are hanging on the hills,And half-impatient of the sun's approach,Shake sullenly their cold and languid wings!Oh! it is fine to see his morning beamsBurst on the gloom, while, in disorder'd flight,The shuddering, mournful vapours steal away;Like the tenacious spirit of a man,Shrinking from the loud voice of cheerfulness,When it breaks in, so sadly out of tune,Upon his quiet musing, and dispelsThe waking dream of a dejected heart:The dream I cherish in this solitude,In all the wanderings of my little flock,That which beguiles my loneliness, and takesIts charm and change from the surrounding scene.
Low, heavy clouds are hanging on the hills,
And half-impatient of the sun's approach,
Shake sullenly their cold and languid wings!
Oh! it is fine to see his morning beams
Burst on the gloom, while, in disorder'd flight,
The shuddering, mournful vapours steal away;
Like the tenacious spirit of a man,
Shrinking from the loud voice of cheerfulness,
When it breaks in, so sadly out of tune,
Upon his quiet musing, and dispels
The waking dream of a dejected heart:
The dream I cherish in this solitude,
In all the wanderings of my little flock,
That which beguiles my loneliness, and takes
Its charm and change from the surrounding scene.
Oh! how unwelcome often are to meThe gayest, most exhilarating sounds!When slow and sickly Memory, tempted forthBy dint of soft persuasion, brings to lightHis treasures—and, with childish eagerness,Arranges and collects—then suddenlyTo have him startled by discordance, drag,Without discrimination, all away—And with them leap to his deep hollow cave—Not easily to be withdrawn again,Grieves one who loves to think of other times,To talk with those long silent in the grave,And pass from childhood to old age again.
Oh! how unwelcome often are to me
The gayest, most exhilarating sounds!
When slow and sickly Memory, tempted forth
By dint of soft persuasion, brings to light
His treasures—and, with childish eagerness,
Arranges and collects—then suddenly
To have him startled by discordance, drag,
Without discrimination, all away—
And with them leap to his deep hollow cave—
Not easily to be withdrawn again,
Grieves one who loves to think of other times,
To talk with those long silent in the grave,
And pass from childhood to old age again.
Behold this stony rock! whose rifted crest,Lets the rough, roaring torrent force a way,And, foaming, pour its waters on the vale!Behold them tumbling from their dizzy height,Like clouds, of more than snowy whiteness, thrownPrecipitate from heav'n, which, as they fall,Diffuse a mist, in form of glory, round!This was my darling haunt a long time past!Here, when a boy, in pleasing awe, I sate,Wistfully silent, with uplifted eye,And heart attun'd to the sad, lulling soundThey made descending. Far below my feet,Near where yon little, ruin'd cottage lies,Oft, at the pensive hour of even-tideI saw young Osborne bearing on his harp,And, trusting to an aged mother's care,His darkling steps: Beneath that falling beech,Whose wide-spread branches touch the water's edge,He lov'd to sit, and feel the freshen'd galeBreathe cool upon him.Then that falling beechWas a young, graceful tree; which, starting up,Amid the looser fragments of the rock,Rear'd boldly in the air its lofty head,While, struggling with the stone, the nervous rootsPursued their own direction, elbowing out,Their flinty neighbour; who, o'erspread with moss,Of varied hues, and deck'd with flow'ring heath,That from each fissure hung luxuriant down,Became a seat, where, king of all the scene,The harper sate, and, in sweet melodies,Now like the lark rejoicing at the dawn,Now soothing as the nightingale's sad note,Hail'd the departing sun, whose golden raysGlitter'd upon the surface of the wave,And, as a child upon its mother's armSeeks to delay the coming hour of rest,Till sudden slumbers steal upon his smilesAnd veil him in a dream of love and joy,He seem'd reluctant to withdraw his beams;And, rich in roseate beauty, for awhileKept the green waves beneath his glowing head.
Behold this stony rock! whose rifted crest,
Lets the rough, roaring torrent force a way,
And, foaming, pour its waters on the vale!
Behold them tumbling from their dizzy height,
Like clouds, of more than snowy whiteness, thrown
Precipitate from heav'n, which, as they fall,
Diffuse a mist, in form of glory, round!
This was my darling haunt a long time past!
Here, when a boy, in pleasing awe, I sate,
Wistfully silent, with uplifted eye,
And heart attun'd to the sad, lulling sound
They made descending. Far below my feet,
Near where yon little, ruin'd cottage lies,
Oft, at the pensive hour of even-tide
I saw young Osborne bearing on his harp,
And, trusting to an aged mother's care,
His darkling steps: Beneath that falling beech,
Whose wide-spread branches touch the water's edge,
He lov'd to sit, and feel the freshen'd gale
Breathe cool upon him.Then that falling beech
Was a young, graceful tree; which, starting up,
Amid the looser fragments of the rock,
Rear'd boldly in the air its lofty head,
While, struggling with the stone, the nervous roots
Pursued their own direction, elbowing out,
Their flinty neighbour; who, o'erspread with moss,
Of varied hues, and deck'd with flow'ring heath,
That from each fissure hung luxuriant down,
Became a seat, where, king of all the scene,
The harper sate, and, in sweet melodies,
Now like the lark rejoicing at the dawn,
Now soothing as the nightingale's sad note,
Hail'd the departing sun, whose golden rays
Glitter'd upon the surface of the wave,
And, as a child upon its mother's arm
Seeks to delay the coming hour of rest,
Till sudden slumbers steal upon his smiles
And veil him in a dream of love and joy,
He seem'd reluctant to withdraw his beams;
And, rich in roseate beauty, for awhile
Kept the green waves beneath his glowing head.
Kind, gentle Osborne! half a centuryHas silver'd o'er the crisp and yellow locksOf thy young auditor, but memory stillGrasps the torn record of my weary life.And finds full many a page to tell of thee!Oh! ye who have a friend ye truly love,One whom your hearts can trust, whose excellenceWas not obtruded boastingly to view,But time and happy circumstance reveal'd,Rays of quick light upon a diamondWhich else had lain unnotic'd in the waste!Oh! hasten! hasten speedily to payEach debt of fond affection! lock not upSo cautiously the tribute due to worth!Nor let reserve, as I have often done,Enslave the sweetest feelings of the soul!And hang around them like an envious mist,O'er the bright radiance of the morning star,Leaving us nothing but a spot of lightBereav'd of all its lustre! For my friend,He never knew that there was one on earth,After a parent felt the touch of death,And Love, a weeping pilgrim, turn'd awayFar from his dwelling—Oh! he never knew,That there was one who would have follow'd him,With steady kindness, even to the grave!
Kind, gentle Osborne! half a century
Has silver'd o'er the crisp and yellow locks
Of thy young auditor, but memory still
Grasps the torn record of my weary life.
And finds full many a page to tell of thee!
Oh! ye who have a friend ye truly love,
One whom your hearts can trust, whose excellence
Was not obtruded boastingly to view,
But time and happy circumstance reveal'd,
Rays of quick light upon a diamond
Which else had lain unnotic'd in the waste!
Oh! hasten! hasten speedily to pay
Each debt of fond affection! lock not up
So cautiously the tribute due to worth!
Nor let reserve, as I have often done,
Enslave the sweetest feelings of the soul!
And hang around them like an envious mist,
O'er the bright radiance of the morning star,
Leaving us nothing but a spot of light
Bereav'd of all its lustre! For my friend,
He never knew that there was one on earth,
After a parent felt the touch of death,
And Love, a weeping pilgrim, turn'd away
Far from his dwelling—Oh! he never knew,
That there was one who would have follow'd him,
With steady kindness, even to the grave!
Thou dear, neglected friend! to whom I oweAll that sustains my heart, and makes me thinkThe gift of life a blessing, Oh! forgiveThat in thy sorrows, my forgetful tongueSpake not of zeal and service; of the debtWhich gratitude was emulous to pay!I might have trimm'd the dying lamp of hope,And cheer'd the bitter hours of banishment:But Oh! my youth was fearful, and I feltSo deep an awe of that unspotted worthAnd saint-like gentleness—such a mistrustOf my own powers to tell him what I wish'd,That I resisted all my feelings claim'd,In anguish I resisted; but a spellHung o'er me and compell'd me to be mute.
Thou dear, neglected friend! to whom I owe
All that sustains my heart, and makes me think
The gift of life a blessing, Oh! forgive
That in thy sorrows, my forgetful tongue
Spake not of zeal and service; of the debt
Which gratitude was emulous to pay!
I might have trimm'd the dying lamp of hope,
And cheer'd the bitter hours of banishment:
But Oh! my youth was fearful, and I felt
So deep an awe of that unspotted worth
And saint-like gentleness—such a mistrust
Of my own powers to tell him what I wish'd,
That I resisted all my feelings claim'd,
In anguish I resisted; but a spell
Hung o'er me and compell'd me to be mute.
Methinks I still behold him! tall and fair,He had a look so tranquil and so mild,That something holy stole upon the senseWhen he appear'd; his language had such powerIn converse, that the hearer, as entrancedSate lingering on to listen; while in song,Or skill upon the many-stringed harpWas never heard his equal! Then he knewAll our old ballads, all our father's tales,All the adventurous deeds of early times,The punishment of blood or sacrilege,And the reward of virtue, when it seem'dDeserted by the world, and left alone,A prey to scorn, oppression, contumelyAnd all the ills which make the good despair.When-e'er we circled round him, one young girlWas always present, of a nicer ear,And more refin'd perception than the rest.Now she was lost in thought, while on her cheekLay silent tears—and then that cheek grew paleIn wild amazement—but, when he beganTo speak of noble deeds, she rais'd her head,Bending with looks of mingled awe and love,And zealous admiration, on the youth,Alone insensible of all around,To the soft charm of symmetry and grace,The smile intelligent, the look benign,And all the outward raiment of the soul.Yet, though he saw her not, it was his fateTo have an inward and discerning sense,Which spake of Lora's gentleness and worth.He lov'd in her the fondness of his art,And taught her many wild and simple airs,Suiting the plaintive tenor of her voice,Which he would mimic with sweet minstrelsy.When she was absent, and with strange delight,Repeat her parting words, her kind adieu,Or sweetly-spoken promise of return.
Methinks I still behold him! tall and fair,
He had a look so tranquil and so mild,
That something holy stole upon the sense
When he appear'd; his language had such power
In converse, that the hearer, as entranced
Sate lingering on to listen; while in song,
Or skill upon the many-stringed harp
Was never heard his equal! Then he knew
All our old ballads, all our father's tales,
All the adventurous deeds of early times,
The punishment of blood or sacrilege,
And the reward of virtue, when it seem'd
Deserted by the world, and left alone,
A prey to scorn, oppression, contumely
And all the ills which make the good despair.
When-e'er we circled round him, one young girl
Was always present, of a nicer ear,
And more refin'd perception than the rest.
Now she was lost in thought, while on her cheek
Lay silent tears—and then that cheek grew pale
In wild amazement—but, when he began
To speak of noble deeds, she rais'd her head,
Bending with looks of mingled awe and love,
And zealous admiration, on the youth,
Alone insensible of all around,
To the soft charm of symmetry and grace,
The smile intelligent, the look benign,
And all the outward raiment of the soul.
Yet, though he saw her not, it was his fate
To have an inward and discerning sense,
Which spake of Lora's gentleness and worth.
He lov'd in her the fondness of his art,
And taught her many wild and simple airs,
Suiting the plaintive tenor of her voice,
Which he would mimic with sweet minstrelsy.
When she was absent, and with strange delight,
Repeat her parting words, her kind adieu,
Or sweetly-spoken promise of return.
And that return was prompt: she linger'd oftTill evening wet the ground with heavy dew,Or came to take her lesson in the morn,Before her father's anxious eyes unclos'd,To look upon her beauty with delight,And soothe the rugged temper of his soul,By views of future grandeur for his child:Not thinking that her elegance of mind,The modest dignity of humble worthWhich fits the low-born peasant to becomeA crowned monarch, and to wield with graceThe golden sceptre, had instructed herTo feel no paltry jealousy of power,No bold aspiring, and no wish beyondThe bounded confines of her present state:Had counsell'd her, that even mines of wealth,Could purchase nothing to content the wise,Esteem or friendship, tenderness or love:That power at best was but a heavy weight;If well employ'd, a dubious, unpaid toil,If ill, a curse, to tempt men to their fate.
And that return was prompt: she linger'd oft
Till evening wet the ground with heavy dew,
Or came to take her lesson in the morn,
Before her father's anxious eyes unclos'd,
To look upon her beauty with delight,
And soothe the rugged temper of his soul,
By views of future grandeur for his child:
Not thinking that her elegance of mind,
The modest dignity of humble worth
Which fits the low-born peasant to become
A crowned monarch, and to wield with grace
The golden sceptre, had instructed her
To feel no paltry jealousy of power,
No bold aspiring, and no wish beyond
The bounded confines of her present state:
Had counsell'd her, that even mines of wealth,
Could purchase nothing to content the wise,
Esteem or friendship, tenderness or love:
That power at best was but a heavy weight;
If well employ'd, a dubious, unpaid toil,
If ill, a curse, to tempt men to their fate.
Her cheek had often felt the blush of shame,At his proud boasting; and her heart had sunkAt the cold arrogance that scorn'd the poor;But she was fain to turn aside, and weep,To wring her hands in secret, and to raiseThe eye of silent anguish up to heaven;For though he dearly lov'd her, he would ne'erSubmit to hear a murmur at his will.Oft with her heart oppress'd, and her blue eyesFull of unshedden tears, she bent her wayAlone to Osborne's lowly cot, and whenHer faint voice call'd the fond inquiry forth,Would say, "'tis true, my friends, that I am sad,Nay sick, with vain repining. O! I wish,That I were either indigent myself,Or that I had the power, the blessed powerOf cheering the unhappy! for I want,By kindness to prevent the act of guilt,And ward the arrows of incroaching Death,Who comes, before the time, upon his prey.Think that there should be means to stay his wrath,To purchase health, life, comfort, innocence,And yet those means withholden!"O! my heart!It dies with sorrow! and where most I love,Sheds all its bitterness; delighting stillTo tell the many miseries that flitAt times across me! Those I lightly prizePartake the sunshine of my happier hours,Although I seek them with far less delight!The loud laugh dwells not here, the sportive dance,The carol of unconscious levity,And yet how oft, how willingly I come!"
Her cheek had often felt the blush of shame,
At his proud boasting; and her heart had sunk
At the cold arrogance that scorn'd the poor;
But she was fain to turn aside, and weep,
To wring her hands in secret, and to raise
The eye of silent anguish up to heaven;
For though he dearly lov'd her, he would ne'er
Submit to hear a murmur at his will.
Oft with her heart oppress'd, and her blue eyes
Full of unshedden tears, she bent her way
Alone to Osborne's lowly cot, and when
Her faint voice call'd the fond inquiry forth,
Would say, "'tis true, my friends, that I am sad,
Nay sick, with vain repining. O! I wish,
That I were either indigent myself,
Or that I had the power, the blessed power
Of cheering the unhappy! for I want,
By kindness to prevent the act of guilt,
And ward the arrows of incroaching Death,
Who comes, before the time, upon his prey.
Think that there should be means to stay his wrath,
To purchase health, life, comfort, innocence,
And yet those means withholden!"O! my heart!
It dies with sorrow! and where most I love,
Sheds all its bitterness; delighting still
To tell the many miseries that flit
At times across me! Those I lightly prize
Partake the sunshine of my happier hours,
Although I seek them with far less delight!
The loud laugh dwells not here, the sportive dance,
The carol of unconscious levity,
And yet how oft, how willingly I come!"
"Know'st thou not, Lora," cried the youthful sage,"That there are things the mind must prize aboveWhat captivates the senses! That in themShe feels no interest, and she takes no care!That though sometimes an alien, she receivesDelighted back the ensigns of her power,And takes her truant vassals into grace!That when thou bring'st to us that wounded mind,The grave of many feelings, language isAs yet too poor to utter, thou canst giveNo richer, dearer token of regard."
"Know'st thou not, Lora," cried the youthful sage,
"That there are things the mind must prize above
What captivates the senses! That in them
She feels no interest, and she takes no care!
That though sometimes an alien, she receives
Delighted back the ensigns of her power,
And takes her truant vassals into grace!
That when thou bring'st to us that wounded mind,
The grave of many feelings, language is
As yet too poor to utter, thou canst give
No richer, dearer token of regard."
"Were man indeed the only hope of man,I never would reprove thee for thy tears!But, they are vain! man has a surer trust!The helpless, weary, miserable wretch,Left by his fellows in the wilderness,Shall be supported in that trying hour,By a right arm, which, in his days of strength,He did not lean upon! A gracious arm,Which wounds the sick, and heals them by the stroke.O! Lora! to the Father of the world,A Judge so patient and so merciful.That he refuses not the latest sigh.Nor suffers sorrow but as means to save,Canst thou not trust the objects of thy care!
"Were man indeed the only hope of man,
I never would reprove thee for thy tears!
But, they are vain! man has a surer trust!
The helpless, weary, miserable wretch,
Left by his fellows in the wilderness,
Shall be supported in that trying hour,
By a right arm, which, in his days of strength,
He did not lean upon! A gracious arm,
Which wounds the sick, and heals them by the stroke.
O! Lora! to the Father of the world,
A Judge so patient and so merciful.
That he refuses not the latest sigh.
Nor suffers sorrow but as means to save,
Canst thou not trust the objects of thy care!
"Hadst thou the power to help them—it were well,To be most anxious. To collect thy freightOf human sorrow, and, by merchandize,Exchange it for the riches of the world:For health, for comfort, nay, perchance for life,That gem of countless value, which sometimes,Not all the treasures of the East can buy,Tendered with supplications and with tears,Is often purchas'd at a petty price,Nay, in exchange for courtesy. What joyMust in that moment fill the merchant's heart,To win a jewel, kings monopolizeThe sole disposal of! Be patient then!This glorious privilege may yet be thine!Deserve it only by fulfilling allThe gentler duties that have present claimsWith cheerfulness and zeal—Let no neglectPress on thy father's age, no discontentSour thee with thy companions, no mistrustGive pain to friendship, and thy usefulnessThough calm and bounded, has no mean award."
"Hadst thou the power to help them—it were well,
To be most anxious. To collect thy freight
Of human sorrow, and, by merchandize,
Exchange it for the riches of the world:
For health, for comfort, nay, perchance for life,
That gem of countless value, which sometimes,
Not all the treasures of the East can buy,
Tendered with supplications and with tears,
Is often purchas'd at a petty price,
Nay, in exchange for courtesy. What joy
Must in that moment fill the merchant's heart,
To win a jewel, kings monopolize
The sole disposal of! Be patient then!
This glorious privilege may yet be thine!
Deserve it only by fulfilling all
The gentler duties that have present claims
With cheerfulness and zeal—Let no neglect
Press on thy father's age, no discontent
Sour thee with thy companions, no mistrust
Give pain to friendship, and thy usefulness
Though calm and bounded, has no mean award."
Thus, like a prophet, did he still enforceOnly the virtues and rare qualitiesCongenial with her after destiny;Yet, not foreseeing evil, he himselfWas unprepared, and when her father led,Her opposition and entreaty past,The hapless Lora forth, to promise loveAnd honour to a man, whose vacant mind,Throughout a course of long succeeding years,She vainly strove to soften and to raise,Though he had taught her patience till that hour,His own at once forsook him, and he fled.
Thus, like a prophet, did he still enforce
Only the virtues and rare qualities
Congenial with her after destiny;
Yet, not foreseeing evil, he himself
Was unprepared, and when her father led,
Her opposition and entreaty past,
The hapless Lora forth, to promise love
And honour to a man, whose vacant mind,
Throughout a course of long succeeding years,
She vainly strove to soften and to raise,
Though he had taught her patience till that hour,
His own at once forsook him, and he fled.
She murmur'd not, nor even seem'd to mourn,But losing all her love of solitude,Appear'd so active in each new pursuit,So wholly what her anxious father wish'd,That he repented not his cruelty.Believing in her happiness, he feltHimself the author, and became more proudOf his own wisdom: yet she often heardHis wayward taunt or querulous complaint,And, from the lordly partner of her fate,The harsher sound of ignorant rebuke.She was a matchless woman, when she lostThe timid graces of retiring youth,She still was lovely, for her shaded eyesBeam'd with a lofty sweetness, a contentBeyond the pow'r of fortune to destroy.Careless of let or hindrance, she went on,Nor shrunk nor started at the many thornsStrew'd in her toilsome path; still looking forthTo others' weal, forgetful it would seem,Perchance in heart despairing of her own.The friend, the help, the comforter of all,No voice was heard so cheerful, nor a stepSo bounding and so light. 'Twas wonderful!For I have seen her, when her polish'd armHas clasp'd the nurseling, with her face conceal'dBent fondly o'er; and I have mark'd each limbTo boast a fine expansion, as if thrill'dWith the deep feelings of maternal loveAnd aching tenderness, too highly wroughtFor happy souls to cherish! they delightIn painless joys, and, on the infant's cheek,Rounded and glowing with a finer bloomThan the wild-rose, careless imprint the kiss,Which sorrow always sanctions by a prayer.They in the radiance of its glancing eyesSee nothing to suffuse with their own tears!Borne forward on the easy wing of Time,They travel on, they scarcely meet with Thought,Or, like a summer cloud, he passes by,His shadow rests one instant, and againThe scene is calm and brilliant as before!
She murmur'd not, nor even seem'd to mourn,
But losing all her love of solitude,
Appear'd so active in each new pursuit,
So wholly what her anxious father wish'd,
That he repented not his cruelty.
Believing in her happiness, he felt
Himself the author, and became more proud
Of his own wisdom: yet she often heard
His wayward taunt or querulous complaint,
And, from the lordly partner of her fate,
The harsher sound of ignorant rebuke.
She was a matchless woman, when she lost
The timid graces of retiring youth,
She still was lovely, for her shaded eyes
Beam'd with a lofty sweetness, a content
Beyond the pow'r of fortune to destroy.
Careless of let or hindrance, she went on,
Nor shrunk nor started at the many thorns
Strew'd in her toilsome path; still looking forth
To others' weal, forgetful it would seem,
Perchance in heart despairing of her own.
The friend, the help, the comforter of all,
No voice was heard so cheerful, nor a step
So bounding and so light. 'Twas wonderful!
For I have seen her, when her polish'd arm
Has clasp'd the nurseling, with her face conceal'd
Bent fondly o'er; and I have mark'd each limb
To boast a fine expansion, as if thrill'd
With the deep feelings of maternal love
And aching tenderness, too highly wrought
For happy souls to cherish! they delight
In painless joys, and, on the infant's cheek,
Rounded and glowing with a finer bloom
Than the wild-rose, careless imprint the kiss,
Which sorrow always sanctions by a prayer.
They in the radiance of its glancing eyes
See nothing to suffuse with their own tears!
Borne forward on the easy wing of Time,
They travel on, they scarcely meet with Thought,
Or, like a summer cloud, he passes by,
His shadow rests one instant, and again
The scene is calm and brilliant as before!
Not so with Lora, trouble, sickness, death,Were busy with the residue of peace,When years and care had weaken'd her regrets,Veil'd the sad recollection of past days,And overgrown the softness of her mind,As the close-creeping ivy hides and rustsThe smooth and silver surface of the beech.An orphan and a widow—she becameDecisive, watchful, prudent, nay severeTo wilful disobedience or neglect;Though generous where she perceiv'd desert.She taught her children with unceasing zeal,Sought knowledge for their sakes, and, more than all,Anxious, inquisitive about the heart,Search'd all the motives, all the incidentsIn which it was unfolded; fencing stillEach treacherous failing with a double guard,And oft repeated warnings; well conceal'd,Or given with so much kindness, that they serv'dTo draw more closely every knot of love.Nor did she cease to urge her pious caresBy constant vigilance, till riper ageHad fix'd the moral sense, when, as a bowFor a long active season tightly strain'dRelaxes, tumult and contention o'er,She sunk into indulgence, glad to yieldTo mildness, nature, and herself again.
Not so with Lora, trouble, sickness, death,
Were busy with the residue of peace,
When years and care had weaken'd her regrets,
Veil'd the sad recollection of past days,
And overgrown the softness of her mind,
As the close-creeping ivy hides and rusts
The smooth and silver surface of the beech.
An orphan and a widow—she became
Decisive, watchful, prudent, nay severe
To wilful disobedience or neglect;
Though generous where she perceiv'd desert.
She taught her children with unceasing zeal,
Sought knowledge for their sakes, and, more than all,
Anxious, inquisitive about the heart,
Search'd all the motives, all the incidents
In which it was unfolded; fencing still
Each treacherous failing with a double guard,
And oft repeated warnings; well conceal'd,
Or given with so much kindness, that they serv'd
To draw more closely every knot of love.
Nor did she cease to urge her pious cares
By constant vigilance, till riper age
Had fix'd the moral sense, when, as a bow
For a long active season tightly strain'd
Relaxes, tumult and contention o'er,
She sunk into indulgence, glad to yield
To mildness, nature, and herself again.
Youth, e'en when wise and good, requires a change,Delights in novelty, and hears of noughtWhich suddenly it asks not to behold;And Lora's children oft assail'd her earTo let them journey to some rumour'd scene,Some feast, or village wake, or sprightly dance,Urging her still to bear them company.She lov'd to give them pleasure, and one time(The fav'rite legend of our country folkHath oft the tale repeated) as they mix'dCarelessly in the crowd, remember'd notesStruck by a harper in a distant tent,Sweet and soul-piercing as the midnight songsWhich are, they say, the harbingers of death,Flow'd on her ear—when, with impulsive spring,As if a magic spell had wing'd her feet,Fearing the sounds would vanish into air,And prove delusion ere she reach'd the spot,She forward rush'd, and soon beheld the friend,The dear companion of her youth. She seiz'dThe hand that lay upon the quivering chords,Stopping their melody and resting mute.The pause was awful—He at length exclaim'd,In a deep, laboured cry, "Ye heavenly powers!If Lora lives, the hand I feel is hers!"She could not speak, but with her other handClasp'd his, and sigh'd and rais'd her eyes to heaven,When straight the big, round tears began to flow;"And is it thee, dear Lora! Art thou comeAgain to gladden one, who never found'Mid countless who are good, a heart like thine!Oh! speak! that I may know if still my earRetains a true remembrance of that voice!For since, it has not drank so sweet a sound."
Youth, e'en when wise and good, requires a change,
Delights in novelty, and hears of nought
Which suddenly it asks not to behold;
And Lora's children oft assail'd her ear
To let them journey to some rumour'd scene,
Some feast, or village wake, or sprightly dance,
Urging her still to bear them company.
She lov'd to give them pleasure, and one time
(The fav'rite legend of our country folk
Hath oft the tale repeated) as they mix'd
Carelessly in the crowd, remember'd notes
Struck by a harper in a distant tent,
Sweet and soul-piercing as the midnight songs
Which are, they say, the harbingers of death,
Flow'd on her ear—when, with impulsive spring,
As if a magic spell had wing'd her feet,
Fearing the sounds would vanish into air,
And prove delusion ere she reach'd the spot,
She forward rush'd, and soon beheld the friend,
The dear companion of her youth. She seiz'd
The hand that lay upon the quivering chords,
Stopping their melody and resting mute.
The pause was awful—He at length exclaim'd,
In a deep, laboured cry, "Ye heavenly powers!
If Lora lives, the hand I feel is hers!"
She could not speak, but with her other hand
Clasp'd his, and sigh'd and rais'd her eyes to heaven,
When straight the big, round tears began to flow;
"And is it thee, dear Lora! Art thou come
Again to gladden one, who never found
'Mid countless who are good, a heart like thine!
Oh! speak! that I may know if still my ear
Retains a true remembrance of that voice!
For since, it has not drank so sweet a sound."
"Hail happy day!" cried Lora, "which restoresThe friend whose absence I have mourn'd so long!For thou, O! Osborne! must with me return,Me and my children! They shall hear againThose counsels which inform'd their mother's heart;Gave courage in the hour of enterprize,Calmness in danger, patience under illsThat like a swarm of insects buz around,And vex the spirit which they cannot rouse.Return, my early, long-lost friend! with usThou shalt enjoy repose: our cheerful homeShall gather round thee many an honest heartWhich knows thy virtues, and will hold thee dear."
"Hail happy day!" cried Lora, "which restores
The friend whose absence I have mourn'd so long!
For thou, O! Osborne! must with me return,
Me and my children! They shall hear again
Those counsels which inform'd their mother's heart;
Gave courage in the hour of enterprize,
Calmness in danger, patience under ills
That like a swarm of insects buz around,
And vex the spirit which they cannot rouse.
Return, my early, long-lost friend! with us
Thou shalt enjoy repose: our cheerful home
Shall gather round thee many an honest heart
Which knows thy virtues, and will hold thee dear."
She paus'd, and Osborne joyful gave assent.Fair hopes of joy engaged his faultering mind,For long-time had he dragg'd a weary life,Lone, or bereav'd of relative or friend,Careful to tend his health, and to divertHis sadness; each succeeding hour had press'dWith its slow-passing wing his gentle headDrooping and prematurely silver'd o'er,(Like snows depending on the autumn leaf)Yet warm, benevolent, serene, resign'd,And like an angel save in youth and joy.
She paus'd, and Osborne joyful gave assent.
Fair hopes of joy engaged his faultering mind,
For long-time had he dragg'd a weary life,
Lone, or bereav'd of relative or friend,
Careful to tend his health, and to divert
His sadness; each succeeding hour had press'd
With its slow-passing wing his gentle head
Drooping and prematurely silver'd o'er,
(Like snows depending on the autumn leaf)
Yet warm, benevolent, serene, resign'd,
And like an angel save in youth and joy.
A winding path round yonder wooded hill,Leads to a spot where Nature decks herselfIn loveliness and beauty: far belowSpreads the green valley, where a silent streamTurns, like a serpent writhing in its course;And, rarified by distance, kissing heaven,In many noble and fantastic shapes,A giant range of purple mountains sleeps.Grand is the scene, and in the centre standsThe tomb of Osborne—after many yearsOf happiness and friendship, Lora rais'dThis plain memorial, and her children plac'dA mother's near, to tell succeeding yearsTheir talents and their virtue. They themselvesMore forcibly express the worth of both,For they are wise and good, without a shadeOf cold severity or selfish pride.
A winding path round yonder wooded hill,
Leads to a spot where Nature decks herself
In loveliness and beauty: far below
Spreads the green valley, where a silent stream
Turns, like a serpent writhing in its course;
And, rarified by distance, kissing heaven,
In many noble and fantastic shapes,
A giant range of purple mountains sleeps.
Grand is the scene, and in the centre stands
The tomb of Osborne—after many years
Of happiness and friendship, Lora rais'd
This plain memorial, and her children plac'd
A mother's near, to tell succeeding years
Their talents and their virtue. They themselves
More forcibly express the worth of both,
For they are wise and good, without a shade
Of cold severity or selfish pride.
Why should we think the years of lifeWill pass serenely by,When, for a day, the Sun himselfNe'er sees a cloudless sky!And, unassuming as she moves,The meek-eyed Queen of night,Meets wand'ring vapours in her pathTo dim her paler light!Then why should we in vain repineAt man's uncertain lot,That cares will equally assailThe palace and the cot?For Heaven ordains this chequer'd sceneOur mortal pow'rs t' employ;That we might know, compare, select,Be grateful, and enjoy.
Why should we think the years of lifeWill pass serenely by,When, for a day, the Sun himselfNe'er sees a cloudless sky!
Why should we think the years of life
Will pass serenely by,
When, for a day, the Sun himself
Ne'er sees a cloudless sky!
And, unassuming as she moves,The meek-eyed Queen of night,Meets wand'ring vapours in her pathTo dim her paler light!
And, unassuming as she moves,
The meek-eyed Queen of night,
Meets wand'ring vapours in her path
To dim her paler light!
Then why should we in vain repineAt man's uncertain lot,That cares will equally assailThe palace and the cot?
Then why should we in vain repine
At man's uncertain lot,
That cares will equally assail
The palace and the cot?
For Heaven ordains this chequer'd sceneOur mortal pow'rs t' employ;That we might know, compare, select,Be grateful, and enjoy.
For Heaven ordains this chequer'd scene
Our mortal pow'rs t' employ;
That we might know, compare, select,
Be grateful, and enjoy.
[For the last verse I am indebted to the pen of a Friend.]
I wander'd forth amid the flow'rs,And careless sipp'd the morning air;Nor hail'd the angel-winged hours,Nor saw that Happiness was there!Alas! I often since have weptThat Gratitude unconscious slept!For Truth and Pity then were young,And walk'd in simple, narrow bounds;Affection's meek, assuasive tongue,Had sweet, but most capricious sounds.Once, wild with scornful pride, she fled,And only turn'd to seek the dead!Oh! from a garden of delight,What fair memento did I bring!What amaranth of colours bright,To mark the promise of my spring?Behold this flow'r! its leaves are wet,With tears of lasting, vain regret!
I wander'd forth amid the flow'rs,And careless sipp'd the morning air;Nor hail'd the angel-winged hours,Nor saw that Happiness was there!Alas! I often since have weptThat Gratitude unconscious slept!
I wander'd forth amid the flow'rs,
And careless sipp'd the morning air;
Nor hail'd the angel-winged hours,
Nor saw that Happiness was there!
Alas! I often since have wept
That Gratitude unconscious slept!
For Truth and Pity then were young,And walk'd in simple, narrow bounds;Affection's meek, assuasive tongue,Had sweet, but most capricious sounds.Once, wild with scornful pride, she fled,And only turn'd to seek the dead!
For Truth and Pity then were young,
And walk'd in simple, narrow bounds;
Affection's meek, assuasive tongue,
Had sweet, but most capricious sounds.
Once, wild with scornful pride, she fled,
And only turn'd to seek the dead!
Oh! from a garden of delight,What fair memento did I bring!What amaranth of colours bright,To mark the promise of my spring?Behold this flow'r! its leaves are wet,With tears of lasting, vain regret!
Oh! from a garden of delight,
What fair memento did I bring!
What amaranth of colours bright,
To mark the promise of my spring?
Behold this flow'r! its leaves are wet,
With tears of lasting, vain regret!
"Come, mournful lute! dear echo of my woe!No stranger's tread in this lone spot I fear,Sweeter thy notes in such wild places flow,And, what is more, my Henry cannot hear!"He will not know my pain and my despair,When that dread scene arises on my view,Where my poor father would not hear my pray'r,Or grant his only child a last adieu!"He will not know that still the hour I mourn,When death all hopes of pardon snatch'd away;That still this heart by sad remembrance torn,Repeats the dreadful mandate of that day."Luckless for him has been my constant love,Luckless the destiny I bade him brave,For since a parent did our vows reprove,Sorrow was all the gift my fondness gave."Then, though I knew my father's stern command,The short-liv'd conflict of affection o'er,I offer'd to the youth my dowerless hand,And fondly reason'd thus on being poor,"'Can pomp or splendour elevate the soul,Brighten the lustre that illumes the eye!Make the rough stream of life more smoothly roll,Suppress the tear, or waft away the sigh!"'Can happiness a purer joy receive,In the proud mansions of the rich and great?Or, tell me, can the wounded bosom heaveWith blunted anguish under robes of state!"'No! Henry, no! Alas! too well you know,The misery of an affected smile,The pain of clearing the thought-clouded brow,To covet for yourself the hateful toil!"'And since my choice, and reason both approve,Since I have known you many a circling year,And time has well assur'd me of your love,Tell me, my Henry, what have I to fear?"'My father, though by worldly prudence led,Will pardon when our happiness is told.'Alas! no curses fell upon my head,But never did he more his child behold."He would not, dying, hear my ardent prayer!But, cruel! said, I leave her all my store;She wrung my doating heart with deep despair,And even now perhaps desires no more."This is the stroke which all my peace destroys,The dagger which no art can draw away,The thought which every faculty employs,Withers my bloom, and makes my strength decay."His death, his sorrows are the heavy curseThat hangs above my poor, distracted head!His dying words have scatter'd vain remorse,For vain, though bitter, are the tears I shed."And yet my father to my soul was dear,But tender pity was on Henry's side;I painted him relenting, not severe,Nor fancied I could be an orphan bride."Ah me! excuses will not cure my pain!At least, forgetfulness can little plead.A widow'd parent!—I deserv'd disdain,'Tis fit these eyes should weep, this heart should bleed!"But yet assist me heaven! to hide my grief,My waning health from love's suspicious eyes!This malady admits of no relief,And nought augments the pain, but Henry's sighs."Perhaps e'en now he wonders at my stay,Sees the white fogs of evening rise around,Comes out to seek me in my devious way,But turns not to this unfrequented ground."Alas! my love, thy anxious care is vain!Nothing can stop yon wand'rer of the sky;Nothing can long this fleeting life retain!For oh! I feel that I must shortly die."But cease my lute, this low, desponding strain,It floats too long upon the heavy air;Henry may pass and know that I complain.One moment's peace to him is worth my care."She said, and toward the cheerless mansion flew,Her slender, sylph-like form array'd in white,Not clearly seen amidst surrounding dew,Seem'd like a spirit ling'ring in its flight.Poor Henry, who had watch'd her in the shade,In aching silence list'ning to her song,At distance follow'd slowly through the glade,Pausing forgetful as he pass'd along.
"Come, mournful lute! dear echo of my woe!No stranger's tread in this lone spot I fear,Sweeter thy notes in such wild places flow,And, what is more, my Henry cannot hear!
"Come, mournful lute! dear echo of my woe!
No stranger's tread in this lone spot I fear,
Sweeter thy notes in such wild places flow,
And, what is more, my Henry cannot hear!
"He will not know my pain and my despair,When that dread scene arises on my view,Where my poor father would not hear my pray'r,Or grant his only child a last adieu!
"He will not know my pain and my despair,
When that dread scene arises on my view,
Where my poor father would not hear my pray'r,
Or grant his only child a last adieu!
"He will not know that still the hour I mourn,When death all hopes of pardon snatch'd away;That still this heart by sad remembrance torn,Repeats the dreadful mandate of that day.
"He will not know that still the hour I mourn,
When death all hopes of pardon snatch'd away;
That still this heart by sad remembrance torn,
Repeats the dreadful mandate of that day.
"Luckless for him has been my constant love,Luckless the destiny I bade him brave,For since a parent did our vows reprove,Sorrow was all the gift my fondness gave.
"Luckless for him has been my constant love,
Luckless the destiny I bade him brave,
For since a parent did our vows reprove,
Sorrow was all the gift my fondness gave.
"Then, though I knew my father's stern command,The short-liv'd conflict of affection o'er,I offer'd to the youth my dowerless hand,And fondly reason'd thus on being poor,
"Then, though I knew my father's stern command,
The short-liv'd conflict of affection o'er,
I offer'd to the youth my dowerless hand,
And fondly reason'd thus on being poor,
"'Can pomp or splendour elevate the soul,Brighten the lustre that illumes the eye!Make the rough stream of life more smoothly roll,Suppress the tear, or waft away the sigh!
"'Can pomp or splendour elevate the soul,
Brighten the lustre that illumes the eye!
Make the rough stream of life more smoothly roll,
Suppress the tear, or waft away the sigh!
"'Can happiness a purer joy receive,In the proud mansions of the rich and great?Or, tell me, can the wounded bosom heaveWith blunted anguish under robes of state!
"'Can happiness a purer joy receive,
In the proud mansions of the rich and great?
Or, tell me, can the wounded bosom heave
With blunted anguish under robes of state!
"'No! Henry, no! Alas! too well you know,The misery of an affected smile,The pain of clearing the thought-clouded brow,To covet for yourself the hateful toil!
"'No! Henry, no! Alas! too well you know,
The misery of an affected smile,
The pain of clearing the thought-clouded brow,
To covet for yourself the hateful toil!
"'And since my choice, and reason both approve,Since I have known you many a circling year,And time has well assur'd me of your love,Tell me, my Henry, what have I to fear?
"'And since my choice, and reason both approve,
Since I have known you many a circling year,
And time has well assur'd me of your love,
Tell me, my Henry, what have I to fear?
"'My father, though by worldly prudence led,Will pardon when our happiness is told.'Alas! no curses fell upon my head,But never did he more his child behold.
"'My father, though by worldly prudence led,
Will pardon when our happiness is told.'
Alas! no curses fell upon my head,
But never did he more his child behold.
"He would not, dying, hear my ardent prayer!But, cruel! said, I leave her all my store;She wrung my doating heart with deep despair,And even now perhaps desires no more.
"He would not, dying, hear my ardent prayer!
But, cruel! said, I leave her all my store;
She wrung my doating heart with deep despair,
And even now perhaps desires no more.
"This is the stroke which all my peace destroys,The dagger which no art can draw away,The thought which every faculty employs,Withers my bloom, and makes my strength decay.
"This is the stroke which all my peace destroys,
The dagger which no art can draw away,
The thought which every faculty employs,
Withers my bloom, and makes my strength decay.
"His death, his sorrows are the heavy curseThat hangs above my poor, distracted head!His dying words have scatter'd vain remorse,For vain, though bitter, are the tears I shed.
"His death, his sorrows are the heavy curse
That hangs above my poor, distracted head!
His dying words have scatter'd vain remorse,
For vain, though bitter, are the tears I shed.
"And yet my father to my soul was dear,But tender pity was on Henry's side;I painted him relenting, not severe,Nor fancied I could be an orphan bride.
"And yet my father to my soul was dear,
But tender pity was on Henry's side;
I painted him relenting, not severe,
Nor fancied I could be an orphan bride.
"Ah me! excuses will not cure my pain!At least, forgetfulness can little plead.A widow'd parent!—I deserv'd disdain,'Tis fit these eyes should weep, this heart should bleed!
"Ah me! excuses will not cure my pain!
At least, forgetfulness can little plead.
A widow'd parent!—I deserv'd disdain,
'Tis fit these eyes should weep, this heart should bleed!
"But yet assist me heaven! to hide my grief,My waning health from love's suspicious eyes!This malady admits of no relief,And nought augments the pain, but Henry's sighs.
"But yet assist me heaven! to hide my grief,
My waning health from love's suspicious eyes!
This malady admits of no relief,
And nought augments the pain, but Henry's sighs.
"Perhaps e'en now he wonders at my stay,Sees the white fogs of evening rise around,Comes out to seek me in my devious way,But turns not to this unfrequented ground.
"Perhaps e'en now he wonders at my stay,
Sees the white fogs of evening rise around,
Comes out to seek me in my devious way,
But turns not to this unfrequented ground.
"Alas! my love, thy anxious care is vain!Nothing can stop yon wand'rer of the sky;Nothing can long this fleeting life retain!For oh! I feel that I must shortly die.
"Alas! my love, thy anxious care is vain!
Nothing can stop yon wand'rer of the sky;
Nothing can long this fleeting life retain!
For oh! I feel that I must shortly die.
"But cease my lute, this low, desponding strain,It floats too long upon the heavy air;Henry may pass and know that I complain.One moment's peace to him is worth my care."
"But cease my lute, this low, desponding strain,
It floats too long upon the heavy air;
Henry may pass and know that I complain.
One moment's peace to him is worth my care."
She said, and toward the cheerless mansion flew,Her slender, sylph-like form array'd in white,Not clearly seen amidst surrounding dew,Seem'd like a spirit ling'ring in its flight.
She said, and toward the cheerless mansion flew,
Her slender, sylph-like form array'd in white,
Not clearly seen amidst surrounding dew,
Seem'd like a spirit ling'ring in its flight.
Poor Henry, who had watch'd her in the shade,In aching silence list'ning to her song,At distance follow'd slowly through the glade,Pausing forgetful as he pass'd along.
Poor Henry, who had watch'd her in the shade,
In aching silence list'ning to her song,
At distance follow'd slowly through the glade,
Pausing forgetful as he pass'd along.
O bend thy head, sweet morning flow'r!And look not up so fresh and bright!The keen, harsh wind, the heavy show'r,Will spoil thy beauties ere the night.I grieve to see thee look so gay.And so unconscious of thy lot,For gloom and tempests wait thy day,And thou, unhappy, fear'st it not!Thy tender leaflets all unfold,Their colours ripen and refine,Become most lovely to behold,And, ah! most apt to shrink and pine.Then, bend thy head, sweet morning flow'r!I grieve to see thee look so gay!Close thy soft wings against the show'r,And wait a more auspicious day!
O bend thy head, sweet morning flow'r!And look not up so fresh and bright!The keen, harsh wind, the heavy show'r,Will spoil thy beauties ere the night.
O bend thy head, sweet morning flow'r!
And look not up so fresh and bright!
The keen, harsh wind, the heavy show'r,
Will spoil thy beauties ere the night.
I grieve to see thee look so gay.And so unconscious of thy lot,For gloom and tempests wait thy day,And thou, unhappy, fear'st it not!
I grieve to see thee look so gay.
And so unconscious of thy lot,
For gloom and tempests wait thy day,
And thou, unhappy, fear'st it not!
Thy tender leaflets all unfold,Their colours ripen and refine,Become most lovely to behold,And, ah! most apt to shrink and pine.
Thy tender leaflets all unfold,
Their colours ripen and refine,
Become most lovely to behold,
And, ah! most apt to shrink and pine.
Then, bend thy head, sweet morning flow'r!I grieve to see thee look so gay!Close thy soft wings against the show'r,And wait a more auspicious day!
Then, bend thy head, sweet morning flow'r!
I grieve to see thee look so gay!
Close thy soft wings against the show'r,
And wait a more auspicious day!
"And beats my heart again with joy!And dances now my spirit light!The skiff that holds my darling boyThis moment burst upon my sight!"Not yet distinctly I perceiveAmid the crew his well-known form,But still his safety I believe,I know he has escap'd the storm."I feel as if my heart had wings,And tender from excess of bliss,His form, which airy fancy brings,In fond emotion seem to kiss."Welcome the wild, imperfect rest,Which these bewilder'd spirits share!Welcome this tumult of the breast,After the shudder of despair!"My Robert he is brave and strong,He will these flowing tears reprove.Alas! how little know the young,The tremor of a Mother's love."For we are weak from many a care,From many a sleepless, anxious hour,When fear and hope the bosom tear,And ride the brain with fevering power."But lo! he cheerly waves his hand!I hear his voice! I see his face!And eager now he springs to land,To meet a Mother's fond embrace!"This failing heart! but joy to me,If heaven in pity is thy guard;And of the pangs I feel for thee,Protection be the dear reward!"
"And beats my heart again with joy!And dances now my spirit light!The skiff that holds my darling boyThis moment burst upon my sight!
"And beats my heart again with joy!
And dances now my spirit light!
The skiff that holds my darling boy
This moment burst upon my sight!
"Not yet distinctly I perceiveAmid the crew his well-known form,But still his safety I believe,I know he has escap'd the storm.
"Not yet distinctly I perceive
Amid the crew his well-known form,
But still his safety I believe,
I know he has escap'd the storm.
"I feel as if my heart had wings,And tender from excess of bliss,His form, which airy fancy brings,In fond emotion seem to kiss.
"I feel as if my heart had wings,
And tender from excess of bliss,
His form, which airy fancy brings,
In fond emotion seem to kiss.
"Welcome the wild, imperfect rest,Which these bewilder'd spirits share!Welcome this tumult of the breast,After the shudder of despair!
"Welcome the wild, imperfect rest,
Which these bewilder'd spirits share!
Welcome this tumult of the breast,
After the shudder of despair!
"My Robert he is brave and strong,He will these flowing tears reprove.Alas! how little know the young,The tremor of a Mother's love.
"My Robert he is brave and strong,
He will these flowing tears reprove.
Alas! how little know the young,
The tremor of a Mother's love.
"For we are weak from many a care,From many a sleepless, anxious hour,When fear and hope the bosom tear,And ride the brain with fevering power.
"For we are weak from many a care,
From many a sleepless, anxious hour,
When fear and hope the bosom tear,
And ride the brain with fevering power.
"But lo! he cheerly waves his hand!I hear his voice! I see his face!And eager now he springs to land,To meet a Mother's fond embrace!
"But lo! he cheerly waves his hand!
I hear his voice! I see his face!
And eager now he springs to land,
To meet a Mother's fond embrace!
"This failing heart! but joy to me,If heaven in pity is thy guard;And of the pangs I feel for thee,Protection be the dear reward!"
"This failing heart! but joy to me,
If heaven in pity is thy guard;
And of the pangs I feel for thee,
Protection be the dear reward!"
"Arrest thy steps! On these sad plains,Fair dame, no farther go!But listen to the martial strains,Whose wildness speaks of woe!Hark! strife is forward on the field,I hear the trumpet's bray!Now spear to spear, and shield to shield,Decides the dreadful day!Unfit for thee, oh! Lady fair!The scenes where men engage;Thy gentle spirit could not bearThe fearful battle's rage.""I prithee, stranger, let me fly!Though pallid is my cheek,The lightning's flash delights my eye,I love the thunder's break.And oft beneath our castle tow'rs,When tempests rush'd along,My steady hand has painted flowers,Or voice has rais'd the song.""Oh Lady! that bewilder'd eyeIs red with recent tears;Already that heart-startling sighProclaims thy anxious fears.Then let a stranger's words prevail,Nor thus in danger roam!Here many frightful ills assail,But safety is at home!""No, in some peasant's lowly cotPerhaps she may abide,To consecrate the humble spot,But not where I reside.In Hubert's halls, my father's foe,From childhood have I dwelt,And for his wily murderer too,A filial fondness felt.Ah me! how often have I press'dThe lips which seal'd his doom!How oft the cruel hand caress'dWhich sent him to the tomb!My nurse reveal'd the dreadful truth,And, as she told the tale,A sickly blight pass'd o'er my youth,And turn'd its roses pale.The heavy secret on my heartLike deadly poison prey'd;For she forbade me to impartA word of what she said.I, who so blithely sung before,So peacefully had slept,Fancied gaunt murder at the door,And listen'd, shook, and wept.No longer with an open smile,I greeted all around;My fearful looks were fix'd the while,In terror on the ground.All saw the change, and kindly stroveMy sadness to relieve;Base Hubert feign'd a parent's love,Which could not see me grieve.A painful anger flush'd my cheek,My lip indignant smil'd,I cried, "And did he e'er bespeakThy friendship for his child?""Ellen! when death was drawing nigh,Thou wert his only care;Oh! guard her, Hubert, if I die,It is my latest prayer.To none, dear friend, but thee," he cried,"Whose love and truth are known,Could I this precious charge confide,To cherish, as thy own!"I pledg'd my honour, to fulfilMy dearest friend's desire!And I have ever acted still,As honour's laws require!Thy mind, dear Ellen, is the proofOf my paternal care,Since form'd beneath this friendly roof,So excellent and fair.Then why that cloud upon thy brow,That sullen, fearful sigh!That something which we must not know,That cold and altered eye?Why must thy proud, suspicious air,Give every heart a pain?Why must my son, my Edgar bearUnmerited disdain?"I hung my bead, my fault'ring tongueIn feeble murmurs spoke,His specious art my bosom wrung,I shudder'd at his look.And thus, bewildered with my woes,I faint and careless rove;For oh! I cannot dwell with thoseI must no longer love.""Fair lady, calm that anxious heart,And to my voice attend!Thy father died by Hubert's dart,And yet he was his friend.For Lancaster Sir Philip rose,And many a Yorkist slew;Till, singling him amidst his foes,Lord Hubert's arrow flew.But soon we saw the victor standBeside, in sorrow drown'd;And soon Sir Philip took the hand,Which gave the deadly wound."My friend, unweeting was thy aim,And is by me forgiv'n,But oh! one sacred oath I claim,In sight of men, and heav'n!Oh! promise with a father's zeal,My Ellen to protect!Nor let her like an orphan feelDependence, and neglect!And then, almost without regret,I can my charge resign;For, during life, I never metSo true a heart as thine."Lord Hubert pledg'd his sacred word,He wept, and, kneeling, swore,In England ne'er to wield a sword,Or shoot an arrow more.From civil war, whose daily crimesThis island long shall rue,From all the evil of the times,In anguish he withdrew.I wonder that, by nature bold,He stoop'd to wear disguise,Or leave the hapless tale untold,Which wakens thy surprise!Yet the sad shame that fill'd his breast,May well thy pity crave,A turtle dove may build her nestUpon thy father's grave—""Stranger, that warrior from the east,Who comes with headlong speed,Is Edgar, Hubert's son, at least,He rides on Edgar's steed!""Be calm, fair maid! Thou gallant knight,Who speedest o'er the plain,Give us some tidings of the fight,The victor and the slain!One moment stay! for many a careNow fills us with alarm!Is Edward King? Is Hubert's heir,Escap'd from death and harm?""The sun of Lancaster is set,And never more to rise;"Return'd the knight, "I know not yetIf Edgar lives or dies!"And scarce he check'd the flowing rein,In hurried accents spoke,And, dull and hollow was the strainThat through the helmet broke."Where is he?" shriek'd fair Ellen forth,He started at the sound,And, leaping sudden on the earth,His armour rang around."Queen of my destiny!" he cried,"Thy faithful Edgar see!Whose welfare thou canst best decide,For it depends on thee!I sav'd our youthful Monarch's life,Whose bounteous hand accords,A dower to grace the noblest wifeThat England's realm affords.With thee his splendid gifts I share,Or soon this youthful headA solemn monk's dark cowl shall wear,To love and glory dead.Perhaps that tear upon thy cheekForetels a milder doom!Thou wilt again our mansion seek,Oh! let me lead thee home!"
"Arrest thy steps! On these sad plains,Fair dame, no farther go!But listen to the martial strains,Whose wildness speaks of woe!
"Arrest thy steps! On these sad plains,
Fair dame, no farther go!
But listen to the martial strains,
Whose wildness speaks of woe!
Hark! strife is forward on the field,I hear the trumpet's bray!Now spear to spear, and shield to shield,Decides the dreadful day!
Hark! strife is forward on the field,
I hear the trumpet's bray!
Now spear to spear, and shield to shield,
Decides the dreadful day!
Unfit for thee, oh! Lady fair!The scenes where men engage;Thy gentle spirit could not bearThe fearful battle's rage."
Unfit for thee, oh! Lady fair!
The scenes where men engage;
Thy gentle spirit could not bear
The fearful battle's rage."
"I prithee, stranger, let me fly!Though pallid is my cheek,The lightning's flash delights my eye,I love the thunder's break.
"I prithee, stranger, let me fly!
Though pallid is my cheek,
The lightning's flash delights my eye,
I love the thunder's break.
And oft beneath our castle tow'rs,When tempests rush'd along,My steady hand has painted flowers,Or voice has rais'd the song."
And oft beneath our castle tow'rs,
When tempests rush'd along,
My steady hand has painted flowers,
Or voice has rais'd the song."
"Oh Lady! that bewilder'd eyeIs red with recent tears;Already that heart-startling sighProclaims thy anxious fears.
"Oh Lady! that bewilder'd eye
Is red with recent tears;
Already that heart-startling sigh
Proclaims thy anxious fears.
Then let a stranger's words prevail,Nor thus in danger roam!Here many frightful ills assail,But safety is at home!"
Then let a stranger's words prevail,
Nor thus in danger roam!
Here many frightful ills assail,
But safety is at home!"
"No, in some peasant's lowly cotPerhaps she may abide,To consecrate the humble spot,But not where I reside.
"No, in some peasant's lowly cot
Perhaps she may abide,
To consecrate the humble spot,
But not where I reside.
In Hubert's halls, my father's foe,From childhood have I dwelt,And for his wily murderer too,A filial fondness felt.
In Hubert's halls, my father's foe,
From childhood have I dwelt,
And for his wily murderer too,
A filial fondness felt.
Ah me! how often have I press'dThe lips which seal'd his doom!How oft the cruel hand caress'dWhich sent him to the tomb!
Ah me! how often have I press'd
The lips which seal'd his doom!
How oft the cruel hand caress'd
Which sent him to the tomb!
My nurse reveal'd the dreadful truth,And, as she told the tale,A sickly blight pass'd o'er my youth,And turn'd its roses pale.
My nurse reveal'd the dreadful truth,
And, as she told the tale,
A sickly blight pass'd o'er my youth,
And turn'd its roses pale.
The heavy secret on my heartLike deadly poison prey'd;For she forbade me to impartA word of what she said.
The heavy secret on my heart
Like deadly poison prey'd;
For she forbade me to impart
A word of what she said.
I, who so blithely sung before,So peacefully had slept,Fancied gaunt murder at the door,And listen'd, shook, and wept.
I, who so blithely sung before,
So peacefully had slept,
Fancied gaunt murder at the door,
And listen'd, shook, and wept.
No longer with an open smile,I greeted all around;My fearful looks were fix'd the while,In terror on the ground.
No longer with an open smile,
I greeted all around;
My fearful looks were fix'd the while,
In terror on the ground.
All saw the change, and kindly stroveMy sadness to relieve;Base Hubert feign'd a parent's love,Which could not see me grieve.
All saw the change, and kindly strove
My sadness to relieve;
Base Hubert feign'd a parent's love,
Which could not see me grieve.
A painful anger flush'd my cheek,My lip indignant smil'd,I cried, "And did he e'er bespeakThy friendship for his child?"
A painful anger flush'd my cheek,
My lip indignant smil'd,
I cried, "And did he e'er bespeak
Thy friendship for his child?"
"Ellen! when death was drawing nigh,Thou wert his only care;Oh! guard her, Hubert, if I die,It is my latest prayer.
"Ellen! when death was drawing nigh,
Thou wert his only care;
Oh! guard her, Hubert, if I die,
It is my latest prayer.
To none, dear friend, but thee," he cried,"Whose love and truth are known,Could I this precious charge confide,To cherish, as thy own!"
To none, dear friend, but thee," he cried,
"Whose love and truth are known,
Could I this precious charge confide,
To cherish, as thy own!"
I pledg'd my honour, to fulfilMy dearest friend's desire!And I have ever acted still,As honour's laws require!
I pledg'd my honour, to fulfil
My dearest friend's desire!
And I have ever acted still,
As honour's laws require!
Thy mind, dear Ellen, is the proofOf my paternal care,Since form'd beneath this friendly roof,So excellent and fair.
Thy mind, dear Ellen, is the proof
Of my paternal care,
Since form'd beneath this friendly roof,
So excellent and fair.
Then why that cloud upon thy brow,That sullen, fearful sigh!That something which we must not know,That cold and altered eye?
Then why that cloud upon thy brow,
That sullen, fearful sigh!
That something which we must not know,
That cold and altered eye?
Why must thy proud, suspicious air,Give every heart a pain?Why must my son, my Edgar bearUnmerited disdain?"
Why must thy proud, suspicious air,
Give every heart a pain?
Why must my son, my Edgar bear
Unmerited disdain?"
I hung my bead, my fault'ring tongueIn feeble murmurs spoke,His specious art my bosom wrung,I shudder'd at his look.
I hung my bead, my fault'ring tongue
In feeble murmurs spoke,
His specious art my bosom wrung,
I shudder'd at his look.
And thus, bewildered with my woes,I faint and careless rove;For oh! I cannot dwell with thoseI must no longer love."
And thus, bewildered with my woes,
I faint and careless rove;
For oh! I cannot dwell with those
I must no longer love."
"Fair lady, calm that anxious heart,And to my voice attend!Thy father died by Hubert's dart,And yet he was his friend.
"Fair lady, calm that anxious heart,
And to my voice attend!
Thy father died by Hubert's dart,
And yet he was his friend.
For Lancaster Sir Philip rose,And many a Yorkist slew;Till, singling him amidst his foes,Lord Hubert's arrow flew.
For Lancaster Sir Philip rose,
And many a Yorkist slew;
Till, singling him amidst his foes,
Lord Hubert's arrow flew.
But soon we saw the victor standBeside, in sorrow drown'd;And soon Sir Philip took the hand,Which gave the deadly wound.
But soon we saw the victor stand
Beside, in sorrow drown'd;
And soon Sir Philip took the hand,
Which gave the deadly wound.
"My friend, unweeting was thy aim,And is by me forgiv'n,But oh! one sacred oath I claim,In sight of men, and heav'n!
"My friend, unweeting was thy aim,
And is by me forgiv'n,
But oh! one sacred oath I claim,
In sight of men, and heav'n!
Oh! promise with a father's zeal,My Ellen to protect!Nor let her like an orphan feelDependence, and neglect!
Oh! promise with a father's zeal,
My Ellen to protect!
Nor let her like an orphan feel
Dependence, and neglect!
And then, almost without regret,I can my charge resign;For, during life, I never metSo true a heart as thine."
And then, almost without regret,
I can my charge resign;
For, during life, I never met
So true a heart as thine."
Lord Hubert pledg'd his sacred word,He wept, and, kneeling, swore,In England ne'er to wield a sword,Or shoot an arrow more.
Lord Hubert pledg'd his sacred word,
He wept, and, kneeling, swore,
In England ne'er to wield a sword,
Or shoot an arrow more.
From civil war, whose daily crimesThis island long shall rue,From all the evil of the times,In anguish he withdrew.
From civil war, whose daily crimes
This island long shall rue,
From all the evil of the times,
In anguish he withdrew.
I wonder that, by nature bold,He stoop'd to wear disguise,Or leave the hapless tale untold,Which wakens thy surprise!
I wonder that, by nature bold,
He stoop'd to wear disguise,
Or leave the hapless tale untold,
Which wakens thy surprise!
Yet the sad shame that fill'd his breast,May well thy pity crave,A turtle dove may build her nestUpon thy father's grave—"
Yet the sad shame that fill'd his breast,
May well thy pity crave,
A turtle dove may build her nest
Upon thy father's grave—"
"Stranger, that warrior from the east,Who comes with headlong speed,Is Edgar, Hubert's son, at least,He rides on Edgar's steed!"
"Stranger, that warrior from the east,
Who comes with headlong speed,
Is Edgar, Hubert's son, at least,
He rides on Edgar's steed!"
"Be calm, fair maid! Thou gallant knight,Who speedest o'er the plain,Give us some tidings of the fight,The victor and the slain!
"Be calm, fair maid! Thou gallant knight,
Who speedest o'er the plain,
Give us some tidings of the fight,
The victor and the slain!
One moment stay! for many a careNow fills us with alarm!Is Edward King? Is Hubert's heir,Escap'd from death and harm?"
One moment stay! for many a care
Now fills us with alarm!
Is Edward King? Is Hubert's heir,
Escap'd from death and harm?"
"The sun of Lancaster is set,And never more to rise;"Return'd the knight, "I know not yetIf Edgar lives or dies!"
"The sun of Lancaster is set,
And never more to rise;"
Return'd the knight, "I know not yet
If Edgar lives or dies!"
And scarce he check'd the flowing rein,In hurried accents spoke,And, dull and hollow was the strainThat through the helmet broke.
And scarce he check'd the flowing rein,
In hurried accents spoke,
And, dull and hollow was the strain
That through the helmet broke.
"Where is he?" shriek'd fair Ellen forth,He started at the sound,And, leaping sudden on the earth,His armour rang around.
"Where is he?" shriek'd fair Ellen forth,
He started at the sound,
And, leaping sudden on the earth,
His armour rang around.
"Queen of my destiny!" he cried,"Thy faithful Edgar see!Whose welfare thou canst best decide,For it depends on thee!
"Queen of my destiny!" he cried,
"Thy faithful Edgar see!
Whose welfare thou canst best decide,
For it depends on thee!
I sav'd our youthful Monarch's life,Whose bounteous hand accords,A dower to grace the noblest wifeThat England's realm affords.
I sav'd our youthful Monarch's life,
Whose bounteous hand accords,
A dower to grace the noblest wife
That England's realm affords.
With thee his splendid gifts I share,Or soon this youthful headA solemn monk's dark cowl shall wear,To love and glory dead.
With thee his splendid gifts I share,
Or soon this youthful head
A solemn monk's dark cowl shall wear,
To love and glory dead.
Perhaps that tear upon thy cheekForetels a milder doom!Thou wilt again our mansion seek,Oh! let me lead thee home!"
Perhaps that tear upon thy cheek
Foretels a milder doom!
Thou wilt again our mansion seek,
Oh! let me lead thee home!"