JOHN, SAMUEL, & RICHARD.
(Time, Evening.)
'Tis a calm pleasant evening, the light fades away,And the Sun going down has done watch for the day.To my mind we live wonderous well when transported,It is but to work and we must be supported.Fill the cann, Dick! success here to Botany Bay!
Success if you will,—but God send me away.
Ah! you lubberly landsmen don't know when you're well;Hadst thou known half the hardships of which I can tell!The sailor has no place of safety in store—From the tempest at sea, to the press-gang on shore!When Roguery rules all the rest of the earth,God be thanked in this corner I've got a good birth.Talk of hardships! what these are the sailor don't know!'Tis the soldier my friend that's acquainted with woe,Long journeys, short halting, hard work and small pay,To be popt at like pidgeons for sixpence a day!—Thank God! I'm safe quarter'd at Botany Bay.
Ah! you know but little! I'll wager a potI have suffer'd more evils than fell to your lot.Come we'll have it all fairly and properly tried,Tell story for story, and Dick shall decide.
Done.
Done. 'Tis a wager and I shall be winner;Thou wilt go without grog Sam to-morrow at dinner.
I was trapp'd by the Serjeant's palavering pretences,He listed me when I was out of my senses.So I took leave to-day of all care and all sorrowAnd was drill'd to repentance and reason to-morrow.
I would be a sailor and plough the wide ocean,And was soon sick and sad with the billow's commotion.So the Captain he sent me aloft on the mast,And curs'd me, and bid me cry there—and hold fast!
After marching all day, faint and hungry and sore,I have lain down at night on the swamps of the moor,Unshelter'd and forced by fatigue to remain.All chill'd by the wind and benumb'd by the rain.
I have rode out the storm when the billows beat highAnd the red gleaming lightnings flash'd thro' the dark sky,When the tempest of night the black sea overcastWet and weary I labour'd, yet sung to the blast.
I have march'd, trumpets sounding—drums beating—flags flying,Where the music of war drown'd the shrieks of the dying,When the shots whizz'd around me all dangers defied,Push'd on when my comrades fell dead at my side,Drove the foe from the mouth of the Cannon away,Fought, conquer'd and bled, all for sixpence a day.
And I too friend Samuel! have heard the shots rattle,But we seamen rejoice in the play of the battle;Tho' the chain and the grape-shot roll splintering around,With the blood of our messmates tho' slippery the ground,The fiercer the fight, still the fiercer we grow,We heed not our loss so we conquer the foe.And the hard battle won, so the prize be not sunk,The Captain gets rich, and the Sailors get drunk.
God help the poor soldier when backward he goesIn disgraceful retreat thro' a country of foes!No respite from danger by day or by nightHe is still forced to fly, still o'ertaken to fight,Every step that he takes he must battle his way,He must force his hard meal from the peasant away;No rest—and no hope, from all succour afar,God forgive the poor Soldier for going to the war!
But what are these dangers to those I have pastWhen the dark billows roar'd to the roar of the blast?When we work'd at the pumps worn with labour and weakAnd with dread still beheld the increase of the leak,Sometimes as we rose on the wave could our sightFrom the rocks of the shore catch the light-houses light;In vain to the beach to assist us they press,We fire faster and faster our guns of distress,Still with rage unabating the wind and waves roar—How the giddy wreck reels—as the billows burst o'er—Leap—leap—for she yawns—for she sinks in the wave—Call on God to preserve—for God only can save!
There's an end of all troubles however at last!And when I in the waggon of wounded was cast,When my wounds with the chilly night-wind smarted soreAnd I thought of the friends I should never see more,No hand to relieve—scarce a morsel of bread—Sick at heart I have envied the peace of the dead!Left to rot in a jail till by treaty set free,Old England's white cliffs with what joy did I see!I had gain'd enough glory, some wounds, but no good,And was turn'd on the public to shift how I could.When I think what I've suffer'd and where I am nowI curse him who snared me away from the plough.
When I was discharged I went home to my wife,There in comfort to spend all the rest of my life.My wife was industrious, we earn'd what we spent,And tho' little we had, were with little content;And whenever I listen'd and heard the wind roar,I bless'd God for my little snug cabin on shore.At midnight they seiz'd me, they dragg'd me away,They wounded me sore when I would not obey,And because for my country I'd ventur'd my life,I was dragg'd like a thief from my home and my wife.Then the fair wind of Fortune chopp'd round in my faceAnd Want at length drove me to guilt and disgrace—But all's for the best;—on the world's wide sea cast,I am haven'd in peace in this corner at last.
Come Dick! we have done—and for judgment we call.
And in faith I can give ye no judgment at all.I've been listening to all the hard labours you've pastAnd think in plain troth, you're two blockheads at last.My lads where the Deuce was the wit which God gave yeWhen you sold yourselves first to the army or navy?By land and by sea hunting dangers to roam,When you might have been hang'd so much easier at home!But you're now snug and settled and safe from foul weather,So drink up your grog and be merry together.
(Time Night. Scene the woods.)
Where shall I turn me? whither shall I bendMy weary way? thus worn with toil and faintHow thro' the thorny mazes of this woodAttain my distant dwelling? that deep cryThat rings along the forest seems to soundMy parting knell: it is the midnight howlOf hungry monsters prowling for their prey!Again! oh save me—save me gracious Heaven!I am not fit to die!Thou coward wretchWhy heaves thy trembling heart? why shake thy limbsBeneath their palsied burden? is there oughtSo lovely in existence? would'st thou drainEven to its dregs the bitter draught of life?Dash down the loathly bowl! poor outcast slaveStamp'd with the brand of Vice and InfamyWhy should the villain Frederic shrink from Death?
Death! where the magic in that empty nameThat chills my inmost heart? why at the thoughtStarts the cold dew of fear on every limb?There are no terrors to surround the Grave,When the calm Mind collected in itselfSurveys that narrow house: the ghastly trainThat haunt the midnight of delirious GuiltThen vanish; in that home of endless restAll sorrows cease.—Would I might slumber there!
Why then this panting of the fearful heart?This miser love of Life that dreads to loseIts cherish'd torment? shall the diseased manYield up his members to the surgeon's knife,Doubtful of succour, but to ease his frameOf fleshly anguish, and the coward wretch,Whose ulcered soul can know no human helpShrink from the best Physician's certain aid?Oh it were better far to lay me downHere on this cold damp earth, till some wild beastSeize on his willing victim!
If to dieWere all, it were most sweet to rest my headOn the cold clod, and sleep the sleep of Death.But if the Archangel's trump at the last hourStartle the ear of Death and wake the soulTo frenzy!—dreams of infancy! fit talesFor garrulous beldames to affrighten babes!I have been guilty, yet my mind can bearThe retrospect of guilt, yet in the hourOf deep contrition to THE ETERNAL lookFor mercy! for the child of Poverty,And "disinherited of happiness,"
What if I warr'd upon the world? the worldHad wrong'd me first: I had endur'd the illsOf hard injustice; all this goodly earthWas but to me one wild waste wilderness;I had no share in Nature's patrimony,Blasted were all my morning hopes of Youth,Dark DISAPPOINTMENT follow'd on my ways,CARE was my bosom inmate, and keen WANTGnaw'd at my heart. ETERNAL ONE thou know'stHow that poor heart even in the bitter hourOf lewdest revelry has inly yearn'dFor peace!
My FATHER! I will call on thee,Pour to thy mercy seat my earnest prayer,And wait thy peace in bowedness of soul.Oh thoughts of comfort! how the afflicted heart,Tired with the tempest of its passions, restsOn you with holy hope! the hollow howlOf yonder harmless tenant of the woodsBursts not with terror on the sober'd sense.If I have sinn'd against mankind, on themBe that past sin; they made me what I was.In these extremest climes can Want no moreUrge to the deeds of darkness, and at lengthHere shall I rest. What tho' my hut be poor—The rains descend not thro' its humble roof:Would I were there again! the night is cold;And what if in my wanderings I should rouseThe savage from his thicket!
Hark! the gun!And lo—the fire of safety! I shall reachMy little hut again! again by toilForce from the stubborn earth my sustenance,And quick-ear'd guilt will never start alarm'dAmid the well-earn'd meal. This felon's garb—Will it not shield me from the winds of Heaven?And what could purple more? Oh strengthen meEternal One in this serener state!Cleanse thou mine heart, so PENITENCE and FAITHShall heal my soul and my last days be peace.
Sonnets
Go Valentine and tell that lovely maidWhom Fancy still will pourtray to my sight,How her Bard lingers in this sullen shade,This dreary gloom of dull monastic night.Say that from every joy of life remoteAt evening's closing hour he quits the throng,Listening alone the ring-dove's plaintive noteWho pours like him her solitary song.Say that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh,Say that of all her charms he loves to speak,In fancy feels the magic of her eye,In fancy views the smile illume her cheek,Courts the lone hour when Silence stills the groveAnd heaves the sigh of Memory and of Love.
Think Valentine, as speeding on thy wayHomeward thou hastest light of heart along,If heavily creep on one little dayThe medley crew of travellers among,Think on thine absent friend: reflect that hereOn Life's sad journey comfortless he roves,Remote from every scene his heart holds dear,From him he values, and from her he loves.And when disgusted with the vain and dullWhom chance companions of thy way may doom,Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full,Turns to itself and meditates on home,Ah think what Cares must ache within his breastWho loaths the lingering road, yet has no home of rest!
Not to thee Bedford mournful is the taleOf days departed. Time in his careerArraigns not thee that the neglected yearHas past unheeded onward. To the valeOf years thou journeyest. May the future roadBe pleasant as the past! and on my friendFriendship and Love, best blessings! still attend,'Till full of days he reach the calm abodeWhere Nature slumbers. Lovely is the ageOf Virtue. With such reverence we beholdThe silver hairs, as some grey oak grown oldThat whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's rageNow like the monument of strength decayedWith rarely-sprinkled leaves casting a trembling shade.
What tho' no sculptur'd monument proclaimThy fate-yet Albert in my breast I bearInshrin'd the sad remembrance; yet thy nameWill fill my throbbing bosom. When DESPAIRThe child of murdered HOPE, fed on thy heart,Loved honored friend, I saw thee sink forlornPierced to the soul by cold Neglect's keen dart,And Penury's hard ills, and pitying Scorn,And the dark spectre of departed JOYInhuman MEMORY. Often on thy graveLove I the solitary hour to employThinking on other days; and heave the sighResponsive, when I mark the high grass waveSad sounding as the cold breeze rustles by.
Hard by the road, where on that little moundThe high grass rustles to the passing breeze,The child of Misery rests her head in peace.Pause there in sadness. That unhallowed groundInshrines what once was Isabel. Sleep onSleep on, poor Outcast! lovely was thy cheek,And thy mild eye was eloquent to speakThe soul of Pity. Pale and woe-begoneSoon did thy fair cheek fade, and thine eye weepThe tear of anguish for the babe unborn,The helpless heir of Poverty and Scorn.She drank the draught that chill'd her soul to sleep.I pause and wipe the big drop from mine eye,Whilst the proud Levite scowls and passes by.
SONNET VIto a brook near the village of Corston.
As thus I bend me o'er thy babbling streamAnd watch thy current, Memory's hand pourtraysThe faint form'd scenes of the departed days,Like the far forest by the moon's pale beamDimly descried yet lovely. I have wornUpon thy banks the live-long hour away,When sportive Childhood wantoned thro' the day,Joy'd at the opening splendour of the morn,Or as the twilight darken'd, heaved the sighThinking of distant home; as down my cheekAt the fond thought slow stealing on, would speakThe silent eloquence of the full eye.Dim are the long past days, yet still they pleaseAs thy soft sounds half heard, borne on the inconstant breeze.
SONNET VIIto the evening rainbow.
Mild arch of promise! on the evening skyThou shinest fair with many a lovely rayEach in the other melting. Much mine eyeDelights to linger on thee; for the day,Changeful and many-weather'd, seem'd to smileFlashing brief splendor thro' its clouds awhile,That deepen'd dark anon and fell in rain:But pleasant is it now to pause, and viewThy various tints of frail and watery hue,And think the storm shall not return again.Such is the smile that Piety bestowsOn the good man's pale cheek, when he in peaceDeparting gently from a world of woes,Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease.
With many a weary step, at length I gainThy summit, Lansdown; and the cool breeze plays,Gratefully round my brow, as hence the gazeReturns to dwell upon the journeyed plain.'Twas a long way and tedious! to the eyeTho fair the extended vale, and fair to viewThe falling leaves of many a faded hue,That eddy in the wild gust moaning by.Even so it fared with Life! in discontentRestless thro' Fortune's mingled scenes I went,Yet wept to think they would return no more!But cease fond heart in such sad thoughts to roam,For surely thou ere long shall reach thy home,And pleasant is the way that lies before.
Fair is the rising morn when o'er the skyThe orient sun expands his roseate ray,And lovely to the Bard's enthusiast eyeFades the meek radiance of departing day;But fairer is the smile of one we love,Than all the scenes in Nature's ample sway.And sweeter than the music of the grove,The voice that bids us welcome. Such delightEDITH! is mine, escaping to thy sightFrom the hard durance of the empty throng.Too swiftly then towards the silent nightYe Hours of happiness! ye speed along,Whilst I, from all the World's cold cares apart,Pour out the feelings of my burthen'd heart.
How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frownsThe gather'd tempest! from that lurid cloudThe deep-voiced thunders roll, aweful and loudTho' distant; while upon the misty downsFast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain.I never saw so terrible a storm!Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vainWraps his torn raiment round his shivering formCold even as Hope within him! I the whilePause me in sadness tho' the sunbeams smileCheerily round me. Ah that thus my lotMight be with Peace and Solitude assign'd,Where I might from some little quiet cot,Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind!
Sappho.
Argument.
To leap from the promontory of LEUCADIA was believed by the Greeks to be a remedy for hopeless love, if the self-devoted victim escaped with life. Artemisia lost her life in the dangerous experiment: and Sappho is said thus to have perished, in attempting to cure her passion for Phaon.
(Scene the promontory of Leucadia.)
This is the spot:—'tis here Tradition saysThat hopeless Love from this high towering rockLeaps headlong to Oblivion or to Death.Oh 'tis a giddy height! my dizzy headSwims at the precipice—'tis death to fall!
Lie still, thou coward heart! this is no timeTo shake with thy strong throbs the frame convuls'd.To die,—to be at rest—oh pleasant thought!Perchance to leap and live; the soul all still,And the wild tempest of the passions hushtIn one deep calm; the heart, no more diseas'dBy the quick ague fits of hope and fear,Quietly cold!Presiding Powers look down!In vain to you I pour'd my earnest prayers,In vain I sung your praises: chiefly thouVENUS! ungrateful Goddess, whom my lyreHymn'd with such full devotion! Lesbian groves,Witness how often at the languid hourOf summer twilight, to the melting songYe gave your choral echoes! Grecian MaidsWho hear with downcast look and flushing cheekThat lay of love bear witness! and ye Youths,Who hang enraptur'd on the empassion'd strainGazing with eloquent eye, even till the heartSinks in the deep delirium! and ye tooShall witness, unborn Ages! to that songOf warmest zeal; ah witness ye, how hard,Her fate who hymn'd the votive hymn in vain!Ungrateful Goddess! I have hung my luteIn yonder holy pile: my hand no moreShall wake the melodies that fail'd to moveThe heart of Phaon—yet when Rumour tellsHow from Leucadia Sappho hurl'd her downA self-devoted victim—he may meltToo late in pity, obstinate to love.
Oh haunt his midnight dreams, black NEMESIS!Whom,[1] self-conceiving in the inmost depthsOf CHAOS, blackest NIGHT long-labouring bore,When the stern DESTINIES, her elder brood.And shapeless DEATH, from that more monstrous birthLeapt shuddering! haunt his slumbers, Nemesis,Scorch with the fires of Phlegethon his heart,Till helpless, hopeless, heaven-abandon'd wretchHe too shall seek beneath the unfathom'd deepTo hide him from thy fury.
How the seaFar distant glitters as the sun-beams smile,And gayly wanton o'er its heaving breastPhoebus shines forth, nor wears one cloud to mournHis votary's sorrows! God of Day shine on—By Man despis'd, forsaken by the Gods,I supplicate no more.
How many a day,O pleasant Lesbos! in thy secret streamsDelighted have I plung'd, from the hot sunScreen'd by the o'er-arching groves delightful shade,And pillowed on the waters: now the wavesShall chill me to repose.
Tremendous height!Scarce to the brink will these rebellious limbsSupport me. Hark! how the rude deep belowRoars round the rugged base, as if it calledIts long-reluctant victim! I will come.One leap, and all is over! The deep restOf Death, or tranquil Apathy's dead calmWelcome alike to me. Away vain fears!Phaon is cold, and why should Sappho live?Phaon is cold, or with some fairer one—Thought worse than death!
(She throws herself from the precipice.)
[Footnote A: [Greek (transliterated)]:Ou tini choimaetheisa thea teche NUTH erezennae. HESIOD]
(Written on the FIRST of DECEMBER, 1793.)
Tho' now no more the musing earDelights to listen to the breezeThat lingers o'er the green wood shade,I love thee Winter! well.
Sweet are the harmonies of Spring,Sweet is the summer's evening gale,Pleasant the autumnal winds that shakeThe many-colour'd grove.
And pleasant to the sober'd soulThe silence of the wintry scene,When Nature shrouds her in her trance
Not undelightful now to roamThe wild heath sparkling on the sight;Not undelightful now to paceThe forest's ample rounds;
And see the spangled branches shine,And mark the moss of many a hueThat varies the old tree's brown bark,Or o'er the grey stone spreads.
The cluster'd berries claim the eyeO'er the bright hollies gay green leaves,The ivy round the leafless oakClasps its full foliage close.
So VIRTUE diffident of strengthClings to RELIGION'S firmer aid,And by RELIGION'S aid upheldEndures calamity.
Nor void of beauties now the spring,Whose waters hid from summer sunHave sooth'd the thirsty pilgrim's earWith more than melody.
The green moss shines with icey glare,The long grass bends its spear-like form,And lovely is the silvery sceneWhen faint the sunbeams smile.
Reflection too may love the hourWhen Nature, hid in Winter's grave,No more expands the bursting budOr bids the flowret bloom.
For Nature soon in Spring's best charmsShall rise reviv'd from Winter's grave.Again expand the bursting bud,And bid the flowret bloom.
Written on SUNDAY MORNING.
Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!I to the Woodlands wend, and thereIn lovely Nature see the GOD OF LOVE.The swelling organ's pealWakes not my soul to zeal,Like the wild music of the wind-swept grove.The gorgeous altar and the mystic vestRouse not such ardor in my breast,As where the noon-tide beamFlash'd from the broken stream,Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight;Or where the cloud-suspended rainSweeps in shadows o'er the plain;Or when reclining on the clift's huge heightI mark the billows burst in silver light.
Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!I to the Woodlands shall repair,Feed with all Natures charms mine eyes,And hear all Natures melodies.The primrose bank shall there dispenseFaint fragrance to the awaken'd sense,The morning beams that life and joy impartShall with their influence warm my heart.And the full tear that down my cheek will steal,Shall speak the prayer of praise I feel!
Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!I to the woodlands bend my wayAnd meet RELIGION there.She needs not haunt the high-arch'd dome to prayWhere storied windows dim the doubtful day:With LIBERTY she loves to rove.Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslip'd dale;Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove,Sweet are these scenes to her, and when the nightPours in the north her silver streams of light,She woos Reflexion in the silent gloom,And ponders on the world to come.
ON THE DEATHOf a Favourite Old SPANIEL.
And they have drown'd thee then at last! poor Phillis!The burthen of old age was heavy on thee.And yet thou should'st have lived! what tho' thine eyeWas dim, and watch'd no more with eager joyThe wonted call that on thy dull sense sunkWith fruitless repetition, the warm SunWould still have cheer'd thy slumber, thou didst loveTo lick the hand that fed thee, and tho' pastYouth's active season, even Life itselfWas comfort. Poor old friend! most earnestlyWould I have pleaded for thee: thou hadst beenStill the companion of my childish sports,And, as I roam'd o'er Avon's woody clifts,From many a day-dream has thy short quick barkRecall'd my wandering soul. I have beguil'dOften the melancholy hours at school,Sour'd by some little tyrant, with the thoughtOf distant home, and I remember'd thenThy faithful fondness: for not mean the joy,Returning at the pleasant holydays,I felt from thy dumb welcome. PensivelySometimes have I remark'd thy slow decay,Feeling myself changed too, and musing muchOn many a sad vicissitude of Life!Ah poor companion! when thou followedst lastThy master's parting footsteps to the gateThat clos'd for ever on him, thou didst loseThy truest friend, and none was left to pleadFor the old age of brute fidelity!But fare thee well! mine is no narrow creed,And HE who gave thee being did not frameThe mystery of life to be the sportOf merciless man! there is another worldFor all that live and move—a better one!Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confineINFINITE GOODNESS to the little boundsOf their own charity, may envy thee!
To CONTEMPLATION.
[Greek (transliterated):Kai pagas fileoimi ton enguthen aechon achthein,A terpei psopheoisa ton agrikon, thchi tarassei.
Faint gleams the evening radiance thro' the sky,The sober twilight dimly darkens round;In short quick circles the shrill bat flits by,And the slow vapour curls along the ground.
Now the pleas'd eye from yon lone cottage seesOn the green mead the smoke long-shadowing play;The Red-breast on the blossom'd sprayWarbles wild her latest lay,And sleeps along the dale the silent breeze.Calm CONTEMPLATION,'tis thy favorite hour!Come fill my bosom, tranquillizing Power.
Meek Power! I view thee on the calmy shoreWhen Ocean stills his waves to rest;Or when slow-moving on the surge's hoarMeet with deep hollow roarAnd whiten o'er his breast;For lo! the Moon with softer radiance gleams,And lovelier heave the billows in her beams.
When the low gales of evening moan along,I love with thee to feel the calm cool breeze,And roam the pathless forest wilds among,Listening the mellow murmur of the treesFull-foliaged as they lift their arms on highAnd wave their shadowy heads in wildest melody.
Or lead me where amid the tranquil valeThe broken stream flows on in silver light,And I will linger where the galeO'er the bank of violets sighs,Listening to hear its soften'd sounds arise;And hearken the dull beetle's drowsy flight,And watch the horn-eyed snailCreep o'er his long moon-glittering trail,And mark where radiant thro' the nightMoves in the grass-green hedge the glow-worms living light.
Thee meekest Power! I love to meet,As oft with even solitary paceThe scatter'd Abbeys hallowed rounds I traceAnd listen to the echoings of my feet.Or on the half demolished tomb,Whole warning texts anticipate my doom:Mark the clear orb of nightCast thro' the storying glass a faintly-varied light.
Nor will I not in some more gloomy hourInvoke with fearless awe thine holier power,Wandering beneath the sainted pileWhen the blast moans along the darksome aisle,And clattering patters all aroundThe midnight shower with dreary sound.
But sweeter 'tis to wander wildBy melancholy dreams beguil'd,While the summer moon's pale rayFaintly guides me on my wayTo the lone romantic glenFar from all the haunts of men,Where no noise of uproar rudeBreaks the calm of solitude.But soothing Silence sleeps in allSave the neighbouring waterfall,Whose hoarse waters falling nearLoad with hollow sounds the ear,And with down-dasht torrent whiteGleam hoary thro' the shades of night.
Thus wandering silent on and slowI'll nurse Reflection's sacred woe,And muse upon the perish'd dayWhen Hope would weave her visions gay,Ere FANCY chill'd by adverse fateLeft sad REALITY my mate.
O CONTEMPLATION! when to Memory's eyesThe visions of the long-past days arise,Thy holy power imparts the best relief,And the calm'd Spirit loves the joy of grief.
To HORROR.
[GREEK (transliterated):Tin gar potaeisomaitan chai schuliches tromeontiErchomenan nechuon ana t'aeria, chai melan aima.Theocritos]
Dark HORROR, hear my call!Stern Genius hear from thy retreatOn some old sepulchre's moss-cankered seat,Beneath the Abbey's ivied wallThat trembles o'er its shade;Where wrapt in midnight gloom, alone,Thou lovest to lie and hearThe roar of waters near,And listen to the deep dull groanOf some perturbed spriteBorne fitful on the heavy gales of night.
Or whether o'er some wide waste hillThou mark'st the traveller stray,Bewilder'd on his lonely way,When, loud and keen and chill,The evening winds of winter blowDrifting deep the dismal snow.
Or if thou followest now on Greenland's shore,With all thy terrors, on the lonely wayOf some wrecked mariner, when to the roarOf herded bears the floating ice-hills roundPour their deep echoing sound,And by the dim drear Boreal lightGivest half his dangers to the wretches sight.
Or if thy fury form,When o'er the midnight deepThe dark-wing'd tempests sweepWatches from some high cliff the encreasing storm,Listening with strange delightAs the black billows to the thunder raveWhen by the lightnings lightThou seest the tall ship sink beneath the wave.
Dark HORROR! bear me where the field of fightScatters contagion on the tainted gale,When to the Moon's faint beam,On many a carcase shine the dews of nightAnd a dead silence stills the valeSave when at times is heard the glutted Raven's scream.
Where some wreck'd army from the Conquerors mightSpeed their disastrous flight,With thee fierce Genius! let me trace their way,And hear at times the deep heart-groanOf some poor sufferer left to die alone,His sore wounds smarting with the winds of night;And we will pause, where, on the wild,The [1] Mother to her frozen breast,On the heap'd snows reclining clasps her childAnd with him sleeps, chill'd to eternal rest!
Black HORROR! speed we to the bed of Death,Where he whose murderous power afarBlasts with the myriad plagues of war,Struggles with his last breath,Then to his wildly-starting eyesThe phantoms of the murder'd rise,Then on his frenzied earTheir groans for vengeance and the Demon's yellIn one heart-maddening chorus swell.Cold on his brow convulsing stands the dew,And night eternal darkens on his view.
HORROR! I call thee yet once more!Bear me to that accursed shoreWhere round the stake the impaled Negro writhes.Assume thy sacred terrors then! dispenseThe blasting gales of Pestilence!Arouse the race of Afric! holy Power,Lead them to vengeance! and in that dread hourWhen Ruin rages wideI will behold and smile by MERCY'S side.
[Footnote 1: I extract the following picture of consummate horror, from the notes to a Poem written in twelve syllable verse upon the campaign of 1794 and 1795; it was during the retreat to Deventer. "We could not proceed a hundred yards without perceiving the dead bodies of men, women, children and horses in every direction. One scene made an impression upon my memory which time will never be able to efface. Near another cart we perceived a stout looking man, and a beautiful young woman with an infant, about seven months old, at the breast, all three frozen and dead. The mother had most certainly expired in the act of suckling her child, as with one breast exposed, she lay upon the drifted snow, the milk to all appearance in a stream drawn from the nipple by the babe, and instantly congealed. The infant seemed as if its lips had but just then been disengaged, and it reposed its little head upon the mother's bosom, with, an overflow of milk, frozen as it trickled from the mouth; their countenances were perfectly composed and fresh, resembling those of persons in a sound and tranquil slumber."]
The SOLDIER'S WIFE.
Weary way-wanderer languid and sick at heartTravelling painfully over the rugged road,Wild-visag'd Wanderer! ah for thy heavy chance!
Sorely thy little one drags by thee bare-footed,Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending backMeagre and livid and screaming its wretchedness.
[1] Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony,As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe,Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy hagged face.
Thy husband will never return from the war again,Cold is thy hopeless heart even as Charity—Cold are thy famish'd babes—God help thee, widow'd One!
[Footnote 1: This stanza was supplied by S.T. COLERIDGE.]
The WIDOW.
SAPPHICs.
Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snows fell,Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked,When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journeyWeary and way-sore.
Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflexions;Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom!She had no home, the world was all before her,She had no shelter.
Fast o'er the bleak heath rattling drove a chariot,"Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer."Pity me Strangers! lest with cold and hungerHere I should perish.
"Once I had friends,—but they have all forsook me!"Once I had parents,—they are now in Heaven!"I had a home once—I had once a husband—"Pity me Strangers!
"I had a home once—I had once a husband—"I am a Widow poor and broken-hearted!"Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining.On drove the chariot.
On the cold snows she laid her down to rest her;She heard a horseman, "pity me!" she groan'd out;Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining,On went the horseman.
Worn out with anguish, toil and cold and hunger,Down sunk the Wanderer, sleep had seiz'd her senses;There, did the Traveller find her in the morning,GOD had releast her.
To the CHAPEL BELL.
"Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did askHer deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,Am now enforst a far unfitter taskFor cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds,"For yon dull noise that tinkles on the airBids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.
Oh how I hate the sound! it is the Knell,That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour;And loth am I, at Superstition's bell,To quit or Morpheus or the Muses bower.Better to lie and dose, than gape amain,Hearing still mumbled o'er, the same eternal strain.
Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayersSay hast thou ever summoned from his rest,One being awakening to religious awe?Or rous'd one pious transport in the breast?Or rather, do not all reluctant creepTo linger out the hour, in listlessness or sleep?
I love the bell, that calls the poor to prayChiming from village church its chearful sound,When the sun smiles on Labour's holy day,And all the rustic train are gathered round,Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's bestAnd pleas'd to hail the day of piety and rest.
Or when, dim-shadowing o'er the face of day,The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow,As thro' the forest gloom I wend my way,The minster curfew's sullen roar I know;I pause and love its solemn toll to hear,As made by distance soft, it dies upon the ear.
Nor not to me the unfrequent midnight knellTolls sternly harmonizing; on mine earAs the deep death-fraught sounds long lingering dwellSick to the heart of Love and Hope and FearSoul-jaundiced, I do loathe Life's upland steepAnd with strange envy muse the dead man's dreamless sleep.
But thou, memorial of monastic gall!What Fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given?Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recallThe prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven;And this Dean's gape, and that Dean's nosal tone,And Roman rites retain'd, tho' Roman faith be flown.
The RACE of BANQUO.
Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!Leave thy guilty sire to die.O'er the heath the stripling fled,The wild storm howling round his head.Fear mightier thro' the shades of nightUrged his feet, and wing'd his flight;And still he heard his father cryFly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly.
Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, flyLeave thy guilty sire to die.On every blast was heard the moanThe anguish'd shriek, the death-fraught groan;Loathly night-hags join the yellAnd see—the midnight rites of Hell.
Forms of magic! spare my life!Shield me from the murderer's knife!Before me dim in lurid lightFloat the phantoms of the night—Behind I hear my Father cry,Fly, son of Banquo—Fleance, fly!
Parent of the sceptred race,Fearless tread the circled space:Fearless Fleance venture near—Sire of monarchs—spurn at fear.
Sisters with prophetic breathPour we now the dirge of Death!
MUSINGS on a LANDSCAPE
of
Poussin! most pleasantly thy pictur'd scenesBeguile the lonely hour; I sit and gazeWith lingering eye, till charmed FANCY makesThe lovely landscape live, and the rapt soulFrom the foul haunts of herded humankindFlies far away with spirit speed, and tastesThe untainted air, that with the lively hueOf health and happiness illumes the cheekOf mountain LIBERTY. My willing soulAll eager follows on thy faery flightsFANCY! best friend; whose blessed witcheriesWith loveliest prospects cheat the travellerO'er the long wearying desart of the world.Nor dost thou FANCY with such magic mockMy heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew,Or Alquif, or Zarzafiel's sister sage,Whose vengeful anguish for so many a yearHeld in the jacinth sepulchre entrancedLisvart and Perion, pride of chivalry.Friend of my lonely hours! thou leadest meTo such calm joys as Nature wise and goodProffers in vain to all her wretched sons;Her wretched sons who pine with want amidThe abundant earth, and blindly bow them downBefore the Moloch shrines of WEALTH and POWER,AUTHORS of EVIL. Oh it is most sweetTo medicine with thy wiles the wearied heart,Sick of reality. The little pileThat tops the summit of that craggy hillShall be my dwelling; craggy is the hillAnd steep, yet thro' yon hazels upward leadsThe easy path, along whose winding wayNow close embowered I hear the unseen streamDash down, anon behold its sparkling foamGleam thro' the thicket; and ascending onNow pause me to survey the goodly valeThat opens on my vision. Half way upPleasant it were upon some broad smooth rockTo sit and sun me, and look down belowAnd watch the goatherd down that high-bank'd pathUrging his flock grotesque; and bidding nowHis lean rough dog from some near cliff to driveThe straggler; while his barkings loud and quickAmid their trembling bleat arising oft,Fainter and fainter from the hollow roadSend their far echoes, till the waterfall,Hoarse bursting from the cavern'd cliff beneath,Their dying murmurs drown. A little yetOnward, and I have gain'd the upmost height.Fair spreads the vale below: I see the streamStream radiant on beneath the noontide sky.Where the town-spires behind the castle towersRise graceful; brown the mountain in its shade,Whose circling grandeur, part by mists conceal'd,Part with white rocks resplendant in the sun,Should bound mine eyes; aye and my wishes too,For I would have no hope or fear beyond.The empty turmoil of the worthless world,Its vanities and vices would not vexMy quiet heart. The traveller, who beheldThe low tower of the little pile, might deemIt were the house of GOD: nor would he errSo deeming, for that home would be the homeOf PEACE and LOVE, and they would hallow itTo HIM. Oh life of blessedness! to reapThe fruit of honorable toil, and boundOur wishes with our wants! delightful ThoughtsThat sooth the solitude of maniac HOPE,Ye leave her to reality awak'd,Like the poor captive, from some fleeting dreamOf friends and liberty and home restor'd,Startled, and listening as the midnight stormBeats hard and heavy thro' his dungeon bars.
Mary.
The story of the following ballad was related to me, when a school boy, as a fact which had really happened in the North of England. I have adopted the metre of Mr. Lewis's Alonzo and Imogene—a poem deservedly popular.
Who is she, the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyesSeem a heart overcharged to express?She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs,She never complains, but her silence impliesThe composure of settled distress.
No aid, no compassion the Maniac will seek,Cold and hunger awake not her care:Thro' her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleakOn her poor withered bosom half bare, and her cheekHas the deathy pale hue of despair.
Yet chearful and happy, nor distant the day,Poor Mary the Maniac has been;The Traveller remembers who journeyed this wayNo damsel so lovely, no damsel so gayAs Mary the Maid of the Inn.
Her chearful address fill'd the guests with delightAs she welcomed them in with a smile:Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,And Mary would walk by the Abbey at nightWhen the wind whistled down the dark aisle.
She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,And she hoped to be happy for life;But Richard was idle and worthless, and theyWho knew him would pity poor Mary and sayThat she was too good for his wife.
'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,And fast were the windows and door;Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,And smoking in silence with tranquil delightThey listen'd to hear the wind roar.
"Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fire side"To hear the wind whistle without.""A fine night for the Abbey!" his comrade replied,"Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried"Who should wander the ruins about.
"I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear"The hoarse ivy shake over my head;"And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear,"Some ugly old Abbot's white spirit appear,"For this wind might awaken the dead!"
"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,"That Mary would venture there now.""Then wager and lose!" with a sneer he replied,"I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,"And faint if she saw a white cow."
"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?"His companion exclaim'd with a smile;"I shall win, for I know she will venture there now,"And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough"From the elder that grows in the aisle."
With fearless good humour did Mary comply,And her way to the Abbey she bent;The night it was dark, and the wind it was highAnd as hollowly howling it swept thro' the skyShe shiver'd with cold as she went.
O'er the path so well known still proceeded the MaidWhere the Abbey rose dim on the sight,Thro' the gate-way she entered, she felt not afraidYet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shadeSeem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.
All around her was silent, save when the rude blastHowl'd dismally round the old pile;Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past,And arrived in the innermost ruin at lastWhere the elder tree grew in the aisle.
Well-pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew nearAnd hastily gather'd the bough:When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear,She paus'd, and she listen'd, all eager to hear,Aud her heart panted fearfully now.
The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,She listen'd,—nought else could she hear.The wind ceas'd, her heart sunk in her bosom with dreadFor she heard in the ruins distinctly the treadOf footsteps approaching her near.
Behind a wide column half breathless with fearShe crept to conceal herself there:That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,And she saw in the moon-light two ruffians appearAnd between them a corpse did they bear.
Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold!Again the rough wind hurried by,—It blew off the hat of the one, and beholdEven close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd,—She felt, and expected to die.
"Curse the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay come on and first hide"The dead body," his comrade replies.She beheld them in safety pass on by her side,She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,And fast thro' the Abbey she flies.
She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door,She gazed horribly eager around,Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more,And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floorUnable to utter a sound.
Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,For a moment the hat met her view;—Her eyes from that object convulsively start,For—oh God what cold horror then thrill'd thro' her heart,When the name of her Richard she knew!
Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard byHis gibbet is now to be seen.Not far from the road it engages the eye,The Traveller beholds it, and thinks with a sighOf poor Mary the Maid of the Inn.
Donica.
In Finland there is a Castle which is called the New Rock, moated about with a river of unfounded depth, the water black and the fish therein very distateful to the palate. In this are spectres often seen, which foreshew either the death of the Governor, or some prime officer belonging to the place; and most commonly it appeareth in the shape of an harper, sweetly singing and dallying and playing under the water.
It is reported of one Donica, that after she was dead, the Devil walked in her body for the space of two years, so that none suspected but that she was still alive; for she did both speak and eat, though very sparingly; only she had a deep paleness on her countenance, which was the only sign of death. At length a Magician coming by where she was then in the company of many other virgins, as soon as he beheld her he said, "fair Maids, why keep you company with the dead Virgin whom you suppose to be alive?" when taking away the magic charm which was tied under her arm, the body fell down lifeless and without motion.
The following Ballad is founded on these stories. They are to be found in the notes to The Hierarchies of the blessed Angels; a Poem by Thomas Heywood, printed in folio by Adam Islip, 1635.
High on a rock, whose castled shadeDarken'd the lake below,In ancient strength majestic stoodThe towers of Arlinkow.
The fisher in the lake belowDurst never cast his net,Nor ever swallow in its wavesHer passing wings would wet.
The cattle from its ominous banksIn wild alarm would run,Tho' parched with thirst and faint beneathThe summer's scorching sun.
For sometimes when no passing breezeThe long lank sedges waved,All white with foam and heaving highIts deafening billows raved;
And when the tempest from its baseThe rooted pine would shake,The powerless storm unruffling sweptAcross the calm dead lake.
And ever then when Death drew nearThe house of Arlinkow,Its dark unfathom'd depths did sendStrange music from below.
The Lord of Arlinkow was old,One only child had he,Donica was the Maiden's nameAs fair as fair might be.
A bloom as bright as opening mornFlush'd o'er her clear white cheek,The music of her voice was mild,Her full dark eyes were meek.
Far was her beauty known, for noneSo fair could Finland boast,Her parents loved the Maiden much,Young EBERHARD loved her most.
Together did they hope to treadThe pleasant path of life,For now the day drew near to makeDonica Eberhard's wife.
The eve was fair and mild the air,Along the lake they stray;The eastern hill reflected brightThe fading tints of day.
And brightly o'er the water stream'dThe liquid radiance wide;Donica's little dog ran onAnd gambol'd at her side.
Youth, Health, and Love bloom'd on her cheek,Her full dark eyes expressIn many a glance to EberhardHer soul's meek tenderness.
Nor sound was heard, nor passing galeSigh'd thro' the long lank sedge,The air was hushed, no little waveDimpled the water's edge.
Sudden the unfathom'd lake sent forthStrange music from beneath,And slowly o'er the waters sail'dThe solemn sounds of Death.
As the deep sounds of Death arose,Donica's cheek grew pale,And in the arms of EberhardThe senseless Maiden fell.
Loudly the youth in terror shriek'd,And loud he call'd for aid,And with a wild and eager lookGaz'd on the death-pale Maid.
But soon again did better thoughtsIn Eberhard arise,And he with trembling hope beheldThe Maiden raise her eyes.
And on his arm reclin'd she movedWith feeble pace and slow,And soon with strength recover'd reach'd
Yet never to Donica's cheekReturn'd the lively hue,Her cheeks were deathy, white, and wan,Her lips a livid blue.
Her eyes so bright and black of yoreWere now more black and bright,And beam'd strange lustre in her faceSo deadly wan and white.
The dog that gambol'd by her side,And lov'd with her to stray,Now at his alter'd mistress howl'dAnd fled in fear away.
Yet did the faithful EberhardNot love the Maid the less;He gaz'd with sorrow, but he gaz'dWith deeper tenderness.
And when he found her health unharm'dHe would not brook delay,But press'd the not unwilling MaidTo fix the bridal day.
And when at length it came, with joyThey hail'd the bridal day,And onward to the house of GodThey went their willing way.
And as they at the altar stoodAnd heard the sacred rite,The hallowed tapers dimly stream'dA pale sulphureous light.
And as the Youth with holy warmthHer hand in his did hold,Sudden he felt Donica's handGrow deadly damp and cold.
And loudly did he shriek, for lo!A Spirit met his view,And Eberhard in the angel formHis own Donica knew.
That instant from her earthly frameHowling the Daemon fled,And at the side of EberhardThe livid form fell dead.
Rudiger.
Divers Princes and Noblemen being assembled in a beautiful and fair Palace, which was situate upon the river Rhine, they beheld a boat or small barge make toward the shore, drawn by a Swan in a silver chain, the one end fastened about her neck, the other to the vessel; and in it an unknown soldier, a man of a comely personage and graceful presence, who stept upon the shore; which done, the boat guided by the Swan left him, and floated down the river. This man fell afterward in league with a fair gentlewoman, married her, and by her had many children. After some years, the same Swan came with the same barge into the same place; the soldier entering into it, was carried thence the way he came, left wife, children and family, and was never seen amongst them after.
Now who can judge this to be other than one of those spirits that are named Incubi? says Thomas Heywood. I have adopted his story, but not his solution, making the unknown soldier not an evil spirit, but one who had purchased happiness of a malevolent being, by the promised sacrifice of his first-born child.
Bright on the mountain's heathy slopeThe day's last splendors shineAnd rich with many a radiant hueGleam gayly on the Rhine.
And many a one from Waldhurst's wallsAlong the river stroll'd,As ruffling o'er the pleasant streamThe evening gales came cold.
So as they stray'd a swan they sawSail stately up and strong,And by a silver chain she drewA little boat along,
Whose streamer to the gentle breezeLong floating fluttered light,Beneath whose crimson canopyThere lay reclin'd a knight.
With arching crest and swelling breastOn sail'd the stately swanAnd lightly up the parting tideThe little boat came on.
And onward to the shore they drewAnd leapt to land the knight,And down the stream the swan-drawn boatFell soon beyond the sight.
Was never a Maid in Waldhurst's wallsMight match with Margaret,Her cheek was fair, her eyes were dark,Her silken locks like jet.
And many a rich and noble youthHad strove to win the fair,But never a rich or noble youthCould rival Rudiger.
At every tilt and turney heStill bore away the prize,For knightly feats superior stillAnd knightly courtesies.
His gallant feats, his looks, his love,Soon won the willing fair,And soon did Margaret becomeThe wife of Rudiger.
Like morning dreams of happinessFast roll'd the months away,For he was kind and she was kindAnd who so blest as they?
Yet Rudiger would sometimes sitAbsorb'd in silent thoughtAnd his dark downward eye would seemWith anxious meaning fraught;
But soon he rais'd his looks againAnd smil'd his cares eway,And mid the hall of gaietyWas none like him so gay.
And onward roll'd the waining months,The hour appointed came,And Margaret her RudigerHail'd with a father's name.
But silently did RudigerThe little infant see,And darkly on the babe he gaz'dAnd very sad was he.
And when to bless the little babeThe holy Father came,To cleanse the stains of sin awayIn Christ's redeeming name,