The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PoemsAuthor: Robert SoutheyRelease date: June 1, 2005 [eBook #8212]Most recently updated: August 24, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: PoemsAuthor: Robert SoutheyRelease date: June 1, 2005 [eBook #8212]Most recently updated: August 24, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
Title: Poems
Author: Robert Southey
Author: Robert Southey
Release date: June 1, 2005 [eBook #8212]Most recently updated: August 24, 2014
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
by
Robert Southey
1797
GODDESS of the LYRE! with thee comesMajestic TRUTH; and where TRUTH deigns to come,Her sister LIBERTY will not be far.
Akenside.
With wayworn feet a Pilgrim woe-begoneLife's upward road I journeyed many a day,And hymning many a sad yet soothing layBeguil'd my wandering with the charms of song.Lonely my heart and rugged was my way,Yet often pluck'd I as I past alongThe wild and simple flowers of Poesy,And as beseem'd the wayward Fancy's childEntwin'd each random weed that pleas'd mine eye.Accept the wreath, BELOVED! it is wildAnd rudely garlanded; yet scorn not thouThe humble offering, where the sad rue weaves'Mid gayer flowers its intermingled leaves,And I have twin'd the myrtle for thy brow.
I have collected in this Volume the productions of very distant periods. The lyric pieces were written in earlier youth; I now think the Ode the most worthless species of composition as well as the most difficult, and should never again attempt it, even if my future pursuits were such as allowed leisure for poetry. The poems addressed to the heart and the understanding are those of my maturer judgment. The Inscriptions will be found to differ from the Greek simplicity of Akenside's in the point that generally concludes them. The Sonnets were written first, or I would have adopted a different title, and avoided the shackle of rhyme and the confinement to fourteen lines.
To Mary Wollstonecraft …………. 3The Triumph of Woman …………… 7Poems on the Slave-Trade ………. 29Sonnet 1 …………………….. 332 …………………….. 343 …………………….. 354 …………………….. 365 …………………….. 376 …………………….. 38To the Genius of Africa ……….. 39To my own Miniature Picture ……. 44The Pauper's Funeral ………….. 47Ode written on 1st of January ….. 49Inscription 1 ………………… 552 ………………… 563 ………………… 574 ………………… 595 ………………… 616 ………………… 627 ………………… 638 ………………… 64Birth-Day Ode ………………… 67Birth-Day Ode ………………… 71Botany-bay Eclogues …………… 75Elinor ………………………. 77Humphrey and William ………….. 83John, Samuel, and Richard ……… 92Frederic …………………….. 99Sonnet 1 ……………………. 1072 ……………………. 1083 ……………………. 1094 ……………………. 1105 ……………………. 1116 ……………………. 1127 ……………………. 1138 ……………………. 1149 ……………………. 11510 ……………………. 116Sappho ……………………… 121Ode written on 1st. Dece. …….. 126Written on Sunday Morning …….. 129On the death of a favoriteold Spaniel ……………….. 132To Contemplation …………….. 135To Horror …………………… 140The Soldier's Wife …………… 145The Widow …………………… 147The Chapel Bell ……………… 149The Race of Banquo …………… 152Musings on a landscape ofCaspar Poussin …………….. 154Mary ……………………….. 163Donica ……………………… 175Rudiger …………………….. 187Hymn to the Penates ………….. 203
p.151 - in the last line but one, for nosal, read nasal. p.192 - line 8, for wild, read mild. p. 203 - in the note, for Complicces, read Complices.
[Greek (transliterated):Ou gar thaeluierais demas opasen aemiielesionMorphaen, ophra xai allaperi chroi technaesainio.
The lilly cheek, the "purple light of love,"The liquid lustre of the melting eye,—Mary! of these the Poet sung, for theseDid Woman triumph! with no angry frownView this degrading conquest. At that ageNo MAID OF ARC had snatch'd from coward manThe heaven-blest sword of Liberty; thy sexCould boast no female ROLAND'S martyrdom;No CORDE'S angel and avenging armHad sanctified again the Murderer's nameAs erst when Caesar perish'd: yet some strainsMay even adorn this theme, befitting meTo offer, nor unworthy thy regard.
The Subject of the following Poem may be found in the Third and FourthChapters of the first Book of Esdras.
THE TRIUMPH of WOMAN.
Glad as the weary traveller tempest-tostTo reach secure at length his native coast,Who wandering long o'er distant lands has sped,The night-blast wildly howling round his head,Known all the woes of want, and felt the stormOf the bleak winter parch his shivering form;The journey o'er and every peril pastBeholds his little cottage-home at last,And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow,Feels his full eyes with transport overflow:So from the scene where Death and Anguish reign,And Vice and Folly drench with blood the plain,Joyful I turn, to sing how Woman's praiseAvail'd again Jerusalem to raise,Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,And freed the nation best-belov'd of God.
Darius gives the feast: to Persia's court,Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort,Attending Satraps swell the Prince's pride,And vanquish'd Monarchs grace their Conqueror's side.No more the Warrior wears the garb of war,Sharps the strong steel, or mounts the scythed car;No more Judaea's sons dejected go,And hang the head and heave the sigh of woe.From Persia's rugged hills descend the train.From where Orontes foams along the plain,From where Choaspes rolls his royal waves,And India sends her sons, submissive slaves.Thy daughters Babylon to grace the feastWeave the loose robe, and paint the flowery vest,With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair.They tinge the cheek which Nature form'd so fair,Learn the soft step, the soul-subduing glance,Melt in the song, and swim adown the dance.Exalted on the Monarch's golden throneIn royal state the fair Apame shone;
Her form of majesty, her eyes of fireChill with respect, or kindle with desire.The admiring multitude her charms adore,And own her worthy of the crown she wore.
Now on his couch reclin'd Darius lay,Tir'd with the toilsome pleasures of the day;Without Judaea's watchful sons awaitTo guard the sleeping pageant of the state.Three youths were these of Judah's royal race,Three youths whom Nature dower'd with every grace,To each the form of symmetry she gave,And haughty Genius curs'd each favorite slave;These fill'd the cup, around the Monarch kept,Serv'd as he spake, and guarded whilst he slept.
Yet oft for Salem's hallowed towers laid lowThe sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would flow;And when the dull and wearying round of PowerAllowed Zorobabel one vacant hour,He lov'd on Babylon's high wall to roam,And stretch the gaze towards his distant home,Or on Euphrates' willowy banks reclin'dHear the sad harp moan fitful to the wind.
As now the perfum'd lamps stream wide their light,And social converse chears the livelong night,Thus spake Zorobabel, "too long in vain"For Sion desolate her sons complain;"In anguish worn the joyless years lag slow,"And these proud conquerors mock their captive's woe."Whilst Cyrus triumph'd here in victor state"A brighter prospect chear'd our exil'd fate,"Our sacred walls again he bade us raise,"And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise."Quickly these fond hopes faded from our eyes,"As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies,"And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain,"Soon hid by clouds that dim the scene again.
"Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign"We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain."Now when Darius, chief of mild command,"Bids joy and pleasure fill the festive land,"Still shall we droop the head in sullen grief,"And sternly silent shun to seek relief?"What if amid the Monarch's mirthful throng"Our harps should echo to the chearful song?
"Fair is the occasion," thus the one replied,"And now let all our tuneful skill be tried."Whilst the gay courtiers quaff the smiling bowl,"And wine's strong fumes inspire the madden'd soul,"Where all around is merriment, be mine"To strike the lute, and praise the power of Wine.
"And whilst" his friend replied in state alone"Lord of the earth Darius fills the throne,"Be yours the mighty power of Wine to sing,"My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's King."
To them Zorobabel, on themes like these"Seek ye the Monarch of Mankind to please;"To Wine superior or to Power's strong arms,"Be mine to sing resistless Woman's charms."To him victorious in the rival lays"Shall just Darius give the meed of praise;"The purple robe his honor'd frame shall fold,"The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold;"A golden couch support his bed of rest,"The chain of honor grace his favor'd breast;"His the soft turban, his the car's array"O'er Babylon's high wall to wheel its way;"And for his wisdom seated on the throne,"For the KING'S COUSIN shall the Bard be known."
Intent they meditate the future lay,And watch impatient for the dawn of day.The morn rose clear, and shrill were heard the flute,The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute;To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort,Swarm thro' the gates, and fill the festive court.High on his throne Darius tower'd in pride,The fair Apame grac'd the Sovereign's side;And now she smil'd, and now with mimic frownPlaced on her brow the Monarch's sacred crown.In transport o'er her faultless form he bends,Loves every look, and every act commends.
And now Darius bids the herald callJudaea's Bard to grace the thronging hall.Hush'd is each sound—the attending crowd are mute,The Hebrew lightly strikes the chearful lute:
When the Traveller on his way,Who has toil'd the livelong day,Feels around on every sideThe chilly mists of eventide,Fatigued and faint his wearied mindRecurs to all he leaves behind;He thinks upon the well-trimm'd hearth,The evening hour of social mirth,And her who at departing dayWeeps for her husband far away.Oh give to him the flowing bowl,Bid it renovate his soul;Then shall sorrow sink to sleep,And he who wept, no more shall weep;For his care-clouded brow shall clear,And his glad eye shall sparkle thro' the tear.
When the poor man heart-opprestBetakes him to his evening rest,And worn with labour thinks in sorrowOf the labor of to-morrow;When sadly musing on his lotHe hies him to his joyless cot,And loathes to meet his children there,The rivals for his scanty fare:Oh give to him the flowing bowl,Bid it renovate his soul;The generous juice with magic powerShall cheat with happiness the hour,And with each warm affection fillThe heart by want and wretchedness made chill.
When, at the dim close of day,The Captive loves alone to strayAlong the haunts recluse and rudeOf sorrow and of solitude;When he sits with moveless eyeTo mark the lingering radiance die,And lets distemper'd Fancy roamAmid the ruins of his home,—Oh give to him the flowing bowl,Bid it renovate his soul;The bowl shall better thoughts bestow,And lull to rest his wakeful woe,And Joy shall bless the evening hour,And make the Captive Fortune's conqueror.
When the wearying cares of stateOppress the Monarch with their weight,When from his pomp retir'd aloneHe feels the duties of the throne,Feels that the multitude belowDepend on him for weal or woe;When his powerful will may blessA realm with peace and happiness,Or with desolating breathBreathe ruin round, and woe, and death:Oh give to him the flowing bowl,Bid it humanize his soul;He shall not feel the empire's weight,He shall not feel the cares of state,The bowl shall each dark thought beguile,And Nations live and prosper from his smile.
Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceas'd the song;Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng;Each tongue the liberal words of praise repaid,On every cheek a smile applauding play'd;The rival Bard advanced, he struck the string,And pour'd the loftier song to Persia's King.
Why should the wearying cares of stateOppress the Monarch with their weight?Alike to him if Peace shall blessThe multitude with happiness;Alike to him if frenzied WarCareers triumphant on the embattled plain,And rolling on o'er myriads slain,With gore and wounds shall clog his scythed car.What tho' the tempest rage! no soundOf the deep thunder shakes his distant throne,And the red flash that spreads destruction round,Reflects a glorious splendour on the Crown.
Where is the Man who with ennobling prideBeholds not his own nature? where is heWho but with deep amazement awe alliedMust muse the mysteries of the human mind,The miniature of Deity.For Man the vernal clouds descendingShower down their fertilizing rain,For Man the ripen'd harvest bendingWaves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain.He spreads the sail on high,The rude gale wafts him o'er the main;For him the winds of Heaven subservient blow,Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow,He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below!
Where is the King who with elating prideSees not this Man—this godlike Man his Slave?Mean are the mighty by the Monarch's side,Alike the wife, alike the braveWith timid step and pale, advance,And tremble at the royal glance;Suspended millions watch his breathWhose smile is happiness, whose frown is death.
Why goes the Peasant from that little cot,Where PEACE and LOVE have blest his humble life?In vain his agonizing wifeWith tears bedews her husband's face,And clasps him in a long and last embrace;In vain his children round his bosom creep,And weep to see their mother weep,Fettering their father with their little arms;What are to him the wars alarms?What are to him the distant foes?He at the earliest dawn of dayTo daily labor went his way;And when he saw the sun decline,He sat in peace beneath his vine:—The king commands, the peasant goes,From all he lov'd on earth he flies,And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds, and dies.
What tho' yon City's castled wallCasts o'er the darken'd plain its crested shade?What tho' their Priests in earnest terror callOn all their host of Gods to aid?Vain is the bulwark, vain the tower;In vain her gallant youths exposeTheir breasts, a bulwark, to the foes.In vain at that tremendous hour,Clasp'd in the savage soldier's reeking arms,Shrieks to tame Heaven the violated Maid.By the rude hand of Ruin scatter'd roundTheir moss-grown towers shall spread the desart ground.Low shall the mouldering palace lie,Amid the princely halls the grass wave high,And thro' the shatter'd roof descend the inclement sky.
Gay o'er the embattled plainMoves yonder warrior train,Their banners wanton on the morning gale!Full on their bucklers beams the rising ray,Their glittering helmets flash a brighter day,The shout of war rings echoing o'er the vale:Far reaches as the aching eye can strainThe splendid horror of their wide array.Ah! not in vain expectant, o'erTheir glorious pomp the Vultures soar!Amid the Conqueror's palace highShall sound the song of victory:Long after journeying o'er the plainThe Traveller shall with startled eyeSee their white bones then blanched by many a winter sky.
Lord of the Earth! we will not raiseThe Temple to thy bounded praise.For thee no victim need expire,For thee no altar blaze with hallowed fire!The burning city flames for thee—Thine altar is the field of victory!Thy sacred Majesty to blessMan a self-offer'd victim freely flies;To thee he sacrifices Happiness,And Peace, and Love's endearing ties,To thee a Slave he lives, to thee a Slave he dies.
Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceas'd to sing;The shout rush'd forth—for ever live the King!Loud was the uproar, as when Rome's decreePronounc'd Achaia once again was free;Assembled Greece enrapt with fond beliefHeard the false boon, and bless'd the villain Chief;Each breast with Freedom's holy ardor glows,From every voice the cry of rapture rose;Their thundering clamors burst the astonish'd sky,And birds o'erpassing hear, and drop, and die.Thus o'er the Persian dome their plaudits ring,And the high hall re-echoed—live the King!The Mutes bow'd reverent down before their Lord,The assembled Satraps envied and ador'd,Joy sparkled in the Monarch's conscious eyes,And his pleas'd pride already doom'd the prize.
Silent they saw Zorobabel advance:Quick on Apame shot his timid glance,With downward eye he paus'd a moment mute,And with light finger touch'd the softer lute.Apame knew the Hebrew's grateful cause,And bent her head and sweetly smil'd applause.
Why is the Warrior's cheek so red?Why downward droops his musing head?Why that slow step, that faint advance,That keen yet quick-retreating glance?That crested head in war tower'd high,No backward glance disgrac'd that eye,No flushing fear that cheek o'erspreadWhen stern he strode o'er heaps of dead;Strange tumult now his bosom moves—The Warrior fears because he loves.
Why does the Youth delight to roveAmid the dark and lonely grove?Why in the throng where all are gay,His wandering eye with meaning fraught,Sits he alone in silent thought?Silent he sits; for far awayHis passion'd soul delights to stray;Recluse he roves and strives to shunAll human-kind because he loves but One!
Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest;But not because the sparkling bowlTo rapture lifts thy waken'd soul [1]But not because of Power possest,Not that the Nations dread thy nod,And Princes reverence thee their earthly God,Even on a Monarch's solitudeCare the black Spectre will intrude,The bowl brief pleasure can bestow,The Purple cannot shield from Woe.But King of Persia thou art blest,For Heaven who rais'd thee thus the world aboveHas made thee happy in Apame's love!
Oh! I have seen his fond looks traceEach angel feature of her face,Rove o'er her form with eager eye,And sigh and gaze, and gaze and sigh.Lo! from his brow with mimic frown,Apame takes the sacred crown;Her faultless form, her lovely faceAdd to the diadem new graceAnd subject to a Woman's lawsDarius sees and smiles applause!
He ceas'd, and silent still remain'd the throngWhilst rapt attention own'd the power of song.Then loud as when the wintry whirlwinds blowFrom ev'ry voice the thundering plaudits flow;Darius smil'd, Apame's sparkling eyesGlanc'd on the King, and Woman won the prize.
Now silent sat the expectant crowd, aloneThe victor Hebrew gaz'd not on the throne;With deeper hue his cheek distemper'd glows,With statelier stature, loftier now he rose;Heavenward he gaz'd, regardless of the throng,And pour'd with awful voice sublimer song.
Ancient of Days! Eternal Truth! one hymnOne holier strain the Bard shall raise to thee,Thee Powerful! Thee Benevolent! Thee Just!Friend! Father! All in All! the Vines rich blood,The Monarch's might, and Woman's conquering charms,—These shall we praise alone? Oh ye who sitBeneath your vine, and quaff at evening hourThe healthful bowl, remember him whose dews,Whose rains, whose sun, matur'd the growing fruit,Creator and Preserver! Reverence Him,O thou who from thy throne dispensest lifeAnd death, for He has delegated power.And thou shalt one day at the throne of GodRender most strict account! O ye who gazeEnrapt on Beauty's fascinating form,Gaze on with love, and loving Beauty, learnTo shun abhorrent all the mental eyeBeholds deform'd and foul; for so shall LoveClimb to the Source of Virtue. God of Truth!All-Just! All-Mighty! I should ill deserveThy noblest gift, the gift divine of song,If, so content with ear-deep melodies [2]To please all profitless, I did not pourSeverer strains; of Truth—eternal Truth,Unchanging Justice, universal Love.Such strains awake the soul to loftiest thoughts,Such strains the Blessed Spirits of the GoodWaft, grateful incense, to the Halls of Heaven.
The dying notes still murmur'd on the string,When from his throne arose the raptur'd King.About to speak he stood, and wav'd his hand,And all expectant sat the obedient band.
Then just and gen'rous, thus the Monarch cries,"Be thine Zorobabel the well earned prize."The purple robe of state thy form shall fold,"The beverage sparkle in thy cup of gold;"The golden couch, the car, and honor'd chain,"Requite the merits of thy favor'd strain,"And rais'd supreme the ennobled race among"Be call'd MY COUSIN for the victor song."Nor these alone the victor song shall bless,"Ask what thou wilt, and what thou wilt, possess.""Fall'n is Jerusalem!" the Hebrew cries.And patriot anguish fills his streaming eyes,"Hurl'd to the earth by Rapine's vengeful rod,"Polluted lies the temple of our God,"Far in a foreign land her sons remain,"Hear the keen taunt, and drag the captive chain:"In fruitless woe they wear the wearying years,"And steep the bread of bitterness in tears."O Monarch, greatest, mildest, best of men,"Restore us to those ruin'd walls again!"Allow our race to rear that sacred dome,"To live in liberty, and die at Home."
So spake Zorobabel—thus Woman's praiseAvail'd again Jerusalem to raise,Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,And freed the Nation best belov'd of God.
[Footnote 1: text showed "foul" which we think was a long s transferred to the modern edition by mistake. Gutenberg Proofreading.]
[Footnote 2: This expression is from OWEN FELLTHAM.]
on the
I am Innocent of this Blood, SEE YE TO IT!
When first the Abolition of the SLAVE-TRADE was agitated in England, the friends of humanity endeavoured by two means to accomplish it.—To destroy the Trade immediately by the interference of Government or by the disuse of West-Indian productions: a slow but certain method. For a while Government held the language of justice, and individuals with enthusiasm banished sugar from their tables. This enthusiasm soon cooled; the majority of those who had made this sacrifice (I prostitute the word, but they thought it a sacrifice) persuaded themselves that Parliament would do all, and that individual efforts were no longer necessary. Thus ended the one attempt; and the duplicity with which Mr. Wilberforce has been amused, and the Slave-Merchants satisfied, has now effectually destroyed the other.
There are yet two other methods remaining, by which this traffic will probably be abolished. By the introduction of East-Indian or Maple Sugar, or by the just and general rebellion of the Negroes: by the vindictive justice of the Africans, or by the civilized Christians finding it their interest to be humane.
To these past and present prospects the following Poems occasionally allude: to the English custom of exciting wars upon the Slave Coast that they may purchase prisoners, and to the punishment sometimes inflicted upon a Negro for murder, of which Hector St. John was an eye-witness.
Hold your mad hands! for ever on your plainMust the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood?For ever must your Nigers tainted floodRoll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain?Hold your mad hands! what daemon prompts to rearThe arm of Slaughter? on your savage shoreCan hell-sprung Glory claim the feast of gore,With laurels water'd by the widow's tearWreathing his helmet crown? lift high the spear!And like the desolating whirlwinds sweep,Plunge ye yon bark of anguish in the deep;For the pale fiend, cold-hearted Commerce thereBreathes his gold-gender'd pestilence afar,And calls to share the prey his kindred Daemon War.
Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair,And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries?Before the gale the laden vessel flies;The Heavens all-favoring smile, the breeze is fair;Hark to the clamors of the exulting crew!Hark how their thunders mock the patient skies!Why dost thou shriek and strain thy red-swoln eyesAs the white sail dim lessens from thy view?Go pine in want and anguish and despair,There is no mercy found in human-kind—Go Widow to thy grave and rest thee there!But may the God of Justice bid the windWhelm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave,And bless with Liberty and Death the Slave!
Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops runDown his dark cheek; hold—hold thy merciless hand,Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard commandO'erwearied Nature sinks. The scorching Sun,As pityless as proud Prosperity,Darts on him his full beams; gasping he liesArraigning with his looks the patient skies,While that inhuman trader lifts on highThe mangling scourge. Oh ye who at your easeSip the blood-sweeten'd beverage! thoughts like theseHaply ye scorn: I thank thee Gracious God!That I do feel upon my cheek the glowOf indignation, when beneath the rodA sable brother writhes in silent woe.
'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleepAs undisturb'd as Justice! but no moreThe wretched Slave, as on his native shore,Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep!Tho' thro' the toil and anguish of the dayNo tear escap'd him, not one suffering groanBeneath the twisted thong, he weeps aloneIn bitterness; thinking that far awayTho' the gay negroes join the midnight song,Tho' merriment resounds on Niger's shore,She whom he loves far from the chearful throngStands sad, and gazes from her lowly doorWith dim grown eye, silent and woe-begone,And weeps for him who will return no more.
Did then the bold Slave rear at last the SwordOf Vengeance? drench'd he deep its thirsty bladeIn the cold bosom of his tyrant lord?Oh! who shall blame him? thro' the midnight shadeStill o'er his tortur'd memory rush'd the thoughtOf every past delight; his native grove,Friendship's best joys, and Liberty and Love,All lost for ever! then Remembrance wroughtHis soul to madness; round his restless bedFreedom's pale spectre stalk'd, with a stern smilePointing the wounds of slavery, the whileShe shook her chains and hung her sullen head:No more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath,But sweetens with revenge, the draught of death.
High in the air expos'd the Slave is hungTo all the birds of Heaven, their living food!He groans not, tho' awaked by that fierce SunNew torturers live to drink their parent blood!He groans not, tho' the gorging Vulture tearThe quivering fibre! hither gaze O yeWho tore this Man from Peace and Liberty!Gaze hither ye who weigh with scrupulous careThe right and prudent; for beyond the graveThere is another world! and call to mind,Ere your decrees proclaim to all mankindMurder is legalized, that there the SlaveBefore the Eternal, "thunder-tongued shall plead"Against the deep damnation of your deed."
O thou who from the mountain's heightRoll'st down thy clouds with all their weightOf waters to old Niles majestic tide;Or o'er the dark sepulchral plainRecallest thy Palmyra's ancient pride,Amid whose desolated domesSecure the savage chacal roams,Where from the fragments of the hallow'd faneThe Arabs rear their miserable homes!
Hear Genius hear thy children's cry!Not always should'st thou love to broodStern o'er the desert solitudeWhere seas of sand toss their hot surges high;Nor Genius should the midnight songDetain thee in some milder moodThe palmy plains amongWhere Gambia to the torches lightFlows radiant thro' the awaken'd night.
Ah, linger not to hear the song!Genius avenge thy children's wrong!The Daemon COMMERCE on your shorePours all the horrors of his train,And hark! where from the field of goreHowls the hyena o'er the slain!Lo! where the flaming village fires the skies!Avenging Power awake—arise!
Arise thy children's wrong redress!Ah heed the mother's wretchednessWhen in the hot infectious airO'er her sick babe she bows opprest—Ah hear her when the Christians tearThe drooping infant from her breast!Whelm'd in the waters he shall rest!Hear thou the wretched mother's cries,Avenging Power awake! arise!
By the rank infected airThat taints those dungeons of despair,By those who there imprison'd dieWhere the black herd promiscuous lie,By the scourges blacken'd o'erAnd stiff and hard with human gore,By every groan of deep distressBy every curse of wretchedness,By all the train of Crimes that flowFrom the hopelessness of Woe,By every drop of blood bespilt,By Afric's wrongs and Europe's guilt,Awake! arise! avenge!
And thou hast heard! and o'er their blood-fed plainsSwept thine avenging hurricanes;And bade thy storms with whirlwind roarDash their proud navies on the shore;And where their armies claim'd the fightWither'd the warrior's might;And o'er the unholy host with baneful breathThere Genius thou hast breath'd the gales of Death.
So perish still the robbers of mankind!What tho' from Justice bound and blindInhuman Power has snatch'd the sword!What tho' thro' many an ignominious ageThat Fiend with desolating rageThe tide of carnage pour'd!Justice shall yet unclose her eyes,Terrific yet in wrath arise,And trample on the tyrant's breast,And make Oppresion groan opprest.
To my ownMINIATURE PICTUREtaken at two years of age.
And I was once like this! that glowing cheekWas mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes, that browSmooth as the level lake, when not a breezeDies o'er the sleeping surface! twenty yearsHave wrought strange alteration! Of the friendsWho once so dearly prized this miniature,And loved it for its likeness, some are goneTo their last home; and some, estranged in heart,Beholding me with quick-averted glancePass on the other side! But still these huesRemain unalter'd, and these features wearThe look of Infancy and Innocence.I search myself in vain, and find no traceOf what I was: those lightly-arching linesDark and o'erhanging now; and that mild faceSettled in these strong lineaments!—There wereWho form'd high hopes and flattering ones of theeYoung Robert! for thine eye was quick to speakEach opening feeling: should they not have knownWhen the rich rainbow on the morning cloudReflects its radiant dies, the husbandmanBeholds the ominous glory sad, and fearsImpending storms? they augur'd happily,For thou didst love each wild and wonderous taleOf faery fiction, and thine infant tongueLisp'd with delight the godlike deeds of GreeceAnd rising Rome; therefore they deem'd forsoothThat thou shouldst tread PREFERMENT'S pleasant path.Ill-judging ones! they let thy little feetStray in the pleasant paths of POESY,And when thou shouldst have prest amid the crowdThere didst thou love to linger out the dayLoitering beneath the laurels barren shade.SPIRIT of SPENSER! was the wanderer wrong?This little picture was for ornamentDesign'd, to shine amid the motley mobOf Fashion and of Folly,—is it notMore honour'd by this solitary song?
What! and not one to heave the pious sigh!Not one whose sorrow-swoln and aching eyeFor social scenes, for life's endearments fled,Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead!Poor wretched Outcast! I will weep for thee,And sorrow for forlorn humanity.Yes I will weep, but not that thou art comeTo the stern Sabbath of the silent tomb:For squalid Want, and the black scorpion Care,Heart-withering fiends! shall never enter there.I sorrow for the ills thy life has knownAs thro' the world's long pilgrimage, alone,Haunted by Poverty and woe-begone,Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on:Thy youth in ignorance and labour past,And thine old age all barrenness and blast!Hard was thy Fate, which, while it doom'd to woe,Denied thee wisdom to support the blow;And robb'd of all its energy thy mind,Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellow-kind,Abject of thought, the victim of distress,To wander in the world's wide wilderness.
Poor Outcast sleep in peace! the wintry stormBlows bleak no more on thine unshelter'd form;Thy woes are past; thou restest in the tomb;—I pause—and ponder on the days to come.
written on the first of January, 1794
Come melancholy Moralizer—come!Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;With me engarland nowThe SEPULCHRE OF TIME!
Come Moralizer to the funeral song!I pour the dirge of the Departed Days,For well the funeral songBefits this solemn hour.
But hark! even now the merry bells ring roundWith clamorous joy to welcome in this day,This consecrated day,To Mirth and Indolence.
Mortal! whilst Fortune with benignant handFills to the brim thy cup of happiness,Whilst her unclouded sunIllumes thy summer day,
Canst thou rejoice—rejoice that Time flies fast?That Night shall shadow soon thy summer sun?That swift the stream of YearsRolls to Eternity?
If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish,If Power be thine, remember what thou art—Remember thou art Man,And Death thine heritage!
Hast thou known Love? does Beauty's better sunCheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile,Her eye all eloquence,Her voice all harmony?
Oh state of happiness! hark how the galeMoans deep and hollow o'er the leafless grove!Winter is dark and cold—Where now the charms of Spring?
Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future sceneIn hues too sombrous? that the dark-stol'd MaidWith stern and frowning frontAppals the shuddering soul?
And would'st thou bid me court her faery formWhen, as she sports her in some happier mood,Her many-colour'd robesDance varying to the Sun?
Ah vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long roadLeads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height,With anxious gaze surveyThe fruitful far-off vale.
Oh there are those who love the pensive songTo whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant!There are who at this hourWill love to contemplate!
For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time,Rejoicing when the fading orb of dayIs sunk again in night,That one day more is gone.
And he who bears Affliction's heavy loadWith patient piety, well pleas'd he knowsThe World a pilgrimage,The Grave the inn of rest.
Inscriptions
The three Utilitise of Poetry: the praise of Virtue and Goodness, theMemory of things remarkable, and to invigorate the affections.
Welsh Triad.
For a TABLET at GODSTOW NUNNERY.
Here Stranger rest thee! from the neighbouring towersOf Oxford, haply thou hast forced thy barkUp this strong stream, whose broken waters hereSend pleasant murmurs to the listening sense:Rest thee beneath this hazel; its green boughsAfford a grateful shade, and to the eyeFair is its fruit: Stranger! the seemly fruitIs worthless, all[1] is hollowness within,For on the grave of ROSAMUND it grows!Young lovely and beloved she fell seduced,And here retir'd to wear her wretched ageIn earnest prayer and bitter penitence,Despis'd and self-despising: think of herYoung Man! and learn to reverence Womankind!
[Footnote 1: I have often seen this hazel: its nuts are apparently very fine, but always without a kernel.]
For a COLUMN at NEWBURY.
Art thou a Patriot Traveller? on this fieldDid FALKLAND fall the blameless and the braveBeneath a Tyrant's banners: dost thou boastOf loyal ardor? HAMBDEN perish'd here,The rebel HAMBDEN, at whose glorious nameThe heart of every honest EnglishmanBeats high with conscious pride. Both uncorrupt,Friends to their common country both, they fought,They died in adverse armies. Traveller!If with thy neighbour thou should'st not accord,In charity remember these good men,And quell each angry and injurious thought.
For a CAVERN that overlooks the River AVON.
Enter this cavern Stranger! the ascentIs long and steep and toilsome; here awhileThou mayest repose thee, from the noontide heatO'ercanopied by this arch'd rock that strikesA grateful coolness: clasping its rough armsRound the rude portal, the old ivy hangsIts dark green branches down, and the wild Bees,O'er its grey blossoms murmuring ceaseless, makeMost pleasant melody. No common spotReceives thee, for the Power who prompts the song,Loves this secluded haunt. The tide belowScarce sends the sound of waters to thine ear;And this high-hanging forest to the windVaries its many hues. Gaze Stranger here!And let thy soften'd heart intensely feelHow good, how lovely, Nature! When from henceDeparting to the City's crouded streets,Thy sickening eye at every step revoltsFrom scenes of vice and wretchedness; reflectThat Man creates the evil he endures.
For the Apartment in CHEPSTOW-CASTLE where HENRY MARTEN the Regicide was imprisoned Thirty Years.
For thirty years secluded from mankind,Here Marten linger'd. Often have these wallsEchoed his footsteps, as with even treadHe paced around his prison: not to himDid Nature's fair varieties exist;He never saw the Sun's delightful beams,Save when thro' yon high bars it pour'd a sadAnd broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime?He had rebell'd against the King, and satIn judgment on him; for his ardent mindShaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! But suchAs PLATO lov'd; such as with holy zealOur MILTON worshipp'd. Blessed hopes! awhileFrom man withheld, even to the latter days,When CHRIST shall come and all things be fulfill'd.
For a MONUMENT at SILBURY-HILL.
This mound in some remote and dateless dayRear'd o'er a Chieftain of the Age [1] of Hills,May here detain thee Traveller! from thy roadNot idly lingering. In his narrow houseSome Warrior sleeps below: his gallant deedsHaply at many a solemn festivalThe Bard has harp'd, but perish'd is the songOf praise, as o'er these bleak and barren downsThe wind that passes and is heard no more.Go Traveller on thy way, and contemplateGlory's brief pageant, and remember thenThat one good deed was never wrought in vain.
[Footnote 1: The Northern Nations distinguished the two periods when the bodies of the dead were consumed by fire, and when they were buried beneath the tumuli so common in this country, by the Age of Fire and the Age of Hills.]
For a MONUMENT in the NEW FOREST.
This is the place where William's kingly powerDid from their poor and peaceful homes expel,Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless,The habitants of all the fertile trackFar as these wilds extend. He levell'd downTheir little cottages, he bade their fieldsLie barren, so that o'er the forest wasteHe might most royally pursue his sports!If that thine heart be human, Passenger!Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lipsWill mutter curses on him. Think thou thenWhat cities flame, what hosts unsepulchredPollute the passing wind, when raging PowerDrives on his blood-hounds to the chase of Man;And as thy thoughts anticipate that dayWhen God shall judge aright, in charityPray for the wicked rulers of mankind.
For a TABLET on the Banks of a Stream.
Stranger! awhile upon this mossy bankRecline thee. If the Sun rides high, the breeze,That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet,Will play around thy brow, and the cool soundOf running waters soothe thee. Mark how clearIt sparkles o'er the shallows, and beholdWhere o'er its surface wheels with restless speedYon glossy insect, on the sand belowHow the swift shadow flies. The stream is pureIn solitude, and many a healthful herbBends o'er its course and drinks the vital wave:But passing on amid the haunts of man,It finds pollution there, and rolls from thenceA tainted tide. Seek'st thou for HAPPINESS?Go Stranger, sojourn in the woodland cotOf INNOCENCE, and thou shalt find her there.
For the CENOTAPH at ERMENONVILLE.
STRANGER! the MAN OF NATURE lies not here:Enshrin'd far distant by his [1] rival's sideHis relics rest, there by the giddy throngWith blind idolatry alike revered!Wiselier directed have thy pilgrim feetExplor'd the scenes of Ermenonville. ROUSSEAULoved these calm haunts of Solitude and Peace;Here he has heard the murmurs of the stream,And the soft rustling of the poplar grove,When o'er their bending boughs the passing windSwept a grey shade. Here if thy breast be full,If in thine eye the tear devout should gush,His SPIRIT shall behold thee, to thine homeFrom hence returning, purified of heart.
[Footnote 1: Voltaire.]
Birth-Day Odes.
O my faithful Friend!O early chosen, ever found the same,And trusted and beloved! once more the verseLong destin'd, always obvious to thine ear,Attend indulgent.
BIRTH-DAY ODE,1793.
Small is the new-born plant scarce seenAmid the soft encircling green,Where yonder budding acorn rears,Just o'er the waving grass, its tender head:Slow pass along the train of years,And on the growing plant, their dews and showers they shed.Anon it rears aloft its giant form,And spreads its broad-brown arms to meet the storm.Beneath its boughs far shadowing o'er the plain,From summer suns, repair the grateful village train.
Nor BEDFORD will my friend surveyThe book of Nature with unheeding eye;For never beams the rising orb of day,For never dimly dies the refluent ray,But as the moralizer marks the sky,He broods with strange delight upon futurity.
And we must muse my friend! maturer yearsArise, and other Hopes and other Fears,For we have past the pleasant plains of Youth.Oh pleasant plains! that we might strayFor ever o'er your faery ground—For ever roam your vales around,Nor onward tempt the dangerous way—For oh—what numerous foes assailThe Traveller, from that chearful vale!
With toil and heaviness opprestSeek not the flowery bank for rest,Tho' there the bowering woodbine spreadIts fragrant shelter o'er thy head,Tho' Zephyr there should linger longTo hear the sky-lark's wildly-warbled song,There heedless Youth shalt thou awakeThe vengeance of the coiling snake!
Tho' fairly smiles the vernal meadTo tempt thy pilgrim feet, proceedHold on thy steady course aright,Else shalt thou wandering o'er the pathless plain,When damp and dark descends the nightShivering and shelterless, repent in vain.
And yet—tho' Dangers lurk on every sideReceive not WORLDLY WISDOM for thy guide!Beneath his care thou wilt not knowThe throb of unavailing woe,No tear shall tremble in thine eyeThy breast shall struggle with no sigh,He will security impart,But he will apathize thy heart!
Ah no!Fly Fly that fatal foe,Virtue shall shrink from his torpedo grasp—For not more fatal thro' the Wretches veinsBenumb'd in Death's cold painsCreeps the chill poison of the deadly asp.
Serener joys my friend awaitMaturer manhood's steady state.The wild brook bursting from its sourceMeanders on its early course,Delighting there with winding wayAmid the vernal vale to stray,Emerging thence more widely spreadIt foams along its craggy bed,And shatter'd with the mighty shockRushes from the giddy rock—Hurl'd headlong o'er the dangerous steepOn runs the current to the deep,And gathering waters as it goesSerene and calm the river flows,Diffuses plenty o'er the smiling coast,Rolls on its stately waves and is in ocean lost.
BIRTH-DAY ODE,1796.
And wouldst thou seek the low abodeWhere PEACE delights to dwell?Pause Traveller on thy way of life!With many a snare and peril rifeIs that long labyrinth of road:Dark is the vale of years beforePause Traveller on thy way!Nor dare the dangerous path exploreTill old EXPERIENCE comes to lend his leading ray.
Not he who comes with lanthorn lightShall guide thy groping pace arightWith faltering feet and slow;No! let him rear the torch on highAnd every maze shall meet thine eye,And every snare and every foe;Then with steady step and strong,Traveller, shalt thou march along.
Tho' POWER invite thee to her hall,Regard not thou her tempting callHer splendors meteor glare;Tho' courteous Flattery there awaitAnd Wealth adorn the dome of State,There stalks the midnight spectre CARE;PEACE, Traveller! does not sojourn there.
If FAME allure thee, climb not thouTo that steep mountain's craggy browWhere stands her stately pile;For far from thence does PEACE abide,And thou shall find FAME'S favouring smileCold as the feeble Sun on Heclas snow-clad side,
And Traveller! as thou hopest to findThat low and loved abode,Retire thee from the thronging roadAnd shun the mob of human kind.Ah I hear how old EXPERIENCE schools,"Fly fly the crowd of Knaves and Fools"And thou shalt fly from woe;"The one thy heedless heart will greet"With Judas smile, and thou wilt meet"In every Fool a Foe!"
So safely mayest thou pass from these,And reach secure the home of PEACE,And FRIENDSHIP find thee there.No happier state can mortal know,No happier lot can Earth bestowIf LOVE thy lot shall share.Yet still CONTENT with him may dwellWhom HYMEN will not bless,And VIRTUE sojourn in the cellOf HERMIT HAPPINESS.
Eclogues
Where a sight shall shuddering Sorrow find.Sad as the ruins of the human mind!
(Time, Morning. Scene, the Shore.[1])
Once more to daily toil—once more to wearThe weeds of infamy—from every joyThe heart can feel excluded, I ariseWorn out and faint with unremitting woe;And once again with wearied steps I traceThe hollow-sounding shore. The swelling wavesGleam to the morning sun, and dazzle o'erWith many a splendid hue the breezy strand.Oh there was once a time when ELINORGazed on thy opening beam with joyous eyeUndimm'd by guilt and grief! when her full soulFelt thy mild radiance, and the rising dayWaked but to pleasure! on thy sea-girt vergeOft England! have my evening steps stole on,Oft have mine eyes surveyed the blue expanse,And mark'd the wild wind swell the ruffled surge,And seen the upheaved billows bosomed rageRush on the rock; and then my timid soulShrunk at the perils of the boundless deep,And heaved a sigh for suffering mariners.Ah! little deeming I myself was doom'd.To tempt the perils of the boundless deep,An Outcast—unbeloved and unbewail'd.
Why stern Remembrance! must thine iron handHarrow my soul? why calls thy cruel powerThe fields of England to my exil'd eyes,The joys which once were mine? even now I seeThe lowly lovely dwelling! even nowBehold the woodbine clasping its white wallsAnd hear the fearless red-breasts chirp aroundTo ask their morning meal:—for I was wontWith friendly band to give their morning meal,Was wont to love their song, when lingering mornStreak'd o'er the chilly landskip the dim light,And thro' the open'd lattice hung my headTo view the snow-drop's bud: and thence at eveWhen mildly fading sunk the summer sun,Oft have I loved to mark the rook's slow courseAnd hear his hollow croak, what time he soughtThe church-yard elm, whose wide-embowering boughsFull foliaged, half conceal'd the house of God.There, my dead father! often have I heardThy hallowed voice explain the wonderous worksOf Heaven to sinful man. Ah! little deem'dThy virtuous bosom, that thy shameless childSo soon should spurn the lesson! sink the slaveOf Vice and Infamy! the hireling preyOf brutal appetite! at length worn outWith famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt,Should dare dishonesty—yet dread to die!
Welcome ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes,Where angry England sends her outcast sons—I hail your joyless shores! my weary barkLong tempest-tost on Life's inclement sea,Here hails her haven! welcomes the drear scene,The marshy plain, the briar-entangled wood,And all the perils of a world unknown.For Elinor has nothing new to fearFrom fickle Fortune! all her rankling shaftsBarb'd with disgrace, and venom'd with disease.Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of deathHas lost its terrors to a wretch like me.
Welcome ye marshy heaths! ye pathless woods,Where the rude native rests his wearied frameBeneath the sheltering shade; where, when the storm,As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky,Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seekThe dripping shelter. Welcome ye wild plainsUnbroken by the plough, undelv'd by handOf patient rustic; where for lowing herds,And for the music of the bleating flocks,Alone is heard the kangaroo's sad noteDeepening in distance. Welcome ye rude climes,The realm of Nature! for as yet unknownThe crimes and comforts of luxurious life,Nature benignly gives to all enough,Denies to all a superfluity,What tho' the garb of infamy I wear,Tho' day by day along the echoing beachI cull the wave-worn shells, yet day by dayI earn in honesty my frugal food,And lay me down at night to calm repose.No more condemn'd the mercenary toolOf brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heartWith Virtue's stiffled sigh, to fold my armsRound the rank felon, and for daily breadTo hug contagion to my poison'd breast;On these wild shores Repentance' saviour handShall probe my secret soul, shall cleanse its woundsAnd fit the faithful penitent for Heaven.
[Footnote 1: The female convicts are frequently employed in collecting shells for the purpose of making lime.]
HUMPHREY and WILLIAM.
(Time, Noon.)
See'st thou not William that the scorching SunBy this time half his daily race has run?The savage thrusts his light canoe to shoreAnd hurries homeward with his fishy store.Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soilTo eat our dinner and to rest from toil!
Agreed. Yon tree whose purple gum bestowsA ready medicine for the sick-man's woes,Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreatTo shield us from the noontide's sultry heat.Ah Humphrey! now upon old England's shoreThe weary labourer's morning work is o'er:The woodman now rests from his measur'd strokeFlings down his axe and sits beneath the oak,Savour'd with hunger there he eats his food,There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood.To us no cooling streamlet winds its way,No joys domestic crown for us the day,The felon's name, the outcast's garb we wear,Toil all the day, and all the night despair.
Ah William! labouring up the furrowed groundI used to love the village clock's dull sound,Rejoice to hear my morning toil was done,And trudge it homewards when the clock went one.'Twas ere I turn'd a soldier and a sinner!Pshaw! curse this whining—let us fall to dinner.
I too have loved this hour, nor yet forgotEach joy domestic of my little cot.For at this hour my wife with watchful careWas wont each humbler dainty to prepare,The keenest sauce by hunger was suppliedAnd my poor children prattled at my side.Methinks I see the old oak table spread,The clean white trencher and the good brown bread,The cheese my daily food which Mary made,For Mary knew full well the housewife's trade:The jug of cyder,—cyder I could make,And then the knives—I won 'em at the wake.Another has them now! I toiling hereLook backward like a child and drop a tear.
I love a dismal story, tell me thine,Meantime, good Will, I'll listen as I dine.I too my friend can tell a piteous storyWhen I turn'd hero how I purchas'd glory.
But Humphrey, sure thou never canst have knownThe comforts of a little home thine own:A home so snug, So chearful too as mine,'Twas always clean, and we could make it fine;For there King Charles's golden rules were seen,And there—God bless 'em both—the King and Queen.The pewter plates our garnish'd chimney graceSo nicely scour'd, you might have seen your face;And over all, to frighten thieves, was hungWell clean'd, altho' but seldom us'd, my gun.Ah! that damn'd gun! I took it down one morn—A desperate deal of harm they did my corn!Our testy Squire too loved to save the breed,So covey upon covey eat my seed.I mark'd the mischievous rogues, and took my aim,I fir'd, they fell, and—up the keeper came.That cursed morning brought on my undoing,I went to prison and my farm to ruin.Poor Mary! for her grave the parish paid,No tomb-stone tells where her cold corpse is laid!My children—my dear boys—
Come—Grief is dry—You to your dinner—to my story I.To you my friend who happier days have knownAnd each calm comfort of a home your own,This is bad living: I have spent my lifeIn hardest toil and unavailing strife,And here (from forest ambush safe at least)To me this scanty pittance seems a feast.I was a plough-boy once; as free from woesAnd blithesome as the lark with whom I rose.Each evening at return a meal I foundAnd, tho' my bed was hard, my sleep was sound.One Whitsuntide, to go to fair, I drestLike a great bumkin in my Sunday's best;A primrose posey in my hat I stuckAnd to the revel went to try my luck.From show to show, from booth to booth I stray,See stare and wonder all the live-long day.A Serjeant to the fair recruiting cameSkill'd in man-catching to beat up for game;Our booth he enter'd and sat down by me;—Methinks even now the very scene I see!The canvass roof, the hogshead's running store,The old blind fiddler seated next the door,The frothy tankard passing to and froAnd the rude rabble round the puppet-show;The Serjeant eyed me well—the punch-bowl comes,And as we laugh'd and drank, up struck the drums—And now he gives a bumper to his Wench—God save the King, and then—God damn the French.Then tells the story of his last campaign.How many wounded and how many slain,Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating,The English marching on, the French retreating,—"Push on—push on my lads! they fly before ye,"March on to riches, happiness and glory!"At first I wonder'd, by degrees grew bolder,Then cried—"tis a fine thing to be a soldier!""Aye Humphrey!" says the Serjeant—"that's your name?"'Tis a fine thing to fight the French for fame!"March to the field—knock out a Mounseer's brains"And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains."Come Humphrey come! thou art a lad of spirit!"Rise to a halbert—as I did—by merit!"Would'st thou believe it? even I was once"As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce;"But Courage rais'd me to my rank. How now boy!"Shall Hero Humphrey still be Numps the plough-boy?"A proper shaped young fellow! tall and straight!"Why thou wert made for glory! five feet eight!"The road to riches is the field of fight,—"Didst ever see a guinea look so bright?"Why regimentals Numps would give thee grace,"A hat and feather would become that face;"The girls would crowd around thee to be kist—"Dost love a girl?" "Od Zounds!" I cried "I'll list!"So past the night: anon the morning came,And off I set a volunteer for fame."Back shoulders, turn out your toes, hold up your head,"Stand easy!" so I did—till almost dead.Oh how I long'd to tend the plough againTrudge up the field and whistle o'er the plain,When tir'd and sore amid the piteous throngHungry and cold and wet I limp'd along,And growing fainter as I pass'd and colder,Curs'd that ill hour when I became a soldier!In town I found the hours more gayly passAnd Time fled swiftly with my girl and glass;The girls were wonderous kind and wonderous fair,They soon transferred me to the Doctor's care,The Doctor undertook to cure the evil,And he almost transferred me to the Devil.'Twere tedious to relate the dismal storyOf fighting, fasting, wretchedness and glory.At last discharg'd, to England's shores I camePaid for my wounds with want instead of fame,Found my fair friends and plunder'd as they bade me,They kist me, coax'd me, robb'd me and betray'd me.Tried and condemn'd his Majesty transports me,And here in peace, I thank him, he supports me,So ends my dismal and heroic storyAnd Humphrey gets more good from guilt than glory.