And art thou he, now "fall'n on evil days,"And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek,These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak!A spirit reckless of man's blame or praise,—A spirit, when thine eyes to the noon's blazeTheir dark orbs roll in vain, in suffering meek,As in the sight of God intent to seek,'Mid solitude or age, or through the waysOf hard adversity, the approving lookOf its great Master; whilst the conscious prideOf wisdom, patient and content to brookAll ills to that sole Master's task applied,Shall show before high heaven the unaltered mind,Milton, though thou art poor, and old, and blind!
And art thou he, now "fall'n on evil days,"And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek,These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak!A spirit reckless of man's blame or praise,—A spirit, when thine eyes to the noon's blazeTheir dark orbs roll in vain, in suffering meek,As in the sight of God intent to seek,'Mid solitude or age, or through the waysOf hard adversity, the approving lookOf its great Master; whilst the conscious prideOf wisdom, patient and content to brookAll ills to that sole Master's task applied,Shall show before high heaven the unaltered mind,Milton, though thou art poor, and old, and blind!
Since last I saw that countenance so mild,Slow-stealing age, and a faint line of care,Had gently touched, methought, some features there;Yet looked the man as placid as a child,And the same voice,—whilst mingled with the throng,Unknowing, and unknown, we passed along,—That voice, a share of the brief time beguiled!That voice I ne'er may hear again, I sighedAt parting,—wheresoe'er our various way,In this great world,—but from the banks of Tweed,As slowly sink the shades of eventide,Oh! I shall hear the music of his reed,Far off, and thinking of that voice, shall say,A blessing rest upon thy locks of gray!
Since last I saw that countenance so mild,Slow-stealing age, and a faint line of care,Had gently touched, methought, some features there;Yet looked the man as placid as a child,And the same voice,—whilst mingled with the throng,Unknowing, and unknown, we passed along,—That voice, a share of the brief time beguiled!That voice I ne'er may hear again, I sighedAt parting,—wheresoe'er our various way,In this great world,—but from the banks of Tweed,As slowly sink the shades of eventide,Oh! I shall hear the music of his reed,Far off, and thinking of that voice, shall say,A blessing rest upon thy locks of gray!
The morning wakes in shadowy mantle gray,1The darksome woods their glimmering skirts unfold,Prone from the cliff the falcon wheels her way,And long and loud the bell's slow chime is tolled.The reddening light gains fast upon the skies,2And far away the glistening vapours sail,Down the rough steep the accustomed hedger hies,And the stream winds in brightness through the vale.Mark how those riven rocks on either shore3Uplift their bleak and furrowed fronts on high;How proudly desolate their foreheads hoar,That meet the earliest sunbeams of the sky!Bound for yon dusky mart,[17]with pennants gay,4The tall bark, on the winding water's line,Between the riven cliffs slow plies her way,And peering on the sight the white sails shine.Alas! for those by drooping sickness worn,5Who now come forth to meet the cheering ray;And feel the fragrance of the tepid mornRound their torn breasts and throbbing temples play![18]Perhaps they muse with a desponding sigh6On the cold vault that shall their bones inurn;Whilst every breeze seems, as it whispers by,To breathe of comfort never to return.Yet oft, as sadly thronging dreams arise,7Awhile forgetful of their pain they gaze,A transient lustre lights their faded eyes,And o'er their cheek the tender hectic plays.The purple morn that paints with sidelong gleam8The cliff's tall crest, the waving woods that ringWith songs of birds rejoicing in the beam,Touch soft the wakeful nerve's according string.Then at sad Meditation's silent hour9A thousand wishes steal upon the heart;And, whilst they meekly bend to Heaven's high power,Ah! think 'tis hard, 'tis surely hard to part:To part from every hope that brought delight,10From those that loved them, those they loved so much!Then Fancy swells the picture on the sight,And softens every scene at every touch.Sweet as the mellowed woods beneath the moon,11Remembrance lends her soft-uniting shades;"Some natural tears she drops, but wipes them soon:"—The world retires, and its dim prospect fades!Airs of delight, that soothe the aching sense;12Waters of health, that through yon caverns glide;Oh! kindly yet your healing powers dispense,And bring back feeble life's exhausted tide!Perhaps to these gray rocks and mazy springs13Some heart may come, warmed with the purest fire;For whom bright Fancy plumes her radiant wings,And warbling Muses wake the lonely lyre.Some orphan Maid, deceived in early youth,14Pale o'er yon spring may hang in mute distress;Who dream of faith, of happiness, and truth,Of love—that Virtue would protect and bless.Some musing Youth in silence there may bend,15Untimely stricken by sharp Sorrow's dart;For friendship formed, yet left without a friend,And bearing still the arrow at his heart.Such was lamentedRussell's[19]early doom,16The gay companion of our stripling prime;Ev'n so he sank unwept into the tomb,And o'er his head closed the dark gulph of time.Hither he came, a wan and weary guest,17A softening balm for many a wound to crave;And wooed the sunshine to his aching breast,Which now seems smiling on his verdant grave!He heard the whispering winds that now I hear,18As, boding much, along these hills he passed;Yet ah! how mournful did they meet his earOn that sad morn he heard them for the last!So sinks the scene, like a departed dream,19Since late we sojourned blythe in Wykeham's bowers,[20]Or heard the merry bells by Isis' stream,And thought our way was strewed with fairy flowers!Of those with whom we played upon the lawn20Of early life, in the fresh morning played;Alas! how many, since that vernal dawn,Like thee, poorRussell, 'neath the turf are laid!Joyous a while they wandered hand in hand,21By friendship led along the springtide plain;How oft did Fancy wake her transports bland,And on the lids the glistening tear detain!I yet survive, now musing other song,22Than that which early pleased my vacant years;Thinking how days and hours have passed along,Marked by much pleasure some, and some by tears!Thankful, that to these verdant scenes I owe23That he[21]whom late I saw all drooping pale,Raised from the couch of sickness and of woe,Now lives with me these mantling views to hail.Thankful, that still the landscape beaming bright,24Of pendant mountain, or of woodland gray,Can wake the wonted sense of pure delight,And charm a while my solitary way.Enough:—through the high heaven the proud sun rides,25My wandering steps their silent path pursueBack to the crowded world where fortune guides:Clifton, to thy white rocks and woods adieu!
The morning wakes in shadowy mantle gray,1The darksome woods their glimmering skirts unfold,Prone from the cliff the falcon wheels her way,And long and loud the bell's slow chime is tolled.
The reddening light gains fast upon the skies,2And far away the glistening vapours sail,Down the rough steep the accustomed hedger hies,And the stream winds in brightness through the vale.
Mark how those riven rocks on either shore3Uplift their bleak and furrowed fronts on high;How proudly desolate their foreheads hoar,That meet the earliest sunbeams of the sky!
Bound for yon dusky mart,[17]with pennants gay,4The tall bark, on the winding water's line,Between the riven cliffs slow plies her way,And peering on the sight the white sails shine.
Alas! for those by drooping sickness worn,5Who now come forth to meet the cheering ray;And feel the fragrance of the tepid mornRound their torn breasts and throbbing temples play![18]
Perhaps they muse with a desponding sigh6On the cold vault that shall their bones inurn;Whilst every breeze seems, as it whispers by,To breathe of comfort never to return.
Yet oft, as sadly thronging dreams arise,7Awhile forgetful of their pain they gaze,A transient lustre lights their faded eyes,And o'er their cheek the tender hectic plays.
The purple morn that paints with sidelong gleam8The cliff's tall crest, the waving woods that ringWith songs of birds rejoicing in the beam,Touch soft the wakeful nerve's according string.
Then at sad Meditation's silent hour9A thousand wishes steal upon the heart;And, whilst they meekly bend to Heaven's high power,Ah! think 'tis hard, 'tis surely hard to part:
To part from every hope that brought delight,10From those that loved them, those they loved so much!Then Fancy swells the picture on the sight,And softens every scene at every touch.
Sweet as the mellowed woods beneath the moon,11Remembrance lends her soft-uniting shades;"Some natural tears she drops, but wipes them soon:"—The world retires, and its dim prospect fades!
Airs of delight, that soothe the aching sense;12Waters of health, that through yon caverns glide;Oh! kindly yet your healing powers dispense,And bring back feeble life's exhausted tide!
Perhaps to these gray rocks and mazy springs13Some heart may come, warmed with the purest fire;For whom bright Fancy plumes her radiant wings,And warbling Muses wake the lonely lyre.
Some orphan Maid, deceived in early youth,14Pale o'er yon spring may hang in mute distress;Who dream of faith, of happiness, and truth,Of love—that Virtue would protect and bless.
Some musing Youth in silence there may bend,15Untimely stricken by sharp Sorrow's dart;For friendship formed, yet left without a friend,And bearing still the arrow at his heart.
Such was lamentedRussell's[19]early doom,16The gay companion of our stripling prime;Ev'n so he sank unwept into the tomb,And o'er his head closed the dark gulph of time.
Hither he came, a wan and weary guest,17A softening balm for many a wound to crave;And wooed the sunshine to his aching breast,Which now seems smiling on his verdant grave!
He heard the whispering winds that now I hear,18As, boding much, along these hills he passed;Yet ah! how mournful did they meet his earOn that sad morn he heard them for the last!
So sinks the scene, like a departed dream,19Since late we sojourned blythe in Wykeham's bowers,[20]Or heard the merry bells by Isis' stream,And thought our way was strewed with fairy flowers!
Of those with whom we played upon the lawn20Of early life, in the fresh morning played;Alas! how many, since that vernal dawn,Like thee, poorRussell, 'neath the turf are laid!
Joyous a while they wandered hand in hand,21By friendship led along the springtide plain;How oft did Fancy wake her transports bland,And on the lids the glistening tear detain!
I yet survive, now musing other song,22Than that which early pleased my vacant years;Thinking how days and hours have passed along,Marked by much pleasure some, and some by tears!
Thankful, that to these verdant scenes I owe23That he[21]whom late I saw all drooping pale,Raised from the couch of sickness and of woe,Now lives with me these mantling views to hail.
Thankful, that still the landscape beaming bright,24Of pendant mountain, or of woodland gray,Can wake the wonted sense of pure delight,And charm a while my solitary way.
Enough:—through the high heaven the proud sun rides,25My wandering steps their silent path pursueBack to the crowded world where fortune guides:Clifton, to thy white rocks and woods adieu!
[16]Afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury.[17]Bristol.[18]From a latin prize poem, by W. Jackson—"Et lacerum Pectus zephyri mulcere tepentes."[19]The Rev. Thomas Russell, Fellow of New College, Oxford, author of some beautiful sonnets, died at the Hotwells 1788, in the twenty-sixth year of his age. His poems were first published by Mr Howley, with whom we wooed the Muses together on the banks of Itchen. Headley was a pupil of Dr Parr.[20]Winchester College.[21]The Rev. Dr Howley, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury.
[16]Afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury.
[16]Afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury.
[17]Bristol.
[17]Bristol.
[18]From a latin prize poem, by W. Jackson—"Et lacerum Pectus zephyri mulcere tepentes."
"Et lacerum Pectus zephyri mulcere tepentes."
"Et lacerum Pectus zephyri mulcere tepentes."
[19]The Rev. Thomas Russell, Fellow of New College, Oxford, author of some beautiful sonnets, died at the Hotwells 1788, in the twenty-sixth year of his age. His poems were first published by Mr Howley, with whom we wooed the Muses together on the banks of Itchen. Headley was a pupil of Dr Parr.
[19]The Rev. Thomas Russell, Fellow of New College, Oxford, author of some beautiful sonnets, died at the Hotwells 1788, in the twenty-sixth year of his age. His poems were first published by Mr Howley, with whom we wooed the Muses together on the banks of Itchen. Headley was a pupil of Dr Parr.
[20]Winchester College.
[20]Winchester College.
[21]The Rev. Dr Howley, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury.
[21]The Rev. Dr Howley, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury.
To every gentle Muse in vain allied,In youth's full early morningHeadleydied!Too long had sickness left her pining trace,With slow, still touch, on each decaying grace:Untimely sorrow marked his thoughtful mien!Despair upon his languid smile was seen!Yet Resignation, musing on the grave,(When now no hope could cheer, no pity save),And Virtue, that scarce felt its fate severe,And pale Affection, dropping soft a tear10For friends beloved, from whom she soon must part,Breathed a sad solace on his aching heart.Nor ceased he yet to stray, where, winding wild,The Muse's path his drooping steps beguiled,Intent to rescue some neglected rhyme,Lone-blooming, from the mournful waste of time;And cull each scattered sweet, that seemed to smileLike flowers upon some long-forsaken pile.[22]Far from the murmuring crowd, unseen, he soughtEach charm congenial to his saddened thought.20When the gray morn illumed the mountain's side,To hear the sweet birds' earliest song he hied;When meekest eve to the fold's distant bellListened, and bade the woods and vales farewell,Musing in tearful mood, he oft was seenThe last that lingered on the fading green.The waving wood high o'er the cliff reclined,The murmuring waterfall, the winter's wind,His temper's trembling texture seemed to suit;As airs of sadness the responsive lute.30Yet deem not hence the social spirit dead,Though from the world's hard gaze his feelings fled:Firm was his friendship, and his faith sincere,And warm as Pity's his unheeded tear,That wept the ruthless deed, the poor man's fate,By fortune's storms left cold and desolate.Farewell! yet be this humble tribute paidTo all his virtues, from that social shadeWhere once we sojourned.[23]I, alas! remainTo mourn the hours of youth, yet mourn in vain,40That fled neglected. Wisely thou hast trodThe better path; and that High Meed, whichGodOrdained for Virtue towering from the dust,Shall bless thy labours, spirit pure and just!
To every gentle Muse in vain allied,In youth's full early morningHeadleydied!Too long had sickness left her pining trace,With slow, still touch, on each decaying grace:Untimely sorrow marked his thoughtful mien!Despair upon his languid smile was seen!Yet Resignation, musing on the grave,(When now no hope could cheer, no pity save),And Virtue, that scarce felt its fate severe,And pale Affection, dropping soft a tear10For friends beloved, from whom she soon must part,Breathed a sad solace on his aching heart.Nor ceased he yet to stray, where, winding wild,The Muse's path his drooping steps beguiled,Intent to rescue some neglected rhyme,Lone-blooming, from the mournful waste of time;And cull each scattered sweet, that seemed to smileLike flowers upon some long-forsaken pile.[22]Far from the murmuring crowd, unseen, he soughtEach charm congenial to his saddened thought.20When the gray morn illumed the mountain's side,To hear the sweet birds' earliest song he hied;When meekest eve to the fold's distant bellListened, and bade the woods and vales farewell,Musing in tearful mood, he oft was seenThe last that lingered on the fading green.The waving wood high o'er the cliff reclined,The murmuring waterfall, the winter's wind,His temper's trembling texture seemed to suit;As airs of sadness the responsive lute.30Yet deem not hence the social spirit dead,Though from the world's hard gaze his feelings fled:Firm was his friendship, and his faith sincere,And warm as Pity's his unheeded tear,That wept the ruthless deed, the poor man's fate,By fortune's storms left cold and desolate.Farewell! yet be this humble tribute paidTo all his virtues, from that social shadeWhere once we sojourned.[23]I, alas! remainTo mourn the hours of youth, yet mourn in vain,40That fled neglected. Wisely thou hast trodThe better path; and that High Meed, whichGodOrdained for Virtue towering from the dust,Shall bless thy labours, spirit pure and just!
[22]Alluding to theBeauties of Ancient Poetry, published by Mr Headley, a short time before his death. He was also the author of some pleasing original poetry.[23]Trinity College, Oxford. Among my contemporaries were several young men of literary taste and talent, Headley, Kett, Benwell, Dallaway, Richards, and Dornford; Thomas Warton was one of the Senior Fellows.
[22]Alluding to theBeauties of Ancient Poetry, published by Mr Headley, a short time before his death. He was also the author of some pleasing original poetry.
[22]Alluding to theBeauties of Ancient Poetry, published by Mr Headley, a short time before his death. He was also the author of some pleasing original poetry.
[23]Trinity College, Oxford. Among my contemporaries were several young men of literary taste and talent, Headley, Kett, Benwell, Dallaway, Richards, and Dornford; Thomas Warton was one of the Senior Fellows.
[23]Trinity College, Oxford. Among my contemporaries were several young men of literary taste and talent, Headley, Kett, Benwell, Dallaway, Richards, and Dornford; Thomas Warton was one of the Senior Fellows.
Mortal! who, armed with holy fortitude,The path of good right onward hast pursued;MayHe, to whose eternal throne on highThe sufferers of the earth with anguish cry,Be thy protector! On that dreary roadThat leads thee patient to the last abodeOf wretchedness, in peril and in pain,MayHethy steps direct, thy heart sustain!'Mid scenes, where pestilence in darkness flies;In caverns, where deserted misery lies;10So safe beneath His shadow thou may'st go,To cheer the dismal wastes of human woe.O Charity! our helpless nature's pride,Thou friend to him who knows no friend beside,Is there in morning's breath, or the sweet galeThat steals o'er the tired pilgrim of the vale,Cheering with fragrance fresh his weary frame,Aught like the incense of thy sacred flame?Is aught in all the beauties that adornThe azure heaven, or purple lights of morn;20Is aught so fair in evening's lingering gleam,As from thine eye the meek and pensive beamThat falls like saddest moonlight on the hillAnd distant grove, when the wide world is still!Thine are the ample views, that unconfinedStretch to the utmost walks of human kind:Thine is the spirit that with widest planBrother to brother binds, and man to man.But who for thee, O Charity! will bearHardship, and cope with peril and with care!30Who, for thy sake, will social sweets foregoFor scenes of sickness, and the sights of woe!Who, for thy sake, will seek the prison's gloom,Where ghastly Guilt implores her lingering doom;Where Penitence unpitied sits, and pale,That never told to human ears her tale;Where Agony, half-famished, cries in vain;Where dark Despondence murmurs o'er her chain;Where gaunt Disease is wasted to the bone,And hollow-eyed Despair forgets to groan!40Approving Mercy marks the vast design,And proudly cries—Howard, the task be thine!Already 'mid the darksome vaults profound,The inner prison deep beneath the ground,Consoling hath thy tender look appeared:In horror's realm the voice of peace is heard!Be the sad scene disclosed; fearless unfoldThe grating door—the inmost cell behold!Thought shrinks from the dread sight; the paly lampBurns faint amid the infectious vapours damp;50Beneath its light full many a livid mien,And haggard eye-ball, through the dusk are seen.In thought I see thee, at each hollow sound,With humid lids oft anxious gaze around.But oh! for him who, to yon vault confined,Has bid a long farewell to human kind;His wasted form, his cold and bloodless cheek,A tale of sadder sorrow seem to speak:Of friends, perhaps now mingled with the dead;Of hope, that, like a faithless flatterer, fled60In the utmost hour of need; or of a sonCast to the bleak world's mercy; or of oneWhose heart was broken, when the stern behestTore him from pale affection's bleeding breast.Despairing, from his cold and flinty bed,With fearful muttering he has raised his head:What pitying spirit, what unwonted guest,Strays to this last retreat, these shades unblest?From life and light shut out, beneath this cellLong have I bid the cheering sun farewell.70I heard for ever closed the jealous door,I marked my bed on the forsaken floor,I had no hope on earth, no human friend:Let me unpitied to the dust descend!Cold is his frozen heart—his eye is rearedTo Heaven no more—and on his sable beardThe tear has ceased to fall. Thou canst not bringBack to his mournful heart the morn of spring;—Thou canst not bid the rose of health renewUpon his wasted cheek its crimson hue;80But at thy look, (ere yet to hate resigned,He murmurs his last curses on mankind),At thy kind look one tender thought shall rise,And his full soul shall thank thee ere he dies!Oh ye, who list to Pleasure's vacant song,As in her silken train ye troop along;Who, like rank cowards, from affliction fly,Or, whilst the precious hours of life pass by,Lie slumbering in the sun! Awake, arise,To these instructive pictures turn your eyes;90The awful view with other feelings scan,And learn fromHowardwhat man owes to man!These, Virtue! are thy triumphs, that adornFitliest our nature, and bespeak us bornFor loftier action; not to gaze and runFrom clime to clime; nor flutter in the sun,Dragging a droning flight from flower to flower,Like summer insects in a gaudy hour;Nor yet o'er love-sick tales with fancy range,And cry—'Tis pitiful, 'tis wondrous strange!100But on life's varied views to look around,And raise expiring sorrow from the ground:—And he who thus has borne his part assignedIn the sad fellowship of human kind,Or for a moment soothed the bitter painOf a poor brother, has not lived in vain!But 'tis not that Compassion should bestowAn unavailing tear on want or woe:Lo! fairer Order rises from thy plan,Befriending virtue, and adorning man.110That Comfort cheers the dark abode of pain,Where wan Disease prayed for relief in vain;That Mercy soothes the hard behest of law;That Misery smiles upon her bed of straw;That the dark felon's clan no more, combined,Murmur in murderous leagues against mankind;That to each cell, a mild yet mournful guest,Contrition comes, and calms the laboring breast,Whilst long-forgotten tears of virtue flow;Thou, generous friend of all—to thee we owe!120To thee, that Pity sees her views expandTo many a cheerless haunt, and distant land!Whilst warm Philanthropy extends her ray,Wide as the world, and general as the day!Howard!I view those deeds, and think how vainThe triumphs of weak man, the feeble strainThat Flattery brings to Conquest's crimson car,Amid the bannered host, and the proud tents of war!From realm to realm the hideous War-fiend hiesWide o'er the wasted earth; before him flies130Affright, on pinions fleeter than the wind;Whilst Death and Desolation fast behindThe havoc of his echoing march pursue:Meantime his steps are bathed in the warm dewOf bloodshed, and of tears;—but his dread nameShall perish—the loud clarion of his fameOne day shall cease, and, wrapt in hideous gloom,Forgetfulness bestride his shapeless tomb!But bear thou fearless on;—the God of all,To whom the afflicted kneel, the friendless call,140From His high throne of mercy shall approveThe holy deeds of Mercy and of Love:For when the vanities of life's brief dayOblivion's hurrying wing shall sweep away,Each act by Charity and Mercy done,High o'er the wrecks of time, shall live alone,Immortal as the heavens, and beauteous bloomTo other worlds, and realms beyond the tomb.
Mortal! who, armed with holy fortitude,The path of good right onward hast pursued;MayHe, to whose eternal throne on highThe sufferers of the earth with anguish cry,Be thy protector! On that dreary roadThat leads thee patient to the last abodeOf wretchedness, in peril and in pain,MayHethy steps direct, thy heart sustain!'Mid scenes, where pestilence in darkness flies;In caverns, where deserted misery lies;10So safe beneath His shadow thou may'st go,To cheer the dismal wastes of human woe.O Charity! our helpless nature's pride,Thou friend to him who knows no friend beside,Is there in morning's breath, or the sweet galeThat steals o'er the tired pilgrim of the vale,Cheering with fragrance fresh his weary frame,Aught like the incense of thy sacred flame?Is aught in all the beauties that adornThe azure heaven, or purple lights of morn;20Is aught so fair in evening's lingering gleam,As from thine eye the meek and pensive beamThat falls like saddest moonlight on the hillAnd distant grove, when the wide world is still!Thine are the ample views, that unconfinedStretch to the utmost walks of human kind:Thine is the spirit that with widest planBrother to brother binds, and man to man.But who for thee, O Charity! will bearHardship, and cope with peril and with care!30Who, for thy sake, will social sweets foregoFor scenes of sickness, and the sights of woe!Who, for thy sake, will seek the prison's gloom,Where ghastly Guilt implores her lingering doom;Where Penitence unpitied sits, and pale,That never told to human ears her tale;Where Agony, half-famished, cries in vain;Where dark Despondence murmurs o'er her chain;Where gaunt Disease is wasted to the bone,And hollow-eyed Despair forgets to groan!40Approving Mercy marks the vast design,And proudly cries—Howard, the task be thine!Already 'mid the darksome vaults profound,The inner prison deep beneath the ground,Consoling hath thy tender look appeared:In horror's realm the voice of peace is heard!Be the sad scene disclosed; fearless unfoldThe grating door—the inmost cell behold!Thought shrinks from the dread sight; the paly lampBurns faint amid the infectious vapours damp;50Beneath its light full many a livid mien,And haggard eye-ball, through the dusk are seen.In thought I see thee, at each hollow sound,With humid lids oft anxious gaze around.But oh! for him who, to yon vault confined,Has bid a long farewell to human kind;His wasted form, his cold and bloodless cheek,A tale of sadder sorrow seem to speak:Of friends, perhaps now mingled with the dead;Of hope, that, like a faithless flatterer, fled60In the utmost hour of need; or of a sonCast to the bleak world's mercy; or of oneWhose heart was broken, when the stern behestTore him from pale affection's bleeding breast.Despairing, from his cold and flinty bed,With fearful muttering he has raised his head:What pitying spirit, what unwonted guest,Strays to this last retreat, these shades unblest?From life and light shut out, beneath this cellLong have I bid the cheering sun farewell.70I heard for ever closed the jealous door,I marked my bed on the forsaken floor,I had no hope on earth, no human friend:Let me unpitied to the dust descend!Cold is his frozen heart—his eye is rearedTo Heaven no more—and on his sable beardThe tear has ceased to fall. Thou canst not bringBack to his mournful heart the morn of spring;—Thou canst not bid the rose of health renewUpon his wasted cheek its crimson hue;80But at thy look, (ere yet to hate resigned,He murmurs his last curses on mankind),At thy kind look one tender thought shall rise,And his full soul shall thank thee ere he dies!Oh ye, who list to Pleasure's vacant song,As in her silken train ye troop along;Who, like rank cowards, from affliction fly,Or, whilst the precious hours of life pass by,Lie slumbering in the sun! Awake, arise,To these instructive pictures turn your eyes;90The awful view with other feelings scan,And learn fromHowardwhat man owes to man!These, Virtue! are thy triumphs, that adornFitliest our nature, and bespeak us bornFor loftier action; not to gaze and runFrom clime to clime; nor flutter in the sun,Dragging a droning flight from flower to flower,Like summer insects in a gaudy hour;Nor yet o'er love-sick tales with fancy range,And cry—'Tis pitiful, 'tis wondrous strange!100But on life's varied views to look around,And raise expiring sorrow from the ground:—And he who thus has borne his part assignedIn the sad fellowship of human kind,Or for a moment soothed the bitter painOf a poor brother, has not lived in vain!But 'tis not that Compassion should bestowAn unavailing tear on want or woe:Lo! fairer Order rises from thy plan,Befriending virtue, and adorning man.110That Comfort cheers the dark abode of pain,Where wan Disease prayed for relief in vain;That Mercy soothes the hard behest of law;That Misery smiles upon her bed of straw;That the dark felon's clan no more, combined,Murmur in murderous leagues against mankind;That to each cell, a mild yet mournful guest,Contrition comes, and calms the laboring breast,Whilst long-forgotten tears of virtue flow;Thou, generous friend of all—to thee we owe!120To thee, that Pity sees her views expandTo many a cheerless haunt, and distant land!Whilst warm Philanthropy extends her ray,Wide as the world, and general as the day!Howard!I view those deeds, and think how vainThe triumphs of weak man, the feeble strainThat Flattery brings to Conquest's crimson car,Amid the bannered host, and the proud tents of war!From realm to realm the hideous War-fiend hiesWide o'er the wasted earth; before him flies130Affright, on pinions fleeter than the wind;Whilst Death and Desolation fast behindThe havoc of his echoing march pursue:Meantime his steps are bathed in the warm dewOf bloodshed, and of tears;—but his dread nameShall perish—the loud clarion of his fameOne day shall cease, and, wrapt in hideous gloom,Forgetfulness bestride his shapeless tomb!But bear thou fearless on;—the God of all,To whom the afflicted kneel, the friendless call,140From His high throne of mercy shall approveThe holy deeds of Mercy and of Love:For when the vanities of life's brief dayOblivion's hurrying wing shall sweep away,Each act by Charity and Mercy done,High o'er the wrecks of time, shall live alone,Immortal as the heavens, and beauteous bloomTo other worlds, and realms beyond the tomb.
Spirit of Death! whose outstretched pennons dreadWave o'er the world beneath their shadow spread;Who darkly speedest on thy destined way,Midst shrieks and cries, and sounds of dire dismay;Spirit! behold thy victory! AssumeA form more terrible, an ampler plume;For he, who wandered o'er the world alone,Listening to Misery's universal moan;He who, sustained by Virtue's arm sublime,Tended the sick and poor from clime to clime,10Low in the dust is laid, thy noblest spoil!And Mercy ceases from her awful toil!'Twas where the pestilence at thy commandArose to desolate the sickening land,When many a mingled cry and dying prayerResounded to the listening midnight air,When deep dismay heard not the frequent knell,And the wan carcase festered as it fell:'Twas there, with holy Virtue's awful mien,Amid the sad sights of that fearful scene,20Calm he was found: the dews of death he dried;He spoke of comfort to the poor that cried;He watched the fading eye, the flagging breath,Ere yet the languid sense was lost in death;And with that look protecting angels wear,Hung o'er the dismal couch of pale Despair!Friend of mankind! thy righteous task is o'er;The heart that throbbed with pity beats no more.Around the limits of this rolling sphere,Where'er the just and good thy tale shall hear,30A tear shall fall: alone, amidst the gloomOf the still dungeon, his long sorrow's tomb,The captive, mourning, o'er his chain shall bend,To think the cold earth holds his only friend!He who with labour draws his wasting breathOn the forsaken silent bed of death,Remembering thy last look and anxious eye,Shall gaze around, unvisited, and die.Friend of mankind, farewell! These tears we shed—So nature dictates—o'er thy earthly bed;40Yet we forget not, it was His high will,Who saw thee Virtue's arduous task fulfil,Thy spirit from its toil at last should rest:—So wills thyGod, and what He wills is best!Thou hast encountered dark Disease's train,Thou hast conversed with Poverty and Pain,Thou hast beheld the dreariest forms of woe,That through this mournful vale unfriended go;And, pale with sympathy, hast paused to hearThe saddest plaints e'er told to human ear.50Go then, the task fulfilled, the trial o'er,Where sickness, want, and pain are known no more!How awful did thy lonely track appear,Enlightening Misery's benighted sphere!As when an angel all-serene goes forthTo still the raging tempest of the north,The embattled clouds that hid the struggling day,Slow from his face retire in dark array;On the black waves, like promontories hung,A light, as of the orient morn, is flung,60Till blue and level heaves the silent brine,And the new-lighted rocks at distance shine;Ev'n so didst thou go forth with cheering eye—Before thy glance the shades of misery fly;So didst thou hush the tempest, stilling wideOf human woe the loud-lamenting tide.Nor shall the spirit of those deeds expire,As fades the feeble spark of vital fire,But beam abroad, and cheer with lustre mildHumanity's remotest prospects wild,70Till this frail orb shall from its sphere be hurled,Till final ruin hush the murmuring world,And all its sorrows, at the awful blastOf the archangel's trump, be but as shadows past!Relentless Time, that steals with silent tread,Shall tear away the trophies of the dead.Fame, on the pyramid's aspiring top,With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop;The feeble characters of Glory's handShall perish, like the tracks upon the sand;80But not with these expire the sacred flameOf Virtue, or the good man's honoured name.Howard!it matters not, that far awayFrom Albion's peaceful shore thy bones decay:Him it might please, by whose sustaining handThy steps were led through many a distant land.Thy long and last abode should there be found,Where many a savage nation prowls around:That Virtue from the hallowed spot might rise,And, pointing to the finished sacrifice,90Teach to the roving Tartar's savage clanLessons of love, and higher aims of man.The hoary chieftain, who thy tale shall hear,Pale on thy grave shall drop his faltering spear;The cold, unpitying Cossack thirst no moreTo bathe his burning falchion deep in gore;Relentless to the cry of carnage speed,Or urge o'er gasping heaps his panting steed!Nor vain the thought that fairer hence may riseNew views of life, and wider charities.100Far from the bleak Riphean mountains hoar,From the cold Don, and Wolga's wandering shore,From many a shady forest's lengthening tract,From many a dark-descending cataract,Succeeding tribes shall come, and o'er the place,Where sleeps the general friend of human race,Instruct their children what a debt they owe;Speak of the man who trode the paths of woe;Then bid them to their native woods depart,With new-born virtue stirring in their heart.110When o'er the sounding Euxine's stormy tidesIn hostile pomp the Turk's proud navy rides,Bent on the frontiers of the Imperial Czar,To pour the tempest of vindictive war;If onward to those shores they haply steer,Where,Howard, thy cold dust reposes near,Whilst o'er the wave the silken pennants stream,And seen far off the golden crescents gleam,Amid the pomp of war, the swelling breastShall feel a still unwonted awe impressed,120And the relenting Pagan turn asideTo think—on yonder shore theChristiandied!But thou, O Briton! doomed perhaps to roamAn exile many a year and far from home,If ever fortune thy lone footsteps leadsTo the wild Nieper's banks, and whispering reeds,O'erHoward's grave thou shalt impassioned bend,As if to hold sad converse with a friend.Whate'er thy fate upon this various scene,Where'er thy weary pilgrimage hath been,130There shalt thou pause; and shutting from thy heartSome vain regrets that oft unbidden start,Think upon him to every lot resigned,Who wept, who toiled, and perished for mankind.For me, who musing,Howard, on thy fate,These pensive strains at evening meditate,I thank thee for the lessons thou hast taughtTo mend my heart, or animate my thought.I thank thee,Howard, for that awful viewOf life which thou hast drawn, most sad, most true.140Thou art no more! and the frail fading bloomOf this poor offering dies upon thy tomb.Beyond the transient sound of earthly praiseThy virtues live, perhaps, in seraph's lays!I, borne in thought, to the wild Nieper's wave,Sigh to the reeds that whisper o'er thy grave.[24]
Spirit of Death! whose outstretched pennons dreadWave o'er the world beneath their shadow spread;Who darkly speedest on thy destined way,Midst shrieks and cries, and sounds of dire dismay;Spirit! behold thy victory! AssumeA form more terrible, an ampler plume;For he, who wandered o'er the world alone,Listening to Misery's universal moan;He who, sustained by Virtue's arm sublime,Tended the sick and poor from clime to clime,10Low in the dust is laid, thy noblest spoil!And Mercy ceases from her awful toil!'Twas where the pestilence at thy commandArose to desolate the sickening land,When many a mingled cry and dying prayerResounded to the listening midnight air,When deep dismay heard not the frequent knell,And the wan carcase festered as it fell:'Twas there, with holy Virtue's awful mien,Amid the sad sights of that fearful scene,20Calm he was found: the dews of death he dried;He spoke of comfort to the poor that cried;He watched the fading eye, the flagging breath,Ere yet the languid sense was lost in death;And with that look protecting angels wear,Hung o'er the dismal couch of pale Despair!Friend of mankind! thy righteous task is o'er;The heart that throbbed with pity beats no more.Around the limits of this rolling sphere,Where'er the just and good thy tale shall hear,30A tear shall fall: alone, amidst the gloomOf the still dungeon, his long sorrow's tomb,The captive, mourning, o'er his chain shall bend,To think the cold earth holds his only friend!He who with labour draws his wasting breathOn the forsaken silent bed of death,Remembering thy last look and anxious eye,Shall gaze around, unvisited, and die.Friend of mankind, farewell! These tears we shed—So nature dictates—o'er thy earthly bed;40Yet we forget not, it was His high will,Who saw thee Virtue's arduous task fulfil,Thy spirit from its toil at last should rest:—So wills thyGod, and what He wills is best!Thou hast encountered dark Disease's train,Thou hast conversed with Poverty and Pain,Thou hast beheld the dreariest forms of woe,That through this mournful vale unfriended go;And, pale with sympathy, hast paused to hearThe saddest plaints e'er told to human ear.50Go then, the task fulfilled, the trial o'er,Where sickness, want, and pain are known no more!How awful did thy lonely track appear,Enlightening Misery's benighted sphere!As when an angel all-serene goes forthTo still the raging tempest of the north,The embattled clouds that hid the struggling day,Slow from his face retire in dark array;On the black waves, like promontories hung,A light, as of the orient morn, is flung,60Till blue and level heaves the silent brine,And the new-lighted rocks at distance shine;Ev'n so didst thou go forth with cheering eye—Before thy glance the shades of misery fly;So didst thou hush the tempest, stilling wideOf human woe the loud-lamenting tide.Nor shall the spirit of those deeds expire,As fades the feeble spark of vital fire,But beam abroad, and cheer with lustre mildHumanity's remotest prospects wild,70Till this frail orb shall from its sphere be hurled,Till final ruin hush the murmuring world,And all its sorrows, at the awful blastOf the archangel's trump, be but as shadows past!Relentless Time, that steals with silent tread,Shall tear away the trophies of the dead.Fame, on the pyramid's aspiring top,With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop;The feeble characters of Glory's handShall perish, like the tracks upon the sand;80But not with these expire the sacred flameOf Virtue, or the good man's honoured name.Howard!it matters not, that far awayFrom Albion's peaceful shore thy bones decay:Him it might please, by whose sustaining handThy steps were led through many a distant land.Thy long and last abode should there be found,Where many a savage nation prowls around:That Virtue from the hallowed spot might rise,And, pointing to the finished sacrifice,90Teach to the roving Tartar's savage clanLessons of love, and higher aims of man.The hoary chieftain, who thy tale shall hear,Pale on thy grave shall drop his faltering spear;The cold, unpitying Cossack thirst no moreTo bathe his burning falchion deep in gore;Relentless to the cry of carnage speed,Or urge o'er gasping heaps his panting steed!Nor vain the thought that fairer hence may riseNew views of life, and wider charities.100Far from the bleak Riphean mountains hoar,From the cold Don, and Wolga's wandering shore,From many a shady forest's lengthening tract,From many a dark-descending cataract,Succeeding tribes shall come, and o'er the place,Where sleeps the general friend of human race,Instruct their children what a debt they owe;Speak of the man who trode the paths of woe;Then bid them to their native woods depart,With new-born virtue stirring in their heart.110When o'er the sounding Euxine's stormy tidesIn hostile pomp the Turk's proud navy rides,Bent on the frontiers of the Imperial Czar,To pour the tempest of vindictive war;If onward to those shores they haply steer,Where,Howard, thy cold dust reposes near,Whilst o'er the wave the silken pennants stream,And seen far off the golden crescents gleam,Amid the pomp of war, the swelling breastShall feel a still unwonted awe impressed,120And the relenting Pagan turn asideTo think—on yonder shore theChristiandied!But thou, O Briton! doomed perhaps to roamAn exile many a year and far from home,If ever fortune thy lone footsteps leadsTo the wild Nieper's banks, and whispering reeds,O'erHoward's grave thou shalt impassioned bend,As if to hold sad converse with a friend.Whate'er thy fate upon this various scene,Where'er thy weary pilgrimage hath been,130There shalt thou pause; and shutting from thy heartSome vain regrets that oft unbidden start,Think upon him to every lot resigned,Who wept, who toiled, and perished for mankind.For me, who musing,Howard, on thy fate,These pensive strains at evening meditate,I thank thee for the lessons thou hast taughtTo mend my heart, or animate my thought.I thank thee,Howard, for that awful viewOf life which thou hast drawn, most sad, most true.140Thou art no more! and the frail fading bloomOf this poor offering dies upon thy tomb.Beyond the transient sound of earthly praiseThy virtues live, perhaps, in seraph's lays!I, borne in thought, to the wild Nieper's wave,Sigh to the reeds that whisper o'er thy grave.[24]
[24]The town of Cherson, on the Black Sea, where Howard the philanthropist died, is entirely supplied with fuel by reeds, of which there is an inexhaustible forest in the shallows of the Nieper.—Craven's Travels.
[24]The town of Cherson, on the Black Sea, where Howard the philanthropist died, is entirely supplied with fuel by reeds, of which there is an inexhaustible forest in the shallows of the Nieper.—Craven's Travels.
[24]The town of Cherson, on the Black Sea, where Howard the philanthropist died, is entirely supplied with fuel by reeds, of which there is an inexhaustible forest in the shallows of the Nieper.—Craven's Travels.
O sovereign Master! who with lonely state1Dost rule as in some isle's enchanted land,On whom soft airs and shadowy spirits wait,Whilst scenes of "faerie" bloom at thy command,On thy wild shores forgetful could I lie,And list, till earth dissolved to thy sweet minstrelsy!Called by thy magic from the hoary deep,2Aërial forms should in bright troops ascend,And then a wondrous masque before me sweep;Whilst sounds,that the earth owned not, seem to blendTheir stealing melodies, that when the strainCeased,I should weep, and would so dream again!The song hath ceased. Ah! who, pale shade, art thou,3Sad raving to the rude tempestuous night!Sure thou hast had much wrong, so stern thy brow,So piteous thou dost tear thy tresses white;So wildly thou dost cry,Blow, bitter wind!Ye elements, I call not you unkind![25]Beneath the shade of nodding branches gray,4'Mid rude romantic woods, and glens forlorn,The merry hunters wear the hours away;Rings the deep forest to the joyous horn!Joyous to all, but him,[26]who with sad lookHangs idly musing by the brawling brook.But mark the merry elves of fairy land![27]5To the high moon's gleamy glance,They with shadowy morrice dance;Soft music dies along the desert sand;Soon at peep of cold-eyed day,Soon the numerous lights decay;Merrily, now merrily,After the dewy moon they fly.The charm is wrought: I see an aged form,6In white robes, on the winding sea-shore stand;O'er the careering surge he waves his wand:Hark! on the bleak rock bursts the swelling storm:Now from bright opening clouds I hear a lay,Come to these yellow sands, fair stranger,[28]come away!Saw ye pass by the weird sisters pale![29]7Marked ye the lowering castle on the heath!Hark, hark, is the deed done—the deed of death!The deed is done:—Hail, king of Scotland, hail!I see no more;—to many a fearful soundThe bloody cauldron sinks, and all is dark around.Pity! touch the trembling strings,8A maid, a beauteous maniac, wildly sings:They laid him in the ground so cold,[30]Upon his breast the earth is thrown;High is heaped the grassy mould,Oh! he is dead and gone.The winds of the winter blow o'er his cold breast,But pleasant shall be his rest.O sovereign Master! at whose sole command9We start with terror, or with pity weep;Oh! where is now thy all-creating wand;Buried ten thousand thousand fathoms deep!The staff is broke, the powerful spell is fled,And never earthly guest shall in thy circle tread.
O sovereign Master! who with lonely state1Dost rule as in some isle's enchanted land,On whom soft airs and shadowy spirits wait,Whilst scenes of "faerie" bloom at thy command,On thy wild shores forgetful could I lie,And list, till earth dissolved to thy sweet minstrelsy!
Called by thy magic from the hoary deep,2Aërial forms should in bright troops ascend,And then a wondrous masque before me sweep;Whilst sounds,that the earth owned not, seem to blendTheir stealing melodies, that when the strainCeased,I should weep, and would so dream again!
The song hath ceased. Ah! who, pale shade, art thou,3Sad raving to the rude tempestuous night!Sure thou hast had much wrong, so stern thy brow,So piteous thou dost tear thy tresses white;So wildly thou dost cry,Blow, bitter wind!Ye elements, I call not you unkind![25]
Beneath the shade of nodding branches gray,4'Mid rude romantic woods, and glens forlorn,The merry hunters wear the hours away;Rings the deep forest to the joyous horn!Joyous to all, but him,[26]who with sad lookHangs idly musing by the brawling brook.
But mark the merry elves of fairy land![27]5To the high moon's gleamy glance,They with shadowy morrice dance;Soft music dies along the desert sand;Soon at peep of cold-eyed day,Soon the numerous lights decay;Merrily, now merrily,After the dewy moon they fly.
The charm is wrought: I see an aged form,6In white robes, on the winding sea-shore stand;O'er the careering surge he waves his wand:Hark! on the bleak rock bursts the swelling storm:Now from bright opening clouds I hear a lay,Come to these yellow sands, fair stranger,[28]come away!
Saw ye pass by the weird sisters pale![29]7Marked ye the lowering castle on the heath!Hark, hark, is the deed done—the deed of death!The deed is done:—Hail, king of Scotland, hail!I see no more;—to many a fearful soundThe bloody cauldron sinks, and all is dark around.
Pity! touch the trembling strings,8A maid, a beauteous maniac, wildly sings:They laid him in the ground so cold,[30]Upon his breast the earth is thrown;High is heaped the grassy mould,Oh! he is dead and gone.The winds of the winter blow o'er his cold breast,But pleasant shall be his rest.
O sovereign Master! at whose sole command9We start with terror, or with pity weep;Oh! where is now thy all-creating wand;Buried ten thousand thousand fathoms deep!The staff is broke, the powerful spell is fled,And never earthly guest shall in thy circle tread.