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Vol. 1, by William Lisle Bowles

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Title: The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles, Vol. 1
       With Memoir, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes
       by George Gilfillan

Author: William Lisle Bowles

Editor: George Gilfillan

Release Date: July 26, 2006 [EBook #18915]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES,

CANON OF ST PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, AND RECTOR OF BREMHILL.


With Memoir, Critical Dissertation, and
Explanatory Notes,

BY THE

REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN.


VOL. I.


EDINBURGH:
JAMES NICHOL, 9 NORTH BANK STREET.
LONDON: JAMES NISBET AND CO.
DUBLIN: W. ROBERTSON.

M.DCCC.LV.




EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY,
PAUL'S WORK.




CONTENTS.


SONNETS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

                                                                    PAGE

SONNETS:--

At Tynemouth Priory, after a Tempestuous Voyage                        7
Bamborough Castle                                                      8
The River Wainsbeck                                                    8
The Tweed Visited                                                      9
On leaving a Village in Scotland                                       9
Evening                                                               10
To the River Itchin                                                   11
On Resigning a Scholarship of Trinity College, Oxford, and Retiring
  to a Country Curacy                                                 11
Dover Cliffs                                                          12
On Landing at Ostend                                                  12
The Bells of Ostend                                                   13
The Rhine                                                             13
Influence of Time on Grief                                            14
The Convent                                                           14
The River Cherwell                                                    15
On Entering Switzerland                                               15
Distant View of England from the Sea                                  16
Hope                                                                  16
To a Friend                                                           17
Absence                                                               17
Bereavement                                                           18
Oxford Revisited                                                      19
In Memoriam                                                           19
On the Death of the Rev. William Benwell, M.A.                        20
At Malvern                                                            20
Netley Abbey                                                          21
Associations                                                          21
Music                                                                 22
Approach of Summer                                                    22
At Oxford, 1786                                                       23
At Dover, 1786                                                        23
Retrospection                                                         24
On Accidentally Meeting a Lady, now no more                           24
On hearing "The Messiah" performed in Gloucester
  Cathedral, Sept. 18, 1835                                           25
Woodspring Abbey, 1836                                                26
Lacock Nunnery, 1837                                                  26
On a Beautiful Landscape                                              27
Art and Nature: the Bridge between Clifton and Leigh
  Woods                                                               27
Picture of an Old Man                                                 28
Picture of a Young Lady                                               29
Hour-glass and Bible                                                  29
Milton. Two Sonnets on the bust of Milton, in Youth and
  Age, at Stourhead                                                   30
To Sir Walter Scott                                                   31


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS:--

Elegy written at the Hotwells, Bristol                                32
Monody on Henry Headley                                               36
Howard's Account of Lazarettos                                        37
The Grave of Howard                                                   42
Shakspeare                                                            46
Abbe Thule's Lament for his Son Prince Le Boo                         49
Southampton Water                                                     51
The Philanthropic Society                                             52
The Dying Slave                                                       58
Song of the American Indian                                           60
Monody, written at Matlock                                            61
The Right Honourable Edmund Burke                                     67
On Leaving a Place of Residence                                       72
Elegiac Stanzas written during Sickness at Bath                       73
On leaving Winchester School                                          77
Hope: an Allegorical Sketch                                           77
The Battle of the Nile                                                88
A Garden-Seat at Home                                                 94
In Horto Rev. J. Still                                                95
Greenwich Hospital                                                    95
A Rustic Seat near the Sea                                            96
Wardour Castle                                                        96
Pole-vellum, Cornwall                                                 97
On a Beautiful Spring                                                 98
On a Cenotaph to the Memory of Lieut-Col. Isaac                       99
Translation of a Latin Poem, by Rev. Newton Ogle                     100
St Michael's Mount                                                   101
On an Unfortunate and Beautiful Woman                                111
Hymn to Woden                                                        113
Coombe-Ellen                                                         115
Summer Evening at Home                                               125
Winter Evening at Home                                               126
The Spirit of Navigation                                             127
Water-party on Beaulieu River, in the New Forest                     134
Monody on the Death of Dr Warton                                     135
Epitaph on H. Walmsley, Esq., in Alverstoke{a} Church,
  Hants                                                              141
Age                                                                  142
On a Landscape by Rubens                                             142
The Harp, and Despair, of Cowper                                     151
Stanzas for Music                                                    152
Music                                                                152
Absence                                                              153
Fairy Sketch                                                         154
Inscription                                                          155
Pictures from Theocritus                                             156
Sketches in the Exhibition, 1805                                     161
Do. in the Exhibition, 1807                                          162
Southampton Castle                                                   164
The Winds                                                            166
On William Sommers of Bremhill                                       169
The Visionary Boy                                                    170
Cadland, Southampton River                                           180
The Last Song of Camoens                                             182
The Sylph of Summer                                                  184
The Harp of Hoel                                                     201
Avenue in Savernake Forest                                           215
Dirge of Nelson                                                      216
Death of Captain Cooke, of "The Bellerophon"                         217
Battle of Corruna                                                    218
Sketch from Bowden Hill after Sickness                               219
Sun-Dial in the Churchyard of Bremhill                               223


THE SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY:

A Descriptive and Historical Poem                                    225
Book the First                                                       231
Book the Second                                                      245
Book the Third                                                       258
Book the Fourth                                                      266
Book the Fifth                                                       285

THE MISSIONARY                                                       295
Introduction                                                         297
Canto First                                                          298
Canto Second                                                         309
Canto Third                                                          318
Canto Fourth                                                         330
Canto Fifth                                                          339
Canto Sixth                                                          344
Canto Seventh                                                        350
Canton Eighth                                                        359

_The Memoir and Critical Dissertation being unavoidably delayed, will be
prefixed to Vol. II._




PREFACE.


A Ninth Edition of the following Poems having been called for by the
public, the author is induced to say a few words, particularly
concerning those which, under the name of Sonnets, describe his personal
feelings.

They can be considered in no other light than as exhibiting occasional
reflections which naturally arose in his mind, chiefly during various
excursions, undertaken to relieve, at the time, depression of spirits.
They were, therefore, in general, suggested by the scenes before them;
and wherever such scenes appeared to harmonise with his disposition at
the moment, the sentiments were involuntarily prompted.

Numberless poetical trifles of the same kind have occurred to him, when
perhaps, in his solitary rambles, he has been "chewing the cud of sweet
and bitter fancy;" but they have been forgotten as he left the places
which gave rise to them; and the greater part of those originally
committed to the press were written down, for the first time, from
memory.

This is nothing to the public; but it may serve in some measure to
obviate the common remark on melancholy poetry, that it has been very
often gravely composed, when possibly the heart of the writer had very
little share in the distress he chose to describe.

But there is a great difference between _natural_ and _fabricated_
feelings, even in poetry. To which of these two characters the poems
before the reader belong, the author leaves those who have felt
sensations of sorrow to judge.

They who know him, know the occasions of them to have been real; to the
public he might only mention the sudden death of a deserving young
woman, with whom,

    ... _Sperabat longos heu! ducere soles,
    Et fido acclinis consenuisse sinu._[1]

    DONHEAD, _April 1805._

[1] The early editions of these Sonnets, 1791, were dedicated to the
Reverend Newton Ogle, D.D., Dean of Winchester.




INTRODUCTION TO THE EDITION OF 1837.


To account for the variations which may be remarked in this last edition
of my Sonnets, from that which was first published fifty years ago, it
may be proper to state, that to the best of my recollection, they now
appear nearly as they were originally composed in my solitary hours;
when, in youth a wanderer among distant scenes, I sought forgetfulness
of the first disappointment in early affections.

Delicacy even now, though the grave has long closed over the beloved
object, would forbid entering on a detail of the peculiar circumstances
in early life, and the anguish which occasioned these poetical
meditations. In fact, I never thought of writing them down at the time,
and many had escaped my recollection;[2] but three years after my return
to England, on my way to the banks of Cherwell, where

    "I bade the pipe farewell, and that sad lay
     Whose music, on my melancholy way,
     I wooed,"

passing through Bath, I wrote down all I could recollect of these
effusions, most elaborately _mending_ the versification from the natural
flow of music in which they occurred to me, and having thus _corrected_
and written them out, took them myself to the late Mr Cruttwell, with
the name of "Fourteen Sonnets, written chiefly on Picturesque Spots
during a Journey."

I had three times knocked at this amiable printer's door, whose kind
smile I still recollect; and at last, with much hesitation, ventured to
unfold my message; it was to inquire whether he would give any thing for
"Fourteen Sonnets," to be published with or without the name.[3] He at
once declined the purchase, and informed me he doubted very much whether
the publication would repay the expense of printing, which would come to
about five pounds. It was at last determined one hundred copies, in
quarto, should be published as a kind of "forlorn hope;" and these
"Fourteen Sonnets" I left to their fate and thought no more of getting
rich by poetry! In fact, I owed the most I ever owed at Oxford, at this
time, namely, seventy pounds;[4] and knowing my father's large family
and trying circumstances, and those of my poor mother, I shrunk from
asking more money when I left home, and went back with a heavy heart to
Oxford, under the conscious weight, that my poetic scheme failing, I had
no means of paying Parsons, the mercer's, bill! This was the origin of
the publication.

As this plain account is so connected with whatever may be my name in
criticism and poetry, it is hoped it will be pardoned.

All thoughts of succeeding as a poet were now abandoned; but, half a
year afterwards, I received a letter from the printer informing me that
the hundred copies were all sold, adding, that if I had published FIVE
HUNDRED copies, he had no doubt they would have been sold also.

This, in my then situation, my father now dead, and my mother a widow
with seven children, and with a materially reduced income (from the loss
of the rectories of Uphill and Brean in Somerset), was gratifying
indeed; all my golden dreams of poetical success were renewed;--the
number of the sonnets first published was increased, and five hundred
copies, by the congratulating printer, with whose family I have lived in
kindest amity from that hour, were recommended to issue from the press
of the editor of the _Bath Chronicle_.

But this was not all, the five hundred copies were sold to great
advantage, for it was against my will that _five hundred_ copies should
be printed, till the printer told me he would take the risk on himself,
on the usual terms, at that time, of bookseller and author.

Soon afterwards, it was agreed that _seven hundred and fifty_ copies
should be printed, in a smaller and elegant size. I had received
Coleridge's warm testimony; but soon after this third edition came out,
my friend, Mr Cruttwell, the printer, wrote a letter saying that two
young gentlemen, strangers, one a particularly handsome and pleasing
youth, lately from Westminster School, and both literary and
intelligent, spoke in high commendation of my volume, and if I recollect
right, expressed a desire to have some poems printed in the same type
and form. Who these young men were I knew not at the time, but the
communication of the circumstance was to me most gratifying; and how
much more gratifying, when, from one of them, after he himself had
achieved the fame of one of the most virtuous and eloquent of the
writers in his generation, I received a first visit at my parsonage in
Wiltshire upwards of forty years afterwards! It was ROBERT SOUTHEY. We
parted in my garden last year, when stealing time and sorrow had marked
his still manly, but most interesting countenance.[5]--Therefore,


    TO

    ROBERT SOUTHEY,

    WHO HAS EXHIBITED IN HIS PROSE WORKS, AS IN HIS LIFE,

    THE PURITY AND VIRTUES OF ADDISON AND LOCKE,

    AND IN HIS POETRY THE IMAGINATION

    AND SOUL OF SPENSER,

    THESE POEMS,

    WITH EVERY AFFECTIONATE PRAYER, ARE INSCRIBED

    BY

    HIS SINCERE FRIEND,

    WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

[2] I confined myself to fourteen lines, because fourteen lines seemed
best adapted to unity of sentiment. I thought nothing about the strict
Italian model; the verses naturally flowed in unpremeditated harmony, as
my ear directed, but the slightest inspection will prove they were far
from being mere elegiac couplets. The subjects were chiefly from river
scenery, and the reader will recollect what Sir Humphrey Davy has said
on this subject so beautifully; it will be recollected, also, that they
were published ten years before those of Mr Wordsworth on the river
Duddon, Yarrow, _et cet._ There have been many claimants, among modern
poets, for the laurel of the sonnet, but, in picturesque description,
sentiment, and harmony, I know none superior to those of my friend the
Rev. Charles Hoyle, on scenery in Scotland, the mountains of Ben Nevis,
Loch Lomond, _et cet._

[3] To account for the present variations, some remained as originally
with their natural pauses, others for the press I thought it best to
correct into verse less broken, and now, after fifty years, they are
recorrected, and restored, I believe, more nearly to the original shape
in which they were first meditated.

[4] I hoped by my Sonnets to pay this vast debt.

[5] His companion, Mr Lovel, died in youth.




SONNETS, ETC.


AT TYNEMOUTH PRIORY,[6]

AFTER A TEMPESTUOUS VOYAGE.

    As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
      Much musing on the track of terror past,
      When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,
    Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide
    That laves the pebbled shore: and now the beam
      Of evening smiles on the gray battlement,
      And yon forsaken tower that time has rent:--
    The lifted oar far off with transient gleam
    Is touched, and hushed is all the billowy deep!
      Soothed by the scene, thus on tired Nature's breast
      A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest;
    While sea-sounds lull her, as she sinks to sleep,
    Like melodies that mourn upon the lyre,
    Waked by the breeze, and, as they mourn, expire!

[6] The remains of this monastery are situated on a lofty point, on the
north side of the entrance into the river Tyne, about a mile and a half
below North Shields. The rock on which the monastery stood rendered it
visible at sea a long way off, in every direction, whence it presented
itself as if exhorting the seamen in danger to make their vows, and
promise masses and presents to the Virgin Mary and St Oswin for their
deliverance.


BAMBOROUGH CASTLE.[7]

    Ye holy Towers that shade the wave-worn steep,
      Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime,
      Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time
    Assail you, and the winds of winter sweep
    Round your dark battlements; for far from halls
      Of Pride, here Charity hath fixed her seat,
      Oft listening, tearful, when the tempests beat
    With hollow bodings round your ancient walls;
    And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour
      Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
    Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower,
      And turns her ear to each expiring cry;
    Blessed if her aid some fainting wretch may save,
    And snatch him cold and speechless from the wave.

[7] This ancient castle, with its extensive domains, heretofore the
property of the family of Forster, whose heiress married Lord Crewe,
Bishop of Durham, is appropriated by the will of that pious prelate to
many benevolent purposes; particularly to that of administering instant
relief to such shipwrecked mariners as may happen to be cast upon this
dangerous coast; for whose preservation and that of their vessels every
possible assistance is contrived, and is at all times ready. The estate
is in the hands of trustees appointed under the Bishop's will.


THE RIVER WAINSBECK.[8]

    While slowly wanders thy sequestered stream,
      WAINSBECK, the mossy-scattered rocks among,
      In fancy's ear making a plaintive song
    To the dark woods above, that waving seem
    To bend o'er some enchanted spot, removed
      From life's vain coil; I listen to the wind,
      And think I hear meek Sorrow's plaint, reclined
    O'er the forsaken tomb of him she loved!--
    Fair scenes, ye lend a pleasure, long unknown,
      To him who passes weary on his way;--
      Yet recreated here he may delay
    A while to thank you; and when years have flown,
    And haunts that charmed his youth he would renew,
    In the world's crowd he will remember you.

[8] The Wainsbeck is a sequestered river in Northumberland, having on
its banks "Our Lady's Chapel," three-quarters of a mile west of Bothal.
It has been commemorated by Akenside.


THE TWEED VISITED.

    O Tweed! a stranger, that with wandering feet
      O'er hill and dale has journeyed many a mile,
      (If so his weary thoughts he might beguile),
    Delighted turns thy stranger-stream to greet.
    The waving branches that romantic bend
      O'er thy tall banks a soothing charm bestow;
      The murmurs of thy wandering wave below
    Seem like the converse of some long-lost friend.
    Delightful stream! though now along thy shore,
      When spring returns in all her wonted pride,
    The distant pastoral pipe is heard no more;[9]
      Yet here while laverocks sing could I abide,
    Far from the stormy world's contentious roar,
      To muse upon thy banks at eventide.

[9] Alluding to the simple and affecting pastoral strains for which
Scotland has been so long celebrated. I need not mention Lochaber, the
Braes of Bellendine, Tweedside, _et cet._


ON LEAVING A VILLAGE IN SCOTLAND.

    Clysdale! as thy romantic vales I leave,
      And bid farewell to each retiring hill,
      Where musing memory seems to linger still,
    Tracing the broad bright landscape; much I grieve
    That, mingled with the toiling crowd, no more
      I may return your varied views to mark,
      Of rocks amid the sunshine towering dark,
    Of rivers winding wild,[10] or mountains hoar,
    Or castle gleaming on the distant steep!--
      Yet many a look back on thy hills I cast,
      And many a softened image of the past
    Sadly combine, and bid remembrance keep,
    To soothe me with fair scenes, and fancies rude,
    When I pursue my path in solitude.

[10] There is a wildness almost fantastic in the view of the river from
Stirling Castle, the course of which is seen for many miles, making a
thousand turnings.


EVENING.

    Evening! as slow thy placid shades descend,
      Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still,
      The lonely, battlement, the farthest hill
    And wood, I think of those who have no friend;
    Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led,
      From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure flaunts,
      Retiring, wander to the ring-dove's haunts
    Unseen; and watch the tints that o'er thy bed
    Hang lovely; oft to musing Fancy's eye
      Presenting fairy vales, where the tired mind
      Might rest beyond the murmurs of mankind,
    Nor hear the hourly moans of misery!
    Alas for man! that Hope's fair views the while
    Should smile like you, and perish as they smile!


TO THE RIVER ITCHIN.[11]

    Itchin! when I behold thy banks again,
      Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,
      On which the self-same tints still seem to rest,
    Why feels my heart a shivering sense of pain!
    Is it, that many a summer's day has past
      Since, in life's morn, I carolled on thy side!
      Is it, that oft since then my heart has sighed,
    As Youth, and Hope's delusive gleams, flew fast!
      Is it, that those who gathered on thy shore,
      Companions of my youth, now meet no more!
    Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend,
      Sorrowing; yet feel such solace at my heart,
    As at the meeting of some long-lost friend,
    From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part.

[11] The Itchin is a river running from Winchester to Southampton, the
banks of which have been the scene of many _a holiday sport_. The lines
were composed on an evening in a journey from Oxford to Southampton, the
first time I had seen the Itchin since I left school.


ON RESIGNING A SCHOLARSHIP OF TRINITY COLLEGE, OXFORD,

AND RETIRING TO A COUNTRY CURACY.

    Farewell! a long farewell! O Poverty,
      Affection's fondest dream how hast thou reft!
      But though, on thy stern brow no trace is left
    Of youthful joys, that on the cold heart die,
    With thee a sad companionship I seek,
      Content, if poor;--for patient wretchedness,
      Tearful, but uncomplaining of distress,
    Who turns to the rude storm her faded cheek;
      And Piety, who never told her wrong;
      And calm Content, whose griefs no more rebel;
    And Genius, warbling sweet, his saddest song,
      When evening listens to some village knell,--
    Long banished from the world's insulting throng;--
      With thee, and thy unfriended children dwell.


DOVER CLIFFS.

    On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood
      Uprear their shadowing heads, and at their feet
      Hear not the surge that has for ages beat,
    How many a lonely wanderer has stood!
    And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,
      And o'er the distant billows the still eve
      Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave
    To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear;
    Of social scenes, from which he wept to part!
      Oh! if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
      The thoughts that would full fain the past recall,
    Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
    And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide--
    The World his country, and his GOD his guide.


ON LANDING AT OSTEND.

    The orient beam illumes the parting oar;--
      From yonder azure track, emerging white,
      The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight,
    And the blue wave comes rippling to the shore.
    Meantime far off the rear of darkness flies:
      Yet 'mid the beauties of the morn, unmoved,
      Like one for ever torn from all he loved,
    Back o'er the deep I turn my longing eyes,
    And chide the wayward passions that rebel:
      Yet boots it not to think, or to complain,
      Musing sad ditties to the reckless main.
    To dreams like these, adieu! the pealing bell
    Speaks of the hour that stays not--and the day
    To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.

    1787.


THE BELLS, OSTEND.[12]

    How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal!
      As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze
      Breathes on the trembling sense of pale disease,
    So piercing to my heart their force I feel!
    And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall!
      And now, along the white and level tide,
      They fling their melancholy music wide;
    Bidding me many a tender thought recall
    Of summer-days, and those delightful years
      When from an ancient tower, in life's fair prime,
      The mournful magic of their mingling chime
    First waked my wondering childhood into tears!
    But seeming now, when all those days are o'er,
    The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more.

    1787.

[12] Written on landing at Ostend, and hearing, very early in the
morning, the carillons.


THE RHINE.

    'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow
      (Hung with the clusters of the bending vine)
      Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine
    We bounded, and the white waves round the prow
    In murmurs parted:--varying as we go,
      Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire,
      As some gray convent-wall or glistening spire
    'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow!
    Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like Despair,
      Frowns the bleak cliff! There on the woodland's side
      The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide;
    Whilst Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair,
    Counts not the hours of a long summer's day,
    Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.


INFLUENCE OF TIME ON GRIEF.

    O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
      Softest on Sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
      (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
    The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
    On thee I rest my only hope at last,
      And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
      That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
    I may look back on every sorrow past,
    And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile:--
      As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,
      Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower
    Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:--
    Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,
    Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!


THE CONVENT.

    If chance some pensive stranger, hither led,
      His bosom glowing from majestic views,
      Temple and tower 'mid the bright landscape's hues,
    Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed?
    A maid of sorrow. To the cloistered scene,
      Unknown and beautiful a mourner came,
      Seeking with unseen tears to quench the flame
    Of hapless love: yet was her look serene
    As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle;--
      Her voice was gentle and a charm could lend,
      Like that which spoke of a departed friend;
    And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!--
    Now, far removed from every earthly ill,
    Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.


THE RIVER CHERWELL.

    Cherwell! how pleased along thy willowed edge
      Erewhile I strayed, or when the morn began
      To tinge the distant turret's golden fan,
    Or evening glimmered o'er the sighing sedge!
    And now reposing on thy banks once more,
      I bid the lute farewell, and that sad lay
      Whose music on my melancholy way
    I wooed: beneath thy willows waving hoar,
    Seeking a while to rest--till the bright sun
      Of joy return; as when Heaven's radiant Bow
      Beams on the night-storm's passing wings below:
    Whate'er betide, yet something have I won
    Of solace, that may bear me on serene,
    Till eve's last hush shall close the silent scene.


ON ENTERING SWITZERLAND.

    Languid, and sad, and slow, from day to day
      I journey on, yet pensive turn to view,
      Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue,
    The streams, and vales, and hills, that steal away.
    So fares it with the children of the earth:
      For when life's goodly prospect opens round,
      Their spirits burn to tread that fairy ground,
    Where every vale sounds to the pipe of mirth.
    But them, alas! the dream of youth beguiles,
      And soon a longing look, like me, they cast
      Back on the mountains of the morning past:
    Yet Hope still beckons us, and beckoning smiles,
    And to a brighter world her view extends,
    When earth's long darkness on her path descends.


DISTANT VIEW OF ENGLAND FROM THE SEA.

    Yes! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start,
      As thee, my country, and the long-lost sight
      Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits white
    Above the wave, once more my beating heart
    With eager hope and filial transport hails!
      Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring,
      As when erewhile the tuneful morn of spring
    Joyous awoke amidst your hawthorn vales,
    And filled with fragrance every village lane:
      Fled are those hours, and all the joys they gave!
      Yet still I gaze, and count each rising wave
    That bears me nearer to my home again;
    If haply, 'mid those woods and vales so fair,
    Stranger to Peace, I yet may meet her there.


HOPE.

    As one who, long by wasting sickness worn,
      Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard
      Unmoved the carol of the matin bird
    Salute his lonely porch; now first at morn
    Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;
      He the green slope and level meadow views,
      Delightful bathed with slow-ascending dews;
    Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head
    In varying forms fantastic wander white;
      Or turns his ear to every random song,
      Heard the green river's winding marge along,
    The whilst each sense is steeped in still delight.
    So o'er my breast young Summer's breath I feel,
    Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal!


TO A FRIEND.

    Go, then, and join the murmuring city's throng!
      Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears;
      To busy phantasies, and boding fears,
    Lest ill betide thee; but 'twill not be long
    Ere the hard season shall be past; till then
      Live happy; sometimes the forsaken shade
      Remembering, and these trees now left to fade;
    Nor, 'mid the busy scenes and hum of men,
    Wilt thou my cares forget: in heaviness
      To me the hours shall roll, weary and slow,
      Till mournful autumn past, and all the snow
    Of winter pale, the glad hour I shall bless
    That shall restore thee from the crowd again,
    To the green hamlet on the peaceful plain.

    1792.


ABSENCE.

    There is strange music in the stirring wind,
      When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone
      To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone,
    Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclined
    Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sere.
      If in such shades, beneath their murmuring,
      Thou late hast passed the happier hours of spring,
    With sadness thou wilt mark the fading year;
    Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at morn
      Or evening thou hast shared, afar shall stray.
      O Spring, return! return, auspicious May!
    But sad will be thy coming, and forlorn,
    If she return not with thy cheering ray,
    Who from these shades is gone, far, far away.


BEREAVEMENT.

    Whose was that gentle voice, that, whispering sweet,
      Promised methought long days of bliss sincere!
      Soothing it stole on my deluded ear,
    Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat
    Thoughts dark and drooping! 'Twas the voice of Hope.
      Of love, and social scenes, it seemed to speak,
      Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek;
    That, oh! poor friend, might to life's downward slope
    Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours.
      Ah me! the prospect saddened as she sung;
      Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung;
    Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bowers,
    Whilst Horror, pointing to yon breathless clay,
    "No peace be thine," exclaimed, "away, away!"

    1793.


OXFORD REVISITED.

    I never hear the sound of thy glad bells,
      Oxford, and chime harmonious, but I say,
      Sighing to think how time has worn away,
    Some spirit speaks in the sweet tone that swells,
      Heard after years of absence, from the vale
      Where Cherwell winds. Most true it speaks the tale
    Of days departed, and its voice recalls
      Hours of delight and hope in the gay tide
      Of life, and many friends now scattered wide
    By many fates. Peace be within thy walls!
    I have scarce heart to visit thee; but yet,
      Denied the joys sought in thy shades,--denied
      Each better hope, since my poor Harriet died,
    What I have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er forget!


IN MEMORIAM.

    How blessed with thee the path could I have trod
      Of quiet life, above cold want's hard fate,
      (And little wishing more) nor of the great
    Envious, or their proud name; but it pleased GOD
    To take thee to his mercy: thou didst go
      In youth and beauty to thy cold death-bed;
      Even whilst on dreams of bliss we fondly fed,
    Of years to come of comfort! Be it so.
    Ere this I have felt sorrow; and even now,
      Though sometimes the unbidden tear will start,
      And half unman the miserable heart,
    The cold dew I shall wipe from my sad brow,
    And say, since hopes of bliss on earth are vain,
    Best friend, farewell, till we do meet again!


ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. WILLIAM BENWELL, M.A.[13]

    Thou camest with kind looks, when on the brink
      Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice
      Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart rejoice,
    Though smitten sore: Oh, I did little think
    That thou, my friend, wouldst the first victim fall
      To the stern King of Terrors! Thou didst fly,
      By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry;
    And soon thyself were stretched beneath the pall,
    Livid infection's prey. The deep distress
      Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew,
      To whom thy faith was vowed; thy soul was true,
    What powers of faltering language shall express?
    As friendship bids, I feebly breathe my own,
    And sorrowing say, Pure spirit, thou art gone!

[13] An accomplished young friend of the author--a poet and a scholar,
formerly fellow of Trinity College, Oxford--who died of a typhus fever,
caught in administering the sacrament to one of his parishioners. Mr
Benwell had only been married eleven weeks when he died.


AT MALVERN.

    I shall behold far off thy towering crest,
      Proud mountain! from thy heights as slow I stray
      Down through the distant vale my homeward way,
    I shall behold upon thy rugged breast,
    The parting sun sit smiling: me the while
      Escaped the crowd, thoughts full of heaviness
      May visit, as life's bitter losses press
    Hard on my bosom; but I shall beguile
    The thing I am, and think, that ev'n as thou
      Dost lift in the pale beam thy forehead high,
      Proud mountain! whilst the scattered vapours fly
    Unheeded round thy breast,--so, with calm brow,
    The shades of sorrow I may meet, and wear
    The smile unchanged of peace, though pressed by care!


NETLEY ABBEY.

    Fall'n pile! I ask not what has been thy fate;
      But when the winds, slow wafted from the main,
      Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain,
    Come hollow to my ear, I meditate
    On this world's passing pageant, and the lot
      Of those who once majestic in their prime
      Stood smiling at decay, till bowed by time
    Or injury, their early boast forgot,
    They may have fall'n like thee! Pale and forlorn,
      Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow,
    They lift, still unsubdued, as they would scorn
      This short-lived scene of vanity and woe;
    Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear
    The trace of creeping age, and the pale hue of care!


ASSOCIATIONS.

    As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds,
      Still on that vision which is flown I dwell,
      On images I loved, alas, too well!
    Now past, and but remembered like sweet sounds
    Of yesterday! Yet in my breast I keep
      Such recollections, painful though they seem,
      And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream
    I start, and find them not; then I could weep
    To think how Fortune blights the fairest flowers;
      To think how soon life's first endearments fail,
      And we are still misled by Hope's smooth tale,
    Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours
    Pass, and when most we call on her to stay,
    Will fly, as faithless and as fleet as they!


MUSIC.

    O harmony! thou tenderest nurse of pain,
      If that thy note's sweet magic e'er can heal
      Griefs which the patient spirit oft may feel,
    Oh! let me listen to thy songs again;
      Till memory her fairest tints shall bring;
    Hope wake with brighter eye, and listening seem
    With smiles to think on some delightful dream,
      That waved o'er the charmed sense its gladsome wing!
      For when thou leadest all thy soothing strains
    More smooth along, the silent passions meet
    In one suspended transport, sad and sweet;
      And nought but sorrow's softest touch remains;
    That, when the transitory charm is o'er,
    Just wakes a tear, and then is felt no more.


APPROACH OF SUMMER.

    How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill
      My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide
      First came, and on the Coomb's romantic side
    Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill!
    Fresh flowers shall fringe the margin of the stream,
      As with the songs of joyance and of hope
      The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope
    The poplars sparkle in the passing beam;
    The shrubs and laurels that I loved to tend,
      Thinking their May-tide fragrance would delight,
    With many a peaceful charm, thee, my poor friend,
      Shall put forth their green shoots, and cheer the sight!
    But I shall mark their hues with sadder eyes,
    And weep the more for one who in the cold earth lies!


AT OXFORD, 1786.

    Bereave me not of Fancy's shadowy dreams,
      Which won my heart, or when the gay career
      Of life begun, or when at times a tear
    Sat sad on memory's cheek--though loftier themes
    Await the awakened mind to the high prize
      Of wisdom, hardly earned with toil and pain,
      Aspiring patient; yet on life's wide plain
    Left fatherless, where many a wanderer sighs
    Hourly, and oft our road is lone and long,
      'Twere not a crime should we a while delay
      Amid the sunny field; and happier they
    Who, as they journey, woo the charm of song,
    To cheer their way;--till they forget to weep,
    And the tired sense is hushed, and sinks to sleep.


AT DOVER, 1786.

    Thou, whose stern spirit loves the storm,
      That, borne on Terror's desolating wings,
      Shakes the high forest, or remorseless flings
    The shivered surge; when rising griefs deform
    Thy peaceful breast, hie to yon steep, and think,--
      When thou dost mark the melancholy tide
      Beneath thee, and the storm careering wide,--
    Tossed on the surge of life how many sink!
    And if thy cheek with one kind tear be wet,
      And if thy heart be smitten, when the cry
      Of danger and of death is heard more nigh,
    Oh, learn thy private sorrows to forget;
    Intent, when hardest beats the storm, to save
    One who, like thee, has suffered from the wave.


RETROSPECTION.

    I turn these leaves with thronging thoughts, and say,
      Alas! how many friends of youth are dead;
      How many visions of fair hope have fled,
    Since first, my Muse, we met.--So speeds away
      Life, and its shadows; yet we sit and sing,
    Stretched in the noontide bower, as if the day
    Declined not, and we yet might trill our lay
      Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing
    That fans us; while aloft the gay clouds shine!
      Oh, ere the coming of the long cold night,
      Religion, may we bless thy purer light,
    That still shall warm us, when the tints decline
    O'er earth's dim hemisphere; and sad we gaze
    On the vain visions of our passing days!


ON ACCIDENTALLY MEETING A LADY NOW NO MORE.

WRITTEN MANY YEARS AFTER THE FOREGOING SONNETS.

    When last we parted, thou wert young and fair--
      How beautiful let fond remembrance say!
      Alas! since then old Time has stol'n away
    Nigh forty years, leaving my temples bare:--
    So hath it perished, like a thing of air,
      That dream of love and youth:--we now are gray;
      Yet still remembering youth's enchanted way,
    Though time has changed my look, and blanched my hair,
    Though I remember one sad hour with pain,
      And never thought, long as I yet might live,
    And parted long, to hear that voice again;--
      I can a sad, but cordial greeting, give,
    And for thy welfare breathe as warm a prayer,
    Lady, as when I loved thee young and fair!


ON HEARING "THE MESSIAH"

PERFORMED IN GLOUCESTER CATHEDRAL, SEPT. 18, 1835.

    Oh, stay, harmonious and sweet sounds, that die
      In the long vaultings of this ancient fane!
      Stay, for I may not hear on earth again
    Those pious airs--that glorious harmony;
    Lifting the soul to brighter orbs on high,
    Worlds without sin or sorrow!
                                 Ah, the strain
    Has died--ev'n the last sounds that lingeringly
    Hung on the roof ere they expired!
                                          And I,
    Stand in the world of strife, amidst a throng,
      A throng that recks not or of death, or sin!
    Oh, jarring scenes! to cease, indeed, ere long;
      The worm hears not the discord and the din;
    But he whose heart thrills to this angel song,
      Feels the pure joy of heaven on earth begin!


WOODSPRING ABBEY, 1836.[14]

    These walls were built by men who did a deed
      Of blood:--terrific conscience, day by day,
      Followed, where'er their shadow seemed to stay,
    And still in thought they saw their victim bleed,
    Before God's altar shrieking: pangs succeed,
      As dire upon their heart the deep sin lay,
      No tears of agony could wash away:
    Hence! to the land's remotest limit, speed!
    These walls are raised in vain, as vainly flows
      Contrition's tear: Earth, hide them, and thou, Sea,
    Which round the lone isle, where their bones repose,
      Dost sound for ever, their sad requiem be,
    In fancy's ear, at pensive evening's close,
      Still murmuring{b} MISERERE, DOMINE.

[14] Three mailed men, in Canterbury Cathedral, rushed on the Archbishop
of Canterbury, and murdered him before the altar. Conscience-stricken,
they fled and built Woodspring Abbey, in the remote corner of
Somersetshire, near Western Super Mare, where the land looks on the
Atlantic sea. There are three unknown graves on the Flat Holms.


LACOCK NUNNERY.

JUNE 24, 1837.

    I stood upon the stone where ELA lay,
      The widowed founder of these ancient walls,
      Where fancy still on meek devotion calls,
    Marking the ivied arch, and turret gray--
    For her soul's rest--eternal rest--to pray;[15]
      Where visionary nuns yet seem to tread,
      A pale dim troop, the cloisters of the dead,
    Though twice three hundred years have flown away!
      But when, with silent step and pensive mien,
    In weeds, as mourning for her sisters gone,
      The mistress of this lone monastic scene
    Came; and I heard her voice's tender tone,
      I said, Though centuries have rolled between,
    One gentle, beauteous nun is left, on earth, alone.

[15] "Eternam Requiem dona."


ON A BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPE.

    Beautiful landscape! I could look on thee
      For hours, unmindful of the storm and strife,
      And mingled murmurs of tumultuous life.
    Here, all is still as fair; the stream, the tree,
    The wood, the sunshine on the bank: no tear,
      No thought of Time's swift wing, or closing night,
      That comes to steal away the long sweet light--
    No sighs of sad humanity are here.
    Here is no tint of mortal change; the day,--
      Beneath whose light the dog and peasant-boy
      Gambol, with look, and almost bark, of joy,--
    Still seems, though centuries have passed, to stay.
    Then gaze again, that shadowed scenes may teach
    Lessons of peace and love, beyond all speech.


ART AND NATURE.

THE BRIDGE BETWEEN CLIFTON AND LEIGH WOODS.

    Frown ever opposite, the angel cried,
      Who, with an earthquake's might and giant hand,
      Severed these riven rocks, and bade them stand
    Severed for ever! The vast ocean-tide,
      Leaving its roar without at his command,
      Shrank, and beneath the woods through the green land
    Went gently murmuring on, so to deride
    The frowning barriers that its force defied!
      But Art, high o'er the trailing smoke below
    Of sea-bound steamer, on yon summit's head
      Sat musing; and where scarce a wandering crow
    Sailed o'er the chasm, in thought a highway led;
      Conquering, as by an arrow from a bow,
    The scene's lone Genius by her elfin-thread.

      CLIFTON, _27th August 1836._


PICTURE OF AN OLD MAN.

    Old man, I saw thee in thy garden chair
      Sitting in silence 'mid the shrubs and trees
      Of thy small cottage-croft, whilst murmuring bees
    Went by, and almost touched thy temples bare,
    Edged with a few flakes of the whitest hair.
      And, soothed by the faint hum of ebbing seas,
      And song of birds, and breath of the young breeze,
    Thus didst thou sit, feeling the summer air
    Blow gently;--with a sad still decadence,
      Sinking to earth in hope, but all alone.
    Oh! hast thou wept to feel the lonely sense
      Of earthly loss, musing on voices gone!
    Hush the vain murmur, that, without offence,
    Thy head may rest in peace beneath the churchyard stone.


PICTURE OF A YOUNG LADY.

    When I was sitting, sad, and all alone,
      Remembering youth and love for ever fled,
      And many friends now resting with the dead,
    While the still summer's light departing shone,
    Like many sweet and silent summers gone;
      Thou camest, as a vision, with a mien
      And smile like those I once on earth had seen,
    And with a voice of that remembered tone
    Which I in other days, long since, had heard:
      Like Peace approaching, when distempers fret
    Most the tired spirit, thy fair form appeared;
      And till I die, I never shall forget,--
    For at thy footstep light, the gloom was cheered,--
    Thy look and voice, oh! gentle Margaret.


HOUR-GLASS AND BIBLE.

    Look, Christian, on thy Bible, and that glass
      That sheds its sand through minutes, hours, and days,
      And years; it speaks not, yet, methinks, it says,
    To every human heart: so mortals pass
    On to their dark and silent grave! Alas
      For man! an exile upon earth he strays,
      Weary, and wandering through benighted ways;
    To-day in strength, to-morrow like the grass
    That withers at his feet!--Lift up thy head,
      Poor pilgrim, toiling in this vale of tears;
    That book declares whose blood for thee was shed,
      Who died to give thee life; and though thy years
    Pass like a shade, pointing to thy death-bed,
      Out of the deep thy cry an angel hears,
    And by his guiding hand thy steps to heaven are led!


MILTON.

ON THE BUSTS OF MILTON, IN YOUTH AND AGE, AT STOURHEAD.

IN YOUTH.

    Milton, our noblest poet, in the grace
      Of youth, in those fair eyes and clustering hair,
      That brow untouched by one faint line of care,
    To mar its openness, we seem to trace
    The front of the first lord of human race,
      'Mid thine own Paradise portrayed so fair,
      Ere Sin or Sorrow scathed it: such the air
    That characters thy youth. Shall time efface
      These lineaments as crowding cares assail!
    It is the lot of fall'n humanity.
      What boots it! armed in adamantine mail,
    The unconquerable mind, and genius high,
    Right onward hold their way through weal and woe,
    Or whether life's brief lot be high or low!


IN AGE.

    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 blaze
      Their dark orbs roll in vain, in suffering meek,
      As in the sight of God intent to seek,
    'Mid solitude or age, or through the ways
      Of hard adversity, the approving look
    Of its great Master; whilst the conscious pride
      Of wisdom, patient and content to brook
    All 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!


TO SIR WALTER SCOTT.

ON ACCIDENTLY MEETING AND PARTING WITH SIR WALTER SCOTT, WHOM I HAD NOT
SEEN FOR MANY YEARS, IN THE STREETS OF LONDON, MAY 1828.

    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 sighed
    At 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!


ELEGY WRITTEN AT THE HOTWELLS, BRISTOL,

JULY, 1789.

INSCRIBED TO THE REV. W. HOWLEY.[16]

    The morning wakes in shadowy mantle gray,                          1
      The 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,                     2
      And 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 shore                         3
      Uplift 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,                   4
      The 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,                         5
      Who now come forth to meet the cheering ray;
    And feel the fragrance of the tepid morn
      Round their torn breasts and throbbing temples play![18]

    Perhaps they muse with a desponding sigh                           6
      On 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,                          7
      Awhile 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 gleam                    8
      The cliff's tall crest, the waving woods that ring
    With songs of birds rejoicing in the beam,
      Touch soft the wakeful nerve's according string.

    Then at sad Meditation's silent hour                               9
      A 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,                     10
      From 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,                     11
      Remembrance 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;                    12
      Waters 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 springs                      13
      Some 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,                        14
      Pale 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,                      15
      Untimely stricken by sharp Sorrow's dart;
    For friendship formed, yet left without a friend,
      And bearing still the arrow at his heart.

    Such was lamented RUSSELL'S[19] early doom,                       16
      The 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,                            17
      A 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,                    18
      As, boding much, along these hills he passed;
    Yet ah! how mournful did they meet his ear
      On that sad morn he heard them for the last!

    So sinks the scene, like a departed dream,                        19
      Since 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 lawn                        20
      Of early life, in the fresh morning played;
    Alas! how many, since that vernal dawn,
      Like thee, poor RUSSELL, 'neath the turf are laid!

    Joyous a while they wandered hand in hand,                        21
      By 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,                             22
      Than 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 owe                      23
      That 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,                24
      Of 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,             25
      My wandering steps their silent path pursue
    Back 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.


MONODY ON HENRY HEADLEY.

    To every gentle Muse in vain allied,
    In youth's full early morning HEADLEY died!
    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 tear                          10
    For 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 smile
    Like flowers upon some long-forsaken pile.[22]
      Far from the murmuring crowd, unseen, he sought
    Each charm congenial to his saddened thought.                     20
    When 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 bell
    Listened, and bade the woods and vales farewell,
    Musing in tearful mood, he oft was seen
    The 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;                    29
    As airs of sadness the responsive lute.
      Yet 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 paid
    To all his virtues, from that social shade
    Where once we sojourned.[23]    I, alas! remain
    To mourn the hours of youth, yet mourn in vain,                   40
    That fled neglected. Wisely thou hast trod
    The better path; and that High Meed, which GOD
    Ordained for Virtue towering from the dust,
    Shall bless thy labours, spirit pure and just!

[22] Alluding to the _Beauties 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.


ON MR HOWARD'S ACCOUNT OF LAZARETTOS.

    Mortal! who, armed with holy fortitude,
    The path of good right onward hast pursued;
    May HE, to whose eternal throne on high
    The sufferers of the earth with anguish cry,
    Be thy protector!    On that dreary road
    That leads thee patient to the last abode
    Of wretchedness, in peril and in pain,
    May HE thy steps direct, thy heart sustain!
    'Mid scenes, where pestilence in darkness flies;
    In caverns, where deserted misery lies;                           10
    So 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 gale
    That 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 adorn
    The azure heaven, or purple lights of morn;                       20
    Is aught so fair in evening's lingering gleam,
    As from thine eye the meek and pensive beam
    That falls like saddest moonlight on the hill
    And distant grove, when the wide world is still!
    Thine are the ample views, that unconfined
    Stretch to the utmost walks of human kind:
    Thine is the spirit that with widest plan
    Brother to brother binds, and man to man.
      But who for thee, O Charity! will bear
    Hardship, and cope with peril and with care!                      30
    Who, for thy sake, will social sweets forego
    For 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!                         40
    Approving 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 unfold
    The grating door--the inmost cell behold!
    Thought shrinks from the dread sight; the paly lamp
    Burns faint amid the infectious vapours damp;                     50
    Beneath 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, fled                   60
    In the utmost hour of need; or of a son
    Cast to the bleak world's mercy; or of one
    Whose heart was broken, when the stern behest
    Tore 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 cell
    Long have I bid the cheering sun farewell.                        70
    I 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 reared
    To Heaven no more--and on his sable beard
    The tear has ceased to fall. Thou canst not bring
    Back to his mournful heart the morn of spring;--
    Thou canst not bid the rose of health renew
    Upon his wasted cheek its crimson hue;                            80
    But 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;                     90
    The awful view with other feelings scan,
    And learn from HOWARD what man owes to man!
      These, Virtue! are thy triumphs, that adorn
    Fitliest our nature, and bespeak us born
    For loftier action; not to gaze and run
    From 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!                    100
    But on life's varied views to look around,
    And raise expiring sorrow from the ground:--
    And he who thus has borne his part assigned
    In the sad fellowship of human kind,
    Or for a moment soothed the bitter pain
    Of a poor brother, has not lived in vain!
      But 'tis not that Compassion should bestow
    An unavailing tear on want or woe:
    Lo! fairer Order rises from thy plan,
    Befriending virtue, and adorning man.                            110
    That 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!                    120
    To thee, that Pity sees her views expand
    To 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 vain
    The triumphs of weak man, the feeble strain
    That 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 hies
    Wide o'er the wasted earth; before him flies                     130
    Affright, on pinions fleeter than the wind;
    Whilst Death and Desolation fast behind
    The havoc of his echoing march pursue:
    Meantime his steps are bathed in the warm dew
    Of bloodshed, and of tears;--but his dread name
    Shall perish--the loud clarion of his fame
    One 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,                140
    From His high throne of mercy shall approve
    The holy deeds of Mercy and of Love:
    For when the vanities of life's brief day
    Oblivion's hurrying wing shall sweep away,
    Each act by Charity and Mercy done,                              145
    High o'er the wrecks of time, shall live alone,
    Immortal as the heavens, and beauteous bloom
    To other worlds, and realms beyond the tomb.


THE GRAVE OF HOWARD.

    Spirit of Death! whose outstretched pennons dread
    Wave 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! Assume
    A 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,                     10
    Low in the dust is laid, thy noblest spoil!
    And Mercy ceases from her awful toil!
      'Twas where the pestilence at thy command
    Arose to desolate the sickening land,
    When many a mingled cry and dying prayer
    Resounded 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,                        20
    Calm 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,                   30
    A tear shall fall: alone, amidst the gloom
    Of 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 breath
    On 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;                         40
    Yet 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 thy GOD, 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 hear
    The saddest plaints e'er told to human ear.                       50
    Go 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 forth
    To 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,                         60
    Till 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 wide
    Of 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 mild
    Humanity's remotest prospects wild,                               70
    Till this frail orb shall from its sphere be hurled,
    Till final ruin hush the murmuring world,
    And all its sorrows, at the awful blast
    Of 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 hand
    Shall perish, like the tracks upon the sand;                      80
    But not with these expire the sacred flame
    Of Virtue, or the good man's honoured name.
      HOWARD! it matters not, that far away
    From Albion's peaceful shore thy bones decay:
    Him it might please, by whose sustaining hand
    Thy 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,                          90
    Teach to the roving Tartar's savage clan
    Lessons 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 more
    To 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 rise
    New views of life, and wider charities.                          100
    Far 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.                    110
      When o'er the sounding Euxine's stormy tides
    In 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 breast
    Shall feel a still unwonted awe impressed,                       120
    And the relenting Pagan turn aside
    To think--on yonder shore the _Christian_ died!
      But thou, O Briton! doomed perhaps to roam
    An exile many a year and far from home,
    If ever fortune thy lone footsteps leads
    To the wild Nieper's banks, and whispering reeds,
    O'er HOWARD'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,                         130
    There shalt thou pause; and shutting from thy heart
    Some 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 taught
    To mend my heart, or animate my thought.
    I thank thee, HOWARD, for that awful view
    Of life which thou hast drawn, most sad, most true.              140
    Thou art no more! and the frail fading bloom
    Of this poor offering dies upon thy tomb.
    Beyond the transient sound of earthly praise
    Thy 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._


SHAKSPEARE.

    O sovereign Master! who with lonely state                          1
      Dost 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,                           2
      Aerial forms should in bright troops ascend,
    And then a wondrous masque before me sweep;
      Whilst sounds, _that the earth owned not_, seem to blend
    Their stealing melodies, that when the strain
    Ceased, _I should weep, and would so dream again_!

    The song hath ceased. Ah! who, pale shade, art thou,               3
      Sad 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 look
    Hangs idly musing by the brawling brook.

    But mark the merry elves of fairy land![27]                        5
      To 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,                          6
      In 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]                         7
      Marked 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 sound
    The bloody cauldron sinks, and all is dark around.

    Pity! touch the trembling strings,                                 8
      A 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 command                          9
      We 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.

[25] Lear.

[26] Jaques: _As You Like It._

[27] _Midsummer Night's Dream._

[28] Ferdinand: see _The Tempest._

[29] See _Macbeth._

[30] Ophelia: _Hamlet._


ABBA THULE'S LAMENT FOR HIS SON PRINCE LE BOO.

    I climb the highest cliff; I hear the sound
    Of dashing waves; I gaze intent around;
    I mark the gray cope, and the hollowness
    Of heaven, and the great sun, that comes to bless
    The isles again; but my long-straining eye,
    No speck, no shadow can, far off, descry,
    That I might weep tears of delight, and say,
    It is the bark that bore my child away!
      Sun, that returnest bright, beneath whose eye
    The worlds unknown, and out-stretched waters lie,                 10
    Dost thou behold him now! On some rude shore,
    Around whose crags the cheerless billows roar,
    Watching the unwearied surges doth he stand,
    And think upon his father's distant land!
    Or has his heart forgot, so far away,
    These native woods, these rocks, and torrents gray,
    The tall bananas whispering to the breeze,
    The shores, the sound of these encircling seas,
    Heard from his infant days, and the piled heap
    Of holy stones, where his forefathers sleep!                      20
      Ah, me! till sunk by sorrow, I shall dwell
    With them forgetful in the narrow cell,
    Never shall time from my fond heart efface
    His image; oft his shadow I shall trace
    Upon the glimmering waters, when on high
    The white moon wanders through the cloudless sky.
    Oft in my silent cave, when to its fire
    From the night's rushing tempest we retire,
    I shall behold his form, his aspect bland;
    I shall retrace his footsteps on the sand;                        30
    And, when the hollow-sounding surges swell,
    Still think I listen to his echoing shell.
      Would I had perished ere that hapless day,
    When the tall vessel, in its trim array,
    First rushed upon the sounding surge, and bore
    My age's comfort from this sheltering shore!
    I saw it spread its white wings to the wind,
    Too soon it left these hills and woods behind,
    Gazing, its course I followed till mine eye
    No longer could its distant track descry;                         40
    Till on the confines of the billows hoar
    A while it hung, and then was seen no more,
    And only the blue hollow cope I spied,
    And the long waste of waters tossing wide.
      More mournful then each falling surge I heard,
    Then dropt the stagnant tear upon my beard.
    Methought the wild waves said, amidst their roar
    At midnight, Thou shalt see thy son no more!
      Now thrice twelve moons through the mid heavens have rolled
    And many a dawn, and slow night, have I told:                     50
    And still as every weary day goes by,
    A knot recording on my line I tie;[31]
    But never more, emerging from the main,
    I see the stranger's bark approach again.
    Has the fell storm o'erwhelmed him! Has its sweep
    Buried the bounding vessel in the deep!
    Is he cast bleeding on some desert plain!
    Upon his father did he call in vain!
    Have pitiless and bloody tribes defiled
    The cold limbs of my brave, my beauteous child!                   60
      Oh! I shall never, never hear his voice;
    The spring-time shall return, the isles rejoice,
    But faint and weary I shall meet the morn,
    And 'mid the cheering sunshine droop forlorn!
      The joyous conch sounds in the high wood loud,
    O'er all the beach now stream the busy crowd;
    Fresh breezes stir the waving plantain grove;
    The fisher carols in the winding cove;
    And light canoes along the lucid tide
    With painted shells and sparkling paddles glide.                  70
    I linger on the desert rock alone,
    Heartless, and cry for thee, my son, my son.

[31] I find on referring to the narrative of Captain Wilson's voyage to
the Pelew Islands, that the knots were tied at the time of Prince Le
Boo's departure, and that one was untied every moon by the disconsolate
father.

The evening before the "Oroolong" sailed, the King asked Captain Wilson
how long it might be before his return to Pelew; and being told that it
would probably be about thirty moons, or might chance to extend to six
more, Abba Thule drew from his basket a piece of line, and after making
thirty knots on it, a little distance from each other, left a long
space, and then adding six others, carefully put it by.


SOUTHAMPTON WATER.

    Smooth went our boat upon the summer seas,
      Leaving, for so it seemed, the world behind,
      Its sounds of mingled uproar: we, reclined
    Upon the sunny deck, heard but the breeze
    That o'er us whispering passed, or idly played
      With the lithe flag aloft. A woodland scene
      On either side drew its slope line of green,
    And hung the water's shining edge with shade.
    Above the woods, Netley! thy ruins pale
      Peered as we passed; and Vecta's[32] azure hue                  10
      Beyond the misty castle[33] met our view;
    Where in mid channel hung the scarce seen sail.
      So all was calm and sunshine as we went
      Cheerily o'er the briny element.
    Oh! were this little boat to us the world,
      As thus we wandered far from sounds of care,
      Circled by friends and gentle maidens fair,
    Whilst morning airs the waving pennant curled;
    How sweet were life's long voyage, till in peace
    We gained that haven still, where all things cease!               20

[32] Isle of Wight.

[33] Kelshot Castle.


THE PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETY.[34]

INSCRIBED TO THE DUKE OF LEEDS.

    When Want, with wasted mien and haggard eye,
    Retires in silence to her cell to die;
    When o'er her child she hangs with speechless dread,
    Faint and despairing of to-morrow's bread;
    Who shall approach to bid the conflict cease,
    And to her parting spirit whisper peace!
    Who thee, poor infant, that with aspect bland
    Dost stretch forth innocent thy helpless hand,
    Shall pitying then protect, when thou art thrown
    On the world's waste, unfriended and alone!                       10
      O hapless Infancy! if aught could move
    The hardest heart to pity and to love
    'Twere surely found in thee: dim passions mark
    Stern manhood's brow, where age impresses dark
    The stealing line of sorrow; but thine eye
    Wears not distrust, or grief, or perfidy.
    Though fortune's storms with dismal shadow lower,
    Thy heart nor fears, nor feels the bitter shower;
    Thy tear is soon forgotten; thou wilt weep,
    And then the murmuring winds will hush thy sleep,                 20
    As 'twere with some sad music;--and thy smiles,
    Unlike to those that cover cruel wiles,
    Plead best thy speechless innocence, and lend
    A charm might win the world to be thy friend.
      But thou art oft abandoned in thy smiles,
    And early vice thy easy heart beguiles.
    Oh for some voice, that of the secret maze
    Where the grim passions lurk, the winding ways
    That lead to sin, and ruth, and deep lament,
    Might haply warn thee, whilst yet innocent                        30
    And beauteous as the spring-time o'er the hills
    Advancing, when each vale glad music fills!
    Else lost and wandering, the benighted mind
    No spot of rest again shall ever find;
    Then the sweet smiles, that erst enchanting laid
    Their magic beauty on thy look, shall fade;
    Then the bird's warbled song no more shall cheer
    With morning music thy delighted ear;
    Fell thoughts and muttering passions shall awake,
    And the fair rose the sullied cheek forsake!                      40
      As when still Autumn's gradual gloom is laid
    Far o'er the fading forest's saddened shade,
    A mournful gleam illumines the cold hill,
    Yet palely wandering o'er the distant rill;
    But when the hollow gust, slow rising, raves,
    And high the pine on yon lone summit waves,
    Each milder charm, like pictures of a dream,
    Hath perished, mute the birds, and dark the stream!
    Scuds the dreer sleet upon the whirlwind borne,
    And scowls the landscape clouded and forlorn!                     50
      So fades, so perishes frail Virtue's hue;
    Her last and lingering smile seems but to rue,
    Like autumn, every summer beauty reft,
    Till all is dark and to the winter left.
    Yet spring, with living touch, shall paint again
    The green-leaved forest, and the purple plain;
    With mingling melody the woods shall ring,
    The whispering breeze its long-lost incense fling:
    But, Innocence! when once thy tender flower
    The sickly taint has touched, where is the power                  60
    That shall bring back its fragrance, or restore
    The tints of loveliness, that shine no more?
      How then for thee, who pinest in life's gloom,
    Abandoned child! can hope or virtue bloom!
    For thee, exposed amid the desert drear,
    Which no glad gales or vernal sunbeams cheer!
      Though some there are, who lift their head sublime,
    Nor heed the transient storms of fate or time;
    Too oft, alas! beneath unfriendly skies,
    The tender blossom shrinks its leaves, and dies!                  70
      Go, struggle with thy fate, pursue thy way;--
    Though thou art poor, the world around is gay!
    Thou hast no bread; but on thy aching sight
    Proud luxury's pavilions glitter bright;
    In thy cold ear the song of gladness swells,
    Whilst vacant folly chimes her tinkling bells:
    The careless crowd prolong their hollow glee,
    Nor one relenting bosom thinks of thee.
      Will not the indignant spirit then rebel,
    And the dark tide of passions fearful swell!                      80
    Will not despight, perhaps, or bitter need,
    Urge then thy temper to some direful deed!
    Pale Guilt shall call thee to her ghastly band,
    Or Murder welcome thee with reeking hand!
    O wretched state, where our best feelings lie
    Deep sunk in sullen, hopeless apathy!
    Or wakeful cares, or gloomy terrors start,
    And night and tempest mingle in the heart!
      All mournful to the pensive sage's eye,
    The monuments of human glory lie;                                 90
    Fall'n palaces, crushed by the ruthless haste
    Of time, and many an empire's silent waste,
    Where, 'midst the vale of long-departed years,
    The form of desolation dim appears,
    Pointing to the wild plain with ruin spread,
    The wrecks of age, and records of the dead!
    But where a sight shall shuddering sorrow find,
    Sad as the ruins of the human mind;--
    As Man, by his GREAT MAKER raised sublime
    Amid the universe, ordained to climb                             100
    The arduous height where Virtue sits serene;--
    As Man, the high lord of this nether scene,
    So fall'n, so lost!--his noblest boast destroyed,
    His sweet affections left a piteous void!
      But oh, sweet Charity! what sounds were those
    That met the listening ear, soft as the close
    Of distant music, when the hum of day
    Is hushed, and dying gales the airs convey!
    Come, hapless orphans, meek Compassion cried,
    Where'er, unsheltered outcasts! ye abide                         110
    The bitter driving wind, the freezing sky,
    _The oppressor's scourge, the proud man's contumely_;
    Come, hapless orphans! ye who never saw
    A tear of kindness shed on your cold straw;
    Who never met with joy the morning light,
    Or lisped your little prayer of peace at night;
    Come, hapless orphans! nor, when youth should spring
    Soaring aloft, as on an eagle's wing,
    Shall ye forsaken on the ground be left,
    Of hope, of virtue, and of peace bereft!                         120
    Far from the springtide gale, and joyous day,
    In the deep caverns of Despair ye lay:
    She, iron-hearted mother, never pressed
    Your wasted forms with transport to her breast;
    When none o'er all the world your 'plaint would hear,
    She never kissed away the falling tear,
    Or fondly smiled, forgetful, to behold
    Some infant grace its early charm unfold.
    She ne'er with mingling hopes and rising fears,
    Sighed for the fortune of your future years:                     130
    Or saw you hand in hand rejoicing stray
    Beneath the morning sun, on youth's delightful way.
    But happier scenes invite, and fairer skies;
    From your dark bed, children of woe, arise!
      In caves where peace ne'er smiled, where joy ne'er came,
    Where Friendship's eye ne'er glistened at the name
    Of one she loved, where famine and despair
    Sat silent 'mid the damp and lurid air,
    The soothing voice is heard; a beam of light
    Is cast upon their features, sunk and white;                     140
    With trembling joy they catch the stealing sound;
    Their famished little ones come smiling round.
      Sweet Infancy! whom all the world forsook,
    Thou hast put on again thy cherub look:
    Guilt, shrinking at the sight, in deep dismay
    Flies cowering, and resigns his wonted prey.
      But who is she, in garb of misery clad,
    Yet of less vulgar mien? A look so sad
    The mourning maniac wears, so wild, yet meek;
    A beam of joy now wanders o'er her cheek,                        150
    The pale eye visiting; it leaves it soon,
    As fade the dewy glances of the moon
    Upon some wandering cloud, while slow the ray
    Retires, and leaves more dark the heaven's wide way.
      Lost mother, early doomed to guilt and shame,
    Whose friends of youth now sigh not o'er thy name,
    Heavy has sorrow fall'n upon thy head,
    Yet think--one hope remains when thou art dead;
    Thy houseless child, thy only little one,
    Shall not look round, defenceless and alone,                     160
    For one to guide her youth;--nor with dismay
    Each stranger's cold unfeeling look survey.
    She shall not now be left a prey to shame,
    Whilst slow disease preys on her faded frame;
    Nor, when the bloom of innocence is fled,
    Thus fainting bow her unprotected head.
    Oh, she shall live, and Piety and Truth,
    The loveliest ornaments, shall grace her youth.
    And should her eye with softest lustre shine,
    And should she wear such smiles as once were thine,              170
    The smiles of peace and virtue they shall prove,
    Blessing the calm abode of faithful love.
      For ye[35] who thus, by pure compassion taught,
    Have wept o'er human sorrows;--who have sought
    Want's dismal cell, and pale as from the dead
    To life and light the speechless orphan led;--
    Trust that the deed, in Mercy's book enrolled,
    Approving spirits of the just behold!
      Meanwhile, new virtues here, as on the wing
    Of morn, from Sorrow's dreary shades shall spring;               180
    Young Modesty, with fair untainted bloom;
    And Industry, that sings beside her loom;
    And ruddy Labour, issuing from his hatch
    Ere the slant sunbeam strikes the lowly thatch;
    And sweet Contentment, smiling on a rock,
    Like a fair shepherdess beside her flock;
    And tender Love, that hastes with myrtle-braid
    To bind the tresses of the favoured maid;
    And Piety, with unclasped holy book,
    Lifting to heaven her mildly-beaming look:                       190
    These village virtues on the plain shall throng,
    And Albion's hills resound a cheerful song;
    Whilst Charity, with dewy eyelids bland,
    Leading a lisping infant in her hand,
    Shall bend at pure Religion's holy shrine,
    And say, These children, GOD OF LOVE, are thine!

[34] The Philanthropic Society was instituted in September 1788, for the
prevention of crimes, by seeking out and training up to virtue and
industry the children of the most abject and criminal among the vagrant
and profligate poor; by these means more effectually to alleviate human
misery, and to oppose the progress of vice.

[35] The promoters of the charity.


THE DYING SLAVE.

    Faint-gazing on the burning orb of day,
    When Afric's injured son expiring lay,
    His forehead cold, his labouring bosom bare,
    His dewy temples, and his sable hair,
    His poor companions kissed, and cried aloud,
    Rejoicing, whilst his head in peace he bowed:--
      Now thy long, long task is done,
      Swiftly, brother, wilt thou run,
      Ere to-morrow's golden beam
      Glitter on thy parent stream,                                   10
      Swiftly the delights to share,
      The feast of joy that waits thee there.
      Swiftly, brother, wilt thou ride
      O'er the long and stormy tide,
      Fleeter than the hurricane,
      Till thou see'st those scenes again,
      Where thy father's hut was reared,
      Where thy mother's voice was heard;
      Where thy infant brothers played
      Beneath the fragrant citron shade;                              20
      Where through green savannahs wide
      Cooling rivers silent glide,
      Or the shrill cicalas sing
      Ceaseless to their murmuring;
      Where the dance, the festive song,
      Of many a friend divided long,
      Doomed through stranger lands to roam,
      Shall bid thy spirit welcome home!
        Fearless o'er the foaming tide
      Again thy light canoe shall ride;                               30
      Fearless on the embattled plain
      Thou shalt lift thy lance again;
      Or, starting at the call of morn,
      Wake the wild woods with thy horn;
      Or, rushing down the mountain-slope,
      O'ertake the nimble antelope;
      Or lead the dance, 'mid blissful bands,
      On cool Andracte's yellow sands;
      Or, in the embowering orange-grove,
      Tell to thy long-forsaken love                                  40
      The wounds, the agony severe,
      Thy patient spirit suffered here!
        Fear not now the tyrant's power,
      Past is his insulting hour;
      Mark no more the sullen trait
      On slavery's brow of scorn and hate;
      Hear no more the long sigh borne
      Murmuring on the gales of morn!
        Go in peace; yet we remain
      Far distant toiling on in pain;                                 50
      Ere the great Sun fire the skies
      To our work of woe we rise;
      And see each night, without a friend,
      The world's great comforter descend!
        Tell our brethren, where ye meet,
      Thus we toil with weary feet;
      Yet tell them that Love's generous flame,
      In joy, in wretchedness the same,
      In distant worlds was ne'er forgot;
      And tell them that we murmur not;                               60
      Tell them, though the pang will start,
      And drain the life-blood from the heart,--
      Tell them, generous shame forbids
      The tear to stain our burning lids!
      Tell them, in weariness and want,
      For our native hills we pant,
      Where soon, from shame and sorrow free,
      We hope in death to follow thee!


SONG OF THE AMERICAN INDIAN.

    Stranger, stay, nor wish to climb
    The heights of yonder hills sublime;
    For there strange shapes and spirits dwell,[36]
    That oft the murmuring thunders swell,
    Of power from the impending steep
    To hurl thee headlong to the deep;
    But secure with us abide,
    By the winding river's side;
    Our gladsome toil, our pleasures share,
    And think not of a world of care.                                 10
    The lonely cayman,[37] where he feeds
    Among the green high-bending reeds,
    Shall yield thee pastime; thy keen dart
    Through his bright scales shall pierce his heart.
      Home returning from our toils,
    Thou shalt bear the tiger's spoils;
    And we will sing our loudest strain
    O'er the forest-tyrant slain!
      Sometimes thou shalt pause to hear
    The beauteous cardinal sing clear;                                20
    Where hoary oaks, by time decayed,
    Nod in the deep wood's pathless glade;
    And the sun, with bursting ray,
    Quivers on the branches gray.
      By the river's craggy banks,
    O'erhung with stately cypress-ranks,
    Where the bush-bee[38] hums his song,
    Thy trim canoe shall glance along.
      To-night at least, in this retreat,
    Stranger! rest thy wandering feet;                                30
    To-morrow, with unerring bow,
    To the deep thickets fearless we will go.

[36] The Indians believe some of their high mountains to be inhabited by
supernatural beings.

[37] The alligator.

[38] The bush-bee lives on shrubs and low trees.


MONODY, WRITTEN AT MATLOCK.

    Matlock! amid thy hoary-hanging views,
    Thy glens that smile sequestered, and thy nooks
    Which yon forsaken crag all dark o'erlooks;
    Once more I court the long neglected Muse,
    As erst when by the mossy brink and falls
    Of solitary Wainsbeck, or the side
    Of Clysdale's cliffs, where first her voice she tried,
    I strayed a pensive boy. Since then, the thralls
    That wait life's upland road have chilled her breast,
    And much, as much they might, her wing depressed.                 10
    Wan Indolence, resigned, her deadening hand
    Laid on her heart, and Fancy her cold wand
    Dropped at the frown of fortune; yet once more
    I call her, and once more her converse sweet,
    'Mid the still limits of this wild retreat,
    I woo;--if yet delightful as of yore
    My heart she may revisit, nor deny
    The soothing aid of some sweet melody!
      I hail the rugged scene that bursts around;
    I mark the wreathed roots, the saplings gray,                     20
    That bend o'er the dark Derwent's wandering way;
    I mark its stream with peace-persuading sound,
    That steals beneath the fading foliage pale,
    Or, at the foot of frowning crags upreared,
    Complains like one forsaken and unheard.
    To me, it seems to tell the pensive tale
    Of spring-time, and the summer days all flown;
    And while sad autumn's voice ev'n now I hear
    Along the umbrage of the high-wood moan,
    At intervals, whose shivering leaves fall sere;                   30
    Whilst o'er the group of pendant groves I view
    The slowly-spreading tints of pining hue,
    I think of poor Humanity's brief day,
    How fast its blossoms fade, its summers speed away!
      When first young Hope, a golden-tressed boy,[39]
    Most musical his early madrigal
    Sings to the whispering waters as they fall,
    Breathing fresh airs of fragrance and of joy,
    The wild woods gently wave, the morning sheds
    Her rising radiance on the mountain heads,                        40
    Strewed with green isles appears old ocean's reign,
    And seen at distance rays of resting light
    Silver the farthest promontory's height:
    Then hushed is the long murmur of the main,
    Whilst silent o'er the slowly-crisping tides,
    Bound to some beaming spot, the bark of pleasure glides.
    Alas! the scenes that smile in light arrayed
    But catch the sense, and then in darkness fade.
      We, poor adventurers, of peace bereft,
    Look back on the green hills that late we left,                   50
    Or turn, with beating breast and anxious eye,
    To some faint hope that glimmering meets our sight
    (Like the lone watch-tower in the storm of night),
    Then on the dismal waste are driv'n despairing by!
      Meantime, amid the landscape cold and mute,
    Hope, sweet enchanter, sighing drops his lute:
    So sad decay and mortal change succeeds,
    And o'er the silent scene Time, like a giant, speeds!
      Yet the bleak cliffs that lift their heads so high
    (Around whose beetling crags, with ceaseless coil,                60
    And still-returning flight, the ravens toil)
    Heed not the changeful seasons as they fly,
    Nor spring, nor autumn: they their hoary brow
    Uprear, and ages past, as in this now,
    The same deep trenches unsubdued have worn,
    The same majestic frown, and looks of lofty scorn.
      So Fortitude, a mailed warrior old,
    Appears; he lifts his scar-intrenched crest;
    The tempest gathers round his dauntless breast;
    He hears far off the storm of havoc rolled;                       70
    The feeble fall around: their sound is past;
    Their sun is set, their place no more is known;
    Like the wan leaves before the winter's blast
    They perish:--He, unshaken and alone
    Remains, his brow a sterner shade assumes,
    By age ennobled, whilst the hurricane,
    That raves resistless o'er the ravaged plain,
    But shakes unfelt his helmet's quivering plume.
      And so yon sovereign of the scene[40] I mark
    Above the woods rear his majestic head,                           80
    That soon all shattered at his feet shall shed
    Their short-lived beauties: he the winter dark
    Regardless, and the wasteful time that flies,
    Rejoicing in his lonely might, defies.
      Thee, wandering in the deep and craggy dell,
    Sequestered stream, with other thoughts I view:
    Thou dost in solitude thy course pursue,
    As thou hadst bid life's busy scenes farewell,
    Yet making still such music as might cheer
    The weary passenger that journeys near.                           90
      Such are the songs of Peace in Virtue's shade;
    Unheard of Folly, or the vacant train
    That pipe and dance upon the noontide plain,
    Till in the dust together they are laid!
    But not unheard of Him, who sits sublime
    Above the clouds of this tempestuous clime,
    Its stir and strife; to whom more grateful rise
    The humble incense, and the still small voice
    Of those that on their pensive way rejoice,
    Than shouts of thousands echoing to the skies;                   100
    Than songs of conquest pealing round the car
    Of hard Ambition, or the Fiend of War,
    Sated with slaughter. Nor may I, sweet stream,
    From thy wild banks and still retreats depart,
    Where now I meditate my casual theme,
    Without some mild improvement on my heart
    Poured sad, yet pleasing! so may I forget
    The crosses and the cares that sometimes fret
    Life's smoothest channel, and each wish prevent                  109
    That mars the silent current of content!
      In such a spot, amidst these rugged views,
    The pensive poet in his drooping age
    Might wish to place his reed-roofed hermitage;
    Where much on life's vain shadows he might muse.
    If fortune smiled not on his early way,
    If he were doomed to mourn a faithless friend,
    Here he might rest, and when his hairs were gray,
    Behold in peace the parting day descend.
    If a hard world his errors scanned severe,
    When late the earth received his mouldering clay,                120
    Perhaps some loved companion, wandering near,
    Plucking the gray moss from the stone, might say:
    Him I remember, in our careless days,
    Vacant and glad, till many a loss severe
    First hung his placid eyelids with a tear;
    Yet on such visions ardent would he gaze,
    As the Muse loved, that oft would smile and die,
    Like the faint bow that leaves the weeping sky;
    His heart unguarded, yet it proudly beat
    Against hard wrong, or coward cold deceit;--                     130
    Nor passed he e'er without a sigh the cell
    Where wretchedness and her pale children dwell.
    He never wished to win the world's cold ear,
    Nor, prized by those he loved, its blame could fear;
    Its praise he left to those who, at their will,
    The ingenious strain of torturing art could trill!
    Content, as random fancies might inspire,
    If his weak reed, at times, or plaintive lyre,
    He touched with desultory hand, and drew
    Some softened tones, to Nature not untrue.                       140
      The leaves, O Derwent! on thy bosom still
    Oft with the gust now fall--the season pale
    Hath smote with hand unseen the silent vale,
    And slowly steals the verdure from the hill;
    So the fair scene departs, yet wears a while
    The lingering traces of its beauteous smile:
    But we who by thy margin stray, or climb
    The cliff's aerial height, or join the song
    Of hope and gladness amidst yonder throng,
    Losing the brief and fleeting hours of time,                     150
    Reck not how age, even thus, with icy hand,
    Hangs o'er us;--how, as with a wizard's wand,
    Youth blooming like the spring, and roseate mirth,
    To slow and sere consumption he shall change,
    And with invisible mutation strange,
    Withered and wasted send them to the earth;
    Whilst hushed, and by the mace of ruin rent,
    Sinks the forsaken hall of merriment!
      Bright bursts the sun upon the shaggy scene!
    The aged rocks their glittering summits gray                     160
    Hang beautiful amid the beams of day;
    And all the woods, with slowly-fading green,
    Yet smiling wave:--severer thoughts, away!
    The night is distant, and the lovely day
    Looks on us yet;--the sound of mirthful cheer
    From yonder dome comes pleasant to mine ear.
    From rock to rock reverberated swells,
    Hark,--the glad music of the village bells!
    On the crag's naked point the heifer lows,
    And wide below the brightening landscape glows!                  170
      Though brief the time and short our course to run,
    Derwent! amid the scenes that deck thy side,
    Ere yet the parting paths of life divide,
    Let us rejoice, seeking what may be won
    From the laborious day, or fortune's frown:
    Here may we, ere the sun of life goes down,
    A while regardless of the morrow, dwell;                         177
    Then to our destined roads, and speed us well!

[39] I have ventured in this place to make Hope a boy.

[40] Matlock High Tor.


THE RIGHT HONOURABLE EDMUND BURKE.

    Why mourns the ingenuous Moralist, whose mind
    Science has stored, and Piety refined,
    That fading Chivalry displays no more
    Her pomp and stately tournaments of yore!
    Lo! when Philosophy and Truth advance,
    Scared at their frown, she drops her glittering lance;
    Round her reft castles the pale ivy crawls,
    And sunk and silent are her bannered halls!
      As when far off the golden evening sails,
    And slowly sink the fancy-painted vales,                          10
    With rich pavilions spread in long array;
    So rolls the enchanter's radiant realm away;
    So on the sight the parting glories fade,
    The gorgeous vision sets in endless shade.
    But shall the musing mind for this lament,
    Or mourn the wizard's Gothic fabric rent!
    Shall he, with Fancy's poor and pensive child,
    Gaze on his shadowy vales, and prospects wild,
    With lingering love, and sighing bid farewell
    To the dim pictures of his parting spell!                         20
      No, BURKE! thy heart, by juster feelings led,
    Mourns for the spirit of high Honour fled;
    Mourns that Philosophy, abstract and cold,
    Withering should smite life's fancy-flowered mould;
    And many a smiling sympathy depart,
    That graced the sternness of the manly heart.
      Nor shall the wise and virtuous scan severe
    These fair illusions, ev'n to nature dear.
    Though now no more proud Chivalry recalls
    Her tourneys bright, and pealing festivals;                       30
    Though now on high her idle spear is hung,
    Though Time her mouldering harp has half unstrung;
    Her milder influence shall she still impart,
    To decorate, but not disguise, the heart;
    To nurse the tender sympathies that play
    In the short sunshine of life's early way;
    For female worth and meekness to inspire
    Homage and love, and temper rude desire;
    Nor seldom with sweet dreams sad thoughts to cheer,
    And half beguile affliction of her tear!                          40
      Lo! this her boast; and still, O BURKE! be thine
    Her glowing hues that warm, yet tempered shine;
    Whilst whispers bland, and fairest dreams, attend
    Thy evening path, till the last shade descend!
    So may she soothe, with loftier wisdom's aid,
    Thy musing leisure in the silent shade,
    And bid poor Fancy, her cold pinions wet,
    Life's cloudy skies and beating showers forget.
    But can her fairest form, her sweetest song,
    Soothe thee, assailed by calumny and wrong!                       50
    Ev'n now thy foes with louder accents cry:
    Champion of unrelenting tyranny,
    At Freedom hast thou aimed the deadly blow,
    And striven with impious arm to lay her altars low!
      No, BURKE! indignant at the voice we start:
    We trust thy liberal views, thy generous heart;
    We think of those who, naked, pale, and poor,
    Relieved and blessed, have wandered from thy door;
    We see thee with unwearied step explore
    Each track of bloodshed on the farthest shore                     60
    Of injured Asia, and thy swelling breast
    Harrowing the oppressor, mourning for the oppressed,
      No, BURKE! where'er Injustice rears her head,
    Where'er with blood her idol grim is fed;
    Where'er fell Cruelty, at her command,
    With crimson banner marches through the land,
    And striding, like a giant, onward hies,
    Whilst man, a trodden worm, looks up, and dies;
    Where'er pale Murder in her train appears,
    With reeking axe, and garments wet with tears;                    70
    Or, lowering Jealousy, unmoved as Fate,
    Bars fast the prison-cage's iron gate
    Upon the buried sorrows and the cries
    Of him who there, lost and forgotten, lies;--
    When ministers like these, in fearful state,
    Upon a bloody tyrant's bidding wait,
    Thou too shalt own (and Justice lift her rod)
    The cause of Freedom is the cause of GOD!
      Fair spirit, who dost rise in beauteous pride,
    Where proud Oppression hath thine arm defied!                     80
    When led by Virtue thou dost firm advance,
    And bathe in Guilt's warm blood thy burning lance;
    When all thy form its awful port assumes,
    And in the tempest shake thy crimson plumes,
    I mark thy lofty mien, thy steady eye,
    So fall thy foes! with tears of joy I cry.
      But ne'er may Anarchy, with eyes a-flame,
    And mien distract, assume thy awful name;
    Her pale torch sheds afar its hideous glare,
    And shows the blood-drops in her dabbled hair;                    90
    The fiends of discord hear her hollow voice,
    The spirits of the deathful storm rejoice:
    As when the rising blast with muttering sweep
    Sounds 'mid the branches of the forest deep,
    The sad horizon lowers, the parting sun
    Is hid, strange murmurs through the high wood run,
    The falcon wheels away his mournful flight,
    And leaves the glens to solitude and night;
    Till soon the hurricane, in dismal shroud,
    Comes fearful forth, and sounds her conch aloud;                 100
    The oak majestic bows his hoary head,
    And ruin round his ancient reign is spread:
    So the dark fiend, rejoicing in her might,
    Pours desolation and the storm of night;
    Before her dread career the good and just
    Fly far, or sink expiring in the dust;
    Wide wastes and mighty wrecks around her lie,
    And the earth trembles at her impious cry!
      Whether her temple, wet with human gore,
    She thus may raise on Gallia's ravaged shore,                    110
    Belongs to HIM alone, and His high will,
    Who bids the tempests of the world be still.[41]
    With joy we turn to Albion's happier plain,
    Where ancient Freedom holds her temperate reign;
    Where Justice sits majestic on her throne;
    Where Mercy turns her ear to every groan.
    O Albion! fairest isle, whose verdant plain
    Springs beauteous from the blue and billowy main;
    In peaceful pomp whose glittering cities rise,
    And lift their crowded temples to the skies;                     120
    Whose navy on the broad brine awful rolls;
    Whose commerce glows beneath the distant poles;
    Whose streams reflect full many an Attic pile;
    Whose velvet lawns in long luxuriance smile;
    Amid whose winding coombs contentment dwells,
    Whose vales rejoice to hear the Sabbath bells;
    Whose humblest shed, that steady laws protect,
    The villager with woodbine bowers hath decked!
    Sweet native land, whose every haunt is dear,
    Whose every gale is music to mine ear;                           130
    Amidst whose hills one poor retreat I sought,
    Where I might sometimes hide a saddening thought,
    And having wandered far, and marked mankind
    In their vain mask, might rest and safety find:
    Oh! still may Freedom, with majestic mien,
    Pacing thy rocks and the green vales, be seen;
    Around thy cliffs, that glitter o'er the main,
    May smiling Order wind her silver chain;
    Whilst from thy calm abodes, and azure skies,
    Far off the fiend of Discord murmuring flies!                    140
      To him who firm thy injured cause has fought,
    This humble offering, lo! the Muse has brought;
    Nor heed thou, BURKE, if, with averted eye,
    Scowling, cold Envy may thy worth decry!
      It is the lot of man:--the best oft mourn,
    As sad they journey through this cloudy bourne:
    If conscious Genius stamp their chosen breast,
    And on the forehead show her seal impressed,
    Perhaps they mourn, in bleak Misfortune's shade,
    Their age and cares with penury repaid;                          150
    Their errors deeply scanned, their worth forgot,
    Or marked by hard injustice with a blot.
    If high they soar, and keep their distant way,
    And spread their ample pinions to the day,
    Malignant Faction hears with hate their name,
    And all her tongues are busy with their fame.
      But 'tis enough to hold, as best we may,
    Our destined track, till sets the closing day;
    Whether with living lustre we adorn
    Our high sphere, like the radiance of the morn;                  160
    Or whether silent in the shade we move,
    Cheered by the lonely star of pensive love;
    Or whether wild opposing storms we stem,
    Panting for Virtue's distant diadem;
    'Tis the unshaken mind, the conscience pure,
    That bids us firmly act, meekly endure;
    'Tis this may shield us when the storm beats hard,
    Content, though poor, had we no other guard![42]

[41] These lines were written before the murder of the late King of
France, and many of the events of horror which have since taken place in
that miserable country.

[42] Milton.


ON LEAVING A PLACE OF RESIDENCE.

    If I could bid thee, pleasant shade, farewell
    Without a sigh, amidst whose circling bowers
    My stripling prime was passed, and happiest hours,
    Dead were I to the sympathies that swell
    The human breast! These woods, that whispering wave,
    My father reared and nursed, now to the grave
    Gone down; he loved their peaceful shades, and said,
    Perhaps, as here he mused: Live, laurels green;
    Ye pines that shade the solitary scene,
    Live blooming and rejoice! When I am dead                         10
    My son shall guard you, and amid your bowers,
    Like me, find shelter from life's beating showers.
      These thoughts, my father, every spot endear;
    And whilst I think, with self-accusing pain,
    A stranger shall possess the loved domain,
    In each low wind I seem thy voice to hear.
    But these are shadows of the shaping brain
    That now my heart, alas! can ill sustain:
    We must forget--the world is wide--the abode
    Of peace may still be found, nor hard the road.                   20
    It boots not, so, to every chance resigned,
    Where'er the spot, we bear the unaltered mind.
    Yet, oh! poor cottage, and thou sylvan shade,
    Remember, ere I left your coverts green,
    Where in my youth I mused, in childhood played,
    I gazed, I paused, I dropped a tear unseen,
    That bitter from the font of memory fell,
    Thinking on him who reared you; now, farewell!


ELEGIAC STANZAS.

WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS AT BATH.

    When I lie musing on my bed alone,                                 1
      And listen to the wintry waterfall;[43]
    And many moments that are past and gone,
      Moments of sunshine and of joy, recall;

    Though the long night is dark and damp around,                     2
      And no still star hangs out its friendly flame;
    And the winds sweep the sash with sullen sound,
      And freezing palsy creeps o'er all my frame;

    I catch consoling phantasies that spring                           3
      From the thick gloom, and as the night airs beat,
    They touch my heart, like wind-swift wires[44] that ring
      In mournful modulations, strange and sweet.

    Was it the voice of thee, my buried friend?                        4
      Was it the whispered vow of faithful love?
    Do I in Knoyle's green shades thy steps attend,
      And hear the high pines murmur thus above?

    'Twas not thy voice, my buried friend!--Oh, no:                    5
      'Twas not, O Knoyle! the murmur of thy trees;
    But at the thought I feel my bosom glow,
      And woo the dream whose air-drawn shadows please.

    And I can think I see the groves again,                            6
      The larches that yon peaceful roof embower;
    The airy down, the cattle-speckled plain,
      And the slant sunshine on the village tower.

    And I can think I hear its Sabbath chime                           7
      Come smoothly softened down the woody vale;
    Or mark on yon lone eminence sublime,
      Fast whirling in the wind, the white mill's sail.

    Phantom, that by my bed dost beckoning glide,                      8
      Spectre of Death, to the damp charnel hie!
    Thy dim pale hand, thy festering visage hide;
      Thou com'st to say, I with thy worms shall lie!

    Thou com'st to say that my once vacant mind                        9
      Amid those scenes shall never more rejoice;
    Nor on the day of rest the hoary hind
      Bend o'er his staff, attentive to my voice.

    Hast thou not visited that pleasant place                         10
      Where in this hard world I have happiest been?
    And shall I tremble at thy lifted mace
      That hath pierced all on which life seemed to lean?

    But Hope might whisper: Many a smiling day                        11
      And many a cheerful eve may yet be mine,
    Ere age's autumn strew my locks with gray,
      And weary to the dust my steps decline.

    I argue not, but uncomplaining bow                                12
      To Heaven's high 'hest; secure, whate'er my lot,
    Meek spirit of resigned Content, that thou
      Wilt smooth my pillow, and forsake me not!

    Thou to the turfy hut with pilgrim feet                           13
      Wanderest, from halls of loud tumultuous joy;
    Or on the naked down, when the winds beat,
      Dost sing to the forsaken shepherd boy.

    Thou art the sick man's nurse, the poor man's friend,             14
      And through each change of life thou hast been mine;
    In every ill thou canst a comfort blend,
      And bid the eye, though sad, in sadness shine.

    Thee I have met on Cherwell's willowed side,                      15
      And when our destined road far onward lay,
    Thee I have found, whatever chance betide,
      The kind companion of my devious way.

    With thee unwearied have I loved to roam,                         16
      By the smooth-flowing Scheldt, or rushing Rhine;
    And thou hast gladdened my sequestered home,
      And hung my peaceful porch with eglantine.

    When cares and crosses my tired spirits tried,                    17
      When to the dust my father I resigned;
    Amidst the quiet shade unseen I sighed,
      And, blest with thee, forgot a world unkind.

    Ev'n now, while toiling through the sleepless night,              18
      A tearful look to distant scenes I cast,
    And the glad objects that once charmed my sight
      Remember, like soft views of "faerie" past;

    I see thee come half-smiling to my bed,                           19
      With Fortitude more awfully severe,
    Whose arm sustaining holds my drooping head,
      Who dries with her dark locks the tender tear.

    O firmer Spirit! on some craggy height                            20
      Who, when the tempest sails aloft, dost stand,
    And hear'st the ceaseless billows of the night
      Rolling upon the solitary strand;

    At this sad hour, when no harsh thoughts intrude                  21
      To mar the melancholy mind's repose,
    When I am left to night and solitude,
      And languid life seems verging to its close;

    Oh, let me thy pervading influence feel;                          22
      Be every weak and wayward thought repressed;
    And hide thou, as with plates of coldest steel,
      The faded aspect and the throbbing breast!

    Silent the motley pageant may retreat,                            23
      And vain mortality's brief scenes remove;
    Yet let my bosom, whilst with life it beat,
      Breathe a last prayer for all on earth I love.

    Slow-creeping pain weighs down my heavy eye,                      24
      A chiller faintness steals upon my breast;
    "O gentle Muse, with some sweet lullaby"
      Rock me in long forgetfulness to rest!

[43] The fall of the river, heard from the Parade.

[44] The AEolian harp.


ON LEAVING WINCHESTER SCHOOL.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1782.

      The spring shall visit thee again,
      Itchin! and yonder ancient fane,[45]
      That casts its shadow on thy breast,
        As if, by many winters beat,
        The blooming season it would greet,
    With many a straggling wild-flower shall be dressed.

      But I, amid the youthful train
        That stray at evening by thy side,
      No longer shall a guest remain,
        To mark the spring's reviving pride.
      I go not unrejoicing; but who knows,
      When I have shared, O world! thy common woes,
      Returning I may drop some natural tears;
        As these same fields I look around,
        And hear from yonder dome[46] the slow bell sound,
    And think upon the joys that crowned my stripling years!

[45] St Croix.

[46] The Cathedral.


HOPE, AN ALLEGORICAL SKETCH.

    But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
    What was thy delightful measure?
      COLLINS.

    I am the comforter of them that mourn;
      My scenes well shadowed, and my carol sweet,
    Cheer the poor passengers of life's rude bourne,
      Till they are sheltered in that last retreat,
      Where human toils and troubles are forgot.
        These sounds I heard amid this mortal road,
      When I had reached with pain one pleasant spot,
        So that for joy some tears in silence flowed;
    I raised mine eyes, sickness had long depressed,
    And felt thy warmth, O sun! come cheering to my breast.

      The storm of night had ceased upon the plain,
        When thoughtful in the forest-walk I strayed,
      To the long hollow murmur of the main
        Listening, and to the many leaves that made
      A drowsy cadence, as the high trees waved;
        When straight a beauteous scene burst on my sight;
      Smooth were the waters that the lowland laved:
        And lo! a form, as of some fairy sprite,
    Who held in her right hand a budding spray,
    And like a sea-maid sung her sweetly warbled lay.

      Soothing as steals the summer-wave she sung:
        The grisly phantoms of the night are gone
      To hear in shades forlorn the death-bell rung;
        But thou whom sickness hast left weak and wan,
      Turn from their spectre-terrors the green sea
        That whispers at my feet, the matin gale
      That crisps its shining marge shall solace thee,
        And thou my long-forgotten voice shalt hail,
    For I am Hope, whom weary hearts confess
    The soothest sprite that sings on life's long wilderness.

      As slowly ceased her tender voice, I stood
        Delighted: the hard way, so lately passed,
      Seemed smooth; the ocean's bright extended flood
        Before me stretched; the clouds that overcast
      Heaven's melancholy vault hurried away,
        Driven seaward, and the azure hills appeared;
      The sunbeams shone upon their summits gray,
        Strange saddening sounds no more by fits were heard,
    But birds, in new leaves shrouded, sung aloft,
    And o'er the level seas Spring's healing airs blew soft.

      As when a traveller, who many days
        Hath journeyed 'mid Arabian deserts still,
      A dreary solitude far on surveys,
        And met, nor flitting bird, nor gushing rill,
      But near some marble ruin, gleaming pale,
        Sighs mindful of the haunts of cheerful man,
      And thinks he hears in every sickly gale
        The bells of some approaching caravan;
    At length, emerging o'er the dim tract, sees
    Damascus' golden fanes, and minarets, and trees:

      So beat my bosom when my winding way
        Led through the thickets to a sheltered vale,
      Where the fair syren sat; a smooth clear bay
        Skirted with woods appeared, where many a sail
      Went shining o'er the watery surface still,
        Lessening at last in the gray ocean flood;
      And yonder, half-way up the fronting hill,
        Peeping from forth the trees, a cottage stood,
    Above whose peaceful umbrage, trailing high,
    A little smoke went up, and stained the cloudless sky.

      I turned, and lo! a mountain seemed to rise,
        Upon whose top a spiry citadel
      Lifted its dim-seen turrets to the skies,
        Where some high lord of the domain might dwell;
      And onward, where the eye scarce stretched its sight,
        Hills over hills in long succession rose,
      Touched with a softer and yet softer light,
        And all was blended as in deep repose;
    The woods, the sea, the hills that shone so fair,
    Till woods, and sea, and hills seemed fading into air.

      At once, methought, I saw a various throng
        To this enchanting spot their footsteps bend;
      All drawn, sweet Hope! by thy inspiring song,
        Which melodies scarce mortal seem to blend.
      First buxom Youth, with cheeks of glowing red,
        Came lightly tripping o'er the morning dew,
      He wore a harebell garland on his head,
        And stretched his hands at the bright-bursting view:
    A mountain fawn went bounding by his side,
    Around whose slender neck a silver bell was tied.

      Then said I: Mistress of the magic song,
        Oh, pity 'twere that hearts that know no guile
      Should ever feel the pangs of truth or wrong!
        She heeded not, but sang with lovelier smile:
      Enjoy, O youth, the season of thy May;
        Hark, how the throstles in the hawthorn sing!
      The hoary Time, that resteth night nor day,
        O'er the earth's shade may speed with noiseless wing;
    But heed not thou; snatch the brief joys that rise,
    And sport beneath the light of these unclouded skies.

      His fine eye flashing an unwonted fire,
        Then Fancy o'er the glade delighted went;
      He struck at times a small and silver lyre,
        Or gazed upon the rolling element;
      Sometimes he took his mirror, which did show
        The various landscape lovelier than the life;
      Beaming more bright the vivid tints did glow,
        And so well mingled was the colours' strife,
    That the fond heart, the beauteous shades once seen,
    Would sigh for such retreats, for vales and woods so green!

      Gay was his aspect, and his airy vest,
        As loose it flowed, such colours did display,
      As paint the clouds reposing in the west,
        Or the moist rainbow's radiant arch inlay;
      And now he tripped, like fairy of the wood,
        And seemed with dancing spirits to rejoice,
      And now he hung his head in pensive mood:
        Meantime, O Hope! he listened to thy voice,
    And whilst of joy and youth it cheerly sung,
    He touched his answering harp, and o'er the valley sprung.

      Pleasure, a frolic nymph, to the glad sound
        Came dancing, as all tears she might forget;
      And now she gazed with a sweet archness round,
        And wantonly displayed a silken net:
      She won her way with fascinating air--
        Her eyes illumined with a tender light,
      Her smile's strange blandishment, her shaded hair
        That lengthening hung, her teeth as ivory white,
    That peeped from her moist lip, seemed to inspire
    Tumultuous wishes warm, and dreams of fond desire.

      What softer passions did thy bosom move,
        When those melodious measures met thine ear,
      Child of Sincerity, and virtuous Love!
        Thine eyes did shine beneath a blissful tear
      That still were turned towards the tranquil scene,
        Where the thin smoke rose from the embowered cot;
      And thou didst think, that there, with smile serene,
        In quiet shades, and every pang forgot,
    Thou mightest sink on pure Affection's breast,
    And listen to the winds that whispered thee to rest.

      I thought, O Love, how seldom art thou found
        Without annoyance in this earthly state!
      For, haply, thou dost feed some rankling wound,
        Or on thy youth pale poverty doth wait,
      Till years, on heavy wing, have rolled away;
        Or where thou most didst hope firm faith to see,
      Thou meetest fickleness estranged and cold;
        Or if some true and tender heart there be,
    On which, through every change, thy soul might trust,
    Death comes with his fell dart, and smites it to the dust!

      But lusty Enterprise, with looks of glee,
        Approached the drooping youth, as he would say,
      Come to the high woods and the hills with me,
        And cast thy sullen myrtle-wreath away.
      Upon a neighing courser he did sit,
        That stretched its arched neck, in conscious pride,
      And champed as with disdain a golden bit,
        But Hope her animating voice applied,
    And Enterprise with speed impetuous passed,
    Whilst the long vale returned his wreathed bugle's blast.

      Suddenly, lifting high his ponderous spear,
        A mailed man came forth with scornful pride,
      I saw him, towering in his proud career,
        Along the valley with a giant stride:
      Upon his helm, in letters of bright gold,
        That to the sun's meridian splendour shone,
      Ambition's name far off I might behold.
        Meantime from earth there came a hollow moan;
    But Fame, who followed, her loud trumpet blew,
    And to the murmuring beach with eyes a-flame he flew.

      And now already had he gained the strand,
        Where a tall vessel rode with sail unfurled,
      And soon he thought to reach the farther land,
        Which to his eager eye seemed like a world
      That he by strength might win and make his own;
        And in that citadel, which shone so bright,
      Seat him, a purple sovereign, on his throne.
        So he went tilting o'er the waters white,
    And whilst he oft looked back with stern disdain,
    In louder tone, methought, was heard the inspiring strain:

      By the shade of cities old,[47]
        By many a river stained with gore,
      By the sword of Sesac bold,
        Who smote the nations from the shore
      Of ancient Nile to India's farthest plain,
        By Fame's proud pillars, and by Valour's shield
      By mighty chiefs in glorious battle slain,
        Assert thy sway; amid the bloody field
    Pursue thy march, and to the heights sublime
    Of Honour's glittering cliffs, a mighty conqueror climb!

      Then said I, in my heart: Man, thou dost rear
        Thine eye to heaven, and vaunt thy lofty worth;
      The ensign of dominion thou dost bear
        O'er nature's works; but thou dost oft go forth,
      Urged by proud hopes to ravage and destroy,
        Thou dost build up a name by cruel deeds;
      Whilst to the peaceful scenes of love and joy,
        Sorrow, and crime, and solitude, succeeds.
    Hence, when her war-song Victory doth sing,
    Destruction flaps aloft her iron-hurtling wing.

      But see, as one awakened from a trance,
        With hollow and dim eyes and stony stare,
      Captivity with faltering step advance!
        Dripping and knotted was her coal-black hair;
      For she had long been hid, as in the grave;
        No sounds the silence of her prison broke,
      Nor one companion had she in her cave,
        Save Terror's dismal shape, that no word spoke;
    But to a stony coffin on the floor
    With lean and hideous finger pointed evermore.

      The lark's shrill song, the early village chime,
        The upland echo of the winding horn,
      The far-heard clock that spoke the passing time,
        Had never pierced her solitude forlorn;
      At length, released from the deep dungeon's gloom,
        She feels the fragrance of the vernal gale;
      She sees more sweet the living landscape bloom,
        And while she listens to Hope's tender tale,
    She thinks her long-lost friends shall bless her sight,
    And almost faints with joy amid the broad daylight.

      And near the spot, as with reluctant feet,
        Slowly desponding Melancholy drew,
      The wind and rain her naked breast had beat,
        Sunk was her eye, and sallow was her hue:
      In the huge forest's unrejoicing shade
        Bewildered had she wandered day by day,
      And many a grisly fiend her heart dismayed,
        And cold and wet upon the ground she lay;
    But now such sounds with mellow sweetness stole,
    As lapped in dreams of bliss her slow-consenting soul.

      Next, to the woody glen poor Mania strayed,
        Most pale and wild, yet gentle was her look;
      A slender garland she of straw had made,
        Of flowers and rushes from the running brook;
      But as she sadly passed, the tender sound
        Of its sharp pang her wounded heart beguiled;
      She dropped her half-made garland on the ground,
        And then she sighed, and then in tears she smiled:
    But in such sort, that Pity would have said,
    O GOD, be merciful to that poor hapless maid!

      Now ravingly she cried: The whelming main--
        The wintry wave rolls over his cold head;
      I never shall behold his form again;
        Hence flattering fancies--he is dead, is dead!
      Perhaps on some wild shore he may be cast,
        Where on their prey barbarians howling rush,
      Oh, fiercer they, than is the whelming blast!
        Hush, my poor heart! my wakeful sorrows, hush!
    He lives! I yet shall press him to my heart,
    And cry, Oh no, no, no,--we never more will part!

      So sang she, when despairing, from his cell,
        Hid furthest in the lone umbrageous wood,
      Where many a winter he had loved to dwell,
        Came grim Remorse; fixed in deep thought he stood,
      His senses pierced by the unwonted tone;
        Some stagnant blood-drops from his locks he shook;
      He saw the trees that waved, the sun that shone,
        He cast around an agonised look;
    Then with a ghastly smile, that spoke his pain,
    He hied him to his cave in thickest shades again.

      And now the sun sank westward, and the sky
        Was hung with thousand lucid pictures gay;
      When gazing on the scene{c} with placid eye,
        An ancient man appeared in amice gray;
      His sandal shoes were by long travel worn,
        O'er hill and valley, many a weary mile,
      Yet drooped he not, like one in years forlorn;
        His pale cheek wore a sad, but tender smile;
    'Twas sage Experience, by his look confessed,
    And white as frost his beard descended to his breast.

      Thus said I: Master, pleasant is this place,
        And sweet are those melodious notes I hear,
      And happy they among man's toiling race
        Who, of their cares forgetful, wander near;
      Me they delight, whom sickness and slow pain
        Have bowed almost to death with heavy hand;
      The fairy scenes refresh my heart again,
        And, pleased, I listen to that music bland,
    Which seems to promise hours of joy to come,
    And bids me tranquil seek my poor but peaceful home.[48]

      He said: Alas! these shadows soon may fly,
        Like the gay creatures of the element;
      Yet do poor mortals still with raptured eye
        Behold like thee the pictures they present;
      And, charmed by Hope's sweet music, on they fare,
        And think they soon shall reach that blissful goal,
      Where never more the sullen knell of Care
        For buried friends and severed loves shall toll:
    So on they fare, till all their troubles cease,
    And on a lap of earth they lie them down in peace.

      But not there ceases their immortal claim;
        From golden clouds I heard a small voice say:
      Wisdom rejoiceth in a higher aim,
        Nor heeds the transient shadows of a day;
      These earthly sounds may die away, and all
        These perishable pictures sink in night,
      But Virtue from the dust her sons shall call,
        And lead them forth to joy, and life, and light;
    Though from their languid grasp earth's comforts fly,
    And with the silent worm their buried bodies lie.

      For other scenes there are; and in a clime
        Purer, and other strains to earth unknown,
      Where heaven's high host, with symphonies sublime,
        Sing unto Him that sitteth on the throne.
      Enough for man, if he the task fulfil
        Which GOD ordained, and to his journey's end
      Bear him right on, betide him good or ill;
        Then Hope to soothe his death-bed shall descend,
    Nor leave him, till in mansions of the blest
    He gains his destined home, his everlasting rest.

[47] Written at the time of Bonaparte's expedition to Egypt.

[48] That of a village curate.


THE BATTLE OF THE NILE.[49]

    Shout! for the Lord hath triumphed gloriously!
      Upon the shores of that renowned land,
      Where erst His mighty arm and outstretched hand
              He lifted high,
    And dashed, in pieces dashed the enemy;--
        Upon that ancient coast,
        Where Pharaoh's chariot and his host
        He cast into the deep,
    Whilst o'er their silent pomp He bid the swoll'n sea sweep;
        Upon that eastern shore,                                      10
      That saw His awful arm revealed of yore,
    Again hath He arisen, and opposed
    His foes' defying vaunt: o'er them the deep hath closed!

      Shades of mighty chiefs of yore,
      Who triumphed on the self-same shore:
    Ammon, who first o'er ocean's empire wide
    Didst bid the bold bark stem the roaring tide;
        Sesac, who from the East to farthest West
      Didst rear thy pillars over realms subdued;
        And thou, whose bones do rest                                 20
      In the huge pyramid's dim solitude,
          Beneath the uncouth stone,
          Thy name and deeds unknown;
        And Philip's glorious son,
    With conquest flushed, for fields and cities won;
      And thou, imperial Caesar, whose sole sway
    The long-disputed world at length confessed,
      When on these shores thy bleeding rival lay!
    Oh, could ye, starting from your long cold rest,
          Burst Death's oblivious trance,                             30
    And once again with plumed pride advance,
      How would ye own your fame surpassed,
      And on the sand your trophies cast,
          When, the storm of conflict o'er,
          And ceased the burning battle's roar,
        Beneath the morning's orient light,
        Ye saw, with sails all swelling white,
    Britain's proud fleet, to many a joyful cry,
    Ride o'er the rolling surge in awful sovereignty!

      For fierce Ambition fired your mind--                           40
          Beside your glittering car,
          Amid the thickest war,
      Went Superstition, sorceress blind,
    In dimly-figured robe, with scowling mien,
          Half hid in jealous hood;
    And Tyranny, beneath whose helm was seen
          His eye suffused with blood;
            And giant Pride,
    That the great sun with haughty smile defied;
    And Avarice, that grasped his guilty gold;                        50
    These, as the sorceress her loud sistrum rung,
          Their dismal paean sung;
      And still, far off, pale Pity hung her head,
      Whilst o'er the dying and the dead
    The victor's brazen wheels with gory axle rolled.
      Now look on him, in holy courage bold;
      The asserter of his country's cause behold!
    He lifts his gaze to heaven, serenely brave,
    And whilst around war's fearful banners wave,
    He prays: Protect us, as our cause is just;                       60
    For in thy might alone, Judge of the world, we trust!

    And they are scattered--the destroyers die!
      They that usurped the bloody victor's claim,
    That spoke of freedom; but, behold a cry!
        They, that like a wasteful flame,
      Or the huge sandy pillar, that amain
      Whirls 'mid the silence of the desert plain,
        Deathful in their career of terror came,
      And scattered ruin as they passed!
      So rush they, like the simoom's horrid blast;                   70
    They sweep, and all around is wilderness!
        But from thy throne on high,
        Thou, God, hast heard the cry
          Of nations in distress!
    Britain goes forth, beneath thy might,
    To quell the proud blasphemers in the fight;
    And Egypt, far along her winding main,
    Echoes the shout of joy, and genuine Freedom's strain!

    Now let them, who thy name, O GOD! defy,
        Invoke the mighty Prophet of the East;                        80
        Or deck, as erst, the mystic feast
    To Ashtaroth, queen of the starry sky!
        Let them, in some cavern dark,
        Seek Osiris' buried ark;
    Or call on Typhon, of gigantic form,
    Lifting his hundred arms, and howling 'mid the storm!
        Or to that grisly king
        In vain their cymbals let them ring,
        To him in Tophet's vale revered
        (With smoke his brazen idol smeared),                         90
    Grim Moloch, in whose fuming furnace blue
    The unpitying priest the shrieking infant threw,
    Whilst to shrill cries, and drums' and timbrels' sound,
    The frantic and unhearing troop danced round;
        To _him_ despairing let them go,
    And tell their fearful tale of hideous overthrow!

    Calm breathed the airs along the evening bay,
        Where, all in warlike pride,
    The Gallic squadron stretched its long array;
        And o'er the tranquil tide                                   100
      With beauteous bend the streamers waved on high
    But, ah! how changed the scene ere night descends!
    Hark to the shout that heaven's high concave rends!
          Hark to that dying cry!
      Whilst, louder yet, the cannon's roar
      Resounds along the Nile's affrighted shore,
          Where, from his oozy bed,
      The cowering crocodile hath raised his head!
          What bursting flame
      Lightens the long track of the gleamy brine!                   110
          From yon proud ship it came,
      That towered the leader of the hostile line!
    Now loud explosion rends the midnight air!
    Heard ye the last deep groaning of despair?
    Heaven's fiery cope unwonted thunders fill,
    Then, with one dreadful pause, earth, air, and seas are still!

        But now the mingled fight
          Begins its awful strife again!
        Through the dun shades of night
          Along the darkly-heaving main                              120
            Is seen the frequent flash;
    And many a towering mast with dreadful crash
    Rings falling. Is the scene of slaughter o'er?
        Is the death-cry heard no more?
    Lo! where the East a glimmering freckle streaks,
    Slow o'er the shadowy wave the gray dawn breaks.
            Behold, O Sun, the flood
    Strewed with the dead, and dark with blood!
      Behold, all scattered on the rocking tide,
      The wrecks of haughty Gallia's pride!                          130
    But Britain's floating bulwarks, with serene
    And silent pomp, amid the deathful scene
    Move glorious, and more beautiful display
    Their ensigns streaming to thy orient ray.

        Awful Genius of the land!
          Who (thy reign of glory closed)
        By marble wrecks, half-hid in sand,
          Hast mournfully reposed;
        Who long, amid the wasteful desert wide,
        Hast loved with death-like stillness to abide;               140
          Or wrapped in tenfold gloom,
      From noise of human things for ages hid,
          Hast sat upon the shapeless tomb
      In the forlorn and dripping pyramid;
              Awake! Arise!
      Though thou behold the day no more
      That saw thy pride and pomp of yore;
    Though, like the sounds that in the morning ray
          Trembled and died away
    From Memnon's statue; though, like these, the voice              150
    That bade thy vernal plains rejoice,
      The voice of Science, is no longer heard;
      And all thy gorgeous state hath disappeared:
    Yet hear, with triumph, and with hope again,
    The shouts of joy that swell from thy forsaken main!

    And, oh! might He, at whose command
    Deep darkness shades a mourning land;
    At whose command, bursting from night,
    And flaming with redoubled light,
    The Sun of Science mounts again,                                 160
    And re-illumes the wide-extended plain!
        Might He, from this eventful day,
          Illustrious Egypt, to thy shore
          Science, Freedom, Peace restore,
    And bid thy crowded ports their ancient pomp display!
          No more should Superstition mark,
          In characters uncouth and dark,
        Her dreary, monumental shrine!
          No more should meek-eyed Piety
          Outcast, insulted lie                                      170
    Beneath the mosque, whose golden crescents shine,
          But starting from her trance,
          O'er Nubia's sands advance
    Beyond the farthest fountains of the Nile!
    The dismal Gallas should behold her smile,
    And Abyssinia's inmost rocks rejoice
    To hear her awful lore, yet soft consoling voice!

    Hasten, O GOD! the time, when never more
      Pale Pity, from her moonlight seat shall hear,
      And dropping at the sound a fruitless tear,                    180
    The far-off battle's melancholy roar;
    When never more Horror's portentous cry
    Shall sound amid the troubled sky;
    Or dark Destruction's grimly-smiling mien,
    Through the red flashes of the fight be seen!
    Father in heaven! our ardent hopes fulfil;
    Thou speakest "Peace," and the vexed world is still!
          Yet should Oppression huge arise,
            And with bloody banners spread,
          Upon the gasping nations tread,                            190
        Whilst he thy name defies,
      Trusting in Thee alone, we hope to quell
      His furious might, his purpose fell;
      And as the ensigns of his baffled pride
      O'er the seas are scattered wide,
    We will take up a joyous strain and cry--
    Shout! for the Lord hath triumphed gloriously!

[49] This poem, "Coombe Ellen," "St Michael's Mount," _et cet._, down to
the Monody on Dr Warton, originally dedicated to the Countess of
Mansfield, are dated from Donhead, 1802.


A GARDEN-SEAT AT HOME.

    Oh, no; I would not leave thee, my sweet home,
      Decked with the mantling woodbine and the rose,
      And slender woods that the still scene inclose,
    For yon magnificent and ample dome[50]
    That glitters in my sight! yet I can praise
    Thee, Arundel, who, shunning the thronged ways
    Of glittering vice, silently dost dispense
    The blessings of retired munificence.
    Me, a sequestered cottage, on the verge
    Of thy outstretched domain, delights; and here
    I wind my walks, and sometimes drop a tear
    O'er Harriet's urn, scarce wishing to emerge
    Into the troubled ocean of that life,
    Where all is turbulence, and toil, and strife.
    Calm roll the seasons o'er my shaded niche;
    I dip the brush, or touch the tuneful string,
    Or hear at eve the unscared blackbirds sing;
    Enough if, from their loftier sphere, the rich
    Deign my abode to visit, and the poor
    Depart not, cold and hungry, from my door.

      DONHEAD, _Oct. 12, 1798._

[50] Wardour Castle.


IN HORTO REV. J. STILL,

APUD KNOYLE, VILLAM AMOENISSIMAM.

    Stranger! a while beneath this aged tree
    Rest thee, the hills beyond, and flowery meads,
    Surveying; and if Nature's charms may wake
    A sweet and silent transport at thine heart,
    In spring-time, whilst the bee hums heedless nigh,
    Rejoice! for thee the verdant spot is dressed,
    Circled with laurels green, and sprinkled o'er
    With many a budding rose: the shrubs all ring
    To the birds' warblings, and by fits the air
    Whispers amid the foliage o'er thine head!
    Rejoice, and oh! if life's sweet spring be thine,
    So gather its brief rose-buds, and deceive
    The cares and crosses of humanity.


GREENWICH HOSPITAL.

    Come to these peaceful seats, and think no more
    Of cold, of midnight watchings, or the roar
    Of Ocean, tossing on his restless bed!
    Come to these peaceful seats, ye who have bled
    For honour, who have traversed the great flood,
    Or on the battle's front with stern eye stood,
    When rolled its thunder, and the billows red
    Oft closed, with sudden flashings, o'er the dead!
      Oh, heavy are the sorrows that beset
    Old age! and hard it is--hard to forget
    The sunshine of our youth, our manhood's pride!
    But here, O aged men! ye may abide
    Secure, and see the last light on the wave
    Of Time, which wafts you silent to your grave;
    Like the calm evening ray, that smiles serene
    Upon the tranquil Thames, and cheers the sinking scene.


A RUSTIC SEAT NEAR THE SEA.

    To him, who, many a night upon the main,
    At mid-watch, from the bounding vessel's side,
    Shivering, has listened to the rocking tide,
    Oh, how delightful smile thy views again,
    Fair Land! the sheltered hut, and far-seen mill
    That safe sails round and round; the tripping rill
    That o'er the gray sand glitters; the clear sky,
    Beneath whose blue vault shines the village tower,
    That high elms, swaying in the wind, embower;
    And hedge-rows, where the small birds' melody
    Solace the lithe and loitering peasant lad!
    O Stranger! is thy pausing fancy sad
    At thought of many evils which do press
    On wide humanity!--Look up; address
    The GOD who made the world; but let thy heart
    Be thankful, though some heavy thoughts have part,
    That, sheltered from the human storms' career,
    Thou meetest innocence and quiet here.


WARDOUR CASTLE.

    If rich designs of sumptuous art may please,
    Or Nature's loftier views, august and old,
    Stranger! behold this spreading scene;--behold
    This amphitheatre of aged trees,
    That solemn wave above thee, and around
      Darken the towering hills! Dost thou complain
      That thou shouldst cope with penury or pain,
    Or sigh to think what pleasures might be found
    Amid such wide possessions!--Pause awhile;
    Imagine thou dost see the sick man smile;
    See the pale exiles, that in yonder dome,
    Safe from the wasteful storm, have found a home;[51]
    And thank the Giver of all good, that lent
    To the humane, retired, beneficent,
    The power to bless. Nor lift thy heart elate,
    If such domains be thine; but emulate
    The fair example, and those deeds, that rise
    Like holy incense wafted to the skies;
    Those deeds that shall sustain the conscious soul,
    When all this empty world hath perished, like a scroll!

[51] French emigrants, chiefly supported by the bounty of Lord Arundel.


POLE-VELLUM, CORNWALL.

A PICTURESQUE COTTAGE AND GROUNDS BELONGING TO J. LEMON, ESQ.

    Stranger! mark this lovely scene,
    When the evening sets serene,
    And starting o'er the silent wood,
    The last pale sunshine streaks the flood,
    And the water gushing near
    Soothes, with ceaseless drip, thine ear;
    Then bid each passion sink to rest;--
    Should ev'n one wish rise in thy breast,
    One tender wish, as now in mine,
    That some such quiet spot were thine,
    And thou, recalling seasons fled,
    Couldst wake the slumbers of the dead,
    And bring back her you loved, to share
    With thee calm peace and comfort there;--
    Oh, check the thought, but inly pray
    To HE, "who gives and takes away,"
    That many years this fair domain
    Its varied beauties may retain;--
    So when some wanderer, who has lost
    His heart's best treasure, who has crossed
    In life bleak hills and passes rude,
    Should gain this lovely solitude;
    Delighted he may pause a while,
    And when he marks the landscape smile,
    Leave with its willows, ere he part,
    The blessings of a softened heart.

    JULY 1786.


ON A BEAUTIFUL SPRING,

FORMING A COLD BATH, AT COOMBE, NEAR DONHEAD, BELONGING TO MY BROTHER,
CHAS. BOWLES, ESQ.

    Fountain, that sparklest through the shady place,
    Making a soft, sad murmur o'er the stones
    That strew thy lucid way! Oh, if some guest
    Should haply wander near, with slow disease
    Smitten, may thy cold springs the rose of health
    Bring back, and the quick lustre to his eye!
    The ancient oaks that on thy margin wave,
    The song of birds, and through the rocky cave
    The clear stream gushing, their according sounds
    Should mingle, and, like some strange music, steal
    Sadly, yet soothing, o'er his aching breast.
    And thou, pale exile from thy native shores,[52]
    Here drink,--oh, couldst thou!--as of Lethe's stream!
    Nor friends, nor bleeding country, nor the views
    Of hills or streams beloved, nor vesper bell,
    Heard in the twilight vale, remember more!

[52] French priests, who have a residence near.


A CENOTAPH,

TO THE MEMORY OF LIEUTENANT-COLONEL ISAAC, WHO DIED AT CAPE ST NICHOLA
MOLE, 1797.

    Oh, hadst thou fall'n, brave youth! on that proud day,[53]
    When our victorious fleet o'er the red surge
    Rolled in terrific glory, thou hadst fall'n
    Most honoured; and Remembrance, while she thought
    Upon thy gallant end, had dried her tear!
    Now far beyond the huge Atlantic wave
    Thy bones decay; the withering pestilence,
    That swept the islands of the western world,
    Smote thee, untimely drooping to the tomb!
    But 'tis enough; whate'er a soldier's fate,
    That firm he hied him, where stern honour bade;
    Though with unequal strength, he sunk and died.

[53] The 1st of June 1794, when Colonel Isaac greatly distinguished
himself as commander of the military on board Lord Howe's ship.


TRANSLATION{d} OF A LATIN POEM

BY THE REV. NEWTON OGLE, DEAN OF MANCHESTER.

      Oh thou, that prattling on thy pebbled way
      Through my paternal vale dost stray,
    Working thy shallow passage to the sea!
        Oh, stream, thou speedest on
        The same as many seasons gone;
            But not, alas, to me
    Remain the feelings that beguiled
      My early road, when, careless and content,
      (Losing the hours in pastimes innocent)
    Upon thy banks I strayed a playful child;                         10
      Whether the pebbles that thy margin strew,
      Collecting, heedlessly I threw;
      Or loved in thy translucent wave
      My tender shrinking feet to lave;
      Or else ensnared your little fry,
      And thought how wondrous skilled was I!
    So passed my boyish days, unknown to pain,
    Days that will ne'er return again.
            It seems but yesterday
    I was a child, to-morrow to be gray!                              20
    So years succeeding years steal silently away.
    Not fleeter thy own current, hurrying thee,
      Rolls down to the great sea.
    Thither oh carry these sad thoughts; the deep
    Bury them!--thou, meantime, thy tenor keep,
    And winding through the green-wood, cheer,
    As erst, my native, peaceful pastures here.


ST MICHAEL'S MOUNT.

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD SOMERS.

    While summer airs scarce breathe along the tide,
    Oft pausing, up the mountain's craggy side
    We climb, how beautiful, how still, how clear,
    The scenes that stretch around! The rocks that rear
    Their shapes, in rich fantastic colours dressed;
    The hill-tops, where the softest shadows rest;
    The long-retiring bay, the level sand,
    The fading sea-line, and the furthest land,
    That seems, as low it lessens from the eye,
    To steal away beneath the cloudless sky!                          10
      But yesterday, the misty morn was spread
    In dreariness on the bleak mountain's head;
    No glittering prospect from the upland smiled,
    The driving squall came dark, the sea heaved wild,
    And, lost and lonely, the wayfarer sighed,
    Wet with the hoar spray of the flashing tide.
    How changed is now the circling scene! The deep
    Stirs not; the glancing roofs and white towers peep
    Along the margin of the lucid bay;
    The sails, descried far in the offing gray,                       20
    Hang motionless, and the pale headland's height
    Is touched as with sweet gleams of fairy light!
      Oh, lives there on earth's busy-stirring scene,
    Whom Nature's tranquil charms, her airs serene,
    Her seas, her skies, her sunbeams, fail to move
    With stealing tenderness and grateful love!
    Go, thankless man, to Misery's cave--behold
    Captivity, stretched in her dungeon cold!
    Or think on those who, in yon dreary mine,[54]
    Sunk fathoms deep beneath the rolling brine,                      30
    From year to year, amid the lurid shade,
    O'er-wearied, ply their melancholy trade;
    That thou may'st bless the glorious sun; and hail
    Him who with beauty clothed the hill and vale;
    Who bent the arch of the high heavens for thee,
    And stretched in amplitude the broad blue sea!
    Now sunk are all its murmurs; and the air
    But moves by fits the bents, that here and there
    Upshoot in casual spots of faded green:
    Here straggling sheep the scanty pasture glean,                   40
    Or, on the jutting fragments that impend,
    Stray fearlessly, and gaze, as we ascend.[55]
      Mountain, no pomp of waving woods hast thou,
    That deck with varied shade thy hoary brow;
    No sunny meadows at thy feet are spread,
    No streamlets sparkle o'er their pebbly bed!
    But thou canst boast thy beauties: ample views
    That catch the rapt eye of the pausing Muse;
    Headlands around new-lighted; sails, and seas,
    Now glassy-smooth, now wrinkling to the breeze;                   50
    And when the drisly Winter, wrapped in sleet,
    Goes by, and winds and rain thy ramparts beat,
    Fancy can see thee standing thus aloof,
    And frowning, bleak, and bare, and tempest-proof,
    Look as with awful confidence, and brave
    The howling hurricane, the dashing wave;
    More graceful, when the storm's dark vapours frown,
    Than when the summer suns in pomp go down!
      And such is he, who, clad in watchet weeds,
    And boasting little more than nature needs,                       60
    Can wrap him in contentedness, and wear
    A port unchanged, in seasons rude or fair.
    His may be Fancy's sunshine, and the Muse
    May deck his visions with her fairest hues;
    And he may lift his honest front, and say
    To the hard storm, that rends his locks of gray,
    I heed thee not;--he unappalled may stand
    Beneath the cloud that shades a sinking land,
    While heedless of the storm that onward sweeps,
    Mad, impious Riot his loud wassail keeps,                         70
    Pre-eminent in native worth; nor bend,
    Though gathering ills on his bare head descend:
    And when the wasteful storm sweeps o'er its prey,
    And rends the kingdoms of the world away,
    He, firm as stands the rock's unshaken base,
    Yet panting for a surer resting-place,
    The human hurricane unmoved can see,
    And say, O GOD, my refuge is in Thee!
      States, anchored deep, that far their shadow cast,
    Rock, and are scattered by the ALMIGHTY'S blast;                  80
    As when, awakened from his horrid sleep,
    In fiery caves, a thousand fathoms deep,
    The Earthquake's Demon hies aloft; he waits,
    Nigh some high-turreted proud city's gates,
    As listening to the mingled shouts and din
    Of the mad crowd that feast or dance within.
    Mean time sad Nature feels his sway, the wave
    Heaves, and low sounds moan through the mountain cave;
    Then all at once is still, still as midnight,
    When not the lime-leaf moves: Oh, piteous sight!                  90
    For now the glittering domes crash from on high--
    And hark, a strange and lamentable cry!
    It ceases, and the tide's departing roar
    Alone is heard upon the desert shore,
    That, as it sweeps with slow huge swell away,
    Remorseless mutters o'er its buried prey.
      So Ruin hurrieth o'er this shaken ball:                         97
    He bids his blast go forth, and lo! doth fall
    A Carthage or a Rome. Then rolls the tide
    Of deep Forgetfulness, whelming the pride
    Of man, his shattered and forsaken bowers,
    His noiseless cities, and his prostrate towers.
    Some columns, eminent and awful, stand,
    Like Egypt's pillars on the lonely sand;
    We read upon their base, inscribed by Fame,
    A HOMER'S here, or here a SHAKESPEARE'S name;
    Yet think not of the surge, that soon may sweep
    Ourselves unnumbered to the oblivious deep.
      Yet time has been, as mouldering legends say,[56]
    When all yon western tract, and this bright bay,                 110
    Where now the sunshine sleeps, and wheeling white
    The sea-mew circles in fantastic flight,
    Was peopled wide; but the loud storm hath raved,
    Where its green top the high wood whispering waved,
    And many a year the slowly-rising flood
    Raked, where the Druids' uncooth altar stood.
    Thou only, aged mountain, dost remain,
    Stern monument amidst the deluged plain!
    And fruitless the big waves thy bulwarks beat;
    The big waves slow retire, and murmur at thy feet:[57]           120
    Thou, half-encircled by the refluent tide,
    As if thy state its utmost rage defied,
    Dost tower above the scene, as in thine ancient pride.
      Mountain! the curious Muse might love to gaze
    On the dim record of thy early days;
    Oft fancying that she heard, like the low blast,
    The sounds of mighty generations past.
    Thee the Phoenician, as remote he sailed
    Along the unknown coast, exulting hailed,
    And when he saw thy rocky point aspire,                          130
    Thought on his native shores of Aradus or Tyre.
    Distained with many a ghastly giant's blood,
    Upon thy height huge Corineus[58] stood,
    And clashed his shield; whilst, hid in caves profound,
    His monstrous foe cowered at the fearful sound.
    Hark to the brazen clarion's pealing swell!
    The shout at intervals, the deepening yell!
    Long ages speed away, yet now again
    The noise of battle hurtles on the plain!
    Behold the dark-haired warriors!--down thy side,
    O mountain! sternly terrible, they stride!
    Ev'n now, impatient for the promised war,
    They rear their axes[59] huge, and shouting, cry to Thor.
      The sounds of conflict cease--at dead of night
    A voice is heard: Prepare the Druid rite!
    And hark! the bard upon thy summit rings
    The deep chords of his thrilling harp, and sings
    To Night's pale Queen, that through the heavens wide,
    Amidst her still host list'ning seems to ride!
    Slow sinks the cadence of the solemn lay,                        150
    And all the sombrous scenery steals away--
    The shadowy Druid throng, the darksome wood,
    And the hoar altar, wet with human blood!
      Marked ye the Angel-spectre that appeared?
    By other hands the holy fane[60] is reared
    High on the point, where, gazing o'er the flood,
    Confessed, the glittering apparition stood.
    And now the sailor, on his watch of night,
    Sees, like a glimmering star, the far-off light;
    Or, homeward bound, hears on the twilight bay                    160
    The slowly-chanted vespers die away!
      These scenes are fled and passed, yet still sublime,
    And wearing graceful the gray tints of Time,
    Upon the steep rock's craggy eminence
    The embattled castle sits, surveying thence
    The villages that strew the subject plain,
    And the long winding of the lucid main:
    Meantime the stranger marks its turrets high,
    And muses on the tale of changeful years gone by.
      Of this no more: lo! here our journey ends;                    170
    Wide and more wide the arch of heaven extends,
    And on this topmost fragment as we lean,
    We feel removed from dim earth's distant scene.
    Lift up the hollow trump[61] that on the ground
    Is cast, and let it, rolling its long sound,
    Speak to the surge below, that we may gain
    Tidings from those who traverse the wide main.
    Or tread we now some spot of wizard-land,
    And mark the sable trump, that may command
    The brazen doors to fly, and with loud call                      180
    Scare the grim giant in his murky hall!
    Hail, solitary castle! that dost crown
    This desert summit, and supreme look down
    On the long-lessening landscape stretched below;
    Fearless to trace thy inmost haunts we go!
      We climb the steps:--No warning signs are sent,
    No fiery shapes flash on the battlement.
    We enter; the long chambers without fear
    We traverse; no strange echoes meet the ear;
    No time-worn tapestry spontaneous shakes,                        190
    No spell-bound maiden from her trance awakes,
    But Taste's fair hand arrays the peaceful dome,
    And hither the domestic virtues come;
    Pleased, while to this secluded scene they bear
    Sweets that oft wither in a world of care.
      Castle! no more thou frownest on the main
    In the dark terror of thy ancient reign;
    No more thy long and dreary halls affright,
    Swept by the stoled spirits of the night;
    But calm, and heedless of the storms that beat,                  200
    Here Elegance and Peace assume their seat;
    And when the night descends, and Ocean roars,
    Rocking without upon his darkened shores,
    These vaulted roofs to gentle sounds reply,
    The voice of social cheer, or song of harmony.[62]
      So fade the modes of life with slow decay,
    And various ages various hues display!
    Fled are the grimly shadows of Romance--
    And, pleased, we see in beauteous troop advance
    New arts, new manners, from the Gothic gloom                     210
    Escaped, and scattering flowers that sweetlier bloom!
      Refinement wakes; before her beaming eye
    Dispersed, the fumes of feudal darkness fly.
    Like orient Morning on the mountain's head,
    A softer light on life's wide scene is shed;
    Lapping in bliss the sense of human cares,
    Hark! Melody pours forth her sweetest airs;
    And like the shades that on the still lake lie,
    Of rocks, or fringing woods, or tinted sky,
    Painting her hues on the clear tablet lays,                      220
    And her own beauteous world with tender touch displays!
    Then Science lifts her form, august and fair,
    And shakes the night-dews from her glittering hair;
    Meantime rich Culture clothes the living waste,
    And purer patterns of Athenian Taste
    Invite the eye, and wake the kindling sense;
    And milder Manners, as they play, dispense,
    Like tepid airs of Spring, their genial influence!
      Such is thy boast, Refinement. But deep dyes
    Oft mar the splendour of thy noontide skies:                     230
    Then Fancy, sick of follies that deform
    The face of day, and in the sunshine swarm;
    Sick of the fluttering fopperies that engage
    The vain pursuits of a degenerate age;
    Sick of smooth Sophistry's insidious cant,
    Or cold Impiety's defying rant;
    Sick of the muling sentiment that sighs
    O'er its dead bird, while Want unpitied cries;
    Sick of the pictures that pale Lust inflame,
    And flush the cheek of Love with deep, deep shame;               240
    Would fain the shade of elder days recall,
    The Gothic battlements, the bannered hall;
    Or list of elfin harps the fabling rhyme,
    Or wrapped in melancholy trance sublime,
    Pause o'er the working of some wond'rous tale,
    Or bid the spectres of the castle hail!
      Oh, might I now, amid the frowning storm,
    Behold, great Vision of the Mount! thy form,
    Such and so vast as thou wert seen of yore,
    When looking steadfast to Bayonna's shore,                       250
    Thou sattest awful on the topmost stone,
    Making the rock thy solitary throne!
    For up the narrow steps, winding with pain,
    The watch-tower's loftiest platform now we gain.
    Departed spirit! fruitless is the prayer,
    We see alone thy long-deserted chair;[63]
    And never more, or in the storm of night,
    Or by the glimmering moon's illusive light,
    Or when the flash, with red and hasty glance,
    Sudden illumes the sea's remote expanse,                         260
    The shores, the cliffs, the mountain, till again
    Deep darkness closes on the roaring main,
    Shalt thou, dread Angel, with unaltered mien,
    Sublime upon thy cloudy seat be seen!
      Yet, musing much on wild tradition's lore,
    And many a phantom tale, believed of yore,
    Chiefly remembering the sweet song (whose strain
    Shall never die) of him who wept in vain
    For his loved Lycidas, in the wide sea
    Whelmed, when he cried, great Angel, unto thee,                  270
    The fabled scene of thy renown we trace,
    And hail, with thronging thoughts, thy hallowed resting-place!
      The stealing Morn goes out--here let us end
    Fitliest our song, and to the shore descend.
    Yet once more, azure ocean, and once more,
    Ye lighted headlands, and thou stretching shore,
    Down on the beauties of your scenes we cast
    A tender look, the longest and the last!
    Amid the arch of heaven, extended clear,
    Scarce the thin flecks of feathery clouds appear;                280
    Beyond the long curve of the lessening bay
    The still Atlantic stretches its bright way;
    The tall ship moves not on the tranquil brine;
    Around, the solemn promontories shine;
    No sounds approach us, save, at times, the cry
    Of the gray gull, that scarce is heard so high;
    The billows make no noise, and on the breast
    Of charmed Ocean, Silence sinks to rest!
      Oh, might we thus from heaven's bright battlements
    Behold the scene Humanity presents;                              290
    And see, like this, all harmonised and still,
    And hear no far-off sounds of earthly ill!
    Wide landscape of the world, in purest light
    Arrayed, how fair, how cheering were the sight!
      Alas! we think upon this seat of care,
    And ask, if peace, if harmony be there.
    We hear the clangours and the cries that shake
    The mad world, and their dismal music make;
    We see gaunt Vice, of dread, enormous size,
    That fearless in the broad day sweltering lies,                  300
    And scorns the feeble arrow that assails
    His Heaven-defying crest and iron scales;
    His brows with wan and withered roses crowned,
    And reeling to the pipe's lascivious sound,
    We see Intemperance his goblet quaff;
    And mocking Blasphemy, with mad loud laugh,
    Acting before high Heaven a direr part,
    Sport with the weapons that shall pierce his heart!
      If o'er the southern wave[64] we turn our sight,
    More dismal shapes of hideous woe affright:                      310
    Grim-visaged War, that ruthless, as he hies,
    Drowns with his trumpet's blast a brother's cries;
    And Massacre, by yelling furies led,
    With ghastly grin and eye-balls rolling red!
    O'er a vast field, wide heaped with festering slain,
    Hark! how the Demon Passions shout amain,
    And cry, exulting, while the death-storm lowers,
    Hurrah! the kingdoms of the world are ours!
      O GOD! who madest man, I see these things,
    And wearied wish for a fleet angel's wings,                      320
    That I might fly away, and hear no more
    The surge that moans along this mortal shore!
    But Joy's unclouded sunshine may not be,
    Till, Father of all worlds, we rest with Thee!
    Then Truth, uplifting from thy works the pall,
    Shall speak: In wisdom hast Thou made them all;
    Then angels and archangels, as they gaze,
    And all the acclaiming host of heaven, shall raise
    The loud hosannah of eternal praise!
      Here all is mixed with sorrow; and the clouds                  330
    Hang awfully, whose shade the dim earth shrouds;
    Therefore I mourn for man, and sighing say,
    As down the steep I wind my homeward way,
    Oh, when will Earth's long muttering tempests cease,
    And all be sunshine (like this scene) and peace!

[54] A mine called the Wherry-Mine, beneath the surface of the sea near
Penzance.

[55] Three or four sheep were seen rambling among the precipices, and
picking here and there a blade of grass; but in general the rock is
naked, and extremely steep and craggy.

[56] Tradition reports that the rock was anciently connected by a large
tract of land with the Isles of Scilly, and that the whole space between
was inundated by an incursion of the sea.

[57] It is only at high tide the rock is entirely surrounded by the sea;
at low water it is accessible by land.

[58] One of the supposed followers of Brutus, to whom Cornwall was
allotted. The rather by him liked, says Milton, for that the hugest
giants in rocks and caves were said to lurk there; which kind of
monsters to deal with was his old exercise.

[59] At the bottom of this mountain, as they were digging for tin, they
found spear-heads, axes, _et cet._--_Camden._

[60] A convent built on the top of the rock, where the apparition of St
Michael was said to have appeared.

[61] A speaking-trumpet lying on the ground.

[62] This and the foregoing reflections were suggested by seeing
instruments of music, books, _et cet._, in an apartment, elegantly but
appropriately fitted up.

[63] On the highest turret of the castle is a place called St Michael's
Chair.

[64] Alluding to the cruelties committed in France.


ON AN UNFORTUNATE AND BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

WRITTEN DECEMBER 1783.

    Oh, Mary, when distress and anguish came,
    And slow disease preyed on thy wasted frame;
    When every friend, ev'n like thy bloom, was fled,
    And Want bowed low thy unsupported head;
    Sure sad Humanity a tear might give,
    And Virtue say, Live, beauteous sufferer, live!
      But should there one be found, (amidst the few
    Who with compassion thy last pangs might view),
    One who beheld thy errors with a tear,
    To whom the ruins of thy heart were dear,                         10
    Who fondly hoped, the ruthful season past,
    Thy faded virtues might revive at last;
    Should such be found--oh! when he saw thee lie,
    Closing on every earthly hope thine eye;
    When he beheld despair, with rueful trace,
    Mark the strange features of thy altered face;
    When he beheld, as painful death drew nigh,
    Thy pale, pale cheek, thy feebly lifted eye,
    Thy chill, shrunk hand, hung down as in despair,
    Or slowly raised, with many a muttered prayer;--                  20
    When thus, in early youth, he saw thee bend
    Poor to the grave, and die without a friend;
    Some sadder feelings might unbidden start,
    And more than common pity touch his heart!
      The eventful scene is closed; with pausing dread
    And sorrow I drew nigh the silent bed;
    Thy look was calm--thy heart was cold and still,
    As if the world had never used it ill;
    Methought the last faint smile, with traces weak,
    Still seemed to linger on thy faded cheek.                        30
    Poor Mary! though most beauteous in thy face,
    Ere sorrow touched it, beamed each lovely grace;
    Yet, oh! thy living features never wore
    A look so sweet, so eloquent before,
    As this, which bids all human passions cease,
    And tells my pitying heart you died in peace!


HYMN TO WODEN.

    God of the battle, hear our prayer!
    By the lifted falchion's glare;
    By the uncouth fane sublime,
    Marked with many a Runic rhyme;
    By the "weird sisters"[65] dread,
    That, posting through the battle red,
    Choose the slain, and with them go
    To Valhalla's halls below,
    Where the phantom-chiefs prolong
    Their echoing feast, a giant throng,                              10
    And their dreadful beverage drain
    From the skulls of warriors slain:
    God of the battle, hear our prayer;
    And may we thy banquet share!
      Save us, god, from slow disease;
    From pains that the brave spirit freeze;
    From the burning fever's rage;
    From wailings of unhonoured age,
    Drawing painful his last breath;
    Give us in the battle death!                                      20
    Let us lift our glittering shield,
    And perish, perish in the field!
      Now o'er Cumri's hills of snow
    To death, or victory, we go;
    Hark! the chiefs their cars prepare;
    See! they bind their yellow hair;
    Frenzy flashes from their eye,
    They fly--our foes before them fly!
      Woden, in thy empire drear,
    Thou the groans of death dost hear,                               30
    And welcome to thy dusky hall
    Those that for their country fall!
      Hail, all hail the godlike train,
    That with thee the goblet drain;
    Or with many a huge compeer,
    Lift, as erst, the shadowy spear!
    Whilst Hela's inmost caverns dread
    Echo to their giant tread,
    And ten thousand thousand shields
    Flash lightning o'er the glimmering fields!                       40
      Hark! the battle-shouts begin--
    Louder sounds the glorious din:
    Louder than the ice's roar,
    Bursting on the thawing shore;
    Or crashing pines that strew the plain,
    When the whirlwinds hurl the main!
    Riding through the death-field red,
    And singling fast the destined dead,
    See the fatal sisters fly!
    Now my throbbing breast beats high--                              50
    Now I urge my panting steed,
    Where the foemen thickest bleed.
    Soon exulting I shall go,
    Woden, to thy halls below;
    Or o'er the victims, as they die,
    Chaunt the song of Victory!

[65] Valkyriae, or choosers of the slain. See Gray's "Fatal Sisters," _et
cet._


COOMBE-ELLEN.[66]

    Call the strange spirit that abides unseen
    In wilds, and wastes, and shaggy solitudes,
    And bid his dim hand lead thee through these scenes
    That burst immense around! By mountains, glens,
    And solitary cataracts that dash
    Through dark ravines; and trees, whose wreathed roots
    O'erhang the torrent's channelled course; and streams,
    That far below, along the narrow vale,
    Upon their rocky way wind musical.
      Stranger! if Nature charm thee, if thou lovest                  10
    To trace her awful steps, in glade or glen,
    Or under covert of the rocking wood,
    That sways its murmuring and mossy boughs
    Above thy head; now, when the wind at times
    Stirs its deep silence round thee, and the shower
    Falls on the sighing foliage, hail her here
    In these her haunts; and, rapt in musings high,
    Think that thou holdest converse with some Power
    Invisible and strange; such as of yore
    Greece, in the shades of piney Maenalaus,                          20
    The abode of Pan, or Ida's hoary caves,
    Worshipped; and our old Druids, 'mid the gloom
    Of rocks and woods like these, with muttered spell
    Invoked, and the loud ring of choral harps.
      Hast thou oft mourned the chidings of the world,
    The sound of her disquiet, that ascends
    For ever, mocking the high throne of GOD!
    Hast thou in youth known sorrow! Hast thou drooped,
    Heart-stricken, over youth's and beauty's grave,
    And ever after thought on the sad sound                           30
    The cold earth made, which, cast into the vault,
    Consigned thy heart's best treasure--dust to dust!
    Here, lapped into a sweet forgetfulness,
    Hang o'er the wreathed waterfall, and think
    Thou art alone in this dark world and wide!
      Here Melancholy, on the pale crags laid,
    Might muse herself to sleep; or Fancy come,
    Witching the mind with tender cozenage,
    And shaping things that are not; here all day
    Might Meditation listen to the lapse                              40
    Of the white waters, flashing through the cleft,
    And, gazing on the many shadowing trees,
    Mingle a pensive moral as she gazed.
      High o'er thy head, amidst the shivered slate,
    Behold, a sapling yet, the wild ash bend,
    Its dark red berries clustering, as it wished
    In the clear liquid mirror, ere it fell,
    To trace its beauties; o'er the prone cascade,
    Airy, and light, and elegant, the birch
    Displays its glossy stem, amidst the gloom                        50
    Of alders and jagged fern, and evermore
    Waves her light pensile foliage, as she wooed
    The passing gale to whisper flatteries.
    Upon the adverse bank, withered, and stripped
    Of all its pleasant leaves, a scathed oak
    Hangs desolate, once sovereign of the scene,
    Perhaps, proud of its beauty and its strength,
    And branching its broad arms along the glen:
    Oh, speaks it no remonstrance to the heart!
    It seems to say: So shall the spoiler come,                       60
    The season that shall shatter your fair leaves,
    Gay children of the summer! yet enjoy
    Your pleasant prime, and lift your green heads high,
    Exulting; but the storm will come at last,
    That shall lay low your strength, and give your pride
    To the swift-hurrying stream of age, like mine.
      And so severe Experience oft reproves
    The gay and careless children of the world;
    They hear the cold rebuke, and then again
    Turn to their sport, as likes them, and dance on!                 70
    And let them dance; so all their blooming prime
    They give not up to vanity, but learn
    That wisdom and that virtue which shall best
    Avail them, when the evil days draw nigh,
    And the brief blossoms of their spring-time fade.
      Now wind we up the glen, and hear below
    The dashing torrent, in deep woods concealed,
    And now again white-flashing on the view,
    O'er the huge craggy fragments. Ancient stream,
    That murmurest through the mountain solitudes,                    80
    The time has been when no eye marked thy course,
    Save His who made the world! Fancy might dream
    She saw thee thus bound on from age to age
    Unseen of man, whilst awful Nature sat
    On the rent rocks, and said: These haunts be mine.
    Now Taste has marked thy features; here and there
    Touching with tender hand, but injuring not,
    Thy beauties; whilst along thy woody verge
    Ascends the winding pathway, and the eye
    Catches at intervals thy varied falls.                            90
      But loftier scenes invite us; pass the hill,
    And through the woody hanging, at whose feet
    The tinkling Ellen winds, pursue thy way.
    Yon bleak and weather-whitened rock, immense,
    Upshoots amidst the scene, craggy and steep,
    And like some high-embattled citadel,
    That awes the low plain shadowing. Half-way up
    The purple heath is seen, but bare its brow,
    And deep-intrenched, and all beneath it spread
    With massy fragments riven from its top.                         100
      Amidst the crags, and scarce discerned so high,
    Hangs here and there a sheep, by its faint bleat
    Discovered, whilst the astonished eye looks up,
    And marks it on the precipice's brink
    Pick its scant food secure:--and fares it not
    Ev'n so with you, poor orphans, ye who climb
    The rugged path of life without a friend;
    And over broken crags bear hardly on,
    With pale imploring looks, that seem to say,
    My mother! she is buried, and at rest,                           110
    Laid in her grave-clothes; and the heart is still,
    The only heart that throughout all the world
    Beat anxiously for you! Oh, yet bear on;
    He who sustains the bleating lamb shall feed
    And comfort you: meantime the heaven's pure beam,
    That breaks above the sable mountain's brow,
    Lighting, one after one, the sunless crags,
    Awakes the blissful confidence, that here,
    Or in a world where sorrow never comes,
    All shall be well.                                               120
              Now through the whispering wood
    We steal, and mark the old and mossy oaks
    Imboss the mountain slope; or the wild ash,
    With rich red clusters mantling; or the birch,
    In lonely glens light-wavering; till behold!
    The rapid river shooting through the gloom
    Its lucid line along; and on its side
    The bordering pastures green, where the swinked ox
    Lies dreaming, heedless of the numerous flies
    That, in the transitory sunshine, hum                            130
    Round his broad breast; and further up the cot,
    With blue, light smoke ascending; images
    Of peace and comfort! The wild rocks around
    Endear your smile the more, and the full mind,
    Sliding from scenes of dread magnificence,
    Sinks on your charms reposing; such repose
    The sage may feel, when, filled and half-oppressed
    With vast conceptions, smiling he returns
    To life's consoling sympathies, and hears,
    With heartfelt tenderness, the bells ring out;                   140
    Or pipe upon the mountains; or the low
    Of herds slow winding down the cottaged vale,
    Where day's last sunshine linger. Such repose
    He feels, who, following where his SHAKSPEARE leads,
    As in a dream, through an enchanted land,
    Here, with Macbeth, in the dread cavern hails
    The weird sisters, and the dismal deed
    Without a name; there sees the charmed isle,
    The lone domain of Prospero; and, hark!
    Wild music, such as earth scarce seems to own,                   150
    And Ariel o'er the slow-subsiding surge
    Singing her smooth air quaintly! Such repose
    Steals o'er her spirits, when, through storms at sea,
    Fancy has followed some nigh-foundered bark
    Full many a league, in ocean's solitude
    Tossed far beyond the Cape of utmost Horn,
    That stems the roaring deep; her dreary track
    Still Fancy follows, and at dead of night
    Hears, with strange thunder, the huge fragments fall
    Crashing, from mountains of high-drifting ice                    160
    That o'er her bows gleam fearful; till at last
    She hails the gallant ship in some still bay
    Safe moored; or of delightful Tinian;
    Smiling, like fairy isle, amid the waste;
    Or of New Zealand, where from sheltering rocks
    The clear cascades gush beautiful, and high
    The woodland scenery towers above the mast,
    Whose long and wavy ensign streams beneath.
    Far inland, clad in snow, the mountains lift
    Their spiry summits, and endear the more                         170
    The sylvan scene around; the healing air
    Breathes o'er green myrtles, and the poe-bird flits,
    Amid the shade of aromatic shrubs,
    With silver neck and blue enamelled wing.
      Now cross the stream, and up the narrow track,
    That winds along the mountain's edge, behold
    The peasant girl ascend: cheerful her look,
    Beneath the umbrage of her broad black hat,
    And loose her dark-brown hair; the plodding pad
    That bears her panting climbs, and with sure step                180
    Avoids the jutting fragments; she, meantime,
    Sits unconcerned, till, lessening from the view,
    She gains the summit and is seen no more.
      All day, along that mountain's heathy waste,
    Booted and strapped, and in rough coat succinct,
    His small shrill whistle pendent at his breast,
    With dogs and gun, untired the sportsman roams;
    Nor quits his wildly-devious range, till eve,
    Upon the woods, the rocks, and mazy rills
    Descending, warns him home: then he rejoins                      190
    The social circle, just as the clear moon,
    Emerging o'er the sable mountain, sails
    Silent, and calm, and beautiful, and sheds
    Its solemn grandeur on the shadowy scene.
    To music then; and let some chosen strain
    Of HANDEL gently recreate the sense,
    And give the silent heart to tender joy.
      Pass on to the hoar cataract,[67] that foams
    Through the dark fissures of the riven rock;
    Prone-rushing it descends, and with white whirl,                 200
    Save where some silent shady pool receives
    Its dash; thence bursting, with collected sweep,
    And hollow sound, it hurries, till it falls
    Foaming in the wild stream that winds below.
    Dark trees, that to the mountain's height ascend,
    O'ershade with pendent boughs its mossy course,
    And, looking up, the eye beholds it flash
    Beneath the incumbent gloom, from ledge to ledge
    Shooting its silvery foam, and far within
    Wreathing its curve fantastic. If the harp                       210
    Of deep poetic inspiration, struck
    At times by the pale minstrel, whilst a strange
    And beauteous light filled his uplifted eye,
    Hath ever sounded into mortal ears,
    Here I might think I heard its tones, and saw,
    Sublime amidst the solitary scene,
    With dimly-gleaming harp, and snowy stole,
    And cheek in momentary frenzy flushed,
    The great musician stand. Hush, every wind
    That shakes the murmuring branches! and thou stream,             220
    Descending still with hollow-sounding sweep,
    Hush! 'Twas the bard struck the loud strings: Arise,
      Son of the magic song, arise!
        And bid the deep-toned lyre
      Pour forth its manly melodies.
        With eyes on fire,
      CARADOC rushed upon the foe;
    He reared his arm--he laid the mighty low!
    O'er the plain see him urge his gore-bathed steed!
        They bleed, the Romans[68] bleed!                            230
          He lifts his lance on high,
          They fly! the fierce invaders fly!
        Fear not now the horse or spear,
          Fear not now the foeman's might;
        Victory the cry shall hear
          Of those who for their country fight;
              O'er the slain
              That strew the plain,
    Stern on her sable war-horse shall she ride,
    And lift her red right hand, in their heart's blood deep dyed!   240
      Return, my Muse! the fearful sound is past;
    And now a little onward, where the way
    Ascends above the oaks that far below
    Shade the rude steep, let Contemplation lead
    Our footsteps; from this shady eminence
    'Tis pleasant and yet fearful to look down
    Upon the river roaring, and far off
    To see it stretch in peace, and mark the rocks
    One after one, in solemn majesty
    Unfolding their wild reaches; here with wood                     250
    Mantled, beyond abrupt and bare, and each
    As if it strove, with emulous disdain,
    To tower in ruder, darker amplitude.
    Pause, ere we enter the long craggy vale;
    It seems the abode of Solitude. So high
    The rock's bleak summit[69] frowns above our head,
    Looking immediate down, we almost fear
    Lest some enormous fragment should descend
    With hideous sweep into the vale, and crush
    The intruding visitant. No sound is here,                        260
    Save of the stream that shrills, and now and then
    A cry as of faint wailing, when the kite
    Comes sailing o'er the crags, or straggling lamb
    Bleats for its mother. Here, remote from man,
    And life's discordant roar, might Piety
    Lift up her early orisons to Him
    Who made the world; who piled up, mighty rocks,
    Your huge o'ershadowing summits; who devolved
    The mighty rivers on their mazy course;
    Who bade the seasons roll, and they rolled on                    270
    In harmony; who filled the earth with joy,
    And spread it in magnificence. O GOD!
    Thou also madest the great water-flood,
    The deep that uttereth thy voice; whose waves
    Toss fearful at thy bidding. Thou didst speak,
    And lo! the great and glorious sun, from night
    Tenfold upspringing, through the heavens' wide way
    Held his untired career. These, in their course,
    As with one shout of acclamation, praise
    Thee, LORD! thee, FATHER! thee, ALMIGHTY KING!                   280
    Maker of earth and heaven! Nor less the flower
    That shakes its purple head, and smiles unseen
    Upon the mountain's van; nor less the stream
    That tinkles through the cliff-encircled bourne,
    Cheering with music the lone place, proclaim:
    In wisdom, Father, hast thou made them all!
      Scenes of retired sublimity, that fill
    With fearful ecstasy and holy trance
    The pausing mind! we leave your awful gloom,
    And lo! the footway plank, that leads across                     290
    The narrow torrent, foaming through the chasm
    Below; the rugged stones are washed and worn
    Into a thousand shapes, and hollows scooped
    By long attrition of the ceaseless surge,
    Smooth, deep, and polished as the marble urn,
    In their hard forms. Here let us sit, and watch
    The struggling current burst its headlong way,
    Hearing the noise it makes, and musing much
    On the strange changes of this nether world.
    How many ages must have swept to dust                            300
    The still succeeding multitudes, that "fret
    Their little hour" upon this restless scene,
    Or ere the sweeping waters could have cut
    The solid rock so deep! As now its roar
    Comes hollow from below, methinks we hear
    The noise of generations, as they pass,
    O'er the frail arch of earthly vanity,
    To silence and oblivion. The loud coil
    Ne'er ceases; as the running river sounds
    From age to age, though each particular wave                     310
    That made its brief noise, as it hurried on,
    Ev'n whilst we speak, is past, and heard no more;
    So ever to the ear of Heaven ascends
    The long, loud murmur of the rolling globe;
    Its strife, its toils, its sighs, its shouts, the same!
      But lo! upon the hilly croft, and scarce
    Distinguished from the crags, the peasant hut
    Forth peeping; nor unwelcome is the sight.
    It seems to say: Though solitude be sweet,
    And sweet are all the images that float                          320
    Like summer-clouds before the eye, and charm
    The pensive wanderer's way, 'tis sweeter yet
    To think that in this world a brother lives.
    And lovelier smiles the scene, that, 'mid the wilds
    Of rocks and mountains, the bemused thought
    Remembers of humanity, and calls
    The wildly-roving fancy back to life.
      Here, then, I leave my harp, which I have touched
    With careless hand, and here I bid farewell
    To Fancy's fading pictures, and farewell                         330
    The ideal spirit that abides unseen
    'Mid rocks, and woods, and solitudes. I hail
    Rather the steps of Culture, that ascend
    The precipice's side. She bids the wild
    Bloom, and adorns with beauty not its own
    The ridged mountain's tract; she speaks, and lo!
    The yellow harvest nods upon the slope;
    And through the dark and matted moss upshoots
    The bursting clover, smiling to the sun.
    These are thy offspring, Culture! the green herb                 340
    Is thine, that decks with rich luxuriance
    The pasture's lawny range; the yellow corn,
    That waves upon the upland ridge, is thine;
    Thine too the elegant abode, that smiles
    Amidst the rocky scene, and wakes the thought,
    The tender thought, of all life's charities.
    And senseless were my heart, could I look back
    Upon the varied way my feet have trod,
    Without a silent prayer that health and joy,
    And love and happiness, may long abide                           350
    In the romantic vale where Ellen winds.

[66] Coombe-Ellen (in Welsh, Cwm Elan) is situated among the most
romantic mountains of Radnorshire, about five miles from Rhayd'r. This
poem is inscribed to Thomas Grove, Esq. of Fern, Wiltshire, at whose
summer residence, in Radnorshire, it was written.

[67] Nant-Vola.

[68] The _Silures_, comprehending Radnorshire, Herefordshire,
Brecknockshire, Monmouthshire, and Glamorganshire, were the bravest of
the Britons; Caractacus, the greatest and most renowned leader Britain
had ever produced, was their king.

[69] Dole-Vinoc rock.


SUMMER EVENING AT HOME.

    Come, lovely Evening! with thy smile of peace
    Visit my humble dwelling; welcomed in,
    Not with loud shouts, and the thronged city's din,
    But with such sounds as bid all tumult cease
    Of the sick heart; the grasshopper's faint pipe
    Beneath the blades of dewy grass unripe,
    The bleat of the lone lamb, the carol rude
    Heard indistinctly from the village green,
    The bird's last twitter, from the hedge-row seen,
    Where, just before, the scattered crumbs I strewed,
    To pay him for his farewell song;--all these
    Touch soothingly the troubled ear, and please
    The stilly-stirring fancies. Though my hours
    (For I have drooped beneath life's early showers)
    Pass lonely oft, and oft my heart is sad,
    Yet I can leave the world, and feel most glad
    To meet thee, Evening, here; here my own hand
    Has decked with trees and shrubs the slopes around,
    And whilst the leaves by dying airs are fanned,
    Sweet to my spirit comes the farewell sound,
    That seems to say: Forget the transient tear
    Thy pale youth shed--Repose and Peace are here.


WINTER EVENING AT HOME.

    Fair Moon, that at the chilly day's decline
    Of sharp December through my cottage pane
    Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane!
    In thought, to scenes, serene and still as thine,
    Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey
    Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way;
    And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light,
    Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall
    Sombrous and strange upon the darkening wall,
    Ere the clear tapers chase the deepening night!
    Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze,
    Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I gaze,
    I think, around me in this twilight room,
    I but remark mortality's sad gloom;
    Whilst hope and joy cloudless and soft appear,
    In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere.


THE SPIRIT OF NAVIGATION.[70]

      Stern Father of the storm! who dost abide
        Amid the solitude of the vast deep,
      For ever listening to the sullen tide,
        And whirlwinds that the billowy desert sweep!
      Thou at the distant death-shriek dost rejoice;
        The rule of the tempestuous main is thine,
      Outstretched and lone; thou utterest thy voice,
        Like solemn thunders: These wild waves are mine;
    Mine their dread empire; nor shall man profane
    The eternal secrets of my ancient reign.

      The voice is vain: secure, and as in scorn,
        The gallant vessel scuds before the wind;
      Her parting sails swell stately to the morn;
        She leaves the green earth and its hills behind;
      Gallant before the wind she goes, her prow
        High bearing, and disparting the blue tide
      That foams and flashes in its rage below;
        Meantime the helmsman feels a conscious pride,
    And while far onward the long billows swell,
    Looks to the lessening land, that seems to say, Farewell!

      Father of storms! then let thy whirlwinds roar
        O'er seas of solitary amplitude;
      Man, the poor tenant of thy rocky shore,
        Man, thy terrific empire hath subdued;
      And though thy waves toss his high-foundered bark
        Where no dim watch-light gleams, still he defies
      Thy utmost rage, and in his buoyant ark
        Speeds on, regardless of the darkening skies;
    And o'er the mountain-surges, as they roll,
    Subdues his destined way, and speeds from pole to pole.

      Behold him now, far from his native plain,
        Where high woods shade some wild Hesperian bay,
      Or green isles glitter in the southern main,
        His streaming ensign to the morn display!
      Behold him, where the North's pale meteors dance,
        And icy rocks roll glimmering from afar,
      Fearless through night and solitude advance!
        Or where the pining sons of Andamar,
    When dark eclipse has wrapt the labouring moon,
    Howl to the demon of the dread monsoon!

      Time was, like them, poor Nature's shivering child,
        Pacing the beach, and by the salt spray beat,
      He watched the melancholy surge, or smiled
        To see it burn and bicker at his feet;
      In some rude shaggy spot, by fortune placed,
        He dreamed not of strange lands, and empires spread,
      Beyond the rolling of the watery waste;
        He saw the sun shine on the mountain's head,
    But knew not, whilst he hailed the orient light,
    What myriads blessed his beam, or sickened at the sight.

      From some dark promontory, that o'erbent
        The flashing waves, he heard their ceaseless roar;
      Or carolled in his light canoe content,
        As, bound from creek to creek, it grazed the shore;
      Gods of the storm the dreary space might sweep,
        And shapes of death, and gliding spectres gaunt,
      Might flit, he thought, o'er the remoter deep;
        And whilst strange voices cried, Avaunt, avaunt!
    Uncertain lights, seen through the midnight gloom,
    Might lure him sadly on to his cold watery tomb.

      No city, then, amid the calm clear day,
        O'er the blue waters' undulating line,
      With battlements, and fans that glittered gay,
        And piers, and thronging masts, was seen to shine.
      No cheerful sounds were wafted on the gale,
        Nor hummed the shores with early industry;
      But mournful birds in hollow cliffs did wail,
        And there all day the cormorant did cry,
    While with sunk eye, and matted, dripping locks,
    The houseless savage slept beneath the foam-beat rocks.

      Thus slumbering long upon the dreamy verge
        Of instinct, see, he rouses from his trance!
      Faint, and as glimmering yet, the Arts emerge,
        One after one, from darkness, and advance,
      Beauteous, as o'er the heavens the stars' still way.
        Now see the track of his dominion wide,
      Fair smiling as the dayspring; cities gay
        Lift their proud heads, and o'er the yellow tide,
    Whilst sounds of fervent industry arise,
    A thousand pennants float bright streaming in the skies!

      Genius of injured Asia! once sublime
        And glorious, now dim seen amid the storm,
      And melancholy clouds of sweeping time,
        Who yet dost half reveal thine awful form,
      Pointing, with saddened aspect and slow hand,
        To vast emporiums, desolate and waste;
      To wrecks of unknown cities, sunk in sand!
        'Twas at thy voice, Arts, Order, Science, Taste.
    Upsprung, the East adorning, like the smile
    Of Spring upon the banks of thy own swelling Nile.

      'Twas at thy voice huge Enterprise awoke,
        That, long on rocky Aradus reclined,
      Slumbered to the hoarse surge that round her broke,
        And hollow pipings of the idle wind;
      She heard thy voice, upon the rock she stood
        Gigantic, the rude scene she marked--she cried,
      Let there be intercourse, and the great flood
        Waft the rich plenty to these shores denied!
    And soon thine eye delighted saw aspire,
    Crowning the midland main, thy own Imperial Tyre.

      Queen of the waters! who didst ope the gate
        Of Commerce, and display in lands unknown
      Thy venturous sail, ev'n now in ancient state
        Methinks I see thee on thy rocky throne;
      I see their massy piles thy cothons[71] rear,
        And on the deep a solemn shadow cast;
      I traverse thy once echoing shores, and hear
        The sound of mighty generations past:
    I see thy kingly merchants' thronged resort,
    And gold and purple gleam o'er all thy spacious port.

      I mark thy glittering galleys sweep along--
        The steady rowers to the strokes incline,
      And chaunt in unison their choral song;
        White through their oars the ivory benches shine;
      The fine-wrought sails, which looms of Egypt wove,
        Swell beautiful beneath the bending mast;
      Hewn from proud Lebanon's immortal grove,
        The oaks of Bashan brave the roaring blast!
    So o'er the western wave thy vessels float,
    For verdant Egypt bound, or Calpe's cliffs remote.

      Queen of the waters! throned upon thy seat
        Amid the sea, thy beauty and thy fame
      The deep, that rolls low-murmuring at thy feet,
        And all the multitude of isles, proclaim!
      For thee Damascus piles her woolly store;
        To thee their flocks Arabia's princes bring;
      And Sheba heaps her spice and glittering ore;
        The ships of Tarshish of thy glory sing:[72]
    Queen of the waters! who is like to thee,
    Replenished in thy might, and throned on the sea!

      The purple streamers fly, the trumpets sound,
        The adventurous bark glides on in tranquil state;
      The voyagers, with leafy garlands crowned,
        Draw back their arms together, and elate
      Sweep o'er the surge; the spray far scattered flies
        Beneath the stroke of their unwearied oars;
      To their loud shouts the circling coast replies;
        And now, o'er the deep ocean, where it roars
    They fly; till slowly lessening from the shore,
    Beneath the haze they sink--sink, and are seen no more.

      When Night descends, and with her silver bow
        The Queen of Heaven[73] comes forth in radiance bright,
      Surveying the dim earth and seas below;
        Why from afar resounds the mystic rite
      Hymned round her uncouth altar? Virgins there
        (Amid the brazen cymbal's hollow ring)
      And aged priests the solemn feast prepare;
        To her their nightly orisons they sing;
    That she may look from her high throne, and guide
    The wandering bark secure along the trackless tide.

      Her on his nightly watch the pilot views
        Careful, and by her soft and tranquil light,
      Along the uncertain coast his track pursues;
        And now he sees great Carmel's woody height,
      Where nightly fires to grisly Baal burn;
        Round the rough cape he winds; meantime far on
      Thick eddying scuds the hollow surf upturn;
        He thinks of the sweet light of summer gone!
    He thinks, perhaps, dashed on the rugged shore,
    He never shall behold his babes' loved mother more!

      Slow comes the morn; but ah! what demon form,[74]
        While pealing thunder the high concave rends,
      Rises more vast amid the rushing storm!
        With dreadful shade his horrid bulk ascends
      Dark to the driving clouds; beneath him roars
        The deep; his troubled brow is wrapped in gloom;
      See, it moves onwards; now more huge it soars!
        Who shall avert the poor seafarer's doom!
    Who now shall save him from the spectre's might
    That treads the rocking waves in thunder and in night!

      Dread phantom! art thou he whose fearful sway,
        As Egypt's hoary chronicles have told,
      The clouds, the whirlwinds, and the seas obey,
        Typhon, of aspect hideous to behold!
      Oh, spare the wretched wanderers, who, led
        By flattering hopes, have left the peaceful shore!
      Behold, they shrink, they bend with speechless dread;
        From their faint grasp drops the unheeded oar!
    It answers not, but mingling seas and sky,
    In clouds, and wind, and thunder, rushes by.

      Hail to thy light, lord of the golden day,
        That, bursting through the sable clouds again,
      Dost cheer the seaman's solitary way,
        And with new splendour deck the lucid main!
      And lo! the voyage past, where many a palm,[75]
        Its green top only seen, the prospect bounds,
      Fringing the sunny sea-line, clear and calm;
        Now hark the slowly-swelling human sounds!
    Meantime the bark along the placid bay
    Of Tamiatis keeps her easy-winding way.

      Here rest we safe from scenes of peril past,
        No danger lurks in this serene retreat;
      No more is heard the roaring of the blast,
        But pastoral sounds of scattered flocks that bleat,
      Or evening herds that o'er the champaign low;
        Here citrons tall and purple dates around
      Delicious fragrance and cool shade bestow;
        The shores with murmuring industry resound;
    While through the vernal pastures where he strays,
    The Nile, as with delight, his mazy course delays.

[70] Inscribed to the Rev. Dr Vincent Hind, Master of Westminster
School.

[71] Artificial harbours.

[72] Ezekiel xxvii. 25, "The ships of Tarshish did sing of thee, and
thou wast replenished, and made very glorious in the midst of the seas."

[73] Astarte, or the Moon, the goddess of the Sidonians, called the
_Queen of Heaven_. "The women knead their dough, to make cakes to the
Queen of Heaven" (Jer. vii. 18).

[74] Waterspouts are more frequent near the capes of Latikea, Grecgo,
and Carmel, than in any other parts of the Mediterranean Sea.--_Shaw's
Travels._

[75] The coast of Egypt is not discovered till its trees are seen.


WATER-PARTY ON BEAULIEU RIVER, IN THE NEW FOREST.

    I thought 'twas a toy of the fancy, a dream
      That leads with illusion the senses astray,
    And I sighed with delight as we stole down the stream,
      While the sun, as he smiled on our sail, seemed to say,
      Rejoice in my light, ere it fade fast away!

    We left the loud rocking of ocean behind,
      And stealing along the clear current serene,
    The Phaedria[76] spread her white sails to the wind,
      And they who divided had many a day been,
      Gazed with added delight on the charms of the scene.

    Each bosom one spirit of peace seemed to feel;
      We heard not the tossing, the stir, and the roar
    Of the ocean without; we heard only the keel,
      The keel that went whispering along the green shore,
      And the stroke, as it dipped, of the feathering oar.

    Beneath the dark woods now, as winding we go,
      What sounds of rich harmony burst on the ear!
    Hark, cheer'ly the loud-swelling clarionets blow;
      Now the tones gently die, now more mellow we hear
      The horns through the high forest echoing clear!

    They cease; and no longer the echoes prolong
      The swell of the concert; in silence we float--
    In silence! Oh, listen! 'tis woman's[77] sweet song--
      The bends of the river reply to each note,
      And the oar is held dripping and still from the boat.

    Mark the sun that descends o'er the curve of the flood!
      Seize, Wilmot,[78] the pencil, and instant convey
    To the tablet the water, the banks, and the wood,
      That their colours may live without change or decay,
      When these beautiful tints die in darkness away.

    So when we are parted, and tossed on the deep,
      And no longer the light on our prospect shall gleam,
    The semblance of one lovely scene we may keep,
      And remember the day, and the hour, like a dream,
      When we sighed with delight as we stole down the stream!

[76] Cutter belonging to Nathaniel Ogle, Esq.

[77] Mrs Sheridan.

[78] Mrs Wilmot, well known for her great talents in drawing, _et cet._


MONODY ON THE DEATH OF DR WARTON.

    Oh! I should ill thy generous cares requite
      Thou who didst first inspire my timid Muse,
      Could I one tuneful tear to thee refuse,
    Now that thine aged eyes are closed in night,
    Kind Warton! Thou hast stroked my stripling head,
      And sometimes, mingling soft reproof with praise,
      My path hast best directed through the maze
    Of thorny life: by thee my steps were led
      To that romantic valley, high o'erhung
      With sable woods, where many a minstrel rung                    10
    His bold harp to the sweeping waterfall;
    Whilst Fancy loved around each form to call
    That fill the poet's dream: to this retreat
      Of Fancy, (won by whose enticing lay
      I have forgot how sunk the summer's day),
    Thou first did guide my not unwilling feet;
      Meantime inspiring the gay breast of youth
      With love of taste, of science, and of truth.
    The first inciting sounds of human praise,
      A parent's love excepted, came from thee;                       20
    And but for thee, perhaps, my boyish days
      Had all passed idly, and whate'er in me
    Now live of hope, been buried.
                                    I was one,
      Long bound by cold dejection's numbing chain,
      As in a torpid trance, that deemed it vain
    To struggle; nor my eyelids to the sun
    Uplifted: but I heard thy cheering voice;
      I shook my deadly slumber off; I gazed
      Delighted 'round; awaked, inspired, amazed,                     30
    I marked another world, and in my choice
    Lovelier, and decked with light! On fairy ground
    Methought I buoyant trod, and heard the sound
      As of enchanting melodies, that stole,
      Stole gently, and entranced my captive soul.
    Then all was life and hope! 'Twas thy first ray,
    Sweet Fancy, on the heart; as when the day
    Of Spring, along the melancholy tract
    Of wintry Lapland, dawns; the cataract,
      From ice dissolving on the silent side                          40
    Of some white precipice, with paly gleam
    Descends, while the cold hills a slanting beam
      Faint tinges: till, ascending in his pride,
    The great Sun from the red horizon looks,
    And wakes the tuneless birds, the stagnant brooks,
      And sleeping lakes! So on my mind's cold night
      The ray of Fancy shone, and gave delight
    And hope past utterance.
                                  Thy cheering voice,
    O Warton! bade my silent heart rejoice,                           50
    And wake to love of nature; every breeze,
    On Itchin's brink was melody; the trees
    Waved in fresh beauty; and the wind and rain,
    That shook the battlements of Wykeham's fane,
    Not less delighted, when, with random pace,
      I trod the cloistered aisles; and witness thou,
      Catherine,[79] upon whose foss-encircled brow
    We met the morning, how I loved to trace
      The prospect spread around; the rills below,
    That shone irriguous in the gleaming plain;                       60
      The river's bend, where the dark barge went slow,
    And the pale light on yonder time-worn fane![80]
      So passed my days with new delight; mean time
    To Learning's tender eye thou didst unfold
    The classic page, and what high bards of old,
      With solemn notes, and minstrelsy sublime,
    Have chanted, we together heard; and thou,
    Warton! wouldst bid me listen, till a tear
    Sprang to mine eye: now the bold song we hear
    Of Greece's sightless master-bard:[81] the breast                 70
      Beats high; with stern Pelides to the plain
      We rush; or o'er the corpse of Hector slain
    Hang pitying;--and lo! where pale, oppressed
    With age and grief, sad Priam comes;[82] with beard
    All white he bows, kissing the hands besmeared
    With his last hope's best blood!
                                   The oaten reed[83]
      Now from the mountain sounds; the sylvan Muse,
      Reclined by the clear stream of Arethuse,
    Wakes the Sicilian pipe; the sunny mead                           80
    Swarms with the bees, whose drowsy lullaby
    Soothes the reclining ox with half-closed eye;
    While in soft cadence to the madrigal,
    From rock to rock the whispering waters fall!
      But who is he,[84] that, by yon gloomy cave,
    Bids heaven and earth bear witness to his woe!
      And hark! how hollowly the ocean-wave
    Echoes his plaint, and murmurs deep below!
    Haste, let the tall ship stem the tossing tide,
      That he may leave his cave, and hear no more                    90
      The Lemnian surges unrejoicing roar;
    And be great Fate through the dark world thy guide,
    Sad Philoctetes![85]
                        So Instruction bland,
    With young-eyed Sympathy, went hand in hand
      O'er classic fields; and let my heart confess
    Its holier joy, when I essayed to climb
    The lonely heights where Shakspeare sat sublime,
      Lord of the mighty spell: around him press
    Spirits and fairy-forms. He, ruling wide                         100
      His visionary world, bids terror fill
      The shivering breast, or softer pity thrill
    Ev'n to the inmost heart. Within me died
      All thoughts of this low earth, and higher powers
    Seemed in my soul to stir; till, strained too long,
    The senses sunk.
                    Then, Ossian, thy wild song
    Haply beguiled the unheeded midnight hours,
    And, like the blast that swept Berrathron's towers,
    Came pleasant and yet mournful to my soul!                       110
    See o'er the autumnal heath the gray mists roll!
    Hark to the dim ghosts' faint and feeble cry,
    As on the cloudy tempest they pass by!
    Saw ye huge Loda's spectre-shape advance,
    Through which the stars look pale!
                          Nor ceased the trance
    Which bound the erring fancy, till dark night
      Flew silent by, and at my window-grate
    The morning bird sang loud: nor less delight
      The spirit felt, when still and charmed I sate                 120
    Great Milton's solemn harmonies to hear,
    That swell from the full chord, and strong and clear,
    Beyond the tuneless couplets' weak control,
    Their long-commingling diapason roll,
    In varied sweetness.
                      Nor, amidst the choir
    Of pealing minstrelsy, was thy own lyre,
    Warton, unheard;--as Fancy poured the song,
        The measured music flowed along,
        Till all the heart and all the sense                         130
        Felt her divinest influence,
        In throbbing sympathy:--Prepare the car,[86]
        And whirl us, goddess, to the war,
        Where crimson banners fire the skies,
        Where the mingled shouts arise,
        Where the steed, with fetlock red,
        Tramples the dying and the dead;
        And amain, from side to side,
        Death his pale horse is seen to ride!
        Or rather, sweet enthusiast, lead                            140
        Our footsteps to the cowslip mead,
        Where, as the magic spell is wound,
        Dying music floats around:--
        Or seek we some gray ruin's shade,
        And pity the cold beggar,[87] laid
        Beneath the ivy-rustling tower,
        At the dreary midnight hour,
    Scarce sheltered from the drifting snow;
    While her dark locks the bleak winds blow
        O'er her sleeping infant's cheek!                            150
        Then let the shrilling trumpet speak,
        And pierce in louder tones the ear,
        Till, while it peals, we seem to hear
    The sounding march, as of the Theban's song;[88]
      And varied numbers, in their course,
      With gathering fulness, and collected force,
    Like the broad cataract, swell and sweep along!
    Struck by the sounds, what wonder that I laid,
      As thou, O Warton! didst the theme inspire,
      My inexperienced hand upon the lyre,                           160
    And soon with transient touch faint music made,
    As soon forgotten!
                      So I loved to lie
    By the wild streams of elfin poesy,
    Rapt in strange musings; but when life began,
    I never roamed a visionary man;
    For, taught by thee, I learned with sober eyes
    To look on life's severe realities.
      I never made (a dream-distempered thing)
    Poor Fiction's realm my world; but to cold Truth                 170
    Subdued the vivid shapings of my youth.
      Save when the drisly woods were murmuring,
    Or some hard crosses had my spirit bowed;
    Then I have left, unseen, the careless crowd,
    And sought the dark sea roaring, or the steep
    That braved the storm; or in the forest deep,
    As all its gray leaves rustled, wooed the tone
    Of the loved lyre, that, in my springtide gone,
    Waked me to transport.
                          Eighteen summers now                       180
    Have smiled on Itchin's margin, since the time
    When these delightful visions of our prime
    Rose on my view in loveliness. And thou
    Friend of my muse, in thy death-bed art cold,
    Who, with the tenderest touches, didst unfold
    The shrinking leaves of Fancy, else unseen
      And shelterless: therefore to thee are due
      Whate'er their summer sweetness; and I strew,
    Sadly, such flowerets as on hillocks green,
    Or mountain-slope, or hedge-row, yet my hand                     190
    May cull, with many a recollection bland,
    And mingled sorrow, Warton, on thy tomb,
    To whom, if bloom they boast, they owe their bloom!

[79] Catherine Hill.

[80] St Cross Hospital.

[81] Homer.

[82] See the last book.

[83] Theocritus.

[84] [Greek: Megale moira.]--_Soph._

[85] Philoctetes, see Sophocles. Youthful impressions on first reading
it.

[86] See Warton's "Ode to Fancy."

[87] Alluding to some pathetic lines in Warton's "Ode to Fancy."

[88] See Warton's "Ode on West's Translation of Pindar."


EPITAPH ON H. WALMSLEY, ESQ.,

IN ALVERSTOKE CHURCH, HANTS.

    Oh! they shall ne'er forget thee, they who knew
    Thy soul benevolent, sincere, and true;
    The poor thy kindness cheered, thy bounty fed,
    Whom age left shivering in its dreariest shed;
    Thy friends, who sorrowing saw thee, when disease
    Seemed first the genial stream of life to freeze,
    Pale from thy hospitable home depart,
    Thy hand still open, and yet warm thy heart!
      But how shall she her love, her loss express,
    Thy widow, in this uttermost distress,
    When she with anguish hears her lisping train
    Upon their buried father call in vain!
    She wipes the tear despair had forced to flow,
    She lifts her look beyond this vale of woe,
    And rests (while humbled in the dust she kneels)
    On Him who only knows how much she feels.


AGE.

    Age, thou the loss of health and friends shalt mourn!
    But thou art passing to that night-still bourne,
    Where labour sleeps. The linnet, chattering loud
    To the May morn, shall sing; thou, in thy shroud,
    Forgetful and forgotten, sink to rest;
    And grass-green be the sod upon thy breast!


ON A LANDSCAPE BY RUBENS.

    Nay, let us gaze, ev'n till the sense is full,
    Upon the rich creation, shadowed so
    That not great Nature, in her loftiest pomp
    Of living beauty, ever on the sight
    Rose more magnificent; nor aught so fair
    Hath Fancy, in her wildest, brightest mood,
    Imaged of things most lovely, when the sounds
    Of this cold cloudy world at distance sink,
    And all alone the warm idea lives
    Of what is great, or beautiful, or good,                          10
    In Nature's general plan.
                        So the vast scope,
    O Rubens! of thy mighty mind, and such
    The fervour of thy pencil, pouring wide
    The still illumination, that the mind
    Pauses, absorbed, and scarcely thinks what powers
    Of mortal art the sweet enchantment wrought.
    She sees the painter, with no human touch,
    Create, embellish, animate at will,
    The mimic scenes, from Nature's ampler range                      20
    Caught as by inspiration; while the clouds,
    High wandering, and the fairest form of things,
    Seem at his bidding to emerge, and burn
    With radiance and with life!
                      Let us, subdued,
    Now to the magic of the moment lose
    The thoughts of life, and mingle every sense
    Ev'n in the scenes before us!
                                The fresh morn
    Of summer shines; the white clouds of the east                    30
    Are crisped; beneath, the bright blue champaign steams;
    The banks, the meadows, and the flowers, send up
    An incensed exhalation, like the meek
    And holy praise of Him whose soul's deep joy
    The lone woods witness. Thou, whose heart is sick
    Of vanities; who, in the throng of men,
    Dost feel no lenient fellowship; whose eye
    Turns, with a languid carelessness, around
    Upon the toiling crowd, still murmuring on,
    Restless;--oh, think, in summer scenes like these,                40
    How sweet the sense of quiet gladness is,
    That, like the silent breath of morning, steals
    From lowly nooks, and feels itself expand
    Amid the works of Nature, to the Power
    That made them: to the awful thought of HIM
    Who, when the morning stars shouted for joy,
    Bade the great sun from tenfold darkness burst,
    The green earth roll in light, and solitude
    First hear the voice of man, whilst hills and woods
    Stood eminent, in orient hues arrayed,                            50
    His dwelling; and all living Nature smiled,
    As in this pictured semblance, beaming full
    Before us!
                    Mark again the various view:
    Some city's far-off spires and domes appear,
    Breaking the long horizon, where the morn
    Sits blue and soft: what glowing imagery
    Is spread beneath!--Towns, villages, light smoke,
    And scarce-seen windmill-sails, and devious woods,
    Chequering 'mid sunshine the grass-level land,                    60
    That stretches from the sight.
                              Now nearer trace
    The forms of trees distinct--the broad brown oak;
    The poplars, that, with silvery trunks, incline,
    Shading the lonely castle; flakes of light
    Are flung behind the massy groups, that, now
    Enlarging and enlarging still, unfold
    Their separate beauties. But awhile delay;
    Pass the foot-bridge, and listen (for we hear,
    Or think we hear her), listen to the song                         70
    Of yonder milkmaid, as she brims her pail;
    Whilst, in the yellow pasture, pensive near,
    The red cows ruminate.
      Break off, break off, for lo! where, all alarmed,
    The small birds,[89] from the late resounding perch,
    Fly various, hushed their early song; and mark,
    Beneath the darkness of the bramble-bank
    That overhangs the half-seen brook, where nod
    The flowing rushes, dew-besprent, with breast
    Ruddy, and emerald wing, the kingfisher                           80
    Steals through the dripping sedge away. What shape
    Of terrors scares the woodland habitants,
    Marring the music of the dawn? Look round;
    See, where he creeps, beneath the willowy stump,
    Cowering and low, step silent after step,
    The booted fowler: keen his look, and fixed
    Upon the adverse bank, while, with firm hand,
    He grasps the deadly tube; his dog, with ears
    Hung back, and still and steady eye of fire,
    Points to the prey; the boor, intent, moves on                    90
    Panting, and creeping close beneath the leaves,
    And fears lest ev'n the rustling reeds betray
    His footfall; nearer yet, and yet more near,
    He stalks. Who now shall save the heedless group,
    The speckled partridges, that in the sun,
    On yonder hillock green, across the stream,
    Bask unalarmed beneath the hawthorn bush,
    Whose aged boughs the crawling blackberry
    Entwines!
              And thus, upon the sweetest scenes                     100
    Of human loveliness, and social peace
    Domestic, when the full fond heart reclines
    Upon its hopes, and almost mingles tears
    Of joy, to think that in this hollow world
    Such bliss should be its portion; then (alas,
    The bitter change!), then, with his unheard step,
    In darkness shrouded, yet approaching fast,
    Death, from amidst the sunny flowers, lifts up
    His giant dread anatomy, and smites,
    Smites the fair prospect once, whilst every bloom                110
    Hangs shrivelled, and a sound of mourning fills
    The lone and blasted valley: but no sound
    Is here of sorrow or of death, though she,
    The country Kate, with shining morning cheek
    (Who, in the tumbril, with her market-gear,
    Sits seated high), seems to expect the flash
    Exploding, that shall lay the innocent
    And feathered tenants of the landscape low.
    Not so the clown, who, heedless whether life
    Or death betide, across the plashy ford                          120
    Drives slow; the beasts plod on, foot following foot,
    Aged and grave, with half-erected ears,
    As now his whip above their matted manes
    Hangs tremulous, while the dark and shallow stream
    Flashes beneath their fetlock: he, astride
    On harness saddle, not a sidelong look
    Deigns at the breathing landscape, or the maid
    Smiling behind; the cold and lifeless calf
    Her sole companion: and so mated oft
    Is some sweet maid, whose thrilling heart was formed             130
    For dearer fellowship. But lift the eye,
    And hail the abode of rural ease. The man
    Walks forth, from yonder antique hall, that looks
    The mistress of the scene; its turrets gleam
    Amid the trees, and cheerful smoke is seen,
    As if no spectred shape (though most retired
    The spot) there ever wandered, stoled in white,
    Along the midnight chambers; but quaint Mab
    Her tiny revels led, till the rare dawn
    Peeped out, and chanticleer his shrill alarm                     140
    Beneath the window rang, then, with a wink,
    The shadowy rout have vanished!
                                  As the morn
    Jocund ascends, how lovely is the view
    To him who owns the fair domain! The friend
    Of his still hours is near, to whom he vowed
    His truth; her eyes reflect his bliss; his heart
    Beats high with joy; his little children play,
    Pleased, in his pathway; one the scattered flowers
    Straggling collects, the other spreads its arms,                 150
    In speechless blandishment, upon the neck
    Of its caressing nurse.
                                Still let us gaze,
    And image every form of heartfelt joy
    Which scenes like these bestow, that charm the sight,
    Yet soothe the spirit. All is quiet here,
    Yet cheerful as the green sea, when it shines
    In some still bay, shines in its loneliness
    Beneath the breeze, that moves, and hardly moves,
    The placid surface.                                              160
                            On the balustrade
    Of the old bridge, that o'er the moat is thrown,
    The fisher with his angle leans intent,
    And turns, from the bright pomp of spreading plains,
    To watch the nimble fry, that glancing oft
    Beneath the gray arch shoot! Oh, happiest he
    Who steals through life, untroubled as unseen!
    The distant city, with its crowded spires,
    That dimly shines upon his view, awakes
    No thought but that of pleasure more composed,                   170
    As the winds whisper him to sounder sleep.
    He leans upon the faithful arm of her
    For whom his youthful heart beat, fondly beat,
    When life was new: time steals away, yet health
    And exercise are his; and in these shades,
    Though sometimes he has mourned a proud world's wrong,
    He feels an independence that all cares
    Breasts with a carol of content; he hears
    The green leaves of his old paternal trees
    Make music, soothing as they stir: the elm,                      180
    And poplar with its silvery trunk, that shades
    The green sward of the bank before his porch,
    Are to him as companions;--whilst he turns
    With more endearment to the living smile
    Of those his infants, who, when he is dead,
    Shall hear the music of the self-same trees
    Waving, till years roll on, and their gray hairs
    Go to the dust in peace.
                          Away, sad thought!
    Lo! where the morning light, through the dark wood,              190
    Upon the window-pane is flung like fire,
    Hail, Life and Hope; and thou, great work of art,
    That 'mid this populous and busy swarm
    Of men dost smile serene, as with the hues
    Of fairest, grandest Nature; may'st thou speak
    Not vainly of the endearments and best joys
    That Nature yields. The manliest heart that swells
    With honest English feelings,--while the eye,
    Saddened, but not cast down, beholds far off
    The darkness of the onward rolling storm,--                      200
    Charmed for a moment by this mantling view,
    Its anxious tumults shall suspend: and such,
    The pensive patriot shall exclaim, thy scenes,
    My own beloved country, such the abode
    Of rural peace! and while the soul has warmth,
    And voice has energy, the brave arm strength,
    England, thou shalt not fall! The day shall come,
    Yes, and now is, that thou shalt lift thyself;
    And woe to him who sets upon thy shores
    His hostile foot! Proud victor though he be,                     210
    His bloody march shall never soil a flower
    That hangs its sweet head, in the morning dew,
    On thy green village banks! His mustered hosts
    Shall be rolled back in thousands, and the surge
    Bury them! Then, when peace illumes once more,
    My country, thy green nooks and inmost vales,
    It will be sweet amidst the forest glens
    To stray, and think upon the distant storm
    That howled, but injured not!
                          At thoughts like these,                    220
    What heart, what English heart, but shall beat high!
    Meantime, its keen flash passed, thine eye intent,
    Beaumont, shall trace the master-strokes of art,
    And view the assemblage of the finished piece,
    As with his skill who formed it: ruder views,
    Savage, with solitary pines, hung high
    Amid the broken crags (where scowling wait
    The fierce banditti), stern Salvator's hand
    Shall aptly shade: o'er Poussin's clustering domes,
    With ampler umbrage, the black woods shall hang,                 230
    Beneath whose waving gloom the sudden flash
    Of broken light upon the brawling stream
    Is flung below.
                   Aerial Claude shall paint
    The gray fane peering o'er the summer woods,
    The azure lake below, or distant seas,
    And sails, in the pellucid atmosphere,
    Soft gleaming to the morn. Dark on the rock,
    Where the red lightnings burst, shall Wilson stand,
    Like mighty Shakspeare, whom the imps of fire                    240
    Await. Nor oh, sweet Gainsborough! shall thee
    The Muse forget, whose simple landscape smiles
    Attractive, whether we delight to view
    The cottage chimney through the high wood peep;
    Or beggar beauty stretch her little hand,
    With look most innocent; or homeward kine
    Wind through the hollow road at eventide,
    Or browse the straggling branches.
                              Scenes like these
    Shall charm all hearts, while truth and beauty live,             250
    And Nature's pictured loveliness shall own
    Each master's varied touch; but chiefly thou,
    Great Rubens! shalt the willing senses lead,
    Enamoured of the varied imagery,
    That fills the vivid canvas, swelling still
    On the enraptured eye of taste, and still
    New charms unfolding; though minute, yet grand,
    Simple, yet most luxuriant; every light
    And every shade, greatly opposed, and all
    Subserving to one magical effect                                 260
    Of truth and harmony.
                        So glows the scene;
    And to the pensive thought refined displays
    The richest rural poem. Oh, may views
    So pictured animate thy classic mind,
    Beaumont, to wander 'mid Sicilian scenes,
    And catch the beauties of the pastoral bard,[90]
    Shadowing his wildest landscapes! AEtna's fires,
    Bebrycian rocks, Anapus' holy stream,
    And woods of ancient Pan; the broken crag                        270
    And the old fisher here; the purple vines
    There bending; and the smiling boy set down
    To guard, who, innocent and happy, weaves,
    Intent, his rushy basket, to ensnare
    The chirping grasshoppers, nor sees the while
    The lean fox meditate her morning meal,
    Eyeing his scrip askance; whilst further on
    Another treads the purple grapes--he sits,
    Nor aught regards, but the green rush he weaves.
      O Beaumont! let this pomp of light and shade                   280
    Wake thee, to paint the woods that the sweet Muse
    Has consecrated: then the summer scenes
    Of Phasidamus, clad in richer light,
    Shall glow, the glancing poplars, and clear fount;
    While distant times admire (as now we trace
    This summer-mantling view) hoar AEtna's pines,
    The vine-hung grotts, and branching planes, that shade
    The silver Arethusa's stealing wave.

[89] The landscape is on so large a scale, that all these circumstances
are most accurately delineated.

[90] Theocritus. Alluding to a design of illustrating the _picturesque
character_ of the venerable Sicilian, by paintings of Sir George, from
new translations of Messrs Sotheby, Rogers, Howley, W. Spencer, and the
author.


THE HARP, AND DESPAIR, OF COWPER.

    Sweet bard, whose tones great Milton might approve,
        And Shakspeare, from high Fancy's sphere,
        Turning to the sound his ear,
    Bend down a look of sympathy and love;
          Oh, swell the lyre again,
    As if in full accord it poured an angel's strain!
    But oh! what means that look aghast,
      Ev'n whilst it seemed in holy trance,
      On scenes of bliss above to glance!
    Was it a fiend of darkness passed!
                Oh, speak--
          Paleness is upon his cheek--
        On his brow the big drops stand,
            To airy vacancy
        Points the dread silence of his eye,
    And the loved lyre it falls, falls from his nerveless hand!
        Come, peace of mind, delightful guest!
        Oh, come, and make thy downy nest
          Once more on his sad heart!
        Meek Faith, a drop of comfort shed;
        Sweet Hope, support his aged head;
          And Charity, avert the burning dart!
    Fruitless the prayer--the night of deeper woes
    Seems o'er the head even now to close;
    In vain the path of purity he trod,
          In vain, in vain,
    He poured from Fancy's shell his sweetest hermit strain--
    He has no hope on earth: forsake him not, O God!


STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

    I trust the happy hour will come,                                  1
      That shall to peace thy breast restore;
    And that we two, beloved friend,
      Shall one day meet to part no more.

    It grieves me most, that parting thus,                             2
      All my soul feels I dare not speak;
    And when I turn me from thy sight,
      The tears in silence wet my cheek.

    Yet I look forward to the time,                                    3
      That shall each wound of sorrow heal;
    When I may press thee to my heart,
      And tell thee all that now I feel.{e}


MUSIC.

    O Music! if thou hast a charm
    That may the sense of pain disarm,
    Be all thy tender tones addressed
    To soothe to peace my Harriet's breast;
    And bid the magic of thy strain
    So still the wakeful throb of pain,
    That, rapt in the delightful measure,
    Sweet Hope again may whisper pleasure,
    And seem the notes of Spring to hear,
    Prelusive to a happier year!
      And if thy magic can restore
    The shade of days that smile no more,
    And softer, sweeter colours give
    To scenes that in remembrance live;
    Be to her pensive heart a friend,
    And, whilst the tender shadows blend,
    Recall, ere the brief trace be lost,
    Each moment that she prized the most.
      Perhaps, when many a cheerful day
    Hereafter shall have stolen away,
    If then some old and favourite strain
    Should bring back to her thoughts again
    The hours when, silent by her side,
    I listened to her song and sighed;
    Perhaps a long-forgotten name,
    A thought, if not a tear may claim;
    And when in distant plains away,
    Alone I count each lingering day,
    She may a silent prayer prefer
    For him whose heart once bled for her.


ABSENCE.

OCTOBER 26, 1791.

    How shall I cheat the heavy hours, of thee
      Deprived, of thy kind looks and converse sweet,
      Now that the waving grove the dark storms beat,
    And wintry winds sad sounding o'er the lea,[91]
    Scatter the sallow leaf! I would believe,
      Thou, at this hour, with tearful tenderness
      Dost muse on absent images, and press
    In thought my hand, and say: Oh do not grieve,
      Friend of my heart! at wayward fortune's power;
      One day we shall be happy, and each hour
    Of pain forget, cheered by the summer ray.
      These thoughts beguile my sorrow for thy loss,
      And, as the aged pines their dark heads toss,
    Oft steal the sense of solitude away.
      So am I sadly soothed, yet do I cast
      A wishful glance upon the seasons past,
    And think how different was the happy tide,
    When thou, with looks of love, wert smiling by my side.

[91] Summer-Lees, near Knoyle.


FAIRY SKETCH.

SCENE--NETLEY ABBEY.

    There was a morrice on the moonlight plain,
      And music echoed in the woody glade,
    For fay-like forms, as of Titania's train,
      Upon a summer eve, beneath the shade
    Of Netley's ivied ruins, to the sound
      Of sprightly minstrelsy did beat the ground:--
          Come, take hands! and lightly move,
          While our boat, in yonder cove,
          Rests upon the darkening sea;
          Come, take hands, and follow me!

    Netley! thy dim and desolated fane
      Hath heard, perhaps, the spirits of the night
    Shrieking, at times, amid the wind and rain;
      Or haply, when the full-orbed moon shone bright,
    Thy glimmering aisles have echoed to the song
    Of fairy Mab, who led her shadowy masque along.
            Now, as to the sprightly sound
      Of moonlight minstrelsy we beat the ground;
    From the pale nooks, in accent clear,
    Now, methinks, her voice I hear,
    Sounding o'er the darksome sea;
    Come, take hands, and follow me!

    Here, beneath the solemn wood,
      When faintly-blue is all the sky,
      And the moon is still on high,
    To the murmurs of the flood,
    To the glimpses of the night,
    We perform our airy rite;--
    Care and pain to us unknown,
    To the darkening seas are flown.

      Hear no more life's fretful noise,
        Heed not here pale Envy's sting,
      Far from life's distempered joys;
        To the waters murmuring,
      To the shadows of the sky,
      To the moon that rides on high,
      To the glimpses of the night,
      We perform our airy rite,
    While care and pain, to us unknown,
    To the darkening seas are flown.


INSCRIPTION.

    Come, and where these runnels fall,
    Listen to my madrigal!
    Far from all sounds of all the strife,
    That murmur through the walks of life;
    From grief, inquietude, and fears,
    From scenes of riot, or of tears;
    From passions, cankering day by day,
    That wear the inmost heart away;
    From pale Detraction's envious spite,
    That worries where it fears to bite;
    From mad Ambition's worldly chase,
    Come, and in this shady place,
    Be thine Contentment's humble joys,
    And a life that makes no noise,
    Save when fancy, musing long,
    Turns to desultory song;[92]
    And wakes some lonely melody,
    Like the water dripping by.
    Come, and where these runnels fall,
    Listen to my madrigal!

BREMHILL GARDEN, _Sept. 1808._

[92] "And Fancy, void of sorrow, turns to song."--_Parnell._


PICTURES FROM THEOCRITUS.

FROM IDYL I.

[Greek: Ady ti to psthyrisma], _etc._

    Goat-herd, how sweet above the lucid spring
    The high pines wave with breezy murmuring!
    So sweet thy song, whose music might succeed
    To the wild melodies of Pan's own reed.

    THYRSIS.

    More sweet thy pipe's enchanting melody
    Than streams that fall from broken rocks on high.
    Say, by the nymphs, that guard the sacred scene,
    Where lowly tamarisks shade these hillocks green,
    At noontide shall we lie?
      No; for o'erwearied with the forest chase,
    Pan, the great hunter god, sleeps in this place.
    Beneath the branching elm, while thy sad verse,
    O Thyrsis! Daphnis' sorrows shall rehearse,
    Fronting the wood-nymph's solitary seat,
    Whose fountains flash amid the dark retreat;
    Where the old statue leans, and brown oaks wave
    Their ancient umbrage o'er the pastoral cave;
    There will we rest, and thou, as erst, prolong
    The sweet enchantment of the Doric song!

    FROM THE SAME IDYL.

    Mark, where the beetling precipice appears,
    The toil of the old fisher, gray with years;
    Mark, as to drag the laden net he strains,
    The labouring muscle and the swelling veins!
    There, in the sun, the clustered vineyard bends,
    And shines empurpled, as the morn ascends!
    A little boy, with idly-happy mien,
    To guard the grapes upon the ground is seen;
    Two wily foxes creeping round appear,--
    The scrip that holds his morning meal is near,--
    One breaks the bending vines; with longing lip,
    And look askance, one eyes the tempting scrip.
    He plats and plats his rushy net all day,
    And makes the vagrant grasshopper his prey;
    He plats his net, intent with idle care,
    Nor heeds how vineyard, grape, or scrip may fare.

    FROM THE SAME.

      Where were ye, nymphs, when Daphnis drooped with love?
      In fair Peneus' Tempe, or the grove
      Of Pindus! Nor your pastimes did ye keep,
      Where huge Anapus' torrent waters sweep;
    On AEtna's height, ah! impotent to save,
    Nor yet where Akis winds his holy wave!

    FROM THE SAME.

    Pan, Pan, oh mighty hunter! whether now,
    Thou roamest o'er Lyceus' shaggy brow,
    Or Moenalaus, outstretched in amplest shade,
    Thy solitary footsteps have delayed;
    Leave Helice's romantic rock a while,
    And haste, oh haste, to the Sicilian isle;
    Leave the dread monument, approached with fear,
    That Lycaonian tomb the gods revere.
    Here cease, Sicilian Muse, the Doric lay;--
    Come, Forest King, and bear this pipe away;
    Daphnis, subdued by love, and bowed with woe,
    Sinks, sinks for ever to the shades below.

    FROM IDYL VII.

    He left us;--we, the hour of parting come,
    To Prasidamus' hospitable home,
    Myself and Eucritus, together wend,
    With young Amynticus, our blooming friend:
    There, all delighted, through the summer day,
    On beds of rushes, pillowed deep, we lay;
    Around, the lentils, newly cut, were spread;
    Dark elms and poplars whispered o'er our head;
    A hallowed stream, to all the wood-nymphs dear,
    Fresh from the rocky cavern murmured near;
    Beneath the fruit-leaves' many-mantling shade,
    The grasshoppers a coil incessant made;
    From the wild thorny thickets, heard remote,
    The wood-lark trilled his far-resounding note;
    Loud sung the thrush, musician of the scene,
    And soft and sweet was heard the dove's sad note between;
    Then yellow bees, whose murmur soothed the ear,
    Went idly flitting round the fountain clear.
    Summer and Autumn seemed at once to meet,
    Filling with redolence the blest retreat,
    While the ripe pear came rolling to our feet.

    FROM IDYL XXII.

    When the famed Argo now secure had passed
    The crushing rocks,[93] and that terrific strait
    That guards the wintry Pontic, the tall ship
    Reached wild Bebrycia's shores; bearing like gods
    Her god-descended chiefs. They, from her sides,
    With scaling steps descend, and on the shore,
    Savage, and sad, and beat by ocean winds,
    Strewed their rough beds, and on the casual fire
    The vessels place. The brothers, by themselves,
    CASTOR and red-haired POLLUX, wander far
    Into the forest solitudes. A wood
    Immense and dark, shagging the mountain side,
    Before them rose; a cold and sparkling fount
    Welled with perpetual lapse, beneath its feet,
    Of purest water clear; scattering below,
    Streams as of silver and of crystal rose,
    Bright from the bottom: Pines, of stateliest height,
    Poplar, and plane, and cypress, branching wide,
    Were near, thick bordered by the scented flowers
    That lured the honeyed bee, when spring declines,
    Thick swarming o'er the meadows. There all day
    A huge man sat, of savage, wild aspect;
    His breast stood roundly forward, his broad back
    Seemed as of iron, such as might befit
    A vast Colossus sculptured. Full to view
    The muscles of his brawny shoulders stood,
    Like the round mountain-stones the torrent wave
    Has polished; from his neck and back hung down
    A lion's skin, held by its claws. Him first
    The red-haired youth addressed: Hail, stranger, hail,
    And say, what tribes unknown inhabit here!
    Take to the seas thy Hail: I ask it not,
    Who never saw before, or thee, or thine.
    Courage! thou seest not men that are unjust
    Or cruel.
                Courage shall I learn from thee!
    Thy heart is savage; thou art passion's slave.
    Such as I am thou seest; but land of thine
    I tread not.
                  Come, these hospitable gifts
    Accept, and part in peace.
                              No: not from thee.
    My gifts are yet in store.
                                Say, may we drink
    Of this clear fount?
                        Ask, when wan thirst has parched
    Thy lips.
              What present shall I give to thee?
    None. Stand before me as a man; lift high
    Thy brandished arms, and try, weak pugilist,
    Thy strength.
              But say, with whom shall I contend?
    Thou seest him here; nor in his art unskilled.
    Then what shall be the prize of him who wins?
    Or thou shalt be my slave, or I be thine.
    The crested birds so fight.
                            Whether like birds
    Or lions, for no other prize fight we!
    He said: and sounded loud his hollow conch;
    The gaunt Bebrycian brethren, at the sound,
    With long lank hair, come flocking to the shade
    Of that vast plain.
                    Then Castor hied, and called
    The hero chiefs from the Magnesian[94] ship.

[93] Rocks which were supposed to strike one against the other, and so
crush the ship that attempted to pass between.

[94] So called, from the country where it was built.


SKETCHES IN THE EXHIBITION, 1805.

    What various objects strike with various force,
    Achilles, Hebe, and Sir Watkin's horse!
    Here summer scenes, there Pentland's stormy ridge,
    Lords, ladies, Noah's ark, and Cranford bridge!
    Some that display the elegant design,
    The lucid colours, and the flowing line;
    Some that might make, alas! Walsh Porter[95] stare,
    And wonder how the devil they got there!

    LADY M----VE.

    How clear a strife of light and shade is spread!
    The face how touched with nature's loveliest red!
    The eye, how eloquent, and yet how meek!
    The glow subdued, yet mantling on thy cheek!
    M----ve! I mark alone thy beauteous face,
    But all is nature, dignity, and grace!

    HON. MISS MERCER.--HOPNER.

    Oh! hide those tempting eyes, that faultless form,
    Those looks with feeling and with nature warm;
    The neck, the softly-swelling bosom hide,
    Nor, wanton gales, blow the light vest aside;
    For who, when beauties more than life excite
    Silent applause, can gaze without delight!
    But innocence, enchanting maid, is thine;
    Thine eyes in liquid light unconscious shine;
    And may thy breast no other feelings prove,
    Than those of sympathy and mutual love!

[95] A gentleman well known for his taste and fine collection.


EXHIBITION, 1807.

    BLIND FIDDLER.--WILKIE.

    With mirth unfeigned the cottage chimney rings,
    Though only vocal with four fiddle-strings:
    And see, the poor blind fiddler draws his bow,
    And lifts intent his time-denoting toe;
    While yonder maid, as blythe as birds in June,
    You almost hear her whistle to the tune!
    Hard by, a lad, in imitative guise,
    Fixed, fiddle-like, the broken bellows plies;
    Before the hearth, with looks of honest joy,
    The father chirrups to the chattering boy,
    And snaps his lifted thumbs with mimic glee,
    To the glad urchin on his mother's knee!

    MORNING.--TURNER.

    Up! for the morning shines with welcome ray,
    And to the sunny seabeach let us stray.
    What orient hues proclaim the master's hand!
    How light the wave upon the half-wet sand!
    How beautiful the sun, as still we gaze,
    Streams all diffusive through the opening haze!
    Artist--when to the thunder's pealing sound,
    Fire mixed with hailstones ran upon the ground,
    When partial darkness the dread prospect hid,
    And sole aspired the aged pyramid--
    Sublimity thy genius seemed to guide
    O'er Egypt's champaign, desolate and wide;
    But here delightful beauty reigns alone,
    And decks the morning scene with graces all her own.

    KESWICK.--SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.

    How shall I praise thee, Beaumont, whose nice skill
    Can mould the soft and shadowy scene at will;
    Chastise to harmony each gaudy ray,
    Simple, yet grand, the mountain scene display;
    The lake where sober evening seems to sleep,
    Hills far retiring into umbrage deep;
    Blend all with classic, pure, poetic taste,
    And strike the more with forms and colours chaste!

    MARKET-DAY.--CALCOT.

    Through the wood's maze our eyes delighted stray,
    To mark the rustics on the market-day.
    Beneath the branches winds the long white road;
    Here peeps the rustic cottager's abode;
    There in the morning sun, the children play,
    Or the crone creeps along the dusty way.

    SCENE IN FRANCE.--LOUTHERBOURG.

    Artist, I own thy genius; but the touch
    May be too restless, and the glare too much:
    And sure none ever saw a landscape shine,
    Basking in beams of such a sun as thine,
    But felt a fervid dew upon his phiz,
    And panting cried, O Lord, how hot it is!

    DEATH OF NELSON.--WEST.

    Turn to Britannia's triumphs on the main:
    See Nelson, pale and fainting, 'mid the slain,
    Whilst Victory sighs, stern in the garb of war,
    And points through clouds the rocks of Trafalgar!
    Here cease the strain; but while thy hulls shall ride,
    Britain, dark shadowing the tumultuous tide,
    May other Nelsons, on the sanguine main,
    Guide, like a god, the battle's hurricane;
    And when the funeral's transient pomp is past,
    High hung the banner, hushed the battle's blast,
    May the brave character to ages shine,
    And Genius consecrate the immortal shrine!


SOUTHAMPTON CASTLE.[96]

INSCRIBED TO THE MARQUIS OF LANSDOWNE.

    The moonlight is without; and I could lose
    An hour to gaze, though Taste and Splendour here,
    As in a lustrous fairy palace, reign!
    Regardless of the lights that blaze within,
    I look upon the wide and silent sea,
    That in the shadowy moonbeam sleeps:
                                    How still,
    Nor heard to murmur, or to move, it lies;
    Shining in Fancy's eye, like the soft gleam,
    The eve of pleasant yesterdays!                                   10
                                    The clouds
    Have all sunk westward, and the host of stars
    Seem in their watches set, as gazing on;
    While night's fair empress, sole and beautiful,
    Holds her illustrious course through the mid heavens
    Supreme, the spectacle, for such she looks,
    Of gazing worlds!
                               How different is the scene
    That lies beneath this arched window's height!
    The town, that murmured through the busy day,                     20
    Is hushed; the roofs one solemn breadth of shade
    Veils; but the towers, and taper spires above,
    The pinnets, and the gray embattled walls,
    And masts that throng around the southern pier,
    Shine all distinct in light; and mark, remote,
    O'er yonder elms, St Mary's modest fane.
      Oh! if such views may please, to me they shine
    How more attractive! but few years have passed,
    Since there I saw youth, health, and happiness,
    All circling round an aged sire,[97] whose hairs                  30
    Are now in peace gone down; he was to me
    A friend, and almost with a father's smile
    Hung o'er my infant Muse. The cheerful voice
    Of fellowship, the song of harmony,
    And mirth, and wit,[98] were there.
                               That scene is passed:
    Cold death and separation have dissolved
    The evening circle of once-happy friends!
      So has it ever fared, and so must fare,
    With all! I see the moonlight watery tract                        40
    That shines far off, beneath the forest-shades:
    What seems it, but the mirror of that tide,
    Which noiseless, 'mid the changes of the world,
    Holds its inevitable course, the tide
    Of years departing; to the distant eye
    Still seeming motionless, though hurrying on
    From morn till midnight, bearing, as it flows,
    The sails of pleasurable barks! These gleam
    To-day, to-morrow other passing sails
    Catch the like sunshine of the vernal morn.                       50
      Our pleasant days are as the moon's brief light
    On the pale ripple, passing as it shines!
    But shall the pensive bard for this lament,
    Who knows how transitory are all worlds
    Before His eye who made them!
                                Cease the strain;
    And welcome still the social intercourse
    That soothes the world's loud jarring, till the hour
    When, universal darkness wrapping all
    This nether scene, a light from heaven shall stream               60
    Through clouds dividing, and a voice be heard:
    Here only pure and lasting bliss is found!

[96] Southampton Castle is a magnificent pile, erected by the Marquis of
Lansdowne, commanding the most striking views of the river, the Isle of
Wight, the New Forest, _et cet._

[97] Late Dean of Winchester, Dr Newton Ogle.

[98] I speak this of Mr Sheridan, who was often of the party.


THE WINDS.

    When dark November bade the leaves adieu,
      And the gale sung amid the sea-boy's shrouds,
    Methought I saw four winged forms, that flew,
      With garments streaming light, amid the clouds;
        From adverse regions of the sky,
        In dim succession, they went by.
    The first, as o'er the billowy deep he passed,
    Blew from its brazen trump a far-resounding blast.
      Upon a beaked promontory high,
    With streaming heart, and cloudy brow severe,                     10
    Marked ye the father of the frowning year![99]
      Dark vapours rolled o'er the tempestuous sky,
    When creeping WINTER from his cave came forth;
    Stern courier of the storm, he cried, what from the north?

    NORTH WIND.

        From the vast and desert deeps,
        Where the lonely Kraken sleeps,
        Where fixed the icy mountains high
        Glimmer to the twilight sky;
        Where, six lingering months to last,                          20
        The night has closed, the day is past,
        Father, lo, I come, I come:
        I have heard the wizard's drum,
        And the withered Lapland hag,
        Seal, with muttered spell, her bag:
        O'er mountains white, and forests sere,
        I flew, and with a wink am here.

    WINTER.

      Spirit of unwearied wing,
        From the Baltic's frozen main,
        From the Russ's bleak domain,                                 30
      Say, what tidings dost thou bring!
    Shouts, and the noise of battle! and again
      The winged wind blew loud a deadly blast;
    Shouts, and the noise of battle! the long main
      Seemed with hoarse voice to answer as he passed.
    The moody South went by, and silence kept;
      The cloudy rack oft hid his mournful mien,
    And frequent fell the showers, as if he wept
      The eternal havoc of this mortal scene.
      He had heard the yell, and cry,                                 40
      And howling dance of Anarchy,
      Where the Rhone, with rushing flood,
      Murmured to the main, through blood:--
    He seemed to wish he could for ever throw
    His misty mantle o'er a world of woe.
    But rousing him from his desponding trance,
      Cold Eurus blew his sharp and shrilling horn;
    In his right hand he bore an icy lance,
      That far off glittered in the frost of morn;
    The old man knew the clarion from afar,                           50
      What from the East? he cried.

    EAST WIND.

                    Shouts, and the noise of war!
    Far o'er the land hath been my flight,
    O'er many a forest dark as night,
    O'er champaigns where the Tartar speeds,
    O'er Wolga's wild and giant reeds,
      O'er the Carpathian summits hoar,
      Beneath whose snows and shadows frore,
      Poland's level length unfolds
      Her trackless woods and wildering wolds,                        60
      Like a spirit, seeking rest,
      I have passed from east to west,
      While sounds of discord and lament
      Rose from the earth where'er I went.
      I care not; hurrying, as in scorn,
      I shook my lance, and blew my horn;
      The day shows clear; and merrily
      Along the Atlantic now I fly.
    Who comes in soft and spicy vest,
    From the mild regions of the West?                                70
    An azure veil bends waving o'er his head,
    And showers of violets from his hands are shed.
    'Tis Zephyr, with a look as young and fair
      As when his lucid wings conveyed
      That beautiful and gentle maid
    Psyche, transported through the air,
    The blissful couch of Love's own god to share.
      Winter, avaunt! thy haggard eye
      Will scare him, as he wanders by,
      Him and the timid butterfly.                                    80
      He brings again the morn of May;
        The lark, amid the clear blue sky,
        Carols, but is not seen so high,
      And all the winter's winds fly far away!
    I cried: O Father of the world, whose might
      The storm, the darkness, and the winds obey,
    Oh, when will thus the long tempestuous night
      Of warfare and of woe be rolled away!
    Oh, when will cease the uproar and the din,
    And Peace breathe soft, Summer is coming in!                      90

[99] "Then comes the father of the tempest forth."--_Thomson._


ON WILLIAM SOMMERS OF BREMHILL.

    When will the grave shelter thy few gray hairs,
      O aged man! Thy sand is almost run,
      And many a year, in vain, to meet the sun,
    Thine eyes have rolled in darkness; want and cares
        Have been thy visitants from morn to morn.
      While trembling on existence thou dost live,
      Accept what human charity can give;
        But standing thus, time-palsied, and forlorn,
    Like a scathed oak, of all its boughs bereft,
    God and the grave are thy best refuge left.
    When the bells rung, and summer's smiling ray
      Welcomed again the merry Whitsuntide,
    And all my humble villagers were gay;
      I saw thee sitting on the highway side,
    To feel once more the warm sun's blessed beam:
      Didst thou then think upon thy own gay prime,
      On such a holiday, and the glad time
    When thou wert young and happy, like a dream
    Now perished! No; the murmured prayer alone
    Rose from the trembling lips towards the Throne
      Of Mercy; that ere spring returned again,
    And the long winter blew its dreary blast,
      To sweep the verdure from the fading plain,
    Thy burden would be dropped, thy sorrows past!
    O blind and aged man, bowed down with cares,
    When will the grave shelter thy few gray hairs!


THE VISIONARY BOY.

    Oh! lend that lute, sweet Archimage, to me!
      Enough of care and heaviness
      The weary lids of life depress,
    And doubly blest that gentle heart shall be,
      That wooes of poesy the visions bland,
      And strays forgetful o'er enchanted land!
    Oh! lend that lute, sweet Archimage, to me!
    So spoke, with ardent look, yet eyebrow sad,
      When he had passed o'er many a mountain rude,
      And many a wild and weary solitude,                             10
    'Mid a green vale, a wandering minstrel-lad.
    With eyes that shone in softened flame,
    With wings and wand, young Fancy came;
    And as she touched a trembling lute,
    The lone enthusiast stood entranced and mute.
    It was a sound that made his soul forego
    All thoughts of sadness in a world of woe.
    Oh, lend that lute! he cried: Hope, Pity, Love,
    Shall listen; and each valley, rock, and grove,
    Shall witness, as with deep delight,                              20
    From orient morn to dewy-stealing night.
    My spirit, rapt in trance of sweetness high,
    Shall drink the heartfelt sound with tears of ecstasy!
    As thus he spoke, soft voices seemed to say,
      Come away, come away;
      Where shall the heart-sick minstrel stray,
      But (viewing all things like a dream)
      By haunted wood, or wizard stream?
        That, like a hermit weeping,
        Amid the gray stones creeping;                                30
        With voice distinct, yet faint,
    Calls on Repose herself to hear its soothing plaint.
      For him, romantic Solitude
      Shall pile sublime her mountains rude;
      For him, with shades more soft impressed,
      The lucid lake's transparent breast
      Shall show the banks, the woods, the hill,
      More clear, more beautiful, more still.
      For him more musical shall wave
      The pines o'er Echo's moonlit cave;                             40
      While sounds as of a fairy lyre
      Amid the shadowy cliffs expire!
    This valley where the raptured minstrel stood
    Was shaded with a circling slope of wood,
    And rich in beauty, with that valley vied,
      Thessalian Tempe, crowned with verdant bay,
      Where smooth and clear Peneus winds his way;
    And Ossa and Olympus, on each side,
    Rise dark with woods; or that Sicilian plain
      Which Arethusa's clearest waters lave,                          50
      By many a haunt of Pan, and wood-nymph's cave,
    Lingering and listening to the Doric strain
    Of him,[100] the bard whose music might succeed
    To the wild melodies of Pan's own reed!
    This scene the mistress of the valley held,
      Fancy, a magic maid; and at her will,
      Aerial castles crowned the gleaming hill,
    Or forests rose, or lapse of water welled.
    Sometimes she sat with lifted eye,
    And marked the dark storm in the western sky;                     60
    Sometimes she looked, and scarce her breath would draw,
    As fearful things, not to be told, she saw;
    And sometimes, like a vision of the air,
    On wings of shifting light she floated here and there.
        In the breeze her garments flew,
        Of the brightest skiey blue,
        Lucid as the tints of morn,
        When Summer trills his pipe of corn:
    Her tresses to each wing descending fall,
          Or, lifted by the wind,                                     70
          Stream loose and unconfined,
    Like golden threads, beneath her myrtle coronal.
      The listening passions stood aloof and mute,
    As oft the west wind touched her trembling lute.
    But when its sounds the youthful minstrel heard,
      Strange mingled feelings, not to be expressed,
      Rose undefined, yet blissful, on his breast,
    And all the softened scene in sweeter light appeared.
      Then Fancy waved her wand, and lo!
    An airy troop went beckoning by:                                  80
      Come, from toil and worldly woe;
    Come, live with us in vales remote! they cry.
    These are the flitting phantasies; the dreams
      That lead the heart through all that elfin land,
      Where half-seen shapes entice with whispers bland.
    Meantime the clouds, impressed with livelier beams,
          Roll, in the lucid track of air,
    Arrayed in coloured brede, with semblances more fair.
      The airy troop, as on they sail,
      Thus the pensive stranger hail:                                 90
      In the pure and argent sky,
      There our distant chambers lie;
      The bed is strewed with blushing roses,
      When Quietude at eve reposes,
      Oft trembling lest her bowers should fade,
      In the cold earth's humid shade.
    Come, rest with us! evanishing, they cried--
    Come, rest with us! the lonely vale replied.
      Then Fancy beckoned, and with smiling mien,
    A radiant form arose, like the fair Queen                        100
    Of Beauty: from her eye divinely bright,
    A richer lustre shot, a more attractive light.
    She said: With fairer tints I can adorn
    The living landscape, fairer than the morn.
    The summer clouds in shapes romantic rolled,
    And those they edge the fading west, like gold;
    The lake that sleeps in sunlight, yet impressed
    With shades more sweet than real on its breast;
    'Mid baffling stones, beneath a partial ray,
    The small brook huddling its uneven way;                         110
    The blue far distant hills, the silvery sea,
    And every scene of summer speaks of me:
    But most I wake the sweetest wishes warm,
    Where the fond gaze is turned on woman's breathing form.
      So passing silent through a myrtle grove,
    Beauty first led him to the bower of Love.
    A mellow light through the dim covert strayed,
    And opening roses canopied the shade.
    Why does the hurrying pulse unbidden leap!
    Behold, in yonder glade that nymph asleep!                       120
    The heart-struck minstrel hangs, with lingering gaze,
    O'er every charm his eye impassioned strays!
    An edge of white is seen, and scarcely seen,
    As soft she breathes, her coral lips between;
    A lambent ray steals from her half-closed eye,
    As her breast heaves a short imperfect sigh.
    Sleep, winds of summer, o'er the leafy bower,
    Nor move the light bells of the nodding flower;
    Lest but a sound of stirring leaves might seem
    To break the charm of her delicious dream!                       130
    And ye, fond, rising, throbbing thoughts, away,
    Lest syren Pleasure all the soul betray!
      Oh! turn, and listen to the ditty
      From the lowly cave of Pity.
        On slaughter's plain, while Valour grieves,
          There he sunk to rest,
        And the ring-dove scattered leaves
          Upon his bleeding breast!
    Her face was hid, while her pale arms enfold
    What seemed an urn of alabaster cold;                            140
    To this she pressed her heaving bosom bare:
      The drops that gathered in the dank abode
    Fell dripping, on her long dishevelled hair;
      And still her tears, renewed, and silent, flowed:
    And when the winds of autumn ceased to swell,
    At times was heard a slow and melancholy knell!
    'Twas in the twilight of the deepest wood,
      Beneath whose boughs like sad Cocytus, famed
      Through fabling Greece, from lamentation named[101]
    A river dark and silent flowed, there stood                      150
    A pale and melancholy man, intent
    His look upon that drowsy stream he bent,
    As ever counting, when the fitful breeze
    With strange and hollow sound sung through the trees,
    Counting the sallow leaves, that down the current went.
    He saw them not:
    Earth seemed to him one universal blot.
    Sometimes, as most distempered, to and fro
      He paced; and sometimes fixed his chilling look
      Upon a dreadful book,                                          160
    Inscribed with secret characters of woe;
    While gibbering imps, as mocking him, appeared,
    And airy laughter 'mid the dusk was heard.
    Then Fancy waved her wand again,
      And all that valley that so lovely smiled
      Was changed to a bare champaign, waste and wild.
    "What pale and phantom-horseman rides amain?"
    'Tis Terror;--all the plain, far on, is spread
    With skulls and bones, and relics of the dead!
    From his black trump he blew a louder blast,                     170
    And earthquakes muttered as the giant passed.
      Then said that magic maid, with aspect bland,
    'Tis thine to seize his phantom spear,
      'Tis thine his sable trumpet to command,
    And thrill the inmost heart with shuddering fear.
      But hark! to Music's softer sound,
    New scenes and fairer views accordant rise:
      Above, around,
    The mingled measure swells in air, and dies.
    Music, in thy charmed shell,                                     180
    What sounds of holy magic dwell!
    Oft when that shell was to the ear applied,
      Confusion of rich harmonies,
              All swelling rose,
    That came, as with a gently-swelling tide:
              Then at the close,
    Angelic voices seemed, aloft,
    To answer as it died the cadence soft.
    Now, like the hum of distant ocean's stream,
    The murmurs of the wond'rous concave seem;                       190
    And now exultingly their tones prolong
    The chorded paeans of the choral song,
    Then Music, with a voice more wildly sweet
      Than winds that pipe on the forsaken shore,
      When the last rain-drops of the west are o'er,
    Warbled: Oh, welcome to my blest retreat,
    And give my sounds to the responsive lyre:
    With me to these melodious groves retire,
        And such pure feelings share,
    As, far from noise and folly, soothe thee there.                 200
      Here Fancy, as the prize were won,
    And now she hailed her favourite son,
    With energy impatient cried:
    The weary world is dark and wide,
    Lo! I am with thee still to comfort and to guide.[102]
      Nor fear, if, grim before thine eyes,
        Pale worldly Want, a spectre, lowers;
      What is a world of vanities
        To a world as sweet as ours!
    When thy heart is sad and lone,                                  210
    And loves to dwell on pleasures flown,
    When that heart no more shall bound
    At some kind voice's well-known sound,
    My spells thy drooping languor shall relieve,
    And airy spirits touch thy lonely harp at eve.
      Look!--Delight and Hope advancing,
        Music joins her thrilling notes,
      O'er the level lea come dancing;
        Seize the vision as it floats,
      Bright-eyed Rapture hovers o'er them,                          220
        Waving light his seraph wings,
      Youth exulting flies before them,
        Scattering cowslips as he sings!
    Come now, my car pursue,
      The wayward Fairy cried;
    And high amid the fields of air,
      Above the clouds, together we will ride,
    And posting on the viewless winds,
    So leave the cares of earth and all its thoughts behind.
            I can sail, and I can fly,                               230
            To all regions of the sky,
            On the shooting meteor's course,
            On a winged griffin-horse!
    She spoke: when Wisdom's self drew nigh,
    A noble sternness in her searching eye;
      Like Pallas helmed, and in her hand a spear,
    As not in idle warfare bent, but still,
    As resolute, to cope with every earthly ill.
      In youthful dignity severe,
    She stood: And shall the aspiring mind,                          240
    To Fancy be alone resigned!
    Alas! she cried, her witching lay
    Too often leads the heart astray!
      Still, weak minstrel, wouldst thou rove,
    Drooping in the distant grove,
    Forgetful of all ties that bind
    Thee, a brother, to mankind?
      Has Fancy's feeble voice defied
    The ills to poor humanity allied?
    Can she, like Wisdom, bid thy soul sustain                       250
    Its post of duty in a life of pain!
    Can she, like meek Religion, bid thee bear
    Contempt and hardship in a world of care!
      Yet let not my rebuke decry,
    In all, her blameless witchery,
    Or from the languid bosom tear
    Each sweet illusion nourished there.
      With dignity and truth, combined,
    Still may she rule the manly mind;
    Her sweetest magic still impart                                  260
    To soften, not subdue, the heart:
    Still may she warm the chosen breast,
    Not as the sovereign, but the guest.
    Then shall she lead the blameless Muse
    Through all her fairest, wildest views;
    To mark amid the flowers of morn,
    The bee go forth with early horn;
    Or when the moon, a softer light
    Sheds on the rocks and seas of night,
    To hear the circling fairy bands                                 270
    Sing, Come unto these yellow sands!
    Sweeter is our light than day,
    Fond enthusiast, come away!
      Then Chivalry again shall call
    The champions to her bannered hall!
      The pipe, and song, with many a mingled shout,
    Ring through the forest, as the satyr-rout,
    Dance round the dragon-chariot of Romance;
    Forth pricks the errant knight with rested lance;
    Imps, demons, fays, in antic train succeed,                      280
    The wandering maiden, and the winged steed!
    The muttering wizard turns, with haggard look,
    The bloody leaves of the accursed book,
    Whilst giants, from the gloomy castle tower,
    With lifted bats of steel, more dreadful lower!
    At times, the magic shall prevail
    Of the wild and wonderous tale;
    At times, high rapture shall prolong
    The deep, enthusiastic song.
    Hence, at midnight, thou shalt stray,                            290
    Where dark ocean flings its spray,
    To hear o'er heaven's resounding arch
    The Thunder-Lord begin his march!
    Or mark the flashes, that present
    Some far-off shattered monument;
    Whilst along the rocky vale,
    Red fires, mingled with the hail,
    Run along upon the ground,
    And the thunders deeper sound!
    The loftier Muse, with awful mien,                               300
    Upon a lonely rock is seen:
    Full is the eye that speaks the dauntless soul;
    She seems to hear the gathering tempest roll
    Beneath her feet; she bids an eagle fly,
    Breasting the whirlwind, through the dark-red sky;
    Or, with elated look, lifts high the spear,
    As sounds of distant battles roll more near.
      Now deep-hushed in holy trance,
    She sees the powers of Heaven advance,
    And wheels, instinct with spirit, bear                           310
    God's living chariot through the air;
    Now on the wings of morn she seems to rise,
    And join the strain of more than mortal harmonies.
      Thy heart shall beat exulting as she sings,
    And thou shalt cry: Give me an angel's wings!
      With sadder sound, o'er Pity's cave,
    The willow in the wind shall wave;
    And all the listening passions stand,                            318
    Obedient to thy great command.
      With Poesy's sweet charm impressed,
    Fancy thus shall warm thy breast;
    Still her smiling train be thine,
    Still her lovely visions shine,
    To cheer, beyond my boasted power,
    A sad or solitary hour.
      Thus let them soothe a while thy heart,
    "Come like shadows, so depart;"
    But never may the witching lay
    Lead each sense from life astray;
    For vain the poet's muse of fire,                                330
    Vain the magic of his lyre,
    Unless the touch subdued impart
    Truth and wisdom to the heart!

[100] Theocritus.

[101] "From lamentation named, and loud lament."--_Milton._

[102] I have placed Music last, as I think a perfect musical ear implies
the highest degree of cultivation.


CADLAND,[103] SOUTHAMPTON RIVER.

    If ever sea-maid, from her coral cave,
    Beneath the hum of the great surge, has loved
    To pass delighted from her green abode,
    And, seated on a summer bank, to sing
    No earthly music; in a spot like this,
    The bard might feign he heard her, as she dried
    Her golden hair, yet dripping from the main,
    In the slant sunbeam.
                        So the pensive bard
    Might image, warmed by this enchanting scene,                     10
    The ideal form; but though such things are not,
    He who has ever felt a thought refined;
    He who has wandered on the sea of life,
    Forming delightful visions of a home
    Of beauty and repose; he who has loved,
    With filial warmth his country, will not pass
    Without a look of more than tenderness
    On all the scene; from where the pensile birch
    Bends on the bank, amid the clustered group
    Of the dark hollies; to the woody shore                           20
    That steals diminished, to the distant spires
    Of Hampton, crowning the long lucid wave.
    White in the sun, beneath the forest-shade,
    Full shines the frequent sail, like Vanity,
    As she goes onward in her glittering trim,
    Amid the glances of life's transient morn,
    Calling on all to view her!
                                   Vectis[104] there,
    That slopes its greensward to the lambent wave,
    And shows through softest haze its woods and domes,               30
    With gray St Catherine's[105] creeping to the sky,
    Seems like a modest maid, who charms the more
    Concealing half her beauties.
                                              To the East,
    Proud, yet complacent, on its subject realm,
    With masts innumerable thronged, and hulls
    Seen indistinct, but formidable, mark
    Albion's vast fleet, that, like the impatient storm,
    Waits but the word to thunder and flash death
    On him who dares approach to violate                              40
    The shores and living scenes that smile secure
    Beneath its dragon-watch!
                                 Long may they smile!
    And long, majestic Albion (while the sound
    From East to West, from Albis[106] to the Po,
    Of dark contention hurtles), may'st thou rest,
    As calm and beautiful this sylvan scene
    Looks on the refluent wave that steals below.

[103] A beautiful seat of Henry Drummond, Esq.

[104] The Isle of Wight.

[105] The highest slowly-rising eminence in the Isle of Wight, seen from
the river.

[106] The Elbe.


THE LAST SONG OF CAMOENS.[107]

    The morning shone on Tagus' rocky side,
    And airs of summer swelled the yellow tide,
    When, rising from his melancholy bed,
    And faint, and feebly by Antonio[108] led,
    Poor Camoens, subdued by want and woe,
    Along the winding margin wandered slow,
    His harp, that once could each warm feeling move
    Of patriot glory or of tenderest love,
    His sole and sable friend[109] (while a faint tone
    Rose from the wires) placed by a mossy stone.                     10
      How beautiful the sun ascending shines
    From ridge to ridge, along the purple vines!
    How pure the azure of the opening skies!
    How resonant the nearer rock replies
    To call of early mariners! and, hark!
    The distant whistle from yon parting bark,
    That down the channel as serene she strays,
    Her gray sail mingles with the morning haze,
    Bound to explore, o'er ocean's stormy reign,
    New lands that lurk amid the lonely main!                         20
      A transient fervour touched the old man's breast;
    He raised his eyes, so long by care depressed,
    And while they shone with momentary fire,
    Ardent he struck the long-forgotten lyre.
          From Tagus' yellow-sanded shore,
        O'er the billows, as they roar,
        O'er the blue sea, waste and wide,
        Our bark threw back the burning tide,
        By northern breezes cheer'ly borne,
        On to the kingdoms of the morn.                               30
        Blanco, whose cold shadow vast
        Chills the western wave, is past!
        Huge Bojador, frowning high,
        Thy dismal terrors we defy!
        But who may violate the sleep
        And silence of the sultry deep;
        Where, beneath the intenser sun,[110]
        Hot showers descend, red lightnings run;
        Whilst all the pale expanse beneath
        Lies burning wide, without a breath;                          40
        And at mid-day from the mast,
        No shadow on the deck is cast!
        Night by night, still seen the same,
        Strange lights along the cordage flame,
        Perhaps, the spirits of the good,[111]
        That wander this forsaken flood
        Sing to the seas, as slow we float,
        A solemn and a holy note!
          Spectre[112] of the southern main,
        Thou barr'st our onward way in vain,                          50
        Wrapping the terrors of thy form,
        In the thunder's rolling storm!
        Fearless o'er the indignant tide,
        On to the east our galleys ride.
          Triumph! for the toil is o'er--
        We kiss the far-sought Indian shore!
        Glittering to the orient ray,
        The banners of the Cross display!
          Does my heart exulting bound?
        Alas, forlorn, I gaze around:                                 60
        Feeble, poor, and old, I stand,
        A stranger in my native land!
          My sable slave (ah, no! my only friend,
        Whose steps upon my rugged path attend)
        Sees, but with tenderness that fears to speak,
        The tear that trickles down my aged cheek!
        My harp is silent,--famine shrinks mine eye,--
        "Give me a little food for charity!"[113]

[107] Inscribed to Lord Strangford.

[108] The faithful Indian who attended him in all his sorrows, a native
of Java.

[109] Antonio, "who begged alms through Lisbon, and at night shared the
produce with his broken-hearted master."--_Strangford's Preface._

[110] Crossing the Line.

[111] Lights called by the Portuguese _Corpo Sancto's_, supposed to be
the spirits of saints, hovering on the shrouds.

[112] The terrific Phantom of the Cape, described by Camoens.

[113] Camoens, the great poet of Portugal, is supposed to have gone to
the East Indies in the same ship with the first Discoverer, round the
Cape of Good Hope, Vasco de Gama. This is not the case, though he wrote
the noble poem descriptive of the voyage. He went to India some years
afterwards, but the general idea is sufficient for poetical purposes.
His subsequent sorrows and poverty, in his native land, are well known.


THE SYLPH OF SUMMER.[114]

    God said, Let there be light, and there was light!
    At once the glorious sun, at his command,
    From space illimitable, void and dark,
    Sprang jubilant, and angel hierarchies,
    Whose long hosannahs pealed from orb to orb,
    Sang, Glory be to Thee, God of all worlds!
      Then beautiful the ball of this terrene
    Rolled in the beam of first-created day,
    And all its elements obeyed the voice
    Of Him, the great Creator; Air, and Fire,                         10
    And Earth, and Water, each its ministry
    Performed, whilst Chaos from his ebon throne
    Leaped up; and so magnificent, and decked,
    And mantled in its ambient atmosphere,
    The living world began its state!
                                  To thee,
    Spirit of Air, I lift the venturous song,
    Whose viewless presence fills the living scene,
    Whose element ten thousand thousand wings
    Fan joyous; o'er whose fields the morning clouds                  20
    Ride high; whose rule the lightning-shafts obey,
    And the deep thunder's long-careering march!
      The Winds too are thy subjects; from the breeze,
    That, like a child upon a holiday,
    On the high mountain's van pursues the down
    Of the gray thistle, ere the autumnal shower
    Steals soft, and mars his pastime; to the King
    Of Hurricanes, that sounds his mighty shell,
    And bids Tornado sweep the Western world.
      Sylph of the Summer Gale, on thee I call!                       30
    Oh, come, when now gay June is in her car,
    Wafting the breath of roses as she moves;
    Come to this garden bower, which I have hung
    With tendrils, and the fragrant eglantine,
    And mandrake, rich with many mantling stars!
      'Tis pleasant, when thy breath is on the leaves
    Without, to rest in this embowering shade,
    And mark the green fly, circling to and fro,
    O'er the still water, with his dragon wings,
    Shooting from bank to bank, now in quick turns,                   40
    Then swift athwart, as is the gazer's glance,
    Pursuing still his mate; they, with delight,
    As if they moved in morris, to the sound
    Harmonious of this ever-dripping rill,
    Now in advance, now in retreat, now round,
    Dart through their mazy rings, and seem to say:
    The Summer and the Sun are ours!
                              But thou,
    Sylph of the Summer Gale, delay a while
    Thy airy flight, whilst here Francesca leans,                     50
    And, charmed by Ossian's harp, seems in the breeze
    To hear Malvina's plaint; thou to her ear
    Come unperceived, like music of the song
    From Cona's vale of streams; _then_ with the bee,
    That sounds his horn, busied from flower to flower,
    Speed o'er the yellow meadows, breathing ripe
    Their summer incense; or amid the furze,
    That paints with bloom intense the upland crofts,
    With momentary essence tinge thy wings;
    Or in the grassy lanes, one after one,                            60
    Lift light the nodding foxglove's purple bell.
    Thence, to the distant sea, and where the flag
    Hangs idly down, without a wavy curl,
    Thou hoverest o'er the topmast, or dost raise
    The full and flowing mainsail: Steadily,
    The helmsman cries, as now thy breath is heard
    Among the stirring cordage o'er his head;
    So, steadily, he cries, as right he steers,
    Speeds our proud ship along the world of waves.
      Sylph, may thy favouring breath more gently blow,               70
    More gently round the temples and the cheek
    Of him, who, leaving home and friends behind,
    In silence musing o'er the ocean leans,
    And watches every passing shade that marks
    The southern Channel's fast-retiring line;
    Then, as the ship rolls on, keeps a long look
    Fixed on the lessening Lizard,[115] the last point
    Of that delightful country, where he left
    All his fond hopes behind: it lessens still;
    Still, still it lessens, and now disappears!                      80
    He turns, and only sees the waves that rock
    Boundless. How many anxious morns shall rise,
    How many moons shall light the farthest seas,
    O'er what new scenes and regions shall he stray,
    A weary man, still thinking of his home,
    Ere he again that shore shall view, and greet
    With blissful thronging hopes and starting tears,
    Of heartfelt welcome, and of warmest love!
      Perhaps, ah! never! So didst thou go forth,
    My poor lost brother![116]                                        90
      The airs of morning as enticing played,
    And gently, round thee, and their whisperings
    Might sooth (if aught could sooth) a boding heart;
    For thou wert bound to visit scenes of death,
    Where the sick gale (alas! unlike the breeze
    That bore the gently-swelling sail along)
    Was tainted with the breath of pestilence,
    That smote the silent camp, and night and day
    Sat mocking on the putrid carcases.
    Thou too didst perish! As the south-west blows,                  100
    Thy bones, perhaps, now whiten on the coast
    Of old Algarva.[117] I, meantime, these shades
    Of village solitude, hoping erewhile
    To welcome thee from many a toil restored,
    Still deck, and now thy empty urn[118] alone
    I meet, where, swaying in the summer gale,
    The willow whispers in my evening walk.
      Sylph, in thy airy robe, I see thee float,
    A rainbow o'er thy head, and in thy hand
    The magic instrument,[119] that, as thy wing,                    110
    Lucid, and painted like the butterfly's,
    Waves to and from, most musically rings;
    Sometimes in joyance, as the flaunting leaf
    Of the white poplar, sometimes sad and slow,
    As bearing pensive airs from Pity's grave.
      Soft child of air, thou tendest on his sway,
    As gentle Ariel at the bidding hies
    Of mighty Prospero; yet other winds
    Throng to his wizard 'hest, inspiring some,
    Some melancholy, and yet soothing much                           120
    The drooping wanderer in the fading copse;
    Some terrible, with solitude and death
    Attendant on their march:--the wild Simoom,[120]
    Riding on whirling spires of burning sand,
    That move along the Nubian wilderness,
    And bury deep the silent caravan;--
    Monsoon, up-starting from his half-year sleep,
    Upon the vernal shores of Hindostan,
    And tempesting with sounds of torrent rain,
    And hail, the darkening main;--and red Sameel,                   130
    Blasting and withering, like a rivelled leaf,
    The pilgrim as he roams;--Sirocco sad,
    That pants, all summer, on the cloudless shores
    Of faint Parthenope;--deep in the mine
    Oft lurks the lurid messenger of death,
    The ghastly fiend that blows, when the pale light
    Quivers, and leaves the gasping wretch to die;--
    The imp, that when the hollow curfew knolls,
    Wanders the misty marish, lighting it
    At night with errant and fantastic flame.                        140
    Spirit of air, these are thy ministers,
    That wait thy will; but thou art all in all,
    And dead without thee were the flower, the leaf,
    The waving forest rivelled, the great sea
    Still, the lithe birds of heaven extinct, and ceased
    The soul of melting music.
                              This fair scene
    Lives in thy tender touch, for so it seems;
    Whilst universal nature owns thy sway;
    From the mute insect on the summer pool,                         150
    That with long cobweb legs, firm as on earth
    The ostrich skims, flits idly to and fro,
    Making no dimple on the watery mass;
    To the huge grampus, spouting, as he rolls,
    A cataract, amid the cold clear sky,
    And furrowing far and wide the northern deep.
      Thy presence permeates and fills the whole!
    As the poor butterfly, that, painted gay,
    With mealy wings, red, amber, white, or dropped
    With golden stains, floats o'er the yellow corn,                 160
    Idly, as bent on pastime, while the morn
    Smiles on his devious voyage; if inclosed
    In the exhausted prison,[121] whence thy breath
    With suction slow is drawn, he feels the change
    How dire! in palsied inanition drops!
    Weak flags his weary wing, and weaker yet;
    His frame with tremulous convulsion moves
    A moment, and the next is still in death.
      So were the great and glorious world itself;
    The tenants of its continents, all ceased!                       170
    A wide, a motionless, a putrid waste,
    Its seas! How droops the languid mariner,
    When not a breath, along the sluggish main,
    Strays on the sultry surface as it sleeps;
    When far away the winds are flown, to dash
    The congregated ocean on the Cape
    Of Southern Africa, leaving the while
    The flood's vast surface noiseless, waveless, white,
    Beneath Mozambique's long-reflected woods,
    A gleaming mirror, spread from east to west,                     180
    Where the still ship, as on a bed of glass,
    Sits motionless. Awake, ye hurricanes!
    Ye winds that harrow up the wintry waste,
    Awake! for Thunder in his sounding car,
    Flashing thick lightning from the rolling wheels,
    And the red volley, charged with instant death,
    Were music to this lingering, sickening calm,
    The same eternal sunshine; still, all still,
    Without a vapour, or a sound.
                                      If thus,                       190
    Beneath the burning, breathless atmosphere,
    Faint Nature sickening droop; who shall ascend
    The height, where Silence, since the world began,
    Has sat on Cimborazzo's highest peak,
    A thousand toises o'er the cloud's career,
    Soaring in finest ether? Far below,
    He sees the mountains burning at his feet,
    Whose smoke ne'er reached his forehead; never there,
    Though the black whirlwind shake the distant shores,
    The passing gale has murmured; never there                       200
    The eagle's cry has echoed; never there
    The solitary condor's weary wing
    Hath yet ascended!
                                  Let the rising thought
    Beyond the confines of this vapoury vault
    Be lifted, to the boundless void of space,
    How dread, how infinite! where other worlds,
    Ten million and ten million leagues aloft,
    In other precincts with their shadows roll.
    There roams the sole erratic comet, borne                        210
    With lightning speed, yet twice three hundred years
    Its destined course accomplishing.
                                      Then whirled,
    Far from the attractive orb of central fire,
    Back through the dim and infinite abyss,
    Dread flaming visitant, ere thou return'st,
    Empires may rise and fail; the palaces,
    That shone on earth, may vanish like the dews
    Of morning, scarce illumined ere they fly.
    Dread flaming visitant, who that pursues                         220
    Thy long and lonely voyage, ev'n in thought,
    (Till thought itself seem in the effort lost,)
    But tremblingly exclaims, There is a God:
    There is a God who lights ten thousand suns,[122]
    Round which revolve worlds wheeling amid worlds.
    He launched thy voyage through the vast abyss,
    He hears his universe, through all its orbs,
    As with one voice, proclaim,
                                    There is a God!
      Lifted above this dim diurnal sphere,                          230
    So fancy, rising with her theme, ascends,
    And voyaging the illimitable void,
    Where comets flame, sees other worlds and suns
    Emerge, and on this earth, like a dim speck,
    Looks down: nor in the wonderful and vast
    Of the dread scene magnificent, she views
    Alone the Almighty Ruler, but the web
    That shines in summer time, and only seen
    In the slant sunbeam, wakes a moral thought.
    In autumn, when the thin long spider gains                       240
    The leafy bush's top, he from his seat
    Shoots the soft filament, like threads of air,
    Scarce seen, into the sky; and thus sustained,
    Boldly ascends into the breezy void,
    Dependent on the trembling line he wove,
    Insidious, and intent on scenes of spoil
    And death:--So mounts Ambition, and aloft
    On his proud summit meditates new scenes
    Of plunder and dominion, till the breeze
    Of fortune change, that blows to empty air                       250
    His feeble, frail support, and once again
    Leaves him a reptile, struggling in the dust!
      But what the world itself, what in His view
    Whose dread Omnipotence is over all!
    A twinkling air-thread in the vast of space.
    And what the works of that proud insect, Man!
    His mausoleums, fanes, and pyramids,
    Frown in the dusk of long-revolving years,
    While generations, as they rise and drop,
    Each following each to silence and to dust,                      260
    Point as they pass, and say, It was a God[123]
    That made them: but nor date, nor name
    Oblivion shows; cloud only, rolling on,
    And wrapping darker as it rolls, the works
    Of man!
            Now raised on Contemplation's wing,
    The blue vault, fervent with unnumbered stars,
    He ranges: speeds, as with an angel's flight,
    From orb to orb; sees distant suns illume
    The boundless space, then bends his head to earth,               270
    So poor is all he knows!
                O'er sanguine fields
    Now rides he, armed and crested like the god
    Of fabled battles; where he points, pale Death
    Strides over weltering carcases; nor leaves,--
    But still a horrid shadow, step by step,
    Stalks mocking after him, till now the noise
    Of rolling acclamation, and the shout
    Of multitude on multitude, is past:
    The scene of all his triumphs, wormy earth,                      280
    Closes upon his perishable pride;
    For "dust he is, and shall to dust return"!
    But Conscience, a small voice from heaven replies,
    Conscience shall meet him in another world.
      Let man, then, walk meek, humble, pure, and just;
    Though meek, yet dignified; though humble, raised,
    The heir of life and immortality;
    Conscious that in this awful world he stands,
    He only of all living things, ordained
    To think, and know, and feel, there is a God!                    290
      Child of the air, though most I love to hear
    Thy gentle summons whisper, when the Spring,
    At the first carol of the village lark,
    Looks out and smiles, or June is in her car;
    Not undelightful is the purer air
    In winter, when the keen north-east is high,
    When frost fantastic his cold garland weaves
    Of brittle flowers, or soft-succeeding snows
    Gather without apace, and heavy load
    The berried sweetbrier, clinging to my pane.                     300
    The blackbird, then, that marks the ruddy pods
    Peep through the snow, though silent is his song,
    Yet, pressed by cold and hunger, ventures near.
    The robin group, familiar, muster round
    The garden-shed, where, at his dinner set,
    The laboured hind strews here and there a crumb
    From his brown bread; then heedless of the winds
    That blow without, and sweep the shivered snow,
    Sees from his broken tube the smoke ascend
    On an inverted barrow, as in state                               310
    He sits, though poor, the monarch of the scene,
    As pondering deep the garden's future state,
    His kingdom; the rude instruments of death
    Lie at his feet, fashioned with simple skill,
    With which he hopes to snare the prowling race,
    The mice, rapacious of his vernal hopes.
      So seated, on the spring he ruminates,
    And solemn as a sophi,[124] moves nor hand,
    Nor eye, till haply some more venturous bird,
    (The crumbs exhausted that he lately strewed                     320
    Upon the groundsill,) with often dipping beak,
    And sidelong look, as asking larger dole,
    Comes hopping to his feet: and say, ye great,
    Ye mighty monarchs of this earthly scene,
    What nobler views can elevate the heart
    Of a proud patriot king, than thus to chase
    The bold rapacious spoilers from the field,
    And with an eye of merciful regard
    To look on humble worth, wet from the storm,
    And chilled by indigence!                                        330
                But thoughts like these
    Ill suit the radiant summer's rosy prime,
    And the still temper of the calm blue sky.
    The sunny shower is past; at intervals
    The silent glittering drops descend; and mark,
    Upon the blue bank of yon western cloud,
    That looms direct against the emerging orb,
    How bright, how beautiful the rainbow's hues
    Steal out, how stately bends the graceful arch
    Above the hills, and tinging at his foot                         340
    The mead and trees! Fancy might think young Hope
    Pants for the vision, and with ardent eye
    Pursues the unreal shade, and spreads her hands,
    Weeping to see it fade, as all her dreams
    Have faded.
            These, O Air! are but the toys,
    That sometimes deck thy fairy element;
    So oft the eye observant loves to trace
    The colours, and the shadows, and the forms,
    That wander o'er the veering atmosphere.                         350
    See, in the east, the rare parhelia shine
    In mimic glory, and so seem to mock
    (Fixed parallel to the ascending orb)
    The majesty, the splendour, and the shape,
    Of the sole luminary that informs
    The world with light and heat! The halo-ring
    Bends over all!
                With desultory shafts,
    And long and arrowy glance, the night-lights[125] shoot
    Pale coruscations o'er the northern sky;                         360
    Now lancing to the cope, in sheets of flame,
    Now wavering wild, as the reflected wave,
    On the arched roof of the umbrageous grot.
    Hence Superstition dreams of armaments,
    Of fiery conflicts, and of bleeding fields
    Of slaughter; so on great Jerusalem,
    Ere yet she fell, the flaming meteor glared;
    A waving sword ensanguined seemed to point
    To the devoted city, and a voice
    Was heard, Depart, depart![126]                                  370
                                The atmosphere,
    That with the ceaseless hurry of its clouds,
    Encircles the round globe, resembles oft
    The passing sunshine, or the glooms that stray
    O'er every human spirit.
                            Thin light streaks
    Of thought pass vapoury o'er the vacant mind,
    And fade to nothing. Now fantastic gleams
    Play, flashing or expiring, of gay hope,
    Or deep despair; then clouds of sadness close                    380
    In one dark settled gloom, and all the man
    Droops, in despondence lost.
                                  Aerial tints
    Please most the pensive poet: and the views
    He forms, though evanescent, and as vain
    As the air's mockery, seem to his eye
    Ev'n as substantial images, and shapes,
    Till in a hurrying rack they all dissolve.
      So in the cloudless sky, amusive shines
    The soft and mimic scenery; distant hills                        390
    That, in refracted light, hang beautiful
    Beneath the golden car of eve, ere yet
    The daylight lingering fades.
                            Hence, on the heights
    Of Apennine, far stretching to the south,
    The goat-herd, while the westering sun, far off,
    Hangs o'er the hazy ocean's brim, beholds
    In the horizon's faintly-glowing verge
    A landscape,[127] like the rainbow, rise, with rocks
    That softened shine, and shores that trend away,                 400
    Beneath the winding woods of Sicily,
    And Etna, smouldering in the still pale sky;
    And dim Messina, with her spires, and bays
    That wind among the mountains, and the tower
    Of Faro, gleaming on the tranquil straits;
    Unreal all, yet on the air impressed,
    From light's refracted ray,[128] the shadow seems
    The certain scene: the hind astonished views,
    Yet most delighted, till at once the light
    Changes, and all has vanished!                                   410
                                But to him,
    How different in still air the unreal view,
    Who wanders in Arabian solitudes,
    When, faint with thirst, he sees illusive streams[129]
    Shine in the arid desert!
                                  All around,
    A silent waste of dark gray sand is spread,
    Like ashes; not a speck in heaven appears,
    But the red sun, high in his burning noon,
    Shoots down intolerable fire: no sound                           420
    Of beast, or blast, or moving insect, stirs
    The horrid stillness. Oh! what hand will guide
    The pilgrim, panting in the trackless dust,
    To where the pure and sparkling fountain cheers
    The green oasis.[130] See, as now his lip
    Hangs parched and quivering, see before him spread
    The long and level lake!
                              He gazes; still
    He gazes, till he drops upon the sands,
    And to the vision stretches, as he faints,                       430
    His feeble hand.
                      Come, Sylph of Summer, come!
    Return to these green pastures, that, remote
    From fiery blasts, or deadly blistering frosts,
    Beneath the temperate atmosphere rejoice!
      A crown of flame, a javelin in his hand,
    Like the red arrow that the lightning shoots
    Through night, impetuous steeds, and burning wheels,
    That, as they whirl, flash to the cope of heaven,
    Proclaim the angel of the world of fire!                         440
      The ocean-king, lord of the waters, rides
    High on his hissing car, whose concave skirrs
    The azure deep beneath him, flashing wide,
    As to the sun the dark-green wave upturns,
    And foaming far behind: sea-horses breast
    The bickering surge, with nostrils sounding far,
    And eyes that flash above the wave, and necks,
    Whose mane, like breakers whitening in the wind,
    Toss through the broken foam: he kingly bears
    His trident sceptre high; around him play                        450
    Nereids, and sea-maids, singing as he rides
    Their choral song: huge Triton, weltering on,
    With scaly train, at times his wreathed shell
    Sounds, that the caverns of old ocean shake!
      But milder thou, soft daughter of the air,
    Sylph of the Summer, come! the silent shower
    Is past, and 'mid the dripping fern, the wren
    Peeps, till the sun looks through the clouds again.
      Oh, come, and breathe thy gentler influence,
    And send a home-felt quiet to my heart,                          460
    Soothed as I hear, by fits, thy whisper run,
    Stirring the tall acacia's pendent leaves,
    And through yon hazel alley rustling soft
    Upon the vacant ear!
                            Yon eastern downs,
    That weather-fence the blossoms of the vale,
    Where winds from hill to hill the mighty Dike,[131]
    Of Woden named, with many an antique mound,
    The warrior's grave, bids exercise awake,
    And health, the breeze of morning to inhale:                     470
    Meantime, remote from storms, the myrtle blooms
    Beneath my southern sash.
                              The hurricane
    May rend the pines of snowy Labrador,
    The blasting whirlwinds of the desert sweep
    The Nubian wilderness--we fear them not;
    Nor yet, my country, do thy breezes bear,
    From citrons, or the blooming orange-grove,
    As in Rousillon's jasmine-bordered vales,
    Incense at eve.                                                  480
                  But temperate airs are thine,
    England; and as thy climate, so thy sons
    Partake the temper of thine isle; not rude,
    Nor soft, voluptuous, nor effeminate;
    Sincere, indeed, and hardy, as becomes
    Those who can lift their look elate, and say,
    We strike for injured freedom; and yet mild,
    And gentle, when the voice of charity
    Pleads like a voice from heaven: and, thanks to GOD,
    The chain that fettered Afric's groaning race,                   490
    The murderous chain, that, link by link, dropped blood,
    Is severed; we have lost that foul reproach
    To all our virtuous boast!
                                          Humanity,
    England, is thine! not _that_ false substitute,
    That meretricious sadness, which, all sighs
    For lark or lambkin, yet can hear unmoved
    The bloodiest orgies of blood-boltered France;
    Thine is consistent, manly, rational,
    Nor needing the false glow of sentiment                          500
    To melt it into sympathy, but mild,
    And looking with a gentle eye on all;
    Thy manners open, social, yet refined,
    Are tempered with reflection; gaiety,
    In her long-lighted halls, may lead the dance,
    Or wake the sprightly chord; yet nature, truth,
    Still warm the ingenuous heart: there is a blush
    With those most gay, and lovely; and a tear
    With those most manly!
                                Temperate Liberty                    510
    Hath yet the fairest altar on thy shores;
    Such, and so warm with patriot energy,
    As raised its arm when a false Stuart fled;
    Yet mingled with deep wisdom's cautious lore,
    That when it bade a Papal tyrant pause
    And tremble, held the undeviating reins
    On the fierce neck of headlong Anarchy.
      Thy Church, (nor here let zealot bigotry,
    Vaunting, condemn all altars but its own),
    Thy Church, majestic, but not sumptuous,                         520
    Sober, but not austere, with lenity
    Tempering her fair pre-eminence, sustains
    Her liberal charities, yet decent state.
      The tempest is abroad; the fearful sounds
    Of armament, and gathering tumult, fill
    The ear of anxious Europe. If, O GOD!
    It is thy will, that in the storm of death,
    When we have lifted the brave sword in vain,
    We too should sink, sustain us in that hour!
      Meantime be mine, in cheerful privacy,                         530
    To wait Thy will, not sanguine, nor depressed;
    In even course, nor splendid, nor obscure,
    To steal through life among my villagers!
    The hum of the discordant crowd, the buzz
    Of faction, the poor fly that threads the air
    Self-pleased, the wasp that points its tiny sting
    Unfelt, pass by me like the idle wind
    That I regard not; while the Summer Sylph,
    That whispers through the laurels, wakes the thought
    Of quietude, and home-felt happiness,                            540
    And independence, in a land I love!

[114] Inscribed to William Sotheby, Esq.

[115] The last point of Cornwall.

[116] Dr Henry Bowles, on the medical staff sent to Gibraltar during the
pestilential fever there.

[117] South coast of Portugal.

[118] An urn is erected to his memory in Bremhill Garden.

[119] AEolian harp.

[120] Simoom, Sameel, destructive winds in the deserts of Asia. See
Bruce, &c.

[121] Air-pump.

[122] Fixed stars.

[123] So the Arabs say, speaking of the stupendous monuments in the
deserts.

[124] Title of the Persian Emperor.

[125] Aurora Borealis.

[126] From Josephus.

[127] A curious effect of vision in the air from refraction, by which
objects appear distinct, and as real, which are below the horizon. This
often appears on the coast of Italy, and has been sometimes observed
from our shores, where a line of the opposite coast appears.

[128] The Fata Morgana are all explained in books; the effect is
ascribed to reflection and refraction, as one alone will not correspond
with the effects. The time when they occur is not the evening; but the
looming in our country is towards the evening.

[129] The Mirage: see Denon.

[130] Green spots in the desert.

[131] Wandsdike, on the Marlborough Downs, opposite.


THE HARP OF HOEL.[132]

    It was a high and holy sight,                                      1
      When Baldwin[133] and his train,
    With cross and crosier gleaming bright,
    Came chanting slow the solemn rite,
      To Gwentland's[134] pleasant plain.

    High waved before, in crimson pride,                               2
      The banner of the Cross;
    The silver rood was then descried,
    While deacon youths, from side to side,
      The fuming censer toss.

    The monks went two and two along,                                  3
      And winding through the glade,
    Sang, as they passed, a holy song,
    And harps and citterns, 'mid the throng,
      A mingled music made.

    They ceased; when lifting high his hand,                           4
      The white-robed prelate cried:
    Arise, arise, at Christ's command,
    To fight for his name in the Holy Land,
      Where a Saviour lived and died!

    With gloves of steel, and good broadsword,                         5
      And plumed helm of brass,
    Hoel, Landoga's youthful lord,
    To hear the father's holy word,
      Came riding to the pass.

    More earnestly the prelate spake:                                  6
      Oh, heed no earthly loss!
    He who will friends and home forsake,
    Now let him kneel, and fearless take
      The sign of the Holy Cross.

    Then many a maid her tresses rent,                                 7
      And did her love implore:
    Oh, go not thou to banishment!
    For me, and the pleasant vales of Gwent,
      Thou never wilt see more.

    And many a mother, pale with fears,                                8
      Did kiss her infant son;
    Said, Who will shield thy helpless years,
    Who dry thy widowed mother's tears,
      When thy brave father's gone?

    GOD, with firm voice the prelate cried,                            9
      God will the orphan bless;
    Sustain the widow's heart, and guide
    Through the hard world, obscure and wild,
      The poor and fatherless.

    Then might you see a shade o'ercast                               10
      Brave Hoel's ruddy hue,
    But soon the moment's thought is past:--
    Hark, hark, 'tis the trumpet's stirring blast!
      And he grasped his bow of yew.

    Then might you see a moment's gloom                               11
      Sit in brave Hoel's eye:
    Make in the stranger's land my tomb,
    I follow thee, be it my doom,
      O CHRIST, to live or die!

    No more he thought, though rich in fee,                           12
      Of any earthly loss,
    But lighting, on his bended knee,
    Said, Father, here I take from thee
      The sign of the Holy Cross.

    I have a wife, to me more dear                                    13
      Then is my own heart's blood;
    I have a child, (a starting tear,
    Which soon he dried, of love sincere,
      On his stern eyelid stood);

    To them farewell! O God above,                                    14
      Thine is the fate of war;
    But oh! reward Gwenlhian's[135] love,
    And may my son a comfort prove,
      When I am distant far!

    Farewell, my harp!--away, away!                                   15
      To the field of death I go;
    Welcome the trumpet's blast, the neigh
    Of my bold and barbed steed of gray,
      And the clang of the steel crossbow!

    Gwenlhian sat in the hall at night,                               16
      Counting the heavy hours;
    She saw the moon, with tranquil light,
    Shine on the circling mountain's height,
      And the dim castle towers.

    Deep stillness was on hill and glen,                              17
      When she heard a bugle blow;
    A trump from the watch-tower answered then,
    And the tramp of steeds, and the voice of men,
      Were heard in the court below.

    The watch-dog started at the noise,                               18
      Then crouched at his master's feet;
    He knew his step, he heard his voice;
    But who can now like her rejoice,
      Who flies her own lord to greet?

    And soon her arms his neck enfold:                                19
      But whence that altered mien!
    O say, then, is thy love grown cold,
    Or hast thou been hurt by the robbers bold,
      That won in the forest of Dean?

    Oh no, he cried, the God above,                                   20
      Who all my soul can see,
    Knows my sincere, my fervent love;
    If aught my stern resolve could move,
      It were one tear from thee.

    But I have sworn, in the Holy Land,--                             21
      Need I the sequel speak;
    Too well, she cried, I understand!
    Then grasped in agony his hand,
      And hid her face on his cheek.

    My loved Gwenlhian, weep not so,                                  22
      From the lid that tear I kiss;
    Though to the wars far off I go,
    Betide me weal, betide me woe,
      We yet may meet in bliss.

    Fourteen suns their course had rolled,                            23
      When firmly thus he spake;
    Hear now my last request: behold
    This ring, it is of purest gold,
       Love, keep it for my sake!

    When summers seven have robed each tree,                          24
      And clothed the vales with green,
    If I come not back, then thou art free,
    To wed or not, and to think of me,
      As I had never been!

    Nay, answer not,--what wouldst thou say!
      Come, let my harp be brought;
    For the last time, I fain would play,
    Ere yet we part, our favourite lay,
      And cheat severer thought:

    THE AIR.

      Oh, cast every care to the wind,
        And dry, best beloved, the tear!
      Secure, that thou ever shalt find,
        The friend of thy bosom sincere.
    Still friendship shall live in the breast of the brave,
    And we'll love, the long day, where the forest-trees wave.

      I have felt each emotion of bliss,
        That affection the fondest can prove,
      Have received on my lip the first kiss
        Of thy holy and innocent love;
      But perish each hope of delight,
        Like the flashes of night on the sea,
      If ever, though far from thy sight,
        My soul is forgetful of thee!
    Still the memory shall live in the breast of the brave,
    How we loved, the long day, where the forest-trees wave.

    Now bring my boy; may God above                                   26
      Shower blessings on his head!
    May he requite his mother's love,
    And to her age a comfort prove,
      When I perhaps am dead!

    The beams of morn on his helm did play,                           27
      And aloud the bugle blew,
    Then he leaped on his harnessed steed of gray,
    And sighed to the winds as he galloped{f} away,
      Adieu, my heart's love, adieu!

    And now he has joined the warrior train                           28
      Of knights and barons bold,
    That, bound to Salem's holy plain,
    Across the gently-swelling main,
      Their course exulting hold.

    With a cross of gold, as on they passed,                          29
      The crimson streamers flew;
    The shields hung glittering round the mast,
    And on the waves a radiance cast,
      Whilst all the trumpets blew.

    O'er the Severn-surge, in long array,                             30
      So, the proud galleys went,
    Till soon, as dissolved in ether gray,
    The woods, and the shores, and the Holms[136] steal away,
      And the long blue hills of Gwent.

[132] This lyrical ballad is founded on a story connected with an old
Welsh melody. I have placed the circumstance in the time of the
Crusades.

[133] Archbishop of Canterbury, who preached the Crusade in Wales.

[134] Monmouthshire.

[135] The Welsh tune is called the "Remembrance of Gwenlhian," the name
of the woman.

[136] Islands in the Bristol Channel.


PART II.

    High on the hill, with moss o'ergrown,                             1
      A hermit chapel stood;
    It spoke the tale of seasons gone,
    And half-revealed its ivied stone.
      Amid the beechen wood.

    Here often, when the mountain trees                                2
      A leafy murmur made,
    Now still, now swaying to the breeze,
    (Sounds that the musing fancy please),
      The widowed mourner strayed.

    And many a morn she climbed the steep,                             3
      From whence she might behold,
    Where, 'neath the clouds, in shining sweep,
    And mingling with the mighty deep,
      The sea-broad Severn rolled.

    Her little boy beside her played,                                  4
      With sea-shells in his hand;
    And sometimes, 'mid the bents delayed,
    And sometimes running onward, said,
      Oh, where is Holy Land!

    My child, she cried, my prattler dear!                             5
      And kissed his light-brown hair;
    Her eyelid glistened with a tear,
    And none but God above could hear,
      That hour, her secret prayer.

    As thus she nursed her secret woes,                                6
      Oft to the wind and rain
    She listened, at sad autumn's close,
    Whilst many a thronging shadow rose,
      Dark-glancing o'er her brain.

    Now lonely to the cloudy height                                    7
      Of the steep hill she strays;
    Below, the raven wings his flight,
    And often on the screaming kite
      She sees the wild deer gaze.

    The clouds were gathered on its brow,                              8
      The warring winds were high;
    She heard a hollow voice, and now
    She lifts to heaven a secret vow,
      Whilst the king of the storm rides by.

    Seated on a craggy rock,                                           9
      What aged man appears!
    There is no hind, no straggling flock;
    Comes the strange shade my thoughts to mock,
      And shake my soul with fears?

    Fast drive the hurrying clouds of morn;                           10
      A pale man stands confessed;
    With look majestic, though forlorn,
    A mirror in his hand, and horn
      Of ivory on his breast.

    Daughter of grief, he gently said,                                11
      And beckoned her: come near;
    Now say, what would you give to me,
    If you brave Hoel's form might see,
      Or the sound of his bugle hear!

    Hoel, my love, where'er thou art,                                 12
      All England I would give,[137]
    If, never, never more to part,
    I now could hold thee to my heart,
      For whom alone I live!

    He placed the white horn to her ear,                              13
      And sudden a sweet voice
    Stole gently, as of fairies near,
    While accents soft she seemed to hear,
      Daughter of grief, rejoice!

    For soon to love and thee I fly,                                  14
      From Salem's hallowed plain!
    The mirror caught her turning eye,
    As pale in death she saw him lie,
      And sinking 'mid the slain.

    She turned to the strange phantom-man,                            15
      But she only saw the sky,
    And the clouds on the lonely mountains' van,
    And the Clydden-Shoots,[138] that rushing ran,
      To meet the waves of Wye.

    Thus seven long years had passed away,--                          16
      She heard no voice of mirth;
    No minstrel raised his festive lay,
    At the sad close of the drisly day,
      Beside the blazing hearth.

    She seemed in sorrow, yet serene,                                 17
      No tear was on her face;
    And lighting oft her pensive mien,
    Upon her languid look was seen
      A meek attractive grace.

    In beauty's train she yet might vie,                              18
      For though in mourning weeds,
    No friar, I deem, that passed her by,
    Ere saw her dark, yet gentle eye,
      But straight forgot his beads.

    Eineon, generous and good,                                        19
      Alone with friendship's aid,
    Eineon, of princely Rhys's blood,
    Who 'mid the bravest archers stood,
      To sooth her griefs essayed.

    He had himself been early tried                                   20
      By stern misfortune's doom;
    For she who loved him drooped and died,
    And on the green hill's flowery side
      He raised her grassy tomb.

    What marvel, in his lonely heart,                                 21
      To faith a friendship true,
    If, when her griefs she did impart,
    And tears of memory oft would start,
      If more than pity grew.

    With converse mild he oft would seek                              22
      To sooth her sense of care;
    As the west wind, with breathings weak,
    Wakes, on the hectic's faded cheek
      A smile of faint despair.

    The summer's eve was calm and still,                              23
      When once his harp he strung;
    Soft as the twilight on the hill,
    Affection seemed his heart to fill,
      Whilst eloquent he sung:

    When Fortune to all thy warm hopes was unkind,
      And the morn of thy youth was o'erclouded with woe,
    In me, not a stranger to grief, thou should'st find,
      All that friendship and kindness and truth could bestow.

    Yes, the time it has been, when my soul was oppressed,
      But no longer this heart would for heaviness pine,
    Could I lighten the load of an innocent breast,
      And steal but a moment of sadness from thine.

    He paused, then with a starting tear,                             24
      And trembling accent, cried,
    O lady, hide that look severe,--
    The voice of love, of friendship hear,
      And be again a bride.

    Mourn not thy much-loved Hoel lost,--                             25
      Lady, he is dead, is dead,--
    Far distant wanders his pale ghost,--
    His bones by the white surge are tossed,
      And the wave rolls o'er his head.

    She said, Sev'n years their course have rolled,                   26
      Since thus brave Hoel spake,
    When last I heard his voice, Behold,
    This ring,--it is of purest gold,--
      Then, keep it for my sake.

    When summers seven have robed each tree,                          27
      And decked the coombs with green,
    If I come not back, then thou art free,
    To wed or not, and to think of me
      As I had never been.

    Those seven sad summers now are o'er,                             28
      And three I yet demand;
    If in that space I see no more
    The friend I ever must deplore,
      Then take a mourner's hand.

    The time is passed:--the laugh, the lay,                          29
      The nuptial feast proclaim;
    From many a rushing torrent gray,
    From many a wild brook's wandering way,
      The hoary minstrels came.

    From Kymin's crag, with fragments strewed;                        30
      From Skirid, bleak and high;
    From Penalt's shaggy solitude;
    From Wyndcliff, desolate and rude,
      That frowns o'er mazy Wye.

    With harps the gallery glittered bright,--                        31
      The pealing rafters rung;
    Far off upon the woods of night,
    From the tall window's arch, the light
      Of tapers clear was flung.

    The harpers ceased the acclaiming lay,                            32
      When, with descending beard,
    Scallop, and staff his steps to stay,
    As, foot-sore, on his weary way,
      A pilgrim wan appeared.

    Now lend me a harp for St Mary's sake,                            33
      For my skill I fain would try,
    A poor man's offering to make,
    If haply still my hand may wake
      Some pleasant melody.

    With scoffs the minstrel crowd replied,                           34
      Dost thou a harp request!
    And loud in mirth, and swelled with pride,
    Some his rain-dripping hair deride,
      And some his sordid vest.

    Pilgrim, a harp shall soon be found,                              35
      Young Hoel instant cried;
    There lies a harp upon the ground,
    And none hath ever heard its sound,
      Since my brave father died.

    The harp is brought: upon the frame                               36
      A filmy cobweb hung;
    The strings were few, yet 'twas the same;
    The old man drawing near the flame,
      The chords imperfect rung:

        Oh! cast every care to the wind,
          And dry, best beloved, the tear;
        Secure that thou ever shalt find
          The friend of thy bosom sincere.

    She speechless gazed:--he stands confessed,--                     37
      The dark eyes of her Hoel shine;
    Her heart has forgotten it e'er was oppressed,
    And she murmurs aloud, as she sinks on his breast,
      Oh! press my heart to thine.

    He turned his look a little space,                                38
      To hide the tears of joy;
    Then rushing, with a warm embrace,
    Cried, as he kissed young Hoel's face,
      My boy, my heart-loved boy!

    Proud harpers, strike a louder lay,--                             39
      No more forlorn I bend!
    Prince Eineon, with the rest, be gay,
    Though fate hath torn a bride away,
      Accept a long-lost friend.

       *       *       *       *       *

    This tale I heard, when at the close of day
    The village harper tuned an ancient lay;
    He struck his harp, beneath a ruin hoar,
    And sung of love and truth, in days of yore,
    And I retained the song, with counsel sage,
    To teach _one_ lesson to a wiser age!

[137]

"Wales, England, and Llewellyn, All would I give for a sight of
William."

_Giraldus_, vol. i. p. 46.

[138] "Nearly through the centre of the hill that backs the village
(Landoga) is a deep ravine, called Clydden-Shoots, which, when the
springs are full, forms a beautiful cascade."--_Heath._


AVENUE IN SAVERNAKE FOREST.

    How soothing sound the gentle airs that move
    The innumerable leaves, high overhead,
    When autumn first, from the long avenue,
    That lifts its arching height of ancient shade,
    Steals here and there a leaf!
                                  Within the gloom,
    In partial sunshine white, some trunks appear,
    Studding the glens of fern; in solemn shade
    Some mingle their dark branches, but yet all,
    All make a sad sweet music, as they move,
    Not undelightful to a stranger's heart.
    They seem to say, in accents audible,
    Farewell to summer, and farewell the strains
    Of many a lithe and feathered chorister,
    That through the depth of these incumbent woods
    Made the long summer gladsome.
                                      I have heard
    To the deep-mingling sounds of organs clear,
    (When slow the choral anthem rose beneath),
    The glimmering minster, through its pillared aisles,
    Echo;--but not more sweet the vaulted roof
    Rang to those linked harmonies, than here
    The high wood answers to the lightest breath
    Of nature.
                    Oh, may such sweet music steal,
    Soothing the cares of venerable age,[139]
    From public toil retired: may it awake,
    As, still and slow, the sun of life declines,
    Remembrances, not mournful, but most sweet;
    May it, as oft beneath the sylvan shade
    Their honoured owner strays, come like the sound
    Of distant seraph harps, yet speaking clear!
    How poor is every sound of earthly things,
    When heaven's own music waits the just and pure!

[139] The Earl of Aylesbury.


DIRGE OF NELSON.

    Toll Nelson's knell! a soul more brave
    Ne'er triumphed on the green-sea wave!
    Sad o'er the hero's honoured grave,
                                Toll Nelson's knell!

    The ball of Death unerring flew;
    His cheek has lost its ardent hue;
    He sinks, amid his gallant crew!
                                Toll Nelson's knell!

    Yet lift, brave chief, thy dying eyes;
    Hark! loud huzzas around thee rise;
    Aloft the flag of conquest flies!
                                The day is won!

    The day is won--peace to the brave!
    But whilst the joyous streamers wave,
    We'll think upon the victor's grave!
                                Peace to the brave!


DEATH OF CAPTAIN COOKE,

OF "THE BELLEROPHON," KILLED IN THE SAME BATTLE.

    When anxious Spain, along her rocky shore,
    From cliff to cliff returned the sea-fight's roar;
    When flash succeeding flash, tremendous broke
    The haze incumbent, and the clouds of smoke,
    As oft the volume rolled away, thy mien,
    Thine eye, serenely terrible, was seen,
    My gallant friend.--Hark! the shrill bugle[140] calls,
    Is the day won! alas, he falls--he falls!
    His soul from pain, from agony release!
    Hear his last murmur, Let me die in peace![141]
      Yet still, brave Cooke, thy country's grateful tear,
    Shall wet the bleeding laurel on thy bier.
    But who shall wake to joy, through a long life
    Of sadness, thy beloved and widowed wife,
    Who now, perhaps, thinks how the green seas foam,
    That bear thy victor ship impatient home!
      Alas! the well-known views,--the swelling plain,
    Thy laurel-circled home, endeared in vain,
    The brook, the church, those chestnuts darkly-green,[142]
    Yon fir-crowned summit,[143] and the village scene,
    Wardour's long sweep of woods, the nearer mill,
    And high o'er all, the turrets of Font Hill:
    These views, when summer comes, shall charm no more
    Him o'er whose welt'ring corse the wild waves roar,
      Enough: 'twas Honour's voice that awful cried,
    Glory to him who for his country died!
    Yet dreary is her solitude who bends
    And mourns the best of husbands, fathers, friends!
    Oh! when she wakes at midnight, but to shed
    Fresh tears of anguish on her lonely bed,
    Thinking on him who is not; then restrain
    The tear, O God, and her sad heart sustain!
      Giver of life, may she remember still
    Thy chastening hand, and to thy sovereign will
    Bow silently; not hopeless, while her eye
    She raises to a bright futurity,
    And meekly trusts, in heaven, Thou wilt restore
    That happiness the world can give no more!

[140] He bore down into the thickest fight with a bugle-horn sounding.

[141] His own words, the last he spoke. If I have here been more
particular in this description than in that of the great commander, it
will be attributed to private friendship, Captain Cooke having lived in
the same village.

[142] Portrait of Captain Cooke's place, at Donhead.

[143] Barker's Hill, near Donhead.


BATTLE OF CORRUNA.

    The tide of fate rolls on!--heart-pierced and pale,
    The gallant soldier lies,[144] nor aught avail,
    The shield, the sword, the spirit of the brave,
    From rapine's armed hand thy vales to save,
    Land of illustrious heroes, who, of yore,
    Drenched the same plains with the invader's gore,
    Stood frowning, in the front of death, and hurled
    Defiance to the conquerors[145] of the world!
      Oh, when we hear the agonising tale
    Of those who, faint, and fugitive, and pale,
    Saw hourly, harassed through their long retreat,
    Some worn companion sinking at their feet,
    Yet even in danger and from toil more bold,
    Back on their gathering foes the tide of battle rolled;--
    While tears of pity mingle with applause,
    On the dread scene in silence let us pause;
    Yes, pause, and ask, Is not thy awful hand
    Stretched out, O God, o'er a devoted land,
    Whose vales of beauty Nature spread in vain,
    Where misery moaned on the uncultured plain,
    Where Bigotry went by with jealous scowl,
    Where Superstition muttered in his cowl;
    Whilst o'er the Inquisition's dismal holds,
    Its horrid banner waved in bleeding folds!
      And dost thou thus, Lord of all might, fulfil
    With wreck and tempests thy eternal will,
    Shatter the arms in which weak kingdoms trust,
    And strew their scattered ensigns in the dust?
    Oh, if no human wisdom may withstand
    The terrors, Lord, of thy uplifted hand;
    If the dark tide no prowess can control,
    Yet nearer, charged with dread commission, roll;
    Still may my country's ark majestic ride,
    Though sole, yet safe, on the conflicting tide;
    Till hushed be the wild rocking of the blast,
    And the red storm of death be overpast!

[144] Sir John Moore.

[145] "Near Mount Medulio, the remains of a great native force destroyed
themselves in sight of a Roman army, rather than submit to
bondage."--_Southey's Travels in Spain and Portugal._


SKETCH FROM BOWDEN HILL AFTER SICKNESS.

    How cheering are thy prospects, airy hill,
    To him who, pale and languid, on thy brow
    Pauses, respiring, and bids hail again
    The upland breeze, the comfortable sun,
    And all the landscape's hues! Upon the point
    Of the descending steep I stand.
                                     How rich,
    How mantling in the gay and gorgeous tints
    Of summer! far beneath me, sweeping on,
    From field to field, from vale to cultured vale,
    The prospect spreads its crowded beauties wide!
    Long lines of sunshine, and of shadow, streak
    The farthest distance; where the passing light
    Alternate falls, 'mid undistinguished trees,
    White dots of gleamy domes, and peeping towers,
    As from the painter's instant touch, appear.
      As thus the eye ranges from hill to hill,
    Here white with passing sunshine, there with trees
    Innumerable shaded, clustering more,
    As the long vale retires, the ample scene,
    Warm with new grace and beauty, seems to live.
      Lives! all is animation! beauty! hope!
    Snatched from the dark and dreamless grave, so late,
    Shall I pass silent, now first issuing forth,
    To feel again thy fragrance, to respire
    Thy breath, to hail thy look, thy living look,
    O Nature!
              Let me the deep joy contrast,
    Which now the inmost heart like music fills,
    With the sick chamber's sorrows, oft from morn,
    Silent, till lingering eve, save when the sound
    Of whispers steal, and bodings breathed more low,
    As friends approach the pillow: so awaked
    From deadly trance, the sick man lifts his eyes,
    Then in despondence closes them on all,
    All earth's fond wishes! Oh, how changed are now
    His thoughts! he sees rich nature glowing round,
    He feels her influence! languid with delight,
    And whilst his eye is filled with transient fire,
    He almost thinks he hears her gently say,
    Live, live! O Nature, thee, in the soft winds,
    Thee, in the soothing sound of summer leaves,
    When the still earth lies sultry; thee, methinks,
    Ev'n now I hear bid welcome to thy vales
    And woods again!
                     And I will welcome them,
    And pour, as erst, the song of heartfelt praise.
    From yonder line, where fade the farthest hills
    Which bound the blue lap of the swelling vale,
    On whose last line, seen like a beacon, hangs
    Thy tower,[146] benevolent, accomplished Hoare,
    To where I stand, how wide the interval!
    Yet instantaneous, to the hurrying eye
    Displayed; though peeping towers and villages
    Thick scattered, 'mid the intermingling elms,
    And towns remotely marked by hovering smoke,
    And grass-green pastures with their herds, and seats
    Of rural beauty, cottages and farms,
    Unnumbered as the hedgerows, lie between!
      Roaming at large to where the gray sky bends,
    The eye scarce knows to rest, till back recalled
    By yonder ivied cloisters[147] in the plain,
    Whose turret, peeping pale above the shade,
    Smiles in the venerable grace of years.
    As the few threads of age's silver hairs,
    Just sprinkled o'er the forehead, lend a grace
    Of saintly reverence, seemly, though compared
    With blooming Mary's tresses like the morn;
    So the gray weather-stained towers yet wear
    A secret charm impressive, though opposed
    To views in verdure flourishing, the woods,
    And scenes of Attic taste, that glitter near.[148]
    O venerable pile,[149] though now no more
    The pensive passenger, at evening, hears
    The slowly-chanted vesper; or the sounds
    Of "Miserere," die along the vale;
    Yet piety and honoured age[150] retired,
    There hold their blameless sojourn, ere the bowl
    Be broken, or the silver chord be loosed.
      Nor can I pass, snatched from untimely fate,
    Without a secret prayer, that so my age,
    When many a circling season has declined,
    In charity and peace may wait its close.
      Yet still be with me, O delightful friend,
    Soothing companion of my vacant hours,
    Oh, still be with me, Spirit of the Muse!
    Not to subdue, or hold in moody spell,
    The erring senses, but to animate
    And warm my heart, where'er the prospect smiles,
    With Nature's fairest views; not to display
    Vain ostentations of a poet's art,
    But silent, and associate of my joys
    Or sorrows, to infuse a tenderness,
    A thought, that seems to mingle, as I gaze,
    With all the works of GOD. So cheer my path,
    From youth to sober manhood, till the light
    Of evening smile upon the fading scene.
      And though no pealing clarion swell my fame,
    When all my days are gone; let me not pass,
    Like the forgotten clouds of yesterday,
    Nor unremembered by the fatherless
    Of the loved village where my bones are laid.

[146] Sir Richard Hoare's tower at Stourhead.

[147] Lacock Abbey.

[148] Bowood, Mr Dickenson's and Mr Methuen's magnificent mansion.

[149] Lacock Abbey.

[150] The venerable Catholic Countess, who resides in the abbey.


SUN-DIAL, IN THE CHURCHYARD OF BREMHILL.

    So passes silent o'er the dead thy shade,
      Brief Time; and hour by hour, and day by day,
    The pleasing pictures of the present fade,
      And like a summer vapour steal away!

    And have not they, who here forgotten lie
      (Say, hoary chronicler of ages past!)
    Once marked thy shadow with delighted eye,
      Nor thought it fled, how certain, and how fast!

    Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept,
      Noting each hour, o'er mouldering stones beneath;
    The pastor and his flock alike have slept,
      And dust to dust proclaimed the stride of death.

    Another race succeeds, and counts the hour,
      Careless alike; the hour still seems to smile,
    As hope, and youth, and life, were in our power;
      So smiling and so perishing the while.

    I heard the village bells, with gladsome sound,
      When to these scenes a stranger I drew near,
    Proclaim the tidings to the village round,
      While memory wept upon the good man's bier.[151]

    Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells
      Ring merrily, when my brief days are gone;
    While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells,
      And strangers gaze upon my humble stone!

    Enough, if we may wait in calm content,
      The hour that bears us to the silent sod;
    Blameless improve the time that heaven has lent,
      And leave the issue to thy will, O God!

[151] My predecessor, Rev. Nathaniel Hume, canon residentiary and
precentor of Salisbury, a man of exemplary benevolence.




THE SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY BY SEA:

A DESCRIPTIVE AND HISTORICAL POEM.

INTRODUCTION.[152]


I need not perhaps inform the reader, that I had before written a Canto
on the subject of this poem; but I was dissatisfied with the metre, and
felt the necessity of some connecting idea that might give it a degree
of unity and coherence.

This difficulty I considered as almost inseparable from the subject; I
therefore relinquished the design of making an extended poem on events,
which, though highly interesting and poetical, were too unconnected with
each other to unite properly in one regular whole. But on being kindly
permitted to peruse the sheets of Mr Clarke's valuable work on the
_History of Navigation_, I conceived (without supposing _historically_
with him that all ideas of navigation were derived from the ark of Noah)
that I might adopt the circumstance _poetically_, as capable of
furnishing an unity of design; besides which, it had the advantage of
giving a more serious cast and character to the whole.

To obviate such objections as might be made by those who, from an
inattentive survey, might imagine there was any carelessness of
arrangement, I shall lay before the reader a general analysis of the
several books; and, I trust, he will readily perceive a leading
principle, on which the poem begins, proceeds, and ends.

I feel almost a necessity for doing this in _justice_ to myself, as some
compositions have been certainly misunderstood, where the _connexion_
might, by the least attention, have been perceived. In going over part
of the same ground which I had taken before, I could not always avoid
the use of similar expressions.

I trust I need not apologise for having, in some instances, departed
from strict historical facts. It is not true that Camoens sailed with De
Gama, though, from the authority of Voltaire, it has been sometimes
supposed that he did. There are other circumstances for which I may have
less reason to expect pardon. The Egyptians were never, or but for a
short time, a maritime nation. In answer to this, I must say, that
_history_ and _poetry_ are two things; and though the poet has no right
to _contradict_ the historian, yet, if he find two opinions upon points
of history, he may certainly take that which is most susceptible of
poetical ornament; particularly if it have sufficient plausibility, and
the sanction of respectable names.

In deducing the first maritime attempts from _Thebes_, so called from
_Thebaoth_, the _Ark_, founded by the sons of Cush, who first inhabited
the caves on the granite mountains of Ethiopia, I have followed the
idea of Bruce, which has many testimonies, particularly that of
Herodotus, in its favour. In making the ships of Ammon first pass the
straits of Babelmandel, and sail to Ophir, I have the authority of Sir
Isaac Newton. But still these points must, from their nature, be
obscure; the poet, however, has a right to build upon them, whilst what
he advances is not in _direct contradiction_ to all historical admitted
facts. He may take what is _shadowy_, if it be _plausible_, poetical,
and coherent with his general plan. Having said ingenuously thus much, I
hope I shall not be severely accused for having admitted, _en passant_,
some ideas (which may be thought visionary) in the notes, respecting the
allusion to the ark in Theocritus, the situation of Ophir, the temple of
Solomon, and the algum-tree.

I must also submit to the candour of the critic, the necessity I
sometimes felt myself under of varying the verse, and admitting, when
the subject seemed particularly to require it, a break into the measure.
He will consider, as this poem is neither didactic, nor epic, that might
lead on the mind by diversity of characters, and of prospects; it was
therefore necessary (at least I thought myself at liberty so to do) to
break the uniformity of the subject by digression, contrast, occasional
change of verse, _et cet._ But after all, at a time so unfavourable to
long poems, I doubt whether the reader will have patience to accompany
me to the end of my _circumnavigation_. If he do, and if this much
larger poetical work than I have ever attempted should be as favourably
received as what I have before published has been, I shall sincerely
rejoice.

At all events, in an age which I think has produced genuine poetry, if I
cannot say "_Ed Io, anchi, sono pittore;_" it will be a consolation to
me to reflect, that I have no otherwise courted the muse, than as the
consoler of sorrow, the painter of scenes romantic and interesting, the
handmaid of good sense, unadulterated feelings, and religious hope.

It was at first intended that the poem should consist of six books; one
book being assigned to De Gama, and another to Columbus. These have been
compressed. I was the more inclined to this course, as the great subject
of the DISCOVERY OF AMERICA is in the hands of such poets as Mr Southey
and Mr Rogers.

    DONHEAD, _Nov. 3, 1804._

[152] Dedicated to His Royal Highness George Prince of Wales (afterwards
George IV.)




ANALYSIS.

BOOK THE FIRST.


The book opens with the resting of the Ark on the mountains of the great
Indian Caucasus, considered by many authors as Ararat: the present state
of the _inhabited_ world, contrasted with its melancholy appearance
immediately after the flood. The poem returns to the situation of our
forefathers on leaving the ark; beautiful evening described. The Angel
of Destruction appears to Noah in a dream, and informs him that although
he and his family alone have escaped, the VERY ARK, which was the means
of his present preservation, shall be the cause of the future triumph of
Destruction.

In his dream, the evils in consequence of the discovery of America, the
slave-trade, _et cet._, are set before him. Noah, waking from disturbed
sleep, ascends the summit of Caucasus. An angel appears to him; tells
him that the revelations in his dream were PERMITTED BY THE ALMIGHTY;
that he is commissioned to explain everything; he presents to his view
the _shadow of the world_ as it exists; regions are pointed out; the
dispersion of mankind; the rise of superstition; the birth of a SAVIOUR,
and the triumph of Charity: that navigation shall be the means of
extending the knowledge of GOD over the globe; and though some evils
must take place, happiness and love shall finally prevail upon the
earth.


BOOK THE SECOND

Commences with an ardent wish, that as our forefather viewed the world
clearly displayed before him in a vision, so we of these late days might
be able, through the clouds of time, to look back upon the early ages of
the globe; we might then see, in their splendour, Thebes, Edom, _et
cet._; but the early history of mankind is obscure, the only certain
light is from the sacred writings. By these we are informed of the
_dispersion_ of earth's first inhabitants, after the flood. The
descendants of HAM, after this dispersion, according to Bruce, having
first gained the summits of the Ethiopian mountains, there form
subterraneous abodes. In process of time they descend, people Egypt,
build Thebes; obscure tradition of the Ark; first make voyages.

Ophir is not long afterwards discovered. This Bruce places, on most
respectable authority, at Sofala; I have ventured to place it
otherwhere, but still admitting one general idea, that when the way to
it overland was attended with difficulties, an easier course was at last
opened by sea. As to Ammon's exploits, I must shelter myself under the
authority of Sir Isaac Newton. After a sacrifice by the Egyptians, the
monsoon sets in. The ships follow its direction, as the mariners imagine
a god leads them. Hence the discovery of so much of the world by _sea_.
Reflection on commerce. The voyage of Solomon. A description of the
glory of TYRE, the most commercial mart of the early world. Tyrian
discoveries in the Mediterranean; voyages to the coast of Italy and
Spain, to the Straits, and from thence to Britain.

Tyre is destroyed, and the thought naturally arises, that Britain,
which, at the time of the splendour of the _maritime Tyrians_, was an
obscure island, is now at the summit of maritime renown; while TYRE is a
place where only "the fisherman dries his net." This leads to an
EULOGIUM ON ENGLAND; and the book concludes with the triumphs of her
fleets and armies on that very shore, on which science, and art, and
commerce, and MARITIME RENOWN, first arose.

This digression, introducing the siege of Acre, appeared to the author
not only natural, but in some measure necessary to break the uniformity
of the subject.


BOOK THE THIRD

Commences with the feelings excited by the conclusion of the last, by a
warm wish that England may for ages retain her present elevated rank.
This leads to the consideration of her NAVAL OPULENCE, which carries us
back to the subject we had left--THE FATE OF TYRE.

The history of the empires succeeding Tyre is touched on: the fall of
her destroyer, Babylon; the succession of Cyrus; the character of Cyrus,
and his want of enlarged policy, having so many means of encouraging
commerce; and his ill-fated expedition to the East Indies.

ALEXANDER THE GREAT first conceives the idea of establishing a vast
MARITIME EMPIRE: in his march of conquest, he proceeds to the last river
of the Punjab, the Hyphasis, which descends into the Indus, the sources
of which are near the mountains of CAUCASUS, WHERE THE ARK RESTED.

The Indian account of the Deluge, it is well known, resembles most
wonderfully the history of Moses. When Alexander can proceed no further,
poetical fiction introduces the person of a Brahmin, who relates the
history of the Deluge: viz., that _one sacred man was_, in this part of
the world, _miraculously preserved by an ark_; the further march of the
conqueror towards the holy spot is deprecated: his best glory shall be
derived from the sea, and from uniting either world in commerce.
Alexander is animated with the idea; and his fleet, under Nearchus,
proceeds down the Indus to the sea. This forms a middle, connected with
the account of the Deluge, book first.


BOOK THE FOURTH.

Nearchus' voyage being accomplished, and Alexandria now complete,
Commerce is represented as standing on the Pharos, and calling to all
nations. The tide of commerce would have flowed still in the track
pointed out by the sagacity of Alexander, but that a wider scene, beyond
THE ANCIENT WORLD, opens to the VIEW OF DISCOVERY. The use of the magnet
is discovered; and Henry of Portugal prosecutes the plan of opening a
passage along the coast of Africa to the East. One of his ships on its
return from the expedition has been driven from Cape Bojador (the
formidable boundary of Portuguese research) by a storm at sea. The isle
afterwards called Porto Santo is discovered. The circumstance related;
but the extraordinary appearance of a supernatural shade over the waters
at a distance excites many fears and superstitions. The attempt,
however, to penetrate the mystery, is resolved on. Zarco reaches the
island of Madeira; tomb found; which introduces the episode. At the tomb
of the first discoverer (whether this be fanciful or not, is nothing to
poetry) the Spirit of Discovery casts her eyes over the globe; she
pursues De Gama to the East; history of Camoens touched on; Columbus;
sees with triumph the discovery of a new world, and from thence extends
her ideas till the great globe is encompassed; after which she returns
to the "tranquil bosom of the Thames," with Drake, the first
circumnavigator, whose ship, after its various perils, being laid up in
that river, gives rise to some brief concluding reflections.


BOOK THE FIFTH.

Hitherto we have described only the triumphs of Discovery; but it
appears necessary that many incidental evils, special and general,
should be mentioned. Fate and miserable end of some great
commanders,--of our gallant and benevolent countryman, Cook. After the
natural feelings of regret, the mind is led to contemplate the great
advantages of his voyages: the health of seamen; the accessions to
geographical knowledge; the spirit of humanity and science; his
exploring the east part of New-Holland; and being the first to determine
the proximity of America to Asia. This circumstance leads us back from
the point whence we set out--THE ARK OF NOAH; and hence we are partly
enabled to solve, what has been for so many ages unknown, the
difficulty{g} respecting the earth's being peopled from one family.

The poem having thus gained a middle and end, the conclusion of the
whole is, that as this uncertainty in the physical world has been by
DISCOVERY cleared up, so all the apparent contradictions in the moral
world shall be reconciled. We have yet many existing evils to deplore;
but when the SUPREME DISPOSER's plan shall have been completed, then the
earth, which has been explored and enlightened by discovery and
knowledge, shall be destroyed; but the MIND OF MAN, rendered at last
perfect, shall endure through all ages, and "justify His ways from whom
it sprung."

       *       *       *       *       *

Such is the outline and plan of the following poem. I have felt myself
obliged to give this hasty analysis, thinking that self-defence almost
required it, lest a _careless_ reader might charge me with _carelessness
of arrangement_.

I must again beg it to be remembered, that History and Poetry are two
things; and that the poet has a right to build his system, not on what
is exact truth, but on what is, at least, plausible; what will form, in
the clearest manner, a WHOLE; and what is most susceptible of poetical
ornament.




THE SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY BY SEA.

BOOK THE FIRST.


    Awake a louder and a loftier strain!
    Beloved harp, whose tones have oft beguiled
    My solitary sorrows, when I left
    The scene of happier hours, and wandered far,
    A pale and drooping stranger; I have sat
    (While evening listened to the convent bell)
    On the wild margin of the Rhine, and wooed
    Thy sympathies, "a-weary of the world,"
    And I have found with thee sad fellowship,
    Yet always sweet, whene'er my languid hand                        10
    Passed carelessly o'er the responsive wires,
    While unambitious of the laurelled meed
    That crowns the gifted bard, I only asked
    Some stealing melodies, the heart might love,
    And a brief sonnet to beguile my tears!
      But I had hope that one day I might wake
    Thy strings to loftier utterance; and now,
    Bidding adieu to glens, and woods, and streams,
    And turning where, magnificent and vast,
    Main Ocean bursts upon my sight, I strike,--                      20
    Rapt in the theme on which I long have mused,--
    Strike the loud lyre, and as the blue waves rock,
    Swell to their solemn roar the deepening chords.
      Lift thy indignant billows high, proclaim
    Thy terrors, Spirit of the hoary seas!
    I sing thy dread dominion, amid wrecks,
    And storms, and howling solitudes, to Man
    Submitted: awful shade of Camoens
    Bend from the clouds of heaven.
                              By the bold tones                       30
    Of minstrelsy, that o'er the unknown surge
    (Where never daring sail before was spread)
    Echoed, and startled from his long repose
    The indignant Phantom[153] of the stormy Cape;
    Oh, let me think that in the winds I hear
    Thy animating tones, whilst I pursue
    With ardent hopes, like thee, my venturous way,
    And bid the seas resound my song! And thou,
    Father of Albion's streams, majestic Thames,
    Amid the glittering scene, whose long-drawn wave                  40
    Goes noiseless, yet with conscious pride, beneath
    The thronging vessels' shadows; nor through scenes
    More fair, the yellow Tagus, or the Nile,
    That ancient river, winds. THOU to the strain
    Shalt haply listen, that records the MIGHT
    Of OCEAN, like a giant at thy feet
    Vanquished, and yielding to thy gentle state
    The ancient sceptre of his dread domain!
      All was one waste of waves, that buried deep
    Earth and its multitudes: the Ark alone,                          50
    High on the cloudy van of Ararat,
    Rested; for now the death-commissioned storm
    Sinks silent, and the eye of day looks out
    Dim through the haze; while short successive gleams
    Flit o'er the weltering Deluge as it shrinks,
    Or the transparent rain-drops, falling few,
    Distinct and larger glisten. So the Ark
    Rests upon Ararat; but nought around
    Its inmates can behold, save o'er th' expanse
    Of boundless waters, the sun's orient orb                         60
    Stretching the hull's long shadow, or the moon
    In silence, through the silver-cinctured clouds,
    Sailing as she herself were lost, and left
    In Nature's loneliness!
                         But oh, sweet Hope,
    Thou bid'st a tear of holy ecstasy
    Start to their eye-lids, when at night the Dove,
    Weary, returns, and lo! an olive leaf
    Wet in her bill: again she is put forth,
    When the seventh morn shines on the hoar abyss:--                 70
    Due evening comes: her wings are heard no more!
    The dawn awakes, not cold and dripping sad,
    But cheered with lovelier sunshine; far away
    The dark-red mountains slow their naked peaks
    Upheave above the waste; Imaus[154] gleams;
    Fume the huge torrents on his desert sides;
    Till at the awful voice of Him who rules
    The storm, the ancient Father and his train
    On the dry land descend.
                             Here let us pause.                       80
    No noise in the vast circuit of the globe
    Is heard; no sound of human stirring: none
    Of pasturing herds, or wandering flocks; nor song
    Of birds that solace the forsaken woods
    From morn till eve; save in that spot that holds
    The sacred Ark: there the glad sounds ascend,
    And Nature listens to the breath of Life.
    The fleet horse bounds, high-neighing to the wind
    That lifts his streaming mane; the heifer lows;
    Loud sings the lark amid the rainbow's hues;                      90
    The lion lifts him muttering; MAN comes forth--
    He kneels upon the earth--he kisses it;
    And to the GOD who stretched that radiant bow,
    He lifts his trembling transports.
                                From one spot
    Alone of earth such sounds ascend. How changed
    The human prospect! when from realm to realm,
    From shore to shore, from isle to furthest isle,
    Flung to the stormy main, man's murmuring race,
    Various and countless as the shells that strew                   100
    The ocean's winding marge, are spread; from shores
    Sinensian, where the passing proas gleam
    Innumerous 'mid the floating villages:
    To Acapulco west, where laden deep
    With gold and gems rolls the superb galleon,
    Shadowing the hoar Pacific: from the North,
    Where on some snowy promontory's height
    The Lapland wizard beats his drum, and calls
    The spirits of the winds, to th' utmost South,
    Where savage Fuego shoots its cold white peaks,                  110
    Dreariest of lands, and the poor Pecherais[155]
    Shiver and moan along its waste of snows.
    So stirs the earth; and for the Ark that passed
    Alone and darkling o'er the dread abyss,
    Ten thousand and ten thousand barks are seen
    Fervent and glancing on the friths and sounds;
    From the Bermudian that, with masts inclined,
    Shoots like a dart along; to the tall ship
    That, like a stately swan, in conscious pride
    Breasts beautiful the rising surge, and throws                   120
    The gathered waters back, and seems to move
    A living thing, along her lucid way
    Streaming in white-winged glory to the sun!
    Some waft the treasures of the east; some bear
    Their country's dark artillery o'er the surge
    Frowning; some in the southern solitudes,
    Bound on discovery of new regions, spread,
    'Mid rocks of driving ice, that crash around,
    Their weather-beaten mainsail; or explore
    Their perilous way from isle to isle, and wind                   130
    The tender social tie; connecting man,
    Wherever scattered, with his fellow-man.
      How many ages rolled away ere thus,
    From NATURE'S GENERAL WRECK, the world's great scene
    Was tenanted! See from their sad abode,
    At Heaven's dread voice, heard from the solitude,
    As in the dayspring of created things,
    The sad survivors of a buried world
    Come forth; on them, though desolate their seat,
    The sky looks down with smiles; for the broad sun,               140
    That to the west slopes his untired career,
    Hangs o'er the water's brim. The aged sire,
    Now rising from his evening sacrifice,
    Amid his offspring stands, and lifts his eyes,
    Moist with a tear, to the bright bow: the fire
    Yet on the altar burns, whose trailing fume
    Goes slowly up, and marks the lucid cope
    Of the soft sky, where distant clouds hang still
    And beautiful. So placid Evening steals
    After the lurid storm, like a sweet form                         150
    Of fairy following a perturbed shape
    Of giant terror, that in darkness strode.
    Slow sinks the lord of day; the clustering clouds
    More ardent burn; confusion of rich hues,
    Crimson, and gold, and purple, bright, inlay
    Their varied edges; till before the eye,
    As their last lustre fades, small silver stars
    Succeed; and twinkling each in its own sphere,
    Thick as the frost's unnumbered spangles, strew
    The slowly-paling heavens. Tired Nature seems                    160
    Like one who, struggling long for life, had beat
    The billows, and scarce gained a desert crag,
    O'er-spent, to sink to rest: the tranquil airs
    Whisper repose. Now sunk in sleep reclines
    The Father of the world; then the sole moon
    Mounts high in shadowy beauty; every cloud
    Retires, as in the blue space she moves on
    Amid the fulgent orbs supreme, and looks
    The queen of heaven and earth. Stilly the streams
    Retiring sound; midnight's high hollow vault                     170
    Faint echoes; stilly sound the distant streams.
      When, hark! a strange and mingled wail, and cries
    As of ten thousand thousand perishing!
    A phantom, 'mid the shadows of the dead,
    Before the holy Patriarch, as he slept,
    Stood terrible:--Dark as a storm it stood
    Of thunder and of winds, like hollow seas
    Remote; meantime a voice was heard: Behold,
    Noah, the foe of thy weak race! my name
    Destruction, whom thy sons in yonder plains                      180
    Shall worship, and all grim, with mooned horns
    Paint fabling: when the flood from off the earth
    Before it swept the living multitudes,
    I rode amid the hurricane; I heard
    The universal shriek of all that lived.
    In vain they climbed the rocky heights: I struck
    The adamantine mountains, and like dust
    They crumbled in the billowy foam. My hall,
    Deep in the centre of the seas, received
    The victims as they sank! Then, with dark joy,                   190
    I sat amid ten thousand carcases,
    That weltered at my feet! But THOU and THINE
    Have braved my utmost fury: what remains
    But vengeance, vengeance on thy hated race;--
    And be that sheltering shrine the instrument!
    Thence, taught to stem the wild sea when it roars,
    In after-times to lands remote, where roamed
    The naked man and his wan progeny,
    They, more instructed in the fatal use
    Of arts and arms, shall ply their way; and thou                  200
    Wouldst bid the great deep cover thee to see
    The sorrows of thy miserable sons:
    But turn, and view in part the truths I speak.
      He said, and vanished with a dismal sound
    Of lamentation from his grisly troop.
      Then saw the just man in his dream what seemed
    A new and savage land: huge forests stretched
    Their world of wood, shading like night the banks
    Of torrent-foaming rivers, many a league
    Wandering and lost in solitudes; green isles                     210
    Here shone, and scattered huts beneath the shade
    Of branching palms were seen; whilst in the sun
    A naked infant playing, stretched his hand
    To reach a speckled snake, that through the leaves
    Oft darted, or its shining volumes rolled
    Erratic.
                 From the woods a sable man
    Came, as from hunting; in his arms he took
    The smiling child, that with the feathers played
    Which nodded on his brow; the sheltering hut                     220
    Received them, and the cheerful smoke went up
    Above the silent woods.
                                Anon was heard
    The sound as of strange thunder, from the mouths
    Of hollow engines, as, with white sails spread,
    Tall vessels, hulled like the great Ark, approached
    The verdant shores: they, in a woody cove
    Safe-stationed, hang their pennants motionless
    Beneath the palms. Meantime, with shouts and song,
    The boat rows hurrying to the land; nor long                     230
    Ere the great sea for many a league is tinged,
    While corpse on corpse, down the red torrent rolled,[156]
    Floats, and the inmost forests murmur--Blood.
      Now vast savannahs meet the view, where high
    Above the arid grass the serpent lifts
    His tawny crest:--Not far a vessel rides
    Upon the sunny main, and to the shore
    Black savage tribes a mournful captive urge,
    Who looks to heaven with anguish. Him they cast
    Bound in the rank hold of the prison-ship,                       240
    With many a sad associate in despair,
    Each panting chained to his allotted space;
    And moaning, whilst their wasted eye-balls roll.
      Another scene appears: the naked slave
    Writhes to the bloody lash; but more to view
    Nature forbad, for starting from his dream
    The just Man woke. Shuddering he gazed around;
    He saw the earliest beam of morning shine
    Slant on the hills without; he heard the breath
    Of placid kine, but troubled thoughts and sad                    250
    Arose. He wandered forth; and now far on,
    By heavy musings led, reached a ravine
    Most mild amid the tempest-riven rocks,
    Through whose dark pass he saw the flood remote
    Gray-spreading, while the mists of morn went up.
    He paused; when on his lonely pathway flashed
    A light, and sounds as of approaching wings
    Instant were heard. A radiant form appeared,
    Celestial, and with heavenly accent said:
    Noah, I come commissioned from above,                            260
    Where angels move before th' eternal throne
    Of heaven's great King in glory, to dispel
    The mists of darkness from thy sight; for know,
    Not unpermitted of th' Eternal One
    The shadows of thy melancholy dream
    Hung o'er thee slumbering: Mine the task to show
    Futurity's faint scene;--now follow me.
      He said; and up to the unclouded height
    Of that great Eastern mountain,[157] that surveys
    Dim Asia, they ascended. Then his brow                           270
    The Angel touched, and cleared with whispered charm
    The mortal mist before his eyes.--At once
    (As in the skiey mirage, when the seer
    From lonely Kilda's western summit sees
    A wondrous scene in shadowy vision rise)
    The NETHER WORLD, with seas and shores, appeared
    Submitted to his view: but not as then,
    A melancholy waste, deform and sad;
    But fair as now the green earth spreads, with woods,
    Champaign, and hills, and many winding streams                   280
    Robed, the magnificent illusion rose.
    He saw in mazy longitude devolved
    The mighty Brahma-Pooter; to the East
    Thibet and China, and the shining sea
    That sweeps the inlets of Japan, and winds
    Amid the Curile and Aleutian isles,
    Pale to the north. Siberia's snowy scenes
    Are spread; Jenisca and the freezing Ob
    Appear, and many a forest's shady track
    Far as the Baltic, and the utmost bounds                         290
    Of Scandinavia; thence the eye returns:
    And lo! great Lebanon--abrupt and dark
    With pines, and airy Carmel, rising slow
    Above the midland main, where hang the capes
    Of Italy and Greece; swart Africa,
    Beneath the parching sun, her long domain
    Reveals, the mountains of the Moon, the source
    Of Nile, the wild mysterious Niger, lost
    Amid the torrid sands; and to the south
    Her stormy cape. Beyond the misty main                           300
    The weary eye scarce wanders, when behold
    Plata, through vaster territory poured;
    And Andes, sweeping the horizon's tract,
    Mightiest of mountains! whose eternal snows
    Feel not the nearer sun; whose umbrage chills
    The murmuring ocean; whose volcanic fires
    A thousand nations view, hung like the moon
    High in the middle waste of heaven; thy range,
    Shading far off the Southern hemisphere,
    A dusky file Titanic.                                            310
                                   So spread
    Before our great forefather's view the globe
    Appeared; with seas, and shady continents,
    And verdant isles, and mountains lifting dark
    Their forests, and indenting rivers, poured
    In silvery maze. And, Lo! the Angel said,
    These scenes, O Noah, thy posterity
    Shall people; but remote and scattered wide,
    They shall forget their GOD, and see no trace,
    Save dimly, of their Great Original.                             320
    Rude caves shall be their dwellings: till, with noise
    Of multitudes, imperial cities rise.
    But the Arch Fiend, the foe of GOD and man,
    Shall fling his spells; and, 'mid illusions drear,
    Blear Superstition shall arise, the earth
    Eclipsing.--Deep in caves,[158] vault within vault
    Far winding; or in night of thickest woods,
    Where no bird sings; or 'mid huge circles gray
    Of uncouth stone, her aspect wild, and pale
    As the terrific flame that near her burns,                       330
    She her mysterious rites, 'mid hymns and cries,
    Shall wake, and to her shapeless idols, vast
    And smeared with blood, or shrines of lust, shall lead
    Her votaries, maddening as she waves her torch,
    With visage more expanded, to the groans
    Of human sacrifice.
                        Nor think that love
    And happiness shall dwell in vales remote:
    The naked man shall see the glorious sun,
    And think it but enlightens his poor isle,                       340
    Hid in the watery waste; cold on his limbs
    The ocean-spray shall beat; his Deities
    Shall be the stars, the thunder, and the winds;
    And if a stranger on his rugged shores
    Be cast, his offered blood shall stain the strand.
      O wretched man! who then shall raise thee up
    From this thy dark estate, forlorn and lost?
    The Patriarch said.
                        The Angel answered mild,
    His God, who destined him to noblest ends!                       350
    But mutual intercourse shall stir at first
    The sunk and grovelling spirit, and from sleep
    The sullen energies of man rouse up,
    As of a slumbering giant. He shall walk
    Sublime amid the works of GOD: the earth
    Shall own his wide dominion; the great sea
    Shall toss in vain its roaring waves; his eye
    Shall scan the bright orbs as they roll above
    Glorious, and his expanding heart shall burn,
    As wide and wider in magnificence                                360
    The vast scene opens; in the winds and clouds,
    The seas, and circling planets, he shall see
    The shadow of a dread Almighty move.
    Then shall the Dayspring rise, before whose beam
    The darkness of the world is past:--For, hark!
    Seraphs and angel-choirs with symphonies
    Acclaiming of ten thousand golden harps,
    Amid the bursting clouds of heaven revealed,
    At once, in glory jubilant, they sing--
    God the Redeemer liveth! He who took                             370
    Man's nature on him, and in human shroud
    Veiled his immortal glory! He is risen!
    God the Redeemer liveth! And behold!
    The gates of life and immortality
    Open to all that breathe!
                              Oh, might the strains
    But win the world to love; meek Charity
    Should lift her looks and smile; and with faint voice
    The weary pilgrim of the earth exclaim,
    As close his eye-lids--Death, where is thy sting?                380
    O Grave, where is thy victory?
                                           And ye,
    Whom ocean's melancholy wastes divide,
    Who slumber to the sullen surge, awake,
    Break forth into thanksgiving, for the bark
    That rolled upon the desert deep, shall bear
    The tidings of great joy to all that live,
    Tidings of life and light.
                                      Oh, were those men,
    (The Patriarch raised his drooping looks, and said)              390
    Such in my dream I saw, who to the isles
    And peaceful sylvan scenes o'er the wide seas
    Came tilting; then their murderous instruments
    Lifted, that flashed to the indignant sun,
    Whilst the poor native died:--Oh, were those men
    Instructed in the laws of holier love,
    Thou hast displayed?
                                 The Angel meek replied--
    Call rather fiends of hell those who abuse
    The mercies they receive: that such, indeed,                     400
    On whom the light of clearer knowledge beams,
    Should wander forth, and for the tender voice
    Of charity should scatter crimes and woe,
    And drench, where'er they pass, the earth with blood,
    Might make ev'n angels weep:
                                   But the poor tribes
    That groaned and died, deem not them innocent
    As injured; more ensanguined rites and deeds
    Of deepest stain were theirs; and what if God,
    So to approve his justice, and exact                             410
    Most even retribution, blood for blood,
    Bid forth the Angel of the storm of death!
      Thou saw'st, indeed, the seeming innocence
    Of man the savage; but thou saw'st not all.
    Behold the scene more near! hear the shrill whoop
    Of murderous war! See tribes on neighbour tribes
    Rush howling, their red hatchets wielding high,
    And shouting to their barbarous gods! Behold
    The captive bound, yet vaunting direst hate,
    And mocking his tormentors, while they gash                      420
    His flesh unshrinking, tear his eyeballs, burn
    His beating breast! Hear the dark temples ring
    To groans and hymns of murderous sacrifice;
    While the stern priest, the rites of horror done,
    With hollow-echoing chaunt lifts up the heart
    Of the last victim 'mid the yelling throng,
    Quivering, and red, and reeking to the sun![159]
      Reclaimed by gradual intercourse, his heart
    Warmed with new sympathies, the forest-chief
    Shall cast the bleeding hatchet to his gods                      430
    Of darkness, and one Lord of all adore--
    Maker of heaven and earth.
                                 Let it suffice,
    He hath permitted EVIL for a while
    To mingle its deep hues and sable shades
    Amid life's fair perspective, as thou saw'st
    Of late the blackening clouds; but in the end
    All these shall roll away, and evening still
    Come smilingly, while the great sun looks down
    On the illumined scene. So Charity                               440
    Shall smile on all the earth, and Nature's God
    Look down upon his works; and while far off
    The shrieking night-fiends fly, one voice shall rise
    From shore to shore, from isle to furthest isle--
    Glory to God on high, and on earth peace,
    Peace and good-will to men!
                                 Thou rest in hope,
    And Him with meekness and with trust adore!
      He said, and spreading bright his ampler wing,
    Flew to the heaven of heavens; the meek man bowed
    Adoring, and, with pensive thoughts resigned,
    Bent from the aching height his lonely way.

[153] See Camoens' description of the dreadful Phantom at the Cape of
Good Hope.

[154] Part of the mountainous range of the vast Indian Caucasus, where
the Ark rested.

[155] Forster says the miserable creatures who visited the ship in the
Straits of Magellan, seldom uttered any other word than
"Passeray"--hence the name of Pecherais was given to them.

[156] From Dariena to Nicaragua, the Spaniards slew 400,000 people with
dogs, sword, fire, and divers tortures.--_Purchas._

[157] That tremendous Caff (according to the Indian superstition)
inhabited by spirits, demons, and the griffin Simorg.

[158] The caves of Elephanta and Salsette.

[159] At the dedication of the temple of Vitzuliputzli, A.D. 1486,
64,080 human victims were sacrificed in four days.


BOOK THE SECOND.

    Oh for a view, as from that cloudless height
    Where the great Patriarch gazed upon the world,
    His offspring's future seat, back on the vale
    Of years departed! We might then behold
    Thebes, from her sleep of ages, awful rise,
    Like an imperial shadow, from the Nile,
    To airy harpings;[160] and with lifted torch
    Scatter the darkness through the labyrinths
    Of death, where rest her kings, without a name,
    And light the winding caves and pyramids                          10
    In the long night of years! We might behold
    Edom, in towery strength, majestic rise,
    And awe the Erithraean, to the plains
    Where Migdol frowned, and Baal-zephon stood,[161]
    Before whose naval shrine the Memphian host
    And Pharaoh's pomp were shattered! As her fleets
    From Ezion went seaward, to the sound
    Of shouts and brazen trumpets, we might say,                      18
    How glorious, Edom, in thy ships art thou,
    And mighty as the rushing winds!
                                    But night
    Is on the mournful scene: a voice is heard,
    As of the dead, from hollow sepulchres,
    And echoing caverns of the Nile--So pass
    The shades of mortal glory! One pure ray
    From Sinai bursts (where God of old revealed
    His glory, through the darkness terrible
    That sat on the dread Mount), and we descry
    Thy sons, O Noah! peopling wide the scene,
    From Shinar's plain to Egypt.                                     30
                                   Let the song
    Reveal, who first "went down to the great sea
    In ships," and braved the stormy element.
       THE SONS OF CUSH.[162] Still fearful of the FLOOD,
    They on the marble range and cloudy heights
    Of that vast mountain barrier,--which uprises
    High o'er the Red Sea coast, and stretches on
    With the sea-line of Afric's southern bounds
    To Sofala,--delved in the granite mass
    Their dark abode, spreading from rock to rock                     40
    Their subterranean cities, whilst they heard,
    Secure, the rains of vexed Orion rush.
    Emboldened they descend, and now their fanes
    On Egypt's champaign darken, whilst the noise
    Of caravans is heard, and pyramids
    In the pale distance gleam. Imperial THEBES
    Starts, like a giant, from the dust; as when
    Some dread enchanter waves his wand, and towers
    And palaces far in the sandy wilds
    Spring up: and still, her sphinxes, huge and high,                50
    Her marble wrecks colossal, seem to speak
    The work of some great arm invisible,
    Surpassing human strength; while toiling Time,
    That sways his desolating scythe so vast,
    And weary havoc murmuring at his side,
    Smite them in vain. Heard ye the mystic song
    Resounding from her caverns as of yore?
      Sing to Osiris,[163] for his ark
      No more in night profound
      Of ocean, fathomless and dark,                                  60
      Typhon[164] has sunk! Aloud the sistrums ring--
      Osiris!--to our god Osiris sing!--
      And let the midnight shore to rites of joy resound!
    Thee, great restorer of the world, the song
    Darkly described, and that mysterious shrine
    That bore thee o'er the desolate abyss,
    When the earth sank with all its noise!
                                      So taught,
    The borderers of the Erithraean launch'd
    Their barks, and to the shores of Araby                           70
    First their brief voyage stretched, and thence returned
    With aromatic gums, or spicy wealth
    Of India. Prouder triumphs yet await,
    For lo! where Ophir's gold unburied shines
    New to the sun; but perilous the way,
    O'er Ariana's[165] spectred wilderness,
    Where ev'n the patient camel scarce endures
    The long, long solitude of rocks and sands,
    Parched, faint, and sinking, in his mid-day course.
      But see! upon the shore great Ammon[166] stands--               80
    Be the deep opened! At his voice the deep
    Is opened; and the shading ships that ride
    With statelier masts and ampler hulls the seas,
    Have passed the Straits, and left the rocks and GATES
    OF DEATH.[167] Where Asia's cape the autumnal surge
    Throws blackening back, beneath a hollow cove,
    Awhile the mariners their fearful course
    Ponder, ere yet they tempt the further deep;
    Then plunged into the sullen main, they cast
    The youthful victim, to the dismal gods                           90
    Devoted, whilst the smoke of sacrifice
    Slowly ascends:
                     Hear, King of Ocean! hear,
    Dark phantom! whether in thy secret cave
    Thou sittest, where the deeps are fathomless,
    Nor hear'st the waters hum, though all above
    Is uproar loud; or on the widest waste,
    Far from all land, mov'st in the noontide sun,
    With dread and lonely shadow; or on high
    Dost ride upon the whirling spires, and fume                     100
    Of that enormous volume, that ascends
    Black to the skies, and with the thunder's roar
    Bursts, while the waves far on are still: Oh, hear,
    Dread power, and save! lest hidden eddies whirl
    The helpless vessels down,--down to the deeps
    Of night, where thou, O Father of the Storm,
    Dost sleep; or thy vast stature might appear
    High o'er the flashing waves, and (as thy beard
    Streamed to the cloudy winds) pass o'er their track,
    And they are seen no more; or monster-birds                      110
    Darkening, with pennons lank, the morn, might bear
    The victims to some desert rock, and leave
    Their scattered bones to whiten in the winds!
      The Ocean-gods, with sacrifice appeased,
    Propitious smile; the thunder's roar has ceased,
    Smooth and in silence o'er the azure realm
    The tall ships glide along; for the South-West
    Cheerly and steady blows, and the blue seas
    Beneath the shadow sparkle; on they speed,
    The long coast varies as they pass from cove                     120
    To sheltering cove, the long coast winds away;
    Till now emboldened by the unvarying gale,
    Still urging to the East, the sailors deem
    Some god inviting swells their willing sails,
    Or Destiny's fleet dragons through the surge
    Cut their mid-way, yoked to the beaked prows
    Unseen!
      Night after night the heavens' still cope,
    That glows with stars, they watch, till morning bears
    Airs of sweet fragrance o'er the yellow tide:                    130
    Then Malabar her green declivities
    Hangs beauteous, beaming to the eye afar
    Like scenes of pictured bliss, the shadowy land
    Of soft enchantment. Now Salmala's peak
    Shines high in air, and Ceylon's dark green woods
    Beneath are spread; while, as the strangers wind
    Along the curving shores, sounds of delight
    Are heard; and birds of richest plumage, red
    And yellow, glance along the shades; or fly
    With morning twitter, circling o'er the mast,                    140
    As singing welcome to the weary crew.
    Here rest, till westering gales again invite.
    Then o'er the line of level seas glide on,
    As the green deities of ocean guide,
    Till Ophir's distant hills spring from the main,
    And their long labours cease.

                            Hence Asia slow
    Her length unwinds; and Siam and Ceylon
    Through wider channels pour their gems and gold
    To swell the pomp of Egypt's kings, or deck                      150
    With new magnificence the rising dome[168]
    Of Palestine's imperial lord.
                               His wants
    To satisfy; "with comelier draperies"
    To clothe his shivering form; to bid his arm
    Burst, like the Patagonian's,[169] the vain cords
    That bound his untried strength; to nurse the flame
    Of wider heart-ennobling sympathies;--
    For this young Commerce roused the energies
    Of man; else rolling back, stagnant and foul,                    160
    Like the GREAT ELEMENT on which his ships
    Go forth, without the currents, winds, and tides
    That swell it, as with awful life, and keep
    From rank putrescence the long-moving mass:
    And He, the sovereign Maker of the world,
    So to excite man's high activities,
    Bad various climes their various produce pour.
    On Asia's plain mark where the cotton-tree
    Hangs elegant its golden gems; the date
    Sits purpling the soft lucid haze, that lights                   170
    The still, pale, sultry landscape; breathing sweet
    Along old Ocean's billowy marge, the eve
    Bears spicy fragrance far; the bread-fruit shades
    The southern isles; and gems, and richest ore,
    Lurk in the caverned mountains of the west.
    With ampler shade the northern oak uplifts
    His strength, itself a forest, and descends
    Proud to the world of waves, to bear afar
    The wealth collected, on the swelling tides,
    To every land:--Where nature seems to mourn                      180
    Her rugged outcast rocks, there Enterprise
    Leaps up; he gazes, like a god, around;
    He sees on other plains rich harvests wave;
    He marks far off the diamond blaze; he burns
    To reach the glittering prize; he looks; he speaks;
    The pines of Lebanon fall at his voice;
    He rears the towering mast: o'er the long main
    He wanders, and becomes, himself though poor,
    The sovereign of the globe!
                                So Sidon rose;                       190
    And Tyre, yet prouder o'er the subject waves,--
    When in his manlier might the Ammonian spread
    Beyond Philistia to the Syrian sands,--
    Crowned on her rocky citadel, beheld
    The treasures of all lands poured at her feet.
    Her daring prows the inland main disclosed;
    Freedom and Glory, Eloquence, and Arts,
    Follow their track, upspringing where they passed;
    Till, lo! another Thebes, an ATHENS springs,
    From the AEgean shores, and airs are heard,                       200
    As of no mortal melody, from isles
    That strew the deep around! On to the STRAITS
    Where tower the brazen pillars[170] to the clouds,
    Her vessels ride. But what a shivering dread
    Quelled their bold hopes, when on their watch by night
    The mariners first saw the distant flames
    Of AEtna, and its red portentous glare
    Streaking the midnight waste! 'Tis not thy lamp,
    Astarte, hung in the dun vault of night,
    To guide the wanderers of the main! Aghast                       210
    They eye the fiery cope, and wait the dawn.
    Huge pitchy clouds upshoot, and bursting fires
    Flash through the horrid volume as it mounts;
    Voices are heard, and thunders muttering deep.
    Haste, snatch the oars, fly o'er the glimmering surge--
    Fly far--already louder thunders roll,
    And more terrific flames arise! Oh, spare,
    Dread Power! for sure some deity abides
    Deep in the central earth, amidst the reek
    Of sacrifice and blue sulphureous fume                           220
    Involved. Perhaps the living Moloch[171] there
    Rules in his horrid empire, amid flames,
    Thunders, and blackening volumes, that ascend
    And wrap his burning throne!
                              So was their path,
    To those who first the cheerless ocean roamed,
    Darkened with dread and peril. Scylla here,
    And fell Charybdis, on their whirling gulph
    Sit, like the sisters of Despair, and howl,
    As the devoted ship, dashed on the crags,                        230
    Goes down: and oft the neighbour shores are strewn
    With bones of strangers sacrificed, whose bark
    Has foundered nigh, where the red watch-tower glares
    Through darkness. Hence mysterious dread, and tales
    Of Polyphemus and his monstrous rout;
    And warbling syrens on the fatal shores
    Of soft Parthenope. Yet oft the sound
    Of sea-conch through the night from some rude rock
    Is heard, to warn the wandering passenger
    Of fiends that lurk for blood!                                   240
                                 These dangers past,
    The sea puts on new beauties: Italy,
    Beneath the blue soft sky beaming afar,
    Opens her azure bays; Liguria's gulph
    Is past; the Baetic rocks, and ramparts high,
    That CLOSE THE WORLD, appear. The dashing bark
    Bursts through the fearful frith: Ah! all is now
    One boundless billowy waste; the huge-heaved wave
    Beneath the keel turns more intensely blue;
    And vaster rolls the surge, that sweeps the shores               250
    Of Cerne, and the green Hesperides,
    And long-renowned Atlantis,[172] whether sunk
    Now to the bottom of the "monstrous world;"
    Or was it but a shadow of the mind,
    Vapoury and baseless, like the distant clouds
    That seem the promise of an unknown land
    To the pale-eyed and wasted mariner,
    Cold on the rocking mast. The pilot plies,
    Now tossed upon Bayonna's mountain-surge,
    High to the north his way; when, lo! the cliffs                  260
    Of Albion, o'er the sea-line rising calm
    And white, and Marazion's woody mount
    Lifting its dark romantic point between.
      So did thy ships to Earth's wide bounds proceed,
    O Tyre! and thou wert rich and beautiful
    In that thy day of glory. Carthage rose,
    Thy daughter, and the rival of thy fame,
    Upon the sands of Lybia; princes were
    Thy merchants; on thy golden throne thy state
    Shone, like the orient sun. Dark Lebanon                         270
    Waved all his pines for thee; for thee the oaks
    Of Bashan towered in strength: thy galleys cut,
    Glittering, the sunny surge; thy mariners,
    On ivory benches, furled th' embroidered sails,
    That looms of Egypt wove, or to the oars,
    That measuring dipped, their choral sea-songs sung;
    The multitude of isles did shout for thee,
    And cast their emeralds at thy feet, and said--
    Queen of the Waters, who is like to thee!
      So wert thou glorious on the seas, and said'st,                280
    _I am a God_, and there is none like me.
    But the dread voice prophetic is gone forth:--
    Howl, for the whirlwind of the desert comes!
    Howl ye again, for Tyre, her multitude
    Of sins and dark abominations cry
    Against her, saith the LORD; in the mid seas
    Her beauty shall be broken; I will bring
    Her pride to ashes; she shall be no more,
    The distant isles shall tremble at the sound
    When thou dost fall; the princes of the sea                      290
    Shall from their thrones come down, and cast away
    Their gorgeous robes; for thee they shall take up
    A bitter lamentation, and shall say--
    How art thou fallen, renowned city! THOU,
    Who wert enthroned glorious on the seas,
    To rise no more!
                      So visible, O GOD,
    Is thy dread hand in all the earth! Where Tyre
    In gold and purple glittered o'er the scene,
    Now the poor fisher dries his net, nor thinks                    300
    How great, how rich, how glorious, once she rose!
    Meantime the furthest isle, cold and obscure,
    Whose painted natives roamed their woody wilds,
    From all the world cut off, that wondering marked
    Her stately sails approach, now in her turn
    Rises a star of glory in the West--
    Albion, the wonder of the illumined world!
    See there a Newton wing the highest heavens;
    See there a Herschell's daring hand withdraw
    The luminous pavilion, and the throne                            310
    Of the bright SUN reveal; there hear the voice
    Of holy truth amid her cloistered fane,
    As the clear anthem swells; see Taste adorn
    Her palaces; and Painting's fervid touch,
    That bids the canvas breathe; hear angel-strains,
    When Handel, or melodious Purcell, pours
    His sweetest harmonies; see Poesy
    Open her vales romantic, and the scenes
    Where Fancy, an enraptured votary, roves
    At eve; and hark! 'twas Shakspeare's voice! he sits              320
    Upon a high and charmed rock alone,
    And, like the genius of the mountain, gives
    The rapt song to the winds; whilst Pity weeps,
    Or Terror shudders at the changeful tones,
    As when his Ariel soothes the storm! Then pause,
    For the wild billows answer--Lycidas
    Is dead, young Lycidas, dead ere his prime,
    Whelmed in the deep, beyond the Orcades,
    Or where the "vision of the guarded Mount,
    BELERUS holds."                                                  330
                      Nor skies, nor earth, confine
    The march of England's glory; on she speeds--
    The unknown barriers of the utmost deep
    Her prow has burst, where the dread genius slept
    For ages undisturbed, save when he walked
    Amid the darkness of the storm! Her fleet
    Even now along the East rides terrible,
    Where early-rising commerce cheered the scene!
    Heard ye the thunders of her vengeance roll,
    As Nelson, through the battle's dark-red haze                    340
    Aloft upon the burning prow directs,
    Where the dread hurricane, with sulphureous flash,
    Shall burst unquenchable, while from the grave
    Osiris ampler seems to rise? Where thou,
    O Tyre! didst awe the subject seas of yore,
    Acre even now, and ancient Carmel, hears
    The cry of conquest. 'Mid the fire and smoke
    Of the war-shaken citadel, with eye
    Of temper'd flame, yet resolute command,
    His brave sword beaming, and his cheering voice                  350
    Heard 'mid the onset's cries, his dark-brown hair
    Spread on his fearless forehead, and his hand
    Pointing to Gallia's baffled chief, behold
    The British Hero stand! Why beats my heart
    With kindred animation? The warm tear
    Of patriot triumph fills mine eye. I strike
    A louder strain unconscious, while the harp
    Swells to the bold involuntary song.

    I.

          Fly, SON OF TERROR, fly!
      Back o'er the burning desert he is fled!                       360
      In heaps the gory dead
          And livid in the trenches lie!
      His dazzling files no more
      Flash on the Syrian sands,
      As when from Egypt's ravaged shore,
      Aloft their gleamy falchions swinging,
      Aloud their victor paeans singing,
    Their onward way the Gallic legions took.
    Despair, dismay, are on his altered look,
          Yet hate indignant lowers;                                 370
      Whilst high on Acre's granite towers
    The shade of English Richard seems to stand;
        And frowning far, in dusky rows,
        A thousand archers draw their bows!
    They join the triumph of the British band,
    And the rent watch-tower echoes to the cry,
    Heard o'er the rolling surge--They fly, they fly!

    II.

        Now the hostile fires decline,
        Now through the smoke's deep volumes shine;
        Now above the bastions gray                                  380
        The clouds of battle roll away;
        Where, with calm, yet glowing mien,
        Britain's victorious youth is seen!
          He lifts his eye,
    His country's ensigns wave through smoke on high,
    Whilst the long-mingled shout is heard--They fly, they fly!

    III.

        Hoary CARMEL, witness thou,
        And lift in conscious pride thy brow;
        As when upon thy cloudy plain
        BAAL'S PROPHETS cried in vain!                               390
        They gashed their flesh, and leaped, and cried,
        From morn till lingering even-tide.
        Then stern ELIJAH on his foes
        Strong in the might of Heaven arose!--
          On CARMEL'S top he stood,
        And while the blackening clouds and rain
        Came sounding from the Western main,
    Raised his right hand that dropped with impious blood.
        ANCIENT KISHON prouder swell,
        On whose banks they bowed, they fell,                        400
    The mighty ones of yore, when, pale with dread,
          Inglorious SISERA fled!
        So let them perish, Holy LORD,
        Who for OPPRESSION lift the sword;
    But let all those who, armed for freedom, fight,                 405
    "Be as the sun who goes forth in his might."

[160] Alluding to the harps found in the caverns of Thebes.

[161] Migdol was a fortress which guarded the pass of Egypt;
Baal-zephon, a sea idol, generally considered the guardian of the coast.

[162] The Cushites inhabited the granite rocks stretching along the Red
Sea.

[163] When the Egyptians found the ark, their expression was, "Let us
rejoice, we have found the lost Osiris," or Noah.

[164] The deluge or devastating storm.

[165] The desert of Ariana, where the army of Cyrus perished.

[166] Ammon, according to Sir Isaac Newton, was the first artificer who
built large ships, and passed the Straits.

[167] The entrance into the Red Sea was called the Gate of Affliction.

[168] Temple of Solomon.

[169] Alluding to the story of Patagonians bursting their cords when
taken.

[170] Pillars of Hercules.

[171] Moloch, whose rites of blood are well known, was worshipped along
the coast of Syria.

[172] The island described by Plato; by some supposed to be America.


BOOK THE THIRD.

    My heart has sighed in secret, when I thought
    That the dark tide of time might one day close,
    England, o'er thee, as long since it has closed
    On Egypt and on Tyre: that ages hence,
    From the Pacific's billowy loneliness,
    Whose tract thy daring search revealed, some isle
    Might rise in green-haired beauty eminent,
    And like a goddess, glittering from the deep,
    Hereafter sway the sceptre of domain
    From pole to pole; and such as now thou art,                      10
    Perhaps NEW-HOLLAND be. For who shall say
    What the OMNIPOTENT ETERNAL ONE,
    That made the world, hath purposed! Thoughts like these,
    Though visionary, rise; and sometimes move
    A moment's sadness, when I think of thee,
    My country, of thy greatness, and thy name,
    Among the nations; and thy character,--
    Though some few spots be on thy flowing robe,--
    Of loveliest beauty: I have never passed
    Through thy green hamlets on a summer's morn,                     20
    Nor heard thy sweet bells ring, nor seen the youths
    And smiling maidens of thy villages,
    Gay in their Sunday tire, but I have said,
    With passing tenderness--Live, happy land,
    Where the poor peasant feels his shed, though small,
    An independence and a pride, that fill
    His honest heart with joy--joy such as they
    Who crowd the mart of men may never feel!
    Such, England, is thy boast. When I have heard
    The roar of ocean bursting 'round thy rocks,                      30
    Or seen a thousand thronging masts aspire,
    Far as the eye could reach, from every port
    Of every nation, streaming with their flags
    O'er the still mirror of the conscious Thames,--
    Yes, I have felt a proud emotion swell
    That I was British-born; that I had lived
    A witness of thy glory, my most loved
    And honoured country; and a silent prayer
    Would rise to Heaven, that Fame and Peace, and Love
    And Liberty, might walk thy vales, and sing                       40
    Their holy hymns, while thy brave arm repelled
    Hostility, even as thy guardian cliffs
    Repel the dash of that dread element
    Which calls me, lingering on the banks of Thames,
    On to my destined voyage, by the shores
    Of Asia, and the wreck of cities old,
    Ere yet we burst into the wilder deep
    With Gama; or the huge Atlantic waste
    With bold Columbus stem; or view the bounds
    Of field-ice, stretching to the southern pole,                    50
    With thee, benevolent, lamented Cook!
    Tyre be no more! said the ALMIGHTY voice:
    But thou too, Monarch of the world,[173] whose arm
    Rent the proud bulwarks of the golden queen
    Of cities, throned upon her subject seas,
    ART THOU TOO FALL'N?
                         The whole earth is at rest:
    "They break forth into singing:" Lebanon
    Waves all his hoary pines, and seems to say,
    No feller now comes here; HELL from beneath                       60
    Is moved to meet thy coming; it stirs up
    The DEAD for thee; the CHIEF ONES of the earth,
    Tyre and the nations, they all speak and say--
    Art thou become like us! Thy pomp brought down
    E'en to the dust! The noise of viols ceased,
    The worm spread under thee, the crawling worm
    To cover thee! How art thou fall'n from heaven,
    Son of the morning! In thy heart thou saidst,
    I will ascend to Heaven; I will exalt
    My throne above the stars of God! Die--die,                       70
    Blasphemer! As a carcase under foot,
    Defiled and trodden, so be thou cast out!
    And SHE, the great, the guilty Babel--SHE
    Who smote the wasted cities, and the world
    Made as a wilderness--SHE, in her turn,
    Sinks to the gulf oblivious at the voice
    Of HIM who sits in judgment on her crimes!
    Who, o'er her palaces and buried towers,
    Shall bid the owl hoot, and the bittern scream;
    And on her pensile groves and pleasant shades                     80
    Pour the deep waters of forgetfulness.
      On that same night, when with a cry she fell,
    (Like her own mighty idol dashed to earth,)
    There was a strange eclipse, and long laments
    Were heard, and muttering thunders o'er the towers
    Of the high palace where his wassail loud
    Belshazzar kept, mocking the GOD OF HEAVEN,
    And flushed with impious mirth; for BEL had left
    With sullen shriek his golden shrine, and sat,
    With many a gloomy apparition girt,                               90
    NISROCH and NEBO chief, in the dim sphere
    Of mooned ASTORETH, whose orb now rolled
    In darkness:--They their earthly empire mourned;
    Meantime the host of Cyrus through the night
    Silent advanced more nigh; and at that hour,
    In the torch-blazing hall of revelry,
    The fingers of a shadowy hand distinct
    Came forth, and unknown figures marked the wall,
    Searing the eye-balls of the starting king:
    Tyre is avenged; Babel is fall'n, is fall'n!                     100
    Bel and her gods are shattered!
                                  PRINCE, to thee
    Called by the voice of God to execute
    His will on earth, and raised to Persia's throne,
    CYRUS, all hearts pay homage. Touched with tints
    Most clear by the historian's magic art,
    Thy features wear a gentleness and grace
    Unlike the stern cold aspect and the frown
    Of the dark chiefs of yore, the gloomy clan
    Of heroes, from humanity and love                                110
    Removed: To thee a brighter character
    Belongs--high dignity, unbending truth--
    Yet Nature; not that lordly apathy
    Which confidence and human sympathy
    Represses, but a soul that bids all hearts
    Smiling approach. We almost burn in thought
    To kiss the hand that loosed Panthea's chains,
    And bless him with a parent's, husband's tear,
    Who stood a guardian angel in distress
    To the unfriended, and the beautiful,                            120
    Consigned a helpless slave. Thy portrait, touched
    With tints of softest light, thus wins all hearts
    To love thee; but severer policy,
    Cyrus, pronounces otherwise: she hears
    No stir of commerce on the sullen marge
    Of waters that along thy empire's verge
    Beat cheerless; no proud moles arise; no ships,
    Freighted with Indian wealth, glide o'er the main
    From cape to cape. But on the desert sands
    Hurtles thy numerous host, seizing, in thought                   130
    Rapacious, the rich fields of Hindostan,
    As the poor savage fells the blooming tree
    To gain its tempting fruit; but woe the while!
    For in the wilderness the noise is lost
    Of all thy archers;--they have ceased;--the wind
    Blows o'er them, and the voice of judgment cries:
    So perish they who grasp with avarice
    Another's blessed portion, and disdain
    That interchange of mutual good, that crowns
    The slow, sure toil of commerce.                                 140
                             It was thine,
    Immortal son of Macedon! to hang
    In the high fane of maritime renown
    The fairest trophies of thy fame, and shine,
    THEN only like a god, when thy great mind
    Swayed in its master council the deep tide
    Of things, predestining th' eventful roll
    Of commerce, and uniting either world,
    Europe and Asia, in thy vast design.
      Twas when the victor, in his proud career,                     150
    O'er ravaged Hindostan, had now advanced
    Beyond Hydaspes; on the flowery banks
    Of Hyphasis, with banners thronged, his camp
    Was spread. On high he bade the altars rise,
    The awful records to succeeding years
    Of his long march of glory, and to point
    The spot where, like the thunder rolled away,
    His army paused. Now shady eve came down;
    The trumpet sounded to the setting sun,
    That looked from his illumed pavilion, calm                      160
    Upon the scene of arms, as if, all still,
    And lovely as his parting light, the world
    Beneath him spread; nor clangours, nor deep groans,
    Were heard, nor victory's shouts, nor sighs, nor shrieks,
    Were ever wafted from a bleeding land,
    After the havoc of a conqueror's sword.
    So calm the sun declined; when from the woods,
    That shone to his last beam, a Brahmin old
    Came forth. His streaming beard shone in the ray,
    That slanted o'er his feeble frame; his front                    170
    Was furrowed. To the sun's last light he cast
    A look of sorrow, then in silence bowed
    Before the conqueror of the world. At once
    All, as in death, was still. The victor chief
    Trembled, he knew not why; the trumpet ceased
    Its clangor, and the crimson streamer waved
    No more in folds insulting to the Lord
    Of the reposing world. The pallid front
    Of the meek man seemed for a moment calm,
    Yet dark and thronging thoughts appeared to swell                180
    His beating heart. He paused--and then abrupt:
        Victor, avaunt! he cried,
    Hence! and the banners of thy pride
    Bear to the deep! Behold on high
    Yon range of mountains mingled with the sky!
                            It is the place
    Where the great Father of the human race
    Rested, when all the world and all its sounds
    Ceased; and the ocean that surrounds
    The earth, leaped from its dark abode                            190
    Beneath the mountains, and enormous flowed,
    The green earth deluging! List, soldier, list!
    And dread His might no mortal may resist.
      Great Bramah rested, hushed in sleep,
        When Hayagraiva[174] came,
    With mooned horns and eyes of flame,
    And bore the holy Vedas[175] to the deep.
    Far from the sun's rejoicing ray,
    Beneath the huge abyss, the buried treasures lay.
    Then foamed the billowy desert wide,                             200
        And all that breathed--they died,
    Sunk in the rolling waters: such the crime
    And violence of earth. But he above,
    Great Vishnu, moved with pitying love,
    Preserved the pious king, whose ark sublime
        Floated, in safety borne:
        For his stupendous horn,
    Blazing like gold, and many a rood
    Extended o'er the dismal flood,
    The precious freight sustained, till on the crest                210
      Of Himakeel,[176] yon mountain high,
      That darkly mingles with the sky,
    Where many a griffin roams, the hallowed ark found rest.
        And Heaven decrees that here
        Shall cease thy slaughtering spear:
        Enough we bleed, enough we weep,
          Hence, victor, to the deep!
        Ev'n now along the tide
        I see thy ships triumphant ride:
        I see the world of trade emerge                              220
        From ocean's solitude! What fury fires
        My breast! The flood, the flood retires,[177]
        And owns its future sovereign! Urge
    Thy destined way; what countless pennants stream!
        (Or is it but the shadow of a dream?)
          Ev'n now old Indus hails
        Thy daring prows in long array,
        That o'er the lone seas gliding,
        Around the sea-gods riding,
    Speed to Euphrates' shores their destined way.                   230
        Fill high the bowl of mirth!
        From west to east the earth
    Proclaims thee Lord; shall the blue main
          Confine thy reign?
    But tremble, tyrant; hark in many a ring,
          With language dread
          Above thy head,
    The dark Assoors[178] thy death-song sing.
          What mortal blow
      Hath laid the king of nations low?                             240
        No hand: his own despair.--
    But shout, for the canvas shall swell to the air,
          Thy ships explore
          Unknown Persia's winding shore,
    While the great dragon rolls his arms in vain.
    And see, uprising from the level main,
      A new and glorious city springs;--
      Hither speed thy woven wings,
    That glance along the azure tide;
      Asia and Europe own thy might;--                               250
      The willing seas of either world unite:
    Thy name shall consecrate the sands,
    And glittering to the sky the mart of nations stands.
      He spoke, and rushed into the thickest wood.
    With flashing eyes the impatient monarch cried--
    Yes, by the Lybian Ammon and the gods
    Of Greece, thou bid'st me on, the self-same track
    My spirit pointed; and, let death betide,
    My name shall live in glory!
                                  At his word                        260
    The pines descend; the thronging masts aspire;
    The novel sails swell beauteous o'er the curves
    Of INDUS; to the Moderators' song[179]
    The oars keep time, while bold Nearchus guides
    Aloft the gallies. On the foremost prow
    The monarch from his golden goblet pours
    A full libation to the gods, and calls
    By name the mighty rivers, through whose course
    He seeks the sea. To Lybian Ammon loud
    The songs ascend; the trumpets bray; aloft                       270
    The streamers fly, whilst on the evening wave
    Majestic to the main the fleet descends.

[173] Nebuchadnezzar, the destroyer of Tyre.

[174] Hayagraiva, the evil spirit of the ocean.

[175] The sacred writings of the Hindus.

[176] Caucasus.

[177] Alluding to the astonishment of Alexander's soldiers, when they
first witnessed the effects of the tide.

[178] Assoors, the evil genii of India.

[179] Moderators were people stationed on the poop, to excite with songs
the maritime ardour, while the oars kept time.


BOOK THE FOURTH.

    Stand on the gleaming Pharos,[180] and aloud
    Shout, Commerce, to the kingdoms of the earth;
    Shout, for thy golden portals are set wide,
    And all thy streamers o'er the surge, aloft,
    In pomp triumphant wave. The weary way
    That pale Nearchus passed, from creek to creek
    Advancing slow, no longer bounds the track
    Of the adventurous mariner, who steers
    Steady, with eye intent upon the stars,
    To Elam's echoing port. Meantime, more high                       10
    Aspiring, o'er the Western main her towers
    Th' imperial city lifts, the central mart
    Of nations, and beneath the calm clear sky,
    At distance from the palmy marge, displays
    Her clustering columns, whitening to the morn.
      Damascus' fleece, Golconda's gems, are there.
    Murmurs the haven with one ceaseless hum;
    The hurrying camel's bell, the driver's song,
    Along the sands resound. Tyre, art thou fall'n?
    A prouder city crowns the inland sea,                             20
    Raised by his hand who smote thee; as if thus
    His mighty mind were swayed to recompense
    The evil of his march through cities stormed,
    And regions wet with blood! and still had flowed
    The tide of commerce through the destined track,
    Traced by his mind sagacious, who surveyed
    The world he conquered with a sage's eye,
    As with a soldier's spirit; but a scene
    More awful opens: ancient world, adieu!
    Adieu, cloud-piercing pillars, erst its bounds;                   30
    And thou, whose aged head once seemed to prop
    The heavens, huge Atlas, sinking fast, adieu!
    What though the seas with wilder fury rave,
    Through their deserted realm; though the dread Cape,[181]
    Sole-frowning o'er the war of waves below,
    That bar the seaman's search, horrid in air
    Appear with giant amplitude; his head
    Shrouded in clouds, the tempest at his feet,
    And standing thus terrific, seem to say,
    Incensed--Approach who dare! What though the fears                40
    Of superstition people the vexed space
    With spirits unblessed, that lamentations make
    To the sad surge beyond--yet Enterprise,
    Not now a darkling Cyclop on the sands
    Striding, but led by Science, and advanced
    To a more awful height, on the wide scene
    Looks down commanding.
                      Does a shuddering thought
    Of danger start, as the tumultuous sea
    Tosses below! Calm Science, with a smile,                         50
    Displays the wondrous index, that still points,
    With nice vibration tremulous, to the Pole.
    And such, she whispers, is the just man's hope
    In this tempestuous scene of human things;
    Even as the constant needle to the North
    Still points; so Piety and meek-eyed Faith
    Direct, though trembling oft, their constant gaze
    Heavenward, as to their lasting home, nor fear
    The night, fast closing on their earthly way.
      And guided by this index, thou shall pass                       60
    The world of seas secure. Far from all land,
    Where not a sea-bird wanders; where nor star,
    Nor moon appears, nor the bright noonday sun,
    Safe in the wildering storm, as when the breeze
    Of summer gently blows; through day, through night,
    Where sink the well-known stars, and others rise
    Slow from the South, the victor bark shall ride.
      Henry! thy ardent mind first pierced the gloom
    Of dark disastrous ignorance, that sat
    Upon the Southern wave, like the deep cloud                       70
    That lowered upon the woody skirts, and veiled
    From mortal search, with umbrage ominous,
    Madeira's unknown isle. But look! the morn
    Is kindled on the shadowy offing; streaks
    Of clear cold light on Sagres' battlements
    Are cast, where Henry watches, listening still
    To the unwearied surge; and turning still
    His anxious eyes to the horizon's bounds.
    A sail appears; it swells, it shines: more high
    Seen through the dusk it looms; and now the hull                  80
    Is black upon the surge, whilst she rolls on
    Aloft--the weather-beaten ship--and now
    Streams by the watch-tower!
                       Zarco,[182] from the deep
    What tidings?
              The loud storm of night prevailed,
    And swept our vessel from Bojador's rocks
    Far out to sea; a sylvan isle[183] received
    Our sails; so willed the ALMIGHTY--He who speaks,
    And all the waves are still!                                      90
                         Hail, HENRY cried,
    The omen: we have burst the sole barrier,
    (Prosper our wishes, Father of the world!)
    We speed to Asia.
                            Soon upon the deep
    The brave ship speeds again. Bojador's rocks
    Arise at distance, frowning o'er the surf,
    That boils for many a league without. Its course
    The ship holds on; till lo! the beauteous isle,
    That shielded late the sufferers from the storm,                 100
    Springs o'er the wave again. Here they refresh
    Their wasted strength, and lift their vows to Heaven,
    But Heaven denies their further search; for ah!
    What fearful apparition, palled in clouds,
    For ever sits upon the Western wave,
    Like night, and in its strange portentous gloom
    Wrapping the lonely waters, seems the bounds
    Of Nature? Still it sits, day after day,
    The same mysterious vision. Holy saints!
    Is it the dread abyss where all things cease?                    110
    Or haply hid from mortal search, thine isle,
    Cipango, and that unapproached seat
    Of peace, where rest the Christians whom the hate
    Of Moorish pride pursued? Whate'er it be,
    Zarco, thy holy courage bids thee on
    To burst the gloom, though dragons guard the shore,[184]
    Or beings more than mortal pace the sands.
      The favouring gales invite; the bowsprit bears
    Right onward to the fearful shade; more black
    The cloudy spectre towers; already fear                          120
    Shrinks at the view aghast and breathless. Hark!
    'Twas more than the deep murmur of the surge
    That struck the ear; whilst through the lurid gloom
    Gigantic phantoms seem to lift in air
    Their misty arms; yet, yet--bear boldly on--
    The mist dissolves;--seen through the parting haze,
    Romantic rocks, like the depictured clouds,
    Shine out; beneath a blooming wilderness
    Of varied wood is spread, that scents the air;
    Where fruits of "golden rind," thick interspersed                130
    And pendent, through the mantling umbrage gleam
    Inviting. Cypress here, and stateliest pine,
    Spire o'er the nether shades, as emulous
    Of sole distinction where all nature smiles.
    Some trees, in sunny glades alone their head
    And graceful stem uplifting, mark below
    The turf with shadow; whilst in rich festoons
    The flowery lianes braid their boughs; meantime
    Choirs of innumerous birds of liveliest song
    And brightest plumage, flitting through the shades,              140
    With nimble glance are seen; they, unalarmed,
    Now near in airy circles sing, then speed
    Their random flight back to their sheltering bowers,
    Whose silence, broken only by their song,
    From the foundation of this busy world,
    Perhaps had never echoed to the voice,
    Or heard the steps, of Man. What rapture fired
    The strangers' bosoms, as from glade to glade
    They passed, admiring all, and gazing still
    With new delight! 'Tis solitude around;                          150
    Deep solitude, that on the gloom of woods
    Primaeval fearful hangs: a green recess
    Now opens in the wilderness; gay flowers
    Of unknown name purple the yielding sward;
    The ring-dove murmurs o'er their head, like one
    Attesting tenderest joy; but mark the trees,
    Where, slanting through the gloom, the sunshine rests!
    Beneath, a moss-grown monument appears,
    O'er which the green banana gently waves
    Its long leaf; and an aged cypress near                          160
    Leans, as if listening to the streamlet's sound,
    That gushes from the adverse bank; but pause--
    Approach with reverence! Maker of the world,
    There is a Christian's cross! and on the stone
    A name, yet legible amid its moss,--
    Anna!
                  In that remote, sequestered spot,
    Shut as it seemed from all the world, and lost
    In boundless seas, to trace a name, to mark
    The emblems of their holy faith, from all                        170
    Drew tears; while every voice faintly pronounced,
    Anna! But thou, loved harp! whose strings have rung
    To louder tones, oh! let my hand, awhile,
    The wires more softly touch, whilst I rehearse
    Her name and fate, who in this desert deep,
    Far from the world, from friends, and kindred, found
    Her long and last abode; there where no eye
    Might shed a tear on her remains; no heart
    Sigh in remembrance of her fate:--
                                  She left                           180
    The Severn's side, and fled with him she loved
    O'er the wide main; for he had told her tales
    Of happiness in distant lands, where care
    Comes not; and pointing to the golden clouds
    That shone above the waves, when evening came,
    Whispered--Oh, are there not sweet scenes of peace,
    Far from the murmurs of this cloudy mart,--
    Where gold alone bears sway,--scenes of delight,
    Where love may lay his head upon the lap
    Of innocence, and smile at all the toil                          190
    Of the low-thoughted throng, that place in wealth
    Their only bliss! Yes, there are scenes like these.
    Leave the vain chidings of the world behind,
    Country, and hollow friends, and fly with me
    Where love and peace in distant vales invite.
    What wouldst thou here! Oh, shall thy beauteous look
    Of maiden innocence, thy smile of youth, thine eyes
    Of tenderness and soft subdued desire,
    Thy form, thy limbs--oh, madness!--be the prey
    Of a decrepit spoiler, and for gold?--                           200
    Perish his treasure with him. Haste with me;
    We shall find out some sylvan nook, and then,
    If thou shouldst sometimes think upon these hills,
    When they are distant far, and drop a tear,
    Yes--I will kiss it from thy cheek, and clasp
    Thy angel beauties closer to my breast;
    And whilst the winds blow o'er us, and the sun
    Sinks beautifully down, and thy soft cheek
    Reclines on mine, I will infold thee thus,
    And proudly cry, My friend--my love--my wife!                    210
      So tempted he, and soon her heart approved,
    Nay wooed, the blissful dream; and oft at eve,
    When the moon shone upon the wandering stream,
    She paced the castle's battlements, that threw
    Beneath their solemn shadow, and, resigned
    To fancy and to tears, thought it most sweet
    To wander o'er the world with him she loved.
    Nor was his birth ignoble, for he shone
    'Mid England's gallant youth in Edward's reign:
    With countenance erect, and honest eye                           220
    Commanding (yet suffused in tenderness
    At times), and smiles that like the lightning played
    On his brown cheek,--so gently stern he stood,
    Accomplished, generous, gentle, brave, sincere,--
    Robert a Machin. But the sullen pride
    Of haughty D'Arfet scorned all other claim
    To his high heritage, save what the pomp
    Of amplest wealth and loftier lineage gave.
    Reckless of human tenderness, that seeks
    One loved, one honoured object, wealth alone                     230
    He worshipped; and for this he could consign
    His only child, his aged hope, to loathed
    Embraces, and a life of tears! Nor here
    His hard ambition ended; for he sought,
    By secret whispers of conspiracies,
    His sovereign to abuse, bidding him lift
    His arm avenging, and upon a youth
    Of promise close the dark forgotten gates
    Of living sepulture, and in the gloom
    Inhume the slowly-wasting victim.                                240
                                            So
    He purposed, but in vain; the ardent youth
    Rescued her--her whom more than life he loved,
    Ev'n when the horrid day of sacrifice
    Drew nigh. He pointed to the distant bark,
    And while he kissed a stealing tear that fell
    On her pale cheek, as trusting she reclined
    Her head upon his breast, with ardour cried--
    Be mine, be only mine! the hour invites;
    Be mine, be only mine! So won, she cast                          250
    A look of last affection on the towers
    Where she had passed her infant days, that now
    Shone to the setting sun. I follow thee,
    Her faint voice said; and lo! where in the air
    A sail hangs tremulous, and soon her feet
    Ascend the vessel's side: The vessel glides
    Down the smooth current, as the twilight fades,
    Till soon the woods of Severn, and the spot
    Where D'Arfet's solitary turrets rose,
    Is lost; a tear starts to her eye, she thinks                    260
    Of him whose gray head to the earth shall bend,
    When he speaks nothing--but be all, like death,
    Forgotten. Gently blows the placid breeze,
    And oh! that now some fairy pinnace light
    Might flit across the wave (by no seen power
    Directed, save when Love upon the prow
    Gathered or spread with tender hand the sail),
    That now some fairy pinnace, o'er the surge
    Silent, as in a summer's dream, might waft
    The passengers upon the conscious flood                          270
    To regions bright of undisturbed joy!
                                        But hark!
    The wind is in the shrouds;--the cordage sings
    With fitful violence;--the blast now swells,
    Now sinks. Dread gloom invests the further wave,
    Whose foaming toss alone is seen, beneath
    The veering bowsprit.
                         Oh, retire to rest,
    Maiden, whose tender heart would beat, whose cheek
    Turn pale to see another thus exposed!                           280
    Hark! the deep thunder louder peals--Oh, save!--
    The high mast crashes; but the faithful arm
    Of love is o'er thee, and thy anxious eye,
    Soon as the gray of morning peeps, shall view
    Green Erin's hills aspiring!
                                 The sad morn
    Comes forth; but terror on the sunless wave
    Still, like a sea-fiend, sits, and darkly smiles
    Beneath the flash that through the struggling clouds
    Bursts frequent, half revealing his scathed front,               290
    Above the rocking of the waste that rolls
    Boundless around.
                   No word through the long day
    She spoke;--another slowly came;--no word
    The beauteous drooping mourner spoke. The sun
    Twelve times had sunk beneath the sullen surge,
    And cheerless rose again:--Ah, where are now
    Thy havens, France! But yet--resign not yet--
    Ye lost seafarers--oh, resign not yet
    All hope--the storm is passed; the drenched sail                 300
    Shines in the passing beam! Look up, and say--
    Heaven, thou hast heard our prayers!
                                   And lo! scarce seen,
    A distant dusky spot appears;--they reach
    An unknown shore, and green and flowery vales,
    And azure hills, and silver-gushing streams,
    Shine forth; a Paradise, which Heaven alone,
    Who saw the silent anguish of despair,
    Could raise in the waste wilderness of waves.
    They gain the haven; through untrodden scenes,                   310
    Perhaps untrodden by the foot of man
    Since first the earth arose, they wind. The voice
    Of Nature hails them here with music, sweet,
    As waving woods retired, or falling streams,
    Can make; most soothing to the weary heart,
    Doubly to those who, struggling with their fate,
    And wearied long with watchings and with grief,
    Seek but a place of safety. All things here
    Whisper repose and peace; the very birds
    That 'mid the golden fruitage glance their plumes,               320
    The songsters of the lonely valley, sing--
    Welcome from scenes of sorrow, live with us.
      The wild wood opens, and a shady glen
    Appears, embowered with mantling laurels high,
    That sloping shade the flowery valley's side;
    A lucid stream, with gentle murmur, strays
    Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves,
    Till gaining, with soft lapse, the nether plain,
    It glances light along its yellow bed;--
    The shaggy inmates of the forest lick                            330
    The feet of their new guests, and gazing stand.
    A beauteous tree upshoots amid the glade
    Its trembling top; and there upon the bank
    They rest them, while each heart o'erflows with joy.
      Now evening, breathing richer odours sweet,
    Came down: a softer sound the circling seas,
    The ancient woods resounded, while the dove,
    Her murmurs interposing, tenderness
    Awaked, yet more endearing, in the hearts
    Of those who, severed wide from human kind,                      340
    Woman and man, by vows sincere betrothed,
    Heard but the voice of Nature. The still moon
    Arose--they saw it not--cheek was to cheek
    Inclined, and unawares a stealing tear
    Witnessed how blissful was that hour, that seemed
    Not of the hours that time could count. A kiss
    Stole on the listening silence; ne'er till now
    Here heard; they trembled, ev'n as if the Power
    That made the world, that planted the first pair
    In Paradise, amid the garden walked:--                           350
    This since the fairest garden that the world
    Has witnessed, by the fabling sons of Greece
    Hesperian named, who feigned the watchful guard
    Of the scaled Dragon, and the Golden Fruit.
    Such was this sylvan Paradise; and here
    The loveliest pair, from a hard world remote,
    Upon each other's neck reclined; their breath
    Alone was heard, when the dove ceased on high
    Her plaint; and tenderly their faithful arms
    Infolded each the other.                                         360
                             Thou, dim cloud,
    That from the search of men these beauteous vales
    Hast closed, oh, doubly veil them! But alas,
    How short the dream of human transport! Here,
    In vain they built the leafy bower of love,
    Or culled the sweetest flowers and fairest fruit.
    The hours unheeded stole! but ah, not long--
    Again the hollow tempest of the night
    Sounds through the leaves; the inmost woods resound;
    Slow comes the dawn, but neither ship nor sail                   370
    Along the rocking of the windy waste
    Is seen: the dash of the dark-heaving wave
    Alone is heard. Start from your bed of bliss,
    Poor victims! never more shall ye behold
    Your native vales again; and thou, sweet child!
    Who, listening to the voice of love, hast left
    Thy friends, thy country,--oh, may the wan hue
    Of pining memory, the sunk cheek, the eye
    Where tenderness yet dwells, atone (if love
    Atonement need, by cruelty and wrong                             380
    Beset), atone ev'n now thy rash resolves!
    Ah, fruitless hope! Day after day, thy bloom
    Fades, and the tender lustre of thy eye
    Is dimmed: thy form, amid creation, seems
    The only drooping thing.
                             Thy look was soft,
    And yet most animated, and thy step
    Light as the roe's upon the mountains. Now,
    Thou sittest hopeless, pale, beneath the tree
    That fanned its joyous leaves above thy head,                    390
    Where love had decked the blooming bower, and strewn
    The sweets of summer: DEATH is on thy cheek,
    And thy chill hand the pressure scarce returns
    Of him, who, agonised and hopeless, hangs
    With tears and trembling o'er thee. Spare the sight,--
    She faints--she dies!--
                           He laid her in the earth,
    Himself scarce living, and upon her tomb
    Beneath the beauteous tree where they reclined,
    Placed the last tribute of his earthly love.                     400

    INSCRIPTION FOR THE GRAVE OF ANNA D'ARFET.

    O'er my poor ANNA'S lowly grave
      No dirge shall sound, no knell shall ring;
    But angels, as the high pines wave,
      Their half-heard "Miserere" sing.

    No flowers of transient bloom at eve
      The maidens on the turf shall strew;
    Nor sigh, as the sad spot they leave,
      Sweets to the sweet! a long adieu!

    But in this wilderness profound,
      O'er her the dove shall build her nest;                        410
    And ocean swell with softer sound
      A requiem to her dreams of rest!

    Ah! when shall I as quiet be,
      When not a friend, or human eye,
    Shall mark beneath the mossy tree
      The spot where we forgotten lie!

    To kiss her name on the cold stone,
      Is all that now on earth I crave;
    For in this world I am alone--
      Oh, lay me with her in the grave!                              420

    ROBERT A MACHIN, 1344.

    _Miserere nobis, Domine._

      He placed the rude inscription on her stone,
    Which he with faltering hands had graved, and soon
    Himself beside it sunk--yet ere he died,
    Faintly he spoke: If ever ye shall hear,
    Companions of my few and evil days,
    Again the convent's vesper bells, oh! think
    Of me; and if in after-times the search
    Of men should reach this far removed spot,
    Let sad remembrance raise an humble shrine,
    And virgin choirs chaunt duly o'er our grave:                    430
    Peace, peace! His arm upon the mournful stone
    He dropped; his eyes, ere yet in death they closed,
    Turned to the name, till he could see no more
    ANNA. His pale survivors, earth to earth,
    Weeping consigned his poor remains, and placed
    Beneath the sod where all he loved was laid.
    Then shaping a rude vessel from the woods,
    They sought their country o'er the waves, and left
    Those scenes once more to deepest solitude.
    The beauteous ponciana hung its head                             440
    O'er the gray stone; but never human eye
    Had mark'd the spot, or gazed upon the grave
    Of the unfortunate, but for the voice
    Of ENTERPRISE, that spoke, from Sagre's towers,
    Through ocean's perils, storms, and unknown wastes--
    Speed we to Asia!
                      Here, Discovery, pause!--
    Then from the tomb of him who first was cast
    Upon this Heaven-appointed isle, thy gaze
    Uplift, and far beyond the Cape of Storms                        450
    Pursue De Gama's tract. Mark the rich shores
    Of Madagascar, till the purple East
    Shines in luxuriant beauty wide disclosed.
    But cease thy song, presumptuous Muse!--a bard,
    In tones whose patriot sound shall never die,
    Has struck his deep shell, and the glorious theme
    Recorded.
                           Say, what lofty meed awaits
    The triumph of his victor conch, that swells
    Its music on the yellow Tagus' side,                             460
    As when Arion, with his glittering harp
    And golden hair, scarce sullied from the main,
    Bids all the high rocks listen to his voice
    Again! Alas, I see an aged form,
    An old man worn by penury, his hair
    Blown white upon his haggard cheek, his hand
    Emaciated, yet the strings with thrilling touch
    Soliciting; but the vain crowds pass by:
    His very countrymen, whose fame his song
    Has raised to heaven, in stately apathy                          470
    Wrapped up, and nursed in pride's fastidious lap,
    Regard not. As he plays, a sable man
    Looks up, but fears to speak, and when the song
    Has ceased, kisses his master's feeble hand.
    Is that cold wasted hand, that haggard look,
    Thine, Camoens? Oh, shame upon the world!
    And is there none, none to sustain thee found,
    But he, himself unfriended, who so far
    Has followed, severed from his native isles,
    To scenes of gorgeous cities, o'er the sea,                      480
    Thee and thy broken fortunes!
                             GOD of worlds!
    Oh, whilst I hail the triumph and high boast
    Of social life, let me not wrong the sense
    Of kindness, planted in the human heart
    By man's great Maker, therefore I record
    Antonio's faithful, gentle, generous love
    To his heartbroken master, that might teach,
    High as it bears itself, a polished world
    More charity.                                                    490
                       DISCOVERY, turn thine eyes!
    COLUMBUS' toiling ship is on the deep,
    Stemming the mid Atlantic.
                               Waste and wild
    The view! On the same sunshine o'er the waves
    The murmuring mariners, with languid eye,
    Ev'n till the heart is sick, gaze day by day!
    At midnight in the wind sad voices sound!
    When the slow morning o'er the offing dawns,
    Heartless they view the same drear weltering waste               500
    Of seas: and when the sun again goes down
    Silent, hope dies within them, and they think
    Of parting friendship's last despairing look!
      See too, dread prodigy, the needle veers
    Her trembling point--will Heaven forsake them too!
    But lift thy sunk eye, and thy bloodless look,
    Despondence! Milder airs at morning breathe:--
    Below the slowly-parting prow the sea
    Is dark with weeds; and birds of land are seen
    To wing the desert tract, as hasting on                          510
    To the green valleys of their distant home.
    Yet morn succeeds to morn--and nought around
    Is seen, but dark weeds floating many a league,
    The sun's sole orb, and the pale hollowness
    Of heaven's high arch streaked with the early clouds.
    Watchman, what from the giddy mast?
                            A shade
    Appears on the horizon's hazy line.
    Land! land! aloud is echoed; but the spot
    Fades as the shouting crew delighted gaze--                      520
    It fades, and there is nothing--nothing now
    But the blue sky, the clouds, and surging seas!
      As one who, in the desert, faint with thirst,
    Upon the trackless and forsaken sands
    Sinks dying; him the burning haze deceives,
    As mocking his last torments, while it seems,
    To his distempered vision, like th' expanse
    Of lucid waters cool: so falsely smiles
    Th' illusive land upon the water's edge,
    To the long-straining eye showing what seems                     530
    Its headlands and its distant trending shores;--
    But all is false, and like the pensive dream
    Of poor imagination, 'mid the waves
    Of troubled life, decked with unreal hues,
    And ending soon in emptiness and tears.
      'Tis midnight, and the thoughtful chief, retired
    From the vexed crowd, in his still cabin hears
    The surge that rolls below; he lifts his eyes,
    And casts a silent anxious look without.
      It is a light--great God--it is a light!                       540
    It moves upon the shore!--Land--there is land!
      He spoke in secret, and a tear of joy
    Stole down his cheek, when on his knees he fell.
    Thou, who hast been his guardian in wastes
    Of the hoar deep, accept his tears, his prayers;
    While thus he fondly hopes the purer light
    Of thy great truths on the benighted world
    Shall beam!
               The lingering night is past;--the sun
    Shines out, while now the red-cross streamers wave               550
    High up the gently-surging bay. From all
    Shouts, songs, and rapturous thanksgiving loud,
    Burst forth: Another world, entranced they cry,
    Another living world!--Awe-struck and mute
    The gazing natives stand, and drop their spears,
    In homage to the gods!
                      So from the deep
    They hail emerging; sight more awful far
    Than ever yet the wondering voyager
    Greeted;--the prospect of a new-found world,                     560
    Now from the night of dark uncertainty
    At once revealed in living light!
                                   How beats
    The heart! What thronging thoughts awake! Whence sprung
    The roaming nations? From that ancient race
    That peopled Asia--Noah's sons? How, then,
    Passed they the long and lone expanse between
    Of stormy ocean, from the elder earth
    Cut off, and lost, for unknown ages, lost
    In the vast deep? But whilst the awful view                      570
    Stands in thy sight revealed, Spirit, awake
    To prouder energies! Even now, in thought,
    I see thee opening bold Magellan's tract![185]
    The straits are passed! Thou, as the seas expand,
    Pausest a moment, when beneath thine eye
    Blue, vast, and rocking, through its boundless rule,
    The long Pacific stretches. Nor here cease
    Thy search, but with De Quiros[186] to the South
    Still urge thy way, if yet some continent
    Stretch to its dusky pole, with nations spread,                  580
    Forests, and hills, and streams.
                              So be thy search
    With ampler views rewarded, till, at length,
    Lo, the round world is compassed! Then return
    Back to the bosom of the tranquil Thames,
    And hail Britannia's victor ship,[187] that now
    From many a storm restored, winds its slow way
    Silently up the current, and so finds,
    Like to a time-worn pilgrim of the world,
    Rest, in that haven where all tempests cease.                    590

[180] The Pharos was not erected by Alexander, but Alexandria is here
supposed to be finished.

[181] Cape Bojador.

[182] John Gongalez Zarco was employed by Prince Henry to conduct the
enterprise of discovery along the Western coast of Africa.

[183] Porto Santo.

[184] I have called the three islands of Madeiras the Hesperides, who,
in ancient mythology, are the three daughters of Atlas; as I consider
the orange-trees and mysterious shade, with the rocks discerned through
it on a nearer approach, to be the best solution of the fable of the
golden fruit, the dragon, and the three daughters of Atlas.

[185] Magellan's ship first circumnavigated the globe, passing through
the straits, called by his name, into the South Sea, and proceeding West
to the East Indies. He himself, like our revered Cooke, perished in the
enterprise.

[186] De Quiros first discovered the New Hebrides, in the South Sea;
afterwards explored by Cooke, who bears testimony to the accuracy of De
Quiros. These islands were supposed part of a great continent stretching
to the South pole, called _Terra Australis incognita._

[187] Drake's ship, in which he sailed round the world; she was laid up
at Deptford--hence Ben Johnson, in _Every Man in his Humour_, "O Coz, it
cannot be altered, go not about it; Drake's old ship at Deptford may
sooner circle the world again."


BOOK THE FIFTH.

    Such are thy views, DISCOVERY! The great world
    Rolls to thine eye revealed; to thee the Deep
    Submits its awful empire; Industry
    Awakes, and Commerce to the echoing marts
    From east to west unwearied pours her wealth.
    Man walks sublimer; and Humanity,
    Matured by social intercourse, more high,
    More animated, lifts her sovereign mien,
    And waves her golden sceptre. Yet the heart
    Asks trembling, is no evil found! Oh, turn,                       10
    Meek Charity, and drop a human tear
    For the sad fate of Afric's injured sons,
    And hide, for ever hide, the sight of chains,
    Anguish, and bondage! Yes, the heart of man
    Is sick, and Charity turns pale, to think
    How soon, for pure religion's holy beam,
    Dark crimes, that sullied the sweet day, pursued,
    Like vultures, the Discoverer's ocean tract,
    Screaming for blood, to fields of rich Peru,
    Or ravaged Mexico, while Gold more Gold!                          20
    The caverned mountains echoed, Gold more Gold!
      Then see the fell-eyed, prowling buccaneer,
    Grim as a libbard! He his jealous look
    Turns to the dagger at his belt, his hand
    By instinct grasps a bloody scymitar,
    And ghastly is his smile, as o'er the woods
    He sees the smoke of burning villages
    Ascend, and thinks ev'n now he counts his spoil.
      See thousands destined to the lurid mine,
    Never to see the sun again; all names                             30
    Of husband, sire, all tender charities
    Of love, deep buried with them in that grave,
    Where life is as a thing long passed; and hope
    No more its sickly ray, to cheer the gloom,
    Extends.
              Thou, too, dread Ocean, toss thine arms,
    Exulting, for the treasures and the gems
    That thy dark oozy realm emblaze; and call
    The pale procession of the dead, from caves
    Where late their bodies weltered, to attend                       40
    Thy kingly sceptre, and proclaim thy might!
    Lord of the Hurricane! bid all thy winds
    Swell, and destruction ride upon the surge,
    Where, after the red lightning flash that shows
    The labouring ship, all is at once deep night
    And long suspense, till the slow dawn of day
    Gleams on the scattered corses of the dead,
    That strew the sounding shore!
                          Then think of him,
    Ye who rejoice with those you love, at eve,                       50
    When winds of winter shake the window-frame,
    And more endear your fire, oh, think of him,
    Who, saved alone from the destroying storm,
    Is cast on some deserted rock; who sees
    Sun after sun descend, and hopeless hears;
    At morn the long surge of the troubled main,
    That beats without his wretched cave; meantime
    He fears to wake the echoes with his voice,
    So dread the solitude!
                       Let Greenland's snows                          60
    Then shine, and mark the melancholy train
    There left to perish, whilst the cold pale day
    Declines along the further ice, that binds
    The ship, and leaves in night the sinking scene.
    Sad winter closes on the deep; the smoke
    Of frost, that late amusive to the eye
    Rose o'er the coast, is passed, and all is now
    One torpid blank; the freezing particles
    Blown blistering, and the white bear seeks her cave.
    Ill-fated outcasts, when the morn again                           70
    Shall streak with feeble beam the frozen waste,
    Your air-bleached and unburied carcases
    Shall press the ground, and, as the stars fade off,
    Your stony eyes glare 'mid the desert snows!
      These triumphs boast, fell Demon of the Deep!
    Though never more the universal shriek
    Of all that perish thou shalt hear, as when
    The deep foundations of the guilty earth
    Were shaken at the voice of God, and man
    Ceased in his habitations; yet the sea                            80
    Thy might tempestuous still, and joyless rule,
    Confesses. Ah! what bloodless shadows throng
    Ev'n now, slow rising from their oozy beds,
    From Mete,[188] and those gates of burial
    That guard the Erythraean; from the vast
    Unfathomed caverns of the Western main
    Or stormy Orcades; whilst the sad shell
    Of poor Arion,[189] to the hollow blast
    Slow seems to pour its melancholy tones,
    And faintly vibrate, as the dead pass by.                         90
      I see the chiefs, who fell in distant lands,
    The prey of murderous savages, when yells,
    And shouts, and conch, resounded through the woods.
    Magellan and De Solis seem to lead
    The mournful train. Shade of Perouse! oh, say
    Where, in the tract of unknown seas, thy bones
    Th' insulting surge has swept?
                                But who is he,
    Whose look, though pale and bloody, wears the trace
    Of pure philanthropy? The pitying sigh                           100
    Forbid not; he was dear to Britons, dear
    To every beating heart, far as the world
    Extends; and my faint faltering touch ev'n now
    Dies on the strings, when I pronounce thy name,
    Oh, lost, lamented, generous, hapless Cook!
      But cease the vain complaint; turn from the shores,
    Wet with his blood, Remembrance: cast thine eyes
    Upon the long seas, and the wider world,
    Displayed from his research. Smile, glowing Health!
    For now no more the wasted seaman sinks,                         110
    With haggard eye and feeble frame diseased;
    No more with tortured longings for the sight
    Of fields and hillocks green, madly he calls
    On Nature, when before his swimming eye
    The liquid long expanse of cheerless seas
    Seems all one flowery plain. Then frantic dreams
    Arise; his eye's distemper'd flash is seen
    From the sunk socket, as a demon there
    Sat mocking, till he plunges in the flood,
    And the dark wave goes o'er him.                                 120
                                 Nor wilt thou,
    O Science! fail to deck the cold morai[190]
    Of him who wider o'er earth's hemisphere
    Thy views extended. On, from deep to deep,
    Thou shalt retrace the windings of his track;
    From the high North to where the field-ice binds
    The still Antarctic. Thence, from isle to isle,
    Thou shalt pursue his progress; and explore
    New-Holland's eastern shores,[191] where now the sons
    Of distant Britain, from her lap cast out,                       130
    Water the ground with tears of penitence,
    Perhaps, hereafter, in their destined time,
    Themselves to rise pre-eminent. Now speed,
    By Asia's eastern bounds, still to the North,
    Where the vast continents of either world
    Approach: Beyond, 'tis silent boundless ice,
    Impenetrable barrier, where all thought
    Is lost; where never yet the eagle flew,
    Nor roamed so far the white bear through the waste.
      But thou, dread POWER! whose voice from chaos called           140
    The earth, who bad'st the Lord of light go forth,
    Ev'n as a giant, and the sounding seas
    Roll at thy fiat: may the dark deep clouds,
    That thy pavilion shroud from mortal sight,
    So pass away, as now the mystery,
    Obscure through rolling ages, is disclosed;
    How man, from one great Father sprung, his race
    Spread to that severed continent! Ev'n so,
    FATHER, in thy good time, shall all things stand
    Revealed to knowledge.                                           150
                              As the mind revolves
    The change of mighty empires, and the fate
    Of HIM whom Thou hast made, back through the dusk
    Of ages Contemplation turns her view:
    We mark, as from its infancy, the world
    Peopled again, from that mysterious shrine
    That rested on the top of Ararat,
    Highest of Asian mountains; spreading on,
    The Cushites from their mountain caves descend;
    Then before GOD the sons of Ammon stood                          160
    In their gigantic might, and first the seas
    Vanquished: But still from clime to clime the groan
    Of sacrifice, and Superstition's cry,
    Was heard; but when the Dayspring rose of heaven,
    Greece's hoar forests echoed, The great Pan
    Is dead! From Egypt, and the rugged shores
    Of Syrian Tyre, the gods of darkness fly;
    Bel is cast down, and Nebo, horrid king,
    Bows in imperial Babylon: But, ah!
    Too soon, the Star of Bethlehem, whose ray                       170
    The host of heaven hailed jubilant, and sang,
    Glory to God on high, and on earth peace,
    With long eclipse is veiled.
                                Red Papacy
    Usurped the meek dominion of the Lord
    Of love and charity: vast as a fiend
    She rose, Heaven's light was darkened with her frown,
    And the earth murmured back her hymns of blood,
    As the meek martyr at the burning stake
    Stood, his last look uplifted to his GOD!                        180
    But she is now cast down, her empire reft.
    They who in darkness walked, and in the shade
    Of death, have seen a new and holy light,
    As in th' umbrageous forest, through whose boughs,
    Mossy and damp, for many a league, the morn
    With languid beam scarce pierces, here and there
    Touching some solitary trunk, the rest
    Dark waving in the noxious atmosphere:
    Through the thick-matted leaves the serpent winds
    His way, to find a spot of casual sun;                           190
    The gaunt hyaena through the thicket glides
    At eve: then, too, the couched tiger's eye
    Flames in the dusk, and oft the gnashing jaws
    Of the fell crocodile are heard. At length,
    By man's superior energy and toil,
    The sunless brakes are cleared; the joyous morn
    Shines through the opening leaves; rich culture smiles
    Around; and howling to their distant wilds
    The savage inmates of the wood retire.
    Such is the scene of human life, till want                       200
    Bids man his strength put forth; then slowly spreads
    The cultured stream of mild humanity,
    And gentler virtues, and more noble aims
    Employ the active mind, till beauty beams
    Around, and Nature wears her richest robe,
    Adorned with lovelier graces. Then the charms
    Of woman, fairest of the works of Heaven,
    Whom the cold savage, in his sullen pride,
    Scorned as unworthy of his equal love,
    With more attractive influence wins the heart                    210
    Of her protector. Then the names of sire,
    Of home, of brother, and of children, grow
    More sacred, more endearing; whilst the eye,
    Lifted beyond this earthly scene, beholds
    A Father who looks down from heaven on all!
      O Britain, my loved country! dost thou rise
    Most high among the nations! Do thy fleets
    Ride o'er the surge of ocean, that subdued
    Rolls in long sweep beneath them! Dost thou wear
    Thy garb of gentler morals gracefully!                           220
    Is widest science thine, and the fair train
    Of lovelier arts! While commerce throngs thy ports
    With her ten thousand streamers, is the tract
    Of the undeviating ploughshare white
    That rips the reeking furrow, followed soon
    By plenty, bidding all the scene rejoice,
    Even like a cultured garden! Do the streams
    That steal along thy peaceful vales, reflect
    Temples, and Attic domes, and village towers!
    Is beauty thine, fairest of earthly things,                      230
    Woman; and doth she gain that liberal love
    And homage, which the meekness of her voice,
    The rapture of her smile, commanding most
    When she seems weakest, must demand from him,
    Her master; whose stern strength at once submits
    In manly, but endearing, confidence,
    Unlike his selfish tyranny who sits
    The sultan of his harem!
                                Oh, then, think
    How great the blessing, and how high thy rank                    240
    Amid the civilised and social world!
      But hast thou no deep failings, that may turn
    Thy thoughts within thyself! Ask, for the sun
    That shines in heaven hath seen it, hath thy power
    Ne'er scattered sorrow over distant lands!
    Ask of the East, have never thy proud sails
    Borne plunder from dismembered provinces,
    Leaving the groans of miserable men
    Behind! And free thyself, and lifting high
    The charter of thy freedom, bought with blood,                   250
    Hast thou not stood, in patient apathy,
    A witness of the tortures and the chains
    That Afric's injured sons have known! Stand up;
    Yes, thou hast visited the caves, and cheered
    The gloomy haunts of sorrow; thou hast shed
    A beam of comfort and of righteousness
    On isles remote; hast bid the bread-fruit shade
    Th' Hesperian regions, and has softened much
    With bland amelioration, and with charms
    Of social sweetness, the hard lot of man.                        260
    But weighed in truth's firm balance, ask, if all
    Be even. Do not crimes of ranker growth
    Batten amid thy cities, whose loud din,
    From flashing and contending cars, ascends,
    Till morn! Enchanting, as if aught so sweet
    Ne'er faded, do thy daughters wear the weeds
    Of calm domestic peace and wedded love;
    Or turn, with beautiful disdain, to dash
    Gay pleasure's poisoned chalice from their lips
    Untasted! Hath not sullen atheism,                               270
    Weaving gay flowers of poesy, so sought
    To hide the darkness of his withered brow
    With faded and fantastic gallantry
    Of roses, thus to win the thoughtless smile
    Of youthful ignorance! Hast thou with awe
    Looked up to Him whose power is in the clouds,
    Who bids the storm rush, and it sweeps to earth
    The nations that offend, and they are gone,
    Like Tyre and Babylon! Well weigh thyself:
    Then shalt thou rise undaunted in the might                      280
    Of thy Protector, and the gathered hate
    Of hostile bands shall be but as the sand
    Blown on the everlasting pyramid.
      Hasten, O Love and Charity! your work,
    Ev'n now whilst it is day; far as the world
    Extends may your divinest influence
    Be felt, and more than felt, to teach mankind
    They all are brothers, and to drown the cries
    Of superstition, anarchy, or blood!
    Not yet the hour is come: on Ganges' banks                       290
    Still superstition hails the flame of death,
    Behold, gay dressed, as in her bridal tire,
    The self-devoted beauteous victim slow
    Ascend the pile where her dead husband lies:
    She kisses his cold cheeks, inclines her breast
    On his, and lights herself the fatal pile
    That shall consume them both!
                                 On Egypt's shore,
    Where Science rose, now Sloth and Ignorance
    Sleep like the huge Behemoth in the sun!                         300
    The turbaned Moor still stains with strangers' blood
    The inmost sands of Afric. But all these
    The light shall visit, and that vaster tract
    From Fuego to the furthest Labrador,
    Where roam the outcast Esquimaux, shall hear
    The voice of social fellowship; the chief
    Whose hatchet flashed amid the forest gloom,
    Who to his infants bore the bleeding scalp
    Of his fall'n foe, shall weep unwonted tears!
      Come, Faith; come, Hope; come, meek-eyed Charity!              310
    Complete the lovely prospect: every land
    Shall lift up one hosannah; every tongue
    Proclaim thee FATHER, INFINITE, and WISE,
    And GOOD. The shores of palmy Senegal
    (Sad Afric's injured sons no more enslaved)
    Shall answer HALLELUJAH, for the LORD
    Of truth and mercy reigns;--reigns KING OF KINGS;--
    HOSANNAH--KING OF KINGS--and LORD OF LORDS!
      So may His kingdom come, when all the earth,
    Uniting thus as in one hymn of praise,                           320
    Shall wait the end of all things. This great globe,
    His awful plan accomplished, then shall sink
    In flames, whilst through the clouds, that wrap the place
    Where it had rolled, and the sun shone, the voice
    Of the ARCHANGEL, and the TRUMP OF GOD,
    Amid heaven's darkness rolling fast away,
    Shall sound!
               Then shall the sea give up its dead;--
    But man's immortal mind, all trials past
    That shook his feverish frame, amidst the scenes                 330
    Of peril and distemper, shall ascend
    Exulting to its destined seat of rest,
    And "justify His ways" from whom it sprung.

[188] Mete, in the Arabic, according to Bruce, signifies "the place of
burial." The entrance of the Red Sea was so called, from the dangers of
the navigation. See Bruce.

[189] Alluding to the pathetic poem of the _Shipwreck_, whose author,
Falconer, described himself under the name of Arion, and who was
afterwards lost in the "Aurora."

[190] "Morai" is a grave.

[191] Botany Bay.




THE MISSIONARY.

Amor patriae ratione potentior omni.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.[192]


It is not necessary to relate the causes which induced me to publish
this poem without a name.

The favour with which it has been received may make me less diffident in
avowing it; and, as a second edition has been generally called for, I
have endeavoured to make it, in every respect, less unworthy of the
public eye.

I have availed myself of every sensible objection, the most material of
which was the circumstance, that the Indian maid, described in the first
book, had not a part assigned to her of sufficient interest in the
subsequent events of the poem, and that the character of the Missionary
was not sufficiently professional.

The single circumstance that a Spanish commander, with his army in South
America, was destroyed by the Indians, in consequence of the treachery
of his page, who was a native, and that only a priest was saved, is all
that has been taken from history. The rest of this poem, the personages,
father, daughter, wife, _et cet._ (with the exception of the names of
Indian warriors) is imaginary. The time is two months. The first four
books include as many days and nights. The rest of the time is occupied
by the Spaniards' march, the assembly of warriors, _et cet._

The place in which the scene is laid, was selected because South America
has of late years received additional interest, and because the ground
was at once new, poetical, and picturesque.

From old-fashioned feelings, perhaps, I have admitted some aerial
agents, or what is called machinery. It is true that the spirits cannot
be said to accelerate or retard the events; but surely they may be
allowed to show a sympathy with the fate of those, among whom poetical
fancy has given them a prescriptive ideal existence. They may be further
excused, as relieving the narrative, and adding to the imagery.

The causes which induced me to publish this poem without a name, induced
me also to attempt it in a versification to which I have been least
accustomed, which, to my ear, is most uncongenial, and which is, in
itself, most difficult. I mention this, in order that, if some passages
should be found less harmonious than they might have been, the candour
of the reader may pardon them.


_Scene_--SOUTH AMERICA.

_Characters._--Valdivia, commander of the Spanish armies--Lautaro, his
page, a native of Chili--Anselmo, the missionary--Indiana, his adopted
daughter, wife of Lautaro--Zarinel, the wandering minstrel.

_Indians._--Attacapac, father of Lautaro--Olola, his daughter, sister of
Lautaro--Caupolican, chief of the Indians--Indian warriors.

The chief event of the poem turns upon the conduct of Lautaro; but as
the Missionary acts so distinguished a part, and as the whole of the
moral depends upon him, it was thought better to retain the title which
was originally given to the poem.

[192] Dedicated to the Marquis of Lansdowne.




THE MISSIONARY.

INTRODUCTION.


    When o'er the Atlantic wild, rocked by the blast,
    Sad Lusitania's exiled sovereign passed,
    Reft of her pomp, from her paternal throne
    Cast forth, and wandering to a clime unknown,
    To seek a refuge on that distant shore,
    That once her country's legions dyed with gore;--
    Sudden, methought, high towering o'er the flood,
    Hesperian world! thy mighty genius stood;
    Where spread, from cape to cape, from bay to bay,
    Serenely blue, the vast Pacific lay;                              10
    And the huge Cordilleras to the skies
    With all their burning summits seemed to rise.
      Then the stern spirit spoke, and to his voice
    The waves and woods replied:--Mountains, rejoice!
    Thou solitary sea, whose billows sweep
    The margin of my forests, dark and deep,
    Rejoice! the hour is come: the mortal blow,
    That smote the golden shrines of Mexico,
    In Europe is avenged; and thou, proud Spain,
    Now hostile hosts insult thy own domain;                          20
    Now Fate, vindictive, rolls, with refluent flood,
    Back on thy shores the tide of human blood,
    Think of my murdered millions! of the cries
    That once I heard from all my kingdoms rise;
    Of Famine's feeble plaint, of Slavery's tear;--
    Think, too, if Valour, Freedom, Fame, be dear,
    How my Antarctic sons, undaunted, stood,
    Exacting groan for groan, and blood for blood;
    And shouted, (may the sounds be hailed by thee!)
    Tyrants, the virtuous and the brave are free!                     30


CANTO FIRST.

ARGUMENT.

    _One Day and Part of Night._

    Valley in the Andes--Old Indian warrior--Loss of his son and
    daughter.

    Beneath aerial cliffs, and glittering snows,
    The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose,
    Chief of the mountain tribes: high overhead,
    The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread,
    Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires,
    And Chillan[193] trailed its smoke and smouldering fires.
    A glen beneath, a lonely spot of rest,
    Hung, scarce discovered, like an eagle's nest.
      Summer was in its prime;--the parrot-flocks
    Darkened the passing sunshine on the rocks;                       10
    The chrysomel[194] and purple butterfly,[195]
    Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by;
    The humming-bird, along the myrtle bowers,
    With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flowers,
    The woodpecker is heard with busy bill,
    The mock-bird sings--and all beside is still,
    And look! the cataract that bursts so high,
    As not to mar the deep tranquillity,
    The tumult of its dashing fall suspends,
    And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends;                     20
    Through whose illumined spray and sprinkling dews,
    Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues.
      Chequering, with partial shade, the beams of noon,
    And arching the gray rock with wild festoon,
    Here its gay net-work, and fantastic twine,
    The purple cogul[196] threads from pine to pine,
    And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe,
    Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath.
    There, through the trunks with moss and lichens white,
    The sunshine darts its interrupted light,                         30
    And, 'mid the cedar's darksome boughs, illumes,
    With instant touch, the Lori's scarlet plumes.
      So smiles the scene;--but can its smiles impart
    Aught to console yon mourning warrior's heart?
    He heeds not now, when beautifully bright,
    The humming-bird is circling in his sight;
    Nor ev'n, above his head, when air is still,
    Hears the green woodpecker's resounding bill;
    But gazing on the rocks and mountains wild,
    Rock after rock, in glittering masses piled                       40
    To the volcano's cone, that shoots so high
    Gray smoke whose column stains the cloudless sky,
    He cries, Oh! if thy spirit yet be fled
    To the pale kingdoms of the shadowy dead,--
    In yonder tract of purest light above,
    Dear long-lost object of a father's love,
    Dost thou abide; or like a shadow come,
    Circling the scenes of thy remembered home,
    And passing with the breeze, or, in the beam
    Of evening, light the desert mountain stream!                     50
    Or at deep midnight are thine accents heard,
    In the sad notes of that melodious bird,[197]
    Which, as we listen with mysterious dread,
    Brings tidings from our friends and fathers dead?
    Perhaps, beyond those summits, far away,
    Thine eyes yet view the living light of day;
    Sad, in the stranger's land, thou may'st sustain
    A weary life of servitude and pain,
    With wasted eye gaze on the orient beam,
    And think of these white rocks and torrent stream,                60
    Never to hear the summer cocoa wave,
    Or weep upon thy father's distant grave.
      Ye, who have waked, and listened with a tear,
    When cries confused, and clangours rolled more near;
    With murmured prayer, when Mercy stood aghast,
    As War's black trump pealed its terrific blast,
    And o'er the withered earth the armed giant passed!
    Ye, who his track with terror have pursued,
    When some delightful land, all blood-imbrued,
    He swept; where silent is the champaign wide,                     70
    That echoed to the pipe of yester-tide,
    Save, when far off, the moonlight hills prolong
    The last deep echoes of his parting gong;
    Nor aught is seen, in the deserted spot
    Where trailed the smoke of many a peaceful cot,
    Save livid corses that unburied lie,
    And conflagrations, reeking to the sky;--
    Come listen, whilst the causes I relate
    That bowed the warrior to the storms of fate,
    And left these smiling scenes forlorn and desolate.               80
      In other days, when, in his manly pride,
    Two children for a father's fondness vied,--
    Oft they essayed, in mimic strife, to wield
    His lance, or laughing peeped behind his shield;
    Oft in the sun, or the magnolia's shade,
    Lightsome of heart as gay of look they played,
    Brother and sister. She, along the dew,
    Blithe as the squirrel of the forest flew;
    Blue rushes wreathed her head; her dark-brown hair
    Fell, gently lifted, on her bosom bare;                           90
    Her necklace shone, of sparkling insects made,
    That flit, like specks of fire, from sun to shade.
    Light was her form; a clasp of silver braced
    The azure-dyed ichella[198] round her waist;
    Her ancles rung with shells, as unconfined
    She danced, and sung wild carols to the wind.
    With snow-white teeth, and laughter in her eye,
    So beautiful in youth she bounded by.
      Yet kindness sat upon her aspect bland,--
    The tame alpaca[199] stood and licked her hand;                  100
    She brought him gathered moss, and loved to deck
    With flowery twine his tall and stately neck,
    Whilst he with silent gratitude replies,
    And bends to her caress his large blue eyes.
      These children danced together in the shade,
    Or stretched their hands to see the rainbow fade;
    Or sat and mocked, with imitative glee,
    The paroquet, that laughed from tree to tree;
    Or through the forest's wildest solitude,
    From glen to glen, the marmozet pursued;                         110
    And thought the light of parting day too short,
    That called them, lingering, from their daily sport.
      In that fair season of awakening life,
    When dawning youth and childhood are at strife;
    When on the verge of thought gay boyhood stands
    Tiptoe, with glistening eye and outspread hands;
    With airy look, and form and footsteps light,
    And glossy locks, and features berry-bright,
    And eye like the young eaglet's, to the ray
    Of noon unblenching as he sails away;                            120
    A brede of sea-shells on his bosom strung,
    A small stone-hatchet o'er his shoulder slung,
    With slender lance, and feathers blue and red,
    That, like the heron's[200] crest, waved on his head,--
    Buoyant with hope, and airiness, and joy,
    Lautaro was a graceful Indian boy:
    Taught by his sire, ev'n now he drew the bow,
    Or tracked the jagguar on the morning snow;
    Startled the condor, on the craggy height;
    Then silent sat, and marked its upward flight,                   130
    Lessening in ether to a speck of white.
      But when the impassioned chieftain spoke of war,
    Smote his broad breast, or pointed to a scar,--
    Spoke of the strangers of the distant main,
    And the proud banners of insulting Spain,--
    Of the barbed horse and iron horseman spoke,
    And his red gods, that, wrapped in rolling smoke,
    Roared from the guns;--the boy, with still-drawn breath,
    Hung on the wondrous tale, as mute as death;
    Then raised his animated eyes, and cried,                        140
    Oh, let me perish by my father's side!
      Once, when the moon, o'er Chillan's cloudless height,
    Poured, far and wide, its softest, mildest light,
    A predatory band of mailed men
    Burst on the stillness of the sheltered glen:
    They shouted, Death! and shook their sabres high,
    That shone terrific to the moonlight sky;
    Where'er they rode, the valley and the hill
    Echoed the shrieks of death, till all again was still.
      The warrior, ere he sank in slumber deep,                      150
    Had kissed his son, soft-breathing in his sleep,
    Where on a Llama's skin he lay, and said,
    Placing his hand, with tears, upon his head,
    Aerial nymphs![201] that in the moonlight stray,
    O gentle spirits! here awhile delay;
    Bless, as ye pass unseen, my sleeping boy,
    Till blithe he wakes to daylight and to joy.
    If the GREAT SPIRIT will, in future days,
    O'er the fall'n foe his hatchet he shall raise,
    And, 'mid a grateful nation's high applause,                     160
    Avenge his violated country's cause!
      Now, nearer points of spears, and many a cone
    Of moving helmets, in the moonlight shone,
    As, clanking through the pass, the band of blood
    Sprang, like hyaenas, from the secret wood.
    They rush, they seize their unresisting prey,
    Ruthless they tear the shrieking boy away;
    But, not till gashed by many a sabre wound,
    The father sank, expiring, on the ground.
    He waked from the dark trance to life and pain,                  170
    But never saw his darling child again.
      Seven snows had fallen, and seven green summers passed,
    Since here he heard that son's loved accents last.
    Still his beloved daughter soothed his cares,
    Whilst time began to strew with white his hairs.
    Oft as his painted feathers he unbound,
    Or gazed upon his hatchet on the ground,
    Musing with deep despair, nor strove to speak,
    Light she approached, and climbed to reach his cheek,
    Held with both hands his forehead, then her head                 180
    Drew smiling back, and kissed the tear he shed.
      But late, to grief and hopeless love a prey,
    She left his side, and wandered far away.
    Now in this still and shelter'd glen, that smiled
    Beneath the crags of precipices wild,
    Wrapt in a stern yet sorrowful repose,
    The warrior half forgot his country's woes;
    Forgot how many, impotent to save,
    Shed their best blood upon a father's grave;
    How many, torn from wife and children, pine                      190
    In the dark caverns of the hopeless mine,
    Never to see again the blessed morn;--
    Slaves in the lovely land where they were born;
    How many at sad sunset, with a tear,
    The distant roar of sullen cannons hear,
    Whilst evening seems, as dies the sound, to throw
    A deadlier stillness on a nation's woe!
      So the dark warrior, day succeeding day,
    Wore in distempered thought the noons away;
    And still, when weary evening came, he sighed,                   200
    My son, my son! or, with emotion, cried,
    When I descend to the cold grave alone,
    Who shall be there to mourn for me?--Not one![202]
      The crimson orb of day now westering flung
    His beams, and o'er the vast Pacific hung;
    When from afar a shrilling sound was heard,
    And, hurrying o'er the dews, a scout appeared.
    The watchful warrior knew the piercing tones,
    The signal-call of war, from human bones,--
    What tidings? with impatient look, he cried.                     210
    Tidings of war, the hurrying scout replied;
    Then the sharp pipe[203] with shriller summons blew,
    And held the blood-red arrow high in view.[204]

    CHIEF.

    Where speed the foes?

    INDIAN.

                              Along the southern main,
    Have passed the vultures of accursed Spain.

    CHIEF.

    Ruin pursue them on the distant flood,
    And be their deadly portion--blood for blood!

    INDIAN.

    When, round and red, the moon shall next arise,
    The chiefs attend the midnight sacrifice                         220
    In Encol's wood, where the great wizard dwells,
    Who wakes the dead man by his thrilling spells;
    Thee,[205] Ulmen of the Mountains, they command
    To lift the hatchet for thy native land;
    Whilst in dread circle, round the sere-wood smoke,
    The mighty gods of vengeance they invoke;
    And call the spirits of their fathers slain,
    To nerve their lifted arm, and curse devoted Spain.
      So spoke the scout of war;--and o'er the dew,
    Onward along the craggy valley, flew.                            230
    Then the stern warrior sang his song of death--
    And blew his conch, that all the glens beneath
    Echoed, and rushing from the hollow wood,
    Soon at his side three hundred warriors stood.

    WARRIOR.

    Children, who for his country dares to die?

      Three hundred brandished spears shone to the sky:
    We perish, or we leave our country free;
    Father, our blood for Chili and for thee!
      The mountain-chief essayed his club to wield,
    And shook the dust indignant from the shield.                    240
    Then spoke:--

      O Thou! that with thy lingering light
    Dost warm the world, till all is hushed in night;
    I look upon thy parting beams, O sun!
    And say, ev'n thus my course is almost run.
    When thou dost hide thy head, as in the grave,
    And sink to glorious rest beneath the wave,
    Dost thou, majestic in repose, retire,
    Below the deep, to unknown worlds of fire!
    Yet though thou sinkest, awful, in the main,                     250
    The shadowy moon comes forth, and all the train
    Of stars, that shine with soft and silent light,
    Making so beautiful the brow of night.
    Thus, when I sleep within the narrow bed,
    The light of after-fame around shall spread;
    The sons of distant Ocean, when they see
    The grass-green heap beneath the mountain tree,
    And hear the leafy boughs at evening wave,
    Shall pause and say, There sleep in dust the brave!
      All earthly hopes my lonely heart have fled!                   260
    Stern Guecubu,[206] angel of the dead,
    Who laughest when the brave in pangs expire;
    Whose dwelling is beneath the central fire
    Of yonder burning mountain; who hast passed
    O'er my poor dwelling, and with one fell blast
    Scattered my summer-leaves that clustered round,
    And swept my fairest blossoms to the ground;
    Angel of dire despair, oh! come not nigh,
    Nor wave thy red wings o'er me where I lie;
    But thou, O mild and gentle spirit! stand,                       270
    Angel[207] of hope and peace, at my right hand,
    (When blood-drops stagnate on my brow) and guide
    My pathless voyage o'er the unknown tide,
    To scenes of endless joy, to that fair isle,
    Where bowers of bliss, and soft savannahs smile:
    Where my forefathers oft the fight renew,
    And Spain's black visionary steeds pursue;
    Where, ceased the struggles of all human pain,
    I may behold thee--thee, my son, again!
      He spoke, and whilst at evening's glimmering close             280
    The distant mist, like the gray ocean, rose,
    With patriot sorrows swelling at his breast,
    He sank upon a jagguar's hide to rest.
      'Twas night: remote on Caracalla's bay,
    Valdivia's army, hushed in slumber, lay.
    Around the limits of the silent camp,
    Alone was heard the steed's patroling tramp
    From line to line, whilst the fixed sentinel
    Proclaimed the watch of midnight--All is well!
    Valdivia dreamed of millions yet untold,                         290
    Villrica's gems, and El Dorado's gold!
      What different feelings, by the scene impressed,
    Rose in sad tumult o'er Lautaro's breast!
    On the broad ocean, where the moonlight slept,
    Thoughtful he turned his waking eyes, and wept,
    And whilst the thronging forms of memory start,
    Thus holds communion with his lonely heart:
      Land of my fathers, still I tread your shore,
    And mourn the shade of hours that are no more;
    Whilst night-airs, like remembered voices, sweep,                300
    And murmur from the undulating deep.
    Was it thy voice, my father! Thou art dead,
    The green rush waves on thy forsaken bed.
    Was it thy voice, my sister! Gentle maid,
    Thou too, perhaps, in the dark cave art laid;
    Perhaps, even now, thy spirit sees me stand
    A homeless stranger in my native land;
    Perhaps, even now, along the moonlight sea,
    It bends from the blue cloud, remembering me!
    Land of my fathers! yet, oh yet forgive,                         310
    That with thy deadly enemies I live:
    The tenderest ties (it boots not to relate)
    Have bound me to their service, and their fate;
    Yet, whether on Peru's war-wasted plain,
    Or visiting these sacred shores again,
    Whate'er the struggles of this heart may be,
    Land of my fathers, it shall beat for thee!

[193] A volcano in Chili.

[194] The chrysomela is a beautiful insect of which the young women of
Chili make necklaces.

[195] The parrot butterfly, peculiar to this part of America, the
largest and most brilliant of its kind.--_Papilio psittacus._

[196] A most beautiful climbing plant. The vine is of the size of
packthread: it climbs on the trees without attaching itself to them:
when it reaches the top, it descends perpendicularly; and as it
continues to grow, it extends itself from tree to tree, until it offers
to the eye a confused tissue, exhibiting some resemblance to the rigging
of a ship.--_Molina._

[197] I chanced once to lodge in a village named Upec by the Frenchmen:
there, in the night, I heard _those birds, not singing_, but making a
lamentable noise. I saw the barbarians most attentive, and, being
ignorant of the whole matter, reproved their folly. But when I smiled a
little upon a Frenchman standing by me, a certain old man, severely
enough, restrained me with these words: "Hold your peace, lest you
hinder us who attentively hearken _to the happy tidings of our
ancestors_; for as often as we hear these birds, so often also are we
cheered, and our strength receiveth increase."--_Callender's Voyage._

[198] The ichella is a short cloak, of a greenish-blue colour, of wool,
fastened before with a silver buckle.--_Molina._

[199] The alpaca is perhaps the most beautiful, gentle, and interesting
of living animals: one was to be seen in London in 1812.

[200] _Ardea cristata._

[201] Every warrior of Chili, according to Molina, has his attendant
"nymph" or fairy--the belief in which is nearly similar to the popular
and poetical idea of those beings in Europe. Meulen is the benevolent
spirit.

[202] I have taken this line from the conclusion of the celebrated
speech of the old North American warrior, Logan, "Who is there to mourn
for Logan?--not one!"

[203] Their pipes of war are made of the bones of their enemies, who
have been sacrificed.

[204] The way in which the warriors are summoned, is something like the
"running the cross" in Scotland, which is so beautifully described by
Walter Scott. The scouts on this occasion bear an arrow bound with red
fillets.

[205] Ulmen is the same as Casique, or chief.

[206] Guecubu{h} is the evil spirit of the Chilians.

[207] They have their evil and good spirits.


CANTO SECOND.

ARGUMENT.

    _The Second Day._

    Night--Spirit of the Andes--Valdivia--Lautaro--Missionary--The
    Hermitage.

    The night was still and clear, when, o'er the snows,
    Andes! thy melancholy Spirit rose,--
    A shadow stern and sad: he stood alone,
    Upon the topmost mountain's burning cone;
    And whilst his eyes shone dim, through surging smoke,
    Thus to the spirits of the fire he spoke:--

        Ye, who tread the hidden deeps,
        Where the silent earthquake sleeps;
        Ye, who track the sulphurous tide,
        Or on hissing vapours ride,--                                 10
          Spirits, come!
        From worlds of subterraneous night;
        From fiery realms of lurid light;
        From the ore's unfathomed bed;
        From the lava's whirlpools red,--
          Spirits, come!
    On Chili's foes rush with vindictive sway,
    And sweep them from the light of living day!
      Heard ye not the ravenous brood,
      That flap their wings, and scream for blood?                    20
      On Peru's devoted shore
      Their murderous beaks are red with gore;
      Yet here, impatient for new prey,
      The insatiate vultures track their way.
      Let them perish! they, whose bands
      Swept remote and peaceful lands!
      Let them perish!--on their head,
      Descend the darkness of the dead!
      Spirits, now your caves forsake:
      Hark! ten thousand warriors wake!--                             30
      Spirits, their high cause defend!--
      From your caves ascend! ascend!

      As thus the Genius of the Andes spoke,
    The trembling mountain heaved with darker smoke;
    Lightnings, and phantom-forms, by fits appeared;
    His mighty voice far off Osorno heard;
    The caverned deeps shook through their vast profound,
    And Chimborazzo's height rolled back the sound.
      With lifted arm, and towering stature high,
    And aspect frowning to the middle sky                             40
    (Its misty form dilated in the wind),
    The phantom stood,--till, less and less defined,
    Into thin air it faded from the sight,
    Lost in the ambient haze of slow-returning light.
    Its feathery-seeming crown, its giant spear,
    Its limbs of huge proportion, disappear;
    And the bare mountains to the dawn disclose
    The same long line of solitary snows.
      The morning shines, the military train
    Streams far and wide along the tented plain;                      50
    And plaited cuirasses, and helms of steel,
    Throw back the sunbeams, as the horsemen wheel:
    Thus, with arms glancing to the eastern light,
    Pass, in review, proud steeds and cohorts bright;
    For all the host, by break of morrow's gray,
    Wind back their march to Penco's northern bay,
    Valdivia, fearful lest confederate foes,
    Ambushed and dark, his progress might oppose,
    Marshals to-day the whole collected force,
    File and artillery, cuirassier and horse:                         60
    Himself yet lingers ere he joins the train,
    That moves, in ordered march, along the plain,
    While troops, and Indian slaves beneath his eye,
    The labours of the rising city ply:[208]
    Wide glows the general toil; the mole extends,
    The watch-tower o'er the desert surge ascends;
    And battlements, and rising ramparts, shine
    Above the ocean's blue and level line.
      The sun ascended to meridian height,
    And all the northern bastions shone in light;                     70
    With hoarse acclaim, the gong and trumpet rung,
    The Moorish slaves aloft their cymbals swung,
    When the proud victor, in triumphant state,
    Rode forth, in arms, through the portcullis' gate.
      With neck high-arching as he smote the ground,
    And restless pawing to the trumpet's sound,--
    With mantling mane, o'er his broad shoulders spread,
    And nostrils blowing, and dilated red,--
    The coal-black steed, in rich caparison
    Far trailing to the ground, went proudly on.                      80
    Proudly he tramped, as conscious of his charge,
    And turned around his eye-balls, bright and large,
    And shook the frothy boss, as in disdain;
    And tossed the flakes, indignant, off his mane;
    And, with high-swelling veins, exulting pressed
    Proudly against the barb his heaving breast.
      The fate of empires glowing in his thought,
    Thus armed, the tented field Valdivia sought.
    On the left side his poised shield he bore,
    With quaint devices richly blazoned o'er;                         90
    Above the plumes, upon his helmet's cone,
    Castile's imperial crest illustrious shone;
    Blue in the wind the escutcheoned mantle flowed,
    O'er the chained mail, which tinkled as he rode.
    The barred vizor raised, you might discern
    His clime-changed countenance,[209] though pale, yet stern,
    And resolute as death,--whilst in his eye
    Sat proud Assurance, Fame, and Victory.
      Lautaro, now in manhood's rising pride,
    Rode, with a lance, attendant at his side,                       100
    In Spanish mantle gracefully arrayed;
    Upon his brow a tuft of feathers played:
    His glossy locks, with dark and mantling grace,
    Shaded the noonday sunbeams on his face.
    Though passed in tears the dayspring of his youth,
    Valdivia loved his gratitude and truth:
    He, in Valdivia, owned a nobler friend;
    Kind to protect, and mighty to defend.
    So, on he rode; upon his youthful mien
    A mild but sad intelligence was seen;                            110
    Courage was on his open brow, yet care
    Seemed like a wandering shade to linger there;
    And though his eye shone, as the eagle's, bright,
    It beamed with humid, melancholy light
      When now Valdivia saw the embattled line,
    Helmets, and swords, and shields, and matchlocks, shine;
    Now the long phalanx still and steady stand,
    Fixed every eye, and motionless each hand;
    Then slowly clustering, into columns wheel,
    Each with the red-cross banners of Castile;                      120
    While trumps, and drums, and cymbals, to his ear
    Made music such as soldiers love to hear;
    While horsemen checked their steeds, or, bending low
    With levelled lances, o'er the saddle-bow,
    Rode gallantly at tilt; and thunders broke,
    Instant involving van and rear in smoke,
    Till winds the obscuring volume rolled away,
    And the red file, stretched out in long array,
    More radiant moved beneath the beams of day;
    While ensigns, arms, and crosses, glittered bright,--            130
    Philip![210] he cried, seest thou the glorious sight?
    And dost thou deem the tribes of this poor land
    Can men, and arms, and steeds, like these, withstand?
      Forgive!--the youth replied, and checked a tear,--
    The land where my forefathers sleep is dear!--
    My native land!--this spot of blessed earth,
    The scene where I, and all I love, had birth!
    What gratitude fidelity can give
    Is yours, my lord!--you shielded--bade me live,
    When, in the circuit of the world so wide,                       140
    I had but one, one only friend beside.
    I bowed resigned to fate; I kissed the hand,
    Red with the best blood of my father's land![211]
    But mighty as thou art, Valdivia, know,
    Though Cortes' desolating march laid low
    The shrines of rich, voluptuous Mexico;
    With carcases, though proud Pizarro strew
    The Sun's imperial temple in Peru,
    Yet the rude dwellers of this land are brave,
    And the last spot they lose will be their grave!                 150
      A moment's crimson crossed Valdivia's cheek--
    Then o'er the plain he spurred, nor deigned to speak,
    Waving the youth, at distance, to retire;
    None saw the eye that shot terrific fire.
    As their commander sternly rode along,
    Troop after troop, halted the martial throng;
    And all the pennoned trumps a louder blast
    Blew, as the Southern World's great victor passed.
      Lautaro turned, scarce heeding, from the view,
    And from the noise of trumps and drums withdrew;                 160
    And now, while troubled thoughts his bosom swell,
    Seeks the gray Missionary's humble cell.
      Fronting the ocean, but beyond the ken
    Of public view, and sounds of murmuring men,
    Of unhewn roots composed, and gnarled wood,
    A small and rustic oratory stood;
    Upon its roof of reeds appeared a cross,
    The porch within was lined with mantling moss;
    A crucifix and hour-glass, on each side--
    One to admonish seemed, and one to guide;                        170
    This, to impress how soon life's race is o'er;
    And that, to lift our hopes where time shall be no more.
    O'er the rude porch, with wild and gadding stray,
    The clustering copu weaved its trellis gay;
    Two mossy pines, high bending, interwove
    Their aged and fantastic arms above.
    In front, amid the gay surrounding flowers,
    A dial counted the departing hours,
    On which the sweetest light of summer shone,--
    A rude and brief inscription marked the stone:                   180
        To count, with passing shade, the hours,
        I placed the dial 'mid the flowers;
        That, one by one, came forth, and died,
        Blooming, and withering, round its side.
        Mortal, let the sight impart
        Its pensive moral to thy heart!
      Just heard to trickle through a covert near,
    And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear,
    A fount, like rain-drops, filtered through the stone,
    And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone.                     190
    Intent his fairy pastime to pursue,
    And, gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue,
    The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song
    Heedlessly murmured, all the summer long;
    And when the winter came, retired to rest,
    And from the myrtles hung its trembling nest.
    No sounds of a conflicting world were near;
    The noise of ocean faintly met the ear,
    That seemed, as sunk to rest the noontide blast,
    But dying sounds of passions that were past;                     200
    Or closing anthems, when, far off, expire
    The lessening echoes of the distant choir.
      Here, every human sorrow hushed to rest,
    His pale hands meekly crossed upon his breast,
    Anselmo sat: the sun, with westering ray,
    Just touched his temples, and his locks of gray.
    There was no worldly feeling in his eye;
    The world to him was "as a thing gone by."
      Now, all his features lit, he raised his look,
    Then bent it thoughtful, and unclasped the book;                 210
    And whilst the hour-glass shed its silent sand,
    A tame opossum[212] licked his withered hand.
    That sweetest light of slow-declining day,
    Which through the trellis poured its slanting ray,
    Resting a moment on his few gray hairs,
    Seemed light from heaven sent down to bless his prayers.
      When the trump echoed to the quiet spot,
    He thought upon the world, but mourned it not;
    Enough if his meek wisdom could control,
    And bend to mercy, one proud soldier's soul;                     220
    Enough, if, while these distant scenes he trod,
    He led one erring Indian to his God.
      Whence comes my son? with kind complacent look
    He asked, and closed again the embossed book.
      I come to thee for peace, the youth replied:
    Oh, there is strife, and cruelty, and pride,
    In this sad Christian world! My native land
    Was happy, ere the soldier, with his band
    Of fell destroyers, like a vulture, came,
    And gave its peaceful scenes to blood and flame.                 230
    When will the turmoil of earth's tempests cease?
    Father, I come to thee for peace--for peace!
      Seek peace, the father cried, with God above:
    In His good time, all will be peace and love.
    We mourn, indeed, mourn that all sounds of ill,
    Earth's fairest scenes with one deep murmur fill;
    That yonder sun, when evening paints the sky,
    Sinks, beauteous, on a world of misery;
    The course of wide destruction to withstand,
    We lift our feeble voice--our trembling hand;                    240
    But still, bowed low, or smitten to the dust,
    Father of mercy, still in Thee we trust!
    Through good or ill, in poverty or wealth,
    In joy or woe, in sickness or in health,
    Meek Piety thy awful hand surveys,
    And the faint murmur turns to prayer and praise!
    We know--whatever evils we deplore--
    Thou hast permitted, and we know no more!
    Behold, illustrious on the subject plain,
    Some tow'r-crowned city of imperial Spain!                       250
    Hark! 'twas the earthquake![213] clouds of dust alone
    Ascend from earth, where tower and temple shone!
    Such is the conqueror's dread path: the grave
    Yawns for its millions where his banners wave;
    But shall vain man, whose life is but a sigh,
    With sullen acquiescence gaze and die?
    Alas, how little of the mighty maze
    Of Providence our mortal ken surveys!
    Heaven's awful Lord, pavilioned in the clouds,
    Looks through the darkness that all nature shrouds;              260
    And, far beyond the tempest and the night,
    Bids man his course hold on to scenes of endless light.

[208] The city Baldivia.

[209] He had served in the wars of Italy.

[210] Lautaro had been baptized by that name.

[211] Valdivia had before been in Chili.

[212] A small and beautiful species, which is domesticated.

[213] No part of the world is so subject to earthquakes as Peru.


CANTO THIRD.

ARGUMENT.

    _Evening and Night of the same Day._

    Anselmo's story--Converted Indians--Confession of the Wandering
    Minstrel--Night-Scene.

    Come,--for the sun yet hangs above the bay,--
    And whilst our time may brook a brief delay
    With other thoughts, and, haply with a tear,
    An old man's tale of sorrow thou shalt hear.
    I wished not to reveal it;--thoughts that dwell
    Deep in the lonely bosom's inmost cell
    Unnoticed, and unknown, too painful wake,
    And, like a tempest, the dark spirit shake,
    When, starting from our slumberous apathy,
    We gaze upon the scenes of days gone by.                          10
    Yet, if a moment's irritating flush,
    Darkens thy cheek,[214] as thoughts conflicting rush,
    When I disclose my hidden griefs, the tale
    May more than wisdom or reproof prevail.
    Oh, may it teach thee, till all trials cease,
    To hold thy course, though sorrowing, yet in peace;
    Still looking up to Him, the soul's best stay,
    Who Faith and Hope shall crown, when worlds are swept away!
      Where fair Seville's Morisco[215] turrets gleam
    On Guadilquiver's gently-stealing stream;                         20
    Whose silent waters, seaward as they glide,
    Reflect the wild-rose thickets on its side,
    My youth was passed. Oh, days for ever gone!
    How touched with Heaven's own light your mornings shone
      Even now, when lonely and forlorn I bend,
    My weary journey hastening to its end,
    A drooping exile on a distant shore,
    I mourn the hours of youth that are no more.
    The tender thought amid my prayers has part,
    And steals, at times, from Heaven my aged heart.                  30
      Forgive the cause, O God!--forgive the tear,
    That flows, even now, o'er Leonora's bier;
    For, 'midst the innocent and lovely, none
    More beautiful than Leonora shone.
      As by her widowed mother's side she knelt,
    A sad and sacred sympathy I felt.
    At Easter-tide, when the high mass was sung,
    And, fuming high, the silver censer swung;
    When rich-hued windows, from the arches' height,
    Poured o'er the shrines a soft and yellow light;                  40
    From aisle to aisle, amid the service clear,
    When "Adoremus" swelled upon the ear.
    (Such as to Heaven thy rapt attention drew
    First in the Christian churches of Peru),
    She seemed, methought, some spirit of the sky,
    Descending to that holy harmony.
      But wherefore tell, when life and hope were new,
    How by degrees the soul's first passion grew!
    I loved her, and I won her virgin heart;
    But fortune whispered, we a while must part.                      50
      The minster tolled the middle hour of night,
    When, waked to agony and wild affright,
    I heard those words, words of appalling dread--
    "The Holy Inquisition!"--from the bed
    I started; snatched my dagger, and my cloak--
    Who dare accuse me!--none, in answer, spoke.
    The demons seized, in silence, on their prey,
    And tore me from my dreams of bliss away.
      How frightful was their silence, and their shade,
    In torch-light, as their victim they conveyed,                    60
    By dark-inscribed, and massy-windowed walls,
    Through the dim twilight of terrific halls;
    (For thou hast heard me speak of that foul stain
    Of pure religion, and the rights of Spain;)
    Whilst the high windows shook to night's cold blast,
    And echoed to the foot-fall as we passed!
      They left me, faint and breathless with affright,
    In a cold cell, to solitude and night;
    Oh! think, what horror through the heart must thrill
    When the last bolt was barred, and all at once was still!         70
      Nor day nor night was here, but a deep gloom,
    Sadder than darkness, wrapped the living tomb.
    Some bread and water, nature to sustain,
    Duly was brought when eve returned again;
    And thus I knew, hoping it were the last,
    Another day of lingering life was passed.
      Five years immured in that deep den of night,
    I never saw the sweet sun's blessed light.
    Once as the grate, with sullen sound, was barred,
    And to the bolts the inmost cavern jarred,                        80
    Methought I heard, as clanged the iron door,
    A dull and hollow echo from the floor;
    I stamped; the vault, and winding caves around,
    Returned a long and melancholy sound.
    With patient toil I raised a massy stone,
    And looked into a depth of shade unknown;
    The murky twilight of the lurid place
    Helped me, at length, a secret way to trace:
    I entered; step by step explored the road,
    In darkness, from my desolate abode;                              90
    Till, winding through long passages of night,
    I saw, at distance, a dim streak of light:--
    It was the sun--the bright, the blessed beam
    Of day! I knelt--I wept;--the glittering stream
    Rolled on beneath me, as I left the cave,
    Concealed in woods above the winding wave.
      I rested on a verdant bank a while,
    I saw around the summer landscape smile;
    I gained a peasant's hut; nor dared to leave,
    Till, with slow step, advanced the glimmering eve.               100
    Remembering still affection's fondest hours,
    I turned my footsteps to the city towers;
    In pilgrim's dress, I traced the streets unknown:
    No light in Leonora's lattice shone.
      The morning came; the busy tumult swells;
    Knolling to church, I heard the minster bells;
    Involuntary to that scene I strayed,
    Disguised, where first I saw my faithful maid.
    I saw her, pallid, at the altar stand,
    And yield, half-shrinking, her reluctant hand;                   110
    She turned her head; she saw my hollow eyes,
    And knew me, wasted, wan, in my disguise;
    She shrieked, and fell;--breathless, I left the fane
    In agony--nor saw her form again;
    And from that day her voice, her look were given,
    Her name, her memory, to the winds of heaven.
      Far off I bent my melancholy way,
    Heart-sick and faint, and, in this gown of gray,
    From every human eye my sorrows hid,
    Unknown, amidst the tumult of Madrid.                            120
    Grief in my heart, despair upon my look,
    With no companion save my beads and book,
    My morsel with Affliction's sons to share,
    To tend the sick and poor, my only care,
    Forgotten, thus I lived; till day by day
    Had worn nigh thirteen years of grief away.
      One winter's night, when I had closed my cell,
    And bid the labours of the day farewell,
    An aged crone approached, with panting breath,
    And bade me hasten to the house of death.                        130
      I came. With moving lips intent to pray,
    A dying woman on a pallet lay;
    Her lifted hands were wasted to the bone,
    And ghastly on her look the lamp-light shone;
    Beside the bed a pious daughter stands
    Silent, and, weeping, kisses her pale hands.
    Feebly she spoke, and raised her languid head,
    Forgive, forgive!--they told me he was dead!--
    But in the sunshine of that dreadful day,
    That gave me to another's arms away,                             140
    I saw him, like a ghost, with deadly stare;
    I saw his wasted eye-balls' ghastly glare;
    I saw his lips (oh, hide them, God of love!)
    I saw his livid lips, half-muttering, move,
    To curse the maid--forgetful of her vow:--
    Perhaps he lives to curse--to curse me now!
      He lives to bless! I cried; and, drawing nigh,
    Held up the crucifix; her heavy eye
    She raised, and scarce pronounced--Does he yet live?
    Can he his lost, his dying child forgive?                        150
    Will God forgive--the Lord who bled--will He?--
    Ah, no, there is no mercy left for me!
      Words were but vain, and colours all too faint,
    That awful moment of despair to paint.
    She knew me; her exhausted breath, with pain,
    Drawing, she pressed my hand, and spoke again:
      By a false guardian's cruel wiles deceived,
    The tale of fraudful falsehood I believed,
    And thought thee dead; he gave the stern command,
    And bade me take the rich Antonio's hand.                        160
    I knelt, implored, embraced my guardian's knees;
    Ruthless inquisitor, he held the keys
    Of the dark torture-house.[216] Trembling for life,
    Yes, I became a sad, heart-broken wife!
    Yet curse me not; of every human care
    Already my full heart has had its share:
    Abandoned, left in youth to want and woe,
    Oh! let these tears, that agonising flow,
    Witness how deep ev'n now my heart is rent!
    Yet one is lovely--one is innocent!                              170
    Protect, protect, (and faint in death she smiled)
    When I am dead, protect my orphan child!
      The dreadful prison, that so long detained
    My wasting life, her dying words explained.
    The wretched priest, who wounded me by stealth,
    Bartered her love, her innocence for wealth!
      I laid her bones in earth; the chanted hymn
    Echoed along the hollow cloister dim;
    I heard, far off, the bell funereal toll,
    And sorrowing said: Now peace be with her soul!                  180
      Far o'er the Western Ocean I conveyed,
    And Indiana called the orphan maid;
    Beneath my eye she grew, and, day by day,
    Seemed, grateful, every kindness to repay.
      Renouncing Spain, her cruelties and crimes,
    Amid untutored tribes, in distant climes,
    'Twas mine to spread the light of truth, or save
    From stripes and torture the poor Indian slave.
    I saw thee, young and innocent, alone,
    Cast on the mercies of a race unknown;                           190
    I saw, in dark adversity's cold hour,
    Thy virtues blooming, like a winter's flower;
    From chains and slavery I redeemed thy youth,
    Poured on thy mental sight the beams of truth;
    By thy warm heart and mild demeanour won,
    Called thee my other child--my age's son.
    I need not tell the sequel;--not unmoved
    Poor Indiana heard thy tale, and loved;
    Some sympathy a kindred fate might claim;
    Your years, your fortunes, and your friend the same;
    Both early of a parent's care bereft,                            201
    Both strangers in a world of sadness left;
    I marked each slowly-struggling thought; I shed
    A tear of love paternal on each head;
    And, while I saw her timid eyes incline,
    Blessed the affection that had made her thine!
    Here let the murmurs of despondence cease:
    There is a God--believe--and part in peace!
      Rich hues illumed the track of dying day
    As the great sun sank in the western bay,                        210
    And only its last light yet lingering shone,
    Upon the highest palm-tree's feathery cone;
    When at a distance on the dewy plain,
    In mingled group appeared an Indian train;
    Men, women, children, round Anselmo press,
    Farewell! they cried. He raised his hand to bless,
    And said: My children, may the God above
    Still lead you in the paths of peace and love;
    To-morrow, we must part;--when I am gone,
    Raise on this spot a cross, and place a stone,                   220
    That tribes unborn may some memorial have,
    When I far off am mouldering in the grave,
    Of that poor messenger, who tidings bore
    Of Gospel-mercy to your distant shore.
      The crowd retired; along the twilight gray,
    The condor kept its solitary way,
    The fire-flies shone, when to the hermit's cell
    Who hastens but the minstrel Zarinel!
    In foreign lands, far from his native home,
    'Twas his, a gay, romantic youth, to roam,                       230
    With a light cittern o'er his shoulders slung,
    Where'er he passed he played, and loved, and sung;
    And thus accomplished, late had joined the train
    Of gallant soldiers on the southern plain.
    Father, he cried, uncertain of the fate
    That may to-morrow's toilsome march await,
    For long will be the road, I would confess
    Some secret thoughts that on my bosom press.
    They are of one I left, an Indian maid,
    Whose trusting love my careless heart betrayed.                  240
    Say, may I speak?
                   Say on, the father cried,
    Nor be to penitence all hope denied.
      Then hear, Anselmo! From a very child
    I loved all fancies marvellous and wild;
    I turned from truth, to listen to the lore
    Of many an old and fabling troubadour.
    Thus, with impassioned heart, and wayward mind,
    To dreams and shapes of shadowy things resigned,
    I left my native vales and village home,                         250
    Wide o'er the world a minstrel boy to roam.
      I never shall forget the day, the hour,
    When, all my soul resigned to Fancy's power,
    First, from the snowy Pyrenees, I cast
    My labouring vision o'er the landscape vast,
    And saw beneath my feet long vapours float,
    Streams, mountains, woods, and ocean's mist remote.
    There once I met a soldier, poor and old,
    Who tales of Cortes and Bilboa told,
    And this new world; he spoke of Indian maids,                    260
    Rivers like seas, and forests whose deep shades
    Had never yet been pierced by morning ray,
    And how the green bird mocked, and talked all day.
      Imagination thus, in colours new,
    This distant world presented to my view;
    Young, and enchanted with the fancied scene,
    I crossed the toiling seas that roared between,
    And with ideal images impressed,
    Stood on these unknown shores a wondering guest.
      Still to romantic phantasies resigned,                         270
    I left Callao's crowded port behind,
    And climbed the mountains which their shadow threw
    Upon the lessening summits of Peru.
    Some sheep the armed peasants drove before,
    That all our food through the wild passes bore,
    Had wandered in the frost-smoke of the morn,
    Far from the track; I blew the signal horn--
    But echo only answered: 'mid the snows,
    Wildered and lost, I saw the evening close.
    The sun was setting in the crimson west;                         280
    In all the earth I had no home of rest;
    The last sad light upon the ice-hills shone;
    I seemed forsaken in a world unknown;
    How did my cold and sinking heart rejoice,
    When, hark! methought I heard a human voice!
    It might be some wild Indian's roving troop,
    Or the dread echo of their distant whoop;
    Still it was human, and I seemed to find
    Again some commerce with remote mankind.
    The voice comes nearer, rising through the shade--               290
    Is it the song of some rude mountain-maid?
    And now I heard the tread of hastening feet,
    And, in the western glen, a Llama bleat.
    I listened--all is still; but hark! again
    Near and more near is heard the welcome strain;
    It is a wild maid's carolling, who seeks
    Her wandering Llama 'midst the snowy peaks:
    Truant, she cried, thy lurking place is found!
      With languid touch I waked the cittern's sound,
    And soon a maid, by the pale light, I saw                        300
    Gaze breathless with astonishment and awe:
    What instant terrors to her fancy rose,
    Ha! is it not the Spirit of the snows!
    But when she saw me, weary, cold, and weak,
    Stretch forth my hand (for now I could not speak),
    She pitied, raised me from the snows, and led
    My faltering footsteps to her father's shed;
    The Llama followed with her tinkling bell;
    The dwelling rose within a craggy dell,
    O'erhung with icy summits. To be brief,                          310
    She was the daughter of an aged chief;
    He, by her gentle voice to pity won,
    Showed mercy, for himself had lost a son.
    The father spoke not; by the pine-wood blaze,
    The daughter stood, and turned a cake of maize;
    And then, as sudden shone the light, I saw
    Such features as no artist hand might draw.
    Her form, her face, her symmetry, her air,
    Father! thy age must such recital spare:--
    She saved my life; and kindness, if not love,                    320
    Might sure in time the coldest bosom move!
    Mine was not cold; she loved to hear me sing,
    And sometimes touched with playful hand the string;
    And when I waked some melancholy strain,
    She wept, and smiled, and bade me sing again.
    So many a happy day, in this deep glen,
    Far from the noise of life, and sounds of men,
    Was passed! Nay, father, the sad sequel hear:
    'Twas now the leafy spring-time of the year--
    Ambition called me: true, I knew to part                         330
    Would break her generous, warm, and trusting heart;
    True, I had vowed, but now estranged and cold,
    She saw my look, and shuddered to behold:--
    She would go with me, leave the lonely glade
    Where she grew up, but my stern voice forbade;
    She hid her face and wept: Go then away,
    (Father, methinks, ev'n now, I hear her say)
    Go to thy distant land, forget this tear,
    Forget these rocks, forget I once was dear;
    Fly to the world, o'er the wide ocean fly,                       340
    And leave me unremembered here to die!
    Yet to my father should I all relate,
    Death, instant death, would be a traitor's fate!
      Nor fear, nor pity moved my stubborn mind,
    I left her sorrows and the scene behind;
    I sought Valdivia on the southern plain,
    And joined the careless military train;
    Oh! ere I sleep, thus, lowly on my knee,
    Father, I absolution crave from thee!
      Anselmo spoke, with look and voice severe:                     350
    Yes, thoughtless youth, my absolution hear.
    First, by deep penitence the wrong atone,
    Then absolution ask from God alone!
    Yet stay, and to my warning voice attend,
    And hear me as a father, and a friend.
    Let Truth severe be wayward Fancy's guide,
    Let stern-eyed Conscience o'er each thought preside;
    The passions, that on noblest natures prey,
    Oh! cast them, like corroding bonds, away!
    Disdain to act mean falsehood's coward part,                     360
    And let religion dignify thine art.
    If, by thy bed, thou seest at midnight stand
    Pale Conscience, pointing, with terrific hand,
    To deeds of darkness done, whilst, like a corse,
    To shake thy soul, uprises dire Remorse;
    Fly to God's mercy, fly, ere yet too late--
    Perhaps one hour marks thy eternal fate;
    Let the warm tear of deep contrition flow,
    The heart obdurate melt, like softening snow,
    The last vain follies of thy youth deplore,                      370
    Then go, in secret weep, and sin no more!
      The stars innumerous in their watches shone--
    Anselmo knelt before the cross alone.
    Ten thousand glowing orbs their pomp displayed,
    Whilst, looking up, thus silently he prayed:--
      Oh! how oppressive to the aching sense,
    How fearful were this vast magnificence,
    This prodigality of glory, spread
    Above a poor and dying emmet's head,
    That toiled his transient hour upon the shore                    380
    Of mortal life, and then was seen no more;
    If man beheld, on his terrific throne,
    A dark, cold, distant Deity, alone!
    Felt no relating, no endearing tie,
    That Hope might upwards raise her glistening eye,
    And think, with deep unutterable bliss,
    In yonder radiant realm my kingdom is!
      More glorious than those orbs that silent roll,
    Shines Heaven's redeeming mercy on the soul--
    Oh, pure effulgence of unbounded love!                           390
    In Thee, I think--I feel--I live--I move;
    Yet when, O Thou, whose name is Love and Light,
    When will thy Dayspring on these realms of night
    Arise! Oh! when shall severed nations raise
    One hallelujah of triumphant praise,
    Tibet on Fars, Andes on Atlas call,
    And "roll the loud hosannah" round the ball!
      Soon may Thy kingdom come, that love, and peace,
    And charity, may bid earth's chidings cease!
    Meantime, in life or death, through good or ill,                 400
    Thy poor and feeble servant, I fulfil,
    As best I may, Thy high and holy will,
    Till, weary, on the world my eyelids close,
    And I enjoy my long and last repose!

[214] Indians of Chili are of the lightest class, called by some "white
Indians."

[215]--Of Moorish architecture.

[216] Seville was the first place in Spain in which the Inquisition was
established, in 1481.


CANTO FOURTH.

ARGUMENT.

    Assembly of Indian warriors--Caupolican, Ongolmo, Teucapel,
    Mountain-chief--Song of the Indian Wizard--White woman and child.

    Far in the centre of the deepest wood,
    The assembled fathers of their country stood.
    'Twas midnight now; the pine-wood fire burned red,
    And to the leaves a shadowy glimmer spread;
    The struggling smoke, or flame with fitful glance,
    Obscured, or showed, some dreadful countenance;
    And every warrior, as his club he reared,
    With larger shadow, indistinct, appeared;
    While more terrific, his wild locks and mien,
    And fierce eye, through the quivering smoke, was seen.            10
      In sea-wolf's skin, here Mariantu stood;
    Gnashed his white teeth, impatient, and cried, blood!
    His lofty brow, with crimson feathers bound,
    Here, brooding death, the huge Ongolmo frowned;
    And, like a giant of no earthly race,
    To his broad shoulders heaved his ponderous mace.
    With lifted hatchet, as in act to fell,
    Here stood the young and ardent Teucapel.
    Like a lone cypress, stately in decay,
    When time has worn its summer boughs away,                        20
    And hung its trunk with moss and lichens sere,
    The Mountain-warrior rested on his spear.
    And thus, and at this hour, a hundred chiefs,
    Chosen avengers of their country's griefs;
    Chiefs of the scattered tribes that roam the plain,
    That sweeps from Andes to the western main,
    Their country-gods, around the coiling smoke,
    With sacrifice, and silent prayers, invoke.
    For all, at first, were silent as the dead;
    The pine was heard to whisper o'er their head,                    30
    So stood the stern assembly; but apart,
    Wrapped in the spirit of his fearful art,
    Alone, to hollow sounds of hideous hum,
    The wizard-seer struck his prophetic drum.
      Silent they stood, and watched with anxious eyes,
    What phantom-shape might from the ground arise;
    No voices came, no spectre-form appeared;
    A hollow sound, but not of winds, was heard
    Among the leaves, and distant thunder low,
    Which seemed like moans of an expiring foe.                       40
    His crimson feathers quivering in the smoke,
    Then, with loud voice, first Mariantu spoke:
      Hail we the omen! Spirits of the slain,
    I hear your voices! Mourn, devoted Spain!
    Pale-visaged tyrants! still, along our coasts,
    Shall we despairing mark your iron hosts!
    Spirits of our brave fathers, curse the race
    Who thus your name, your memory disgrace!
    No; though yon mountain's everlasting snows
    In vain Almagro's[217] toilsome march oppose;                     50
    Though Atacama's long and wasteful plain
    Be heaped with blackening carcases in vain;
    Though still fresh hosts those snowy summits scale,
    And scare the Llamas with their glittering mail;
    Though sullen castles lour along our shore;
    Though our polluted soil be drenched with gore;
    Insolent tyrants! we, prepared to die,
    Your arms, your horses, and your gods, defy!
      He spoke: the warriors stamped upon the ground,
    And tore the feathers that their foreheads bound.                 60
    Insolent tyrants! burst the general cry,
    We, met for vengeance--we, prepared to die,
    Your arms, your horses, and your gods, defy!
      Then Teucapel, with warm emotion, cried:
    This hatchet never yet in blood was dyed;
    May it be buried deep within my heart,
    If living from the conflict I depart,
    Till loud, from shore to shore, is heard one cry,
    See! in their gore where the last tyrants lie!
      The Mountain-warrior: Oh, that I could raise                    70
    The hatchet too, as in my better days,
    When victor on Maypocha's banks I stood;
    And while the indignant river rolled in blood,
    And our swift arrows hissed like rushing rain,
    I cleft Almagro's iron helm in twain!
    My strength is well-nigh gone! years marked with woe
    Have o'er me passed, and bowed my spirit low!
    Alas, I have no son! Beloved boy,
    Thy father's last, best hope, his pride, his joy!
    Oh, hadst thou lived, sole object of my prayers,                  80
    To guard my waning life, and these gray hairs,
    How bravely hadst thou now, in manhood's pride,
    Swung the uplifted war-club by my side!
    But the Great Spirit willed not! Thou art gone;
    And, weary, on this earth I walk alone;
    Thankful if I may yield my latest breath,
    And bless my country in the pangs of death!
      With words deliberate, and uplifted hand,
    Mild to persuade, yet dauntless to command,
    Raising his hatchet high, Caupolican                              90
    Surveyed the assembled chiefs, and thus began:
      Friends, fathers, brothers, dear and sacred names!
    Your stern resolve each ardent look proclaims;
    On then to conquest; let one hope inspire,
    One spirit animate, one vengeance fire!
    Who doubts the glorious issue! To our foes
    A tenfold strength and spirit we oppose.
    In them no god protects his mortal sons,
    Or speaks, in thunder, from their roaring guns.
    Nor come they children of the radiant sky;                       100
    But, like the wounded snake, to writhe and die.
    Then, rush resistless on their prostrate bands,
    Snatch the red lightning from their feeble hands,
    And swear to the great spirits, hovering near,
    Who now this awful invocation hear,
    That we shall never see our household hearth,
    Till, like the dust, we sweep them from the earth.
    But vain our strength, that idly, in the fight,
    Tumultuous wastes its ineffectual might,
    Unless to one the hatchet we confide;                            110
    Let one our numbers, one our counsels guide.
    And, lo! for all that in this world is dear,
    I raise this hatchet, raise it high, and swear,
    Never again to lay it down, till we,
    And all who love this injured land, are free!
      At once the loud acclaim tumultuous ran:
    Our spears, our life-blood, for Caupolican!
    With thee, for all that in this world is dear,
    We lift our hatchets, lift them high, and swear,
    Never again to lay them down, till we,                           120
    And all who love this injured land, are free!
      Then thus the chosen chief: Bring forth the slave,
    And let the death-dance recreate the brave.
      Two warriors led a Spanish captive, bound
    With thongs; his eyes were fixed upon the ground.
    Dark cypresses the mournful spot inclose:
    High in the midst an ancient mound arose,
    Marked on each side with monumental stones,
    And white beneath with skulls and scattered bones.
    Four poniards, on the mound, encircling stood,                   130
    With points erect, dark with forgotten blood.
      Forthwith, with louder voice, the chief commands:
    Bring forth the lots, unbind the captive's hands;
    Then north, towards his country, turn his face,
    And dig beneath his feet a narrow space.[218]
      Caupolican uplifts his axe, and cries:
    Gods, of our land be yours this sacrifice!--
    Now, listen, warriors!--and forthwith commands
    To place the billets in the captive's hands--
    Soldier, cast in the lot!                                        140
                              With looks aghast,
    The captive in the trench a billet cast.
      Soldier, declare, who leads the arms of Spain,
    Where Santiago frowns upon the plain?

    CAPTIVE.

    Villagra!

    WARRIOR.

                      Earth upon the billet heap;
    So may a tyrant's heart be buried deep!
    The dark woods echoed to the long acclaim,
    Accursed be his nation and his name!                             150

    WARRIOR.

      Captive, declare who leads the Spanish bands,
    Where the proud fortress shades Coquimbo's sands.

    CAPTIVE.

    Ocampo!

    WARRIOR.

                      Earth upon the billet heap;
    So may a tyrant's heart be buried deep!
    The dark woods echoed to the long acclaim,
    Accursed be his nation and his name!

    WARRIOR.

    Cast in the lot.
                        Again, with looks aghast,
    The captive in the trench a billet cast.                         160
    Pronounce his name who here pollutes the plain,
    The leader of the mailed hosts of Spain!

    CAPTIVE.

    Valdivia!
                         At that name a sudden cry
    Burst forth, and every lance was lifted high.

    WARRIOR.

    Valdivia!
                  Earth upon the billet heap;
    So may a tyrant's heart be buried deep!
    The dark woods echoed to the long acclaim,
    Accursed be his nation and his name!                             170

      And now loud yells, and whoops of death resound;
    The shuddering captive ghastly gazed around,
    When the huge war-club smote him to the ground.
    Again deep stillness hushed the listening crowd,
    While the prophetic wizard sang aloud.

    SONG TO THE GOD OF WAR.

        By thy habitation dread,
        In the valley of the dead,
        Where no sun, nor day, nor night,
        Breaks the red and dusky light;
        By the grisly troops, that ride,                             180
        Of slaughtered Spaniards, at thy side,--
        Slaughtered by the Indian spear,
        Mighty Epananum,[219] hear!
        Hark, the battle! Hark, the din!
        Now the deeds of Death begin!
        The Spaniards come, in clouds! above,
        I hear their hoarse artillery move!
        Spirits of our fathers slain,
        Haste, pursue the dogs of Spain!
        The noise was in the northern sky!                           190
        Haste, pursue! They fly--they fly!
        Now from the cavern's secret cell,
        Where the direst phantoms dwell,
        See they rush,[220] and, riding high,
        Break the moonlight as they fly;
        And, on the shadowed plain beneath,
        Shoot, unseen, the shafts of Death!
        O'er the devoted Spanish camp,
        Like a vapour, dark and damp,
        May they hover, till the plain                               200
        Is hid beneath the countless slain;
        And none but silent women tread
        From corse to corse, to seek the dead!

      The wavering fire flashed with expiring light,
    When shrill and hollow, through the cope of night,
    A distant shout was heard; at intervals,
    Increasing on the listening ear it falls.
    It ceased; when, bursting from the thickest wood,
    With lifted axe, two gloomy warriors stood;
    Wan in the midst, with dark and streaming hair,                  210
    Blown by the winds upon her bosom bare,
    A woman, faint from terror's wild alarms,
    And folding a white infant in her arms,
    Appeared. Each warrior stooped his lance to gaze
    On her pale looks, seen ghastlier through the blaze.
    Save! she exclaimed, with harrowed aspect wild;
    Oh, save my innocent, my helpless child!
    Then fainting fell, as from death's instant stroke;
    Caupolican, with stern inquiry, spoke:
    Whence come, to interrupt our awful rite,                        220
    At this dread hour, the warriors of the night?
      From ocean.
                         Who is she who fainting lies,
    And now scarce lifts her supplicating eyes?
      The Spanish ship went down; the seamen bore,
    In a small boat, this woman to the shore:
    They fell beneath our hatchets,--and again,
    We gave them back to the insulted main.[221]
    The child and woman--of a race we hate--
    Warriors, 'tis yours, here to decide their fate.                 230
      Vengeance! aloud fierce Mariantu cried:
    Let vengeance on the race be satisfied!
    Let none of hated Spanish blood remain,
    Woman or child, to violate our plain!
      Amid that dark and bloody scene, the child
    Stretched to the mountain-chief his hands and smiled.
    A starting tear of pity dimmed the eye
    Of the old warrior, though he knew not why.
    Oh, think upon your little ones! he cried,
    Nor be compassion to the weak denied.                            240
      Caupolican then fixed his aspect mild
    On the white woman and her shrinking child,
    Then firmly spoke:--
                      White woman, we were free,
    When first thy brethren of the distant sea
    Came to our shores! White woman, theirs the guilt!
    Theirs, if the blood of innocence be spilt!
    Yet blood we seek not, though our arms oppose
    The hate of foreign and remorseless foes;
    Thou camest here a captive, so abide,                            250
    Till the Great Spirit shall our cause decide.
      He spoke: the warriors of the night obey;
    And, ere the earliest streak of dawning day,
    They lead her from the scene of blood away.

[217] The first Spaniard who visited Chili. He entered it by the
dreadful passage of the snows of the Andes; but afterwards the passage
was attempted through the desert of Atacama.

[218] The reader is referred to Molina for a particular description of
the war sacrifice, which is very striking and poetical.

[219] Name of the War-deity.

[220] Terrific imaginary beings, called "man-animals," that leave their
caves by night, and scatter pestilence and death as they fly.--See
_Molina._

[221] "Render them back upon the insulted ocean."--_Coleridge._


CANTO FIFTH.

ARGUMENT.

    Ocean Cave--Spanish Captive--Wild Indian Maid--Genius of Andes,
    and Spirits.

    'Tis dawn:--the distant Andes' rocky spires,
    One after one, have caught the orient fires.
    Where the dun condor shoots his upward flight,
    His wings are touched with momentary light.
    Meantime, beneath the mountains' glittering heads,
    A boundless ocean of gray vapour spreads,
    That o'er the champaign, stretching far below,
    Moves now, in clustered masses, rising slow,
    Till all the living landscape is displayed
    In various pomp of colour, light, and shade,                      10
    Hills, forests, rivers, lakes, and level plain,
    Lessening in sunshine to the southern main.
    The Llama's fleece fumes with ascending dew;
    The gem-like humming-birds their toils renew;
    And there, by the wild river's devious side,
    The tall flamingo, in its crimson pride,
    Stalks on, in richest plumage bright arrayed,
    With snowy neck superb,[222] and legs of lengthening shade.
      Sad maid, for others may the valleys ring,
    For other ears the birds of morning sing;                         20
    For other eyes the palms in beauty wave,
    Dark is thy prison in the ocean-cave!
      Amid that winding cavern's inmost shade,
    A dripping rill its ceaseless murmur made:
    Masses of dim-discovered crags aloof,
    Hung, threatening, from the vast and vaulted roof:
    And through a fissure, in its glimmering height,
    Seen like a star, appeared the distant light;
    Beneath the opening, where the sunbeams shine,
    Far down, the rock-weed hung its slender twine.                   30
      Here, pale and bound, the Spanish captive lay,
    Till morn on morn, in silence, passed away;
    When once, as o'er her sleeping child she hung,
    And sad her evening supplication sung;
    Like a small gem, amidst the gloom of night,
    A glow-worm shot its green and trembling light,--
    And, 'mid the moss and craggy fragments, shed
    Faint lustre o'er her sleeping infant's head;
    And hark! a voice--a woman's voice, its sound
    Dies in faint echoes, 'mid the vault profound:                    40
        Let us pity the poor white maid![223]
          She has no mother near!
          No friend to dry her tear!
        Upon the cold earth she is laid:
        Let us pity the poor white maid!
      It seemed the burden of a song of woe;
    And see, across the gloom an Indian girl move slow!
    Her nearer look is sorrowful, yet mild,
    Her hanging locks are wreathed with rock-weed wild;
    Gently she spoke, Poor Christian, dry thy tear:                   50
    Art thou afraid? all are not cruel here.
    Oh! still more wretched may my portion be,
    Stranger, if I could injure thine and thee!
    And, lo! I bring, from banks and thickets wild,
    Wood-strawberries, and honey for thy child.
    Whence, who art thou, who, in this fearful place,
    Does comfort speak to one of Spanish race?

    INDIAN.

    It is an Indian maid, who chanced to hear
    Thy tale of sorrow, as she wandered near:
    I loved a white man once; but he is flown,                        60
    And now I wander heartless and alone.
    I traced the dark and winding way beneath:
    But well I know to lead thee hence were death.
    Oh, say! what fortunes cast thee o'er the wave,
    On these sad shores perhaps to find a grave?

    SPANISH WOMAN.

    Three years have passed since a fond husband left
    Me and this infant, of his love bereft;
    Him I have followed; need I tell thee more,
    Cast helpless, friendless, hopeless, on this shore.

    INDIAN.

    Oh! did he love thee, then?   Let death betide,                   70
    Yes, from this cavern I will be thy guide.
    Nay, do not shrink! from Caracalla's bay,
    Ev'n now, the Spaniards wind their march this way.
    As late in yester eve I paced the shore
    I heard their signal-guns at distance roar.
    Wilt thou not follow? He will shield thy child,--
    The Christian's God,--through passes dark and wild
    He will direct thy way! Come, follow me;
    Oh, yet be loved, be happy, and be free!
    But I, an outcast on my native plain,                             80
    The poor Olola ne'er shall smile again!
    So guiding from the cave, when all was still,
    And pointing to the furthest glimmering hill,
    The Indian led, till, on Itata's side,
    The Spanish camp and night-fires they descried:
    Then on the stranger's neck that wild maid fell,
    And said, Thy own gods prosper thee, farewell!
      The owl[224] is hooting overhead; below,
    On dusky wing, the vampire-bat sails slow.
    Ongolmo stood before the cave of night,                           90
    Where the great wizard sat:--a lurid light
    Was on his face; twelve giant shadows frowned,
    His mute and dreadful ministers, around.
    Each eye-ball, as in life, was seen to roll,
    Each lip to move; but not a living soul
    Was there, save bold Ongolmo and the seer.
    The warrior half advanced his lifted spear,
    Then spoke: Dread master of the mighty lore!
    Say, shall the Spaniards welter in their gore?
    Let these dark ministers the answer tell,                        100
    Replied the master of the mighty spell.
    Then every giant-shadow, as it stood,
    Lifted on high a skull that dropped with blood.
    Yet more, the impatient warrior cried; yet more!
    Say, shall I live, and drink the tyrant's gore?
    'Twas silence. Speak! he cried: none made reply.
    At once strange thunder shook the distant sky,
    And all was o'er; the grisly shapes are flown,
    And the grim warrior stands in the wild woods alone.
      St Pedro's church had rung its midnight chimes,                110
    And the gray friars were chanting at their primes,
    When winds, as of a rushing hurricane,
    Shook the tall windows of the towered fane;--
    Sounds more than earthly with the storm arose,
    And a dire troop are passed to Andes' snows,
    Where mighty spirits in mysterious ring
    Their dread prophetic incantations sing,
    Round Chillan's crater-smoke, whose lurid light
    Streams high against the hollow cope of night.
    Thy genius, Andes, towering o'er the rest,                       120
    Rose vast, and thus a phantom-shape addressed:
           Who comes so swift amid the storm?
           Ha! I know thy bloodless form,
           I know thee, angel, who thou art,
           By the hissing of thy dart!
           'Tis Death, the king! the rocks around,
           Hark! echo back the fearful sound;--
           'Tis Death, the king! away, away!
           The famished vulture scents its prey.
           Spectre, hence! we cannot die--                           130
           Thy withering weapons we defy;
           Dire and potent as thou art!
         Then spoke the phantom of the uplifted dart:
           Spirits who in darkness dwell,
           I heard far off your secret spell!
           Enough, on yonder fatal shore,
           My fiends have drank your children's gore;
           Lo! I come, and doom to fate
           The murderers, and the foe you hate!
           Of all who shook their hostile spears,                    140
           And marked their way through blood and tears,
           (Now sleeping still on yonder plain)
           But one--one only shall remain,
           Ere thrice the morn shall shine again.
        Then sang the mighty spirits. Thee, they sing,
    Hail to thee, Death, all hail to Death, the king!
           The penguin flaps her wings in gore,
           Devoted Spain, along the shore.
           Whence that shriek? with ghastly eyes,
           Thy victor-chief abandoned lies!                          150
           Victor of the southern world,
           Whose crimson banners were unfurled
           O'er the silence of the waves,--
           O'er a land of bleeding slaves!
           Victor, where is now thy boast;
           Thine iron steeds, thy mailed host?
           Hark! hark! even now I hear his cries!--
           Spirits, hence!--he dies! he dies!

[222] The neck of the flamingo is white, and its wings of rich and
beautiful crimson.

[223] From Mungo Park.

[224] The owl is an object of peculiar dread to the Indian of Chili.


CANTO SIXTH.

ARGUMENT.

    The City of Conception--The City of Penco--Castle--Lautaro--Wild
    Indian Maid--Zarinel--Missionary.

    The second moon had now begun to wane,
    Since bold Valdivia left the southern plain;
    Goal of his labours, Penco's port and bay,
    Far gleaming to the summer sunset lay.
      The wayworn veteran, who had slowly passed
    Through trackless woods, or o'er savannahs vast,
    With hope impatient sees the city spires
    Gild the horizon, like ascending fires.
      Now well-known sounds salute him, as more near
    The citadel and battlements appear;                               10
    The approaching trumpets ring at intervals;
    The trumpet answers from the rampart walls,
    Where many a maiden casts an anxious eye,
    Some long-lost object of her love to espy,
    Or watches, as the evening light illumes
    The points of lances, or the passing plumes.
    The grating drawbridge and the portal-arch,
    Now echo to the long battalion's march;
    Whilst every eye some friend remembered greets,
    Amid the gazing crowd that throngs the streets.                   20
      As bending o'er his mule, amid the throng,
    Pensive and pale, Anselmo rode along,
    How sacred, 'mid the noise of arms, appeared
    His venerable mien and snowy beard!
      Whilst every heart a silent prayer bestowed,
    Slow to the convent's massy gate he rode:
    Around, the brothers, gratulating, stand,
    And ask for tidings of the southern land.
      As from the turret tolls the vesper bell,
    He seeks, a weary man, his evening cell,                          30
    No sounds of social cheer, no beds of state,
    Nor gorgeous canopies his coming wait;
    But o'er a little bread, with folded hands,
    Thanking the God that gave, a while he stands;
    Then, while all thoughts of earthly sorrow cease,
    Upon his pallet lays him down in peace.
      The scene how different, where the castle-hall
    Rings to the loud triumphant festival:
    A hundred torches blaze, and flame aloof,
    Long quivering shadows streak the vaulted roof,--                 40
    Whilst, seen far off, the illumined windows throw
    A splendour on the shore and seas below.
      Amid his captains, in imperial state,
    Beneath a crimson canopy, elate,
    Valdivia sits--and, striking loud the strings,
    The wandering ministrel of Valentia sings.
    For Chili conquered, fill the bowl again!
    For Chili conquered, raise the heroic strain!
      Lautaro left the hall of jubilee
    Unmarked, and wandered by the moonlit sea:                        50
    He heard far off, in dissonant acclaim,
    The song, the shout, and his loved country's name.
    As swelled at times the trump's insulting sound,
    He raised his eyes impatient from the ground;
    Then smote his breast indignantly, and cried,
    Chili! my country; would that I had died
    On the sad night of that eventful day
    When on the ground my murdered father lay!
    I should not then, dejected and alone,
    Have thought I heard his injured spirit groan.                    60
    Ha! was it not his form--his face--his hair?
    Hold, soldier! stern, inhuman soldier, spare!
    Ha! is it not his blood? Avenge, he cries,
    Avenge, my son, these wounds! He faints--he dies!
    Leave me, dread shadow! Can I then forget
    My father's look--his voice? He beckons yet!
    Now on that glimmering rock I see him stand:
    Avenge! he cries, and waves his dim-seen hand!
    Thus mused the youth, distempered and forlorn,
    When, hark! the sound as of a distant horn                        70
    Swells o'er the surge! he turned his look around,
    And still, with many a pause, he heard the sound:
    It came from yonder rocks; and, list! what strain
    Breaks on the silence of the sleeping main?
        I heard the song of gladness;
          It seemed but yesterday,
        But it turned my thoughts to madness,
          So soon it died away:
      I sound my sea-shell; but in vain I try
      To bring back that enchanting harmony!                          80
        Hark! heard ye not the surges say,
      Oh! heartless maid, what canst thou do?
        O'er the moon-gleaming ocean, I'll wander away,
      And paddle to Spain in my light canoe!
      The youth drew near, by the strange accents led,
    Where in a cave, wild sea-weeds round her head,
    And holding a large sea-conch in her hand,
    He saw, with wildering air, an Indian maiden stand.               90
    A tattered poncho o'er her shoulders hung;
    On either side her long black locks were flung;
    And now by the moon's glimmer, he espies
    Her high cheek-bones, and bright but hollow eyes.
    Lautaro spoke: Oh! say what cruel wrong
    Weighs on thy heart, maiden, what bodes thy song?
    She answered not, but blew her shell again;
    Then thus renewed the desultory strain:
    Yes, yes, we must forget! the world is wide;
    My music now shall be the dashing tide:                          100
    In the calm of the deep I will frolic and swim--
    With the breath of the South o'er the sea-blossom[225] skim.
      If ever, stranger, on thy way,
    Sounds, more than earthly sweet, thy soul should move,
      It is the youth! Oh! do not say--
    That poor Olola died for love.
    Lautaro stretched his hand; she said, Adieu!
    And o'er the glimmering rocks like lightning flew.
    He followed, and still heard at distance swell
    The lessening echoes of that mournful shell.                     110
    It ceased at once; and now he heard no more
    Than the sea's murmur dying on the shore.
    Olola!--ha! his sister had that name!
    Oh, horrid fancies! shake not thus his frame!
    All night he wandered by the desert main,
    To catch the melancholy sounds again.
      No torches blaze in Penco's castled hall
    That echoed to the midnight festival.
    The weary soldiers by their toils oppressed,
    Had now retired to silence and to rest.                          120
    The minstrel only, who the song had sung
    Of noble Cid, as o'er the strings he hung,
    Upon the instrument had fall'n asleep,
    Weary, and now was hushed in slumbers deep.
    Tracing the scenes long past, in busy dreams
    Again he wanders by his native streams;
    Or sits, his evening saraband to sing
    To the clear Garonne's gentle murmuring.
      Cold o'er the fleckered clouds the morning broke
    Aslant ere from his slumbers he awoke;                           130
    Still as he sat, nor yet had left the place,
    The first dim light fell on his pallid face.
    He wakes--he gazes round--the dawning day
    Comes from the deep, in garb of cloudy gray.
    The woods with crow of early turkeys ring,
    The glancing birds beneath the castle sing,
    And the sole sun his rising orb displays,
    Radiant and reddening, through the scattered haze.
      To recreate the languid sense a while,
    When earth and ocean wore their sweetest smile,                  140
    He wandered to the beach: the early air
    Blew soft, and lifted, as it blew, his hair;
    Flushed was his cheek; his faded eye, more bright,
    Shone with a faint but animated light,
    While the soft morning ray seemed to bestow
    On his tired mind a transient kindred glow.
    As thus, with shadow stretching o'er the sand,
    He mused and wandered on the winding strand,
    At distance tossed upon the tumbling tide,
    A dark and floating substance he espied.                         150
    He stood, and where the eddying surges beat,
    An Indian corse was rolled beneath his feet:
    The hollow wave retired with sullen sound;
    The face of that sad corse was to the ground;
    It seemed a female, by the slender form;
    He touched the hand--it was no longer warm;
    He turned its face--O God! that eye, though dim,
    Seemed with its deadly glare as fixed on him!
    How sunk his shuddering sense, how changed his hue,
    When poor Olola in that corse he knew!                           160
    Lautaro, rushing from the rocks, advanced;
    His keen eye, like a startled eagle's glanced:
    'Tis she!--he knew her by a mark impressed
    From earliest infancy beneath her breast.
      Oh, my poor sister! when all hopes were past
    Of meeting, do we meet--thus meet--at last!
    Then full on Zarinel, as one amazed,
    With rising wrath and stern suspicion gazed;
    For Zarinel still knelt upon the sand,
    And to his forehead pressed the dead maid's hand.                170
      Speak! whence art thou?
                            Pale Zarinel, his head
    Upraising answered,
                       Peace is with the dead!
    Him dost thou seek who injured thine and thee?
    Here--strike the fell assassin--I am he!
      Die! he exclaimed, and with convulsive start
    Instant had plunged the dagger in his heart,
    When the meek father, with his holy book,
    And placid aspect, met his frenzied look.                        180
    He trembled--struck his brow--and, turning round,
    Flung the uplifted dagger to the ground.
    Then murmured: Father, Heaven has heard thy prayer--
    But oh! the sister of my soul lies there!
    The Christian's God has triumphed! father, heap
    Some earth upon her bones, whilst I go weep!
    Anselmo with calm brow approached the place,
    And hastened with his staff his faltering pace:
    Ho! child of guilt and wretchedness, he cried,
    Speak!--Holy father, the sad youth replied,                      190
    God bade the seas the accusing victim roll
    Dead at my feet, to teach my shuddering soul
    Its guilt: Oh! father, holy father, pray
    That heaven may take the deep, dire curse away!
      Oh! yet, Anselmo cried, live and repent,
    For not in vain was this dread warning sent;
    The deep reproaches of thy soul I spare,
    Go! seek Heaven's peace by penitence and prayer.
      The youth arose, yet trembling from the shock,
    And severed from the dead maid's hair a lock;                    200
    This to his heart with trembling hand he pressed,
    And dried the salt-sea moisture on his breast.
      They laid her limbs within the sea-beat grave,
    And prayed: Her soul, O blessed Mary, save!

[225] The "sea-blossom," Holothuria, known to seamen by the name of
"Portuguese man of war," is among the most striking and beautiful
objects in the calms of the Southern ocean.


CANTO SEVENTH.

ARGUMENT.

    Midnight--Valdivia's tent--Missionary--March to the Valley
    Arauco--First sight of assembled Indians.

    The watchman on the tower his bugle blew,
    And swelling to the morn the streamers flew;
    The rampart-guns a dread alarum gave,
    Smoke rolled, and thunder echoed o'er the wave;
    When, starting from his couch, Valdivia cried,
    What tidings? Of the tribes! a scout replied;
    Ev'n now, prepared thy bulwarks to assail,
    Their gathering numbers darken all the vale!
    Valdivia called to the attendant youth,
    Philip, he cried, belike thy words have truth;                    10
    The formidable host, by holy James,
    Might well appal our priests and city dames!
    Dost thou not fear? Nay--dost thou not reply?
    Now by the rood, and all the saints on high,
    I hold it sin that thou shouldst lift thy hand
    Against thy brothers in thy native land!
    But, as thou saidst, those mighty enemies
    Me and my feeble legions would despise.
    Yes, by our holy lady, thou shalt ride,
    Spectator of their prowess, by my side!                           20
    Come life, come death, our battle shall display
    Its ensigns to the earliest beam of day!
    With louder summons ring the rampart-bell,
    And haste the shriving father from his cell;
    A soldier's heart rejoices in alarms:
    And let the trump at midnight sound to arms!
      And now, obedient to the chief's commands,
    The gray-haired priest before the soldier stands.
    Father, Valdivia cried, fierce are our foes,--
    The last event of war GOD only knows;--                           30
    Let mass be sung; father, this very night
    I would attend the high and holy rite.
    Yet deem not that I doubt of victory,
    Or place defeat or death before mine eye;
    It blenches not! But, whatsoe'er befall,
    Good father, I would part in peace with all.
    So, tell Lautaro--his ingenuous mind
    Perhaps may grieve, if late I seemed unkind:--
    Hear my heart speak, though far from virtue's way
    Ambition's lure hath led my steps astray,                         40
    No wanton exercise of barbarous power
    Harrows my shrinking conscience at this hour.
    If hasty passions oft my spirit fire,
    They flash a moment and the next expire;
    Lautaro knows it. There is somewhat more:
    I would not, here--here, on this distant shore
    (Should they, the Indian multitudes, prevail,
    And this good sword and these firm sinews fail)
    Amid my deadly enemies be found,
    "Unhouseled, ananealed," upon the ground,                         50
    A dying man;--thy look, thy reverend age,
    Might save my poor remains from barb'rous rage;
    And thou may'st pay the last sad obsequies,
    O'er the heaped earth where a brave soldier lies:--
    So GOD be with thee!
                          By the torches' light,
    The slow procession moves; the solemn rite
    Is chanted: through the aisles and arches dim,
    At intervals, is heard the imploring hymn.[226]
    Now all is still, that only you might hear--                      60
    (The tall and slender tapers burning clear,
    Whose light Anselmo's palid brow illumes,
    Now glances on the mailed soldier's plumes)
    Hear, sounding far, only the iron tread,
    That echoed through the cloisters of the dead.
    Dark clouds are wandering o'er the heaven's wide way;
    Now from the camp, at times, a horse's neigh
    Breaks on the ear; and on the rampart height
    The sentinel proclaims the middle watch of night.
    By the dim taper's solitary ray,                                  70
    Tired, in his tent, the sovereign soldier lay.
      Meantime, as shadowy dreams arise, he roams
    'Mid bright pavilions and imperial domes,
    Where terraces, and battlements, and towers,
    Glisten in air o'er rich romantic bowers.
    Sudden the visionary pomp is past;
    The vacant court sounds to the moaning blast;
    A dismal vault appears, where, with swoll'n eyes,
    As starting from their orbs, a dead man lies.
    It is Almagro's[227] corse!--roll on, ye drums,                   80
    Lo! where the great, the proud Pizarro comes!
    Her gold, her richest gems, let Fortune strew
    Before the mighty conqueror of Peru!
    Ah, turn, and see a dagger in his hand--
    With ghastly look--see the assassin stand!
    Pizarro falls;[228]--he welters in his gore!
    Lord of the western world, art thou no more!
    Valdivia, hark!--it was another groan!
    Another shadow comes, it is thy own!
    Ah, bind not thus his arms!--give, give him breath!               90
    Wipe from his bleeding brow those damps of death!
      Valdivia, starting, woke. He is alone:
    The taper in his tent yet dimly shone.
    Lautaro, haste! he cried; Lautaro, save
    Thy dying master! Ah! is this the brave,
    The haughty victor? Hush, the dream is past!
    The early trumpets ring the second blast!
    Arm, arm! Ev'n now, the impatient charger neighs!
    Again, from tent to tent the trumpet brays!
    By torch-light, then, Valdivia gave command,                     100
    Haste, let Del Oro take a chosen band,
    With watchful caution, on his fleetest steed,
    A troop observant on the heights to lead.
      Now beautiful, beneath the heaven's gray arch,
    Appeared the main battalion's moving march;
    The banner of the cross was borne before,
    And next, with aspect sad, and tresses hoar,
    The holy man went thoughtfully and pressed
    A crucifix, in silence, to his breast.
    Valdivia, all in burnished steel arrayed,                        110
    Upon whose crest the morn's effulgence played,
    Majestic reined his steed, and seemed alone,
    Worthy the southern world's imperial throne.
    His features through the barred casque that glow,
    His pole-axe pendent from the saddle-bow;
    His dazzling armour, and the glitter bright
    Of his drawn sabre, in the orient light,
    Speak him not, now, for knightly tournament
    Arrayed, but on emprise of prowess bent,
    And deeds of deadly strife. In blooming pride,                   120
    The attendant youth rode, pensive, by his side.
    Their pennoned lances, waving in the wind,
    Two hundred clanking horsemen tramped behind,
    In iron harness clad. The bugles blew,
    And high in air the sanguine ensigns flew.
    The arbalasters{j} next, with cross-bows slung,
    Marched, whilst the plumed Moors their cymbals swung.
    Auxiliar-Indians here, a various train.
    With spears and bows, darkened the distant plain;
    Drums rolled, and fifes re-echoed shrill and clear,              130
    At intervals, as near and yet more near,
    While flags and intermingled halberds shine,
    The long battalion drew its passing line.
    Last rolled the heavy guns, a sable tier,
    By Indians drawn, with matchmen in the rear;
    And many a straggling mule and sumpter-train
    Closed the embattled order on the plain,
    Till nought beneath the azure sky appears
    But the projecting points of scarce-discovered spears,
      Slow up the hill, with floating vapours hoar,                  140
    Or by the blue lake's long retiring shore,
    Now seen distinct, through the disparting haze,
    The glittering file its bannered length displays;
    Now winding from the woods, again appears
    The moving line of matchlocks and of spears.
    Part seen, part lost; the long illustrious march
    Circling the swamp, now draws its various arch;
    And seems, as on it moves, meandering slow,
    A radiant segment of a living bow.
      Five days the Spaniards, trooping in array,                    150
    O'er plains and headlands, held their eastern way.
    On the sixth early dawn, with shuddering awe
    And horror, in the last defile they saw
    Ten pendent heads, from which the gore still run,
    All gashed, and grim, and blackening in the sun.
    These were the gallant troop that passed before,
    The Indians' vast encampment to explore,
    Led by Del Oro, now with many a wound
    Pierced, and a headless trunk upon the ground.
    The horses startled, as they tramped in blood;                   160
    The troops a moment half-recoiling stood.
      But boots not now to pause, or to retire;
    Valdivia's eye flashed with indignant fire:
    Follow! he cried, brave comrades, to the hill!
    And instant shouts the pealing valley fill.
      And now, up to the hill's ascending crest,
    With animated look and beating breast,
    He urged his steed; when, wide beneath his eye,
    He saw, in long expanse, Arauco's valley lie.
      Far as the labouring sight could stretch its glance,           170
    One undulating mass of club and lance,
    One animated surface seemed to fill
    The many-stirring scene from hill to hill:
    To the deep mass he pointed with his sword,
    Banner, advance! give out "Castile!" the word.
      Instant the files advance, the trumpets bray,
    And now the host in terrible array,
    Ranged on the heights that overlook the plain,
    Has halted!
                   But the task were long and vain                   180
    To tell what nations, from the seas that roar
    Round Patagonia's melancholy shore;
    From forests, brown with everlasting shades;
    From rocks of sunshine, white with prone cascades;
    From snowy summits, where the Llama roams,
    Oft bending o'er the cataract as it foams;
    From streams whose bridges[229] tremble from the steep;
    From lakes, in summer's sweetest light asleep;
    Indians, of sullen brow and giant limb,
    With clubs terrific, and with aspects grim,                      190
    Flocked fearless.
                           When they saw the Spanish line
    Arrayed, and front to front, descending shine,
    Burst, instant burst, the universal cry,
    (Ten thousand spears uplifted to the sky)--
    Tyrants, we come to conquer or to die!
      Grim Mariantu led the Indian force
    A-left; and, rushing to the foremost horse,
    Hurled with unerring aim the involving thong,
    Then fearless sprang amidst the mailed throng.                   200
      Valdivia saw the horse, entangled, reel,
    And shouting, as he rode, Castile! Castile!
    Led on the charge: like a descending flood,
    It swept, till every spur was black with blood.
    His force a-right, where Harratomac led,
    A thousand spears went hissing overhead,
    And feathered arrows, of each varying hue,
    In glancing arch, beneath the sunbeams flew.
    Dire was the strife, when ardent Teucapel
    Advancing in the front of carnage fell.                          210
    At once, Ongolmo, Elicura, rushed,
    And swaying their huge clubs together, crushed
    Horseman and horse; then bathed their hands in gore,
    And limb from limb the panting carcase tore.
    Caupolican, where the main battle bleeds,
    Hosts and succeeding hosts undaunted leads,
    Till, torn and shattered by the ceaseless fire,
    Thousands, with gnashing teeth, and clenched spears, expire.
    Pierced by a hundred wounds, Ongolmo lies,
    And grasps his club terrific as he dies.                         220
      With breathless expectation, on the height,
    Lautaro watched the long and dubious fight:
    Pale and resigned the meek man stood, and pressed
    More close the holy image to his breast.
    Now nearer to the fight Lautaro drew,
    When on the ground a warrior met his view,
    Upon whose features memory seemed to trace
    A faint resemblance of his father's face;
    O'er him a horseman, with collected might,
    Raised his uplifted sword, in act to smite,                      230
    When the youth springing on, without a word,
    Snatched from a soldier's wearied grasp his sword,
    And smote the horseman through the crest: a yell
    Of triumph burst, as to the ground he fell.
    Lautaro{k} shouted, On! brave brothers, on!
    Scatter them like the snow!--the day is won!
    Lo, I! Lautaro{k},--Attacapac's son!
      The Indians turn: again the battle bleeds,
    Cleft are the helms and crushed the struggling steeds.
    The bugle sounds, and faint with toil and heat,                  240
    Some straggling horsemen to the hills retreat.
    Stand, brave companions! bold Valdivia cried,
    And shook his sword, in recent carnage dyed;
    Oh! droop not--droop not yet--all is not o'er--
    Brave, faithful friends, one glorious sally more.
    Where is Lautaro! leaps his willing sword
    Now to avenge his long-indulgent lord!
    He waited not for answer, but again
    Spurred to the centre of the horrid plain.
    Clubs, arrows, spears, the spot of death inclose,                250
    And fainter now the Spanish shouts arose.
    'Mid ghastly heaps of many a bleeding corse,
    Lies the caparisoned and dying horse.
      While still the rushing multitudes assail,
    Vain is the fiery tube, the twisted mail!
    The Spanish horsemen faint; long yells resound,
    As the dragged ensign trails the gory ground:
    Shout, for the chief is seized!--a thousand cries
    Burst forth--Valdivia! for the sacrifice!
    And lo, in silent dignity resigned,                              260
    The meek Anselmo, led in bonds, behind!
    His hand upon his breast, young Zarinel
    Amidst a group of mangled Indians fell;
    The spear that to his heart a passage found
    Left poor Olola's hair within the wound.
      Now all is hushed, save where, at times, alone,
    Deep midnight listens to a distant moan;
    Save where the condors clamour, overhead,
    And strike with sounding beaks the helmets of the dead.

[226] It may be necessary here to say, that whenever the Spaniards
founded a city, after the immediate walls of defence, their first object
was to build a church, and to have, with as much pomp as possible, the
ecclesiastical services performed. Hence the cathedrals founded by them
in America were of transcendent beauty and magnificence.

[227] Almagro, who first penetrated into Chili, was afterwards
strangled.

[228] Pizarro was assassinated.

[229] Rude hanging bridges, constructed by the natives.


CANTO EIGHTH.

ARGUMENT.

   Indian festival for victory--Old Warrior brought in wounded--
   Recognises his long-lost son, and dies--Discovery--Conclusion
   with the Old Warrior's funeral, and prophetic oration by the
   Missionary.

    The morn returns, and, reddening, seems to shed
    One ray of glory on the patriot-dead.
    Round the dark stone, the victor-chiefs behold!
    Still on their locks the gouts of gore hang cold!
    There stands the brave Caupolican, the pride
    Of Chili, young Lautaro, by his side!
    Near the grim circle, pendent from the wood,
    Twelve hundred Spanish heads are dripping blood.
    Shrill sound the notes of death: in festive dance,
    The Indian maids with myrtle boughs advance;                      10
    The tinkling sea-shells on their ancles ring,
    As, hailing thus the victor-youth, they sing:--

    SONG OF INDIAN MAIDS.

    Oh, shout for Lautaro, the young and the brave!
    The arm of whose strength was uplifted to save,
    When the steeds of the strangers came rushing amain,
    And the ghosts of our fathers looked down on the slain!

    'Twas eve, and the noise of the battle was o'er,
    Five thousand brave warriors were cold in their gore;
    When, in front, young Lautaro invincible stood,
    And the horses and iron-men rolled in their blood!

    As the snows of the mountain are swept by the blast,
    The earthquake of death o'er the white men has passed;
    Shout, Chili, in triumph! the battle is won,
    And we dance round the heads that are black in the sun!

      Lautaro, as if wrapt in thought profound,
    Oft turned an anxious look inquiring round.
    He is not here!--Say, does my father live?                        15
    Ere eager voices could an answer give,
    With faltering footsteps and declining head,
    And slowly by an aged Indian led,
    Wounded and weak the mountain chief appears:
    Live, live! Lautaro cried, with bursting tears,                   20
    And fell upon his neck, and, kissing, pressed,
    With folding arms, his gray hairs to his breast.
    Oh, live! I am thy son--thy long-lost child!
    The warrior raised his look, and faintly smiled;
    Chili, my country, is avenged! he cried:
    My son!--then sunk upon a shield--and died.
      Lautaro knelt beside him, as he bowed,
    And kissed his bleeding breast, and wept aloud.
    The sounds of sadness through the circle ran,
    When thus, with lifted axe, Caupolican:                           30
    What, for our fathers, brothers, children, slain,
    Canst thou repay, ruthless, inhuman Spain?
    Here, on the scene with recent slaughter red,
    To sooth the spirits of the brave who bled,
    Raise we, to-day, the war-feast of the dead.
    Bring forth the chief in bonds! Fathers, to-day
    Devote we to our gods the noblest prey!
      Lautaro turned his eyes, and, gazing round,
    Beheld Valdivia and Anselmo bound!
    One stood in arms, as with a stern despair,                       40
    His helmet cleft in twain, his temples bare,
    Where streaks of blood that dropped upon his mail,
    Served but to show his face more deadly pale:
    His eyebrows, dark and resolute, he bent,
    And stood, composed, to wait the dire event.
      Still on the cross his looks Anselmo cast,
    As if all thought of this vain world was passed,
    And in a world of light, without a shade,
    Ev'n now his meek and guileless spirit strayed.
    Where stood the Spanish chief, a muttering sound                  50
    Rose, and each club was lifted from the ground;
    When, starting from his father's corse, his sword
    Waving before his once-triumphant lord,
    Lautaro cried, My breast shall meet the blow:
    But save--save him, to whom my life I owe!
      Valdivia marked him with unmoving eye,
    Then looked upon his bonds, nor deigned reply;
    When Harratomac, stealing with slow pace,
    And lifting high his iron-jagged mace,
    Smote him to earth; a thousand voices rose,                       60
    Mingled with shouts and yells, So fall our foes!
      Lautaro gave to tears a moment's space,
    As black in death he marked Valdivia's face,
    Then cried--Chiefs, friends, and thou, Caupolican,
    Oh, spare this innocent and holy man!
    He never sailed, rapacious, o'er the deep,
    The gold of blood-polluted lands to heap;
    He never gave the armed hosts his aid,
    But meekly to the Mighty Spirit prayed,
    That in all lands the sounds of woe might cease,                  70
    And brothers of the wide world dwell in peace!
    The victor-youth saw generous sympathy
    Already steal to every warrior's eye;
    Then thus again: Oh, if this filial tear
    Bear witness my own father was most dear;
    If this uplifted arm, this bleeding steel
    Speak for my country what I felt and feel;
    If, at this hour, I meet her high applause,
    While my heart beats still ardent in her cause;--
    Hear, and forgive these tears that grateful flow,                 80
    Oh! hear, how much to this poor man I owe!
      I was a child--when to my sire's abode,
    In Chillan's vale, the armed horsemen rode:
    Me, whilst my father cold and breathless lay,
    Far off the crested soldiers bore away,
    And for a captive sold. No friend was near,
    To mark a young and orphan stranger's tear!
    This humble man, with kind parental care,
    Snatched me from slavery--saved from dark despair;
    And as my years increased, protected, fed,                        90
    And breathed a father's blessings on my head.
    A Spanish maid was with him: need I speak?
    Behold, affection's tear still wets my cheek!
    Years, as they passed, matured in ripening grace
    Her form unfolding, and her beauteous face:
    She heard my orphan tale; she loved to hear,
    And sometimes for my fortunes dropped a tear.
    I could have bowed to direst ills resigned,
    But wept at looks so sweet, at words so kind.
      Valdivia saw me, now in blooming age,                          100
    And claimed me from the father as his page;
    The chief too cherished me, yea, saved my life,
    When in Peru arose the civil strife.
    Yet still remembering her I loved so well,
    Oft I returned to the gray father's cell:
    His voice instructed me; recalled my youth
    From rude idolatry to heavenly truth:
    Of this hereafter; he my darkling mind
    Cleared, and from low and sensual thoughts refined.
    Then first, with feelings new impressed, I strove                110
    To hide the tear of tenderness and love:
    Amid the fairest maidens of Peru,
    My eyes, my heart, one only object knew:
    I lived that object's love and faith to share;
    He saw, and blessed us with a father's prayer.
      Here, at Valdivia's last and stern command,
    I came, a stranger in my native land!
    Anselmo (so him call--now most in need--
    And standing here in bonds, for whom I plead)
    Came, by our chief so summoned, and for aid                      120
    To the Great Spirit of the Christians prayed:
    Here as a son I loved him, but I left
    A wife, a child, of my fond cares bereft,
    Never to see again; for death awaits
    My entrance now in Lima's jealous gates.
      Caupolican, didst thou thy father love?
    Did his last dying look affection move?
    Pity this aged man; unbend thy brow:
    He was my father--is my father, now!
      Consenting mercy marks each warrior's mien.                    130
    But who is this, what pallid form is seen,
    As crushed already by the fatal blow,
    Bound, and with looks white as a wreath of snow,
    Her hands upon her breast, scarce drawn her breath,
    A Spanish woman knelt, expecting death,
    Whilst, borne by a dark warrior at her side,
    An infant shrunk from the red plumes, and cried!
    Lautaro started:
                       Injured maid of Spain!
    Me!--me! oh, take me to thine arms again!                        140
    She heard his voice, and, by the scene oppressed,
    With one faint sigh fell senseless on his breast.
      Caupolican, with warm emotion, cried,
    Live, live! Lautaro and his beauteous bride!
    Live, aged father!--and forthwith commands
    A warrior to unbind Anselmo's hands.
    She raised her head: his eyes first met her view,
    As round Lautaro's neck her arms she threw,
    Ah, no! she feebly spoke; it is not true!
    It is some form of the distempered brain!                        150
    Then hid her face upon his breast again.
      Dark flashing eyes, terrific, glared around:
    Here, his brains scattered by the deadly wound,
    The Spanish chief lay on the gory ground.
    With lowering brows, and mace yet drooping blood,
    And clotted hair, there Mariantu stood.
    Anselmo here, sad, yet in sorrow mild,
    Appeared: she cried, A blessing on your child,
    And knelt, as slow revived her waking sense,
    And then, with looks aghast, Oh bear us hence!                   160
    Now all the assembled chiefs, assenting, cried,
    Live, live! Lautaro and his beauteous bride!
    With eager arms Lautaro snatched his boy,
    And kissed him in an agony of joy;
    Then to Anselmo gave, who strove to speak,
    And felt the tear first burning on his cheek:
    The infant held his neck with strict embrace,
    And kissed his pale emaciated face.
      From the dread scene, wet with Valdivia's gore,
    His wan and trembling charge Lautaro bore.                       170
    There was a bank, where slept the summer-light,
    A small stream whispering went in mazes bright,
    And stealing from the sea, the western wind
    Waved the magnolias on the slope inclined:
    The woodpecker, in glittering plumage green,
    And echoing bill, beneath the boughs was seen;
    And, arched with gay and pendent flowers above,
    The floripondio[230] its rich trellis wove.
    Lautaro bent, with looks of love and joy,
    O'er his yet trembling wife and beauteous boy:                   180
      Oh, by what miracle, beloved! say,
    Hast thou escaped the perils of the way
    From Lima, where our humble dwelling stood,
    To these tumultuous scenes, this vale of blood?
      Roused by his voice, as from the sleep of death,
    Faint she replied, with slow-recovering breath,
    Who shall express, when thou, best friend! wert gone,
    How sunk my heart!--deserted and alone!
    Would I were with thee! oft I sat and sighed,
    When the pale moon shone on the silent tide--                    190
    At length resolved, I sought thee o'er the seas:
    The brave bark cheer'ly went before the breeze,
    That arms and soldiers to Valdivia bore,
    From Lima bound to Chili's southern shore:
    I seized the fair occasion--ocean smiled,
    As to the sire I bore his lisping child.
    The storm arose: with loud and sudden shock
    The vessel sunk, disparting on a rock.
    Some mariners, amidst the billows wild,
    Scarce saved, in one small boat, me and my child.                200
    What I have borne, a captive since that day--
    Forgive these tears--I scarce have heart to say!
    None pitied, save one gentle Indian maid--
    A wild maid--of her looks I was afraid;
    Her long black hair upon her shoulders fell,
    And in her hand she bore a wreathed shell.
      Lautaro for a moment turned aside,
    And, Oh, my sister! with faint voice he cried.
      Already free from sorrow and alarms,
    I clasped in thought a husband in my arms,                       210
    When a dark warrior, stationed on the height,
    Who held his solitary watch by night,
    Before me stood, and lifting high his lance,
    Exclaimed: No further, on thy life, advance!
    Faint, wearied, sinking to the earth with dread,
    Back to the dismal cave my steps he led.
    Only at eve, within the craggy cleft,
    Some water, and a cake of maize, were left.
    The thirteenth sun unseen went down the sky;
    When morning came, they brought me forth to die;
    But hushed be every sigh, each boding fear,
    Since all I sought on earth, and all I love, is here!            220
      Her infant raised his hands, with glistening eye,
    To reach a large and radiant butterfly,
    That fluttered near his face; with looks of love,
    And truth and tenderness, Lautaro strove
    To calm her wounded heart; the holy sire,
    His eyes faint-lighted with a transient fire,
    Hung o'er them, and to Heaven his prayer addressed,
    While, with uplifted hands, he wept and blest.                   230
      An aged Indian came, with feathers crowned,
    And knelt before Lautaro on the ground.
    What tidings, Indian?

    INDIAN.

        When I led thy sire,
    Whom late thou saw'st upon his shield expire,
    Son of our Ulmen, didst thou mark no trace,
    In these sad looks, of a remembered face?
    Dost thou remember Izdabel? Look here!
    It is thy father's hatchet and his spear.
      Friend of my infant days, how I rejoice,                       240
    Lautaro cried, once more to hear that voice!
    Life like a dream, since last we met, has fled--
    Oh, my beloved sister, thou art dead!

    INDIAN.

      I come to guide thee through untrodden ways,
    To the lone valley, where thy father's days
    Were passed; where every cave and every tree,
    From morn to morn, reminded him of thee!
      Lautaro cried: Here, faithful Indian, stay;
    I have a last sad duty yet to pay.
    A little while we part:--thou here remain.                       250
    He spake, and passed like lightning o'er the plain.
    Ah, cease, Castilian maid, thy vain alarms!
    See where he comes--his father in his arms!
      Now lead, he cried. The Indian, sad and still,
    Paced on from wood to vale, from vale to hill;
    Her infant tired, and hushed a while to rest,
    Smiled, in a dream, upon its mother's breast;
    The pensive mother gray Anselmo led;
    Behind, Lautaro bore his father dead.
      Beneath the branching palms they slept at night;               260
    The small birds waked them ere the morning light.
    Before their path, in distant view, appeared
    The mountain-smoke, that its dark column reared
    O'er Andes' summits, in the pale blue sky,
    Lifting their icy pinnacles so high.
    Four days they onward held their eastern way;
    On the fifth rising morn, before them lay
    Chillan's lone glen, amid whose windings green,
    The Warrior's loved and last abode was seen.
    No smoke went up, a stillness reigned around,                    270
    Save where the waters fell with soothing sound,
    Save where the Thenca sang so loud and clear,
    And the bright humming-bird was spinning near.
    Yet here all human tumults seemed to cease,
    And sunshine rested on the spot of peace;
    The myrtles bloomed as fragrant and as green
    As if Lautaro scarce had left the scene;
    And in his ear the falling waters' spray
    Seemed swelling with the sounds of yesterday.
      Where yonder rock the aged cedars shade,                       280
    There shall my father's bones in peace be laid.
      Beneath the cedar's shade they dug the ground;
    The small and sad communion gathered round.
    Beside the grave stood aged Izdabel,
    And broke the spear, and cried: Farewell, farewell!
    Lautaro hid his face, and sighed Adieu!
    As the stone hatchet in the grave he threw.
    The little child that to its mother clung,
    Stretched out its arm, then on her garment hung,
    With sidelong looks, half-shrinking, half-amazed,                290
    And dropped its flowers, unconscious, as it gazed.
      And now Anselmo, his pale brow inclined,
    The honoured relics, dust to dust, consigned
    With Christian rites, and sung, on bending knee,
    "Eternam pacem dona, Domine."
    Then rising up he closed the holy book;
    And lifting in the beam his lighted look,
    (The cross, with meekness, folded on his breast),
    Here, too, he cried, my bones in peace shall rest!
    Few years remain to me, and never more                           300
    Shall I behold, O Spain! thy distant shore!
    Here lay my bones, that the same tree may wave
    O'er the poor Christian's and the Indian's grave.
    Oh, may it (when the sons of future days
    Shall hear our tale and on the hillock gaze),
    Oh, may it teach, that charity should bind,
    Where'er they roam, the brothers of mankind!
    The time shall come, when wildest tribes shall hear
    Thy voice, O Christ! and drop the slaughtering spear.
      Yet we condemn not him who bravely stood,                      310
    To seal his country's freedom with his blood;
    And if, in after-times, a ruthless band
    Of fell invaders sweep my native land,
    May she, by Chili's stern example led,
    Hurl back his thunder on the assailant's head;
    Sustained by Freedom, strike the avenging blow,
    And learn one virtue from her ancient foe!

[230] One of the most beautiful of the beautiful climbing plants of
South America.




END OF VOLUME I.

EDINBURGH: BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PRINTERS.




Transcriber's notes: The following were corrected in text as shown.
They are indicated with curly brackets, thus: {a}.

{a} Pg iv: Alverstock => Alverstoke.

{b} Pg 26: mumuring => murmuring

{c} Pg 86: seene => scene

{d} Pg 100: TRANSATION => TRANSLATION

{e} Pg 152: fell => feel

{f} Pg 206: gallopped => galloped

{g} Pg 230: diffculty => difficulty

{h} Pg 307: Guecuba => Guecubu to match text reference.

{j} Pg 354: arbalaster is probably a variation of arbalester or
            arbalister: a cross-bowman.

k Pg 357: Lautora => Lautaro to be consistent with earlier use.


A few words are hyphenated inconsistently. They are listed here but
remain unchanged.

eventide         even-tide
eyeballs         eye-balls
eyelids          eye-lids
footfall         foot-fall
heartbroken      heart-broken
hedgerows        hedge-rows
outstretched     out-stretched





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Bowles, Vol. 1, by William Lisle Bowles

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