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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/8639-0.txt b/8639-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bca36d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/8639-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4456 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems, by Robert Southey + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Poems + +Author: Robert Southey + +Release Date: July 29, 2003 [eBook #8639] +[Most recently updated: October 18, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Poems + +by Robert Southey + +1799 + + +_The better, please; the worse, displease; I ask no more. +Spenser_ + +Table of Contents + +The Vision of the Maid of Orléans + Book 1 + Book 2 + Book 3 + +The Rose + +The Complaints of the Poor + +Metrical Letter + +Ballads + The Cross Roads + The Sailor who had served in the Slave Trade + Jaspar + Lord William + A Ballad shewing how an old woman rode double and who rode before her + The Surgeon’s Warning + The Victory + Henry the Hermit + +English Eclogues + The Old Mansion House + The Grandmother’s Tale + The Funeral + The Sailor’s Mother + The Witch + The Ruined Cottage + The Vision of the Maid of Orléans + + +_Divinity hath oftentimes descended +Upon our slumbers, and the blessed troupes +Have, in the calme and quiet of the soule, +Conversed with us._ + + Shirley. _The Grateful Servant_ + +Sidenote: The following Vision was originally printed as the ninth book +of _Joan of Arc_. It is now adapted to the improved edition of that +Poem. + + + + +The First Book + + +Orleans was hush’d in sleep. Stretch’d on her couch +The delegated Maiden lay: with toil +Exhausted and sore anguish, soon she closed +Her heavy eye-lids; not reposing then, +For busy Phantasy, in other scenes +Awakened. Whether that superior powers, +By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream, +Instructing so the passive faculty;[1] +Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog, +Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world, +And all things _are_ that _seem_.[2] + Along a moor, +Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate, +She roam’d a wanderer thro’ the cheerless night. +Far thro’ the silence of the unbroken plain +The bittern’s boom was heard, hoarse, heavy, deep, +It made most fitting music to the scene. +Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind, +Swept shadowing; thro’ their broken folds the moon +Struggled sometimes with transitory ray, +And made the moving darkness visible. +And now arrived beside a fenny lake +She stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarse +The long sedge rustled to the gales of night. +An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell’d +By powers unseen; then did the moon display +Where thro’ the crazy vessel’s yawning side +The muddy wave oozed in: a female guides, +And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan’d +As melancholy mournful to her ear, +As ever by the dungeon’d wretch was heard +Howling at evening round the embattled towers +Of that hell-house[3] of France, ere yet sublime +The almighty people from their tyrant’s hand +Dash’d down the iron rod. +Intent the Maid +Gazed on the pilot’s form, and as she gazed +Shiver’d, for wan her face was, and her eyes +Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep, +Channell’d by tears; a few grey locks hung down +Beneath her hood: then thro’ the Maiden’s veins +Chill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass’d, +Lifting her tattcr’d mantle, coil’d around +She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart. + The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by, +And the night-raven’s scream came fitfully, +Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid +Look’d to the shore, and now upon the bank +Leaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling still +In recollection. + There, a mouldering pile +Stretch’d its wide ruins, o’er the plain below +Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon +Shone thro’ its fretted windows: the dark Yew, +Withering with age, branched there its naked roots, +And there the melancholy Cypress rear’d +Its head; the earth was heav’d with many a mound, +And here and there a half-demolish’d tomb. + And now, amid the ruin’s darkest shade, +The Virgin’s eye beheld where pale blue flames +Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth, +And now in darkness drown’d. An aged man +Sat near, seated on what in long-past days +Had been some sculptur’d monument, now fallen +And half-obscured by moss, and gathered heaps +Of withered yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones; +And shining in the ray was seen the track +Of slimy snail obscene. Composed his look, +His eye was large and rayless, and fix’d full +Upon the Maid; the blue flames on his face +Stream’d a pale light; his face was of the hue +Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud. +Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice, +Exclaim’d the Spectre, “Welcome to these realms, +These regions of Despair! O thou whose steps +By Grief conducted to these sad abodes +Have pierced; welcome, welcome to this gloom +Eternal, to this everlasting night, +Where never morning darts the enlivening ray, +Where never shines the sun, but all is dark, +Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King.” + So saying he arose, and by the hand +The Virgin seized with such a death-cold touch +As froze her very heart; and drawing on, +Her, to the abbey’s inner ruin, led +Resistless. Thro’ the broken roof the moon +Glimmer’d a scatter’d ray; the ivy twined +Round the dismantled column; imaged forms +Of Saints and warlike Chiefs, moss-canker’d now +And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground, +With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen, +And rusted trophies; and amid the heap +Some monument’s defaced legend spake +All human glory vain. + +The loud blast roar’d +Amid the pile; and from the tower the owl +Scream’d as the tempest shook her secret nest. +He, silent, led her on, and often paus’d, +And pointed, that her eye might contemplate +At leisure the drear scene. +He dragged her on +Thro’ a low iron door, down broken stairs; +Then a cold horror thro’ the Maiden’s frame +Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw, +By the sepulchral lamp’s dim glaring light, +The fragments of the dead. +“Look here!” he cried, +“Damsel, look here! survey this house of Death; +O soon to tenant it! soon to increase +These trophies of mortality! for hence +Is no return. Gaze here! behold this skull, +These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh’d jaws, +That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mock +Thy perishable charms; for thus thy cheek +Must moulder. Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul, +Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heart +At the dread thought, that here its life’s-blood soon +Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon +With the cold clod? a thought most horrible! +So only dreadful, for reality +Is none of suffering here; here all is peace; +No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave. +Dreadful it is to think of losing life; +But having lost, knowledge of loss is not, +Therefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose; +Probe deep the seat of life.” +So spake Despair +The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice, +And all again was silence. Quick her heart +Panted. He drew a dagger from his breast, +And cried again, “Haste Damsel to repose! +One blow, and rest for ever!” On the Fiend +Dark scowl’d the Virgin with indignant eye, +And dash’d the dagger down. He next his heart +Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid +Along the downward vault. +The damp earth gave +A dim sound as they pass’d: the tainted air +Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews. +“Behold!” the fiend exclaim’d, “how gradual here +The fleshly burden of mortality +Moulders to clay!” then fixing his broad eye +Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse +Lay livid; she beheld with loathing look, +The spectacle abhorr’d by living man. + +“Look here!” Despair pursued, “this loathsome mass +Was once as lovely, and as full of life +As, Damsel! thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes +Once beam’d the mild light of intelligence, +And where thou seest the pamper’d flesh-worm trail, +Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought +That at the hallowed altar, soon the Priest +Should bless her coming union, and the torch +Its joyful lustre o’er the hall of joy, +Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earth +That Priest consign’d her, and the funeral lamp +Glares on her cold face; for her lover went +By glory lur’d to war, and perish’d there; +Nor she endur’d to live. Ha! fades thy cheek? +Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale? +Look here! behold the youthful paramour! +The self-devoted hero!” +Fearfully +The Maid look’d down, and saw the well known face +Of Theodore! in thoughts unspeakable, +Convulsed with horror, o’er her face she clasp’d +Her cold damp hands: “Shrink not,” the Phantom cried, +“Gaze on! for ever gaze!” more firm he grasp’d +Her quivering arm: “this lifeless mouldering clay, +As well thou know’st, was warm with all the glow +Of Youth and Love; this is the arm that cleaved +Salisbury’s proud crest, now motionless in death, +Unable to protect the ravaged frame +From the foul Offspring of Mortality +That feed on heroes. Tho’ long years were thine, +Yet never more would life reanimate +This murdered man; murdered by thee! for thou +Didst lead him to the battle from his home, +Else living there in peace to good old age: +In thy defence he died: strike deep! destroy +Remorse with Life.” +The Maid stood motionless, +And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand +Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried, +“Avaunt Despair! Eternal Wisdom deals +Or peace to man, or misery, for his good +Alike design’d; and shall the Creature cry, +Why hast thou done this? and with impious pride +Destroy the life God gave?” +The Fiend rejoin’d, +“And thou dost deem it impious to destroy +The life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lot +Assigned to mortal man? born but to drag, +Thro’ life’s long pilgrimage, the wearying load +Of being; care corroded at the heart; +Assail’d by all the numerous train of ills +That flesh inherits; till at length worn out, +This is his consummation!—think again! +What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen’d life +But lengthen’d sorrow? If protracted long, +Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs +Outstretch their languid length, oh think what thoughts, +What agonizing woes, in that dread hour, +Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse, +Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew +The shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force, +Mightiest in impotence, the love of life +Seizes the throbbing heart, the faltering lips +Pour out the impious prayer, that fain would change +The unchangeable’s decree, surrounding friends +Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears, +And all he loved in life embitters death! + +Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hour +Of calmest dissolution! yet weak man +Dares, in his timid piety, to live; +And veiling Fear in Superstition’s garb, +He calls her Resignation! +Coward wretch! +Fond Coward! thus to make his Reason war +Against his Reason! Insect as he is, +This sport of Chance, this being of a day, +Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast, +Believes himself the care of heavenly powers, +That God regards Man, miserable Man, +And preaching thus of Power and Providence, +Will crush the reptile that may cross his path! + +Fool that thou art! the Being that permits +Existence, _gives_ to man the worthless boon: +A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest, +Bask in the sunshine of Prosperity, +And such do well to keep it. But to one +Sick at the heart with misery, and sore +With many a hard unmerited affliction, +It is a hair that chains to wretchedness +The slave who dares not burst it! +Thinkest thou, +The parent, if his child should unrecall’d +Return and fall upon his neck, and cry, +Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and full +Of vacant joys and heart-consuming cares, +I can be only happy in my home +With thee—my friend!—my father! Thinkest thou, +That he would thrust him as an outcast forth? +Oh I he would clasp the truant to his heart, +And love the trespass.” +Whilst he spake, his eye +Dwelt on the Maiden’s cheek, and read her soul +Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood, +Even as the wretch, whose famish’d entrails crave +Supply, before him sees the poison’d food +In greedy horror. +Yet not long the Maid +Debated, “Cease thy dangerous sophistry, +Eloquent tempter!” cried she. “Gloomy one! +What tho’ affliction be my portion here, +Think’st thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy. +Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back +Upon a life of duty well perform’d, +Then lift mine eyes to Heaven, and there in faith +Know my reward? I grant, were this life all, +Was there no morning to the tomb’s long night, +If man did mingle with the senseless clod, +Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed +A wise and friendly comforter! But, Fiend! +There is a morning to the tomb’s long night, +A dawn of glory, a reward in Heaven, +He shall not gain who never merited. +If thou didst know the worth of one good deed +In life’s last hour, thou would’st not bid me lose +The power to benefit; if I but save +A drowning fly, I shall not live in vain. +I have great duties, Fiend! me France expects, +Her heaven-doom’d Champion.” +“Maiden, thou hast done +Thy mission here,” the unbaffled Fiend replied: +“The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchance +Exulting in the pride of victory, +Forgettest him who perish’d! yet albeit +Thy harden’d heart forget the gallant youth; +That hour allotted canst thou not escape, +That dreadful hour, when Contumely and Shame +Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid! +Destined to drain the cup of bitterness, +Even to its dregs! England’s inhuman Chiefs +Shall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame, +Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity, +And force such burning blushes to the cheek +Of Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish +The earth might cover thee! in that last hour, +When thy bruis’d breast shall heave beneath the chains +That link thee to the stake; when o’er thy form, +Exposed unmantled, the brute multitude +Shall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt, +More painful than the circling flames that scorch +Each quivering member; wilt thou not in vain +Then wish my friendly aid? then wish thine ear +Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand +Had grasp’d the dagger, and in death preserved +Insulted modesty?” +Her glowing cheek +Blush’d crimson; her wide eye on vacancy +Was fix’d; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend, +Grasping her hand, exclaim’d, “too-timid Maid, +So long repugnant to the healing aid +My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold +The allotted length of life.” +He stamp’d the earth, +And dragging a huge coffin as his car, +Two Gouls came on, of form more fearful-foul +Than ever palsied in her wildest dream +Hag-ridden Superstition. Then Despair +Seiz’d on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still. +And placed her in the seat; and on they pass’d +Adown the deep descent. A meteor light +Shot from the Daemons, as they dragg’d along +The unwelcome load, and mark’d their brethren glut +On carcasses. +Below the vault dilates +Its ample bulk. “Look here!”—Despair addrest +The shuddering Virgin, “see the dome of Death!” +It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid +The entrails of the earth, as tho’ to form +The grave of all mankind: no eye could reach, +Tho’ gifted with the Eagle’s ample ken, +Its distant bounds. There, thron’d in darkness, dwelt +The unseen Power of Death. +Here stopt the Gouls, +Reaching the destin’d spot. The Fiend leapt out, +And from the coffin, as he led the Maid, +Exclaim’d, “Where never yet stood mortal man, +Thou standest: look around this boundless vault; +Observe the dole that Nature deals to man, +And learn to know thy friend.” +She not replied, +Observing where the Fates their several tasks +Plied ceaseless. “Mark how short the longest web +Allowed to man! he cried; observe how soon, +Twin’d round yon never-resting wheel, they change +Their snowy hue, darkening thro’ many a shade, +Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!” + +Too true he spake, for of the countless threads, +Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn’d snow, +Or as the lovely lilly of the vale, +Was never one beyond the little span +Of infancy untainted: few there were +But lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue, +Or deeper sable died.[4] Two Genii stood, +Still as the web of Being was drawn forth, +Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn, +The one unsparing dash’d the bitter wave +Of woe; and as he dash’d, his dark-brown brow +Relax’d to a hard smile. The milder form +Shed less profusely there his lesser store; +Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon, +Mourning the lot of man; and happy he +Who on his thread those precious drops receives; +If it be happiness to have the pulse +Throb fast with pity, and in such a world +Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches +With anguish at the sight of human woe. + +To her the Fiend, well hoping now success, +“This is thy thread! observe how short the span, +And see how copious yonder Genius pours +The bitter stream of woe.” The Maiden saw +Fearless. “Now gaze!” the tempter Fiend exclaim’d, +And placed again the poniard in her hand, +For Superstition, with sulphureal torch +Stalk’d to the loom. “This, Damsel, is thy fate! +The hour draws on—now drench the dagger deep! +Now rush to happier worlds!” +The Maid replied, +“Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven, +Impious I strive not: be that will perform’d!” + + + [1] May says of Serapis, + “Erudit at placide humanam per somnia mentem, + Nocturnâque quiete docet; nulloque labore + Hic tantum parta est pretiosa scientia, nullo + Excutitur studio verum. Mortalia corda + Tunc Deus iste docet, cum sunt minus apta doceri, + Cum nullum obsequium præstant, meritisque fatentur + Nil sese debere suis; tunc recta scientes + Cum nil scire valent. Non illo tempore sensus + Humanos forsan dignatur numen inire, + Cum propriis possunt per se discursibus uti, + Ne forte humanâ ratio divina coiret.”—_Sup Lucani_. + + + [2] I have met with a singular tale to illustrate this spiritual + theory of dreams. + + Guntram, King of the Franks, was liberal to the poor, and he + himself experienced the wonderful effects of divine liberality. For + one day as he was hunting in a forest he was separated from his + companions and arrived at a little stream of water with only one + comrade of tried and approved fidelity. Here he found himself + opprest by drowsiness, and reclining his head upon the servant’s + lap went to sleep. The servant witnessed a wonderful thing, for he + saw a little beast (_bestiolam_) creep out of the mouth of his + sleeping master, and go immediately to the streamlet, which it + vainly attempted to cross. The servant drew his sword and laid it + across the water, over which the little beast easily past and crept + into a hole of a mountain on the opposite side; from whence it made + its appearance again in an hour, and returned by the same means + into the King’s mouth. The King then awakened, and told his + companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon the bank of + an immense river, which he had crossed by a bridge of iron, and + from thence came to a mountain in which a great quantity of gold + was concealed. When the King had concluded, the servant related + what he had beheld, and they both went to examine the mountain, + where upon digging they discovered an immense weight of gold. + + I stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled SPHINX + _Theologico-Philosophica. Authore Johanne Heidfeldio, Ecclesiaste + Ebersbachiano_. 1621. + + The same story is in Matthew of Westminster; it is added that + Guntram applied the treasures thus found to pious uses. + + For the truth of this theory there is the evidence of a Monkish + miracle. When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian and visit + the world of souls, his guide said to him, “let thy body rest in + the bed for thy spirit only is about to depart with me; and lest + the body should appear dead, I will send into it a vital breath.” + + The body however by a strange sympathy was affected like the + spirit; for when the foul and fetid smoke that arose from tithes + witheld, had nearly suffocated Thurcillus, and made him cough + twice, those who were near his body said that it coughed twice + about the same time. + + _Matthew Paris_ + + + [3] The Bastille. The expression is in one of Fuller’s works, an + Author from whose quaintness and ingenuity I have always found + amusement, and sometimes assistance + + [4] These lines strongly resemble a passage in the _Pharonnida_ of + William Chamberlayne, a Poet who has told an interesting story in + uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and beauty of + expression, with the quaintest conceits, and most awkward + inversions. + + On a rock more high + Than Nature’s common surface, she beholds + The Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds + Its sacred mysteries. A trine within + A quadrate placed, both these encompast in + A perfect circle was its form; but what + Its matter was, for us to wonder at, + Is undiscovered left. A Tower there stands + At every angle, where Time’s fatal hands + The impartial Parcæ dwell; i’ the first she sees + Clotho the kindest of the Destinies, + From immaterial essences to cull + The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool + For Lachesis to spin; about her flie + Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie + Warm’d with their functions in, whose strength bestows + That power by which man ripe for misery grows. + + Her next of objects was that glorious tower + Where that swift-fingered Nymph that spares no hour + From mortals’ service, draws the various threads + Of life in several lengths; to weary beds + Of age extending some, whilst others in + Their infancy are broke: _some blackt in sin, + Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whence + Their origin, candid with innocence; + Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed + In sanguine pleasures_: some in glittering pride + Spun to adorn the earth, whilst others wear + Rags of deformity, but knots of care + No thread was wholly free from. Next to this + Fair glorious tower, was placed that black abyss + Of dreadful Atropos, the baleful seat + Of death and horrour, in each room repleat + With lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sight + Of pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night. + To this, the last stage that the winding clew + Of Life can lead mortality unto, + Fear was the dreadful Porter, which let in + All guests sent thither by destructive sin. + + It is possible that I may have written from the recollection of + this passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly attribute it + to Chamberlayne, a Poet to whom I am indebted for many hours of + delight, and whom I one day hope to rescue from undeserved + oblivion. return + + + + +The Second Book + + +She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam’d +Amid the air, such odors wafting now +As erst came blended with the evening gale, +From Eden’s bowers of bliss. An angel form +Stood by the Maid; his wings, etherial white, +Flash’d like the diamond in the noon-tide sun, +Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear’d +Her Theodore. + Amazed she saw: the Fiend +Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice +Sounded, tho’ now more musically sweet +Than ever yet had thrill’d her charmed soul, +When eloquent Affection fondly told +The day-dreams of delight. + “Beloved Maid! +Lo! I am with thee! still thy Theodore! +Hearts in the holy bands of Love combin’d, +Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine! +A little while and thou shalt dwell with me +In scenes where Sorrow is not. Cheerily +Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave, +Rough tho’ it be and painful, for the grave +Is but the threshold of Eternity. + Favour’d of Heaven! to thee is given to view +These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss +Thou treadest, Maiden! Here the dungeons are +Where bad men learn repentance; souls diseased +Must have their remedy; and where disease +Is rooted deep, the remedy is long +Perforce, and painful.” + Thus the Spirit spake, +And led the Maid along a narrow path, +Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames, +More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound +Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath +Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach +A wide expanded den where all around +Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze, +Flamed dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood +The meagre form of Care, and as he blew +To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch’d +His wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus +He toil’d and toil’d, of toil to reap no end +But endless toil and never-ending woe. + An aged man went round the infernal vault, +Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task: +White were his locks, as is the wintry snow +On hoar Plinlimmon’s head. A golden staff +His steps supported; powerful talisman, +Which whoso feels shall never feel again +The tear of Pity, or the throb of Love. +Touch’d but by this, the massy gates give way, +The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall, +Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst +Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee +To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few, +Tho’ he the Blessed Teacher of mankind +Hath said, that easier thro’ the needle’s eye +Shall the huge camel pass,[5] than the rich man +Enter the gates of heaven. “Ye cannot serve +Your God, and worship Mammon.” + “Missioned Maid!” +So spake the Angel, “know that these, whose hands +Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil, +Were Mammon’s slaves on earth. They did not spare +To wring from Poverty the hard-earn’d mite, +They robb’d the orphan’s pittance, they could see +Want’s asking eye unmoved; and therefore these, +Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere +In Mammon’s service; scorched by these fierce fires, +And frequent deluged by the o’erboiling ore: +Yet still so framed, that oft to quench their thirst +Unquenchable, large draughts of molten gold[6] +They drink insatiate, still with pain renewed, +Pain to destroy.” + So saying, her he led +Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell, +Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls +Part gleam’d with gold, and part with silver ore +A milder radiance shone. The Carbuncle +There its strong lustre like the flamy sun +Shot forth irradiate; from the earth beneath, +And from the roof a diamond light emits; +Rubies and amethysts their glows commix’d +With the gay topaz, and the softer ray +Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald’s hue, +And bright pyropus. + There on golden seats, +A numerous, sullen, melancholy train +Sat silent. “Maiden, these,” said Theodore, +Are they who let the love of wealth absorb +All other passions; in their souls that vice +Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree +That with its shade spreads barrenness around. +These, Maid! were men by no atrocious crime +Blacken’d, no fraud, nor ruffian violence: +Men of fair dealing, and respectable +On earth, but such as only for themselves +Heap’d up their treasures, deeming all their wealth +Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven, +To bless them only: therefore here they sit, +Possessed of gold enough, and by no pain +Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss +They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell, +Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour +Of general restitution.” + Thence they past, +And now arrived at such a gorgeous dome, +As even the pomp of Eastern opulence +Could never equal: wandered thro’ its halls +A numerous train; some with the red-swoln eye +Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek; +Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step, +And eyes lack-lustre. + Maiden? said her guide, +These are the wretched slaves of Appetite, +Curst with their wish enjoyed. The epicure +Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall’d sense +Loaths at the banquet; the voluptuous here +Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight, +And sink in misery. All they wish’d on earth, +Possessing here, whom have they to accuse, +But their own folly, for the lot they chose? +Yet, for that these injured themselves alone, +They to the house of Penitence may hie, +And, by a long and painful regimen, +To wearied Nature her exhausted powers +Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish +Of wisdom, and Almighty Goodness grants +That prize to him who seeks it.” + Whilst he spake, +The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and eye +Fat swoln, and legs whose monstrous size disgraced +The human form divine, their caterer, +Hight Gluttony, set forth the smoaking feast. +And by his side came on a brother form, +With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red +And scurfy-white, mix’d motley; his gross bulk, +Like some huge hogshead shapen’d, as applied. +Him had antiquity with mystic rites +Ador’d, to him the sons of Greece, and thine +Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour’d +The victim blood, with godlike titles graced, +Bacchus, or Dionusus; son of Jove, +Deem’d falsely, for from Folly’s ideot form +He sprung, what time Madness, with furious hand, +Seiz’d on the laughing female. At one birth +She brought the brethren, menial here, above +Reigning with sway supreme, and oft they hold +High revels: mid the Monastery’s gloom, +The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice +Episcopal, proclaims approaching day +Of visitation, or Churchwardens meet +To save the wretched many from the gripe +Of eager Poverty, or mid thy halls +Of London, mighty Mayor! rich Aldermen, +Of coming feast hold converse. + Otherwhere, +For tho’ allied in nature as in blood, +They hold divided sway, his brother lifts +His spungy sceptre. In the noble domes +Of Princes, and state-wearied Ministers, +Maddening he reigns; and when the affrighted mind +Casts o’er a long career of guilt and blood +Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought +To lull the worm of Conscience to repose. +He too the halls of country Squires frequents, +But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades +Thy offspring Rhedycina! and thy walls, +Granta! nightly libations there to him +Profuse are pour’d, till from the dizzy brain +Triangles, Circles, Parallelograms, +Moods, Tenses, Dialects, and Demigods, +And Logic and Theology are swept +By the red deluge. + Unmolested there +He reigns; till comes at length the general feast, +Septennial sacrifice; then when the sons +Of England meet, with watchful care to chuse +Their delegates, wise, independent men, +Unbribing and unbrib’d, and cull’d to guard +Their rights and charters from the encroaching grasp +Of greedy Power: then all the joyful land +Join in his sacrifices, so inspir’d +To make the important choice. + The observing Maid +Address’d her guide, “These Theodore, thou sayest +Are men, who pampering their foul appetites, +Injured themselves alone. But where are they, +The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil +Around the guileless female, so to sting +The heart that loves them?” + “Them,” the spirit replied, +A long and dreadful punishment awaits. +For when the prey of want and infamy, +Lower and lower still the victim sinks, +Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word, +One impious imprecation from her lips +Escapes, nay not a thought of evil lurks +In the polluted mind, that does not plead +Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued +Against the foul Seducer.” + Now they reach’d +The house of Penitence. Credulity +Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head +As tho’ to listen; on her vacant face, +A smile that promis’d premature assent; +Tho’ her Regret behind, a meagre Fiend, +Disciplin’d sorely. + Here they entered in, +And now arrived where, as in study tranced, +She sat, the Mistress of the Dome. Her face +Spake that composed severity, that knows +No angry impulse, no weak tenderness, +Resolved and calm. Before her lay that Book +That hath the words of Life; and as she read, +Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek, +Tho’ heavenly joy beam’d in her eye the while. +Leaving her undisturb’d, to the first ward +Of this great Lazar-house, the Angel led +The favour’d Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down +On the hard stone that their bare knees had worn, +In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear’d: +Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave; +Yet such expression stealing from the eye, +As tho’, that only naked, all the rest +Was one close fitting mask. A scoffing Fiend, +For Fiend he was, tho’ wisely serving here +Mock’d at his patients, and did often pour +Ashes upon them, and then bid them say +Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laughed: +For these were Hypocrites, on earth revered +As holy ones, who did in public tell +Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross themselves, +And call themselves most miserable sinners, +That so they might be deem’d most pious saints; +And go all filth, and never let a smile +Bend their stern muscles, gloomy, sullen men, +Barren of all affection, and all this +To please their God, forsooth! and therefore Scorn +Grinn’d at his patients, making them repeat +Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery +Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer, +They pour’d the silent sorrows of the soul +To Heaven, then did they not regard his mocks +Which then came painless, and Humility +Soon rescued them, and led to Penitence, +That She might lead to Heaven. + From thence they came, +Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band +Groan’d underneath the bitter tyranny +Of a fierce Daemon. His coarse hair was red, +Pale grey his eyes, and blood-shot; and his face +Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears +In ecstacy. Well-pleased he went around, +Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some, +Or probing with a poison’d lance their breasts, +Or placing coals of fire within their wounds; +Or seizing some within his mighty grasp, +He fix’d them on a stake, and then drew back, +And laugh’d to see them writhe. + “These,” said the Spirit, +Are taught by Cruelty, to loath the lives +They led themselves. Here are those wicked men +Who loved to exercise their tyrant power +On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo +A long purgation here; the traffickers +In human flesh here too are disciplined. +Till by their suffering they have equall’d all +The miseries they inflicted, all the mass +Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged, +The towns they burnt, for they who bribe to war +Are guilty of the blood, the widows left +In want, the slave or led to suicide, +Or murdered by the foul infected air +Of his close dungeon, or more sad than all, +His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved, +And driven by woe to wickedness. + These next, +Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room, +So sullen, and with such an eye of hate +Each on the other scowling, these have been +False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts +Here they dwell: in the hollow of their hearts +There is a worm that feeds, and tho’ thou seest +That skilful leech who willingly would heal +The ill they suffer, judging of all else +By their own evil standard, they suspect +The aid be vainly proffers, lengthening thus +By vice its punishment.” + “But who are these,” +The Maid exclaim’d, “that robed in flowing lawn, +And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps +Like Cardinals, I see in every ward, +Performing menial service at the beck +Of all who bid them?” + Theodore replied, +These men are they who in the name of CHRIST +Did heap up wealth, and arrogating power, +Did make men bow the knee, and call themselves +Most Reverend Graces and Right Reverend Lords. +They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed, +And in fine linen: therefore are they here; +And tho’ they would not minister on earth, +Here penanced they perforce must minister: +For he, the lowly man of Nazareth, +Hath said, his kingdom is not of the world.” +So Saying on they past, and now arrived +Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode, +That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye, +And shudder’d: each one was a loathly corpse, +The worm did banquet on his putrid prey, +Yet had they life and feeling exquisite +Tho’ motionless and mute. + “Most wretched men +Are these, the angel cried. These, Joan, are bards, +Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuate +Who sat them down, deliberately lewd, +So to awake and pamper lust in minds +Unborn; and therefore foul of body now +As then they were of soul, they here abide +Long as the evil works they left on earth +Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom! +Yet amply merited by that bad man +Who prostitutes the sacred gift of song!” +And now they reached a huge and massy pile, +Massy it seem’d, and yet in every blast +As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit, +Remorse for ever his sad vigils kept. +Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch. +Inly he groan’d, or, starting, wildly shriek’d, +Aye as the fabric tottering from its base, +Threatened its fall, and so expectant still +Lived in the dread of danger still delayed. +They enter’d there a large and lofty dome, +O’er whose black marble sides a dim drear light +Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp. +Enthroned around, the Murderers of Mankind, +Monarchs, the great! the glorious! the august! +Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire, +Sat stern and silent. Nimrod he was there, +First King the mighty hunter; and that Chief +Who did belie his mother’s fame, that so +He might be called young Ammon. In this court +Cæsar was crown’d, accurst liberticide; +And he who murdered Tully, that cold villain, +Octavius, tho’ the courtly minion’s lyre +Hath hymn’d his praise, tho’ Maro sung to him, +And when Death levelled to original clay +The royal carcase, Flattery, fawning low, +Fell at his feet, and worshipped the new God. +Titus was here,[7] the Conqueror of the Jews, +He the Delight of human-kind misnamed; +Cæsars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings, +Here they were all, all who for glory fought, +Here in the Court of Glory reaping now +The meed they merited. + As gazing round +The Virgin mark’d the miserable train, +A deep and hollow voice from one went forth; +“Thou who art come to view our punishment, +Maiden of Orleans! hither turn thine eyes, +For I am he whose bloody victories +Thy power hath rendered vain. Lo! I am here, +The hero conqueror of Azincour, +Henry of England!—wretched that I am, +I might have reigned in happiness and peace, +My coffers full, my subjects undisturb’d, +And Plenty and Prosperity had loved +To dwell amongst them: but mine eye beheld +The realm of France, by faction tempest-torn, +And therefore I did think that it would fall +An easy prey. I persecuted those +Who taught new doctrines, tho’ they taught the truth: +And when I heard of thousands by the sword +Cut off, or blasted by the pestilence, +I calmly counted up my proper gains, +And sent new herds to slaughter. Temperate +Myself, no blood that mutinied, no vice +Tainting my private life, I sent abroad +Murder and Rape; and therefore am I doom’d, +Like these imperial Sufferers, crown’d with fire, +Here to remain, till Man’s awaken’d eye +Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds, +And warn’d by them, till the whole human race, +Equalling in bliss the aggregate we caus’d +Of wretchedness, shall form One Brotherhood, +One Universal Family of Love.” + + [5] In the former edition I had substituted _cable_ instead of + _camel_. The alteration would not be worth noticing were it not for + the circumstance which occasioned it. _Facilius elephas per foramen + acus_, is among the Hebrew adages collected by Drusius; the same + metaphor is found in two other Jewish proverbs, and this appears to + determine the signification of καμηλος Matt. 19. 24. + + + [6] The same idea, and almost the same words are in an old play by John + Ford. The passage is a very fine one: + + Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched, + Almost condemn’d alive! There is a place, + (List daughter!) in a black and hollow vault, + Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, + But flaming horror of consuming fires; + A lightless sulphur, choak’d with smoaky foggs + Of an infected darkness. In this place + Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts + Of never-dying deaths; there damned souls + Roar without pity, there are gluttons fed + With toads and adders; there is burning oil + Pour’d down the drunkard’s throat, _the usurer + Is forced to sup whole draughts of molten gold_; + There is the murderer for ever stabb’d, + Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton + On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul + He feels the torment of his raging lust. + + _(’Tis Pity she’s a Whore.)_ + + + I wrote this passage when very young, and the idea, trite as it is, was new + to me. It occurs I believe in most descriptions of hell, and perhaps owes + its origin to the fate of Crassus. + + After this picture of horrors, the reader may perhaps be pleased with one + more pleasantly fanciful: + + O call me home again dear Chief! and put me + To yoking foxes, milking of he-goats, + Pounding of water in a mortar, laving + The sea dry with a nutshell, gathering all + The leaves are fallen this autumn—making ropes of sand, + Catching the winds together in a net, + Mustering of ants, and numbering atoms, all + That Hell and you thought exquisite torments, rather + Than stay me here a thought more. I would sooner + Keep fleas within a circle, and be accomptant + A thousand year which of ’em, and how far + Outleap’d the other, than endure a minute + Such as I have within. + + (B. Jonson. _The Devil is an Ass.)_ + + + [7] During the siege of Jerusalem, “the Roman commander, _with a + generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism,_ + laboured incessantly, and to the very last moment, to preserve the + place. With this view, he again and again intreated the tyrants to + surrender and save their lives. With the same view also, after + carrying the second wall the siege was intermitted four days: to + rouse their fears, _prisoners, to the number of five hundred, or + more were crucified daily before the walls; till space_, Josephus + says, _was wanting for the crosses, and crosses for the + captives_.”—_Churton’s Bampton Lectures_. + + + If any of my readers should enquire why Titus Vespasian, the + Delight of Mankind, is placed in such a situation,—I answer, for + this instance of _“his generous clemency, that inseparable + attendant on true heroism!”_ + + + + +The Third Book + + +The Maiden, musing on the Warrior’s words, +Turn’d from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach’d +A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood, +In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eye +Beam’d promise, but behind, withered and old, +And all unlovely. Underneath his feet +Lay records trampled, and the laurel wreath +Now rent and faded: in his hand he held +An hour-glass, and as fall the restless sands, +So pass the lives of men. By him they past +Along the darksome cave, and reach’d a stream, +Still rolling onward its perpetual waves, +Noiseless and undisturbed. Here they ascend +A Bark unpiloted, that down the flood, +Borne by the current, rush’d. The circling stream, +Returning to itself, an island form’d; +Nor had the Maiden’s footsteps ever reach’d +The insulated coast, eternally +Rapt round the endless course; but Theodore +Drove with an angel’s will the obedient bark. + +They land, a mighty fabric meets their eyes, +Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamant +The pile was framed, for ever to abide +Firm in eternal strength. Before the gate +Stood eager Expectation, as to list +The half-heard murmurs issuing from within, +Her mouth half-open’d, and her head stretch’d forth. +On the other side there stood an aged Crone, +Listening to every breath of air; she knew +Vague suppositions and uncertain dreams, +Of what was soon to come, for she would mark +The paley glow-worm’s self-created light, +And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown, +And desolated nations; ever fill’d +With undetermin’d terror, as she heard +Or distant screech-owl, or the regular beat +Of evening death-watch. +“Maid,” the Spirit cried, +Here, robed in shadows, dwells Futurity. +There is no eye hath seen her secret form, +For round the Mother of Time, unpierced mists +Aye hover. Would’st thou read the book of Fate, +Enter.” +The Damsel for a moment paus’d, +Then to the Angel spake: “All-gracious Heaven! +Benignant in withholding, hath denied +To man that knowledge. I, in faith assured, +That he, my heavenly Father, for the best +Ordaineth all things, in that faith remain +Contented.” +“Well and wisely hast thou said, +So Theodore replied; “and now O Maid! +Is there amid this boundless universe +One whom thy soul would visit? is there place +To memory dear, or visioned out by hope, +Where thou would’st now be present? form the wish, +And I am with thee, there.” +His closing speech +Yet sounded on her ear, and lo! they stood +Swift as the sudden thought that guided them, +Within the little cottage that she loved. +“He sleeps! the good man sleeps!” enrapt she cried, +As bending o’er her Uncle’s lowly bed +Her eye retraced his features. “See the beads +That never morn nor night he fails to tell, +Remembering me, his child, in every prayer. +Oh! quiet be thy sleep, thou dear old man! +Good Angels guard thy rest! and when thine hour +Is come, as gently mayest thou wake to life, +As when thro’ yonder lattice the next sun +Shall bid thee to thy morning orisons! +Thy voice is heard, the Angel guide rejoin’d, +He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breathe +Blessings, and pleasant is the good man’s rest. +Thy fame has reached him, for who has not heard +Thy wonderous exploits? and his aged heart +Hath felt the deepest joy that ever yet +Made his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on old Claude! +Peaceful, pure Spirit, be thy sojourn here, +And short and soon thy passage to that world +Where friends shall part no more! +“Does thy soul own +No other wish? or sleeps poor Madelon +Forgotten in her grave? seest thou yon star,” +The Spirit pursued, regardless of her eye +That look’d reproach; “seest thou that evening star +Whose lovely light so often we beheld +From yonder woodbine porch? how have we gazed +Into the dark deep sky, till the baffled soul, +Lost in the infinite, returned, and felt +The burthen of her bodily load, and yearned +For freedom! Maid, in yonder evening slar +Lives thy departed friend. I read that glance, +And we are there!” +He said and they had past +The immeasurable space. +Then on her ear +The lonely song of adoration rose, +Sweet as the cloister’d virgins vesper hymn, +Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopes +Already lives in Heaven. Abrupt the song +Ceas’d, tremulous and quick a cry +Of joyful wonder rous’d the astonish’d Maid, +And instant Madelon was in her arms; +No airy form, no unsubstantial shape, +She felt her friend, she prest her to her heart, +Their tears of rapture mingled. +She drew back +And eagerly she gazed on Madelon, +Then fell upon her neck again and wept. +No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief, +The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness, +The languid eye: youth’s loveliest freshness now +Mantled her cheek, whose every lineament +Bespake the soul at rest, a holy calm, +A deep and full tranquillity of bliss. + +“Thou then art come, my first and dearest friend!” +The well known voice of Madelon began, +“Thou then art come! and was thy pilgrimage +So short on earth? and was it painful too, +Painful and short as mine? but blessed they +Who from the crimes and miseries of the world +Early escape!” +“Nay,” Theodore replied, +She hath not yet fulfill’d her mortal work. +Permitted visitant from earth she comes +To see the seat of rest, and oftentimes +In sorrow shall her soul remember this, +And patient of the transitory woe +Partake the anticipated peace again.” +“Soon be that work perform’d!” the Maid exclaimed, +“O Madelon! O Theodore! my soul, +Spurning the cold communion of the world, +Will dwell with you! but I shall patiently, +Yea even with joy, endure the allotted ills +Of which the memory in this better state +Shall heighten bliss. That hour of agony, +When, Madelon, I felt thy dying grasp, +And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death, +The very horrors of that hour assume +A shape that now delights.” +“O earliest friend! +I too remember,” Madelon replied, +“That hour, thy looks of watchful agony, +The suppressed grief that struggled in thine eye +Endearing love’s last kindness. Thou didst know +With what a deep and melancholy joy +I felt the hour draw on: but who can speak +The unutterable transport, when mine eyes, +As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed +Amid this peaceful vale, unclos’d on him, +My Arnaud! he had built me up a bower, +A bower of rest.—See, Maiden, where he comes, +His manly lineaments, his beaming eye +The same, but now a holier innocence +Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume +The enlighten’d glance.” +They met, what joy was theirs +He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead +Has wet the midnight pillow with his tears. + +Fair was the scene around; an ample vale +Whose mountain circle at the distant verge +Lay softened on the sight; the near ascent +Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare, +Part with the ancient majesty of woods +Adorn’d, or lifting high its rocks sublime. +The river’s liquid radiance roll’d beneath, +Beside the bower of Madelon it wound +A broken stream, whose shallows, tho’ the waves +Roll’d on their way with rapid melody, +A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove +Its gay green foliage starr’d with golden fruit; +But with what odours did their blossoms load +The passing gale of eve! less thrilling sweet +Rose from the marble’s perforated floor, +Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen +Inhaled the cool delight,[8] and whilst she asked +The Prophet for his promised paradise, +Shaped from the present scene its utmost joys. +A goodly scene! fair as that faery land +Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne +From Camlan’s bloody banks; or as the groves +Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say, +Enoch abides, and he who rapt away +By fiery steeds, and chariotted in fire, +Past in his mortal form the eternal ways; +And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there +The beatific vision, sometimes seen +The distant dawning of eternal day, +Till all things be fulfilled. +“Survey this scene!” +So Theodore address’d the Maid of Arc, +“There is no evil here, no wretchedness, +It is the Heaven of those who nurst on earth +Their nature’s gentlest feelings. Yet not here +Centering their joys, but with a patient hope, +Waiting the allotted hour when capable +Of loftier callings, to a better state +They pass; and hither from that better state +Frequent they come, preserving so those ties +That thro’ the infinite progressiveness +Complete our perfect bliss. +“Even such, so blest, +Save that the memory of no sorrows past +Heightened the present joy, our world was once, +In the first æra of its innocence +Ere man had learnt to bow the knee to man. +Was there a youth whom warm affection fill’d, +He spake his honest heart; the earliest fruits +His toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck’d +The sunny bank, he gather’d for the maid, +Nor she disdain’d the gift; for Vice not yet +Had burst the dungeons of her hell, and rear’d +Those artificial boundaries that divide +Man from his species. State of blessedness! +Till that ill-omen’d hour when Cain’s stern son +Delved in the bowels of the earth for gold, +Accursed bane of virtue! of such force +As poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon’s locks, +Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-blood +Cold curdle in his veins, the creeping flesh +Grew stiff with horror, and the heart forgot +To beat. Accursed hour! for man no more +To Justice paid his homage, but forsook +Her altars, and bow’d down before the shrine +Of Wealth and Power, the Idols he had made. +Then Hell enlarged herself, her gates flew wide, +Her legion fiends rush’d forth. Oppression came +Whose frown is desolation, and whose breath +Blasts like the Pestilence; and Poverty, +A meagre monster, who with withering touch +Makes barren all the better part of man, +Mother of Miseries. Then the goodly earth +Which God had fram’d for happiness, became +One theatre of woe, and all that God +Had given to bless free men, these tyrant fiends +His bitterest curses made. Yet for the best +Hath he ordained all things, the ALL-WISE! +For by experience rous’d shall man at length +Dash down his Moloch-Idols, Samson-like +And burst his fetters, only strong whilst strong +Believed. Then in the bottomless abyss +Oppression shall be chain’d, and Poverty +Die, and with her, her brood of Miseries; +And Virtue and Equality preserve +The reign of Love, and Earth shall once again +Be Paradise, whilst Wisdom shall secure +The state of bliss which Ignorance betrayed.” + +“Oh age of happiness!” the Maid exclaim’d, +Roll fast thy current, Time till that blest age +Arrive! and happy thou my Theodore, +Permitted thus to see the sacred depths +Of wisdom!” +“Such,” the blessed Spirit replied, +Beloved! such our lot; allowed to range +The vast infinity, progressive still +In knowledge and encreasing blessedness, +This our united portion. Thou hast yet +A little while to sojourn amongst men: +I will be with thee! there shall not a breeze +Wanton around thy temples, on whose wing +I will not hover near! and at that hour +When from its fleshly sepulchre let loose, +Thy phoenix soul shall soar, O best-beloved! +I will be with thee in thine agonies, +And welcome thee to life and happiness, +Eternal infinite beatitude!” + +He spake, and led her near a straw-roof’d cot, +Love’s Palace. By the Virtues circled there, +The cherub listen’d to such melodies, +As aye, when one good deed is register’d +Above, re-echo in the halls of Heaven. +Labour was there, his crisp locks floating loose, +Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye, +And strong his arm robust; the wood-nymph Health +Still follow’d on his path, and where he trod +Fresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was Hope, +The general friend; and Pity, whose mild eye +Wept o’er the widowed dove; and, loveliest form, +Majestic Chastity, whose sober smile +Delights and awes the soul; a laurel wreath +Restrain’d her tresses, and upon her breast +The snow-drop hung its head,[9] that seem’d to grow +Spontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maid +Love went submiss, wilh eye more dangerous +Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe’er +Too bold approached; yet anxious would he read +Her every rising wish, then only pleased +When pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais’d. + +“Glory to thee whose vivifying power +Pervades all Nature’s universal frame! +Glory to thee Creator Love! to thee, +Parent of all the smiling Charities, +That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers! +Glory to thee Preserver! to thy praise +The awakened woodlands echo all the day +Their living melody; and warbling forth +To thee her twilight song, the Nightingale +Holds the lone Traveller from his way, or charms +The listening Poet’s ear. Where Love shall deign +To fix his seat, there blameless Pleasure sheds +Her roseate dews; Content will sojourn there, +And Happiness behold Affection eye +Gleam with the Mother’s smile. Thrice happy he +Who feels thy holy power! he shall not drag, +Forlorn and friendless, along Life’s long path +To Age’s drear abode; he shall not waste +The bitter evening of his days unsooth’d; +But Hope shall cheer his hours of Solitude, +And Vice shall vainly strive to wound his breast, +That bears that talisman; and when he meets +The eloquent eye of Tenderness, and hears +The bosom-thrilling music of her voice; +The joy he feels shall purify his Soul, +And imp it for anticipated Heaven.” + + + [8] In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the Queen used to dress + and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there + is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes + exhaled that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and + windows are disposed so as to afford the most agreeable prospects, + and to throw a soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents + of air too are admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious + coolness of this apartment.—_Sketch of the History of the Spanish + Moors, prefixed to Florian’s Gonsalvo of Cordova_. + + + [9] “The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired her + charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that + seems to grow on the breast of the Virgin.”—P.H. + + + + +The Rose + + +Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus, +that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden +was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadde don fornicacioun, +for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be brent in that +place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre began to brenne +about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that als wissely as +sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help hire, and make it +to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; and whanne she had +thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon was the fuyer quenched +and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, becomen white Roseres, +fulle of roses, and theise weren the first Roseres and roses, bothe +white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. And thus was this Maiden +saved be the Grace of God. + + _The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundevile_. + +The Rose + +Nay Edith! spare the rose!—it lives—it lives, +It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh’d +The dews of night; let not thy gentle hand +Tear sunder its life-fibres and destroy +The sense of being!—why that infidel smile? +Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful, +And thou shall have a tale of other times, +For I am skill’d in legendary lore, +So thou wilt let it live. There was a time +Ere this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms, +Bedeck’d the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard +How first by miracle its fragrant leaves +Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness. + +There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid +And Zillah was her name, so passing fair +That all Judea spake the damsel’s praise. +He who had seen her eyes’ dark radiance +How quick it spake the soul, and what a soul +Beam’d in its mild effulgence, woe was he! +For not in solitude, for not in crowds, +Might he escape remembrance, or avoid +Her imaged form that followed every where, +And fill’d the heart, and fix’d the absent eye. +Woe was he, for her bosom own’d no love +Save the strong ardours of religious zeal, +For Zillah on her God had centered all +Her spirit’s deep affections. So for her +Her tribes-men sigh’d in vain, yet reverenced +The obdurate virtue that destroyed their hopes. + +One man there was, a vain and wretched man, +Who saw, desired, despair’d, and hated her. +His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek +Even till the flush of angry modesty +Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. +She loath’d the man, for Hamuel’s eye was bold, +And the strong workings of brute selfishness +Had moulded his broad features; and she fear’d +The bitterness of wounded vanity +That with a fiendish hue would overcast +His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, +For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plot +Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad +Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports +That soon obtain belief; that Zillah’s eye +When in the temple heaven-ward it was rais’d +Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those +Who had beheld the enthusiast’s melting glance +With other feelings fill’d; that ’twas a task +Of easy sort to play the saint by day +Before the public eye, but that all eyes +Were closed at night; that Zillah’s life was foul, +Yea forfeit to the law. + +Shame—shame to man +That he should trust so easily the tongue +That stabs another’s fame! the ill report +Was heard, repeated, and believed,—and soon, +For Hamuel by most damned artifice +Produced such semblances of guilt, the Maid +Was judged to shameful death. +Without the walls +There was a barren field; a place abhorr’d, +For it was there where wretched criminals +Were done to die; and there they built the stake, +And piled the fuel round, that should consume +The accused Maid, abandon’d, as it seem’d, +By God and man. The assembled Bethlemites +Beheld the scene, and when they saw the Maid +Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness +She lifted up her patient looks to Heaven, +They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts +Stood Hamuel near the pile, him savage joy +Led thitherward, but now within his heart +Unwonted feelings stirr’d, and the first pangs +Of wakening guilt, anticipating Hell. +The eye of Zillah as it glanced around +Fell on the murderer once, but not in wrath; +And therefore like a dagger it had fallen, +Had struck into his soul a cureless wound. +Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour +Of triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch, +Not in the hour of infamy and death +Forsake the virtuous! they draw near the stake— +And lo! the torch! hold hold your erring hands! +Yet quench the rising flames!—they rise! they spread! +They reach the suffering Maid! oh God protect +The innocent one! +They rose, they spread, they raged— +The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire +Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames +In one long lightning flash collecting fierce, +Darted and blasted Hamuel—him alone. +Hark—what a fearful scream the multitude +Pour forth!—and yet more miracles! the stake +Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves and bowers +The innocent Maid, and roses bloom around, +Now first beheld since Paradise was lost, +And fill with Eden odours all the air. + + + + +The Complaints of the Poor + + +And wherefore do the Poor complain? + The rich man asked of me,— +Come walk abroad with me, I said + And I will answer thee. + +Twas evening and the frozen streets + Were cheerless to behold, +And we were wrapt and coated well, + And yet we were a-cold. + +We met an old bare-headed man, + His locks were few and white, +I ask’d him what he did abroad + In that cold winter’s night: + +’Twas bitter keen indeed, he said, + But at home no fire had he, +And therefore, he had come abroad + To ask for charity. + +We met a young bare-footed child, + And she begg’d loud and bold, +I ask’d her what she did abroad + When the wind it blew so cold; + +She said her father was at home + And he lay sick a-bed, +And therefore was it she was sent + Abroad to beg for bread. + +We saw a woman sitting down + Upon a stone to rest, +She had a baby at her back + And another at her breast; + +I ask’d her why she loiter’d there + When the wind it was so chill; +She turn’d her head and bade the child + That scream’d behind be still. + +She told us that her husband served + A soldier, far away, +And therefore to her parish she + Was begging back her way. + +We met a girl; her dress was loose + And sunken was her eye, +Who with the wanton’s hollow voice + Address’d the passers by; + +I ask’d her what there was in guilt + That could her heart allure +To shame, disease, and late remorse? + She answer’d, she was poor. + +I turn’d me to the rich man then + For silently stood he, +You ask’d me why the Poor complain, + And these have answer’d thee. + + + + +Metrical Letter + +_Written from London_ + + +Margaret! my Cousin!—nay, you must not smile; +I love the homely and familiar phrase; +And I will call thee Cousin Margaret, +However quaint amid the measured line +The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill +When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, +Sirring and Madaming as civilly +As if the road between the heart and lips +Were such a weary and Laplandish way +That the poor travellers came to the red gates +Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret, +For many a day my Memory has played +The creditor with me on your account, +And made me shame to think that I should owe +So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, +Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear +So heavy a pack of business, that albeit +I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race +Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I +That for a moment you should lay to me +Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart +That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some +Who know how warm it beats. I am not one +Who can play off my smiles and courtesies +To every Lady of her lap dog tired +Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend +Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love; +Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up +At once without a seed and take no root, +Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere +The little circle of domestic life +I would be known and loved; the world beyond +Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think +That you should know me well, for you and I +Grew up together, and when we look back +Upon old times our recollections paint +The same familiar faces. Did I wield +The wand of Merlin’s magic I would make +Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, +Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood +That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth, +The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle +Like that where whilome old Apollidon +Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid +The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers, +That we might stand upon the beach, and mark +The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, +And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound +Told us that never mariner should reach +Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle +We might renew the days of infancy, +And Life like a long childhood pass away, +Without one care. It may be, Margaret, +That I shall yet be gathered to my friends, +For I am not of those who live estranged +Of choice, till at the last they join their race +In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, +Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack +So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine +Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly. +If not, if I should never get beyond +This Vanity town, there is another world +Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, +I gaze at night into the boundless sky, +And think that I shall there be born again, +The exalted native of some better star; +And like the rude American I hope +To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth. + + + + +Ballads + + + + +The Cross Roads + + +The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty +years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at +the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as +I have versified them. + +There was an old man breaking stones +To mend the turnpike way, +He sat him down beside a brook +And out his bread and cheese he took, +For now it was mid-day. + +He lent his back against a post, +His feet the brook ran by; +And there were water-cresses growing, +And pleasant was the water’s flowing +For he was hot and dry. + +A soldier with his knapsack on +Came travelling o’er the down, +The sun was strong and he was tired, +And of the old man he enquired +How far to Bristol town. + +Half an hour’s walk for a young man +By lanes and fields and stiles. +But you the foot-path do not know, +And if along the road you go +Why then ’tis three good miles. + +The soldier took his knapsack off +For he was hot and dry; +And out his bread and cheese he took +And he sat down beside the brook +To dine in company. + +Old friend! in faith, the soldier says +I envy you almost; +My shoulders have been sorely prest +And I should like to sit and rest, +My back against that post. + +In such a sweltering day as this +A knapsack is the devil! +And if on t’other side I sat +It would not only spoil our chat +But make me seem uncivil. + +The old man laugh’d and moved. I wish +It were a great-arm’d chair! +But this may help a man at need; +And yet it was a cursed deed +That ever brought it there. + +There’s a poor girl lies buried here +Beneath this very place. +The earth upon her corpse is prest +This stake is driven into her breast +And a stone is on her face. + +The soldier had but just lent back +And now he half rose up. +There’s sure no harm in dining here, +My friend? and yet to be sincere +I should not like to sup. + +God rest her! she is still enough +Who sleeps beneath our feet! +The old man cried. No harm I trow +She ever did herself, tho’ now +She lies where four roads meet. + +I have past by about that hour +When men are not most brave, +It did not make my heart to fail, +And I have heard the nightingale +Sing sweetly on her grave. + +I have past by about that hour +When Ghosts their freedom have, +But there was nothing here to fright, +And I have seen the glow-worm’s light +Shine on the poor girl’s grave. + +There’s one who like a Christian lies +Beneath the church-tree’s shade; +I’d rather go a long mile round +Than pass at evening thro’ the ground +Wherein that man is laid. + +There’s one that in the church-yard lies +For whom the bell did toll; +He lies in consecrated ground, +But for all the wealth in Bristol town +I would not be with his soul! + +Did’st see a house below the hill +That the winds and the rains destroy? +’Twas then a farm where he did dwell, +And I remember it full well +When I was a growing boy. + +And she was a poor parish girl +That came up from the west, +From service hard she ran away +And at that house in evil day +Was taken in to rest. + +The man he was a wicked man +And an evil life he led; +Rage made his cheek grow deadly white +And his grey eyes were large and light, +And in anger they grew red. + +The man was bad, the mother worse, +Bad fruit of a bad stem, +’Twould make your hair to stand-on-end +If I should tell to you my friend +The things that were told of them! + +Did’st see an out-house standing by? +The walls alone remain; +It was a stable then, but now +Its mossy roof has fallen through +All rotted by the rain. + +The poor girl she had serv’d with them +Some half-a-year, or more, +When she was found hung up one day +Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay +Behind that stable door! + +It is a very lonesome place, +No hut or house is near; +Should one meet a murderer there alone +’Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan +Would never reach mortal ear. + +And there were strange reports about +That the coroner never guest. +So he decreed that she should lie +Where four roads meet in infamy, +With a stake drove in her breast. + +Upon a board they carried her +To the place where four roads met, +And I was one among the throng +That hither followed them along, +I shall never the sight forget! + +They carried her upon a board +In the cloaths in which she died; +I saw the cap blow off her head, +Her face was of a dark dark red +Her eyes were starting wide: + +I think they could not have been closed +So widely did they strain. +I never saw so dreadful a sight, +And it often made me wake at night, +For I saw her face again. + +They laid her here where four roads meet. +Beneath this very place, +The earth upon her corpse was prest, +This post is driven into her breast, +And a stone is on her face. + + + + +The Sailor +who had served in the Slave Trade + + +In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol, discovered a +Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City, groaning and praying in a +hovel. The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed +in the annexed Ballad, without the slightest addition or alteration. By +presenting it as a Poem the story is made more public, and such stories +ought to be made as public as possible. + +He stopt,—it surely was a groan +That from the hovel came! +He stopt and listened anxiously +Again it sounds the same. + +It surely from the hovel comes! +And now he hastens there, +And thence he hears the name of Christ +Amidst a broken prayer. + +He entered in the hovel now, +A sailor there he sees, +His hands were lifted up to Heaven +And he was on his knees. + +Nor did the Sailor so intent +His entering footsteps heed, +But now the Lord’s prayer said, and now +His half-forgotten creed. + +And often on his Saviour call’d +With many a bitter groan, +In such heart-anguish as could spring +From deepest guilt alone. + +He ask’d the miserable man +Why he was kneeling there, +And what the crime had been that caus’d +The anguish of his prayer. + +Oh I have done a wicked thing! +It haunts me night and day, +And I have sought this lonely place +Here undisturb’d to pray. + +I have no place to pray on board +So I came here alone, +That I might freely kneel and pray, +And call on Christ and groan. + +If to the main-mast head I go, +The wicked one is there, +From place to place, from rope to rope, +He follows every where. + +I shut my eyes,—it matters not— +Still still the same I see,— +And when I lie me down at night +’Tis always day with me. + +He follows follows every where, +And every place is Hell! +O God—and I must go with him +In endless fire to dwell. + +He follows follows every where, +He’s still above—below, +Oh tell me where to fly from him! +Oh tell me where to go! + +But tell me, quoth the Stranger then, +What this thy crime hath been, +So haply I may comfort give +To one that grieves for sin. + +O I have done a cursed deed +The wretched man replies, +And night and day and every where +’Tis still before my eyes. + +I sail’d on board a Guinea-man +And to the slave-coast went; +Would that the sea had swallowed me +When I was innocent! + +And we took in our cargo there, +Three hundred negroe slaves, +And we sail’d homeward merrily +Over the ocean waves. + +But some were sulky of the slaves +And would not touch their meat, +So therefore we were forced by threats +And blows to make them eat. + +One woman sulkier than the rest +Would still refuse her food,— +O Jesus God! I hear her cries— +I see her in her blood! + +The Captain made me tie her up +And flog while he stood by, +And then he curs’d me if I staid +My hand to hear her cry. + +She groan’d, she shriek’d—I could not spare +For the Captain he stood by— +Dear God! that I might rest one night +From that poor woman’s cry! + +She twisted from the blows—her blood +Her mangled flesh I see— +And still the Captain would not spare— +Oh he was worse than me! + +She could not be more glad than I +When she was taken down, +A blessed minute—’twas the last +That I have ever known! + +I did not close my eyes all night, +Thinking what I had done; +I heard her groans and they grew faint +About the rising sun. + +She groan’d and groan’d, but her groans grew +Fainter at morning tide, +Fainter and fainter still they came +Till at the noon she died. + +They flung her overboard;—poor wretch +She rested from her pain,— +But when—O Christ! O blessed God! +Shall I have rest again! + +I saw the sea close over her, +Yet she was still in sight; +I see her twisting every where; +I see her day and night. + +Go where I will, do what I can +The wicked one I see— +Dear Christ have mercy on my soul, +O God deliver me! + +To morrow I set sail again +Not to the Negroe shore— +Wretch that I am I will at least +Commit that sin no more. + +O give me comfort if you can— +Oh tell me where to fly— +And bid me hope, if there be hope, +For one so lost as I. + +Poor wretch, the stranger he replied, +Put thou thy trust in heaven, +And call on him for whose dear sake +All sins shall be forgiven. + +This night at least is thine, go thou +And seek the house of prayer, +There shalt thou hear the word of God +And he will help thee there! + + + + +Jaspar + + +The stories of the two following ballads are wholly imaginary. I may +say of each as John Bunyan did of his _Pilgrim’s Progress_, + +_It came from mine own heart, so to my head, +And thence into my fingers trickled; +Then to my pen, from whence immediately +On paper I did dribble it daintily._ + + + + +Jaspar + + +Jaspar was poor, and want and vice +Had made his heart like stone, +And Jaspar look’d with envious eyes +On riches not his own. + +On plunder bent abroad he went +Towards the close of day, +And loitered on the lonely road +Impatient for his prey. + +No traveller came, he loiter’d long +And often look’d around, +And paus’d and listen’d eagerly +To catch some coming sound. + +He sat him down beside the stream +That crossed the lonely way, +So fair a scene might well have charm’d +All evil thoughts away; + +He sat beneath a willow tree +That cast a trembling shade, +The gentle river full in front +A little island made, + +Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone +Upon the poplar trees, +Whose shadow on the stream below +Play’d slowly to the breeze. + +He listen’d—and he heard the wind +That waved the willow tree; +He heard the waters flow along +And murmur quietly. + +He listen’d for the traveller’s tread, +The nightingale sung sweet,— +He started up, for now he heard +The sound of coming feet; + +He started up and graspt a stake +And waited for his prey; +There came a lonely traveller +And Jaspar crost his way. + +But Jaspar’s threats and curses fail’d +The traveller to appal, +He would not lightly yield the purse +That held his little all. + +Awhile he struggled, but he strove +With Jaspar’s strength in vain; +Beneath his blows he fell and groan’d, +And never spoke again. + +He lifted up the murdered man +And plunged him in the flood, +And in the running waters then +He cleansed his hands from blood. + +The waters closed around the corpse +And cleansed his hands from gore, +The willow waved, the stream flowed on +And murmured as before. + +There was no human eye had seen +The blood the murderer spilt, +And Jaspar’s conscience never knew +The avenging goad of guilt. + +And soon the ruffian had consum’d +The gold he gain’d so ill, +And years of secret guilt pass’d on +And he was needy still. + +One eve beside the alehouse fire +He sat as it befell, +When in there came a labouring man +Whom Jaspar knew full well. + +He sat him down by Jaspar’s side +A melancholy man, +For spite of honest toil, the world +Went hard with Jonathan. + +His toil a little earn’d, and he +With little was content, +But sickness on his wife had fallen +And all he had was spent. + +Then with his wife and little ones +He shared the scanty meal, +And saw their looks of wretchedness, +And felt what wretches feel. + +That very morn the Landlord’s power +Had seized the little left, +And now the sufferer found himself +Of every thing bereft. + +He lent his head upon his hand, +His elbow on his knee, +And so by Jaspar’s side he sat +And not a word said he. + +Nay—why so downcast? Jaspar cried, +Come—cheer up Jonathan! +Drink neighbour drink! ’twill warm thy heart, +Come! come! take courage man! + +He took the cup that Jaspar gave +And down he drain’d it *quic +I have a wife, said Jonathan, +And she is deadly sick. + +She has no bed to lie upon, +I saw them take her bed. +And I have children—would to God +That they and I were dead! + +Our Landlord he goes home to night +And he will sleep in peace. +I would that I were in my grave +For there all troubles cease. + +In vain I pray’d him to forbear +Tho’ wealth enough has he— +God be to him as merciless +As he has been to me! + +When Jaspar saw the poor man’s soul +On all his ills intent, +He plied him with the heartening cup +And with him forth he went. + +This landlord on his homeward road +’Twere easy now to meet. +The road is lonesome—Jonathan, +And vengeance, man! is sweet. + +He listen’d to the tempter’s voice +The thought it made him start. +His head was hot, and wretchedness +Had hardened now his heart. + +Along the lonely road they went +And waited for their prey, +They sat them down beside the stream +That crossed the lonely way. + +They sat them down beside the stream +And never a word they said, +They sat and listen’d silently +To hear the traveller’s tread. + +The night was calm, the night was dark, +No star was in the sky, +The wind it waved the willow boughs, +The stream flowed quietly. + +The night was calm, the air was still, +Sweet sung the nightingale, +The soul of Jonathan was sooth’d, +His heart began to fail. + +’Tis weary waiting here, he cried, +And now the hour is late,— +Methinks he will not come to night, +’Tis useless more to wait. + +Have patience man! the ruffian said, +A little we may wait, +But longer shall his wife expect +Her husband at the gate. + +Then Jonathan grew sick at heart, +My conscience yet is clear, +Jaspar—it is not yet too late— +I will not linger here. + +How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought +Thy conscience was asleep. +No more such qualms, the night is dark, +The river here is deep, + +What matters that, said Jonathan, +Whose blood began to freeze, +When there is one above whose eye +The deeds of darkness sees? + +We are safe enough, said Jaspar then +If that be all thy fear; +Nor eye below, nor eye above +Can pierce the darkness here. + +That instant as the murderer spake +There came a sudden light; +Strong as the mid-day sun it shone, +Though all around was night. + +It hung upon the willow tree, +It hung upon the flood, +It gave to view the poplar isle +And all the scene of blood. + +The traveller who journies there +He surely has espied +A madman who has made his home +Upon the river’s side. + +His cheek is pale, his eye is wild, +His look bespeaks despair; +For Jaspar since that hour has made +His home unshelter’d there. + +And fearful are his dreams at night +And dread to him the day; +He thinks upon his untold crime +And never dares to pray. + +The summer suns, the winter storms, +O’er him unheeded roll, +For heavy is the weight of blood +Upon the maniac’s soul. + + + + +Lord William + + +No eye beheld when William plunged +Young Edmund in the stream, +No human ear but William’s heard +Young Edmund’s drowning scream. + +Submissive all the vassals own’d +The murderer for their Lord, +And he, the rightful heir, possessed +The house of Erlingford. + +The ancient house of Erlingford +Stood midst a fair domain, +And Severn’s ample waters near +Roll’d through the fertile plain. + +And often the way-faring man +Would love to linger there, +Forgetful of his onward road +To gaze on scenes so fair. + +But never could Lord William dare +To gaze on Severn’s stream; +In every wind that swept its waves +He heard young Edmund scream. + +In vain at midnight’s silent hour +Sleep closed the murderer’s eyes, +In every dream the murderer saw +Young Edmund’s form arise. + +In vain by restless conscience driven +Lord William left his home, +Far from the scenes that saw his guilt, +In pilgrimage to roam. + +To other climes the pilgrim fled, +But could not fly despair, +He sought his home again, but peace +Was still a stranger there. + +Each hour was tedious long, yet swift +The months appear’d to roll; +And now the day return’d that shook +With terror William’s soul. + +A day that William never felt +Return without dismay, +For well had conscience kalendered +Young Edmund’s dying day. + +A fearful day was that! the rains +Fell fast, with tempest roar, +And the swoln tide of Severn spread +Far on the level shore. + +In vain Lord William sought the feast +In vain he quaff’d the bowl, +And strove with noisy mirth to drown +The anguish of his soul. + +The tempest as its sudden swell +In gusty howlings came, +With cold and death-like feelings seem’d +To thrill his shuddering frame. + +Reluctant now, as night came on, +His lonely couch he prest, +And wearied out, he sunk to sleep, +To sleep, but not to rest. + +Beside that couch his brother’s form +Lord Edmund seem’d to stand, +Such and so pale as when in death +He grasp’d his brother’s hand; + +Such and so pale his face as when +With faint and faltering tongue, +To William’s care, a dying charge +He left his orphan son. + +“I bade thee with a father’s love +My orphan Edmund guard— +Well William hast thou kept thy charge! +Now take thy due reward.” + +He started up, each limb convuls’d +With agonizing fear, +He only heard the storm of night— +’Twas music to his ear. + +When lo! the voice of loud alarm +His inmost soul appals, +What ho! Lord William rise in haste! +The water saps thy walls! + +He rose in haste, beneath the walls +He saw the flood appear, +It hemm’d him round, ’twas midnight now, +No human aid was near. + +He heard the shout of joy, for now +A boat approach’d the wall, +And eager to the welcome aid +They crowd for safety all. + +My boat is small, the boatman cried, +This dangerous haste forbear! +Wait other aid, this little bark +But one from hence can bear. + +Lord William leap’d into the boat, +Haste—haste to yonder shore! +And ample wealth shall well reward, +Ply swift and strong the oar. + +The boatman plied the oar, the boat +Went light along the stream, +Sudden Lord William heard a cry +Like Edmund’s drowning scream. + +The boatman paus’d, methought I heard +A child’s distressful cry! +’Twas but the howling wind of night +Lord William made reply. + +Haste haste—ply swift and strong the oar! +Haste haste across the stream! +Again Lord William heard a cry +Like Edmund’s drowning scream. + +I heard a child’s distressful scream +The boatman cried again. +Nay hasten on—the night is dark— +And we should search in vain. + +Oh God! Lord William dost thou know +How dreadful ’tis to die? +And can’st thou without pity hear +A child’s expiring cry? + +How horrible it is to sink +Beneath the chilly stream, +To stretch the powerless arms in vain, +In vain for help to scream? + +The shriek again was heard. It came +More deep, more piercing loud, +That instant o’er the flood the moon +Shone through a broken cloud. + +And near them they beheld a child, +Upon a crag he stood, +A little crag, and all around +Was spread the rising flood. + +The boatman plied the oar, the boat +Approach’d his resting place, +The moon-beam shone upon the child +And show’d how pale his face. + +Now reach thine hand! the boatman cried +Lord William reach and save! +The child stretch’d forth his little hands +To grasp the hand he gave. + +Then William shriek’d; the hand he touch’d +Was cold and damp and dead! +He felt young Edmund in his arms +A heavier weight than lead. + +The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk +Beneath the avenging stream; +He rose, he scream’d, no human ear +Heard William’s drowning scream. + + + + +A Ballad, Shewing how an old Woman rode Double, and who rode before +her. + + +heavy black illustration (woodcut) of the title worth seeing! + +A.D. 852. Circa dies istos, mulier quædam malefica, in villâ quæ +Berkeleia dicitur degens, gulæ amatrix ac petulantiæ, flagitiis modum +usque in senium et auguriis non ponens, usque ad mortem impudica +permansit. Hæc die quadam cum sederet ad prandium, cornicula quam pro +delitiis pascebat, nescio quid garrire coepit; quo audito, mulieris +cultellus de manu excidit, simul et facies pallescere coepit, et emisso +rugitu, hodie, inquit, accipiam grande incommodum, hodieque ad sulcum +ultimum meum pervenit aratrum. quo dicto, nuncius doloris intravit; +muliere vero percunctatâ ad quid veniret, affero, inquit, tibi filii +tui obitum & totius familiæ ejus ex subitâ ruinâ interitum. Hoc quoque +dolore mulier permota, lecto protinus decubuit graviter infirmata; +sentiensque morbum subrepere ad vitalia, liberos quos habuit +superstites, monachum videlicet et monacham, per epistolam invitavit; +advenientes autem voce singultiente alloquitur. Ego, inquit, o pueri, +meo miserabili fato dæmoniacis semper artibus inservivi; ego omnium +vitiorum sentina, ego illecebrarum omnium fui magistra. Erat tamen mihi +inter hæc mala, spes vestræ religionis, quæ meam solidaret animam +desperatam; vos expctabam propugnatores contra dæmones, tutores contra +sævissimos hostes. Nunc igitur quoniam ad finem vitæ perveni, rogo vos +per materna ubera, ut mea tentatis alleviare tormenta. Insuite me +defunctam in corio cervino, ac deinde in sarcophago lapideo supponite, +operculumque ferro et plumbo constringite, ac demum lapidem tribus +cathenis ferreis et fortissimis circundantes, clericos quinquaginta +psalmorum cantores, et tot per tres dies presbyteros missarum +celebratores applicate, qui feroces lenigent adversariorum incursus. +Ita si tribus noctibus secura jacuero, quartâ die me infodite humo. +Factumque est ut præceperat illis. Sed, proh dolor! nil preces, nil +lacrymæ, nil demum valuere catenæ. Primis enim duabus noctibus, cum +chori psallentium corpori assistabant, advenientes Dæmones ostium +ecclesiæ confregerunt ingenti obice clausum, extremasque cathenas +negotio levi dirumpunt: media autem quæ fortior erat, illibata manebat. +Tertiâ autem nocte, circa gallicinium, strepitu hostium adventantium, +omne monasterium visum est a fundamento moveri. Unus ergo dæmonum, et +vultu cæteris terribilior & staturâ eminentior, januas Ecclesiæ; impetu +violento concussas in fragmenta dejecit. Divexerunt clerici cum laicis, +metu stelerunt omnium capilli, et psalmorum concentus defecit. Dæmon +ergo gestu ut videbatur arroganti ad sepulchrum accedens, & nomen +mulieris modicum ingeminans, surgere imperavit. Quâ respondente, quod +nequiret pro vinculis, jam malo tuo, inquit, solveris; et protinus +cathenam quæ cæterorum ferociam dæmonum deluserat, velut stuppeum +vinculum rumpebat. Operculum etiam sepulchri pede depellens, mulierem +palam omnibus ab ecclesiâ extraxit, ubi præ foribus niger equus superbe +hinniens videbatur, uncis ferreis et clavis undique confixus, super +quem misera mulier projecta, ab oculis assistentium evanuit. +Audiebantur tamen clamores per quatuor fere miliaria horribiles, +auxilium postulantes. + +Ista itaque quæ retuli incredibilia non erunt, si legatur beati +Gregorii dialogus, in quo refert, hominem in ecclesiâ sepultam, a +dæmonibus foras ejectum. Et apud Francos Carolus Martellus insignis vir +fortudinis, qui Saracenos Galliam ingressos, Hispaniam redire compulit, +exactis vitæ suæ diebus, in Ecclesiâ beati Dionysii legitur fuisse +sepultus. Sed quia patrimonia, cum decimis omnium fere ecclesiarum +Galliæ, pro stipendio commilitonum suorum mutilaverat, miserabiliter a +malignis spiritibus de sepulchro corporaliter avulsus, usque in +hodiernum diem nusquam comparuit. + +_Matthew of Westminster_. + +This story is also related by Olaus Magnus, and in the _Nuremberg +Chronicle_, from which the wooden cut is taken. + + + + +A Ballad, Shewing how an old Woman rode Double, and who rode before +her. + + +The Raven croak’d as she sate at her meal, +And the Old Woman knew what he said, +And she grew pale at the Raven’s tale, +And sicken’d and went to her bed. + +Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed, +The Old Woman of Berkeley said, +The monk my son, and my daughter the nun +Bid them hasten or I shall be dead. + +The monk her son, and her daughter the nun, +Their way to Berkeley went, +And they have brought with pious thought +The holy sacrament. + +The old Woman shriek’d as they entered her door, +’Twas fearful her shrieks to hear, +Now take the sacrament away +For mercy, my children dear! + +Her lip it trembled with agony, +The sweat ran down her brow, +I have tortures in store for evermore, +Oh! spare me my children now! + +Away they sent the sacrament, +The fit it left her weak, +She look’d at her children with ghastly eyes +And faintly struggled to speak. + +All kind of sin I have rioted in +And the judgment now must be, +But I secured my childrens souls, +Oh! pray my children for me. + +I have suck’d the breath of sleeping babes, +The fiends have been my slaves, +I have nointed myself with infants fat, +And feasted on rifled graves. + +And the fiend will fetch me now in fire +My witchcrafts to atone, +And I who have rifled the dead man’s grave +Shall never have rest in my own. + +Bless I intreat my winding sheet +My children I beg of you! +And with holy water sprinkle my shroud +And sprinkle my coffin too. + +And let me be chain’d in my coffin of stone +And fasten it strong I implore +With iron bars, and let it be chain’d +With three chains to the church floor. + +And bless the chains and sprinkle them, +And let fifty priests stand round, +Who night and day the mass may say +Where I lie on the ground. + +And let fifty choristers be there +The funeral dirge to sing, +Who day and night by the taper’s light +Their aid to me may bring. + +Let the church bells all both great and small +Be toll’d by night and day, +To drive from thence the fiends who come +To bear my corpse away. + +And ever have the church door barr’d +After the even song, +And I beseech you children dear +Let the bars and bolts be strong. + +And let this be three days and nights +My wretched corpse to save, +Preserve me so long from the fiendish throng +And then I may rest in my grave. + +The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down +And her eyes grew deadly dim, +Short came her breath and the struggle of death +Did loosen every limb. + +They blest the old woman’s winding sheet +With rites and prayers as due, +With holy water they sprinkled her shroud +And they sprinkled her coffin too. + +And they chain’d her in her coffin of stone +And with iron barr’d it down, +And in the church with three strong chains +They chain’d it to the ground. + +And they blest the chains and sprinkled them, +And fifty priests stood round, +By night and day the mass to say +Where she lay on the ground. + +And fifty choristers were there +To sing the funeral song, +And a hallowed taper blazed in the hand +Of all the sacred throng. + +To see the priests and choristers +It was a goodly sight, +Each holding, as it were a staff, +A taper burning bright. + +And the church bells all both great and small +Did toll so loud and long, +And they have barr’d the church door hard +After the even song. + +And the first night the taper’s light +Burnt steadily and clear. +But they without a hideous rout +Of angry fiends could hear; + +A hideous roar at the church door +Like a long thunder peal, +And the priests they pray’d and the choristers sung +Louder in fearful zeal. + +Loud toll’d the bell, the priests pray’d well, +The tapers they burnt bright, +The monk her son, and her daughter the nun +They told their beads all night. + +The cock he crew, away they flew +The fiends from the herald of day, +And undisturb’d the choristers sing +And the fifty priests they pray. + +The second night the taper’s light +Burnt dismally and blue, +And every one saw his neighbour’s face +Like a dead man’s face to view. + +And yells and cries without arise +That the stoutest heart might shock, +And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring +Over a mountain rock. + +The monk and nun they told their beads +As fast as they could tell, +And aye as louder grew the noise +The faster went the bell. + +Louder and louder the choristers sung +As they trembled more and more, +And the fifty priests prayed to heaven for aid, +They never had prayed so before. + +The cock he crew, away they flew +The fiends from the herald of day, +And undisturb’d the choristers sing +And the fifty priests they pray. + +The third night came and the tapers flame +A hideous stench did make, +And they burnt as though they had been dipt +In the burning brimstone lake. + +And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean, +Grew momently more and more, +And strokes as of a battering ram +Did shake the strong church door. + +The bellmen they for very fear +Could toll the bell no longer, +And still as louder grew the strokes +Their fear it grew the stronger. + +The monk and nun forgot their beads, +They fell on the ground dismay’d, +There was not a single saint in heaven +Whom they did not call to aid. + +And the choristers song that late was so strong +Grew a quaver of consternation, +For the church did rock as an earthquake shock +Uplifted its foundation. + +And a sound was heard like the trumpet’s blast +That shall one day wake the dead, +The strong church door could bear no more +And the bolts and the bars they fled. + +And the taper’s light was extinguish’d quite, +And the choristers faintly sung, +And the priests dismay’d, panted and prayed +Till fear froze every tongue. + +And in He came with eyes of flame +The Fiend to fetch the dead, +And all the church with his presence glowed +Like a fiery furnace red. + +He laid his hand on the iron chains +And like flax they moulder’d asunder, +And the coffin lid that was barr’d so firm +He burst with his voice of thunder. + +And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise +And come with her master away, +And the cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse, +At the voice she was forced to obey. + +She rose on her feet in her winding sheet, +Her dead flesh quivered with fear, +And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave +Never did mortal hear. + +She followed the fiend to the church door, +There stood a black horse there, +His breath was red like furnace smoke, +His eyes like a meteor’s glare. + +The fiendish force flung her on the horse +And he leapt up before, +And away like the lightning’s speed they went +And she was seen no more. + +They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks +For four miles round they could hear, +And children at rest at their mother’s breast, +Started and screamed with fear. + + + + +The Surgeon’s Warning + + +The subject of this parody was given me by a friend, to whom also I am +indebted for some of the stanzas. + +Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the manner of +Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute to their Saints +and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare that it is by no means my +design to depreciate that useful invention; and all persons to whom +this Ballad shall come are requested to take notice, that nothing here +asserted concerning the aforesaid Coffins is true, except that the +maker and patentee lives by St. Martin’s Lane. + +The Doctor whispered to the Nurse +And the Surgeon knew what he said, +And he grew pale at the Doctor’s tale +And trembled in his sick bed. + +Now fetch me my brethren and fetch them with speed +The Surgeon affrighted said, +The Parson and the Undertaker, +Let them hasten or I shall be dead. + +The Parson and the Undertaker +They hastily came complying, +And the Surgeon’s Prentices ran up stairs +When they heard that their master was dying. + +The Prentices all they entered the room +By one, by two, by three, +With a sly grin came Joseph in, +First of the company. + +The Surgeon swore as they enter’d his door, +’Twas fearful his oaths to hear,— +Now send these scoundrels to the Devil, +For God’s sake my brethren dear. + +He foam’d at the mouth with the rage he felt +And he wrinkled his black eye-brow, +That rascal Joe would be at me I know, +But zounds let him spare me now. + +Then out they sent the Prentices, +The fit it left him weak, +He look’d at his brothers with ghastly eyes, +And faintly struggled to speak. + +All kinds of carcasses I have cut up, +And the judgment now must be— +But brothers I took care of you, +So pray take care of me! + +I have made candles of infants fat +The Sextons have been my slaves, +I have bottled babes unborn, and dried +Hearts and livers from rifled graves. + +And my Prentices now will surely come +And carve me bone from bone, +And I who have rifled the dead man’s grave +Shall never have rest in my own. + +Bury me in lead when I am dead, +My brethren I intreat, +And see the coffin weigh’d I beg +Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +And let it be solder’d closely down +Strong as strong can be I implore, +And put it in a patent coffin, +That I may rise no more. + +If they carry me off in the patent coffin +Their labour will be in vain, +Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker +Who lives by St. Martin’s lane. + +And bury me in my brother’s church +For that will safer be, +And I implore lock the church door +And pray take care of the key. + +And all night long let three stout men +The vestry watch within, +To each man give a gallon of beer +And a keg of Holland’s gin; + +Powder and ball and blunder-buss +To save me if he can, +And eke five guineas if he shoot +A resurrection man. + +And let them watch me for three weeks +My wretched corpse to save, +For then I think that I may stink +Enough to rest in my grave. + +The Surgeon laid him down in his bed, +His eyes grew deadly dim, +Short came his breath and the struggle of death +Distorted every limb. + +They put him in lead when he was dead +And shrouded up so neat, +And they the leaden coffin weigh +Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +They had it solder’d closely down +And examined it o’er and o’er, +And they put it in a patent coffin +That he might rise no more. + +For to carry him off in a patent coffin +Would they thought be but labour in vain, +So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker +Who lives by St. Martin’s lane. + +In his brother’s church they buried him +That safer he might be, +They lock’d the door and would not trust +The Sexton with the key. + +And three men in the vestry watch +To save him if they can, +And should he come there to shoot they swear +A resurrection man. + +And the first night by lanthorn light +Thro’ the church-yard as they went, +A guinea of gold the sexton shewed +That Mister Joseph sent. + +But conscience was tough, it was not enough +And their honesty never swerved, +And they bade him go with Mister Joe +To the Devil as he deserved. + +So all night long by the vestry fire +They quaff’d their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think +And told full many a tale. + +The second night by lanthorn light +Thro’ the church-yard as they went, +He whisper’d anew and shew’d them two +That Mister Joseph sent. + +The guineas were bright and attracted their sight +They look’d so heavy and new, +And their fingers itch’d as they were bewitch’d +And they knew not what to do. + +But they waver’d not long for conscience was strong +And they thought they might get more, +And they refused the gold, but not +So rudely as before. + +So all night long by the vestry fire +They quaff’d their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think +And told full many a tale. + +The third night as by lanthorn light +Thro’ the church-yard they went, +He bade them see and shew’d them three +That Mister Joseph sent. + +They look’d askance with eager glance, +The guineas they shone bright, +For the Sexton on the yellow gold +Let fall his lanthorn light. + +And he look’d sly with his roguish eye +And gave a well-tim’d wink, +And they could not stand the sound in his hand +For he made the guineas chink. + +And conscience late that had such weight, +All in a moment fails, +For well they knew that it was true +A dead man told no tales, + +And they gave all their powder and ball +And took the gold so bright, +And they drank their beer and made good cheer, +Till now it was midnight. + +Then, tho’ the key of the church door +Was left with the Parson his brother, +It opened at the Sexton’s touch— +Because he had another. + +And in they go with that villain Joe +To fetch the body by night, +And all the church look’d dismally +By his dark lanthorn light. + +They laid the pick-axe to the stones +And they moved them soon asunder. +They shovell’d away the hard-prest clay +And came to the coffin under. + +They burst the patent coffin first +And they cut thro’ the lead, +And they laugh’d aloud when they saw the shroud +Because they had got at the dead. + +And they allowed the Sexton the shroud +And they put the coffin back, +And nose and knees they then did squeeze +The Surgeon in a sack. + +The watchmen as they past along +Full four yards off could smell, +And a curse bestowed upon the load +So disagreeable. + +So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back +And they carv’d him bone from bone, +But what became of the Surgeon’s soul +Was never to mortal known. + + + + +The Victory + + +Hark—how the church-bells thundering harmony +Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come, +Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships +Met on the element,—they met, they fought +A desperate fight!—good tidings of great joy! +Old England triumphed! yet another day +Of glory for the ruler of the waves! +For those who fell, ’twas in their country’s cause, +They have their passing paragraphs of praise +And are forgotten. +There was one who died +In that day’s glory, whose obscurer name +No proud historian’s page will chronicle. +Peace to his honest soul! I read his name, +’Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God +The sound was not familiar to mine ear. +But it was told me after that this man +Was one whom lawful violence[10] had forced +From his own home and wife and little ones, +Who by his labour lived; that he was one +Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel +A husband’s love, a father’s anxiousness, +That from the wages of his toil he fed +The distant dear ones, and would talk of them +At midnight when he trod the silent deck +With him he valued, talk of them, of joys +That he had known—oh God! and of the hour +When they should meet again, till his full heart +His manly heart at last would overflow +Even like a child’s with very tenderness. +Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly +It came, and merciful the ball of death, +For it came suddenly and shattered him, +And left no moment’s agonizing thought +On those he loved so well. +He ocean deep +Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter +Who art the widow’s friend! Man does not know +What a cold sickness made her blood run back +When first she heard the tidings of the fight; +Man does not know with what a dreadful hope +She listened to the names of those who died, +Man does not know, or knowing will not heed, +With what an agony of tenderness +She gazed upon her children, and beheld +His image who was gone. Oh God! be thou +Her comforter who art the widow’s friend! + + + [10] The person alluded to was pressed into the service + + + + +Henry the Hermit + + +It was a little island where he dwelt, +Or rather a lone rock, barren and bleak, +Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots +Its gray stone surface. Never mariner +Approach’d that rude and uninviting coast, +Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark +Anchored beside its shore. It was a place +Befitting well a rigid anchoret, +Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys +And purposes of life; and he had dwelt +Many long years upon that lonely isle, +For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms, +Honours and friends and country and the world, +And had grown old in solitude. That isle +Some solitary man in other times +Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found +The little chapel that his toil had built +Now by the storms unroofed, his bed of leaves +Wind-scattered, and his grave o’ergrown with grass, +And thistles, whose white seeds winged in vain +Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost. +So he repaired the chapel’s ruined roof, +Clear’d the grey lichens from the altar-stone, +And underneath a rock that shelter’d him +From the sea blasts, he built his hermitage. + +The peasants from the shore would bring him food +And beg his prayers; but human converse else +He knew not in that utter solitude, +Nor ever visited the haunts of men +Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed +Implored his blessing and his aid in death. +That summons he delayed not to obey, +Tho’ the night tempest or autumnal wind. +Maddened the waves, and tho’ the mariner, +Albeit relying on his saintly load, +Grew pale to see the peril. So he lived +A most austere and self-denying man, +Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness +Exhausted him, and it was pain at last +To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves +And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less +Tho’ with reluctance of infirmity, +He rose at midnight from his bed of leaves +And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal +More self-condemning fervour rais’d his voice +For pardon for that sin, till that the sin +Repented was a joy like a good deed. + +One night upon the shore his chapel bell +Was heard; the air was calm, and its far sounds +Over the water came distinct and loud. +Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear +Its toll irregular, a monk arose. +The boatmen bore him willingly across +For well the hermit Henry was beloved. +He hastened to the chapel, on a stone +Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff and dead, +The bell-rope in his band, and at his feet +The lamp[11] that stream’d a long unsteady light + + [11] This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608. + + + + +English Eclogues + + +The following Eclogues I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in +our language. This species of composition has become popular in +Germany, and I was induced to attempt by an account of the German +Idylls given me in conversation. They cannot properly be stiled +imitations, as I am ignorant of that language at present, and have +never seen any translations or specimens in this kind. + +With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from Tityrus and +Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsises. No kind of poetry +can boast of more illustrious names or is more distinguished by the +servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers “more silly than +their sheep” have like their sheep gone on in the same track one after +another. Gay stumbled into a new path. His eclogues were the only ones +that interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were +burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for a long essay, but this +is not the place for it. + +How far poems requiring almost a colloquial plainness of language may +accord with the public taste I am doubtful. They have been subjected to +able criticism and revised with care. I have endeavoured to make them +true to nature. + + + + +Eclogue I The Old Mansion House + + +_Stranger_. +Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, +Breaking the highway stones,—and ’tis a task +Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours. + +_Old Man_. +Why yes! for one with such a weight of years +Upon his back. I’ve lived here, man and boy, +In this same parish, near the age of man +For I am hard upon threescore and ten. +I can remember sixty years ago +The beautifying of this mansion here +When my late Lady’s father, the old Squire +Came to the estate. + +_Stranger_. +Why then you have outlasted +All his improvements, for you see they’re making +Great alterations here. + +_Old Man_. +Aye-great indeed! +And if my poor old Lady could rise up— +God rest her soul! ’twould grieve her to behold +The wicked work is here. + +_Stranger_. +They’ve set about it +In right good earnest. All the front is gone, +Here’s to be turf they tell me, and a road +Round to the door. There were some yew trees too +Stood in the court. + +_Old Man_. +Aye Master! fine old trees! +My grandfather could just remember back +When they were planted there. It was my task +To keep them trimm’d, and ’twas a pleasure to me! +All strait and smooth, and like a great green wall! +My poor old Lady many a time would come +And tell me where to shear, for she had played +In childhood under them, and ’twas her pride +To keep them in their beauty. Plague I say +On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have +A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs +And your pert poplar trees;—I could as soon +Have plough’d my father’s grave as cut them down! + +_Stranger_. +But ’twill be lighter and more chearful now, +A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road +Round for the carriage,—now it suits my taste. +I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh, +And then there’s some variety about it. +In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose, +And the laburnum with its golden flowers +Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes +The bright red berries of the mountain ash, +With firs enough in winter to look green, +And show that something lives. Sure this is better +Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look +All the year round like winter, and for ever +Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs +So dry and bare! + +_Old Man_. +Ah! so the new Squire thinks +And pretty work he makes of it! what ’tis +To have a stranger come to an old house! + +_Stranger_. +It seems you know him not? + +_Old Man_. +No Sir, not I. +They tell me he’s expected daily now, +But in my Lady’s time he never came +But once, for they were very distant kin. +If he had played about here when a child +In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries, +And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers, +That fell so thick, he had not had the heart +To mar all thus. + +_Stranger_. +Come—come! all a not wrong. +Those old dark windows— + +_Old Man_. +They’re demolish’d too— +As if he could not see thro’ casement glass! +The very red-breasts that so regular +Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs, +Won’t know the window now! + +_Stranger_. +Nay they were high +And then so darken’d up with jessamine, +Harbouring the vermine;—that was a fine tree +However. Did it not grow in and line +The porch? + +_Old Man_. +All over it: it did one good +To pass within ten yards when ’twas in blossom. +There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside. +My Lady loved at evening to sit there +And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet +And slept in the sun; ’twas an old favourite dog +She did not love him less that he was old +And feeble, and he always had a place +By the fire-side, and when he died at last +She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. +Ah I she was good to all! a woful day +’Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! + +_Stranger_. +They lost a friend then? + +_Old Man_. +You’re a stranger here +Or would not ask that question. Were they sick? +She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs +She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter +When weekly she distributed the bread +In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear +The blessings on her! and I warrant them +They were a blessing to her when her wealth +Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir! +It would have warm’d your heart if you had seen +Her Christmas kitchen,—how the blazing fire +Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs +So chearful red,—and as for misseltoe, +The finest bough that grew in the country round +Was mark’d for Madam. Then her old ale went +So bountiful about! a Christmas cask, +And ’twas a noble one! God help me Sir! +But I shall never see such days again. + +_Stranger_. +Things may be better yet than you suppose +And you should hope the best. + +_Old Man_. +It don’t look well +These alterations Sir! I’m an old man +And love the good old fashions; we don’t find +Old bounty in new houses. They’ve destroyed +All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk +Grubb’d up, and they do say that the great row +Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top +They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think +To live to see all this, and ’tis perhaps +A comfort I shan’t live to see it long. + +_Stranger_. +But sure all changes are not needs for the worse +My friend. + +_Old Man_. +May-hap they mayn’t Sir;—for all that +I like what I’ve been us’d to. I remember +All this from a child up, and now to lose it, +’Tis losing an old friend. There’s nothing left +As ’twas;—I go abroad and only meet +With men whose fathers I remember boys; +The brook that used to run before my door +That’s gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt +To climb are down; and I see nothing now +That tells me of old times, except the stones +In the church-yard. You are young Sir and I hope +Have many years in store,—but pray to God +You mayn’t be left the last of all your friends. + +_Stranger_. +Well! well! you’ve one friend more than you’re aware of. +If the Squire’s taste don’t suit with your’s, I warrant +That’s all you’ll quarrel with: walk in and taste +His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady +E’er broached a better cask. You did not know me, +But we’re acquainted now. ’Twould not be easy +To make you like the outside; but within— +That is not changed my friend! you’ll always find +The same old bounty and old welcome there. + + + + +Eclogue II The Grandmother’s Tale + + +_Jane_. +Harry! I’m tired of playing. We’ll draw round +The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us +One of her stories. + +_Harry_. +Aye—dear Grandmamma! +A pretty story! something dismal now; +A bloody murder. + +_Jane_. +Or about a ghost. + +_Grandmother_. +Nay, nay, I should but frighten you. You know +The other night when I was telling you +About the light in the church-yard, how you trembled +Because the screech-owl hooted at the window, +And would not go to bed. + +_Jane_. +Why Grandmamma +You said yourself you did not like to hear him. +Pray now! we wo’nt be frightened. + +_Grandmother_. +Well, well, children! +But you’ve heard all my stories. Let me see,— +Did I never tell you how the smuggler murdered +The woman down at Pill? + +_Harry_. +No—never! never! + +_Grandmother_. +Not how he cut her head off in the stable? + +_Harry_. +Oh—now! do tell us that! + +_Grandmother_. +You must have heard +Your Mother, children! often tell of her. +She used to weed in the garden here, and worm +Your uncle’s dogs,[12] and serve the house with coal; +And glad enough she was in winter time +To drive her asses here! it was cold work +To follow the slow beasts thro’ sleet and snow, +And here she found a comfortable meal +And a brave fire to thaw her, for poor Moll +Was always welcome. + +_Harry_. +Oh—’twas blear-eyed Moll +The collier woman,—a great ugly woman, +I’ve heard of her. + +_Grandmother_. +Ugly enough poor soul! +At ten yards distance you could hardly tell +If it were man or woman, for her voice +Was rough as our old mastiff’s, and she wore +A man’s old coat and hat,—and then her face! +There was a merry story told of her, +How when the press-gang came to take her husband +As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, +Drest John up in her night-cap, and herself +Put on his clothes and went before the Captain. + +_Jane_. +And so they prest a woman! + +_Grandmother_. +’Twas a trick +She dearly loved to tell, and all the country +Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel +For miles around. All weathers and all hours +She crossed the hill, as hardy as her beasts, +Bearing the wind and rain and winter frosts, +And if she did not reach her home at night +She laid her down in the stable with her asses +And slept as sound as they did. + +_Harry_. +With her asses! + +_Grandmother_. +Yes, and she loved her beasts. For tho’ poor wretch +She was a terrible reprobate and swore +Like any trooper, she was always good +To the dumb creatures, never loaded them +Beyond their strength, and rather I believe +Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want, +Because, she said, they could not ask for food. +I never saw her stick fall heavier on them +Than just with its own weight. She little thought +This tender-heartedness would be her death! +There was a fellow who had oftentimes, +As if he took delight in cruelty. +Ill-used her Asses. He was one who lived +By smuggling, and, for she had often met him +Crossing the down at night, she threatened him, +If he tormented them again, to inform +Of his unlawful ways. Well—so it was— +’Twas what they both were born to, he provoked her, +She laid an information, and one morn +They found her in the stable, her throat cut +From ear to ear, till the head only hung +Just by a bit of skin. + +_Jane_. +Oh dear! oh dear! + +_Harry_. +I hope they hung the man! + +_Grandmother_. +They took him up; +There was no proof, no one had seen the deed, +And he was set at liberty. But God +Whoss eye beholdeth all things, he had seen +The murder, and the murderer knew that God +Was witness to his crime. He fled the place, +But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand +Of heaven, but nowhere could the murderer rest, +A guilty conscience haunted him, by day, +By night, in company, in solitude, +Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him +The weight of blood; her cries were in his ears, +Her stifled groans as when he knelt upon her +Always he heard; always he saw her stand +Before his eyes; even in the dead of night +Distinctly seen as tho’ in the broad sun, +She stood beside the murderer’s bed and yawn’d +Her ghastly wound; till life itself became +A punishment at last he could not bear, +And he confess’d[13] it all, and gave himself +To death, so terrible, he said, it was +To have a guilty conscience! + +_Harry_. +Was he hung then? + +_Grandmother_. +Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man, +Your uncles went to see him on his trial, +He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed, +And such a horror in his meagre face, +They said he look’d like one who never slept. +He begg’d the prayers of all who saw his end +And met his death with fears that well might warn +From guilt, tho’ not without a hope in Christ. + + + [12] I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common in + other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from + doing any mischief should they afterwards become mad. + + [13] There must be many persons living who remember these + circumstances. They happened two or three and twenty years ago, in + the neighbourhood of Bristol. The woman’s name was Bees. The + stratagem by which she preserved her husband from the press-gang, + is also true. + + + + +Eclogue III The Funeral + + +The coffin[14] as I past across the lane +Came sudden on my view. It was not here, +A sight of every day, as in the streets +Of the great city, and we paus’d and ask’d +Who to the grave was going. It was one, +A village girl, they told us, who had borne +An eighteen months strange illness, and had pined +With such slow wasting that the hour of death +Came welcome to her. We pursued our way +To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk +That passes o’er the mind and is forgot, +We wore away the time. But it was eve +When homewardly I went, and in the air +Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade +That makes the eye turn inward. Then I heard +Over the vale the heavy toll of death +Sound slow; it made me think upon the dead, +I questioned more and learnt her sorrowful tale. +She bore unhusbanded a mother’s name, +And he who should have cherished her, far off +Sail’d on the seas, self-exil’d from his home, +For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched one, +Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues +Were busy with her name. She had one ill +Heavier, neglect, forgetfulness from him +Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote, +But only once that drop of comfort came +To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; +And when his parents had some tidings from him, +There was no mention of poor Hannah there, +Or ’twas the cold enquiry, bitterer +Than silence. So she pined and pined away +And for herself and baby toil’d and toil’d, +Nor did she, even on her death bed, rest +From labour, knitting with her outstretch’d arms +Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother +Omitted no kind office, and she work’d +Hard, and with hardest working barely earn’d +Enough to make life struggle and prolong +The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay +On the sick bed of poverty, so worn +With her long suffering and that painful thought +That at her heart lay rankling, and so weak, +That she could make no effort to express +Affection for her infant; and the child, +Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her +With a strange infantine ingratitude +Shunn’d her as one indifferent. She was past +That anguish, for she felt her hour draw on, +And ’twas her only comfoft now to think +Upon the grave. “Poor girl!” her mother said, +“Thou hast suffered much!” “aye mother! there is none +“Can tell what I have suffered!” she replied, +“But I shall soon be where the weary rest.” +And she did rest her soon, for it pleased God +To take her to his mercy. + + + [14] It is proper to remark that the story related in this Eclogue + is strictly true. I met the funeral, and learnt the circumstances + in a village in Hampshire. The indifference of the child was + mentioned to me; indeed no addition whatever has been made to the + story. I should have thought it wrong to have weakened the effect + of a faithful narrative by adding any thing. + + + + +Eclogue IV The Sailor’s Mother + + +_Woman_. +Sir for the love of God some small relief +To a poor woman! + +_Traveller_. +Whither are you bound? +’Tis a late hour to travel o’er these downs, +No house for miles around us, and the way +Dreary and wild. The evening wind already +Makes one’s teeth chatter, and the very Sun, +Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, +Looks cold. ’Twill be a bitter night! + +_Woman_. +Aye Sir +’Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath, +Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey’s end, +For the way is long before me, and my feet, +God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly, +If it pleased God, lie down at once and die. + +_Traveller_. +Nay nay cheer up! a little food and rest +Will comfort you; and then your journey’s end +Will make amends for all. You shake your head, +And weep. Is it some evil business then +That leads you from your home? + +_Woman_. +Sir I am going +To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt +In the late action, and in the hospital +Dying, I fear me, now. + +_Traveller_. +Perhaps your fears +Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost +There may be still enough for comfort left +An arm or leg shot off, there’s yet the heart +To keep life warm, and he may live to talk +With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim’d him, +Proud of his loss. Old England’s gratitude +Makes the maim’d sailor happy. + +_Woman_. +’Tis not that— +An arm or leg—I could have borne with that. +’Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing +Which bursts[15] and burns that hurt him. Something Sir +They do not use on board our English ships +It is so wicked! + +_Traveller_. +Rascals! a mean art +Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain! + +_Woman_. +Yes Sir! and they should show no mercy to them +For making use of such unchristian arms. +I had a letter from the hospital, +He got some friend to write it, and he tells me +That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes, +Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever live +To see this wretched day!—they tell me Sir +There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed +’Tis a hard journey that I go upon +To such a dismal end! + +_Traveller_. +He yet may live. +But if the worst should chance, why you must bear +The will of heaven with patience. Were it not +Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen +Fighting his country’s cause? and for yourself +You will not in unpitied poverty +Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country +Amid the triumph of her victory +Remember those who paid its price of blood, +And with a noble charity relieves +The widow and the orphan. + +_Woman_. +God reward them! +God bless them, it will help me in my age +But Sir! it will not pay me for my child! + +_Traveller_. +Was he your only child? + +_Woman_. +My only one, +The stay and comfort of my widowhood, +A dear good boy!—when first he went to sea +I felt what it would come to,—something told me +I should be childless soon. But tell me Sir +If it be true that for a hurt like his +There is no cure? please God to spare his life +Tho’ he be blind, yet I should be so thankful! +I can remember there was a blind man +Lived in our village, one from his youth up +Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, +And he had none to tend on him so well +As I would tend my boy! + +_Traveller_. +Of this be sure +His hurts are look’d to well, and the best help +The place affords, as rightly is his due, +Ever at hand. How happened it he left you? +Was a seafaring life his early choice? + +_Woman_. +No Sir! poor fellow—he was wise enough +To be content at home, and ’twas a home +As comfortable Sir I even tho’ I say it, +As any in the country. He was left +A little boy when his poor father died, +Just old enough to totter by himself +And call his mother’s name. We two were all, +And as we were not left quite destitute +We bore up well. In the summer time I worked +Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting, +And in long winter nights my spinning wheel +Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too +And never felt distress. So he grew up +A comely lad and wonderous well disposed; +I taught him well; there was not in the parish +A child who said his prayers more regular, +Or answered readier thro’ his catechism. +If I had foreseen this! but ’tis a blessing +We do’nt know what we’re born to! + +_Traveller_. +But how came it +He chose to be a Sailor? + +_Woman_. +You shall hear Sir; +As he grew up he used to watch the birds +In the corn, child’s work you know, and easily done. +’Tis an idle sort of task, so he built up +A little hut of wicker-work and clay +Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain. +And then he took for very idleness +To making traps to catch the plunderers, +All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make— +Propping a stone to fall and shut them in, +Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe +Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly— +And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased +To see the boy so handy. You may guess +What followed Sir from this unlucky skill. +He did what he should not when he was older: +I warn’d him oft enough; but he was caught +In wiring hares at last, and had his choice +The prison or the ship. + +_Traveller_. +The choice at least +Was kindly left him, and for broken laws +This was methinks no heavy punishment. + +_Woman_. +So I was told Sir. And I tried to think so, +But ’twas a sad blow to me! I was used +To sleep at nights soundly and undisturb’d— +Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start +And think of my poor boy tossing about +Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem’d +To feel that it was hard to take him from me +For such a little fault. But he was wrong +Oh very wrong—a murrain on his traps! +See what they’ve brought him too! + +_Traveller_. +Well! well! take comfort +He will be taken care of if he lives; +And should you lose your child, this is a country +Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent +To weep for him in want. + +_Woman_. +Sir I shall want +No succour long. In the common course of years +I soon must be at rest, and ’tis a comfort +When grief is hard upon me to reflect +It only leads me to that rest the sooner. + + + [15] The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the + engagement between the Mars and L’Hercule, some of our sailors were + shockingly mangled by them: One in particular, as described in the + Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be policy and humanity to + employ means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful + enough to destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only + inflicts additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is + cruel and wicked. + + + + +Eclogue V The Witch + + +_Nathaniel_. +Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe! +Faith it was just in time, for t’other night +I laid two straws across at Margery’s door, +And afterwards I fear’d that she might do me +A mischief for’t. There was the Miller’s boy +Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, +I met him upon crutches, and he told me +’Twas all her evil eye. + +_Father_. +’Tis rare good luck; +I would have gladly given a crown for one +If t’would have done as well. But where did’st find it? + +_Nathaniel_. +Down on the Common; I was going a-field +And neighbour Saunders pass’d me on his mare; +He had hardly said “good day,” before I saw +The shoe drop off; ’twas just upon my tongue +To call him back,—it makes no difference, does it. +Because I know whose ’twas? + +_Father_. +Why no, it can’t. +The shoe’s the same you know, and you _did find_ it. + +_Nathaniel_. +That mare of his has got a plaguey road +To travel, father, and if he should lame her, +For she is but tender-footed,— + +_Father_. +Aye, indeed— +I should not like to see her limping back +Poor beast! but charity begins at home, +And Nat, there’s our own horse in such a way +This morning! + +_Nathaniel_. +Why he ha’nt been rid again! +Last night I hung a pebble by the manger +With a hole thro’, and every body says +That ’tis a special charm against the hags. + +_Father_. +It could not be a proper natural hole then, +Or ’twas not a right pebble,—for I found him +Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, +And panting so! God knows where he had been +When we were all asleep, thro’ bush and brake +Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch +At such a deadly rate!— + +_Nathaniel_. +By land and water, +Over the sea perhaps!—I have heard tell +That ’tis some thousand miles, almost at the end +Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. +They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear +Some ointment over them and then away +Out of the window! but ’tis worse than all +To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it +That in a Christian country they should let +Such creatures live! + +_Father_. +And when there’s such plain proof! +I did but threaten her because she robb’d +Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind +That made me shake to hear it in my bed! +How came it that that storm unroofed my barn, +And only mine in the parish? look at her +And that’s enough; she has it in her face— +A pair of large dead eyes, rank in her head, +Just like a corpse, and purs’d with wrinkles round, +A nose and chin that scarce leave room between +For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff, +And when she speaks! I’d sooner hear a raven +Croak at my door! she sits there, nose and knees +Smoak-dried and shrivell’d over a starved fire, +With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes +Shine like old Beelzebub’s, and to be sure +It must be one of his imps!—aye, nail it hard. + +_Nathaniel_. +I wish old Margery heard the hammer go! +She’d curse the music. + +_Father_. +Here’s the Curate coming, +He ought to rid the parish of such vermin; +In the old times they used to hunt them out +And hang them without mercy, but Lord bless us! +The world is grown so wicked! + +_Curate_. +Good day Farmer! +Nathaniel what art nailing to the threshold? + +_Nathaniel_. +A horse-shoe Sir, ’tis good to keep off witchcraft, +And we’re afraid of Margery. + +_Curate_. +Poor old woman! +What can you fear from her? + +_Father_. +What can we fear? +Who lamed the Miller’s boy? who rais’d the wind +That blew my old barn’s roof down? who d’ye think +Rides my poor horse a’nights? who mocks the hounds? +But let me catch her at that trick again, +And I’ve a silver bullet ready for her, +One that shall lame her, double how she will. + +_Nathaniel_. +What makes her sit there moping by herself, +With no soul near her but that great black cat? +And do but look at her! + +_Curate_. +Poor wretch! half blind +And crooked with her years, without a child +Or friend in her old age, ’tis hard indeed +To have her very miseries made her crimes! +I met her but last week in that hard frost +That made my young limbs ache, and when I ask’d +What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman +Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad +And pick the hedges, just to keep herself +From perishing with cold, because no neighbour +Had pity on her age; and then she cried, +And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, +And wish’d that she were dead. + +_Father_. +I wish she was! +She has plagued the parish long enough! + +_Curate_. +Shame farmer! +Is that the charity your bible teaches? + +_Father_. +My bible does not teach me to love witches. +I know what’s charity; who pays his tithes +And poor-rates readier? + +_Curate_. +Who can better do it? +You’ve been a prudent and industrious man, +And God has blest your labour. + +_Father_. +Why, thank God Sir, +I’ve had no reason to complain of fortune. + +_Curate_. +Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish +Look up to you. + +_Father_. +Perhaps Sir, I could tell +Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. + +_Curate_. +You can afford a little to the poor, +And then what’s better still, you have the heart +To give from your abundance. + +_Father_. +God forbid +I should want charity! + +_Curate_. +Oh! ’tis a comfort +To think at last of riches well employ’d! +I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth +Of a good deed at that most awful hour +When riches profit not. +Farmer, I’m going +To visit Margery. She is sick I hear— +Old, poor, and sick! a miserable lot, +And death will be a blessing. You might send her +Some little matter, something comfortable, +That she may go down easier to the grave +And bless you when she dies. + +_Father_. +What! is she going! +Well God forgive her then! if she has dealt +In the black art. I’ll tell my dame of it, +And she shall send her something. + +_Curate_. +So I’ll say; +And take my thanks for her’s. [_goes_] + +_Father_. +That’s a good man +That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit +The poor in sickness; but he don’t believe +In witchcraft, and that is not like a christian. + +_Nathaniel_. +And so old Margery’s dying! + +_Father_. +But you know +She may recover; so drive t’other nail in! + + + + +Eclogue VI The Ruined Cottage + + +Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye, +This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch, +Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower +Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock +That thro’ the creeping weeds and nettles tall +Peers taller, and uplifts its column’d stem +Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen +Many a fallen convent reverend in decay, +And many a time have trod the castle courts +And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike +Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts +As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch +Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof +Part mouldered in, the rest o’ergrown with weeds, +House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss; +So Nature wars with all the works of man. +And, like himself, reduces back to earth +His perishable piles. +I led thee here +Charles, not without design; for this hath been +My favourite walk even since I was a boy; +And I remember Charles, this ruin here, +The neatest comfortable dwelling place! +That when I read in those dear books that first +Woke in my heart the love of poesy, +How with the villagers Erminia dwelt, +And Calidore for a fair shepherdess +Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd’s lore; +My fancy drew from, this the little hut +Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love, +Or where the gentle Calidore at eve +Led Pastorella home. There was not then +A weed where all these nettles overtop +The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet +The morning air, rosemary and marjoram, +All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath’d +So lavishly around the pillared porch +Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way, +After a truant absence hastening home, +I could not chuse but pass with slacken’d speed +By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed +Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!— +Theirs is a simple melancholy tale, +There’s scarce a village but can fellow it, +And yet methinks it will not weary thee, +And should not be untold. +A widow woman +Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want, +She lived on some small pittance that sufficed, +In better times, the needful calls of life, +Not without comfort. I remember her +Sitting at evening in that open door way +And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her +Raising her eyes and dark-rimm’d spectacles +To see the passer by, yet ceasing not +To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden +On some dry summer evening, walking round +To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean’d +Upon the ivory handle of her stick, +To some carnation whose o’erheavy head +Needed support, while with the watering-pot +Joanna followed, and refresh’d and trimm’d +The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child, +As lovely and as happy then as youth +And innocence could make her. +Charles! it seems +As tho’ I were a boy again, and all +The mediate years with their vicissitudes +A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid +So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair, +Her bright brown hair, wreath’d in contracting curls, +And then her cheek! it was a red and white +That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome, +The countrymen who on their way to church +Were leaning o’er the bridge, loitering to hear +The bell’s last summons, and in idleness +Watching the stream below, would all look up +When she pass’d by. And her old Mother, Charles! +When I have beard some erring infidel +Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed, +Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness. +Her figure has recurr’d; for she did love +The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross’d +These fields in rain and thro’ the winter snows. +When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself +By the fire-side, have wondered why _she_ came +Who might have sate at home. +One only care +Hung on her aged spirit. For herself, +Her path was plain before her, and the close +Of her long journey near. But then her child +Soon to be left alone in this bad world,— +That was a thought that many a winter night +Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love +In something better than a servant’s slate +Had placed her well at last, it was a pang +Like parting life to part with her dear girl. + +One summer, Charles, when at the holydays +Return’d from school, I visited again +My old accustomed walks, and found in them. +A joy almost like meeting an old friend, +I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds +Already crowding the neglected flowers. +Joanna by a villain’s wiles seduced +Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach’d +Her mother’s heart. She did not suffer long, +Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow +Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. + +I pass this ruin’d dwelling oftentimes +And think of other days. It wakes in me +A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles +That ever with these recollections rise, +I trust in God they will not pass away. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Poems</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Robert Southey</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 29, 2003 [eBook #8639]<br /> +[Most recently updated: October 18, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***</div> + +<h1>Poems</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Robert Southey</h2> + +<h3>1799</h3> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>The better, please; the worse, displease; I ask no +more.<br/> +<br/> +Spenser</i> +</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Table of Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#introduction"><b>The Vision of the Maid of Orléans</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section1">Book 1</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section2">Book 2</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section3">Book 3</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section4"><b>The Rose</b></a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section5"><b>The Complaints of the Poor</b></a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section6"><b>Metrical Letter</b></a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section7"><b>Ballads</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section8">The Cross Roads</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section9">The Sailor who had served in the Slave Trade</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section10">Jaspar</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section11">Lord William</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section12">A Ballad shewing how an old woman rode double and who rode before her</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section13">The Surgeon’s Warning</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section14">The Victory</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section15">Henry the Hermit</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section16"><b>English Eclogues</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section17">The Old Mansion House</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section18">The Grandmother’s Tale</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section19">The Funeral</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section20">The Sailor’s Mother</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section21">The Witch</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section22">The Ruined Cottage</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="introduction">The Vision of the Maid of Orléans</a></h2> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>Divinity hath oftentimes descended<br/> +Upon our slumbers, and the blessed troupes<br/> +Have, in the calme and quiet of the soule,<br/> +Conversed with us.</i><br/> +<br/> +Shirley. <i>The Grateful Servant</i> +</p> + +<p> +Sidenote: The following Vision was originally printed as the ninth book of +<i>Joan of Arc</i>. It is now adapted to the improved edition of that Poem. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section1"></a>The First Book</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +Orleans was hush’d in sleep. Stretch’d on her couch<br/> +The delegated Maiden lay: with toil<br/> +Exhausted and sore anguish, soon she closed<br/> +Her heavy eye-lids; not reposing then,<br/> +For busy Phantasy, in other scenes<br/> +Awakened. Whether that superior powers,<br/> +By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream,<br/> +Instructing so the passive faculty;<a href="#fn1" name="fnref1" id="fnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a><br/> +Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog,<br/> +Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world,<br/> +And all things <i>are</i> that <i>seem</i>.<a href="#fn2" name="fnref2" id="fnref2"><sup>[2]</sup></a><br/> + Along a moor,<br/> +Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate,<br/> +She roam’d a wanderer thro’ the cheerless night.<br/> +Far thro’ the silence of the unbroken plain<br/> +The bittern’s boom was heard, hoarse, heavy, deep,<br/> +It made most fitting music to the scene.<br/> +Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind,<br/> +Swept shadowing; thro’ their broken folds the moon<br/> +Struggled sometimes with transitory ray,<br/> +And made the moving darkness visible.<br/> +And now arrived beside a fenny lake<br/> +She stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarse<br/> +The long sedge rustled to the gales of night.<br/> +An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell’d<br/> +By powers unseen; then did the moon display<br/> +Where thro’ the crazy vessel’s yawning side<br/> +The muddy wave oozed in: a female guides,<br/> +And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan’d<br/> +As melancholy mournful to her ear,<br/> +As ever by the dungeon’d wretch was heard<br/> +Howling at evening round the embattled towers<br/> +Of that hell-house<a href="#fn3" name="fnref3" id="fnref3"><sup>[3]</sup></a> of France, ere yet sublime<br/> +The almighty people from their tyrant’s hand<br/> +Dash’d down the iron rod.<br/> +Intent the Maid<br/> +Gazed on the pilot’s form, and as she gazed<br/> +Shiver’d, for wan her face was, and her eyes<br/> +Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep,<br/> +Channell’d by tears; a few grey locks hung down<br/> +Beneath her hood: then thro’ the Maiden’s veins<br/> +Chill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass’d,<br/> +Lifting her tattcr’d mantle, coil’d around<br/> +She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart.<br/> + The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by,<br/> +And the night-raven’s scream came fitfully,<br/> +Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid<br/> +Look’d to the shore, and now upon the bank<br/> +Leaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling still<br/> +In recollection.<br/> + There, a mouldering pile<br/> +Stretch’d its wide ruins, o’er the plain below<br/> +Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon<br/> +Shone thro’ its fretted windows: the dark Yew,<br/> +Withering with age, branched there its naked roots,<br/> +And there the melancholy Cypress rear’d<br/> +Its head; the earth was heav’d with many a mound,<br/> +And here and there a half-demolish’d tomb.<br/> + And now, amid the ruin’s darkest shade,<br/> +The Virgin’s eye beheld where pale blue flames<br/> +Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth,<br/> +And now in darkness drown’d. An aged man<br/> +Sat near, seated on what in long-past days<br/> +Had been some sculptur’d monument, now fallen<br/> +And half-obscured by moss, and gathered heaps<br/> +Of withered yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones;<br/> +And shining in the ray was seen the track<br/> +Of slimy snail obscene. Composed his look,<br/> +His eye was large and rayless, and fix’d full<br/> +Upon the Maid; the blue flames on his face<br/> +Stream’d a pale light; his face was of the hue<br/> +Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud.<br/> +Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice,<br/> +Exclaim’d the Spectre, “Welcome to these realms,<br/> +These regions of Despair! O thou whose steps<br/> +By Grief conducted to these sad abodes<br/> +Have pierced; welcome, welcome to this gloom<br/> +Eternal, to this everlasting night,<br/> +Where never morning darts the enlivening ray,<br/> +Where never shines the sun, but all is dark,<br/> +Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King.”<br/> + So saying he arose, and by the hand<br/> +The Virgin seized with such a death-cold touch<br/> +As froze her very heart; and drawing on,<br/> +Her, to the abbey’s inner ruin, led<br/> +Resistless. Thro’ the broken roof the moon<br/> +Glimmer’d a scatter’d ray; the ivy twined<br/> +Round the dismantled column; imaged forms<br/> +Of Saints and warlike Chiefs, moss-canker’d now<br/> +And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground,<br/> +With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen,<br/> +And rusted trophies; and amid the heap<br/> +Some monument’s defaced legend spake<br/> +All human glory vain.<br/> +<br/> +The loud blast roar’d<br/> +Amid the pile; and from the tower the owl<br/> +Scream’d as the tempest shook her secret nest.<br/> +He, silent, led her on, and often paus’d,<br/> +And pointed, that her eye might contemplate<br/> +At leisure the drear scene.<br/> +He dragged her on<br/> +Thro’ a low iron door, down broken stairs;<br/> +Then a cold horror thro’ the Maiden’s frame<br/> +Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw,<br/> +By the sepulchral lamp’s dim glaring light,<br/> +The fragments of the dead.<br/> +“Look here!” he cried,<br/> +“Damsel, look here! survey this house of Death;<br/> +O soon to tenant it! soon to increase<br/> +These trophies of mortality! for hence<br/> +Is no return. Gaze here! behold this skull,<br/> +These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh’d jaws,<br/> +That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mock<br/> +Thy perishable charms; for thus thy cheek<br/> +Must moulder. Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul,<br/> +Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heart<br/> +At the dread thought, that here its life’s-blood soon<br/> +Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon<br/> +With the cold clod? a thought most horrible!<br/> +So only dreadful, for reality<br/> +Is none of suffering here; here all is peace;<br/> +No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave.<br/> +Dreadful it is to think of losing life;<br/> +But having lost, knowledge of loss is not,<br/> +Therefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose;<br/> +Probe deep the seat of life.”<br/> +So spake Despair<br/> +The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice,<br/> +And all again was silence. Quick her heart<br/> +Panted. He drew a dagger from his breast,<br/> +And cried again, “Haste Damsel to repose!<br/> +One blow, and rest for ever!” On the Fiend<br/> +Dark scowl’d the Virgin with indignant eye,<br/> +And dash’d the dagger down. He next his heart<br/> +Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid<br/> +Along the downward vault.<br/> +The damp earth gave<br/> +A dim sound as they pass’d: the tainted air<br/> +Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews.<br/> +“Behold!” the fiend exclaim’d, “how gradual here<br/> +The fleshly burden of mortality<br/> +Moulders to clay!” then fixing his broad eye<br/> +Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse<br/> +Lay livid; she beheld with loathing look,<br/> +The spectacle abhorr’d by living man.<br/> +<br/> +“Look here!” Despair pursued, “this loathsome mass<br/> +Was once as lovely, and as full of life<br/> +As, Damsel! thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes<br/> +Once beam’d the mild light of intelligence,<br/> +And where thou seest the pamper’d flesh-worm trail,<br/> +Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought<br/> +That at the hallowed altar, soon the Priest<br/> +Should bless her coming union, and the torch<br/> +Its joyful lustre o’er the hall of joy,<br/> +Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earth<br/> +That Priest consign’d her, and the funeral lamp<br/> +Glares on her cold face; for her lover went<br/> +By glory lur’d to war, and perish’d there;<br/> +Nor she endur’d to live. Ha! fades thy cheek?<br/> +Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale?<br/> +Look here! behold the youthful paramour!<br/> +The self-devoted hero!”<br/> +Fearfully<br/> +The Maid look’d down, and saw the well known face<br/> +Of Theodore! in thoughts unspeakable,<br/> +Convulsed with horror, o’er her face she clasp’d<br/> +Her cold damp hands: “Shrink not,” the Phantom cried,<br/> +“Gaze on! for ever gaze!” more firm he grasp’d<br/> +Her quivering arm: “this lifeless mouldering clay,<br/> +As well thou know’st, was warm with all the glow<br/> +Of Youth and Love; this is the arm that cleaved<br/> +Salisbury’s proud crest, now motionless in death,<br/> +Unable to protect the ravaged frame<br/> +From the foul Offspring of Mortality<br/> +That feed on heroes. Tho’ long years were thine,<br/> +Yet never more would life reanimate<br/> +This murdered man; murdered by thee! for thou<br/> +Didst lead him to the battle from his home,<br/> +Else living there in peace to good old age:<br/> +In thy defence he died: strike deep! destroy<br/> +Remorse with Life.”<br/> +The Maid stood motionless,<br/> +And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand<br/> +Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried,<br/> +“Avaunt Despair! Eternal Wisdom deals<br/> +Or peace to man, or misery, for his good<br/> +Alike design’d; and shall the Creature cry,<br/> +Why hast thou done this? and with impious pride<br/> +Destroy the life God gave?”<br/> +The Fiend rejoin’d,<br/> +“And thou dost deem it impious to destroy<br/> +The life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lot<br/> +Assigned to mortal man? born but to drag,<br/> +Thro’ life’s long pilgrimage, the wearying load<br/> +Of being; care corroded at the heart;<br/> +Assail’d by all the numerous train of ills<br/> +That flesh inherits; till at length worn out,<br/> +This is his consummation!—think again!<br/> +What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen’d life<br/> +But lengthen’d sorrow? If protracted long,<br/> +Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs<br/> +Outstretch their languid length, oh think what thoughts,<br/> +What agonizing woes, in that dread hour,<br/> +Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse,<br/> +Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew<br/> +The shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force,<br/> +Mightiest in impotence, the love of life<br/> +Seizes the throbbing heart, the faltering lips<br/> +Pour out the impious prayer, that fain would change<br/> +The unchangeable’s decree, surrounding friends<br/> +Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears,<br/> +And all he loved in life embitters death!<br/> +<br/> +Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hour<br/> +Of calmest dissolution! yet weak man<br/> +Dares, in his timid piety, to live;<br/> +And veiling Fear in Superstition’s garb,<br/> +He calls her Resignation!<br/> +Coward wretch!<br/> +Fond Coward! thus to make his Reason war<br/> +Against his Reason! Insect as he is,<br/> +This sport of Chance, this being of a day,<br/> +Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast,<br/> +Believes himself the care of heavenly powers,<br/> +That God regards Man, miserable Man,<br/> +And preaching thus of Power and Providence,<br/> +Will crush the reptile that may cross his path!<br/> +<br/> +Fool that thou art! the Being that permits<br/> +Existence, <i>gives</i> to man the worthless boon:<br/> +A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest,<br/> +Bask in the sunshine of Prosperity,<br/> +And such do well to keep it. But to one<br/> +Sick at the heart with misery, and sore<br/> +With many a hard unmerited affliction,<br/> +It is a hair that chains to wretchedness<br/> +The slave who dares not burst it!<br/> +Thinkest thou,<br/> +The parent, if his child should unrecall’d<br/> +Return and fall upon his neck, and cry,<br/> +Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and full<br/> +Of vacant joys and heart-consuming cares,<br/> +I can be only happy in my home<br/> +With thee—my friend!—my father! Thinkest thou,<br/> +That he would thrust him as an outcast forth?<br/> +Oh I he would clasp the truant to his heart,<br/> +And love the trespass.”<br/> +Whilst he spake, his eye<br/> +Dwelt on the Maiden’s cheek, and read her soul<br/> +Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood,<br/> +Even as the wretch, whose famish’d entrails crave<br/> +Supply, before him sees the poison’d food<br/> +In greedy horror.<br/> +Yet not long the Maid<br/> +Debated, “Cease thy dangerous sophistry,<br/> +Eloquent tempter!” cried she. “Gloomy one!<br/> +What tho’ affliction be my portion here,<br/> +Think’st thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy.<br/> +Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back<br/> +Upon a life of duty well perform’d,<br/> +Then lift mine eyes to Heaven, and there in faith<br/> +Know my reward? I grant, were this life all,<br/> +Was there no morning to the tomb’s long night,<br/> +If man did mingle with the senseless clod,<br/> +Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed<br/> +A wise and friendly comforter! But, Fiend!<br/> +There is a morning to the tomb’s long night,<br/> +A dawn of glory, a reward in Heaven,<br/> +He shall not gain who never merited.<br/> +If thou didst know the worth of one good deed<br/> +In life’s last hour, thou would’st not bid me lose<br/> +The power to benefit; if I but save<br/> +A drowning fly, I shall not live in vain.<br/> +I have great duties, Fiend! me France expects,<br/> +Her heaven-doom’d Champion.”<br/> +“Maiden, thou hast done<br/> +Thy mission here,” the unbaffled Fiend replied:<br/> +“The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchance<br/> +Exulting in the pride of victory,<br/> +Forgettest him who perish’d! yet albeit<br/> +Thy harden’d heart forget the gallant youth;<br/> +That hour allotted canst thou not escape,<br/> +That dreadful hour, when Contumely and Shame<br/> +Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid!<br/> +Destined to drain the cup of bitterness,<br/> +Even to its dregs! England’s inhuman Chiefs<br/> +Shall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame,<br/> +Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity,<br/> +And force such burning blushes to the cheek<br/> +Of Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish<br/> +The earth might cover thee! in that last hour,<br/> +When thy bruis’d breast shall heave beneath the chains<br/> +That link thee to the stake; when o’er thy form,<br/> +Exposed unmantled, the brute multitude<br/> +Shall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt,<br/> +More painful than the circling flames that scorch<br/> +Each quivering member; wilt thou not in vain<br/> +Then wish my friendly aid? then wish thine ear<br/> +Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand<br/> +Had grasp’d the dagger, and in death preserved<br/> +Insulted modesty?”<br/> +Her glowing cheek<br/> +Blush’d crimson; her wide eye on vacancy<br/> +Was fix’d; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend,<br/> +Grasping her hand, exclaim’d, “too-timid Maid,<br/> +So long repugnant to the healing aid<br/> +My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold<br/> +The allotted length of life.”<br/> +He stamp’d the earth,<br/> +And dragging a huge coffin as his car,<br/> +Two Gouls came on, of form more fearful-foul<br/> +Than ever palsied in her wildest dream<br/> +Hag-ridden Superstition. Then Despair<br/> +Seiz’d on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still.<br/> +And placed her in the seat; and on they pass’d<br/> +Adown the deep descent. A meteor light<br/> +Shot from the Daemons, as they dragg’d along<br/> +The unwelcome load, and mark’d their brethren glut<br/> +On carcasses.<br/> +Below the vault dilates<br/> +Its ample bulk. “Look here!”—Despair addrest<br/> +The shuddering Virgin, “see the dome of Death!”<br/> +It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid<br/> +The entrails of the earth, as tho’ to form<br/> +The grave of all mankind: no eye could reach,<br/> +Tho’ gifted with the Eagle’s ample ken,<br/> +Its distant bounds. There, thron’d in darkness, dwelt<br/> +The unseen Power of Death.<br/> +Here stopt the Gouls,<br/> +Reaching the destin’d spot. The Fiend leapt out,<br/> +And from the coffin, as he led the Maid,<br/> +Exclaim’d, “Where never yet stood mortal man,<br/> +Thou standest: look around this boundless vault;<br/> +Observe the dole that Nature deals to man,<br/> +And learn to know thy friend.”<br/> +She not replied,<br/> +Observing where the Fates their several tasks<br/> +Plied ceaseless. “Mark how short the longest web<br/> +Allowed to man! he cried; observe how soon,<br/> +Twin’d round yon never-resting wheel, they change<br/> +Their snowy hue, darkening thro’ many a shade,<br/> +Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!”<br/> +<br/> +Too true he spake, for of the countless threads,<br/> +Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn’d snow,<br/> +Or as the lovely lilly of the vale,<br/> +Was never one beyond the little span<br/> +Of infancy untainted: few there were<br/> +But lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue,<br/> +Or deeper sable died.<a href="#fn4" name="fnref4" id="fnref4"><sup>[4]</sup></a> Two Genii stood,<br/> +Still as the web of Being was drawn forth,<br/> +Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn,<br/> +The one unsparing dash’d the bitter wave<br/> +Of woe; and as he dash’d, his dark-brown brow<br/> +Relax’d to a hard smile. The milder form<br/> +Shed less profusely there his lesser store;<br/> +Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon,<br/> +Mourning the lot of man; and happy he<br/> +Who on his thread those precious drops receives;<br/> +If it be happiness to have the pulse<br/> +Throb fast with pity, and in such a world<br/> +Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches<br/> +With anguish at the sight of human woe.<br/> +<br/> +To her the Fiend, well hoping now success,<br/> +“This is thy thread! observe how short the span,<br/> +And see how copious yonder Genius pours<br/> +The bitter stream of woe.” The Maiden saw<br/> +Fearless. “Now gaze!” the tempter Fiend exclaim’d,<br/> +And placed again the poniard in her hand,<br/> +For Superstition, with sulphureal torch<br/> +Stalk’d to the loom. “This, Damsel, is thy fate!<br/> +The hour draws on—now drench the dagger deep!<br/> +Now rush to happier worlds!”<br/> +The Maid replied,<br/> +“Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven,<br/> +Impious I strive not: be that will perform’d!” +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn1" id="fn1"></a> <a href="#fnref1">[1]</a> +May says of Serapis,<br/> +“Erudit at placide humanam per somnia mentem,<br/> +Nocturnâque quiete docet; nulloque labore<br/> +Hic tantum parta est pretiosa scientia, nullo<br/> +Excutitur studio verum. Mortalia corda<br/> +Tunc Deus iste docet, cum sunt minus apta doceri,<br/> +Cum nullum obsequium præstant, meritisque fatentur<br/> +Nil sese debere suis; tunc recta scientes<br/> +Cum nil scire valent. Non illo tempore sensus<br/> +Humanos forsan dignatur numen inire,<br/> +Cum propriis possunt per se discursibus uti,<br/> +Ne forte humanâ ratio divina coiret.”—<i>Sup Lucani</i>. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn2" id="fn2"></a> <a href="#fnref2">[2]</a> +I have met with a singular tale to illustrate this spiritual theory of +dreams.<br/> + Guntram, King of the Franks, was liberal to the poor, and he himself +experienced the wonderful effects of divine liberality. For one day as he was +hunting in a forest he was separated from his companions and arrived at a +little stream of water with only one comrade of tried and approved fidelity. +Here he found himself opprest by drowsiness, and reclining his head upon the +servant’s lap went to sleep. The servant witnessed a wonderful thing, for +he saw a little beast (<i>bestiolam</i>) creep out of the mouth of his sleeping +master, and go immediately to the streamlet, which it vainly attempted to +cross. The servant drew his sword and laid it across the water, over which the +little beast easily past and crept into a hole of a mountain on the opposite +side; from whence it made its appearance again in an hour, and returned by the +same means into the King’s mouth. The King then awakened, and told his +companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon the bank of an immense +river, which he had crossed by a bridge of iron, and from thence came to a +mountain in which a great quantity of gold was concealed. When the King had +concluded, the servant related what he had beheld, and they both went to +examine the mountain, where upon digging they discovered an immense weight of +gold.<br/> + I stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled SPHINX +<i>Theologico-Philosophica. Authore Johanne Heidfeldio, Ecclesiaste +Ebersbachiano.</i> 1621.<br/> + The same story is in Matthew of Westminster; it is added that Guntram +applied the treasures thus found to pious uses.<br/> + For the truth of this theory there is the evidence of a Monkish miracle. +When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian and visit the world of souls, +his guide said to him, “let thy body rest in the bed for thy spirit only +is about to depart with me; and lest the body should appear dead, I will send +into it a vital breath.”<br/> + The body however by a strange sympathy was affected like the spirit; for +when the foul and fetid smoke that arose from tithes witheld, had nearly +suffocated Thurcillus, and made him cough twice, those who were near his body +said that it coughed twice about the same time.<br/> +<br/> + <i>Matthew Paris</i> +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn3" id="fn3"></a> <a href="#fnref3">[3]</a> +The Bastille. The expression is in one of Fuller’s works, an Author from +whose quaintness and ingenuity I have always found amusement, and sometimes +assistance +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn4" id="fn4"></a> <a href="#fnref4">[4]</a> +These lines strongly resemble a passage in the <i>Pharonnida</i> of William +Chamberlayne, a Poet who has told an interesting story in uncouth rhymes, and +mingled sublimity of thought and beauty of expression, with the quaintest +conceits, and most awkward inversions.<br/> +<br/> +On a rock more high<br/> +Than Nature’s common surface, she beholds<br/> +The Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds<br/> +Its sacred mysteries. A trine within<br/> +A quadrate placed, both these encompast in<br/> +A perfect circle was its form; but what<br/> +Its matter was, for us to wonder at,<br/> +Is undiscovered left. A Tower there stands<br/> +At every angle, where Time’s fatal hands<br/> +The impartial Parcæ dwell; i’ the first she sees<br/> +Clotho the kindest of the Destinies,<br/> +From immaterial essences to cull<br/> +The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool<br/> +For Lachesis to spin; about her flie<br/> +Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie<br/> +Warm’d with their functions in, whose strength bestows<br/> +That power by which man ripe for misery grows.<br/> +<br/> +Her next of objects was that glorious tower<br/> +Where that swift-fingered Nymph that spares no hour<br/> +From mortals’ service, draws the various threads<br/> +Of life in several lengths; to weary beds<br/> +Of age extending some, whilst others in<br/> +Their infancy are broke: <i>some blackt in sin,<br/> +Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whence<br/> +Their origin, candid with innocence;<br/> +Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed<br/> +In sanguine pleasures</i>: some in glittering pride<br/> +Spun to adorn the earth, whilst others wear<br/> +Rags of deformity, but knots of care<br/> +No thread was wholly free from. Next to this<br/> +Fair glorious tower, was placed that black abyss<br/> +Of dreadful Atropos, the baleful seat<br/> +Of death and horrour, in each room repleat<br/> +With lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sight<br/> +Of pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night.<br/> +To this, the last stage that the winding clew<br/> +Of Life can lead mortality unto,<br/> +Fear was the dreadful Porter, which let in<br/> +All guests sent thither by destructive sin.<br/> +<br/> +It is possible that I may have written from the recollection of this passage. +The conceit is the same, and I willingly attribute it to Chamberlayne, a Poet +to whom I am indebted for many hours of delight, and whom I one day hope to +rescue from undeserved oblivion. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section2"></a>The Second Book</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam’d<br/> +Amid the air, such odors wafting now<br/> +As erst came blended with the evening gale,<br/> +From Eden’s bowers of bliss. An angel form<br/> +Stood by the Maid; his wings, etherial white,<br/> +Flash’d like the diamond in the noon-tide sun,<br/> +Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear’d<br/> +Her Theodore.<br/> + Amazed she saw: the Fiend<br/> +Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice<br/> +Sounded, tho’ now more musically sweet<br/> +Than ever yet had thrill’d her charmed soul,<br/> +When eloquent Affection fondly told<br/> +The day-dreams of delight.<br/> + “Beloved Maid!<br/> +Lo! I am with thee! still thy Theodore!<br/> +Hearts in the holy bands of Love combin’d,<br/> +Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine!<br/> +A little while and thou shalt dwell with me<br/> +In scenes where Sorrow is not. Cheerily<br/> +Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave,<br/> +Rough tho’ it be and painful, for the grave<br/> +Is but the threshold of Eternity.<br/> + Favour’d of Heaven! to thee is given to view<br/> +These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss<br/> +Thou treadest, Maiden! Here the dungeons are<br/> +Where bad men learn repentance; souls diseased<br/> +Must have their remedy; and where disease<br/> +Is rooted deep, the remedy is long<br/> +Perforce, and painful.”<br/> + Thus the Spirit spake,<br/> +And led the Maid along a narrow path,<br/> +Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames,<br/> +More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound<br/> +Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath<br/> +Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach<br/> +A wide expanded den where all around<br/> +Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze,<br/> +Flamed dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood<br/> +The meagre form of Care, and as he blew<br/> +To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch’d<br/> +His wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus<br/> +He toil’d and toil’d, of toil to reap no end<br/> +But endless toil and never-ending woe.<br/> + An aged man went round the infernal vault,<br/> +Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task:<br/> +White were his locks, as is the wintry snow<br/> +On hoar Plinlimmon’s head. A golden staff<br/> +His steps supported; powerful talisman,<br/> +Which whoso feels shall never feel again<br/> +The tear of Pity, or the throb of Love.<br/> +Touch’d but by this, the massy gates give way,<br/> +The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall,<br/> +Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst<br/> +Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee<br/> +To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few,<br/> +Tho’ he the Blessed Teacher of mankind<br/> +Hath said, that easier thro’ the needle’s eye<br/> +Shall the huge camel pass,<a href="#fn5" name="fnref5" id="fnref5"><sup>[5]</sup></a> than the rich man<br/> +Enter the gates of heaven. “Ye cannot serve<br/> +Your God, and worship Mammon.”<br/> +“Missioned Maid!”<br/> +So spake the Angel, “know that these, whose hands<br/> +Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil,<br/> +Were Mammon’s slaves on earth. They did not spare<br/> +To wring from Poverty the hard-earn’d mite,<br/> +They robb’d the orphan’s pittance, they could see<br/> +Want’s asking eye unmoved; and therefore these,<br/> +Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere<br/> +In Mammon’s service; scorched by these fierce fires,<br/> +And frequent deluged by the o’erboiling ore:<br/> +Yet still so framed, that oft to quench their thirst<br/> +Unquenchable, large draughts of molten gold<a href="#fn6" name="fnref6" id="fnref6"><sup>[6]</sup></a><br/> +They drink insatiate, still with pain renewed,<br/> +Pain to destroy.”<br/> +So saying, her he led<br/> +Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell,<br/> +Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls<br/> +Part gleam’d with gold, and part with silver ore<br/> +A milder radiance shone. The Carbuncle<br/> +There its strong lustre like the flamy sun<br/> +Shot forth irradiate; from the earth beneath,<br/> +And from the roof a diamond light emits;<br/> +Rubies and amethysts their glows commix’d<br/> +With the gay topaz, and the softer ray<br/> +Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald’s hue,<br/> +And bright pyropus.<br/> +There on golden seats,<br/> +A numerous, sullen, melancholy train<br/> +Sat silent. “Maiden, these,” said Theodore,<br/> +Are they who let the love of wealth absorb<br/> +All other passions; in their souls that vice<br/> +Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree<br/> +That with its shade spreads barrenness around.<br/> +These, Maid! were men by no atrocious crime<br/> +Blacken’d, no fraud, nor ruffian violence:<br/> +Men of fair dealing, and respectable<br/> +On earth, but such as only for themselves<br/> +Heap’d up their treasures, deeming all their wealth<br/> +Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven,<br/> +To bless them only: therefore here they sit,<br/> +Possessed of gold enough, and by no pain<br/> +Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss<br/> +They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell,<br/> +Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour<br/> +Of general restitution.”<br/> +Thence they past,<br/> +And now arrived at such a gorgeous dome,<br/> +As even the pomp of Eastern opulence<br/> +Could never equal: wandered thro’ its halls<br/> +A numerous train; some with the red-swoln eye<br/> +Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek;<br/> +Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step,<br/> +And eyes lack-lustre.<br/> +Maiden? said her guide,<br/> +These are the wretched slaves of Appetite,<br/> +Curst with their wish enjoyed. The epicure<br/> +Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall’d sense<br/> +Loaths at the banquet; the voluptuous here<br/> +Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight,<br/> +And sink in misery. All they wish’d on earth,<br/> +Possessing here, whom have they to accuse,<br/> +But their own folly, for the lot they chose?<br/> +Yet, for that these injured themselves alone,<br/> +They to the house of Penitence may hie,<br/> +And, by a long and painful regimen,<br/> +To wearied Nature her exhausted powers<br/> +Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish<br/> +Of wisdom, and Almighty Goodness grants<br/> +That prize to him who seeks it.”<br/> +Whilst he spake,<br/> +The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and eye<br/> +Fat swoln, and legs whose monstrous size disgraced<br/> +The human form divine, their caterer,<br/> +Hight Gluttony, set forth the smoaking feast.<br/> +And by his side came on a brother form,<br/> +With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red<br/> +And scurfy-white, mix’d motley; his gross bulk,<br/> +Like some huge hogshead shapen’d, as applied.<br/> +Him had antiquity with mystic rites<br/> +Ador’d, to him the sons of Greece, and thine<br/> +Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour’d<br/> +The victim blood, with godlike titles graced,<br/> +Bacchus, or Dionusus; son of Jove,<br/> +Deem’d falsely, for from Folly’s ideot form<br/> +He sprung, what time Madness, with furious hand,<br/> +Seiz’d on the laughing female. At one birth<br/> +She brought the brethren, menial here, above<br/> +Reigning with sway supreme, and oft they hold<br/> +High revels: mid the Monastery’s gloom,<br/> +The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice<br/> +Episcopal, proclaims approaching day<br/> +Of visitation, or Churchwardens meet<br/> +To save the wretched many from the gripe<br/> +Of eager Poverty, or mid thy halls<br/> +Of London, mighty Mayor! rich Aldermen,<br/> +Of coming feast hold converse.<br/> +Otherwhere,<br/> +For tho’ allied in nature as in blood,<br/> +They hold divided sway, his brother lifts<br/> +His spungy sceptre. In the noble domes<br/> +Of Princes, and state-wearied Ministers,<br/> +Maddening he reigns; and when the affrighted mind<br/> +Casts o’er a long career of guilt and blood<br/> +Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought<br/> +To lull the worm of Conscience to repose.<br/> +He too the halls of country Squires frequents,<br/> +But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades<br/> +Thy offspring Rhedycina! and thy walls,<br/> +Granta! nightly libations there to him<br/> +Profuse are pour’d, till from the dizzy brain<br/> +Triangles, Circles, Parallelograms,<br/> +Moods, Tenses, Dialects, and Demigods,<br/> +And Logic and Theology are swept<br/> +By the red deluge.<br/> +Unmolested there<br/> +He reigns; till comes at length the general feast,<br/> +Septennial sacrifice; then when the sons<br/> +Of England meet, with watchful care to chuse<br/> +Their delegates, wise, independent men,<br/> +Unbribing and unbrib’d, and cull’d to guard<br/> +Their rights and charters from the encroaching grasp<br/> +Of greedy Power: then all the joyful land<br/> +Join in his sacrifices, so inspir’d<br/> +To make the important choice.<br/> +The observing Maid<br/> +Address’d her guide, “These Theodore, thou sayest<br/> +Are men, who pampering their foul appetites,<br/> +Injured themselves alone. But where are they,<br/> +The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil<br/> +Around the guileless female, so to sting<br/> +The heart that loves them?”<br/> +“Them,” the spirit replied,<br/> +A long and dreadful punishment awaits.<br/> +For when the prey of want and infamy,<br/> +Lower and lower still the victim sinks,<br/> +Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word,<br/> +One impious imprecation from her lips<br/> +Escapes, nay not a thought of evil lurks<br/> +In the polluted mind, that does not plead<br/> +Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued<br/> +Against the foul Seducer.”<br/> +Now they reach’d<br/> +The house of Penitence. Credulity<br/> +Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head<br/> +As tho’ to listen; on her vacant face,<br/> +A smile that promis’d premature assent;<br/> +Tho’ her Regret behind, a meagre Fiend,<br/> +Disciplin’d sorely.<br/> +Here they entered in,<br/> +And now arrived where, as in study tranced,<br/> +She sat, the Mistress of the Dome. Her face<br/> +Spake that composed severity, that knows<br/> +No angry impulse, no weak tenderness,<br/> +Resolved and calm. Before her lay that Book<br/> +That hath the words of Life; and as she read,<br/> +Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek,<br/> +Tho’ heavenly joy beam’d in her eye the while.<br/> +Leaving her undisturb’d, to the first ward<br/> +Of this great Lazar-house, the Angel led<br/> +The favour’d Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down<br/> +On the hard stone that their bare knees had worn,<br/> +In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear’d:<br/> +Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave;<br/> +Yet such expression stealing from the eye,<br/> +As tho’, that only naked, all the rest<br/> +Was one close fitting mask. A scoffing Fiend,<br/> +For Fiend he was, tho’ wisely serving here<br/> +Mock’d at his patients, and did often pour<br/> +Ashes upon them, and then bid them say<br/> +Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laughed:<br/> +For these were Hypocrites, on earth revered<br/> +As holy ones, who did in public tell<br/> +Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross themselves,<br/> +And call themselves most miserable sinners,<br/> +That so they might be deem’d most pious saints;<br/> +And go all filth, and never let a smile<br/> +Bend their stern muscles, gloomy, sullen men,<br/> +Barren of all affection, and all this<br/> +To please their God, forsooth! and therefore Scorn<br/> +Grinn’d at his patients, making them repeat<br/> +Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery<br/> +Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer,<br/> +They pour’d the silent sorrows of the soul<br/> +To Heaven, then did they not regard his mocks<br/> +Which then came painless, and Humility<br/> +Soon rescued them, and led to Penitence,<br/> +That She might lead to Heaven.<br/> +From thence they came,<br/> +Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band<br/> +Groan’d underneath the bitter tyranny<br/> +Of a fierce Daemon. His coarse hair was red,<br/> +Pale grey his eyes, and blood-shot; and his face<br/> +Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears<br/> +In ecstacy. Well-pleased he went around,<br/> +Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some,<br/> +Or probing with a poison’d lance their breasts,<br/> +Or placing coals of fire within their wounds;<br/> +Or seizing some within his mighty grasp,<br/> +He fix’d them on a stake, and then drew back,<br/> +And laugh’d to see them writhe.<br/> +“These,” said the Spirit,<br/> +Are taught by Cruelty, to loath the lives<br/> +They led themselves. Here are those wicked men<br/> +Who loved to exercise their tyrant power<br/> +On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo<br/> +A long purgation here; the traffickers<br/> +In human flesh here too are disciplined.<br/> +Till by their suffering they have equall’d all<br/> +The miseries they inflicted, all the mass<br/> +Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged,<br/> +The towns they burnt, for they who bribe to war<br/> +Are guilty of the blood, the widows left<br/> +In want, the slave or led to suicide,<br/> +Or murdered by the foul infected air<br/> +Of his close dungeon, or more sad than all,<br/> +His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved,<br/> +And driven by woe to wickedness.<br/> +These next,<br/> +Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room,<br/> +So sullen, and with such an eye of hate<br/> +Each on the other scowling, these have been<br/> +False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts<br/> +Here they dwell: in the hollow of their hearts<br/> +There is a worm that feeds, and tho’ thou seest<br/> +That skilful leech who willingly would heal<br/> +The ill they suffer, judging of all else<br/> +By their own evil standard, they suspect<br/> +The aid be vainly proffers, lengthening thus<br/> +By vice its punishment.”<br/> +“But who are these,”<br/> +The Maid exclaim’d, “that robed in flowing lawn,<br/> +And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps<br/> +Like Cardinals, I see in every ward,<br/> +Performing menial service at the beck<br/> +Of all who bid them?”<br/> +Theodore replied,<br/> +These men are they who in the name of CHRIST<br/> +Did heap up wealth, and arrogating power,<br/> +Did make men bow the knee, and call themselves<br/> +Most Reverend Graces and Right Reverend Lords.<br/> +They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed,<br/> +And in fine linen: therefore are they here;<br/> +And tho’ they would not minister on earth,<br/> +Here penanced they perforce must minister:<br/> +For he, the lowly man of Nazareth,<br/> +Hath said, his kingdom is not of the world.”<br/> +So Saying on they past, and now arrived<br/> +Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode,<br/> +That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye,<br/> +And shudder’d: each one was a loathly corpse,<br/> +The worm did banquet on his putrid prey,<br/> +Yet had they life and feeling exquisite<br/> +Tho’ motionless and mute.<br/> +“Most wretched men<br/> +Are these, the angel cried. These, Joan, are bards,<br/> +Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuate<br/> +Who sat them down, deliberately lewd,<br/> +So to awake and pamper lust in minds<br/> +Unborn; and therefore foul of body now<br/> +As then they were of soul, they here abide<br/> +Long as the evil works they left on earth<br/> +Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom!<br/> +Yet amply merited by that bad man<br/> +Who prostitutes the sacred gift of song!”<br/> +And now they reached a huge and massy pile,<br/> +Massy it seem’d, and yet in every blast<br/> +As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit,<br/> +Remorse for ever his sad vigils kept.<br/> +Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch.<br/> +Inly he groan’d, or, starting, wildly shriek’d,<br/> +Aye as the fabric tottering from its base,<br/> +Threatened its fall, and so expectant still<br/> +Lived in the dread of danger still delayed.<br/> +They enter’d there a large and lofty dome,<br/> +O’er whose black marble sides a dim drear light<br/> +Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp.<br/> +Enthroned around, the Murderers of Mankind,<br/> +Monarchs, the great! the glorious! the august!<br/> +Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire,<br/> +Sat stern and silent. Nimrod he was there,<br/> +First King the mighty hunter; and that Chief<br/> +Who did belie his mother’s fame, that so<br/> +He might be called young Ammon. In this court<br/> +Cæsar was crown’d, accurst liberticide;<br/> +And he who murdered Tully, that cold villain,<br/> +Octavius, tho’ the courtly minion’s lyre<br/> +Hath hymn’d his praise, tho’ Maro sung to him,<br/> +And when Death levelled to original clay<br/> +The royal carcase, Flattery, fawning low,<br/> +Fell at his feet, and worshipped the new God.<br/> +Titus was here,<a href="#fn7" name="fnref7" id="fnref7"><sup>[7]</sup></a> the Conqueror of the Jews,<br/> +He the Delight of human-kind misnamed;<br/> +Cæsars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings,<br/> +Here they were all, all who for glory fought,<br/> +Here in the Court of Glory reaping now<br/> +The meed they merited.<br/> +As gazing round<br/> +The Virgin mark’d the miserable train,<br/> +A deep and hollow voice from one went forth;<br/> +“Thou who art come to view our punishment,<br/> +Maiden of Orleans! hither turn thine eyes,<br/> +For I am he whose bloody victories<br/> +Thy power hath rendered vain. Lo! I am here,<br/> +The hero conqueror of Azincour,<br/> +Henry of England!—wretched that I am,<br/> +I might have reigned in happiness and peace,<br/> +My coffers full, my subjects undisturb’d,<br/> +And Plenty and Prosperity had loved<br/> +To dwell amongst them: but mine eye beheld<br/> +The realm of France, by faction tempest-torn,<br/> +And therefore I did think that it would fall<br/> +An easy prey. I persecuted those<br/> +Who taught new doctrines, tho’ they taught the truth:<br/> +And when I heard of thousands by the sword<br/> +Cut off, or blasted by the pestilence,<br/> +I calmly counted up my proper gains,<br/> +And sent new herds to slaughter. Temperate<br/> +Myself, no blood that mutinied, no vice<br/> +Tainting my private life, I sent abroad<br/> +Murder and Rape; and therefore am I doom’d,<br/> +Like these imperial Sufferers, crown’d with fire,<br/> +Here to remain, till Man’s awaken’d eye<br/> +Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds,<br/> +And warn’d by them, till the whole human race,<br/> +Equalling in bliss the aggregate we caus’d<br/> +Of wretchedness, shall form One Brotherhood,<br/> +One Universal Family of Love.” +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn5" id="fn5"></a> <a href="#fnref5">[5]</a> +In the former edition I had substituted <i>cable</i> instead of <i>camel</i>. +The alteration would not be worth noticing were it not for the circumstance +which occasioned it. <i>Facilius elephas per foramen acus</i>, is among the +Hebrew adages collected by Drusius; the same metaphor is found in two other +Jewish proverbs, and this appears to determine the signification of +καμηλος Matt. 19. 24. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn6" id="fn6"></a> <a href="#fnref6">[6]</a> +The same idea, and almost the same words are in an old play by John Ford. The +passage is a very fine one:<br/> +<br/> +Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched,<br/> +Almost condemn’d alive! There is a place,<br/> +(List daughter!) in a black and hollow vault,<br/> +Where day is never seen; there shines no sun,<br/> +But flaming horror of consuming fires;<br/> +A lightless sulphur, choak’d with smoaky foggs<br/> +Of an infected darkness. In this place<br/> +Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts<br/> +Of never-dying deaths; there damned souls<br/> +Roar without pity, there are gluttons fed<br/> +With toads and adders; there is burning oil<br/> +Pour’d down the drunkard’s throat, <i>the usurer<br/> +Is forced to sup whole draughts of molten gold</i>;<br/> +There is the murderer for ever stabb’d,<br/> +Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton<br/> +On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul<br/> +He feels the torment of his raging lust.<br/> +<br/> +<i>(’Tis Pity she’s a Whore.)</i><br/> +<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +I wrote this passage when very young, and the idea, trite as it is, was new to +me. It occurs I believe in most descriptions of hell, and perhaps owes its +origin to the fate of Crassus.<br/> + After this picture of horrors, the reader may perhaps be pleased with one +more pleasantly fanciful:<br/> +<br/> +O call me home again dear Chief! and put me<br/> +To yoking foxes, milking of he-goats,<br/> +Pounding of water in a mortar, laving<br/> +The sea dry with a nutshell, gathering all<br/> +The leaves are fallen this autumn—making ropes of sand,<br/> +Catching the winds together in a net,<br/> +Mustering of ants, and numbering atoms, all<br/> +That Hell and you thought exquisite torments, rather<br/> +Than stay me here a thought more. I would sooner<br/> +Keep fleas within a circle, and be accomptant<br/> +A thousand year which of ’em, and how far<br/> +Outleap’d the other, than endure a minute<br/> +Such as I have within.<br/> +<br/> +(B. Jonson. <i>The Devil is an Ass.)</i> +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn7" id="fn7"></a> <a href="#fnref7">[7]</a> +During the siege of Jerusalem, “the Roman commander, <i>with a generous +clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism,</i> laboured incessantly, +and to the very last moment, to preserve the place. With this view, he again +and again intreated the tyrants to surrender and save their lives. With the +same view also, after carrying the second wall the siege was intermitted four +days: to rouse their fears, <i>prisoners, to the number of five hundred, or +more were crucified daily before the walls; till space</i>, Josephus says, +<i>was wanting for the crosses, and crosses for the +captives</i>.”—<i>Churton’s Bampton Lectures</i>.<br/> + If any of my readers should enquire why Titus Vespasian, the Delight of +Mankind, is placed in such a situation,—I answer, for this instance of +<i>“his generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true +heroism!”</i> +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section3"></a>The Third Book</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +The Maiden, musing on the Warrior’s words,<br/> +Turn’d from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach’d<br/> +A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood,<br/> +In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eye<br/> +Beam’d promise, but behind, withered and old,<br/> +And all unlovely. Underneath his feet<br/> +Lay records trampled, and the laurel wreath<br/> +Now rent and faded: in his hand he held<br/> +An hour-glass, and as fall the restless sands,<br/> +So pass the lives of men. By him they past<br/> +Along the darksome cave, and reach’d a stream,<br/> +Still rolling onward its perpetual waves,<br/> +Noiseless and undisturbed. Here they ascend<br/> +A Bark unpiloted, that down the flood,<br/> +Borne by the current, rush’d. The circling stream,<br/> +Returning to itself, an island form’d;<br/> +Nor had the Maiden’s footsteps ever reach’d<br/> +The insulated coast, eternally<br/> +Rapt round the endless course; but Theodore<br/> +Drove with an angel’s will the obedient bark.<br/> +<br/> +They land, a mighty fabric meets their eyes,<br/> +Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamant<br/> +The pile was framed, for ever to abide<br/> +Firm in eternal strength. Before the gate<br/> +Stood eager Expectation, as to list<br/> +The half-heard murmurs issuing from within,<br/> +Her mouth half-open’d, and her head stretch’d forth.<br/> +On the other side there stood an aged Crone,<br/> +Listening to every breath of air; she knew<br/> +Vague suppositions and uncertain dreams,<br/> +Of what was soon to come, for she would mark<br/> +The paley glow-worm’s self-created light,<br/> +And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown,<br/> +And desolated nations; ever fill’d<br/> +With undetermin’d terror, as she heard<br/> +Or distant screech-owl, or the regular beat<br/> +Of evening death-watch.<br/> +“Maid,” the Spirit cried,<br/> +Here, robed in shadows, dwells Futurity.<br/> +There is no eye hath seen her secret form,<br/> +For round the Mother of Time, unpierced mists<br/> +Aye hover. Would’st thou read the book of Fate,<br/> +Enter.”<br/> +The Damsel for a moment paus’d,<br/> +Then to the Angel spake: “All-gracious Heaven!<br/> +Benignant in withholding, hath denied<br/> +To man that knowledge. I, in faith assured,<br/> +That he, my heavenly Father, for the best<br/> +Ordaineth all things, in that faith remain<br/> +Contented.”<br/> +“Well and wisely hast thou said,<br/> +So Theodore replied; “and now O Maid!<br/> +Is there amid this boundless universe<br/> +One whom thy soul would visit? is there place<br/> +To memory dear, or visioned out by hope,<br/> +Where thou would’st now be present? form the wish,<br/> +And I am with thee, there.”<br/> +His closing speech<br/> +Yet sounded on her ear, and lo! they stood<br/> +Swift as the sudden thought that guided them,<br/> +Within the little cottage that she loved.<br/> +“He sleeps! the good man sleeps!” enrapt she cried,<br/> +As bending o’er her Uncle’s lowly bed<br/> +Her eye retraced his features. “See the beads<br/> +That never morn nor night he fails to tell,<br/> +Remembering me, his child, in every prayer.<br/> +Oh! quiet be thy sleep, thou dear old man!<br/> +Good Angels guard thy rest! and when thine hour<br/> +Is come, as gently mayest thou wake to life,<br/> +As when thro’ yonder lattice the next sun<br/> +Shall bid thee to thy morning orisons!<br/> +Thy voice is heard, the Angel guide rejoin’d,<br/> +He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breathe<br/> +Blessings, and pleasant is the good man’s rest.<br/> +Thy fame has reached him, for who has not heard<br/> +Thy wonderous exploits? and his aged heart<br/> +Hath felt the deepest joy that ever yet<br/> +Made his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on old Claude!<br/> +Peaceful, pure Spirit, be thy sojourn here,<br/> +And short and soon thy passage to that world<br/> +Where friends shall part no more!<br/> +“Does thy soul own<br/> +No other wish? or sleeps poor Madelon<br/> +Forgotten in her grave? seest thou yon star,”<br/> +The Spirit pursued, regardless of her eye<br/> +That look’d reproach; “seest thou that evening star<br/> +Whose lovely light so often we beheld<br/> +From yonder woodbine porch? how have we gazed<br/> +Into the dark deep sky, till the baffled soul,<br/> +Lost in the infinite, returned, and felt<br/> +The burthen of her bodily load, and yearned<br/> +For freedom! Maid, in yonder evening slar<br/> +Lives thy departed friend. I read that glance,<br/> +And we are there!”<br/> +He said and they had past<br/> +The immeasurable space.<br/> +Then on her ear<br/> +The lonely song of adoration rose,<br/> +Sweet as the cloister’d virgins vesper hymn,<br/> +Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopes<br/> +Already lives in Heaven. Abrupt the song<br/> +Ceas’d, tremulous and quick a cry<br/> +Of joyful wonder rous’d the astonish’d Maid,<br/> +And instant Madelon was in her arms;<br/> +No airy form, no unsubstantial shape,<br/> +She felt her friend, she prest her to her heart,<br/> +Their tears of rapture mingled.<br/> +She drew back<br/> +And eagerly she gazed on Madelon,<br/> +Then fell upon her neck again and wept.<br/> +No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief,<br/> +The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness,<br/> +The languid eye: youth’s loveliest freshness now<br/> +Mantled her cheek, whose every lineament<br/> +Bespake the soul at rest, a holy calm,<br/> +A deep and full tranquillity of bliss.<br/> +<br/> +“Thou then art come, my first and dearest friend!”<br/> +The well known voice of Madelon began,<br/> +“Thou then art come! and was thy pilgrimage<br/> +So short on earth? and was it painful too,<br/> +Painful and short as mine? but blessed they<br/> +Who from the crimes and miseries of the world<br/> +Early escape!”<br/> +“Nay,” Theodore replied,<br/> +She hath not yet fulfill’d her mortal work.<br/> +Permitted visitant from earth she comes<br/> +To see the seat of rest, and oftentimes<br/> +In sorrow shall her soul remember this,<br/> +And patient of the transitory woe<br/> +Partake the anticipated peace again.”<br/> +“Soon be that work perform’d!” the Maid exclaimed,<br/> +“O Madelon! O Theodore! my soul,<br/> +Spurning the cold communion of the world,<br/> +Will dwell with you! but I shall patiently,<br/> +Yea even with joy, endure the allotted ills<br/> +Of which the memory in this better state<br/> +Shall heighten bliss. That hour of agony,<br/> +When, Madelon, I felt thy dying grasp,<br/> +And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death,<br/> +The very horrors of that hour assume<br/> +A shape that now delights.”<br/> +“O earliest friend!<br/> +I too remember,” Madelon replied,<br/> +“That hour, thy looks of watchful agony,<br/> +The suppressed grief that struggled in thine eye<br/> +Endearing love’s last kindness. Thou didst know<br/> +With what a deep and melancholy joy<br/> +I felt the hour draw on: but who can speak<br/> +The unutterable transport, when mine eyes,<br/> +As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed<br/> +Amid this peaceful vale, unclos’d on him,<br/> +My Arnaud! he had built me up a bower,<br/> +A bower of rest.—See, Maiden, where he comes,<br/> +His manly lineaments, his beaming eye<br/> +The same, but now a holier innocence<br/> +Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume<br/> +The enlighten’d glance.”<br/> +They met, what joy was theirs<br/> +He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead<br/> +Has wet the midnight pillow with his tears.<br/> +<br/> + Fair was the scene around; an ample vale<br/> +Whose mountain circle at the distant verge<br/> +Lay softened on the sight; the near ascent<br/> +Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare,<br/> +Part with the ancient majesty of woods<br/> +Adorn’d, or lifting high its rocks sublime.<br/> +The river’s liquid radiance roll’d beneath,<br/> +Beside the bower of Madelon it wound<br/> +A broken stream, whose shallows, tho’ the waves<br/> +Roll’d on their way with rapid melody,<br/> +A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove<br/> +Its gay green foliage starr’d with golden fruit;<br/> +But with what odours did their blossoms load<br/> +The passing gale of eve! less thrilling sweet<br/> +Rose from the marble’s perforated floor,<br/> +Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen<br/> +Inhaled the cool delight,<a href="#fn8" name="fnref8" id="fnref8"><sup>[8]</sup></a> and whilst she asked<br/> +The Prophet for his promised paradise,<br/> +Shaped from the present scene its utmost joys.<br/> +A goodly scene! fair as that faery land<br/> +Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne<br/> +From Camlan’s bloody banks; or as the groves<br/> +Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say,<br/> +Enoch abides, and he who rapt away<br/> +By fiery steeds, and chariotted in fire,<br/> +Past in his mortal form the eternal ways;<br/> +And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there<br/> +The beatific vision, sometimes seen<br/> +The distant dawning of eternal day,<br/> +Till all things be fulfilled.<br/> +“Survey this scene!”<br/> +So Theodore address’d the Maid of Arc,<br/> +“There is no evil here, no wretchedness,<br/> +It is the Heaven of those who nurst on earth<br/> +Their nature’s gentlest feelings. Yet not here<br/> +Centering their joys, but with a patient hope,<br/> +Waiting the allotted hour when capable<br/> +Of loftier callings, to a better state<br/> +They pass; and hither from that better state<br/> +Frequent they come, preserving so those ties<br/> +That thro’ the infinite progressiveness<br/> +Complete our perfect bliss.<br/> +“Even such, so blest,<br/> +Save that the memory of no sorrows past<br/> +Heightened the present joy, our world was once,<br/> +In the first æra of its innocence<br/> +Ere man had learnt to bow the knee to man.<br/> +Was there a youth whom warm affection fill’d,<br/> +He spake his honest heart; the earliest fruits<br/> +His toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck’d<br/> +The sunny bank, he gather’d for the maid,<br/> +Nor she disdain’d the gift; for Vice not yet<br/> +Had burst the dungeons of her hell, and rear’d<br/> +Those artificial boundaries that divide<br/> +Man from his species. State of blessedness!<br/> +Till that ill-omen’d hour when Cain’s stern son<br/> +Delved in the bowels of the earth for gold,<br/> +Accursed bane of virtue! of such force<br/> +As poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon’s locks,<br/> +Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-blood<br/> +Cold curdle in his veins, the creeping flesh<br/> +Grew stiff with horror, and the heart forgot<br/> +To beat. Accursed hour! for man no more<br/> +To Justice paid his homage, but forsook<br/> +Her altars, and bow’d down before the shrine<br/> +Of Wealth and Power, the Idols he had made.<br/> +Then Hell enlarged herself, her gates flew wide,<br/> +Her legion fiends rush’d forth. Oppression came<br/> +Whose frown is desolation, and whose breath<br/> +Blasts like the Pestilence; and Poverty,<br/> +A meagre monster, who with withering touch<br/> +Makes barren all the better part of man,<br/> +Mother of Miseries. Then the goodly earth<br/> +Which God had fram’d for happiness, became<br/> +One theatre of woe, and all that God<br/> +Had given to bless free men, these tyrant fiends<br/> +His bitterest curses made. Yet for the best<br/> +Hath he ordained all things, the ALL-WISE!<br/> +For by experience rous’d shall man at length<br/> +Dash down his Moloch-Idols, Samson-like<br/> +And burst his fetters, only strong whilst strong<br/> +Believed. Then in the bottomless abyss<br/> +Oppression shall be chain’d, and Poverty<br/> +Die, and with her, her brood of Miseries;<br/> +And Virtue and Equality preserve<br/> +The reign of Love, and Earth shall once again<br/> +Be Paradise, whilst Wisdom shall secure<br/> +The state of bliss which Ignorance betrayed.”<br/> +<br/> +“Oh age of happiness!” the Maid exclaim’d,<br/> +Roll fast thy current, Time till that blest age<br/> +Arrive! and happy thou my Theodore,<br/> +Permitted thus to see the sacred depths<br/> +Of wisdom!”<br/> +“Such,” the blessed Spirit replied,<br/> +Beloved! such our lot; allowed to range<br/> +The vast infinity, progressive still<br/> +In knowledge and encreasing blessedness,<br/> +This our united portion. Thou hast yet<br/> +A little while to sojourn amongst men:<br/> +I will be with thee! there shall not a breeze<br/> +Wanton around thy temples, on whose wing<br/> +I will not hover near! and at that hour<br/> +When from its fleshly sepulchre let loose,<br/> +Thy phoenix soul shall soar, O best-beloved!<br/> +I will be with thee in thine agonies,<br/> +And welcome thee to life and happiness,<br/> +Eternal infinite beatitude!”<br/> +<br/> +He spake, and led her near a straw-roof’d cot,<br/> +Love’s Palace. By the Virtues circled there,<br/> +The cherub listen’d to such melodies,<br/> +As aye, when one good deed is register’d<br/> +Above, re-echo in the halls of Heaven.<br/> +Labour was there, his crisp locks floating loose,<br/> +Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye,<br/> +And strong his arm robust; the wood-nymph Health<br/> +Still follow’d on his path, and where he trod<br/> +Fresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was Hope,<br/> +The general friend; and Pity, whose mild eye<br/> +Wept o’er the widowed dove; and, loveliest form,<br/> +Majestic Chastity, whose sober smile<br/> +Delights and awes the soul; a laurel wreath<br/> +Restrain’d her tresses, and upon her breast<br/> +The snow-drop hung its head,<a href="#fn9" name="fnref9" id="fnref9"><sup>[9]</sup></a> that seem’d to grow<br/> +Spontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maid<br/> +Love went submiss, wilh eye more dangerous<br/> +Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe’er<br/> +Too bold approached; yet anxious would he read<br/> +Her every rising wish, then only pleased<br/> +When pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais’d.<br/> +<br/> +“Glory to thee whose vivifying power<br/> +Pervades all Nature’s universal frame!<br/> +Glory to thee Creator Love! to thee,<br/> +Parent of all the smiling Charities,<br/> +That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers!<br/> +Glory to thee Preserver! to thy praise<br/> +The awakened woodlands echo all the day<br/> +Their living melody; and warbling forth<br/> +To thee her twilight song, the Nightingale<br/> +Holds the lone Traveller from his way, or charms<br/> +The listening Poet’s ear. Where Love shall deign<br/> +To fix his seat, there blameless Pleasure sheds<br/> +Her roseate dews; Content will sojourn there,<br/> +And Happiness behold Affection eye<br/> +Gleam with the Mother’s smile. Thrice happy he<br/> +Who feels thy holy power! he shall not drag,<br/> +Forlorn and friendless, along Life’s long path<br/> +To Age’s drear abode; he shall not waste<br/> +The bitter evening of his days unsooth’d;<br/> +But Hope shall cheer his hours of Solitude,<br/> +And Vice shall vainly strive to wound his breast,<br/> +That bears that talisman; and when he meets<br/> +The eloquent eye of Tenderness, and hears<br/> +The bosom-thrilling music of her voice;<br/> +The joy he feels shall purify his Soul,<br/> +And imp it for anticipated Heaven.” +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn8" id="fn8"></a> <a href="#fnref8">[8]</a> +In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the Queen used to dress and say her +prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there is a slab of marble full +of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled that were kept constantly +burning beneath. The doors and windows are disposed so as to afford the most +agreeable prospects, and to throw a soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh +currents of air too are admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious +coolness of this apartment.—<i>Sketch of the History of the Spanish +Moors, prefixed to Florian’s Gonsalvo of Cordova</i>. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn9" id="fn9"></a> <a href="#fnref9">[9]</a> +“The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired her charms, but +decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems to grow on the breast +of the Virgin.”—P.H. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="section4"></a>The Rose</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is +the felde Floridus, that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For +als moche as a fayre Mayden was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, +that sche hadde don fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed +to the dethe, and to be brent in that place, to the whiche sche +was ladd. And as the fyre began to brenne about hire, she made +hire preyeres to oure Lord, that als wissely as sche was not +gylty of that synne, that he wold help hire, and make it to be +knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; and whanne she had +thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon was the fuyer +quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, becomen +white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise weren the first Roseres +and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. And +thus was this Maiden saved be the Grace of God.<br/> +<br/> +<i>The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John +Maundevile</i>. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +<b>The Rose</b> +<br/> +Nay Edith! spare the rose!—it lives—it +lives,<br/> +It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh’d<br/> +The dews of night; let not thy gentle hand<br/> +Tear sunder its life-fibres and destroy<br/> +The sense of being!—why that infidel smile?<br/> +Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful,<br/> +And thou shall have a tale of other times,<br/> +For I am skill’d in legendary lore,<br/> +So thou wilt let it live. There was a time<br/> +Ere this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms,<br/> +Bedeck’d the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard<br/> +How first by miracle its fragrant leaves<br/> +Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness.<br/> +<br/> +There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid<br/> +And Zillah was her name, so passing fair<br/> +That all Judea spake the damsel’s praise.<br/> +He who had seen her eyes’ dark radiance<br/> +How quick it spake the soul, and what a soul<br/> +Beam’d in its mild effulgence, woe was he!<br/> +For not in solitude, for not in crowds,<br/> +Might he escape remembrance, or avoid<br/> +Her imaged form that followed every where,<br/> +And fill’d the heart, and fix’d the absent eye.<br/> +Woe was he, for her bosom own’d no love<br/> +Save the strong ardours of religious zeal,<br/> +For Zillah on her God had centered all<br/> +Her spirit’s deep affections. So for her<br/> +Her tribes-men sigh’d in vain, yet reverenced<br/> +The obdurate virtue that destroyed their hopes.<br/> +<br/> +One man there was, a vain and wretched man,<br/> +Who saw, desired, despair’d, and hated her.<br/> +His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek<br/> +Even till the flush of angry modesty<br/> +Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more.<br/> +She loath’d the man, for Hamuel’s eye was bold,<br/> +And the strong workings of brute selfishness<br/> +Had moulded his broad features; and she fear’d<br/> +The bitterness of wounded vanity<br/> +That with a fiendish hue would overcast<br/> +His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear,<br/> +For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plot<br/> +Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad<br/> +Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports<br/> +That soon obtain belief; that Zillah’s eye<br/> +When in the temple heaven-ward it was rais’d<br/> +Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those<br/> +Who had beheld the enthusiast’s melting glance<br/> +With other feelings fill’d; that ’twas a task<br/> +Of easy sort to play the saint by day<br/> +Before the public eye, but that all eyes<br/> +Were closed at night; that Zillah’s life was foul,<br/> +Yea forfeit to the law.<br/> +<br/> +Shame—shame to man<br/> +That he should trust so easily the tongue<br/> +That stabs another’s fame! the ill report<br/> +Was heard, repeated, and believed,—and soon,<br/> +For Hamuel by most damned artifice<br/> +Produced such semblances of guilt, the Maid<br/> +Was judged to shameful death.<br/> +Without the walls<br/> +There was a barren field; a place abhorr’d,<br/> +For it was there where wretched criminals<br/> +Were done to die; and there they built the stake,<br/> +And piled the fuel round, that should consume<br/> +The accused Maid, abandon’d, as it seem’d,<br/> +By God and man. The assembled Bethlemites<br/> +Beheld the scene, and when they saw the Maid<br/> +Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness<br/> +She lifted up her patient looks to Heaven,<br/> +They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts<br/> +Stood Hamuel near the pile, him savage joy<br/> +Led thitherward, but now within his heart<br/> +Unwonted feelings stirr’d, and the first pangs<br/> +Of wakening guilt, anticipating Hell.<br/> +The eye of Zillah as it glanced around<br/> +Fell on the murderer once, but not in wrath;<br/> +And therefore like a dagger it had fallen,<br/> +Had struck into his soul a cureless wound.<br/> +Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour<br/> +Of triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch,<br/> +Not in the hour of infamy and death<br/> +Forsake the virtuous! they draw near the stake—<br/> +And lo! the torch! hold hold your erring hands!<br/> +Yet quench the rising flames!—they rise! they spread!<br/> +They reach the suffering Maid! oh God protect<br/> +The innocent one!<br/> +They rose, they spread, they raged—<br/> +The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire<br/> +Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames<br/> +In one long lightning flash collecting fierce,<br/> +Darted and blasted Hamuel—him alone.<br/> +Hark—what a fearful scream the multitude<br/> +Pour forth!—and yet more miracles! the stake<br/> +Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves and bowers<br/> +The innocent Maid, and roses bloom around,<br/> +Now first beheld since Paradise was lost,<br/> +And fill with Eden odours all the air. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="section5"></a>The Complaints of the Poor</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +And wherefore do the Poor complain?<br/> + The rich man asked of me,—<br/> +Come walk abroad with me, I said<br/> + And I will answer thee.<br/> +<br/> +Twas evening and the frozen streets<br/> + Were cheerless to behold,<br/> +And we were wrapt and coated well,<br/> + And yet we were a-cold.<br/> +<br/> +We met an old bare-headed man,<br/> + His locks were few and white,<br/> +I ask’d him what he did abroad<br/> + In that cold winter’s night:<br/> +<br/> +’Twas bitter keen indeed, he said,<br/> + But at home no fire had he,<br/> +And therefore, he had come abroad<br/> + To ask for charity.<br/> +<br/> +We met a young bare-footed child,<br/> + And she begg’d loud and bold,<br/> +I ask’d her what she did abroad<br/> + When the wind it blew so cold;<br/> +<br/> +She said her father was at home<br/> + And he lay sick a-bed,<br/> +And therefore was it she was sent<br/> + Abroad to beg for bread.<br/> +<br/> +We saw a woman sitting down<br/> + Upon a stone to rest,<br/> +She had a baby at her back<br/> + And another at her breast;<br/> +<br/> +I ask’d her why she loiter’d there<br/> + When the wind it was so chill;<br/> +She turn’d her head and bade the child<br/> + That scream’d behind be still.<br/> +<br/> +She told us that her husband served<br/> + A soldier, far away,<br/> +And therefore to her parish she<br/> + Was begging back her way.<br/> +<br/> +We met a girl; her dress was loose<br/> + And sunken was her eye,<br/> +Who with the wanton’s hollow voice<br/> + Address’d the passers by;<br/> +<br/> +I ask’d her what there was in guilt<br/> + That could her heart allure<br/> +To shame, disease, and late remorse?<br/> + She answer’d, she was poor.<br/> +<br/> +I turn’d me to the rich man then<br/> + For silently stood he,<br/> +You ask’d me why the Poor complain,<br/> + And these have answer’d thee. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="section6"></a>Metrical Letter</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Written from London</i> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Margaret! my Cousin!—nay, you must not smile;<br/> +I love the homely and familiar phrase;<br/> +And I will call thee Cousin Margaret,<br/> +However quaint amid the measured line<br/> +The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill<br/> +When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin,<br/> +Sirring and Madaming as civilly<br/> +As if the road between the heart and lips<br/> +Were such a weary and Laplandish way<br/> +That the poor travellers came to the red gates<br/> +Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret,<br/> +For many a day my Memory has played<br/> +The creditor with me on your account,<br/> +And made me shame to think that I should owe<br/> +So long the debt of kindness. But in truth,<br/> +Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear<br/> +So heavy a pack of business, that albeit<br/> +I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race<br/> +Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I<br/> +That for a moment you should lay to me<br/> +Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart<br/> +That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some<br/> +Who know how warm it beats. I am not one<br/> +Who can play off my smiles and courtesies<br/> +To every Lady of her lap dog tired<br/> +Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend<br/> +Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love;<br/> +Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up<br/> +At once without a seed and take no root,<br/> +Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere<br/> +The little circle of domestic life<br/> +I would be known and loved; the world beyond<br/> +Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think<br/> +That you should know me well, for you and I<br/> +Grew up together, and when we look back<br/> +Upon old times our recollections paint<br/> +The same familiar faces. Did I wield<br/> +The wand of Merlin’s magic I would make<br/> +Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship,<br/> +Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood<br/> +That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth,<br/> +The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle<br/> +Like that where whilome old Apollidon<br/> +Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid<br/> +The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers,<br/> +That we might stand upon the beach, and mark<br/> +The far-off breakers shower their silver spray,<br/> +And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound<br/> +Told us that never mariner should reach<br/> +Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle<br/> +We might renew the days of infancy,<br/> +And Life like a long childhood pass away,<br/> +Without one care. It may be, Margaret,<br/> +That I shall yet be gathered to my friends,<br/> +For I am not of those who live estranged<br/> +Of choice, till at the last they join their race<br/> +In the family vault. If so, if I should lose,<br/> +Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack<br/> +So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine<br/> +Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly.<br/> +If not, if I should never get beyond<br/> +This Vanity town, there is another world<br/> +Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret,<br/> +I gaze at night into the boundless sky,<br/> +And think that I shall there be born again,<br/> +The exalted native of some better star;<br/> +And like the rude American I hope<br/> +To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="section7"></a>Ballads</h2> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section8"></a>The Cross Roads</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about +forty years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who +was present at the funeral, told me the story and the particulars +of the interment, as I have versified them. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +There was an old man breaking stones<br/> +To mend the turnpike way,<br/> +He sat him down beside a brook<br/> +And out his bread and cheese he took,<br/> +For now it was mid-day.<br/> +<br/> +He lent his back against a post,<br/> +His feet the brook ran by;<br/> +And there were water-cresses growing,<br/> +And pleasant was the water’s flowing<br/> +For he was hot and dry.<br/> +<br/> +A soldier with his knapsack on<br/> +Came travelling o’er the down,<br/> +The sun was strong and he was tired,<br/> +And of the old man he enquired<br/> +How far to Bristol town.<br/> +<br/> +Half an hour’s walk for a young man<br/> +By lanes and fields and stiles.<br/> +But you the foot-path do not know,<br/> +And if along the road you go<br/> +Why then ’tis three good miles.<br/> +<br/> +The soldier took his knapsack off<br/> +For he was hot and dry;<br/> +And out his bread and cheese he took<br/> +And he sat down beside the brook<br/> +To dine in company.<br/> +<br/> +Old friend! in faith, the soldier says<br/> +I envy you almost;<br/> +My shoulders have been sorely prest<br/> +And I should like to sit and rest,<br/> +My back against that post.<br/> +<br/> +In such a sweltering day as this<br/> +A knapsack is the devil!<br/> +And if on t’other side I sat<br/> +It would not only spoil our chat<br/> +But make me seem uncivil.<br/> +<br/> +The old man laugh’d and moved. I wish<br/> +It were a great-arm’d chair!<br/> +But this may help a man at need;<br/> +And yet it was a cursed deed<br/> +That ever brought it there.<br/> +<br/> +There’s a poor girl lies buried here<br/> +Beneath this very place.<br/> +The earth upon her corpse is prest<br/> +This stake is driven into her breast<br/> +And a stone is on her face.<br/> +<br/> +The soldier had but just lent back<br/> +And now he half rose up.<br/> +There’s sure no harm in dining here,<br/> +My friend? and yet to be sincere<br/> +I should not like to sup.<br/> +<br/> +God rest her! she is still enough<br/> +Who sleeps beneath our feet!<br/> +The old man cried. No harm I trow<br/> +She ever did herself, tho’ now<br/> +She lies where four roads meet.<br/> +<br/> +I have past by about that hour<br/> +When men are not most brave,<br/> +It did not make my heart to fail,<br/> +And I have heard the nightingale<br/> +Sing sweetly on her grave.<br/> +<br/> +I have past by about that hour<br/> +When Ghosts their freedom have,<br/> +But there was nothing here to fright,<br/> +And I have seen the glow-worm’s light<br/> +Shine on the poor girl’s grave.<br/> +<br/> +There’s one who like a Christian lies<br/> +Beneath the church-tree’s shade;<br/> +I’d rather go a long mile round<br/> +Than pass at evening thro’ the ground<br/> +Wherein that man is laid.<br/> +<br/> +There’s one that in the church-yard lies<br/> +For whom the bell did toll;<br/> +He lies in consecrated ground,<br/> +But for all the wealth in Bristol town<br/> +I would not be with his soul!<br/> +<br/> +Did’st see a house below the hill<br/> +That the winds and the rains destroy?<br/> +’Twas then a farm where he did dwell,<br/> +And I remember it full well<br/> +When I was a growing boy.<br/> +<br/> +And she was a poor parish girl<br/> +That came up from the west,<br/> +From service hard she ran away<br/> +And at that house in evil day<br/> +Was taken in to rest.<br/> +<br/> +The man he was a wicked man<br/> +And an evil life he led;<br/> +Rage made his cheek grow deadly white<br/> +And his grey eyes were large and light,<br/> +And in anger they grew red.<br/> +<br/> +The man was bad, the mother worse,<br/> +Bad fruit of a bad stem,<br/> +’Twould make your hair to stand-on-end<br/> +If I should tell to you my friend<br/> +The things that were told of them!<br/> +<br/> +Did’st see an out-house standing by?<br/> +The walls alone remain;<br/> +It was a stable then, but now<br/> +Its mossy roof has fallen through<br/> +All rotted by the rain.<br/> +<br/> +The poor girl she had serv’d with them<br/> +Some half-a-year, or more,<br/> +When she was found hung up one day<br/> +Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay<br/> +Behind that stable door!<br/> +<br/> +It is a very lonesome place,<br/> +No hut or house is near;<br/> +Should one meet a murderer there alone<br/> +’Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan<br/> +Would never reach mortal ear.<br/> +<br/> +And there were strange reports about<br/> +That the coroner never guest.<br/> +So he decreed that she should lie<br/> +Where four roads meet in infamy,<br/> +With a stake drove in her breast.<br/> +<br/> +Upon a board they carried her<br/> +To the place where four roads met,<br/> +And I was one among the throng<br/> +That hither followed them along,<br/> +I shall never the sight forget!<br/> +<br/> +They carried her upon a board<br/> +In the cloaths in which she died;<br/> +I saw the cap blow off her head,<br/> +Her face was of a dark dark red<br/> +Her eyes were starting wide:<br/> +<br/> +I think they could not have been closed<br/> +So widely did they strain.<br/> +I never saw so dreadful a sight,<br/> +And it often made me wake at night,<br/> +For I saw her face again.<br/> +<br/> +They laid her here where four roads meet.<br/> +Beneath this very place,<br/> +The earth upon her corpse was prest,<br/> +This post is driven into her breast,<br/> +And a stone is on her face. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section9"></a>The Sailor</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<b>who had served in the Slave Trade</b><br/> +<br/> +In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol, discovered +a Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City, groaning and praying +in a hovel. The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is +detailed in the annexed Ballad, without the slightest addition or +alteration. By presenting it as a Poem the story is made more +public, and such stories ought to be made as public as +possible. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +He stopt,—it surely was a groan<br/> +That from the hovel came!<br/> +He stopt and listened anxiously<br/> +Again it sounds the same.<br/> +<br/> +It surely from the hovel comes!<br/> +And now he hastens there,<br/> +And thence he hears the name of Christ<br/> +Amidst a broken prayer.<br/> +<br/> +He entered in the hovel now,<br/> +A sailor there he sees,<br/> +His hands were lifted up to Heaven<br/> +And he was on his knees.<br/> +<br/> +Nor did the Sailor so intent<br/> +His entering footsteps heed,<br/> +But now the Lord’s prayer said, and now<br/> +His half-forgotten creed.<br/> +<br/> +And often on his Saviour call’d<br/> +With many a bitter groan,<br/> +In such heart-anguish as could spring<br/> +From deepest guilt alone.<br/> +<br/> +He ask’d the miserable man<br/> +Why he was kneeling there,<br/> +And what the crime had been that caus’d<br/> +The anguish of his prayer.<br/> +<br/> +Oh I have done a wicked thing!<br/> +It haunts me night and day,<br/> +And I have sought this lonely place<br/> +Here undisturb’d to pray.<br/> +<br/> +I have no place to pray on board<br/> +So I came here alone,<br/> +That I might freely kneel and pray,<br/> +And call on Christ and groan.<br/> +<br/> +If to the main-mast head I go,<br/> +The wicked one is there,<br/> +From place to place, from rope to rope,<br/> +He follows every where.<br/> +<br/> +I shut my eyes,—it matters not—<br/> +Still still the same I see,—<br/> +And when I lie me down at night<br/> +’Tis always day with me.<br/> +<br/> +He follows follows every where,<br/> +And every place is Hell!<br/> +O God—and I must go with him<br/> +In endless fire to dwell.<br/> +<br/> +He follows follows every where,<br/> +He’s still above—below,<br/> +Oh tell me where to fly from him!<br/> +Oh tell me where to go!<br/> +<br/> +But tell me, quoth the Stranger then,<br/> +What this thy crime hath been,<br/> +So haply I may comfort give<br/> +To one that grieves for sin.<br/> +<br/> +O I have done a cursed deed<br/> +The wretched man replies,<br/> +And night and day and every where<br/> +’Tis still before my eyes.<br/> +<br/> +I sail’d on board a Guinea-man<br/> +And to the slave-coast went;<br/> +Would that the sea had swallowed me<br/> +When I was innocent!<br/> +<br/> +And we took in our cargo there,<br/> +Three hundred negroe slaves,<br/> +And we sail’d homeward merrily<br/> +Over the ocean waves.<br/> +<br/> +But some were sulky of the slaves<br/> +And would not touch their meat,<br/> +So therefore we were forced by threats<br/> +And blows to make them eat.<br/> +<br/> +One woman sulkier than the rest<br/> +Would still refuse her food,—<br/> +O Jesus God! I hear her cries—<br/> +I see her in her blood!<br/> +<br/> +The Captain made me tie her up<br/> +And flog while he stood by,<br/> +And then he curs’d me if I staid<br/> +My hand to hear her cry.<br/> +<br/> +She groan’d, she shriek’d—I could not spare<br/> +For the Captain he stood by—<br/> +Dear God! that I might rest one night<br/> +From that poor woman’s cry!<br/> +<br/> +She twisted from the blows—her blood<br/> +Her mangled flesh I see—<br/> +And still the Captain would not spare—<br/> +Oh he was worse than me!<br/> +<br/> +She could not be more glad than I<br/> +When she was taken down,<br/> +A blessed minute—’twas the last<br/> +That I have ever known!<br/> +<br/> +I did not close my eyes all night,<br/> +Thinking what I had done;<br/> +I heard her groans and they grew faint<br/> +About the rising sun.<br/> +<br/> +She groan’d and groan’d, but her groans grew<br/> +Fainter at morning tide,<br/> +Fainter and fainter still they came<br/> +Till at the noon she died.<br/> +<br/> +They flung her overboard;—poor wretch<br/> +She rested from her pain,—<br/> +But when—O Christ! O blessed God!<br/> +Shall I have rest again!<br/> +<br/> +I saw the sea close over her,<br/> +Yet she was still in sight;<br/> +I see her twisting every where;<br/> +I see her day and night.<br/> +<br/> +Go where I will, do what I can<br/> +The wicked one I see—<br/> +Dear Christ have mercy on my soul,<br/> +O God deliver me!<br/> +<br/> +To morrow I set sail again<br/> +Not to the Negroe shore—<br/> +Wretch that I am I will at least<br/> +Commit that sin no more.<br/> +<br/> +O give me comfort if you can—<br/> +Oh tell me where to fly—<br/> +And bid me hope, if there be hope,<br/> +For one so lost as I.<br/> +<br/> +Poor wretch, the stranger he replied,<br/> +Put thou thy trust in heaven,<br/> +And call on him for whose dear sake<br/> +All sins shall be forgiven.<br/> +<br/> +This night at least is thine, go thou<br/> +And seek the house of prayer,<br/> +There shalt thou hear the word of God<br/> +And he will help thee there! +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section10"></a>Jaspar</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +The stories of the two following ballads are wholly imaginary. I +may say of each as John Bunyan did of his <i>Pilgrim’s +Progress</i>, +</p> + +<p class +="noindent"><i>It came from mine own heart, so to my head,<br/> +And thence into my fingers trickled;<br/> +Then to my pen, from whence immediately<br/> +On paper I did dribble it daintily.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<b>Jaspar</b> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Jaspar was poor, and want and vice<br/> +Had made his heart like stone,<br/> +And Jaspar look’d with envious eyes<br/> +On riches not his own.<br/> +<br/> +On plunder bent abroad he went<br/> +Towards the close of day,<br/> +And loitered on the lonely road<br/> +Impatient for his prey.<br/> +<br/> +No traveller came, he loiter’d long<br/> +And often look’d around,<br/> +And paus’d and listen’d eagerly<br/> +To catch some coming sound.<br/> +<br/> +He sat him down beside the stream<br/> +That crossed the lonely way,<br/> +So fair a scene might well have charm’d<br/> +All evil thoughts away;<br/> +<br/> +He sat beneath a willow tree<br/> +That cast a trembling shade,<br/> +The gentle river full in front<br/> +A little island made,<br/> +<br/> +Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone<br/> +Upon the poplar trees,<br/> +Whose shadow on the stream below<br/> +Play’d slowly to the breeze.<br/> +<br/> +He listen’d—and he heard the wind<br/> +That waved the willow tree;<br/> +He heard the waters flow along<br/> +And murmur quietly.<br/> +<br/> +He listen’d for the traveller’s tread,<br/> +The nightingale sung sweet,—<br/> +He started up, for now he heard<br/> +The sound of coming feet;<br/> +<br/> +He started up and graspt a stake<br/> +And waited for his prey;<br/> +There came a lonely traveller<br/> +And Jaspar crost his way.<br/> +<br/> +But Jaspar’s threats and curses fail’d<br/> +The traveller to appal,<br/> +He would not lightly yield the purse<br/> +That held his little all.<br/> +<br/> +Awhile he struggled, but he strove<br/> +With Jaspar’s strength in vain;<br/> +Beneath his blows he fell and groan’d,<br/> +And never spoke again.<br/> +<br/> +He lifted up the murdered man<br/> +And plunged him in the flood,<br/> +And in the running waters then<br/> +He cleansed his hands from blood.<br/> +<br/> +The waters closed around the corpse<br/> +And cleansed his hands from gore,<br/> +The willow waved, the stream flowed on<br/> +And murmured as before.<br/> +<br/> +There was no human eye had seen<br/> +The blood the murderer spilt,<br/> +And Jaspar’s conscience never knew<br/> +The avenging goad of guilt.<br/> +<br/> +And soon the ruffian had consum’d<br/> +The gold he gain’d so ill,<br/> +And years of secret guilt pass’d on<br/> +And he was needy still.<br/> +<br/> +One eve beside the alehouse fire<br/> +He sat as it befell,<br/> +When in there came a labouring man<br/> +Whom Jaspar knew full well.<br/> +<br/> +He sat him down by Jaspar’s side<br/> +A melancholy man,<br/> +For spite of honest toil, the world<br/> +Went hard with Jonathan.<br/> +<br/> +His toil a little earn’d, and he<br/> +With little was content,<br/> +But sickness on his wife had fallen<br/> +And all he had was spent.<br/> +<br/> +Then with his wife and little ones<br/> +He shared the scanty meal,<br/> +And saw their looks of wretchedness,<br/> +And felt what wretches feel.<br/> +<br/> +That very morn the Landlord’s power<br/> +Had seized the little left,<br/> +And now the sufferer found himself<br/> +Of every thing bereft.<br/> +<br/> +He lent his head upon his hand,<br/> +His elbow on his knee,<br/> +And so by Jaspar’s side he sat<br/> +And not a word said he.<br/> +<br/> +Nay—why so downcast? Jaspar cried,<br/> +Come—cheer up Jonathan!<br/> +Drink neighbour drink! ’twill warm thy heart,<br/> +Come! come! take courage man!<br/> +<br/> +He took the cup that Jaspar gave<br/> +And down he drain’d it *quic<br/> +I have a wife, said Jonathan,<br/> +And she is deadly sick.<br/> +<br/> +She has no bed to lie upon,<br/> +I saw them take her bed.<br/> +And I have children—would to God<br/> +That they and I were dead!<br/> +<br/> +Our Landlord he goes home to night<br/> +And he will sleep in peace.<br/> +I would that I were in my grave<br/> +For there all troubles cease.<br/> +<br/> +In vain I pray’d him to forbear<br/> +Tho’ wealth enough has he—<br/> +God be to him as merciless<br/> +As he has been to me!<br/> +<br/> +When Jaspar saw the poor man’s soul<br/> +On all his ills intent,<br/> +He plied him with the heartening cup<br/> +And with him forth he went.<br/> +<br/> +This landlord on his homeward road<br/> +’Twere easy now to meet.<br/> +The road is lonesome—Jonathan,<br/> +And vengeance, man! is sweet.<br/> +<br/> +He listen’d to the tempter’s voice<br/> +The thought it made him start.<br/> +His head was hot, and wretchedness<br/> +Had hardened now his heart.<br/> +<br/> +Along the lonely road they went<br/> +And waited for their prey,<br/> +They sat them down beside the stream<br/> +That crossed the lonely way.<br/> +<br/> +They sat them down beside the stream<br/> +And never a word they said,<br/> +They sat and listen’d silently<br/> +To hear the traveller’s tread.<br/> +<br/> +The night was calm, the night was dark,<br/> +No star was in the sky,<br/> +The wind it waved the willow boughs,<br/> +The stream flowed quietly.<br/> +<br/> +The night was calm, the air was still,<br/> +Sweet sung the nightingale,<br/> +The soul of Jonathan was sooth’d,<br/> +His heart began to fail.<br/> +<br/> +’Tis weary waiting here, he cried,<br/> +And now the hour is late,—<br/> +Methinks he will not come to night,<br/> +’Tis useless more to wait.<br/> +<br/> +Have patience man! the ruffian said,<br/> +A little we may wait,<br/> +But longer shall his wife expect<br/> +Her husband at the gate.<br/> +<br/> +Then Jonathan grew sick at heart,<br/> +My conscience yet is clear,<br/> +Jaspar—it is not yet too late—<br/> +I will not linger here.<br/> +<br/> +How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought<br/> +Thy conscience was asleep.<br/> +No more such qualms, the night is dark,<br/> +The river here is deep,<br/> +<br/> +What matters that, said Jonathan,<br/> +Whose blood began to freeze,<br/> +When there is one above whose eye<br/> +The deeds of darkness sees?<br/> +<br/> +We are safe enough, said Jaspar then<br/> +If that be all thy fear;<br/> +Nor eye below, nor eye above<br/> +Can pierce the darkness here.<br/> +<br/> +That instant as the murderer spake<br/> +There came a sudden light;<br/> +Strong as the mid-day sun it shone,<br/> +Though all around was night.<br/> +<br/> +It hung upon the willow tree,<br/> +It hung upon the flood,<br/> +It gave to view the poplar isle<br/> +And all the scene of blood.<br/> +<br/> +The traveller who journies there<br/> +He surely has espied<br/> +A madman who has made his home<br/> +Upon the river’s side.<br/> +<br/> +His cheek is pale, his eye is wild,<br/> +His look bespeaks despair;<br/> +For Jaspar since that hour has made<br/> +His home unshelter’d there.<br/> +<br/> +And fearful are his dreams at night<br/> +And dread to him the day;<br/> +He thinks upon his untold crime<br/> +And never dares to pray.<br/> +<br/> +The summer suns, the winter storms,<br/> +O’er him unheeded roll,<br/> +For heavy is the weight of blood<br/> +Upon the maniac’s soul. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section11"></a>Lord William</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +No eye beheld when William plunged<br/> +Young Edmund in the stream,<br/> +No human ear but William’s heard<br/> +Young Edmund’s drowning scream.<br/> +<br/> +Submissive all the vassals own’d<br/> +The murderer for their Lord,<br/> +And he, the rightful heir, possessed<br/> +The house of Erlingford.<br/> +<br/> +The ancient house of Erlingford<br/> +Stood midst a fair domain,<br/> +And Severn’s ample waters near<br/> +Roll’d through the fertile plain.<br/> +<br/> +And often the way-faring man<br/> +Would love to linger there,<br/> +Forgetful of his onward road<br/> +To gaze on scenes so fair.<br/> +<br/> +But never could Lord William dare<br/> +To gaze on Severn’s stream;<br/> +In every wind that swept its waves<br/> +He heard young Edmund scream.<br/> +<br/> +In vain at midnight’s silent hour<br/> +Sleep closed the murderer’s eyes,<br/> +In every dream the murderer saw<br/> +Young Edmund’s form arise.<br/> +<br/> +In vain by restless conscience driven<br/> +Lord William left his home,<br/> +Far from the scenes that saw his guilt,<br/> +In pilgrimage to roam.<br/> +<br/> +To other climes the pilgrim fled,<br/> +But could not fly despair,<br/> +He sought his home again, but peace<br/> +Was still a stranger there.<br/> +<br/> +Each hour was tedious long, yet swift<br/> +The months appear’d to roll;<br/> +And now the day return’d that shook<br/> +With terror William’s soul.<br/> +<br/> +A day that William never felt<br/> +Return without dismay,<br/> +For well had conscience kalendered<br/> +Young Edmund’s dying day.<br/> +<br/> +A fearful day was that! the rains<br/> +Fell fast, with tempest roar,<br/> +And the swoln tide of Severn spread<br/> +Far on the level shore.<br/> +<br/> +In vain Lord William sought the feast<br/> +In vain he quaff’d the bowl,<br/> +And strove with noisy mirth to drown<br/> +The anguish of his soul.<br/> +<br/> +The tempest as its sudden swell<br/> +In gusty howlings came,<br/> +With cold and death-like feelings seem’d<br/> +To thrill his shuddering frame.<br/> +<br/> +Reluctant now, as night came on,<br/> +His lonely couch he prest,<br/> +And wearied out, he sunk to sleep,<br/> +To sleep, but not to rest.<br/> +<br/> +Beside that couch his brother’s form<br/> +Lord Edmund seem’d to stand,<br/> +Such and so pale as when in death<br/> +He grasp’d his brother’s hand;<br/> +<br/> +Such and so pale his face as when<br/> +With faint and faltering tongue,<br/> +To William’s care, a dying charge<br/> +He left his orphan son.<br/> +<br/> +“I bade thee with a father’s love<br/> +My orphan Edmund guard—<br/> +Well William hast thou kept thy charge!<br/> +Now take thy due reward.”<br/> +<br/> +He started up, each limb convuls’d<br/> +With agonizing fear,<br/> +He only heard the storm of night—<br/> +’Twas music to his ear.<br/> +<br/> +When lo! the voice of loud alarm<br/> +His inmost soul appals,<br/> +What ho! Lord William rise in haste!<br/> +The water saps thy walls!<br/> +<br/> +He rose in haste, beneath the walls<br/> +He saw the flood appear,<br/> +It hemm’d him round, ’twas midnight now,<br/> +No human aid was near.<br/> +<br/> +He heard the shout of joy, for now<br/> +A boat approach’d the wall,<br/> +And eager to the welcome aid<br/> +They crowd for safety all.<br/> +<br/> +My boat is small, the boatman cried,<br/> +This dangerous haste forbear!<br/> +Wait other aid, this little bark<br/> +But one from hence can bear.<br/> +<br/> +Lord William leap’d into the boat,<br/> +Haste—haste to yonder shore!<br/> +And ample wealth shall well reward,<br/> +Ply swift and strong the oar.<br/> +<br/> +The boatman plied the oar, the boat<br/> +Went light along the stream,<br/> +Sudden Lord William heard a cry<br/> +Like Edmund’s drowning scream.<br/> +<br/> +The boatman paus’d, methought I heard<br/> +A child’s distressful cry!<br/> +’Twas but the howling wind of night<br/> +Lord William made reply.<br/> +<br/> +Haste haste—ply swift and strong the oar!<br/> +Haste haste across the stream!<br/> +Again Lord William heard a cry<br/> +Like Edmund’s drowning scream.<br/> +<br/> +I heard a child’s distressful scream<br/> +The boatman cried again.<br/> +Nay hasten on—the night is dark—<br/> +And we should search in vain.<br/> +<br/> +Oh God! Lord William dost thou know<br/> +How dreadful ’tis to die?<br/> +And can’st thou without pity hear<br/> +A child’s expiring cry?<br/> +<br/> +How horrible it is to sink<br/> +Beneath the chilly stream,<br/> +To stretch the powerless arms in vain,<br/> +In vain for help to scream?<br/> +<br/> +The shriek again was heard. It came<br/> +More deep, more piercing loud,<br/> +That instant o’er the flood the moon<br/> +Shone through a broken cloud.<br/> +<br/> +And near them they beheld a child,<br/> +Upon a crag he stood,<br/> +A little crag, and all around<br/> +Was spread the rising flood.<br/> +<br/> +The boatman plied the oar, the boat<br/> +Approach’d his resting place,<br/> +The moon-beam shone upon the child<br/> +And show’d how pale his face.<br/> +<br/> +Now reach thine hand! the boatman cried<br/> +Lord William reach and save!<br/> +The child stretch’d forth his little hands<br/> +To grasp the hand he gave.<br/> +<br/> +Then William shriek’d; the hand he touch’d<br/> +Was cold and damp and dead!<br/> +He felt young Edmund in his arms<br/> +A heavier weight than lead.<br/> +<br/> +The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk<br/> +Beneath the avenging stream;<br/> +He rose, he scream’d, no human ear<br/> +Heard William’s drowning scream. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="section12"></a>A Ballad, Shewing how an old Woman rode +Double, and who rode before her.</h2> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/001.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="heavy black +illustration (woodcut) of the title ­ worth seeing!" /> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"> +A.D. 852. Circa dies istos, mulier quædam malefica, in villâ quæ Berkeleia +dicitur degens, gulæ amatrix ac petulantiæ, flagitiis modum usque in senium et +auguriis non ponens, usque ad mortem impudica permansit. Hæc die quadam cum +sederet ad prandium, cornicula quam pro delitiis pascebat, nescio quid garrire +coepit; quo audito, mulieris cultellus de manu excidit, simul et facies +pallescere coepit, et emisso rugitu, hodie, inquit, accipiam grande incommodum, +hodieque ad sulcum ultimum meum pervenit aratrum. quo dicto, nuncius doloris +intravit; muliere vero percunctatâ ad quid veniret, affero, inquit, tibi filii +tui obitum & totius familiæ ejus ex subitâ ruinâ interitum. Hoc quoque +dolore mulier permota, lecto protinus decubuit graviter infirmata; sentiensque +morbum subrepere ad vitalia, liberos quos habuit superstites, monachum +videlicet et monacham, per epistolam invitavit; advenientes autem voce +singultiente alloquitur. Ego, inquit, o pueri, meo miserabili fato dæmoniacis +semper artibus inservivi; ego omnium vitiorum sentina, ego illecebrarum omnium +fui magistra. Erat tamen mihi inter hæc mala, spes vestræ religionis, quæ meam +solidaret animam desperatam; vos expctabam propugnatores contra dæmones, +tutores contra sævissimos hostes. Nunc igitur quoniam ad finem vitæ perveni, +rogo vos per materna ubera, ut mea tentatis alleviare tormenta. Insuite me +defunctam in corio cervino, ac deinde in sarcophago lapideo supponite, +operculumque ferro et plumbo constringite, ac demum lapidem tribus cathenis +ferreis et fortissimis circundantes, clericos quinquaginta psalmorum cantores, +et tot per tres dies presbyteros missarum celebratores applicate, qui feroces +lenigent adversariorum incursus. Ita si tribus noctibus secura jacuero, quartâ +die me infodite humo. Factumque est ut præceperat illis. Sed, proh dolor! nil +preces, nil lacrymæ, nil demum valuere catenæ. Primis enim duabus noctibus, cum +chori psallentium corpori assistabant, advenientes Dæmones ostium ecclesiæ +confregerunt ingenti obice clausum, extremasque cathenas negotio levi +dirumpunt: media autem quæ fortior erat, illibata manebat. Tertiâ autem nocte, +circa gallicinium, strepitu hostium adventantium, omne monasterium visum est a +fundamento moveri. Unus ergo dæmonum, et vultu cæteris terribilior & +staturâ eminentior, januas Ecclesiæ; impetu violento concussas in fragmenta +dejecit. Divexerunt clerici cum laicis, metu stelerunt omnium capilli, et +psalmorum concentus defecit. Dæmon ergo gestu ut videbatur arroganti ad +sepulchrum accedens, & nomen mulieris modicum ingeminans, surgere +imperavit. Quâ respondente, quod nequiret pro vinculis, jam malo tuo, inquit, +solveris; et protinus cathenam quæ cæterorum ferociam dæmonum deluserat, velut +stuppeum vinculum rumpebat. Operculum etiam sepulchri pede depellens, mulierem +palam omnibus ab ecclesiâ extraxit, ubi præ foribus niger equus superbe +hinniens videbatur, uncis ferreis et clavis undique confixus, super quem misera +mulier projecta, ab oculis assistentium evanuit. Audiebantur tamen clamores per +quatuor fere miliaria horribiles, auxilium postulantes.<br/> +<br/> +Ista itaque quæ retuli incredibilia non erunt, si legatur beati Gregorii +dialogus, in quo refert, hominem in ecclesiâ sepultam, a dæmonibus foras +ejectum. Et apud Francos Carolus Martellus insignis vir fortudinis, qui +Saracenos Galliam ingressos, Hispaniam redire compulit, exactis vitæ suæ +diebus, in Ecclesiâ beati Dionysii legitur fuisse sepultus. Sed quia +patrimonia, cum decimis omnium fere ecclesiarum Galliæ, pro stipendio +commilitonum suorum mutilaverat, miserabiliter a malignis spiritibus de +sepulchro corporaliter avulsus, usque in hodiernum diem nusquam comparuit.<br/> +<br/> +<i>Matthew of Westminster</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +This story is also related by Olaus Magnus, and in the +<i>Nuremberg Chronicle</i>, from which the wooden cut is +taken. +<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +<b>A Ballad, Shewing how an old Woman rode Double, and who rode +before her.</b> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The Raven croak’d as she sate at her meal,<br/> +And the Old Woman knew what he said,<br/> +And she grew pale at the Raven’s tale,<br/> +And sicken’d and went to her bed.<br/> +<br/> +Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,<br/> +The Old Woman of Berkeley said,<br/> +The monk my son, and my daughter the nun<br/> +Bid them hasten or I shall be dead.<br/> +<br/> +The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,<br/> +Their way to Berkeley went,<br/> +And they have brought with pious thought<br/> +The holy sacrament.<br/> +<br/> +The old Woman shriek’d as they entered her door,<br/> +’Twas fearful her shrieks to hear,<br/> +Now take the sacrament away<br/> +For mercy, my children dear!<br/> +<br/> +Her lip it trembled with agony,<br/> +The sweat ran down her brow,<br/> +I have tortures in store for evermore,<br/> +Oh! spare me my children now!<br/> +<br/> +Away they sent the sacrament,<br/> +The fit it left her weak,<br/> +She look’d at her children with ghastly eyes<br/> +And faintly struggled to speak.<br/> +<br/> +All kind of sin I have rioted in<br/> +And the judgment now must be,<br/> +But I secured my childrens souls,<br/> +Oh! pray my children for me.<br/> +<br/> +I have suck’d the breath of sleeping babes,<br/> +The fiends have been my slaves,<br/> +I have nointed myself with infants fat,<br/> +And feasted on rifled graves.<br/> +<br/> +And the fiend will fetch me now in fire<br/> +My witchcrafts to atone,<br/> +And I who have rifled the dead man’s grave<br/> +Shall never have rest in my own.<br/> +<br/> +Bless I intreat my winding sheet<br/> +My children I beg of you!<br/> +And with holy water sprinkle my shroud<br/> +And sprinkle my coffin too.<br/> +<br/> +And let me be chain’d in my coffin of stone<br/> +And fasten it strong I implore<br/> +With iron bars, and let it be chain’d<br/> +With three chains to the church floor.<br/> +<br/> +And bless the chains and sprinkle them,<br/> +And let fifty priests stand round,<br/> +Who night and day the mass may say<br/> +Where I lie on the ground.<br/> +<br/> +And let fifty choristers be there<br/> +The funeral dirge to sing,<br/> +Who day and night by the taper’s light<br/> +Their aid to me may bring.<br/> +<br/> +Let the church bells all both great and small<br/> +Be toll’d by night and day,<br/> +To drive from thence the fiends who come<br/> +To bear my corpse away.<br/> +<br/> +And ever have the church door barr’d<br/> +After the even song,<br/> +And I beseech you children dear<br/> +Let the bars and bolts be strong.<br/> +<br/> +And let this be three days and nights<br/> +My wretched corpse to save,<br/> +Preserve me so long from the fiendish throng<br/> +And then I may rest in my grave.<br/> +<br/> +The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down<br/> +And her eyes grew deadly dim,<br/> +Short came her breath and the struggle of death<br/> +Did loosen every limb.<br/> +<br/> +They blest the old woman’s winding sheet<br/> +With rites and prayers as due,<br/> +With holy water they sprinkled her shroud<br/> +And they sprinkled her coffin too.<br/> +<br/> +And they chain’d her in her coffin of stone<br/> +And with iron barr’d it down,<br/> +And in the church with three strong chains<br/> +They chain’d it to the ground.<br/> +<br/> +And they blest the chains and sprinkled them,<br/> +And fifty priests stood round,<br/> +By night and day the mass to say<br/> +Where she lay on the ground.<br/> +<br/> +And fifty choristers were there<br/> +To sing the funeral song,<br/> +And a hallowed taper blazed in the hand<br/> +Of all the sacred throng.<br/> +<br/> +To see the priests and choristers<br/> +It was a goodly sight,<br/> +Each holding, as it were a staff,<br/> +A taper burning bright.<br/> +<br/> +And the church bells all both great and small<br/> +Did toll so loud and long,<br/> +And they have barr’d the church door hard<br/> +After the even song.<br/> +<br/> +And the first night the taper’s light<br/> +Burnt steadily and clear.<br/> +But they without a hideous rout<br/> +Of angry fiends could hear;<br/> +<br/> +A hideous roar at the church door<br/> +Like a long thunder peal,<br/> +And the priests they pray’d and the choristers sung<br/> +Louder in fearful zeal.<br/> +<br/> +Loud toll’d the bell, the priests pray’d well,<br/> +The tapers they burnt bright,<br/> +The monk her son, and her daughter the nun<br/> +They told their beads all night.<br/> +<br/> +The cock he crew, away they flew<br/> +The fiends from the herald of day,<br/> +And undisturb’d the choristers sing<br/> +And the fifty priests they pray.<br/> +<br/> +The second night the taper’s light<br/> +Burnt dismally and blue,<br/> +And every one saw his neighbour’s face<br/> +Like a dead man’s face to view.<br/> +<br/> +And yells and cries without arise<br/> +That the stoutest heart might shock,<br/> +And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring<br/> +Over a mountain rock.<br/> +<br/> +The monk and nun they told their beads<br/> +As fast as they could tell,<br/> +And aye as louder grew the noise<br/> +The faster went the bell.<br/> +<br/> +Louder and louder the choristers sung<br/> +As they trembled more and more,<br/> +And the fifty priests prayed to heaven for aid,<br/> +They never had prayed so before.<br/> +<br/> +The cock he crew, away they flew<br/> +The fiends from the herald of day,<br/> +And undisturb’d the choristers sing<br/> +And the fifty priests they pray.<br/> +<br/> +The third night came and the tapers flame<br/> +A hideous stench did make,<br/> +And they burnt as though they had been dipt<br/> +In the burning brimstone lake.<br/> +<br/> +And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean,<br/> +Grew momently more and more,<br/> +And strokes as of a battering ram<br/> +Did shake the strong church door.<br/> +<br/> +The bellmen they for very fear<br/> +Could toll the bell no longer,<br/> +And still as louder grew the strokes<br/> +Their fear it grew the stronger.<br/> +<br/> +The monk and nun forgot their beads,<br/> +They fell on the ground dismay’d,<br/> +There was not a single saint in heaven<br/> +Whom they did not call to aid.<br/> +<br/> +And the choristers song that late was so strong<br/> +Grew a quaver of consternation,<br/> +For the church did rock as an earthquake shock<br/> +Uplifted its foundation.<br/> +<br/> +And a sound was heard like the trumpet’s blast<br/> +That shall one day wake the dead,<br/> +The strong church door could bear no more<br/> +And the bolts and the bars they fled.<br/> +<br/> +And the taper’s light was extinguish’d quite,<br/> +And the choristers faintly sung,<br/> +And the priests dismay’d, panted and prayed<br/> +Till fear froze every tongue.<br/> +<br/> +And in He came with eyes of flame<br/> +The Fiend to fetch the dead,<br/> +And all the church with his presence glowed<br/> +Like a fiery furnace red.<br/> +<br/> +He laid his hand on the iron chains<br/> +And like flax they moulder’d asunder,<br/> +And the coffin lid that was barr’d so firm<br/> +He burst with his voice of thunder.<br/> +<br/> +And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise<br/> +And come with her master away,<br/> +And the cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse,<br/> +At the voice she was forced to obey.<br/> +<br/> +She rose on her feet in her winding sheet,<br/> +Her dead flesh quivered with fear,<br/> +And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave<br/> +Never did mortal hear.<br/> +<br/> +She followed the fiend to the church door,<br/> +There stood a black horse there,<br/> +His breath was red like furnace smoke,<br/> +His eyes like a meteor’s glare.<br/> +<br/> +The fiendish force flung her on the horse<br/> +And he leapt up before,<br/> +And away like the lightning’s speed they went<br/> +And she was seen no more.<br/> +<br/> +They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks<br/> +For four miles round they could hear,<br/> +And children at rest at their mother’s breast,<br/> +Started and screamed with fear. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section13"></a>The Surgeon’s Warning</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +The subject of this parody was given me by a friend, to whom also +I am indebted for some of the stanzas.<br/> +<br/> +Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the manner +of Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute to +their Saints and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare that +it is by no means my design to depreciate that useful invention; +and all persons to whom this Ballad shall come are requested to +take notice, that nothing here asserted concerning the aforesaid +Coffins is true, except that the maker and patentee lives by St. +Martin’s Lane. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The Doctor whispered to the Nurse<br/> +And the Surgeon knew what he said,<br/> +And he grew pale at the Doctor’s tale<br/> +And trembled in his sick bed.<br/> +<br/> +Now fetch me my brethren and fetch them with speed<br/> +The Surgeon affrighted said,<br/> +The Parson and the Undertaker,<br/> +Let them hasten or I shall be dead.<br/> +<br/> +The Parson and the Undertaker<br/> +They hastily came complying,<br/> +And the Surgeon’s Prentices ran up stairs<br/> +When they heard that their master was dying.<br/> +<br/> +The Prentices all they entered the room<br/> +By one, by two, by three,<br/> +With a sly grin came Joseph in,<br/> +First of the company.<br/> +<br/> +The Surgeon swore as they enter’d his door,<br/> +’Twas fearful his oaths to hear,—<br/> +Now send these scoundrels to the Devil,<br/> +For God’s sake my brethren dear.<br/> +<br/> +He foam’d at the mouth with the rage he felt<br/> +And he wrinkled his black eye-brow,<br/> +That rascal Joe would be at me I know,<br/> +But zounds let him spare me now.<br/> +<br/> +Then out they sent the Prentices,<br/> +The fit it left him weak,<br/> +He look’d at his brothers with ghastly eyes,<br/> +And faintly struggled to speak.<br/> +<br/> +All kinds of carcasses I have cut up,<br/> +And the judgment now must be—<br/> +But brothers I took care of you,<br/> +So pray take care of me!<br/> +<br/> +I have made candles of infants fat<br/> +The Sextons have been my slaves,<br/> +I have bottled babes unborn, and dried<br/> +Hearts and livers from rifled graves.<br/> +<br/> +And my Prentices now will surely come<br/> +And carve me bone from bone,<br/> +And I who have rifled the dead man’s grave<br/> +Shall never have rest in my own.<br/> +<br/> +Bury me in lead when I am dead,<br/> +My brethren I intreat,<br/> +And see the coffin weigh’d I beg<br/> +Lest the Plumber should be a cheat.<br/> +<br/> +And let it be solder’d closely down<br/> +Strong as strong can be I implore,<br/> +And put it in a patent coffin,<br/> +That I may rise no more.<br/> +<br/> +If they carry me off in the patent coffin<br/> +Their labour will be in vain,<br/> +Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker<br/> +Who lives by St. Martin’s lane.<br/> +<br/> +And bury me in my brother’s church<br/> +For that will safer be,<br/> +And I implore lock the church door<br/> +And pray take care of the key.<br/> +<br/> +And all night long let three stout men<br/> +The vestry watch within,<br/> +To each man give a gallon of beer<br/> +And a keg of Holland’s gin;<br/> +<br/> +Powder and ball and blunder-buss<br/> +To save me if he can,<br/> +And eke five guineas if he shoot<br/> +A resurrection man.<br/> +<br/> +And let them watch me for three weeks<br/> +My wretched corpse to save,<br/> +For then I think that I may stink<br/> +Enough to rest in my grave.<br/> +<br/> +The Surgeon laid him down in his bed,<br/> +His eyes grew deadly dim,<br/> +Short came his breath and the struggle of death<br/> +Distorted every limb.<br/> +<br/> +They put him in lead when he was dead<br/> +And shrouded up so neat,<br/> +And they the leaden coffin weigh<br/> +Lest the Plumber should be a cheat.<br/> +<br/> +They had it solder’d closely down<br/> +And examined it o’er and o’er,<br/> +And they put it in a patent coffin<br/> +That he might rise no more.<br/> +<br/> +For to carry him off in a patent coffin<br/> +Would they thought be but labour in vain,<br/> +So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker<br/> +Who lives by St. Martin’s lane.<br/> +<br/> +In his brother’s church they buried him<br/> +That safer he might be,<br/> +They lock’d the door and would not trust<br/> +The Sexton with the key.<br/> +<br/> +And three men in the vestry watch<br/> +To save him if they can,<br/> +And should he come there to shoot they swear<br/> +A resurrection man.<br/> +<br/> +And the first night by lanthorn light<br/> +Thro’ the church-yard as they went,<br/> +A guinea of gold the sexton shewed<br/> +That Mister Joseph sent.<br/> +<br/> +But conscience was tough, it was not enough<br/> +And their honesty never swerved,<br/> +And they bade him go with Mister Joe<br/> +To the Devil as he deserved.<br/> +<br/> +So all night long by the vestry fire<br/> +They quaff’d their gin and ale,<br/> +And they did drink as you may think<br/> +And told full many a tale.<br/> +<br/> +The second night by lanthorn light<br/> +Thro’ the church-yard as they went,<br/> +He whisper’d anew and shew’d them two<br/> +That Mister Joseph sent.<br/> +<br/> +The guineas were bright and attracted their sight<br/> +They look’d so heavy and new,<br/> +And their fingers itch’d as they were bewitch’d<br/> +And they knew not what to do.<br/> +<br/> +But they waver’d not long for conscience was strong<br/> +And they thought they might get more,<br/> +And they refused the gold, but not<br/> +So rudely as before.<br/> +<br/> +So all night long by the vestry fire<br/> +They quaff’d their gin and ale,<br/> +And they did drink as you may think<br/> +And told full many a tale.<br/> +<br/> +The third night as by lanthorn light<br/> +Thro’ the church-yard they went,<br/> +He bade them see and shew’d them three<br/> +That Mister Joseph sent.<br/> +<br/> +They look’d askance with eager glance,<br/> +The guineas they shone bright,<br/> +For the Sexton on the yellow gold<br/> +Let fall his lanthorn light.<br/> +<br/> +And he look’d sly with his roguish eye<br/> +And gave a well-tim’d wink,<br/> +And they could not stand the sound in his hand<br/> +For he made the guineas chink.<br/> +<br/> +And conscience late that had such weight,<br/> +All in a moment fails,<br/> +For well they knew that it was true<br/> +A dead man told no tales,<br/> +<br/> +And they gave all their powder and ball<br/> +And took the gold so bright,<br/> +And they drank their beer and made good cheer,<br/> +Till now it was midnight.<br/> +<br/> +Then, tho’ the key of the church door<br/> +Was left with the Parson his brother,<br/> +It opened at the Sexton’s touch—<br/> +Because he had another.<br/> +<br/> +And in they go with that villain Joe<br/> +To fetch the body by night,<br/> +And all the church look’d dismally<br/> +By his dark lanthorn light.<br/> +<br/> +They laid the pick-axe to the stones<br/> +And they moved them soon asunder.<br/> +They shovell’d away the hard-prest clay<br/> +And came to the coffin under.<br/> +<br/> +They burst the patent coffin first<br/> +And they cut thro’ the lead,<br/> +And they laugh’d aloud when they saw the shroud<br/> +Because they had got at the dead.<br/> +<br/> +And they allowed the Sexton the shroud<br/> +And they put the coffin back,<br/> +And nose and knees they then did squeeze<br/> +The Surgeon in a sack.<br/> +<br/> +The watchmen as they past along<br/> +Full four yards off could smell,<br/> +And a curse bestowed upon the load<br/> +So disagreeable.<br/> +<br/> +So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back<br/> +And they carv’d him bone from bone,<br/> +But what became of the Surgeon’s soul<br/> +Was never to mortal known. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section14"></a>The Victory</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +Hark—how the church-bells thundering harmony<br/> +Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come,<br/> +Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships<br/> +Met on the element,—they met, they fought<br/> +A desperate fight!—good tidings of great joy!<br/> +Old England triumphed! yet another day<br/> +Of glory for the ruler of the waves!<br/> +For those who fell, ’twas in their country’s cause,<br/> +They have their passing paragraphs of praise<br/> +And are forgotten.<br/> +There was one who died<br/> +In that day’s glory, whose obscurer name<br/> +No proud historian’s page will chronicle.<br/> +Peace to his honest soul! I read his name,<br/> +’Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God<br/> +The sound was not familiar to mine ear.<br/> +But it was told me after that this man<br/> +Was one whom lawful violence<a href="#fn10" name="fnref10" id="fnref10"><sup>[10]</sup></a> had forced<br/> +From his own home and wife and little ones,<br/> +Who by his labour lived; that he was one<br/> +Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel<br/> +A husband’s love, a father’s anxiousness,<br/> +That from the wages of his toil he fed<br/> +The distant dear ones, and would talk of them<br/> +At midnight when he trod the silent deck<br/> +With him he valued, talk of them, of joys<br/> +That he had known—oh God! and of the hour<br/> +When they should meet again, till his full heart<br/> +His manly heart at last would overflow<br/> +Even like a child’s with very tenderness.<br/> +Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly<br/> +It came, and merciful the ball of death,<br/> +For it came suddenly and shattered him,<br/> +And left no moment’s agonizing thought<br/> +On those he loved so well.<br/> +He ocean deep<br/> +Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter<br/> +Who art the widow’s friend! Man does not know<br/> +What a cold sickness made her blood run back<br/> +When first she heard the tidings of the fight;<br/> +Man does not know with what a dreadful hope<br/> +She listened to the names of those who died,<br/> +Man does not know, or knowing will not heed,<br/> +With what an agony of tenderness<br/> +She gazed upon her children, and beheld<br/> +His image who was gone. Oh God! be thou<br/> +Her comforter who art the widow’s friend! +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn10" id="fn10"></a> <a href="#fnref10">[10]</a> +The person alluded to was pressed into the service +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section15"></a>Henry the Hermit</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +It was a little island where he dwelt,<br/> +Or rather a lone rock, barren and bleak,<br/> +Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots<br/> +Its gray stone surface. Never mariner<br/> +Approach’d that rude and uninviting coast,<br/> +Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark<br/> +Anchored beside its shore. It was a place<br/> +Befitting well a rigid anchoret,<br/> +Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys<br/> +And purposes of life; and he had dwelt<br/> +Many long years upon that lonely isle,<br/> +For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms,<br/> +Honours and friends and country and the world,<br/> +And had grown old in solitude. That isle<br/> +Some solitary man in other times<br/> +Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found<br/> +The little chapel that his toil had built<br/> +Now by the storms unroofed, his bed of leaves<br/> +Wind-scattered, and his grave o’ergrown with grass,<br/> +And thistles, whose white seeds winged in vain<br/> +Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost.<br/> +So he repaired the chapel’s ruined roof,<br/> +Clear’d the grey lichens from the altar-stone,<br/> +And underneath a rock that shelter’d him<br/> +From the sea blasts, he built his hermitage.<br/> +<br/> +The peasants from the shore would bring him food<br/> +And beg his prayers; but human converse else<br/> +He knew not in that utter solitude,<br/> +Nor ever visited the haunts of men<br/> +Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed<br/> +Implored his blessing and his aid in death.<br/> +That summons he delayed not to obey,<br/> +Tho’ the night tempest or autumnal wind.<br/> +Maddened the waves, and tho’ the mariner,<br/> +Albeit relying on his saintly load,<br/> +Grew pale to see the peril. So he lived<br/> +A most austere and self-denying man,<br/> +Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness<br/> +Exhausted him, and it was pain at last<br/> +To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves<br/> +And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less<br/> +Tho’ with reluctance of infirmity,<br/> +He rose at midnight from his bed of leaves<br/> +And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal<br/> +More self-condemning fervour rais’d his voice<br/> +For pardon for that sin, till that the sin<br/> +Repented was a joy like a good deed.<br/> +<br/> +One night upon the shore his chapel bell<br/> +Was heard; the air was calm, and its far sounds<br/> +Over the water came distinct and loud.<br/> +Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear<br/> +Its toll irregular, a monk arose.<br/> +The boatmen bore him willingly across<br/> +For well the hermit Henry was beloved.<br/> +He hastened to the chapel, on a stone<br/> +Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff and dead,<br/> +The bell-rope in his band, and at his feet<br/> +The lamp<a href="#fn11" name="fnref11" id="fnref11"><sup>[11]</sup></a> that stream’d a long unsteady light +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn11" id="fn11"></a> <a href="#fnref11">[11]</a> +This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="section16"></a>English Eclogues</h2> + +<p class="p2"> +The following Eclogues I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in our +language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, and I was +induced to attempt by an account of the German Idylls given me in conversation. +They cannot properly be stiled imitations, as I am ignorant of that language at +present, and have never seen any translations or specimens in this kind. +</p> + +<p> +With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from Tityrus and Corydon down +to our English Strephons and Thirsises. No kind of poetry can boast of more +illustrious names or is more distinguished by the servile dulness of imitated +nonsense. Pastoral writers “more silly than their sheep” have like +their sheep gone on in the same track one after another. Gay stumbled into a +new path. His eclogues were the only ones that interested me when I was a boy, +and did not know they were burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for a +long essay, but this is not the place for it. +</p> + +<p> +How far poems requiring almost a colloquial plainness of language may accord +with the public taste I am doubtful. They have been subjected to able criticism +and revised with care. I have endeavoured to make them true to nature. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section17"></a>Eclogue I ­ The Old Mansion House</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<b><i>Stranger</i></b>.<br/> +Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty,<br/> +Breaking the highway stones,—and ’tis a task<br/> +Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Old Man</i></b>.<br/> +Why yes! for one with such a weight of years<br/> +Upon his back. I’ve lived here, man and boy,<br/> +In this same parish, near the age of man<br/> +For I am hard upon threescore and ten.<br/> +I can remember sixty years ago<br/> +The beautifying of this mansion here<br/> +When my late Lady’s father, the old Squire<br/> +Came to the estate.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Stranger</i></b>.<br/> +Why then you have outlasted<br/> +All his improvements, for you see they’re making<br/> +Great alterations here.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Old Man</i></b>.<br/> +Aye-great indeed!<br/> +And if my poor old Lady could rise up—<br/> +God rest her soul! ’twould grieve her to behold<br/> +The wicked work is here.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Stranger</i></b>.<br/> +They’ve set about it<br/> +In right good earnest. All the front is gone,<br/> +Here’s to be turf they tell me, and a road<br/> +Round to the door. There were some yew trees too<br/> +Stood in the court.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Old Man</i></b>.<br/> +Aye Master! fine old trees!<br/> +My grandfather could just remember back<br/> +When they were planted there. It was my task<br/> +To keep them trimm’d, and ’twas a pleasure to me!<br/> +All strait and smooth, and like a great green wall!<br/> +My poor old Lady many a time would come<br/> +And tell me where to shear, for she had played<br/> +In childhood under them, and ’twas her pride<br/> +To keep them in their beauty. Plague I say<br/> +On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have<br/> +A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs<br/> +And your pert poplar trees;—I could as soon<br/> +Have plough’d my father’s grave as cut them down!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Stranger</i></b>.<br/> +But ’twill be lighter and more chearful now,<br/> +A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road<br/> +Round for the carriage,—now it suits my taste.<br/> +I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh,<br/> +And then there’s some variety about it.<br/> +In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose,<br/> +And the laburnum with its golden flowers<br/> +Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes<br/> +The bright red berries of the mountain ash,<br/> +With firs enough in winter to look green,<br/> +And show that something lives. Sure this is better<br/> +Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look<br/> +All the year round like winter, and for ever<br/> +Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs<br/> +So dry and bare!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Old Man</i></b>.<br/> +Ah! so the new Squire thinks<br/> +And pretty work he makes of it! what ’tis<br/> +To have a stranger come to an old house!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Stranger</i></b>.<br/> +It seems you know him not?<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Old Man</i></b>.<br/> +No Sir, not I.<br/> +They tell me he’s expected daily now,<br/> +But in my Lady’s time he never came<br/> +But once, for they were very distant kin.<br/> +If he had played about here when a child<br/> +In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries,<br/> +And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers,<br/> +That fell so thick, he had not had the heart<br/> +To mar all thus.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Stranger</i></b>.<br/> +Come—come! all a not wrong.<br/> +Those old dark windows—<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Old Man</i></b>.<br/> +They’re demolish’d too—<br/> +As if he could not see thro’ casement glass!<br/> +The very red-breasts that so regular<br/> +Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs,<br/> +Won’t know the window now!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Stranger</i></b>.<br/> +Nay they were high<br/> +And then so darken’d up with jessamine,<br/> +Harbouring the vermine;—that was a fine tree<br/> +However. Did it not grow in and line<br/> +The porch?<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Old Man</i></b>.<br/> +All over it: it did one good<br/> +To pass within ten yards when ’twas in blossom.<br/> +There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside.<br/> +My Lady loved at evening to sit there<br/> +And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet<br/> +And slept in the sun; ’twas an old favourite dog<br/> +She did not love him less that he was old<br/> +And feeble, and he always had a place<br/> +By the fire-side, and when he died at last<br/> +She made me dig a grave in the garden for him.<br/> +Ah I she was good to all! a woful day<br/> +’Twas for the poor when to her grave she went!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Stranger</i></b>.<br/> +They lost a friend then?<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Old Man</i></b>.<br/> +You’re a stranger here<br/> +Or would not ask that question. Were they sick?<br/> +She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs<br/> +She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter<br/> +When weekly she distributed the bread<br/> +In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear<br/> +The blessings on her! and I warrant them<br/> +They were a blessing to her when her wealth<br/> +Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir!<br/> +It would have warm’d your heart if you had seen<br/> +Her Christmas kitchen,—how the blazing fire<br/> +Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs<br/> +So chearful red,—and as for misseltoe,<br/> +The finest bough that grew in the country round<br/> +Was mark’d for Madam. Then her old ale went<br/> +So bountiful about! a Christmas cask,<br/> +And ’twas a noble one! God help me Sir!<br/> +But I shall never see such days again.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Stranger</i></b>.<br/> +Things may be better yet than you suppose<br/> +And you should hope the best.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Old Man</i></b>.<br/> +It don’t look well<br/> +These alterations Sir! I’m an old man<br/> +And love the good old fashions; we don’t find<br/> +Old bounty in new houses. They’ve destroyed<br/> +All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk<br/> +Grubb’d up, and they do say that the great row<br/> +Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top<br/> +They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think<br/> +To live to see all this, and ’tis perhaps<br/> +A comfort I shan’t live to see it long.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Stranger</i></b>.<br/> +But sure all changes are not needs for the worse<br/> +My friend.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Old Man</i></b>.<br/> +May-hap they mayn’t Sir;—for all that<br/> +I like what I’ve been us’d to. I remember<br/> +All this from a child up, and now to lose it,<br/> +’Tis losing an old friend. There’s nothing left<br/> +As ’twas;—I go abroad and only meet<br/> +With men whose fathers I remember boys;<br/> +The brook that used to run before my door<br/> +That’s gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt<br/> +To climb are down; and I see nothing now<br/> +That tells me of old times, except the stones<br/> +In the church-yard. You are young Sir and I hope<br/> +Have many years in store,—but pray to God<br/> +You mayn’t be left the last of all your friends.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Stranger</i></b>.<br/> +Well! well! you’ve one friend more than you’re aware of.<br/> +If the Squire’s taste don’t suit with your’s, I warrant<br/> +That’s all you’ll quarrel with: walk in and taste<br/> +His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady<br/> +E’er broached a better cask. You did not know me,<br/> +But we’re acquainted now. ’Twould not be easy<br/> +To make you like the outside; but within—<br/> +That is not changed my friend! you’ll always find<br/> +The same old bounty and old welcome there. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section18"></a>Eclogue II ­The Grandmother’s Tale</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<b><i>Jane</i></b>.<br/> +Harry! I’m tired of playing. We’ll draw round<br/> +The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us<br/> +One of her stories.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Harry</i></b>.<br/> +Aye—dear Grandmamma!<br/> +A pretty story! something dismal now;<br/> +A bloody murder.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Jane</i></b>.<br/> +Or about a ghost.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Grandmother</i></b>.<br/> +Nay, nay, I should but frighten you. You know<br/> +The other night when I was telling you<br/> +About the light in the church-yard, how you trembled<br/> +Because the screech-owl hooted at the window,<br/> +And would not go to bed.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Jane</i></b>.<br/> +Why Grandmamma<br/> +You said yourself you did not like to hear him.<br/> +Pray now! we wo’nt be frightened.<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Grandmother</i></b>.<br/> +Well, well, children!<br/> +But you’ve heard all my stories. Let me see,—<br/> +Did I never tell you how the smuggler murdered<br/> +The woman down at Pill?<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Harry</i></b>.<br/> +No—never! never!<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Grandmother</i></b>.<br/> +Not how he cut her head off in the stable?<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Harry</i></b>.<br/> +Oh—now! do tell us that!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Grandmother</i></b>.<br/> +You must have heard<br/> +Your Mother, children! often tell of her.<br/> +Sheused to weed in the garden here, and worm<br/> +Your uncle’s dogs,<a href="#fn12" name="fnref12" id="fnref12"><sup>[12]</sup></a> and serve the house with coal;<br/> +And glad enough she was in winter time<br/> +To drive her asses here! it was cold work<br/> +To follow the slow beasts thro’ sleet and snow,<br/> +And here she found a comfortable meal<br/> +And a brave fire to thaw her, for poor Moll<br/> +Was always welcome.<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Harry</i></b>.<br/> +Oh—’twas blear-eyed Moll<br/> +The collier woman,—a great ugly woman,<br/> +I’ve heard of her.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Grandmother</i></b>.<br/> +Ugly enough poor soul!<br/> +At ten yards distance you could hardly tell<br/> +If it were man or woman, for her voice<br/> +Was rough as our old mastiff’s, and she wore<br/> +A man’s old coat and hat,—and then her face!<br/> +There was a merry story told of her,<br/> +How when the press-gang came to take her husband<br/> +As they were both in bed, she heard them coming,<br/> +Drest John up in her night-cap, and herself<br/> +Put on his clothes and went before the Captain.<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Jane</i></b>.<br/> +And so they prest a woman!<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Grandmother</i></b>.<br/> +’Twas a trick<br/> +She dearly loved to tell, and all the country<br/> +Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel<br/> +For miles around. All weathers and all hours<br/> +She crossed the hill, as hardy as her beasts,<br/> +Bearing the wind and rain and winter frosts,<br/> +And if she did not reach her home at night<br/> +She laid her down in the stable with her asses<br/> +And slept as sound as they did.<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Harry</i></b>.<br/> +With her asses!<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Grandmother</i></b>.<br/> +Yes, and she loved her beasts. For tho’ poor wretch<br/> +She was a terrible reprobate and swore<br/> +Like any trooper, she was always good<br/> +To the dumb creatures, never loaded them<br/> +Beyond their strength, and rather I believe<br/> +Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want,<br/> +Because, she said, they could not ask for food.<br/> +I never saw her stick fall heavier on them<br/> +Than just with its own weight. She little thought<br/> +This tender-heartedness would be her death!<br/> +There was a fellow who had oftentimes,<br/> +As if he took delight in cruelty.<br/> +Ill-used her Asses. He was one who lived<br/> +By smuggling, and, for she had often met him<br/> +Crossing the down at night, she threatened him,<br/> +If he tormented them again, to inform<br/> +Of his unlawful ways. Well—so it was—<br/> +’Twas what they both were born to, he provoked her,<br/> +She laid an information, and one morn<br/> +They found her in the stable, her throat cut<br/> +From ear to ear, till the head only hung<br/> +Just by a bit of skin.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Jane</i></b>.<br/> +Oh dear! oh dear!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Harry</i></b>.<br/> +I hope they hung the man!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Grandmother</i></b>.<br/> +They took him up;<br/> +There was no proof, no one had seen the deed,<br/> +And he was set at liberty. But God<br/> +Whoss eye beholdeth all things, he had seen<br/> +The murder, and the murderer knew that God<br/> +Was witness to his crime. He fled the place,<br/> +But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand<br/> +Of heaven, but nowhere could the murderer rest,<br/> +A guilty conscience haunted him, by day,<br/> +By night, in company, in solitude,<br/> +Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him<br/> +The weight of blood; her cries were in his ears,<br/> +Her stifled groans as when he knelt upon her<br/> +Always he heard; always he saw her stand<br/> +Before his eyes; even in the dead of night<br/> +Distinctly seen as tho’ in the broad sun,<br/> +She stood beside the murderer’s bed and yawn’d<br/> +Her ghastly wound; till life itself became<br/> +A punishment at last he could not bear,<br/> +And he confess’d<a href="#fn13" name="fnref13" id="fnref13"><sup>[13]</sup></a> it all, and gave himself<br/> +To death, so terrible, he said, it was<br/> +To have a guilty conscience!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Harry</i></b>.<br/> +Was he hung then?<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Grandmother</i></b>.<br/> +Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man,<br/> +Your uncles went to see him on his trial,<br/> +He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed,<br/> +And such a horror in his meagre face,<br/> +They said he look’d like one who never slept.<br/> +He begg’d the prayers of all who saw his end<br/> +And met his death with fears that well might warn<br/> +From guilt, tho’ not without a hope in Christ. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn12" id="fn12"></a> <a href="#fnref12">[12]</a> +I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common in other parts of +England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from doing any mischief should they +afterwards become mad. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn13" id="fn13"></a> <a href="#fnref13">[13]</a> +There must be many persons living who remember these circumstances. They +happened two or three and twenty years ago, in the neighbourhood of Bristol. +The woman’s name was Bees. The stratagem by which she preserved her +husband from the press-gang, is also true. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section19"></a>Eclogue III ­ The Funeral</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +The coffin<a href="#fn14" name="fnref14" id="fnref14"><sup>[14]</sup></a> as I past across the lane<br/> +Came sudden on my view. It was not here,<br/> +A sight of every day, as in the streets<br/> +Of the great city, and we paus’d and ask’d<br/> +Who to the grave was going. It was one,<br/> +A village girl, they told us, who had borne<br/> +An eighteen months strange illness, and had pined<br/> +With such slow wasting that the hour of death<br/> +Came welcome to her. We pursued our way<br/> +To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk<br/> +That passes o’er the mind and is forgot,<br/> +We wore away the time. But it was eve<br/> +When homewardly I went, and in the air<br/> +Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade<br/> +That makes the eye turn inward. Then I heard<br/> +Over the vale the heavy toll of death<br/> +Sound slow; it made me think upon the dead,<br/> +I questioned more and learnt her sorrowful tale.<br/> +She bore unhusbanded a mother’s name,<br/> +And he who should have cherished her, far off<br/> +Sail’d on the seas, self-exil’d from his home,<br/> +For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched one,<br/> +Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues<br/> +Were busy with her name. She had one ill<br/> +Heavier, neglect, forgetfulness from him<br/> +Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote,<br/> +But only once that drop of comfort came<br/> +To mingle with her cup of wretchedness;<br/> +And when his parents had some tidings from him,<br/> +There was no mention of poor Hannah there,<br/> +Or ’twas the cold enquiry, bitterer<br/> +Than silence. So she pined and pined away<br/> +And for herself and baby toil’d and toil’d,<br/> +Nor did she, even on her death bed, rest<br/> +From labour, knitting with her outstretch’d arms<br/> +Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother<br/> +Omitted no kind office, and she work’d<br/> +Hard, and with hardest working barely earn’d<br/> +Enough to make life struggle and prolong<br/> +The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay<br/> +On the sick bed of poverty, so worn<br/> +With her long suffering and that painful thought<br/> +That at her heart lay rankling, and so weak,<br/> +That she could make no effort to express<br/> +Affection for her infant; and the child,<br/> +Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her<br/> +With a strange infantine ingratitude<br/> +Shunn’d her as one indifferent. She was past<br/> +That anguish, for she felt her hour draw on,<br/> +And ’twas her only comfoft now to think<br/> +Upon the grave. “Poor girl!” her mother said,<br/> +“Thou hast suffered much!” “aye mother! there is none<br/> +“Can tell what I have suffered!” she replied,<br/> +“But I shall soon be where the weary rest.”<br/> +And she did rest her soon, for it pleased God<br/> +To take her to his mercy. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn14" id="fn14"></a> <a href="#fnref14">[14]</a> +It is proper to remark that the story related in this Eclogue is strictly true. +I met the funeral, and learnt the circumstances in a village in Hampshire. The +indifference of the child was mentioned to me; indeed no addition whatever has +been made to the story. I should have thought it wrong to have weakened the +effect of a faithful narrative by adding any thing. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section20"></a>Eclogue IV ­ The Sailor’s Mother</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<b><i>Woman</i></b>.<br/> +Sir for the love of God some small relief<br/> +To a poor woman!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Traveller</i></b>.<br/> +Whither are you bound?<br/> +’Tis a late hour to travel o’er these downs,<br/> +No house for miles around us, and the way<br/> +Dreary and wild. The evening wind already<br/> +Makes one’s teeth chatter, and the very Sun,<br/> +Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds,<br/> +Looks cold. ’Twill be a bitter night!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Woman</i></b>.<br/> +Aye Sir<br/> +’Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath,<br/> +Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey’s end,<br/> +For the way is long before me, and my feet,<br/> +God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly,<br/> +If it pleased God, lie down at once and die.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Traveller</i></b>.<br/> +Nay nay cheer up! a little food and rest<br/> +Will comfort you; and then your journey’s end<br/> +Will make amends for all. You shake your head,<br/> +And weep. Is it some evil business then<br/> +That leads you from your home?<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Woman</i></b>.<br/> +Sir I am going<br/> +To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt<br/> +In the late action, and in the hospital<br/> +Dying, I fear me, now.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Traveller</i></b>.<br/> +Perhaps your fears<br/> +Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost<br/> +There may be still enough for comfort left<br/> +An arm or leg shot off, there’s yet the heart<br/> +To keep life warm, and he may live to talk<br/> +With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim’d him,<br/> +Proud of his loss. Old England’s gratitude<br/> +Makes the maim’d sailor happy.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Woman</i></b>.<br/> +’Tis not that—<br/> +An arm or leg—I could have borne with that.<br/> +’Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing<br/> +Which bursts<a href="#fn15" name="fnref15" id="fnref15"><sup>[15]</sup></a> and burns that hurt him. Something Sir<br/> +They do not use on board our English ships<br/> +It is so wicked!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Traveller</i></b>.<br/> +Rascals! a mean art<br/> +Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Woman</i></b>.<br/> +Yes Sir! and they should show no mercy to them<br/> +For making use of such unchristian arms.<br/> +I had a letter from the hospital,<br/> +He got some friend to write it, and he tells me<br/> +That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes,<br/> +Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever live<br/> +To see this wretched day!—they tell me Sir<br/> +There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed<br/> +’Tis a hard journey that I go upon<br/> +To such a dismal end!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Traveller</i></b>.<br/> +He yet may live.<br/> +But if the worst should chance, why you must bear<br/> +The will of heaven with patience. Were it not<br/> +Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen<br/> +Fighting his country’s cause? and for yourself<br/> +You will not in unpitied poverty<br/> +Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country<br/> +Amid the triumph of her victory<br/> +Remember those who paid its price of blood,<br/> +And with a noble charity relieves<br/> +The widow and the orphan.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Woman</i></b>.<br/> +God reward them!<br/> +God bless them, it will help me in my age<br/> +But Sir! it will not pay me for my child!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Traveller</i></b>.<br/> +Was he your only child?<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Woman</i></b>.<br/> +My only one,<br/> +The stay and comfort of my widowhood,<br/> +A dear good boy!—when first he went to sea<br/> +I felt what it would come to,—something told me<br/> +I should be childless soon. But tell me Sir<br/> +If it be true that for a hurt like his<br/> +There is no cure? please God to spare his life<br/> +Tho’ he be blind, yet I should be so thankful!<br/> +I can remember there was a blind man<br/> +Lived in our village, one from his youth up<br/> +Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man,<br/> +And he had none to tend on him so well<br/> +As I would tend my boy!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Traveller</i></b>.<br/> +Of this be sure<br/> +His hurts are look’d to well, and the best help<br/> +The place affords, as rightly is his due,<br/> +Ever at hand. How happened it he left you?<br/> +Was a seafaring life his early choice?<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Woman</i></b>.<br/> +No Sir! poor fellow—he was wise enough<br/> +To be content at home, and ’twas a home<br/> +As comfortable Sir I even tho’ I say it,<br/> +As any in the country. He was left<br/> +A little boy when his poor father died,<br/> +Just old enough to totter by himself<br/> +And call his mother’s name. We two were all,<br/> +And as we were not left quite destitute<br/> +We bore up well. In the summer time I worked<br/> +Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting,<br/> +And in long winter nights my spinning wheel<br/> +Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too<br/> +And never felt distress. So he grew up<br/> +A comely lad and wonderous well disposed;<br/> +I taught him well; there was not in the parish<br/> +A child who said his prayers more regular,<br/> +Or answered readier thro’ his catechism.<br/> +If I had foreseen this! but ’tis a blessing<br/> +We do’nt know what we’re born to!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Traveller</i></b>.<br/> +But how came it<br/> +He chose to be a Sailor?<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Woman</i></b>.<br/> +You shall hear Sir;<br/> +As he grew up he used to watch the birds<br/> +In the corn, child’s work you know, and easily done.<br/> +’Tis an idle sort of task, so he built up<br/> +A little hut of wicker-work and clay<br/> +Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain.<br/> +And then he took for very idleness<br/> +To making traps to catch the plunderers,<br/> +All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make—<br/> +Propping a stone to fall and shut them in,<br/> +Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe<br/> +Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly—<br/> +And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased<br/> +To see the boy so handy. You may guess<br/> +What followed Sir from this unlucky skill.<br/> +He did what he should not when he was older:<br/> +I warn’d him oft enough; but he was caught<br/> +In wiring hares at last, and had his choice<br/> +The prison or the ship.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Traveller</i></b>.<br/> +The choice at least<br/> +Was kindly left him, and for broken laws<br/> +This was methinks no heavy punishment.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Woman</i></b>.<br/> +So I was told Sir. And I tried to think so,<br/> +But ’twas a sad blow to me! I was used<br/> +To sleep at nights soundly and undisturb’d—<br/> +Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start<br/> +And think of my poor boy tossing about<br/> +Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem’d<br/> +To feel that it was hard to take him from me<br/> +For such a little fault. But he was wrong<br/> +Oh very wrong—a murrain on his traps!<br/> +See what they’ve brought him too!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Traveller</i></b>.<br/> +Well! well! take comfort<br/> +He will be taken care of if he lives;<br/> +And should you lose your child, this is a country<br/> +Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent<br/> +To weep for him in want.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Woman</i></b>.<br/> +Sir I shall want<br/> +No succour long. In the common course of years<br/> +I soon must be at rest, and ’tis a comfort<br/> +When grief is hard upon me to reflect<br/> +It only leads me to that rest the sooner. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn15" id="fn15"></a> <a href="#fnref15">[15]</a> +The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the engagement between the +Mars and L’Hercule, some of our sailors were shockingly mangled by them: +One in particular, as described in the Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be +policy and humanity to employ means of destruction, could they be discovered, +powerful enough to destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only +inflicts additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is cruel and +wicked. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section21"></a>Eclogue V ­ The Witch</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<b><i>Nathaniel</i></b>.<br/> +Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe!<br/> +Faith it was just in time, for t’other night<br/> +I laid two straws across at Margery’s door,<br/> +And afterwards I fear’d that she might do me<br/> +A mischief for’t. There was the Miller’s boy<br/> +Who set his dog at that black cat of hers,<br/> +I met him upon crutches, and he told me<br/> +’Twas all her evil eye.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +’Tis rare good luck;<br/> +I would have gladly given a crown for one<br/> +If t’would have done as well. But where did’st find it?<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Nathaniel</i></b>.<br/> +Down on the Common; I was going a-field<br/> +And neighbour Saunders pass’d me on his mare;<br/> +He had hardly said “good day,” before I saw<br/> +The shoe drop off; ’twas just upon my tongue<br/> +To call him back,—it makes no difference, does it.<br/> +Because I know whose ’twas?<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +Why no, it can’t.<br/> +The shoe’s the same you know, and you <i>did find</i> it.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Nathaniel</i></b>.<br/> +That mare of his has got a plaguey road<br/> +To travel, father, and if he should lame her,<br/> +For she is but tender-footed,—<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +Aye, indeed—<br/> +I should not like to see her limping back<br/> +Poor beast! but charity begins at home,<br/> +And Nat, there’s our own horse in such a way<br/> +This morning!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Nathaniel</i></b>.<br/> +Why he ha’nt been rid again!<br/> +Last night I hung a pebble by the manger<br/> +With a hole thro’, and every body says<br/> +That ’tis a special charm against the hags.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +It could not be a proper natural hole then,<br/> +Or ’twas not a right pebble,—for I found him<br/> +Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb,<br/> +And panting so! God knows where he had been<br/> +When we were all asleep, thro’ bush and brake<br/> +Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch<br/> +At such a deadly rate!—<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Nathaniel</i></b>.<br/> +By land and water,<br/> +Over the sea perhaps!—I have heard tell<br/> +That ’tis some thousand miles, almost at the end<br/> +Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil.<br/> +They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear<br/> +Some ointment over them and then away<br/> +Out of the window! but ’tis worse than all<br/> +To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it<br/> +That in a Christian country they should let<br/> +Such creatures live!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +And when there’s such plain proof!<br/> +I did but threaten her because she robb’d<br/> +Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind<br/> +That made me shake to hear it in my bed!<br/> +How came it that that storm unroofed my barn,<br/> +And only mine in the parish? look at her<br/> +And that’s enough; she has it in her face—<br/> +A pair of large dead eyes, rank in her head,<br/> +Just like a corpse, and purs’d with wrinkles round,<br/> +A nose and chin that scarce leave room between<br/> +For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff,<br/> +And when she speaks! I’d sooner hear a raven<br/> +Croak at my door! she sits there, nose and knees<br/> +Smoak-dried and shrivell’d over a starved fire,<br/> +With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes<br/> +Shine like old Beelzebub’s, and to be sure<br/> +It must be one of his imps!—aye, nail it hard.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Nathaniel</i></b>.<br/> +I wish old Margery heard the hammer go!<br/> +She’d curse the music.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +Here’s the Curate coming,<br/> +He ought to rid the parish of such vermin;<br/> +In the old times they used to hunt them out<br/> +And hang them without mercy, but Lord bless us!<br/> +The world is grown so wicked!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Curate</i></b>.<br/> +Good day Farmer!<br/> +Nathaniel what art nailing to the threshold?<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Nathaniel</i></b>.<br/> +A horse-shoe Sir, ’tis good to keep off witchcraft,<br/> +And we’re afraid of Margery.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Curate</i></b>.<br/> +Poor old woman!<br/> +What can you fear from her?<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +What can we fear?<br/> +Who lamed the Miller’s boy? who rais’d the wind<br/> +That blew my old barn’s roof down? who d’ye think<br/> +Rides my poor horse a’nights? who mocks the hounds?<br/> +But let me catch her at that trick again,<br/> +And I’ve a silver bullet ready for her,<br/> +One that shall lame her, double how she will.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Nathaniel</i></b>.<br/> +What makes her sit there moping by herself,<br/> +With no soul near her but that great black cat?<br/> +And do but look at her!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Curate</i></b>.<br/> +Poor wretch! half blind<br/> +And crooked with her years, without a child<br/> +Or friend in her old age, ’tis hard indeed<br/> +To have her very miseries made her crimes!<br/> +I met her but last week in that hard frost<br/> +That made my young limbs ache, and when I ask’d<br/> +What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman<br/> +Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad<br/> +And pick the hedges, just to keep herself<br/> +From perishing with cold, because no neighbour<br/> +Had pity on her age; and then she cried,<br/> +And said the children pelted her with snow-balls,<br/> +And wish’d that she were dead.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +I wish she was!<br/> +She has plagued the parish long enough!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Curate</i></b>.<br/> +Shame farmer!<br/> +Is that the charity your bible teaches?<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +My bible does not teach me to love witches.<br/> +I know what’s charity; who pays his tithes<br/> +And poor-rates readier?<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Curate</i></b>.<br/> +Who can better do it?<br/> +You’ve been a prudent and industrious man,<br/> +And God has blest your labour.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +Why, thank God Sir,<br/> +I’ve had no reason to complain of fortune.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Curate</i></b>.<br/> +Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish<br/> +Look up to you.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +Perhaps Sir, I could tell<br/> +Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Curate</i></b>.<br/> +You can afford a little to the poor,<br/> +And then what’s better still, you have the heart<br/> +To give from your abundance.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +God forbid<br/> +I should want charity!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Curate</i></b>.<br/> +Oh! ’tis a comfort<br/> +To think at last of riches well employ’d!<br/> +I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth<br/> +Of a good deed at that most awful hour<br/> +When riches profit not.<br/> +Farmer, I’m going<br/> +To visit Margery. She is sick I hear—<br/> +Old, poor, and sick! a miserable lot,<br/> +And death will be a blessing. You might send her<br/> +Some little matter, something comfortable,<br/> +That she may go down easier to the grave<br/> +And bless you when she dies.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +What! is she going!<br/> +Well God forgive her then! if she has dealt<br/> +In the black art. I’ll tell my dame of it,<br/> +And she shall send her something.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Curate</i></b>.<br/> +So I’ll say;<br/> +And take my thanks for her’s. [<i>goes</i>]<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +That’s a good man<br/> +That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit<br/> +The poor in sickness; but he don’t believe<br/> +In witchcraft, and that is not like a christian.<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Nathaniel</i></b>.<br/> +And so old Margery’s dying!<br/> +<br/> +<b><i>Father</i></b>.<br/> +But you know<br/> +She may recover; so drive t’other nail in! +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="section22"></a>Eclogue VI ­ The Ruined Cottage</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine +eye,<br/> +This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch,<br/> +Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower<br/> +Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock<br/> +That thro’ the creeping weeds and nettles tall<br/> +Peers taller, and uplifts its column’d stem<br/> +Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen<br/> +Many a fallen convent reverend in decay,<br/> +And many a time have trod the castle courts<br/> +And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike<br/> +Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts<br/> +As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch<br/> +Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof<br/> +Part mouldered in, the rest o’ergrown with weeds,<br/> +House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss;<br/> +So Nature wars with all the works of man.<br/> +And, like himself, reduces back to earth<br/> +His perishable piles.<br/> +I led thee here<br/> +Charles, not without design; for this hath been<br/> +My favourite walk even since I was a boy;<br/> +And I remember Charles, this ruin here,<br/> +The neatest comfortable dwelling place!<br/> +That when I read in those dear books that first<br/> +Woke in my heart the love of poesy,<br/> +How with the villagers Erminia dwelt,<br/> +And Calidore for a fair shepherdess<br/> +Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd’s lore;<br/> +My fancy drew from, this the little hut<br/> +Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love,<br/> +Or where the gentle Calidore at eve<br/> +Led Pastorella home. There was not then<br/> +A weed where all these nettles overtop<br/> +The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet<br/> +The morning air, rosemary and marjoram,<br/> +All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath’d<br/> +So lavishly around the pillared porch<br/> +Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way,<br/> +After a truant absence hastening home,<br/> +I could not chuse but pass with slacken’d speed<br/> +By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed<br/> +Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!—<br/> +Theirs is a simple melancholy tale,<br/> +There’s scarce a village but can fellow it,<br/> +And yet methinks it will not weary thee,<br/> +And should not be untold.<br/> +A widow woman<br/> +Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want,<br/> +She lived on some small pittance that sufficed,<br/> +In better times, the needful calls of life,<br/> +Not without comfort. I remember her<br/> +Sitting at evening in that open door way<br/> +And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her<br/> +Raising her eyes and dark-rimm’d spectacles<br/> +To see the passer by, yet ceasing not<br/> +To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden<br/> +On some dry summer evening, walking round<br/> +To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean’d<br/> +Upon the ivory handle of her stick,<br/> +To some carnation whose o’erheavy head<br/> +Needed support, while with the watering-pot<br/> +Joanna followed, and refresh’d and trimm’d<br/> +The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child,<br/> +As lovely and as happy then as youth<br/> +And innocence could make her.<br/> +Charles! it seems<br/> +As tho’ I were a boy again, and all<br/> +The mediate years with their vicissitudes<br/> +A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid<br/> +So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair,<br/> +Her bright brown hair, wreath’d in contracting curls,<br/> +And then her cheek! it was a red and white<br/> +That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome,<br/> +The countrymen who on their way to church<br/> +Were leaning o’er the bridge, loitering to hear<br/> +The bell’s last summons, and in idleness<br/> +Watching the stream below, would all look up<br/> +When she pass’d by. And her old Mother, Charles!<br/> +When I have beard some erring infidel<br/> +Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed,<br/> +Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness.<br/> +Her figure has recurr’d; for she did love<br/> +The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross’d<br/> +These fields in rain and thro’ the winter snows.<br/> +When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself<br/> +By the fire-side, have wondered why <i>she</i> came<br/> +Who might have sate at home.<br/> +One only care<br/> +Hung on her aged spirit. For herself,<br/> +Her path was plain before her, and the close<br/> +Of her long journey near. But then her child<br/> +Soon to be left alone in this bad world,—<br/> +That was a thought that many a winter night<br/> +Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love<br/> +In something better than a servant’s slate<br/> +Had placed her well at last, it was a pang<br/> +Like parting life to part with her dear girl.<br/> +<br/> +One summer, Charles, when at the holydays<br/> +Return’d from school, I visited again<br/> +My old accustomed walks, and found in them.<br/> +A joy almost like meeting an old friend,<br/> +I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds<br/> +Already crowding the neglected flowers.<br/> +Joanna by a villain’s wiles seduced<br/> +Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach’d<br/> +Her mother’s heart. She did not suffer long,<br/> +Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow<br/> +Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.<br/> +<br/> +I pass this ruin’d dwelling oftentimes<br/> +And think of other days. It wakes in me<br/> +A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles<br/> +That ever with these recollections rise,<br/> +I trust in God they will not pass away. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Poems, 1799 + +Author: Robert Southey + +Release Date: August, 2005 [EBook #8639] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 29, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + +POEMS, + +by + +Robert Southey. + + + + The better, please; the worse, displease; I ask no more. + + SPENSER. + + + +THE SECOND VOLUME. + + + +CONTENTS. + + + THE VISION of THE MAID of ORLEANS. + + Book 1 + 2 + 3 + + + The Rose + + The Complaints of the Poor + + Metrical Letter + + + BALLADS. + + The Cross Roads. + + The Sailor who had served in the Slave Trade + + Jaspar + + Lord William + + A Ballad shewing how an old woman rode double + and who rode before her + + The Surgeon's Warning + + The Victory + + Henry the Hermit + + + ENGLISH ECLOGUES. + + The Old Mansion House + + The Grandmother's Tale + + The Funeral + + The Sailor's Mother + + The Witch + + The Ruined Cottage + + + + + + + + + + +The Vision + +of + +The Maid of Orleans. + + + + + Divinity hath oftentimes descended + Upon our slumbers, and the blessed troupes + Have, in the calme and quiet of the soule, + Conversed with us. + + SHIRLEY. 'The Grateful Servant' + + + + + + +[Sidenote: The following Vision was originally printed as the ninth book +of 'JOAN of ARC'. It is now adapted to the improved edition of that +Poem.] + + + + + + +THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE FIRST BOOK. + + + + Orleans was hush'd in sleep. Stretch'd on her couch + The delegated Maiden lay: with toil + Exhausted and sore anguish, soon she closed + Her heavy eye-lids; not reposing then, + For busy Phantasy, in other scenes + Awakened. Whether that superior powers, + By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream, + Instructing so the passive [1] faculty; + Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog, + Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world, + And all things 'are' that [2] 'seem'. + + Along a moor, + Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate, + She roam'd a wanderer thro' the cheerless night. + Far thro' the silence of the unbroken plain + The bittern's boom was heard, hoarse, heavy, deep, + It made most fitting music to the scene. + Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind, + Swept shadowing; thro' their broken folds the moon + Struggled sometimes with transitory ray, + And made the moving darkness visible. + And now arrived beside a fenny lake + She stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarse + The long sedge rustled to the gales of night. + An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell'd + By powers unseen; then did the moon display + Where thro' the crazy vessel's yawning side + The muddy wave oozed in: a female guides, + And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan'd + As melancholy mournful to her ear, + As ever by the dungeon'd wretch was heard + Howling at evening round the embattled towers + Of that hell-house [3] of France, ere yet sublime + The almighty people from their tyrant's hand + Dash'd down the iron rod. + Intent the Maid + Gazed on the pilot's form, and as she gazed + Shiver'd, for wan her face was, and her eyes + Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep, + Channell'd by tears; a few grey locks hung down + Beneath her hood: then thro' the Maiden's veins + Chill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass'd, + Lifting her tattcr'd mantle, coil'd around + She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart. + + The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by, + And the night-raven's scream came fitfully, + Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid + Look'd to the shore, and now upon the bank + Leaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling still + In recollection. + + There, a mouldering pile + Stretch'd its wide ruins, o'er the plain below + Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon + Shone thro' its fretted windows: the dark Yew, + Withering with age, branched there its naked roots, + And there the melancholy Cypress rear'd + Its head; the earth was heav'd with many a mound, + And here and there a half-demolish'd tomb. + + And now, amid the ruin's darkest shade, + The Virgin's eye beheld where pale blue flames + Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth, + And now in darkness drown'd. An aged man + Sat near, seated on what in long-past days + Had been some sculptur'd monument, now fallen + And half-obscured by moss, and gathered heaps + Of withered yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones; + And shining in the ray was seen the track + Of slimy snail obscene. Composed his look, + His eye was large and rayless, and fix'd full + Upon the Maid; the blue flames on his face + Stream'd a pale light; his face was of the hue + Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud. + + Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice, + Exclaim'd the Spectre, "Welcome to these realms, + These regions of DESPAIR! O thou whose steps + By GRIEF conducted to these sad abodes + Have pierced; welcome, welcome to this gloom + Eternal, to this everlasting night, + Where never morning darts the enlivening ray, + Where never shines the sun, but all is dark, + Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King." + + So saying he arose, and by the hand + The Virgin seized with such a death-cold touch + As froze her very heart; and drawing on, + Her, to the abbey's inner ruin, led + Resistless. Thro' the broken roof the moon + Glimmer'd a scatter'd ray; the ivy twined + Round the dismantled column; imaged forms + Of Saints and warlike Chiefs, moss-canker'd now + And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground, + With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen, + And rusted trophies; and amid the heap + Some monument's defaced legend spake + All human glory vain. + + The loud blast roar'd + Amid the pile; and from the tower the owl + Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest. + He, silent, led her on, and often paus'd, + And pointed, that her eye might contemplate + At leisure the drear scene. + He dragged her on + Thro' a low iron door, down broken stairs; + Then a cold horror thro' the Maiden's frame + Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw, + By the sepulchral lamp's dim glaring light, + The fragments of the dead. + "Look here!" he cried, + "Damsel, look here! survey this house of Death; + O soon to tenant it! soon to increase + These trophies of mortality! for hence + Is no return. Gaze here! behold this skull, + These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws, + That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mock + Thy perishable charms; for thus thy cheek + Must moulder. Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul, + Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heart + At the dread thought, that here its life's-blood soon + Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon + With the cold clod? a thought most horrible! + So only dreadful, for reality + Is none of suffering here; here all is peace; + No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave. + Dreadful it is to think of losing life; + But having lost, knowledge of loss is not, + Therefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose; + Probe deep the seat of life." + So spake DESPAIR + The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice, + And all again was silence. Quick her heart + Panted. He drew a dagger from his breast, + And cried again, "Haste Damsel to repose! + One blow, and rest for ever!" On the Fiend + Dark scowl'd the Virgin with indignant eye, + And dash'd the dagger down. He next his heart + Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid + Along the downward vault. + The damp earth gave + A dim sound as they pass'd: the tainted air + Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews. + "Behold!" the fiend exclaim'd, "how gradual here + The fleshly burden of mortality + Moulders to clay!" then fixing his broad eye + Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse + Lay livid; she beheld with loathing look, + The spectacle abhorr'd by living man. + + "Look here!" DESPAIR pursued, "this loathsome mass + Was once as lovely, and as full of life + As, Damsel! thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes + Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence, + And where thou seest the pamper'd flesh-worm trail, + Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought + That at the hallowed altar, soon the Priest + Should bless her coming union, and the torch + Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy, + Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earth + That Priest consign'd her, and the funeral lamp + Glares on her cold face; for her lover went + By glory lur'd to war, and perish'd there; + Nor she endur'd to live. Ha! fades thy cheek? + Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale? + Look here! behold the youthful paramour! + The self-devoted hero!" + Fearfully + The Maid look'd down, and saw the well known face + Of THEODORE! in thoughts unspeakable, + Convulsed with horror, o'er her face she clasp'd + Her cold damp hands: "Shrink not," the Phantom cried, + "Gaze on! for ever gaze!" more firm he grasp'd + Her quivering arm: "this lifeless mouldering clay, + As well thou know'st, was warm with all the glow + Of Youth and Love; this is the arm that cleaved + Salisbury's proud crest, now motionless in death, + Unable to protect the ravaged frame + From the foul Offspring of Mortality + That feed on heroes. Tho' long years were thine, + Yet never more would life reanimate + This murdered man; murdered by thee! for thou + Didst lead him to the battle from his home, + Else living there in peace to good old age: + In thy defence he died: strike deep! destroy + Remorse with Life." + The Maid stood motionless, + And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand + Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried, + "Avaunt DESPAIR! Eternal Wisdom deals + Or peace to man, or misery, for his good + Alike design'd; and shall the Creature cry, + Why hast thou done this? and with impious pride + Destroy the life God gave?" + The Fiend rejoin'd, + "And thou dost deem it impious to destroy + The life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lot + Assigned to mortal man? born but to drag, + Thro' life's long pilgrimage, the wearying load + Of being; care corroded at the heart; + Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills + That flesh inherits; till at length worn out, + This is his consummation!--think again! + What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd life + But lengthen'd sorrow? If protracted long, + Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs + Outstretch their languid length, oh think what thoughts, + What agonizing woes, in that dread hour, + Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse, + Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew + The shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force, + Mightiest in impotence, the love of life + Seizes the throbbing heart, the faltering lips + Pour out the impious prayer, that fain would change + The unchangeable's decree, surrounding friends + Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears, + And all he loved in life embitters death! + + Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hour + Of calmest dissolution! yet weak man + Dares, in his timid piety, to live; + And veiling Fear in Superstition's garb, + He calls her Resignation! + Coward wretch! + Fond Coward! thus to make his Reason war + Against his Reason! Insect as he is, + This sport of Chance, this being of a day, + Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast, + Believes himself the care of heavenly powers, + That God regards Man, miserable Man, + And preaching thus of Power and Providence, + Will crush the reptile that may cross his path! + + Fool that thou art! the Being that permits + Existence, 'gives' to man the worthless boon: + A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest, + Bask in the sunshine of Prosperity, + And such do well to keep it. But to one + Sick at the heart with misery, and sore + With many a hard unmerited affliction, + It is a hair that chains to wretchedness + The slave who dares not burst it! + Thinkest thou, + The parent, if his child should unrecall'd + Return and fall upon his neck, and cry, + Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and full + Of vacant joys and heart-consuming cares, + I can be only happy in my home + With thee--my friend!--my father! Thinkest thou, + That he would thrust him as an outcast forth? + Oh I he would clasp the truant to his heart, + And love the trespass." + Whilst he spake, his eye + Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul + Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood, + Even as the wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave + Supply, before him sees the poison'd food + In greedy horror. + Yet not long the Maid + Debated, "Cease thy dangerous sophistry, + Eloquent tempter!" cried she. "Gloomy one! + What tho' affliction be my portion here, + Think'st thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy. + Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back + Upon a life of duty well perform'd, + Then lift mine eyes to Heaven, and there in faith + Know my reward? I grant, were this life all, + Was there no morning to the tomb's long night, + If man did mingle with the senseless clod, + Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed + A wise and friendly comforter! But, Fiend! + There is a morning to the tomb's long night, + A dawn of glory, a reward in Heaven, + He shall not gain who never merited. + If thou didst know the worth of one good deed + In life's last hour, thou would'st not bid me lose + The power to benefit; if I but save + A drowning fly, I shall not live in vain. + I have great duties, Fiend! me France expects, + Her heaven-doom'd Champion." + "Maiden, thou hast done + Thy mission here," the unbaffled Fiend replied: + "The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchance + Exulting in the pride of victory, + Forgettest him who perish'd! yet albeit + Thy harden'd heart forget the gallant youth; + That hour allotted canst thou not escape, + That dreadful hour, when Contumely and Shame + Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid! + Destined to drain the cup of bitterness, + Even to its dregs! England's inhuman Chiefs + Shall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame, + Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity, + And force such burning blushes to the cheek + Of Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish + The earth might cover thee! in that last hour, + When thy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the chains + That link thee to the stake; when o'er thy form, + Exposed unmantled, the brute multitude + Shall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt, + More painful than the circling flames that scorch + Each quivering member; wilt thou not in vain + Then wish my friendly aid? then wish thine ear + Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand + Had grasp'd the dagger, and in death preserved + Insulted modesty?" + Her glowing cheek + Blush'd crimson; her wide eye on vacancy + Was fix'd; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend, + Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, "too-timid Maid, + So long repugnant to the healing aid + My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold + The allotted length of life." + He stamp'd the earth, + And dragging a huge coffin as his car, + Two GOULS came on, of form more fearful-foul + Than ever palsied in her wildest dream + Hag-ridden Superstition. Then DESPAIR + Seiz'd on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still. + And placed her in the seat; and on they pass'd + Adown the deep descent. A meteor light + Shot from the Daemons, as they dragg'd along + The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethren glut + On carcasses. + Below the vault dilates + Its ample bulk. "Look here!"--DESPAIR addrest + The shuddering Virgin, "see the dome of DEATH!" + It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid + The entrails of the earth, as tho' to form + The grave of all mankind: no eye could reach, + Tho' gifted with the Eagle's ample ken, + Its distant bounds. There, thron'd in darkness, dwelt + The unseen POWER OF DEATH. + Here stopt the GOULS, + Reaching the destin'd spot. The Fiend leapt out, + And from the coffin, as he led the Maid, + Exclaim'd, "Where never yet stood mortal man, + Thou standest: look around this boundless vault; + Observe the dole that Nature deals to man, + And learn to know thy friend." + She not replied, + Observing where the Fates their several tasks + Plied ceaseless. "Mark how short the longest web + Allowed to man! he cried; observe how soon, + Twin'd round yon never-resting wheel, they change + Their snowy hue, darkening thro' many a shade, + Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!" + + Too true he spake, for of the countless threads, + Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn'd snow, + Or as the lovely lilly of the vale, + Was never one beyond the little span + Of infancy untainted: few there were + But lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue, + Or deeper sable [4] died. Two Genii stood, + Still as the web of Being was drawn forth, + Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn, + The one unsparing dash'd the bitter wave + Of woe; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow + Relax'd to a hard smile. The milder form + Shed less profusely there his lesser store; + Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon, + Mourning the lot of man; and happy he + Who on his thread those precious drops receives; + If it be happiness to have the pulse + Throb fast with pity, and in such a world + Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches + With anguish at the sight of human woe. + + To her the Fiend, well hoping now success, + "This is thy thread! observe how short the span, + And see how copious yonder Genius pours + The bitter stream of woe." The Maiden saw + Fearless. "Now gaze!" the tempter Fiend exclaim'd, + And placed again the poniard in her hand, + For SUPERSTITION, with sulphureal torch + Stalk'd to the loom. "This, Damsel, is thy fate! + The hour draws on--now drench the dagger deep! + Now rush to happier worlds!" + The Maid replied, + "Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven, + Impious I strive not: be that will perform'd!" + + +[Footnote 1: + + May fays of Serapis, + Erudit at placide humanam per somnia mentem, + Nocturnaque quiete docet; nulloque labore + Hic tantum parta est pretiosa scientia, nullo + Excutitur studio verum. Mortalia corda + Tunc Deus iste docet, cum sunt minus apta doceri, + Cum nullum obsequium praestant, meritisque fatentur + Nil sese debere suis; tunc recta scientes + Cum nil scire valent. Non illo tempore sensus + Humanos forsan dignatur numen inire, + Cum propriis possunt per se discursibus uti, + Ne forte humana ratio divina coiret. + +'Sup Lucani'.] + + +[Footnote 2: I have met with a singular tale to illustrate this +spiritual theory of dreams. + +Guntram, King of the Franks, was liberal to the poor, and he himself +experienced the wonderful effects of divine liberality. For one day as +he was hunting in a forest he was separated from his companions and +arrived at a little stream of water with only one comrade of tried and +approved fidelity. Here he found himself opprest by drowsiness, and +reclining his head upon the servant's lap went to sleep. The servant +witnessed a wonderful thing, for he saw a little beast ('bestiolam') +creep out of the mouth of his sleeping master, and go immediately to the +streamlet, which it vainly attempted to cross. The servant drew his +sword and laid it across the water, over which the little beast easily +past and crept into a hole of a mountain on the opposite side; from +whence it made its appearance again in an hour, and returned by the same +means into the King's mouth. The King then awakened, and told his +companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon the bank of an +immense river, which he had crossed by a bridge of iron, and from thence +came to a mountain in which a great quantity of gold was concealed. When +the King had concluded, the servant related what he had beheld, and they +both went to examine the mountain, where upon digging they discovered an +immense weight of gold. + +I stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled SPHINX +'Theologico-Philosophica. Authore Johanne Heidfeldio, Ecclesiaste +Ebersbachiano.' 1621. + +The same story is in Matthew of Westminster; it is added that Guntram +applied the treasures thus found to pious uses. + +For the truth of this theory there is the evidence of a Monkish miracle. +When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian and visit the world of +souls, his guide said to him, "let thy body rest in the bed for thy +spirit only is about to depart with me; and lest the body should appear +dead, I will send into it a vital breath." + +The body however by a strange sympathy was affected like the spirit; for +when the foul and fetid smoke that arose from tithes witheld, had nearly +suffocated Thurcillus, and made him cough twice, those who were near his +body said that it coughed twice about the same time. + +'Matthew Paris'.] + + +[Footnote 3: The Bastille. The expression is in one of Fuller's works, +an Author from whose quaintness and ingenuity I have always found +amusement, and sometimes assistance.] + + +[Footnote 4: These lines strongly resemble a passage in the Pharonnida +of William Chamberlayne, a Poet who has told an interesting story in +uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and beauty of +expression, with the quaintest conceits, and most awkward inversions. + + + On a rock more high + Than Nature's common surface, she beholds + The Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds + Its sacred mysteries. A trine within + A quadrate placed, both these encompast in + A perfect circle was its form; but what + Its matter was, for us to wonder at, + Is undiscovered left. A Tower there stands + At every angle, where Time's fatal hands + The impartial PARCAE dwell; i' the first she sees + CLOTHO the kindest of the Destinies, + From immaterial essences to cull + The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool + For LACHESIS to spin; about her flie + Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie + Warm'd with their functions in, whose strength bestows + That power by which man ripe for misery grows. + + Her next of objects was that glorious tower + Where that swift-fingered Nymph that spares no hour + From mortals' service, draws the various threads + Of life in several lengths; to weary beds + Of age extending some, whilst others in + Their infancy are broke: 'some blackt in sin, + Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whence + Their origin, candid with innocence; + Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed + In sanguine pleasures': some in glittering pride + Spun to adorn the earth, whilst others wear + Rags of deformity, but knots of care + No thread was wholly free from. Next to this + Fair glorious tower, was placed that black abyss + Of dreadful ATROPOS, the baleful seat + Of death and horrour, in each room repleat + With lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sight + Of pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night. + To this, the last stage that the winding clew + Of Life can lead mortality unto, + FEAR was the dreadful Porter, which let in + All guests sent thither by destructive sin. + + +It is possible that I may have written from the recollection of this +passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly attribute it to +Chamberlayne, a Poet to whom I am indebted for many hours of delight, +and whom I one day hope to rescue from undeserved oblivion.] + + + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE SECOND BOOK. + + + +She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd +Amid the air, such odors wafting now +As erst came blended with the evening gale, +From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form +Stood by the Maid; his wings, etherial white, +Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun, +Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear'd +Her THEODORE. + Amazed she saw: the Fiend +Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice +Sounded, tho' now more musically sweet +Than ever yet had thrill'd her charmed soul, +When eloquent Affection fondly told +The day-dreams of delight. + "Beloved Maid! +Lo! I am with thee! still thy Theodore! +Hearts in the holy bands of Love combin'd, +Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine! +A little while and thou shalt dwell with me +In scenes where Sorrow is not. Cheerily +Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave, +Rough tho' it be and painful, for the grave +Is but the threshold of Eternity. + +Favour'd of Heaven! to thee is given to view +These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss +Thou treadest, Maiden! Here the dungeons are +Where bad men learn repentance; souls diseased +Must have their remedy; and where disease +Is rooted deep, the remedy is long +Perforce, and painful." + Thus the Spirit spake, +And led the Maid along a narrow path, +Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames, +More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound +Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath +Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach +A wide expanded den where all around +Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze, +Flamed dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood +The meagre form of Care, and as he blew +To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd +His wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus +He toil'd and toil'd, of toil to reap no end +But endless toil and never-ending woe. + +An aged man went round the infernal vault, +Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task: +White were his locks, as is the wintry snow +On hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff +His steps supported; powerful talisman, +Which whoso feels shall never feel again +The tear of Pity, or the throb of Love. +Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way, +The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall, +Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst +Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee +To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few, +Tho' he the Blessed Teacher of mankind +Hath said, that easier thro' the needle's eye +Shall the huge camel [1] pass, than the rich man +Enter the gates of heaven. "Ye cannot serve +Your God, and worship Mammon." + "Missioned Maid!" +So spake the Angel, "know that these, whose hands +Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil, +Were Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not spare +To wring from Poverty the hard-earn'd mite, +They robb'd the orphan's pittance, they could see +Want's asking eye unmoved; and therefore these, +Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere +In Mammon's service; scorched by these fierce fires, +And frequent deluged by the o'erboiling ore: +Yet still so framed, that oft to quench their thirst +Unquenchable, large draughts of molten [2] gold +They drink insatiate, still with pain renewed, +Pain to destroy." + So saying, her he led +Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell, +Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls +Part gleam'd with gold, and part with silver ore +A milder radiance shone. The Carbuncle +There its strong lustre like the flamy sun +Shot forth irradiate; from the earth beneath, +And from the roof a diamond light emits; +Rubies and amethysts their glows commix'd +With the gay topaz, and the softer ray +Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald's hue, +And bright pyropus. + There on golden seats, +A numerous, sullen, melancholy train +Sat silent. "Maiden, these," said Theodore, +Are they who let the love of wealth absorb +All other passions; in their souls that vice +Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree +That with its shade spreads barrenness around. +These, Maid! were men by no atrocious crime +Blacken'd, no fraud, nor ruffian violence: +Men of fair dealing, and respectable +On earth, but such as only for themselves +Heap'd up their treasures, deeming all their wealth +Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven, +To bless them only: therefore here they sit, +Possessed of gold enough, and by no pain +Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss +They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell, +Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour +Of general restitution." + Thence they past, +And now arrived at such a gorgeous dome, +As even the pomp of Eastern opulence +Could never equal: wandered thro' its halls +A numerous train; some with the red-swoln eye +Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek; +Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step, +And eyes lack-lustre. + Maiden? said her guide, +These are the wretched slaves of Appetite, +Curst with their wish enjoyed. The epicure +Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall'd sense +Loaths at the banquet; the voluptuous here +Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight, +And sink in misery. All they wish'd on earth, +Possessing here, whom have they to accuse, +But their own folly, for the lot they chose? +Yet, for that these injured themselves alone, +They to the house of PENITENCE may hie, +And, by a long and painful regimen, +To wearied Nature her exhausted powers +Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish +Of wisdom, and ALMIGHTY GOODNESS grants +That prize to him who seeks it." + Whilst he spake, +The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and eye +Fat swoln, and legs whose monstrous size disgraced +The human form divine, their caterer, +Hight GLUTTONY, set forth the smoaking feast. +And by his side came on a brother form, +With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red +And scurfy-white, mix'd motley; his gross bulk, +Like some huge hogshead shapen'd, as applied. +Him had antiquity with mystic rites +Ador'd, to him the sons of Greece, and thine +Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour'd +The victim blood, with godlike titles graced, +BACCHUS, or DIONUSUS; son of JOVE, +Deem'd falsely, for from FOLLY'S ideot form +He sprung, what time MADNESS, with furious hand, +Seiz'd on the laughing female. At one birth +She brought the brethren, menial here, above +Reigning with sway supreme, and oft they hold +High revels: mid the Monastery's gloom, +The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice +Episcopal, proclaims approaching day +Of visitation, or Churchwardens meet +To save the wretched many from the gripe +Of eager Poverty, or mid thy halls +Of London, mighty Mayor! rich Aldermen, +Of coming feast hold converse. + Otherwhere, +For tho' allied in nature as in blood, +They hold divided sway, his brother lifts +His spungy sceptre. In the noble domes +Of Princes, and state-wearied Ministers, +Maddening he reigns; and when the affrighted mind +Casts o'er a long career of guilt and blood +Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought +To lull the worm of Conscience to repose. +He too the halls of country Squires frequents, +But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades +Thy offspring Rhedycina! and thy walls, +Granta! nightly libations there to him +Profuse are pour'd, till from the dizzy brain +Triangles, Circles, Parallelograms, +Moods, Tenses, Dialects, and Demigods, +And Logic and Theology are swept +By the red deluge. + Unmolested there +He reigns; till comes at length the general feast, +Septennial sacrifice; then when the sons +Of England meet, with watchful care to chuse +Their delegates, wise, independent men, +Unbribing and unbrib'd, and cull'd to guard +Their rights and charters from the encroaching grasp +Of greedy Power: then all the joyful land +Join in his sacrifices, so inspir'd +To make the important choice. + The observing Maid +Address'd her guide, "These Theodore, thou sayest +Are men, who pampering their foul appetites, +Injured themselves alone. But where are they, +The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil +Around the guileless female, so to sting +The heart that loves them?" + "Them," the spirit replied, +A long and dreadful punishment awaits. +For when the prey of want and infamy, +Lower and lower still the victim sinks, +Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word, +One impious imprecation from her lips +Escapes, nay not a thought of evil lurks +In the polluted mind, that does not plead +Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued +Against the foul Seducer." + Now they reach'd +The house of PENITENCE. CREDULITY +Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head +As tho' to listen; on her vacant face, +A smile that promis'd premature assent; +Tho' her REGRET behind, a meagre Fiend, +Disciplin'd sorely. + Here they entered in, +And now arrived where, as in study tranced, +She sat, the Mistress of the Dome. Her face +Spake that composed severity, that knows +No angry impulse, no weak tenderness, +Resolved and calm. Before her lay that Book +That hath the words of Life; and as she read, +Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek, +Tho' heavenly joy beam'd in her eye the while. + +Leaving her undisturb'd, to the first ward +Of this great Lazar-house, the Angel led +The favour'd Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down +On the hard stone that their bare knees had worn, +In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear'd: +Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave; +Yet such expression stealing from the eye, +As tho', that only naked, all the rest +Was one close fitting mask. A scoffing Fiend, +For Fiend he was, tho' wisely serving here +Mock'd at his patients, and did often pour +Ashes upon them, and then bid them say +Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laughed: +For these were Hypocrites, on earth revered +As holy ones, who did in public tell +Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross themselves, +And call themselves most miserable sinners, +That so they might be deem'd most pious saints; +And go all filth, and never let a smile +Bend their stern muscles, gloomy, sullen men, +Barren of all affection, and all this +To please their God, forsooth! and therefore SCORN +Grinn'd at his patients, making them repeat +Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery +Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer, +They pour'd the silent sorrows of the soul +To Heaven, then did they not regard his mocks +Which then came painless, and HUMILITY +Soon rescued them, and led to PENITENCE, +That She might lead to Heaven. + + From thence they came, +Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band +Groan'd underneath the bitter tyranny +Of a fierce Daemon. His coarse hair was red, +Pale grey his eyes, and blood-shot; and his face +Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears +In ecstacy. Well-pleased he went around, +Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some, +Or probing with a poison'd lance their breasts, +Or placing coals of fire within their wounds; +Or seizing some within his mighty grasp, +He fix'd them on a stake, and then drew back, +And laugh'd to see them writhe. + "These," said the Spirit, +Are taught by CRUELTY, to loath the lives +They led themselves. Here are those wicked men +Who loved to exercise their tyrant power +On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo +A long purgation here; the traffickers +In human flesh here too are disciplined. +Till by their suffering they have equall'd all +The miseries they inflicted, all the mass +Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged, +The towns they burnt, for they who bribe to war +Are guilty of the blood, the widows left +In want, the slave or led to suicide, +Or murdered by the foul infected air +Of his close dungeon, or more sad than all, +His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved, +And driven by woe to wickedness. + These next, +Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room, +So sullen, and with such an eye of hate +Each on the other scowling, these have been +False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts +Here they dwell: in the hollow of their hearts +There is a worm that feeds, and tho' thou seest +That skilful leech who willingly would heal +The ill they suffer, judging of all else +By their own evil standard, they suspect +The aid be vainly proffers, lengthening thus +By vice its punishment." + "But who are these," +The Maid exclaim'd, "that robed in flowing lawn, +And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps +Like Cardinals, I see in every ward, +Performing menial service at the beck +Of all who bid them?" + Theodore replied, +These men are they who in the name of CHRIST +Did heap up wealth, and arrogating power, +Did make men bow the knee, and call themselves +Most Reverend Graces and Right Reverend Lords. +They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed, +And in fine linen: therefore are they here; +And tho' they would not minister on earth, +Here penanced they perforce must minister: +For he, the lowly man of Nazareth, +Hath said, his kingdom is not of the world." +So Saying on they past, and now arrived +Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode, +That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye, +And shudder'd: each one was a loathly corpse, +The worm did banquet on his putrid prey, +Yet had they life and feeling exquisite +Tho' motionless and mute. + "Most wretched men +Are these, the angel cried. These, JOAN, are bards, +Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuate +Who sat them down, deliberately lewd, +So to awake and pamper lust in minds +Unborn; and therefore foul of body now +As then they were of soul, they here abide +Long as the evil works they left on earth +Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom! +Yet amply merited by that bad man +Who prostitutes the sacred gift of song!" +And now they reached a huge and massy pile, +Massy it seem'd, and yet in every blast +As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit, +REMORSE for ever his sad vigils kept. +Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch. +Inly he groan'd, or, starting, wildly shriek'd, +Aye as the fabric tottering from its base, +Threatened its fall, and so expectant still +Lived in the dread of danger still delayed. + +They enter'd there a large and lofty dome, +O'er whose black marble sides a dim drear light +Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp. +Enthroned around, the MURDERERS OF MANKIND, +Monarchs, the great! the glorious! the august! +Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire, +Sat stern and silent. Nimrod he was there, +First King the mighty hunter; and that Chief +Who did belie his mother's fame, that so +He might be called young Ammon. In this court +Caesar was crown'd, accurst liberticide; +And he who murdered Tully, that cold villain, +Octavius, tho' the courtly minion's lyre +Hath hymn'd his praise, tho' Maro sung to him, +And when Death levelled to original clay +The royal carcase, FLATTERY, fawning low, +Fell at his feet, and worshipped the new God. +Titus [3] was here, the Conqueror of the Jews, +He the Delight of human-kind misnamed; +Caesars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings, +Here they were all, all who for glory fought, +Here in the COURT OF GLORY, reaping now +The meed they merited. + As gazing round +The Virgin mark'd the miserable train, +A deep and hollow voice from one went forth; +"Thou who art come to view our punishment, +Maiden of Orleans! hither turn thine eyes, +For I am he whose bloody victories +Thy power hath rendered vain. Lo! I am here, +The hero conqueror of Azincour, +HENRY OF ENGLAND!--wretched that I am, +I might have reigned in happiness and peace, +My coffers full, my subjects undisturb'd, +And PLENTY and PROSPERITY had loved +To dwell amongst them: but mine eye beheld +The realm of France, by faction tempest-torn, +And therefore I did think that it would fall +An easy prey. I persecuted those +Who taught new doctrines, tho' they taught the truth: +And when I heard of thousands by the sword +Cut off, or blasted by the pestilence, +I calmly counted up my proper gains, +And sent new herds to slaughter. Temperate +Myself, no blood that mutinied, no vice +Tainting my private life, I sent abroad +MURDER and RAPE; and therefore am I doom'd, +Like these imperial Sufferers, crown'd with fire, +Here to remain, till Man's awaken'd eye +Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds, +And warn'd by them, till the whole human race, +Equalling in bliss the aggregate we caus'd +Of wretchedness, shall form ONE BROTHERHOOD, +ONE UNIVERSAL FAMILY OF LOVE." + + +[Footnote 1: In the former edition I had substituted 'cable' instead of +'camel'. The alteration would not be worth noticing were it not for the +circumstance which occasioned it. 'Facilius elephas per foramen acus', +is among the Hebrew adages collected by Drusius; the same metaphor is +found in two other Jewish proverbs, and this appears to determine the +signification of [Greek (transliterated): chamaelos]. Matt. 19. 24.] + + +[Footnote 2: The same idea, and almost the same words are in an old play +by John Ford. The passage is a very fine one: + + + Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched, + Almost condemn'd alive! There is a place, + (List daughter!) in a black and hollow vault, + Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, + But flaming horror of consuming fires; + A lightless sulphur, choak'd with smoaky foggs + Of an infected darkness. In this place + Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts + Of never-dying deaths; there damned souls + Roar without pity, there are gluttons fed + With toads and adders; there is burning oil + Pour'd down the drunkard's throat, 'the usurer + Is forced to sup whole draughts of molten gold'; + There is the murderer for ever stabb'd, + Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton + On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul + He feels the torment of his raging lust. + + ''Tis Pity she's a Whore.' + +I wrote this passage when very young, and the idea, trite as it is, was +new to me. It occurs I believe in most descriptions of hell, and perhaps +owes its origin to the fate of Crassus. + +After this picture of horrors, the reader may perhaps be pleased with +one more pleasantly fanciful: + + + O call me home again dear Chief! and put me + To yoking foxes, milking of he-goats, + Pounding of water in a mortar, laving + The sea dry with a nutshell, gathering all + The leaves are fallen this autumn--making ropes of sand, + Catching the winds together in a net, + Mustering of ants, and numbering atoms, all + That Hell and you thought exquisite torments, rather + Than stay me here a thought more. I would sooner + Keep fleas within a circle, and be accomptant + A thousand year which of 'em, and how far + Outleap'd the other, than endure a minute + Such as I have within. + + B. JONSON. 'The Devil is an Ass.'] + + +[Footnote 3: During the siege of Jerusalem, "the Roman commander, 'with +a generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism, +'laboured incessantly, and to the very last moment, to preserve the +place. With this view, he again and again intreated the tyrants to +surrender and save their lives. With the same view also, after carrying +the second wall the siege was intermitted four days: to rouse their +fears, 'prisoners, to the number of five hundred, or more were crucified +daily before the walls; till space', Josephus says, 'was wanting for the +crosses, and crosses for the captives'." + +From the Hampton Lectures of RALPH CHURTON. + +If any of my readers should enquire why Titus Vespasian, the Delight of +Mankind, is placed in such a situation,--I answer, for "HIS GENEROUS +CLEMENCY, THAT INSEPARABLE ATTENDANT ON TRUE HEROISM!] + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE THIRD BOOK. + + + + The Maiden, musing on the Warrior's words, + Turn'd from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach'd + A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood, + In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eye + Beam'd promise, but behind, withered and old, + And all unlovely. Underneath his feet + Lay records trampled, and the laurel wreath + Now rent and faded: in his hand he held + An hour-glass, and as fall the restless sands, + So pass the lives of men. By him they past + Along the darksome cave, and reach'd a stream, + Still rolling onward its perpetual waves, + Noiseless and undisturbed. Here they ascend + A Bark unpiloted, that down the flood, + Borne by the current, rush'd. The circling stream, + Returning to itself, an island form'd; + Nor had the Maiden's footsteps ever reach'd + The insulated coast, eternally + Rapt round the endless course; but Theodore + Drove with an angel's will the obedient bark. + + They land, a mighty fabric meets their eyes, + Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamant + The pile was framed, for ever to abide + Firm in eternal strength. Before the gate + Stood eager EXPECTATION, as to list + The half-heard murmurs issuing from within, + Her mouth half-open'd, and her head stretch'd forth. + On the other side there stood an aged Crone, + Listening to every breath of air; she knew + Vague suppositions and uncertain dreams, + Of what was soon to come, for she would mark + The paley glow-worm's self-created light, + And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown, + And desolated nations; ever fill'd + With undetermin'd terror, as she heard + Or distant screech-owl, or the regular beat + Of evening death-watch. + "Maid," the Spirit cried, + Here, robed in shadows, dwells FUTURITY. + There is no eye hath seen her secret form, + For round the MOTHER OF TIME, unpierced mists + Aye hover. Would'st thou read the book of Fate, + Enter." + The Damsel for a moment paus'd, + Then to the Angel spake: "All-gracious Heaven! + Benignant in withholding, hath denied + To man that knowledge. I, in faith assured, + That he, my heavenly Father, for the best + Ordaineth all things, in that faith remain + Contented." + "Well and wisely hast thou said, + So Theodore replied; "and now O Maid! + Is there amid this boundless universe + One whom thy soul would visit? is there place + To memory dear, or visioned out by hope, + Where thou would'st now be present? form the wish, + And I am with thee, there." + His closing speech + Yet sounded on her ear, and lo! they stood + Swift as the sudden thought that guided them, + Within the little cottage that she loved. + "He sleeps! the good man sleeps!" enrapt she cried, + As bending o'er her Uncle's lowly bed + Her eye retraced his features. "See the beads + That never morn nor night he fails to tell, + Remembering me, his child, in every prayer. + Oh! quiet be thy sleep, thou dear old man! + Good Angels guard thy rest! and when thine hour + Is come, as gently mayest thou wake to life, + As when thro' yonder lattice the next sun + Shall bid thee to thy morning orisons! + Thy voice is heard, the Angel guide rejoin'd, + He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breathe + Blessings, and pleasant is the good man's rest. + Thy fame has reached him, for who has not heard + Thy wonderous exploits? and his aged heart + Hath felt the deepest joy that ever yet + Made his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on old Claude! + Peaceful, pure Spirit, be thy sojourn here, + And short and soon thy passage to that world + Where friends shall part no more! + "Does thy soul own + No other wish? or sleeps poor Madelon + Forgotten in her grave? seest thou yon star," + The Spirit pursued, regardless of her eye + That look'd reproach; "seest thou that evening star + Whose lovely light so often we beheld + From yonder woodbine porch? how have we gazed + Into the dark deep sky, till the baffled soul, + Lost in the infinite, returned, and felt + The burthen of her bodily load, and yearned + For freedom! Maid, in yonder evening slar + Lives thy departed friend. I read that glance, + And we are there!" + He said and they had past + The immeasurable space. + Then on her ear + The lonely song of adoration rose, + Sweet as the cloister'd virgins vesper hymn, + Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopes + Already lives in Heaven. Abrupt the song + Ceas'd, tremulous and quick a cry + Of joyful wonder rous'd the astonish'd Maid, + And instant Madelon was in her arms; + No airy form, no unsubstantial shape, + She felt her friend, she prest her to her heart, + Their tears of rapture mingled. + She drew back + And eagerly she gazed on Madelon, + Then fell upon her neck again and wept. + No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief, + The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness, + The languid eye: youth's loveliest freshness now + Mantled her cheek, whose every lineament + Bespake the soul at rest, a holy calm, + A deep and full tranquillity of bliss. + + "Thou then art come, my first and dearest friend!" + The well known voice of Madelon began, + "Thou then art come! and was thy pilgrimage + So short on earth? and was it painful too, + Painful and short as mine? but blessed they + Who from the crimes and miseries of the world + Early escape!" + "Nay," Theodore replied, + She hath not yet fulfill'd her mortal work. + Permitted visitant from earth she comes + To see the seat of rest, and oftentimes + In sorrow shall her soul remember this, + And patient of the transitory woe + Partake the anticipated peace again." + "Soon be that work perform'd!" the Maid exclaimed, + "O Madelon! O Theodore! my soul, + Spurning the cold communion of the world, + Will dwell with you! but I shall patiently, + Yea even with joy, endure the allotted ills + Of which the memory in this better state + Shall heighten bliss. That hour of agony, + When, Madelon, I felt thy dying grasp, + And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death, + The very horrors of that hour assume + A shape that now delights." + "O earliest friend! + I too remember," Madelon replied, + "That hour, thy looks of watchful agony, + The suppressed grief that struggled in thine eye + Endearing love's last kindness. Thou didst know + With what a deep and melancholy joy + I felt the hour draw on: but who can speak + The unutterable transport, when mine eyes, + As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed + Amid this peaceful vale, unclos'd on him, + My Arnaud! he had built me up a bower, + A bower of rest.--See, Maiden, where he comes, + His manly lineaments, his beaming eye + The same, but now a holier innocence + Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume + The enlighten'd glance." + They met, what joy was theirs + He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead + Has wet the midnight pillow with his tears. + + Fair was the scene around; an ample vale + Whose mountain circle at the distant verge + Lay softened on the sight; the near ascent + Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare, + Part with the ancient majesty of woods + Adorn'd, or lifting high its rocks sublime. + The river's liquid radiance roll'd beneath, + Beside the bower of Madelon it wound + A broken stream, whose shallows, tho' the waves + Roll'd on their way with rapid melody, + A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove + Its gay green foliage starr'd with golden fruit; + But with what odours did their blossoms load + The passing gale of eve! less thrilling sweet + Rose from the marble's perforated floor, + Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen + Inhaled the cool delight, [1] and whilst she asked + The Prophet for his promised paradise, + Shaped from the present scene its utmost joys. + A goodly scene! fair as that faery land + Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne + From Camlan's bloody banks; or as the groves + Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say, + Enoch abides, and he who rapt away + By fiery steeds, and chariotted in fire, + Past in his mortal form the eternal ways; + And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there + The beatific vision, sometimes seen + The distant dawning of eternal day, + Till all things be fulfilled. + "Survey this scene!" + So Theodore address'd the Maid of Arc, + "There is no evil here, no wretchedness, + It is the Heaven of those who nurst on earth + Their nature's gentlest feelings. Yet not here + Centering their joys, but with a patient hope, + Waiting the allotted hour when capable + Of loftier callings, to a better state + They pass; and hither from that better state + Frequent they come, preserving so those ties + That thro' the infinite progressiveness + Complete our perfect bliss. + "Even such, so blest, + Save that the memory of no sorrows past + Heightened the present joy, our world was once, + In the first aera of its innocence + Ere man had learnt to bow the knee to man. + Was there a youth whom warm affection fill'd, + He spake his honest heart; the earliest fruits + His toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck'd + The sunny bank, he gather'd for the maid, + Nor she disdain'd the gift; for VICE not yet + Had burst the dungeons of her hell, and rear'd + Those artificial boundaries that divide + Man from his species. State of blessedness! + Till that ill-omen'd hour when Cain's stern son + Delved in the bowels of the earth for gold, + Accursed bane of virtue! of such force + As poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon's locks, + Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-blood + Cold curdle in his veins, the creeping flesh + Grew stiff with horror, and the heart forgot + To beat. Accursed hour! for man no more + To JUSTICE paid his homage, but forsook + Her altars, and bow'd down before the shrine + Of WEALTH and POWER, the Idols he had made. + Then HELL enlarged herself, her gates flew wide, + Her legion fiends rush'd forth. OPPRESSION came + Whose frown is desolation, and whose breath + Blasts like the Pestilence; and POVERTY, + A meagre monster, who with withering touch + Makes barren all the better part of man, + MOTHER OF MISERIES. Then the goodly earth + Which God had fram'd for happiness, became + One theatre of woe, and all that God + Had given to bless free men, these tyrant fiends + His bitterest curses made. Yet for the best + Hath he ordained all things, the ALL-WISE! + For by experience rous'd shall man at length + Dash down his Moloch-Idols, Samson-like + And burst his fetters, only strong whilst strong + Believed. Then in the bottomless abyss + OPPRESSION shall be chain'd, and POVERTY + Die, and with her, her brood of Miseries; + And VIRTUE and EQUALITY preserve + The reign of LOVE, and Earth shall once again + Be Paradise, whilst WISDOM shall secure + The state of bliss which IGNORANCE betrayed." + + "Oh age of happiness!" the Maid exclaim'd, + Roll fast thy current, Time till that blest age + Arrive! and happy thou my Theodore, + Permitted thus to see the sacred depths + Of wisdom!" + "Such," the blessed Spirit replied, + Beloved! such our lot; allowed to range + The vast infinity, progressive still + In knowledge and encreasing blessedness, + This our united portion. Thou hast yet + A little while to sojourn amongst men: + I will be with thee! there shall not a breeze + Wanton around thy temples, on whose wing + I will not hover near! and at that hour + When from its fleshly sepulchre let loose, + Thy phoenix soul shall soar, O best-beloved! + I will be with thee in thine agonies, + And welcome thee to life and happiness, + Eternal infinite beatitude!" + + He spake, and led her near a straw-roof'd cot, + LOVE'S Palace. By the Virtues circled there, + The cherub listen'd to such melodies, + As aye, when one good deed is register'd + Above, re-echo in the halls of Heaven. + LABOUR was there, his crisp locks floating loose, + Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye, + And strong his arm robust; the wood-nymph HEALTH + Still follow'd on his path, and where he trod + Fresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was HOPE, + The general friend; and PITY, whose mild eye + Wept o'er the widowed dove; and, loveliest form, + Majestic CHASTITY, whose sober smile + Delights and awes the soul; a laurel wreath + Restrain'd her tresses, and upon her breast + The snow-drop [2] hung its head, that seem'd to grow + Spontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maid + LOVE went submiss, wilh eye more dangerous + Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er + Too bold approached; yet anxious would he read + Her every rising wish, then only pleased + When pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais'd. + + "Glory to thee whose vivifying power + Pervades all Nature's universal frame! + Glory to thee CREATOR LOVE! to thee, + Parent of all the smiling CHARITIES, + That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers! + Glory to thee PRESERVER! to thy praise + The awakened woodlands echo all the day + Their living melody; and warbling forth + To thee her twilight song, the Nightingale + Holds the lone Traveller from his way, or charms + The listening Poet's ear. Where LOVE shall deign + To fix his seat, there blameless PLEASURE sheds + Her roseate dews; CONTENT will sojourn there, + And HAPPINESS behold AFFECTION'S eye + Gleam with the Mother's smile. Thrice happy he + Who feels thy holy power! he shall not drag, + Forlorn and friendless, along Life's long path + To Age's drear abode; he shall not waste + The bitter evening of his days unsooth'd; + But HOPE shall cheer his hours of Solitude, + And VICE shall vainly strive to wound his breast, + That bears that talisman; and when he meets + The eloquent eye of TENDERNESS, and hears + The bosom-thrilling music of her voice; + The joy he feels shall purify his Soul, + And imp it for anticipated Heaven." + + +[Footnote 1: In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the Queen used to +dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there +is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled +that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and windows are +disposed so as to afford the most agreeable prospects, and to throw a +soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents of air too are +admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious coolness of this +apartment. + +(From the sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed to +Florian's Gonsalvo of Cordova).] + + +[Footnote 2: "The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired +her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems +to grow on the breast of the Virgin." P.H.] + + + + + + +The Rose. + + Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus, + that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden + was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadde don + fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be + brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre + began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that + als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help + hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; + and whanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon + was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, + becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise weren the first + Roseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. + And thus was this Maiden saved be the Grace of God. + + 'The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundevile'. + + + + + + +THE ROSE. + + + + Nay EDITH! spare the rose!--it lives--it lives, + It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh'd + The dews of night; let not thy gentle hand + Tear sunder its life-fibres and destroy + The sense of being!--why that infidel smile? + Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful, + And thou shall have a tale of other times, + For I am skill'd in legendary lore, + So thou wilt let it live. There was a time + Ere this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms, + Bedeck'd the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard + How first by miracle its fragrant leaves + Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness. + + There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid + And Zillah was her name, so passing fair + That all Judea spake the damsel's praise. + He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance + How quick it spake the soul, and what a soul + Beam'd in its mild effulgence, woe was he! + For not in solitude, for not in crowds, + Might he escape remembrance, or avoid + Her imaged form that followed every where, + And fill'd the heart, and fix'd the absent eye. + Woe was he, for her bosom own'd no love + Save the strong ardours of religious zeal, + For Zillah on her God had centered all + Her spirit's deep affections. So for her + Her tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverenced + The obdurate virtue that destroyed their hopes. + + One man there was, a vain and wretched man, + Who saw, desired, despair'd, and hated her. + His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek + Even till the flush of angry modesty + Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. + She loath'd the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, + And the strong workings of brute selfishness + Had moulded his broad features; and she fear'd + The bitterness of wounded vanity + That with a fiendish hue would overcast + His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, + For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plot + Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad + Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports + That soon obtain belief; that Zillah's eye + When in the temple heaven-ward it was rais'd + Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those + Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance + With other feelings fill'd; that 'twas a task + Of easy sort to play the saint by day + Before the public eye, but that all eyes + Were closed at night; that Zillah's life was foul, + Yea forfeit to the law. + + Shame--shame to man + That he should trust so easily the tongue + That stabs another's fame! the ill report + Was heard, repeated, and believed,--and soon, + For Hamuel by most damned artifice + Produced such semblances of guilt, the Maid + Was judged to shameful death. + Without the walls + There was a barren field; a place abhorr'd, + For it was there where wretched criminals + Were done to die; and there they built the stake, + And piled the fuel round, that should consume + The accused Maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd, + By God and man. The assembled Bethlemites + Beheld the scene, and when they saw the Maid + Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness + She lifted up her patient looks to Heaven, + They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts + Stood Hamuel near the pile, him savage joy + Led thitherward, but now within his heart + Unwonted feelings stirr'd, and the first pangs + Of wakening guilt, anticipating Hell. + The eye of Zillah as it glanced around + Fell on the murderer once, but not in wrath; + And therefore like a dagger it had fallen, + Had struck into his soul a cureless wound. + Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour + Of triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch, + Not in the hour of infamy and death + Forsake the virtuous! they draw near the stake-- + And lo! the torch! hold hold your erring hands! + Yet quench the rising flames!--they rise! they spread! + They reach the suffering Maid! oh God protect + The innocent one! + They rose, they spread, they raged-- + The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire + Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames + In one long lightning flash collecting fierce, + Darted and blasted Hamuel--him alone. + Hark--what a fearful scream the multitude + Pour forth!--and yet more miracles! the stake + Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves and bowers + The innocent Maid, and roses bloom around, + Now first beheld since Paradise was lost, + And fill with Eden odours all the air. + + + + + + + + +The COMPLAINTS of the POOR. + + + + And wherefore do the Poor complain? + The rich man asked of me,-- + Come walk abroad with me, I said + And I will answer thee. + + Twas evening and the frozen streets + Were cheerless to behold, + And we were wrapt and coated well, + And yet we were a-cold. + + We met an old bare-headed man, + His locks were few and white, + I ask'd him what he did abroad + In that cold winter's night: + + 'Twas bitter keen indeed, he said, + But at home no fire had he, + And therefore, he had come abroad + To ask for charity. + + We met a young bare-footed child, + And she begg'd loud and bold, + I ask'd her what she did abroad + When the wind it blew so cold; + + She said her father was at home + And he lay sick a-bed, + And therefore was it she was sent + Abroad to beg for bread. + + We saw a woman sitting down + Upon a stone to rest, + She had a baby at her back + And another at her breast; + + I ask'd her why she loiter'd there + When the wind it was so chill; + She turn'd her head and bade the child + That scream'd behind be still. + + She told us that her husband served + A soldier, far away, + And therefore to her parish she + Was begging back her way. + + We met a girl; her dress was loose + And sunken was her eye, + Who with the wanton's hollow voice + Address'd the passers by; + + I ask'd her what there was in guilt + That could her heart allure + To shame, disease, and late remorse? + She answer'd, she was poor. + + I turn'd me to the rich man then + For silently stood he, + You ask'd me why the Poor complain, + And these have answer'd thee. + + + + + + + + +METRICAL LETTER, + +Written from London. + + + + Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile; + I love the homely and familiar phrase; + And I will call thee Cousin Margaret, + However quaint amid the measured line + The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill + When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, + Sirring and Madaming as civilly + As if the road between the heart and lips + Were such a weary and Laplandish way + That the poor travellers came to the red gates + Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret, + For many a day my Memory has played + The creditor with me on your account, + And made me shame to think that I should owe + So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, + Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear + So heavy a pack of business, that albeit + I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race + Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I + That for a moment you should lay to me + Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart + That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some + Who know how warm it beats. I am not one + Who can play off my smiles and courtesies + To every Lady of her lap dog tired + Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend + Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love; + Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up + At once without a seed and take no root, + Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere + The little circle of domestic life + I would be known and loved; the world beyond + Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think + That you should know me well, for you and I + Grew up together, and when we look back + Upon old times our recollections paint + The same familiar faces. Did I wield + The wand of Merlin's magic I would make + Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, + Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood + That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth, + The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle + Like that where whilome old Apollidon + Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid + The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers, + That we might stand upon the beach, and mark + The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, + And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound + Told us that never mariner should reach + Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle + We might renew the days of infancy, + And Life like a long childhood pass away, + Without one care. It may be, Margaret, + That I shall yet be gathered to my friends, + For I am not of those who live estranged + Of choice, till at the last they join their race + In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, + Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack + So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine + Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly. + If not, if I should never get beyond + This Vanity town, there is another world + Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, + I gaze at night into the boundless sky, + And think that I shall there be born again, + The exalted native of some better star; + And like the rude American I hope + To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth. + + + + + + + + + + +The Cross Roads. + +The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty +years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at +the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as +I have versified them. + + + + +THE CROSS ROADS. + + + There was an old man breaking stones + To mend the turnpike way, + He sat him down beside a brook + And out his bread and cheese he took, + For now it was mid-day. + + He lent his back against a post, + His feet the brook ran by; + And there were water-cresses growing, + And pleasant was the water's flowing + For he was hot and dry. + + A soldier with his knapsack on + Came travelling o'er the down, + The sun was strong and he was tired, + And of the old man he enquired + How far to Bristol town. + + Half an hour's walk for a young man + By lanes and fields and stiles. + But you the foot-path do not know, + And if along the road you go + Why then 'tis three good miles. + + The soldier took his knapsack off + For he was hot and dry; + And out his bread and cheese he took + And he sat down beside the brook + To dine in company. + + Old friend! in faith, the soldier says + I envy you almost; + My shoulders have been sorely prest + And I should like to sit and rest, + My back against that post. + + In such a sweltering day as this + A knapsack is the devil! + And if on t'other side I sat + It would not only spoil our chat + But make me seem uncivil. + + The old man laugh'd and moved. I wish + It were a great-arm'd chair! + But this may help a man at need; + And yet it was a cursed deed + That ever brought it there. + + There's a poor girl lies buried here + Beneath this very place. + The earth upon her corpse is prest + This stake is driven into her breast + And a stone is on her face. + + The soldier had but just lent back + And now he half rose up. + There's sure no harm in dining here, + My friend? and yet to be sincere + I should not like to sup. + + God rest her! she is still enough + Who sleeps beneath our feet! + The old man cried. No harm I trow + She ever did herself, tho' now + She lies where four roads meet. + + I have past by about that hour + When men are not most brave, + It did not make my heart to fail, + And I have heard the nightingale + Sing sweetly on her grave. + + I have past by about that hour + When Ghosts their freedom have, + But there was nothing here to fright, + And I have seen the glow-worm's light + Shine on the poor girl's grave. + + There's one who like a Christian lies + Beneath the church-tree's shade; + I'd rather go a long mile round + Than pass at evening thro' the ground + Wherein that man is laid. + + There's one that in the church-yard lies + For whom the bell did toll; + He lies in consecrated ground, + But for all the wealth in Bristol town + I would not be with his soul! + + Did'st see a house below the hill + That the winds and the rains destroy? + 'Twas then a farm where he did dwell, + And I remember it full well + When I was a growing boy. + + And she was a poor parish girl + That came up from the west, + From service hard she ran away + And at that house in evil day + Was taken in to rest. + + The man he was a wicked man + And an evil life he led; + Rage made his cheek grow deadly white + And his grey eyes were large and light, + And in anger they grew red. + + The man was bad, the mother worse, + Bad fruit of a bad stem, + 'Twould make your hair to stand-on-end + If I should tell to you my friend + The things that were told of them! + + Did'st see an out-house standing by? + The walls alone remain; + It was a stable then, but now + Its mossy roof has fallen through + All rotted by the rain. + + The poor girl she had serv'd with them + Some half-a-year, or more, + When she was found hung up one day + Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay + Behind that stable door! + + It is a very lonesome place, + No hut or house is near; + Should one meet a murderer there alone + 'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan + Would never reach mortal ear. + + And there were strange reports about + That the coroner never guest. + So he decreed that she should lie + Where four roads meet in infamy, + With a stake drove in her breast. + + Upon a board they carried her + To the place where four roads met, + And I was one among the throng + That hither followed them along, + I shall never the sight forget! + + They carried her upon a board + In the cloaths in which she died; + I saw the cap blow off her head, + Her face was of a dark dark red + Her eyes were starting wide: + + I think they could not have been closed + So widely did they strain. + I never saw so dreadful a sight, + And it often made me wake at night, + For I saw her face again. + + They laid her here where four roads meet. + Beneath this very place, + The earth upon her corpse was prest, + This post is driven into her breast, + And a stone is on her face. + + + + + + + + + + + +The Sailor, + +who had served in the Slave Trade. + +In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol, discovered a +Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City, groaning and praying in a +hovel. The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in +the annexed Ballad, without the slightest addition or alteration. By +presenting it as a Poem the story is made more public, and such stories +ought to be made as public as possible. + + + + +THE SAILOR, + +WHO HAD SERVED IN THE SLAVE-TRADE. + + + He stopt,--it surely was a groan + That from the hovel came! + He stopt and listened anxiously + Again it sounds the same. + + It surely from the hovel comes! + And now he hastens there, + And thence he hears the name of Christ + Amidst a broken prayer. + + He entered in the hovel now, + A sailor there he sees, + His hands were lifted up to Heaven + And he was on his knees. + + Nor did the Sailor so intent + His entering footsteps heed, + But now the Lord's prayer said, and now + His half-forgotten creed. + + And often on his Saviour call'd + With many a bitter groan, + In such heart-anguish as could spring + From deepest guilt alone. + + He ask'd the miserable man + Why he was kneeling there, + And what the crime had been that caus'd + The anguish of his prayer. + + Oh I have done a wicked thing! + It haunts me night and day, + And I have sought this lonely place + Here undisturb'd to pray. + + I have no place to pray on board + So I came here alone, + That I might freely kneel and pray, + And call on Christ and groan. + + If to the main-mast head I go, + The wicked one is there, + From place to place, from rope to rope, + He follows every where. + + I shut my eyes,--it matters not-- + Still still the same I see,-- + And when I lie me down at night + 'Tis always day with me. + + He follows follows every where, + And every place is Hell! + O God--and I must go with him + In endless fire to dwell. + + He follows follows every where, + He's still above--below, + Oh tell me where to fly from him! + Oh tell me where to go! + + But tell me, quoth the Stranger then, + What this thy crime hath been, + So haply I may comfort give + To one that grieves for sin. + + O I have done a cursed deed + The wretched man replies, + And night and day and every where + 'Tis still before my eyes. + + I sail'd on board a Guinea-man + And to the slave-coast went; + Would that the sea had swallowed me + When I was innocent! + + And we took in our cargo there, + Three hundred negroe slaves, + And we sail'd homeward merrily + Over the ocean waves. + + But some were sulky of the slaves + And would not touch their meat, + So therefore we were forced by threats + And blows to make them eat. + + One woman sulkier than the rest + Would still refuse her food,-- + O Jesus God! I hear her cries-- + I see her in her blood! + + The Captain made me tie her up + And flog while he stood by, + And then he curs'd me if I staid + My hand to hear her cry. + + She groan'd, she shriek'd--I could not spare + For the Captain he stood by-- + Dear God! that I might rest one night + From that poor woman's cry! + + She twisted from the blows--her blood + Her mangled flesh I see-- + And still the Captain would not spare-- + Oh he was worse than me! + + She could not be more glad than I + When she was taken down, + A blessed minute--'twas the last + That I have ever known! + + I did not close my eyes all night, + Thinking what I had done; + I heard her groans and they grew faint + About the rising sun. + + She groan'd and groan'd, but her groans grew + Fainter at morning tide, + Fainter and fainter still they came + Till at the noon she died. + + They flung her overboard;--poor wretch + She rested from her pain,-- + But when--O Christ! O blessed God! + Shall I have rest again! + + I saw the sea close over her, + Yet she was still in sight; + I see her twisting every where; + I see her day and night. + + Go where I will, do what I can + The wicked one I see-- + Dear Christ have mercy on my soul, + O God deliver me! + + To morrow I set sail again + Not to the Negroe shore-- + Wretch that I am I will at least + Commit that sin no more. + + O give me comfort if you can-- + Oh tell me where to fly-- + And bid me hope, if there be hope, + For one so lost as I. + + Poor wretch, the stranger he replied, + Put thou thy trust in heaven, + And call on him for whose dear sake + All sins shall be forgiven. + + This night at least is thine, go thou + And seek the house of prayer, + There shalt thou hear the word of God + And he will help thee there! + + + + + + + + + + + + +Jaspar. + +The stories of the two following ballads are wholly imaginary. I may say +of each as John Bunyan did of his 'Pilgrim's Progress', + + + "It came from mine own heart, so to my head, + And thence into my fingers trickled; + Then to my pen, from whence immediately + On paper I did dribble it daintily." + + + + +JASPAR + + + + Jaspar was poor, and want and vice + Had made his heart like stone, + And Jaspar look'd with envious eyes + On riches not his own. + + On plunder bent abroad he went + Towards the close of day, + And loitered on the lonely road + Impatient for his prey. + + No traveller came, he loiter'd long + And often look'd around, + And paus'd and listen'd eagerly + To catch some coming sound. + + He sat him down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way, + So fair a scene might well have charm'd + All evil thoughts away; + + He sat beneath a willow tree + That cast a trembling shade, + The gentle river full in front + A little island made, + + Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone + Upon the poplar trees, + Whose shadow on the stream below + Play'd slowly to the breeze. + + He listen'd--and he heard the wind + That waved the willow tree; + He heard the waters flow along + And murmur quietly. + + He listen'd for the traveller's tread, + The nightingale sung sweet,-- + He started up, for now he heard + The sound of coming feet; + + He started up and graspt a stake + And waited for his prey; + There came a lonely traveller + And Jaspar crost his way. + + But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd + The traveller to appal, + He would not lightly yield the purse + That held his little all. + + Awhile he struggled, but he strove + With Jaspar's strength in vain; + Beneath his blows he fell and groan'd, + And never spoke again. + + He lifted up the murdered man + And plunged him in the flood, + And in the running waters then + He cleansed his hands from blood. + + The waters closed around the corpse + And cleansed his hands from gore, + The willow waved, the stream flowed on + And murmured as before. + + There was no human eye had seen + The blood the murderer spilt, + And Jaspar's conscience never knew + The avenging goad of guilt. + + And soon the ruffian had consum'd + The gold he gain'd so ill, + And years of secret guilt pass'd on + And he was needy still. + + One eve beside the alehouse fire + He sat as it befell, + When in there came a labouring man + Whom Jaspar knew full well. + + He sat him down by Jaspar's side + A melancholy man, + For spite of honest toil, the world + Went hard with Jonathan. + + His toil a little earn'd, and he + With little was content, + But sickness on his wife had fallen + And all he had was spent. + + Then with his wife and little ones + He shared the scanty meal, + And saw their looks of wretchedness, + And felt what wretches feel. + + That very morn the Landlord's power + Had seized the little left, + And now the sufferer found himself + Of every thing bereft. + + He lent his head upon his hand, + His elbow on his knee, + And so by Jaspar's side he sat + And not a word said he. + + Nay--why so downcast? Jaspar cried, + Come--cheer up Jonathan! + Drink neighbour drink! 'twill warm thy heart, + Come! come! take courage man! + + He took the cup that Jaspar gave + And down he drain'd it quick + I have a wife, said Jonathan, + And she is deadly sick. + + She has no bed to lie upon, + I saw them take her bed. + And I have children--would to God + That they and I were dead! + + Our Landlord he goes home to night + And he will sleep in peace. + I would that I were in my grave + For there all troubles cease. + + In vain I pray'd him to forbear + Tho' wealth enough has he-- + God be to him as merciless + As he has been to me! + + When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul + On all his ills intent, + He plied him with the heartening cup + And with him forth he went. + + This landlord on his homeward road + 'Twere easy now to meet. + The road is lonesome--Jonathan, + And vengeance, man! is sweet. + + He listen'd to the tempter's voice + The thought it made him start. + His head was hot, and wretchedness + Had hardened now his heart. + + Along the lonely road they went + And waited for their prey, + They sat them down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way. + + They sat them down beside the stream + And never a word they said, + They sat and listen'd silently + To hear the traveller's tread. + + The night was calm, the night was dark, + No star was in the sky, + The wind it waved the willow boughs, + The stream flowed quietly. + + The night was calm, the air was still, + Sweet sung the nightingale, + The soul of Jonathan was sooth'd, + His heart began to fail. + + 'Tis weary waiting here, he cried, + And now the hour is late,-- + Methinks he will not come to night, + 'Tis useless more to wait. + + Have patience man! the ruffian said, + A little we may wait, + But longer shall his wife expect + Her husband at the gate. + + Then Jonathan grew sick at heart, + My conscience yet is clear, + Jaspar--it is not yet too late-- + I will not linger here. + + How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought + Thy conscience was asleep. + No more such qualms, the night is dark, + The river here is deep, + + What matters that, said Jonathan, + Whose blood began to freeze, + When there is one above whose eye + The deeds of darkness sees? + + We are safe enough, said Jaspar then + If that be all thy fear; + Nor eye below, nor eye above + Can pierce the darkness here. + + That instant as the murderer spake + There came a sudden light; + Strong as the mid-day sun it shone, + Though all around was night. + + It hung upon the willow tree, + It hung upon the flood, + It gave to view the poplar isle + And all the scene of blood. + + The traveller who journies there + He surely has espied + A madman who has made his home + Upon the river's side. + + His cheek is pale, his eye is wild, + His look bespeaks despair; + For Jaspar since that hour has made + His home unshelter'd there. + + And fearful are his dreams at night + And dread to him the day; + He thinks upon his untold crime + And never dares to pray. + + The summer suns, the winter storms, + O'er him unheeded roll, + For heavy is the weight of blood + Upon the maniac's soul. + + + + + + + + + + +LORD WILLIAM. + + + + No eye beheld when William plunged + Young Edmund in the stream, + No human ear but William's heard + Young Edmund's drowning scream. + + Submissive all the vassals own'd + The murderer for their Lord, + And he, the rightful heir, possessed + The house of Erlingford. + + The ancient house of Erlingford + Stood midst a fair domain, + And Severn's ample waters near + Roll'd through the fertile plain. + + And often the way-faring man + Would love to linger there, + Forgetful of his onward road + To gaze on scenes so fair. + + But never could Lord William dare + To gaze on Severn's stream; + In every wind that swept its waves + He heard young Edmund scream. + + In vain at midnight's silent hour + Sleep closed the murderer's eyes, + In every dream the murderer saw + Young Edmund's form arise. + + In vain by restless conscience driven + Lord William left his home, + Far from the scenes that saw his guilt, + In pilgrimage to roam. + + To other climes the pilgrim fled, + But could not fly despair, + He sought his home again, but peace + Was still a stranger there. + + Each hour was tedious long, yet swift + The months appear'd to roll; + And now the day return'd that shook + With terror William's soul. + + A day that William never felt + Return without dismay, + For well had conscience kalendered + Young Edmund's dying day. + + A fearful day was that! the rains + Fell fast, with tempest roar, + And the swoln tide of Severn spread + Far on the level shore. + + In vain Lord William sought the feast + In vain he quaff'd the bowl, + And strove with noisy mirth to drown + The anguish of his soul. + + The tempest as its sudden swell + In gusty howlings came, + With cold and death-like feelings seem'd + To thrill his shuddering frame. + + Reluctant now, as night came on, + His lonely couch he prest, + And wearied out, he sunk to sleep, + To sleep, but not to rest. + + Beside that couch his brother's form + Lord Edmund seem'd to stand, + Such and so pale as when in death + He grasp'd his brother's hand; + + Such and so pale his face as when + With faint and faltering tongue, + To William's care, a dying charge + He left his orphan son. + + "I bade thee with a father's love + My orphan Edmund guard-- + Well William hast thou kept thy charge! + Now take thy due reward." + + He started up, each limb convuls'd + With agonizing fear, + He only heard the storm of night-- + 'Twas music to his ear. + + When lo! the voice of loud alarm + His inmost soul appals, + What ho! Lord William rise in haste! + The water saps thy walls! + + He rose in haste, beneath the walls + He saw the flood appear, + It hemm'd him round, 'twas midnight now, + No human aid was near. + + He heard the shout of joy, for now + A boat approach'd the wall, + And eager to the welcome aid + They crowd for safety all. + + My boat is small, the boatman cried, + This dangerous haste forbear! + Wait other aid, this little bark + But one from hence can bear. + + Lord William leap'd into the boat, + Haste--haste to yonder shore! + And ample wealth shall well reward, + Ply swift and strong the oar. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Went light along the stream, + Sudden Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + The boatman paus'd, methought I heard + A child's distressful cry! + 'Twas but the howling wind of night + Lord William made reply. + + Haste haste--ply swift and strong the oar! + Haste haste across the stream! + Again Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + I heard a child's distressful scream + The boatman cried again. + Nay hasten on--the night is dark-- + And we should search in vain. + + Oh God! Lord William dost thou know + How dreadful 'tis to die? + And can'st thou without pity hear + A child's expiring cry? + + How horrible it is to sink + Beneath the chilly stream, + To stretch the powerless arms in vain, + In vain for help to scream? + + The shriek again was heard. It came + More deep, more piercing loud, + That instant o'er the flood the moon + Shone through a broken cloud. + + And near them they beheld a child, + Upon a crag he stood, + A little crag, and all around + Was spread the rising flood. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Approach'd his resting place, + The moon-beam shone upon the child + And show'd how pale his face. + + Now reach thine hand! the boatman cried + Lord William reach and save! + The child stretch'd forth his little hands + To grasp the hand he gave. + + Then William shriek'd; the hand he touch'd + Was cold and damp and dead! + He felt young Edmund in his arms + A heavier weight than lead. + + The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk + Beneath the avenging stream; + He rose, he scream'd, no human ear + Heard William's drowning scream. + + + + + + + + + +A BALLAD, + +SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. + +[Illustration: heavy black-and-white drawing (woodcut) of the title.] + + +A.D. 852. Circa dies istos, mulier quaedam malefica, in villa quae +Berkeleia dicitur degens, gulae amatrix ac petulantiae, flagitiis modum +usque in senium et auguriis non ponens, usque ad mortem impudica +permansit. Haec die quadam cum sederet ad prandium, cornicula quam pro +delitiis pascebat, nescio quid garrire coepit; quo audito, mulieris +cultellus de manu excidit, simul et facies pallescere coepit, et emisso +rugitu, hodie, inquit, accipiam grande incommodum, hodieque ad sulcum +ultimum meum pervenit aratrum, quo dicto, nuncius doloris intravit; +muliere vero percunctata ad quid veniret, affero, inquit, tibi filii tui +obitum & totius familiae ejus ex subita ruina interitum. Hoc quoque +dolore mulier permota, lecto protinus decubuit graviter infirmata; +sentiensque morbum subrepere ad vitalia, liberos quos habuit +superstites, monachum videlicet et monacham, per epistolam invitavit; +advenientes autem voce singultiente alloquitur. Ego, inquit, o pueri, +meo miserabili fato daemoniacis semper artibus inservivi; ego omnium +vitiorum sentina, ego illecebrarum omnium fui magistra. Erat tamen mihi +inter haec mala, spes vestrae religionis, quae meam solidaret animam +desperatam; vos expctabam propugnatores contra daemones, tutores contra +saevissimos hostes. Nunc igitur quoniam ad finem vitae perveni, rogo vos +per materna ubera, ut mea tentatis alleviare tormenta. Insuite me +defunctam in corio cervino, ac deinde in sarcophago lapideo supponite, +operculumque ferro et plumbo constringite, ac demum lapidem tribus +cathenis ferreis et fortissimis circundantes, clericos quinquaginta +psalmorum cantores, et tot per tres dies presbyteros missarum +celebratores applicate, qui feroces lenigent adversariorum incursus. Ita +si tribus noctibus secura jacuero, quarta die me infodite humo. + +Factumque est ut praeceperat illis. Sed, proh dolor! nil preces, nil +lacrymae, nil demum valuere catenae. Primis enim duabus noctibus, cum +chori psallentium corpori assistabant, advenientes Daemones ostium +ecclesiae confregerunt ingenti obice clausum, extremasque cathenas +negotio levi dirumpunt: media autem quae fortior erat, illibata manebat. +Tertia autem nocte, circa gallicinium, strepitu hostium adventantium, +omne monasterium visum est a fundamento moveri. Unus ergo daemonum, et +vultu caeteris terribilior & statura eminentior, januas Ecclesiae; impetu +violento concussas in fragmenta dejecit. Divexerunt clerici cum laicis, +metu stelerunt omnium capilli, et psalmorum concentus defecit. Daemon +ergo gestu ut videbatur arroganti ad sepulchrum accedens, & nomen +mulieris modicum ingeminans, surgere imperavit. Qua respondente, quod +nequiret pro vinculis, jam malo tuo, inquit, solveris; et protinus +cathenam quae caeterorum ferociam daemonum deluserat, velut stuppeum +vinculum rumpebat. Operculum etiam sepulchri pede depellens, mulierem +palam omnibus ab ecclesia extraxit, ubi prae foribus niger equus superbe +hinniens videbatur, uncis ferreis et clavis undique confixus, super quem +misera mulier projecta, ab oculis assistentium evanuit. Audiebantur +tamen clamores per quatuor fere miliaria horribiles, auxilium +postulantes. + +Ista itaque quae retuli incredibilia non erunt, si legatur beati Gregorii +dialogus, in quo refert, hominem in ecclesia sepultam, a daemonibus foras +ejectum. Et apud Francos Carolus Martellus insignis vir fortudinis, qui +Saracenos Galliam ingressos, Hispaniam redire compulit, exactis vitae suae +diebus, in Ecclesia beati Dionysii legitur fuisse sepultus. Sed quia +patrimonia, cum decimis omnium fere ecclesiarum Galliae, pro stipendio +commilitonum suorum mutilaverat, miserabiliter a malignis spiritibus de +sepulchro corporaliter avulsus, usque in hodiernum diem nusquam +comparuit. + +Matthew of Westminster. + + +This story is also related by Olaus Magnus, and in the Nuremberg +Chronicle, from which the wooden cut is taken. + + + +A BALLAD, + +SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. + + + The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal, + And the Old Woman knew what he said, + And she grew pale at the Raven's tale, + And sicken'd and went to her bed. + + Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed, + The Old Woman of Berkeley said, + The monk my son, and my daughter the nun + Bid them hasten or I shall be dead. + + The monk her son, and her daughter the nun, + Their way to Berkeley went, + And they have brought with pious thought + The holy sacrament. + + The old Woman shriek'd as they entered her door, + 'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear, + Now take the sacrament away + For mercy, my children dear! + + Her lip it trembled with agony, + The sweat ran down her brow, + I have tortures in store for evermore, + Oh! spare me my children now! + + Away they sent the sacrament, + The fit it left her weak, + She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes + And faintly struggled to speak. + + All kind of sin I have rioted in + And the judgment now must be, + But I secured my childrens souls, + Oh! pray my children for me. + + I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes, + The fiends have been my slaves, + I have nointed myself with infants fat, + And feasted on rifled graves. + + And the fiend will fetch me now in fire + My witchcrafts to atone, + And I who have rifled the dead man's grave + Shall never have rest in my own. + + Bless I intreat my winding sheet + My children I beg of you! + And with holy water sprinkle my shroud + And sprinkle my coffin too. + + And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone + And fasten it strong I implore + With iron bars, and let it be chain'd + With three chains to the church floor. + + And bless the chains and sprinkle them, + And let fifty priests stand round, + Who night and day the mass may say + Where I lie on the ground. + + And let fifty choristers be there + The funeral dirge to sing, + Who day and night by the taper's light + Their aid to me may bring. + + Let the church bells all both great and small + Be toll'd by night and day, + To drive from thence the fiends who come + To bear my corpse away. + + And ever have the church door barr'd + After the even song, + And I beseech you children dear + Let the bars and bolts be strong. + + And let this be three days and nights + My wretched corpse to save, + Preserve me so long from the fiendish throng + And then I may rest in my grave. + + The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down + And her eyes grew deadly dim, + Short came her breath and the struggle of death + Did loosen every limb. + + They blest the old woman's winding sheet + With rites and prayers as due, + With holy water they sprinkled her shroud + And they sprinkled her coffin too. + + And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone + And with iron barr'd it down, + And in the church with three strong chains + They chain'd it to the ground. + + And they blest the chains and sprinkled them, + And fifty priests stood round, + By night and day the mass to say + Where she lay on the ground. + + And fifty choristers were there + To sing the funeral song, + And a hallowed taper blazed in the hand + Of all the sacred throng. + + To see the priests and choristers + It was a goodly sight, + Each holding, as it were a staff, + A taper burning bright. + + And the church bells all both great and small + Did toll so loud and long, + And they have barr'd the church door hard + After the even song. + + And the first night the taper's light + Burnt steadily and clear. + But they without a hideous rout + Of angry fiends could hear; + + A hideous roar at the church door + Like a long thunder peal, + And the priests they pray'd and the choristers sung + Louder in fearful zeal. + + Loud toll'd the bell, the priests pray'd well, + The tapers they burnt bright, + The monk her son, and her daughter the nun + They told their beads all night. + + The cock he crew, away they flew + The fiends from the herald of day, + And undisturb'd the choristers sing + And the fifty priests they pray. + + The second night the taper's light + Burnt dismally and blue, + And every one saw his neighbour's face + Like a dead man's face to view. + + And yells and cries without arise + That the stoutest heart might shock, + And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring + Over a mountain rock. + + The monk and nun they told their beads + As fast as they could tell, + And aye as louder grew the noise + The faster went the bell. + + Louder and louder the choristers sung + As they trembled more and more, + And the fifty priests prayed to heaven for aid, + They never had prayed so before. + + The cock he crew, away they flew + The fiends from the herald of day, + And undisturb'd the choristers sing + And the fifty priests they pray. + + The third night came and the tapers flame + A hideous stench did make, + And they burnt as though they had been dipt + In the burning brimstone lake. + + And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean, + Grew momently more and more, + And strokes as of a battering ram + Did shake the strong church door. + + The bellmen they for very fear + Could toll the bell no longer, + And still as louder grew the strokes + Their fear it grew the stronger. + + The monk and nun forgot their beads, + They fell on the ground dismay'd, + There was not a single saint in heaven + Whom they did not call to aid. + + And the choristers song that late was so strong + Grew a quaver of consternation, + For the church did rock as an earthquake shock + Uplifted its foundation. + + And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast + That shall one day wake the dead, + The strong church door could bear no more + And the bolts and the bars they fled. + + And the taper's light was extinguish'd quite, + And the choristers faintly sung, + And the priests dismay'd, panted and prayed + Till fear froze every tongue. + + And in He came with eyes of flame + The Fiend to fetch the dead, + And all the church with his presence glowed + Like a fiery furnace red. + + He laid his hand on the iron chains + And like flax they moulder'd asunder, + And the coffin lid that was barr'd so firm + He burst with his voice of thunder. + + And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise + And come with her master away, + And the cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse, + At the voice she was forced to obey. + + She rose on her feet in her winding sheet, + Her dead flesh quivered with fear, + And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave + Never did mortal hear. + + She followed the fiend to the church door, + There stood a black horse there, + His breath was red like furnace smoke, + His eyes like a meteor's glare. + + The fiendish force flung her on the horse + And he leapt up before, + And away like the lightning's speed they went + And she was seen no more. + + They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks + For four miles round they could hear, + And children at rest at their mother's breast, + Started and screamed with fear. + + + + + +The Surgeon's Warning. + +The subject of this parody was given me by a friend, to whom also I am +indebted for some of the stanzas. + +Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the manner of +Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute to their Saints +and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare that it is by no means my +design to depreciate that useful invention; and all persons to whom this +Ballad shall come are requested to take notice, that nothing here +asserted concerning the aforesaid Coffins is true, except that the maker +and patentee lives by St. Martin's Lane. + + +THE SURGEONS' WARNING. + + +The Doctor whispered to the Nurse + And the Surgeon knew what he said, +And he grew pale at the Doctor's tale + And trembled in his sick bed. + +Now fetch me my brethren and fetch them with speed + The Surgeon affrighted said, +The Parson and the Undertaker, + Let them hasten or I shall be dead. + +The Parson and the Undertaker + They hastily came complying, +And the Surgeon's Prentices ran up stairs + When they heard that their master was dying. + +The Prentices all they entered the room + By one, by two, by three, +With a sly grin came Joseph in, + First of the company. + +The Surgeon swore as they enter'd his door, + 'Twas fearful his oaths to hear,-- +Now send these scoundrels to the Devil, + For God's sake my brethren dear. + +He foam'd at the mouth with the rage he felt + And he wrinkled his black eye-brow, +That rascal Joe would be at me I know, + But zounds let him spare me now. + +Then out they sent the Prentices, + The fit it left him weak, +He look'd at his brothers with ghastly eyes, + And faintly struggled to speak. + +All kinds of carcasses I have cut up, + And the judgment now must be-- +But brothers I took care of you, + So pray take care of me! + +I have made candles of infants fat + The Sextons have been my slaves, +I have bottled babes unborn, and dried + Hearts and livers from rifled graves. + +And my Prentices now will surely come + And carve me bone from bone, +And I who have rifled the dead man's grave + Shall never have rest in my own. + +Bury me in lead when I am dead, + My brethren I intreat, +And see the coffin weigh'd I beg + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +And let it be solder'd closely down + Strong as strong can be I implore, +And put it in a patent coffin, + That I may rise no more. + +If they carry me off in the patent coffin + Their labour will be in vain, +Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +And bury me in my brother's church + For that will safer be, +And I implore lock the church door + And pray take care of the key. + +And all night long let three stout men + The vestry watch within, +To each man give a gallon of beer + And a keg of Holland's gin; + +Powder and ball and blunder-buss + To save me if he can, +And eke five guineas if he shoot + A resurrection man. + +And let them watch me for three weeks + My wretched corpse to save, +For then I think that I may stink + Enough to rest in my grave. + +The Surgeon laid him down in his bed, + His eyes grew deadly dim, +Short came his breath and the struggle of death + Distorted every limb. + +They put him in lead when he was dead + And shrouded up so neat, +And they the leaden coffin weigh + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +They had it solder'd closely down + And examined it o'er and o'er, +And they put it in a patent coffin + That he might rise no more. + +For to carry him off in a patent coffin + Would they thought be but labour in vain, +So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +In his brother's church they buried him + That safer he might be, +They lock'd the door and would not trust + The Sexton with the key. + +And three men in the vestry watch + To save him if they can, +And should he come there to shoot they swear + A resurrection man. + +And the first night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +A guinea of gold the sexton shewed + That Mister Joseph sent. + +But conscience was tough, it was not enough + And their honesty never swerved, +And they bade him go with Mister Joe + To the Devil as he deserved. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The second night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +He whisper'd anew and shew'd them two + That Mister Joseph sent. + +The guineas were bright and attracted their sight + They look'd so heavy and new, +And their fingers itch'd as they were bewitch'd + And they knew not what to do. + +But they waver'd not long for conscience was strong + And they thought they might get more, +And they refused the gold, but not + So rudely as before. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The third night as by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard they went, +He bade them see and shew'd them three + That Mister Joseph sent. + +They look'd askance with eager glance, + The guineas they shone bright, +For the Sexton on the yellow gold + Let fall his lanthorn light. + +And he look'd sly with his roguish eye + And gave a well-tim'd wink, +And they could not stand the sound in his hand + For he made the guineas chink. + +And conscience late that had such weight, + All in a moment fails, +For well they knew that it was true + A dead man told no tales, + +And they gave all their powder and ball + And took the gold so bright, +And they drank their beer and made good cheer, + Till now it was midnight. + +Then, tho' the key of the church door + Was left with the Parson his brother, +It opened at the Sexton's touch-- + Because he had another. + +And in they go with that villain Joe + To fetch the body by night, +And all the church look'd dismally + By his dark lanthorn light. + +They laid the pick-axe to the stones + And they moved them soon asunder. +They shovell'd away the hard-prest clay + And came to the coffin under. + +They burst the patent coffin first + And they cut thro' the lead, +And they laugh'd aloud when they saw the shroud + Because they had got at the dead. + +And they allowed the Sexton the shroud + And they put the coffin back, +And nose and knees they then did squeeze + The Surgeon in a sack. + +The watchmen as they past along + Full four yards off could smell, +And a curse bestowed upon the load + So disagreeable. + +So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back + And they carv'd him bone from bone, +But what became of the Surgeon's soul + Was never to mortal known. + + + + + + + + + +THE VICTORY. + + + Hark--how the church-bells thundering harmony + Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come, + Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships + Met on the element,--they met, they fought + A desperate fight!--good tidings of great joy! + Old England triumphed! yet another day + Of glory for the ruler of the waves! + For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause, + They have their passing paragraphs of praise + And are forgotten. + There was one who died + In that day's glory, whose obscurer name + No proud historian's page will chronicle. + Peace to his honest soul! I read his name, + 'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God + The sound was not familiar to mine ear. + But it was told me after that this man + Was one whom lawful violence [1] had forced + From his own home and wife and little ones, + Who by his labour lived; that he was one + Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel + A husband's love, a father's anxiousness, + That from the wages of his toil he fed + The distant dear ones, and would talk of them + At midnight when he trod the silent deck + With him he valued, talk of them, of joys + That he had known--oh God! and of the hour + When they should meet again, till his full heart + His manly heart at last would overflow + Even like a child's with very tenderness. + Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly + It came, and merciful the ball of death, + For it came suddenly and shattered him, + And left no moment's agonizing thought + On those he loved so well. + He ocean deep + Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter + Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know + What a cold sickness made her blood run back + When first she heard the tidings of the fight; + Man does not know with what a dreadful hope + She listened to the names of those who died, + Man does not know, or knowing will not heed, + With what an agony of tenderness + She gazed upon her children, and beheld + His image who was gone. Oh God! be thou + Her comforter who art the widow's friend! + + +[Footnote 1: The person alluded to was pressed into the service.] + + + + + + + + + +HENRY THE HERMIT. + + + It was a little island where he dwelt, + Or rather a lone rock, barren and bleak, + Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots + Its gray stone surface. Never mariner + Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast, + Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark + Anchored beside its shore. It was a place + Befitting well a rigid anchoret, + Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys + And purposes of life; and he had dwelt + Many long years upon that lonely isle, + For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms, + Honours and friends and country and the world, + And had grown old in solitude. That isle + Some solitary man in other times + Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found + The little chapel that his toil had built + Now by the storms unroofed, his bed of leaves + Wind-scattered, and his grave o'ergrown with grass, + And thistles, whose white seeds winged in vain + Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost. + So he repaired the chapel's ruined roof, + Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone, + And underneath a rock that shelter'd him + From the sea blasts, he built his hermitage. + + The peasants from the shore would bring him food + And beg his prayers; but human converse else + He knew not in that utter solitude, + Nor ever visited the haunts of men + Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed + Implored his blessing and his aid in death. + That summons he delayed not to obey, + Tho' the night tempest or autumnal wind. + Maddened the waves, and tho' the mariner, + Albeit relying on his saintly load, + Grew pale to see the peril. So he lived + A most austere and self-denying man, + Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness + Exhausted him, and it was pain at last + To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less + Tho' with reluctance of infirmity, + He rose at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal + More self-condemning fervour rais'd his voice + For pardon for that sin, 'till that the sin + Repented was a joy like a good deed. + + One night upon the shore his chapel bell + Was heard; the air was calm, and its far sounds + Over the water came distinct and loud. + Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear + Its toll irregular, a monk arose. + The boatmen bore him willingly across + For well the hermit Henry was beloved. + He hastened to the chapel, on a stone + Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff and dead, + The bell-rope in his band, and at his feet + The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light + + +[Footnote 1: This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608.] + + + + + + + + + +English Eclogues. + +The following Eclogues I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in +our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, +and I was induced to attempt by an account of the German Idylls given me +in conversation. They cannot properly be stiled imitations, as I am +ignorant of that language at present, and have never seen any +translations or specimens in this kind. + +With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from ??tyrus [1] and +Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsises. No kind of poetry +can boast of more illustrious names or is more distinguished by the +servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers "more silly than +their sheep" have like their sheep gone on in the same track one after +another. Gay stumbled into a new path. His eclogues were the only ones +that interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were +burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for a long essay, but this +is not the place for it. + +How far poems requiring almost a colloquial plainness of language may +accord with the public taste I am doubtful. They have been subjected to +able criticism and revised with care. I have endeavoured to make them +true to nature. + + +[Footnote 1: The letters of this name are illegible (worn away?) in +the original text; from the remaining bits I have guessed all but the +first two, which are not visible under any magnification. text Ed.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE I. + + +THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE. + + + +STRANGER. + Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, + Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task + Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours. + + +OLD MAN. + Why yes! for one with such a weight of years + Upon his back. I've lived here, man and boy, + In this same parish, near the age of man + For I am hard upon threescore and ten. + I can remember sixty years ago + The beautifying of this mansion here + When my late Lady's father, the old Squire + Came to the estate. + + +STRANGER. + Why then you have outlasted + All his improvements, for you see they're making + Great alterations here. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye-great indeed! + And if my poor old Lady could rise up-- + God rest her soul! 'twould grieve her to behold + The wicked work is here. + + +STRANGER. + They've set about it + In right good earnest. All the front is gone, + Here's to be turf they tell me, and a road + Round to the door. There were some yew trees too + Stood in the court. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye Master! fine old trees! + My grandfather could just remember back + When they were planted there. It was my task + To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me! + All strait and smooth, and like a great green wall! + My poor old Lady many a time would come + And tell me where to shear, for she had played + In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride + To keep them in their beauty. Plague I say + On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have + A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs + And your pert poplar trees;--I could as soon + Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down! + + +STRANGER. + But 'twill be lighter and more chearful now, + A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road + Round for the carriage,--now it suits my taste. + I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh, + And then there's some variety about it. + In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose, + And the laburnum with its golden flowers + Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes + The bright red berries of the mountain ash, + With firs enough in winter to look green, + And show that something lives. Sure this is better + Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look + All the year round like winter, and for ever + Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs + So dry and bare! + + +OLD MAN. + Ah! so the new Squire thinks + And pretty work he makes of it! what 'tis + To have a stranger come to an old house! + + +STRANGER. + + It seems you know him not? + + +OLD MAN. + No Sir, not I. + They tell me he's expected daily now, + But in my Lady's time he never came + But once, for they were very distant kin. + If he had played about here when a child + In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries, + And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers, + That fell so thick, he had not had the heart + To mar all thus. + + +STRANGER. + Come--come! all a not wrong. + Those old dark windows-- + + +OLD MAN. + They're demolish'd too-- + As if he could not see thro' casement glass! + The very red-breasts that so regular + Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs, + Won't know the window now! + + +STRANGER. + Nay they were high + And then so darken'd up with jessamine, + Harbouring the vermine;--that was a fine tree + However. Did it not grow in and line + The porch? + + +OLD MAN. + All over it: it did one good + To pass within ten yards when 'twas in blossom. + There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside. + My Lady loved at evening to sit there + And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet + And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favourite dog + She did not love him less that he was old + And feeble, and he always had a place + By the fire-side, and when he died at last + She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. + Ah I she was good to all! a woful day + 'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! + + +STRANGER. + They lost a friend then? + + +OLD MAN. + You're a stranger here + Or would not ask that question. Were they sick? + She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs + She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter + When weekly she distributed the bread + In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear + The blessings on her! and I warrant them + They were a blessing to her when her wealth + Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir! + It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen + Her Christmas kitchen,--how the blazing fire + Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs + So chearful red,--and as for misseltoe, + The finest bough that grew in the country round + Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went + So bountiful about! a Christmas cask, + And 'twas a noble one! God help me Sir! + But I shall never see such days again. + + +STRANGER. + Things may be better yet than you suppose + And you should hope the best. + + +OLD MAN. + It don't look well + These alterations Sir! I'm an old man + And love the good old fashions; we don't find + Old bounty in new houses. They've destroyed + All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk + Grubb'd up, and they do say that the great row + Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top + They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think + To live to see all this, and 'tis perhaps + A comfort I shan't live to see it long. + + +STRANGER. + But sure all changes are not needs for the worse + My friend. + + +OLD MAN. + May-hap they mayn't Sir;--for all that + I like what I've been us'd to. I remember + All this from a child up, and now to lose it, + 'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left + As 'twas;--I go abroad and only meet + With men whose fathers I remember boys; + The brook that used to run before my door + That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt + To climb are down; and I see nothing now + That tells me of old times, except the stones + In the church-yard. You are young Sir and I hope + Have many years in store,--but pray to God + You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. + + +STRANGER. + Well! well! you've one friend more than you're aware of. + If the Squire's taste don't suit with your's, I warrant + That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste + His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady + E'er broached a better cask. You did not know me, + But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy + To make you like the outside; but within-- + That is not changed my friend! you'll always find + The same old bounty and old welcome there. + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE II. + + +THE GRANDMOTHERS TALE. + + + +JANE. + Harry! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round + The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us + One of her stories. + + +HARRY. + Aye--dear Grandmamma! + A pretty story! something dismal now; + A bloody murder. + + +JANE. + Or about a ghost. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Nay, nay, I should but frighten you. You know + The other night when I was telling you + About the light in the church-yard, how you trembled + Because the screech-owl hooted at the window, + And would not go to bed. + + +JANE. + Why Grandmamma + You said yourself you did not like to hear him. + Pray now! we wo'nt be frightened. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Well, well, children! + But you've heard all my stories. Let me see,-- + Did I never tell you how the smuggler murdered + The woman down at Pill? + + +HARRY. + No--never! never! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Not how he cut her head off in the stable? + + +HARRY. + Oh--now! do tell us that! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + You must have heard + Your Mother, children! often tell of her. + She used to weed in the garden here, and worm + Your uncle's dogs [1], and serve the house with coal; + And glad enough she was in winter time + To drive her asses here! it was cold work + To follow the slow beasts thro' sleet and snow, + And here she found a comfortable meal + And a brave fire to thaw her, for poor Moll + Was always welcome. + + +HARRY. + Oh--'twas blear-eyed Moll + The collier woman,--a great ugly woman, + I've heard of her. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Ugly enough poor soul! + At ten yards distance you could hardly tell + If it were man or woman, for her voice + Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore + A man's old coat and hat,--and then her face! + There was a merry story told of her, + How when the press-gang came to take her husband + As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, + Drest John up in her night-cap, and herself + Put on his clothes and went before the Captain. + + +JANE. + And so they prest a woman! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + 'Twas a trick + She dearly loved to tell, and all the country + Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel + For miles around. All weathers and all hours + She crossed the hill, as hardy as her beasts, + Bearing the wind and rain and winter frosts, + And if she did not reach her home at night + She laid her down in the stable with her asses + And slept as sound as they did. + + +HARRY. + With her asses! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Yes, and she loved her beasts. For tho' poor wretch + She was a terrible reprobate and swore + Like any trooper, she was always good + To the dumb creatures, never loaded them + Beyond their strength, and rather I believe + Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want, + Because, she said, they could not ask for food. + I never saw her stick fall heavier on them + Than just with its own weight. She little thought + This tender-heartedness would be her death! + There was a fellow who had oftentimes, + As if he took delight in cruelty. + Ill-used her Asses. He was one who lived + By smuggling, and, for she had often met him + Crossing the down at night, she threatened him, + If he tormented them again, to inform + Of his unlawful ways. Well--so it was-- + 'Twas what they both were born to, he provoked her, + She laid an information, and one morn + They found her in the stable, her throat cut + From ear to ear,'till the head only hung + Just by a bit of skin. + + +JANE. + Oh dear! oh dear! + + +HARRY. + I hope they hung the man! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + They took him up; + There was no proof, no one had seen the deed, + And he was set at liberty. But God + Whoss eye beholdeth all things, he had seen + The murder, and the murderer knew that God + Was witness to his crime. He fled the place, + But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand + Of heaven, but nowhere could the murderer rest, + A guilty conscience haunted him, by day, + By night, in company, in solitude, + Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him + The weight of blood; her cries were in his ears, + Her stifled groans as when he knelt upon her + Always he heard; always he saw her stand + Before his eyes; even in the dead of night + Distinctly seen as tho' in the broad sun, + She stood beside the murderer's bed and yawn'd + Her ghastly wound; till life itself became + A punishment at last he could not bear, + And he confess'd [2] it all, and gave himself + To death, so terrible, he said, it was + To have a guilty conscience! + + +HARRY. + Was he hung then? + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man, + Your uncles went to see him on his trial, + He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed, + And such a horror in his meagre face, + They said he look'd like one who never slept. + He begg'd the prayers of all who saw his end + And met his death with fears that well might warn + From guilt, tho' not without a hope in Christ. + + +[Footnote 1: I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common +in other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from doing +any mischief should they afterwards become mad.] + +[Footnote 2: There must be many persons living who remember these +circumstances. They happened two or three and twenty years ago, in the +neighbourhood of Bristol. The woman's name was Bees. The stratagem by +which she preserved her husband from the press-gang, is also true.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE III. + + +THE FUNERAL. + + + + The coffin [1] as I past across the lane + Came sudden on my view. It was not here, + A sight of every day, as in the streets + Of the great city, and we paus'd and ask'd + Who to the grave was going. It was one, + A village girl, they told us, who had borne + An eighteen months strange illness, and had pined + With such slow wasting that the hour of death + Came welcome to her. We pursued our way + To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk + That passes o'er the mind and is forgot, + We wore away the time. But it was eve + When homewardly I went, and in the air + Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade + That makes the eye turn inward. Then I heard + Over the vale the heavy toll of death + Sound slow; it made me think upon the dead, + I questioned more and learnt her sorrowful tale. + She bore unhusbanded a mother's name, + And he who should have cherished her, far off + Sail'd on the seas, self-exil'd from his home, + For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched one, + Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues + Were busy with her name. She had one ill + Heavier, neglect, forgetfulness from him + Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote, + But only once that drop of comfort came + To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; + And when his parents had some tidings from him, + There was no mention of poor Hannah there, + Or 'twas the cold enquiry, bitterer + Than silence. So she pined and pined away + And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd, + Nor did she, even on her death bed, rest + From labour, knitting with her outstretch'd arms + Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother + Omitted no kind office, and she work'd + Hard, and with hardest working barely earn'd + Enough to make life struggle and prolong + The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay + On the sick bed of poverty, so worn + With her long suffering and that painful thought + That at her heart lay rankling, and so weak, + That she could make no effort to express + Affection for her infant; and the child, + Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her + With a strange infantine ingratitude + Shunn'd her as one indifferent. She was past + That anguish, for she felt her hour draw on, + And 'twas her only comfoft now to think + Upon the grave. "Poor girl!" her mother said, + "Thou hast suffered much!" "aye mother! there is none + "Can tell what I have suffered!" she replied, + "But I shall soon be where the weary rest." + And she did rest her soon, for it pleased God + To take her to his mercy. + + +[Footnote 1: It is proper to remark that the story related in this +Eclogue is strictly true. I met the funeral, and learnt the +circumstances in a village in Hampshire. The indifference of the child +was mentioned to me; indeed no addition whatever has been made to the +story. I should have thought it wrong to have weakened the effect of a +faithful narrative by adding any thing.] + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE IV. + + +THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. + + + +WOMAN. + Sir for the love of God some small relief + To a poor woman! + + +TRAVELLER. + Whither are you bound? + 'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, + No house for miles around us, and the way + Dreary and wild. The evening wind already + Makes one's teeth chatter, and the very Sun, + Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, + Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night! + + +WOMAN. + Aye Sir + 'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath, + Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end, + For the way is long before me, and my feet, + God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly, + If it pleased God, lie down at once and die. + + +TRAVELLER. + Nay nay cheer up! a little food and rest + Will comfort you; and then your journey's end + Will make amends for all. You shake your head, + And weep. Is it some evil business then + That leads you from your home? + + +WOMAN. + Sir I am going + To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt + In the late action, and in the hospital + Dying, I fear me, now. + + +TRAVELLER. + Perhaps your fears + Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost + There may be still enough for comfort left + An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart + To keep life warm, and he may live to talk + With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd him, + Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude + Makes the maim'd sailor happy. + + +WOMAN. + 'Tis not that-- + An arm or leg--I could have borne with that. + 'Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing + That bursts [1] and burns that hurt him. Something Sir + They do not use on board our English ships + It is so wicked! + + +TRAVELLER. + Rascals! a mean art + Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain! + + +WOMAN. + Yes Sir! and they should show no mercy to them + For making use of such unchristian arms. + I had a letter from the hospital, + He got some friend to write it, and he tells me + That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes, + Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever live + To see this wretched day!--they tell me Sir + There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed + 'Tis a hard journey that I go upon + To such a dismal end! + + +TRAVELLER. + He yet may live. + But if the worst should chance, why you must bear + The will of heaven with patience. Were it not + Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen + Fighting his country's cause? and for yourself + You will not in unpitied poverty + Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country + Amid the triumph of her victory + Remember those who paid its price of blood, + And with a noble charity relieves + The widow and the orphan. + + +WOMAN. + God reward them! + God bless them, it will help me in my age + But Sir! it will not pay me for my child! + + +TRAVELLER. + Was he your only child? + + +WOMAN. + My only one, + The stay and comfort of my widowhood, + A dear good boy!--when first he went to sea + I felt what it would come to,--something told me + I should be childless soon. But tell me Sir + If it be true that for a hurt like his + There is no cure? please God to spare his life + Tho' he be blind, yet I should be so thankful! + I can remember there was a blind man + Lived in our village, one from his youth up + Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, + And he had none to tend on him so well + As I would tend my boy! + + +TRAVELLER. + Of this be sure + His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help + The place affords, as rightly is his due, + Ever at hand. How happened it he left you? + Was a seafaring life his early choice? + + +WOMAN. + No Sir! poor fellow--he was wise enough + To be content at home, and 'twas a home + As comfortable Sir I even tho' I say it, + As any in the country. He was left + A little boy when his poor father died, + Just old enough to totter by himself + And call his mother's name. We two were all, + And as we were not left quite destitute + We bore up well. In the summer time I worked + Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting, + And in long winter nights my spinning wheel + Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too + And never felt distress. So he grew up + A comely lad and wonderous well disposed; + I taught him well; there was not in the parish + A child who said his prayers more regular, + Or answered readier thro' his catechism. + If I had foreseen this! but 'tis a blessing + We do'nt know what we're born to! + + +TRAVELLER. + But how came it + He chose to be a Sailor? + + +WOMAN. + You shall hear Sir; + As he grew up he used to watch the birds + In the corn, child's work you know, and easily done. + 'Tis an idle sort of task, so he built up + A little hut of wicker-work and clay + Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain. + And then he took for very idleness + To making traps to catch the plunderers, + All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make-- + Propping a stone to fall and shut them in, + Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe + Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly-- + And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased + To see the boy so handy. You may guess + What followed Sir from this unlucky skill. + He did what he should not when he was older: + I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught + In wiring hares at last, and had his choice + The prison or the ship. + + +TRAVELLER. + The choice at least + Was kindly left him, and for broken laws + This was methinks no heavy punishment. + + +WOMAN. + So I was told Sir. And I tried to think so, + But 'twas a sad blow to me! I was used + To sleep at nights soundly and undisturb'd-- + Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start + And think of my poor boy tossing about + Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem'd + To feel that it was hard to take him from me + For such a little fault. But he was wrong + Oh very wrong--a murrain on his traps! + See what they've brought him too! + + +TRAVELLER. + Well! well! take comfort + He will be taken care of if he lives; + And should you lose your child, this is a country + Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent + To weep for him in want. + + +WOMAN. + Sir I shall want + No succour long. In the common course of years + I soon must be at rest, and 'tis a comfort + When grief is hard upon me to reflect + It only leads me to that rest the sooner. + + +[Footnote 1: The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the +engagement between the Mars and L'Hercule, some of our sailors were +shockingly mangled by them: One in particular, as described in the +Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be policy and humanity to employ +means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to +destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only inflicts +additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is cruel and +wicked.] + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE V. + + +THE WITCH. + + + +NATHANIEL. + Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe! + Faith it was just in time, for t'other night + I laid two straws across at Margery's door, + And afterwards I fear'd that she might do me + A mischief for't. There was the Miller's boy + Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, + I met him upon crutches, and he told me + 'Twas all her evil eye. + + +FATHER. + 'Tis rare good luck; + I would have gladly given a crown for one + If t'would have done as well. But where did'st find it? + + +NATHANIEL. + Down on the Common; I was going a-field + And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare; + He had hardly said "good day," before I saw + The shoe drop off; 'twas just upon my tongue + To call him back,--it makes no difference, does it. + Because I know whose 'twas? + + +FATHER. + Why no, it can't. + The shoe's the same you know, and you 'did find' it. + + +NATHANIEL. + That mare of his has got a plaguey road + To travel, father, and if he should lame her, + For she is but tender-footed,-- + + +FATHER. + Aye, indeed-- + I should not like to see her limping back + Poor beast! but charity begins at home, + And Nat, there's our own horse in such a way + This morning! + + +NATHANIEL. + Why he ha'nt been rid again! + Last night I hung a pebble by the manger + With a hole thro', and every body says + That 'tis a special charm against the hags. + + +FATHER. + It could not be a proper natural hole then, + Or 'twas not a right pebble,--for I found him + Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, + And panting so! God knows where he had been + When we were all asleep, thro' bush and brake + Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch + At such a deadly rate!-- + + +NATHANIEL. + By land and water, + Over the sea perhaps!--I have heard tell + That 'tis some thousand miles, almost at the end + Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. + They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear + Some ointment over them and then away + Out of the window! but 'tis worse than all + To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it + That in a Christian country they should let + Such creatures live! + + +FATHER. + And when there's such plain proof! + I did but threaten her because she robb'd + Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind + That made me shake to hear it in my bed! + How came it that that storm unroofed my barn, + And only mine in the parish? look at her + And that's enough; she has it in her face-- + A pair of large dead eyes, rank in her head, + Just like a corpse, and purs'd with wrinkles round, + A nose and chin that scarce leave room between + For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff, + And when she speaks! I'd sooner hear a raven + Croak at my door! she sits there, nose and knees + Smoak-dried and shrivell'd over a starved fire, + With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes + Shine like old Beelzebub's, and to be sure + It must be one of his imps!--aye, nail it hard. + + +NATHANIEL. + I wish old Margery heard the hammer go! + She'd curse the music. + + +FATHER. + Here's the Curate coming, + He ought to rid the parish of such vermin; + In the old times they used to hunt them out + And hang them without mercy, but Lord bless us! + The world is grown so wicked! + + +CURATE. + Good day Farmer! + Nathaniel what art nailing to the threshold? + + +NATHANIEL. + A horse-shoe Sir, 'tis good to keep off witchcraft, + And we're afraid of Margery. + + +CURATE. + Poor old woman! + What can you fear from her? + + +FATHER. + What can we fear? + Who lamed the Miller's boy? who rais'd the wind + That blew my old barn's roof down? who d'ye think + Rides my poor horse a'nights? who mocks the hounds? + But let me catch her at that trick again, + And I've a silver bullet ready for her, + One that shall lame her, double how she will. + + +NATHANIEL. + What makes her sit there moping by herself, + With no soul near her but that great black cat? + And do but look at her! + + +CURATE. + Poor wretch! half blind + And crooked with her years, without a child + Or friend in her old age, 'tis hard indeed + To have her very miseries made her crimes! + I met her but last week in that hard frost + That made my young limbs ache, and when I ask'd + What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman + Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad + And pick the hedges, just to keep herself + From perishing with cold, because no neighbour + Had pity on her age; and then she cried, + And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, + And wish'd that she were dead. + + +FATHER. + I wish she was! + She has plagued the parish long enough! + + +CURATE. + Shame farmer! + Is that the charity your bible teaches? + + +FATHER. + My bible does not teach me to love witches. + I know what's charity; who pays his tithes + And poor-rates readier? + + +CURATE. + Who can better do it? + You've been a prudent and industrious man, + And God has blest your labour. + + +FATHER. + Why, thank God Sir, + I've had no reason to complain of fortune. + + +CURATE. + Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish + Look up to you. + + +FATHER. + Perhaps Sir, I could tell + Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. + + +CURATE. + You can afford a little to the poor, + And then what's better still, you have the heart + To give from your abundance. + + +FATHER. + God forbid + I should want charity! + + +CURATE. + Oh! 'tis a comfort + To think at last of riches well employ'd! + I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth + Of a good deed at that most awful hour + When riches profit not. + Farmer, I'm going + To visit Margery. She is sick I hear-- + Old, poor, and sick! a miserable lot, + And death will be a blessing. You might send her + Some little matter, something comfortable, + That she may go down easier to the grave + And bless you when she dies. + + +FATHER. + What! is she going! + Well God forgive her then! if she has dealt + In the black art. I'll tell my dame of it, + And she shall send her something. + + +CURATE. + So I'll say; + And take my thanks for her's. ['goes'] + + +FATHER. + That's a good man + That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit + The poor in sickness; but he don't believe + In witchcraft, and that is not like a christian. + + +NATHANIEL. + And so old Margery's dying! + + +FATHER. + But you know + She may recover; so drive t'other nail in! + + + + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE VI. + + +THE RUINED COTTAGE. + + + + Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye, + This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch, + Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower + Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock + That thro' the creeping weeds and nettles tall + Peers taller, and uplifts its column'd stem + Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen + Many a fallen convent reverend in decay, + And many a time have trod the castle courts + And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike + Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts + As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch + Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof + Part mouldered in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds, + House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss; + So Nature wars with all the works of man. + And, like himself, reduces back to earth + His perishable piles. + I led thee here + Charles, not without design; for this hath been + My favourite walk even since I was a boy; + And I remember Charles, this ruin here, + The neatest comfortable dwelling place! + That when I read in those dear books that first + Woke in my heart the love of poesy, + How with the villagers Erminia dwelt, + And Calidore for a fair shepherdess + Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd's lore; + My fancy drew from, this the little hut + Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love, + Or where the gentle Calidore at eve + Led Pastorella home. There was not then + A weed where all these nettles overtop + The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet + The morning air, rosemary and marjoram, + All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath'd + So lavishly around the pillared porch + Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way, + After a truant absence hastening home, + I could not chuse but pass with slacken'd speed + By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed + Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!-- + Theirs is a simple melancholy tale, + There's scarce a village but can fellow it, + And yet methinks it will not weary thee, + And should not be untold. + A widow woman + Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want, + She lived on some small pittance that sufficed, + In better times, the needful calls of life, + Not without comfort. I remember her + Sitting at evening in that open door way + And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her + Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles + To see the passer by, yet ceasing not + To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden + On some dry summer evening, walking round + To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean'd + Upon the ivory handle of her stick, + To some carnation whose o'erheavy head + Needed support, while with the watering-pot + Joanna followed, and refresh'd and trimm'd + The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child, + As lovely and as happy then as youth + And innocence could make her. + Charles! it seems + As tho' I were a boy again, and all + The mediate years with their vicissitudes + A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid + So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair, + Her bright brown hair, wreath'd in contracting curls, + And then her cheek! it was a red and white + That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome, + The countrymen who on their way to church + Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear + The bell's last summons, and in idleness + Watching the stream below, would all look up + When she pass'd by. And her old Mother, Charles! + When I have beard some erring infidel + Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed, + Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness. + Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love + The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross'd + These fields in rain and thro' the winter snows. + When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself + By the fire-side, have wondered why 'she' came + Who might have sate at home. + One only care + Hung on her aged spirit. For herself, + Her path was plain before her, and the close + Of her long journey near. But then her child + Soon to be left alone in this bad world,-- + That was a thought that many a winter night + Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love + In something better than a servant's slate + Had placed her well at last, it was a pang + Like parting life to part with her dear girl. + + One summer, Charles, when at the holydays + Return'd from school, I visited again + My old accustomed walks, and found in them. + A joy almost like meeting an old friend, + I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds + Already crowding the neglected flowers. + Joanna by a villain's wiles seduced + Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach'd + Her mother's heart. She did not suffer long, + Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow + Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. + + I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes + And think of other days. It wakes in me + A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles + That ever with these recollections rise, + I trust in God they will not pass away. + + + + + + + + +THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, 1799, by Robert Southey + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + +This file should be named 7spm210.txt or 7spm210.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 7spm211.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 7spm210a.txt + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems, 1799 + +Author: Robert Southey + +Posting Date: April 5, 2014 [EBook #8639] +Release Date: August, 2005 +First Posted: July 29, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + + + +POEMS, + +by + +Robert Southey. + + + + The better, please; the worse, displease; I ask no more. + + SPENSER. + + + +THE SECOND VOLUME. + + + +CONTENTS. + + + THE VISION of THE MAID of ORLEANS. + + Book 1 + 2 + 3 + + + The Rose + + The Complaints of the Poor + + Metrical Letter + + + BALLADS. + + The Cross Roads. + + The Sailor who had served in the Slave Trade + + Jaspar + + Lord William + + A Ballad shewing how an old woman rode double + and who rode before her + + The Surgeon's Warning + + The Victory + + Henry the Hermit + + + ENGLISH ECLOGUES. + + The Old Mansion House + + The Grandmother's Tale + + The Funeral + + The Sailor's Mother + + The Witch + + The Ruined Cottage + + + + + + + + + + +The Vision + +of + +The Maid of Orleans. + + + + + Divinity hath oftentimes descended + Upon our slumbers, and the blessed troupes + Have, in the calme and quiet of the soule, + Conversed with us. + + SHIRLEY. 'The Grateful Servant' + + + + + + +[Sidenote: The following Vision was originally printed as the ninth book +of 'JOAN of ARC'. It is now adapted to the improved edition of that +Poem.] + + + + + + +THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE FIRST BOOK. + + + + Orleans was hush'd in sleep. Stretch'd on her couch + The delegated Maiden lay: with toil + Exhausted and sore anguish, soon she closed + Her heavy eye-lids; not reposing then, + For busy Phantasy, in other scenes + Awakened. Whether that superior powers, + By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream, + Instructing so the passive [1] faculty; + Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog, + Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world, + And all things 'are' that [2] 'seem'. + + Along a moor, + Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate, + She roam'd a wanderer thro' the cheerless night. + Far thro' the silence of the unbroken plain + The bittern's boom was heard, hoarse, heavy, deep, + It made most fitting music to the scene. + Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind, + Swept shadowing; thro' their broken folds the moon + Struggled sometimes with transitory ray, + And made the moving darkness visible. + And now arrived beside a fenny lake + She stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarse + The long sedge rustled to the gales of night. + An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell'd + By powers unseen; then did the moon display + Where thro' the crazy vessel's yawning side + The muddy wave oozed in: a female guides, + And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan'd + As melancholy mournful to her ear, + As ever by the dungeon'd wretch was heard + Howling at evening round the embattled towers + Of that hell-house [3] of France, ere yet sublime + The almighty people from their tyrant's hand + Dash'd down the iron rod. + Intent the Maid + Gazed on the pilot's form, and as she gazed + Shiver'd, for wan her face was, and her eyes + Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep, + Channell'd by tears; a few grey locks hung down + Beneath her hood: then thro' the Maiden's veins + Chill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass'd, + Lifting her tattcr'd mantle, coil'd around + She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart. + + The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by, + And the night-raven's scream came fitfully, + Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid + Look'd to the shore, and now upon the bank + Leaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling still + In recollection. + + There, a mouldering pile + Stretch'd its wide ruins, o'er the plain below + Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon + Shone thro' its fretted windows: the dark Yew, + Withering with age, branched there its naked roots, + And there the melancholy Cypress rear'd + Its head; the earth was heav'd with many a mound, + And here and there a half-demolish'd tomb. + + And now, amid the ruin's darkest shade, + The Virgin's eye beheld where pale blue flames + Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth, + And now in darkness drown'd. An aged man + Sat near, seated on what in long-past days + Had been some sculptur'd monument, now fallen + And half-obscured by moss, and gathered heaps + Of withered yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones; + And shining in the ray was seen the track + Of slimy snail obscene. Composed his look, + His eye was large and rayless, and fix'd full + Upon the Maid; the blue flames on his face + Stream'd a pale light; his face was of the hue + Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud. + + Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice, + Exclaim'd the Spectre, "Welcome to these realms, + These regions of DESPAIR! O thou whose steps + By GRIEF conducted to these sad abodes + Have pierced; welcome, welcome to this gloom + Eternal, to this everlasting night, + Where never morning darts the enlivening ray, + Where never shines the sun, but all is dark, + Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King." + + So saying he arose, and by the hand + The Virgin seized with such a death-cold touch + As froze her very heart; and drawing on, + Her, to the abbey's inner ruin, led + Resistless. Thro' the broken roof the moon + Glimmer'd a scatter'd ray; the ivy twined + Round the dismantled column; imaged forms + Of Saints and warlike Chiefs, moss-canker'd now + And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground, + With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen, + And rusted trophies; and amid the heap + Some monument's defaced legend spake + All human glory vain. + + The loud blast roar'd + Amid the pile; and from the tower the owl + Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest. + He, silent, led her on, and often paus'd, + And pointed, that her eye might contemplate + At leisure the drear scene. + He dragged her on + Thro' a low iron door, down broken stairs; + Then a cold horror thro' the Maiden's frame + Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw, + By the sepulchral lamp's dim glaring light, + The fragments of the dead. + "Look here!" he cried, + "Damsel, look here! survey this house of Death; + O soon to tenant it! soon to increase + These trophies of mortality! for hence + Is no return. Gaze here! behold this skull, + These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws, + That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mock + Thy perishable charms; for thus thy cheek + Must moulder. Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul, + Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heart + At the dread thought, that here its life's-blood soon + Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon + With the cold clod? a thought most horrible! + So only dreadful, for reality + Is none of suffering here; here all is peace; + No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave. + Dreadful it is to think of losing life; + But having lost, knowledge of loss is not, + Therefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose; + Probe deep the seat of life." + So spake DESPAIR + The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice, + And all again was silence. Quick her heart + Panted. He drew a dagger from his breast, + And cried again, "Haste Damsel to repose! + One blow, and rest for ever!" On the Fiend + Dark scowl'd the Virgin with indignant eye, + And dash'd the dagger down. He next his heart + Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid + Along the downward vault. + The damp earth gave + A dim sound as they pass'd: the tainted air + Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews. + "Behold!" the fiend exclaim'd, "how gradual here + The fleshly burden of mortality + Moulders to clay!" then fixing his broad eye + Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse + Lay livid; she beheld with loathing look, + The spectacle abhorr'd by living man. + + "Look here!" DESPAIR pursued, "this loathsome mass + Was once as lovely, and as full of life + As, Damsel! thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes + Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence, + And where thou seest the pamper'd flesh-worm trail, + Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought + That at the hallowed altar, soon the Priest + Should bless her coming union, and the torch + Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy, + Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earth + That Priest consign'd her, and the funeral lamp + Glares on her cold face; for her lover went + By glory lur'd to war, and perish'd there; + Nor she endur'd to live. Ha! fades thy cheek? + Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale? + Look here! behold the youthful paramour! + The self-devoted hero!" + Fearfully + The Maid look'd down, and saw the well known face + Of THEODORE! in thoughts unspeakable, + Convulsed with horror, o'er her face she clasp'd + Her cold damp hands: "Shrink not," the Phantom cried, + "Gaze on! for ever gaze!" more firm he grasp'd + Her quivering arm: "this lifeless mouldering clay, + As well thou know'st, was warm with all the glow + Of Youth and Love; this is the arm that cleaved + Salisbury's proud crest, now motionless in death, + Unable to protect the ravaged frame + From the foul Offspring of Mortality + That feed on heroes. Tho' long years were thine, + Yet never more would life reanimate + This murdered man; murdered by thee! for thou + Didst lead him to the battle from his home, + Else living there in peace to good old age: + In thy defence he died: strike deep! destroy + Remorse with Life." + The Maid stood motionless, + And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand + Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried, + "Avaunt DESPAIR! Eternal Wisdom deals + Or peace to man, or misery, for his good + Alike design'd; and shall the Creature cry, + Why hast thou done this? and with impious pride + Destroy the life God gave?" + The Fiend rejoin'd, + "And thou dost deem it impious to destroy + The life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lot + Assigned to mortal man? born but to drag, + Thro' life's long pilgrimage, the wearying load + Of being; care corroded at the heart; + Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills + That flesh inherits; till at length worn out, + This is his consummation!--think again! + What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd life + But lengthen'd sorrow? If protracted long, + Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs + Outstretch their languid length, oh think what thoughts, + What agonizing woes, in that dread hour, + Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse, + Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew + The shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force, + Mightiest in impotence, the love of life + Seizes the throbbing heart, the faltering lips + Pour out the impious prayer, that fain would change + The unchangeable's decree, surrounding friends + Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears, + And all he loved in life embitters death! + + Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hour + Of calmest dissolution! yet weak man + Dares, in his timid piety, to live; + And veiling Fear in Superstition's garb, + He calls her Resignation! + Coward wretch! + Fond Coward! thus to make his Reason war + Against his Reason! Insect as he is, + This sport of Chance, this being of a day, + Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast, + Believes himself the care of heavenly powers, + That God regards Man, miserable Man, + And preaching thus of Power and Providence, + Will crush the reptile that may cross his path! + + Fool that thou art! the Being that permits + Existence, 'gives' to man the worthless boon: + A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest, + Bask in the sunshine of Prosperity, + And such do well to keep it. But to one + Sick at the heart with misery, and sore + With many a hard unmerited affliction, + It is a hair that chains to wretchedness + The slave who dares not burst it! + Thinkest thou, + The parent, if his child should unrecall'd + Return and fall upon his neck, and cry, + Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and full + Of vacant joys and heart-consuming cares, + I can be only happy in my home + With thee--my friend!--my father! Thinkest thou, + That he would thrust him as an outcast forth? + Oh I he would clasp the truant to his heart, + And love the trespass." + Whilst he spake, his eye + Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul + Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood, + Even as the wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave + Supply, before him sees the poison'd food + In greedy horror. + Yet not long the Maid + Debated, "Cease thy dangerous sophistry, + Eloquent tempter!" cried she. "Gloomy one! + What tho' affliction be my portion here, + Think'st thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy. + Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back + Upon a life of duty well perform'd, + Then lift mine eyes to Heaven, and there in faith + Know my reward? I grant, were this life all, + Was there no morning to the tomb's long night, + If man did mingle with the senseless clod, + Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed + A wise and friendly comforter! But, Fiend! + There is a morning to the tomb's long night, + A dawn of glory, a reward in Heaven, + He shall not gain who never merited. + If thou didst know the worth of one good deed + In life's last hour, thou would'st not bid me lose + The power to benefit; if I but save + A drowning fly, I shall not live in vain. + I have great duties, Fiend! me France expects, + Her heaven-doom'd Champion." + "Maiden, thou hast done + Thy mission here," the unbaffled Fiend replied: + "The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchance + Exulting in the pride of victory, + Forgettest him who perish'd! yet albeit + Thy harden'd heart forget the gallant youth; + That hour allotted canst thou not escape, + That dreadful hour, when Contumely and Shame + Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid! + Destined to drain the cup of bitterness, + Even to its dregs! England's inhuman Chiefs + Shall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame, + Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity, + And force such burning blushes to the cheek + Of Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish + The earth might cover thee! in that last hour, + When thy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the chains + That link thee to the stake; when o'er thy form, + Exposed unmantled, the brute multitude + Shall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt, + More painful than the circling flames that scorch + Each quivering member; wilt thou not in vain + Then wish my friendly aid? then wish thine ear + Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand + Had grasp'd the dagger, and in death preserved + Insulted modesty?" + Her glowing cheek + Blush'd crimson; her wide eye on vacancy + Was fix'd; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend, + Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, "too-timid Maid, + So long repugnant to the healing aid + My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold + The allotted length of life." + He stamp'd the earth, + And dragging a huge coffin as his car, + Two GOULS came on, of form more fearful-foul + Than ever palsied in her wildest dream + Hag-ridden Superstition. Then DESPAIR + Seiz'd on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still. + And placed her in the seat; and on they pass'd + Adown the deep descent. A meteor light + Shot from the Daemons, as they dragg'd along + The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethren glut + On carcasses. + Below the vault dilates + Its ample bulk. "Look here!"--DESPAIR addrest + The shuddering Virgin, "see the dome of DEATH!" + It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid + The entrails of the earth, as tho' to form + The grave of all mankind: no eye could reach, + Tho' gifted with the Eagle's ample ken, + Its distant bounds. There, thron'd in darkness, dwelt + The unseen POWER OF DEATH. + Here stopt the GOULS, + Reaching the destin'd spot. The Fiend leapt out, + And from the coffin, as he led the Maid, + Exclaim'd, "Where never yet stood mortal man, + Thou standest: look around this boundless vault; + Observe the dole that Nature deals to man, + And learn to know thy friend." + She not replied, + Observing where the Fates their several tasks + Plied ceaseless. "Mark how short the longest web + Allowed to man! he cried; observe how soon, + Twin'd round yon never-resting wheel, they change + Their snowy hue, darkening thro' many a shade, + Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!" + + Too true he spake, for of the countless threads, + Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn'd snow, + Or as the lovely lilly of the vale, + Was never one beyond the little span + Of infancy untainted: few there were + But lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue, + Or deeper sable [4] died. Two Genii stood, + Still as the web of Being was drawn forth, + Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn, + The one unsparing dash'd the bitter wave + Of woe; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow + Relax'd to a hard smile. The milder form + Shed less profusely there his lesser store; + Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon, + Mourning the lot of man; and happy he + Who on his thread those precious drops receives; + If it be happiness to have the pulse + Throb fast with pity, and in such a world + Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches + With anguish at the sight of human woe. + + To her the Fiend, well hoping now success, + "This is thy thread! observe how short the span, + And see how copious yonder Genius pours + The bitter stream of woe." The Maiden saw + Fearless. "Now gaze!" the tempter Fiend exclaim'd, + And placed again the poniard in her hand, + For SUPERSTITION, with sulphureal torch + Stalk'd to the loom. "This, Damsel, is thy fate! + The hour draws on--now drench the dagger deep! + Now rush to happier worlds!" + The Maid replied, + "Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven, + Impious I strive not: be that will perform'd!" + + +[Footnote 1: + + May fays of Serapis, + Erudit at placide humanam per somnia mentem, + Nocturnque quiete docet; nulloque labore + Hic tantum parta est pretiosa scientia, nullo + Excutitur studio verum. Mortalia corda + Tunc Deus iste docet, cum sunt minus apta doceri, + Cum nullum obsequium prstant, meritisque fatentur + Nil sese debere suis; tunc recta scientes + Cum nil scire valent. Non illo tempore sensus + Humanos forsan dignatur numen inire, + Cum propriis possunt per se discursibus uti, + Ne forte human ratio divina coiret. + +'Sup Lucani'.] + + +[Footnote 2: I have met with a singular tale to illustrate this +spiritual theory of dreams. + +Guntram, King of the Franks, was liberal to the poor, and he himself +experienced the wonderful effects of divine liberality. For one day as +he was hunting in a forest he was separated from his companions and +arrived at a little stream of water with only one comrade of tried and +approved fidelity. Here he found himself opprest by drowsiness, and +reclining his head upon the servant's lap went to sleep. The servant +witnessed a wonderful thing, for he saw a little beast ('bestiolam') +creep out of the mouth of his sleeping master, and go immediately to the +streamlet, which it vainly attempted to cross. The servant drew his +sword and laid it across the water, over which the little beast easily +past and crept into a hole of a mountain on the opposite side; from +whence it made its appearance again in an hour, and returned by the same +means into the King's mouth. The King then awakened, and told his +companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon the bank of an +immense river, which he had crossed by a bridge of iron, and from thence +came to a mountain in which a great quantity of gold was concealed. When +the King had concluded, the servant related what he had beheld, and they +both went to examine the mountain, where upon digging they discovered an +immense weight of gold. + +I stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled SPHINX +'Theologico-Philosophica. Authore Johanne Heidfeldio, Ecclesiaste +Ebersbachiano.' 1621. + +The same story is in Matthew of Westminster; it is added that Guntram +applied the treasures thus found to pious uses. + +For the truth of this theory there is the evidence of a Monkish miracle. +When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian and visit the world of +souls, his guide said to him, "let thy body rest in the bed for thy +spirit only is about to depart with me; and lest the body should appear +dead, I will send into it a vital breath." + +The body however by a strange sympathy was affected like the spirit; for +when the foul and fetid smoke that arose from tithes witheld, had nearly +suffocated Thurcillus, and made him cough twice, those who were near his +body said that it coughed twice about the same time. + +'Matthew Paris'.] + + +[Footnote 3: The Bastille. The expression is in one of Fuller's works, +an Author from whose quaintness and ingenuity I have always found +amusement, and sometimes assistance.] + + +[Footnote 4: These lines strongly resemble a passage in the Pharonnida +of William Chamberlayne, a Poet who has told an interesting story in +uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and beauty of +expression, with the quaintest conceits, and most awkward inversions. + + + On a rock more high + Than Nature's common surface, she beholds + The Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds + Its sacred mysteries. A trine within + A quadrate placed, both these encompast in + A perfect circle was its form; but what + Its matter was, for us to wonder at, + Is undiscovered left. A Tower there stands + At every angle, where Time's fatal hands + The impartial PARC dwell; i' the first she sees + CLOTHO the kindest of the Destinies, + From immaterial essences to cull + The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool + For LACHESIS to spin; about her flie + Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie + Warm'd with their functions in, whose strength bestows + That power by which man ripe for misery grows. + + Her next of objects was that glorious tower + Where that swift-fingered Nymph that spares no hour + From mortals' service, draws the various threads + Of life in several lengths; to weary beds + Of age extending some, whilst others in + Their infancy are broke: 'some blackt in sin, + Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whence + Their origin, candid with innocence; + Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed + In sanguine pleasures': some in glittering pride + Spun to adorn the earth, whilst others wear + Rags of deformity, but knots of care + No thread was wholly free from. Next to this + Fair glorious tower, was placed that black abyss + Of dreadful ATROPOS, the baleful seat + Of death and horrour, in each room repleat + With lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sight + Of pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night. + To this, the last stage that the winding clew + Of Life can lead mortality unto, + FEAR was the dreadful Porter, which let in + All guests sent thither by destructive sin. + + +It is possible that I may have written from the recollection of this +passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly attribute it to +Chamberlayne, a Poet to whom I am indebted for many hours of delight, +and whom I one day hope to rescue from undeserved oblivion.] + + + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE SECOND BOOK. + + + +She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd +Amid the air, such odors wafting now +As erst came blended with the evening gale, +From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form +Stood by the Maid; his wings, etherial white, +Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun, +Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear'd +Her THEODORE. + Amazed she saw: the Fiend +Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice +Sounded, tho' now more musically sweet +Than ever yet had thrill'd her charmed soul, +When eloquent Affection fondly told +The day-dreams of delight. + "Beloved Maid! +Lo! I am with thee! still thy Theodore! +Hearts in the holy bands of Love combin'd, +Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine! +A little while and thou shalt dwell with me +In scenes where Sorrow is not. Cheerily +Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave, +Rough tho' it be and painful, for the grave +Is but the threshold of Eternity. + +Favour'd of Heaven! to thee is given to view +These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss +Thou treadest, Maiden! Here the dungeons are +Where bad men learn repentance; souls diseased +Must have their remedy; and where disease +Is rooted deep, the remedy is long +Perforce, and painful." + Thus the Spirit spake, +And led the Maid along a narrow path, +Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames, +More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound +Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath +Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach +A wide expanded den where all around +Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze, +Flamed dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood +The meagre form of Care, and as he blew +To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd +His wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus +He toil'd and toil'd, of toil to reap no end +But endless toil and never-ending woe. + +An aged man went round the infernal vault, +Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task: +White were his locks, as is the wintry snow +On hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff +His steps supported; powerful talisman, +Which whoso feels shall never feel again +The tear of Pity, or the throb of Love. +Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way, +The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall, +Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst +Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee +To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few, +Tho' he the Blessed Teacher of mankind +Hath said, that easier thro' the needle's eye +Shall the huge camel [1] pass, than the rich man +Enter the gates of heaven. "Ye cannot serve +Your God, and worship Mammon." + "Missioned Maid!" +So spake the Angel, "know that these, whose hands +Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil, +Were Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not spare +To wring from Poverty the hard-earn'd mite, +They robb'd the orphan's pittance, they could see +Want's asking eye unmoved; and therefore these, +Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere +In Mammon's service; scorched by these fierce fires, +And frequent deluged by the o'erboiling ore: +Yet still so framed, that oft to quench their thirst +Unquenchable, large draughts of molten [2] gold +They drink insatiate, still with pain renewed, +Pain to destroy." + So saying, her he led +Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell, +Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls +Part gleam'd with gold, and part with silver ore +A milder radiance shone. The Carbuncle +There its strong lustre like the flamy sun +Shot forth irradiate; from the earth beneath, +And from the roof a diamond light emits; +Rubies and amethysts their glows commix'd +With the gay topaz, and the softer ray +Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald's hue, +And bright pyropus. + There on golden seats, +A numerous, sullen, melancholy train +Sat silent. "Maiden, these," said Theodore, +Are they who let the love of wealth absorb +All other passions; in their souls that vice +Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree +That with its shade spreads barrenness around. +These, Maid! were men by no atrocious crime +Blacken'd, no fraud, nor ruffian violence: +Men of fair dealing, and respectable +On earth, but such as only for themselves +Heap'd up their treasures, deeming all their wealth +Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven, +To bless them only: therefore here they sit, +Possessed of gold enough, and by no pain +Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss +They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell, +Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour +Of general restitution." + Thence they past, +And now arrived at such a gorgeous dome, +As even the pomp of Eastern opulence +Could never equal: wandered thro' its halls +A numerous train; some with the red-swoln eye +Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek; +Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step, +And eyes lack-lustre. + Maiden? said her guide, +These are the wretched slaves of Appetite, +Curst with their wish enjoyed. The epicure +Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall'd sense +Loaths at the banquet; the voluptuous here +Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight, +And sink in misery. All they wish'd on earth, +Possessing here, whom have they to accuse, +But their own folly, for the lot they chose? +Yet, for that these injured themselves alone, +They to the house of PENITENCE may hie, +And, by a long and painful regimen, +To wearied Nature her exhausted powers +Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish +Of wisdom, and ALMIGHTY GOODNESS grants +That prize to him who seeks it." + Whilst he spake, +The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and eye +Fat swoln, and legs whose monstrous size disgraced +The human form divine, their caterer, +Hight GLUTTONY, set forth the smoaking feast. +And by his side came on a brother form, +With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red +And scurfy-white, mix'd motley; his gross bulk, +Like some huge hogshead shapen'd, as applied. +Him had antiquity with mystic rites +Ador'd, to him the sons of Greece, and thine +Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour'd +The victim blood, with godlike titles graced, +BACCHUS, or DIONUSUS; son of JOVE, +Deem'd falsely, for from FOLLY'S ideot form +He sprung, what time MADNESS, with furious hand, +Seiz'd on the laughing female. At one birth +She brought the brethren, menial here, above +Reigning with sway supreme, and oft they hold +High revels: mid the Monastery's gloom, +The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice +Episcopal, proclaims approaching day +Of visitation, or Churchwardens meet +To save the wretched many from the gripe +Of eager Poverty, or mid thy halls +Of London, mighty Mayor! rich Aldermen, +Of coming feast hold converse. + Otherwhere, +For tho' allied in nature as in blood, +They hold divided sway, his brother lifts +His spungy sceptre. In the noble domes +Of Princes, and state-wearied Ministers, +Maddening he reigns; and when the affrighted mind +Casts o'er a long career of guilt and blood +Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought +To lull the worm of Conscience to repose. +He too the halls of country Squires frequents, +But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades +Thy offspring Rhedycina! and thy walls, +Granta! nightly libations there to him +Profuse are pour'd, till from the dizzy brain +Triangles, Circles, Parallelograms, +Moods, Tenses, Dialects, and Demigods, +And Logic and Theology are swept +By the red deluge. + Unmolested there +He reigns; till comes at length the general feast, +Septennial sacrifice; then when the sons +Of England meet, with watchful care to chuse +Their delegates, wise, independent men, +Unbribing and unbrib'd, and cull'd to guard +Their rights and charters from the encroaching grasp +Of greedy Power: then all the joyful land +Join in his sacrifices, so inspir'd +To make the important choice. + The observing Maid +Address'd her guide, "These Theodore, thou sayest +Are men, who pampering their foul appetites, +Injured themselves alone. But where are they, +The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil +Around the guileless female, so to sting +The heart that loves them?" + "Them," the spirit replied, +A long and dreadful punishment awaits. +For when the prey of want and infamy, +Lower and lower still the victim sinks, +Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word, +One impious imprecation from her lips +Escapes, nay not a thought of evil lurks +In the polluted mind, that does not plead +Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued +Against the foul Seducer." + Now they reach'd +The house of PENITENCE. CREDULITY +Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head +As tho' to listen; on her vacant face, +A smile that promis'd premature assent; +Tho' her REGRET behind, a meagre Fiend, +Disciplin'd sorely. + Here they entered in, +And now arrived where, as in study tranced, +She sat, the Mistress of the Dome. Her face +Spake that composed severity, that knows +No angry impulse, no weak tenderness, +Resolved and calm. Before her lay that Book +That hath the words of Life; and as she read, +Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek, +Tho' heavenly joy beam'd in her eye the while. + +Leaving her undisturb'd, to the first ward +Of this great Lazar-house, the Angel led +The favour'd Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down +On the hard stone that their bare knees had worn, +In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear'd: +Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave; +Yet such expression stealing from the eye, +As tho', that only naked, all the rest +Was one close fitting mask. A scoffing Fiend, +For Fiend he was, tho' wisely serving here +Mock'd at his patients, and did often pour +Ashes upon them, and then bid them say +Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laughed: +For these were Hypocrites, on earth revered +As holy ones, who did in public tell +Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross themselves, +And call themselves most miserable sinners, +That so they might be deem'd most pious saints; +And go all filth, and never let a smile +Bend their stern muscles, gloomy, sullen men, +Barren of all affection, and all this +To please their God, forsooth! and therefore SCORN +Grinn'd at his patients, making them repeat +Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery +Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer, +They pour'd the silent sorrows of the soul +To Heaven, then did they not regard his mocks +Which then came painless, and HUMILITY +Soon rescued them, and led to PENITENCE, +That She might lead to Heaven. + + From thence they came, +Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band +Groan'd underneath the bitter tyranny +Of a fierce Daemon. His coarse hair was red, +Pale grey his eyes, and blood-shot; and his face +Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears +In ecstacy. Well-pleased he went around, +Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some, +Or probing with a poison'd lance their breasts, +Or placing coals of fire within their wounds; +Or seizing some within his mighty grasp, +He fix'd them on a stake, and then drew back, +And laugh'd to see them writhe. + "These," said the Spirit, +Are taught by CRUELTY, to loath the lives +They led themselves. Here are those wicked men +Who loved to exercise their tyrant power +On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo +A long purgation here; the traffickers +In human flesh here too are disciplined. +Till by their suffering they have equall'd all +The miseries they inflicted, all the mass +Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged, +The towns they burnt, for they who bribe to war +Are guilty of the blood, the widows left +In want, the slave or led to suicide, +Or murdered by the foul infected air +Of his close dungeon, or more sad than all, +His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved, +And driven by woe to wickedness. + These next, +Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room, +So sullen, and with such an eye of hate +Each on the other scowling, these have been +False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts +Here they dwell: in the hollow of their hearts +There is a worm that feeds, and tho' thou seest +That skilful leech who willingly would heal +The ill they suffer, judging of all else +By their own evil standard, they suspect +The aid be vainly proffers, lengthening thus +By vice its punishment." + "But who are these," +The Maid exclaim'd, "that robed in flowing lawn, +And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps +Like Cardinals, I see in every ward, +Performing menial service at the beck +Of all who bid them?" + Theodore replied, +These men are they who in the name of CHRIST +Did heap up wealth, and arrogating power, +Did make men bow the knee, and call themselves +Most Reverend Graces and Right Reverend Lords. +They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed, +And in fine linen: therefore are they here; +And tho' they would not minister on earth, +Here penanced they perforce must minister: +For he, the lowly man of Nazareth, +Hath said, his kingdom is not of the world." +So Saying on they past, and now arrived +Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode, +That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye, +And shudder'd: each one was a loathly corpse, +The worm did banquet on his putrid prey, +Yet had they life and feeling exquisite +Tho' motionless and mute. + "Most wretched men +Are these, the angel cried. These, JOAN, are bards, +Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuate +Who sat them down, deliberately lewd, +So to awake and pamper lust in minds +Unborn; and therefore foul of body now +As then they were of soul, they here abide +Long as the evil works they left on earth +Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom! +Yet amply merited by that bad man +Who prostitutes the sacred gift of song!" +And now they reached a huge and massy pile, +Massy it seem'd, and yet in every blast +As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit, +REMORSE for ever his sad vigils kept. +Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch. +Inly he groan'd, or, starting, wildly shriek'd, +Aye as the fabric tottering from its base, +Threatened its fall, and so expectant still +Lived in the dread of danger still delayed. + +They enter'd there a large and lofty dome, +O'er whose black marble sides a dim drear light +Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp. +Enthroned around, the MURDERERS OF MANKIND, +Monarchs, the great! the glorious! the august! +Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire, +Sat stern and silent. Nimrod he was there, +First King the mighty hunter; and that Chief +Who did belie his mother's fame, that so +He might be called young Ammon. In this court +Csar was crown'd, accurst liberticide; +And he who murdered Tully, that cold villain, +Octavius, tho' the courtly minion's lyre +Hath hymn'd his praise, tho' Maro sung to him, +And when Death levelled to original clay +The royal carcase, FLATTERY, fawning low, +Fell at his feet, and worshipped the new God. +Titus [3] was here, the Conqueror of the Jews, +He the Delight of human-kind misnamed; +Csars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings, +Here they were all, all who for glory fought, +Here in the COURT OF GLORY, reaping now +The meed they merited. + As gazing round +The Virgin mark'd the miserable train, +A deep and hollow voice from one went forth; +"Thou who art come to view our punishment, +Maiden of Orleans! hither turn thine eyes, +For I am he whose bloody victories +Thy power hath rendered vain. Lo! I am here, +The hero conqueror of Azincour, +HENRY OF ENGLAND!--wretched that I am, +I might have reigned in happiness and peace, +My coffers full, my subjects undisturb'd, +And PLENTY and PROSPERITY had loved +To dwell amongst them: but mine eye beheld +The realm of France, by faction tempest-torn, +And therefore I did think that it would fall +An easy prey. I persecuted those +Who taught new doctrines, tho' they taught the truth: +And when I heard of thousands by the sword +Cut off, or blasted by the pestilence, +I calmly counted up my proper gains, +And sent new herds to slaughter. Temperate +Myself, no blood that mutinied, no vice +Tainting my private life, I sent abroad +MURDER and RAPE; and therefore am I doom'd, +Like these imperial Sufferers, crown'd with fire, +Here to remain, till Man's awaken'd eye +Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds, +And warn'd by them, till the whole human race, +Equalling in bliss the aggregate we caus'd +Of wretchedness, shall form ONE BROTHERHOOD, +ONE UNIVERSAL FAMILY OF LOVE." + + +[Footnote 1: In the former edition I had substituted 'cable' instead of +'camel'. The alteration would not be worth noticing were it not for the +circumstance which occasioned it. 'Facilius elephas per foramen acus', +is among the Hebrew adages collected by Drusius; the same metaphor is +found in two other Jewish proverbs, and this appears to determine the +signification of [Greek (transliterated): chamaelos]. Matt. 19. 24.] + + +[Footnote 2: The same idea, and almost the same words are in an old play +by John Ford. The passage is a very fine one: + + + Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched, + Almost condemn'd alive! There is a place, + (List daughter!) in a black and hollow vault, + Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, + But flaming horror of consuming fires; + A lightless sulphur, choak'd with smoaky foggs + Of an infected darkness. In this place + Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts + Of never-dying deaths; there damned souls + Roar without pity, there are gluttons fed + With toads and adders; there is burning oil + Pour'd down the drunkard's throat, 'the usurer + Is forced to sup whole draughts of molten gold'; + There is the murderer for ever stabb'd, + Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton + On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul + He feels the torment of his raging lust. + + ''Tis Pity she's a Whore.' + +I wrote this passage when very young, and the idea, trite as it is, was +new to me. It occurs I believe in most descriptions of hell, and perhaps +owes its origin to the fate of Crassus. + +After this picture of horrors, the reader may perhaps be pleased with +one more pleasantly fanciful: + + + O call me home again dear Chief! and put me + To yoking foxes, milking of he-goats, + Pounding of water in a mortar, laving + The sea dry with a nutshell, gathering all + The leaves are fallen this autumn--making ropes of sand, + Catching the winds together in a net, + Mustering of ants, and numbering atoms, all + That Hell and you thought exquisite torments, rather + Than stay me here a thought more. I would sooner + Keep fleas within a circle, and be accomptant + A thousand year which of 'em, and how far + Outleap'd the other, than endure a minute + Such as I have within. + + B. JONSON. 'The Devil is an Ass.'] + + +[Footnote 3: During the siege of Jerusalem, "the Roman commander, 'with +a generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism, +'laboured incessantly, and to the very last moment, to preserve the +place. With this view, he again and again intreated the tyrants to +surrender and save their lives. With the same view also, after carrying +the second wall the siege was intermitted four days: to rouse their +fears, 'prisoners, to the number of five hundred, or more were crucified +daily before the walls; till space', Josephus says, 'was wanting for the +crosses, and crosses for the captives'." + +From the Hampton Lectures of RALPH CHURTON. + +If any of my readers should enquire why Titus Vespasian, the Delight of +Mankind, is placed in such a situation,--I answer, for "HIS GENEROUS +CLEMENCY, THAT INSEPARABLE ATTENDANT ON TRUE HEROISM!] + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE THIRD BOOK. + + + + The Maiden, musing on the Warrior's words, + Turn'd from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach'd + A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood, + In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eye + Beam'd promise, but behind, withered and old, + And all unlovely. Underneath his feet + Lay records trampled, and the laurel wreath + Now rent and faded: in his hand he held + An hour-glass, and as fall the restless sands, + So pass the lives of men. By him they past + Along the darksome cave, and reach'd a stream, + Still rolling onward its perpetual waves, + Noiseless and undisturbed. Here they ascend + A Bark unpiloted, that down the flood, + Borne by the current, rush'd. The circling stream, + Returning to itself, an island form'd; + Nor had the Maiden's footsteps ever reach'd + The insulated coast, eternally + Rapt round the endless course; but Theodore + Drove with an angel's will the obedient bark. + + They land, a mighty fabric meets their eyes, + Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamant + The pile was framed, for ever to abide + Firm in eternal strength. Before the gate + Stood eager EXPECTATION, as to list + The half-heard murmurs issuing from within, + Her mouth half-open'd, and her head stretch'd forth. + On the other side there stood an aged Crone, + Listening to every breath of air; she knew + Vague suppositions and uncertain dreams, + Of what was soon to come, for she would mark + The paley glow-worm's self-created light, + And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown, + And desolated nations; ever fill'd + With undetermin'd terror, as she heard + Or distant screech-owl, or the regular beat + Of evening death-watch. + "Maid," the Spirit cried, + Here, robed in shadows, dwells FUTURITY. + There is no eye hath seen her secret form, + For round the MOTHER OF TIME, unpierced mists + Aye hover. Would'st thou read the book of Fate, + Enter." + The Damsel for a moment paus'd, + Then to the Angel spake: "All-gracious Heaven! + Benignant in withholding, hath denied + To man that knowledge. I, in faith assured, + That he, my heavenly Father, for the best + Ordaineth all things, in that faith remain + Contented." + "Well and wisely hast thou said, + So Theodore replied; "and now O Maid! + Is there amid this boundless universe + One whom thy soul would visit? is there place + To memory dear, or visioned out by hope, + Where thou would'st now be present? form the wish, + And I am with thee, there." + His closing speech + Yet sounded on her ear, and lo! they stood + Swift as the sudden thought that guided them, + Within the little cottage that she loved. + "He sleeps! the good man sleeps!" enrapt she cried, + As bending o'er her Uncle's lowly bed + Her eye retraced his features. "See the beads + That never morn nor night he fails to tell, + Remembering me, his child, in every prayer. + Oh! quiet be thy sleep, thou dear old man! + Good Angels guard thy rest! and when thine hour + Is come, as gently mayest thou wake to life, + As when thro' yonder lattice the next sun + Shall bid thee to thy morning orisons! + Thy voice is heard, the Angel guide rejoin'd, + He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breathe + Blessings, and pleasant is the good man's rest. + Thy fame has reached him, for who has not heard + Thy wonderous exploits? and his aged heart + Hath felt the deepest joy that ever yet + Made his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on old Claude! + Peaceful, pure Spirit, be thy sojourn here, + And short and soon thy passage to that world + Where friends shall part no more! + "Does thy soul own + No other wish? or sleeps poor Madelon + Forgotten in her grave? seest thou yon star," + The Spirit pursued, regardless of her eye + That look'd reproach; "seest thou that evening star + Whose lovely light so often we beheld + From yonder woodbine porch? how have we gazed + Into the dark deep sky, till the baffled soul, + Lost in the infinite, returned, and felt + The burthen of her bodily load, and yearned + For freedom! Maid, in yonder evening slar + Lives thy departed friend. I read that glance, + And we are there!" + He said and they had past + The immeasurable space. + Then on her ear + The lonely song of adoration rose, + Sweet as the cloister'd virgins vesper hymn, + Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopes + Already lives in Heaven. Abrupt the song + Ceas'd, tremulous and quick a cry + Of joyful wonder rous'd the astonish'd Maid, + And instant Madelon was in her arms; + No airy form, no unsubstantial shape, + She felt her friend, she prest her to her heart, + Their tears of rapture mingled. + She drew back + And eagerly she gazed on Madelon, + Then fell upon her neck again and wept. + No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief, + The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness, + The languid eye: youth's loveliest freshness now + Mantled her cheek, whose every lineament + Bespake the soul at rest, a holy calm, + A deep and full tranquillity of bliss. + + "Thou then art come, my first and dearest friend!" + The well known voice of Madelon began, + "Thou then art come! and was thy pilgrimage + So short on earth? and was it painful too, + Painful and short as mine? but blessed they + Who from the crimes and miseries of the world + Early escape!" + "Nay," Theodore replied, + She hath not yet fulfill'd her mortal work. + Permitted visitant from earth she comes + To see the seat of rest, and oftentimes + In sorrow shall her soul remember this, + And patient of the transitory woe + Partake the anticipated peace again." + "Soon be that work perform'd!" the Maid exclaimed, + "O Madelon! O Theodore! my soul, + Spurning the cold communion of the world, + Will dwell with you! but I shall patiently, + Yea even with joy, endure the allotted ills + Of which the memory in this better state + Shall heighten bliss. That hour of agony, + When, Madelon, I felt thy dying grasp, + And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death, + The very horrors of that hour assume + A shape that now delights." + "O earliest friend! + I too remember," Madelon replied, + "That hour, thy looks of watchful agony, + The suppressed grief that struggled in thine eye + Endearing love's last kindness. Thou didst know + With what a deep and melancholy joy + I felt the hour draw on: but who can speak + The unutterable transport, when mine eyes, + As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed + Amid this peaceful vale, unclos'd on him, + My Arnaud! he had built me up a bower, + A bower of rest.--See, Maiden, where he comes, + His manly lineaments, his beaming eye + The same, but now a holier innocence + Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume + The enlighten'd glance." + They met, what joy was theirs + He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead + Has wet the midnight pillow with his tears. + + Fair was the scene around; an ample vale + Whose mountain circle at the distant verge + Lay softened on the sight; the near ascent + Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare, + Part with the ancient majesty of woods + Adorn'd, or lifting high its rocks sublime. + The river's liquid radiance roll'd beneath, + Beside the bower of Madelon it wound + A broken stream, whose shallows, tho' the waves + Roll'd on their way with rapid melody, + A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove + Its gay green foliage starr'd with golden fruit; + But with what odours did their blossoms load + The passing gale of eve! less thrilling sweet + Rose from the marble's perforated floor, + Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen + Inhaled the cool delight, [1] and whilst she asked + The Prophet for his promised paradise, + Shaped from the present scene its utmost joys. + A goodly scene! fair as that faery land + Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne + From Camlan's bloody banks; or as the groves + Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say, + Enoch abides, and he who rapt away + By fiery steeds, and chariotted in fire, + Past in his mortal form the eternal ways; + And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there + The beatific vision, sometimes seen + The distant dawning of eternal day, + Till all things be fulfilled. + "Survey this scene!" + So Theodore address'd the Maid of Arc, + "There is no evil here, no wretchedness, + It is the Heaven of those who nurst on earth + Their nature's gentlest feelings. Yet not here + Centering their joys, but with a patient hope, + Waiting the allotted hour when capable + Of loftier callings, to a better state + They pass; and hither from that better state + Frequent they come, preserving so those ties + That thro' the infinite progressiveness + Complete our perfect bliss. + "Even such, so blest, + Save that the memory of no sorrows past + Heightened the present joy, our world was once, + In the first ra of its innocence + Ere man had learnt to bow the knee to man. + Was there a youth whom warm affection fill'd, + He spake his honest heart; the earliest fruits + His toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck'd + The sunny bank, he gather'd for the maid, + Nor she disdain'd the gift; for VICE not yet + Had burst the dungeons of her hell, and rear'd + Those artificial boundaries that divide + Man from his species. State of blessedness! + Till that ill-omen'd hour when Cain's stern son + Delved in the bowels of the earth for gold, + Accursed bane of virtue! of such force + As poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon's locks, + Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-blood + Cold curdle in his veins, the creeping flesh + Grew stiff with horror, and the heart forgot + To beat. Accursed hour! for man no more + To JUSTICE paid his homage, but forsook + Her altars, and bow'd down before the shrine + Of WEALTH and POWER, the Idols he had made. + Then HELL enlarged herself, her gates flew wide, + Her legion fiends rush'd forth. OPPRESSION came + Whose frown is desolation, and whose breath + Blasts like the Pestilence; and POVERTY, + A meagre monster, who with withering touch + Makes barren all the better part of man, + MOTHER OF MISERIES. Then the goodly earth + Which God had fram'd for happiness, became + One theatre of woe, and all that God + Had given to bless free men, these tyrant fiends + His bitterest curses made. Yet for the best + Hath he ordained all things, the ALL-WISE! + For by experience rous'd shall man at length + Dash down his Moloch-Idols, Samson-like + And burst his fetters, only strong whilst strong + Believed. Then in the bottomless abyss + OPPRESSION shall be chain'd, and POVERTY + Die, and with her, her brood of Miseries; + And VIRTUE and EQUALITY preserve + The reign of LOVE, and Earth shall once again + Be Paradise, whilst WISDOM shall secure + The state of bliss which IGNORANCE betrayed." + + "Oh age of happiness!" the Maid exclaim'd, + Roll fast thy current, Time till that blest age + Arrive! and happy thou my Theodore, + Permitted thus to see the sacred depths + Of wisdom!" + "Such," the blessed Spirit replied, + Beloved! such our lot; allowed to range + The vast infinity, progressive still + In knowledge and encreasing blessedness, + This our united portion. Thou hast yet + A little while to sojourn amongst men: + I will be with thee! there shall not a breeze + Wanton around thy temples, on whose wing + I will not hover near! and at that hour + When from its fleshly sepulchre let loose, + Thy phoenix soul shall soar, O best-beloved! + I will be with thee in thine agonies, + And welcome thee to life and happiness, + Eternal infinite beatitude!" + + He spake, and led her near a straw-roof'd cot, + LOVE'S Palace. By the Virtues circled there, + The cherub listen'd to such melodies, + As aye, when one good deed is register'd + Above, re-echo in the halls of Heaven. + LABOUR was there, his crisp locks floating loose, + Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye, + And strong his arm robust; the wood-nymph HEALTH + Still follow'd on his path, and where he trod + Fresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was HOPE, + The general friend; and PITY, whose mild eye + Wept o'er the widowed dove; and, loveliest form, + Majestic CHASTITY, whose sober smile + Delights and awes the soul; a laurel wreath + Restrain'd her tresses, and upon her breast + The snow-drop [2] hung its head, that seem'd to grow + Spontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maid + LOVE went submiss, wilh eye more dangerous + Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er + Too bold approached; yet anxious would he read + Her every rising wish, then only pleased + When pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais'd. + + "Glory to thee whose vivifying power + Pervades all Nature's universal frame! + Glory to thee CREATOR LOVE! to thee, + Parent of all the smiling CHARITIES, + That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers! + Glory to thee PRESERVER! to thy praise + The awakened woodlands echo all the day + Their living melody; and warbling forth + To thee her twilight song, the Nightingale + Holds the lone Traveller from his way, or charms + The listening Poet's ear. Where LOVE shall deign + To fix his seat, there blameless PLEASURE sheds + Her roseate dews; CONTENT will sojourn there, + And HAPPINESS behold AFFECTION'S eye + Gleam with the Mother's smile. Thrice happy he + Who feels thy holy power! he shall not drag, + Forlorn and friendless, along Life's long path + To Age's drear abode; he shall not waste + The bitter evening of his days unsooth'd; + But HOPE shall cheer his hours of Solitude, + And VICE shall vainly strive to wound his breast, + That bears that talisman; and when he meets + The eloquent eye of TENDERNESS, and hears + The bosom-thrilling music of her voice; + The joy he feels shall purify his Soul, + And imp it for anticipated Heaven." + + +[Footnote 1: In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the Queen used to +dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there +is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled +that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and windows are +disposed so as to afford the most agreeable prospects, and to throw a +soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents of air too are +admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious coolness of this +apartment. + +(From the sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed to +Florian's Gonsalvo of Cordova).] + + +[Footnote 2: "The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired +her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems +to grow on the breast of the Virgin." P.H.] + + + + + + +The Rose. + + Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus, + that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden + was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadde don + fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be + brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre + began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that + als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help + hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; + and whanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon + was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, + becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise weren the first + Roseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. + And thus was this Maiden saved be the Grace of God. + + 'The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundevile'. + + + + + + +THE ROSE. + + + + Nay EDITH! spare the rose!--it lives--it lives, + It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh'd + The dews of night; let not thy gentle hand + Tear sunder its life-fibres and destroy + The sense of being!--why that infidel smile? + Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful, + And thou shall have a tale of other times, + For I am skill'd in legendary lore, + So thou wilt let it live. There was a time + Ere this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms, + Bedeck'd the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard + How first by miracle its fragrant leaves + Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness. + + There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid + And Zillah was her name, so passing fair + That all Judea spake the damsel's praise. + He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance + How quick it spake the soul, and what a soul + Beam'd in its mild effulgence, woe was he! + For not in solitude, for not in crowds, + Might he escape remembrance, or avoid + Her imaged form that followed every where, + And fill'd the heart, and fix'd the absent eye. + Woe was he, for her bosom own'd no love + Save the strong ardours of religious zeal, + For Zillah on her God had centered all + Her spirit's deep affections. So for her + Her tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverenced + The obdurate virtue that destroyed their hopes. + + One man there was, a vain and wretched man, + Who saw, desired, despair'd, and hated her. + His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek + Even till the flush of angry modesty + Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. + She loath'd the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, + And the strong workings of brute selfishness + Had moulded his broad features; and she fear'd + The bitterness of wounded vanity + That with a fiendish hue would overcast + His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, + For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plot + Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad + Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports + That soon obtain belief; that Zillah's eye + When in the temple heaven-ward it was rais'd + Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those + Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance + With other feelings fill'd; that 'twas a task + Of easy sort to play the saint by day + Before the public eye, but that all eyes + Were closed at night; that Zillah's life was foul, + Yea forfeit to the law. + + Shame--shame to man + That he should trust so easily the tongue + That stabs another's fame! the ill report + Was heard, repeated, and believed,--and soon, + For Hamuel by most damned artifice + Produced such semblances of guilt, the Maid + Was judged to shameful death. + Without the walls + There was a barren field; a place abhorr'd, + For it was there where wretched criminals + Were done to die; and there they built the stake, + And piled the fuel round, that should consume + The accused Maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd, + By God and man. The assembled Bethlemites + Beheld the scene, and when they saw the Maid + Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness + She lifted up her patient looks to Heaven, + They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts + Stood Hamuel near the pile, him savage joy + Led thitherward, but now within his heart + Unwonted feelings stirr'd, and the first pangs + Of wakening guilt, anticipating Hell. + The eye of Zillah as it glanced around + Fell on the murderer once, but not in wrath; + And therefore like a dagger it had fallen, + Had struck into his soul a cureless wound. + Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour + Of triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch, + Not in the hour of infamy and death + Forsake the virtuous! they draw near the stake-- + And lo! the torch! hold hold your erring hands! + Yet quench the rising flames!--they rise! they spread! + They reach the suffering Maid! oh God protect + The innocent one! + They rose, they spread, they raged-- + The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire + Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames + In one long lightning flash collecting fierce, + Darted and blasted Hamuel--him alone. + Hark--what a fearful scream the multitude + Pour forth!--and yet more miracles! the stake + Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves and bowers + The innocent Maid, and roses bloom around, + Now first beheld since Paradise was lost, + And fill with Eden odours all the air. + + + + + + + + +The COMPLAINTS of the POOR. + + + + And wherefore do the Poor complain? + The rich man asked of me,-- + Come walk abroad with me, I said + And I will answer thee. + + Twas evening and the frozen streets + Were cheerless to behold, + And we were wrapt and coated well, + And yet we were a-cold. + + We met an old bare-headed man, + His locks were few and white, + I ask'd him what he did abroad + In that cold winter's night: + + 'Twas bitter keen indeed, he said, + But at home no fire had he, + And therefore, he had come abroad + To ask for charity. + + We met a young bare-footed child, + And she begg'd loud and bold, + I ask'd her what she did abroad + When the wind it blew so cold; + + She said her father was at home + And he lay sick a-bed, + And therefore was it she was sent + Abroad to beg for bread. + + We saw a woman sitting down + Upon a stone to rest, + She had a baby at her back + And another at her breast; + + I ask'd her why she loiter'd there + When the wind it was so chill; + She turn'd her head and bade the child + That scream'd behind be still. + + She told us that her husband served + A soldier, far away, + And therefore to her parish she + Was begging back her way. + + We met a girl; her dress was loose + And sunken was her eye, + Who with the wanton's hollow voice + Address'd the passers by; + + I ask'd her what there was in guilt + That could her heart allure + To shame, disease, and late remorse? + She answer'd, she was poor. + + I turn'd me to the rich man then + For silently stood he, + You ask'd me why the Poor complain, + And these have answer'd thee. + + + + + + + + +METRICAL LETTER, + +Written from London. + + + + Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile; + I love the homely and familiar phrase; + And I will call thee Cousin Margaret, + However quaint amid the measured line + The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill + When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, + Sirring and Madaming as civilly + As if the road between the heart and lips + Were such a weary and Laplandish way + That the poor travellers came to the red gates + Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret, + For many a day my Memory has played + The creditor with me on your account, + And made me shame to think that I should owe + So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, + Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear + So heavy a pack of business, that albeit + I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race + Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I + That for a moment you should lay to me + Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart + That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some + Who know how warm it beats. I am not one + Who can play off my smiles and courtesies + To every Lady of her lap dog tired + Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend + Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love; + Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up + At once without a seed and take no root, + Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere + The little circle of domestic life + I would be known and loved; the world beyond + Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think + That you should know me well, for you and I + Grew up together, and when we look back + Upon old times our recollections paint + The same familiar faces. Did I wield + The wand of Merlin's magic I would make + Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, + Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood + That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth, + The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle + Like that where whilome old Apollidon + Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid + The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers, + That we might stand upon the beach, and mark + The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, + And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound + Told us that never mariner should reach + Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle + We might renew the days of infancy, + And Life like a long childhood pass away, + Without one care. It may be, Margaret, + That I shall yet be gathered to my friends, + For I am not of those who live estranged + Of choice, till at the last they join their race + In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, + Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack + So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine + Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly. + If not, if I should never get beyond + This Vanity town, there is another world + Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, + I gaze at night into the boundless sky, + And think that I shall there be born again, + The exalted native of some better star; + And like the rude American I hope + To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth. + + + + + + + + + + +The Cross Roads. + +The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty +years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at +the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as +I have versified them. + + + + +THE CROSS ROADS. + + + There was an old man breaking stones + To mend the turnpike way, + He sat him down beside a brook + And out his bread and cheese he took, + For now it was mid-day. + + He lent his back against a post, + His feet the brook ran by; + And there were water-cresses growing, + And pleasant was the water's flowing + For he was hot and dry. + + A soldier with his knapsack on + Came travelling o'er the down, + The sun was strong and he was tired, + And of the old man he enquired + How far to Bristol town. + + Half an hour's walk for a young man + By lanes and fields and stiles. + But you the foot-path do not know, + And if along the road you go + Why then 'tis three good miles. + + The soldier took his knapsack off + For he was hot and dry; + And out his bread and cheese he took + And he sat down beside the brook + To dine in company. + + Old friend! in faith, the soldier says + I envy you almost; + My shoulders have been sorely prest + And I should like to sit and rest, + My back against that post. + + In such a sweltering day as this + A knapsack is the devil! + And if on t'other side I sat + It would not only spoil our chat + But make me seem uncivil. + + The old man laugh'd and moved. I wish + It were a great-arm'd chair! + But this may help a man at need; + And yet it was a cursed deed + That ever brought it there. + + There's a poor girl lies buried here + Beneath this very place. + The earth upon her corpse is prest + This stake is driven into her breast + And a stone is on her face. + + The soldier had but just lent back + And now he half rose up. + There's sure no harm in dining here, + My friend? and yet to be sincere + I should not like to sup. + + God rest her! she is still enough + Who sleeps beneath our feet! + The old man cried. No harm I trow + She ever did herself, tho' now + She lies where four roads meet. + + I have past by about that hour + When men are not most brave, + It did not make my heart to fail, + And I have heard the nightingale + Sing sweetly on her grave. + + I have past by about that hour + When Ghosts their freedom have, + But there was nothing here to fright, + And I have seen the glow-worm's light + Shine on the poor girl's grave. + + There's one who like a Christian lies + Beneath the church-tree's shade; + I'd rather go a long mile round + Than pass at evening thro' the ground + Wherein that man is laid. + + There's one that in the church-yard lies + For whom the bell did toll; + He lies in consecrated ground, + But for all the wealth in Bristol town + I would not be with his soul! + + Did'st see a house below the hill + That the winds and the rains destroy? + 'Twas then a farm where he did dwell, + And I remember it full well + When I was a growing boy. + + And she was a poor parish girl + That came up from the west, + From service hard she ran away + And at that house in evil day + Was taken in to rest. + + The man he was a wicked man + And an evil life he led; + Rage made his cheek grow deadly white + And his grey eyes were large and light, + And in anger they grew red. + + The man was bad, the mother worse, + Bad fruit of a bad stem, + 'Twould make your hair to stand-on-end + If I should tell to you my friend + The things that were told of them! + + Did'st see an out-house standing by? + The walls alone remain; + It was a stable then, but now + Its mossy roof has fallen through + All rotted by the rain. + + The poor girl she had serv'd with them + Some half-a-year, or more, + When she was found hung up one day + Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay + Behind that stable door! + + It is a very lonesome place, + No hut or house is near; + Should one meet a murderer there alone + 'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan + Would never reach mortal ear. + + And there were strange reports about + That the coroner never guest. + So he decreed that she should lie + Where four roads meet in infamy, + With a stake drove in her breast. + + Upon a board they carried her + To the place where four roads met, + And I was one among the throng + That hither followed them along, + I shall never the sight forget! + + They carried her upon a board + In the cloaths in which she died; + I saw the cap blow off her head, + Her face was of a dark dark red + Her eyes were starting wide: + + I think they could not have been closed + So widely did they strain. + I never saw so dreadful a sight, + And it often made me wake at night, + For I saw her face again. + + They laid her here where four roads meet. + Beneath this very place, + The earth upon her corpse was prest, + This post is driven into her breast, + And a stone is on her face. + + + + + + + + + + + +The Sailor, + +who had served in the Slave Trade. + +In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol, discovered a +Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City, groaning and praying in a +hovel. The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in +the annexed Ballad, without the slightest addition or alteration. By +presenting it as a Poem the story is made more public, and such stories +ought to be made as public as possible. + + + + +THE SAILOR, + +WHO HAD SERVED IN THE SLAVE-TRADE. + + + He stopt,--it surely was a groan + That from the hovel came! + He stopt and listened anxiously + Again it sounds the same. + + It surely from the hovel comes! + And now he hastens there, + And thence he hears the name of Christ + Amidst a broken prayer. + + He entered in the hovel now, + A sailor there he sees, + His hands were lifted up to Heaven + And he was on his knees. + + Nor did the Sailor so intent + His entering footsteps heed, + But now the Lord's prayer said, and now + His half-forgotten creed. + + And often on his Saviour call'd + With many a bitter groan, + In such heart-anguish as could spring + From deepest guilt alone. + + He ask'd the miserable man + Why he was kneeling there, + And what the crime had been that caus'd + The anguish of his prayer. + + Oh I have done a wicked thing! + It haunts me night and day, + And I have sought this lonely place + Here undisturb'd to pray. + + I have no place to pray on board + So I came here alone, + That I might freely kneel and pray, + And call on Christ and groan. + + If to the main-mast head I go, + The wicked one is there, + From place to place, from rope to rope, + He follows every where. + + I shut my eyes,--it matters not-- + Still still the same I see,-- + And when I lie me down at night + 'Tis always day with me. + + He follows follows every where, + And every place is Hell! + O God--and I must go with him + In endless fire to dwell. + + He follows follows every where, + He's still above--below, + Oh tell me where to fly from him! + Oh tell me where to go! + + But tell me, quoth the Stranger then, + What this thy crime hath been, + So haply I may comfort give + To one that grieves for sin. + + O I have done a cursed deed + The wretched man replies, + And night and day and every where + 'Tis still before my eyes. + + I sail'd on board a Guinea-man + And to the slave-coast went; + Would that the sea had swallowed me + When I was innocent! + + And we took in our cargo there, + Three hundred negroe slaves, + And we sail'd homeward merrily + Over the ocean waves. + + But some were sulky of the slaves + And would not touch their meat, + So therefore we were forced by threats + And blows to make them eat. + + One woman sulkier than the rest + Would still refuse her food,-- + O Jesus God! I hear her cries-- + I see her in her blood! + + The Captain made me tie her up + And flog while he stood by, + And then he curs'd me if I staid + My hand to hear her cry. + + She groan'd, she shriek'd--I could not spare + For the Captain he stood by-- + Dear God! that I might rest one night + From that poor woman's cry! + + She twisted from the blows--her blood + Her mangled flesh I see-- + And still the Captain would not spare-- + Oh he was worse than me! + + She could not be more glad than I + When she was taken down, + A blessed minute--'twas the last + That I have ever known! + + I did not close my eyes all night, + Thinking what I had done; + I heard her groans and they grew faint + About the rising sun. + + She groan'd and groan'd, but her groans grew + Fainter at morning tide, + Fainter and fainter still they came + Till at the noon she died. + + They flung her overboard;--poor wretch + She rested from her pain,-- + But when--O Christ! O blessed God! + Shall I have rest again! + + I saw the sea close over her, + Yet she was still in sight; + I see her twisting every where; + I see her day and night. + + Go where I will, do what I can + The wicked one I see-- + Dear Christ have mercy on my soul, + O God deliver me! + + To morrow I set sail again + Not to the Negroe shore-- + Wretch that I am I will at least + Commit that sin no more. + + O give me comfort if you can-- + Oh tell me where to fly-- + And bid me hope, if there be hope, + For one so lost as I. + + Poor wretch, the stranger he replied, + Put thou thy trust in heaven, + And call on him for whose dear sake + All sins shall be forgiven. + + This night at least is thine, go thou + And seek the house of prayer, + There shalt thou hear the word of God + And he will help thee there! + + + + + + + + + + + + +Jaspar. + +The stories of the two following ballads are wholly imaginary. I may say +of each as John Bunyan did of his 'Pilgrim's Progress', + + + "It came from mine own heart, so to my head, + And thence into my fingers trickled; + Then to my pen, from whence immediately + On paper I did dribble it daintily." + + + + +JASPAR + + + + Jaspar was poor, and want and vice + Had made his heart like stone, + And Jaspar look'd with envious eyes + On riches not his own. + + On plunder bent abroad he went + Towards the close of day, + And loitered on the lonely road + Impatient for his prey. + + No traveller came, he loiter'd long + And often look'd around, + And paus'd and listen'd eagerly + To catch some coming sound. + + He sat him down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way, + So fair a scene might well have charm'd + All evil thoughts away; + + He sat beneath a willow tree + That cast a trembling shade, + The gentle river full in front + A little island made, + + Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone + Upon the poplar trees, + Whose shadow on the stream below + Play'd slowly to the breeze. + + He listen'd--and he heard the wind + That waved the willow tree; + He heard the waters flow along + And murmur quietly. + + He listen'd for the traveller's tread, + The nightingale sung sweet,-- + He started up, for now he heard + The sound of coming feet; + + He started up and graspt a stake + And waited for his prey; + There came a lonely traveller + And Jaspar crost his way. + + But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd + The traveller to appal, + He would not lightly yield the purse + That held his little all. + + Awhile he struggled, but he strove + With Jaspar's strength in vain; + Beneath his blows he fell and groan'd, + And never spoke again. + + He lifted up the murdered man + And plunged him in the flood, + And in the running waters then + He cleansed his hands from blood. + + The waters closed around the corpse + And cleansed his hands from gore, + The willow waved, the stream flowed on + And murmured as before. + + There was no human eye had seen + The blood the murderer spilt, + And Jaspar's conscience never knew + The avenging goad of guilt. + + And soon the ruffian had consum'd + The gold he gain'd so ill, + And years of secret guilt pass'd on + And he was needy still. + + One eve beside the alehouse fire + He sat as it befell, + When in there came a labouring man + Whom Jaspar knew full well. + + He sat him down by Jaspar's side + A melancholy man, + For spite of honest toil, the world + Went hard with Jonathan. + + His toil a little earn'd, and he + With little was content, + But sickness on his wife had fallen + And all he had was spent. + + Then with his wife and little ones + He shared the scanty meal, + And saw their looks of wretchedness, + And felt what wretches feel. + + That very morn the Landlord's power + Had seized the little left, + And now the sufferer found himself + Of every thing bereft. + + He lent his head upon his hand, + His elbow on his knee, + And so by Jaspar's side he sat + And not a word said he. + + Nay--why so downcast? Jaspar cried, + Come--cheer up Jonathan! + Drink neighbour drink! 'twill warm thy heart, + Come! come! take courage man! + + He took the cup that Jaspar gave + And down he drain'd it quick + I have a wife, said Jonathan, + And she is deadly sick. + + She has no bed to lie upon, + I saw them take her bed. + And I have children--would to God + That they and I were dead! + + Our Landlord he goes home to night + And he will sleep in peace. + I would that I were in my grave + For there all troubles cease. + + In vain I pray'd him to forbear + Tho' wealth enough has he-- + God be to him as merciless + As he has been to me! + + When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul + On all his ills intent, + He plied him with the heartening cup + And with him forth he went. + + This landlord on his homeward road + 'Twere easy now to meet. + The road is lonesome--Jonathan, + And vengeance, man! is sweet. + + He listen'd to the tempter's voice + The thought it made him start. + His head was hot, and wretchedness + Had hardened now his heart. + + Along the lonely road they went + And waited for their prey, + They sat them down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way. + + They sat them down beside the stream + And never a word they said, + They sat and listen'd silently + To hear the traveller's tread. + + The night was calm, the night was dark, + No star was in the sky, + The wind it waved the willow boughs, + The stream flowed quietly. + + The night was calm, the air was still, + Sweet sung the nightingale, + The soul of Jonathan was sooth'd, + His heart began to fail. + + 'Tis weary waiting here, he cried, + And now the hour is late,-- + Methinks he will not come to night, + 'Tis useless more to wait. + + Have patience man! the ruffian said, + A little we may wait, + But longer shall his wife expect + Her husband at the gate. + + Then Jonathan grew sick at heart, + My conscience yet is clear, + Jaspar--it is not yet too late-- + I will not linger here. + + How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought + Thy conscience was asleep. + No more such qualms, the night is dark, + The river here is deep, + + What matters that, said Jonathan, + Whose blood began to freeze, + When there is one above whose eye + The deeds of darkness sees? + + We are safe enough, said Jaspar then + If that be all thy fear; + Nor eye below, nor eye above + Can pierce the darkness here. + + That instant as the murderer spake + There came a sudden light; + Strong as the mid-day sun it shone, + Though all around was night. + + It hung upon the willow tree, + It hung upon the flood, + It gave to view the poplar isle + And all the scene of blood. + + The traveller who journies there + He surely has espied + A madman who has made his home + Upon the river's side. + + His cheek is pale, his eye is wild, + His look bespeaks despair; + For Jaspar since that hour has made + His home unshelter'd there. + + And fearful are his dreams at night + And dread to him the day; + He thinks upon his untold crime + And never dares to pray. + + The summer suns, the winter storms, + O'er him unheeded roll, + For heavy is the weight of blood + Upon the maniac's soul. + + + + + + + + + + +LORD WILLIAM. + + + + No eye beheld when William plunged + Young Edmund in the stream, + No human ear but William's heard + Young Edmund's drowning scream. + + Submissive all the vassals own'd + The murderer for their Lord, + And he, the rightful heir, possessed + The house of Erlingford. + + The ancient house of Erlingford + Stood midst a fair domain, + And Severn's ample waters near + Roll'd through the fertile plain. + + And often the way-faring man + Would love to linger there, + Forgetful of his onward road + To gaze on scenes so fair. + + But never could Lord William dare + To gaze on Severn's stream; + In every wind that swept its waves + He heard young Edmund scream. + + In vain at midnight's silent hour + Sleep closed the murderer's eyes, + In every dream the murderer saw + Young Edmund's form arise. + + In vain by restless conscience driven + Lord William left his home, + Far from the scenes that saw his guilt, + In pilgrimage to roam. + + To other climes the pilgrim fled, + But could not fly despair, + He sought his home again, but peace + Was still a stranger there. + + Each hour was tedious long, yet swift + The months appear'd to roll; + And now the day return'd that shook + With terror William's soul. + + A day that William never felt + Return without dismay, + For well had conscience kalendered + Young Edmund's dying day. + + A fearful day was that! the rains + Fell fast, with tempest roar, + And the swoln tide of Severn spread + Far on the level shore. + + In vain Lord William sought the feast + In vain he quaff'd the bowl, + And strove with noisy mirth to drown + The anguish of his soul. + + The tempest as its sudden swell + In gusty howlings came, + With cold and death-like feelings seem'd + To thrill his shuddering frame. + + Reluctant now, as night came on, + His lonely couch he prest, + And wearied out, he sunk to sleep, + To sleep, but not to rest. + + Beside that couch his brother's form + Lord Edmund seem'd to stand, + Such and so pale as when in death + He grasp'd his brother's hand; + + Such and so pale his face as when + With faint and faltering tongue, + To William's care, a dying charge + He left his orphan son. + + "I bade thee with a father's love + My orphan Edmund guard-- + Well William hast thou kept thy charge! + Now take thy due reward." + + He started up, each limb convuls'd + With agonizing fear, + He only heard the storm of night-- + 'Twas music to his ear. + + When lo! the voice of loud alarm + His inmost soul appals, + What ho! Lord William rise in haste! + The water saps thy walls! + + He rose in haste, beneath the walls + He saw the flood appear, + It hemm'd him round, 'twas midnight now, + No human aid was near. + + He heard the shout of joy, for now + A boat approach'd the wall, + And eager to the welcome aid + They crowd for safety all. + + My boat is small, the boatman cried, + This dangerous haste forbear! + Wait other aid, this little bark + But one from hence can bear. + + Lord William leap'd into the boat, + Haste--haste to yonder shore! + And ample wealth shall well reward, + Ply swift and strong the oar. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Went light along the stream, + Sudden Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + The boatman paus'd, methought I heard + A child's distressful cry! + 'Twas but the howling wind of night + Lord William made reply. + + Haste haste--ply swift and strong the oar! + Haste haste across the stream! + Again Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + I heard a child's distressful scream + The boatman cried again. + Nay hasten on--the night is dark-- + And we should search in vain. + + Oh God! Lord William dost thou know + How dreadful 'tis to die? + And can'st thou without pity hear + A child's expiring cry? + + How horrible it is to sink + Beneath the chilly stream, + To stretch the powerless arms in vain, + In vain for help to scream? + + The shriek again was heard. It came + More deep, more piercing loud, + That instant o'er the flood the moon + Shone through a broken cloud. + + And near them they beheld a child, + Upon a crag he stood, + A little crag, and all around + Was spread the rising flood. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Approach'd his resting place, + The moon-beam shone upon the child + And show'd how pale his face. + + Now reach thine hand! the boatman cried + Lord William reach and save! + The child stretch'd forth his little hands + To grasp the hand he gave. + + Then William shriek'd; the hand he touch'd + Was cold and damp and dead! + He felt young Edmund in his arms + A heavier weight than lead. + + The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk + Beneath the avenging stream; + He rose, he scream'd, no human ear + Heard William's drowning scream. + + + + + + + + + +A BALLAD, + +SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. + +[Illustration: heavy black-and-white drawing (woodcut) of the title.] + + +A.D. 852. Circa dies istos, mulier qudam malefica, in vill qu +Berkeleia dicitur degens, gul amatrix ac petulanti, flagitiis modum +usque in senium et auguriis non ponens, usque ad mortem impudica +permansit. Hc die quadam cum sederet ad prandium, cornicula quam pro +delitiis pascebat, nescio quid garrire coepit; quo audito, mulieris +cultellus de manu excidit, simul et facies pallescere coepit, et emisso +rugitu, hodie, inquit, accipiam grande incommodum, hodieque ad sulcum +ultimum meum pervenit aratrum, quo dicto, nuncius doloris intravit; +muliere vero percunctata ad quid veniret, affero, inquit, tibi filii tui +obitum & totius famili ejus ex subita ruina interitum. Hoc quoque +dolore mulier permota, lecto protinus decubuit graviter infirmata; +sentiensque morbum subrepere ad vitalia, liberos quos habuit +superstites, monachum videlicet et monacham, per epistolam invitavit; +advenientes autem voce singultiente alloquitur. Ego, inquit, o pueri, +meo miserabili fato dmoniacis semper artibus inservivi; ego omnium +vitiorum sentina, ego illecebrarum omnium fui magistra. Erat tamen mihi +inter hc mala, spes vestr religionis, qu meam solidaret animam +desperatam; vos expctabam propugnatores contra dmones, tutores contra +svissimos hostes. Nunc igitur quoniam ad finem vit perveni, rogo vos +per materna ubera, ut mea tentatis alleviare tormenta. Insuite me +defunctam in corio cervino, ac deinde in sarcophago lapideo supponite, +operculumque ferro et plumbo constringite, ac demum lapidem tribus +cathenis ferreis et fortissimis circundantes, clericos quinquaginta +psalmorum cantores, et tot per tres dies presbyteros missarum +celebratores applicate, qui feroces lenigent adversariorum incursus. Ita +si tribus noctibus secura jacuero, quarta die me infodite humo. + +Factumque est ut prceperat illis. Sed, proh dolor! nil preces, nil +lacrym, nil demum valuere caten. Primis enim duabus noctibus, cum +chori psallentium corpori assistabant, advenientes Dmones ostium +ecclesi confregerunt ingenti obice clausum, extremasque cathenas +negotio levi dirumpunt: media autem qu fortior erat, illibata manebat. +Tertia autem nocte, circa gallicinium, strepitu hostium adventantium, +omne monasterium visum est a fundamento moveri. Unus ergo dmonum, et +vultu cteris terribilior & statura eminentior, januas Ecclesi; impetu +violento concussas in fragmenta dejecit. Divexerunt clerici cum laicis, +metu stelerunt omnium capilli, et psalmorum concentus defecit. Dmon +ergo gestu ut videbatur arroganti ad sepulchrum accedens, & nomen +mulieris modicum ingeminans, surgere imperavit. Qua respondente, quod +nequiret pro vinculis, jam malo tuo, inquit, solveris; et protinus +cathenam qu cterorum ferociam dmonum deluserat, velut stuppeum +vinculum rumpebat. Operculum etiam sepulchri pede depellens, mulierem +palam omnibus ab ecclesia extraxit, ubi pr foribus niger equus superbe +hinniens videbatur, uncis ferreis et clavis undique confixus, super quem +misera mulier projecta, ab oculis assistentium evanuit. Audiebantur +tamen clamores per quatuor fere miliaria horribiles, auxilium +postulantes. + +Ista itaque qu retuli incredibilia non erunt, si legatur beati Gregorii +dialogus, in quo refert, hominem in ecclesia sepultam, a dmonibus foras +ejectum. Et apud Francos Carolus Martellus insignis vir fortudinis, qui +Saracenos Galliam ingressos, Hispaniam redire compulit, exactis vit su +diebus, in Ecclesia beati Dionysii legitur fuisse sepultus. Sed quia +patrimonia, cum decimis omnium fere ecclesiarum Galli, pro stipendio +commilitonum suorum mutilaverat, miserabiliter a malignis spiritibus de +sepulchro corporaliter avulsus, usque in hodiernum diem nusquam +comparuit. + +Matthew of Westminster. + + +This story is also related by Olaus Magnus, and in the Nuremberg +Chronicle, from which the wooden cut is taken. + + + +A BALLAD, + +SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. + + + The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal, + And the Old Woman knew what he said, + And she grew pale at the Raven's tale, + And sicken'd and went to her bed. + + Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed, + The Old Woman of Berkeley said, + The monk my son, and my daughter the nun + Bid them hasten or I shall be dead. + + The monk her son, and her daughter the nun, + Their way to Berkeley went, + And they have brought with pious thought + The holy sacrament. + + The old Woman shriek'd as they entered her door, + 'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear, + Now take the sacrament away + For mercy, my children dear! + + Her lip it trembled with agony, + The sweat ran down her brow, + I have tortures in store for evermore, + Oh! spare me my children now! + + Away they sent the sacrament, + The fit it left her weak, + She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes + And faintly struggled to speak. + + All kind of sin I have rioted in + And the judgment now must be, + But I secured my childrens souls, + Oh! pray my children for me. + + I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes, + The fiends have been my slaves, + I have nointed myself with infants fat, + And feasted on rifled graves. + + And the fiend will fetch me now in fire + My witchcrafts to atone, + And I who have rifled the dead man's grave + Shall never have rest in my own. + + Bless I intreat my winding sheet + My children I beg of you! + And with holy water sprinkle my shroud + And sprinkle my coffin too. + + And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone + And fasten it strong I implore + With iron bars, and let it be chain'd + With three chains to the church floor. + + And bless the chains and sprinkle them, + And let fifty priests stand round, + Who night and day the mass may say + Where I lie on the ground. + + And let fifty choristers be there + The funeral dirge to sing, + Who day and night by the taper's light + Their aid to me may bring. + + Let the church bells all both great and small + Be toll'd by night and day, + To drive from thence the fiends who come + To bear my corpse away. + + And ever have the church door barr'd + After the even song, + And I beseech you children dear + Let the bars and bolts be strong. + + And let this be three days and nights + My wretched corpse to save, + Preserve me so long from the fiendish throng + And then I may rest in my grave. + + The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down + And her eyes grew deadly dim, + Short came her breath and the struggle of death + Did loosen every limb. + + They blest the old woman's winding sheet + With rites and prayers as due, + With holy water they sprinkled her shroud + And they sprinkled her coffin too. + + And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone + And with iron barr'd it down, + And in the church with three strong chains + They chain'd it to the ground. + + And they blest the chains and sprinkled them, + And fifty priests stood round, + By night and day the mass to say + Where she lay on the ground. + + And fifty choristers were there + To sing the funeral song, + And a hallowed taper blazed in the hand + Of all the sacred throng. + + To see the priests and choristers + It was a goodly sight, + Each holding, as it were a staff, + A taper burning bright. + + And the church bells all both great and small + Did toll so loud and long, + And they have barr'd the church door hard + After the even song. + + And the first night the taper's light + Burnt steadily and clear. + But they without a hideous rout + Of angry fiends could hear; + + A hideous roar at the church door + Like a long thunder peal, + And the priests they pray'd and the choristers sung + Louder in fearful zeal. + + Loud toll'd the bell, the priests pray'd well, + The tapers they burnt bright, + The monk her son, and her daughter the nun + They told their beads all night. + + The cock he crew, away they flew + The fiends from the herald of day, + And undisturb'd the choristers sing + And the fifty priests they pray. + + The second night the taper's light + Burnt dismally and blue, + And every one saw his neighbour's face + Like a dead man's face to view. + + And yells and cries without arise + That the stoutest heart might shock, + And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring + Over a mountain rock. + + The monk and nun they told their beads + As fast as they could tell, + And aye as louder grew the noise + The faster went the bell. + + Louder and louder the choristers sung + As they trembled more and more, + And the fifty priests prayed to heaven for aid, + They never had prayed so before. + + The cock he crew, away they flew + The fiends from the herald of day, + And undisturb'd the choristers sing + And the fifty priests they pray. + + The third night came and the tapers flame + A hideous stench did make, + And they burnt as though they had been dipt + In the burning brimstone lake. + + And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean, + Grew momently more and more, + And strokes as of a battering ram + Did shake the strong church door. + + The bellmen they for very fear + Could toll the bell no longer, + And still as louder grew the strokes + Their fear it grew the stronger. + + The monk and nun forgot their beads, + They fell on the ground dismay'd, + There was not a single saint in heaven + Whom they did not call to aid. + + And the choristers song that late was so strong + Grew a quaver of consternation, + For the church did rock as an earthquake shock + Uplifted its foundation. + + And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast + That shall one day wake the dead, + The strong church door could bear no more + And the bolts and the bars they fled. + + And the taper's light was extinguish'd quite, + And the choristers faintly sung, + And the priests dismay'd, panted and prayed + Till fear froze every tongue. + + And in He came with eyes of flame + The Fiend to fetch the dead, + And all the church with his presence glowed + Like a fiery furnace red. + + He laid his hand on the iron chains + And like flax they moulder'd asunder, + And the coffin lid that was barr'd so firm + He burst with his voice of thunder. + + And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise + And come with her master away, + And the cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse, + At the voice she was forced to obey. + + She rose on her feet in her winding sheet, + Her dead flesh quivered with fear, + And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave + Never did mortal hear. + + She followed the fiend to the church door, + There stood a black horse there, + His breath was red like furnace smoke, + His eyes like a meteor's glare. + + The fiendish force flung her on the horse + And he leapt up before, + And away like the lightning's speed they went + And she was seen no more. + + They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks + For four miles round they could hear, + And children at rest at their mother's breast, + Started and screamed with fear. + + + + + +The Surgeon's Warning. + +The subject of this parody was given me by a friend, to whom also I am +indebted for some of the stanzas. + +Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the manner of +Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute to their Saints +and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare that it is by no means my +design to depreciate that useful invention; and all persons to whom this +Ballad shall come are requested to take notice, that nothing here +asserted concerning the aforesaid Coffins is true, except that the maker +and patentee lives by St. Martin's Lane. + + +THE SURGEONS' WARNING. + + +The Doctor whispered to the Nurse + And the Surgeon knew what he said, +And he grew pale at the Doctor's tale + And trembled in his sick bed. + +Now fetch me my brethren and fetch them with speed + The Surgeon affrighted said, +The Parson and the Undertaker, + Let them hasten or I shall be dead. + +The Parson and the Undertaker + They hastily came complying, +And the Surgeon's Prentices ran up stairs + When they heard that their master was dying. + +The Prentices all they entered the room + By one, by two, by three, +With a sly grin came Joseph in, + First of the company. + +The Surgeon swore as they enter'd his door, + 'Twas fearful his oaths to hear,-- +Now send these scoundrels to the Devil, + For God's sake my brethren dear. + +He foam'd at the mouth with the rage he felt + And he wrinkled his black eye-brow, +That rascal Joe would be at me I know, + But zounds let him spare me now. + +Then out they sent the Prentices, + The fit it left him weak, +He look'd at his brothers with ghastly eyes, + And faintly struggled to speak. + +All kinds of carcasses I have cut up, + And the judgment now must be-- +But brothers I took care of you, + So pray take care of me! + +I have made candles of infants fat + The Sextons have been my slaves, +I have bottled babes unborn, and dried + Hearts and livers from rifled graves. + +And my Prentices now will surely come + And carve me bone from bone, +And I who have rifled the dead man's grave + Shall never have rest in my own. + +Bury me in lead when I am dead, + My brethren I intreat, +And see the coffin weigh'd I beg + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +And let it be solder'd closely down + Strong as strong can be I implore, +And put it in a patent coffin, + That I may rise no more. + +If they carry me off in the patent coffin + Their labour will be in vain, +Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +And bury me in my brother's church + For that will safer be, +And I implore lock the church door + And pray take care of the key. + +And all night long let three stout men + The vestry watch within, +To each man give a gallon of beer + And a keg of Holland's gin; + +Powder and ball and blunder-buss + To save me if he can, +And eke five guineas if he shoot + A resurrection man. + +And let them watch me for three weeks + My wretched corpse to save, +For then I think that I may stink + Enough to rest in my grave. + +The Surgeon laid him down in his bed, + His eyes grew deadly dim, +Short came his breath and the struggle of death + Distorted every limb. + +They put him in lead when he was dead + And shrouded up so neat, +And they the leaden coffin weigh + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +They had it solder'd closely down + And examined it o'er and o'er, +And they put it in a patent coffin + That he might rise no more. + +For to carry him off in a patent coffin + Would they thought be but labour in vain, +So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +In his brother's church they buried him + That safer he might be, +They lock'd the door and would not trust + The Sexton with the key. + +And three men in the vestry watch + To save him if they can, +And should he come there to shoot they swear + A resurrection man. + +And the first night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +A guinea of gold the sexton shewed + That Mister Joseph sent. + +But conscience was tough, it was not enough + And their honesty never swerved, +And they bade him go with Mister Joe + To the Devil as he deserved. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The second night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +He whisper'd anew and shew'd them two + That Mister Joseph sent. + +The guineas were bright and attracted their sight + They look'd so heavy and new, +And their fingers itch'd as they were bewitch'd + And they knew not what to do. + +But they waver'd not long for conscience was strong + And they thought they might get more, +And they refused the gold, but not + So rudely as before. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The third night as by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard they went, +He bade them see and shew'd them three + That Mister Joseph sent. + +They look'd askance with eager glance, + The guineas they shone bright, +For the Sexton on the yellow gold + Let fall his lanthorn light. + +And he look'd sly with his roguish eye + And gave a well-tim'd wink, +And they could not stand the sound in his hand + For he made the guineas chink. + +And conscience late that had such weight, + All in a moment fails, +For well they knew that it was true + A dead man told no tales, + +And they gave all their powder and ball + And took the gold so bright, +And they drank their beer and made good cheer, + Till now it was midnight. + +Then, tho' the key of the church door + Was left with the Parson his brother, +It opened at the Sexton's touch-- + Because he had another. + +And in they go with that villain Joe + To fetch the body by night, +And all the church look'd dismally + By his dark lanthorn light. + +They laid the pick-axe to the stones + And they moved them soon asunder. +They shovell'd away the hard-prest clay + And came to the coffin under. + +They burst the patent coffin first + And they cut thro' the lead, +And they laugh'd aloud when they saw the shroud + Because they had got at the dead. + +And they allowed the Sexton the shroud + And they put the coffin back, +And nose and knees they then did squeeze + The Surgeon in a sack. + +The watchmen as they past along + Full four yards off could smell, +And a curse bestowed upon the load + So disagreeable. + +So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back + And they carv'd him bone from bone, +But what became of the Surgeon's soul + Was never to mortal known. + + + + + + + + + +THE VICTORY. + + + Hark--how the church-bells thundering harmony + Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come, + Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships + Met on the element,--they met, they fought + A desperate fight!--good tidings of great joy! + Old England triumphed! yet another day + Of glory for the ruler of the waves! + For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause, + They have their passing paragraphs of praise + And are forgotten. + There was one who died + In that day's glory, whose obscurer name + No proud historian's page will chronicle. + Peace to his honest soul! I read his name, + 'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God + The sound was not familiar to mine ear. + But it was told me after that this man + Was one whom lawful violence [1] had forced + From his own home and wife and little ones, + Who by his labour lived; that he was one + Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel + A husband's love, a father's anxiousness, + That from the wages of his toil he fed + The distant dear ones, and would talk of them + At midnight when he trod the silent deck + With him he valued, talk of them, of joys + That he had known--oh God! and of the hour + When they should meet again, till his full heart + His manly heart at last would overflow + Even like a child's with very tenderness. + Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly + It came, and merciful the ball of death, + For it came suddenly and shattered him, + And left no moment's agonizing thought + On those he loved so well. + He ocean deep + Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter + Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know + What a cold sickness made her blood run back + When first she heard the tidings of the fight; + Man does not know with what a dreadful hope + She listened to the names of those who died, + Man does not know, or knowing will not heed, + With what an agony of tenderness + She gazed upon her children, and beheld + His image who was gone. Oh God! be thou + Her comforter who art the widow's friend! + + +[Footnote 1: The person alluded to was pressed into the service.] + + + + + + + + + +HENRY THE HERMIT. + + + It was a little island where he dwelt, + Or rather a lone rock, barren and bleak, + Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots + Its gray stone surface. Never mariner + Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast, + Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark + Anchored beside its shore. It was a place + Befitting well a rigid anchoret, + Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys + And purposes of life; and he had dwelt + Many long years upon that lonely isle, + For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms, + Honours and friends and country and the world, + And had grown old in solitude. That isle + Some solitary man in other times + Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found + The little chapel that his toil had built + Now by the storms unroofed, his bed of leaves + Wind-scattered, and his grave o'ergrown with grass, + And thistles, whose white seeds winged in vain + Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost. + So he repaired the chapel's ruined roof, + Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone, + And underneath a rock that shelter'd him + From the sea blasts, he built his hermitage. + + The peasants from the shore would bring him food + And beg his prayers; but human converse else + He knew not in that utter solitude, + Nor ever visited the haunts of men + Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed + Implored his blessing and his aid in death. + That summons he delayed not to obey, + Tho' the night tempest or autumnal wind. + Maddened the waves, and tho' the mariner, + Albeit relying on his saintly load, + Grew pale to see the peril. So he lived + A most austere and self-denying man, + Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness + Exhausted him, and it was pain at last + To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less + Tho' with reluctance of infirmity, + He rose at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal + More self-condemning fervour rais'd his voice + For pardon for that sin, 'till that the sin + Repented was a joy like a good deed. + + One night upon the shore his chapel bell + Was heard; the air was calm, and its far sounds + Over the water came distinct and loud. + Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear + Its toll irregular, a monk arose. + The boatmen bore him willingly across + For well the hermit Henry was beloved. + He hastened to the chapel, on a stone + Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff and dead, + The bell-rope in his band, and at his feet + The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light + + +[Footnote 1: This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608.] + + + + + + + + + +English Eclogues. + +The following Eclogues I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in +our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, +and I was induced to attempt by an account of the German Idylls given me +in conversation. They cannot properly be stiled imitations, as I am +ignorant of that language at present, and have never seen any +translations or specimens in this kind. + +With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from ??tyrus [1] and +Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsises. No kind of poetry +can boast of more illustrious names or is more distinguished by the +servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers "more silly than +their sheep" have like their sheep gone on in the same track one after +another. Gay stumbled into a new path. His eclogues were the only ones +that interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were +burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for a long essay, but this +is not the place for it. + +How far poems requiring almost a colloquial plainness of language may +accord with the public taste I am doubtful. They have been subjected to +able criticism and revised with care. I have endeavoured to make them +true to nature. + + +[Footnote 1: The letters of this name are illegible (worn away?) in +the original text; from the remaining bits I have guessed all but the +first two, which are not visible under any magnification. text Ed.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE I. + + +THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE. + + + +STRANGER. + Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, + Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task + Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours. + + +OLD MAN. + Why yes! for one with such a weight of years + Upon his back. I've lived here, man and boy, + In this same parish, near the age of man + For I am hard upon threescore and ten. + I can remember sixty years ago + The beautifying of this mansion here + When my late Lady's father, the old Squire + Came to the estate. + + +STRANGER. + Why then you have outlasted + All his improvements, for you see they're making + Great alterations here. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye-great indeed! + And if my poor old Lady could rise up-- + God rest her soul! 'twould grieve her to behold + The wicked work is here. + + +STRANGER. + They've set about it + In right good earnest. All the front is gone, + Here's to be turf they tell me, and a road + Round to the door. There were some yew trees too + Stood in the court. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye Master! fine old trees! + My grandfather could just remember back + When they were planted there. It was my task + To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me! + All strait and smooth, and like a great green wall! + My poor old Lady many a time would come + And tell me where to shear, for she had played + In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride + To keep them in their beauty. Plague I say + On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have + A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs + And your pert poplar trees;--I could as soon + Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down! + + +STRANGER. + But 'twill be lighter and more chearful now, + A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road + Round for the carriage,--now it suits my taste. + I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh, + And then there's some variety about it. + In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose, + And the laburnum with its golden flowers + Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes + The bright red berries of the mountain ash, + With firs enough in winter to look green, + And show that something lives. Sure this is better + Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look + All the year round like winter, and for ever + Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs + So dry and bare! + + +OLD MAN. + Ah! so the new Squire thinks + And pretty work he makes of it! what 'tis + To have a stranger come to an old house! + + +STRANGER. + + It seems you know him not? + + +OLD MAN. + No Sir, not I. + They tell me he's expected daily now, + But in my Lady's time he never came + But once, for they were very distant kin. + If he had played about here when a child + In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries, + And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers, + That fell so thick, he had not had the heart + To mar all thus. + + +STRANGER. + Come--come! all a not wrong. + Those old dark windows-- + + +OLD MAN. + They're demolish'd too-- + As if he could not see thro' casement glass! + The very red-breasts that so regular + Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs, + Won't know the window now! + + +STRANGER. + Nay they were high + And then so darken'd up with jessamine, + Harbouring the vermine;--that was a fine tree + However. Did it not grow in and line + The porch? + + +OLD MAN. + All over it: it did one good + To pass within ten yards when 'twas in blossom. + There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside. + My Lady loved at evening to sit there + And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet + And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favourite dog + She did not love him less that he was old + And feeble, and he always had a place + By the fire-side, and when he died at last + She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. + Ah I she was good to all! a woful day + 'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! + + +STRANGER. + They lost a friend then? + + +OLD MAN. + You're a stranger here + Or would not ask that question. Were they sick? + She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs + She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter + When weekly she distributed the bread + In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear + The blessings on her! and I warrant them + They were a blessing to her when her wealth + Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir! + It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen + Her Christmas kitchen,--how the blazing fire + Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs + So chearful red,--and as for misseltoe, + The finest bough that grew in the country round + Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went + So bountiful about! a Christmas cask, + And 'twas a noble one! God help me Sir! + But I shall never see such days again. + + +STRANGER. + Things may be better yet than you suppose + And you should hope the best. + + +OLD MAN. + It don't look well + These alterations Sir! I'm an old man + And love the good old fashions; we don't find + Old bounty in new houses. They've destroyed + All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk + Grubb'd up, and they do say that the great row + Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top + They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think + To live to see all this, and 'tis perhaps + A comfort I shan't live to see it long. + + +STRANGER. + But sure all changes are not needs for the worse + My friend. + + +OLD MAN. + May-hap they mayn't Sir;--for all that + I like what I've been us'd to. I remember + All this from a child up, and now to lose it, + 'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left + As 'twas;--I go abroad and only meet + With men whose fathers I remember boys; + The brook that used to run before my door + That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt + To climb are down; and I see nothing now + That tells me of old times, except the stones + In the church-yard. You are young Sir and I hope + Have many years in store,--but pray to God + You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. + + +STRANGER. + Well! well! you've one friend more than you're aware of. + If the Squire's taste don't suit with your's, I warrant + That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste + His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady + E'er broached a better cask. You did not know me, + But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy + To make you like the outside; but within-- + That is not changed my friend! you'll always find + The same old bounty and old welcome there. + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE II. + + +THE GRANDMOTHERS TALE. + + + +JANE. + Harry! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round + The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us + One of her stories. + + +HARRY. + Aye--dear Grandmamma! + A pretty story! something dismal now; + A bloody murder. + + +JANE. + Or about a ghost. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Nay, nay, I should but frighten you. You know + The other night when I was telling you + About the light in the church-yard, how you trembled + Because the screech-owl hooted at the window, + And would not go to bed. + + +JANE. + Why Grandmamma + You said yourself you did not like to hear him. + Pray now! we wo'nt be frightened. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Well, well, children! + But you've heard all my stories. Let me see,-- + Did I never tell you how the smuggler murdered + The woman down at Pill? + + +HARRY. + No--never! never! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Not how he cut her head off in the stable? + + +HARRY. + Oh--now! do tell us that! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + You must have heard + Your Mother, children! often tell of her. + She used to weed in the garden here, and worm + Your uncle's dogs [1], and serve the house with coal; + And glad enough she was in winter time + To drive her asses here! it was cold work + To follow the slow beasts thro' sleet and snow, + And here she found a comfortable meal + And a brave fire to thaw her, for poor Moll + Was always welcome. + + +HARRY. + Oh--'twas blear-eyed Moll + The collier woman,--a great ugly woman, + I've heard of her. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Ugly enough poor soul! + At ten yards distance you could hardly tell + If it were man or woman, for her voice + Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore + A man's old coat and hat,--and then her face! + There was a merry story told of her, + How when the press-gang came to take her husband + As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, + Drest John up in her night-cap, and herself + Put on his clothes and went before the Captain. + + +JANE. + And so they prest a woman! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + 'Twas a trick + She dearly loved to tell, and all the country + Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel + For miles around. All weathers and all hours + She crossed the hill, as hardy as her beasts, + Bearing the wind and rain and winter frosts, + And if she did not reach her home at night + She laid her down in the stable with her asses + And slept as sound as they did. + + +HARRY. + With her asses! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Yes, and she loved her beasts. For tho' poor wretch + She was a terrible reprobate and swore + Like any trooper, she was always good + To the dumb creatures, never loaded them + Beyond their strength, and rather I believe + Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want, + Because, she said, they could not ask for food. + I never saw her stick fall heavier on them + Than just with its own weight. She little thought + This tender-heartedness would be her death! + There was a fellow who had oftentimes, + As if he took delight in cruelty. + Ill-used her Asses. He was one who lived + By smuggling, and, for she had often met him + Crossing the down at night, she threatened him, + If he tormented them again, to inform + Of his unlawful ways. Well--so it was-- + 'Twas what they both were born to, he provoked her, + She laid an information, and one morn + They found her in the stable, her throat cut + From ear to ear,'till the head only hung + Just by a bit of skin. + + +JANE. + Oh dear! oh dear! + + +HARRY. + I hope they hung the man! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + They took him up; + There was no proof, no one had seen the deed, + And he was set at liberty. But God + Whoss eye beholdeth all things, he had seen + The murder, and the murderer knew that God + Was witness to his crime. He fled the place, + But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand + Of heaven, but nowhere could the murderer rest, + A guilty conscience haunted him, by day, + By night, in company, in solitude, + Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him + The weight of blood; her cries were in his ears, + Her stifled groans as when he knelt upon her + Always he heard; always he saw her stand + Before his eyes; even in the dead of night + Distinctly seen as tho' in the broad sun, + She stood beside the murderer's bed and yawn'd + Her ghastly wound; till life itself became + A punishment at last he could not bear, + And he confess'd [2] it all, and gave himself + To death, so terrible, he said, it was + To have a guilty conscience! + + +HARRY. + Was he hung then? + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man, + Your uncles went to see him on his trial, + He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed, + And such a horror in his meagre face, + They said he look'd like one who never slept. + He begg'd the prayers of all who saw his end + And met his death with fears that well might warn + From guilt, tho' not without a hope in Christ. + + +[Footnote 1: I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common +in other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from doing +any mischief should they afterwards become mad.] + +[Footnote 2: There must be many persons living who remember these +circumstances. They happened two or three and twenty years ago, in the +neighbourhood of Bristol. The woman's name was Bees. The stratagem by +which she preserved her husband from the press-gang, is also true.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE III. + + +THE FUNERAL. + + + + The coffin [1] as I past across the lane + Came sudden on my view. It was not here, + A sight of every day, as in the streets + Of the great city, and we paus'd and ask'd + Who to the grave was going. It was one, + A village girl, they told us, who had borne + An eighteen months strange illness, and had pined + With such slow wasting that the hour of death + Came welcome to her. We pursued our way + To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk + That passes o'er the mind and is forgot, + We wore away the time. But it was eve + When homewardly I went, and in the air + Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade + That makes the eye turn inward. Then I heard + Over the vale the heavy toll of death + Sound slow; it made me think upon the dead, + I questioned more and learnt her sorrowful tale. + She bore unhusbanded a mother's name, + And he who should have cherished her, far off + Sail'd on the seas, self-exil'd from his home, + For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched one, + Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues + Were busy with her name. She had one ill + Heavier, neglect, forgetfulness from him + Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote, + But only once that drop of comfort came + To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; + And when his parents had some tidings from him, + There was no mention of poor Hannah there, + Or 'twas the cold enquiry, bitterer + Than silence. So she pined and pined away + And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd, + Nor did she, even on her death bed, rest + From labour, knitting with her outstretch'd arms + Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother + Omitted no kind office, and she work'd + Hard, and with hardest working barely earn'd + Enough to make life struggle and prolong + The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay + On the sick bed of poverty, so worn + With her long suffering and that painful thought + That at her heart lay rankling, and so weak, + That she could make no effort to express + Affection for her infant; and the child, + Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her + With a strange infantine ingratitude + Shunn'd her as one indifferent. She was past + That anguish, for she felt her hour draw on, + And 'twas her only comfoft now to think + Upon the grave. "Poor girl!" her mother said, + "Thou hast suffered much!" "aye mother! there is none + "Can tell what I have suffered!" she replied, + "But I shall soon be where the weary rest." + And she did rest her soon, for it pleased God + To take her to his mercy. + + +[Footnote 1: It is proper to remark that the story related in this +Eclogue is strictly true. I met the funeral, and learnt the +circumstances in a village in Hampshire. The indifference of the child +was mentioned to me; indeed no addition whatever has been made to the +story. I should have thought it wrong to have weakened the effect of a +faithful narrative by adding any thing.] + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE IV. + + +THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. + + + +WOMAN. + Sir for the love of God some small relief + To a poor woman! + + +TRAVELLER. + Whither are you bound? + 'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, + No house for miles around us, and the way + Dreary and wild. The evening wind already + Makes one's teeth chatter, and the very Sun, + Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, + Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night! + + +WOMAN. + Aye Sir + 'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath, + Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end, + For the way is long before me, and my feet, + God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly, + If it pleased God, lie down at once and die. + + +TRAVELLER. + Nay nay cheer up! a little food and rest + Will comfort you; and then your journey's end + Will make amends for all. You shake your head, + And weep. Is it some evil business then + That leads you from your home? + + +WOMAN. + Sir I am going + To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt + In the late action, and in the hospital + Dying, I fear me, now. + + +TRAVELLER. + Perhaps your fears + Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost + There may be still enough for comfort left + An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart + To keep life warm, and he may live to talk + With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd him, + Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude + Makes the maim'd sailor happy. + + +WOMAN. + 'Tis not that-- + An arm or leg--I could have borne with that. + 'Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing + That bursts [1] and burns that hurt him. Something Sir + They do not use on board our English ships + It is so wicked! + + +TRAVELLER. + Rascals! a mean art + Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain! + + +WOMAN. + Yes Sir! and they should show no mercy to them + For making use of such unchristian arms. + I had a letter from the hospital, + He got some friend to write it, and he tells me + That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes, + Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever live + To see this wretched day!--they tell me Sir + There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed + 'Tis a hard journey that I go upon + To such a dismal end! + + +TRAVELLER. + He yet may live. + But if the worst should chance, why you must bear + The will of heaven with patience. Were it not + Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen + Fighting his country's cause? and for yourself + You will not in unpitied poverty + Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country + Amid the triumph of her victory + Remember those who paid its price of blood, + And with a noble charity relieves + The widow and the orphan. + + +WOMAN. + God reward them! + God bless them, it will help me in my age + But Sir! it will not pay me for my child! + + +TRAVELLER. + Was he your only child? + + +WOMAN. + My only one, + The stay and comfort of my widowhood, + A dear good boy!--when first he went to sea + I felt what it would come to,--something told me + I should be childless soon. But tell me Sir + If it be true that for a hurt like his + There is no cure? please God to spare his life + Tho' he be blind, yet I should be so thankful! + I can remember there was a blind man + Lived in our village, one from his youth up + Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, + And he had none to tend on him so well + As I would tend my boy! + + +TRAVELLER. + Of this be sure + His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help + The place affords, as rightly is his due, + Ever at hand. How happened it he left you? + Was a seafaring life his early choice? + + +WOMAN. + No Sir! poor fellow--he was wise enough + To be content at home, and 'twas a home + As comfortable Sir I even tho' I say it, + As any in the country. He was left + A little boy when his poor father died, + Just old enough to totter by himself + And call his mother's name. We two were all, + And as we were not left quite destitute + We bore up well. In the summer time I worked + Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting, + And in long winter nights my spinning wheel + Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too + And never felt distress. So he grew up + A comely lad and wonderous well disposed; + I taught him well; there was not in the parish + A child who said his prayers more regular, + Or answered readier thro' his catechism. + If I had foreseen this! but 'tis a blessing + We do'nt know what we're born to! + + +TRAVELLER. + But how came it + He chose to be a Sailor? + + +WOMAN. + You shall hear Sir; + As he grew up he used to watch the birds + In the corn, child's work you know, and easily done. + 'Tis an idle sort of task, so he built up + A little hut of wicker-work and clay + Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain. + And then he took for very idleness + To making traps to catch the plunderers, + All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make-- + Propping a stone to fall and shut them in, + Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe + Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly-- + And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased + To see the boy so handy. You may guess + What followed Sir from this unlucky skill. + He did what he should not when he was older: + I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught + In wiring hares at last, and had his choice + The prison or the ship. + + +TRAVELLER. + The choice at least + Was kindly left him, and for broken laws + This was methinks no heavy punishment. + + +WOMAN. + So I was told Sir. And I tried to think so, + But 'twas a sad blow to me! I was used + To sleep at nights soundly and undisturb'd-- + Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start + And think of my poor boy tossing about + Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem'd + To feel that it was hard to take him from me + For such a little fault. But he was wrong + Oh very wrong--a murrain on his traps! + See what they've brought him too! + + +TRAVELLER. + Well! well! take comfort + He will be taken care of if he lives; + And should you lose your child, this is a country + Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent + To weep for him in want. + + +WOMAN. + Sir I shall want + No succour long. In the common course of years + I soon must be at rest, and 'tis a comfort + When grief is hard upon me to reflect + It only leads me to that rest the sooner. + + +[Footnote 1: The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the +engagement between the Mars and L'Hercule, some of our sailors were +shockingly mangled by them: One in particular, as described in the +Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be policy and humanity to employ +means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to +destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only inflicts +additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is cruel and +wicked.] + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE V. + + +THE WITCH. + + + +NATHANIEL. + Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe! + Faith it was just in time, for t'other night + I laid two straws across at Margery's door, + And afterwards I fear'd that she might do me + A mischief for't. There was the Miller's boy + Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, + I met him upon crutches, and he told me + 'Twas all her evil eye. + + +FATHER. + 'Tis rare good luck; + I would have gladly given a crown for one + If t'would have done as well. But where did'st find it? + + +NATHANIEL. + Down on the Common; I was going a-field + And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare; + He had hardly said "good day," before I saw + The shoe drop off; 'twas just upon my tongue + To call him back,--it makes no difference, does it. + Because I know whose 'twas? + + +FATHER. + Why no, it can't. + The shoe's the same you know, and you 'did find' it. + + +NATHANIEL. + That mare of his has got a plaguey road + To travel, father, and if he should lame her, + For she is but tender-footed,-- + + +FATHER. + Aye, indeed-- + I should not like to see her limping back + Poor beast! but charity begins at home, + And Nat, there's our own horse in such a way + This morning! + + +NATHANIEL. + Why he ha'nt been rid again! + Last night I hung a pebble by the manger + With a hole thro', and every body says + That 'tis a special charm against the hags. + + +FATHER. + It could not be a proper natural hole then, + Or 'twas not a right pebble,--for I found him + Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, + And panting so! God knows where he had been + When we were all asleep, thro' bush and brake + Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch + At such a deadly rate!-- + + +NATHANIEL. + By land and water, + Over the sea perhaps!--I have heard tell + That 'tis some thousand miles, almost at the end + Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. + They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear + Some ointment over them and then away + Out of the window! but 'tis worse than all + To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it + That in a Christian country they should let + Such creatures live! + + +FATHER. + And when there's such plain proof! + I did but threaten her because she robb'd + Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind + That made me shake to hear it in my bed! + How came it that that storm unroofed my barn, + And only mine in the parish? look at her + And that's enough; she has it in her face-- + A pair of large dead eyes, rank in her head, + Just like a corpse, and purs'd with wrinkles round, + A nose and chin that scarce leave room between + For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff, + And when she speaks! I'd sooner hear a raven + Croak at my door! she sits there, nose and knees + Smoak-dried and shrivell'd over a starved fire, + With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes + Shine like old Beelzebub's, and to be sure + It must be one of his imps!--aye, nail it hard. + + +NATHANIEL. + I wish old Margery heard the hammer go! + She'd curse the music. + + +FATHER. + Here's the Curate coming, + He ought to rid the parish of such vermin; + In the old times they used to hunt them out + And hang them without mercy, but Lord bless us! + The world is grown so wicked! + + +CURATE. + Good day Farmer! + Nathaniel what art nailing to the threshold? + + +NATHANIEL. + A horse-shoe Sir, 'tis good to keep off witchcraft, + And we're afraid of Margery. + + +CURATE. + Poor old woman! + What can you fear from her? + + +FATHER. + What can we fear? + Who lamed the Miller's boy? who rais'd the wind + That blew my old barn's roof down? who d'ye think + Rides my poor horse a'nights? who mocks the hounds? + But let me catch her at that trick again, + And I've a silver bullet ready for her, + One that shall lame her, double how she will. + + +NATHANIEL. + What makes her sit there moping by herself, + With no soul near her but that great black cat? + And do but look at her! + + +CURATE. + Poor wretch! half blind + And crooked with her years, without a child + Or friend in her old age, 'tis hard indeed + To have her very miseries made her crimes! + I met her but last week in that hard frost + That made my young limbs ache, and when I ask'd + What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman + Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad + And pick the hedges, just to keep herself + From perishing with cold, because no neighbour + Had pity on her age; and then she cried, + And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, + And wish'd that she were dead. + + +FATHER. + I wish she was! + She has plagued the parish long enough! + + +CURATE. + Shame farmer! + Is that the charity your bible teaches? + + +FATHER. + My bible does not teach me to love witches. + I know what's charity; who pays his tithes + And poor-rates readier? + + +CURATE. + Who can better do it? + You've been a prudent and industrious man, + And God has blest your labour. + + +FATHER. + Why, thank God Sir, + I've had no reason to complain of fortune. + + +CURATE. + Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish + Look up to you. + + +FATHER. + Perhaps Sir, I could tell + Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. + + +CURATE. + You can afford a little to the poor, + And then what's better still, you have the heart + To give from your abundance. + + +FATHER. + God forbid + I should want charity! + + +CURATE. + Oh! 'tis a comfort + To think at last of riches well employ'd! + I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth + Of a good deed at that most awful hour + When riches profit not. + Farmer, I'm going + To visit Margery. She is sick I hear-- + Old, poor, and sick! a miserable lot, + And death will be a blessing. You might send her + Some little matter, something comfortable, + That she may go down easier to the grave + And bless you when she dies. + + +FATHER. + What! is she going! + Well God forgive her then! if she has dealt + In the black art. I'll tell my dame of it, + And she shall send her something. + + +CURATE. + So I'll say; + And take my thanks for her's. ['goes'] + + +FATHER. + That's a good man + That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit + The poor in sickness; but he don't believe + In witchcraft, and that is not like a christian. + + +NATHANIEL. + And so old Margery's dying! + + +FATHER. + But you know + She may recover; so drive t'other nail in! + + + + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE VI. + + +THE RUINED COTTAGE. + + + + Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye, + This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch, + Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower + Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock + That thro' the creeping weeds and nettles tall + Peers taller, and uplifts its column'd stem + Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen + Many a fallen convent reverend in decay, + And many a time have trod the castle courts + And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike + Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts + As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch + Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof + Part mouldered in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds, + House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss; + So Nature wars with all the works of man. + And, like himself, reduces back to earth + His perishable piles. + I led thee here + Charles, not without design; for this hath been + My favourite walk even since I was a boy; + And I remember Charles, this ruin here, + The neatest comfortable dwelling place! + That when I read in those dear books that first + Woke in my heart the love of poesy, + How with the villagers Erminia dwelt, + And Calidore for a fair shepherdess + Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd's lore; + My fancy drew from, this the little hut + Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love, + Or where the gentle Calidore at eve + Led Pastorella home. There was not then + A weed where all these nettles overtop + The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet + The morning air, rosemary and marjoram, + All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath'd + So lavishly around the pillared porch + Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way, + After a truant absence hastening home, + I could not chuse but pass with slacken'd speed + By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed + Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!-- + Theirs is a simple melancholy tale, + There's scarce a village but can fellow it, + And yet methinks it will not weary thee, + And should not be untold. + A widow woman + Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want, + She lived on some small pittance that sufficed, + In better times, the needful calls of life, + Not without comfort. I remember her + Sitting at evening in that open door way + And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her + Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles + To see the passer by, yet ceasing not + To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden + On some dry summer evening, walking round + To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean'd + Upon the ivory handle of her stick, + To some carnation whose o'erheavy head + Needed support, while with the watering-pot + Joanna followed, and refresh'd and trimm'd + The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child, + As lovely and as happy then as youth + And innocence could make her. + Charles! it seems + As tho' I were a boy again, and all + The mediate years with their vicissitudes + A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid + So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair, + Her bright brown hair, wreath'd in contracting curls, + And then her cheek! it was a red and white + That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome, + The countrymen who on their way to church + Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear + The bell's last summons, and in idleness + Watching the stream below, would all look up + When she pass'd by. And her old Mother, Charles! + When I have beard some erring infidel + Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed, + Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness. + Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love + The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross'd + These fields in rain and thro' the winter snows. + When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself + By the fire-side, have wondered why 'she' came + Who might have sate at home. + One only care + Hung on her aged spirit. For herself, + Her path was plain before her, and the close + Of her long journey near. But then her child + Soon to be left alone in this bad world,-- + That was a thought that many a winter night + Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love + In something better than a servant's slate + Had placed her well at last, it was a pang + Like parting life to part with her dear girl. + + One summer, Charles, when at the holydays + Return'd from school, I visited again + My old accustomed walks, and found in them. + A joy almost like meeting an old friend, + I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds + Already crowding the neglected flowers. + Joanna by a villain's wiles seduced + Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach'd + Her mother's heart. She did not suffer long, + Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow + Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. + + I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes + And think of other days. It wakes in me + A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles + That ever with these recollections rise, + I trust in God they will not pass away. + + + + + + + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, 1799, by Robert Southey + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + +***** This file should be named 8639-8.txt or 8639-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/6/3/8639/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/8639-8.zip b/old/8639-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0e5d53d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8639-8.zip diff --git a/old/8639.txt b/old/8639.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e99c747 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8639.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4806 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, 1799, by Robert Southey + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems, 1799 + +Author: Robert Southey + +Posting Date: April 5, 2014 [EBook #8639] +Release Date: August, 2005 +First Posted: July 29, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + + + +POEMS, + +by + +Robert Southey. + + + + The better, please; the worse, displease; I ask no more. + + SPENSER. + + + +THE SECOND VOLUME. + + + +CONTENTS. + + + THE VISION of THE MAID of ORLEANS. + + Book 1 + 2 + 3 + + + The Rose + + The Complaints of the Poor + + Metrical Letter + + + BALLADS. + + The Cross Roads. + + The Sailor who had served in the Slave Trade + + Jaspar + + Lord William + + A Ballad shewing how an old woman rode double + and who rode before her + + The Surgeon's Warning + + The Victory + + Henry the Hermit + + + ENGLISH ECLOGUES. + + The Old Mansion House + + The Grandmother's Tale + + The Funeral + + The Sailor's Mother + + The Witch + + The Ruined Cottage + + + + + + + + + + +The Vision + +of + +The Maid of Orleans. + + + + + Divinity hath oftentimes descended + Upon our slumbers, and the blessed troupes + Have, in the calme and quiet of the soule, + Conversed with us. + + SHIRLEY. 'The Grateful Servant' + + + + + + +[Sidenote: The following Vision was originally printed as the ninth book +of 'JOAN of ARC'. It is now adapted to the improved edition of that +Poem.] + + + + + + +THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE FIRST BOOK. + + + + Orleans was hush'd in sleep. Stretch'd on her couch + The delegated Maiden lay: with toil + Exhausted and sore anguish, soon she closed + Her heavy eye-lids; not reposing then, + For busy Phantasy, in other scenes + Awakened. Whether that superior powers, + By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream, + Instructing so the passive [1] faculty; + Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog, + Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world, + And all things 'are' that [2] 'seem'. + + Along a moor, + Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate, + She roam'd a wanderer thro' the cheerless night. + Far thro' the silence of the unbroken plain + The bittern's boom was heard, hoarse, heavy, deep, + It made most fitting music to the scene. + Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind, + Swept shadowing; thro' their broken folds the moon + Struggled sometimes with transitory ray, + And made the moving darkness visible. + And now arrived beside a fenny lake + She stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarse + The long sedge rustled to the gales of night. + An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell'd + By powers unseen; then did the moon display + Where thro' the crazy vessel's yawning side + The muddy wave oozed in: a female guides, + And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan'd + As melancholy mournful to her ear, + As ever by the dungeon'd wretch was heard + Howling at evening round the embattled towers + Of that hell-house [3] of France, ere yet sublime + The almighty people from their tyrant's hand + Dash'd down the iron rod. + Intent the Maid + Gazed on the pilot's form, and as she gazed + Shiver'd, for wan her face was, and her eyes + Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep, + Channell'd by tears; a few grey locks hung down + Beneath her hood: then thro' the Maiden's veins + Chill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass'd, + Lifting her tattcr'd mantle, coil'd around + She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart. + + The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by, + And the night-raven's scream came fitfully, + Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid + Look'd to the shore, and now upon the bank + Leaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling still + In recollection. + + There, a mouldering pile + Stretch'd its wide ruins, o'er the plain below + Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon + Shone thro' its fretted windows: the dark Yew, + Withering with age, branched there its naked roots, + And there the melancholy Cypress rear'd + Its head; the earth was heav'd with many a mound, + And here and there a half-demolish'd tomb. + + And now, amid the ruin's darkest shade, + The Virgin's eye beheld where pale blue flames + Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth, + And now in darkness drown'd. An aged man + Sat near, seated on what in long-past days + Had been some sculptur'd monument, now fallen + And half-obscured by moss, and gathered heaps + Of withered yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones; + And shining in the ray was seen the track + Of slimy snail obscene. Composed his look, + His eye was large and rayless, and fix'd full + Upon the Maid; the blue flames on his face + Stream'd a pale light; his face was of the hue + Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud. + + Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice, + Exclaim'd the Spectre, "Welcome to these realms, + These regions of DESPAIR! O thou whose steps + By GRIEF conducted to these sad abodes + Have pierced; welcome, welcome to this gloom + Eternal, to this everlasting night, + Where never morning darts the enlivening ray, + Where never shines the sun, but all is dark, + Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King." + + So saying he arose, and by the hand + The Virgin seized with such a death-cold touch + As froze her very heart; and drawing on, + Her, to the abbey's inner ruin, led + Resistless. Thro' the broken roof the moon + Glimmer'd a scatter'd ray; the ivy twined + Round the dismantled column; imaged forms + Of Saints and warlike Chiefs, moss-canker'd now + And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground, + With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen, + And rusted trophies; and amid the heap + Some monument's defaced legend spake + All human glory vain. + + The loud blast roar'd + Amid the pile; and from the tower the owl + Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest. + He, silent, led her on, and often paus'd, + And pointed, that her eye might contemplate + At leisure the drear scene. + He dragged her on + Thro' a low iron door, down broken stairs; + Then a cold horror thro' the Maiden's frame + Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw, + By the sepulchral lamp's dim glaring light, + The fragments of the dead. + "Look here!" he cried, + "Damsel, look here! survey this house of Death; + O soon to tenant it! soon to increase + These trophies of mortality! for hence + Is no return. Gaze here! behold this skull, + These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws, + That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mock + Thy perishable charms; for thus thy cheek + Must moulder. Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul, + Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heart + At the dread thought, that here its life's-blood soon + Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon + With the cold clod? a thought most horrible! + So only dreadful, for reality + Is none of suffering here; here all is peace; + No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave. + Dreadful it is to think of losing life; + But having lost, knowledge of loss is not, + Therefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose; + Probe deep the seat of life." + So spake DESPAIR + The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice, + And all again was silence. Quick her heart + Panted. He drew a dagger from his breast, + And cried again, "Haste Damsel to repose! + One blow, and rest for ever!" On the Fiend + Dark scowl'd the Virgin with indignant eye, + And dash'd the dagger down. He next his heart + Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid + Along the downward vault. + The damp earth gave + A dim sound as they pass'd: the tainted air + Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews. + "Behold!" the fiend exclaim'd, "how gradual here + The fleshly burden of mortality + Moulders to clay!" then fixing his broad eye + Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse + Lay livid; she beheld with loathing look, + The spectacle abhorr'd by living man. + + "Look here!" DESPAIR pursued, "this loathsome mass + Was once as lovely, and as full of life + As, Damsel! thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes + Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence, + And where thou seest the pamper'd flesh-worm trail, + Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought + That at the hallowed altar, soon the Priest + Should bless her coming union, and the torch + Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy, + Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earth + That Priest consign'd her, and the funeral lamp + Glares on her cold face; for her lover went + By glory lur'd to war, and perish'd there; + Nor she endur'd to live. Ha! fades thy cheek? + Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale? + Look here! behold the youthful paramour! + The self-devoted hero!" + Fearfully + The Maid look'd down, and saw the well known face + Of THEODORE! in thoughts unspeakable, + Convulsed with horror, o'er her face she clasp'd + Her cold damp hands: "Shrink not," the Phantom cried, + "Gaze on! for ever gaze!" more firm he grasp'd + Her quivering arm: "this lifeless mouldering clay, + As well thou know'st, was warm with all the glow + Of Youth and Love; this is the arm that cleaved + Salisbury's proud crest, now motionless in death, + Unable to protect the ravaged frame + From the foul Offspring of Mortality + That feed on heroes. Tho' long years were thine, + Yet never more would life reanimate + This murdered man; murdered by thee! for thou + Didst lead him to the battle from his home, + Else living there in peace to good old age: + In thy defence he died: strike deep! destroy + Remorse with Life." + The Maid stood motionless, + And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand + Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried, + "Avaunt DESPAIR! Eternal Wisdom deals + Or peace to man, or misery, for his good + Alike design'd; and shall the Creature cry, + Why hast thou done this? and with impious pride + Destroy the life God gave?" + The Fiend rejoin'd, + "And thou dost deem it impious to destroy + The life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lot + Assigned to mortal man? born but to drag, + Thro' life's long pilgrimage, the wearying load + Of being; care corroded at the heart; + Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills + That flesh inherits; till at length worn out, + This is his consummation!--think again! + What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd life + But lengthen'd sorrow? If protracted long, + Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs + Outstretch their languid length, oh think what thoughts, + What agonizing woes, in that dread hour, + Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse, + Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew + The shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force, + Mightiest in impotence, the love of life + Seizes the throbbing heart, the faltering lips + Pour out the impious prayer, that fain would change + The unchangeable's decree, surrounding friends + Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears, + And all he loved in life embitters death! + + Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hour + Of calmest dissolution! yet weak man + Dares, in his timid piety, to live; + And veiling Fear in Superstition's garb, + He calls her Resignation! + Coward wretch! + Fond Coward! thus to make his Reason war + Against his Reason! Insect as he is, + This sport of Chance, this being of a day, + Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast, + Believes himself the care of heavenly powers, + That God regards Man, miserable Man, + And preaching thus of Power and Providence, + Will crush the reptile that may cross his path! + + Fool that thou art! the Being that permits + Existence, 'gives' to man the worthless boon: + A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest, + Bask in the sunshine of Prosperity, + And such do well to keep it. But to one + Sick at the heart with misery, and sore + With many a hard unmerited affliction, + It is a hair that chains to wretchedness + The slave who dares not burst it! + Thinkest thou, + The parent, if his child should unrecall'd + Return and fall upon his neck, and cry, + Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and full + Of vacant joys and heart-consuming cares, + I can be only happy in my home + With thee--my friend!--my father! Thinkest thou, + That he would thrust him as an outcast forth? + Oh I he would clasp the truant to his heart, + And love the trespass." + Whilst he spake, his eye + Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul + Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood, + Even as the wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave + Supply, before him sees the poison'd food + In greedy horror. + Yet not long the Maid + Debated, "Cease thy dangerous sophistry, + Eloquent tempter!" cried she. "Gloomy one! + What tho' affliction be my portion here, + Think'st thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy. + Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back + Upon a life of duty well perform'd, + Then lift mine eyes to Heaven, and there in faith + Know my reward? I grant, were this life all, + Was there no morning to the tomb's long night, + If man did mingle with the senseless clod, + Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed + A wise and friendly comforter! But, Fiend! + There is a morning to the tomb's long night, + A dawn of glory, a reward in Heaven, + He shall not gain who never merited. + If thou didst know the worth of one good deed + In life's last hour, thou would'st not bid me lose + The power to benefit; if I but save + A drowning fly, I shall not live in vain. + I have great duties, Fiend! me France expects, + Her heaven-doom'd Champion." + "Maiden, thou hast done + Thy mission here," the unbaffled Fiend replied: + "The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchance + Exulting in the pride of victory, + Forgettest him who perish'd! yet albeit + Thy harden'd heart forget the gallant youth; + That hour allotted canst thou not escape, + That dreadful hour, when Contumely and Shame + Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid! + Destined to drain the cup of bitterness, + Even to its dregs! England's inhuman Chiefs + Shall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame, + Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity, + And force such burning blushes to the cheek + Of Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish + The earth might cover thee! in that last hour, + When thy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the chains + That link thee to the stake; when o'er thy form, + Exposed unmantled, the brute multitude + Shall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt, + More painful than the circling flames that scorch + Each quivering member; wilt thou not in vain + Then wish my friendly aid? then wish thine ear + Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand + Had grasp'd the dagger, and in death preserved + Insulted modesty?" + Her glowing cheek + Blush'd crimson; her wide eye on vacancy + Was fix'd; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend, + Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, "too-timid Maid, + So long repugnant to the healing aid + My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold + The allotted length of life." + He stamp'd the earth, + And dragging a huge coffin as his car, + Two GOULS came on, of form more fearful-foul + Than ever palsied in her wildest dream + Hag-ridden Superstition. Then DESPAIR + Seiz'd on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still. + And placed her in the seat; and on they pass'd + Adown the deep descent. A meteor light + Shot from the Daemons, as they dragg'd along + The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethren glut + On carcasses. + Below the vault dilates + Its ample bulk. "Look here!"--DESPAIR addrest + The shuddering Virgin, "see the dome of DEATH!" + It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid + The entrails of the earth, as tho' to form + The grave of all mankind: no eye could reach, + Tho' gifted with the Eagle's ample ken, + Its distant bounds. There, thron'd in darkness, dwelt + The unseen POWER OF DEATH. + Here stopt the GOULS, + Reaching the destin'd spot. The Fiend leapt out, + And from the coffin, as he led the Maid, + Exclaim'd, "Where never yet stood mortal man, + Thou standest: look around this boundless vault; + Observe the dole that Nature deals to man, + And learn to know thy friend." + She not replied, + Observing where the Fates their several tasks + Plied ceaseless. "Mark how short the longest web + Allowed to man! he cried; observe how soon, + Twin'd round yon never-resting wheel, they change + Their snowy hue, darkening thro' many a shade, + Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!" + + Too true he spake, for of the countless threads, + Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn'd snow, + Or as the lovely lilly of the vale, + Was never one beyond the little span + Of infancy untainted: few there were + But lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue, + Or deeper sable [4] died. Two Genii stood, + Still as the web of Being was drawn forth, + Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn, + The one unsparing dash'd the bitter wave + Of woe; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow + Relax'd to a hard smile. The milder form + Shed less profusely there his lesser store; + Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon, + Mourning the lot of man; and happy he + Who on his thread those precious drops receives; + If it be happiness to have the pulse + Throb fast with pity, and in such a world + Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches + With anguish at the sight of human woe. + + To her the Fiend, well hoping now success, + "This is thy thread! observe how short the span, + And see how copious yonder Genius pours + The bitter stream of woe." The Maiden saw + Fearless. "Now gaze!" the tempter Fiend exclaim'd, + And placed again the poniard in her hand, + For SUPERSTITION, with sulphureal torch + Stalk'd to the loom. "This, Damsel, is thy fate! + The hour draws on--now drench the dagger deep! + Now rush to happier worlds!" + The Maid replied, + "Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven, + Impious I strive not: be that will perform'd!" + + +[Footnote 1: + + May fays of Serapis, + Erudit at placide humanam per somnia mentem, + Nocturnaque quiete docet; nulloque labore + Hic tantum parta est pretiosa scientia, nullo + Excutitur studio verum. Mortalia corda + Tunc Deus iste docet, cum sunt minus apta doceri, + Cum nullum obsequium praestant, meritisque fatentur + Nil sese debere suis; tunc recta scientes + Cum nil scire valent. Non illo tempore sensus + Humanos forsan dignatur numen inire, + Cum propriis possunt per se discursibus uti, + Ne forte humana ratio divina coiret. + +'Sup Lucani'.] + + +[Footnote 2: I have met with a singular tale to illustrate this +spiritual theory of dreams. + +Guntram, King of the Franks, was liberal to the poor, and he himself +experienced the wonderful effects of divine liberality. For one day as +he was hunting in a forest he was separated from his companions and +arrived at a little stream of water with only one comrade of tried and +approved fidelity. Here he found himself opprest by drowsiness, and +reclining his head upon the servant's lap went to sleep. The servant +witnessed a wonderful thing, for he saw a little beast ('bestiolam') +creep out of the mouth of his sleeping master, and go immediately to the +streamlet, which it vainly attempted to cross. The servant drew his +sword and laid it across the water, over which the little beast easily +past and crept into a hole of a mountain on the opposite side; from +whence it made its appearance again in an hour, and returned by the same +means into the King's mouth. The King then awakened, and told his +companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon the bank of an +immense river, which he had crossed by a bridge of iron, and from thence +came to a mountain in which a great quantity of gold was concealed. When +the King had concluded, the servant related what he had beheld, and they +both went to examine the mountain, where upon digging they discovered an +immense weight of gold. + +I stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled SPHINX +'Theologico-Philosophica. Authore Johanne Heidfeldio, Ecclesiaste +Ebersbachiano.' 1621. + +The same story is in Matthew of Westminster; it is added that Guntram +applied the treasures thus found to pious uses. + +For the truth of this theory there is the evidence of a Monkish miracle. +When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian and visit the world of +souls, his guide said to him, "let thy body rest in the bed for thy +spirit only is about to depart with me; and lest the body should appear +dead, I will send into it a vital breath." + +The body however by a strange sympathy was affected like the spirit; for +when the foul and fetid smoke that arose from tithes witheld, had nearly +suffocated Thurcillus, and made him cough twice, those who were near his +body said that it coughed twice about the same time. + +'Matthew Paris'.] + + +[Footnote 3: The Bastille. The expression is in one of Fuller's works, +an Author from whose quaintness and ingenuity I have always found +amusement, and sometimes assistance.] + + +[Footnote 4: These lines strongly resemble a passage in the Pharonnida +of William Chamberlayne, a Poet who has told an interesting story in +uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and beauty of +expression, with the quaintest conceits, and most awkward inversions. + + + On a rock more high + Than Nature's common surface, she beholds + The Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds + Its sacred mysteries. A trine within + A quadrate placed, both these encompast in + A perfect circle was its form; but what + Its matter was, for us to wonder at, + Is undiscovered left. A Tower there stands + At every angle, where Time's fatal hands + The impartial PARCAE dwell; i' the first she sees + CLOTHO the kindest of the Destinies, + From immaterial essences to cull + The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool + For LACHESIS to spin; about her flie + Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie + Warm'd with their functions in, whose strength bestows + That power by which man ripe for misery grows. + + Her next of objects was that glorious tower + Where that swift-fingered Nymph that spares no hour + From mortals' service, draws the various threads + Of life in several lengths; to weary beds + Of age extending some, whilst others in + Their infancy are broke: 'some blackt in sin, + Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whence + Their origin, candid with innocence; + Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed + In sanguine pleasures': some in glittering pride + Spun to adorn the earth, whilst others wear + Rags of deformity, but knots of care + No thread was wholly free from. Next to this + Fair glorious tower, was placed that black abyss + Of dreadful ATROPOS, the baleful seat + Of death and horrour, in each room repleat + With lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sight + Of pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night. + To this, the last stage that the winding clew + Of Life can lead mortality unto, + FEAR was the dreadful Porter, which let in + All guests sent thither by destructive sin. + + +It is possible that I may have written from the recollection of this +passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly attribute it to +Chamberlayne, a Poet to whom I am indebted for many hours of delight, +and whom I one day hope to rescue from undeserved oblivion.] + + + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE SECOND BOOK. + + + +She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd +Amid the air, such odors wafting now +As erst came blended with the evening gale, +From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form +Stood by the Maid; his wings, etherial white, +Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun, +Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear'd +Her THEODORE. + Amazed she saw: the Fiend +Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice +Sounded, tho' now more musically sweet +Than ever yet had thrill'd her charmed soul, +When eloquent Affection fondly told +The day-dreams of delight. + "Beloved Maid! +Lo! I am with thee! still thy Theodore! +Hearts in the holy bands of Love combin'd, +Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine! +A little while and thou shalt dwell with me +In scenes where Sorrow is not. Cheerily +Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave, +Rough tho' it be and painful, for the grave +Is but the threshold of Eternity. + +Favour'd of Heaven! to thee is given to view +These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss +Thou treadest, Maiden! Here the dungeons are +Where bad men learn repentance; souls diseased +Must have their remedy; and where disease +Is rooted deep, the remedy is long +Perforce, and painful." + Thus the Spirit spake, +And led the Maid along a narrow path, +Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames, +More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound +Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath +Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach +A wide expanded den where all around +Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze, +Flamed dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood +The meagre form of Care, and as he blew +To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd +His wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus +He toil'd and toil'd, of toil to reap no end +But endless toil and never-ending woe. + +An aged man went round the infernal vault, +Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task: +White were his locks, as is the wintry snow +On hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff +His steps supported; powerful talisman, +Which whoso feels shall never feel again +The tear of Pity, or the throb of Love. +Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way, +The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall, +Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst +Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee +To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few, +Tho' he the Blessed Teacher of mankind +Hath said, that easier thro' the needle's eye +Shall the huge camel [1] pass, than the rich man +Enter the gates of heaven. "Ye cannot serve +Your God, and worship Mammon." + "Missioned Maid!" +So spake the Angel, "know that these, whose hands +Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil, +Were Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not spare +To wring from Poverty the hard-earn'd mite, +They robb'd the orphan's pittance, they could see +Want's asking eye unmoved; and therefore these, +Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere +In Mammon's service; scorched by these fierce fires, +And frequent deluged by the o'erboiling ore: +Yet still so framed, that oft to quench their thirst +Unquenchable, large draughts of molten [2] gold +They drink insatiate, still with pain renewed, +Pain to destroy." + So saying, her he led +Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell, +Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls +Part gleam'd with gold, and part with silver ore +A milder radiance shone. The Carbuncle +There its strong lustre like the flamy sun +Shot forth irradiate; from the earth beneath, +And from the roof a diamond light emits; +Rubies and amethysts their glows commix'd +With the gay topaz, and the softer ray +Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald's hue, +And bright pyropus. + There on golden seats, +A numerous, sullen, melancholy train +Sat silent. "Maiden, these," said Theodore, +Are they who let the love of wealth absorb +All other passions; in their souls that vice +Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree +That with its shade spreads barrenness around. +These, Maid! were men by no atrocious crime +Blacken'd, no fraud, nor ruffian violence: +Men of fair dealing, and respectable +On earth, but such as only for themselves +Heap'd up their treasures, deeming all their wealth +Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven, +To bless them only: therefore here they sit, +Possessed of gold enough, and by no pain +Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss +They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell, +Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour +Of general restitution." + Thence they past, +And now arrived at such a gorgeous dome, +As even the pomp of Eastern opulence +Could never equal: wandered thro' its halls +A numerous train; some with the red-swoln eye +Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek; +Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step, +And eyes lack-lustre. + Maiden? said her guide, +These are the wretched slaves of Appetite, +Curst with their wish enjoyed. The epicure +Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall'd sense +Loaths at the banquet; the voluptuous here +Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight, +And sink in misery. All they wish'd on earth, +Possessing here, whom have they to accuse, +But their own folly, for the lot they chose? +Yet, for that these injured themselves alone, +They to the house of PENITENCE may hie, +And, by a long and painful regimen, +To wearied Nature her exhausted powers +Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish +Of wisdom, and ALMIGHTY GOODNESS grants +That prize to him who seeks it." + Whilst he spake, +The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and eye +Fat swoln, and legs whose monstrous size disgraced +The human form divine, their caterer, +Hight GLUTTONY, set forth the smoaking feast. +And by his side came on a brother form, +With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red +And scurfy-white, mix'd motley; his gross bulk, +Like some huge hogshead shapen'd, as applied. +Him had antiquity with mystic rites +Ador'd, to him the sons of Greece, and thine +Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour'd +The victim blood, with godlike titles graced, +BACCHUS, or DIONUSUS; son of JOVE, +Deem'd falsely, for from FOLLY'S ideot form +He sprung, what time MADNESS, with furious hand, +Seiz'd on the laughing female. At one birth +She brought the brethren, menial here, above +Reigning with sway supreme, and oft they hold +High revels: mid the Monastery's gloom, +The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice +Episcopal, proclaims approaching day +Of visitation, or Churchwardens meet +To save the wretched many from the gripe +Of eager Poverty, or mid thy halls +Of London, mighty Mayor! rich Aldermen, +Of coming feast hold converse. + Otherwhere, +For tho' allied in nature as in blood, +They hold divided sway, his brother lifts +His spungy sceptre. In the noble domes +Of Princes, and state-wearied Ministers, +Maddening he reigns; and when the affrighted mind +Casts o'er a long career of guilt and blood +Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought +To lull the worm of Conscience to repose. +He too the halls of country Squires frequents, +But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades +Thy offspring Rhedycina! and thy walls, +Granta! nightly libations there to him +Profuse are pour'd, till from the dizzy brain +Triangles, Circles, Parallelograms, +Moods, Tenses, Dialects, and Demigods, +And Logic and Theology are swept +By the red deluge. + Unmolested there +He reigns; till comes at length the general feast, +Septennial sacrifice; then when the sons +Of England meet, with watchful care to chuse +Their delegates, wise, independent men, +Unbribing and unbrib'd, and cull'd to guard +Their rights and charters from the encroaching grasp +Of greedy Power: then all the joyful land +Join in his sacrifices, so inspir'd +To make the important choice. + The observing Maid +Address'd her guide, "These Theodore, thou sayest +Are men, who pampering their foul appetites, +Injured themselves alone. But where are they, +The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil +Around the guileless female, so to sting +The heart that loves them?" + "Them," the spirit replied, +A long and dreadful punishment awaits. +For when the prey of want and infamy, +Lower and lower still the victim sinks, +Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word, +One impious imprecation from her lips +Escapes, nay not a thought of evil lurks +In the polluted mind, that does not plead +Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued +Against the foul Seducer." + Now they reach'd +The house of PENITENCE. CREDULITY +Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head +As tho' to listen; on her vacant face, +A smile that promis'd premature assent; +Tho' her REGRET behind, a meagre Fiend, +Disciplin'd sorely. + Here they entered in, +And now arrived where, as in study tranced, +She sat, the Mistress of the Dome. Her face +Spake that composed severity, that knows +No angry impulse, no weak tenderness, +Resolved and calm. Before her lay that Book +That hath the words of Life; and as she read, +Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek, +Tho' heavenly joy beam'd in her eye the while. + +Leaving her undisturb'd, to the first ward +Of this great Lazar-house, the Angel led +The favour'd Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down +On the hard stone that their bare knees had worn, +In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear'd: +Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave; +Yet such expression stealing from the eye, +As tho', that only naked, all the rest +Was one close fitting mask. A scoffing Fiend, +For Fiend he was, tho' wisely serving here +Mock'd at his patients, and did often pour +Ashes upon them, and then bid them say +Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laughed: +For these were Hypocrites, on earth revered +As holy ones, who did in public tell +Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross themselves, +And call themselves most miserable sinners, +That so they might be deem'd most pious saints; +And go all filth, and never let a smile +Bend their stern muscles, gloomy, sullen men, +Barren of all affection, and all this +To please their God, forsooth! and therefore SCORN +Grinn'd at his patients, making them repeat +Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery +Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer, +They pour'd the silent sorrows of the soul +To Heaven, then did they not regard his mocks +Which then came painless, and HUMILITY +Soon rescued them, and led to PENITENCE, +That She might lead to Heaven. + + From thence they came, +Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band +Groan'd underneath the bitter tyranny +Of a fierce Daemon. His coarse hair was red, +Pale grey his eyes, and blood-shot; and his face +Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears +In ecstacy. Well-pleased he went around, +Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some, +Or probing with a poison'd lance their breasts, +Or placing coals of fire within their wounds; +Or seizing some within his mighty grasp, +He fix'd them on a stake, and then drew back, +And laugh'd to see them writhe. + "These," said the Spirit, +Are taught by CRUELTY, to loath the lives +They led themselves. Here are those wicked men +Who loved to exercise their tyrant power +On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo +A long purgation here; the traffickers +In human flesh here too are disciplined. +Till by their suffering they have equall'd all +The miseries they inflicted, all the mass +Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged, +The towns they burnt, for they who bribe to war +Are guilty of the blood, the widows left +In want, the slave or led to suicide, +Or murdered by the foul infected air +Of his close dungeon, or more sad than all, +His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved, +And driven by woe to wickedness. + These next, +Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room, +So sullen, and with such an eye of hate +Each on the other scowling, these have been +False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts +Here they dwell: in the hollow of their hearts +There is a worm that feeds, and tho' thou seest +That skilful leech who willingly would heal +The ill they suffer, judging of all else +By their own evil standard, they suspect +The aid be vainly proffers, lengthening thus +By vice its punishment." + "But who are these," +The Maid exclaim'd, "that robed in flowing lawn, +And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps +Like Cardinals, I see in every ward, +Performing menial service at the beck +Of all who bid them?" + Theodore replied, +These men are they who in the name of CHRIST +Did heap up wealth, and arrogating power, +Did make men bow the knee, and call themselves +Most Reverend Graces and Right Reverend Lords. +They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed, +And in fine linen: therefore are they here; +And tho' they would not minister on earth, +Here penanced they perforce must minister: +For he, the lowly man of Nazareth, +Hath said, his kingdom is not of the world." +So Saying on they past, and now arrived +Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode, +That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye, +And shudder'd: each one was a loathly corpse, +The worm did banquet on his putrid prey, +Yet had they life and feeling exquisite +Tho' motionless and mute. + "Most wretched men +Are these, the angel cried. These, JOAN, are bards, +Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuate +Who sat them down, deliberately lewd, +So to awake and pamper lust in minds +Unborn; and therefore foul of body now +As then they were of soul, they here abide +Long as the evil works they left on earth +Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom! +Yet amply merited by that bad man +Who prostitutes the sacred gift of song!" +And now they reached a huge and massy pile, +Massy it seem'd, and yet in every blast +As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit, +REMORSE for ever his sad vigils kept. +Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch. +Inly he groan'd, or, starting, wildly shriek'd, +Aye as the fabric tottering from its base, +Threatened its fall, and so expectant still +Lived in the dread of danger still delayed. + +They enter'd there a large and lofty dome, +O'er whose black marble sides a dim drear light +Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp. +Enthroned around, the MURDERERS OF MANKIND, +Monarchs, the great! the glorious! the august! +Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire, +Sat stern and silent. Nimrod he was there, +First King the mighty hunter; and that Chief +Who did belie his mother's fame, that so +He might be called young Ammon. In this court +Caesar was crown'd, accurst liberticide; +And he who murdered Tully, that cold villain, +Octavius, tho' the courtly minion's lyre +Hath hymn'd his praise, tho' Maro sung to him, +And when Death levelled to original clay +The royal carcase, FLATTERY, fawning low, +Fell at his feet, and worshipped the new God. +Titus [3] was here, the Conqueror of the Jews, +He the Delight of human-kind misnamed; +Caesars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings, +Here they were all, all who for glory fought, +Here in the COURT OF GLORY, reaping now +The meed they merited. + As gazing round +The Virgin mark'd the miserable train, +A deep and hollow voice from one went forth; +"Thou who art come to view our punishment, +Maiden of Orleans! hither turn thine eyes, +For I am he whose bloody victories +Thy power hath rendered vain. Lo! I am here, +The hero conqueror of Azincour, +HENRY OF ENGLAND!--wretched that I am, +I might have reigned in happiness and peace, +My coffers full, my subjects undisturb'd, +And PLENTY and PROSPERITY had loved +To dwell amongst them: but mine eye beheld +The realm of France, by faction tempest-torn, +And therefore I did think that it would fall +An easy prey. I persecuted those +Who taught new doctrines, tho' they taught the truth: +And when I heard of thousands by the sword +Cut off, or blasted by the pestilence, +I calmly counted up my proper gains, +And sent new herds to slaughter. Temperate +Myself, no blood that mutinied, no vice +Tainting my private life, I sent abroad +MURDER and RAPE; and therefore am I doom'd, +Like these imperial Sufferers, crown'd with fire, +Here to remain, till Man's awaken'd eye +Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds, +And warn'd by them, till the whole human race, +Equalling in bliss the aggregate we caus'd +Of wretchedness, shall form ONE BROTHERHOOD, +ONE UNIVERSAL FAMILY OF LOVE." + + +[Footnote 1: In the former edition I had substituted 'cable' instead of +'camel'. The alteration would not be worth noticing were it not for the +circumstance which occasioned it. 'Facilius elephas per foramen acus', +is among the Hebrew adages collected by Drusius; the same metaphor is +found in two other Jewish proverbs, and this appears to determine the +signification of [Greek (transliterated): chamaelos]. Matt. 19. 24.] + + +[Footnote 2: The same idea, and almost the same words are in an old play +by John Ford. The passage is a very fine one: + + + Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched, + Almost condemn'd alive! There is a place, + (List daughter!) in a black and hollow vault, + Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, + But flaming horror of consuming fires; + A lightless sulphur, choak'd with smoaky foggs + Of an infected darkness. In this place + Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts + Of never-dying deaths; there damned souls + Roar without pity, there are gluttons fed + With toads and adders; there is burning oil + Pour'd down the drunkard's throat, 'the usurer + Is forced to sup whole draughts of molten gold'; + There is the murderer for ever stabb'd, + Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton + On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul + He feels the torment of his raging lust. + + ''Tis Pity she's a Whore.' + +I wrote this passage when very young, and the idea, trite as it is, was +new to me. It occurs I believe in most descriptions of hell, and perhaps +owes its origin to the fate of Crassus. + +After this picture of horrors, the reader may perhaps be pleased with +one more pleasantly fanciful: + + + O call me home again dear Chief! and put me + To yoking foxes, milking of he-goats, + Pounding of water in a mortar, laving + The sea dry with a nutshell, gathering all + The leaves are fallen this autumn--making ropes of sand, + Catching the winds together in a net, + Mustering of ants, and numbering atoms, all + That Hell and you thought exquisite torments, rather + Than stay me here a thought more. I would sooner + Keep fleas within a circle, and be accomptant + A thousand year which of 'em, and how far + Outleap'd the other, than endure a minute + Such as I have within. + + B. JONSON. 'The Devil is an Ass.'] + + +[Footnote 3: During the siege of Jerusalem, "the Roman commander, 'with +a generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism, +'laboured incessantly, and to the very last moment, to preserve the +place. With this view, he again and again intreated the tyrants to +surrender and save their lives. With the same view also, after carrying +the second wall the siege was intermitted four days: to rouse their +fears, 'prisoners, to the number of five hundred, or more were crucified +daily before the walls; till space', Josephus says, 'was wanting for the +crosses, and crosses for the captives'." + +From the Hampton Lectures of RALPH CHURTON. + +If any of my readers should enquire why Titus Vespasian, the Delight of +Mankind, is placed in such a situation,--I answer, for "HIS GENEROUS +CLEMENCY, THAT INSEPARABLE ATTENDANT ON TRUE HEROISM!] + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE THIRD BOOK. + + + + The Maiden, musing on the Warrior's words, + Turn'd from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach'd + A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood, + In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eye + Beam'd promise, but behind, withered and old, + And all unlovely. Underneath his feet + Lay records trampled, and the laurel wreath + Now rent and faded: in his hand he held + An hour-glass, and as fall the restless sands, + So pass the lives of men. By him they past + Along the darksome cave, and reach'd a stream, + Still rolling onward its perpetual waves, + Noiseless and undisturbed. Here they ascend + A Bark unpiloted, that down the flood, + Borne by the current, rush'd. The circling stream, + Returning to itself, an island form'd; + Nor had the Maiden's footsteps ever reach'd + The insulated coast, eternally + Rapt round the endless course; but Theodore + Drove with an angel's will the obedient bark. + + They land, a mighty fabric meets their eyes, + Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamant + The pile was framed, for ever to abide + Firm in eternal strength. Before the gate + Stood eager EXPECTATION, as to list + The half-heard murmurs issuing from within, + Her mouth half-open'd, and her head stretch'd forth. + On the other side there stood an aged Crone, + Listening to every breath of air; she knew + Vague suppositions and uncertain dreams, + Of what was soon to come, for she would mark + The paley glow-worm's self-created light, + And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown, + And desolated nations; ever fill'd + With undetermin'd terror, as she heard + Or distant screech-owl, or the regular beat + Of evening death-watch. + "Maid," the Spirit cried, + Here, robed in shadows, dwells FUTURITY. + There is no eye hath seen her secret form, + For round the MOTHER OF TIME, unpierced mists + Aye hover. Would'st thou read the book of Fate, + Enter." + The Damsel for a moment paus'd, + Then to the Angel spake: "All-gracious Heaven! + Benignant in withholding, hath denied + To man that knowledge. I, in faith assured, + That he, my heavenly Father, for the best + Ordaineth all things, in that faith remain + Contented." + "Well and wisely hast thou said, + So Theodore replied; "and now O Maid! + Is there amid this boundless universe + One whom thy soul would visit? is there place + To memory dear, or visioned out by hope, + Where thou would'st now be present? form the wish, + And I am with thee, there." + His closing speech + Yet sounded on her ear, and lo! they stood + Swift as the sudden thought that guided them, + Within the little cottage that she loved. + "He sleeps! the good man sleeps!" enrapt she cried, + As bending o'er her Uncle's lowly bed + Her eye retraced his features. "See the beads + That never morn nor night he fails to tell, + Remembering me, his child, in every prayer. + Oh! quiet be thy sleep, thou dear old man! + Good Angels guard thy rest! and when thine hour + Is come, as gently mayest thou wake to life, + As when thro' yonder lattice the next sun + Shall bid thee to thy morning orisons! + Thy voice is heard, the Angel guide rejoin'd, + He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breathe + Blessings, and pleasant is the good man's rest. + Thy fame has reached him, for who has not heard + Thy wonderous exploits? and his aged heart + Hath felt the deepest joy that ever yet + Made his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on old Claude! + Peaceful, pure Spirit, be thy sojourn here, + And short and soon thy passage to that world + Where friends shall part no more! + "Does thy soul own + No other wish? or sleeps poor Madelon + Forgotten in her grave? seest thou yon star," + The Spirit pursued, regardless of her eye + That look'd reproach; "seest thou that evening star + Whose lovely light so often we beheld + From yonder woodbine porch? how have we gazed + Into the dark deep sky, till the baffled soul, + Lost in the infinite, returned, and felt + The burthen of her bodily load, and yearned + For freedom! Maid, in yonder evening slar + Lives thy departed friend. I read that glance, + And we are there!" + He said and they had past + The immeasurable space. + Then on her ear + The lonely song of adoration rose, + Sweet as the cloister'd virgins vesper hymn, + Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopes + Already lives in Heaven. Abrupt the song + Ceas'd, tremulous and quick a cry + Of joyful wonder rous'd the astonish'd Maid, + And instant Madelon was in her arms; + No airy form, no unsubstantial shape, + She felt her friend, she prest her to her heart, + Their tears of rapture mingled. + She drew back + And eagerly she gazed on Madelon, + Then fell upon her neck again and wept. + No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief, + The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness, + The languid eye: youth's loveliest freshness now + Mantled her cheek, whose every lineament + Bespake the soul at rest, a holy calm, + A deep and full tranquillity of bliss. + + "Thou then art come, my first and dearest friend!" + The well known voice of Madelon began, + "Thou then art come! and was thy pilgrimage + So short on earth? and was it painful too, + Painful and short as mine? but blessed they + Who from the crimes and miseries of the world + Early escape!" + "Nay," Theodore replied, + She hath not yet fulfill'd her mortal work. + Permitted visitant from earth she comes + To see the seat of rest, and oftentimes + In sorrow shall her soul remember this, + And patient of the transitory woe + Partake the anticipated peace again." + "Soon be that work perform'd!" the Maid exclaimed, + "O Madelon! O Theodore! my soul, + Spurning the cold communion of the world, + Will dwell with you! but I shall patiently, + Yea even with joy, endure the allotted ills + Of which the memory in this better state + Shall heighten bliss. That hour of agony, + When, Madelon, I felt thy dying grasp, + And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death, + The very horrors of that hour assume + A shape that now delights." + "O earliest friend! + I too remember," Madelon replied, + "That hour, thy looks of watchful agony, + The suppressed grief that struggled in thine eye + Endearing love's last kindness. Thou didst know + With what a deep and melancholy joy + I felt the hour draw on: but who can speak + The unutterable transport, when mine eyes, + As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed + Amid this peaceful vale, unclos'd on him, + My Arnaud! he had built me up a bower, + A bower of rest.--See, Maiden, where he comes, + His manly lineaments, his beaming eye + The same, but now a holier innocence + Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume + The enlighten'd glance." + They met, what joy was theirs + He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead + Has wet the midnight pillow with his tears. + + Fair was the scene around; an ample vale + Whose mountain circle at the distant verge + Lay softened on the sight; the near ascent + Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare, + Part with the ancient majesty of woods + Adorn'd, or lifting high its rocks sublime. + The river's liquid radiance roll'd beneath, + Beside the bower of Madelon it wound + A broken stream, whose shallows, tho' the waves + Roll'd on their way with rapid melody, + A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove + Its gay green foliage starr'd with golden fruit; + But with what odours did their blossoms load + The passing gale of eve! less thrilling sweet + Rose from the marble's perforated floor, + Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen + Inhaled the cool delight, [1] and whilst she asked + The Prophet for his promised paradise, + Shaped from the present scene its utmost joys. + A goodly scene! fair as that faery land + Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne + From Camlan's bloody banks; or as the groves + Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say, + Enoch abides, and he who rapt away + By fiery steeds, and chariotted in fire, + Past in his mortal form the eternal ways; + And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there + The beatific vision, sometimes seen + The distant dawning of eternal day, + Till all things be fulfilled. + "Survey this scene!" + So Theodore address'd the Maid of Arc, + "There is no evil here, no wretchedness, + It is the Heaven of those who nurst on earth + Their nature's gentlest feelings. Yet not here + Centering their joys, but with a patient hope, + Waiting the allotted hour when capable + Of loftier callings, to a better state + They pass; and hither from that better state + Frequent they come, preserving so those ties + That thro' the infinite progressiveness + Complete our perfect bliss. + "Even such, so blest, + Save that the memory of no sorrows past + Heightened the present joy, our world was once, + In the first aera of its innocence + Ere man had learnt to bow the knee to man. + Was there a youth whom warm affection fill'd, + He spake his honest heart; the earliest fruits + His toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck'd + The sunny bank, he gather'd for the maid, + Nor she disdain'd the gift; for VICE not yet + Had burst the dungeons of her hell, and rear'd + Those artificial boundaries that divide + Man from his species. State of blessedness! + Till that ill-omen'd hour when Cain's stern son + Delved in the bowels of the earth for gold, + Accursed bane of virtue! of such force + As poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon's locks, + Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-blood + Cold curdle in his veins, the creeping flesh + Grew stiff with horror, and the heart forgot + To beat. Accursed hour! for man no more + To JUSTICE paid his homage, but forsook + Her altars, and bow'd down before the shrine + Of WEALTH and POWER, the Idols he had made. + Then HELL enlarged herself, her gates flew wide, + Her legion fiends rush'd forth. OPPRESSION came + Whose frown is desolation, and whose breath + Blasts like the Pestilence; and POVERTY, + A meagre monster, who with withering touch + Makes barren all the better part of man, + MOTHER OF MISERIES. Then the goodly earth + Which God had fram'd for happiness, became + One theatre of woe, and all that God + Had given to bless free men, these tyrant fiends + His bitterest curses made. Yet for the best + Hath he ordained all things, the ALL-WISE! + For by experience rous'd shall man at length + Dash down his Moloch-Idols, Samson-like + And burst his fetters, only strong whilst strong + Believed. Then in the bottomless abyss + OPPRESSION shall be chain'd, and POVERTY + Die, and with her, her brood of Miseries; + And VIRTUE and EQUALITY preserve + The reign of LOVE, and Earth shall once again + Be Paradise, whilst WISDOM shall secure + The state of bliss which IGNORANCE betrayed." + + "Oh age of happiness!" the Maid exclaim'd, + Roll fast thy current, Time till that blest age + Arrive! and happy thou my Theodore, + Permitted thus to see the sacred depths + Of wisdom!" + "Such," the blessed Spirit replied, + Beloved! such our lot; allowed to range + The vast infinity, progressive still + In knowledge and encreasing blessedness, + This our united portion. Thou hast yet + A little while to sojourn amongst men: + I will be with thee! there shall not a breeze + Wanton around thy temples, on whose wing + I will not hover near! and at that hour + When from its fleshly sepulchre let loose, + Thy phoenix soul shall soar, O best-beloved! + I will be with thee in thine agonies, + And welcome thee to life and happiness, + Eternal infinite beatitude!" + + He spake, and led her near a straw-roof'd cot, + LOVE'S Palace. By the Virtues circled there, + The cherub listen'd to such melodies, + As aye, when one good deed is register'd + Above, re-echo in the halls of Heaven. + LABOUR was there, his crisp locks floating loose, + Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye, + And strong his arm robust; the wood-nymph HEALTH + Still follow'd on his path, and where he trod + Fresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was HOPE, + The general friend; and PITY, whose mild eye + Wept o'er the widowed dove; and, loveliest form, + Majestic CHASTITY, whose sober smile + Delights and awes the soul; a laurel wreath + Restrain'd her tresses, and upon her breast + The snow-drop [2] hung its head, that seem'd to grow + Spontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maid + LOVE went submiss, wilh eye more dangerous + Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er + Too bold approached; yet anxious would he read + Her every rising wish, then only pleased + When pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais'd. + + "Glory to thee whose vivifying power + Pervades all Nature's universal frame! + Glory to thee CREATOR LOVE! to thee, + Parent of all the smiling CHARITIES, + That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers! + Glory to thee PRESERVER! to thy praise + The awakened woodlands echo all the day + Their living melody; and warbling forth + To thee her twilight song, the Nightingale + Holds the lone Traveller from his way, or charms + The listening Poet's ear. Where LOVE shall deign + To fix his seat, there blameless PLEASURE sheds + Her roseate dews; CONTENT will sojourn there, + And HAPPINESS behold AFFECTION'S eye + Gleam with the Mother's smile. Thrice happy he + Who feels thy holy power! he shall not drag, + Forlorn and friendless, along Life's long path + To Age's drear abode; he shall not waste + The bitter evening of his days unsooth'd; + But HOPE shall cheer his hours of Solitude, + And VICE shall vainly strive to wound his breast, + That bears that talisman; and when he meets + The eloquent eye of TENDERNESS, and hears + The bosom-thrilling music of her voice; + The joy he feels shall purify his Soul, + And imp it for anticipated Heaven." + + +[Footnote 1: In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the Queen used to +dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there +is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled +that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and windows are +disposed so as to afford the most agreeable prospects, and to throw a +soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents of air too are +admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious coolness of this +apartment. + +(From the sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed to +Florian's Gonsalvo of Cordova).] + + +[Footnote 2: "The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired +her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems +to grow on the breast of the Virgin." P.H.] + + + + + + +The Rose. + + Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus, + that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden + was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadde don + fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be + brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre + began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that + als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help + hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; + and whanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon + was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, + becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise weren the first + Roseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. + And thus was this Maiden saved be the Grace of God. + + 'The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundevile'. + + + + + + +THE ROSE. + + + + Nay EDITH! spare the rose!--it lives--it lives, + It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh'd + The dews of night; let not thy gentle hand + Tear sunder its life-fibres and destroy + The sense of being!--why that infidel smile? + Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful, + And thou shall have a tale of other times, + For I am skill'd in legendary lore, + So thou wilt let it live. There was a time + Ere this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms, + Bedeck'd the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard + How first by miracle its fragrant leaves + Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness. + + There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid + And Zillah was her name, so passing fair + That all Judea spake the damsel's praise. + He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance + How quick it spake the soul, and what a soul + Beam'd in its mild effulgence, woe was he! + For not in solitude, for not in crowds, + Might he escape remembrance, or avoid + Her imaged form that followed every where, + And fill'd the heart, and fix'd the absent eye. + Woe was he, for her bosom own'd no love + Save the strong ardours of religious zeal, + For Zillah on her God had centered all + Her spirit's deep affections. So for her + Her tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverenced + The obdurate virtue that destroyed their hopes. + + One man there was, a vain and wretched man, + Who saw, desired, despair'd, and hated her. + His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek + Even till the flush of angry modesty + Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. + She loath'd the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, + And the strong workings of brute selfishness + Had moulded his broad features; and she fear'd + The bitterness of wounded vanity + That with a fiendish hue would overcast + His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, + For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plot + Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad + Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports + That soon obtain belief; that Zillah's eye + When in the temple heaven-ward it was rais'd + Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those + Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance + With other feelings fill'd; that 'twas a task + Of easy sort to play the saint by day + Before the public eye, but that all eyes + Were closed at night; that Zillah's life was foul, + Yea forfeit to the law. + + Shame--shame to man + That he should trust so easily the tongue + That stabs another's fame! the ill report + Was heard, repeated, and believed,--and soon, + For Hamuel by most damned artifice + Produced such semblances of guilt, the Maid + Was judged to shameful death. + Without the walls + There was a barren field; a place abhorr'd, + For it was there where wretched criminals + Were done to die; and there they built the stake, + And piled the fuel round, that should consume + The accused Maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd, + By God and man. The assembled Bethlemites + Beheld the scene, and when they saw the Maid + Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness + She lifted up her patient looks to Heaven, + They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts + Stood Hamuel near the pile, him savage joy + Led thitherward, but now within his heart + Unwonted feelings stirr'd, and the first pangs + Of wakening guilt, anticipating Hell. + The eye of Zillah as it glanced around + Fell on the murderer once, but not in wrath; + And therefore like a dagger it had fallen, + Had struck into his soul a cureless wound. + Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour + Of triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch, + Not in the hour of infamy and death + Forsake the virtuous! they draw near the stake-- + And lo! the torch! hold hold your erring hands! + Yet quench the rising flames!--they rise! they spread! + They reach the suffering Maid! oh God protect + The innocent one! + They rose, they spread, they raged-- + The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire + Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames + In one long lightning flash collecting fierce, + Darted and blasted Hamuel--him alone. + Hark--what a fearful scream the multitude + Pour forth!--and yet more miracles! the stake + Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves and bowers + The innocent Maid, and roses bloom around, + Now first beheld since Paradise was lost, + And fill with Eden odours all the air. + + + + + + + + +The COMPLAINTS of the POOR. + + + + And wherefore do the Poor complain? + The rich man asked of me,-- + Come walk abroad with me, I said + And I will answer thee. + + Twas evening and the frozen streets + Were cheerless to behold, + And we were wrapt and coated well, + And yet we were a-cold. + + We met an old bare-headed man, + His locks were few and white, + I ask'd him what he did abroad + In that cold winter's night: + + 'Twas bitter keen indeed, he said, + But at home no fire had he, + And therefore, he had come abroad + To ask for charity. + + We met a young bare-footed child, + And she begg'd loud and bold, + I ask'd her what she did abroad + When the wind it blew so cold; + + She said her father was at home + And he lay sick a-bed, + And therefore was it she was sent + Abroad to beg for bread. + + We saw a woman sitting down + Upon a stone to rest, + She had a baby at her back + And another at her breast; + + I ask'd her why she loiter'd there + When the wind it was so chill; + She turn'd her head and bade the child + That scream'd behind be still. + + She told us that her husband served + A soldier, far away, + And therefore to her parish she + Was begging back her way. + + We met a girl; her dress was loose + And sunken was her eye, + Who with the wanton's hollow voice + Address'd the passers by; + + I ask'd her what there was in guilt + That could her heart allure + To shame, disease, and late remorse? + She answer'd, she was poor. + + I turn'd me to the rich man then + For silently stood he, + You ask'd me why the Poor complain, + And these have answer'd thee. + + + + + + + + +METRICAL LETTER, + +Written from London. + + + + Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile; + I love the homely and familiar phrase; + And I will call thee Cousin Margaret, + However quaint amid the measured line + The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill + When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, + Sirring and Madaming as civilly + As if the road between the heart and lips + Were such a weary and Laplandish way + That the poor travellers came to the red gates + Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret, + For many a day my Memory has played + The creditor with me on your account, + And made me shame to think that I should owe + So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, + Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear + So heavy a pack of business, that albeit + I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race + Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I + That for a moment you should lay to me + Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart + That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some + Who know how warm it beats. I am not one + Who can play off my smiles and courtesies + To every Lady of her lap dog tired + Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend + Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love; + Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up + At once without a seed and take no root, + Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere + The little circle of domestic life + I would be known and loved; the world beyond + Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think + That you should know me well, for you and I + Grew up together, and when we look back + Upon old times our recollections paint + The same familiar faces. Did I wield + The wand of Merlin's magic I would make + Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, + Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood + That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth, + The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle + Like that where whilome old Apollidon + Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid + The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers, + That we might stand upon the beach, and mark + The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, + And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound + Told us that never mariner should reach + Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle + We might renew the days of infancy, + And Life like a long childhood pass away, + Without one care. It may be, Margaret, + That I shall yet be gathered to my friends, + For I am not of those who live estranged + Of choice, till at the last they join their race + In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, + Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack + So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine + Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly. + If not, if I should never get beyond + This Vanity town, there is another world + Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, + I gaze at night into the boundless sky, + And think that I shall there be born again, + The exalted native of some better star; + And like the rude American I hope + To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth. + + + + + + + + + + +The Cross Roads. + +The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty +years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at +the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as +I have versified them. + + + + +THE CROSS ROADS. + + + There was an old man breaking stones + To mend the turnpike way, + He sat him down beside a brook + And out his bread and cheese he took, + For now it was mid-day. + + He lent his back against a post, + His feet the brook ran by; + And there were water-cresses growing, + And pleasant was the water's flowing + For he was hot and dry. + + A soldier with his knapsack on + Came travelling o'er the down, + The sun was strong and he was tired, + And of the old man he enquired + How far to Bristol town. + + Half an hour's walk for a young man + By lanes and fields and stiles. + But you the foot-path do not know, + And if along the road you go + Why then 'tis three good miles. + + The soldier took his knapsack off + For he was hot and dry; + And out his bread and cheese he took + And he sat down beside the brook + To dine in company. + + Old friend! in faith, the soldier says + I envy you almost; + My shoulders have been sorely prest + And I should like to sit and rest, + My back against that post. + + In such a sweltering day as this + A knapsack is the devil! + And if on t'other side I sat + It would not only spoil our chat + But make me seem uncivil. + + The old man laugh'd and moved. I wish + It were a great-arm'd chair! + But this may help a man at need; + And yet it was a cursed deed + That ever brought it there. + + There's a poor girl lies buried here + Beneath this very place. + The earth upon her corpse is prest + This stake is driven into her breast + And a stone is on her face. + + The soldier had but just lent back + And now he half rose up. + There's sure no harm in dining here, + My friend? and yet to be sincere + I should not like to sup. + + God rest her! she is still enough + Who sleeps beneath our feet! + The old man cried. No harm I trow + She ever did herself, tho' now + She lies where four roads meet. + + I have past by about that hour + When men are not most brave, + It did not make my heart to fail, + And I have heard the nightingale + Sing sweetly on her grave. + + I have past by about that hour + When Ghosts their freedom have, + But there was nothing here to fright, + And I have seen the glow-worm's light + Shine on the poor girl's grave. + + There's one who like a Christian lies + Beneath the church-tree's shade; + I'd rather go a long mile round + Than pass at evening thro' the ground + Wherein that man is laid. + + There's one that in the church-yard lies + For whom the bell did toll; + He lies in consecrated ground, + But for all the wealth in Bristol town + I would not be with his soul! + + Did'st see a house below the hill + That the winds and the rains destroy? + 'Twas then a farm where he did dwell, + And I remember it full well + When I was a growing boy. + + And she was a poor parish girl + That came up from the west, + From service hard she ran away + And at that house in evil day + Was taken in to rest. + + The man he was a wicked man + And an evil life he led; + Rage made his cheek grow deadly white + And his grey eyes were large and light, + And in anger they grew red. + + The man was bad, the mother worse, + Bad fruit of a bad stem, + 'Twould make your hair to stand-on-end + If I should tell to you my friend + The things that were told of them! + + Did'st see an out-house standing by? + The walls alone remain; + It was a stable then, but now + Its mossy roof has fallen through + All rotted by the rain. + + The poor girl she had serv'd with them + Some half-a-year, or more, + When she was found hung up one day + Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay + Behind that stable door! + + It is a very lonesome place, + No hut or house is near; + Should one meet a murderer there alone + 'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan + Would never reach mortal ear. + + And there were strange reports about + That the coroner never guest. + So he decreed that she should lie + Where four roads meet in infamy, + With a stake drove in her breast. + + Upon a board they carried her + To the place where four roads met, + And I was one among the throng + That hither followed them along, + I shall never the sight forget! + + They carried her upon a board + In the cloaths in which she died; + I saw the cap blow off her head, + Her face was of a dark dark red + Her eyes were starting wide: + + I think they could not have been closed + So widely did they strain. + I never saw so dreadful a sight, + And it often made me wake at night, + For I saw her face again. + + They laid her here where four roads meet. + Beneath this very place, + The earth upon her corpse was prest, + This post is driven into her breast, + And a stone is on her face. + + + + + + + + + + + +The Sailor, + +who had served in the Slave Trade. + +In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol, discovered a +Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City, groaning and praying in a +hovel. The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in +the annexed Ballad, without the slightest addition or alteration. By +presenting it as a Poem the story is made more public, and such stories +ought to be made as public as possible. + + + + +THE SAILOR, + +WHO HAD SERVED IN THE SLAVE-TRADE. + + + He stopt,--it surely was a groan + That from the hovel came! + He stopt and listened anxiously + Again it sounds the same. + + It surely from the hovel comes! + And now he hastens there, + And thence he hears the name of Christ + Amidst a broken prayer. + + He entered in the hovel now, + A sailor there he sees, + His hands were lifted up to Heaven + And he was on his knees. + + Nor did the Sailor so intent + His entering footsteps heed, + But now the Lord's prayer said, and now + His half-forgotten creed. + + And often on his Saviour call'd + With many a bitter groan, + In such heart-anguish as could spring + From deepest guilt alone. + + He ask'd the miserable man + Why he was kneeling there, + And what the crime had been that caus'd + The anguish of his prayer. + + Oh I have done a wicked thing! + It haunts me night and day, + And I have sought this lonely place + Here undisturb'd to pray. + + I have no place to pray on board + So I came here alone, + That I might freely kneel and pray, + And call on Christ and groan. + + If to the main-mast head I go, + The wicked one is there, + From place to place, from rope to rope, + He follows every where. + + I shut my eyes,--it matters not-- + Still still the same I see,-- + And when I lie me down at night + 'Tis always day with me. + + He follows follows every where, + And every place is Hell! + O God--and I must go with him + In endless fire to dwell. + + He follows follows every where, + He's still above--below, + Oh tell me where to fly from him! + Oh tell me where to go! + + But tell me, quoth the Stranger then, + What this thy crime hath been, + So haply I may comfort give + To one that grieves for sin. + + O I have done a cursed deed + The wretched man replies, + And night and day and every where + 'Tis still before my eyes. + + I sail'd on board a Guinea-man + And to the slave-coast went; + Would that the sea had swallowed me + When I was innocent! + + And we took in our cargo there, + Three hundred negroe slaves, + And we sail'd homeward merrily + Over the ocean waves. + + But some were sulky of the slaves + And would not touch their meat, + So therefore we were forced by threats + And blows to make them eat. + + One woman sulkier than the rest + Would still refuse her food,-- + O Jesus God! I hear her cries-- + I see her in her blood! + + The Captain made me tie her up + And flog while he stood by, + And then he curs'd me if I staid + My hand to hear her cry. + + She groan'd, she shriek'd--I could not spare + For the Captain he stood by-- + Dear God! that I might rest one night + From that poor woman's cry! + + She twisted from the blows--her blood + Her mangled flesh I see-- + And still the Captain would not spare-- + Oh he was worse than me! + + She could not be more glad than I + When she was taken down, + A blessed minute--'twas the last + That I have ever known! + + I did not close my eyes all night, + Thinking what I had done; + I heard her groans and they grew faint + About the rising sun. + + She groan'd and groan'd, but her groans grew + Fainter at morning tide, + Fainter and fainter still they came + Till at the noon she died. + + They flung her overboard;--poor wretch + She rested from her pain,-- + But when--O Christ! O blessed God! + Shall I have rest again! + + I saw the sea close over her, + Yet she was still in sight; + I see her twisting every where; + I see her day and night. + + Go where I will, do what I can + The wicked one I see-- + Dear Christ have mercy on my soul, + O God deliver me! + + To morrow I set sail again + Not to the Negroe shore-- + Wretch that I am I will at least + Commit that sin no more. + + O give me comfort if you can-- + Oh tell me where to fly-- + And bid me hope, if there be hope, + For one so lost as I. + + Poor wretch, the stranger he replied, + Put thou thy trust in heaven, + And call on him for whose dear sake + All sins shall be forgiven. + + This night at least is thine, go thou + And seek the house of prayer, + There shalt thou hear the word of God + And he will help thee there! + + + + + + + + + + + + +Jaspar. + +The stories of the two following ballads are wholly imaginary. I may say +of each as John Bunyan did of his 'Pilgrim's Progress', + + + "It came from mine own heart, so to my head, + And thence into my fingers trickled; + Then to my pen, from whence immediately + On paper I did dribble it daintily." + + + + +JASPAR + + + + Jaspar was poor, and want and vice + Had made his heart like stone, + And Jaspar look'd with envious eyes + On riches not his own. + + On plunder bent abroad he went + Towards the close of day, + And loitered on the lonely road + Impatient for his prey. + + No traveller came, he loiter'd long + And often look'd around, + And paus'd and listen'd eagerly + To catch some coming sound. + + He sat him down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way, + So fair a scene might well have charm'd + All evil thoughts away; + + He sat beneath a willow tree + That cast a trembling shade, + The gentle river full in front + A little island made, + + Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone + Upon the poplar trees, + Whose shadow on the stream below + Play'd slowly to the breeze. + + He listen'd--and he heard the wind + That waved the willow tree; + He heard the waters flow along + And murmur quietly. + + He listen'd for the traveller's tread, + The nightingale sung sweet,-- + He started up, for now he heard + The sound of coming feet; + + He started up and graspt a stake + And waited for his prey; + There came a lonely traveller + And Jaspar crost his way. + + But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd + The traveller to appal, + He would not lightly yield the purse + That held his little all. + + Awhile he struggled, but he strove + With Jaspar's strength in vain; + Beneath his blows he fell and groan'd, + And never spoke again. + + He lifted up the murdered man + And plunged him in the flood, + And in the running waters then + He cleansed his hands from blood. + + The waters closed around the corpse + And cleansed his hands from gore, + The willow waved, the stream flowed on + And murmured as before. + + There was no human eye had seen + The blood the murderer spilt, + And Jaspar's conscience never knew + The avenging goad of guilt. + + And soon the ruffian had consum'd + The gold he gain'd so ill, + And years of secret guilt pass'd on + And he was needy still. + + One eve beside the alehouse fire + He sat as it befell, + When in there came a labouring man + Whom Jaspar knew full well. + + He sat him down by Jaspar's side + A melancholy man, + For spite of honest toil, the world + Went hard with Jonathan. + + His toil a little earn'd, and he + With little was content, + But sickness on his wife had fallen + And all he had was spent. + + Then with his wife and little ones + He shared the scanty meal, + And saw their looks of wretchedness, + And felt what wretches feel. + + That very morn the Landlord's power + Had seized the little left, + And now the sufferer found himself + Of every thing bereft. + + He lent his head upon his hand, + His elbow on his knee, + And so by Jaspar's side he sat + And not a word said he. + + Nay--why so downcast? Jaspar cried, + Come--cheer up Jonathan! + Drink neighbour drink! 'twill warm thy heart, + Come! come! take courage man! + + He took the cup that Jaspar gave + And down he drain'd it quick + I have a wife, said Jonathan, + And she is deadly sick. + + She has no bed to lie upon, + I saw them take her bed. + And I have children--would to God + That they and I were dead! + + Our Landlord he goes home to night + And he will sleep in peace. + I would that I were in my grave + For there all troubles cease. + + In vain I pray'd him to forbear + Tho' wealth enough has he-- + God be to him as merciless + As he has been to me! + + When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul + On all his ills intent, + He plied him with the heartening cup + And with him forth he went. + + This landlord on his homeward road + 'Twere easy now to meet. + The road is lonesome--Jonathan, + And vengeance, man! is sweet. + + He listen'd to the tempter's voice + The thought it made him start. + His head was hot, and wretchedness + Had hardened now his heart. + + Along the lonely road they went + And waited for their prey, + They sat them down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way. + + They sat them down beside the stream + And never a word they said, + They sat and listen'd silently + To hear the traveller's tread. + + The night was calm, the night was dark, + No star was in the sky, + The wind it waved the willow boughs, + The stream flowed quietly. + + The night was calm, the air was still, + Sweet sung the nightingale, + The soul of Jonathan was sooth'd, + His heart began to fail. + + 'Tis weary waiting here, he cried, + And now the hour is late,-- + Methinks he will not come to night, + 'Tis useless more to wait. + + Have patience man! the ruffian said, + A little we may wait, + But longer shall his wife expect + Her husband at the gate. + + Then Jonathan grew sick at heart, + My conscience yet is clear, + Jaspar--it is not yet too late-- + I will not linger here. + + How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought + Thy conscience was asleep. + No more such qualms, the night is dark, + The river here is deep, + + What matters that, said Jonathan, + Whose blood began to freeze, + When there is one above whose eye + The deeds of darkness sees? + + We are safe enough, said Jaspar then + If that be all thy fear; + Nor eye below, nor eye above + Can pierce the darkness here. + + That instant as the murderer spake + There came a sudden light; + Strong as the mid-day sun it shone, + Though all around was night. + + It hung upon the willow tree, + It hung upon the flood, + It gave to view the poplar isle + And all the scene of blood. + + The traveller who journies there + He surely has espied + A madman who has made his home + Upon the river's side. + + His cheek is pale, his eye is wild, + His look bespeaks despair; + For Jaspar since that hour has made + His home unshelter'd there. + + And fearful are his dreams at night + And dread to him the day; + He thinks upon his untold crime + And never dares to pray. + + The summer suns, the winter storms, + O'er him unheeded roll, + For heavy is the weight of blood + Upon the maniac's soul. + + + + + + + + + + +LORD WILLIAM. + + + + No eye beheld when William plunged + Young Edmund in the stream, + No human ear but William's heard + Young Edmund's drowning scream. + + Submissive all the vassals own'd + The murderer for their Lord, + And he, the rightful heir, possessed + The house of Erlingford. + + The ancient house of Erlingford + Stood midst a fair domain, + And Severn's ample waters near + Roll'd through the fertile plain. + + And often the way-faring man + Would love to linger there, + Forgetful of his onward road + To gaze on scenes so fair. + + But never could Lord William dare + To gaze on Severn's stream; + In every wind that swept its waves + He heard young Edmund scream. + + In vain at midnight's silent hour + Sleep closed the murderer's eyes, + In every dream the murderer saw + Young Edmund's form arise. + + In vain by restless conscience driven + Lord William left his home, + Far from the scenes that saw his guilt, + In pilgrimage to roam. + + To other climes the pilgrim fled, + But could not fly despair, + He sought his home again, but peace + Was still a stranger there. + + Each hour was tedious long, yet swift + The months appear'd to roll; + And now the day return'd that shook + With terror William's soul. + + A day that William never felt + Return without dismay, + For well had conscience kalendered + Young Edmund's dying day. + + A fearful day was that! the rains + Fell fast, with tempest roar, + And the swoln tide of Severn spread + Far on the level shore. + + In vain Lord William sought the feast + In vain he quaff'd the bowl, + And strove with noisy mirth to drown + The anguish of his soul. + + The tempest as its sudden swell + In gusty howlings came, + With cold and death-like feelings seem'd + To thrill his shuddering frame. + + Reluctant now, as night came on, + His lonely couch he prest, + And wearied out, he sunk to sleep, + To sleep, but not to rest. + + Beside that couch his brother's form + Lord Edmund seem'd to stand, + Such and so pale as when in death + He grasp'd his brother's hand; + + Such and so pale his face as when + With faint and faltering tongue, + To William's care, a dying charge + He left his orphan son. + + "I bade thee with a father's love + My orphan Edmund guard-- + Well William hast thou kept thy charge! + Now take thy due reward." + + He started up, each limb convuls'd + With agonizing fear, + He only heard the storm of night-- + 'Twas music to his ear. + + When lo! the voice of loud alarm + His inmost soul appals, + What ho! Lord William rise in haste! + The water saps thy walls! + + He rose in haste, beneath the walls + He saw the flood appear, + It hemm'd him round, 'twas midnight now, + No human aid was near. + + He heard the shout of joy, for now + A boat approach'd the wall, + And eager to the welcome aid + They crowd for safety all. + + My boat is small, the boatman cried, + This dangerous haste forbear! + Wait other aid, this little bark + But one from hence can bear. + + Lord William leap'd into the boat, + Haste--haste to yonder shore! + And ample wealth shall well reward, + Ply swift and strong the oar. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Went light along the stream, + Sudden Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + The boatman paus'd, methought I heard + A child's distressful cry! + 'Twas but the howling wind of night + Lord William made reply. + + Haste haste--ply swift and strong the oar! + Haste haste across the stream! + Again Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + I heard a child's distressful scream + The boatman cried again. + Nay hasten on--the night is dark-- + And we should search in vain. + + Oh God! Lord William dost thou know + How dreadful 'tis to die? + And can'st thou without pity hear + A child's expiring cry? + + How horrible it is to sink + Beneath the chilly stream, + To stretch the powerless arms in vain, + In vain for help to scream? + + The shriek again was heard. It came + More deep, more piercing loud, + That instant o'er the flood the moon + Shone through a broken cloud. + + And near them they beheld a child, + Upon a crag he stood, + A little crag, and all around + Was spread the rising flood. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Approach'd his resting place, + The moon-beam shone upon the child + And show'd how pale his face. + + Now reach thine hand! the boatman cried + Lord William reach and save! + The child stretch'd forth his little hands + To grasp the hand he gave. + + Then William shriek'd; the hand he touch'd + Was cold and damp and dead! + He felt young Edmund in his arms + A heavier weight than lead. + + The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk + Beneath the avenging stream; + He rose, he scream'd, no human ear + Heard William's drowning scream. + + + + + + + + + +A BALLAD, + +SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. + +[Illustration: heavy black-and-white drawing (woodcut) of the title.] + + +A.D. 852. Circa dies istos, mulier quaedam malefica, in villa quae +Berkeleia dicitur degens, gulae amatrix ac petulantiae, flagitiis modum +usque in senium et auguriis non ponens, usque ad mortem impudica +permansit. Haec die quadam cum sederet ad prandium, cornicula quam pro +delitiis pascebat, nescio quid garrire coepit; quo audito, mulieris +cultellus de manu excidit, simul et facies pallescere coepit, et emisso +rugitu, hodie, inquit, accipiam grande incommodum, hodieque ad sulcum +ultimum meum pervenit aratrum, quo dicto, nuncius doloris intravit; +muliere vero percunctata ad quid veniret, affero, inquit, tibi filii tui +obitum & totius familiae ejus ex subita ruina interitum. Hoc quoque +dolore mulier permota, lecto protinus decubuit graviter infirmata; +sentiensque morbum subrepere ad vitalia, liberos quos habuit +superstites, monachum videlicet et monacham, per epistolam invitavit; +advenientes autem voce singultiente alloquitur. Ego, inquit, o pueri, +meo miserabili fato daemoniacis semper artibus inservivi; ego omnium +vitiorum sentina, ego illecebrarum omnium fui magistra. Erat tamen mihi +inter haec mala, spes vestrae religionis, quae meam solidaret animam +desperatam; vos expctabam propugnatores contra daemones, tutores contra +saevissimos hostes. Nunc igitur quoniam ad finem vitae perveni, rogo vos +per materna ubera, ut mea tentatis alleviare tormenta. Insuite me +defunctam in corio cervino, ac deinde in sarcophago lapideo supponite, +operculumque ferro et plumbo constringite, ac demum lapidem tribus +cathenis ferreis et fortissimis circundantes, clericos quinquaginta +psalmorum cantores, et tot per tres dies presbyteros missarum +celebratores applicate, qui feroces lenigent adversariorum incursus. Ita +si tribus noctibus secura jacuero, quarta die me infodite humo. + +Factumque est ut praeceperat illis. Sed, proh dolor! nil preces, nil +lacrymae, nil demum valuere catenae. Primis enim duabus noctibus, cum +chori psallentium corpori assistabant, advenientes Daemones ostium +ecclesiae confregerunt ingenti obice clausum, extremasque cathenas +negotio levi dirumpunt: media autem quae fortior erat, illibata manebat. +Tertia autem nocte, circa gallicinium, strepitu hostium adventantium, +omne monasterium visum est a fundamento moveri. Unus ergo daemonum, et +vultu caeteris terribilior & statura eminentior, januas Ecclesiae; impetu +violento concussas in fragmenta dejecit. Divexerunt clerici cum laicis, +metu stelerunt omnium capilli, et psalmorum concentus defecit. Daemon +ergo gestu ut videbatur arroganti ad sepulchrum accedens, & nomen +mulieris modicum ingeminans, surgere imperavit. Qua respondente, quod +nequiret pro vinculis, jam malo tuo, inquit, solveris; et protinus +cathenam quae caeterorum ferociam daemonum deluserat, velut stuppeum +vinculum rumpebat. Operculum etiam sepulchri pede depellens, mulierem +palam omnibus ab ecclesia extraxit, ubi prae foribus niger equus superbe +hinniens videbatur, uncis ferreis et clavis undique confixus, super quem +misera mulier projecta, ab oculis assistentium evanuit. Audiebantur +tamen clamores per quatuor fere miliaria horribiles, auxilium +postulantes. + +Ista itaque quae retuli incredibilia non erunt, si legatur beati Gregorii +dialogus, in quo refert, hominem in ecclesia sepultam, a daemonibus foras +ejectum. Et apud Francos Carolus Martellus insignis vir fortudinis, qui +Saracenos Galliam ingressos, Hispaniam redire compulit, exactis vitae suae +diebus, in Ecclesia beati Dionysii legitur fuisse sepultus. Sed quia +patrimonia, cum decimis omnium fere ecclesiarum Galliae, pro stipendio +commilitonum suorum mutilaverat, miserabiliter a malignis spiritibus de +sepulchro corporaliter avulsus, usque in hodiernum diem nusquam +comparuit. + +Matthew of Westminster. + + +This story is also related by Olaus Magnus, and in the Nuremberg +Chronicle, from which the wooden cut is taken. + + + +A BALLAD, + +SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. + + + The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal, + And the Old Woman knew what he said, + And she grew pale at the Raven's tale, + And sicken'd and went to her bed. + + Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed, + The Old Woman of Berkeley said, + The monk my son, and my daughter the nun + Bid them hasten or I shall be dead. + + The monk her son, and her daughter the nun, + Their way to Berkeley went, + And they have brought with pious thought + The holy sacrament. + + The old Woman shriek'd as they entered her door, + 'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear, + Now take the sacrament away + For mercy, my children dear! + + Her lip it trembled with agony, + The sweat ran down her brow, + I have tortures in store for evermore, + Oh! spare me my children now! + + Away they sent the sacrament, + The fit it left her weak, + She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes + And faintly struggled to speak. + + All kind of sin I have rioted in + And the judgment now must be, + But I secured my childrens souls, + Oh! pray my children for me. + + I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes, + The fiends have been my slaves, + I have nointed myself with infants fat, + And feasted on rifled graves. + + And the fiend will fetch me now in fire + My witchcrafts to atone, + And I who have rifled the dead man's grave + Shall never have rest in my own. + + Bless I intreat my winding sheet + My children I beg of you! + And with holy water sprinkle my shroud + And sprinkle my coffin too. + + And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone + And fasten it strong I implore + With iron bars, and let it be chain'd + With three chains to the church floor. + + And bless the chains and sprinkle them, + And let fifty priests stand round, + Who night and day the mass may say + Where I lie on the ground. + + And let fifty choristers be there + The funeral dirge to sing, + Who day and night by the taper's light + Their aid to me may bring. + + Let the church bells all both great and small + Be toll'd by night and day, + To drive from thence the fiends who come + To bear my corpse away. + + And ever have the church door barr'd + After the even song, + And I beseech you children dear + Let the bars and bolts be strong. + + And let this be three days and nights + My wretched corpse to save, + Preserve me so long from the fiendish throng + And then I may rest in my grave. + + The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down + And her eyes grew deadly dim, + Short came her breath and the struggle of death + Did loosen every limb. + + They blest the old woman's winding sheet + With rites and prayers as due, + With holy water they sprinkled her shroud + And they sprinkled her coffin too. + + And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone + And with iron barr'd it down, + And in the church with three strong chains + They chain'd it to the ground. + + And they blest the chains and sprinkled them, + And fifty priests stood round, + By night and day the mass to say + Where she lay on the ground. + + And fifty choristers were there + To sing the funeral song, + And a hallowed taper blazed in the hand + Of all the sacred throng. + + To see the priests and choristers + It was a goodly sight, + Each holding, as it were a staff, + A taper burning bright. + + And the church bells all both great and small + Did toll so loud and long, + And they have barr'd the church door hard + After the even song. + + And the first night the taper's light + Burnt steadily and clear. + But they without a hideous rout + Of angry fiends could hear; + + A hideous roar at the church door + Like a long thunder peal, + And the priests they pray'd and the choristers sung + Louder in fearful zeal. + + Loud toll'd the bell, the priests pray'd well, + The tapers they burnt bright, + The monk her son, and her daughter the nun + They told their beads all night. + + The cock he crew, away they flew + The fiends from the herald of day, + And undisturb'd the choristers sing + And the fifty priests they pray. + + The second night the taper's light + Burnt dismally and blue, + And every one saw his neighbour's face + Like a dead man's face to view. + + And yells and cries without arise + That the stoutest heart might shock, + And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring + Over a mountain rock. + + The monk and nun they told their beads + As fast as they could tell, + And aye as louder grew the noise + The faster went the bell. + + Louder and louder the choristers sung + As they trembled more and more, + And the fifty priests prayed to heaven for aid, + They never had prayed so before. + + The cock he crew, away they flew + The fiends from the herald of day, + And undisturb'd the choristers sing + And the fifty priests they pray. + + The third night came and the tapers flame + A hideous stench did make, + And they burnt as though they had been dipt + In the burning brimstone lake. + + And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean, + Grew momently more and more, + And strokes as of a battering ram + Did shake the strong church door. + + The bellmen they for very fear + Could toll the bell no longer, + And still as louder grew the strokes + Their fear it grew the stronger. + + The monk and nun forgot their beads, + They fell on the ground dismay'd, + There was not a single saint in heaven + Whom they did not call to aid. + + And the choristers song that late was so strong + Grew a quaver of consternation, + For the church did rock as an earthquake shock + Uplifted its foundation. + + And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast + That shall one day wake the dead, + The strong church door could bear no more + And the bolts and the bars they fled. + + And the taper's light was extinguish'd quite, + And the choristers faintly sung, + And the priests dismay'd, panted and prayed + Till fear froze every tongue. + + And in He came with eyes of flame + The Fiend to fetch the dead, + And all the church with his presence glowed + Like a fiery furnace red. + + He laid his hand on the iron chains + And like flax they moulder'd asunder, + And the coffin lid that was barr'd so firm + He burst with his voice of thunder. + + And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise + And come with her master away, + And the cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse, + At the voice she was forced to obey. + + She rose on her feet in her winding sheet, + Her dead flesh quivered with fear, + And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave + Never did mortal hear. + + She followed the fiend to the church door, + There stood a black horse there, + His breath was red like furnace smoke, + His eyes like a meteor's glare. + + The fiendish force flung her on the horse + And he leapt up before, + And away like the lightning's speed they went + And she was seen no more. + + They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks + For four miles round they could hear, + And children at rest at their mother's breast, + Started and screamed with fear. + + + + + +The Surgeon's Warning. + +The subject of this parody was given me by a friend, to whom also I am +indebted for some of the stanzas. + +Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the manner of +Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute to their Saints +and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare that it is by no means my +design to depreciate that useful invention; and all persons to whom this +Ballad shall come are requested to take notice, that nothing here +asserted concerning the aforesaid Coffins is true, except that the maker +and patentee lives by St. Martin's Lane. + + +THE SURGEONS' WARNING. + + +The Doctor whispered to the Nurse + And the Surgeon knew what he said, +And he grew pale at the Doctor's tale + And trembled in his sick bed. + +Now fetch me my brethren and fetch them with speed + The Surgeon affrighted said, +The Parson and the Undertaker, + Let them hasten or I shall be dead. + +The Parson and the Undertaker + They hastily came complying, +And the Surgeon's Prentices ran up stairs + When they heard that their master was dying. + +The Prentices all they entered the room + By one, by two, by three, +With a sly grin came Joseph in, + First of the company. + +The Surgeon swore as they enter'd his door, + 'Twas fearful his oaths to hear,-- +Now send these scoundrels to the Devil, + For God's sake my brethren dear. + +He foam'd at the mouth with the rage he felt + And he wrinkled his black eye-brow, +That rascal Joe would be at me I know, + But zounds let him spare me now. + +Then out they sent the Prentices, + The fit it left him weak, +He look'd at his brothers with ghastly eyes, + And faintly struggled to speak. + +All kinds of carcasses I have cut up, + And the judgment now must be-- +But brothers I took care of you, + So pray take care of me! + +I have made candles of infants fat + The Sextons have been my slaves, +I have bottled babes unborn, and dried + Hearts and livers from rifled graves. + +And my Prentices now will surely come + And carve me bone from bone, +And I who have rifled the dead man's grave + Shall never have rest in my own. + +Bury me in lead when I am dead, + My brethren I intreat, +And see the coffin weigh'd I beg + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +And let it be solder'd closely down + Strong as strong can be I implore, +And put it in a patent coffin, + That I may rise no more. + +If they carry me off in the patent coffin + Their labour will be in vain, +Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +And bury me in my brother's church + For that will safer be, +And I implore lock the church door + And pray take care of the key. + +And all night long let three stout men + The vestry watch within, +To each man give a gallon of beer + And a keg of Holland's gin; + +Powder and ball and blunder-buss + To save me if he can, +And eke five guineas if he shoot + A resurrection man. + +And let them watch me for three weeks + My wretched corpse to save, +For then I think that I may stink + Enough to rest in my grave. + +The Surgeon laid him down in his bed, + His eyes grew deadly dim, +Short came his breath and the struggle of death + Distorted every limb. + +They put him in lead when he was dead + And shrouded up so neat, +And they the leaden coffin weigh + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +They had it solder'd closely down + And examined it o'er and o'er, +And they put it in a patent coffin + That he might rise no more. + +For to carry him off in a patent coffin + Would they thought be but labour in vain, +So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +In his brother's church they buried him + That safer he might be, +They lock'd the door and would not trust + The Sexton with the key. + +And three men in the vestry watch + To save him if they can, +And should he come there to shoot they swear + A resurrection man. + +And the first night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +A guinea of gold the sexton shewed + That Mister Joseph sent. + +But conscience was tough, it was not enough + And their honesty never swerved, +And they bade him go with Mister Joe + To the Devil as he deserved. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The second night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +He whisper'd anew and shew'd them two + That Mister Joseph sent. + +The guineas were bright and attracted their sight + They look'd so heavy and new, +And their fingers itch'd as they were bewitch'd + And they knew not what to do. + +But they waver'd not long for conscience was strong + And they thought they might get more, +And they refused the gold, but not + So rudely as before. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The third night as by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard they went, +He bade them see and shew'd them three + That Mister Joseph sent. + +They look'd askance with eager glance, + The guineas they shone bright, +For the Sexton on the yellow gold + Let fall his lanthorn light. + +And he look'd sly with his roguish eye + And gave a well-tim'd wink, +And they could not stand the sound in his hand + For he made the guineas chink. + +And conscience late that had such weight, + All in a moment fails, +For well they knew that it was true + A dead man told no tales, + +And they gave all their powder and ball + And took the gold so bright, +And they drank their beer and made good cheer, + Till now it was midnight. + +Then, tho' the key of the church door + Was left with the Parson his brother, +It opened at the Sexton's touch-- + Because he had another. + +And in they go with that villain Joe + To fetch the body by night, +And all the church look'd dismally + By his dark lanthorn light. + +They laid the pick-axe to the stones + And they moved them soon asunder. +They shovell'd away the hard-prest clay + And came to the coffin under. + +They burst the patent coffin first + And they cut thro' the lead, +And they laugh'd aloud when they saw the shroud + Because they had got at the dead. + +And they allowed the Sexton the shroud + And they put the coffin back, +And nose and knees they then did squeeze + The Surgeon in a sack. + +The watchmen as they past along + Full four yards off could smell, +And a curse bestowed upon the load + So disagreeable. + +So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back + And they carv'd him bone from bone, +But what became of the Surgeon's soul + Was never to mortal known. + + + + + + + + + +THE VICTORY. + + + Hark--how the church-bells thundering harmony + Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come, + Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships + Met on the element,--they met, they fought + A desperate fight!--good tidings of great joy! + Old England triumphed! yet another day + Of glory for the ruler of the waves! + For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause, + They have their passing paragraphs of praise + And are forgotten. + There was one who died + In that day's glory, whose obscurer name + No proud historian's page will chronicle. + Peace to his honest soul! I read his name, + 'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God + The sound was not familiar to mine ear. + But it was told me after that this man + Was one whom lawful violence [1] had forced + From his own home and wife and little ones, + Who by his labour lived; that he was one + Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel + A husband's love, a father's anxiousness, + That from the wages of his toil he fed + The distant dear ones, and would talk of them + At midnight when he trod the silent deck + With him he valued, talk of them, of joys + That he had known--oh God! and of the hour + When they should meet again, till his full heart + His manly heart at last would overflow + Even like a child's with very tenderness. + Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly + It came, and merciful the ball of death, + For it came suddenly and shattered him, + And left no moment's agonizing thought + On those he loved so well. + He ocean deep + Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter + Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know + What a cold sickness made her blood run back + When first she heard the tidings of the fight; + Man does not know with what a dreadful hope + She listened to the names of those who died, + Man does not know, or knowing will not heed, + With what an agony of tenderness + She gazed upon her children, and beheld + His image who was gone. Oh God! be thou + Her comforter who art the widow's friend! + + +[Footnote 1: The person alluded to was pressed into the service.] + + + + + + + + + +HENRY THE HERMIT. + + + It was a little island where he dwelt, + Or rather a lone rock, barren and bleak, + Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots + Its gray stone surface. Never mariner + Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast, + Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark + Anchored beside its shore. It was a place + Befitting well a rigid anchoret, + Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys + And purposes of life; and he had dwelt + Many long years upon that lonely isle, + For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms, + Honours and friends and country and the world, + And had grown old in solitude. That isle + Some solitary man in other times + Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found + The little chapel that his toil had built + Now by the storms unroofed, his bed of leaves + Wind-scattered, and his grave o'ergrown with grass, + And thistles, whose white seeds winged in vain + Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost. + So he repaired the chapel's ruined roof, + Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone, + And underneath a rock that shelter'd him + From the sea blasts, he built his hermitage. + + The peasants from the shore would bring him food + And beg his prayers; but human converse else + He knew not in that utter solitude, + Nor ever visited the haunts of men + Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed + Implored his blessing and his aid in death. + That summons he delayed not to obey, + Tho' the night tempest or autumnal wind. + Maddened the waves, and tho' the mariner, + Albeit relying on his saintly load, + Grew pale to see the peril. So he lived + A most austere and self-denying man, + Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness + Exhausted him, and it was pain at last + To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less + Tho' with reluctance of infirmity, + He rose at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal + More self-condemning fervour rais'd his voice + For pardon for that sin, 'till that the sin + Repented was a joy like a good deed. + + One night upon the shore his chapel bell + Was heard; the air was calm, and its far sounds + Over the water came distinct and loud. + Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear + Its toll irregular, a monk arose. + The boatmen bore him willingly across + For well the hermit Henry was beloved. + He hastened to the chapel, on a stone + Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff and dead, + The bell-rope in his band, and at his feet + The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light + + +[Footnote 1: This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608.] + + + + + + + + + +English Eclogues. + +The following Eclogues I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in +our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, +and I was induced to attempt by an account of the German Idylls given me +in conversation. They cannot properly be stiled imitations, as I am +ignorant of that language at present, and have never seen any +translations or specimens in this kind. + +With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from ??tyrus [1] and +Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsises. No kind of poetry +can boast of more illustrious names or is more distinguished by the +servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers "more silly than +their sheep" have like their sheep gone on in the same track one after +another. Gay stumbled into a new path. His eclogues were the only ones +that interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were +burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for a long essay, but this +is not the place for it. + +How far poems requiring almost a colloquial plainness of language may +accord with the public taste I am doubtful. They have been subjected to +able criticism and revised with care. I have endeavoured to make them +true to nature. + + +[Footnote 1: The letters of this name are illegible (worn away?) in +the original text; from the remaining bits I have guessed all but the +first two, which are not visible under any magnification. text Ed.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE I. + + +THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE. + + + +STRANGER. + Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, + Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task + Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours. + + +OLD MAN. + Why yes! for one with such a weight of years + Upon his back. I've lived here, man and boy, + In this same parish, near the age of man + For I am hard upon threescore and ten. + I can remember sixty years ago + The beautifying of this mansion here + When my late Lady's father, the old Squire + Came to the estate. + + +STRANGER. + Why then you have outlasted + All his improvements, for you see they're making + Great alterations here. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye-great indeed! + And if my poor old Lady could rise up-- + God rest her soul! 'twould grieve her to behold + The wicked work is here. + + +STRANGER. + They've set about it + In right good earnest. All the front is gone, + Here's to be turf they tell me, and a road + Round to the door. There were some yew trees too + Stood in the court. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye Master! fine old trees! + My grandfather could just remember back + When they were planted there. It was my task + To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me! + All strait and smooth, and like a great green wall! + My poor old Lady many a time would come + And tell me where to shear, for she had played + In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride + To keep them in their beauty. Plague I say + On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have + A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs + And your pert poplar trees;--I could as soon + Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down! + + +STRANGER. + But 'twill be lighter and more chearful now, + A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road + Round for the carriage,--now it suits my taste. + I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh, + And then there's some variety about it. + In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose, + And the laburnum with its golden flowers + Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes + The bright red berries of the mountain ash, + With firs enough in winter to look green, + And show that something lives. Sure this is better + Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look + All the year round like winter, and for ever + Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs + So dry and bare! + + +OLD MAN. + Ah! so the new Squire thinks + And pretty work he makes of it! what 'tis + To have a stranger come to an old house! + + +STRANGER. + + It seems you know him not? + + +OLD MAN. + No Sir, not I. + They tell me he's expected daily now, + But in my Lady's time he never came + But once, for they were very distant kin. + If he had played about here when a child + In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries, + And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers, + That fell so thick, he had not had the heart + To mar all thus. + + +STRANGER. + Come--come! all a not wrong. + Those old dark windows-- + + +OLD MAN. + They're demolish'd too-- + As if he could not see thro' casement glass! + The very red-breasts that so regular + Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs, + Won't know the window now! + + +STRANGER. + Nay they were high + And then so darken'd up with jessamine, + Harbouring the vermine;--that was a fine tree + However. Did it not grow in and line + The porch? + + +OLD MAN. + All over it: it did one good + To pass within ten yards when 'twas in blossom. + There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside. + My Lady loved at evening to sit there + And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet + And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favourite dog + She did not love him less that he was old + And feeble, and he always had a place + By the fire-side, and when he died at last + She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. + Ah I she was good to all! a woful day + 'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! + + +STRANGER. + They lost a friend then? + + +OLD MAN. + You're a stranger here + Or would not ask that question. Were they sick? + She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs + She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter + When weekly she distributed the bread + In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear + The blessings on her! and I warrant them + They were a blessing to her when her wealth + Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir! + It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen + Her Christmas kitchen,--how the blazing fire + Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs + So chearful red,--and as for misseltoe, + The finest bough that grew in the country round + Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went + So bountiful about! a Christmas cask, + And 'twas a noble one! God help me Sir! + But I shall never see such days again. + + +STRANGER. + Things may be better yet than you suppose + And you should hope the best. + + +OLD MAN. + It don't look well + These alterations Sir! I'm an old man + And love the good old fashions; we don't find + Old bounty in new houses. They've destroyed + All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk + Grubb'd up, and they do say that the great row + Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top + They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think + To live to see all this, and 'tis perhaps + A comfort I shan't live to see it long. + + +STRANGER. + But sure all changes are not needs for the worse + My friend. + + +OLD MAN. + May-hap they mayn't Sir;--for all that + I like what I've been us'd to. I remember + All this from a child up, and now to lose it, + 'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left + As 'twas;--I go abroad and only meet + With men whose fathers I remember boys; + The brook that used to run before my door + That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt + To climb are down; and I see nothing now + That tells me of old times, except the stones + In the church-yard. You are young Sir and I hope + Have many years in store,--but pray to God + You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. + + +STRANGER. + Well! well! you've one friend more than you're aware of. + If the Squire's taste don't suit with your's, I warrant + That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste + His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady + E'er broached a better cask. You did not know me, + But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy + To make you like the outside; but within-- + That is not changed my friend! you'll always find + The same old bounty and old welcome there. + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE II. + + +THE GRANDMOTHERS TALE. + + + +JANE. + Harry! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round + The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us + One of her stories. + + +HARRY. + Aye--dear Grandmamma! + A pretty story! something dismal now; + A bloody murder. + + +JANE. + Or about a ghost. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Nay, nay, I should but frighten you. You know + The other night when I was telling you + About the light in the church-yard, how you trembled + Because the screech-owl hooted at the window, + And would not go to bed. + + +JANE. + Why Grandmamma + You said yourself you did not like to hear him. + Pray now! we wo'nt be frightened. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Well, well, children! + But you've heard all my stories. Let me see,-- + Did I never tell you how the smuggler murdered + The woman down at Pill? + + +HARRY. + No--never! never! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Not how he cut her head off in the stable? + + +HARRY. + Oh--now! do tell us that! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + You must have heard + Your Mother, children! often tell of her. + She used to weed in the garden here, and worm + Your uncle's dogs [1], and serve the house with coal; + And glad enough she was in winter time + To drive her asses here! it was cold work + To follow the slow beasts thro' sleet and snow, + And here she found a comfortable meal + And a brave fire to thaw her, for poor Moll + Was always welcome. + + +HARRY. + Oh--'twas blear-eyed Moll + The collier woman,--a great ugly woman, + I've heard of her. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Ugly enough poor soul! + At ten yards distance you could hardly tell + If it were man or woman, for her voice + Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore + A man's old coat and hat,--and then her face! + There was a merry story told of her, + How when the press-gang came to take her husband + As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, + Drest John up in her night-cap, and herself + Put on his clothes and went before the Captain. + + +JANE. + And so they prest a woman! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + 'Twas a trick + She dearly loved to tell, and all the country + Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel + For miles around. All weathers and all hours + She crossed the hill, as hardy as her beasts, + Bearing the wind and rain and winter frosts, + And if she did not reach her home at night + She laid her down in the stable with her asses + And slept as sound as they did. + + +HARRY. + With her asses! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Yes, and she loved her beasts. For tho' poor wretch + She was a terrible reprobate and swore + Like any trooper, she was always good + To the dumb creatures, never loaded them + Beyond their strength, and rather I believe + Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want, + Because, she said, they could not ask for food. + I never saw her stick fall heavier on them + Than just with its own weight. She little thought + This tender-heartedness would be her death! + There was a fellow who had oftentimes, + As if he took delight in cruelty. + Ill-used her Asses. He was one who lived + By smuggling, and, for she had often met him + Crossing the down at night, she threatened him, + If he tormented them again, to inform + Of his unlawful ways. Well--so it was-- + 'Twas what they both were born to, he provoked her, + She laid an information, and one morn + They found her in the stable, her throat cut + From ear to ear,'till the head only hung + Just by a bit of skin. + + +JANE. + Oh dear! oh dear! + + +HARRY. + I hope they hung the man! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + They took him up; + There was no proof, no one had seen the deed, + And he was set at liberty. But God + Whoss eye beholdeth all things, he had seen + The murder, and the murderer knew that God + Was witness to his crime. He fled the place, + But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand + Of heaven, but nowhere could the murderer rest, + A guilty conscience haunted him, by day, + By night, in company, in solitude, + Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him + The weight of blood; her cries were in his ears, + Her stifled groans as when he knelt upon her + Always he heard; always he saw her stand + Before his eyes; even in the dead of night + Distinctly seen as tho' in the broad sun, + She stood beside the murderer's bed and yawn'd + Her ghastly wound; till life itself became + A punishment at last he could not bear, + And he confess'd [2] it all, and gave himself + To death, so terrible, he said, it was + To have a guilty conscience! + + +HARRY. + Was he hung then? + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man, + Your uncles went to see him on his trial, + He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed, + And such a horror in his meagre face, + They said he look'd like one who never slept. + He begg'd the prayers of all who saw his end + And met his death with fears that well might warn + From guilt, tho' not without a hope in Christ. + + +[Footnote 1: I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common +in other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from doing +any mischief should they afterwards become mad.] + +[Footnote 2: There must be many persons living who remember these +circumstances. They happened two or three and twenty years ago, in the +neighbourhood of Bristol. The woman's name was Bees. The stratagem by +which she preserved her husband from the press-gang, is also true.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE III. + + +THE FUNERAL. + + + + The coffin [1] as I past across the lane + Came sudden on my view. It was not here, + A sight of every day, as in the streets + Of the great city, and we paus'd and ask'd + Who to the grave was going. It was one, + A village girl, they told us, who had borne + An eighteen months strange illness, and had pined + With such slow wasting that the hour of death + Came welcome to her. We pursued our way + To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk + That passes o'er the mind and is forgot, + We wore away the time. But it was eve + When homewardly I went, and in the air + Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade + That makes the eye turn inward. Then I heard + Over the vale the heavy toll of death + Sound slow; it made me think upon the dead, + I questioned more and learnt her sorrowful tale. + She bore unhusbanded a mother's name, + And he who should have cherished her, far off + Sail'd on the seas, self-exil'd from his home, + For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched one, + Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues + Were busy with her name. She had one ill + Heavier, neglect, forgetfulness from him + Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote, + But only once that drop of comfort came + To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; + And when his parents had some tidings from him, + There was no mention of poor Hannah there, + Or 'twas the cold enquiry, bitterer + Than silence. So she pined and pined away + And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd, + Nor did she, even on her death bed, rest + From labour, knitting with her outstretch'd arms + Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother + Omitted no kind office, and she work'd + Hard, and with hardest working barely earn'd + Enough to make life struggle and prolong + The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay + On the sick bed of poverty, so worn + With her long suffering and that painful thought + That at her heart lay rankling, and so weak, + That she could make no effort to express + Affection for her infant; and the child, + Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her + With a strange infantine ingratitude + Shunn'd her as one indifferent. She was past + That anguish, for she felt her hour draw on, + And 'twas her only comfoft now to think + Upon the grave. "Poor girl!" her mother said, + "Thou hast suffered much!" "aye mother! there is none + "Can tell what I have suffered!" she replied, + "But I shall soon be where the weary rest." + And she did rest her soon, for it pleased God + To take her to his mercy. + + +[Footnote 1: It is proper to remark that the story related in this +Eclogue is strictly true. I met the funeral, and learnt the +circumstances in a village in Hampshire. The indifference of the child +was mentioned to me; indeed no addition whatever has been made to the +story. I should have thought it wrong to have weakened the effect of a +faithful narrative by adding any thing.] + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE IV. + + +THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. + + + +WOMAN. + Sir for the love of God some small relief + To a poor woman! + + +TRAVELLER. + Whither are you bound? + 'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, + No house for miles around us, and the way + Dreary and wild. The evening wind already + Makes one's teeth chatter, and the very Sun, + Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, + Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night! + + +WOMAN. + Aye Sir + 'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath, + Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end, + For the way is long before me, and my feet, + God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly, + If it pleased God, lie down at once and die. + + +TRAVELLER. + Nay nay cheer up! a little food and rest + Will comfort you; and then your journey's end + Will make amends for all. You shake your head, + And weep. Is it some evil business then + That leads you from your home? + + +WOMAN. + Sir I am going + To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt + In the late action, and in the hospital + Dying, I fear me, now. + + +TRAVELLER. + Perhaps your fears + Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost + There may be still enough for comfort left + An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart + To keep life warm, and he may live to talk + With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd him, + Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude + Makes the maim'd sailor happy. + + +WOMAN. + 'Tis not that-- + An arm or leg--I could have borne with that. + 'Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing + That bursts [1] and burns that hurt him. Something Sir + They do not use on board our English ships + It is so wicked! + + +TRAVELLER. + Rascals! a mean art + Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain! + + +WOMAN. + Yes Sir! and they should show no mercy to them + For making use of such unchristian arms. + I had a letter from the hospital, + He got some friend to write it, and he tells me + That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes, + Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever live + To see this wretched day!--they tell me Sir + There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed + 'Tis a hard journey that I go upon + To such a dismal end! + + +TRAVELLER. + He yet may live. + But if the worst should chance, why you must bear + The will of heaven with patience. Were it not + Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen + Fighting his country's cause? and for yourself + You will not in unpitied poverty + Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country + Amid the triumph of her victory + Remember those who paid its price of blood, + And with a noble charity relieves + The widow and the orphan. + + +WOMAN. + God reward them! + God bless them, it will help me in my age + But Sir! it will not pay me for my child! + + +TRAVELLER. + Was he your only child? + + +WOMAN. + My only one, + The stay and comfort of my widowhood, + A dear good boy!--when first he went to sea + I felt what it would come to,--something told me + I should be childless soon. But tell me Sir + If it be true that for a hurt like his + There is no cure? please God to spare his life + Tho' he be blind, yet I should be so thankful! + I can remember there was a blind man + Lived in our village, one from his youth up + Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, + And he had none to tend on him so well + As I would tend my boy! + + +TRAVELLER. + Of this be sure + His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help + The place affords, as rightly is his due, + Ever at hand. How happened it he left you? + Was a seafaring life his early choice? + + +WOMAN. + No Sir! poor fellow--he was wise enough + To be content at home, and 'twas a home + As comfortable Sir I even tho' I say it, + As any in the country. He was left + A little boy when his poor father died, + Just old enough to totter by himself + And call his mother's name. We two were all, + And as we were not left quite destitute + We bore up well. In the summer time I worked + Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting, + And in long winter nights my spinning wheel + Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too + And never felt distress. So he grew up + A comely lad and wonderous well disposed; + I taught him well; there was not in the parish + A child who said his prayers more regular, + Or answered readier thro' his catechism. + If I had foreseen this! but 'tis a blessing + We do'nt know what we're born to! + + +TRAVELLER. + But how came it + He chose to be a Sailor? + + +WOMAN. + You shall hear Sir; + As he grew up he used to watch the birds + In the corn, child's work you know, and easily done. + 'Tis an idle sort of task, so he built up + A little hut of wicker-work and clay + Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain. + And then he took for very idleness + To making traps to catch the plunderers, + All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make-- + Propping a stone to fall and shut them in, + Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe + Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly-- + And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased + To see the boy so handy. You may guess + What followed Sir from this unlucky skill. + He did what he should not when he was older: + I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught + In wiring hares at last, and had his choice + The prison or the ship. + + +TRAVELLER. + The choice at least + Was kindly left him, and for broken laws + This was methinks no heavy punishment. + + +WOMAN. + So I was told Sir. And I tried to think so, + But 'twas a sad blow to me! I was used + To sleep at nights soundly and undisturb'd-- + Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start + And think of my poor boy tossing about + Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem'd + To feel that it was hard to take him from me + For such a little fault. But he was wrong + Oh very wrong--a murrain on his traps! + See what they've brought him too! + + +TRAVELLER. + Well! well! take comfort + He will be taken care of if he lives; + And should you lose your child, this is a country + Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent + To weep for him in want. + + +WOMAN. + Sir I shall want + No succour long. In the common course of years + I soon must be at rest, and 'tis a comfort + When grief is hard upon me to reflect + It only leads me to that rest the sooner. + + +[Footnote 1: The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the +engagement between the Mars and L'Hercule, some of our sailors were +shockingly mangled by them: One in particular, as described in the +Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be policy and humanity to employ +means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to +destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only inflicts +additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is cruel and +wicked.] + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE V. + + +THE WITCH. + + + +NATHANIEL. + Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe! + Faith it was just in time, for t'other night + I laid two straws across at Margery's door, + And afterwards I fear'd that she might do me + A mischief for't. There was the Miller's boy + Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, + I met him upon crutches, and he told me + 'Twas all her evil eye. + + +FATHER. + 'Tis rare good luck; + I would have gladly given a crown for one + If t'would have done as well. But where did'st find it? + + +NATHANIEL. + Down on the Common; I was going a-field + And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare; + He had hardly said "good day," before I saw + The shoe drop off; 'twas just upon my tongue + To call him back,--it makes no difference, does it. + Because I know whose 'twas? + + +FATHER. + Why no, it can't. + The shoe's the same you know, and you 'did find' it. + + +NATHANIEL. + That mare of his has got a plaguey road + To travel, father, and if he should lame her, + For she is but tender-footed,-- + + +FATHER. + Aye, indeed-- + I should not like to see her limping back + Poor beast! but charity begins at home, + And Nat, there's our own horse in such a way + This morning! + + +NATHANIEL. + Why he ha'nt been rid again! + Last night I hung a pebble by the manger + With a hole thro', and every body says + That 'tis a special charm against the hags. + + +FATHER. + It could not be a proper natural hole then, + Or 'twas not a right pebble,--for I found him + Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, + And panting so! God knows where he had been + When we were all asleep, thro' bush and brake + Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch + At such a deadly rate!-- + + +NATHANIEL. + By land and water, + Over the sea perhaps!--I have heard tell + That 'tis some thousand miles, almost at the end + Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. + They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear + Some ointment over them and then away + Out of the window! but 'tis worse than all + To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it + That in a Christian country they should let + Such creatures live! + + +FATHER. + And when there's such plain proof! + I did but threaten her because she robb'd + Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind + That made me shake to hear it in my bed! + How came it that that storm unroofed my barn, + And only mine in the parish? look at her + And that's enough; she has it in her face-- + A pair of large dead eyes, rank in her head, + Just like a corpse, and purs'd with wrinkles round, + A nose and chin that scarce leave room between + For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff, + And when she speaks! I'd sooner hear a raven + Croak at my door! she sits there, nose and knees + Smoak-dried and shrivell'd over a starved fire, + With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes + Shine like old Beelzebub's, and to be sure + It must be one of his imps!--aye, nail it hard. + + +NATHANIEL. + I wish old Margery heard the hammer go! + She'd curse the music. + + +FATHER. + Here's the Curate coming, + He ought to rid the parish of such vermin; + In the old times they used to hunt them out + And hang them without mercy, but Lord bless us! + The world is grown so wicked! + + +CURATE. + Good day Farmer! + Nathaniel what art nailing to the threshold? + + +NATHANIEL. + A horse-shoe Sir, 'tis good to keep off witchcraft, + And we're afraid of Margery. + + +CURATE. + Poor old woman! + What can you fear from her? + + +FATHER. + What can we fear? + Who lamed the Miller's boy? who rais'd the wind + That blew my old barn's roof down? who d'ye think + Rides my poor horse a'nights? who mocks the hounds? + But let me catch her at that trick again, + And I've a silver bullet ready for her, + One that shall lame her, double how she will. + + +NATHANIEL. + What makes her sit there moping by herself, + With no soul near her but that great black cat? + And do but look at her! + + +CURATE. + Poor wretch! half blind + And crooked with her years, without a child + Or friend in her old age, 'tis hard indeed + To have her very miseries made her crimes! + I met her but last week in that hard frost + That made my young limbs ache, and when I ask'd + What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman + Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad + And pick the hedges, just to keep herself + From perishing with cold, because no neighbour + Had pity on her age; and then she cried, + And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, + And wish'd that she were dead. + + +FATHER. + I wish she was! + She has plagued the parish long enough! + + +CURATE. + Shame farmer! + Is that the charity your bible teaches? + + +FATHER. + My bible does not teach me to love witches. + I know what's charity; who pays his tithes + And poor-rates readier? + + +CURATE. + Who can better do it? + You've been a prudent and industrious man, + And God has blest your labour. + + +FATHER. + Why, thank God Sir, + I've had no reason to complain of fortune. + + +CURATE. + Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish + Look up to you. + + +FATHER. + Perhaps Sir, I could tell + Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. + + +CURATE. + You can afford a little to the poor, + And then what's better still, you have the heart + To give from your abundance. + + +FATHER. + God forbid + I should want charity! + + +CURATE. + Oh! 'tis a comfort + To think at last of riches well employ'd! + I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth + Of a good deed at that most awful hour + When riches profit not. + Farmer, I'm going + To visit Margery. She is sick I hear-- + Old, poor, and sick! a miserable lot, + And death will be a blessing. You might send her + Some little matter, something comfortable, + That she may go down easier to the grave + And bless you when she dies. + + +FATHER. + What! is she going! + Well God forgive her then! if she has dealt + In the black art. I'll tell my dame of it, + And she shall send her something. + + +CURATE. + So I'll say; + And take my thanks for her's. ['goes'] + + +FATHER. + That's a good man + That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit + The poor in sickness; but he don't believe + In witchcraft, and that is not like a christian. + + +NATHANIEL. + And so old Margery's dying! + + +FATHER. + But you know + She may recover; so drive t'other nail in! + + + + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE VI. + + +THE RUINED COTTAGE. + + + + Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye, + This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch, + Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower + Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock + That thro' the creeping weeds and nettles tall + Peers taller, and uplifts its column'd stem + Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen + Many a fallen convent reverend in decay, + And many a time have trod the castle courts + And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike + Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts + As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch + Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof + Part mouldered in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds, + House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss; + So Nature wars with all the works of man. + And, like himself, reduces back to earth + His perishable piles. + I led thee here + Charles, not without design; for this hath been + My favourite walk even since I was a boy; + And I remember Charles, this ruin here, + The neatest comfortable dwelling place! + That when I read in those dear books that first + Woke in my heart the love of poesy, + How with the villagers Erminia dwelt, + And Calidore for a fair shepherdess + Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd's lore; + My fancy drew from, this the little hut + Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love, + Or where the gentle Calidore at eve + Led Pastorella home. There was not then + A weed where all these nettles overtop + The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet + The morning air, rosemary and marjoram, + All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath'd + So lavishly around the pillared porch + Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way, + After a truant absence hastening home, + I could not chuse but pass with slacken'd speed + By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed + Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!-- + Theirs is a simple melancholy tale, + There's scarce a village but can fellow it, + And yet methinks it will not weary thee, + And should not be untold. + A widow woman + Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want, + She lived on some small pittance that sufficed, + In better times, the needful calls of life, + Not without comfort. I remember her + Sitting at evening in that open door way + And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her + Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles + To see the passer by, yet ceasing not + To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden + On some dry summer evening, walking round + To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean'd + Upon the ivory handle of her stick, + To some carnation whose o'erheavy head + Needed support, while with the watering-pot + Joanna followed, and refresh'd and trimm'd + The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child, + As lovely and as happy then as youth + And innocence could make her. + Charles! it seems + As tho' I were a boy again, and all + The mediate years with their vicissitudes + A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid + So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair, + Her bright brown hair, wreath'd in contracting curls, + And then her cheek! it was a red and white + That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome, + The countrymen who on their way to church + Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear + The bell's last summons, and in idleness + Watching the stream below, would all look up + When she pass'd by. And her old Mother, Charles! + When I have beard some erring infidel + Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed, + Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness. + Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love + The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross'd + These fields in rain and thro' the winter snows. + When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself + By the fire-side, have wondered why 'she' came + Who might have sate at home. + One only care + Hung on her aged spirit. For herself, + Her path was plain before her, and the close + Of her long journey near. But then her child + Soon to be left alone in this bad world,-- + That was a thought that many a winter night + Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love + In something better than a servant's slate + Had placed her well at last, it was a pang + Like parting life to part with her dear girl. + + One summer, Charles, when at the holydays + Return'd from school, I visited again + My old accustomed walks, and found in them. + A joy almost like meeting an old friend, + I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds + Already crowding the neglected flowers. + Joanna by a villain's wiles seduced + Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach'd + Her mother's heart. She did not suffer long, + Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow + Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. + + I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes + And think of other days. It wakes in me + A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles + That ever with these recollections rise, + I trust in God they will not pass away. + + + + + + + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, 1799, by Robert Southey + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + +***** This file should be named 8639.txt or 8639.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/6/3/8639/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Poems, 1799 + +Author: Robert Southey + +Release Date: August, 2005 [EBook #8639] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 29, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + +POEMS, + +by + +Robert Southey. + + + + The better, please; the worse, displease; I ask no more. + + SPENSER. + + + +THE SECOND VOLUME. + + + +CONTENTS. + + + THE VISION of THE MAID of ORLEANS. + + Book 1 + 2 + 3 + + + The Rose + + The Complaints of the Poor + + Metrical Letter + + + BALLADS. + + The Cross Roads. + + The Sailor who had served in the Slave Trade + + Jaspar + + Lord William + + A Ballad shewing how an old woman rode double + and who rode before her + + The Surgeon's Warning + + The Victory + + Henry the Hermit + + + ENGLISH ECLOGUES. + + The Old Mansion House + + The Grandmother's Tale + + The Funeral + + The Sailor's Mother + + The Witch + + The Ruined Cottage + + + + + + + + + + +The Vision + +of + +The Maid of Orleans. + + + + + Divinity hath oftentimes descended + Upon our slumbers, and the blessed troupes + Have, in the calme and quiet of the soule, + Conversed with us. + + SHIRLEY. 'The Grateful Servant' + + + + + + +[Sidenote: The following Vision was originally printed as the ninth book +of 'JOAN of ARC'. It is now adapted to the improved edition of that +Poem.] + + + + + + +THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE FIRST BOOK. + + + + Orleans was hush'd in sleep. Stretch'd on her couch + The delegated Maiden lay: with toil + Exhausted and sore anguish, soon she closed + Her heavy eye-lids; not reposing then, + For busy Phantasy, in other scenes + Awakened. Whether that superior powers, + By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream, + Instructing so the passive [1] faculty; + Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog, + Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world, + And all things 'are' that [2] 'seem'. + + Along a moor, + Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate, + She roam'd a wanderer thro' the cheerless night. + Far thro' the silence of the unbroken plain + The bittern's boom was heard, hoarse, heavy, deep, + It made most fitting music to the scene. + Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind, + Swept shadowing; thro' their broken folds the moon + Struggled sometimes with transitory ray, + And made the moving darkness visible. + And now arrived beside a fenny lake + She stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarse + The long sedge rustled to the gales of night. + An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell'd + By powers unseen; then did the moon display + Where thro' the crazy vessel's yawning side + The muddy wave oozed in: a female guides, + And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan'd + As melancholy mournful to her ear, + As ever by the dungeon'd wretch was heard + Howling at evening round the embattled towers + Of that hell-house [3] of France, ere yet sublime + The almighty people from their tyrant's hand + Dash'd down the iron rod. + Intent the Maid + Gazed on the pilot's form, and as she gazed + Shiver'd, for wan her face was, and her eyes + Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep, + Channell'd by tears; a few grey locks hung down + Beneath her hood: then thro' the Maiden's veins + Chill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass'd, + Lifting her tattcr'd mantle, coil'd around + She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart. + + The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by, + And the night-raven's scream came fitfully, + Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid + Look'd to the shore, and now upon the bank + Leaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling still + In recollection. + + There, a mouldering pile + Stretch'd its wide ruins, o'er the plain below + Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon + Shone thro' its fretted windows: the dark Yew, + Withering with age, branched there its naked roots, + And there the melancholy Cypress rear'd + Its head; the earth was heav'd with many a mound, + And here and there a half-demolish'd tomb. + + And now, amid the ruin's darkest shade, + The Virgin's eye beheld where pale blue flames + Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth, + And now in darkness drown'd. An aged man + Sat near, seated on what in long-past days + Had been some sculptur'd monument, now fallen + And half-obscured by moss, and gathered heaps + Of withered yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones; + And shining in the ray was seen the track + Of slimy snail obscene. Composed his look, + His eye was large and rayless, and fix'd full + Upon the Maid; the blue flames on his face + Stream'd a pale light; his face was of the hue + Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud. + + Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice, + Exclaim'd the Spectre, "Welcome to these realms, + These regions of DESPAIR! O thou whose steps + By GRIEF conducted to these sad abodes + Have pierced; welcome, welcome to this gloom + Eternal, to this everlasting night, + Where never morning darts the enlivening ray, + Where never shines the sun, but all is dark, + Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King." + + So saying he arose, and by the hand + The Virgin seized with such a death-cold touch + As froze her very heart; and drawing on, + Her, to the abbey's inner ruin, led + Resistless. Thro' the broken roof the moon + Glimmer'd a scatter'd ray; the ivy twined + Round the dismantled column; imaged forms + Of Saints and warlike Chiefs, moss-canker'd now + And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground, + With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen, + And rusted trophies; and amid the heap + Some monument's defaced legend spake + All human glory vain. + + The loud blast roar'd + Amid the pile; and from the tower the owl + Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest. + He, silent, led her on, and often paus'd, + And pointed, that her eye might contemplate + At leisure the drear scene. + He dragged her on + Thro' a low iron door, down broken stairs; + Then a cold horror thro' the Maiden's frame + Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw, + By the sepulchral lamp's dim glaring light, + The fragments of the dead. + "Look here!" he cried, + "Damsel, look here! survey this house of Death; + O soon to tenant it! soon to increase + These trophies of mortality! for hence + Is no return. Gaze here! behold this skull, + These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws, + That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mock + Thy perishable charms; for thus thy cheek + Must moulder. Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul, + Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heart + At the dread thought, that here its life's-blood soon + Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon + With the cold clod? a thought most horrible! + So only dreadful, for reality + Is none of suffering here; here all is peace; + No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave. + Dreadful it is to think of losing life; + But having lost, knowledge of loss is not, + Therefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose; + Probe deep the seat of life." + So spake DESPAIR + The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice, + And all again was silence. Quick her heart + Panted. He drew a dagger from his breast, + And cried again, "Haste Damsel to repose! + One blow, and rest for ever!" On the Fiend + Dark scowl'd the Virgin with indignant eye, + And dash'd the dagger down. He next his heart + Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid + Along the downward vault. + The damp earth gave + A dim sound as they pass'd: the tainted air + Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews. + "Behold!" the fiend exclaim'd, "how gradual here + The fleshly burden of mortality + Moulders to clay!" then fixing his broad eye + Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse + Lay livid; she beheld with loathing look, + The spectacle abhorr'd by living man. + + "Look here!" DESPAIR pursued, "this loathsome mass + Was once as lovely, and as full of life + As, Damsel! thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes + Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence, + And where thou seest the pamper'd flesh-worm trail, + Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought + That at the hallowed altar, soon the Priest + Should bless her coming union, and the torch + Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy, + Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earth + That Priest consign'd her, and the funeral lamp + Glares on her cold face; for her lover went + By glory lur'd to war, and perish'd there; + Nor she endur'd to live. Ha! fades thy cheek? + Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale? + Look here! behold the youthful paramour! + The self-devoted hero!" + Fearfully + The Maid look'd down, and saw the well known face + Of THEODORE! in thoughts unspeakable, + Convulsed with horror, o'er her face she clasp'd + Her cold damp hands: "Shrink not," the Phantom cried, + "Gaze on! for ever gaze!" more firm he grasp'd + Her quivering arm: "this lifeless mouldering clay, + As well thou know'st, was warm with all the glow + Of Youth and Love; this is the arm that cleaved + Salisbury's proud crest, now motionless in death, + Unable to protect the ravaged frame + From the foul Offspring of Mortality + That feed on heroes. Tho' long years were thine, + Yet never more would life reanimate + This murdered man; murdered by thee! for thou + Didst lead him to the battle from his home, + Else living there in peace to good old age: + In thy defence he died: strike deep! destroy + Remorse with Life." + The Maid stood motionless, + And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand + Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried, + "Avaunt DESPAIR! Eternal Wisdom deals + Or peace to man, or misery, for his good + Alike design'd; and shall the Creature cry, + Why hast thou done this? and with impious pride + Destroy the life God gave?" + The Fiend rejoin'd, + "And thou dost deem it impious to destroy + The life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lot + Assigned to mortal man? born but to drag, + Thro' life's long pilgrimage, the wearying load + Of being; care corroded at the heart; + Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills + That flesh inherits; till at length worn out, + This is his consummation!--think again! + What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd life + But lengthen'd sorrow? If protracted long, + Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs + Outstretch their languid length, oh think what thoughts, + What agonizing woes, in that dread hour, + Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse, + Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew + The shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force, + Mightiest in impotence, the love of life + Seizes the throbbing heart, the faltering lips + Pour out the impious prayer, that fain would change + The unchangeable's decree, surrounding friends + Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears, + And all he loved in life embitters death! + + Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hour + Of calmest dissolution! yet weak man + Dares, in his timid piety, to live; + And veiling Fear in Superstition's garb, + He calls her Resignation! + Coward wretch! + Fond Coward! thus to make his Reason war + Against his Reason! Insect as he is, + This sport of Chance, this being of a day, + Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast, + Believes himself the care of heavenly powers, + That God regards Man, miserable Man, + And preaching thus of Power and Providence, + Will crush the reptile that may cross his path! + + Fool that thou art! the Being that permits + Existence, 'gives' to man the worthless boon: + A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest, + Bask in the sunshine of Prosperity, + And such do well to keep it. But to one + Sick at the heart with misery, and sore + With many a hard unmerited affliction, + It is a hair that chains to wretchedness + The slave who dares not burst it! + Thinkest thou, + The parent, if his child should unrecall'd + Return and fall upon his neck, and cry, + Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and full + Of vacant joys and heart-consuming cares, + I can be only happy in my home + With thee--my friend!--my father! Thinkest thou, + That he would thrust him as an outcast forth? + Oh I he would clasp the truant to his heart, + And love the trespass." + Whilst he spake, his eye + Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul + Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood, + Even as the wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave + Supply, before him sees the poison'd food + In greedy horror. + Yet not long the Maid + Debated, "Cease thy dangerous sophistry, + Eloquent tempter!" cried she. "Gloomy one! + What tho' affliction be my portion here, + Think'st thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy. + Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back + Upon a life of duty well perform'd, + Then lift mine eyes to Heaven, and there in faith + Know my reward? I grant, were this life all, + Was there no morning to the tomb's long night, + If man did mingle with the senseless clod, + Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed + A wise and friendly comforter! But, Fiend! + There is a morning to the tomb's long night, + A dawn of glory, a reward in Heaven, + He shall not gain who never merited. + If thou didst know the worth of one good deed + In life's last hour, thou would'st not bid me lose + The power to benefit; if I but save + A drowning fly, I shall not live in vain. + I have great duties, Fiend! me France expects, + Her heaven-doom'd Champion." + "Maiden, thou hast done + Thy mission here," the unbaffled Fiend replied: + "The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchance + Exulting in the pride of victory, + Forgettest him who perish'd! yet albeit + Thy harden'd heart forget the gallant youth; + That hour allotted canst thou not escape, + That dreadful hour, when Contumely and Shame + Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid! + Destined to drain the cup of bitterness, + Even to its dregs! England's inhuman Chiefs + Shall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame, + Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity, + And force such burning blushes to the cheek + Of Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish + The earth might cover thee! in that last hour, + When thy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the chains + That link thee to the stake; when o'er thy form, + Exposed unmantled, the brute multitude + Shall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt, + More painful than the circling flames that scorch + Each quivering member; wilt thou not in vain + Then wish my friendly aid? then wish thine ear + Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand + Had grasp'd the dagger, and in death preserved + Insulted modesty?" + Her glowing cheek + Blush'd crimson; her wide eye on vacancy + Was fix'd; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend, + Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, "too-timid Maid, + So long repugnant to the healing aid + My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold + The allotted length of life." + He stamp'd the earth, + And dragging a huge coffin as his car, + Two GOULS came on, of form more fearful-foul + Than ever palsied in her wildest dream + Hag-ridden Superstition. Then DESPAIR + Seiz'd on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still. + And placed her in the seat; and on they pass'd + Adown the deep descent. A meteor light + Shot from the Daemons, as they dragg'd along + The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethren glut + On carcasses. + Below the vault dilates + Its ample bulk. "Look here!"--DESPAIR addrest + The shuddering Virgin, "see the dome of DEATH!" + It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid + The entrails of the earth, as tho' to form + The grave of all mankind: no eye could reach, + Tho' gifted with the Eagle's ample ken, + Its distant bounds. There, thron'd in darkness, dwelt + The unseen POWER OF DEATH. + Here stopt the GOULS, + Reaching the destin'd spot. The Fiend leapt out, + And from the coffin, as he led the Maid, + Exclaim'd, "Where never yet stood mortal man, + Thou standest: look around this boundless vault; + Observe the dole that Nature deals to man, + And learn to know thy friend." + She not replied, + Observing where the Fates their several tasks + Plied ceaseless. "Mark how short the longest web + Allowed to man! he cried; observe how soon, + Twin'd round yon never-resting wheel, they change + Their snowy hue, darkening thro' many a shade, + Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!" + + Too true he spake, for of the countless threads, + Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn'd snow, + Or as the lovely lilly of the vale, + Was never one beyond the little span + Of infancy untainted: few there were + But lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue, + Or deeper sable [4] died. Two Genii stood, + Still as the web of Being was drawn forth, + Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn, + The one unsparing dash'd the bitter wave + Of woe; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow + Relax'd to a hard smile. The milder form + Shed less profusely there his lesser store; + Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon, + Mourning the lot of man; and happy he + Who on his thread those precious drops receives; + If it be happiness to have the pulse + Throb fast with pity, and in such a world + Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches + With anguish at the sight of human woe. + + To her the Fiend, well hoping now success, + "This is thy thread! observe how short the span, + And see how copious yonder Genius pours + The bitter stream of woe." The Maiden saw + Fearless. "Now gaze!" the tempter Fiend exclaim'd, + And placed again the poniard in her hand, + For SUPERSTITION, with sulphureal torch + Stalk'd to the loom. "This, Damsel, is thy fate! + The hour draws on--now drench the dagger deep! + Now rush to happier worlds!" + The Maid replied, + "Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven, + Impious I strive not: be that will perform'd!" + + +[Footnote 1: + + May fays of Serapis, + Erudit at placide humanam per somnia mentem, + Nocturnque quiete docet; nulloque labore + Hic tantum parta est pretiosa scientia, nullo + Excutitur studio verum. Mortalia corda + Tunc Deus iste docet, cum sunt minus apta doceri, + Cum nullum obsequium prstant, meritisque fatentur + Nil sese debere suis; tunc recta scientes + Cum nil scire valent. Non illo tempore sensus + Humanos forsan dignatur numen inire, + Cum propriis possunt per se discursibus uti, + Ne forte human ratio divina coiret. + +'Sup Lucani'.] + + +[Footnote 2: I have met with a singular tale to illustrate this +spiritual theory of dreams. + +Guntram, King of the Franks, was liberal to the poor, and he himself +experienced the wonderful effects of divine liberality. For one day as +he was hunting in a forest he was separated from his companions and +arrived at a little stream of water with only one comrade of tried and +approved fidelity. Here he found himself opprest by drowsiness, and +reclining his head upon the servant's lap went to sleep. The servant +witnessed a wonderful thing, for he saw a little beast ('bestiolam') +creep out of the mouth of his sleeping master, and go immediately to the +streamlet, which it vainly attempted to cross. The servant drew his +sword and laid it across the water, over which the little beast easily +past and crept into a hole of a mountain on the opposite side; from +whence it made its appearance again in an hour, and returned by the same +means into the King's mouth. The King then awakened, and told his +companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon the bank of an +immense river, which he had crossed by a bridge of iron, and from thence +came to a mountain in which a great quantity of gold was concealed. When +the King had concluded, the servant related what he had beheld, and they +both went to examine the mountain, where upon digging they discovered an +immense weight of gold. + +I stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled SPHINX +'Theologico-Philosophica. Authore Johanne Heidfeldio, Ecclesiaste +Ebersbachiano.' 1621. + +The same story is in Matthew of Westminster; it is added that Guntram +applied the treasures thus found to pious uses. + +For the truth of this theory there is the evidence of a Monkish miracle. +When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian and visit the world of +souls, his guide said to him, "let thy body rest in the bed for thy +spirit only is about to depart with me; and lest the body should appear +dead, I will send into it a vital breath." + +The body however by a strange sympathy was affected like the spirit; for +when the foul and fetid smoke that arose from tithes witheld, had nearly +suffocated Thurcillus, and made him cough twice, those who were near his +body said that it coughed twice about the same time. + +'Matthew Paris'.] + + +[Footnote 3: The Bastille. The expression is in one of Fuller's works, +an Author from whose quaintness and ingenuity I have always found +amusement, and sometimes assistance.] + + +[Footnote 4: These lines strongly resemble a passage in the Pharonnida +of William Chamberlayne, a Poet who has told an interesting story in +uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and beauty of +expression, with the quaintest conceits, and most awkward inversions. + + + On a rock more high + Than Nature's common surface, she beholds + The Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds + Its sacred mysteries. A trine within + A quadrate placed, both these encompast in + A perfect circle was its form; but what + Its matter was, for us to wonder at, + Is undiscovered left. A Tower there stands + At every angle, where Time's fatal hands + The impartial PARC dwell; i' the first she sees + CLOTHO the kindest of the Destinies, + From immaterial essences to cull + The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool + For LACHESIS to spin; about her flie + Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie + Warm'd with their functions in, whose strength bestows + That power by which man ripe for misery grows. + + Her next of objects was that glorious tower + Where that swift-fingered Nymph that spares no hour + From mortals' service, draws the various threads + Of life in several lengths; to weary beds + Of age extending some, whilst others in + Their infancy are broke: 'some blackt in sin, + Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whence + Their origin, candid with innocence; + Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed + In sanguine pleasures': some in glittering pride + Spun to adorn the earth, whilst others wear + Rags of deformity, but knots of care + No thread was wholly free from. Next to this + Fair glorious tower, was placed that black abyss + Of dreadful ATROPOS, the baleful seat + Of death and horrour, in each room repleat + With lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sight + Of pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night. + To this, the last stage that the winding clew + Of Life can lead mortality unto, + FEAR was the dreadful Porter, which let in + All guests sent thither by destructive sin. + + +It is possible that I may have written from the recollection of this +passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly attribute it to +Chamberlayne, a Poet to whom I am indebted for many hours of delight, +and whom I one day hope to rescue from undeserved oblivion.] + + + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE SECOND BOOK. + + + +She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd +Amid the air, such odors wafting now +As erst came blended with the evening gale, +From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form +Stood by the Maid; his wings, etherial white, +Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun, +Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear'd +Her THEODORE. + Amazed she saw: the Fiend +Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice +Sounded, tho' now more musically sweet +Than ever yet had thrill'd her charmed soul, +When eloquent Affection fondly told +The day-dreams of delight. + "Beloved Maid! +Lo! I am with thee! still thy Theodore! +Hearts in the holy bands of Love combin'd, +Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine! +A little while and thou shalt dwell with me +In scenes where Sorrow is not. Cheerily +Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave, +Rough tho' it be and painful, for the grave +Is but the threshold of Eternity. + +Favour'd of Heaven! to thee is given to view +These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss +Thou treadest, Maiden! Here the dungeons are +Where bad men learn repentance; souls diseased +Must have their remedy; and where disease +Is rooted deep, the remedy is long +Perforce, and painful." + Thus the Spirit spake, +And led the Maid along a narrow path, +Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames, +More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound +Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath +Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach +A wide expanded den where all around +Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze, +Flamed dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood +The meagre form of Care, and as he blew +To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd +His wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus +He toil'd and toil'd, of toil to reap no end +But endless toil and never-ending woe. + +An aged man went round the infernal vault, +Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task: +White were his locks, as is the wintry snow +On hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff +His steps supported; powerful talisman, +Which whoso feels shall never feel again +The tear of Pity, or the throb of Love. +Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way, +The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall, +Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst +Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee +To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few, +Tho' he the Blessed Teacher of mankind +Hath said, that easier thro' the needle's eye +Shall the huge camel [1] pass, than the rich man +Enter the gates of heaven. "Ye cannot serve +Your God, and worship Mammon." + "Missioned Maid!" +So spake the Angel, "know that these, whose hands +Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil, +Were Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not spare +To wring from Poverty the hard-earn'd mite, +They robb'd the orphan's pittance, they could see +Want's asking eye unmoved; and therefore these, +Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere +In Mammon's service; scorched by these fierce fires, +And frequent deluged by the o'erboiling ore: +Yet still so framed, that oft to quench their thirst +Unquenchable, large draughts of molten [2] gold +They drink insatiate, still with pain renewed, +Pain to destroy." + So saying, her he led +Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell, +Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls +Part gleam'd with gold, and part with silver ore +A milder radiance shone. The Carbuncle +There its strong lustre like the flamy sun +Shot forth irradiate; from the earth beneath, +And from the roof a diamond light emits; +Rubies and amethysts their glows commix'd +With the gay topaz, and the softer ray +Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald's hue, +And bright pyropus. + There on golden seats, +A numerous, sullen, melancholy train +Sat silent. "Maiden, these," said Theodore, +Are they who let the love of wealth absorb +All other passions; in their souls that vice +Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree +That with its shade spreads barrenness around. +These, Maid! were men by no atrocious crime +Blacken'd, no fraud, nor ruffian violence: +Men of fair dealing, and respectable +On earth, but such as only for themselves +Heap'd up their treasures, deeming all their wealth +Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven, +To bless them only: therefore here they sit, +Possessed of gold enough, and by no pain +Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss +They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell, +Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour +Of general restitution." + Thence they past, +And now arrived at such a gorgeous dome, +As even the pomp of Eastern opulence +Could never equal: wandered thro' its halls +A numerous train; some with the red-swoln eye +Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek; +Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step, +And eyes lack-lustre. + Maiden? said her guide, +These are the wretched slaves of Appetite, +Curst with their wish enjoyed. The epicure +Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall'd sense +Loaths at the banquet; the voluptuous here +Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight, +And sink in misery. All they wish'd on earth, +Possessing here, whom have they to accuse, +But their own folly, for the lot they chose? +Yet, for that these injured themselves alone, +They to the house of PENITENCE may hie, +And, by a long and painful regimen, +To wearied Nature her exhausted powers +Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish +Of wisdom, and ALMIGHTY GOODNESS grants +That prize to him who seeks it." + Whilst he spake, +The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and eye +Fat swoln, and legs whose monstrous size disgraced +The human form divine, their caterer, +Hight GLUTTONY, set forth the smoaking feast. +And by his side came on a brother form, +With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red +And scurfy-white, mix'd motley; his gross bulk, +Like some huge hogshead shapen'd, as applied. +Him had antiquity with mystic rites +Ador'd, to him the sons of Greece, and thine +Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour'd +The victim blood, with godlike titles graced, +BACCHUS, or DIONUSUS; son of JOVE, +Deem'd falsely, for from FOLLY'S ideot form +He sprung, what time MADNESS, with furious hand, +Seiz'd on the laughing female. At one birth +She brought the brethren, menial here, above +Reigning with sway supreme, and oft they hold +High revels: mid the Monastery's gloom, +The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice +Episcopal, proclaims approaching day +Of visitation, or Churchwardens meet +To save the wretched many from the gripe +Of eager Poverty, or mid thy halls +Of London, mighty Mayor! rich Aldermen, +Of coming feast hold converse. + Otherwhere, +For tho' allied in nature as in blood, +They hold divided sway, his brother lifts +His spungy sceptre. In the noble domes +Of Princes, and state-wearied Ministers, +Maddening he reigns; and when the affrighted mind +Casts o'er a long career of guilt and blood +Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought +To lull the worm of Conscience to repose. +He too the halls of country Squires frequents, +But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades +Thy offspring Rhedycina! and thy walls, +Granta! nightly libations there to him +Profuse are pour'd, till from the dizzy brain +Triangles, Circles, Parallelograms, +Moods, Tenses, Dialects, and Demigods, +And Logic and Theology are swept +By the red deluge. + Unmolested there +He reigns; till comes at length the general feast, +Septennial sacrifice; then when the sons +Of England meet, with watchful care to chuse +Their delegates, wise, independent men, +Unbribing and unbrib'd, and cull'd to guard +Their rights and charters from the encroaching grasp +Of greedy Power: then all the joyful land +Join in his sacrifices, so inspir'd +To make the important choice. + The observing Maid +Address'd her guide, "These Theodore, thou sayest +Are men, who pampering their foul appetites, +Injured themselves alone. But where are they, +The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil +Around the guileless female, so to sting +The heart that loves them?" + "Them," the spirit replied, +A long and dreadful punishment awaits. +For when the prey of want and infamy, +Lower and lower still the victim sinks, +Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word, +One impious imprecation from her lips +Escapes, nay not a thought of evil lurks +In the polluted mind, that does not plead +Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued +Against the foul Seducer." + Now they reach'd +The house of PENITENCE. CREDULITY +Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head +As tho' to listen; on her vacant face, +A smile that promis'd premature assent; +Tho' her REGRET behind, a meagre Fiend, +Disciplin'd sorely. + Here they entered in, +And now arrived where, as in study tranced, +She sat, the Mistress of the Dome. Her face +Spake that composed severity, that knows +No angry impulse, no weak tenderness, +Resolved and calm. Before her lay that Book +That hath the words of Life; and as she read, +Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek, +Tho' heavenly joy beam'd in her eye the while. + +Leaving her undisturb'd, to the first ward +Of this great Lazar-house, the Angel led +The favour'd Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down +On the hard stone that their bare knees had worn, +In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear'd: +Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave; +Yet such expression stealing from the eye, +As tho', that only naked, all the rest +Was one close fitting mask. A scoffing Fiend, +For Fiend he was, tho' wisely serving here +Mock'd at his patients, and did often pour +Ashes upon them, and then bid them say +Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laughed: +For these were Hypocrites, on earth revered +As holy ones, who did in public tell +Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross themselves, +And call themselves most miserable sinners, +That so they might be deem'd most pious saints; +And go all filth, and never let a smile +Bend their stern muscles, gloomy, sullen men, +Barren of all affection, and all this +To please their God, forsooth! and therefore SCORN +Grinn'd at his patients, making them repeat +Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery +Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer, +They pour'd the silent sorrows of the soul +To Heaven, then did they not regard his mocks +Which then came painless, and HUMILITY +Soon rescued them, and led to PENITENCE, +That She might lead to Heaven. + + From thence they came, +Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band +Groan'd underneath the bitter tyranny +Of a fierce Daemon. His coarse hair was red, +Pale grey his eyes, and blood-shot; and his face +Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears +In ecstacy. Well-pleased he went around, +Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some, +Or probing with a poison'd lance their breasts, +Or placing coals of fire within their wounds; +Or seizing some within his mighty grasp, +He fix'd them on a stake, and then drew back, +And laugh'd to see them writhe. + "These," said the Spirit, +Are taught by CRUELTY, to loath the lives +They led themselves. Here are those wicked men +Who loved to exercise their tyrant power +On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo +A long purgation here; the traffickers +In human flesh here too are disciplined. +Till by their suffering they have equall'd all +The miseries they inflicted, all the mass +Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged, +The towns they burnt, for they who bribe to war +Are guilty of the blood, the widows left +In want, the slave or led to suicide, +Or murdered by the foul infected air +Of his close dungeon, or more sad than all, +His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved, +And driven by woe to wickedness. + These next, +Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room, +So sullen, and with such an eye of hate +Each on the other scowling, these have been +False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts +Here they dwell: in the hollow of their hearts +There is a worm that feeds, and tho' thou seest +That skilful leech who willingly would heal +The ill they suffer, judging of all else +By their own evil standard, they suspect +The aid be vainly proffers, lengthening thus +By vice its punishment." + "But who are these," +The Maid exclaim'd, "that robed in flowing lawn, +And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps +Like Cardinals, I see in every ward, +Performing menial service at the beck +Of all who bid them?" + Theodore replied, +These men are they who in the name of CHRIST +Did heap up wealth, and arrogating power, +Did make men bow the knee, and call themselves +Most Reverend Graces and Right Reverend Lords. +They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed, +And in fine linen: therefore are they here; +And tho' they would not minister on earth, +Here penanced they perforce must minister: +For he, the lowly man of Nazareth, +Hath said, his kingdom is not of the world." +So Saying on they past, and now arrived +Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode, +That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye, +And shudder'd: each one was a loathly corpse, +The worm did banquet on his putrid prey, +Yet had they life and feeling exquisite +Tho' motionless and mute. + "Most wretched men +Are these, the angel cried. These, JOAN, are bards, +Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuate +Who sat them down, deliberately lewd, +So to awake and pamper lust in minds +Unborn; and therefore foul of body now +As then they were of soul, they here abide +Long as the evil works they left on earth +Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom! +Yet amply merited by that bad man +Who prostitutes the sacred gift of song!" +And now they reached a huge and massy pile, +Massy it seem'd, and yet in every blast +As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit, +REMORSE for ever his sad vigils kept. +Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch. +Inly he groan'd, or, starting, wildly shriek'd, +Aye as the fabric tottering from its base, +Threatened its fall, and so expectant still +Lived in the dread of danger still delayed. + +They enter'd there a large and lofty dome, +O'er whose black marble sides a dim drear light +Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp. +Enthroned around, the MURDERERS OF MANKIND, +Monarchs, the great! the glorious! the august! +Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire, +Sat stern and silent. Nimrod he was there, +First King the mighty hunter; and that Chief +Who did belie his mother's fame, that so +He might be called young Ammon. In this court +Csar was crown'd, accurst liberticide; +And he who murdered Tully, that cold villain, +Octavius, tho' the courtly minion's lyre +Hath hymn'd his praise, tho' Maro sung to him, +And when Death levelled to original clay +The royal carcase, FLATTERY, fawning low, +Fell at his feet, and worshipped the new God. +Titus [3] was here, the Conqueror of the Jews, +He the Delight of human-kind misnamed; +Csars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings, +Here they were all, all who for glory fought, +Here in the COURT OF GLORY, reaping now +The meed they merited. + As gazing round +The Virgin mark'd the miserable train, +A deep and hollow voice from one went forth; +"Thou who art come to view our punishment, +Maiden of Orleans! hither turn thine eyes, +For I am he whose bloody victories +Thy power hath rendered vain. Lo! I am here, +The hero conqueror of Azincour, +HENRY OF ENGLAND!--wretched that I am, +I might have reigned in happiness and peace, +My coffers full, my subjects undisturb'd, +And PLENTY and PROSPERITY had loved +To dwell amongst them: but mine eye beheld +The realm of France, by faction tempest-torn, +And therefore I did think that it would fall +An easy prey. I persecuted those +Who taught new doctrines, tho' they taught the truth: +And when I heard of thousands by the sword +Cut off, or blasted by the pestilence, +I calmly counted up my proper gains, +And sent new herds to slaughter. Temperate +Myself, no blood that mutinied, no vice +Tainting my private life, I sent abroad +MURDER and RAPE; and therefore am I doom'd, +Like these imperial Sufferers, crown'd with fire, +Here to remain, till Man's awaken'd eye +Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds, +And warn'd by them, till the whole human race, +Equalling in bliss the aggregate we caus'd +Of wretchedness, shall form ONE BROTHERHOOD, +ONE UNIVERSAL FAMILY OF LOVE." + + +[Footnote 1: In the former edition I had substituted 'cable' instead of +'camel'. The alteration would not be worth noticing were it not for the +circumstance which occasioned it. 'Facilius elephas per foramen acus', +is among the Hebrew adages collected by Drusius; the same metaphor is +found in two other Jewish proverbs, and this appears to determine the +signification of [Greek (transliterated): chamaelos]. Matt. 19. 24.] + + +[Footnote 2: The same idea, and almost the same words are in an old play +by John Ford. The passage is a very fine one: + + + Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched, + Almost condemn'd alive! There is a place, + (List daughter!) in a black and hollow vault, + Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, + But flaming horror of consuming fires; + A lightless sulphur, choak'd with smoaky foggs + Of an infected darkness. In this place + Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts + Of never-dying deaths; there damned souls + Roar without pity, there are gluttons fed + With toads and adders; there is burning oil + Pour'd down the drunkard's throat, 'the usurer + Is forced to sup whole draughts of molten gold'; + There is the murderer for ever stabb'd, + Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton + On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul + He feels the torment of his raging lust. + + ''Tis Pity she's a Whore.' + +I wrote this passage when very young, and the idea, trite as it is, was +new to me. It occurs I believe in most descriptions of hell, and perhaps +owes its origin to the fate of Crassus. + +After this picture of horrors, the reader may perhaps be pleased with +one more pleasantly fanciful: + + + O call me home again dear Chief! and put me + To yoking foxes, milking of he-goats, + Pounding of water in a mortar, laving + The sea dry with a nutshell, gathering all + The leaves are fallen this autumn--making ropes of sand, + Catching the winds together in a net, + Mustering of ants, and numbering atoms, all + That Hell and you thought exquisite torments, rather + Than stay me here a thought more. I would sooner + Keep fleas within a circle, and be accomptant + A thousand year which of 'em, and how far + Outleap'd the other, than endure a minute + Such as I have within. + + B. JONSON. 'The Devil is an Ass.'] + + +[Footnote 3: During the siege of Jerusalem, "the Roman commander, 'with +a generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism, +'laboured incessantly, and to the very last moment, to preserve the +place. With this view, he again and again intreated the tyrants to +surrender and save their lives. With the same view also, after carrying +the second wall the siege was intermitted four days: to rouse their +fears, 'prisoners, to the number of five hundred, or more were crucified +daily before the walls; till space', Josephus says, 'was wanting for the +crosses, and crosses for the captives'." + +From the Hampton Lectures of RALPH CHURTON. + +If any of my readers should enquire why Titus Vespasian, the Delight of +Mankind, is placed in such a situation,--I answer, for "HIS GENEROUS +CLEMENCY, THAT INSEPARABLE ATTENDANT ON TRUE HEROISM!] + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE THIRD BOOK. + + + + The Maiden, musing on the Warrior's words, + Turn'd from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach'd + A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood, + In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eye + Beam'd promise, but behind, withered and old, + And all unlovely. Underneath his feet + Lay records trampled, and the laurel wreath + Now rent and faded: in his hand he held + An hour-glass, and as fall the restless sands, + So pass the lives of men. By him they past + Along the darksome cave, and reach'd a stream, + Still rolling onward its perpetual waves, + Noiseless and undisturbed. Here they ascend + A Bark unpiloted, that down the flood, + Borne by the current, rush'd. The circling stream, + Returning to itself, an island form'd; + Nor had the Maiden's footsteps ever reach'd + The insulated coast, eternally + Rapt round the endless course; but Theodore + Drove with an angel's will the obedient bark. + + They land, a mighty fabric meets their eyes, + Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamant + The pile was framed, for ever to abide + Firm in eternal strength. Before the gate + Stood eager EXPECTATION, as to list + The half-heard murmurs issuing from within, + Her mouth half-open'd, and her head stretch'd forth. + On the other side there stood an aged Crone, + Listening to every breath of air; she knew + Vague suppositions and uncertain dreams, + Of what was soon to come, for she would mark + The paley glow-worm's self-created light, + And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown, + And desolated nations; ever fill'd + With undetermin'd terror, as she heard + Or distant screech-owl, or the regular beat + Of evening death-watch. + "Maid," the Spirit cried, + Here, robed in shadows, dwells FUTURITY. + There is no eye hath seen her secret form, + For round the MOTHER OF TIME, unpierced mists + Aye hover. Would'st thou read the book of Fate, + Enter." + The Damsel for a moment paus'd, + Then to the Angel spake: "All-gracious Heaven! + Benignant in withholding, hath denied + To man that knowledge. I, in faith assured, + That he, my heavenly Father, for the best + Ordaineth all things, in that faith remain + Contented." + "Well and wisely hast thou said, + So Theodore replied; "and now O Maid! + Is there amid this boundless universe + One whom thy soul would visit? is there place + To memory dear, or visioned out by hope, + Where thou would'st now be present? form the wish, + And I am with thee, there." + His closing speech + Yet sounded on her ear, and lo! they stood + Swift as the sudden thought that guided them, + Within the little cottage that she loved. + "He sleeps! the good man sleeps!" enrapt she cried, + As bending o'er her Uncle's lowly bed + Her eye retraced his features. "See the beads + That never morn nor night he fails to tell, + Remembering me, his child, in every prayer. + Oh! quiet be thy sleep, thou dear old man! + Good Angels guard thy rest! and when thine hour + Is come, as gently mayest thou wake to life, + As when thro' yonder lattice the next sun + Shall bid thee to thy morning orisons! + Thy voice is heard, the Angel guide rejoin'd, + He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breathe + Blessings, and pleasant is the good man's rest. + Thy fame has reached him, for who has not heard + Thy wonderous exploits? and his aged heart + Hath felt the deepest joy that ever yet + Made his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on old Claude! + Peaceful, pure Spirit, be thy sojourn here, + And short and soon thy passage to that world + Where friends shall part no more! + "Does thy soul own + No other wish? or sleeps poor Madelon + Forgotten in her grave? seest thou yon star," + The Spirit pursued, regardless of her eye + That look'd reproach; "seest thou that evening star + Whose lovely light so often we beheld + From yonder woodbine porch? how have we gazed + Into the dark deep sky, till the baffled soul, + Lost in the infinite, returned, and felt + The burthen of her bodily load, and yearned + For freedom! Maid, in yonder evening slar + Lives thy departed friend. I read that glance, + And we are there!" + He said and they had past + The immeasurable space. + Then on her ear + The lonely song of adoration rose, + Sweet as the cloister'd virgins vesper hymn, + Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopes + Already lives in Heaven. Abrupt the song + Ceas'd, tremulous and quick a cry + Of joyful wonder rous'd the astonish'd Maid, + And instant Madelon was in her arms; + No airy form, no unsubstantial shape, + She felt her friend, she prest her to her heart, + Their tears of rapture mingled. + She drew back + And eagerly she gazed on Madelon, + Then fell upon her neck again and wept. + No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief, + The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness, + The languid eye: youth's loveliest freshness now + Mantled her cheek, whose every lineament + Bespake the soul at rest, a holy calm, + A deep and full tranquillity of bliss. + + "Thou then art come, my first and dearest friend!" + The well known voice of Madelon began, + "Thou then art come! and was thy pilgrimage + So short on earth? and was it painful too, + Painful and short as mine? but blessed they + Who from the crimes and miseries of the world + Early escape!" + "Nay," Theodore replied, + She hath not yet fulfill'd her mortal work. + Permitted visitant from earth she comes + To see the seat of rest, and oftentimes + In sorrow shall her soul remember this, + And patient of the transitory woe + Partake the anticipated peace again." + "Soon be that work perform'd!" the Maid exclaimed, + "O Madelon! O Theodore! my soul, + Spurning the cold communion of the world, + Will dwell with you! but I shall patiently, + Yea even with joy, endure the allotted ills + Of which the memory in this better state + Shall heighten bliss. That hour of agony, + When, Madelon, I felt thy dying grasp, + And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death, + The very horrors of that hour assume + A shape that now delights." + "O earliest friend! + I too remember," Madelon replied, + "That hour, thy looks of watchful agony, + The suppressed grief that struggled in thine eye + Endearing love's last kindness. Thou didst know + With what a deep and melancholy joy + I felt the hour draw on: but who can speak + The unutterable transport, when mine eyes, + As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed + Amid this peaceful vale, unclos'd on him, + My Arnaud! he had built me up a bower, + A bower of rest.--See, Maiden, where he comes, + His manly lineaments, his beaming eye + The same, but now a holier innocence + Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume + The enlighten'd glance." + They met, what joy was theirs + He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead + Has wet the midnight pillow with his tears. + + Fair was the scene around; an ample vale + Whose mountain circle at the distant verge + Lay softened on the sight; the near ascent + Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare, + Part with the ancient majesty of woods + Adorn'd, or lifting high its rocks sublime. + The river's liquid radiance roll'd beneath, + Beside the bower of Madelon it wound + A broken stream, whose shallows, tho' the waves + Roll'd on their way with rapid melody, + A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove + Its gay green foliage starr'd with golden fruit; + But with what odours did their blossoms load + The passing gale of eve! less thrilling sweet + Rose from the marble's perforated floor, + Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen + Inhaled the cool delight, [1] and whilst she asked + The Prophet for his promised paradise, + Shaped from the present scene its utmost joys. + A goodly scene! fair as that faery land + Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne + From Camlan's bloody banks; or as the groves + Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say, + Enoch abides, and he who rapt away + By fiery steeds, and chariotted in fire, + Past in his mortal form the eternal ways; + And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there + The beatific vision, sometimes seen + The distant dawning of eternal day, + Till all things be fulfilled. + "Survey this scene!" + So Theodore address'd the Maid of Arc, + "There is no evil here, no wretchedness, + It is the Heaven of those who nurst on earth + Their nature's gentlest feelings. Yet not here + Centering their joys, but with a patient hope, + Waiting the allotted hour when capable + Of loftier callings, to a better state + They pass; and hither from that better state + Frequent they come, preserving so those ties + That thro' the infinite progressiveness + Complete our perfect bliss. + "Even such, so blest, + Save that the memory of no sorrows past + Heightened the present joy, our world was once, + In the first ra of its innocence + Ere man had learnt to bow the knee to man. + Was there a youth whom warm affection fill'd, + He spake his honest heart; the earliest fruits + His toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck'd + The sunny bank, he gather'd for the maid, + Nor she disdain'd the gift; for VICE not yet + Had burst the dungeons of her hell, and rear'd + Those artificial boundaries that divide + Man from his species. State of blessedness! + Till that ill-omen'd hour when Cain's stern son + Delved in the bowels of the earth for gold, + Accursed bane of virtue! of such force + As poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon's locks, + Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-blood + Cold curdle in his veins, the creeping flesh + Grew stiff with horror, and the heart forgot + To beat. Accursed hour! for man no more + To JUSTICE paid his homage, but forsook + Her altars, and bow'd down before the shrine + Of WEALTH and POWER, the Idols he had made. + Then HELL enlarged herself, her gates flew wide, + Her legion fiends rush'd forth. OPPRESSION came + Whose frown is desolation, and whose breath + Blasts like the Pestilence; and POVERTY, + A meagre monster, who with withering touch + Makes barren all the better part of man, + MOTHER OF MISERIES. Then the goodly earth + Which God had fram'd for happiness, became + One theatre of woe, and all that God + Had given to bless free men, these tyrant fiends + His bitterest curses made. Yet for the best + Hath he ordained all things, the ALL-WISE! + For by experience rous'd shall man at length + Dash down his Moloch-Idols, Samson-like + And burst his fetters, only strong whilst strong + Believed. Then in the bottomless abyss + OPPRESSION shall be chain'd, and POVERTY + Die, and with her, her brood of Miseries; + And VIRTUE and EQUALITY preserve + The reign of LOVE, and Earth shall once again + Be Paradise, whilst WISDOM shall secure + The state of bliss which IGNORANCE betrayed." + + "Oh age of happiness!" the Maid exclaim'd, + Roll fast thy current, Time till that blest age + Arrive! and happy thou my Theodore, + Permitted thus to see the sacred depths + Of wisdom!" + "Such," the blessed Spirit replied, + Beloved! such our lot; allowed to range + The vast infinity, progressive still + In knowledge and encreasing blessedness, + This our united portion. Thou hast yet + A little while to sojourn amongst men: + I will be with thee! there shall not a breeze + Wanton around thy temples, on whose wing + I will not hover near! and at that hour + When from its fleshly sepulchre let loose, + Thy phoenix soul shall soar, O best-beloved! + I will be with thee in thine agonies, + And welcome thee to life and happiness, + Eternal infinite beatitude!" + + He spake, and led her near a straw-roof'd cot, + LOVE'S Palace. By the Virtues circled there, + The cherub listen'd to such melodies, + As aye, when one good deed is register'd + Above, re-echo in the halls of Heaven. + LABOUR was there, his crisp locks floating loose, + Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye, + And strong his arm robust; the wood-nymph HEALTH + Still follow'd on his path, and where he trod + Fresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was HOPE, + The general friend; and PITY, whose mild eye + Wept o'er the widowed dove; and, loveliest form, + Majestic CHASTITY, whose sober smile + Delights and awes the soul; a laurel wreath + Restrain'd her tresses, and upon her breast + The snow-drop [2] hung its head, that seem'd to grow + Spontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maid + LOVE went submiss, wilh eye more dangerous + Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er + Too bold approached; yet anxious would he read + Her every rising wish, then only pleased + When pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais'd. + + "Glory to thee whose vivifying power + Pervades all Nature's universal frame! + Glory to thee CREATOR LOVE! to thee, + Parent of all the smiling CHARITIES, + That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers! + Glory to thee PRESERVER! to thy praise + The awakened woodlands echo all the day + Their living melody; and warbling forth + To thee her twilight song, the Nightingale + Holds the lone Traveller from his way, or charms + The listening Poet's ear. Where LOVE shall deign + To fix his seat, there blameless PLEASURE sheds + Her roseate dews; CONTENT will sojourn there, + And HAPPINESS behold AFFECTION'S eye + Gleam with the Mother's smile. Thrice happy he + Who feels thy holy power! he shall not drag, + Forlorn and friendless, along Life's long path + To Age's drear abode; he shall not waste + The bitter evening of his days unsooth'd; + But HOPE shall cheer his hours of Solitude, + And VICE shall vainly strive to wound his breast, + That bears that talisman; and when he meets + The eloquent eye of TENDERNESS, and hears + The bosom-thrilling music of her voice; + The joy he feels shall purify his Soul, + And imp it for anticipated Heaven." + + +[Footnote 1: In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the Queen used to +dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there +is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled +that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and windows are +disposed so as to afford the most agreeable prospects, and to throw a +soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents of air too are +admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious coolness of this +apartment. + +(From the sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed to +Florian's Gonsalvo of Cordova).] + + +[Footnote 2: "The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired +her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems +to grow on the breast of the Virgin." P.H.] + + + + + + +The Rose. + + Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus, + that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden + was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadde don + fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be + brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre + began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that + als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help + hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; + and whanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon + was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, + becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise weren the first + Roseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. + And thus was this Maiden saved be the Grace of God. + + 'The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundevile'. + + + + + + +THE ROSE. + + + + Nay EDITH! spare the rose!--it lives--it lives, + It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh'd + The dews of night; let not thy gentle hand + Tear sunder its life-fibres and destroy + The sense of being!--why that infidel smile? + Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful, + And thou shall have a tale of other times, + For I am skill'd in legendary lore, + So thou wilt let it live. There was a time + Ere this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms, + Bedeck'd the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard + How first by miracle its fragrant leaves + Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness. + + There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid + And Zillah was her name, so passing fair + That all Judea spake the damsel's praise. + He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance + How quick it spake the soul, and what a soul + Beam'd in its mild effulgence, woe was he! + For not in solitude, for not in crowds, + Might he escape remembrance, or avoid + Her imaged form that followed every where, + And fill'd the heart, and fix'd the absent eye. + Woe was he, for her bosom own'd no love + Save the strong ardours of religious zeal, + For Zillah on her God had centered all + Her spirit's deep affections. So for her + Her tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverenced + The obdurate virtue that destroyed their hopes. + + One man there was, a vain and wretched man, + Who saw, desired, despair'd, and hated her. + His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek + Even till the flush of angry modesty + Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. + She loath'd the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, + And the strong workings of brute selfishness + Had moulded his broad features; and she fear'd + The bitterness of wounded vanity + That with a fiendish hue would overcast + His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, + For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plot + Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad + Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports + That soon obtain belief; that Zillah's eye + When in the temple heaven-ward it was rais'd + Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those + Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance + With other feelings fill'd; that 'twas a task + Of easy sort to play the saint by day + Before the public eye, but that all eyes + Were closed at night; that Zillah's life was foul, + Yea forfeit to the law. + + Shame--shame to man + That he should trust so easily the tongue + That stabs another's fame! the ill report + Was heard, repeated, and believed,--and soon, + For Hamuel by most damned artifice + Produced such semblances of guilt, the Maid + Was judged to shameful death. + Without the walls + There was a barren field; a place abhorr'd, + For it was there where wretched criminals + Were done to die; and there they built the stake, + And piled the fuel round, that should consume + The accused Maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd, + By God and man. The assembled Bethlemites + Beheld the scene, and when they saw the Maid + Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness + She lifted up her patient looks to Heaven, + They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts + Stood Hamuel near the pile, him savage joy + Led thitherward, but now within his heart + Unwonted feelings stirr'd, and the first pangs + Of wakening guilt, anticipating Hell. + The eye of Zillah as it glanced around + Fell on the murderer once, but not in wrath; + And therefore like a dagger it had fallen, + Had struck into his soul a cureless wound. + Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour + Of triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch, + Not in the hour of infamy and death + Forsake the virtuous! they draw near the stake-- + And lo! the torch! hold hold your erring hands! + Yet quench the rising flames!--they rise! they spread! + They reach the suffering Maid! oh God protect + The innocent one! + They rose, they spread, they raged-- + The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire + Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames + In one long lightning flash collecting fierce, + Darted and blasted Hamuel--him alone. + Hark--what a fearful scream the multitude + Pour forth!--and yet more miracles! the stake + Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves and bowers + The innocent Maid, and roses bloom around, + Now first beheld since Paradise was lost, + And fill with Eden odours all the air. + + + + + + + + +The COMPLAINTS of the POOR. + + + + And wherefore do the Poor complain? + The rich man asked of me,-- + Come walk abroad with me, I said + And I will answer thee. + + Twas evening and the frozen streets + Were cheerless to behold, + And we were wrapt and coated well, + And yet we were a-cold. + + We met an old bare-headed man, + His locks were few and white, + I ask'd him what he did abroad + In that cold winter's night: + + 'Twas bitter keen indeed, he said, + But at home no fire had he, + And therefore, he had come abroad + To ask for charity. + + We met a young bare-footed child, + And she begg'd loud and bold, + I ask'd her what she did abroad + When the wind it blew so cold; + + She said her father was at home + And he lay sick a-bed, + And therefore was it she was sent + Abroad to beg for bread. + + We saw a woman sitting down + Upon a stone to rest, + She had a baby at her back + And another at her breast; + + I ask'd her why she loiter'd there + When the wind it was so chill; + She turn'd her head and bade the child + That scream'd behind be still. + + She told us that her husband served + A soldier, far away, + And therefore to her parish she + Was begging back her way. + + We met a girl; her dress was loose + And sunken was her eye, + Who with the wanton's hollow voice + Address'd the passers by; + + I ask'd her what there was in guilt + That could her heart allure + To shame, disease, and late remorse? + She answer'd, she was poor. + + I turn'd me to the rich man then + For silently stood he, + You ask'd me why the Poor complain, + And these have answer'd thee. + + + + + + + + +METRICAL LETTER, + +Written from London. + + + + Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile; + I love the homely and familiar phrase; + And I will call thee Cousin Margaret, + However quaint amid the measured line + The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill + When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, + Sirring and Madaming as civilly + As if the road between the heart and lips + Were such a weary and Laplandish way + That the poor travellers came to the red gates + Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret, + For many a day my Memory has played + The creditor with me on your account, + And made me shame to think that I should owe + So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, + Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear + So heavy a pack of business, that albeit + I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race + Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I + That for a moment you should lay to me + Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart + That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some + Who know how warm it beats. I am not one + Who can play off my smiles and courtesies + To every Lady of her lap dog tired + Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend + Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love; + Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up + At once without a seed and take no root, + Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere + The little circle of domestic life + I would be known and loved; the world beyond + Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think + That you should know me well, for you and I + Grew up together, and when we look back + Upon old times our recollections paint + The same familiar faces. Did I wield + The wand of Merlin's magic I would make + Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, + Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood + That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth, + The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle + Like that where whilome old Apollidon + Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid + The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers, + That we might stand upon the beach, and mark + The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, + And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound + Told us that never mariner should reach + Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle + We might renew the days of infancy, + And Life like a long childhood pass away, + Without one care. It may be, Margaret, + That I shall yet be gathered to my friends, + For I am not of those who live estranged + Of choice, till at the last they join their race + In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, + Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack + So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine + Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly. + If not, if I should never get beyond + This Vanity town, there is another world + Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, + I gaze at night into the boundless sky, + And think that I shall there be born again, + The exalted native of some better star; + And like the rude American I hope + To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth. + + + + + + + + + + +The Cross Roads. + +The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty +years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at +the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as +I have versified them. + + + + +THE CROSS ROADS. + + + There was an old man breaking stones + To mend the turnpike way, + He sat him down beside a brook + And out his bread and cheese he took, + For now it was mid-day. + + He lent his back against a post, + His feet the brook ran by; + And there were water-cresses growing, + And pleasant was the water's flowing + For he was hot and dry. + + A soldier with his knapsack on + Came travelling o'er the down, + The sun was strong and he was tired, + And of the old man he enquired + How far to Bristol town. + + Half an hour's walk for a young man + By lanes and fields and stiles. + But you the foot-path do not know, + And if along the road you go + Why then 'tis three good miles. + + The soldier took his knapsack off + For he was hot and dry; + And out his bread and cheese he took + And he sat down beside the brook + To dine in company. + + Old friend! in faith, the soldier says + I envy you almost; + My shoulders have been sorely prest + And I should like to sit and rest, + My back against that post. + + In such a sweltering day as this + A knapsack is the devil! + And if on t'other side I sat + It would not only spoil our chat + But make me seem uncivil. + + The old man laugh'd and moved. I wish + It were a great-arm'd chair! + But this may help a man at need; + And yet it was a cursed deed + That ever brought it there. + + There's a poor girl lies buried here + Beneath this very place. + The earth upon her corpse is prest + This stake is driven into her breast + And a stone is on her face. + + The soldier had but just lent back + And now he half rose up. + There's sure no harm in dining here, + My friend? and yet to be sincere + I should not like to sup. + + God rest her! she is still enough + Who sleeps beneath our feet! + The old man cried. No harm I trow + She ever did herself, tho' now + She lies where four roads meet. + + I have past by about that hour + When men are not most brave, + It did not make my heart to fail, + And I have heard the nightingale + Sing sweetly on her grave. + + I have past by about that hour + When Ghosts their freedom have, + But there was nothing here to fright, + And I have seen the glow-worm's light + Shine on the poor girl's grave. + + There's one who like a Christian lies + Beneath the church-tree's shade; + I'd rather go a long mile round + Than pass at evening thro' the ground + Wherein that man is laid. + + There's one that in the church-yard lies + For whom the bell did toll; + He lies in consecrated ground, + But for all the wealth in Bristol town + I would not be with his soul! + + Did'st see a house below the hill + That the winds and the rains destroy? + 'Twas then a farm where he did dwell, + And I remember it full well + When I was a growing boy. + + And she was a poor parish girl + That came up from the west, + From service hard she ran away + And at that house in evil day + Was taken in to rest. + + The man he was a wicked man + And an evil life he led; + Rage made his cheek grow deadly white + And his grey eyes were large and light, + And in anger they grew red. + + The man was bad, the mother worse, + Bad fruit of a bad stem, + 'Twould make your hair to stand-on-end + If I should tell to you my friend + The things that were told of them! + + Did'st see an out-house standing by? + The walls alone remain; + It was a stable then, but now + Its mossy roof has fallen through + All rotted by the rain. + + The poor girl she had serv'd with them + Some half-a-year, or more, + When she was found hung up one day + Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay + Behind that stable door! + + It is a very lonesome place, + No hut or house is near; + Should one meet a murderer there alone + 'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan + Would never reach mortal ear. + + And there were strange reports about + That the coroner never guest. + So he decreed that she should lie + Where four roads meet in infamy, + With a stake drove in her breast. + + Upon a board they carried her + To the place where four roads met, + And I was one among the throng + That hither followed them along, + I shall never the sight forget! + + They carried her upon a board + In the cloaths in which she died; + I saw the cap blow off her head, + Her face was of a dark dark red + Her eyes were starting wide: + + I think they could not have been closed + So widely did they strain. + I never saw so dreadful a sight, + And it often made me wake at night, + For I saw her face again. + + They laid her here where four roads meet. + Beneath this very place, + The earth upon her corpse was prest, + This post is driven into her breast, + And a stone is on her face. + + + + + + + + + + + +The Sailor, + +who had served in the Slave Trade. + +In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol, discovered a +Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City, groaning and praying in a +hovel. The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in +the annexed Ballad, without the slightest addition or alteration. By +presenting it as a Poem the story is made more public, and such stories +ought to be made as public as possible. + + + + +THE SAILOR, + +WHO HAD SERVED IN THE SLAVE-TRADE. + + + He stopt,--it surely was a groan + That from the hovel came! + He stopt and listened anxiously + Again it sounds the same. + + It surely from the hovel comes! + And now he hastens there, + And thence he hears the name of Christ + Amidst a broken prayer. + + He entered in the hovel now, + A sailor there he sees, + His hands were lifted up to Heaven + And he was on his knees. + + Nor did the Sailor so intent + His entering footsteps heed, + But now the Lord's prayer said, and now + His half-forgotten creed. + + And often on his Saviour call'd + With many a bitter groan, + In such heart-anguish as could spring + From deepest guilt alone. + + He ask'd the miserable man + Why he was kneeling there, + And what the crime had been that caus'd + The anguish of his prayer. + + Oh I have done a wicked thing! + It haunts me night and day, + And I have sought this lonely place + Here undisturb'd to pray. + + I have no place to pray on board + So I came here alone, + That I might freely kneel and pray, + And call on Christ and groan. + + If to the main-mast head I go, + The wicked one is there, + From place to place, from rope to rope, + He follows every where. + + I shut my eyes,--it matters not-- + Still still the same I see,-- + And when I lie me down at night + 'Tis always day with me. + + He follows follows every where, + And every place is Hell! + O God--and I must go with him + In endless fire to dwell. + + He follows follows every where, + He's still above--below, + Oh tell me where to fly from him! + Oh tell me where to go! + + But tell me, quoth the Stranger then, + What this thy crime hath been, + So haply I may comfort give + To one that grieves for sin. + + O I have done a cursed deed + The wretched man replies, + And night and day and every where + 'Tis still before my eyes. + + I sail'd on board a Guinea-man + And to the slave-coast went; + Would that the sea had swallowed me + When I was innocent! + + And we took in our cargo there, + Three hundred negroe slaves, + And we sail'd homeward merrily + Over the ocean waves. + + But some were sulky of the slaves + And would not touch their meat, + So therefore we were forced by threats + And blows to make them eat. + + One woman sulkier than the rest + Would still refuse her food,-- + O Jesus God! I hear her cries-- + I see her in her blood! + + The Captain made me tie her up + And flog while he stood by, + And then he curs'd me if I staid + My hand to hear her cry. + + She groan'd, she shriek'd--I could not spare + For the Captain he stood by-- + Dear God! that I might rest one night + From that poor woman's cry! + + She twisted from the blows--her blood + Her mangled flesh I see-- + And still the Captain would not spare-- + Oh he was worse than me! + + She could not be more glad than I + When she was taken down, + A blessed minute--'twas the last + That I have ever known! + + I did not close my eyes all night, + Thinking what I had done; + I heard her groans and they grew faint + About the rising sun. + + She groan'd and groan'd, but her groans grew + Fainter at morning tide, + Fainter and fainter still they came + Till at the noon she died. + + They flung her overboard;--poor wretch + She rested from her pain,-- + But when--O Christ! O blessed God! + Shall I have rest again! + + I saw the sea close over her, + Yet she was still in sight; + I see her twisting every where; + I see her day and night. + + Go where I will, do what I can + The wicked one I see-- + Dear Christ have mercy on my soul, + O God deliver me! + + To morrow I set sail again + Not to the Negroe shore-- + Wretch that I am I will at least + Commit that sin no more. + + O give me comfort if you can-- + Oh tell me where to fly-- + And bid me hope, if there be hope, + For one so lost as I. + + Poor wretch, the stranger he replied, + Put thou thy trust in heaven, + And call on him for whose dear sake + All sins shall be forgiven. + + This night at least is thine, go thou + And seek the house of prayer, + There shalt thou hear the word of God + And he will help thee there! + + + + + + + + + + + + +Jaspar. + +The stories of the two following ballads are wholly imaginary. I may say +of each as John Bunyan did of his 'Pilgrim's Progress', + + + "It came from mine own heart, so to my head, + And thence into my fingers trickled; + Then to my pen, from whence immediately + On paper I did dribble it daintily." + + + + +JASPAR + + + + Jaspar was poor, and want and vice + Had made his heart like stone, + And Jaspar look'd with envious eyes + On riches not his own. + + On plunder bent abroad he went + Towards the close of day, + And loitered on the lonely road + Impatient for his prey. + + No traveller came, he loiter'd long + And often look'd around, + And paus'd and listen'd eagerly + To catch some coming sound. + + He sat him down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way, + So fair a scene might well have charm'd + All evil thoughts away; + + He sat beneath a willow tree + That cast a trembling shade, + The gentle river full in front + A little island made, + + Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone + Upon the poplar trees, + Whose shadow on the stream below + Play'd slowly to the breeze. + + He listen'd--and he heard the wind + That waved the willow tree; + He heard the waters flow along + And murmur quietly. + + He listen'd for the traveller's tread, + The nightingale sung sweet,-- + He started up, for now he heard + The sound of coming feet; + + He started up and graspt a stake + And waited for his prey; + There came a lonely traveller + And Jaspar crost his way. + + But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd + The traveller to appal, + He would not lightly yield the purse + That held his little all. + + Awhile he struggled, but he strove + With Jaspar's strength in vain; + Beneath his blows he fell and groan'd, + And never spoke again. + + He lifted up the murdered man + And plunged him in the flood, + And in the running waters then + He cleansed his hands from blood. + + The waters closed around the corpse + And cleansed his hands from gore, + The willow waved, the stream flowed on + And murmured as before. + + There was no human eye had seen + The blood the murderer spilt, + And Jaspar's conscience never knew + The avenging goad of guilt. + + And soon the ruffian had consum'd + The gold he gain'd so ill, + And years of secret guilt pass'd on + And he was needy still. + + One eve beside the alehouse fire + He sat as it befell, + When in there came a labouring man + Whom Jaspar knew full well. + + He sat him down by Jaspar's side + A melancholy man, + For spite of honest toil, the world + Went hard with Jonathan. + + His toil a little earn'd, and he + With little was content, + But sickness on his wife had fallen + And all he had was spent. + + Then with his wife and little ones + He shared the scanty meal, + And saw their looks of wretchedness, + And felt what wretches feel. + + That very morn the Landlord's power + Had seized the little left, + And now the sufferer found himself + Of every thing bereft. + + He lent his head upon his hand, + His elbow on his knee, + And so by Jaspar's side he sat + And not a word said he. + + Nay--why so downcast? Jaspar cried, + Come--cheer up Jonathan! + Drink neighbour drink! 'twill warm thy heart, + Come! come! take courage man! + + He took the cup that Jaspar gave + And down he drain'd it quick + I have a wife, said Jonathan, + And she is deadly sick. + + She has no bed to lie upon, + I saw them take her bed. + And I have children--would to God + That they and I were dead! + + Our Landlord he goes home to night + And he will sleep in peace. + I would that I were in my grave + For there all troubles cease. + + In vain I pray'd him to forbear + Tho' wealth enough has he-- + God be to him as merciless + As he has been to me! + + When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul + On all his ills intent, + He plied him with the heartening cup + And with him forth he went. + + This landlord on his homeward road + 'Twere easy now to meet. + The road is lonesome--Jonathan, + And vengeance, man! is sweet. + + He listen'd to the tempter's voice + The thought it made him start. + His head was hot, and wretchedness + Had hardened now his heart. + + Along the lonely road they went + And waited for their prey, + They sat them down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way. + + They sat them down beside the stream + And never a word they said, + They sat and listen'd silently + To hear the traveller's tread. + + The night was calm, the night was dark, + No star was in the sky, + The wind it waved the willow boughs, + The stream flowed quietly. + + The night was calm, the air was still, + Sweet sung the nightingale, + The soul of Jonathan was sooth'd, + His heart began to fail. + + 'Tis weary waiting here, he cried, + And now the hour is late,-- + Methinks he will not come to night, + 'Tis useless more to wait. + + Have patience man! the ruffian said, + A little we may wait, + But longer shall his wife expect + Her husband at the gate. + + Then Jonathan grew sick at heart, + My conscience yet is clear, + Jaspar--it is not yet too late-- + I will not linger here. + + How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought + Thy conscience was asleep. + No more such qualms, the night is dark, + The river here is deep, + + What matters that, said Jonathan, + Whose blood began to freeze, + When there is one above whose eye + The deeds of darkness sees? + + We are safe enough, said Jaspar then + If that be all thy fear; + Nor eye below, nor eye above + Can pierce the darkness here. + + That instant as the murderer spake + There came a sudden light; + Strong as the mid-day sun it shone, + Though all around was night. + + It hung upon the willow tree, + It hung upon the flood, + It gave to view the poplar isle + And all the scene of blood. + + The traveller who journies there + He surely has espied + A madman who has made his home + Upon the river's side. + + His cheek is pale, his eye is wild, + His look bespeaks despair; + For Jaspar since that hour has made + His home unshelter'd there. + + And fearful are his dreams at night + And dread to him the day; + He thinks upon his untold crime + And never dares to pray. + + The summer suns, the winter storms, + O'er him unheeded roll, + For heavy is the weight of blood + Upon the maniac's soul. + + + + + + + + + + +LORD WILLIAM. + + + + No eye beheld when William plunged + Young Edmund in the stream, + No human ear but William's heard + Young Edmund's drowning scream. + + Submissive all the vassals own'd + The murderer for their Lord, + And he, the rightful heir, possessed + The house of Erlingford. + + The ancient house of Erlingford + Stood midst a fair domain, + And Severn's ample waters near + Roll'd through the fertile plain. + + And often the way-faring man + Would love to linger there, + Forgetful of his onward road + To gaze on scenes so fair. + + But never could Lord William dare + To gaze on Severn's stream; + In every wind that swept its waves + He heard young Edmund scream. + + In vain at midnight's silent hour + Sleep closed the murderer's eyes, + In every dream the murderer saw + Young Edmund's form arise. + + In vain by restless conscience driven + Lord William left his home, + Far from the scenes that saw his guilt, + In pilgrimage to roam. + + To other climes the pilgrim fled, + But could not fly despair, + He sought his home again, but peace + Was still a stranger there. + + Each hour was tedious long, yet swift + The months appear'd to roll; + And now the day return'd that shook + With terror William's soul. + + A day that William never felt + Return without dismay, + For well had conscience kalendered + Young Edmund's dying day. + + A fearful day was that! the rains + Fell fast, with tempest roar, + And the swoln tide of Severn spread + Far on the level shore. + + In vain Lord William sought the feast + In vain he quaff'd the bowl, + And strove with noisy mirth to drown + The anguish of his soul. + + The tempest as its sudden swell + In gusty howlings came, + With cold and death-like feelings seem'd + To thrill his shuddering frame. + + Reluctant now, as night came on, + His lonely couch he prest, + And wearied out, he sunk to sleep, + To sleep, but not to rest. + + Beside that couch his brother's form + Lord Edmund seem'd to stand, + Such and so pale as when in death + He grasp'd his brother's hand; + + Such and so pale his face as when + With faint and faltering tongue, + To William's care, a dying charge + He left his orphan son. + + "I bade thee with a father's love + My orphan Edmund guard-- + Well William hast thou kept thy charge! + Now take thy due reward." + + He started up, each limb convuls'd + With agonizing fear, + He only heard the storm of night-- + 'Twas music to his ear. + + When lo! the voice of loud alarm + His inmost soul appals, + What ho! Lord William rise in haste! + The water saps thy walls! + + He rose in haste, beneath the walls + He saw the flood appear, + It hemm'd him round, 'twas midnight now, + No human aid was near. + + He heard the shout of joy, for now + A boat approach'd the wall, + And eager to the welcome aid + They crowd for safety all. + + My boat is small, the boatman cried, + This dangerous haste forbear! + Wait other aid, this little bark + But one from hence can bear. + + Lord William leap'd into the boat, + Haste--haste to yonder shore! + And ample wealth shall well reward, + Ply swift and strong the oar. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Went light along the stream, + Sudden Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + The boatman paus'd, methought I heard + A child's distressful cry! + 'Twas but the howling wind of night + Lord William made reply. + + Haste haste--ply swift and strong the oar! + Haste haste across the stream! + Again Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + I heard a child's distressful scream + The boatman cried again. + Nay hasten on--the night is dark-- + And we should search in vain. + + Oh God! Lord William dost thou know + How dreadful 'tis to die? + And can'st thou without pity hear + A child's expiring cry? + + How horrible it is to sink + Beneath the chilly stream, + To stretch the powerless arms in vain, + In vain for help to scream? + + The shriek again was heard. It came + More deep, more piercing loud, + That instant o'er the flood the moon + Shone through a broken cloud. + + And near them they beheld a child, + Upon a crag he stood, + A little crag, and all around + Was spread the rising flood. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Approach'd his resting place, + The moon-beam shone upon the child + And show'd how pale his face. + + Now reach thine hand! the boatman cried + Lord William reach and save! + The child stretch'd forth his little hands + To grasp the hand he gave. + + Then William shriek'd; the hand he touch'd + Was cold and damp and dead! + He felt young Edmund in his arms + A heavier weight than lead. + + The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk + Beneath the avenging stream; + He rose, he scream'd, no human ear + Heard William's drowning scream. + + + + + + + + + +A BALLAD, + +SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. + +[Illustration: heavy black-and-white drawing (woodcut) of the title.] + + +A.D. 852. Circa dies istos, mulier qudam malefica, in vill qu +Berkeleia dicitur degens, gul amatrix ac petulanti, flagitiis modum +usque in senium et auguriis non ponens, usque ad mortem impudica +permansit. Hc die quadam cum sederet ad prandium, cornicula quam pro +delitiis pascebat, nescio quid garrire coepit; quo audito, mulieris +cultellus de manu excidit, simul et facies pallescere coepit, et emisso +rugitu, hodie, inquit, accipiam grande incommodum, hodieque ad sulcum +ultimum meum pervenit aratrum, quo dicto, nuncius doloris intravit; +muliere vero percunctata ad quid veniret, affero, inquit, tibi filii tui +obitum & totius famili ejus ex subita ruina interitum. Hoc quoque +dolore mulier permota, lecto protinus decubuit graviter infirmata; +sentiensque morbum subrepere ad vitalia, liberos quos habuit +superstites, monachum videlicet et monacham, per epistolam invitavit; +advenientes autem voce singultiente alloquitur. Ego, inquit, o pueri, +meo miserabili fato dmoniacis semper artibus inservivi; ego omnium +vitiorum sentina, ego illecebrarum omnium fui magistra. Erat tamen mihi +inter hc mala, spes vestr religionis, qu meam solidaret animam +desperatam; vos expctabam propugnatores contra dmones, tutores contra +svissimos hostes. Nunc igitur quoniam ad finem vit perveni, rogo vos +per materna ubera, ut mea tentatis alleviare tormenta. Insuite me +defunctam in corio cervino, ac deinde in sarcophago lapideo supponite, +operculumque ferro et plumbo constringite, ac demum lapidem tribus +cathenis ferreis et fortissimis circundantes, clericos quinquaginta +psalmorum cantores, et tot per tres dies presbyteros missarum +celebratores applicate, qui feroces lenigent adversariorum incursus. Ita +si tribus noctibus secura jacuero, quarta die me infodite humo. + +Factumque est ut prceperat illis. Sed, proh dolor! nil preces, nil +lacrym, nil demum valuere caten. Primis enim duabus noctibus, cum +chori psallentium corpori assistabant, advenientes Dmones ostium +ecclesi confregerunt ingenti obice clausum, extremasque cathenas +negotio levi dirumpunt: media autem qu fortior erat, illibata manebat. +Tertia autem nocte, circa gallicinium, strepitu hostium adventantium, +omne monasterium visum est a fundamento moveri. Unus ergo dmonum, et +vultu cteris terribilior & statura eminentior, januas Ecclesi; impetu +violento concussas in fragmenta dejecit. Divexerunt clerici cum laicis, +metu stelerunt omnium capilli, et psalmorum concentus defecit. Dmon +ergo gestu ut videbatur arroganti ad sepulchrum accedens, & nomen +mulieris modicum ingeminans, surgere imperavit. Qua respondente, quod +nequiret pro vinculis, jam malo tuo, inquit, solveris; et protinus +cathenam qu cterorum ferociam dmonum deluserat, velut stuppeum +vinculum rumpebat. Operculum etiam sepulchri pede depellens, mulierem +palam omnibus ab ecclesia extraxit, ubi pr foribus niger equus superbe +hinniens videbatur, uncis ferreis et clavis undique confixus, super quem +misera mulier projecta, ab oculis assistentium evanuit. Audiebantur +tamen clamores per quatuor fere miliaria horribiles, auxilium +postulantes. + +Ista itaque qu retuli incredibilia non erunt, si legatur beati Gregorii +dialogus, in quo refert, hominem in ecclesia sepultam, a dmonibus foras +ejectum. Et apud Francos Carolus Martellus insignis vir fortudinis, qui +Saracenos Galliam ingressos, Hispaniam redire compulit, exactis vit su +diebus, in Ecclesia beati Dionysii legitur fuisse sepultus. Sed quia +patrimonia, cum decimis omnium fere ecclesiarum Galli, pro stipendio +commilitonum suorum mutilaverat, miserabiliter a malignis spiritibus de +sepulchro corporaliter avulsus, usque in hodiernum diem nusquam +comparuit. + +Matthew of Westminster. + + +This story is also related by Olaus Magnus, and in the Nuremberg +Chronicle, from which the wooden cut is taken. + + + +A BALLAD, + +SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. + + + The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal, + And the Old Woman knew what he said, + And she grew pale at the Raven's tale, + And sicken'd and went to her bed. + + Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed, + The Old Woman of Berkeley said, + The monk my son, and my daughter the nun + Bid them hasten or I shall be dead. + + The monk her son, and her daughter the nun, + Their way to Berkeley went, + And they have brought with pious thought + The holy sacrament. + + The old Woman shriek'd as they entered her door, + 'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear, + Now take the sacrament away + For mercy, my children dear! + + Her lip it trembled with agony, + The sweat ran down her brow, + I have tortures in store for evermore, + Oh! spare me my children now! + + Away they sent the sacrament, + The fit it left her weak, + She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes + And faintly struggled to speak. + + All kind of sin I have rioted in + And the judgment now must be, + But I secured my childrens souls, + Oh! pray my children for me. + + I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes, + The fiends have been my slaves, + I have nointed myself with infants fat, + And feasted on rifled graves. + + And the fiend will fetch me now in fire + My witchcrafts to atone, + And I who have rifled the dead man's grave + Shall never have rest in my own. + + Bless I intreat my winding sheet + My children I beg of you! + And with holy water sprinkle my shroud + And sprinkle my coffin too. + + And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone + And fasten it strong I implore + With iron bars, and let it be chain'd + With three chains to the church floor. + + And bless the chains and sprinkle them, + And let fifty priests stand round, + Who night and day the mass may say + Where I lie on the ground. + + And let fifty choristers be there + The funeral dirge to sing, + Who day and night by the taper's light + Their aid to me may bring. + + Let the church bells all both great and small + Be toll'd by night and day, + To drive from thence the fiends who come + To bear my corpse away. + + And ever have the church door barr'd + After the even song, + And I beseech you children dear + Let the bars and bolts be strong. + + And let this be three days and nights + My wretched corpse to save, + Preserve me so long from the fiendish throng + And then I may rest in my grave. + + The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down + And her eyes grew deadly dim, + Short came her breath and the struggle of death + Did loosen every limb. + + They blest the old woman's winding sheet + With rites and prayers as due, + With holy water they sprinkled her shroud + And they sprinkled her coffin too. + + And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone + And with iron barr'd it down, + And in the church with three strong chains + They chain'd it to the ground. + + And they blest the chains and sprinkled them, + And fifty priests stood round, + By night and day the mass to say + Where she lay on the ground. + + And fifty choristers were there + To sing the funeral song, + And a hallowed taper blazed in the hand + Of all the sacred throng. + + To see the priests and choristers + It was a goodly sight, + Each holding, as it were a staff, + A taper burning bright. + + And the church bells all both great and small + Did toll so loud and long, + And they have barr'd the church door hard + After the even song. + + And the first night the taper's light + Burnt steadily and clear. + But they without a hideous rout + Of angry fiends could hear; + + A hideous roar at the church door + Like a long thunder peal, + And the priests they pray'd and the choristers sung + Louder in fearful zeal. + + Loud toll'd the bell, the priests pray'd well, + The tapers they burnt bright, + The monk her son, and her daughter the nun + They told their beads all night. + + The cock he crew, away they flew + The fiends from the herald of day, + And undisturb'd the choristers sing + And the fifty priests they pray. + + The second night the taper's light + Burnt dismally and blue, + And every one saw his neighbour's face + Like a dead man's face to view. + + And yells and cries without arise + That the stoutest heart might shock, + And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring + Over a mountain rock. + + The monk and nun they told their beads + As fast as they could tell, + And aye as louder grew the noise + The faster went the bell. + + Louder and louder the choristers sung + As they trembled more and more, + And the fifty priests prayed to heaven for aid, + They never had prayed so before. + + The cock he crew, away they flew + The fiends from the herald of day, + And undisturb'd the choristers sing + And the fifty priests they pray. + + The third night came and the tapers flame + A hideous stench did make, + And they burnt as though they had been dipt + In the burning brimstone lake. + + And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean, + Grew momently more and more, + And strokes as of a battering ram + Did shake the strong church door. + + The bellmen they for very fear + Could toll the bell no longer, + And still as louder grew the strokes + Their fear it grew the stronger. + + The monk and nun forgot their beads, + They fell on the ground dismay'd, + There was not a single saint in heaven + Whom they did not call to aid. + + And the choristers song that late was so strong + Grew a quaver of consternation, + For the church did rock as an earthquake shock + Uplifted its foundation. + + And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast + That shall one day wake the dead, + The strong church door could bear no more + And the bolts and the bars they fled. + + And the taper's light was extinguish'd quite, + And the choristers faintly sung, + And the priests dismay'd, panted and prayed + Till fear froze every tongue. + + And in He came with eyes of flame + The Fiend to fetch the dead, + And all the church with his presence glowed + Like a fiery furnace red. + + He laid his hand on the iron chains + And like flax they moulder'd asunder, + And the coffin lid that was barr'd so firm + He burst with his voice of thunder. + + And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise + And come with her master away, + And the cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse, + At the voice she was forced to obey. + + She rose on her feet in her winding sheet, + Her dead flesh quivered with fear, + And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave + Never did mortal hear. + + She followed the fiend to the church door, + There stood a black horse there, + His breath was red like furnace smoke, + His eyes like a meteor's glare. + + The fiendish force flung her on the horse + And he leapt up before, + And away like the lightning's speed they went + And she was seen no more. + + They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks + For four miles round they could hear, + And children at rest at their mother's breast, + Started and screamed with fear. + + + + + +The Surgeon's Warning. + +The subject of this parody was given me by a friend, to whom also I am +indebted for some of the stanzas. + +Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the manner of +Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute to their Saints +and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare that it is by no means my +design to depreciate that useful invention; and all persons to whom this +Ballad shall come are requested to take notice, that nothing here +asserted concerning the aforesaid Coffins is true, except that the maker +and patentee lives by St. Martin's Lane. + + +THE SURGEONS' WARNING. + + +The Doctor whispered to the Nurse + And the Surgeon knew what he said, +And he grew pale at the Doctor's tale + And trembled in his sick bed. + +Now fetch me my brethren and fetch them with speed + The Surgeon affrighted said, +The Parson and the Undertaker, + Let them hasten or I shall be dead. + +The Parson and the Undertaker + They hastily came complying, +And the Surgeon's Prentices ran up stairs + When they heard that their master was dying. + +The Prentices all they entered the room + By one, by two, by three, +With a sly grin came Joseph in, + First of the company. + +The Surgeon swore as they enter'd his door, + 'Twas fearful his oaths to hear,-- +Now send these scoundrels to the Devil, + For God's sake my brethren dear. + +He foam'd at the mouth with the rage he felt + And he wrinkled his black eye-brow, +That rascal Joe would be at me I know, + But zounds let him spare me now. + +Then out they sent the Prentices, + The fit it left him weak, +He look'd at his brothers with ghastly eyes, + And faintly struggled to speak. + +All kinds of carcasses I have cut up, + And the judgment now must be-- +But brothers I took care of you, + So pray take care of me! + +I have made candles of infants fat + The Sextons have been my slaves, +I have bottled babes unborn, and dried + Hearts and livers from rifled graves. + +And my Prentices now will surely come + And carve me bone from bone, +And I who have rifled the dead man's grave + Shall never have rest in my own. + +Bury me in lead when I am dead, + My brethren I intreat, +And see the coffin weigh'd I beg + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +And let it be solder'd closely down + Strong as strong can be I implore, +And put it in a patent coffin, + That I may rise no more. + +If they carry me off in the patent coffin + Their labour will be in vain, +Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +And bury me in my brother's church + For that will safer be, +And I implore lock the church door + And pray take care of the key. + +And all night long let three stout men + The vestry watch within, +To each man give a gallon of beer + And a keg of Holland's gin; + +Powder and ball and blunder-buss + To save me if he can, +And eke five guineas if he shoot + A resurrection man. + +And let them watch me for three weeks + My wretched corpse to save, +For then I think that I may stink + Enough to rest in my grave. + +The Surgeon laid him down in his bed, + His eyes grew deadly dim, +Short came his breath and the struggle of death + Distorted every limb. + +They put him in lead when he was dead + And shrouded up so neat, +And they the leaden coffin weigh + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +They had it solder'd closely down + And examined it o'er and o'er, +And they put it in a patent coffin + That he might rise no more. + +For to carry him off in a patent coffin + Would they thought be but labour in vain, +So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +In his brother's church they buried him + That safer he might be, +They lock'd the door and would not trust + The Sexton with the key. + +And three men in the vestry watch + To save him if they can, +And should he come there to shoot they swear + A resurrection man. + +And the first night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +A guinea of gold the sexton shewed + That Mister Joseph sent. + +But conscience was tough, it was not enough + And their honesty never swerved, +And they bade him go with Mister Joe + To the Devil as he deserved. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The second night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +He whisper'd anew and shew'd them two + That Mister Joseph sent. + +The guineas were bright and attracted their sight + They look'd so heavy and new, +And their fingers itch'd as they were bewitch'd + And they knew not what to do. + +But they waver'd not long for conscience was strong + And they thought they might get more, +And they refused the gold, but not + So rudely as before. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The third night as by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard they went, +He bade them see and shew'd them three + That Mister Joseph sent. + +They look'd askance with eager glance, + The guineas they shone bright, +For the Sexton on the yellow gold + Let fall his lanthorn light. + +And he look'd sly with his roguish eye + And gave a well-tim'd wink, +And they could not stand the sound in his hand + For he made the guineas chink. + +And conscience late that had such weight, + All in a moment fails, +For well they knew that it was true + A dead man told no tales, + +And they gave all their powder and ball + And took the gold so bright, +And they drank their beer and made good cheer, + Till now it was midnight. + +Then, tho' the key of the church door + Was left with the Parson his brother, +It opened at the Sexton's touch-- + Because he had another. + +And in they go with that villain Joe + To fetch the body by night, +And all the church look'd dismally + By his dark lanthorn light. + +They laid the pick-axe to the stones + And they moved them soon asunder. +They shovell'd away the hard-prest clay + And came to the coffin under. + +They burst the patent coffin first + And they cut thro' the lead, +And they laugh'd aloud when they saw the shroud + Because they had got at the dead. + +And they allowed the Sexton the shroud + And they put the coffin back, +And nose and knees they then did squeeze + The Surgeon in a sack. + +The watchmen as they past along + Full four yards off could smell, +And a curse bestowed upon the load + So disagreeable. + +So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back + And they carv'd him bone from bone, +But what became of the Surgeon's soul + Was never to mortal known. + + + + + + + + + +THE VICTORY. + + + Hark--how the church-bells thundering harmony + Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come, + Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships + Met on the element,--they met, they fought + A desperate fight!--good tidings of great joy! + Old England triumphed! yet another day + Of glory for the ruler of the waves! + For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause, + They have their passing paragraphs of praise + And are forgotten. + There was one who died + In that day's glory, whose obscurer name + No proud historian's page will chronicle. + Peace to his honest soul! I read his name, + 'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God + The sound was not familiar to mine ear. + But it was told me after that this man + Was one whom lawful violence [1] had forced + From his own home and wife and little ones, + Who by his labour lived; that he was one + Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel + A husband's love, a father's anxiousness, + That from the wages of his toil he fed + The distant dear ones, and would talk of them + At midnight when he trod the silent deck + With him he valued, talk of them, of joys + That he had known--oh God! and of the hour + When they should meet again, till his full heart + His manly heart at last would overflow + Even like a child's with very tenderness. + Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly + It came, and merciful the ball of death, + For it came suddenly and shattered him, + And left no moment's agonizing thought + On those he loved so well. + He ocean deep + Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter + Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know + What a cold sickness made her blood run back + When first she heard the tidings of the fight; + Man does not know with what a dreadful hope + She listened to the names of those who died, + Man does not know, or knowing will not heed, + With what an agony of tenderness + She gazed upon her children, and beheld + His image who was gone. Oh God! be thou + Her comforter who art the widow's friend! + + +[Footnote 1: The person alluded to was pressed into the service.] + + + + + + + + + +HENRY THE HERMIT. + + + It was a little island where he dwelt, + Or rather a lone rock, barren and bleak, + Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots + Its gray stone surface. Never mariner + Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast, + Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark + Anchored beside its shore. It was a place + Befitting well a rigid anchoret, + Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys + And purposes of life; and he had dwelt + Many long years upon that lonely isle, + For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms, + Honours and friends and country and the world, + And had grown old in solitude. That isle + Some solitary man in other times + Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found + The little chapel that his toil had built + Now by the storms unroofed, his bed of leaves + Wind-scattered, and his grave o'ergrown with grass, + And thistles, whose white seeds winged in vain + Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost. + So he repaired the chapel's ruined roof, + Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone, + And underneath a rock that shelter'd him + From the sea blasts, he built his hermitage. + + The peasants from the shore would bring him food + And beg his prayers; but human converse else + He knew not in that utter solitude, + Nor ever visited the haunts of men + Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed + Implored his blessing and his aid in death. + That summons he delayed not to obey, + Tho' the night tempest or autumnal wind. + Maddened the waves, and tho' the mariner, + Albeit relying on his saintly load, + Grew pale to see the peril. So he lived + A most austere and self-denying man, + Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness + Exhausted him, and it was pain at last + To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less + Tho' with reluctance of infirmity, + He rose at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal + More self-condemning fervour rais'd his voice + For pardon for that sin, 'till that the sin + Repented was a joy like a good deed. + + One night upon the shore his chapel bell + Was heard; the air was calm, and its far sounds + Over the water came distinct and loud. + Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear + Its toll irregular, a monk arose. + The boatmen bore him willingly across + For well the hermit Henry was beloved. + He hastened to the chapel, on a stone + Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff and dead, + The bell-rope in his band, and at his feet + The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light + + +[Footnote 1: This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608.] + + + + + + + + + +English Eclogues. + +The following Eclogues I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in +our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, +and I was induced to attempt by an account of the German Idylls given me +in conversation. They cannot properly be stiled imitations, as I am +ignorant of that language at present, and have never seen any +translations or specimens in this kind. + +With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from ??tyrus [1] and +Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsises. No kind of poetry +can boast of more illustrious names or is more distinguished by the +servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers "more silly than +their sheep" have like their sheep gone on in the same track one after +another. Gay stumbled into a new path. His eclogues were the only ones +that interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were +burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for a long essay, but this +is not the place for it. + +How far poems requiring almost a colloquial plainness of language may +accord with the public taste I am doubtful. They have been subjected to +able criticism and revised with care. I have endeavoured to make them +true to nature. + + +[Footnote 1: The letters of this name are illegible (worn away?) in +the original text; from the remaining bits I have guessed all but the +first two, which are not visible under any magnification. text Ed.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE I. + + +THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE. + + + +STRANGER. + Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, + Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task + Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours. + + +OLD MAN. + Why yes! for one with such a weight of years + Upon his back. I've lived here, man and boy, + In this same parish, near the age of man + For I am hard upon threescore and ten. + I can remember sixty years ago + The beautifying of this mansion here + When my late Lady's father, the old Squire + Came to the estate. + + +STRANGER. + Why then you have outlasted + All his improvements, for you see they're making + Great alterations here. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye-great indeed! + And if my poor old Lady could rise up-- + God rest her soul! 'twould grieve her to behold + The wicked work is here. + + +STRANGER. + They've set about it + In right good earnest. All the front is gone, + Here's to be turf they tell me, and a road + Round to the door. There were some yew trees too + Stood in the court. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye Master! fine old trees! + My grandfather could just remember back + When they were planted there. It was my task + To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me! + All strait and smooth, and like a great green wall! + My poor old Lady many a time would come + And tell me where to shear, for she had played + In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride + To keep them in their beauty. Plague I say + On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have + A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs + And your pert poplar trees;--I could as soon + Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down! + + +STRANGER. + But 'twill be lighter and more chearful now, + A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road + Round for the carriage,--now it suits my taste. + I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh, + And then there's some variety about it. + In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose, + And the laburnum with its golden flowers + Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes + The bright red berries of the mountain ash, + With firs enough in winter to look green, + And show that something lives. Sure this is better + Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look + All the year round like winter, and for ever + Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs + So dry and bare! + + +OLD MAN. + Ah! so the new Squire thinks + And pretty work he makes of it! what 'tis + To have a stranger come to an old house! + + +STRANGER. + + It seems you know him not? + + +OLD MAN. + No Sir, not I. + They tell me he's expected daily now, + But in my Lady's time he never came + But once, for they were very distant kin. + If he had played about here when a child + In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries, + And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers, + That fell so thick, he had not had the heart + To mar all thus. + + +STRANGER. + Come--come! all a not wrong. + Those old dark windows-- + + +OLD MAN. + They're demolish'd too-- + As if he could not see thro' casement glass! + The very red-breasts that so regular + Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs, + Won't know the window now! + + +STRANGER. + Nay they were high + And then so darken'd up with jessamine, + Harbouring the vermine;--that was a fine tree + However. Did it not grow in and line + The porch? + + +OLD MAN. + All over it: it did one good + To pass within ten yards when 'twas in blossom. + There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside. + My Lady loved at evening to sit there + And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet + And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favourite dog + She did not love him less that he was old + And feeble, and he always had a place + By the fire-side, and when he died at last + She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. + Ah I she was good to all! a woful day + 'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! + + +STRANGER. + They lost a friend then? + + +OLD MAN. + You're a stranger here + Or would not ask that question. Were they sick? + She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs + She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter + When weekly she distributed the bread + In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear + The blessings on her! and I warrant them + They were a blessing to her when her wealth + Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir! + It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen + Her Christmas kitchen,--how the blazing fire + Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs + So chearful red,--and as for misseltoe, + The finest bough that grew in the country round + Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went + So bountiful about! a Christmas cask, + And 'twas a noble one! God help me Sir! + But I shall never see such days again. + + +STRANGER. + Things may be better yet than you suppose + And you should hope the best. + + +OLD MAN. + It don't look well + These alterations Sir! I'm an old man + And love the good old fashions; we don't find + Old bounty in new houses. They've destroyed + All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk + Grubb'd up, and they do say that the great row + Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top + They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think + To live to see all this, and 'tis perhaps + A comfort I shan't live to see it long. + + +STRANGER. + But sure all changes are not needs for the worse + My friend. + + +OLD MAN. + May-hap they mayn't Sir;--for all that + I like what I've been us'd to. I remember + All this from a child up, and now to lose it, + 'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left + As 'twas;--I go abroad and only meet + With men whose fathers I remember boys; + The brook that used to run before my door + That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt + To climb are down; and I see nothing now + That tells me of old times, except the stones + In the church-yard. You are young Sir and I hope + Have many years in store,--but pray to God + You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. + + +STRANGER. + Well! well! you've one friend more than you're aware of. + If the Squire's taste don't suit with your's, I warrant + That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste + His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady + E'er broached a better cask. You did not know me, + But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy + To make you like the outside; but within-- + That is not changed my friend! you'll always find + The same old bounty and old welcome there. + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE II. + + +THE GRANDMOTHERS TALE. + + + +JANE. + Harry! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round + The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us + One of her stories. + + +HARRY. + Aye--dear Grandmamma! + A pretty story! something dismal now; + A bloody murder. + + +JANE. + Or about a ghost. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Nay, nay, I should but frighten you. You know + The other night when I was telling you + About the light in the church-yard, how you trembled + Because the screech-owl hooted at the window, + And would not go to bed. + + +JANE. + Why Grandmamma + You said yourself you did not like to hear him. + Pray now! we wo'nt be frightened. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Well, well, children! + But you've heard all my stories. Let me see,-- + Did I never tell you how the smuggler murdered + The woman down at Pill? + + +HARRY. + No--never! never! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Not how he cut her head off in the stable? + + +HARRY. + Oh--now! do tell us that! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + You must have heard + Your Mother, children! often tell of her. + She used to weed in the garden here, and worm + Your uncle's dogs [1], and serve the house with coal; + And glad enough she was in winter time + To drive her asses here! it was cold work + To follow the slow beasts thro' sleet and snow, + And here she found a comfortable meal + And a brave fire to thaw her, for poor Moll + Was always welcome. + + +HARRY. + Oh--'twas blear-eyed Moll + The collier woman,--a great ugly woman, + I've heard of her. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Ugly enough poor soul! + At ten yards distance you could hardly tell + If it were man or woman, for her voice + Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore + A man's old coat and hat,--and then her face! + There was a merry story told of her, + How when the press-gang came to take her husband + As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, + Drest John up in her night-cap, and herself + Put on his clothes and went before the Captain. + + +JANE. + And so they prest a woman! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + 'Twas a trick + She dearly loved to tell, and all the country + Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel + For miles around. All weathers and all hours + She crossed the hill, as hardy as her beasts, + Bearing the wind and rain and winter frosts, + And if she did not reach her home at night + She laid her down in the stable with her asses + And slept as sound as they did. + + +HARRY. + With her asses! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Yes, and she loved her beasts. For tho' poor wretch + She was a terrible reprobate and swore + Like any trooper, she was always good + To the dumb creatures, never loaded them + Beyond their strength, and rather I believe + Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want, + Because, she said, they could not ask for food. + I never saw her stick fall heavier on them + Than just with its own weight. She little thought + This tender-heartedness would be her death! + There was a fellow who had oftentimes, + As if he took delight in cruelty. + Ill-used her Asses. He was one who lived + By smuggling, and, for she had often met him + Crossing the down at night, she threatened him, + If he tormented them again, to inform + Of his unlawful ways. Well--so it was-- + 'Twas what they both were born to, he provoked her, + She laid an information, and one morn + They found her in the stable, her throat cut + From ear to ear,'till the head only hung + Just by a bit of skin. + + +JANE. + Oh dear! oh dear! + + +HARRY. + I hope they hung the man! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + They took him up; + There was no proof, no one had seen the deed, + And he was set at liberty. But God + Whoss eye beholdeth all things, he had seen + The murder, and the murderer knew that God + Was witness to his crime. He fled the place, + But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand + Of heaven, but nowhere could the murderer rest, + A guilty conscience haunted him, by day, + By night, in company, in solitude, + Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him + The weight of blood; her cries were in his ears, + Her stifled groans as when he knelt upon her + Always he heard; always he saw her stand + Before his eyes; even in the dead of night + Distinctly seen as tho' in the broad sun, + She stood beside the murderer's bed and yawn'd + Her ghastly wound; till life itself became + A punishment at last he could not bear, + And he confess'd [2] it all, and gave himself + To death, so terrible, he said, it was + To have a guilty conscience! + + +HARRY. + Was he hung then? + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man, + Your uncles went to see him on his trial, + He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed, + And such a horror in his meagre face, + They said he look'd like one who never slept. + He begg'd the prayers of all who saw his end + And met his death with fears that well might warn + From guilt, tho' not without a hope in Christ. + + +[Footnote 1: I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common +in other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from doing +any mischief should they afterwards become mad.] + +[Footnote 2: There must be many persons living who remember these +circumstances. They happened two or three and twenty years ago, in the +neighbourhood of Bristol. The woman's name was Bees. The stratagem by +which she preserved her husband from the press-gang, is also true.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE III. + + +THE FUNERAL. + + + + The coffin [1] as I past across the lane + Came sudden on my view. It was not here, + A sight of every day, as in the streets + Of the great city, and we paus'd and ask'd + Who to the grave was going. It was one, + A village girl, they told us, who had borne + An eighteen months strange illness, and had pined + With such slow wasting that the hour of death + Came welcome to her. We pursued our way + To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk + That passes o'er the mind and is forgot, + We wore away the time. But it was eve + When homewardly I went, and in the air + Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade + That makes the eye turn inward. Then I heard + Over the vale the heavy toll of death + Sound slow; it made me think upon the dead, + I questioned more and learnt her sorrowful tale. + She bore unhusbanded a mother's name, + And he who should have cherished her, far off + Sail'd on the seas, self-exil'd from his home, + For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched one, + Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues + Were busy with her name. She had one ill + Heavier, neglect, forgetfulness from him + Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote, + But only once that drop of comfort came + To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; + And when his parents had some tidings from him, + There was no mention of poor Hannah there, + Or 'twas the cold enquiry, bitterer + Than silence. So she pined and pined away + And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd, + Nor did she, even on her death bed, rest + From labour, knitting with her outstretch'd arms + Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother + Omitted no kind office, and she work'd + Hard, and with hardest working barely earn'd + Enough to make life struggle and prolong + The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay + On the sick bed of poverty, so worn + With her long suffering and that painful thought + That at her heart lay rankling, and so weak, + That she could make no effort to express + Affection for her infant; and the child, + Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her + With a strange infantine ingratitude + Shunn'd her as one indifferent. She was past + That anguish, for she felt her hour draw on, + And 'twas her only comfoft now to think + Upon the grave. "Poor girl!" her mother said, + "Thou hast suffered much!" "aye mother! there is none + "Can tell what I have suffered!" she replied, + "But I shall soon be where the weary rest." + And she did rest her soon, for it pleased God + To take her to his mercy. + + +[Footnote 1: It is proper to remark that the story related in this +Eclogue is strictly true. I met the funeral, and learnt the +circumstances in a village in Hampshire. The indifference of the child +was mentioned to me; indeed no addition whatever has been made to the +story. I should have thought it wrong to have weakened the effect of a +faithful narrative by adding any thing.] + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE IV. + + +THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. + + + +WOMAN. + Sir for the love of God some small relief + To a poor woman! + + +TRAVELLER. + Whither are you bound? + 'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, + No house for miles around us, and the way + Dreary and wild. The evening wind already + Makes one's teeth chatter, and the very Sun, + Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, + Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night! + + +WOMAN. + Aye Sir + 'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath, + Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end, + For the way is long before me, and my feet, + God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly, + If it pleased God, lie down at once and die. + + +TRAVELLER. + Nay nay cheer up! a little food and rest + Will comfort you; and then your journey's end + Will make amends for all. You shake your head, + And weep. Is it some evil business then + That leads you from your home? + + +WOMAN. + Sir I am going + To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt + In the late action, and in the hospital + Dying, I fear me, now. + + +TRAVELLER. + Perhaps your fears + Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost + There may be still enough for comfort left + An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart + To keep life warm, and he may live to talk + With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd him, + Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude + Makes the maim'd sailor happy. + + +WOMAN. + 'Tis not that-- + An arm or leg--I could have borne with that. + 'Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing + That bursts [1] and burns that hurt him. Something Sir + They do not use on board our English ships + It is so wicked! + + +TRAVELLER. + Rascals! a mean art + Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain! + + +WOMAN. + Yes Sir! and they should show no mercy to them + For making use of such unchristian arms. + I had a letter from the hospital, + He got some friend to write it, and he tells me + That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes, + Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever live + To see this wretched day!--they tell me Sir + There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed + 'Tis a hard journey that I go upon + To such a dismal end! + + +TRAVELLER. + He yet may live. + But if the worst should chance, why you must bear + The will of heaven with patience. Were it not + Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen + Fighting his country's cause? and for yourself + You will not in unpitied poverty + Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country + Amid the triumph of her victory + Remember those who paid its price of blood, + And with a noble charity relieves + The widow and the orphan. + + +WOMAN. + God reward them! + God bless them, it will help me in my age + But Sir! it will not pay me for my child! + + +TRAVELLER. + Was he your only child? + + +WOMAN. + My only one, + The stay and comfort of my widowhood, + A dear good boy!--when first he went to sea + I felt what it would come to,--something told me + I should be childless soon. But tell me Sir + If it be true that for a hurt like his + There is no cure? please God to spare his life + Tho' he be blind, yet I should be so thankful! + I can remember there was a blind man + Lived in our village, one from his youth up + Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, + And he had none to tend on him so well + As I would tend my boy! + + +TRAVELLER. + Of this be sure + His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help + The place affords, as rightly is his due, + Ever at hand. How happened it he left you? + Was a seafaring life his early choice? + + +WOMAN. + No Sir! poor fellow--he was wise enough + To be content at home, and 'twas a home + As comfortable Sir I even tho' I say it, + As any in the country. He was left + A little boy when his poor father died, + Just old enough to totter by himself + And call his mother's name. We two were all, + And as we were not left quite destitute + We bore up well. In the summer time I worked + Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting, + And in long winter nights my spinning wheel + Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too + And never felt distress. So he grew up + A comely lad and wonderous well disposed; + I taught him well; there was not in the parish + A child who said his prayers more regular, + Or answered readier thro' his catechism. + If I had foreseen this! but 'tis a blessing + We do'nt know what we're born to! + + +TRAVELLER. + But how came it + He chose to be a Sailor? + + +WOMAN. + You shall hear Sir; + As he grew up he used to watch the birds + In the corn, child's work you know, and easily done. + 'Tis an idle sort of task, so he built up + A little hut of wicker-work and clay + Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain. + And then he took for very idleness + To making traps to catch the plunderers, + All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make-- + Propping a stone to fall and shut them in, + Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe + Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly-- + And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased + To see the boy so handy. You may guess + What followed Sir from this unlucky skill. + He did what he should not when he was older: + I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught + In wiring hares at last, and had his choice + The prison or the ship. + + +TRAVELLER. + The choice at least + Was kindly left him, and for broken laws + This was methinks no heavy punishment. + + +WOMAN. + So I was told Sir. And I tried to think so, + But 'twas a sad blow to me! I was used + To sleep at nights soundly and undisturb'd-- + Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start + And think of my poor boy tossing about + Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem'd + To feel that it was hard to take him from me + For such a little fault. But he was wrong + Oh very wrong--a murrain on his traps! + See what they've brought him too! + + +TRAVELLER. + Well! well! take comfort + He will be taken care of if he lives; + And should you lose your child, this is a country + Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent + To weep for him in want. + + +WOMAN. + Sir I shall want + No succour long. In the common course of years + I soon must be at rest, and 'tis a comfort + When grief is hard upon me to reflect + It only leads me to that rest the sooner. + + +[Footnote 1: The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the +engagement between the Mars and L'Hercule, some of our sailors were +shockingly mangled by them: One in particular, as described in the +Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be policy and humanity to employ +means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to +destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only inflicts +additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is cruel and +wicked.] + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE V. + + +THE WITCH. + + + +NATHANIEL. + Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe! + Faith it was just in time, for t'other night + I laid two straws across at Margery's door, + And afterwards I fear'd that she might do me + A mischief for't. There was the Miller's boy + Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, + I met him upon crutches, and he told me + 'Twas all her evil eye. + + +FATHER. + 'Tis rare good luck; + I would have gladly given a crown for one + If t'would have done as well. But where did'st find it? + + +NATHANIEL. + Down on the Common; I was going a-field + And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare; + He had hardly said "good day," before I saw + The shoe drop off; 'twas just upon my tongue + To call him back,--it makes no difference, does it. + Because I know whose 'twas? + + +FATHER. + Why no, it can't. + The shoe's the same you know, and you 'did find' it. + + +NATHANIEL. + That mare of his has got a plaguey road + To travel, father, and if he should lame her, + For she is but tender-footed,-- + + +FATHER. + Aye, indeed-- + I should not like to see her limping back + Poor beast! but charity begins at home, + And Nat, there's our own horse in such a way + This morning! + + +NATHANIEL. + Why he ha'nt been rid again! + Last night I hung a pebble by the manger + With a hole thro', and every body says + That 'tis a special charm against the hags. + + +FATHER. + It could not be a proper natural hole then, + Or 'twas not a right pebble,--for I found him + Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, + And panting so! God knows where he had been + When we were all asleep, thro' bush and brake + Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch + At such a deadly rate!-- + + +NATHANIEL. + By land and water, + Over the sea perhaps!--I have heard tell + That 'tis some thousand miles, almost at the end + Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. + They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear + Some ointment over them and then away + Out of the window! but 'tis worse than all + To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it + That in a Christian country they should let + Such creatures live! + + +FATHER. + And when there's such plain proof! + I did but threaten her because she robb'd + Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind + That made me shake to hear it in my bed! + How came it that that storm unroofed my barn, + And only mine in the parish? look at her + And that's enough; she has it in her face-- + A pair of large dead eyes, rank in her head, + Just like a corpse, and purs'd with wrinkles round, + A nose and chin that scarce leave room between + For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff, + And when she speaks! I'd sooner hear a raven + Croak at my door! she sits there, nose and knees + Smoak-dried and shrivell'd over a starved fire, + With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes + Shine like old Beelzebub's, and to be sure + It must be one of his imps!--aye, nail it hard. + + +NATHANIEL. + I wish old Margery heard the hammer go! + She'd curse the music. + + +FATHER. + Here's the Curate coming, + He ought to rid the parish of such vermin; + In the old times they used to hunt them out + And hang them without mercy, but Lord bless us! + The world is grown so wicked! + + +CURATE. + Good day Farmer! + Nathaniel what art nailing to the threshold? + + +NATHANIEL. + A horse-shoe Sir, 'tis good to keep off witchcraft, + And we're afraid of Margery. + + +CURATE. + Poor old woman! + What can you fear from her? + + +FATHER. + What can we fear? + Who lamed the Miller's boy? who rais'd the wind + That blew my old barn's roof down? who d'ye think + Rides my poor horse a'nights? who mocks the hounds? + But let me catch her at that trick again, + And I've a silver bullet ready for her, + One that shall lame her, double how she will. + + +NATHANIEL. + What makes her sit there moping by herself, + With no soul near her but that great black cat? + And do but look at her! + + +CURATE. + Poor wretch! half blind + And crooked with her years, without a child + Or friend in her old age, 'tis hard indeed + To have her very miseries made her crimes! + I met her but last week in that hard frost + That made my young limbs ache, and when I ask'd + What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman + Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad + And pick the hedges, just to keep herself + From perishing with cold, because no neighbour + Had pity on her age; and then she cried, + And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, + And wish'd that she were dead. + + +FATHER. + I wish she was! + She has plagued the parish long enough! + + +CURATE. + Shame farmer! + Is that the charity your bible teaches? + + +FATHER. + My bible does not teach me to love witches. + I know what's charity; who pays his tithes + And poor-rates readier? + + +CURATE. + Who can better do it? + You've been a prudent and industrious man, + And God has blest your labour. + + +FATHER. + Why, thank God Sir, + I've had no reason to complain of fortune. + + +CURATE. + Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish + Look up to you. + + +FATHER. + Perhaps Sir, I could tell + Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. + + +CURATE. + You can afford a little to the poor, + And then what's better still, you have the heart + To give from your abundance. + + +FATHER. + God forbid + I should want charity! + + +CURATE. + Oh! 'tis a comfort + To think at last of riches well employ'd! + I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth + Of a good deed at that most awful hour + When riches profit not. + Farmer, I'm going + To visit Margery. She is sick I hear-- + Old, poor, and sick! a miserable lot, + And death will be a blessing. You might send her + Some little matter, something comfortable, + That she may go down easier to the grave + And bless you when she dies. + + +FATHER. + What! is she going! + Well God forgive her then! if she has dealt + In the black art. I'll tell my dame of it, + And she shall send her something. + + +CURATE. + So I'll say; + And take my thanks for her's. ['goes'] + + +FATHER. + That's a good man + That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit + The poor in sickness; but he don't believe + In witchcraft, and that is not like a christian. + + +NATHANIEL. + And so old Margery's dying! + + +FATHER. + But you know + She may recover; so drive t'other nail in! + + + + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE VI. + + +THE RUINED COTTAGE. + + + + Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye, + This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch, + Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower + Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock + That thro' the creeping weeds and nettles tall + Peers taller, and uplifts its column'd stem + Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen + Many a fallen convent reverend in decay, + And many a time have trod the castle courts + And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike + Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts + As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch + Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof + Part mouldered in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds, + House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss; + So Nature wars with all the works of man. + And, like himself, reduces back to earth + His perishable piles. + I led thee here + Charles, not without design; for this hath been + My favourite walk even since I was a boy; + And I remember Charles, this ruin here, + The neatest comfortable dwelling place! + That when I read in those dear books that first + Woke in my heart the love of poesy, + How with the villagers Erminia dwelt, + And Calidore for a fair shepherdess + Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd's lore; + My fancy drew from, this the little hut + Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love, + Or where the gentle Calidore at eve + Led Pastorella home. There was not then + A weed where all these nettles overtop + The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet + The morning air, rosemary and marjoram, + All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath'd + So lavishly around the pillared porch + Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way, + After a truant absence hastening home, + I could not chuse but pass with slacken'd speed + By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed + Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!-- + Theirs is a simple melancholy tale, + There's scarce a village but can fellow it, + And yet methinks it will not weary thee, + And should not be untold. + A widow woman + Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want, + She lived on some small pittance that sufficed, + In better times, the needful calls of life, + Not without comfort. I remember her + Sitting at evening in that open door way + And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her + Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles + To see the passer by, yet ceasing not + To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden + On some dry summer evening, walking round + To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean'd + Upon the ivory handle of her stick, + To some carnation whose o'erheavy head + Needed support, while with the watering-pot + Joanna followed, and refresh'd and trimm'd + The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child, + As lovely and as happy then as youth + And innocence could make her. + Charles! it seems + As tho' I were a boy again, and all + The mediate years with their vicissitudes + A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid + So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair, + Her bright brown hair, wreath'd in contracting curls, + And then her cheek! it was a red and white + That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome, + The countrymen who on their way to church + Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear + The bell's last summons, and in idleness + Watching the stream below, would all look up + When she pass'd by. And her old Mother, Charles! + When I have beard some erring infidel + Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed, + Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness. + Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love + The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross'd + These fields in rain and thro' the winter snows. + When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself + By the fire-side, have wondered why 'she' came + Who might have sate at home. + One only care + Hung on her aged spirit. For herself, + Her path was plain before her, and the close + Of her long journey near. But then her child + Soon to be left alone in this bad world,-- + That was a thought that many a winter night + Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love + In something better than a servant's slate + Had placed her well at last, it was a pang + Like parting life to part with her dear girl. + + One summer, Charles, when at the holydays + Return'd from school, I visited again + My old accustomed walks, and found in them. + A joy almost like meeting an old friend, + I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds + Already crowding the neglected flowers. + Joanna by a villain's wiles seduced + Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach'd + Her mother's heart. She did not suffer long, + Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow + Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. + + I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes + And think of other days. It wakes in me + A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles + That ever with these recollections rise, + I trust in God they will not pass away. + + + + + + + + +THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, 1799, by Robert Southey + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + +This file should be named 8spm210.txt or 8spm210.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8spm211.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8spm210a.txt + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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