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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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