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diff --git a/old/2014-04_8639-8.zip b/old/2014-04_8639-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0e5d53d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/2014-04_8639-8.zip diff --git a/old/2014-04_8639-h.zip b/old/2014-04_8639-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d0ede4 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/2014-04_8639-h.zip diff --git a/old/2014-04_8639.zip b/old/2014-04_8639.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d37a834 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/2014-04_8639.zip diff --git a/old/7spm210.txt b/old/7spm210.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4d9bae0 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7spm210.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4778 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, 1799, by Robert Southey +#4 in our series by Robert Southey + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Poems, 1799 + +Author: Robert Southey + +Release Date: August, 2005 [EBook #8639] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 29, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + +POEMS, + +by + +Robert Southey. + + + + The better, please; the worse, displease; I ask no more. + + SPENSER. + + + +THE SECOND VOLUME. + + + +CONTENTS. + + + THE VISION of THE MAID of ORLEANS. + + Book 1 + 2 + 3 + + + The Rose + + The Complaints of the Poor + + Metrical Letter + + + BALLADS. + + The Cross Roads. + + The Sailor who had served in the Slave Trade + + Jaspar + + Lord William + + A Ballad shewing how an old woman rode double + and who rode before her + + The Surgeon's Warning + + The Victory + + Henry the Hermit + + + ENGLISH ECLOGUES. + + The Old Mansion House + + The Grandmother's Tale + + The Funeral + + The Sailor's Mother + + The Witch + + The Ruined Cottage + + + + + + + + + + +The Vision + +of + +The Maid of Orleans. + + + + + Divinity hath oftentimes descended + Upon our slumbers, and the blessed troupes + Have, in the calme and quiet of the soule, + Conversed with us. + + SHIRLEY. 'The Grateful Servant' + + + + + + +[Sidenote: The following Vision was originally printed as the ninth book +of 'JOAN of ARC'. It is now adapted to the improved edition of that +Poem.] + + + + + + +THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE FIRST BOOK. + + + + Orleans was hush'd in sleep. Stretch'd on her couch + The delegated Maiden lay: with toil + Exhausted and sore anguish, soon she closed + Her heavy eye-lids; not reposing then, + For busy Phantasy, in other scenes + Awakened. Whether that superior powers, + By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream, + Instructing so the passive [1] faculty; + Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog, + Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world, + And all things 'are' that [2] 'seem'. + + Along a moor, + Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate, + She roam'd a wanderer thro' the cheerless night. + Far thro' the silence of the unbroken plain + The bittern's boom was heard, hoarse, heavy, deep, + It made most fitting music to the scene. + Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind, + Swept shadowing; thro' their broken folds the moon + Struggled sometimes with transitory ray, + And made the moving darkness visible. + And now arrived beside a fenny lake + She stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarse + The long sedge rustled to the gales of night. + An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell'd + By powers unseen; then did the moon display + Where thro' the crazy vessel's yawning side + The muddy wave oozed in: a female guides, + And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan'd + As melancholy mournful to her ear, + As ever by the dungeon'd wretch was heard + Howling at evening round the embattled towers + Of that hell-house [3] of France, ere yet sublime + The almighty people from their tyrant's hand + Dash'd down the iron rod. + Intent the Maid + Gazed on the pilot's form, and as she gazed + Shiver'd, for wan her face was, and her eyes + Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep, + Channell'd by tears; a few grey locks hung down + Beneath her hood: then thro' the Maiden's veins + Chill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass'd, + Lifting her tattcr'd mantle, coil'd around + She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart. + + The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by, + And the night-raven's scream came fitfully, + Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid + Look'd to the shore, and now upon the bank + Leaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling still + In recollection. + + There, a mouldering pile + Stretch'd its wide ruins, o'er the plain below + Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon + Shone thro' its fretted windows: the dark Yew, + Withering with age, branched there its naked roots, + And there the melancholy Cypress rear'd + Its head; the earth was heav'd with many a mound, + And here and there a half-demolish'd tomb. + + And now, amid the ruin's darkest shade, + The Virgin's eye beheld where pale blue flames + Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth, + And now in darkness drown'd. An aged man + Sat near, seated on what in long-past days + Had been some sculptur'd monument, now fallen + And half-obscured by moss, and gathered heaps + Of withered yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones; + And shining in the ray was seen the track + Of slimy snail obscene. Composed his look, + His eye was large and rayless, and fix'd full + Upon the Maid; the blue flames on his face + Stream'd a pale light; his face was of the hue + Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud. + + Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice, + Exclaim'd the Spectre, "Welcome to these realms, + These regions of DESPAIR! O thou whose steps + By GRIEF conducted to these sad abodes + Have pierced; welcome, welcome to this gloom + Eternal, to this everlasting night, + Where never morning darts the enlivening ray, + Where never shines the sun, but all is dark, + Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King." + + So saying he arose, and by the hand + The Virgin seized with such a death-cold touch + As froze her very heart; and drawing on, + Her, to the abbey's inner ruin, led + Resistless. Thro' the broken roof the moon + Glimmer'd a scatter'd ray; the ivy twined + Round the dismantled column; imaged forms + Of Saints and warlike Chiefs, moss-canker'd now + And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground, + With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen, + And rusted trophies; and amid the heap + Some monument's defaced legend spake + All human glory vain. + + The loud blast roar'd + Amid the pile; and from the tower the owl + Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest. + He, silent, led her on, and often paus'd, + And pointed, that her eye might contemplate + At leisure the drear scene. + He dragged her on + Thro' a low iron door, down broken stairs; + Then a cold horror thro' the Maiden's frame + Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw, + By the sepulchral lamp's dim glaring light, + The fragments of the dead. + "Look here!" he cried, + "Damsel, look here! survey this house of Death; + O soon to tenant it! soon to increase + These trophies of mortality! for hence + Is no return. Gaze here! behold this skull, + These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws, + That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mock + Thy perishable charms; for thus thy cheek + Must moulder. Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul, + Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heart + At the dread thought, that here its life's-blood soon + Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon + With the cold clod? a thought most horrible! + So only dreadful, for reality + Is none of suffering here; here all is peace; + No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave. + Dreadful it is to think of losing life; + But having lost, knowledge of loss is not, + Therefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose; + Probe deep the seat of life." + So spake DESPAIR + The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice, + And all again was silence. Quick her heart + Panted. He drew a dagger from his breast, + And cried again, "Haste Damsel to repose! + One blow, and rest for ever!" On the Fiend + Dark scowl'd the Virgin with indignant eye, + And dash'd the dagger down. He next his heart + Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid + Along the downward vault. + The damp earth gave + A dim sound as they pass'd: the tainted air + Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews. + "Behold!" the fiend exclaim'd, "how gradual here + The fleshly burden of mortality + Moulders to clay!" then fixing his broad eye + Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse + Lay livid; she beheld with loathing look, + The spectacle abhorr'd by living man. + + "Look here!" DESPAIR pursued, "this loathsome mass + Was once as lovely, and as full of life + As, Damsel! thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes + Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence, + And where thou seest the pamper'd flesh-worm trail, + Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought + That at the hallowed altar, soon the Priest + Should bless her coming union, and the torch + Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy, + Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earth + That Priest consign'd her, and the funeral lamp + Glares on her cold face; for her lover went + By glory lur'd to war, and perish'd there; + Nor she endur'd to live. Ha! fades thy cheek? + Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale? + Look here! behold the youthful paramour! + The self-devoted hero!" + Fearfully + The Maid look'd down, and saw the well known face + Of THEODORE! in thoughts unspeakable, + Convulsed with horror, o'er her face she clasp'd + Her cold damp hands: "Shrink not," the Phantom cried, + "Gaze on! for ever gaze!" more firm he grasp'd + Her quivering arm: "this lifeless mouldering clay, + As well thou know'st, was warm with all the glow + Of Youth and Love; this is the arm that cleaved + Salisbury's proud crest, now motionless in death, + Unable to protect the ravaged frame + From the foul Offspring of Mortality + That feed on heroes. Tho' long years were thine, + Yet never more would life reanimate + This murdered man; murdered by thee! for thou + Didst lead him to the battle from his home, + Else living there in peace to good old age: + In thy defence he died: strike deep! destroy + Remorse with Life." + The Maid stood motionless, + And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand + Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried, + "Avaunt DESPAIR! Eternal Wisdom deals + Or peace to man, or misery, for his good + Alike design'd; and shall the Creature cry, + Why hast thou done this? and with impious pride + Destroy the life God gave?" + The Fiend rejoin'd, + "And thou dost deem it impious to destroy + The life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lot + Assigned to mortal man? born but to drag, + Thro' life's long pilgrimage, the wearying load + Of being; care corroded at the heart; + Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills + That flesh inherits; till at length worn out, + This is his consummation!--think again! + What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd life + But lengthen'd sorrow? If protracted long, + Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs + Outstretch their languid length, oh think what thoughts, + What agonizing woes, in that dread hour, + Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse, + Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew + The shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force, + Mightiest in impotence, the love of life + Seizes the throbbing heart, the faltering lips + Pour out the impious prayer, that fain would change + The unchangeable's decree, surrounding friends + Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears, + And all he loved in life embitters death! + + Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hour + Of calmest dissolution! yet weak man + Dares, in his timid piety, to live; + And veiling Fear in Superstition's garb, + He calls her Resignation! + Coward wretch! + Fond Coward! thus to make his Reason war + Against his Reason! Insect as he is, + This sport of Chance, this being of a day, + Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast, + Believes himself the care of heavenly powers, + That God regards Man, miserable Man, + And preaching thus of Power and Providence, + Will crush the reptile that may cross his path! + + Fool that thou art! the Being that permits + Existence, 'gives' to man the worthless boon: + A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest, + Bask in the sunshine of Prosperity, + And such do well to keep it. But to one + Sick at the heart with misery, and sore + With many a hard unmerited affliction, + It is a hair that chains to wretchedness + The slave who dares not burst it! + Thinkest thou, + The parent, if his child should unrecall'd + Return and fall upon his neck, and cry, + Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and full + Of vacant joys and heart-consuming cares, + I can be only happy in my home + With thee--my friend!--my father! Thinkest thou, + That he would thrust him as an outcast forth? + Oh I he would clasp the truant to his heart, + And love the trespass." + Whilst he spake, his eye + Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul + Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood, + Even as the wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave + Supply, before him sees the poison'd food + In greedy horror. + Yet not long the Maid + Debated, "Cease thy dangerous sophistry, + Eloquent tempter!" cried she. "Gloomy one! + What tho' affliction be my portion here, + Think'st thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy. + Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back + Upon a life of duty well perform'd, + Then lift mine eyes to Heaven, and there in faith + Know my reward? I grant, were this life all, + Was there no morning to the tomb's long night, + If man did mingle with the senseless clod, + Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed + A wise and friendly comforter! But, Fiend! + There is a morning to the tomb's long night, + A dawn of glory, a reward in Heaven, + He shall not gain who never merited. + If thou didst know the worth of one good deed + In life's last hour, thou would'st not bid me lose + The power to benefit; if I but save + A drowning fly, I shall not live in vain. + I have great duties, Fiend! me France expects, + Her heaven-doom'd Champion." + "Maiden, thou hast done + Thy mission here," the unbaffled Fiend replied: + "The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchance + Exulting in the pride of victory, + Forgettest him who perish'd! yet albeit + Thy harden'd heart forget the gallant youth; + That hour allotted canst thou not escape, + That dreadful hour, when Contumely and Shame + Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid! + Destined to drain the cup of bitterness, + Even to its dregs! England's inhuman Chiefs + Shall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame, + Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity, + And force such burning blushes to the cheek + Of Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish + The earth might cover thee! in that last hour, + When thy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the chains + That link thee to the stake; when o'er thy form, + Exposed unmantled, the brute multitude + Shall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt, + More painful than the circling flames that scorch + Each quivering member; wilt thou not in vain + Then wish my friendly aid? then wish thine ear + Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand + Had grasp'd the dagger, and in death preserved + Insulted modesty?" + Her glowing cheek + Blush'd crimson; her wide eye on vacancy + Was fix'd; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend, + Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, "too-timid Maid, + So long repugnant to the healing aid + My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold + The allotted length of life." + He stamp'd the earth, + And dragging a huge coffin as his car, + Two GOULS came on, of form more fearful-foul + Than ever palsied in her wildest dream + Hag-ridden Superstition. Then DESPAIR + Seiz'd on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still. + And placed her in the seat; and on they pass'd + Adown the deep descent. A meteor light + Shot from the Daemons, as they dragg'd along + The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethren glut + On carcasses. + Below the vault dilates + Its ample bulk. "Look here!"--DESPAIR addrest + The shuddering Virgin, "see the dome of DEATH!" + It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid + The entrails of the earth, as tho' to form + The grave of all mankind: no eye could reach, + Tho' gifted with the Eagle's ample ken, + Its distant bounds. There, thron'd in darkness, dwelt + The unseen POWER OF DEATH. + Here stopt the GOULS, + Reaching the destin'd spot. The Fiend leapt out, + And from the coffin, as he led the Maid, + Exclaim'd, "Where never yet stood mortal man, + Thou standest: look around this boundless vault; + Observe the dole that Nature deals to man, + And learn to know thy friend." + She not replied, + Observing where the Fates their several tasks + Plied ceaseless. "Mark how short the longest web + Allowed to man! he cried; observe how soon, + Twin'd round yon never-resting wheel, they change + Their snowy hue, darkening thro' many a shade, + Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!" + + Too true he spake, for of the countless threads, + Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn'd snow, + Or as the lovely lilly of the vale, + Was never one beyond the little span + Of infancy untainted: few there were + But lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue, + Or deeper sable [4] died. Two Genii stood, + Still as the web of Being was drawn forth, + Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn, + The one unsparing dash'd the bitter wave + Of woe; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow + Relax'd to a hard smile. The milder form + Shed less profusely there his lesser store; + Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon, + Mourning the lot of man; and happy he + Who on his thread those precious drops receives; + If it be happiness to have the pulse + Throb fast with pity, and in such a world + Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches + With anguish at the sight of human woe. + + To her the Fiend, well hoping now success, + "This is thy thread! observe how short the span, + And see how copious yonder Genius pours + The bitter stream of woe." The Maiden saw + Fearless. "Now gaze!" the tempter Fiend exclaim'd, + And placed again the poniard in her hand, + For SUPERSTITION, with sulphureal torch + Stalk'd to the loom. "This, Damsel, is thy fate! + The hour draws on--now drench the dagger deep! + Now rush to happier worlds!" + The Maid replied, + "Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven, + Impious I strive not: be that will perform'd!" + + +[Footnote 1: + + May fays of Serapis, + Erudit at placide humanam per somnia mentem, + Nocturnaque quiete docet; nulloque labore + Hic tantum parta est pretiosa scientia, nullo + Excutitur studio verum. Mortalia corda + Tunc Deus iste docet, cum sunt minus apta doceri, + Cum nullum obsequium praestant, meritisque fatentur + Nil sese debere suis; tunc recta scientes + Cum nil scire valent. Non illo tempore sensus + Humanos forsan dignatur numen inire, + Cum propriis possunt per se discursibus uti, + Ne forte humana ratio divina coiret. + +'Sup Lucani'.] + + +[Footnote 2: I have met with a singular tale to illustrate this +spiritual theory of dreams. + +Guntram, King of the Franks, was liberal to the poor, and he himself +experienced the wonderful effects of divine liberality. For one day as +he was hunting in a forest he was separated from his companions and +arrived at a little stream of water with only one comrade of tried and +approved fidelity. Here he found himself opprest by drowsiness, and +reclining his head upon the servant's lap went to sleep. The servant +witnessed a wonderful thing, for he saw a little beast ('bestiolam') +creep out of the mouth of his sleeping master, and go immediately to the +streamlet, which it vainly attempted to cross. The servant drew his +sword and laid it across the water, over which the little beast easily +past and crept into a hole of a mountain on the opposite side; from +whence it made its appearance again in an hour, and returned by the same +means into the King's mouth. The King then awakened, and told his +companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon the bank of an +immense river, which he had crossed by a bridge of iron, and from thence +came to a mountain in which a great quantity of gold was concealed. When +the King had concluded, the servant related what he had beheld, and they +both went to examine the mountain, where upon digging they discovered an +immense weight of gold. + +I stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled SPHINX +'Theologico-Philosophica. Authore Johanne Heidfeldio, Ecclesiaste +Ebersbachiano.' 1621. + +The same story is in Matthew of Westminster; it is added that Guntram +applied the treasures thus found to pious uses. + +For the truth of this theory there is the evidence of a Monkish miracle. +When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian and visit the world of +souls, his guide said to him, "let thy body rest in the bed for thy +spirit only is about to depart with me; and lest the body should appear +dead, I will send into it a vital breath." + +The body however by a strange sympathy was affected like the spirit; for +when the foul and fetid smoke that arose from tithes witheld, had nearly +suffocated Thurcillus, and made him cough twice, those who were near his +body said that it coughed twice about the same time. + +'Matthew Paris'.] + + +[Footnote 3: The Bastille. The expression is in one of Fuller's works, +an Author from whose quaintness and ingenuity I have always found +amusement, and sometimes assistance.] + + +[Footnote 4: These lines strongly resemble a passage in the Pharonnida +of William Chamberlayne, a Poet who has told an interesting story in +uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and beauty of +expression, with the quaintest conceits, and most awkward inversions. + + + On a rock more high + Than Nature's common surface, she beholds + The Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds + Its sacred mysteries. A trine within + A quadrate placed, both these encompast in + A perfect circle was its form; but what + Its matter was, for us to wonder at, + Is undiscovered left. A Tower there stands + At every angle, where Time's fatal hands + The impartial PARCAE dwell; i' the first she sees + CLOTHO the kindest of the Destinies, + From immaterial essences to cull + The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool + For LACHESIS to spin; about her flie + Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie + Warm'd with their functions in, whose strength bestows + That power by which man ripe for misery grows. + + Her next of objects was that glorious tower + Where that swift-fingered Nymph that spares no hour + From mortals' service, draws the various threads + Of life in several lengths; to weary beds + Of age extending some, whilst others in + Their infancy are broke: 'some blackt in sin, + Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whence + Their origin, candid with innocence; + Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed + In sanguine pleasures': some in glittering pride + Spun to adorn the earth, whilst others wear + Rags of deformity, but knots of care + No thread was wholly free from. Next to this + Fair glorious tower, was placed that black abyss + Of dreadful ATROPOS, the baleful seat + Of death and horrour, in each room repleat + With lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sight + Of pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night. + To this, the last stage that the winding clew + Of Life can lead mortality unto, + FEAR was the dreadful Porter, which let in + All guests sent thither by destructive sin. + + +It is possible that I may have written from the recollection of this +passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly attribute it to +Chamberlayne, a Poet to whom I am indebted for many hours of delight, +and whom I one day hope to rescue from undeserved oblivion.] + + + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE SECOND BOOK. + + + +She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd +Amid the air, such odors wafting now +As erst came blended with the evening gale, +From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form +Stood by the Maid; his wings, etherial white, +Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun, +Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear'd +Her THEODORE. + Amazed she saw: the Fiend +Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice +Sounded, tho' now more musically sweet +Than ever yet had thrill'd her charmed soul, +When eloquent Affection fondly told +The day-dreams of delight. + "Beloved Maid! +Lo! I am with thee! still thy Theodore! +Hearts in the holy bands of Love combin'd, +Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine! +A little while and thou shalt dwell with me +In scenes where Sorrow is not. Cheerily +Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave, +Rough tho' it be and painful, for the grave +Is but the threshold of Eternity. + +Favour'd of Heaven! to thee is given to view +These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss +Thou treadest, Maiden! Here the dungeons are +Where bad men learn repentance; souls diseased +Must have their remedy; and where disease +Is rooted deep, the remedy is long +Perforce, and painful." + Thus the Spirit spake, +And led the Maid along a narrow path, +Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames, +More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound +Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath +Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach +A wide expanded den where all around +Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze, +Flamed dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood +The meagre form of Care, and as he blew +To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd +His wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus +He toil'd and toil'd, of toil to reap no end +But endless toil and never-ending woe. + +An aged man went round the infernal vault, +Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task: +White were his locks, as is the wintry snow +On hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff +His steps supported; powerful talisman, +Which whoso feels shall never feel again +The tear of Pity, or the throb of Love. +Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way, +The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall, +Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst +Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee +To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few, +Tho' he the Blessed Teacher of mankind +Hath said, that easier thro' the needle's eye +Shall the huge camel [1] pass, than the rich man +Enter the gates of heaven. "Ye cannot serve +Your God, and worship Mammon." + "Missioned Maid!" +So spake the Angel, "know that these, whose hands +Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil, +Were Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not spare +To wring from Poverty the hard-earn'd mite, +They robb'd the orphan's pittance, they could see +Want's asking eye unmoved; and therefore these, +Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere +In Mammon's service; scorched by these fierce fires, +And frequent deluged by the o'erboiling ore: +Yet still so framed, that oft to quench their thirst +Unquenchable, large draughts of molten [2] gold +They drink insatiate, still with pain renewed, +Pain to destroy." + So saying, her he led +Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell, +Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls +Part gleam'd with gold, and part with silver ore +A milder radiance shone. The Carbuncle +There its strong lustre like the flamy sun +Shot forth irradiate; from the earth beneath, +And from the roof a diamond light emits; +Rubies and amethysts their glows commix'd +With the gay topaz, and the softer ray +Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald's hue, +And bright pyropus. + There on golden seats, +A numerous, sullen, melancholy train +Sat silent. "Maiden, these," said Theodore, +Are they who let the love of wealth absorb +All other passions; in their souls that vice +Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree +That with its shade spreads barrenness around. +These, Maid! were men by no atrocious crime +Blacken'd, no fraud, nor ruffian violence: +Men of fair dealing, and respectable +On earth, but such as only for themselves +Heap'd up their treasures, deeming all their wealth +Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven, +To bless them only: therefore here they sit, +Possessed of gold enough, and by no pain +Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss +They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell, +Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour +Of general restitution." + Thence they past, +And now arrived at such a gorgeous dome, +As even the pomp of Eastern opulence +Could never equal: wandered thro' its halls +A numerous train; some with the red-swoln eye +Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek; +Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step, +And eyes lack-lustre. + Maiden? said her guide, +These are the wretched slaves of Appetite, +Curst with their wish enjoyed. The epicure +Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall'd sense +Loaths at the banquet; the voluptuous here +Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight, +And sink in misery. All they wish'd on earth, +Possessing here, whom have they to accuse, +But their own folly, for the lot they chose? +Yet, for that these injured themselves alone, +They to the house of PENITENCE may hie, +And, by a long and painful regimen, +To wearied Nature her exhausted powers +Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish +Of wisdom, and ALMIGHTY GOODNESS grants +That prize to him who seeks it." + Whilst he spake, +The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and eye +Fat swoln, and legs whose monstrous size disgraced +The human form divine, their caterer, +Hight GLUTTONY, set forth the smoaking feast. +And by his side came on a brother form, +With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red +And scurfy-white, mix'd motley; his gross bulk, +Like some huge hogshead shapen'd, as applied. +Him had antiquity with mystic rites +Ador'd, to him the sons of Greece, and thine +Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour'd +The victim blood, with godlike titles graced, +BACCHUS, or DIONUSUS; son of JOVE, +Deem'd falsely, for from FOLLY'S ideot form +He sprung, what time MADNESS, with furious hand, +Seiz'd on the laughing female. At one birth +She brought the brethren, menial here, above +Reigning with sway supreme, and oft they hold +High revels: mid the Monastery's gloom, +The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice +Episcopal, proclaims approaching day +Of visitation, or Churchwardens meet +To save the wretched many from the gripe +Of eager Poverty, or mid thy halls +Of London, mighty Mayor! rich Aldermen, +Of coming feast hold converse. + Otherwhere, +For tho' allied in nature as in blood, +They hold divided sway, his brother lifts +His spungy sceptre. In the noble domes +Of Princes, and state-wearied Ministers, +Maddening he reigns; and when the affrighted mind +Casts o'er a long career of guilt and blood +Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought +To lull the worm of Conscience to repose. +He too the halls of country Squires frequents, +But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades +Thy offspring Rhedycina! and thy walls, +Granta! nightly libations there to him +Profuse are pour'd, till from the dizzy brain +Triangles, Circles, Parallelograms, +Moods, Tenses, Dialects, and Demigods, +And Logic and Theology are swept +By the red deluge. + Unmolested there +He reigns; till comes at length the general feast, +Septennial sacrifice; then when the sons +Of England meet, with watchful care to chuse +Their delegates, wise, independent men, +Unbribing and unbrib'd, and cull'd to guard +Their rights and charters from the encroaching grasp +Of greedy Power: then all the joyful land +Join in his sacrifices, so inspir'd +To make the important choice. + The observing Maid +Address'd her guide, "These Theodore, thou sayest +Are men, who pampering their foul appetites, +Injured themselves alone. But where are they, +The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil +Around the guileless female, so to sting +The heart that loves them?" + "Them," the spirit replied, +A long and dreadful punishment awaits. +For when the prey of want and infamy, +Lower and lower still the victim sinks, +Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word, +One impious imprecation from her lips +Escapes, nay not a thought of evil lurks +In the polluted mind, that does not plead +Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued +Against the foul Seducer." + Now they reach'd +The house of PENITENCE. CREDULITY +Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head +As tho' to listen; on her vacant face, +A smile that promis'd premature assent; +Tho' her REGRET behind, a meagre Fiend, +Disciplin'd sorely. + Here they entered in, +And now arrived where, as in study tranced, +She sat, the Mistress of the Dome. Her face +Spake that composed severity, that knows +No angry impulse, no weak tenderness, +Resolved and calm. Before her lay that Book +That hath the words of Life; and as she read, +Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek, +Tho' heavenly joy beam'd in her eye the while. + +Leaving her undisturb'd, to the first ward +Of this great Lazar-house, the Angel led +The favour'd Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down +On the hard stone that their bare knees had worn, +In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear'd: +Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave; +Yet such expression stealing from the eye, +As tho', that only naked, all the rest +Was one close fitting mask. A scoffing Fiend, +For Fiend he was, tho' wisely serving here +Mock'd at his patients, and did often pour +Ashes upon them, and then bid them say +Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laughed: +For these were Hypocrites, on earth revered +As holy ones, who did in public tell +Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross themselves, +And call themselves most miserable sinners, +That so they might be deem'd most pious saints; +And go all filth, and never let a smile +Bend their stern muscles, gloomy, sullen men, +Barren of all affection, and all this +To please their God, forsooth! and therefore SCORN +Grinn'd at his patients, making them repeat +Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery +Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer, +They pour'd the silent sorrows of the soul +To Heaven, then did they not regard his mocks +Which then came painless, and HUMILITY +Soon rescued them, and led to PENITENCE, +That She might lead to Heaven. + + From thence they came, +Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band +Groan'd underneath the bitter tyranny +Of a fierce Daemon. His coarse hair was red, +Pale grey his eyes, and blood-shot; and his face +Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears +In ecstacy. Well-pleased he went around, +Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some, +Or probing with a poison'd lance their breasts, +Or placing coals of fire within their wounds; +Or seizing some within his mighty grasp, +He fix'd them on a stake, and then drew back, +And laugh'd to see them writhe. + "These," said the Spirit, +Are taught by CRUELTY, to loath the lives +They led themselves. Here are those wicked men +Who loved to exercise their tyrant power +On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo +A long purgation here; the traffickers +In human flesh here too are disciplined. +Till by their suffering they have equall'd all +The miseries they inflicted, all the mass +Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged, +The towns they burnt, for they who bribe to war +Are guilty of the blood, the widows left +In want, the slave or led to suicide, +Or murdered by the foul infected air +Of his close dungeon, or more sad than all, +His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved, +And driven by woe to wickedness. + These next, +Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room, +So sullen, and with such an eye of hate +Each on the other scowling, these have been +False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts +Here they dwell: in the hollow of their hearts +There is a worm that feeds, and tho' thou seest +That skilful leech who willingly would heal +The ill they suffer, judging of all else +By their own evil standard, they suspect +The aid be vainly proffers, lengthening thus +By vice its punishment." + "But who are these," +The Maid exclaim'd, "that robed in flowing lawn, +And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps +Like Cardinals, I see in every ward, +Performing menial service at the beck +Of all who bid them?" + Theodore replied, +These men are they who in the name of CHRIST +Did heap up wealth, and arrogating power, +Did make men bow the knee, and call themselves +Most Reverend Graces and Right Reverend Lords. +They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed, +And in fine linen: therefore are they here; +And tho' they would not minister on earth, +Here penanced they perforce must minister: +For he, the lowly man of Nazareth, +Hath said, his kingdom is not of the world." +So Saying on they past, and now arrived +Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode, +That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye, +And shudder'd: each one was a loathly corpse, +The worm did banquet on his putrid prey, +Yet had they life and feeling exquisite +Tho' motionless and mute. + "Most wretched men +Are these, the angel cried. These, JOAN, are bards, +Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuate +Who sat them down, deliberately lewd, +So to awake and pamper lust in minds +Unborn; and therefore foul of body now +As then they were of soul, they here abide +Long as the evil works they left on earth +Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom! +Yet amply merited by that bad man +Who prostitutes the sacred gift of song!" +And now they reached a huge and massy pile, +Massy it seem'd, and yet in every blast +As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit, +REMORSE for ever his sad vigils kept. +Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch. +Inly he groan'd, or, starting, wildly shriek'd, +Aye as the fabric tottering from its base, +Threatened its fall, and so expectant still +Lived in the dread of danger still delayed. + +They enter'd there a large and lofty dome, +O'er whose black marble sides a dim drear light +Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp. +Enthroned around, the MURDERERS OF MANKIND, +Monarchs, the great! the glorious! the august! +Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire, +Sat stern and silent. Nimrod he was there, +First King the mighty hunter; and that Chief +Who did belie his mother's fame, that so +He might be called young Ammon. In this court +Caesar was crown'd, accurst liberticide; +And he who murdered Tully, that cold villain, +Octavius, tho' the courtly minion's lyre +Hath hymn'd his praise, tho' Maro sung to him, +And when Death levelled to original clay +The royal carcase, FLATTERY, fawning low, +Fell at his feet, and worshipped the new God. +Titus [3] was here, the Conqueror of the Jews, +He the Delight of human-kind misnamed; +Caesars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings, +Here they were all, all who for glory fought, +Here in the COURT OF GLORY, reaping now +The meed they merited. + As gazing round +The Virgin mark'd the miserable train, +A deep and hollow voice from one went forth; +"Thou who art come to view our punishment, +Maiden of Orleans! hither turn thine eyes, +For I am he whose bloody victories +Thy power hath rendered vain. Lo! I am here, +The hero conqueror of Azincour, +HENRY OF ENGLAND!--wretched that I am, +I might have reigned in happiness and peace, +My coffers full, my subjects undisturb'd, +And PLENTY and PROSPERITY had loved +To dwell amongst them: but mine eye beheld +The realm of France, by faction tempest-torn, +And therefore I did think that it would fall +An easy prey. I persecuted those +Who taught new doctrines, tho' they taught the truth: +And when I heard of thousands by the sword +Cut off, or blasted by the pestilence, +I calmly counted up my proper gains, +And sent new herds to slaughter. Temperate +Myself, no blood that mutinied, no vice +Tainting my private life, I sent abroad +MURDER and RAPE; and therefore am I doom'd, +Like these imperial Sufferers, crown'd with fire, +Here to remain, till Man's awaken'd eye +Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds, +And warn'd by them, till the whole human race, +Equalling in bliss the aggregate we caus'd +Of wretchedness, shall form ONE BROTHERHOOD, +ONE UNIVERSAL FAMILY OF LOVE." + + +[Footnote 1: In the former edition I had substituted 'cable' instead of +'camel'. The alteration would not be worth noticing were it not for the +circumstance which occasioned it. 'Facilius elephas per foramen acus', +is among the Hebrew adages collected by Drusius; the same metaphor is +found in two other Jewish proverbs, and this appears to determine the +signification of [Greek (transliterated): chamaelos]. Matt. 19. 24.] + + +[Footnote 2: The same idea, and almost the same words are in an old play +by John Ford. The passage is a very fine one: + + + Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched, + Almost condemn'd alive! There is a place, + (List daughter!) in a black and hollow vault, + Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, + But flaming horror of consuming fires; + A lightless sulphur, choak'd with smoaky foggs + Of an infected darkness. In this place + Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts + Of never-dying deaths; there damned souls + Roar without pity, there are gluttons fed + With toads and adders; there is burning oil + Pour'd down the drunkard's throat, 'the usurer + Is forced to sup whole draughts of molten gold'; + There is the murderer for ever stabb'd, + Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton + On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul + He feels the torment of his raging lust. + + ''Tis Pity she's a Whore.' + +I wrote this passage when very young, and the idea, trite as it is, was +new to me. It occurs I believe in most descriptions of hell, and perhaps +owes its origin to the fate of Crassus. + +After this picture of horrors, the reader may perhaps be pleased with +one more pleasantly fanciful: + + + O call me home again dear Chief! and put me + To yoking foxes, milking of he-goats, + Pounding of water in a mortar, laving + The sea dry with a nutshell, gathering all + The leaves are fallen this autumn--making ropes of sand, + Catching the winds together in a net, + Mustering of ants, and numbering atoms, all + That Hell and you thought exquisite torments, rather + Than stay me here a thought more. I would sooner + Keep fleas within a circle, and be accomptant + A thousand year which of 'em, and how far + Outleap'd the other, than endure a minute + Such as I have within. + + B. JONSON. 'The Devil is an Ass.'] + + +[Footnote 3: During the siege of Jerusalem, "the Roman commander, 'with +a generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism, +'laboured incessantly, and to the very last moment, to preserve the +place. With this view, he again and again intreated the tyrants to +surrender and save their lives. With the same view also, after carrying +the second wall the siege was intermitted four days: to rouse their +fears, 'prisoners, to the number of five hundred, or more were crucified +daily before the walls; till space', Josephus says, 'was wanting for the +crosses, and crosses for the captives'." + +From the Hampton Lectures of RALPH CHURTON. + +If any of my readers should enquire why Titus Vespasian, the Delight of +Mankind, is placed in such a situation,--I answer, for "HIS GENEROUS +CLEMENCY, THAT INSEPARABLE ATTENDANT ON TRUE HEROISM!] + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE THIRD BOOK. + + + + The Maiden, musing on the Warrior's words, + Turn'd from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach'd + A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood, + In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eye + Beam'd promise, but behind, withered and old, + And all unlovely. Underneath his feet + Lay records trampled, and the laurel wreath + Now rent and faded: in his hand he held + An hour-glass, and as fall the restless sands, + So pass the lives of men. By him they past + Along the darksome cave, and reach'd a stream, + Still rolling onward its perpetual waves, + Noiseless and undisturbed. Here they ascend + A Bark unpiloted, that down the flood, + Borne by the current, rush'd. The circling stream, + Returning to itself, an island form'd; + Nor had the Maiden's footsteps ever reach'd + The insulated coast, eternally + Rapt round the endless course; but Theodore + Drove with an angel's will the obedient bark. + + They land, a mighty fabric meets their eyes, + Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamant + The pile was framed, for ever to abide + Firm in eternal strength. Before the gate + Stood eager EXPECTATION, as to list + The half-heard murmurs issuing from within, + Her mouth half-open'd, and her head stretch'd forth. + On the other side there stood an aged Crone, + Listening to every breath of air; she knew + Vague suppositions and uncertain dreams, + Of what was soon to come, for she would mark + The paley glow-worm's self-created light, + And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown, + And desolated nations; ever fill'd + With undetermin'd terror, as she heard + Or distant screech-owl, or the regular beat + Of evening death-watch. + "Maid," the Spirit cried, + Here, robed in shadows, dwells FUTURITY. + There is no eye hath seen her secret form, + For round the MOTHER OF TIME, unpierced mists + Aye hover. Would'st thou read the book of Fate, + Enter." + The Damsel for a moment paus'd, + Then to the Angel spake: "All-gracious Heaven! + Benignant in withholding, hath denied + To man that knowledge. I, in faith assured, + That he, my heavenly Father, for the best + Ordaineth all things, in that faith remain + Contented." + "Well and wisely hast thou said, + So Theodore replied; "and now O Maid! + Is there amid this boundless universe + One whom thy soul would visit? is there place + To memory dear, or visioned out by hope, + Where thou would'st now be present? form the wish, + And I am with thee, there." + His closing speech + Yet sounded on her ear, and lo! they stood + Swift as the sudden thought that guided them, + Within the little cottage that she loved. + "He sleeps! the good man sleeps!" enrapt she cried, + As bending o'er her Uncle's lowly bed + Her eye retraced his features. "See the beads + That never morn nor night he fails to tell, + Remembering me, his child, in every prayer. + Oh! quiet be thy sleep, thou dear old man! + Good Angels guard thy rest! and when thine hour + Is come, as gently mayest thou wake to life, + As when thro' yonder lattice the next sun + Shall bid thee to thy morning orisons! + Thy voice is heard, the Angel guide rejoin'd, + He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breathe + Blessings, and pleasant is the good man's rest. + Thy fame has reached him, for who has not heard + Thy wonderous exploits? and his aged heart + Hath felt the deepest joy that ever yet + Made his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on old Claude! + Peaceful, pure Spirit, be thy sojourn here, + And short and soon thy passage to that world + Where friends shall part no more! + "Does thy soul own + No other wish? or sleeps poor Madelon + Forgotten in her grave? seest thou yon star," + The Spirit pursued, regardless of her eye + That look'd reproach; "seest thou that evening star + Whose lovely light so often we beheld + From yonder woodbine porch? how have we gazed + Into the dark deep sky, till the baffled soul, + Lost in the infinite, returned, and felt + The burthen of her bodily load, and yearned + For freedom! Maid, in yonder evening slar + Lives thy departed friend. I read that glance, + And we are there!" + He said and they had past + The immeasurable space. + Then on her ear + The lonely song of adoration rose, + Sweet as the cloister'd virgins vesper hymn, + Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopes + Already lives in Heaven. Abrupt the song + Ceas'd, tremulous and quick a cry + Of joyful wonder rous'd the astonish'd Maid, + And instant Madelon was in her arms; + No airy form, no unsubstantial shape, + She felt her friend, she prest her to her heart, + Their tears of rapture mingled. + She drew back + And eagerly she gazed on Madelon, + Then fell upon her neck again and wept. + No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief, + The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness, + The languid eye: youth's loveliest freshness now + Mantled her cheek, whose every lineament + Bespake the soul at rest, a holy calm, + A deep and full tranquillity of bliss. + + "Thou then art come, my first and dearest friend!" + The well known voice of Madelon began, + "Thou then art come! and was thy pilgrimage + So short on earth? and was it painful too, + Painful and short as mine? but blessed they + Who from the crimes and miseries of the world + Early escape!" + "Nay," Theodore replied, + She hath not yet fulfill'd her mortal work. + Permitted visitant from earth she comes + To see the seat of rest, and oftentimes + In sorrow shall her soul remember this, + And patient of the transitory woe + Partake the anticipated peace again." + "Soon be that work perform'd!" the Maid exclaimed, + "O Madelon! O Theodore! my soul, + Spurning the cold communion of the world, + Will dwell with you! but I shall patiently, + Yea even with joy, endure the allotted ills + Of which the memory in this better state + Shall heighten bliss. That hour of agony, + When, Madelon, I felt thy dying grasp, + And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death, + The very horrors of that hour assume + A shape that now delights." + "O earliest friend! + I too remember," Madelon replied, + "That hour, thy looks of watchful agony, + The suppressed grief that struggled in thine eye + Endearing love's last kindness. Thou didst know + With what a deep and melancholy joy + I felt the hour draw on: but who can speak + The unutterable transport, when mine eyes, + As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed + Amid this peaceful vale, unclos'd on him, + My Arnaud! he had built me up a bower, + A bower of rest.--See, Maiden, where he comes, + His manly lineaments, his beaming eye + The same, but now a holier innocence + Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume + The enlighten'd glance." + They met, what joy was theirs + He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead + Has wet the midnight pillow with his tears. + + Fair was the scene around; an ample vale + Whose mountain circle at the distant verge + Lay softened on the sight; the near ascent + Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare, + Part with the ancient majesty of woods + Adorn'd, or lifting high its rocks sublime. + The river's liquid radiance roll'd beneath, + Beside the bower of Madelon it wound + A broken stream, whose shallows, tho' the waves + Roll'd on their way with rapid melody, + A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove + Its gay green foliage starr'd with golden fruit; + But with what odours did their blossoms load + The passing gale of eve! less thrilling sweet + Rose from the marble's perforated floor, + Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen + Inhaled the cool delight, [1] and whilst she asked + The Prophet for his promised paradise, + Shaped from the present scene its utmost joys. + A goodly scene! fair as that faery land + Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne + From Camlan's bloody banks; or as the groves + Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say, + Enoch abides, and he who rapt away + By fiery steeds, and chariotted in fire, + Past in his mortal form the eternal ways; + And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there + The beatific vision, sometimes seen + The distant dawning of eternal day, + Till all things be fulfilled. + "Survey this scene!" + So Theodore address'd the Maid of Arc, + "There is no evil here, no wretchedness, + It is the Heaven of those who nurst on earth + Their nature's gentlest feelings. Yet not here + Centering their joys, but with a patient hope, + Waiting the allotted hour when capable + Of loftier callings, to a better state + They pass; and hither from that better state + Frequent they come, preserving so those ties + That thro' the infinite progressiveness + Complete our perfect bliss. + "Even such, so blest, + Save that the memory of no sorrows past + Heightened the present joy, our world was once, + In the first aera of its innocence + Ere man had learnt to bow the knee to man. + Was there a youth whom warm affection fill'd, + He spake his honest heart; the earliest fruits + His toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck'd + The sunny bank, he gather'd for the maid, + Nor she disdain'd the gift; for VICE not yet + Had burst the dungeons of her hell, and rear'd + Those artificial boundaries that divide + Man from his species. State of blessedness! + Till that ill-omen'd hour when Cain's stern son + Delved in the bowels of the earth for gold, + Accursed bane of virtue! of such force + As poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon's locks, + Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-blood + Cold curdle in his veins, the creeping flesh + Grew stiff with horror, and the heart forgot + To beat. Accursed hour! for man no more + To JUSTICE paid his homage, but forsook + Her altars, and bow'd down before the shrine + Of WEALTH and POWER, the Idols he had made. + Then HELL enlarged herself, her gates flew wide, + Her legion fiends rush'd forth. OPPRESSION came + Whose frown is desolation, and whose breath + Blasts like the Pestilence; and POVERTY, + A meagre monster, who with withering touch + Makes barren all the better part of man, + MOTHER OF MISERIES. Then the goodly earth + Which God had fram'd for happiness, became + One theatre of woe, and all that God + Had given to bless free men, these tyrant fiends + His bitterest curses made. Yet for the best + Hath he ordained all things, the ALL-WISE! + For by experience rous'd shall man at length + Dash down his Moloch-Idols, Samson-like + And burst his fetters, only strong whilst strong + Believed. Then in the bottomless abyss + OPPRESSION shall be chain'd, and POVERTY + Die, and with her, her brood of Miseries; + And VIRTUE and EQUALITY preserve + The reign of LOVE, and Earth shall once again + Be Paradise, whilst WISDOM shall secure + The state of bliss which IGNORANCE betrayed." + + "Oh age of happiness!" the Maid exclaim'd, + Roll fast thy current, Time till that blest age + Arrive! and happy thou my Theodore, + Permitted thus to see the sacred depths + Of wisdom!" + "Such," the blessed Spirit replied, + Beloved! such our lot; allowed to range + The vast infinity, progressive still + In knowledge and encreasing blessedness, + This our united portion. Thou hast yet + A little while to sojourn amongst men: + I will be with thee! there shall not a breeze + Wanton around thy temples, on whose wing + I will not hover near! and at that hour + When from its fleshly sepulchre let loose, + Thy phoenix soul shall soar, O best-beloved! + I will be with thee in thine agonies, + And welcome thee to life and happiness, + Eternal infinite beatitude!" + + He spake, and led her near a straw-roof'd cot, + LOVE'S Palace. By the Virtues circled there, + The cherub listen'd to such melodies, + As aye, when one good deed is register'd + Above, re-echo in the halls of Heaven. + LABOUR was there, his crisp locks floating loose, + Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye, + And strong his arm robust; the wood-nymph HEALTH + Still follow'd on his path, and where he trod + Fresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was HOPE, + The general friend; and PITY, whose mild eye + Wept o'er the widowed dove; and, loveliest form, + Majestic CHASTITY, whose sober smile + Delights and awes the soul; a laurel wreath + Restrain'd her tresses, and upon her breast + The snow-drop [2] hung its head, that seem'd to grow + Spontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maid + LOVE went submiss, wilh eye more dangerous + Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er + Too bold approached; yet anxious would he read + Her every rising wish, then only pleased + When pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais'd. + + "Glory to thee whose vivifying power + Pervades all Nature's universal frame! + Glory to thee CREATOR LOVE! to thee, + Parent of all the smiling CHARITIES, + That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers! + Glory to thee PRESERVER! to thy praise + The awakened woodlands echo all the day + Their living melody; and warbling forth + To thee her twilight song, the Nightingale + Holds the lone Traveller from his way, or charms + The listening Poet's ear. Where LOVE shall deign + To fix his seat, there blameless PLEASURE sheds + Her roseate dews; CONTENT will sojourn there, + And HAPPINESS behold AFFECTION'S eye + Gleam with the Mother's smile. Thrice happy he + Who feels thy holy power! he shall not drag, + Forlorn and friendless, along Life's long path + To Age's drear abode; he shall not waste + The bitter evening of his days unsooth'd; + But HOPE shall cheer his hours of Solitude, + And VICE shall vainly strive to wound his breast, + That bears that talisman; and when he meets + The eloquent eye of TENDERNESS, and hears + The bosom-thrilling music of her voice; + The joy he feels shall purify his Soul, + And imp it for anticipated Heaven." + + +[Footnote 1: In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the Queen used to +dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there +is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled +that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and windows are +disposed so as to afford the most agreeable prospects, and to throw a +soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents of air too are +admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious coolness of this +apartment. + +(From the sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed to +Florian's Gonsalvo of Cordova).] + + +[Footnote 2: "The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired +her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems +to grow on the breast of the Virgin." P.H.] + + + + + + +The Rose. + + Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus, + that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden + was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadde don + fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be + brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre + began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that + als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help + hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; + and whanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon + was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, + becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise weren the first + Roseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. + And thus was this Maiden saved be the Grace of God. + + 'The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundevile'. + + + + + + +THE ROSE. + + + + Nay EDITH! spare the rose!--it lives--it lives, + It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh'd + The dews of night; let not thy gentle hand + Tear sunder its life-fibres and destroy + The sense of being!--why that infidel smile? + Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful, + And thou shall have a tale of other times, + For I am skill'd in legendary lore, + So thou wilt let it live. There was a time + Ere this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms, + Bedeck'd the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard + How first by miracle its fragrant leaves + Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness. + + There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid + And Zillah was her name, so passing fair + That all Judea spake the damsel's praise. + He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance + How quick it spake the soul, and what a soul + Beam'd in its mild effulgence, woe was he! + For not in solitude, for not in crowds, + Might he escape remembrance, or avoid + Her imaged form that followed every where, + And fill'd the heart, and fix'd the absent eye. + Woe was he, for her bosom own'd no love + Save the strong ardours of religious zeal, + For Zillah on her God had centered all + Her spirit's deep affections. So for her + Her tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverenced + The obdurate virtue that destroyed their hopes. + + One man there was, a vain and wretched man, + Who saw, desired, despair'd, and hated her. + His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek + Even till the flush of angry modesty + Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. + She loath'd the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, + And the strong workings of brute selfishness + Had moulded his broad features; and she fear'd + The bitterness of wounded vanity + That with a fiendish hue would overcast + His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, + For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plot + Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad + Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports + That soon obtain belief; that Zillah's eye + When in the temple heaven-ward it was rais'd + Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those + Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance + With other feelings fill'd; that 'twas a task + Of easy sort to play the saint by day + Before the public eye, but that all eyes + Were closed at night; that Zillah's life was foul, + Yea forfeit to the law. + + Shame--shame to man + That he should trust so easily the tongue + That stabs another's fame! the ill report + Was heard, repeated, and believed,--and soon, + For Hamuel by most damned artifice + Produced such semblances of guilt, the Maid + Was judged to shameful death. + Without the walls + There was a barren field; a place abhorr'd, + For it was there where wretched criminals + Were done to die; and there they built the stake, + And piled the fuel round, that should consume + The accused Maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd, + By God and man. The assembled Bethlemites + Beheld the scene, and when they saw the Maid + Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness + She lifted up her patient looks to Heaven, + They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts + Stood Hamuel near the pile, him savage joy + Led thitherward, but now within his heart + Unwonted feelings stirr'd, and the first pangs + Of wakening guilt, anticipating Hell. + The eye of Zillah as it glanced around + Fell on the murderer once, but not in wrath; + And therefore like a dagger it had fallen, + Had struck into his soul a cureless wound. + Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour + Of triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch, + Not in the hour of infamy and death + Forsake the virtuous! they draw near the stake-- + And lo! the torch! hold hold your erring hands! + Yet quench the rising flames!--they rise! they spread! + They reach the suffering Maid! oh God protect + The innocent one! + They rose, they spread, they raged-- + The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire + Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames + In one long lightning flash collecting fierce, + Darted and blasted Hamuel--him alone. + Hark--what a fearful scream the multitude + Pour forth!--and yet more miracles! the stake + Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves and bowers + The innocent Maid, and roses bloom around, + Now first beheld since Paradise was lost, + And fill with Eden odours all the air. + + + + + + + + +The COMPLAINTS of the POOR. + + + + And wherefore do the Poor complain? + The rich man asked of me,-- + Come walk abroad with me, I said + And I will answer thee. + + Twas evening and the frozen streets + Were cheerless to behold, + And we were wrapt and coated well, + And yet we were a-cold. + + We met an old bare-headed man, + His locks were few and white, + I ask'd him what he did abroad + In that cold winter's night: + + 'Twas bitter keen indeed, he said, + But at home no fire had he, + And therefore, he had come abroad + To ask for charity. + + We met a young bare-footed child, + And she begg'd loud and bold, + I ask'd her what she did abroad + When the wind it blew so cold; + + She said her father was at home + And he lay sick a-bed, + And therefore was it she was sent + Abroad to beg for bread. + + We saw a woman sitting down + Upon a stone to rest, + She had a baby at her back + And another at her breast; + + I ask'd her why she loiter'd there + When the wind it was so chill; + She turn'd her head and bade the child + That scream'd behind be still. + + She told us that her husband served + A soldier, far away, + And therefore to her parish she + Was begging back her way. + + We met a girl; her dress was loose + And sunken was her eye, + Who with the wanton's hollow voice + Address'd the passers by; + + I ask'd her what there was in guilt + That could her heart allure + To shame, disease, and late remorse? + She answer'd, she was poor. + + I turn'd me to the rich man then + For silently stood he, + You ask'd me why the Poor complain, + And these have answer'd thee. + + + + + + + + +METRICAL LETTER, + +Written from London. + + + + Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile; + I love the homely and familiar phrase; + And I will call thee Cousin Margaret, + However quaint amid the measured line + The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill + When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, + Sirring and Madaming as civilly + As if the road between the heart and lips + Were such a weary and Laplandish way + That the poor travellers came to the red gates + Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret, + For many a day my Memory has played + The creditor with me on your account, + And made me shame to think that I should owe + So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, + Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear + So heavy a pack of business, that albeit + I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race + Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I + That for a moment you should lay to me + Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart + That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some + Who know how warm it beats. I am not one + Who can play off my smiles and courtesies + To every Lady of her lap dog tired + Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend + Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love; + Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up + At once without a seed and take no root, + Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere + The little circle of domestic life + I would be known and loved; the world beyond + Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think + That you should know me well, for you and I + Grew up together, and when we look back + Upon old times our recollections paint + The same familiar faces. Did I wield + The wand of Merlin's magic I would make + Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, + Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood + That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth, + The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle + Like that where whilome old Apollidon + Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid + The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers, + That we might stand upon the beach, and mark + The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, + And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound + Told us that never mariner should reach + Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle + We might renew the days of infancy, + And Life like a long childhood pass away, + Without one care. It may be, Margaret, + That I shall yet be gathered to my friends, + For I am not of those who live estranged + Of choice, till at the last they join their race + In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, + Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack + So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine + Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly. + If not, if I should never get beyond + This Vanity town, there is another world + Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, + I gaze at night into the boundless sky, + And think that I shall there be born again, + The exalted native of some better star; + And like the rude American I hope + To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth. + + + + + + + + + + +The Cross Roads. + +The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty +years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at +the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as +I have versified them. + + + + +THE CROSS ROADS. + + + There was an old man breaking stones + To mend the turnpike way, + He sat him down beside a brook + And out his bread and cheese he took, + For now it was mid-day. + + He lent his back against a post, + His feet the brook ran by; + And there were water-cresses growing, + And pleasant was the water's flowing + For he was hot and dry. + + A soldier with his knapsack on + Came travelling o'er the down, + The sun was strong and he was tired, + And of the old man he enquired + How far to Bristol town. + + Half an hour's walk for a young man + By lanes and fields and stiles. + But you the foot-path do not know, + And if along the road you go + Why then 'tis three good miles. + + The soldier took his knapsack off + For he was hot and dry; + And out his bread and cheese he took + And he sat down beside the brook + To dine in company. + + Old friend! in faith, the soldier says + I envy you almost; + My shoulders have been sorely prest + And I should like to sit and rest, + My back against that post. + + In such a sweltering day as this + A knapsack is the devil! + And if on t'other side I sat + It would not only spoil our chat + But make me seem uncivil. + + The old man laugh'd and moved. I wish + It were a great-arm'd chair! + But this may help a man at need; + And yet it was a cursed deed + That ever brought it there. + + There's a poor girl lies buried here + Beneath this very place. + The earth upon her corpse is prest + This stake is driven into her breast + And a stone is on her face. + + The soldier had but just lent back + And now he half rose up. + There's sure no harm in dining here, + My friend? and yet to be sincere + I should not like to sup. + + God rest her! she is still enough + Who sleeps beneath our feet! + The old man cried. No harm I trow + She ever did herself, tho' now + She lies where four roads meet. + + I have past by about that hour + When men are not most brave, + It did not make my heart to fail, + And I have heard the nightingale + Sing sweetly on her grave. + + I have past by about that hour + When Ghosts their freedom have, + But there was nothing here to fright, + And I have seen the glow-worm's light + Shine on the poor girl's grave. + + There's one who like a Christian lies + Beneath the church-tree's shade; + I'd rather go a long mile round + Than pass at evening thro' the ground + Wherein that man is laid. + + There's one that in the church-yard lies + For whom the bell did toll; + He lies in consecrated ground, + But for all the wealth in Bristol town + I would not be with his soul! + + Did'st see a house below the hill + That the winds and the rains destroy? + 'Twas then a farm where he did dwell, + And I remember it full well + When I was a growing boy. + + And she was a poor parish girl + That came up from the west, + From service hard she ran away + And at that house in evil day + Was taken in to rest. + + The man he was a wicked man + And an evil life he led; + Rage made his cheek grow deadly white + And his grey eyes were large and light, + And in anger they grew red. + + The man was bad, the mother worse, + Bad fruit of a bad stem, + 'Twould make your hair to stand-on-end + If I should tell to you my friend + The things that were told of them! + + Did'st see an out-house standing by? + The walls alone remain; + It was a stable then, but now + Its mossy roof has fallen through + All rotted by the rain. + + The poor girl she had serv'd with them + Some half-a-year, or more, + When she was found hung up one day + Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay + Behind that stable door! + + It is a very lonesome place, + No hut or house is near; + Should one meet a murderer there alone + 'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan + Would never reach mortal ear. + + And there were strange reports about + That the coroner never guest. + So he decreed that she should lie + Where four roads meet in infamy, + With a stake drove in her breast. + + Upon a board they carried her + To the place where four roads met, + And I was one among the throng + That hither followed them along, + I shall never the sight forget! + + They carried her upon a board + In the cloaths in which she died; + I saw the cap blow off her head, + Her face was of a dark dark red + Her eyes were starting wide: + + I think they could not have been closed + So widely did they strain. + I never saw so dreadful a sight, + And it often made me wake at night, + For I saw her face again. + + They laid her here where four roads meet. + Beneath this very place, + The earth upon her corpse was prest, + This post is driven into her breast, + And a stone is on her face. + + + + + + + + + + + +The Sailor, + +who had served in the Slave Trade. + +In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol, discovered a +Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City, groaning and praying in a +hovel. The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in +the annexed Ballad, without the slightest addition or alteration. By +presenting it as a Poem the story is made more public, and such stories +ought to be made as public as possible. + + + + +THE SAILOR, + +WHO HAD SERVED IN THE SLAVE-TRADE. + + + He stopt,--it surely was a groan + That from the hovel came! + He stopt and listened anxiously + Again it sounds the same. + + It surely from the hovel comes! + And now he hastens there, + And thence he hears the name of Christ + Amidst a broken prayer. + + He entered in the hovel now, + A sailor there he sees, + His hands were lifted up to Heaven + And he was on his knees. + + Nor did the Sailor so intent + His entering footsteps heed, + But now the Lord's prayer said, and now + His half-forgotten creed. + + And often on his Saviour call'd + With many a bitter groan, + In such heart-anguish as could spring + From deepest guilt alone. + + He ask'd the miserable man + Why he was kneeling there, + And what the crime had been that caus'd + The anguish of his prayer. + + Oh I have done a wicked thing! + It haunts me night and day, + And I have sought this lonely place + Here undisturb'd to pray. + + I have no place to pray on board + So I came here alone, + That I might freely kneel and pray, + And call on Christ and groan. + + If to the main-mast head I go, + The wicked one is there, + From place to place, from rope to rope, + He follows every where. + + I shut my eyes,--it matters not-- + Still still the same I see,-- + And when I lie me down at night + 'Tis always day with me. + + He follows follows every where, + And every place is Hell! + O God--and I must go with him + In endless fire to dwell. + + He follows follows every where, + He's still above--below, + Oh tell me where to fly from him! + Oh tell me where to go! + + But tell me, quoth the Stranger then, + What this thy crime hath been, + So haply I may comfort give + To one that grieves for sin. + + O I have done a cursed deed + The wretched man replies, + And night and day and every where + 'Tis still before my eyes. + + I sail'd on board a Guinea-man + And to the slave-coast went; + Would that the sea had swallowed me + When I was innocent! + + And we took in our cargo there, + Three hundred negroe slaves, + And we sail'd homeward merrily + Over the ocean waves. + + But some were sulky of the slaves + And would not touch their meat, + So therefore we were forced by threats + And blows to make them eat. + + One woman sulkier than the rest + Would still refuse her food,-- + O Jesus God! I hear her cries-- + I see her in her blood! + + The Captain made me tie her up + And flog while he stood by, + And then he curs'd me if I staid + My hand to hear her cry. + + She groan'd, she shriek'd--I could not spare + For the Captain he stood by-- + Dear God! that I might rest one night + From that poor woman's cry! + + She twisted from the blows--her blood + Her mangled flesh I see-- + And still the Captain would not spare-- + Oh he was worse than me! + + She could not be more glad than I + When she was taken down, + A blessed minute--'twas the last + That I have ever known! + + I did not close my eyes all night, + Thinking what I had done; + I heard her groans and they grew faint + About the rising sun. + + She groan'd and groan'd, but her groans grew + Fainter at morning tide, + Fainter and fainter still they came + Till at the noon she died. + + They flung her overboard;--poor wretch + She rested from her pain,-- + But when--O Christ! O blessed God! + Shall I have rest again! + + I saw the sea close over her, + Yet she was still in sight; + I see her twisting every where; + I see her day and night. + + Go where I will, do what I can + The wicked one I see-- + Dear Christ have mercy on my soul, + O God deliver me! + + To morrow I set sail again + Not to the Negroe shore-- + Wretch that I am I will at least + Commit that sin no more. + + O give me comfort if you can-- + Oh tell me where to fly-- + And bid me hope, if there be hope, + For one so lost as I. + + Poor wretch, the stranger he replied, + Put thou thy trust in heaven, + And call on him for whose dear sake + All sins shall be forgiven. + + This night at least is thine, go thou + And seek the house of prayer, + There shalt thou hear the word of God + And he will help thee there! + + + + + + + + + + + + +Jaspar. + +The stories of the two following ballads are wholly imaginary. I may say +of each as John Bunyan did of his 'Pilgrim's Progress', + + + "It came from mine own heart, so to my head, + And thence into my fingers trickled; + Then to my pen, from whence immediately + On paper I did dribble it daintily." + + + + +JASPAR + + + + Jaspar was poor, and want and vice + Had made his heart like stone, + And Jaspar look'd with envious eyes + On riches not his own. + + On plunder bent abroad he went + Towards the close of day, + And loitered on the lonely road + Impatient for his prey. + + No traveller came, he loiter'd long + And often look'd around, + And paus'd and listen'd eagerly + To catch some coming sound. + + He sat him down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way, + So fair a scene might well have charm'd + All evil thoughts away; + + He sat beneath a willow tree + That cast a trembling shade, + The gentle river full in front + A little island made, + + Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone + Upon the poplar trees, + Whose shadow on the stream below + Play'd slowly to the breeze. + + He listen'd--and he heard the wind + That waved the willow tree; + He heard the waters flow along + And murmur quietly. + + He listen'd for the traveller's tread, + The nightingale sung sweet,-- + He started up, for now he heard + The sound of coming feet; + + He started up and graspt a stake + And waited for his prey; + There came a lonely traveller + And Jaspar crost his way. + + But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd + The traveller to appal, + He would not lightly yield the purse + That held his little all. + + Awhile he struggled, but he strove + With Jaspar's strength in vain; + Beneath his blows he fell and groan'd, + And never spoke again. + + He lifted up the murdered man + And plunged him in the flood, + And in the running waters then + He cleansed his hands from blood. + + The waters closed around the corpse + And cleansed his hands from gore, + The willow waved, the stream flowed on + And murmured as before. + + There was no human eye had seen + The blood the murderer spilt, + And Jaspar's conscience never knew + The avenging goad of guilt. + + And soon the ruffian had consum'd + The gold he gain'd so ill, + And years of secret guilt pass'd on + And he was needy still. + + One eve beside the alehouse fire + He sat as it befell, + When in there came a labouring man + Whom Jaspar knew full well. + + He sat him down by Jaspar's side + A melancholy man, + For spite of honest toil, the world + Went hard with Jonathan. + + His toil a little earn'd, and he + With little was content, + But sickness on his wife had fallen + And all he had was spent. + + Then with his wife and little ones + He shared the scanty meal, + And saw their looks of wretchedness, + And felt what wretches feel. + + That very morn the Landlord's power + Had seized the little left, + And now the sufferer found himself + Of every thing bereft. + + He lent his head upon his hand, + His elbow on his knee, + And so by Jaspar's side he sat + And not a word said he. + + Nay--why so downcast? Jaspar cried, + Come--cheer up Jonathan! + Drink neighbour drink! 'twill warm thy heart, + Come! come! take courage man! + + He took the cup that Jaspar gave + And down he drain'd it quick + I have a wife, said Jonathan, + And she is deadly sick. + + She has no bed to lie upon, + I saw them take her bed. + And I have children--would to God + That they and I were dead! + + Our Landlord he goes home to night + And he will sleep in peace. + I would that I were in my grave + For there all troubles cease. + + In vain I pray'd him to forbear + Tho' wealth enough has he-- + God be to him as merciless + As he has been to me! + + When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul + On all his ills intent, + He plied him with the heartening cup + And with him forth he went. + + This landlord on his homeward road + 'Twere easy now to meet. + The road is lonesome--Jonathan, + And vengeance, man! is sweet. + + He listen'd to the tempter's voice + The thought it made him start. + His head was hot, and wretchedness + Had hardened now his heart. + + Along the lonely road they went + And waited for their prey, + They sat them down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way. + + They sat them down beside the stream + And never a word they said, + They sat and listen'd silently + To hear the traveller's tread. + + The night was calm, the night was dark, + No star was in the sky, + The wind it waved the willow boughs, + The stream flowed quietly. + + The night was calm, the air was still, + Sweet sung the nightingale, + The soul of Jonathan was sooth'd, + His heart began to fail. + + 'Tis weary waiting here, he cried, + And now the hour is late,-- + Methinks he will not come to night, + 'Tis useless more to wait. + + Have patience man! the ruffian said, + A little we may wait, + But longer shall his wife expect + Her husband at the gate. + + Then Jonathan grew sick at heart, + My conscience yet is clear, + Jaspar--it is not yet too late-- + I will not linger here. + + How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought + Thy conscience was asleep. + No more such qualms, the night is dark, + The river here is deep, + + What matters that, said Jonathan, + Whose blood began to freeze, + When there is one above whose eye + The deeds of darkness sees? + + We are safe enough, said Jaspar then + If that be all thy fear; + Nor eye below, nor eye above + Can pierce the darkness here. + + That instant as the murderer spake + There came a sudden light; + Strong as the mid-day sun it shone, + Though all around was night. + + It hung upon the willow tree, + It hung upon the flood, + It gave to view the poplar isle + And all the scene of blood. + + The traveller who journies there + He surely has espied + A madman who has made his home + Upon the river's side. + + His cheek is pale, his eye is wild, + His look bespeaks despair; + For Jaspar since that hour has made + His home unshelter'd there. + + And fearful are his dreams at night + And dread to him the day; + He thinks upon his untold crime + And never dares to pray. + + The summer suns, the winter storms, + O'er him unheeded roll, + For heavy is the weight of blood + Upon the maniac's soul. + + + + + + + + + + +LORD WILLIAM. + + + + No eye beheld when William plunged + Young Edmund in the stream, + No human ear but William's heard + Young Edmund's drowning scream. + + Submissive all the vassals own'd + The murderer for their Lord, + And he, the rightful heir, possessed + The house of Erlingford. + + The ancient house of Erlingford + Stood midst a fair domain, + And Severn's ample waters near + Roll'd through the fertile plain. + + And often the way-faring man + Would love to linger there, + Forgetful of his onward road + To gaze on scenes so fair. + + But never could Lord William dare + To gaze on Severn's stream; + In every wind that swept its waves + He heard young Edmund scream. + + In vain at midnight's silent hour + Sleep closed the murderer's eyes, + In every dream the murderer saw + Young Edmund's form arise. + + In vain by restless conscience driven + Lord William left his home, + Far from the scenes that saw his guilt, + In pilgrimage to roam. + + To other climes the pilgrim fled, + But could not fly despair, + He sought his home again, but peace + Was still a stranger there. + + Each hour was tedious long, yet swift + The months appear'd to roll; + And now the day return'd that shook + With terror William's soul. + + A day that William never felt + Return without dismay, + For well had conscience kalendered + Young Edmund's dying day. + + A fearful day was that! the rains + Fell fast, with tempest roar, + And the swoln tide of Severn spread + Far on the level shore. + + In vain Lord William sought the feast + In vain he quaff'd the bowl, + And strove with noisy mirth to drown + The anguish of his soul. + + The tempest as its sudden swell + In gusty howlings came, + With cold and death-like feelings seem'd + To thrill his shuddering frame. + + Reluctant now, as night came on, + His lonely couch he prest, + And wearied out, he sunk to sleep, + To sleep, but not to rest. + + Beside that couch his brother's form + Lord Edmund seem'd to stand, + Such and so pale as when in death + He grasp'd his brother's hand; + + Such and so pale his face as when + With faint and faltering tongue, + To William's care, a dying charge + He left his orphan son. + + "I bade thee with a father's love + My orphan Edmund guard-- + Well William hast thou kept thy charge! + Now take thy due reward." + + He started up, each limb convuls'd + With agonizing fear, + He only heard the storm of night-- + 'Twas music to his ear. + + When lo! the voice of loud alarm + His inmost soul appals, + What ho! Lord William rise in haste! + The water saps thy walls! + + He rose in haste, beneath the walls + He saw the flood appear, + It hemm'd him round, 'twas midnight now, + No human aid was near. + + He heard the shout of joy, for now + A boat approach'd the wall, + And eager to the welcome aid + They crowd for safety all. + + My boat is small, the boatman cried, + This dangerous haste forbear! + Wait other aid, this little bark + But one from hence can bear. + + Lord William leap'd into the boat, + Haste--haste to yonder shore! + And ample wealth shall well reward, + Ply swift and strong the oar. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Went light along the stream, + Sudden Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + The boatman paus'd, methought I heard + A child's distressful cry! + 'Twas but the howling wind of night + Lord William made reply. + + Haste haste--ply swift and strong the oar! + Haste haste across the stream! + Again Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + I heard a child's distressful scream + The boatman cried again. + Nay hasten on--the night is dark-- + And we should search in vain. + + Oh God! Lord William dost thou know + How dreadful 'tis to die? + And can'st thou without pity hear + A child's expiring cry? + + How horrible it is to sink + Beneath the chilly stream, + To stretch the powerless arms in vain, + In vain for help to scream? + + The shriek again was heard. It came + More deep, more piercing loud, + That instant o'er the flood the moon + Shone through a broken cloud. + + And near them they beheld a child, + Upon a crag he stood, + A little crag, and all around + Was spread the rising flood. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Approach'd his resting place, + The moon-beam shone upon the child + And show'd how pale his face. + + Now reach thine hand! the boatman cried + Lord William reach and save! + The child stretch'd forth his little hands + To grasp the hand he gave. + + Then William shriek'd; the hand he touch'd + Was cold and damp and dead! + He felt young Edmund in his arms + A heavier weight than lead. + + The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk + Beneath the avenging stream; + He rose, he scream'd, no human ear + Heard William's drowning scream. + + + + + + + + + +A BALLAD, + +SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. + +[Illustration: heavy black-and-white drawing (woodcut) of the title.] + + +A.D. 852. Circa dies istos, mulier quaedam malefica, in villa quae +Berkeleia dicitur degens, gulae amatrix ac petulantiae, flagitiis modum +usque in senium et auguriis non ponens, usque ad mortem impudica +permansit. Haec die quadam cum sederet ad prandium, cornicula quam pro +delitiis pascebat, nescio quid garrire coepit; quo audito, mulieris +cultellus de manu excidit, simul et facies pallescere coepit, et emisso +rugitu, hodie, inquit, accipiam grande incommodum, hodieque ad sulcum +ultimum meum pervenit aratrum, quo dicto, nuncius doloris intravit; +muliere vero percunctata ad quid veniret, affero, inquit, tibi filii tui +obitum & totius familiae ejus ex subita ruina interitum. Hoc quoque +dolore mulier permota, lecto protinus decubuit graviter infirmata; +sentiensque morbum subrepere ad vitalia, liberos quos habuit +superstites, monachum videlicet et monacham, per epistolam invitavit; +advenientes autem voce singultiente alloquitur. Ego, inquit, o pueri, +meo miserabili fato daemoniacis semper artibus inservivi; ego omnium +vitiorum sentina, ego illecebrarum omnium fui magistra. Erat tamen mihi +inter haec mala, spes vestrae religionis, quae meam solidaret animam +desperatam; vos expctabam propugnatores contra daemones, tutores contra +saevissimos hostes. Nunc igitur quoniam ad finem vitae perveni, rogo vos +per materna ubera, ut mea tentatis alleviare tormenta. Insuite me +defunctam in corio cervino, ac deinde in sarcophago lapideo supponite, +operculumque ferro et plumbo constringite, ac demum lapidem tribus +cathenis ferreis et fortissimis circundantes, clericos quinquaginta +psalmorum cantores, et tot per tres dies presbyteros missarum +celebratores applicate, qui feroces lenigent adversariorum incursus. Ita +si tribus noctibus secura jacuero, quarta die me infodite humo. + +Factumque est ut praeceperat illis. Sed, proh dolor! nil preces, nil +lacrymae, nil demum valuere catenae. Primis enim duabus noctibus, cum +chori psallentium corpori assistabant, advenientes Daemones ostium +ecclesiae confregerunt ingenti obice clausum, extremasque cathenas +negotio levi dirumpunt: media autem quae fortior erat, illibata manebat. +Tertia autem nocte, circa gallicinium, strepitu hostium adventantium, +omne monasterium visum est a fundamento moveri. Unus ergo daemonum, et +vultu caeteris terribilior & statura eminentior, januas Ecclesiae; impetu +violento concussas in fragmenta dejecit. Divexerunt clerici cum laicis, +metu stelerunt omnium capilli, et psalmorum concentus defecit. Daemon +ergo gestu ut videbatur arroganti ad sepulchrum accedens, & nomen +mulieris modicum ingeminans, surgere imperavit. Qua respondente, quod +nequiret pro vinculis, jam malo tuo, inquit, solveris; et protinus +cathenam quae caeterorum ferociam daemonum deluserat, velut stuppeum +vinculum rumpebat. Operculum etiam sepulchri pede depellens, mulierem +palam omnibus ab ecclesia extraxit, ubi prae foribus niger equus superbe +hinniens videbatur, uncis ferreis et clavis undique confixus, super quem +misera mulier projecta, ab oculis assistentium evanuit. Audiebantur +tamen clamores per quatuor fere miliaria horribiles, auxilium +postulantes. + +Ista itaque quae retuli incredibilia non erunt, si legatur beati Gregorii +dialogus, in quo refert, hominem in ecclesia sepultam, a daemonibus foras +ejectum. Et apud Francos Carolus Martellus insignis vir fortudinis, qui +Saracenos Galliam ingressos, Hispaniam redire compulit, exactis vitae suae +diebus, in Ecclesia beati Dionysii legitur fuisse sepultus. Sed quia +patrimonia, cum decimis omnium fere ecclesiarum Galliae, pro stipendio +commilitonum suorum mutilaverat, miserabiliter a malignis spiritibus de +sepulchro corporaliter avulsus, usque in hodiernum diem nusquam +comparuit. + +Matthew of Westminster. + + +This story is also related by Olaus Magnus, and in the Nuremberg +Chronicle, from which the wooden cut is taken. + + + +A BALLAD, + +SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. + + + The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal, + And the Old Woman knew what he said, + And she grew pale at the Raven's tale, + And sicken'd and went to her bed. + + Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed, + The Old Woman of Berkeley said, + The monk my son, and my daughter the nun + Bid them hasten or I shall be dead. + + The monk her son, and her daughter the nun, + Their way to Berkeley went, + And they have brought with pious thought + The holy sacrament. + + The old Woman shriek'd as they entered her door, + 'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear, + Now take the sacrament away + For mercy, my children dear! + + Her lip it trembled with agony, + The sweat ran down her brow, + I have tortures in store for evermore, + Oh! spare me my children now! + + Away they sent the sacrament, + The fit it left her weak, + She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes + And faintly struggled to speak. + + All kind of sin I have rioted in + And the judgment now must be, + But I secured my childrens souls, + Oh! pray my children for me. + + I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes, + The fiends have been my slaves, + I have nointed myself with infants fat, + And feasted on rifled graves. + + And the fiend will fetch me now in fire + My witchcrafts to atone, + And I who have rifled the dead man's grave + Shall never have rest in my own. + + Bless I intreat my winding sheet + My children I beg of you! + And with holy water sprinkle my shroud + And sprinkle my coffin too. + + And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone + And fasten it strong I implore + With iron bars, and let it be chain'd + With three chains to the church floor. + + And bless the chains and sprinkle them, + And let fifty priests stand round, + Who night and day the mass may say + Where I lie on the ground. + + And let fifty choristers be there + The funeral dirge to sing, + Who day and night by the taper's light + Their aid to me may bring. + + Let the church bells all both great and small + Be toll'd by night and day, + To drive from thence the fiends who come + To bear my corpse away. + + And ever have the church door barr'd + After the even song, + And I beseech you children dear + Let the bars and bolts be strong. + + And let this be three days and nights + My wretched corpse to save, + Preserve me so long from the fiendish throng + And then I may rest in my grave. + + The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down + And her eyes grew deadly dim, + Short came her breath and the struggle of death + Did loosen every limb. + + They blest the old woman's winding sheet + With rites and prayers as due, + With holy water they sprinkled her shroud + And they sprinkled her coffin too. + + And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone + And with iron barr'd it down, + And in the church with three strong chains + They chain'd it to the ground. + + And they blest the chains and sprinkled them, + And fifty priests stood round, + By night and day the mass to say + Where she lay on the ground. + + And fifty choristers were there + To sing the funeral song, + And a hallowed taper blazed in the hand + Of all the sacred throng. + + To see the priests and choristers + It was a goodly sight, + Each holding, as it were a staff, + A taper burning bright. + + And the church bells all both great and small + Did toll so loud and long, + And they have barr'd the church door hard + After the even song. + + And the first night the taper's light + Burnt steadily and clear. + But they without a hideous rout + Of angry fiends could hear; + + A hideous roar at the church door + Like a long thunder peal, + And the priests they pray'd and the choristers sung + Louder in fearful zeal. + + Loud toll'd the bell, the priests pray'd well, + The tapers they burnt bright, + The monk her son, and her daughter the nun + They told their beads all night. + + The cock he crew, away they flew + The fiends from the herald of day, + And undisturb'd the choristers sing + And the fifty priests they pray. + + The second night the taper's light + Burnt dismally and blue, + And every one saw his neighbour's face + Like a dead man's face to view. + + And yells and cries without arise + That the stoutest heart might shock, + And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring + Over a mountain rock. + + The monk and nun they told their beads + As fast as they could tell, + And aye as louder grew the noise + The faster went the bell. + + Louder and louder the choristers sung + As they trembled more and more, + And the fifty priests prayed to heaven for aid, + They never had prayed so before. + + The cock he crew, away they flew + The fiends from the herald of day, + And undisturb'd the choristers sing + And the fifty priests they pray. + + The third night came and the tapers flame + A hideous stench did make, + And they burnt as though they had been dipt + In the burning brimstone lake. + + And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean, + Grew momently more and more, + And strokes as of a battering ram + Did shake the strong church door. + + The bellmen they for very fear + Could toll the bell no longer, + And still as louder grew the strokes + Their fear it grew the stronger. + + The monk and nun forgot their beads, + They fell on the ground dismay'd, + There was not a single saint in heaven + Whom they did not call to aid. + + And the choristers song that late was so strong + Grew a quaver of consternation, + For the church did rock as an earthquake shock + Uplifted its foundation. + + And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast + That shall one day wake the dead, + The strong church door could bear no more + And the bolts and the bars they fled. + + And the taper's light was extinguish'd quite, + And the choristers faintly sung, + And the priests dismay'd, panted and prayed + Till fear froze every tongue. + + And in He came with eyes of flame + The Fiend to fetch the dead, + And all the church with his presence glowed + Like a fiery furnace red. + + He laid his hand on the iron chains + And like flax they moulder'd asunder, + And the coffin lid that was barr'd so firm + He burst with his voice of thunder. + + And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise + And come with her master away, + And the cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse, + At the voice she was forced to obey. + + She rose on her feet in her winding sheet, + Her dead flesh quivered with fear, + And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave + Never did mortal hear. + + She followed the fiend to the church door, + There stood a black horse there, + His breath was red like furnace smoke, + His eyes like a meteor's glare. + + The fiendish force flung her on the horse + And he leapt up before, + And away like the lightning's speed they went + And she was seen no more. + + They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks + For four miles round they could hear, + And children at rest at their mother's breast, + Started and screamed with fear. + + + + + +The Surgeon's Warning. + +The subject of this parody was given me by a friend, to whom also I am +indebted for some of the stanzas. + +Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the manner of +Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute to their Saints +and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare that it is by no means my +design to depreciate that useful invention; and all persons to whom this +Ballad shall come are requested to take notice, that nothing here +asserted concerning the aforesaid Coffins is true, except that the maker +and patentee lives by St. Martin's Lane. + + +THE SURGEONS' WARNING. + + +The Doctor whispered to the Nurse + And the Surgeon knew what he said, +And he grew pale at the Doctor's tale + And trembled in his sick bed. + +Now fetch me my brethren and fetch them with speed + The Surgeon affrighted said, +The Parson and the Undertaker, + Let them hasten or I shall be dead. + +The Parson and the Undertaker + They hastily came complying, +And the Surgeon's Prentices ran up stairs + When they heard that their master was dying. + +The Prentices all they entered the room + By one, by two, by three, +With a sly grin came Joseph in, + First of the company. + +The Surgeon swore as they enter'd his door, + 'Twas fearful his oaths to hear,-- +Now send these scoundrels to the Devil, + For God's sake my brethren dear. + +He foam'd at the mouth with the rage he felt + And he wrinkled his black eye-brow, +That rascal Joe would be at me I know, + But zounds let him spare me now. + +Then out they sent the Prentices, + The fit it left him weak, +He look'd at his brothers with ghastly eyes, + And faintly struggled to speak. + +All kinds of carcasses I have cut up, + And the judgment now must be-- +But brothers I took care of you, + So pray take care of me! + +I have made candles of infants fat + The Sextons have been my slaves, +I have bottled babes unborn, and dried + Hearts and livers from rifled graves. + +And my Prentices now will surely come + And carve me bone from bone, +And I who have rifled the dead man's grave + Shall never have rest in my own. + +Bury me in lead when I am dead, + My brethren I intreat, +And see the coffin weigh'd I beg + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +And let it be solder'd closely down + Strong as strong can be I implore, +And put it in a patent coffin, + That I may rise no more. + +If they carry me off in the patent coffin + Their labour will be in vain, +Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +And bury me in my brother's church + For that will safer be, +And I implore lock the church door + And pray take care of the key. + +And all night long let three stout men + The vestry watch within, +To each man give a gallon of beer + And a keg of Holland's gin; + +Powder and ball and blunder-buss + To save me if he can, +And eke five guineas if he shoot + A resurrection man. + +And let them watch me for three weeks + My wretched corpse to save, +For then I think that I may stink + Enough to rest in my grave. + +The Surgeon laid him down in his bed, + His eyes grew deadly dim, +Short came his breath and the struggle of death + Distorted every limb. + +They put him in lead when he was dead + And shrouded up so neat, +And they the leaden coffin weigh + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +They had it solder'd closely down + And examined it o'er and o'er, +And they put it in a patent coffin + That he might rise no more. + +For to carry him off in a patent coffin + Would they thought be but labour in vain, +So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +In his brother's church they buried him + That safer he might be, +They lock'd the door and would not trust + The Sexton with the key. + +And three men in the vestry watch + To save him if they can, +And should he come there to shoot they swear + A resurrection man. + +And the first night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +A guinea of gold the sexton shewed + That Mister Joseph sent. + +But conscience was tough, it was not enough + And their honesty never swerved, +And they bade him go with Mister Joe + To the Devil as he deserved. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The second night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +He whisper'd anew and shew'd them two + That Mister Joseph sent. + +The guineas were bright and attracted their sight + They look'd so heavy and new, +And their fingers itch'd as they were bewitch'd + And they knew not what to do. + +But they waver'd not long for conscience was strong + And they thought they might get more, +And they refused the gold, but not + So rudely as before. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The third night as by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard they went, +He bade them see and shew'd them three + That Mister Joseph sent. + +They look'd askance with eager glance, + The guineas they shone bright, +For the Sexton on the yellow gold + Let fall his lanthorn light. + +And he look'd sly with his roguish eye + And gave a well-tim'd wink, +And they could not stand the sound in his hand + For he made the guineas chink. + +And conscience late that had such weight, + All in a moment fails, +For well they knew that it was true + A dead man told no tales, + +And they gave all their powder and ball + And took the gold so bright, +And they drank their beer and made good cheer, + Till now it was midnight. + +Then, tho' the key of the church door + Was left with the Parson his brother, +It opened at the Sexton's touch-- + Because he had another. + +And in they go with that villain Joe + To fetch the body by night, +And all the church look'd dismally + By his dark lanthorn light. + +They laid the pick-axe to the stones + And they moved them soon asunder. +They shovell'd away the hard-prest clay + And came to the coffin under. + +They burst the patent coffin first + And they cut thro' the lead, +And they laugh'd aloud when they saw the shroud + Because they had got at the dead. + +And they allowed the Sexton the shroud + And they put the coffin back, +And nose and knees they then did squeeze + The Surgeon in a sack. + +The watchmen as they past along + Full four yards off could smell, +And a curse bestowed upon the load + So disagreeable. + +So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back + And they carv'd him bone from bone, +But what became of the Surgeon's soul + Was never to mortal known. + + + + + + + + + +THE VICTORY. + + + Hark--how the church-bells thundering harmony + Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come, + Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships + Met on the element,--they met, they fought + A desperate fight!--good tidings of great joy! + Old England triumphed! yet another day + Of glory for the ruler of the waves! + For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause, + They have their passing paragraphs of praise + And are forgotten. + There was one who died + In that day's glory, whose obscurer name + No proud historian's page will chronicle. + Peace to his honest soul! I read his name, + 'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God + The sound was not familiar to mine ear. + But it was told me after that this man + Was one whom lawful violence [1] had forced + From his own home and wife and little ones, + Who by his labour lived; that he was one + Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel + A husband's love, a father's anxiousness, + That from the wages of his toil he fed + The distant dear ones, and would talk of them + At midnight when he trod the silent deck + With him he valued, talk of them, of joys + That he had known--oh God! and of the hour + When they should meet again, till his full heart + His manly heart at last would overflow + Even like a child's with very tenderness. + Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly + It came, and merciful the ball of death, + For it came suddenly and shattered him, + And left no moment's agonizing thought + On those he loved so well. + He ocean deep + Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter + Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know + What a cold sickness made her blood run back + When first she heard the tidings of the fight; + Man does not know with what a dreadful hope + She listened to the names of those who died, + Man does not know, or knowing will not heed, + With what an agony of tenderness + She gazed upon her children, and beheld + His image who was gone. Oh God! be thou + Her comforter who art the widow's friend! + + +[Footnote 1: The person alluded to was pressed into the service.] + + + + + + + + + +HENRY THE HERMIT. + + + It was a little island where he dwelt, + Or rather a lone rock, barren and bleak, + Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots + Its gray stone surface. Never mariner + Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast, + Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark + Anchored beside its shore. It was a place + Befitting well a rigid anchoret, + Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys + And purposes of life; and he had dwelt + Many long years upon that lonely isle, + For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms, + Honours and friends and country and the world, + And had grown old in solitude. That isle + Some solitary man in other times + Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found + The little chapel that his toil had built + Now by the storms unroofed, his bed of leaves + Wind-scattered, and his grave o'ergrown with grass, + And thistles, whose white seeds winged in vain + Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost. + So he repaired the chapel's ruined roof, + Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone, + And underneath a rock that shelter'd him + From the sea blasts, he built his hermitage. + + The peasants from the shore would bring him food + And beg his prayers; but human converse else + He knew not in that utter solitude, + Nor ever visited the haunts of men + Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed + Implored his blessing and his aid in death. + That summons he delayed not to obey, + Tho' the night tempest or autumnal wind. + Maddened the waves, and tho' the mariner, + Albeit relying on his saintly load, + Grew pale to see the peril. So he lived + A most austere and self-denying man, + Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness + Exhausted him, and it was pain at last + To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less + Tho' with reluctance of infirmity, + He rose at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal + More self-condemning fervour rais'd his voice + For pardon for that sin, 'till that the sin + Repented was a joy like a good deed. + + One night upon the shore his chapel bell + Was heard; the air was calm, and its far sounds + Over the water came distinct and loud. + Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear + Its toll irregular, a monk arose. + The boatmen bore him willingly across + For well the hermit Henry was beloved. + He hastened to the chapel, on a stone + Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff and dead, + The bell-rope in his band, and at his feet + The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light + + +[Footnote 1: This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608.] + + + + + + + + + +English Eclogues. + +The following Eclogues I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in +our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, +and I was induced to attempt by an account of the German Idylls given me +in conversation. They cannot properly be stiled imitations, as I am +ignorant of that language at present, and have never seen any +translations or specimens in this kind. + +With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from ??tyrus [1] and +Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsises. No kind of poetry +can boast of more illustrious names or is more distinguished by the +servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers "more silly than +their sheep" have like their sheep gone on in the same track one after +another. Gay stumbled into a new path. His eclogues were the only ones +that interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were +burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for a long essay, but this +is not the place for it. + +How far poems requiring almost a colloquial plainness of language may +accord with the public taste I am doubtful. They have been subjected to +able criticism and revised with care. I have endeavoured to make them +true to nature. + + +[Footnote 1: The letters of this name are illegible (worn away?) in +the original text; from the remaining bits I have guessed all but the +first two, which are not visible under any magnification. text Ed.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE I. + + +THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE. + + + +STRANGER. + Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, + Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task + Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours. + + +OLD MAN. + Why yes! for one with such a weight of years + Upon his back. I've lived here, man and boy, + In this same parish, near the age of man + For I am hard upon threescore and ten. + I can remember sixty years ago + The beautifying of this mansion here + When my late Lady's father, the old Squire + Came to the estate. + + +STRANGER. + Why then you have outlasted + All his improvements, for you see they're making + Great alterations here. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye-great indeed! + And if my poor old Lady could rise up-- + God rest her soul! 'twould grieve her to behold + The wicked work is here. + + +STRANGER. + They've set about it + In right good earnest. All the front is gone, + Here's to be turf they tell me, and a road + Round to the door. There were some yew trees too + Stood in the court. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye Master! fine old trees! + My grandfather could just remember back + When they were planted there. It was my task + To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me! + All strait and smooth, and like a great green wall! + My poor old Lady many a time would come + And tell me where to shear, for she had played + In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride + To keep them in their beauty. Plague I say + On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have + A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs + And your pert poplar trees;--I could as soon + Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down! + + +STRANGER. + But 'twill be lighter and more chearful now, + A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road + Round for the carriage,--now it suits my taste. + I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh, + And then there's some variety about it. + In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose, + And the laburnum with its golden flowers + Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes + The bright red berries of the mountain ash, + With firs enough in winter to look green, + And show that something lives. Sure this is better + Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look + All the year round like winter, and for ever + Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs + So dry and bare! + + +OLD MAN. + Ah! so the new Squire thinks + And pretty work he makes of it! what 'tis + To have a stranger come to an old house! + + +STRANGER. + + It seems you know him not? + + +OLD MAN. + No Sir, not I. + They tell me he's expected daily now, + But in my Lady's time he never came + But once, for they were very distant kin. + If he had played about here when a child + In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries, + And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers, + That fell so thick, he had not had the heart + To mar all thus. + + +STRANGER. + Come--come! all a not wrong. + Those old dark windows-- + + +OLD MAN. + They're demolish'd too-- + As if he could not see thro' casement glass! + The very red-breasts that so regular + Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs, + Won't know the window now! + + +STRANGER. + Nay they were high + And then so darken'd up with jessamine, + Harbouring the vermine;--that was a fine tree + However. Did it not grow in and line + The porch? + + +OLD MAN. + All over it: it did one good + To pass within ten yards when 'twas in blossom. + There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside. + My Lady loved at evening to sit there + And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet + And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favourite dog + She did not love him less that he was old + And feeble, and he always had a place + By the fire-side, and when he died at last + She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. + Ah I she was good to all! a woful day + 'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! + + +STRANGER. + They lost a friend then? + + +OLD MAN. + You're a stranger here + Or would not ask that question. Were they sick? + She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs + She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter + When weekly she distributed the bread + In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear + The blessings on her! and I warrant them + They were a blessing to her when her wealth + Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir! + It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen + Her Christmas kitchen,--how the blazing fire + Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs + So chearful red,--and as for misseltoe, + The finest bough that grew in the country round + Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went + So bountiful about! a Christmas cask, + And 'twas a noble one! God help me Sir! + But I shall never see such days again. + + +STRANGER. + Things may be better yet than you suppose + And you should hope the best. + + +OLD MAN. + It don't look well + These alterations Sir! I'm an old man + And love the good old fashions; we don't find + Old bounty in new houses. They've destroyed + All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk + Grubb'd up, and they do say that the great row + Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top + They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think + To live to see all this, and 'tis perhaps + A comfort I shan't live to see it long. + + +STRANGER. + But sure all changes are not needs for the worse + My friend. + + +OLD MAN. + May-hap they mayn't Sir;--for all that + I like what I've been us'd to. I remember + All this from a child up, and now to lose it, + 'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left + As 'twas;--I go abroad and only meet + With men whose fathers I remember boys; + The brook that used to run before my door + That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt + To climb are down; and I see nothing now + That tells me of old times, except the stones + In the church-yard. You are young Sir and I hope + Have many years in store,--but pray to God + You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. + + +STRANGER. + Well! well! you've one friend more than you're aware of. + If the Squire's taste don't suit with your's, I warrant + That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste + His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady + E'er broached a better cask. You did not know me, + But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy + To make you like the outside; but within-- + That is not changed my friend! you'll always find + The same old bounty and old welcome there. + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE II. + + +THE GRANDMOTHERS TALE. + + + +JANE. + Harry! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round + The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us + One of her stories. + + +HARRY. + Aye--dear Grandmamma! + A pretty story! something dismal now; + A bloody murder. + + +JANE. + Or about a ghost. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Nay, nay, I should but frighten you. You know + The other night when I was telling you + About the light in the church-yard, how you trembled + Because the screech-owl hooted at the window, + And would not go to bed. + + +JANE. + Why Grandmamma + You said yourself you did not like to hear him. + Pray now! we wo'nt be frightened. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Well, well, children! + But you've heard all my stories. Let me see,-- + Did I never tell you how the smuggler murdered + The woman down at Pill? + + +HARRY. + No--never! never! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Not how he cut her head off in the stable? + + +HARRY. + Oh--now! do tell us that! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + You must have heard + Your Mother, children! often tell of her. + She used to weed in the garden here, and worm + Your uncle's dogs [1], and serve the house with coal; + And glad enough she was in winter time + To drive her asses here! it was cold work + To follow the slow beasts thro' sleet and snow, + And here she found a comfortable meal + And a brave fire to thaw her, for poor Moll + Was always welcome. + + +HARRY. + Oh--'twas blear-eyed Moll + The collier woman,--a great ugly woman, + I've heard of her. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Ugly enough poor soul! + At ten yards distance you could hardly tell + If it were man or woman, for her voice + Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore + A man's old coat and hat,--and then her face! + There was a merry story told of her, + How when the press-gang came to take her husband + As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, + Drest John up in her night-cap, and herself + Put on his clothes and went before the Captain. + + +JANE. + And so they prest a woman! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + 'Twas a trick + She dearly loved to tell, and all the country + Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel + For miles around. All weathers and all hours + She crossed the hill, as hardy as her beasts, + Bearing the wind and rain and winter frosts, + And if she did not reach her home at night + She laid her down in the stable with her asses + And slept as sound as they did. + + +HARRY. + With her asses! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Yes, and she loved her beasts. For tho' poor wretch + She was a terrible reprobate and swore + Like any trooper, she was always good + To the dumb creatures, never loaded them + Beyond their strength, and rather I believe + Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want, + Because, she said, they could not ask for food. + I never saw her stick fall heavier on them + Than just with its own weight. She little thought + This tender-heartedness would be her death! + There was a fellow who had oftentimes, + As if he took delight in cruelty. + Ill-used her Asses. He was one who lived + By smuggling, and, for she had often met him + Crossing the down at night, she threatened him, + If he tormented them again, to inform + Of his unlawful ways. Well--so it was-- + 'Twas what they both were born to, he provoked her, + She laid an information, and one morn + They found her in the stable, her throat cut + From ear to ear,'till the head only hung + Just by a bit of skin. + + +JANE. + Oh dear! oh dear! + + +HARRY. + I hope they hung the man! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + They took him up; + There was no proof, no one had seen the deed, + And he was set at liberty. But God + Whoss eye beholdeth all things, he had seen + The murder, and the murderer knew that God + Was witness to his crime. He fled the place, + But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand + Of heaven, but nowhere could the murderer rest, + A guilty conscience haunted him, by day, + By night, in company, in solitude, + Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him + The weight of blood; her cries were in his ears, + Her stifled groans as when he knelt upon her + Always he heard; always he saw her stand + Before his eyes; even in the dead of night + Distinctly seen as tho' in the broad sun, + She stood beside the murderer's bed and yawn'd + Her ghastly wound; till life itself became + A punishment at last he could not bear, + And he confess'd [2] it all, and gave himself + To death, so terrible, he said, it was + To have a guilty conscience! + + +HARRY. + Was he hung then? + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man, + Your uncles went to see him on his trial, + He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed, + And such a horror in his meagre face, + They said he look'd like one who never slept. + He begg'd the prayers of all who saw his end + And met his death with fears that well might warn + From guilt, tho' not without a hope in Christ. + + +[Footnote 1: I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common +in other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from doing +any mischief should they afterwards become mad.] + +[Footnote 2: There must be many persons living who remember these +circumstances. They happened two or three and twenty years ago, in the +neighbourhood of Bristol. The woman's name was Bees. The stratagem by +which she preserved her husband from the press-gang, is also true.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE III. + + +THE FUNERAL. + + + + The coffin [1] as I past across the lane + Came sudden on my view. It was not here, + A sight of every day, as in the streets + Of the great city, and we paus'd and ask'd + Who to the grave was going. It was one, + A village girl, they told us, who had borne + An eighteen months strange illness, and had pined + With such slow wasting that the hour of death + Came welcome to her. We pursued our way + To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk + That passes o'er the mind and is forgot, + We wore away the time. But it was eve + When homewardly I went, and in the air + Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade + That makes the eye turn inward. Then I heard + Over the vale the heavy toll of death + Sound slow; it made me think upon the dead, + I questioned more and learnt her sorrowful tale. + She bore unhusbanded a mother's name, + And he who should have cherished her, far off + Sail'd on the seas, self-exil'd from his home, + For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched one, + Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues + Were busy with her name. She had one ill + Heavier, neglect, forgetfulness from him + Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote, + But only once that drop of comfort came + To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; + And when his parents had some tidings from him, + There was no mention of poor Hannah there, + Or 'twas the cold enquiry, bitterer + Than silence. So she pined and pined away + And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd, + Nor did she, even on her death bed, rest + From labour, knitting with her outstretch'd arms + Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother + Omitted no kind office, and she work'd + Hard, and with hardest working barely earn'd + Enough to make life struggle and prolong + The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay + On the sick bed of poverty, so worn + With her long suffering and that painful thought + That at her heart lay rankling, and so weak, + That she could make no effort to express + Affection for her infant; and the child, + Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her + With a strange infantine ingratitude + Shunn'd her as one indifferent. She was past + That anguish, for she felt her hour draw on, + And 'twas her only comfoft now to think + Upon the grave. "Poor girl!" her mother said, + "Thou hast suffered much!" "aye mother! there is none + "Can tell what I have suffered!" she replied, + "But I shall soon be where the weary rest." + And she did rest her soon, for it pleased God + To take her to his mercy. + + +[Footnote 1: It is proper to remark that the story related in this +Eclogue is strictly true. I met the funeral, and learnt the +circumstances in a village in Hampshire. The indifference of the child +was mentioned to me; indeed no addition whatever has been made to the +story. I should have thought it wrong to have weakened the effect of a +faithful narrative by adding any thing.] + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE IV. + + +THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. + + + +WOMAN. + Sir for the love of God some small relief + To a poor woman! + + +TRAVELLER. + Whither are you bound? + 'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, + No house for miles around us, and the way + Dreary and wild. The evening wind already + Makes one's teeth chatter, and the very Sun, + Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, + Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night! + + +WOMAN. + Aye Sir + 'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath, + Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end, + For the way is long before me, and my feet, + God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly, + If it pleased God, lie down at once and die. + + +TRAVELLER. + Nay nay cheer up! a little food and rest + Will comfort you; and then your journey's end + Will make amends for all. You shake your head, + And weep. Is it some evil business then + That leads you from your home? + + +WOMAN. + Sir I am going + To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt + In the late action, and in the hospital + Dying, I fear me, now. + + +TRAVELLER. + Perhaps your fears + Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost + There may be still enough for comfort left + An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart + To keep life warm, and he may live to talk + With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd him, + Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude + Makes the maim'd sailor happy. + + +WOMAN. + 'Tis not that-- + An arm or leg--I could have borne with that. + 'Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing + That bursts [1] and burns that hurt him. Something Sir + They do not use on board our English ships + It is so wicked! + + +TRAVELLER. + Rascals! a mean art + Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain! + + +WOMAN. + Yes Sir! and they should show no mercy to them + For making use of such unchristian arms. + I had a letter from the hospital, + He got some friend to write it, and he tells me + That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes, + Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever live + To see this wretched day!--they tell me Sir + There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed + 'Tis a hard journey that I go upon + To such a dismal end! + + +TRAVELLER. + He yet may live. + But if the worst should chance, why you must bear + The will of heaven with patience. Were it not + Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen + Fighting his country's cause? and for yourself + You will not in unpitied poverty + Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country + Amid the triumph of her victory + Remember those who paid its price of blood, + And with a noble charity relieves + The widow and the orphan. + + +WOMAN. + God reward them! + God bless them, it will help me in my age + But Sir! it will not pay me for my child! + + +TRAVELLER. + Was he your only child? + + +WOMAN. + My only one, + The stay and comfort of my widowhood, + A dear good boy!--when first he went to sea + I felt what it would come to,--something told me + I should be childless soon. But tell me Sir + If it be true that for a hurt like his + There is no cure? please God to spare his life + Tho' he be blind, yet I should be so thankful! + I can remember there was a blind man + Lived in our village, one from his youth up + Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, + And he had none to tend on him so well + As I would tend my boy! + + +TRAVELLER. + Of this be sure + His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help + The place affords, as rightly is his due, + Ever at hand. How happened it he left you? + Was a seafaring life his early choice? + + +WOMAN. + No Sir! poor fellow--he was wise enough + To be content at home, and 'twas a home + As comfortable Sir I even tho' I say it, + As any in the country. He was left + A little boy when his poor father died, + Just old enough to totter by himself + And call his mother's name. We two were all, + And as we were not left quite destitute + We bore up well. In the summer time I worked + Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting, + And in long winter nights my spinning wheel + Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too + And never felt distress. So he grew up + A comely lad and wonderous well disposed; + I taught him well; there was not in the parish + A child who said his prayers more regular, + Or answered readier thro' his catechism. + If I had foreseen this! but 'tis a blessing + We do'nt know what we're born to! + + +TRAVELLER. + But how came it + He chose to be a Sailor? + + +WOMAN. + You shall hear Sir; + As he grew up he used to watch the birds + In the corn, child's work you know, and easily done. + 'Tis an idle sort of task, so he built up + A little hut of wicker-work and clay + Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain. + And then he took for very idleness + To making traps to catch the plunderers, + All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make-- + Propping a stone to fall and shut them in, + Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe + Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly-- + And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased + To see the boy so handy. You may guess + What followed Sir from this unlucky skill. + He did what he should not when he was older: + I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught + In wiring hares at last, and had his choice + The prison or the ship. + + +TRAVELLER. + The choice at least + Was kindly left him, and for broken laws + This was methinks no heavy punishment. + + +WOMAN. + So I was told Sir. And I tried to think so, + But 'twas a sad blow to me! I was used + To sleep at nights soundly and undisturb'd-- + Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start + And think of my poor boy tossing about + Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem'd + To feel that it was hard to take him from me + For such a little fault. But he was wrong + Oh very wrong--a murrain on his traps! + See what they've brought him too! + + +TRAVELLER. + Well! well! take comfort + He will be taken care of if he lives; + And should you lose your child, this is a country + Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent + To weep for him in want. + + +WOMAN. + Sir I shall want + No succour long. In the common course of years + I soon must be at rest, and 'tis a comfort + When grief is hard upon me to reflect + It only leads me to that rest the sooner. + + +[Footnote 1: The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the +engagement between the Mars and L'Hercule, some of our sailors were +shockingly mangled by them: One in particular, as described in the +Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be policy and humanity to employ +means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to +destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only inflicts +additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is cruel and +wicked.] + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE V. + + +THE WITCH. + + + +NATHANIEL. + Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe! + Faith it was just in time, for t'other night + I laid two straws across at Margery's door, + And afterwards I fear'd that she might do me + A mischief for't. There was the Miller's boy + Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, + I met him upon crutches, and he told me + 'Twas all her evil eye. + + +FATHER. + 'Tis rare good luck; + I would have gladly given a crown for one + If t'would have done as well. But where did'st find it? + + +NATHANIEL. + Down on the Common; I was going a-field + And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare; + He had hardly said "good day," before I saw + The shoe drop off; 'twas just upon my tongue + To call him back,--it makes no difference, does it. + Because I know whose 'twas? + + +FATHER. + Why no, it can't. + The shoe's the same you know, and you 'did find' it. + + +NATHANIEL. + That mare of his has got a plaguey road + To travel, father, and if he should lame her, + For she is but tender-footed,-- + + +FATHER. + Aye, indeed-- + I should not like to see her limping back + Poor beast! but charity begins at home, + And Nat, there's our own horse in such a way + This morning! + + +NATHANIEL. + Why he ha'nt been rid again! + Last night I hung a pebble by the manger + With a hole thro', and every body says + That 'tis a special charm against the hags. + + +FATHER. + It could not be a proper natural hole then, + Or 'twas not a right pebble,--for I found him + Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, + And panting so! God knows where he had been + When we were all asleep, thro' bush and brake + Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch + At such a deadly rate!-- + + +NATHANIEL. + By land and water, + Over the sea perhaps!--I have heard tell + That 'tis some thousand miles, almost at the end + Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. + They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear + Some ointment over them and then away + Out of the window! but 'tis worse than all + To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it + That in a Christian country they should let + Such creatures live! + + +FATHER. + And when there's such plain proof! + I did but threaten her because she robb'd + Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind + That made me shake to hear it in my bed! + How came it that that storm unroofed my barn, + And only mine in the parish? look at her + And that's enough; she has it in her face-- + A pair of large dead eyes, rank in her head, + Just like a corpse, and purs'd with wrinkles round, + A nose and chin that scarce leave room between + For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff, + And when she speaks! I'd sooner hear a raven + Croak at my door! she sits there, nose and knees + Smoak-dried and shrivell'd over a starved fire, + With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes + Shine like old Beelzebub's, and to be sure + It must be one of his imps!--aye, nail it hard. + + +NATHANIEL. + I wish old Margery heard the hammer go! + She'd curse the music. + + +FATHER. + Here's the Curate coming, + He ought to rid the parish of such vermin; + In the old times they used to hunt them out + And hang them without mercy, but Lord bless us! + The world is grown so wicked! + + +CURATE. + Good day Farmer! + Nathaniel what art nailing to the threshold? + + +NATHANIEL. + A horse-shoe Sir, 'tis good to keep off witchcraft, + And we're afraid of Margery. + + +CURATE. + Poor old woman! + What can you fear from her? + + +FATHER. + What can we fear? + Who lamed the Miller's boy? who rais'd the wind + That blew my old barn's roof down? who d'ye think + Rides my poor horse a'nights? who mocks the hounds? + But let me catch her at that trick again, + And I've a silver bullet ready for her, + One that shall lame her, double how she will. + + +NATHANIEL. + What makes her sit there moping by herself, + With no soul near her but that great black cat? + And do but look at her! + + +CURATE. + Poor wretch! half blind + And crooked with her years, without a child + Or friend in her old age, 'tis hard indeed + To have her very miseries made her crimes! + I met her but last week in that hard frost + That made my young limbs ache, and when I ask'd + What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman + Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad + And pick the hedges, just to keep herself + From perishing with cold, because no neighbour + Had pity on her age; and then she cried, + And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, + And wish'd that she were dead. + + +FATHER. + I wish she was! + She has plagued the parish long enough! + + +CURATE. + Shame farmer! + Is that the charity your bible teaches? + + +FATHER. + My bible does not teach me to love witches. + I know what's charity; who pays his tithes + And poor-rates readier? + + +CURATE. + Who can better do it? + You've been a prudent and industrious man, + And God has blest your labour. + + +FATHER. + Why, thank God Sir, + I've had no reason to complain of fortune. + + +CURATE. + Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish + Look up to you. + + +FATHER. + Perhaps Sir, I could tell + Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. + + +CURATE. + You can afford a little to the poor, + And then what's better still, you have the heart + To give from your abundance. + + +FATHER. + God forbid + I should want charity! + + +CURATE. + Oh! 'tis a comfort + To think at last of riches well employ'd! + I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth + Of a good deed at that most awful hour + When riches profit not. + Farmer, I'm going + To visit Margery. She is sick I hear-- + Old, poor, and sick! a miserable lot, + And death will be a blessing. You might send her + Some little matter, something comfortable, + That she may go down easier to the grave + And bless you when she dies. + + +FATHER. + What! is she going! + Well God forgive her then! if she has dealt + In the black art. I'll tell my dame of it, + And she shall send her something. + + +CURATE. + So I'll say; + And take my thanks for her's. ['goes'] + + +FATHER. + That's a good man + That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit + The poor in sickness; but he don't believe + In witchcraft, and that is not like a christian. + + +NATHANIEL. + And so old Margery's dying! + + +FATHER. + But you know + She may recover; so drive t'other nail in! + + + + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE VI. + + +THE RUINED COTTAGE. + + + + Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye, + This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch, + Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower + Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock + That thro' the creeping weeds and nettles tall + Peers taller, and uplifts its column'd stem + Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen + Many a fallen convent reverend in decay, + And many a time have trod the castle courts + And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike + Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts + As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch + Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof + Part mouldered in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds, + House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss; + So Nature wars with all the works of man. + And, like himself, reduces back to earth + His perishable piles. + I led thee here + Charles, not without design; for this hath been + My favourite walk even since I was a boy; + And I remember Charles, this ruin here, + The neatest comfortable dwelling place! + That when I read in those dear books that first + Woke in my heart the love of poesy, + How with the villagers Erminia dwelt, + And Calidore for a fair shepherdess + Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd's lore; + My fancy drew from, this the little hut + Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love, + Or where the gentle Calidore at eve + Led Pastorella home. There was not then + A weed where all these nettles overtop + The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet + The morning air, rosemary and marjoram, + All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath'd + So lavishly around the pillared porch + Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way, + After a truant absence hastening home, + I could not chuse but pass with slacken'd speed + By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed + Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!-- + Theirs is a simple melancholy tale, + There's scarce a village but can fellow it, + And yet methinks it will not weary thee, + And should not be untold. + A widow woman + Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want, + She lived on some small pittance that sufficed, + In better times, the needful calls of life, + Not without comfort. I remember her + Sitting at evening in that open door way + And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her + Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles + To see the passer by, yet ceasing not + To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden + On some dry summer evening, walking round + To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean'd + Upon the ivory handle of her stick, + To some carnation whose o'erheavy head + Needed support, while with the watering-pot + Joanna followed, and refresh'd and trimm'd + The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child, + As lovely and as happy then as youth + And innocence could make her. + Charles! it seems + As tho' I were a boy again, and all + The mediate years with their vicissitudes + A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid + So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair, + Her bright brown hair, wreath'd in contracting curls, + And then her cheek! it was a red and white + That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome, + The countrymen who on their way to church + Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear + The bell's last summons, and in idleness + Watching the stream below, would all look up + When she pass'd by. And her old Mother, Charles! + When I have beard some erring infidel + Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed, + Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness. + Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love + The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross'd + These fields in rain and thro' the winter snows. + When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself + By the fire-side, have wondered why 'she' came + Who might have sate at home. + One only care + Hung on her aged spirit. For herself, + Her path was plain before her, and the close + Of her long journey near. But then her child + Soon to be left alone in this bad world,-- + That was a thought that many a winter night + Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love + In something better than a servant's slate + Had placed her well at last, it was a pang + Like parting life to part with her dear girl. + + One summer, Charles, when at the holydays + Return'd from school, I visited again + My old accustomed walks, and found in them. + A joy almost like meeting an old friend, + I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds + Already crowding the neglected flowers. + Joanna by a villain's wiles seduced + Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach'd + Her mother's heart. She did not suffer long, + Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow + Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. + + I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes + And think of other days. It wakes in me + A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles + That ever with these recollections rise, + I trust in God they will not pass away. + + + + + + + + +THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, 1799, by Robert Southey + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + +This file should be named 7spm210.txt or 7spm210.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 7spm211.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 7spm210a.txt + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems, 1799 + +Author: Robert Southey + +Posting Date: April 5, 2014 [EBook #8639] +Release Date: August, 2005 +First Posted: July 29, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + + + +POEMS, + +by + +Robert Southey. + + + + The better, please; the worse, displease; I ask no more. + + SPENSER. + + + +THE SECOND VOLUME. + + + +CONTENTS. + + + THE VISION of THE MAID of ORLEANS. + + Book 1 + 2 + 3 + + + The Rose + + The Complaints of the Poor + + Metrical Letter + + + BALLADS. + + The Cross Roads. + + The Sailor who had served in the Slave Trade + + Jaspar + + Lord William + + A Ballad shewing how an old woman rode double + and who rode before her + + The Surgeon's Warning + + The Victory + + Henry the Hermit + + + ENGLISH ECLOGUES. + + The Old Mansion House + + The Grandmother's Tale + + The Funeral + + The Sailor's Mother + + The Witch + + The Ruined Cottage + + + + + + + + + + +The Vision + +of + +The Maid of Orleans. + + + + + Divinity hath oftentimes descended + Upon our slumbers, and the blessed troupes + Have, in the calme and quiet of the soule, + Conversed with us. + + SHIRLEY. 'The Grateful Servant' + + + + + + +[Sidenote: The following Vision was originally printed as the ninth book +of 'JOAN of ARC'. It is now adapted to the improved edition of that +Poem.] + + + + + + +THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE FIRST BOOK. + + + + Orleans was hush'd in sleep. Stretch'd on her couch + The delegated Maiden lay: with toil + Exhausted and sore anguish, soon she closed + Her heavy eye-lids; not reposing then, + For busy Phantasy, in other scenes + Awakened. Whether that superior powers, + By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream, + Instructing so the passive [1] faculty; + Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog, + Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world, + And all things 'are' that [2] 'seem'. + + Along a moor, + Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate, + She roam'd a wanderer thro' the cheerless night. + Far thro' the silence of the unbroken plain + The bittern's boom was heard, hoarse, heavy, deep, + It made most fitting music to the scene. + Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind, + Swept shadowing; thro' their broken folds the moon + Struggled sometimes with transitory ray, + And made the moving darkness visible. + And now arrived beside a fenny lake + She stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarse + The long sedge rustled to the gales of night. + An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell'd + By powers unseen; then did the moon display + Where thro' the crazy vessel's yawning side + The muddy wave oozed in: a female guides, + And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan'd + As melancholy mournful to her ear, + As ever by the dungeon'd wretch was heard + Howling at evening round the embattled towers + Of that hell-house [3] of France, ere yet sublime + The almighty people from their tyrant's hand + Dash'd down the iron rod. + Intent the Maid + Gazed on the pilot's form, and as she gazed + Shiver'd, for wan her face was, and her eyes + Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep, + Channell'd by tears; a few grey locks hung down + Beneath her hood: then thro' the Maiden's veins + Chill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass'd, + Lifting her tattcr'd mantle, coil'd around + She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart. + + The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by, + And the night-raven's scream came fitfully, + Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid + Look'd to the shore, and now upon the bank + Leaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling still + In recollection. + + There, a mouldering pile + Stretch'd its wide ruins, o'er the plain below + Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon + Shone thro' its fretted windows: the dark Yew, + Withering with age, branched there its naked roots, + And there the melancholy Cypress rear'd + Its head; the earth was heav'd with many a mound, + And here and there a half-demolish'd tomb. + + And now, amid the ruin's darkest shade, + The Virgin's eye beheld where pale blue flames + Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth, + And now in darkness drown'd. An aged man + Sat near, seated on what in long-past days + Had been some sculptur'd monument, now fallen + And half-obscured by moss, and gathered heaps + Of withered yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones; + And shining in the ray was seen the track + Of slimy snail obscene. Composed his look, + His eye was large and rayless, and fix'd full + Upon the Maid; the blue flames on his face + Stream'd a pale light; his face was of the hue + Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud. + + Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice, + Exclaim'd the Spectre, "Welcome to these realms, + These regions of DESPAIR! O thou whose steps + By GRIEF conducted to these sad abodes + Have pierced; welcome, welcome to this gloom + Eternal, to this everlasting night, + Where never morning darts the enlivening ray, + Where never shines the sun, but all is dark, + Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King." + + So saying he arose, and by the hand + The Virgin seized with such a death-cold touch + As froze her very heart; and drawing on, + Her, to the abbey's inner ruin, led + Resistless. Thro' the broken roof the moon + Glimmer'd a scatter'd ray; the ivy twined + Round the dismantled column; imaged forms + Of Saints and warlike Chiefs, moss-canker'd now + And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground, + With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen, + And rusted trophies; and amid the heap + Some monument's defaced legend spake + All human glory vain. + + The loud blast roar'd + Amid the pile; and from the tower the owl + Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest. + He, silent, led her on, and often paus'd, + And pointed, that her eye might contemplate + At leisure the drear scene. + He dragged her on + Thro' a low iron door, down broken stairs; + Then a cold horror thro' the Maiden's frame + Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw, + By the sepulchral lamp's dim glaring light, + The fragments of the dead. + "Look here!" he cried, + "Damsel, look here! survey this house of Death; + O soon to tenant it! soon to increase + These trophies of mortality! for hence + Is no return. Gaze here! behold this skull, + These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws, + That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mock + Thy perishable charms; for thus thy cheek + Must moulder. Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul, + Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heart + At the dread thought, that here its life's-blood soon + Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon + With the cold clod? a thought most horrible! + So only dreadful, for reality + Is none of suffering here; here all is peace; + No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave. + Dreadful it is to think of losing life; + But having lost, knowledge of loss is not, + Therefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose; + Probe deep the seat of life." + So spake DESPAIR + The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice, + And all again was silence. Quick her heart + Panted. He drew a dagger from his breast, + And cried again, "Haste Damsel to repose! + One blow, and rest for ever!" On the Fiend + Dark scowl'd the Virgin with indignant eye, + And dash'd the dagger down. He next his heart + Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid + Along the downward vault. + The damp earth gave + A dim sound as they pass'd: the tainted air + Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews. + "Behold!" the fiend exclaim'd, "how gradual here + The fleshly burden of mortality + Moulders to clay!" then fixing his broad eye + Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse + Lay livid; she beheld with loathing look, + The spectacle abhorr'd by living man. + + "Look here!" DESPAIR pursued, "this loathsome mass + Was once as lovely, and as full of life + As, Damsel! thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes + Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence, + And where thou seest the pamper'd flesh-worm trail, + Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought + That at the hallowed altar, soon the Priest + Should bless her coming union, and the torch + Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy, + Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earth + That Priest consign'd her, and the funeral lamp + Glares on her cold face; for her lover went + By glory lur'd to war, and perish'd there; + Nor she endur'd to live. Ha! fades thy cheek? + Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale? + Look here! behold the youthful paramour! + The self-devoted hero!" + Fearfully + The Maid look'd down, and saw the well known face + Of THEODORE! in thoughts unspeakable, + Convulsed with horror, o'er her face she clasp'd + Her cold damp hands: "Shrink not," the Phantom cried, + "Gaze on! for ever gaze!" more firm he grasp'd + Her quivering arm: "this lifeless mouldering clay, + As well thou know'st, was warm with all the glow + Of Youth and Love; this is the arm that cleaved + Salisbury's proud crest, now motionless in death, + Unable to protect the ravaged frame + From the foul Offspring of Mortality + That feed on heroes. Tho' long years were thine, + Yet never more would life reanimate + This murdered man; murdered by thee! for thou + Didst lead him to the battle from his home, + Else living there in peace to good old age: + In thy defence he died: strike deep! destroy + Remorse with Life." + The Maid stood motionless, + And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand + Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried, + "Avaunt DESPAIR! Eternal Wisdom deals + Or peace to man, or misery, for his good + Alike design'd; and shall the Creature cry, + Why hast thou done this? and with impious pride + Destroy the life God gave?" + The Fiend rejoin'd, + "And thou dost deem it impious to destroy + The life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lot + Assigned to mortal man? born but to drag, + Thro' life's long pilgrimage, the wearying load + Of being; care corroded at the heart; + Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills + That flesh inherits; till at length worn out, + This is his consummation!--think again! + What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd life + But lengthen'd sorrow? If protracted long, + Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs + Outstretch their languid length, oh think what thoughts, + What agonizing woes, in that dread hour, + Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse, + Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew + The shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force, + Mightiest in impotence, the love of life + Seizes the throbbing heart, the faltering lips + Pour out the impious prayer, that fain would change + The unchangeable's decree, surrounding friends + Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears, + And all he loved in life embitters death! + + Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hour + Of calmest dissolution! yet weak man + Dares, in his timid piety, to live; + And veiling Fear in Superstition's garb, + He calls her Resignation! + Coward wretch! + Fond Coward! thus to make his Reason war + Against his Reason! Insect as he is, + This sport of Chance, this being of a day, + Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast, + Believes himself the care of heavenly powers, + That God regards Man, miserable Man, + And preaching thus of Power and Providence, + Will crush the reptile that may cross his path! + + Fool that thou art! the Being that permits + Existence, 'gives' to man the worthless boon: + A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest, + Bask in the sunshine of Prosperity, + And such do well to keep it. But to one + Sick at the heart with misery, and sore + With many a hard unmerited affliction, + It is a hair that chains to wretchedness + The slave who dares not burst it! + Thinkest thou, + The parent, if his child should unrecall'd + Return and fall upon his neck, and cry, + Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and full + Of vacant joys and heart-consuming cares, + I can be only happy in my home + With thee--my friend!--my father! Thinkest thou, + That he would thrust him as an outcast forth? + Oh I he would clasp the truant to his heart, + And love the trespass." + Whilst he spake, his eye + Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul + Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood, + Even as the wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave + Supply, before him sees the poison'd food + In greedy horror. + Yet not long the Maid + Debated, "Cease thy dangerous sophistry, + Eloquent tempter!" cried she. "Gloomy one! + What tho' affliction be my portion here, + Think'st thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy. + Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back + Upon a life of duty well perform'd, + Then lift mine eyes to Heaven, and there in faith + Know my reward? I grant, were this life all, + Was there no morning to the tomb's long night, + If man did mingle with the senseless clod, + Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed + A wise and friendly comforter! But, Fiend! + There is a morning to the tomb's long night, + A dawn of glory, a reward in Heaven, + He shall not gain who never merited. + If thou didst know the worth of one good deed + In life's last hour, thou would'st not bid me lose + The power to benefit; if I but save + A drowning fly, I shall not live in vain. + I have great duties, Fiend! me France expects, + Her heaven-doom'd Champion." + "Maiden, thou hast done + Thy mission here," the unbaffled Fiend replied: + "The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchance + Exulting in the pride of victory, + Forgettest him who perish'd! yet albeit + Thy harden'd heart forget the gallant youth; + That hour allotted canst thou not escape, + That dreadful hour, when Contumely and Shame + Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid! + Destined to drain the cup of bitterness, + Even to its dregs! England's inhuman Chiefs + Shall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame, + Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity, + And force such burning blushes to the cheek + Of Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish + The earth might cover thee! in that last hour, + When thy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the chains + That link thee to the stake; when o'er thy form, + Exposed unmantled, the brute multitude + Shall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt, + More painful than the circling flames that scorch + Each quivering member; wilt thou not in vain + Then wish my friendly aid? then wish thine ear + Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand + Had grasp'd the dagger, and in death preserved + Insulted modesty?" + Her glowing cheek + Blush'd crimson; her wide eye on vacancy + Was fix'd; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend, + Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, "too-timid Maid, + So long repugnant to the healing aid + My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold + The allotted length of life." + He stamp'd the earth, + And dragging a huge coffin as his car, + Two GOULS came on, of form more fearful-foul + Than ever palsied in her wildest dream + Hag-ridden Superstition. Then DESPAIR + Seiz'd on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still. + And placed her in the seat; and on they pass'd + Adown the deep descent. A meteor light + Shot from the Daemons, as they dragg'd along + The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethren glut + On carcasses. + Below the vault dilates + Its ample bulk. "Look here!"--DESPAIR addrest + The shuddering Virgin, "see the dome of DEATH!" + It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid + The entrails of the earth, as tho' to form + The grave of all mankind: no eye could reach, + Tho' gifted with the Eagle's ample ken, + Its distant bounds. There, thron'd in darkness, dwelt + The unseen POWER OF DEATH. + Here stopt the GOULS, + Reaching the destin'd spot. The Fiend leapt out, + And from the coffin, as he led the Maid, + Exclaim'd, "Where never yet stood mortal man, + Thou standest: look around this boundless vault; + Observe the dole that Nature deals to man, + And learn to know thy friend." + She not replied, + Observing where the Fates their several tasks + Plied ceaseless. "Mark how short the longest web + Allowed to man! he cried; observe how soon, + Twin'd round yon never-resting wheel, they change + Their snowy hue, darkening thro' many a shade, + Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!" + + Too true he spake, for of the countless threads, + Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn'd snow, + Or as the lovely lilly of the vale, + Was never one beyond the little span + Of infancy untainted: few there were + But lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue, + Or deeper sable [4] died. Two Genii stood, + Still as the web of Being was drawn forth, + Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn, + The one unsparing dash'd the bitter wave + Of woe; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow + Relax'd to a hard smile. The milder form + Shed less profusely there his lesser store; + Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon, + Mourning the lot of man; and happy he + Who on his thread those precious drops receives; + If it be happiness to have the pulse + Throb fast with pity, and in such a world + Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches + With anguish at the sight of human woe. + + To her the Fiend, well hoping now success, + "This is thy thread! observe how short the span, + And see how copious yonder Genius pours + The bitter stream of woe." The Maiden saw + Fearless. "Now gaze!" the tempter Fiend exclaim'd, + And placed again the poniard in her hand, + For SUPERSTITION, with sulphureal torch + Stalk'd to the loom. "This, Damsel, is thy fate! + The hour draws on--now drench the dagger deep! + Now rush to happier worlds!" + The Maid replied, + "Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven, + Impious I strive not: be that will perform'd!" + + +[Footnote 1: + + May fays of Serapis, + Erudit at placide humanam per somnia mentem, + 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'.] + + +[Footnote 2: I have met with a singular tale to illustrate this +spiritual theory of dreams. + +Guntram, King of the Franks, was liberal to the poor, and he himself +experienced the wonderful effects of divine liberality. For one day as +he was hunting in a forest he was separated from his companions and +arrived at a little stream of water with only one comrade of tried and +approved fidelity. Here he found himself opprest by drowsiness, and +reclining his head upon the servant's lap went to sleep. The servant +witnessed a wonderful thing, for he saw a little beast ('bestiolam') +creep out of the mouth of his sleeping master, and go immediately to the +streamlet, which it vainly attempted to cross. The servant drew his +sword and laid it across the water, over which the little beast easily +past and crept into a hole of a mountain on the opposite side; from +whence it made its appearance again in an hour, and returned by the same +means into the King's mouth. The King then awakened, and told his +companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon the bank of an +immense river, which he had crossed by a bridge of iron, and from thence +came to a mountain in which a great quantity of gold was concealed. When +the King had concluded, the servant related what he had beheld, and they +both went to examine the mountain, where upon digging they discovered an +immense weight of gold. + +I stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled SPHINX +'Theologico-Philosophica. Authore Johanne Heidfeldio, Ecclesiaste +Ebersbachiano.' 1621. + +The same story is in Matthew of Westminster; it is added that Guntram +applied the treasures thus found to pious uses. + +For the truth of this theory there is the evidence of a Monkish miracle. +When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian and visit the world of +souls, his guide said to him, "let thy body rest in the bed for thy +spirit only is about to depart with me; and lest the body should appear +dead, I will send into it a vital breath." + +The body however by a strange sympathy was affected like the spirit; for +when the foul and fetid smoke that arose from tithes witheld, had nearly +suffocated Thurcillus, and made him cough twice, those who were near his +body said that it coughed twice about the same time. + +'Matthew Paris'.] + + +[Footnote 3: The Bastille. The expression is in one of Fuller's works, +an Author from whose quaintness and ingenuity I have always found +amusement, and sometimes assistance.] + + +[Footnote 4: These lines strongly resemble a passage in the Pharonnida +of William Chamberlayne, a Poet who has told an interesting story in +uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and beauty of +expression, with the quaintest conceits, and most awkward inversions. + + + On a rock more high + Than Nature's common surface, she beholds + The Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds + Its sacred mysteries. A trine within + A quadrate placed, both these encompast in + A perfect circle was its form; but what + Its matter was, for us to wonder at, + Is undiscovered left. A Tower there stands + At every angle, where Time's fatal hands + The impartial 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.] + + + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE SECOND BOOK. + + + +She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd +Amid the air, such odors wafting now +As erst came blended with the evening gale, +From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form +Stood by the Maid; his wings, etherial white, +Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun, +Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear'd +Her THEODORE. + Amazed she saw: the Fiend +Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice +Sounded, tho' now more musically sweet +Than ever yet had thrill'd her charmed soul, +When eloquent Affection fondly told +The day-dreams of delight. + "Beloved Maid! +Lo! I am with thee! still thy Theodore! +Hearts in the holy bands of Love combin'd, +Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine! +A little while and thou shalt dwell with me +In scenes where Sorrow is not. Cheerily +Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave, +Rough tho' it be and painful, for the grave +Is but the threshold of Eternity. + +Favour'd of Heaven! to thee is given to view +These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss +Thou treadest, Maiden! Here the dungeons are +Where bad men learn repentance; souls diseased +Must have their remedy; and where disease +Is rooted deep, the remedy is long +Perforce, and painful." + Thus the Spirit spake, +And led the Maid along a narrow path, +Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames, +More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound +Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath +Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach +A wide expanded den where all around +Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze, +Flamed dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood +The meagre form of Care, and as he blew +To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd +His wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus +He toil'd and toil'd, of toil to reap no end +But endless toil and never-ending woe. + +An aged man went round the infernal vault, +Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task: +White were his locks, as is the wintry snow +On hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff +His steps supported; powerful talisman, +Which whoso feels shall never feel again +The tear of Pity, or the throb of Love. +Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way, +The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall, +Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst +Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee +To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few, +Tho' he the Blessed Teacher of mankind +Hath said, that easier thro' the needle's eye +Shall the huge camel [1] pass, than the rich man +Enter the gates of heaven. "Ye cannot serve +Your God, and worship Mammon." + "Missioned Maid!" +So spake the Angel, "know that these, whose hands +Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil, +Were Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not spare +To wring from Poverty the hard-earn'd mite, +They robb'd the orphan's pittance, they could see +Want's asking eye unmoved; and therefore these, +Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere +In Mammon's service; scorched by these fierce fires, +And frequent deluged by the o'erboiling ore: +Yet still so framed, that oft to quench their thirst +Unquenchable, large draughts of molten [2] gold +They drink insatiate, still with pain renewed, +Pain to destroy." + So saying, her he led +Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell, +Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls +Part gleam'd with gold, and part with silver ore +A milder radiance shone. The Carbuncle +There its strong lustre like the flamy sun +Shot forth irradiate; from the earth beneath, +And from the roof a diamond light emits; +Rubies and amethysts their glows commix'd +With the gay topaz, and the softer ray +Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald's hue, +And bright pyropus. + There on golden seats, +A numerous, sullen, melancholy train +Sat silent. "Maiden, these," said Theodore, +Are they who let the love of wealth absorb +All other passions; in their souls that vice +Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree +That with its shade spreads barrenness around. +These, Maid! were men by no atrocious crime +Blacken'd, no fraud, nor ruffian violence: +Men of fair dealing, and respectable +On earth, but such as only for themselves +Heap'd up their treasures, deeming all their wealth +Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven, +To bless them only: therefore here they sit, +Possessed of gold enough, and by no pain +Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss +They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell, +Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour +Of general restitution." + Thence they past, +And now arrived at such a gorgeous dome, +As even the pomp of Eastern opulence +Could never equal: wandered thro' its halls +A numerous train; some with the red-swoln eye +Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek; +Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step, +And eyes lack-lustre. + Maiden? said her guide, +These are the wretched slaves of Appetite, +Curst with their wish enjoyed. The epicure +Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall'd sense +Loaths at the banquet; the voluptuous here +Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight, +And sink in misery. All they wish'd on earth, +Possessing here, whom have they to accuse, +But their own folly, for the lot they chose? +Yet, for that these injured themselves alone, +They to the house of PENITENCE may hie, +And, by a long and painful regimen, +To wearied Nature her exhausted powers +Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish +Of wisdom, and ALMIGHTY GOODNESS grants +That prize to him who seeks it." + Whilst he spake, +The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and eye +Fat swoln, and legs whose monstrous size disgraced +The human form divine, their caterer, +Hight GLUTTONY, set forth the smoaking feast. +And by his side came on a brother form, +With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red +And scurfy-white, mix'd motley; his gross bulk, +Like some huge hogshead shapen'd, as applied. +Him had antiquity with mystic rites +Ador'd, to him the sons of Greece, and thine +Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour'd +The victim blood, with godlike titles graced, +BACCHUS, or DIONUSUS; son of JOVE, +Deem'd falsely, for from FOLLY'S ideot form +He sprung, what time MADNESS, with furious hand, +Seiz'd on the laughing female. At one birth +She brought the brethren, menial here, above +Reigning with sway supreme, and oft they hold +High revels: mid the Monastery's gloom, +The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice +Episcopal, proclaims approaching day +Of visitation, or Churchwardens meet +To save the wretched many from the gripe +Of eager Poverty, or mid thy halls +Of London, mighty Mayor! rich Aldermen, +Of coming feast hold converse. + Otherwhere, +For tho' allied in nature as in blood, +They hold divided sway, his brother lifts +His spungy sceptre. In the noble domes +Of Princes, and state-wearied Ministers, +Maddening he reigns; and when the affrighted mind +Casts o'er a long career of guilt and blood +Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought +To lull the worm of Conscience to repose. +He too the halls of country Squires frequents, +But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades +Thy offspring Rhedycina! and thy walls, +Granta! nightly libations there to him +Profuse are pour'd, till from the dizzy brain +Triangles, Circles, Parallelograms, +Moods, Tenses, Dialects, and Demigods, +And Logic and Theology are swept +By the red deluge. + Unmolested there +He reigns; till comes at length the general feast, +Septennial sacrifice; then when the sons +Of England meet, with watchful care to chuse +Their delegates, wise, independent men, +Unbribing and unbrib'd, and cull'd to guard +Their rights and charters from the encroaching grasp +Of greedy Power: then all the joyful land +Join in his sacrifices, so inspir'd +To make the important choice. + The observing Maid +Address'd her guide, "These Theodore, thou sayest +Are men, who pampering their foul appetites, +Injured themselves alone. But where are they, +The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil +Around the guileless female, so to sting +The heart that loves them?" + "Them," the spirit replied, +A long and dreadful punishment awaits. +For when the prey of want and infamy, +Lower and lower still the victim sinks, +Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word, +One impious imprecation from her lips +Escapes, nay not a thought of evil lurks +In the polluted mind, that does not plead +Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued +Against the foul Seducer." + Now they reach'd +The house of PENITENCE. CREDULITY +Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head +As tho' to listen; on her vacant face, +A smile that promis'd premature assent; +Tho' her REGRET behind, a meagre Fiend, +Disciplin'd sorely. + Here they entered in, +And now arrived where, as in study tranced, +She sat, the Mistress of the Dome. Her face +Spake that composed severity, that knows +No angry impulse, no weak tenderness, +Resolved and calm. Before her lay that Book +That hath the words of Life; and as she read, +Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek, +Tho' heavenly joy beam'd in her eye the while. + +Leaving her undisturb'd, to the first ward +Of this great Lazar-house, the Angel led +The favour'd Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down +On the hard stone that their bare knees had worn, +In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear'd: +Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave; +Yet such expression stealing from the eye, +As tho', that only naked, all the rest +Was one close fitting mask. A scoffing Fiend, +For Fiend he was, tho' wisely serving here +Mock'd at his patients, and did often pour +Ashes upon them, and then bid them say +Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laughed: +For these were Hypocrites, on earth revered +As holy ones, who did in public tell +Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross themselves, +And call themselves most miserable sinners, +That so they might be deem'd most pious saints; +And go all filth, and never let a smile +Bend their stern muscles, gloomy, sullen men, +Barren of all affection, and all this +To please their God, forsooth! and therefore SCORN +Grinn'd at his patients, making them repeat +Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery +Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer, +They pour'd the silent sorrows of the soul +To Heaven, then did they not regard his mocks +Which then came painless, and HUMILITY +Soon rescued them, and led to PENITENCE, +That She might lead to Heaven. + + From thence they came, +Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band +Groan'd underneath the bitter tyranny +Of a fierce Daemon. His coarse hair was red, +Pale grey his eyes, and blood-shot; and his face +Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears +In ecstacy. Well-pleased he went around, +Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some, +Or probing with a poison'd lance their breasts, +Or placing coals of fire within their wounds; +Or seizing some within his mighty grasp, +He fix'd them on a stake, and then drew back, +And laugh'd to see them writhe. + "These," said the Spirit, +Are taught by CRUELTY, to loath the lives +They led themselves. Here are those wicked men +Who loved to exercise their tyrant power +On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo +A long purgation here; the traffickers +In human flesh here too are disciplined. +Till by their suffering they have equall'd all +The miseries they inflicted, all the mass +Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged, +The towns they burnt, for they who bribe to war +Are guilty of the blood, the widows left +In want, the slave or led to suicide, +Or murdered by the foul infected air +Of his close dungeon, or more sad than all, +His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved, +And driven by woe to wickedness. + These next, +Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room, +So sullen, and with such an eye of hate +Each on the other scowling, these have been +False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts +Here they dwell: in the hollow of their hearts +There is a worm that feeds, and tho' thou seest +That skilful leech who willingly would heal +The ill they suffer, judging of all else +By their own evil standard, they suspect +The aid be vainly proffers, lengthening thus +By vice its punishment." + "But who are these," +The Maid exclaim'd, "that robed in flowing lawn, +And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps +Like Cardinals, I see in every ward, +Performing menial service at the beck +Of all who bid them?" + Theodore replied, +These men are they who in the name of CHRIST +Did heap up wealth, and arrogating power, +Did make men bow the knee, and call themselves +Most Reverend Graces and Right Reverend Lords. +They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed, +And in fine linen: therefore are they here; +And tho' they would not minister on earth, +Here penanced they perforce must minister: +For he, the lowly man of Nazareth, +Hath said, his kingdom is not of the world." +So Saying on they past, and now arrived +Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode, +That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye, +And shudder'd: each one was a loathly corpse, +The worm did banquet on his putrid prey, +Yet had they life and feeling exquisite +Tho' motionless and mute. + "Most wretched men +Are these, the angel cried. These, JOAN, are bards, +Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuate +Who sat them down, deliberately lewd, +So to awake and pamper lust in minds +Unborn; and therefore foul of body now +As then they were of soul, they here abide +Long as the evil works they left on earth +Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom! +Yet amply merited by that bad man +Who prostitutes the sacred gift of song!" +And now they reached a huge and massy pile, +Massy it seem'd, and yet in every blast +As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit, +REMORSE for ever his sad vigils kept. +Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch. +Inly he groan'd, or, starting, wildly shriek'd, +Aye as the fabric tottering from its base, +Threatened its fall, and so expectant still +Lived in the dread of danger still delayed. + +They enter'd there a large and lofty dome, +O'er whose black marble sides a dim drear light +Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp. +Enthroned around, the MURDERERS OF MANKIND, +Monarchs, the great! the glorious! the august! +Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire, +Sat stern and silent. Nimrod he was there, +First King the mighty hunter; and that Chief +Who did belie his mother's fame, that so +He might be called young Ammon. In this court +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 [3] was here, 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." + + +[Footnote 1: In the former edition I had substituted 'cable' instead of +'camel'. The alteration would not be worth noticing were it not for the +circumstance which occasioned it. 'Facilius elephas per foramen acus', +is among the Hebrew adages collected by Drusius; the same metaphor is +found in two other Jewish proverbs, and this appears to determine the +signification of [Greek (transliterated): chamaelos]. Matt. 19. 24.] + + +[Footnote 2: The same idea, and almost the same words are in an old play +by John Ford. The passage is a very fine one: + + + Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched, + Almost condemn'd alive! There is a place, + (List daughter!) in a black and hollow vault, + Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, + But flaming horror of consuming fires; + A lightless sulphur, choak'd with smoaky foggs + Of an infected darkness. In this place + Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts + Of never-dying deaths; there damned souls + Roar without pity, there are gluttons fed + With toads and adders; there is burning oil + Pour'd down the drunkard's throat, 'the usurer + Is forced to sup whole draughts of molten gold'; + There is the murderer for ever stabb'd, + Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton + On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul + He feels the torment of his raging lust. + + ''Tis Pity she's a Whore.' + +I wrote this passage when very young, and the idea, trite as it is, was +new to me. It occurs I believe in most descriptions of hell, and perhaps +owes its origin to the fate of Crassus. + +After this picture of horrors, the reader may perhaps be pleased with +one more pleasantly fanciful: + + + O call me home again dear Chief! and put me + To yoking foxes, milking of he-goats, + Pounding of water in a mortar, laving + The sea dry with a nutshell, gathering all + The leaves are fallen this autumn--making ropes of sand, + Catching the winds together in a net, + Mustering of ants, and numbering atoms, all + That Hell and you thought exquisite torments, rather + Than stay me here a thought more. I would sooner + Keep fleas within a circle, and be accomptant + A thousand year which of 'em, and how far + Outleap'd the other, than endure a minute + Such as I have within. + + B. JONSON. 'The Devil is an Ass.'] + + +[Footnote 3: During the siege of Jerusalem, "the Roman commander, 'with +a generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism, +'laboured incessantly, and to the very last moment, to preserve the +place. With this view, he again and again intreated the tyrants to +surrender and save their lives. With the same view also, after carrying +the second wall the siege was intermitted four days: to rouse their +fears, 'prisoners, to the number of five hundred, or more were crucified +daily before the walls; till space', Josephus says, 'was wanting for the +crosses, and crosses for the captives'." + +From the Hampton Lectures of RALPH CHURTON. + +If any of my readers should enquire why Titus Vespasian, the Delight of +Mankind, is placed in such a situation,--I answer, for "HIS GENEROUS +CLEMENCY, THAT INSEPARABLE ATTENDANT ON TRUE HEROISM!] + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE THIRD BOOK. + + + + The Maiden, musing on the Warrior's words, + Turn'd from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach'd + A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood, + In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eye + Beam'd promise, but behind, withered and old, + And all unlovely. Underneath his feet + Lay records trampled, and the laurel wreath + Now rent and faded: in his hand he held + An hour-glass, and as fall the restless sands, + So pass the lives of men. By him they past + Along the darksome cave, and reach'd a stream, + Still rolling onward its perpetual waves, + Noiseless and undisturbed. Here they ascend + A Bark unpiloted, that down the flood, + Borne by the current, rush'd. The circling stream, + Returning to itself, an island form'd; + Nor had the Maiden's footsteps ever reach'd + The insulated coast, eternally + Rapt round the endless course; but Theodore + Drove with an angel's will the obedient bark. + + They land, a mighty fabric meets their eyes, + Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamant + The pile was framed, for ever to abide + Firm in eternal strength. Before the gate + Stood eager EXPECTATION, as to list + The half-heard murmurs issuing from within, + Her mouth half-open'd, and her head stretch'd forth. + On the other side there stood an aged Crone, + Listening to every breath of air; she knew + Vague suppositions and uncertain dreams, + Of what was soon to come, for she would mark + The paley glow-worm's self-created light, + And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown, + And desolated nations; ever fill'd + With undetermin'd terror, as she heard + Or distant screech-owl, or the regular beat + Of evening death-watch. + "Maid," the Spirit cried, + Here, robed in shadows, dwells FUTURITY. + There is no eye hath seen her secret form, + For round the MOTHER OF TIME, unpierced mists + Aye hover. Would'st thou read the book of Fate, + Enter." + The Damsel for a moment paus'd, + Then to the Angel spake: "All-gracious Heaven! + Benignant in withholding, hath denied + To man that knowledge. I, in faith assured, + That he, my heavenly Father, for the best + Ordaineth all things, in that faith remain + Contented." + "Well and wisely hast thou said, + So Theodore replied; "and now O Maid! + Is there amid this boundless universe + One whom thy soul would visit? is there place + To memory dear, or visioned out by hope, + Where thou would'st now be present? form the wish, + And I am with thee, there." + His closing speech + Yet sounded on her ear, and lo! they stood + Swift as the sudden thought that guided them, + Within the little cottage that she loved. + "He sleeps! the good man sleeps!" enrapt she cried, + As bending o'er her Uncle's lowly bed + Her eye retraced his features. "See the beads + That never morn nor night he fails to tell, + Remembering me, his child, in every prayer. + Oh! quiet be thy sleep, thou dear old man! + Good Angels guard thy rest! and when thine hour + Is come, as gently mayest thou wake to life, + As when thro' yonder lattice the next sun + Shall bid thee to thy morning orisons! + Thy voice is heard, the Angel guide rejoin'd, + He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breathe + Blessings, and pleasant is the good man's rest. + Thy fame has reached him, for who has not heard + Thy wonderous exploits? and his aged heart + Hath felt the deepest joy that ever yet + Made his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on old Claude! + Peaceful, pure Spirit, be thy sojourn here, + And short and soon thy passage to that world + Where friends shall part no more! + "Does thy soul own + No other wish? or sleeps poor Madelon + Forgotten in her grave? seest thou yon star," + The Spirit pursued, regardless of her eye + That look'd reproach; "seest thou that evening star + Whose lovely light so often we beheld + From yonder woodbine porch? how have we gazed + Into the dark deep sky, till the baffled soul, + Lost in the infinite, returned, and felt + The burthen of her bodily load, and yearned + For freedom! Maid, in yonder evening slar + Lives thy departed friend. I read that glance, + And we are there!" + He said and they had past + The immeasurable space. + Then on her ear + The lonely song of adoration rose, + Sweet as the cloister'd virgins vesper hymn, + Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopes + Already lives in Heaven. Abrupt the song + Ceas'd, tremulous and quick a cry + Of joyful wonder rous'd the astonish'd Maid, + And instant Madelon was in her arms; + No airy form, no unsubstantial shape, + She felt her friend, she prest her to her heart, + Their tears of rapture mingled. + She drew back + And eagerly she gazed on Madelon, + Then fell upon her neck again and wept. + No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief, + The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness, + The languid eye: youth's loveliest freshness now + Mantled her cheek, whose every lineament + Bespake the soul at rest, a holy calm, + A deep and full tranquillity of bliss. + + "Thou then art come, my first and dearest friend!" + The well known voice of Madelon began, + "Thou then art come! and was thy pilgrimage + So short on earth? and was it painful too, + Painful and short as mine? but blessed they + Who from the crimes and miseries of the world + Early escape!" + "Nay," Theodore replied, + She hath not yet fulfill'd her mortal work. + Permitted visitant from earth she comes + To see the seat of rest, and oftentimes + In sorrow shall her soul remember this, + And patient of the transitory woe + Partake the anticipated peace again." + "Soon be that work perform'd!" the Maid exclaimed, + "O Madelon! O Theodore! my soul, + Spurning the cold communion of the world, + Will dwell with you! but I shall patiently, + Yea even with joy, endure the allotted ills + Of which the memory in this better state + Shall heighten bliss. That hour of agony, + When, Madelon, I felt thy dying grasp, + And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death, + The very horrors of that hour assume + A shape that now delights." + "O earliest friend! + I too remember," Madelon replied, + "That hour, thy looks of watchful agony, + The suppressed grief that struggled in thine eye + Endearing love's last kindness. Thou didst know + With what a deep and melancholy joy + I felt the hour draw on: but who can speak + The unutterable transport, when mine eyes, + As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed + Amid this peaceful vale, unclos'd on him, + My Arnaud! he had built me up a bower, + A bower of rest.--See, Maiden, where he comes, + His manly lineaments, his beaming eye + The same, but now a holier innocence + Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume + The enlighten'd glance." + They met, what joy was theirs + He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead + Has wet the midnight pillow with his tears. + + Fair was the scene around; an ample vale + Whose mountain circle at the distant verge + Lay softened on the sight; the near ascent + Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare, + Part with the ancient majesty of woods + Adorn'd, or lifting high its rocks sublime. + The river's liquid radiance roll'd beneath, + Beside the bower of Madelon it wound + A broken stream, whose shallows, tho' the waves + Roll'd on their way with rapid melody, + A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove + Its gay green foliage starr'd with golden fruit; + But with what odours did their blossoms load + The passing gale of eve! less thrilling sweet + Rose from the marble's perforated floor, + Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen + Inhaled the cool delight, [1] and whilst she asked + The Prophet for his promised paradise, + Shaped from the present scene its utmost joys. + A goodly scene! fair as that faery land + Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne + From Camlan's bloody banks; or as the groves + Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say, + Enoch abides, and he who rapt away + By fiery steeds, and chariotted in fire, + Past in his mortal form the eternal ways; + And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there + The beatific vision, sometimes seen + The distant dawning of eternal day, + Till all things be fulfilled. + "Survey this scene!" + So Theodore address'd the Maid of Arc, + "There is no evil here, no wretchedness, + It is the Heaven of those who nurst on earth + Their nature's gentlest feelings. Yet not here + Centering their joys, but with a patient hope, + Waiting the allotted hour when capable + Of loftier callings, to a better state + They pass; and hither from that better state + Frequent they come, preserving so those ties + That thro' the infinite progressiveness + Complete our perfect bliss. + "Even such, so blest, + Save that the memory of no sorrows past + Heightened the present joy, our world was once, + In the first 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 [2] hung its head, that seem'd to grow + Spontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maid + LOVE went submiss, wilh eye more dangerous + Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er + Too bold approached; yet anxious would he read + Her every rising wish, then only pleased + When pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais'd. + + "Glory to thee whose vivifying power + Pervades all Nature's universal frame! + Glory to thee CREATOR LOVE! to thee, + Parent of all the smiling CHARITIES, + That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers! + Glory to thee PRESERVER! to thy praise + The awakened woodlands echo all the day + Their living melody; and warbling forth + To thee her twilight song, the Nightingale + Holds the lone Traveller from his way, or charms + The listening Poet's ear. Where LOVE shall deign + To fix his seat, there blameless PLEASURE sheds + Her roseate dews; CONTENT will sojourn there, + And HAPPINESS behold AFFECTION'S eye + Gleam with the Mother's smile. Thrice happy he + Who feels thy holy power! he shall not drag, + Forlorn and friendless, along Life's long path + To Age's drear abode; he shall not waste + The bitter evening of his days unsooth'd; + But HOPE shall cheer his hours of Solitude, + And VICE shall vainly strive to wound his breast, + That bears that talisman; and when he meets + The eloquent eye of TENDERNESS, and hears + The bosom-thrilling music of her voice; + The joy he feels shall purify his Soul, + And imp it for anticipated Heaven." + + +[Footnote 1: In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the Queen used to +dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there +is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled +that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and windows are +disposed so as to afford the most agreeable prospects, and to throw a +soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents of air too are +admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious coolness of this +apartment. + +(From the sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed to +Florian's Gonsalvo of Cordova).] + + +[Footnote 2: "The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired +her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems +to grow on the breast of the Virgin." P.H.] + + + + + + +The Rose. + + Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus, + that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden + was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadde don + fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be + brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre + began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that + als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help + hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; + and whanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon + was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, + becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise weren the first + Roseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. + And thus was this Maiden saved be the Grace of God. + + 'The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundevile'. + + + + + + +THE ROSE. + + + + Nay EDITH! spare the rose!--it lives--it lives, + It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh'd + The dews of night; let not thy gentle hand + Tear sunder its life-fibres and destroy + The sense of being!--why that infidel smile? + Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful, + And thou shall have a tale of other times, + For I am skill'd in legendary lore, + So thou wilt let it live. There was a time + Ere this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms, + Bedeck'd the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard + How first by miracle its fragrant leaves + Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness. + + There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid + And Zillah was her name, so passing fair + That all Judea spake the damsel's praise. + He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance + How quick it spake the soul, and what a soul + Beam'd in its mild effulgence, woe was he! + For not in solitude, for not in crowds, + Might he escape remembrance, or avoid + Her imaged form that followed every where, + And fill'd the heart, and fix'd the absent eye. + Woe was he, for her bosom own'd no love + Save the strong ardours of religious zeal, + For Zillah on her God had centered all + Her spirit's deep affections. So for her + Her tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverenced + The obdurate virtue that destroyed their hopes. + + One man there was, a vain and wretched man, + Who saw, desired, despair'd, and hated her. + His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek + Even till the flush of angry modesty + Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. + She loath'd the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, + And the strong workings of brute selfishness + Had moulded his broad features; and she fear'd + The bitterness of wounded vanity + That with a fiendish hue would overcast + His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, + For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plot + Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad + Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports + That soon obtain belief; that Zillah's eye + When in the temple heaven-ward it was rais'd + Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those + Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance + With other feelings fill'd; that 'twas a task + Of easy sort to play the saint by day + Before the public eye, but that all eyes + Were closed at night; that Zillah's life was foul, + Yea forfeit to the law. + + Shame--shame to man + That he should trust so easily the tongue + That stabs another's fame! the ill report + Was heard, repeated, and believed,--and soon, + For Hamuel by most damned artifice + Produced such semblances of guilt, the Maid + Was judged to shameful death. + Without the walls + There was a barren field; a place abhorr'd, + For it was there where wretched criminals + Were done to die; and there they built the stake, + And piled the fuel round, that should consume + The accused Maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd, + By God and man. The assembled Bethlemites + Beheld the scene, and when they saw the Maid + Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness + She lifted up her patient looks to Heaven, + They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts + Stood Hamuel near the pile, him savage joy + Led thitherward, but now within his heart + Unwonted feelings stirr'd, and the first pangs + Of wakening guilt, anticipating Hell. + The eye of Zillah as it glanced around + Fell on the murderer once, but not in wrath; + And therefore like a dagger it had fallen, + Had struck into his soul a cureless wound. + Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour + Of triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch, + Not in the hour of infamy and death + Forsake the virtuous! they draw near the stake-- + And lo! the torch! hold hold your erring hands! + Yet quench the rising flames!--they rise! they spread! + They reach the suffering Maid! oh God protect + The innocent one! + They rose, they spread, they raged-- + The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire + Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames + In one long lightning flash collecting fierce, + Darted and blasted Hamuel--him alone. + Hark--what a fearful scream the multitude + Pour forth!--and yet more miracles! the stake + Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves and bowers + The innocent Maid, and roses bloom around, + Now first beheld since Paradise was lost, + And fill with Eden odours all the air. + + + + + + + + +The COMPLAINTS of the POOR. + + + + And wherefore do the Poor complain? + The rich man asked of me,-- + Come walk abroad with me, I said + And I will answer thee. + + Twas evening and the frozen streets + Were cheerless to behold, + And we were wrapt and coated well, + And yet we were a-cold. + + We met an old bare-headed man, + His locks were few and white, + I ask'd him what he did abroad + In that cold winter's night: + + 'Twas bitter keen indeed, he said, + But at home no fire had he, + And therefore, he had come abroad + To ask for charity. + + We met a young bare-footed child, + And she begg'd loud and bold, + I ask'd her what she did abroad + When the wind it blew so cold; + + She said her father was at home + And he lay sick a-bed, + And therefore was it she was sent + Abroad to beg for bread. + + We saw a woman sitting down + Upon a stone to rest, + She had a baby at her back + And another at her breast; + + I ask'd her why she loiter'd there + When the wind it was so chill; + She turn'd her head and bade the child + That scream'd behind be still. + + She told us that her husband served + A soldier, far away, + And therefore to her parish she + Was begging back her way. + + We met a girl; her dress was loose + And sunken was her eye, + Who with the wanton's hollow voice + Address'd the passers by; + + I ask'd her what there was in guilt + That could her heart allure + To shame, disease, and late remorse? + She answer'd, she was poor. + + I turn'd me to the rich man then + For silently stood he, + You ask'd me why the Poor complain, + And these have answer'd thee. + + + + + + + + +METRICAL LETTER, + +Written from London. + + + + Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile; + I love the homely and familiar phrase; + And I will call thee Cousin Margaret, + However quaint amid the measured line + The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill + When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, + Sirring and Madaming as civilly + As if the road between the heart and lips + Were such a weary and Laplandish way + That the poor travellers came to the red gates + Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret, + For many a day my Memory has played + The creditor with me on your account, + And made me shame to think that I should owe + So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, + Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear + So heavy a pack of business, that albeit + I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race + Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I + That for a moment you should lay to me + Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart + That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some + Who know how warm it beats. I am not one + Who can play off my smiles and courtesies + To every Lady of her lap dog tired + Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend + Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love; + Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up + At once without a seed and take no root, + Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere + The little circle of domestic life + I would be known and loved; the world beyond + Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think + That you should know me well, for you and I + Grew up together, and when we look back + Upon old times our recollections paint + The same familiar faces. Did I wield + The wand of Merlin's magic I would make + Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, + Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood + That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth, + The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle + Like that where whilome old Apollidon + Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid + The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers, + That we might stand upon the beach, and mark + The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, + And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound + Told us that never mariner should reach + Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle + We might renew the days of infancy, + And Life like a long childhood pass away, + Without one care. It may be, Margaret, + That I shall yet be gathered to my friends, + For I am not of those who live estranged + Of choice, till at the last they join their race + In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, + Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack + So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine + Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly. + If not, if I should never get beyond + This Vanity town, there is another world + Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, + I gaze at night into the boundless sky, + And think that I shall there be born again, + The exalted native of some better star; + And like the rude American I hope + To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth. + + + + + + + + + + +The Cross Roads. + +The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty +years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at +the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as +I have versified them. + + + + +THE CROSS ROADS. + + + There was an old man breaking stones + To mend the turnpike way, + He sat him down beside a brook + And out his bread and cheese he took, + For now it was mid-day. + + He lent his back against a post, + His feet the brook ran by; + And there were water-cresses growing, + And pleasant was the water's flowing + For he was hot and dry. + + A soldier with his knapsack on + Came travelling o'er the down, + The sun was strong and he was tired, + And of the old man he enquired + How far to Bristol town. + + Half an hour's walk for a young man + By lanes and fields and stiles. + But you the foot-path do not know, + And if along the road you go + Why then 'tis three good miles. + + The soldier took his knapsack off + For he was hot and dry; + And out his bread and cheese he took + And he sat down beside the brook + To dine in company. + + Old friend! in faith, the soldier says + I envy you almost; + My shoulders have been sorely prest + And I should like to sit and rest, + My back against that post. + + In such a sweltering day as this + A knapsack is the devil! + And if on t'other side I sat + It would not only spoil our chat + But make me seem uncivil. + + The old man laugh'd and moved. I wish + It were a great-arm'd chair! + But this may help a man at need; + And yet it was a cursed deed + That ever brought it there. + + There's a poor girl lies buried here + Beneath this very place. + The earth upon her corpse is prest + This stake is driven into her breast + And a stone is on her face. + + The soldier had but just lent back + And now he half rose up. + There's sure no harm in dining here, + My friend? and yet to be sincere + I should not like to sup. + + God rest her! she is still enough + Who sleeps beneath our feet! + The old man cried. No harm I trow + She ever did herself, tho' now + She lies where four roads meet. + + I have past by about that hour + When men are not most brave, + It did not make my heart to fail, + And I have heard the nightingale + Sing sweetly on her grave. + + I have past by about that hour + When Ghosts their freedom have, + But there was nothing here to fright, + And I have seen the glow-worm's light + Shine on the poor girl's grave. + + There's one who like a Christian lies + Beneath the church-tree's shade; + I'd rather go a long mile round + Than pass at evening thro' the ground + Wherein that man is laid. + + There's one that in the church-yard lies + For whom the bell did toll; + He lies in consecrated ground, + But for all the wealth in Bristol town + I would not be with his soul! + + Did'st see a house below the hill + That the winds and the rains destroy? + 'Twas then a farm where he did dwell, + And I remember it full well + When I was a growing boy. + + And she was a poor parish girl + That came up from the west, + From service hard she ran away + And at that house in evil day + Was taken in to rest. + + The man he was a wicked man + And an evil life he led; + Rage made his cheek grow deadly white + And his grey eyes were large and light, + And in anger they grew red. + + The man was bad, the mother worse, + Bad fruit of a bad stem, + 'Twould make your hair to stand-on-end + If I should tell to you my friend + The things that were told of them! + + Did'st see an out-house standing by? + The walls alone remain; + It was a stable then, but now + Its mossy roof has fallen through + All rotted by the rain. + + The poor girl she had serv'd with them + Some half-a-year, or more, + When she was found hung up one day + Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay + Behind that stable door! + + It is a very lonesome place, + No hut or house is near; + Should one meet a murderer there alone + 'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan + Would never reach mortal ear. + + And there were strange reports about + That the coroner never guest. + So he decreed that she should lie + Where four roads meet in infamy, + With a stake drove in her breast. + + Upon a board they carried her + To the place where four roads met, + And I was one among the throng + That hither followed them along, + I shall never the sight forget! + + They carried her upon a board + In the cloaths in which she died; + I saw the cap blow off her head, + Her face was of a dark dark red + Her eyes were starting wide: + + I think they could not have been closed + So widely did they strain. + I never saw so dreadful a sight, + And it often made me wake at night, + For I saw her face again. + + They laid her here where four roads meet. + Beneath this very place, + The earth upon her corpse was prest, + This post is driven into her breast, + And a stone is on her face. + + + + + + + + + + + +The Sailor, + +who had served in the Slave Trade. + +In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol, discovered a +Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City, groaning and praying in a +hovel. The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in +the annexed Ballad, without the slightest addition or alteration. By +presenting it as a Poem the story is made more public, and such stories +ought to be made as public as possible. + + + + +THE SAILOR, + +WHO HAD SERVED IN THE SLAVE-TRADE. + + + He stopt,--it surely was a groan + That from the hovel came! + He stopt and listened anxiously + Again it sounds the same. + + It surely from the hovel comes! + And now he hastens there, + And thence he hears the name of Christ + Amidst a broken prayer. + + He entered in the hovel now, + A sailor there he sees, + His hands were lifted up to Heaven + And he was on his knees. + + Nor did the Sailor so intent + His entering footsteps heed, + But now the Lord's prayer said, and now + His half-forgotten creed. + + And often on his Saviour call'd + With many a bitter groan, + In such heart-anguish as could spring + From deepest guilt alone. + + He ask'd the miserable man + Why he was kneeling there, + And what the crime had been that caus'd + The anguish of his prayer. + + Oh I have done a wicked thing! + It haunts me night and day, + And I have sought this lonely place + Here undisturb'd to pray. + + I have no place to pray on board + So I came here alone, + That I might freely kneel and pray, + And call on Christ and groan. + + If to the main-mast head I go, + The wicked one is there, + From place to place, from rope to rope, + He follows every where. + + I shut my eyes,--it matters not-- + Still still the same I see,-- + And when I lie me down at night + 'Tis always day with me. + + He follows follows every where, + And every place is Hell! + O God--and I must go with him + In endless fire to dwell. + + He follows follows every where, + He's still above--below, + Oh tell me where to fly from him! + Oh tell me where to go! + + But tell me, quoth the Stranger then, + What this thy crime hath been, + So haply I may comfort give + To one that grieves for sin. + + O I have done a cursed deed + The wretched man replies, + And night and day and every where + 'Tis still before my eyes. + + I sail'd on board a Guinea-man + And to the slave-coast went; + Would that the sea had swallowed me + When I was innocent! + + And we took in our cargo there, + Three hundred negroe slaves, + And we sail'd homeward merrily + Over the ocean waves. + + But some were sulky of the slaves + And would not touch their meat, + So therefore we were forced by threats + And blows to make them eat. + + One woman sulkier than the rest + Would still refuse her food,-- + O Jesus God! I hear her cries-- + I see her in her blood! + + The Captain made me tie her up + And flog while he stood by, + And then he curs'd me if I staid + My hand to hear her cry. + + She groan'd, she shriek'd--I could not spare + For the Captain he stood by-- + Dear God! that I might rest one night + From that poor woman's cry! + + She twisted from the blows--her blood + Her mangled flesh I see-- + And still the Captain would not spare-- + Oh he was worse than me! + + She could not be more glad than I + When she was taken down, + A blessed minute--'twas the last + That I have ever known! + + I did not close my eyes all night, + Thinking what I had done; + I heard her groans and they grew faint + About the rising sun. + + She groan'd and groan'd, but her groans grew + Fainter at morning tide, + Fainter and fainter still they came + Till at the noon she died. + + They flung her overboard;--poor wretch + She rested from her pain,-- + But when--O Christ! O blessed God! + Shall I have rest again! + + I saw the sea close over her, + Yet she was still in sight; + I see her twisting every where; + I see her day and night. + + Go where I will, do what I can + The wicked one I see-- + Dear Christ have mercy on my soul, + O God deliver me! + + To morrow I set sail again + Not to the Negroe shore-- + Wretch that I am I will at least + Commit that sin no more. + + O give me comfort if you can-- + Oh tell me where to fly-- + And bid me hope, if there be hope, + For one so lost as I. + + Poor wretch, the stranger he replied, + Put thou thy trust in heaven, + And call on him for whose dear sake + All sins shall be forgiven. + + This night at least is thine, go thou + And seek the house of prayer, + There shalt thou hear the word of God + And he will help thee there! + + + + + + + + + + + + +Jaspar. + +The stories of the two following ballads are wholly imaginary. I may say +of each as John Bunyan did of his 'Pilgrim's Progress', + + + "It came from mine own heart, so to my head, + And thence into my fingers trickled; + Then to my pen, from whence immediately + On paper I did dribble it daintily." + + + + +JASPAR + + + + Jaspar was poor, and want and vice + Had made his heart like stone, + And Jaspar look'd with envious eyes + On riches not his own. + + On plunder bent abroad he went + Towards the close of day, + And loitered on the lonely road + Impatient for his prey. + + No traveller came, he loiter'd long + And often look'd around, + And paus'd and listen'd eagerly + To catch some coming sound. + + He sat him down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way, + So fair a scene might well have charm'd + All evil thoughts away; + + He sat beneath a willow tree + That cast a trembling shade, + The gentle river full in front + A little island made, + + Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone + Upon the poplar trees, + Whose shadow on the stream below + Play'd slowly to the breeze. + + He listen'd--and he heard the wind + That waved the willow tree; + He heard the waters flow along + And murmur quietly. + + He listen'd for the traveller's tread, + The nightingale sung sweet,-- + He started up, for now he heard + The sound of coming feet; + + He started up and graspt a stake + And waited for his prey; + There came a lonely traveller + And Jaspar crost his way. + + But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd + The traveller to appal, + He would not lightly yield the purse + That held his little all. + + Awhile he struggled, but he strove + With Jaspar's strength in vain; + Beneath his blows he fell and groan'd, + And never spoke again. + + He lifted up the murdered man + And plunged him in the flood, + And in the running waters then + He cleansed his hands from blood. + + The waters closed around the corpse + And cleansed his hands from gore, + The willow waved, the stream flowed on + And murmured as before. + + There was no human eye had seen + The blood the murderer spilt, + And Jaspar's conscience never knew + The avenging goad of guilt. + + And soon the ruffian had consum'd + The gold he gain'd so ill, + And years of secret guilt pass'd on + And he was needy still. + + One eve beside the alehouse fire + He sat as it befell, + When in there came a labouring man + Whom Jaspar knew full well. + + He sat him down by Jaspar's side + A melancholy man, + For spite of honest toil, the world + Went hard with Jonathan. + + His toil a little earn'd, and he + With little was content, + But sickness on his wife had fallen + And all he had was spent. + + Then with his wife and little ones + He shared the scanty meal, + And saw their looks of wretchedness, + And felt what wretches feel. + + That very morn the Landlord's power + Had seized the little left, + And now the sufferer found himself + Of every thing bereft. + + He lent his head upon his hand, + His elbow on his knee, + And so by Jaspar's side he sat + And not a word said he. + + Nay--why so downcast? Jaspar cried, + Come--cheer up Jonathan! + Drink neighbour drink! 'twill warm thy heart, + Come! come! take courage man! + + He took the cup that Jaspar gave + And down he drain'd it quick + I have a wife, said Jonathan, + And she is deadly sick. + + She has no bed to lie upon, + I saw them take her bed. + And I have children--would to God + That they and I were dead! + + Our Landlord he goes home to night + And he will sleep in peace. + I would that I were in my grave + For there all troubles cease. + + In vain I pray'd him to forbear + Tho' wealth enough has he-- + God be to him as merciless + As he has been to me! + + When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul + On all his ills intent, + He plied him with the heartening cup + And with him forth he went. + + This landlord on his homeward road + 'Twere easy now to meet. + The road is lonesome--Jonathan, + And vengeance, man! is sweet. + + He listen'd to the tempter's voice + The thought it made him start. + His head was hot, and wretchedness + Had hardened now his heart. + + Along the lonely road they went + And waited for their prey, + They sat them down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way. + + They sat them down beside the stream + And never a word they said, + They sat and listen'd silently + To hear the traveller's tread. + + The night was calm, the night was dark, + No star was in the sky, + The wind it waved the willow boughs, + The stream flowed quietly. + + The night was calm, the air was still, + Sweet sung the nightingale, + The soul of Jonathan was sooth'd, + His heart began to fail. + + 'Tis weary waiting here, he cried, + And now the hour is late,-- + Methinks he will not come to night, + 'Tis useless more to wait. + + Have patience man! the ruffian said, + A little we may wait, + But longer shall his wife expect + Her husband at the gate. + + Then Jonathan grew sick at heart, + My conscience yet is clear, + Jaspar--it is not yet too late-- + I will not linger here. + + How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought + Thy conscience was asleep. + No more such qualms, the night is dark, + The river here is deep, + + What matters that, said Jonathan, + Whose blood began to freeze, + When there is one above whose eye + The deeds of darkness sees? + + We are safe enough, said Jaspar then + If that be all thy fear; + Nor eye below, nor eye above + Can pierce the darkness here. + + That instant as the murderer spake + There came a sudden light; + Strong as the mid-day sun it shone, + Though all around was night. + + It hung upon the willow tree, + It hung upon the flood, + It gave to view the poplar isle + And all the scene of blood. + + The traveller who journies there + He surely has espied + A madman who has made his home + Upon the river's side. + + His cheek is pale, his eye is wild, + His look bespeaks despair; + For Jaspar since that hour has made + His home unshelter'd there. + + And fearful are his dreams at night + And dread to him the day; + He thinks upon his untold crime + And never dares to pray. + + The summer suns, the winter storms, + O'er him unheeded roll, + For heavy is the weight of blood + Upon the maniac's soul. + + + + + + + + + + +LORD WILLIAM. + + + + No eye beheld when William plunged + Young Edmund in the stream, + No human ear but William's heard + Young Edmund's drowning scream. + + Submissive all the vassals own'd + The murderer for their Lord, + And he, the rightful heir, possessed + The house of Erlingford. + + The ancient house of Erlingford + Stood midst a fair domain, + And Severn's ample waters near + Roll'd through the fertile plain. + + And often the way-faring man + Would love to linger there, + Forgetful of his onward road + To gaze on scenes so fair. + + But never could Lord William dare + To gaze on Severn's stream; + In every wind that swept its waves + He heard young Edmund scream. + + In vain at midnight's silent hour + Sleep closed the murderer's eyes, + In every dream the murderer saw + Young Edmund's form arise. + + In vain by restless conscience driven + Lord William left his home, + Far from the scenes that saw his guilt, + In pilgrimage to roam. + + To other climes the pilgrim fled, + But could not fly despair, + He sought his home again, but peace + Was still a stranger there. + + Each hour was tedious long, yet swift + The months appear'd to roll; + And now the day return'd that shook + With terror William's soul. + + A day that William never felt + Return without dismay, + For well had conscience kalendered + Young Edmund's dying day. + + A fearful day was that! the rains + Fell fast, with tempest roar, + And the swoln tide of Severn spread + Far on the level shore. + + In vain Lord William sought the feast + In vain he quaff'd the bowl, + And strove with noisy mirth to drown + The anguish of his soul. + + The tempest as its sudden swell + In gusty howlings came, + With cold and death-like feelings seem'd + To thrill his shuddering frame. + + Reluctant now, as night came on, + His lonely couch he prest, + And wearied out, he sunk to sleep, + To sleep, but not to rest. + + Beside that couch his brother's form + Lord Edmund seem'd to stand, + Such and so pale as when in death + He grasp'd his brother's hand; + + Such and so pale his face as when + With faint and faltering tongue, + To William's care, a dying charge + He left his orphan son. + + "I bade thee with a father's love + My orphan Edmund guard-- + Well William hast thou kept thy charge! + Now take thy due reward." + + He started up, each limb convuls'd + With agonizing fear, + He only heard the storm of night-- + 'Twas music to his ear. + + When lo! the voice of loud alarm + His inmost soul appals, + What ho! Lord William rise in haste! + The water saps thy walls! + + He rose in haste, beneath the walls + He saw the flood appear, + It hemm'd him round, 'twas midnight now, + No human aid was near. + + He heard the shout of joy, for now + A boat approach'd the wall, + And eager to the welcome aid + They crowd for safety all. + + My boat is small, the boatman cried, + This dangerous haste forbear! + Wait other aid, this little bark + But one from hence can bear. + + Lord William leap'd into the boat, + Haste--haste to yonder shore! + And ample wealth shall well reward, + Ply swift and strong the oar. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Went light along the stream, + Sudden Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + The boatman paus'd, methought I heard + A child's distressful cry! + 'Twas but the howling wind of night + Lord William made reply. + + Haste haste--ply swift and strong the oar! + Haste haste across the stream! + Again Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + I heard a child's distressful scream + The boatman cried again. + Nay hasten on--the night is dark-- + And we should search in vain. + + Oh God! Lord William dost thou know + How dreadful 'tis to die? + And can'st thou without pity hear + A child's expiring cry? + + How horrible it is to sink + Beneath the chilly stream, + To stretch the powerless arms in vain, + In vain for help to scream? + + The shriek again was heard. It came + More deep, more piercing loud, + That instant o'er the flood the moon + Shone through a broken cloud. + + And near them they beheld a child, + Upon a crag he stood, + A little crag, and all around + Was spread the rising flood. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Approach'd his resting place, + The moon-beam shone upon the child + And show'd how pale his face. + + Now reach thine hand! the boatman cried + Lord William reach and save! + The child stretch'd forth his little hands + To grasp the hand he gave. + + Then William shriek'd; the hand he touch'd + Was cold and damp and dead! + He felt young Edmund in his arms + A heavier weight than lead. + + The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk + Beneath the avenging stream; + He rose, he scream'd, no human ear + Heard William's drowning scream. + + + + + + + + + +A BALLAD, + +SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. + +[Illustration: heavy black-and-white drawing (woodcut) of the title.] + + +A.D. 852. Circa dies istos, mulier 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 percunctata ad quid veniret, affero, inquit, tibi filii tui +obitum & totius familiæ ejus ex subita ruina interitum. Hoc quoque +dolore mulier permota, lecto protinus decubuit graviter infirmata; +sentiensque morbum subrepere ad vitalia, liberos quos habuit +superstites, monachum videlicet et monacham, per epistolam invitavit; +advenientes autem voce singultiente alloquitur. Ego, inquit, o pueri, +meo miserabili fato 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, quarta 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. +Tertia autem nocte, circa gallicinium, strepitu hostium adventantium, +omne monasterium visum est a fundamento moveri. Unus ergo dæmonum, et +vultu cæteris terribilior & statura 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. Qua 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 ecclesia 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 ecclesia 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 Ecclesia 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 SURGEONS' WARNING. + + +The Doctor whispered to the Nurse + And the Surgeon knew what he said, +And he grew pale at the Doctor's tale + And trembled in his sick bed. + +Now fetch me my brethren and fetch them with speed + The Surgeon affrighted said, +The Parson and the Undertaker, + Let them hasten or I shall be dead. + +The Parson and the Undertaker + They hastily came complying, +And the Surgeon's Prentices ran up stairs + When they heard that their master was dying. + +The Prentices all they entered the room + By one, by two, by three, +With a sly grin came Joseph in, + First of the company. + +The Surgeon swore as they enter'd his door, + 'Twas fearful his oaths to hear,-- +Now send these scoundrels to the Devil, + For God's sake my brethren dear. + +He foam'd at the mouth with the rage he felt + And he wrinkled his black eye-brow, +That rascal Joe would be at me I know, + But zounds let him spare me now. + +Then out they sent the Prentices, + The fit it left him weak, +He look'd at his brothers with ghastly eyes, + And faintly struggled to speak. + +All kinds of carcasses I have cut up, + And the judgment now must be-- +But brothers I took care of you, + So pray take care of me! + +I have made candles of infants fat + The Sextons have been my slaves, +I have bottled babes unborn, and dried + Hearts and livers from rifled graves. + +And my Prentices now will surely come + And carve me bone from bone, +And I who have rifled the dead man's grave + Shall never have rest in my own. + +Bury me in lead when I am dead, + My brethren I intreat, +And see the coffin weigh'd I beg + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +And let it be solder'd closely down + Strong as strong can be I implore, +And put it in a patent coffin, + That I may rise no more. + +If they carry me off in the patent coffin + Their labour will be in vain, +Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +And bury me in my brother's church + For that will safer be, +And I implore lock the church door + And pray take care of the key. + +And all night long let three stout men + The vestry watch within, +To each man give a gallon of beer + And a keg of Holland's gin; + +Powder and ball and blunder-buss + To save me if he can, +And eke five guineas if he shoot + A resurrection man. + +And let them watch me for three weeks + My wretched corpse to save, +For then I think that I may stink + Enough to rest in my grave. + +The Surgeon laid him down in his bed, + His eyes grew deadly dim, +Short came his breath and the struggle of death + Distorted every limb. + +They put him in lead when he was dead + And shrouded up so neat, +And they the leaden coffin weigh + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +They had it solder'd closely down + And examined it o'er and o'er, +And they put it in a patent coffin + That he might rise no more. + +For to carry him off in a patent coffin + Would they thought be but labour in vain, +So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +In his brother's church they buried him + That safer he might be, +They lock'd the door and would not trust + The Sexton with the key. + +And three men in the vestry watch + To save him if they can, +And should he come there to shoot they swear + A resurrection man. + +And the first night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +A guinea of gold the sexton shewed + That Mister Joseph sent. + +But conscience was tough, it was not enough + And their honesty never swerved, +And they bade him go with Mister Joe + To the Devil as he deserved. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The second night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +He whisper'd anew and shew'd them two + That Mister Joseph sent. + +The guineas were bright and attracted their sight + They look'd so heavy and new, +And their fingers itch'd as they were bewitch'd + And they knew not what to do. + +But they waver'd not long for conscience was strong + And they thought they might get more, +And they refused the gold, but not + So rudely as before. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The third night as by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard they went, +He bade them see and shew'd them three + That Mister Joseph sent. + +They look'd askance with eager glance, + The guineas they shone bright, +For the Sexton on the yellow gold + Let fall his lanthorn light. + +And he look'd sly with his roguish eye + And gave a well-tim'd wink, +And they could not stand the sound in his hand + For he made the guineas chink. + +And conscience late that had such weight, + All in a moment fails, +For well they knew that it was true + A dead man told no tales, + +And they gave all their powder and ball + And took the gold so bright, +And they drank their beer and made good cheer, + Till now it was midnight. + +Then, tho' the key of the church door + Was left with the Parson his brother, +It opened at the Sexton's touch-- + Because he had another. + +And in they go with that villain Joe + To fetch the body by night, +And all the church look'd dismally + By his dark lanthorn light. + +They laid the pick-axe to the stones + And they moved them soon asunder. +They shovell'd away the hard-prest clay + And came to the coffin under. + +They burst the patent coffin first + And they cut thro' the lead, +And they laugh'd aloud when they saw the shroud + Because they had got at the dead. + +And they allowed the Sexton the shroud + And they put the coffin back, +And nose and knees they then did squeeze + The Surgeon in a sack. + +The watchmen as they past along + Full four yards off could smell, +And a curse bestowed upon the load + So disagreeable. + +So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back + And they carv'd him bone from bone, +But what became of the Surgeon's soul + Was never to mortal known. + + + + + + + + + +THE VICTORY. + + + Hark--how the church-bells thundering harmony + Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come, + Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships + Met on the element,--they met, they fought + A desperate fight!--good tidings of great joy! + Old England triumphed! yet another day + Of glory for the ruler of the waves! + For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause, + They have their passing paragraphs of praise + And are forgotten. + There was one who died + In that day's glory, whose obscurer name + No proud historian's page will chronicle. + Peace to his honest soul! I read his name, + 'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God + The sound was not familiar to mine ear. + But it was told me after that this man + Was one whom lawful violence [1] had forced + From his own home and wife and little ones, + Who by his labour lived; that he was one + Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel + A husband's love, a father's anxiousness, + That from the wages of his toil he fed + The distant dear ones, and would talk of them + At midnight when he trod the silent deck + With him he valued, talk of them, of joys + That he had known--oh God! and of the hour + When they should meet again, till his full heart + His manly heart at last would overflow + Even like a child's with very tenderness. + Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly + It came, and merciful the ball of death, + For it came suddenly and shattered him, + And left no moment's agonizing thought + On those he loved so well. + He ocean deep + Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter + Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know + What a cold sickness made her blood run back + When first she heard the tidings of the fight; + Man does not know with what a dreadful hope + She listened to the names of those who died, + Man does not know, or knowing will not heed, + With what an agony of tenderness + She gazed upon her children, and beheld + His image who was gone. Oh God! be thou + Her comforter who art the widow's friend! + + +[Footnote 1: The person alluded to was pressed into the service.] + + + + + + + + + +HENRY THE HERMIT. + + + It was a little island where he dwelt, + Or rather a lone rock, barren and bleak, + Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots + Its gray stone surface. Never mariner + Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast, + Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark + Anchored beside its shore. It was a place + Befitting well a rigid anchoret, + Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys + And purposes of life; and he had dwelt + Many long years upon that lonely isle, + For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms, + Honours and friends and country and the world, + And had grown old in solitude. That isle + Some solitary man in other times + Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found + The little chapel that his toil had built + Now by the storms unroofed, his bed of leaves + Wind-scattered, and his grave o'ergrown with grass, + And thistles, whose white seeds winged in vain + Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost. + So he repaired the chapel's ruined roof, + Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone, + And underneath a rock that shelter'd him + From the sea blasts, he built his hermitage. + + The peasants from the shore would bring him food + And beg his prayers; but human converse else + He knew not in that utter solitude, + Nor ever visited the haunts of men + Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed + Implored his blessing and his aid in death. + That summons he delayed not to obey, + Tho' the night tempest or autumnal wind. + Maddened the waves, and tho' the mariner, + Albeit relying on his saintly load, + Grew pale to see the peril. So he lived + A most austere and self-denying man, + Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness + Exhausted him, and it was pain at last + To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less + Tho' with reluctance of infirmity, + He rose at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal + More self-condemning fervour rais'd his voice + For pardon for that sin, 'till that the sin + Repented was a joy like a good deed. + + One night upon the shore his chapel bell + Was heard; the air was calm, and its far sounds + Over the water came distinct and loud. + Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear + Its toll irregular, a monk arose. + The boatmen bore him willingly across + For well the hermit Henry was beloved. + He hastened to the chapel, on a stone + Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff and dead, + The bell-rope in his band, and at his feet + The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light + + +[Footnote 1: This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608.] + + + + + + + + + +English Eclogues. + +The following Eclogues I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in +our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, +and I was induced to attempt by an account of the German Idylls given me +in conversation. They cannot properly be stiled imitations, as I am +ignorant of that language at present, and have never seen any +translations or specimens in this kind. + +With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from ??tyrus [1] and +Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsises. No kind of poetry +can boast of more illustrious names or is more distinguished by the +servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers "more silly than +their sheep" have like their sheep gone on in the same track one after +another. Gay stumbled into a new path. His eclogues were the only ones +that interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were +burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for a long essay, but this +is not the place for it. + +How far poems requiring almost a colloquial plainness of language may +accord with the public taste I am doubtful. They have been subjected to +able criticism and revised with care. I have endeavoured to make them +true to nature. + + +[Footnote 1: The letters of this name are illegible (worn away?) in +the original text; from the remaining bits I have guessed all but the +first two, which are not visible under any magnification. text Ed.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE I. + + +THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE. + + + +STRANGER. + Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, + Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task + Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours. + + +OLD MAN. + Why yes! for one with such a weight of years + Upon his back. I've lived here, man and boy, + In this same parish, near the age of man + For I am hard upon threescore and ten. + I can remember sixty years ago + The beautifying of this mansion here + When my late Lady's father, the old Squire + Came to the estate. + + +STRANGER. + Why then you have outlasted + All his improvements, for you see they're making + Great alterations here. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye-great indeed! + And if my poor old Lady could rise up-- + God rest her soul! 'twould grieve her to behold + The wicked work is here. + + +STRANGER. + They've set about it + In right good earnest. All the front is gone, + Here's to be turf they tell me, and a road + Round to the door. There were some yew trees too + Stood in the court. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye Master! fine old trees! + My grandfather could just remember back + When they were planted there. It was my task + To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me! + All strait and smooth, and like a great green wall! + My poor old Lady many a time would come + And tell me where to shear, for she had played + In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride + To keep them in their beauty. Plague I say + On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have + A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs + And your pert poplar trees;--I could as soon + Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down! + + +STRANGER. + But 'twill be lighter and more chearful now, + A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road + Round for the carriage,--now it suits my taste. + I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh, + And then there's some variety about it. + In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose, + And the laburnum with its golden flowers + Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes + The bright red berries of the mountain ash, + With firs enough in winter to look green, + And show that something lives. Sure this is better + Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look + All the year round like winter, and for ever + Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs + So dry and bare! + + +OLD MAN. + Ah! so the new Squire thinks + And pretty work he makes of it! what 'tis + To have a stranger come to an old house! + + +STRANGER. + + It seems you know him not? + + +OLD MAN. + No Sir, not I. + They tell me he's expected daily now, + But in my Lady's time he never came + But once, for they were very distant kin. + If he had played about here when a child + In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries, + And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers, + That fell so thick, he had not had the heart + To mar all thus. + + +STRANGER. + Come--come! all a not wrong. + Those old dark windows-- + + +OLD MAN. + They're demolish'd too-- + As if he could not see thro' casement glass! + The very red-breasts that so regular + Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs, + Won't know the window now! + + +STRANGER. + Nay they were high + And then so darken'd up with jessamine, + Harbouring the vermine;--that was a fine tree + However. Did it not grow in and line + The porch? + + +OLD MAN. + All over it: it did one good + To pass within ten yards when 'twas in blossom. + There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside. + My Lady loved at evening to sit there + And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet + And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favourite dog + She did not love him less that he was old + And feeble, and he always had a place + By the fire-side, and when he died at last + She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. + Ah I she was good to all! a woful day + 'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! + + +STRANGER. + They lost a friend then? + + +OLD MAN. + You're a stranger here + Or would not ask that question. Were they sick? + She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs + She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter + When weekly she distributed the bread + In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear + The blessings on her! and I warrant them + They were a blessing to her when her wealth + Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir! + It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen + Her Christmas kitchen,--how the blazing fire + Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs + So chearful red,--and as for misseltoe, + The finest bough that grew in the country round + Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went + So bountiful about! a Christmas cask, + And 'twas a noble one! God help me Sir! + But I shall never see such days again. + + +STRANGER. + Things may be better yet than you suppose + And you should hope the best. + + +OLD MAN. + It don't look well + These alterations Sir! I'm an old man + And love the good old fashions; we don't find + Old bounty in new houses. They've destroyed + All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk + Grubb'd up, and they do say that the great row + Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top + They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think + To live to see all this, and 'tis perhaps + A comfort I shan't live to see it long. + + +STRANGER. + But sure all changes are not needs for the worse + My friend. + + +OLD MAN. + May-hap they mayn't Sir;--for all that + I like what I've been us'd to. I remember + All this from a child up, and now to lose it, + 'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left + As 'twas;--I go abroad and only meet + With men whose fathers I remember boys; + The brook that used to run before my door + That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt + To climb are down; and I see nothing now + That tells me of old times, except the stones + In the church-yard. You are young Sir and I hope + Have many years in store,--but pray to God + You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. + + +STRANGER. + Well! well! you've one friend more than you're aware of. + If the Squire's taste don't suit with your's, I warrant + That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste + His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady + E'er broached a better cask. You did not know me, + But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy + To make you like the outside; but within-- + That is not changed my friend! you'll always find + The same old bounty and old welcome there. + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE II. + + +THE GRANDMOTHERS TALE. + + + +JANE. + Harry! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round + The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us + One of her stories. + + +HARRY. + Aye--dear Grandmamma! + A pretty story! something dismal now; + A bloody murder. + + +JANE. + Or about a ghost. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Nay, nay, I should but frighten you. You know + The other night when I was telling you + About the light in the church-yard, how you trembled + Because the screech-owl hooted at the window, + And would not go to bed. + + +JANE. + Why Grandmamma + You said yourself you did not like to hear him. + Pray now! we wo'nt be frightened. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Well, well, children! + But you've heard all my stories. Let me see,-- + Did I never tell you how the smuggler murdered + The woman down at Pill? + + +HARRY. + No--never! never! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Not how he cut her head off in the stable? + + +HARRY. + Oh--now! do tell us that! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + You must have heard + Your Mother, children! often tell of her. + She used to weed in the garden here, and worm + Your uncle's dogs [1], and serve the house with coal; + And glad enough she was in winter time + To drive her asses here! it was cold work + To follow the slow beasts thro' sleet and snow, + And here she found a comfortable meal + And a brave fire to thaw her, for poor Moll + Was always welcome. + + +HARRY. + Oh--'twas blear-eyed Moll + The collier woman,--a great ugly woman, + I've heard of her. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Ugly enough poor soul! + At ten yards distance you could hardly tell + If it were man or woman, for her voice + Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore + A man's old coat and hat,--and then her face! + There was a merry story told of her, + How when the press-gang came to take her husband + As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, + Drest John up in her night-cap, and herself + Put on his clothes and went before the Captain. + + +JANE. + And so they prest a woman! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + 'Twas a trick + She dearly loved to tell, and all the country + Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel + For miles around. All weathers and all hours + She crossed the hill, as hardy as her beasts, + Bearing the wind and rain and winter frosts, + And if she did not reach her home at night + She laid her down in the stable with her asses + And slept as sound as they did. + + +HARRY. + With her asses! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Yes, and she loved her beasts. For tho' poor wretch + She was a terrible reprobate and swore + Like any trooper, she was always good + To the dumb creatures, never loaded them + Beyond their strength, and rather I believe + Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want, + Because, she said, they could not ask for food. + I never saw her stick fall heavier on them + Than just with its own weight. She little thought + This tender-heartedness would be her death! + There was a fellow who had oftentimes, + As if he took delight in cruelty. + Ill-used her Asses. He was one who lived + By smuggling, and, for she had often met him + Crossing the down at night, she threatened him, + If he tormented them again, to inform + Of his unlawful ways. Well--so it was-- + 'Twas what they both were born to, he provoked her, + She laid an information, and one morn + They found her in the stable, her throat cut + From ear to ear,'till the head only hung + Just by a bit of skin. + + +JANE. + Oh dear! oh dear! + + +HARRY. + I hope they hung the man! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + They took him up; + There was no proof, no one had seen the deed, + And he was set at liberty. But God + Whoss eye beholdeth all things, he had seen + The murder, and the murderer knew that God + Was witness to his crime. He fled the place, + But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand + Of heaven, but nowhere could the murderer rest, + A guilty conscience haunted him, by day, + By night, in company, in solitude, + Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him + The weight of blood; her cries were in his ears, + Her stifled groans as when he knelt upon her + Always he heard; always he saw her stand + Before his eyes; even in the dead of night + Distinctly seen as tho' in the broad sun, + She stood beside the murderer's bed and yawn'd + Her ghastly wound; till life itself became + A punishment at last he could not bear, + And he confess'd [2] it all, and gave himself + To death, so terrible, he said, it was + To have a guilty conscience! + + +HARRY. + Was he hung then? + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man, + Your uncles went to see him on his trial, + He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed, + And such a horror in his meagre face, + They said he look'd like one who never slept. + He begg'd the prayers of all who saw his end + And met his death with fears that well might warn + From guilt, tho' not without a hope in Christ. + + +[Footnote 1: I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common +in other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from doing +any mischief should they afterwards become mad.] + +[Footnote 2: There must be many persons living who remember these +circumstances. They happened two or three and twenty years ago, in the +neighbourhood of Bristol. The woman's name was Bees. The stratagem by +which she preserved her husband from the press-gang, is also true.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE III. + + +THE FUNERAL. + + + + The coffin [1] as I past across the lane + Came sudden on my view. It was not here, + A sight of every day, as in the streets + Of the great city, and we paus'd and ask'd + Who to the grave was going. It was one, + A village girl, they told us, who had borne + An eighteen months strange illness, and had pined + With such slow wasting that the hour of death + Came welcome to her. We pursued our way + To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk + That passes o'er the mind and is forgot, + We wore away the time. But it was eve + When homewardly I went, and in the air + Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade + That makes the eye turn inward. Then I heard + Over the vale the heavy toll of death + Sound slow; it made me think upon the dead, + I questioned more and learnt her sorrowful tale. + She bore unhusbanded a mother's name, + And he who should have cherished her, far off + Sail'd on the seas, self-exil'd from his home, + For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched one, + Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues + Were busy with her name. She had one ill + Heavier, neglect, forgetfulness from him + Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote, + But only once that drop of comfort came + To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; + And when his parents had some tidings from him, + There was no mention of poor Hannah there, + Or 'twas the cold enquiry, bitterer + Than silence. So she pined and pined away + And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd, + Nor did she, even on her death bed, rest + From labour, knitting with her outstretch'd arms + Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother + Omitted no kind office, and she work'd + Hard, and with hardest working barely earn'd + Enough to make life struggle and prolong + The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay + On the sick bed of poverty, so worn + With her long suffering and that painful thought + That at her heart lay rankling, and so weak, + That she could make no effort to express + Affection for her infant; and the child, + Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her + With a strange infantine ingratitude + Shunn'd her as one indifferent. She was past + That anguish, for she felt her hour draw on, + And 'twas her only comfoft now to think + Upon the grave. "Poor girl!" her mother said, + "Thou hast suffered much!" "aye mother! there is none + "Can tell what I have suffered!" she replied, + "But I shall soon be where the weary rest." + And she did rest her soon, for it pleased God + To take her to his mercy. + + +[Footnote 1: It is proper to remark that the story related in this +Eclogue is strictly true. I met the funeral, and learnt the +circumstances in a village in Hampshire. The indifference of the child +was mentioned to me; indeed no addition whatever has been made to the +story. I should have thought it wrong to have weakened the effect of a +faithful narrative by adding any thing.] + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE IV. + + +THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. + + + +WOMAN. + Sir for the love of God some small relief + To a poor woman! + + +TRAVELLER. + Whither are you bound? + 'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, + No house for miles around us, and the way + Dreary and wild. The evening wind already + Makes one's teeth chatter, and the very Sun, + Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, + Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night! + + +WOMAN. + Aye Sir + 'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath, + Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end, + For the way is long before me, and my feet, + God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly, + If it pleased God, lie down at once and die. + + +TRAVELLER. + Nay nay cheer up! a little food and rest + Will comfort you; and then your journey's end + Will make amends for all. You shake your head, + And weep. Is it some evil business then + That leads you from your home? + + +WOMAN. + Sir I am going + To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt + In the late action, and in the hospital + Dying, I fear me, now. + + +TRAVELLER. + Perhaps your fears + Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost + There may be still enough for comfort left + An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart + To keep life warm, and he may live to talk + With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd him, + Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude + Makes the maim'd sailor happy. + + +WOMAN. + 'Tis not that-- + An arm or leg--I could have borne with that. + 'Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing + That bursts [1] and burns that hurt him. Something Sir + They do not use on board our English ships + It is so wicked! + + +TRAVELLER. + Rascals! a mean art + Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain! + + +WOMAN. + Yes Sir! and they should show no mercy to them + For making use of such unchristian arms. + I had a letter from the hospital, + He got some friend to write it, and he tells me + That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes, + Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever live + To see this wretched day!--they tell me Sir + There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed + 'Tis a hard journey that I go upon + To such a dismal end! + + +TRAVELLER. + He yet may live. + But if the worst should chance, why you must bear + The will of heaven with patience. Were it not + Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen + Fighting his country's cause? and for yourself + You will not in unpitied poverty + Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country + Amid the triumph of her victory + Remember those who paid its price of blood, + And with a noble charity relieves + The widow and the orphan. + + +WOMAN. + God reward them! + God bless them, it will help me in my age + But Sir! it will not pay me for my child! + + +TRAVELLER. + Was he your only child? + + +WOMAN. + My only one, + The stay and comfort of my widowhood, + A dear good boy!--when first he went to sea + I felt what it would come to,--something told me + I should be childless soon. But tell me Sir + If it be true that for a hurt like his + There is no cure? please God to spare his life + Tho' he be blind, yet I should be so thankful! + I can remember there was a blind man + Lived in our village, one from his youth up + Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, + And he had none to tend on him so well + As I would tend my boy! + + +TRAVELLER. + Of this be sure + His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help + The place affords, as rightly is his due, + Ever at hand. How happened it he left you? + Was a seafaring life his early choice? + + +WOMAN. + No Sir! poor fellow--he was wise enough + To be content at home, and 'twas a home + As comfortable Sir I even tho' I say it, + As any in the country. He was left + A little boy when his poor father died, + Just old enough to totter by himself + And call his mother's name. We two were all, + And as we were not left quite destitute + We bore up well. In the summer time I worked + Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting, + And in long winter nights my spinning wheel + Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too + And never felt distress. So he grew up + A comely lad and wonderous well disposed; + I taught him well; there was not in the parish + A child who said his prayers more regular, + Or answered readier thro' his catechism. + If I had foreseen this! but 'tis a blessing + We do'nt know what we're born to! + + +TRAVELLER. + But how came it + He chose to be a Sailor? + + +WOMAN. + You shall hear Sir; + As he grew up he used to watch the birds + In the corn, child's work you know, and easily done. + 'Tis an idle sort of task, so he built up + A little hut of wicker-work and clay + Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain. + And then he took for very idleness + To making traps to catch the plunderers, + All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make-- + Propping a stone to fall and shut them in, + Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe + Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly-- + And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased + To see the boy so handy. You may guess + What followed Sir from this unlucky skill. + He did what he should not when he was older: + I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught + In wiring hares at last, and had his choice + The prison or the ship. + + +TRAVELLER. + The choice at least + Was kindly left him, and for broken laws + This was methinks no heavy punishment. + + +WOMAN. + So I was told Sir. And I tried to think so, + But 'twas a sad blow to me! I was used + To sleep at nights soundly and undisturb'd-- + Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start + And think of my poor boy tossing about + Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem'd + To feel that it was hard to take him from me + For such a little fault. But he was wrong + Oh very wrong--a murrain on his traps! + See what they've brought him too! + + +TRAVELLER. + Well! well! take comfort + He will be taken care of if he lives; + And should you lose your child, this is a country + Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent + To weep for him in want. + + +WOMAN. + Sir I shall want + No succour long. In the common course of years + I soon must be at rest, and 'tis a comfort + When grief is hard upon me to reflect + It only leads me to that rest the sooner. + + +[Footnote 1: The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the +engagement between the Mars and L'Hercule, some of our sailors were +shockingly mangled by them: One in particular, as described in the +Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be policy and humanity to employ +means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to +destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only inflicts +additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is cruel and +wicked.] + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE V. + + +THE WITCH. + + + +NATHANIEL. + Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe! + Faith it was just in time, for t'other night + I laid two straws across at Margery's door, + And afterwards I fear'd that she might do me + A mischief for't. There was the Miller's boy + Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, + I met him upon crutches, and he told me + 'Twas all her evil eye. + + +FATHER. + 'Tis rare good luck; + I would have gladly given a crown for one + If t'would have done as well. But where did'st find it? + + +NATHANIEL. + Down on the Common; I was going a-field + And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare; + He had hardly said "good day," before I saw + The shoe drop off; 'twas just upon my tongue + To call him back,--it makes no difference, does it. + Because I know whose 'twas? + + +FATHER. + Why no, it can't. + The shoe's the same you know, and you 'did find' it. + + +NATHANIEL. + That mare of his has got a plaguey road + To travel, father, and if he should lame her, + For she is but tender-footed,-- + + +FATHER. + Aye, indeed-- + I should not like to see her limping back + Poor beast! but charity begins at home, + And Nat, there's our own horse in such a way + This morning! + + +NATHANIEL. + Why he ha'nt been rid again! + Last night I hung a pebble by the manger + With a hole thro', and every body says + That 'tis a special charm against the hags. + + +FATHER. + It could not be a proper natural hole then, + Or 'twas not a right pebble,--for I found him + Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, + And panting so! God knows where he had been + When we were all asleep, thro' bush and brake + Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch + At such a deadly rate!-- + + +NATHANIEL. + By land and water, + Over the sea perhaps!--I have heard tell + That 'tis some thousand miles, almost at the end + Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. + They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear + Some ointment over them and then away + Out of the window! but 'tis worse than all + To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it + That in a Christian country they should let + Such creatures live! + + +FATHER. + And when there's such plain proof! + I did but threaten her because she robb'd + Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind + That made me shake to hear it in my bed! + How came it that that storm unroofed my barn, + And only mine in the parish? look at her + And that's enough; she has it in her face-- + A pair of large dead eyes, rank in her head, + Just like a corpse, and purs'd with wrinkles round, + A nose and chin that scarce leave room between + For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff, + And when she speaks! I'd sooner hear a raven + Croak at my door! she sits there, nose and knees + Smoak-dried and shrivell'd over a starved fire, + With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes + Shine like old Beelzebub's, and to be sure + It must be one of his imps!--aye, nail it hard. + + +NATHANIEL. + I wish old Margery heard the hammer go! + She'd curse the music. + + +FATHER. + Here's the Curate coming, + He ought to rid the parish of such vermin; + In the old times they used to hunt them out + And hang them without mercy, but Lord bless us! + The world is grown so wicked! + + +CURATE. + Good day Farmer! + Nathaniel what art nailing to the threshold? + + +NATHANIEL. + A horse-shoe Sir, 'tis good to keep off witchcraft, + And we're afraid of Margery. + + +CURATE. + Poor old woman! + What can you fear from her? + + +FATHER. + What can we fear? + Who lamed the Miller's boy? who rais'd the wind + That blew my old barn's roof down? who d'ye think + Rides my poor horse a'nights? who mocks the hounds? + But let me catch her at that trick again, + And I've a silver bullet ready for her, + One that shall lame her, double how she will. + + +NATHANIEL. + What makes her sit there moping by herself, + With no soul near her but that great black cat? + And do but look at her! + + +CURATE. + Poor wretch! half blind + And crooked with her years, without a child + Or friend in her old age, 'tis hard indeed + To have her very miseries made her crimes! + I met her but last week in that hard frost + That made my young limbs ache, and when I ask'd + What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman + Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad + And pick the hedges, just to keep herself + From perishing with cold, because no neighbour + Had pity on her age; and then she cried, + And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, + And wish'd that she were dead. + + +FATHER. + I wish she was! + She has plagued the parish long enough! + + +CURATE. + Shame farmer! + Is that the charity your bible teaches? + + +FATHER. + My bible does not teach me to love witches. + I know what's charity; who pays his tithes + And poor-rates readier? + + +CURATE. + Who can better do it? + You've been a prudent and industrious man, + And God has blest your labour. + + +FATHER. + Why, thank God Sir, + I've had no reason to complain of fortune. + + +CURATE. + Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish + Look up to you. + + +FATHER. + Perhaps Sir, I could tell + Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. + + +CURATE. + You can afford a little to the poor, + And then what's better still, you have the heart + To give from your abundance. + + +FATHER. + God forbid + I should want charity! + + +CURATE. + Oh! 'tis a comfort + To think at last of riches well employ'd! + I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth + Of a good deed at that most awful hour + When riches profit not. + Farmer, I'm going + To visit Margery. She is sick I hear-- + Old, poor, and sick! a miserable lot, + And death will be a blessing. You might send her + Some little matter, something comfortable, + That she may go down easier to the grave + And bless you when she dies. + + +FATHER. + What! is she going! + Well God forgive her then! if she has dealt + In the black art. I'll tell my dame of it, + And she shall send her something. + + +CURATE. + So I'll say; + And take my thanks for her's. ['goes'] + + +FATHER. + That's a good man + That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit + The poor in sickness; but he don't believe + In witchcraft, and that is not like a christian. + + +NATHANIEL. + And so old Margery's dying! + + +FATHER. + But you know + She may recover; so drive t'other nail in! + + + + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE VI. + + +THE RUINED COTTAGE. + + + + Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye, + This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch, + Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower + Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock + That thro' the creeping weeds and nettles tall + Peers taller, and uplifts its column'd stem + Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen + Many a fallen convent reverend in decay, + And many a time have trod the castle courts + And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike + Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts + As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch + Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof + Part mouldered in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds, + House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss; + So Nature wars with all the works of man. + And, like himself, reduces back to earth + His perishable piles. + I led thee here + Charles, not without design; for this hath been + My favourite walk even since I was a boy; + And I remember Charles, this ruin here, + The neatest comfortable dwelling place! + That when I read in those dear books that first + Woke in my heart the love of poesy, + How with the villagers Erminia dwelt, + And Calidore for a fair shepherdess + Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd's lore; + My fancy drew from, this the little hut + Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love, + Or where the gentle Calidore at eve + Led Pastorella home. There was not then + A weed where all these nettles overtop + The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet + The morning air, rosemary and marjoram, + All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath'd + So lavishly around the pillared porch + Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way, + After a truant absence hastening home, + I could not chuse but pass with slacken'd speed + By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed + Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!-- + Theirs is a simple melancholy tale, + There's scarce a village but can fellow it, + And yet methinks it will not weary thee, + And should not be untold. + A widow woman + Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want, + She lived on some small pittance that sufficed, + In better times, the needful calls of life, + Not without comfort. I remember her + Sitting at evening in that open door way + And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her + Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles + To see the passer by, yet ceasing not + To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden + On some dry summer evening, walking round + To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean'd + Upon the ivory handle of her stick, + To some carnation whose o'erheavy head + Needed support, while with the watering-pot + Joanna followed, and refresh'd and trimm'd + The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child, + As lovely and as happy then as youth + And innocence could make her. + Charles! it seems + As tho' I were a boy again, and all + The mediate years with their vicissitudes + A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid + So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair, + Her bright brown hair, wreath'd in contracting curls, + And then her cheek! it was a red and white + That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome, + The countrymen who on their way to church + Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear + The bell's last summons, and in idleness + Watching the stream below, would all look up + When she pass'd by. And her old Mother, Charles! + When I have beard some erring infidel + Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed, + Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness. + Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love + The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross'd + These fields in rain and thro' the winter snows. + When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself + By the fire-side, have wondered why 'she' came + Who might have sate at home. + One only care + Hung on her aged spirit. For herself, + Her path was plain before her, and the close + Of her long journey near. But then her child + Soon to be left alone in this bad world,-- + That was a thought that many a winter night + Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love + In something better than a servant's slate + Had placed her well at last, it was a pang + Like parting life to part with her dear girl. + + One summer, Charles, when at the holydays + Return'd from school, I visited again + My old accustomed walks, and found in them. + A joy almost like meeting an old friend, + I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds + Already crowding the neglected flowers. + Joanna by a villain's wiles seduced + Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach'd + Her mother's heart. She did not suffer long, + Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow + Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. + + I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes + And think of other days. It wakes in me + A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles + That ever with these recollections rise, + I trust in God they will not pass away. + + + + + + + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, 1799, by Robert Southey + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + +***** This file should be named 8639-8.txt or 8639-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/6/3/8639/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems, 1799 + +Author: Robert Southey + +Posting Date: April 5, 2014 [EBook #8639] +Release Date: August, 2005 +First Posted: July 29, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + + + +POEMS, + +by + +Robert Southey. + + + + The better, please; the worse, displease; I ask no more. + + SPENSER. + + + +THE SECOND VOLUME. + + + +CONTENTS. + + + THE VISION of THE MAID of ORLEANS. + + Book 1 + 2 + 3 + + + The Rose + + The Complaints of the Poor + + Metrical Letter + + + BALLADS. + + The Cross Roads. + + The Sailor who had served in the Slave Trade + + Jaspar + + Lord William + + A Ballad shewing how an old woman rode double + and who rode before her + + The Surgeon's Warning + + The Victory + + Henry the Hermit + + + ENGLISH ECLOGUES. + + The Old Mansion House + + The Grandmother's Tale + + The Funeral + + The Sailor's Mother + + The Witch + + The Ruined Cottage + + + + + + + + + + +The Vision + +of + +The Maid of Orleans. + + + + + Divinity hath oftentimes descended + Upon our slumbers, and the blessed troupes + Have, in the calme and quiet of the soule, + Conversed with us. + + SHIRLEY. 'The Grateful Servant' + + + + + + +[Sidenote: The following Vision was originally printed as the ninth book +of 'JOAN of ARC'. It is now adapted to the improved edition of that +Poem.] + + + + + + +THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE FIRST BOOK. + + + + Orleans was hush'd in sleep. Stretch'd on her couch + The delegated Maiden lay: with toil + Exhausted and sore anguish, soon she closed + Her heavy eye-lids; not reposing then, + For busy Phantasy, in other scenes + Awakened. Whether that superior powers, + By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream, + Instructing so the passive [1] faculty; + Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog, + Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world, + And all things 'are' that [2] 'seem'. + + Along a moor, + Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate, + She roam'd a wanderer thro' the cheerless night. + Far thro' the silence of the unbroken plain + The bittern's boom was heard, hoarse, heavy, deep, + It made most fitting music to the scene. + Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind, + Swept shadowing; thro' their broken folds the moon + Struggled sometimes with transitory ray, + And made the moving darkness visible. + And now arrived beside a fenny lake + She stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarse + The long sedge rustled to the gales of night. + An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell'd + By powers unseen; then did the moon display + Where thro' the crazy vessel's yawning side + The muddy wave oozed in: a female guides, + And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan'd + As melancholy mournful to her ear, + As ever by the dungeon'd wretch was heard + Howling at evening round the embattled towers + Of that hell-house [3] of France, ere yet sublime + The almighty people from their tyrant's hand + Dash'd down the iron rod. + Intent the Maid + Gazed on the pilot's form, and as she gazed + Shiver'd, for wan her face was, and her eyes + Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep, + Channell'd by tears; a few grey locks hung down + Beneath her hood: then thro' the Maiden's veins + Chill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass'd, + Lifting her tattcr'd mantle, coil'd around + She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart. + + The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by, + And the night-raven's scream came fitfully, + Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid + Look'd to the shore, and now upon the bank + Leaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling still + In recollection. + + There, a mouldering pile + Stretch'd its wide ruins, o'er the plain below + Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon + Shone thro' its fretted windows: the dark Yew, + Withering with age, branched there its naked roots, + And there the melancholy Cypress rear'd + Its head; the earth was heav'd with many a mound, + And here and there a half-demolish'd tomb. + + And now, amid the ruin's darkest shade, + The Virgin's eye beheld where pale blue flames + Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth, + And now in darkness drown'd. An aged man + Sat near, seated on what in long-past days + Had been some sculptur'd monument, now fallen + And half-obscured by moss, and gathered heaps + Of withered yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones; + And shining in the ray was seen the track + Of slimy snail obscene. Composed his look, + His eye was large and rayless, and fix'd full + Upon the Maid; the blue flames on his face + Stream'd a pale light; his face was of the hue + Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud. + + Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice, + Exclaim'd the Spectre, "Welcome to these realms, + These regions of DESPAIR! O thou whose steps + By GRIEF conducted to these sad abodes + Have pierced; welcome, welcome to this gloom + Eternal, to this everlasting night, + Where never morning darts the enlivening ray, + Where never shines the sun, but all is dark, + Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King." + + So saying he arose, and by the hand + The Virgin seized with such a death-cold touch + As froze her very heart; and drawing on, + Her, to the abbey's inner ruin, led + Resistless. Thro' the broken roof the moon + Glimmer'd a scatter'd ray; the ivy twined + Round the dismantled column; imaged forms + Of Saints and warlike Chiefs, moss-canker'd now + And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground, + With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen, + And rusted trophies; and amid the heap + Some monument's defaced legend spake + All human glory vain. + + The loud blast roar'd + Amid the pile; and from the tower the owl + Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest. + He, silent, led her on, and often paus'd, + And pointed, that her eye might contemplate + At leisure the drear scene. + He dragged her on + Thro' a low iron door, down broken stairs; + Then a cold horror thro' the Maiden's frame + Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw, + By the sepulchral lamp's dim glaring light, + The fragments of the dead. + "Look here!" he cried, + "Damsel, look here! survey this house of Death; + O soon to tenant it! soon to increase + These trophies of mortality! for hence + Is no return. Gaze here! behold this skull, + These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws, + That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mock + Thy perishable charms; for thus thy cheek + Must moulder. Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul, + Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heart + At the dread thought, that here its life's-blood soon + Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon + With the cold clod? a thought most horrible! + So only dreadful, for reality + Is none of suffering here; here all is peace; + No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave. + Dreadful it is to think of losing life; + But having lost, knowledge of loss is not, + Therefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose; + Probe deep the seat of life." + So spake DESPAIR + The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice, + And all again was silence. Quick her heart + Panted. He drew a dagger from his breast, + And cried again, "Haste Damsel to repose! + One blow, and rest for ever!" On the Fiend + Dark scowl'd the Virgin with indignant eye, + And dash'd the dagger down. He next his heart + Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid + Along the downward vault. + The damp earth gave + A dim sound as they pass'd: the tainted air + Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews. + "Behold!" the fiend exclaim'd, "how gradual here + The fleshly burden of mortality + Moulders to clay!" then fixing his broad eye + Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse + Lay livid; she beheld with loathing look, + The spectacle abhorr'd by living man. + + "Look here!" DESPAIR pursued, "this loathsome mass + Was once as lovely, and as full of life + As, Damsel! thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes + Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence, + And where thou seest the pamper'd flesh-worm trail, + Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought + That at the hallowed altar, soon the Priest + Should bless her coming union, and the torch + Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy, + Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earth + That Priest consign'd her, and the funeral lamp + Glares on her cold face; for her lover went + By glory lur'd to war, and perish'd there; + Nor she endur'd to live. Ha! fades thy cheek? + Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale? + Look here! behold the youthful paramour! + The self-devoted hero!" + Fearfully + The Maid look'd down, and saw the well known face + Of THEODORE! in thoughts unspeakable, + Convulsed with horror, o'er her face she clasp'd + Her cold damp hands: "Shrink not," the Phantom cried, + "Gaze on! for ever gaze!" more firm he grasp'd + Her quivering arm: "this lifeless mouldering clay, + As well thou know'st, was warm with all the glow + Of Youth and Love; this is the arm that cleaved + Salisbury's proud crest, now motionless in death, + Unable to protect the ravaged frame + From the foul Offspring of Mortality + That feed on heroes. Tho' long years were thine, + Yet never more would life reanimate + This murdered man; murdered by thee! for thou + Didst lead him to the battle from his home, + Else living there in peace to good old age: + In thy defence he died: strike deep! destroy + Remorse with Life." + The Maid stood motionless, + And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand + Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried, + "Avaunt DESPAIR! Eternal Wisdom deals + Or peace to man, or misery, for his good + Alike design'd; and shall the Creature cry, + Why hast thou done this? and with impious pride + Destroy the life God gave?" + The Fiend rejoin'd, + "And thou dost deem it impious to destroy + The life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lot + Assigned to mortal man? born but to drag, + Thro' life's long pilgrimage, the wearying load + Of being; care corroded at the heart; + Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills + That flesh inherits; till at length worn out, + This is his consummation!--think again! + What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd life + But lengthen'd sorrow? If protracted long, + Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs + Outstretch their languid length, oh think what thoughts, + What agonizing woes, in that dread hour, + Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse, + Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew + The shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force, + Mightiest in impotence, the love of life + Seizes the throbbing heart, the faltering lips + Pour out the impious prayer, that fain would change + The unchangeable's decree, surrounding friends + Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears, + And all he loved in life embitters death! + + Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hour + Of calmest dissolution! yet weak man + Dares, in his timid piety, to live; + And veiling Fear in Superstition's garb, + He calls her Resignation! + Coward wretch! + Fond Coward! thus to make his Reason war + Against his Reason! Insect as he is, + This sport of Chance, this being of a day, + Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast, + Believes himself the care of heavenly powers, + That God regards Man, miserable Man, + And preaching thus of Power and Providence, + Will crush the reptile that may cross his path! + + Fool that thou art! the Being that permits + Existence, 'gives' to man the worthless boon: + A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest, + Bask in the sunshine of Prosperity, + And such do well to keep it. But to one + Sick at the heart with misery, and sore + With many a hard unmerited affliction, + It is a hair that chains to wretchedness + The slave who dares not burst it! + Thinkest thou, + The parent, if his child should unrecall'd + Return and fall upon his neck, and cry, + Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and full + Of vacant joys and heart-consuming cares, + I can be only happy in my home + With thee--my friend!--my father! Thinkest thou, + That he would thrust him as an outcast forth? + Oh I he would clasp the truant to his heart, + And love the trespass." + Whilst he spake, his eye + Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul + Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood, + Even as the wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave + Supply, before him sees the poison'd food + In greedy horror. + Yet not long the Maid + Debated, "Cease thy dangerous sophistry, + Eloquent tempter!" cried she. "Gloomy one! + What tho' affliction be my portion here, + Think'st thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy. + Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back + Upon a life of duty well perform'd, + Then lift mine eyes to Heaven, and there in faith + Know my reward? I grant, were this life all, + Was there no morning to the tomb's long night, + If man did mingle with the senseless clod, + Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed + A wise and friendly comforter! But, Fiend! + There is a morning to the tomb's long night, + A dawn of glory, a reward in Heaven, + He shall not gain who never merited. + If thou didst know the worth of one good deed + In life's last hour, thou would'st not bid me lose + The power to benefit; if I but save + A drowning fly, I shall not live in vain. + I have great duties, Fiend! me France expects, + Her heaven-doom'd Champion." + "Maiden, thou hast done + Thy mission here," the unbaffled Fiend replied: + "The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchance + Exulting in the pride of victory, + Forgettest him who perish'd! yet albeit + Thy harden'd heart forget the gallant youth; + That hour allotted canst thou not escape, + That dreadful hour, when Contumely and Shame + Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid! + Destined to drain the cup of bitterness, + Even to its dregs! England's inhuman Chiefs + Shall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame, + Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity, + And force such burning blushes to the cheek + Of Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish + The earth might cover thee! in that last hour, + When thy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the chains + That link thee to the stake; when o'er thy form, + Exposed unmantled, the brute multitude + Shall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt, + More painful than the circling flames that scorch + Each quivering member; wilt thou not in vain + Then wish my friendly aid? then wish thine ear + Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand + Had grasp'd the dagger, and in death preserved + Insulted modesty?" + Her glowing cheek + Blush'd crimson; her wide eye on vacancy + Was fix'd; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend, + Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, "too-timid Maid, + So long repugnant to the healing aid + My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold + The allotted length of life." + He stamp'd the earth, + And dragging a huge coffin as his car, + Two GOULS came on, of form more fearful-foul + Than ever palsied in her wildest dream + Hag-ridden Superstition. Then DESPAIR + Seiz'd on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still. + And placed her in the seat; and on they pass'd + Adown the deep descent. A meteor light + Shot from the Daemons, as they dragg'd along + The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethren glut + On carcasses. + Below the vault dilates + Its ample bulk. "Look here!"--DESPAIR addrest + The shuddering Virgin, "see the dome of DEATH!" + It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid + The entrails of the earth, as tho' to form + The grave of all mankind: no eye could reach, + Tho' gifted with the Eagle's ample ken, + Its distant bounds. There, thron'd in darkness, dwelt + The unseen POWER OF DEATH. + Here stopt the GOULS, + Reaching the destin'd spot. The Fiend leapt out, + And from the coffin, as he led the Maid, + Exclaim'd, "Where never yet stood mortal man, + Thou standest: look around this boundless vault; + Observe the dole that Nature deals to man, + And learn to know thy friend." + She not replied, + Observing where the Fates their several tasks + Plied ceaseless. "Mark how short the longest web + Allowed to man! he cried; observe how soon, + Twin'd round yon never-resting wheel, they change + Their snowy hue, darkening thro' many a shade, + Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!" + + Too true he spake, for of the countless threads, + Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn'd snow, + Or as the lovely lilly of the vale, + Was never one beyond the little span + Of infancy untainted: few there were + But lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue, + Or deeper sable [4] died. Two Genii stood, + Still as the web of Being was drawn forth, + Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn, + The one unsparing dash'd the bitter wave + Of woe; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow + Relax'd to a hard smile. The milder form + Shed less profusely there his lesser store; + Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon, + Mourning the lot of man; and happy he + Who on his thread those precious drops receives; + If it be happiness to have the pulse + Throb fast with pity, and in such a world + Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches + With anguish at the sight of human woe. + + To her the Fiend, well hoping now success, + "This is thy thread! observe how short the span, + And see how copious yonder Genius pours + The bitter stream of woe." The Maiden saw + Fearless. "Now gaze!" the tempter Fiend exclaim'd, + And placed again the poniard in her hand, + For SUPERSTITION, with sulphureal torch + Stalk'd to the loom. "This, Damsel, is thy fate! + The hour draws on--now drench the dagger deep! + Now rush to happier worlds!" + The Maid replied, + "Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven, + Impious I strive not: be that will perform'd!" + + +[Footnote 1: + + May fays of Serapis, + Erudit at placide humanam per somnia mentem, + Nocturnaque quiete docet; nulloque labore + Hic tantum parta est pretiosa scientia, nullo + Excutitur studio verum. Mortalia corda + Tunc Deus iste docet, cum sunt minus apta doceri, + Cum nullum obsequium praestant, meritisque fatentur + Nil sese debere suis; tunc recta scientes + Cum nil scire valent. Non illo tempore sensus + Humanos forsan dignatur numen inire, + Cum propriis possunt per se discursibus uti, + Ne forte humana ratio divina coiret. + +'Sup Lucani'.] + + +[Footnote 2: I have met with a singular tale to illustrate this +spiritual theory of dreams. + +Guntram, King of the Franks, was liberal to the poor, and he himself +experienced the wonderful effects of divine liberality. For one day as +he was hunting in a forest he was separated from his companions and +arrived at a little stream of water with only one comrade of tried and +approved fidelity. Here he found himself opprest by drowsiness, and +reclining his head upon the servant's lap went to sleep. The servant +witnessed a wonderful thing, for he saw a little beast ('bestiolam') +creep out of the mouth of his sleeping master, and go immediately to the +streamlet, which it vainly attempted to cross. The servant drew his +sword and laid it across the water, over which the little beast easily +past and crept into a hole of a mountain on the opposite side; from +whence it made its appearance again in an hour, and returned by the same +means into the King's mouth. The King then awakened, and told his +companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon the bank of an +immense river, which he had crossed by a bridge of iron, and from thence +came to a mountain in which a great quantity of gold was concealed. When +the King had concluded, the servant related what he had beheld, and they +both went to examine the mountain, where upon digging they discovered an +immense weight of gold. + +I stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled SPHINX +'Theologico-Philosophica. Authore Johanne Heidfeldio, Ecclesiaste +Ebersbachiano.' 1621. + +The same story is in Matthew of Westminster; it is added that Guntram +applied the treasures thus found to pious uses. + +For the truth of this theory there is the evidence of a Monkish miracle. +When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian and visit the world of +souls, his guide said to him, "let thy body rest in the bed for thy +spirit only is about to depart with me; and lest the body should appear +dead, I will send into it a vital breath." + +The body however by a strange sympathy was affected like the spirit; for +when the foul and fetid smoke that arose from tithes witheld, had nearly +suffocated Thurcillus, and made him cough twice, those who were near his +body said that it coughed twice about the same time. + +'Matthew Paris'.] + + +[Footnote 3: The Bastille. The expression is in one of Fuller's works, +an Author from whose quaintness and ingenuity I have always found +amusement, and sometimes assistance.] + + +[Footnote 4: These lines strongly resemble a passage in the Pharonnida +of William Chamberlayne, a Poet who has told an interesting story in +uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and beauty of +expression, with the quaintest conceits, and most awkward inversions. + + + On a rock more high + Than Nature's common surface, she beholds + The Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds + Its sacred mysteries. A trine within + A quadrate placed, both these encompast in + A perfect circle was its form; but what + Its matter was, for us to wonder at, + Is undiscovered left. A Tower there stands + At every angle, where Time's fatal hands + The impartial PARCAE dwell; i' the first she sees + CLOTHO the kindest of the Destinies, + From immaterial essences to cull + The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool + For LACHESIS to spin; about her flie + Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie + Warm'd with their functions in, whose strength bestows + That power by which man ripe for misery grows. + + Her next of objects was that glorious tower + Where that swift-fingered Nymph that spares no hour + From mortals' service, draws the various threads + Of life in several lengths; to weary beds + Of age extending some, whilst others in + Their infancy are broke: 'some blackt in sin, + Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whence + Their origin, candid with innocence; + Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed + In sanguine pleasures': some in glittering pride + Spun to adorn the earth, whilst others wear + Rags of deformity, but knots of care + No thread was wholly free from. Next to this + Fair glorious tower, was placed that black abyss + Of dreadful ATROPOS, the baleful seat + Of death and horrour, in each room repleat + With lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sight + Of pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night. + To this, the last stage that the winding clew + Of Life can lead mortality unto, + FEAR was the dreadful Porter, which let in + All guests sent thither by destructive sin. + + +It is possible that I may have written from the recollection of this +passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly attribute it to +Chamberlayne, a Poet to whom I am indebted for many hours of delight, +and whom I one day hope to rescue from undeserved oblivion.] + + + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE SECOND BOOK. + + + +She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd +Amid the air, such odors wafting now +As erst came blended with the evening gale, +From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form +Stood by the Maid; his wings, etherial white, +Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun, +Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear'd +Her THEODORE. + Amazed she saw: the Fiend +Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice +Sounded, tho' now more musically sweet +Than ever yet had thrill'd her charmed soul, +When eloquent Affection fondly told +The day-dreams of delight. + "Beloved Maid! +Lo! I am with thee! still thy Theodore! +Hearts in the holy bands of Love combin'd, +Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine! +A little while and thou shalt dwell with me +In scenes where Sorrow is not. Cheerily +Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave, +Rough tho' it be and painful, for the grave +Is but the threshold of Eternity. + +Favour'd of Heaven! to thee is given to view +These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss +Thou treadest, Maiden! Here the dungeons are +Where bad men learn repentance; souls diseased +Must have their remedy; and where disease +Is rooted deep, the remedy is long +Perforce, and painful." + Thus the Spirit spake, +And led the Maid along a narrow path, +Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames, +More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound +Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath +Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach +A wide expanded den where all around +Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze, +Flamed dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood +The meagre form of Care, and as he blew +To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd +His wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus +He toil'd and toil'd, of toil to reap no end +But endless toil and never-ending woe. + +An aged man went round the infernal vault, +Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task: +White were his locks, as is the wintry snow +On hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff +His steps supported; powerful talisman, +Which whoso feels shall never feel again +The tear of Pity, or the throb of Love. +Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way, +The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall, +Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst +Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee +To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few, +Tho' he the Blessed Teacher of mankind +Hath said, that easier thro' the needle's eye +Shall the huge camel [1] pass, than the rich man +Enter the gates of heaven. "Ye cannot serve +Your God, and worship Mammon." + "Missioned Maid!" +So spake the Angel, "know that these, whose hands +Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil, +Were Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not spare +To wring from Poverty the hard-earn'd mite, +They robb'd the orphan's pittance, they could see +Want's asking eye unmoved; and therefore these, +Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere +In Mammon's service; scorched by these fierce fires, +And frequent deluged by the o'erboiling ore: +Yet still so framed, that oft to quench their thirst +Unquenchable, large draughts of molten [2] gold +They drink insatiate, still with pain renewed, +Pain to destroy." + So saying, her he led +Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell, +Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls +Part gleam'd with gold, and part with silver ore +A milder radiance shone. The Carbuncle +There its strong lustre like the flamy sun +Shot forth irradiate; from the earth beneath, +And from the roof a diamond light emits; +Rubies and amethysts their glows commix'd +With the gay topaz, and the softer ray +Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald's hue, +And bright pyropus. + There on golden seats, +A numerous, sullen, melancholy train +Sat silent. "Maiden, these," said Theodore, +Are they who let the love of wealth absorb +All other passions; in their souls that vice +Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree +That with its shade spreads barrenness around. +These, Maid! were men by no atrocious crime +Blacken'd, no fraud, nor ruffian violence: +Men of fair dealing, and respectable +On earth, but such as only for themselves +Heap'd up their treasures, deeming all their wealth +Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven, +To bless them only: therefore here they sit, +Possessed of gold enough, and by no pain +Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss +They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell, +Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour +Of general restitution." + Thence they past, +And now arrived at such a gorgeous dome, +As even the pomp of Eastern opulence +Could never equal: wandered thro' its halls +A numerous train; some with the red-swoln eye +Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek; +Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step, +And eyes lack-lustre. + Maiden? said her guide, +These are the wretched slaves of Appetite, +Curst with their wish enjoyed. The epicure +Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall'd sense +Loaths at the banquet; the voluptuous here +Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight, +And sink in misery. All they wish'd on earth, +Possessing here, whom have they to accuse, +But their own folly, for the lot they chose? +Yet, for that these injured themselves alone, +They to the house of PENITENCE may hie, +And, by a long and painful regimen, +To wearied Nature her exhausted powers +Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish +Of wisdom, and ALMIGHTY GOODNESS grants +That prize to him who seeks it." + Whilst he spake, +The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and eye +Fat swoln, and legs whose monstrous size disgraced +The human form divine, their caterer, +Hight GLUTTONY, set forth the smoaking feast. +And by his side came on a brother form, +With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red +And scurfy-white, mix'd motley; his gross bulk, +Like some huge hogshead shapen'd, as applied. +Him had antiquity with mystic rites +Ador'd, to him the sons of Greece, and thine +Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour'd +The victim blood, with godlike titles graced, +BACCHUS, or DIONUSUS; son of JOVE, +Deem'd falsely, for from FOLLY'S ideot form +He sprung, what time MADNESS, with furious hand, +Seiz'd on the laughing female. At one birth +She brought the brethren, menial here, above +Reigning with sway supreme, and oft they hold +High revels: mid the Monastery's gloom, +The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice +Episcopal, proclaims approaching day +Of visitation, or Churchwardens meet +To save the wretched many from the gripe +Of eager Poverty, or mid thy halls +Of London, mighty Mayor! rich Aldermen, +Of coming feast hold converse. + Otherwhere, +For tho' allied in nature as in blood, +They hold divided sway, his brother lifts +His spungy sceptre. In the noble domes +Of Princes, and state-wearied Ministers, +Maddening he reigns; and when the affrighted mind +Casts o'er a long career of guilt and blood +Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought +To lull the worm of Conscience to repose. +He too the halls of country Squires frequents, +But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades +Thy offspring Rhedycina! and thy walls, +Granta! nightly libations there to him +Profuse are pour'd, till from the dizzy brain +Triangles, Circles, Parallelograms, +Moods, Tenses, Dialects, and Demigods, +And Logic and Theology are swept +By the red deluge. + Unmolested there +He reigns; till comes at length the general feast, +Septennial sacrifice; then when the sons +Of England meet, with watchful care to chuse +Their delegates, wise, independent men, +Unbribing and unbrib'd, and cull'd to guard +Their rights and charters from the encroaching grasp +Of greedy Power: then all the joyful land +Join in his sacrifices, so inspir'd +To make the important choice. + The observing Maid +Address'd her guide, "These Theodore, thou sayest +Are men, who pampering their foul appetites, +Injured themselves alone. But where are they, +The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil +Around the guileless female, so to sting +The heart that loves them?" + "Them," the spirit replied, +A long and dreadful punishment awaits. +For when the prey of want and infamy, +Lower and lower still the victim sinks, +Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word, +One impious imprecation from her lips +Escapes, nay not a thought of evil lurks +In the polluted mind, that does not plead +Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued +Against the foul Seducer." + Now they reach'd +The house of PENITENCE. CREDULITY +Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head +As tho' to listen; on her vacant face, +A smile that promis'd premature assent; +Tho' her REGRET behind, a meagre Fiend, +Disciplin'd sorely. + Here they entered in, +And now arrived where, as in study tranced, +She sat, the Mistress of the Dome. Her face +Spake that composed severity, that knows +No angry impulse, no weak tenderness, +Resolved and calm. Before her lay that Book +That hath the words of Life; and as she read, +Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek, +Tho' heavenly joy beam'd in her eye the while. + +Leaving her undisturb'd, to the first ward +Of this great Lazar-house, the Angel led +The favour'd Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down +On the hard stone that their bare knees had worn, +In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear'd: +Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave; +Yet such expression stealing from the eye, +As tho', that only naked, all the rest +Was one close fitting mask. A scoffing Fiend, +For Fiend he was, tho' wisely serving here +Mock'd at his patients, and did often pour +Ashes upon them, and then bid them say +Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laughed: +For these were Hypocrites, on earth revered +As holy ones, who did in public tell +Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross themselves, +And call themselves most miserable sinners, +That so they might be deem'd most pious saints; +And go all filth, and never let a smile +Bend their stern muscles, gloomy, sullen men, +Barren of all affection, and all this +To please their God, forsooth! and therefore SCORN +Grinn'd at his patients, making them repeat +Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery +Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer, +They pour'd the silent sorrows of the soul +To Heaven, then did they not regard his mocks +Which then came painless, and HUMILITY +Soon rescued them, and led to PENITENCE, +That She might lead to Heaven. + + From thence they came, +Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band +Groan'd underneath the bitter tyranny +Of a fierce Daemon. His coarse hair was red, +Pale grey his eyes, and blood-shot; and his face +Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears +In ecstacy. Well-pleased he went around, +Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some, +Or probing with a poison'd lance their breasts, +Or placing coals of fire within their wounds; +Or seizing some within his mighty grasp, +He fix'd them on a stake, and then drew back, +And laugh'd to see them writhe. + "These," said the Spirit, +Are taught by CRUELTY, to loath the lives +They led themselves. Here are those wicked men +Who loved to exercise their tyrant power +On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo +A long purgation here; the traffickers +In human flesh here too are disciplined. +Till by their suffering they have equall'd all +The miseries they inflicted, all the mass +Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged, +The towns they burnt, for they who bribe to war +Are guilty of the blood, the widows left +In want, the slave or led to suicide, +Or murdered by the foul infected air +Of his close dungeon, or more sad than all, +His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved, +And driven by woe to wickedness. + These next, +Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room, +So sullen, and with such an eye of hate +Each on the other scowling, these have been +False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts +Here they dwell: in the hollow of their hearts +There is a worm that feeds, and tho' thou seest +That skilful leech who willingly would heal +The ill they suffer, judging of all else +By their own evil standard, they suspect +The aid be vainly proffers, lengthening thus +By vice its punishment." + "But who are these," +The Maid exclaim'd, "that robed in flowing lawn, +And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps +Like Cardinals, I see in every ward, +Performing menial service at the beck +Of all who bid them?" + Theodore replied, +These men are they who in the name of CHRIST +Did heap up wealth, and arrogating power, +Did make men bow the knee, and call themselves +Most Reverend Graces and Right Reverend Lords. +They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed, +And in fine linen: therefore are they here; +And tho' they would not minister on earth, +Here penanced they perforce must minister: +For he, the lowly man of Nazareth, +Hath said, his kingdom is not of the world." +So Saying on they past, and now arrived +Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode, +That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye, +And shudder'd: each one was a loathly corpse, +The worm did banquet on his putrid prey, +Yet had they life and feeling exquisite +Tho' motionless and mute. + "Most wretched men +Are these, the angel cried. These, JOAN, are bards, +Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuate +Who sat them down, deliberately lewd, +So to awake and pamper lust in minds +Unborn; and therefore foul of body now +As then they were of soul, they here abide +Long as the evil works they left on earth +Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom! +Yet amply merited by that bad man +Who prostitutes the sacred gift of song!" +And now they reached a huge and massy pile, +Massy it seem'd, and yet in every blast +As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit, +REMORSE for ever his sad vigils kept. +Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch. +Inly he groan'd, or, starting, wildly shriek'd, +Aye as the fabric tottering from its base, +Threatened its fall, and so expectant still +Lived in the dread of danger still delayed. + +They enter'd there a large and lofty dome, +O'er whose black marble sides a dim drear light +Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp. +Enthroned around, the MURDERERS OF MANKIND, +Monarchs, the great! the glorious! the august! +Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire, +Sat stern and silent. Nimrod he was there, +First King the mighty hunter; and that Chief +Who did belie his mother's fame, that so +He might be called young Ammon. In this court +Caesar was crown'd, accurst liberticide; +And he who murdered Tully, that cold villain, +Octavius, tho' the courtly minion's lyre +Hath hymn'd his praise, tho' Maro sung to him, +And when Death levelled to original clay +The royal carcase, FLATTERY, fawning low, +Fell at his feet, and worshipped the new God. +Titus [3] was here, the Conqueror of the Jews, +He the Delight of human-kind misnamed; +Caesars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings, +Here they were all, all who for glory fought, +Here in the COURT OF GLORY, reaping now +The meed they merited. + As gazing round +The Virgin mark'd the miserable train, +A deep and hollow voice from one went forth; +"Thou who art come to view our punishment, +Maiden of Orleans! hither turn thine eyes, +For I am he whose bloody victories +Thy power hath rendered vain. Lo! I am here, +The hero conqueror of Azincour, +HENRY OF ENGLAND!--wretched that I am, +I might have reigned in happiness and peace, +My coffers full, my subjects undisturb'd, +And PLENTY and PROSPERITY had loved +To dwell amongst them: but mine eye beheld +The realm of France, by faction tempest-torn, +And therefore I did think that it would fall +An easy prey. I persecuted those +Who taught new doctrines, tho' they taught the truth: +And when I heard of thousands by the sword +Cut off, or blasted by the pestilence, +I calmly counted up my proper gains, +And sent new herds to slaughter. Temperate +Myself, no blood that mutinied, no vice +Tainting my private life, I sent abroad +MURDER and RAPE; and therefore am I doom'd, +Like these imperial Sufferers, crown'd with fire, +Here to remain, till Man's awaken'd eye +Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds, +And warn'd by them, till the whole human race, +Equalling in bliss the aggregate we caus'd +Of wretchedness, shall form ONE BROTHERHOOD, +ONE UNIVERSAL FAMILY OF LOVE." + + +[Footnote 1: In the former edition I had substituted 'cable' instead of +'camel'. The alteration would not be worth noticing were it not for the +circumstance which occasioned it. 'Facilius elephas per foramen acus', +is among the Hebrew adages collected by Drusius; the same metaphor is +found in two other Jewish proverbs, and this appears to determine the +signification of [Greek (transliterated): chamaelos]. Matt. 19. 24.] + + +[Footnote 2: The same idea, and almost the same words are in an old play +by John Ford. The passage is a very fine one: + + + Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched, + Almost condemn'd alive! There is a place, + (List daughter!) in a black and hollow vault, + Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, + But flaming horror of consuming fires; + A lightless sulphur, choak'd with smoaky foggs + Of an infected darkness. In this place + Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts + Of never-dying deaths; there damned souls + Roar without pity, there are gluttons fed + With toads and adders; there is burning oil + Pour'd down the drunkard's throat, 'the usurer + Is forced to sup whole draughts of molten gold'; + There is the murderer for ever stabb'd, + Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton + On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul + He feels the torment of his raging lust. + + ''Tis Pity she's a Whore.' + +I wrote this passage when very young, and the idea, trite as it is, was +new to me. It occurs I believe in most descriptions of hell, and perhaps +owes its origin to the fate of Crassus. + +After this picture of horrors, the reader may perhaps be pleased with +one more pleasantly fanciful: + + + O call me home again dear Chief! and put me + To yoking foxes, milking of he-goats, + Pounding of water in a mortar, laving + The sea dry with a nutshell, gathering all + The leaves are fallen this autumn--making ropes of sand, + Catching the winds together in a net, + Mustering of ants, and numbering atoms, all + That Hell and you thought exquisite torments, rather + Than stay me here a thought more. I would sooner + Keep fleas within a circle, and be accomptant + A thousand year which of 'em, and how far + Outleap'd the other, than endure a minute + Such as I have within. + + B. JONSON. 'The Devil is an Ass.'] + + +[Footnote 3: During the siege of Jerusalem, "the Roman commander, 'with +a generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism, +'laboured incessantly, and to the very last moment, to preserve the +place. With this view, he again and again intreated the tyrants to +surrender and save their lives. With the same view also, after carrying +the second wall the siege was intermitted four days: to rouse their +fears, 'prisoners, to the number of five hundred, or more were crucified +daily before the walls; till space', Josephus says, 'was wanting for the +crosses, and crosses for the captives'." + +From the Hampton Lectures of RALPH CHURTON. + +If any of my readers should enquire why Titus Vespasian, the Delight of +Mankind, is placed in such a situation,--I answer, for "HIS GENEROUS +CLEMENCY, THAT INSEPARABLE ATTENDANT ON TRUE HEROISM!] + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE THIRD BOOK. + + + + The Maiden, musing on the Warrior's words, + Turn'd from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach'd + A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood, + In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eye + Beam'd promise, but behind, withered and old, + And all unlovely. Underneath his feet + Lay records trampled, and the laurel wreath + Now rent and faded: in his hand he held + An hour-glass, and as fall the restless sands, + So pass the lives of men. By him they past + Along the darksome cave, and reach'd a stream, + Still rolling onward its perpetual waves, + Noiseless and undisturbed. Here they ascend + A Bark unpiloted, that down the flood, + Borne by the current, rush'd. The circling stream, + Returning to itself, an island form'd; + Nor had the Maiden's footsteps ever reach'd + The insulated coast, eternally + Rapt round the endless course; but Theodore + Drove with an angel's will the obedient bark. + + They land, a mighty fabric meets their eyes, + Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamant + The pile was framed, for ever to abide + Firm in eternal strength. Before the gate + Stood eager EXPECTATION, as to list + The half-heard murmurs issuing from within, + Her mouth half-open'd, and her head stretch'd forth. + On the other side there stood an aged Crone, + Listening to every breath of air; she knew + Vague suppositions and uncertain dreams, + Of what was soon to come, for she would mark + The paley glow-worm's self-created light, + And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown, + And desolated nations; ever fill'd + With undetermin'd terror, as she heard + Or distant screech-owl, or the regular beat + Of evening death-watch. + "Maid," the Spirit cried, + Here, robed in shadows, dwells FUTURITY. + There is no eye hath seen her secret form, + For round the MOTHER OF TIME, unpierced mists + Aye hover. Would'st thou read the book of Fate, + Enter." + The Damsel for a moment paus'd, + Then to the Angel spake: "All-gracious Heaven! + Benignant in withholding, hath denied + To man that knowledge. I, in faith assured, + That he, my heavenly Father, for the best + Ordaineth all things, in that faith remain + Contented." + "Well and wisely hast thou said, + So Theodore replied; "and now O Maid! + Is there amid this boundless universe + One whom thy soul would visit? is there place + To memory dear, or visioned out by hope, + Where thou would'st now be present? form the wish, + And I am with thee, there." + His closing speech + Yet sounded on her ear, and lo! they stood + Swift as the sudden thought that guided them, + Within the little cottage that she loved. + "He sleeps! the good man sleeps!" enrapt she cried, + As bending o'er her Uncle's lowly bed + Her eye retraced his features. "See the beads + That never morn nor night he fails to tell, + Remembering me, his child, in every prayer. + Oh! quiet be thy sleep, thou dear old man! + Good Angels guard thy rest! and when thine hour + Is come, as gently mayest thou wake to life, + As when thro' yonder lattice the next sun + Shall bid thee to thy morning orisons! + Thy voice is heard, the Angel guide rejoin'd, + He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breathe + Blessings, and pleasant is the good man's rest. + Thy fame has reached him, for who has not heard + Thy wonderous exploits? and his aged heart + Hath felt the deepest joy that ever yet + Made his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on old Claude! + Peaceful, pure Spirit, be thy sojourn here, + And short and soon thy passage to that world + Where friends shall part no more! + "Does thy soul own + No other wish? or sleeps poor Madelon + Forgotten in her grave? seest thou yon star," + The Spirit pursued, regardless of her eye + That look'd reproach; "seest thou that evening star + Whose lovely light so often we beheld + From yonder woodbine porch? how have we gazed + Into the dark deep sky, till the baffled soul, + Lost in the infinite, returned, and felt + The burthen of her bodily load, and yearned + For freedom! Maid, in yonder evening slar + Lives thy departed friend. I read that glance, + And we are there!" + He said and they had past + The immeasurable space. + Then on her ear + The lonely song of adoration rose, + Sweet as the cloister'd virgins vesper hymn, + Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopes + Already lives in Heaven. Abrupt the song + Ceas'd, tremulous and quick a cry + Of joyful wonder rous'd the astonish'd Maid, + And instant Madelon was in her arms; + No airy form, no unsubstantial shape, + She felt her friend, she prest her to her heart, + Their tears of rapture mingled. + She drew back + And eagerly she gazed on Madelon, + Then fell upon her neck again and wept. + No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief, + The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness, + The languid eye: youth's loveliest freshness now + Mantled her cheek, whose every lineament + Bespake the soul at rest, a holy calm, + A deep and full tranquillity of bliss. + + "Thou then art come, my first and dearest friend!" + The well known voice of Madelon began, + "Thou then art come! and was thy pilgrimage + So short on earth? and was it painful too, + Painful and short as mine? but blessed they + Who from the crimes and miseries of the world + Early escape!" + "Nay," Theodore replied, + She hath not yet fulfill'd her mortal work. + Permitted visitant from earth she comes + To see the seat of rest, and oftentimes + In sorrow shall her soul remember this, + And patient of the transitory woe + Partake the anticipated peace again." + "Soon be that work perform'd!" the Maid exclaimed, + "O Madelon! O Theodore! my soul, + Spurning the cold communion of the world, + Will dwell with you! but I shall patiently, + Yea even with joy, endure the allotted ills + Of which the memory in this better state + Shall heighten bliss. That hour of agony, + When, Madelon, I felt thy dying grasp, + And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death, + The very horrors of that hour assume + A shape that now delights." + "O earliest friend! + I too remember," Madelon replied, + "That hour, thy looks of watchful agony, + The suppressed grief that struggled in thine eye + Endearing love's last kindness. Thou didst know + With what a deep and melancholy joy + I felt the hour draw on: but who can speak + The unutterable transport, when mine eyes, + As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed + Amid this peaceful vale, unclos'd on him, + My Arnaud! he had built me up a bower, + A bower of rest.--See, Maiden, where he comes, + His manly lineaments, his beaming eye + The same, but now a holier innocence + Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume + The enlighten'd glance." + They met, what joy was theirs + He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead + Has wet the midnight pillow with his tears. + + Fair was the scene around; an ample vale + Whose mountain circle at the distant verge + Lay softened on the sight; the near ascent + Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare, + Part with the ancient majesty of woods + Adorn'd, or lifting high its rocks sublime. + The river's liquid radiance roll'd beneath, + Beside the bower of Madelon it wound + A broken stream, whose shallows, tho' the waves + Roll'd on their way with rapid melody, + A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove + Its gay green foliage starr'd with golden fruit; + But with what odours did their blossoms load + The passing gale of eve! less thrilling sweet + Rose from the marble's perforated floor, + Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen + Inhaled the cool delight, [1] and whilst she asked + The Prophet for his promised paradise, + Shaped from the present scene its utmost joys. + A goodly scene! fair as that faery land + Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne + From Camlan's bloody banks; or as the groves + Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say, + Enoch abides, and he who rapt away + By fiery steeds, and chariotted in fire, + Past in his mortal form the eternal ways; + And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there + The beatific vision, sometimes seen + The distant dawning of eternal day, + Till all things be fulfilled. + "Survey this scene!" + So Theodore address'd the Maid of Arc, + "There is no evil here, no wretchedness, + It is the Heaven of those who nurst on earth + Their nature's gentlest feelings. Yet not here + Centering their joys, but with a patient hope, + Waiting the allotted hour when capable + Of loftier callings, to a better state + They pass; and hither from that better state + Frequent they come, preserving so those ties + That thro' the infinite progressiveness + Complete our perfect bliss. + "Even such, so blest, + Save that the memory of no sorrows past + Heightened the present joy, our world was once, + In the first aera of its innocence + Ere man had learnt to bow the knee to man. + Was there a youth whom warm affection fill'd, + He spake his honest heart; the earliest fruits + His toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck'd + The sunny bank, he gather'd for the maid, + Nor she disdain'd the gift; for VICE not yet + Had burst the dungeons of her hell, and rear'd + Those artificial boundaries that divide + Man from his species. State of blessedness! + Till that ill-omen'd hour when Cain's stern son + Delved in the bowels of the earth for gold, + Accursed bane of virtue! of such force + As poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon's locks, + Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-blood + Cold curdle in his veins, the creeping flesh + Grew stiff with horror, and the heart forgot + To beat. Accursed hour! for man no more + To JUSTICE paid his homage, but forsook + Her altars, and bow'd down before the shrine + Of WEALTH and POWER, the Idols he had made. + Then HELL enlarged herself, her gates flew wide, + Her legion fiends rush'd forth. OPPRESSION came + Whose frown is desolation, and whose breath + Blasts like the Pestilence; and POVERTY, + A meagre monster, who with withering touch + Makes barren all the better part of man, + MOTHER OF MISERIES. Then the goodly earth + Which God had fram'd for happiness, became + One theatre of woe, and all that God + Had given to bless free men, these tyrant fiends + His bitterest curses made. Yet for the best + Hath he ordained all things, the ALL-WISE! + For by experience rous'd shall man at length + Dash down his Moloch-Idols, Samson-like + And burst his fetters, only strong whilst strong + Believed. Then in the bottomless abyss + OPPRESSION shall be chain'd, and POVERTY + Die, and with her, her brood of Miseries; + And VIRTUE and EQUALITY preserve + The reign of LOVE, and Earth shall once again + Be Paradise, whilst WISDOM shall secure + The state of bliss which IGNORANCE betrayed." + + "Oh age of happiness!" the Maid exclaim'd, + Roll fast thy current, Time till that blest age + Arrive! and happy thou my Theodore, + Permitted thus to see the sacred depths + Of wisdom!" + "Such," the blessed Spirit replied, + Beloved! such our lot; allowed to range + The vast infinity, progressive still + In knowledge and encreasing blessedness, + This our united portion. Thou hast yet + A little while to sojourn amongst men: + I will be with thee! there shall not a breeze + Wanton around thy temples, on whose wing + I will not hover near! and at that hour + When from its fleshly sepulchre let loose, + Thy phoenix soul shall soar, O best-beloved! + I will be with thee in thine agonies, + And welcome thee to life and happiness, + Eternal infinite beatitude!" + + He spake, and led her near a straw-roof'd cot, + LOVE'S Palace. By the Virtues circled there, + The cherub listen'd to such melodies, + As aye, when one good deed is register'd + Above, re-echo in the halls of Heaven. + LABOUR was there, his crisp locks floating loose, + Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye, + And strong his arm robust; the wood-nymph HEALTH + Still follow'd on his path, and where he trod + Fresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was HOPE, + The general friend; and PITY, whose mild eye + Wept o'er the widowed dove; and, loveliest form, + Majestic CHASTITY, whose sober smile + Delights and awes the soul; a laurel wreath + Restrain'd her tresses, and upon her breast + The snow-drop [2] hung its head, that seem'd to grow + Spontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maid + LOVE went submiss, wilh eye more dangerous + Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er + Too bold approached; yet anxious would he read + Her every rising wish, then only pleased + When pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais'd. + + "Glory to thee whose vivifying power + Pervades all Nature's universal frame! + Glory to thee CREATOR LOVE! to thee, + Parent of all the smiling CHARITIES, + That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers! + Glory to thee PRESERVER! to thy praise + The awakened woodlands echo all the day + Their living melody; and warbling forth + To thee her twilight song, the Nightingale + Holds the lone Traveller from his way, or charms + The listening Poet's ear. Where LOVE shall deign + To fix his seat, there blameless PLEASURE sheds + Her roseate dews; CONTENT will sojourn there, + And HAPPINESS behold AFFECTION'S eye + Gleam with the Mother's smile. Thrice happy he + Who feels thy holy power! he shall not drag, + Forlorn and friendless, along Life's long path + To Age's drear abode; he shall not waste + The bitter evening of his days unsooth'd; + But HOPE shall cheer his hours of Solitude, + And VICE shall vainly strive to wound his breast, + That bears that talisman; and when he meets + The eloquent eye of TENDERNESS, and hears + The bosom-thrilling music of her voice; + The joy he feels shall purify his Soul, + And imp it for anticipated Heaven." + + +[Footnote 1: In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the Queen used to +dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there +is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled +that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and windows are +disposed so as to afford the most agreeable prospects, and to throw a +soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents of air too are +admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious coolness of this +apartment. + +(From the sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed to +Florian's Gonsalvo of Cordova).] + + +[Footnote 2: "The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired +her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems +to grow on the breast of the Virgin." P.H.] + + + + + + +The Rose. + + Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus, + that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden + was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadde don + fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be + brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre + began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that + als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help + hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; + and whanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon + was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, + becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise weren the first + Roseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. + And thus was this Maiden saved be the Grace of God. + + 'The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundevile'. + + + + + + +THE ROSE. + + + + Nay EDITH! spare the rose!--it lives--it lives, + It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh'd + The dews of night; let not thy gentle hand + Tear sunder its life-fibres and destroy + The sense of being!--why that infidel smile? + Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful, + And thou shall have a tale of other times, + For I am skill'd in legendary lore, + So thou wilt let it live. There was a time + Ere this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms, + Bedeck'd the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard + How first by miracle its fragrant leaves + Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness. + + There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid + And Zillah was her name, so passing fair + That all Judea spake the damsel's praise. + He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance + How quick it spake the soul, and what a soul + Beam'd in its mild effulgence, woe was he! + For not in solitude, for not in crowds, + Might he escape remembrance, or avoid + Her imaged form that followed every where, + And fill'd the heart, and fix'd the absent eye. + Woe was he, for her bosom own'd no love + Save the strong ardours of religious zeal, + For Zillah on her God had centered all + Her spirit's deep affections. So for her + Her tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverenced + The obdurate virtue that destroyed their hopes. + + One man there was, a vain and wretched man, + Who saw, desired, despair'd, and hated her. + His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek + Even till the flush of angry modesty + Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. + She loath'd the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, + And the strong workings of brute selfishness + Had moulded his broad features; and she fear'd + The bitterness of wounded vanity + That with a fiendish hue would overcast + His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, + For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plot + Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad + Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports + That soon obtain belief; that Zillah's eye + When in the temple heaven-ward it was rais'd + Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those + Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance + With other feelings fill'd; that 'twas a task + Of easy sort to play the saint by day + Before the public eye, but that all eyes + Were closed at night; that Zillah's life was foul, + Yea forfeit to the law. + + Shame--shame to man + That he should trust so easily the tongue + That stabs another's fame! the ill report + Was heard, repeated, and believed,--and soon, + For Hamuel by most damned artifice + Produced such semblances of guilt, the Maid + Was judged to shameful death. + Without the walls + There was a barren field; a place abhorr'd, + For it was there where wretched criminals + Were done to die; and there they built the stake, + And piled the fuel round, that should consume + The accused Maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd, + By God and man. The assembled Bethlemites + Beheld the scene, and when they saw the Maid + Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness + She lifted up her patient looks to Heaven, + They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts + Stood Hamuel near the pile, him savage joy + Led thitherward, but now within his heart + Unwonted feelings stirr'd, and the first pangs + Of wakening guilt, anticipating Hell. + The eye of Zillah as it glanced around + Fell on the murderer once, but not in wrath; + And therefore like a dagger it had fallen, + Had struck into his soul a cureless wound. + Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour + Of triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch, + Not in the hour of infamy and death + Forsake the virtuous! they draw near the stake-- + And lo! the torch! hold hold your erring hands! + Yet quench the rising flames!--they rise! they spread! + They reach the suffering Maid! oh God protect + The innocent one! + They rose, they spread, they raged-- + The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire + Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames + In one long lightning flash collecting fierce, + Darted and blasted Hamuel--him alone. + Hark--what a fearful scream the multitude + Pour forth!--and yet more miracles! the stake + Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves and bowers + The innocent Maid, and roses bloom around, + Now first beheld since Paradise was lost, + And fill with Eden odours all the air. + + + + + + + + +The COMPLAINTS of the POOR. + + + + And wherefore do the Poor complain? + The rich man asked of me,-- + Come walk abroad with me, I said + And I will answer thee. + + Twas evening and the frozen streets + Were cheerless to behold, + And we were wrapt and coated well, + And yet we were a-cold. + + We met an old bare-headed man, + His locks were few and white, + I ask'd him what he did abroad + In that cold winter's night: + + 'Twas bitter keen indeed, he said, + But at home no fire had he, + And therefore, he had come abroad + To ask for charity. + + We met a young bare-footed child, + And she begg'd loud and bold, + I ask'd her what she did abroad + When the wind it blew so cold; + + She said her father was at home + And he lay sick a-bed, + And therefore was it she was sent + Abroad to beg for bread. + + We saw a woman sitting down + Upon a stone to rest, + She had a baby at her back + And another at her breast; + + I ask'd her why she loiter'd there + When the wind it was so chill; + She turn'd her head and bade the child + That scream'd behind be still. + + She told us that her husband served + A soldier, far away, + And therefore to her parish she + Was begging back her way. + + We met a girl; her dress was loose + And sunken was her eye, + Who with the wanton's hollow voice + Address'd the passers by; + + I ask'd her what there was in guilt + That could her heart allure + To shame, disease, and late remorse? + She answer'd, she was poor. + + I turn'd me to the rich man then + For silently stood he, + You ask'd me why the Poor complain, + And these have answer'd thee. + + + + + + + + +METRICAL LETTER, + +Written from London. + + + + Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile; + I love the homely and familiar phrase; + And I will call thee Cousin Margaret, + However quaint amid the measured line + The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill + When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, + Sirring and Madaming as civilly + As if the road between the heart and lips + Were such a weary and Laplandish way + That the poor travellers came to the red gates + Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret, + For many a day my Memory has played + The creditor with me on your account, + And made me shame to think that I should owe + So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, + Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear + So heavy a pack of business, that albeit + I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race + Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I + That for a moment you should lay to me + Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart + That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some + Who know how warm it beats. I am not one + Who can play off my smiles and courtesies + To every Lady of her lap dog tired + Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend + Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love; + Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up + At once without a seed and take no root, + Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere + The little circle of domestic life + I would be known and loved; the world beyond + Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think + That you should know me well, for you and I + Grew up together, and when we look back + Upon old times our recollections paint + The same familiar faces. Did I wield + The wand of Merlin's magic I would make + Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, + Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood + That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth, + The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle + Like that where whilome old Apollidon + Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid + The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers, + That we might stand upon the beach, and mark + The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, + And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound + Told us that never mariner should reach + Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle + We might renew the days of infancy, + And Life like a long childhood pass away, + Without one care. It may be, Margaret, + That I shall yet be gathered to my friends, + For I am not of those who live estranged + Of choice, till at the last they join their race + In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, + Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack + So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine + Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly. + If not, if I should never get beyond + This Vanity town, there is another world + Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, + I gaze at night into the boundless sky, + And think that I shall there be born again, + The exalted native of some better star; + And like the rude American I hope + To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth. + + + + + + + + + + +The Cross Roads. + +The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty +years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at +the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as +I have versified them. + + + + +THE CROSS ROADS. + + + There was an old man breaking stones + To mend the turnpike way, + He sat him down beside a brook + And out his bread and cheese he took, + For now it was mid-day. + + He lent his back against a post, + His feet the brook ran by; + And there were water-cresses growing, + And pleasant was the water's flowing + For he was hot and dry. + + A soldier with his knapsack on + Came travelling o'er the down, + The sun was strong and he was tired, + And of the old man he enquired + How far to Bristol town. + + Half an hour's walk for a young man + By lanes and fields and stiles. + But you the foot-path do not know, + And if along the road you go + Why then 'tis three good miles. + + The soldier took his knapsack off + For he was hot and dry; + And out his bread and cheese he took + And he sat down beside the brook + To dine in company. + + Old friend! in faith, the soldier says + I envy you almost; + My shoulders have been sorely prest + And I should like to sit and rest, + My back against that post. + + In such a sweltering day as this + A knapsack is the devil! + And if on t'other side I sat + It would not only spoil our chat + But make me seem uncivil. + + The old man laugh'd and moved. I wish + It were a great-arm'd chair! + But this may help a man at need; + And yet it was a cursed deed + That ever brought it there. + + There's a poor girl lies buried here + Beneath this very place. + The earth upon her corpse is prest + This stake is driven into her breast + And a stone is on her face. + + The soldier had but just lent back + And now he half rose up. + There's sure no harm in dining here, + My friend? and yet to be sincere + I should not like to sup. + + God rest her! she is still enough + Who sleeps beneath our feet! + The old man cried. No harm I trow + She ever did herself, tho' now + She lies where four roads meet. + + I have past by about that hour + When men are not most brave, + It did not make my heart to fail, + And I have heard the nightingale + Sing sweetly on her grave. + + I have past by about that hour + When Ghosts their freedom have, + But there was nothing here to fright, + And I have seen the glow-worm's light + Shine on the poor girl's grave. + + There's one who like a Christian lies + Beneath the church-tree's shade; + I'd rather go a long mile round + Than pass at evening thro' the ground + Wherein that man is laid. + + There's one that in the church-yard lies + For whom the bell did toll; + He lies in consecrated ground, + But for all the wealth in Bristol town + I would not be with his soul! + + Did'st see a house below the hill + That the winds and the rains destroy? + 'Twas then a farm where he did dwell, + And I remember it full well + When I was a growing boy. + + And she was a poor parish girl + That came up from the west, + From service hard she ran away + And at that house in evil day + Was taken in to rest. + + The man he was a wicked man + And an evil life he led; + Rage made his cheek grow deadly white + And his grey eyes were large and light, + And in anger they grew red. + + The man was bad, the mother worse, + Bad fruit of a bad stem, + 'Twould make your hair to stand-on-end + If I should tell to you my friend + The things that were told of them! + + Did'st see an out-house standing by? + The walls alone remain; + It was a stable then, but now + Its mossy roof has fallen through + All rotted by the rain. + + The poor girl she had serv'd with them + Some half-a-year, or more, + When she was found hung up one day + Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay + Behind that stable door! + + It is a very lonesome place, + No hut or house is near; + Should one meet a murderer there alone + 'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan + Would never reach mortal ear. + + And there were strange reports about + That the coroner never guest. + So he decreed that she should lie + Where four roads meet in infamy, + With a stake drove in her breast. + + Upon a board they carried her + To the place where four roads met, + And I was one among the throng + That hither followed them along, + I shall never the sight forget! + + They carried her upon a board + In the cloaths in which she died; + I saw the cap blow off her head, + Her face was of a dark dark red + Her eyes were starting wide: + + I think they could not have been closed + So widely did they strain. + I never saw so dreadful a sight, + And it often made me wake at night, + For I saw her face again. + + They laid her here where four roads meet. + Beneath this very place, + The earth upon her corpse was prest, + This post is driven into her breast, + And a stone is on her face. + + + + + + + + + + + +The Sailor, + +who had served in the Slave Trade. + +In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol, discovered a +Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City, groaning and praying in a +hovel. The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in +the annexed Ballad, without the slightest addition or alteration. By +presenting it as a Poem the story is made more public, and such stories +ought to be made as public as possible. + + + + +THE SAILOR, + +WHO HAD SERVED IN THE SLAVE-TRADE. + + + He stopt,--it surely was a groan + That from the hovel came! + He stopt and listened anxiously + Again it sounds the same. + + It surely from the hovel comes! + And now he hastens there, + And thence he hears the name of Christ + Amidst a broken prayer. + + He entered in the hovel now, + A sailor there he sees, + His hands were lifted up to Heaven + And he was on his knees. + + Nor did the Sailor so intent + His entering footsteps heed, + But now the Lord's prayer said, and now + His half-forgotten creed. + + And often on his Saviour call'd + With many a bitter groan, + In such heart-anguish as could spring + From deepest guilt alone. + + He ask'd the miserable man + Why he was kneeling there, + And what the crime had been that caus'd + The anguish of his prayer. + + Oh I have done a wicked thing! + It haunts me night and day, + And I have sought this lonely place + Here undisturb'd to pray. + + I have no place to pray on board + So I came here alone, + That I might freely kneel and pray, + And call on Christ and groan. + + If to the main-mast head I go, + The wicked one is there, + From place to place, from rope to rope, + He follows every where. + + I shut my eyes,--it matters not-- + Still still the same I see,-- + And when I lie me down at night + 'Tis always day with me. + + He follows follows every where, + And every place is Hell! + O God--and I must go with him + In endless fire to dwell. + + He follows follows every where, + He's still above--below, + Oh tell me where to fly from him! + Oh tell me where to go! + + But tell me, quoth the Stranger then, + What this thy crime hath been, + So haply I may comfort give + To one that grieves for sin. + + O I have done a cursed deed + The wretched man replies, + And night and day and every where + 'Tis still before my eyes. + + I sail'd on board a Guinea-man + And to the slave-coast went; + Would that the sea had swallowed me + When I was innocent! + + And we took in our cargo there, + Three hundred negroe slaves, + And we sail'd homeward merrily + Over the ocean waves. + + But some were sulky of the slaves + And would not touch their meat, + So therefore we were forced by threats + And blows to make them eat. + + One woman sulkier than the rest + Would still refuse her food,-- + O Jesus God! I hear her cries-- + I see her in her blood! + + The Captain made me tie her up + And flog while he stood by, + And then he curs'd me if I staid + My hand to hear her cry. + + She groan'd, she shriek'd--I could not spare + For the Captain he stood by-- + Dear God! that I might rest one night + From that poor woman's cry! + + She twisted from the blows--her blood + Her mangled flesh I see-- + And still the Captain would not spare-- + Oh he was worse than me! + + She could not be more glad than I + When she was taken down, + A blessed minute--'twas the last + That I have ever known! + + I did not close my eyes all night, + Thinking what I had done; + I heard her groans and they grew faint + About the rising sun. + + She groan'd and groan'd, but her groans grew + Fainter at morning tide, + Fainter and fainter still they came + Till at the noon she died. + + They flung her overboard;--poor wretch + She rested from her pain,-- + But when--O Christ! O blessed God! + Shall I have rest again! + + I saw the sea close over her, + Yet she was still in sight; + I see her twisting every where; + I see her day and night. + + Go where I will, do what I can + The wicked one I see-- + Dear Christ have mercy on my soul, + O God deliver me! + + To morrow I set sail again + Not to the Negroe shore-- + Wretch that I am I will at least + Commit that sin no more. + + O give me comfort if you can-- + Oh tell me where to fly-- + And bid me hope, if there be hope, + For one so lost as I. + + Poor wretch, the stranger he replied, + Put thou thy trust in heaven, + And call on him for whose dear sake + All sins shall be forgiven. + + This night at least is thine, go thou + And seek the house of prayer, + There shalt thou hear the word of God + And he will help thee there! + + + + + + + + + + + + +Jaspar. + +The stories of the two following ballads are wholly imaginary. I may say +of each as John Bunyan did of his 'Pilgrim's Progress', + + + "It came from mine own heart, so to my head, + And thence into my fingers trickled; + Then to my pen, from whence immediately + On paper I did dribble it daintily." + + + + +JASPAR + + + + Jaspar was poor, and want and vice + Had made his heart like stone, + And Jaspar look'd with envious eyes + On riches not his own. + + On plunder bent abroad he went + Towards the close of day, + And loitered on the lonely road + Impatient for his prey. + + No traveller came, he loiter'd long + And often look'd around, + And paus'd and listen'd eagerly + To catch some coming sound. + + He sat him down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way, + So fair a scene might well have charm'd + All evil thoughts away; + + He sat beneath a willow tree + That cast a trembling shade, + The gentle river full in front + A little island made, + + Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone + Upon the poplar trees, + Whose shadow on the stream below + Play'd slowly to the breeze. + + He listen'd--and he heard the wind + That waved the willow tree; + He heard the waters flow along + And murmur quietly. + + He listen'd for the traveller's tread, + The nightingale sung sweet,-- + He started up, for now he heard + The sound of coming feet; + + He started up and graspt a stake + And waited for his prey; + There came a lonely traveller + And Jaspar crost his way. + + But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd + The traveller to appal, + He would not lightly yield the purse + That held his little all. + + Awhile he struggled, but he strove + With Jaspar's strength in vain; + Beneath his blows he fell and groan'd, + And never spoke again. + + He lifted up the murdered man + And plunged him in the flood, + And in the running waters then + He cleansed his hands from blood. + + The waters closed around the corpse + And cleansed his hands from gore, + The willow waved, the stream flowed on + And murmured as before. + + There was no human eye had seen + The blood the murderer spilt, + And Jaspar's conscience never knew + The avenging goad of guilt. + + And soon the ruffian had consum'd + The gold he gain'd so ill, + And years of secret guilt pass'd on + And he was needy still. + + One eve beside the alehouse fire + He sat as it befell, + When in there came a labouring man + Whom Jaspar knew full well. + + He sat him down by Jaspar's side + A melancholy man, + For spite of honest toil, the world + Went hard with Jonathan. + + His toil a little earn'd, and he + With little was content, + But sickness on his wife had fallen + And all he had was spent. + + Then with his wife and little ones + He shared the scanty meal, + And saw their looks of wretchedness, + And felt what wretches feel. + + That very morn the Landlord's power + Had seized the little left, + And now the sufferer found himself + Of every thing bereft. + + He lent his head upon his hand, + His elbow on his knee, + And so by Jaspar's side he sat + And not a word said he. + + Nay--why so downcast? Jaspar cried, + Come--cheer up Jonathan! + Drink neighbour drink! 'twill warm thy heart, + Come! come! take courage man! + + He took the cup that Jaspar gave + And down he drain'd it quick + I have a wife, said Jonathan, + And she is deadly sick. + + She has no bed to lie upon, + I saw them take her bed. + And I have children--would to God + That they and I were dead! + + Our Landlord he goes home to night + And he will sleep in peace. + I would that I were in my grave + For there all troubles cease. + + In vain I pray'd him to forbear + Tho' wealth enough has he-- + God be to him as merciless + As he has been to me! + + When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul + On all his ills intent, + He plied him with the heartening cup + And with him forth he went. + + This landlord on his homeward road + 'Twere easy now to meet. + The road is lonesome--Jonathan, + And vengeance, man! is sweet. + + He listen'd to the tempter's voice + The thought it made him start. + His head was hot, and wretchedness + Had hardened now his heart. + + Along the lonely road they went + And waited for their prey, + They sat them down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way. + + They sat them down beside the stream + And never a word they said, + They sat and listen'd silently + To hear the traveller's tread. + + The night was calm, the night was dark, + No star was in the sky, + The wind it waved the willow boughs, + The stream flowed quietly. + + The night was calm, the air was still, + Sweet sung the nightingale, + The soul of Jonathan was sooth'd, + His heart began to fail. + + 'Tis weary waiting here, he cried, + And now the hour is late,-- + Methinks he will not come to night, + 'Tis useless more to wait. + + Have patience man! the ruffian said, + A little we may wait, + But longer shall his wife expect + Her husband at the gate. + + Then Jonathan grew sick at heart, + My conscience yet is clear, + Jaspar--it is not yet too late-- + I will not linger here. + + How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought + Thy conscience was asleep. + No more such qualms, the night is dark, + The river here is deep, + + What matters that, said Jonathan, + Whose blood began to freeze, + When there is one above whose eye + The deeds of darkness sees? + + We are safe enough, said Jaspar then + If that be all thy fear; + Nor eye below, nor eye above + Can pierce the darkness here. + + That instant as the murderer spake + There came a sudden light; + Strong as the mid-day sun it shone, + Though all around was night. + + It hung upon the willow tree, + It hung upon the flood, + It gave to view the poplar isle + And all the scene of blood. + + The traveller who journies there + He surely has espied + A madman who has made his home + Upon the river's side. + + His cheek is pale, his eye is wild, + His look bespeaks despair; + For Jaspar since that hour has made + His home unshelter'd there. + + And fearful are his dreams at night + And dread to him the day; + He thinks upon his untold crime + And never dares to pray. + + The summer suns, the winter storms, + O'er him unheeded roll, + For heavy is the weight of blood + Upon the maniac's soul. + + + + + + + + + + +LORD WILLIAM. + + + + No eye beheld when William plunged + Young Edmund in the stream, + No human ear but William's heard + Young Edmund's drowning scream. + + Submissive all the vassals own'd + The murderer for their Lord, + And he, the rightful heir, possessed + The house of Erlingford. + + The ancient house of Erlingford + Stood midst a fair domain, + And Severn's ample waters near + Roll'd through the fertile plain. + + And often the way-faring man + Would love to linger there, + Forgetful of his onward road + To gaze on scenes so fair. + + But never could Lord William dare + To gaze on Severn's stream; + In every wind that swept its waves + He heard young Edmund scream. + + In vain at midnight's silent hour + Sleep closed the murderer's eyes, + In every dream the murderer saw + Young Edmund's form arise. + + In vain by restless conscience driven + Lord William left his home, + Far from the scenes that saw his guilt, + In pilgrimage to roam. + + To other climes the pilgrim fled, + But could not fly despair, + He sought his home again, but peace + Was still a stranger there. + + Each hour was tedious long, yet swift + The months appear'd to roll; + And now the day return'd that shook + With terror William's soul. + + A day that William never felt + Return without dismay, + For well had conscience kalendered + Young Edmund's dying day. + + A fearful day was that! the rains + Fell fast, with tempest roar, + And the swoln tide of Severn spread + Far on the level shore. + + In vain Lord William sought the feast + In vain he quaff'd the bowl, + And strove with noisy mirth to drown + The anguish of his soul. + + The tempest as its sudden swell + In gusty howlings came, + With cold and death-like feelings seem'd + To thrill his shuddering frame. + + Reluctant now, as night came on, + His lonely couch he prest, + And wearied out, he sunk to sleep, + To sleep, but not to rest. + + Beside that couch his brother's form + Lord Edmund seem'd to stand, + Such and so pale as when in death + He grasp'd his brother's hand; + + Such and so pale his face as when + With faint and faltering tongue, + To William's care, a dying charge + He left his orphan son. + + "I bade thee with a father's love + My orphan Edmund guard-- + Well William hast thou kept thy charge! + Now take thy due reward." + + He started up, each limb convuls'd + With agonizing fear, + He only heard the storm of night-- + 'Twas music to his ear. + + When lo! the voice of loud alarm + His inmost soul appals, + What ho! Lord William rise in haste! + The water saps thy walls! + + He rose in haste, beneath the walls + He saw the flood appear, + It hemm'd him round, 'twas midnight now, + No human aid was near. + + He heard the shout of joy, for now + A boat approach'd the wall, + And eager to the welcome aid + They crowd for safety all. + + My boat is small, the boatman cried, + This dangerous haste forbear! + Wait other aid, this little bark + But one from hence can bear. + + Lord William leap'd into the boat, + Haste--haste to yonder shore! + And ample wealth shall well reward, + Ply swift and strong the oar. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Went light along the stream, + Sudden Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + The boatman paus'd, methought I heard + A child's distressful cry! + 'Twas but the howling wind of night + Lord William made reply. + + Haste haste--ply swift and strong the oar! + Haste haste across the stream! + Again Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + I heard a child's distressful scream + The boatman cried again. + Nay hasten on--the night is dark-- + And we should search in vain. + + Oh God! Lord William dost thou know + How dreadful 'tis to die? + And can'st thou without pity hear + A child's expiring cry? + + How horrible it is to sink + Beneath the chilly stream, + To stretch the powerless arms in vain, + In vain for help to scream? + + The shriek again was heard. It came + More deep, more piercing loud, + That instant o'er the flood the moon + Shone through a broken cloud. + + And near them they beheld a child, + Upon a crag he stood, + A little crag, and all around + Was spread the rising flood. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Approach'd his resting place, + The moon-beam shone upon the child + And show'd how pale his face. + + Now reach thine hand! the boatman cried + Lord William reach and save! + The child stretch'd forth his little hands + To grasp the hand he gave. + + Then William shriek'd; the hand he touch'd + Was cold and damp and dead! + He felt young Edmund in his arms + A heavier weight than lead. + + The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk + Beneath the avenging stream; + He rose, he scream'd, no human ear + Heard William's drowning scream. + + + + + + + + + +A BALLAD, + +SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. + +[Illustration: heavy black-and-white drawing (woodcut) of the title.] + + +A.D. 852. Circa dies istos, mulier quaedam malefica, in villa quae +Berkeleia dicitur degens, gulae amatrix ac petulantiae, flagitiis modum +usque in senium et auguriis non ponens, usque ad mortem impudica +permansit. Haec die quadam cum sederet ad prandium, cornicula quam pro +delitiis pascebat, nescio quid garrire coepit; quo audito, mulieris +cultellus de manu excidit, simul et facies pallescere coepit, et emisso +rugitu, hodie, inquit, accipiam grande incommodum, hodieque ad sulcum +ultimum meum pervenit aratrum, quo dicto, nuncius doloris intravit; +muliere vero percunctata ad quid veniret, affero, inquit, tibi filii tui +obitum & totius familiae ejus ex subita ruina interitum. Hoc quoque +dolore mulier permota, lecto protinus decubuit graviter infirmata; +sentiensque morbum subrepere ad vitalia, liberos quos habuit +superstites, monachum videlicet et monacham, per epistolam invitavit; +advenientes autem voce singultiente alloquitur. Ego, inquit, o pueri, +meo miserabili fato daemoniacis semper artibus inservivi; ego omnium +vitiorum sentina, ego illecebrarum omnium fui magistra. Erat tamen mihi +inter haec mala, spes vestrae religionis, quae meam solidaret animam +desperatam; vos expctabam propugnatores contra daemones, tutores contra +saevissimos hostes. Nunc igitur quoniam ad finem vitae perveni, rogo vos +per materna ubera, ut mea tentatis alleviare tormenta. Insuite me +defunctam in corio cervino, ac deinde in sarcophago lapideo supponite, +operculumque ferro et plumbo constringite, ac demum lapidem tribus +cathenis ferreis et fortissimis circundantes, clericos quinquaginta +psalmorum cantores, et tot per tres dies presbyteros missarum +celebratores applicate, qui feroces lenigent adversariorum incursus. Ita +si tribus noctibus secura jacuero, quarta die me infodite humo. + +Factumque est ut praeceperat illis. Sed, proh dolor! nil preces, nil +lacrymae, nil demum valuere catenae. Primis enim duabus noctibus, cum +chori psallentium corpori assistabant, advenientes Daemones ostium +ecclesiae confregerunt ingenti obice clausum, extremasque cathenas +negotio levi dirumpunt: media autem quae fortior erat, illibata manebat. +Tertia autem nocte, circa gallicinium, strepitu hostium adventantium, +omne monasterium visum est a fundamento moveri. Unus ergo daemonum, et +vultu caeteris terribilior & statura eminentior, januas Ecclesiae; impetu +violento concussas in fragmenta dejecit. Divexerunt clerici cum laicis, +metu stelerunt omnium capilli, et psalmorum concentus defecit. Daemon +ergo gestu ut videbatur arroganti ad sepulchrum accedens, & nomen +mulieris modicum ingeminans, surgere imperavit. Qua respondente, quod +nequiret pro vinculis, jam malo tuo, inquit, solveris; et protinus +cathenam quae caeterorum ferociam daemonum deluserat, velut stuppeum +vinculum rumpebat. Operculum etiam sepulchri pede depellens, mulierem +palam omnibus ab ecclesia extraxit, ubi prae foribus niger equus superbe +hinniens videbatur, uncis ferreis et clavis undique confixus, super quem +misera mulier projecta, ab oculis assistentium evanuit. Audiebantur +tamen clamores per quatuor fere miliaria horribiles, auxilium +postulantes. + +Ista itaque quae retuli incredibilia non erunt, si legatur beati Gregorii +dialogus, in quo refert, hominem in ecclesia sepultam, a daemonibus foras +ejectum. Et apud Francos Carolus Martellus insignis vir fortudinis, qui +Saracenos Galliam ingressos, Hispaniam redire compulit, exactis vitae suae +diebus, in Ecclesia beati Dionysii legitur fuisse sepultus. Sed quia +patrimonia, cum decimis omnium fere ecclesiarum Galliae, pro stipendio +commilitonum suorum mutilaverat, miserabiliter a malignis spiritibus de +sepulchro corporaliter avulsus, usque in hodiernum diem nusquam +comparuit. + +Matthew of Westminster. + + +This story is also related by Olaus Magnus, and in the Nuremberg +Chronicle, from which the wooden cut is taken. + + + +A BALLAD, + +SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. + + + The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal, + And the Old Woman knew what he said, + And she grew pale at the Raven's tale, + And sicken'd and went to her bed. + + Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed, + The Old Woman of Berkeley said, + The monk my son, and my daughter the nun + Bid them hasten or I shall be dead. + + The monk her son, and her daughter the nun, + Their way to Berkeley went, + And they have brought with pious thought + The holy sacrament. + + The old Woman shriek'd as they entered her door, + 'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear, + Now take the sacrament away + For mercy, my children dear! + + Her lip it trembled with agony, + The sweat ran down her brow, + I have tortures in store for evermore, + Oh! spare me my children now! + + Away they sent the sacrament, + The fit it left her weak, + She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes + And faintly struggled to speak. + + All kind of sin I have rioted in + And the judgment now must be, + But I secured my childrens souls, + Oh! pray my children for me. + + I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes, + The fiends have been my slaves, + I have nointed myself with infants fat, + And feasted on rifled graves. + + And the fiend will fetch me now in fire + My witchcrafts to atone, + And I who have rifled the dead man's grave + Shall never have rest in my own. + + Bless I intreat my winding sheet + My children I beg of you! + And with holy water sprinkle my shroud + And sprinkle my coffin too. + + And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone + And fasten it strong I implore + With iron bars, and let it be chain'd + With three chains to the church floor. + + And bless the chains and sprinkle them, + And let fifty priests stand round, + Who night and day the mass may say + Where I lie on the ground. + + And let fifty choristers be there + The funeral dirge to sing, + Who day and night by the taper's light + Their aid to me may bring. + + Let the church bells all both great and small + Be toll'd by night and day, + To drive from thence the fiends who come + To bear my corpse away. + + And ever have the church door barr'd + After the even song, + And I beseech you children dear + Let the bars and bolts be strong. + + And let this be three days and nights + My wretched corpse to save, + Preserve me so long from the fiendish throng + And then I may rest in my grave. + + The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down + And her eyes grew deadly dim, + Short came her breath and the struggle of death + Did loosen every limb. + + They blest the old woman's winding sheet + With rites and prayers as due, + With holy water they sprinkled her shroud + And they sprinkled her coffin too. + + And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone + And with iron barr'd it down, + And in the church with three strong chains + They chain'd it to the ground. + + And they blest the chains and sprinkled them, + And fifty priests stood round, + By night and day the mass to say + Where she lay on the ground. + + And fifty choristers were there + To sing the funeral song, + And a hallowed taper blazed in the hand + Of all the sacred throng. + + To see the priests and choristers + It was a goodly sight, + Each holding, as it were a staff, + A taper burning bright. + + And the church bells all both great and small + Did toll so loud and long, + And they have barr'd the church door hard + After the even song. + + And the first night the taper's light + Burnt steadily and clear. + But they without a hideous rout + Of angry fiends could hear; + + A hideous roar at the church door + Like a long thunder peal, + And the priests they pray'd and the choristers sung + Louder in fearful zeal. + + Loud toll'd the bell, the priests pray'd well, + The tapers they burnt bright, + The monk her son, and her daughter the nun + They told their beads all night. + + The cock he crew, away they flew + The fiends from the herald of day, + And undisturb'd the choristers sing + And the fifty priests they pray. + + The second night the taper's light + Burnt dismally and blue, + And every one saw his neighbour's face + Like a dead man's face to view. + + And yells and cries without arise + That the stoutest heart might shock, + And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring + Over a mountain rock. + + The monk and nun they told their beads + As fast as they could tell, + And aye as louder grew the noise + The faster went the bell. + + Louder and louder the choristers sung + As they trembled more and more, + And the fifty priests prayed to heaven for aid, + They never had prayed so before. + + The cock he crew, away they flew + The fiends from the herald of day, + And undisturb'd the choristers sing + And the fifty priests they pray. + + The third night came and the tapers flame + A hideous stench did make, + And they burnt as though they had been dipt + In the burning brimstone lake. + + And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean, + Grew momently more and more, + And strokes as of a battering ram + Did shake the strong church door. + + The bellmen they for very fear + Could toll the bell no longer, + And still as louder grew the strokes + Their fear it grew the stronger. + + The monk and nun forgot their beads, + They fell on the ground dismay'd, + There was not a single saint in heaven + Whom they did not call to aid. + + And the choristers song that late was so strong + Grew a quaver of consternation, + For the church did rock as an earthquake shock + Uplifted its foundation. + + And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast + That shall one day wake the dead, + The strong church door could bear no more + And the bolts and the bars they fled. + + And the taper's light was extinguish'd quite, + And the choristers faintly sung, + And the priests dismay'd, panted and prayed + Till fear froze every tongue. + + And in He came with eyes of flame + The Fiend to fetch the dead, + And all the church with his presence glowed + Like a fiery furnace red. + + He laid his hand on the iron chains + And like flax they moulder'd asunder, + And the coffin lid that was barr'd so firm + He burst with his voice of thunder. + + And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise + And come with her master away, + And the cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse, + At the voice she was forced to obey. + + She rose on her feet in her winding sheet, + Her dead flesh quivered with fear, + And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave + Never did mortal hear. + + She followed the fiend to the church door, + There stood a black horse there, + His breath was red like furnace smoke, + His eyes like a meteor's glare. + + The fiendish force flung her on the horse + And he leapt up before, + And away like the lightning's speed they went + And she was seen no more. + + They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks + For four miles round they could hear, + And children at rest at their mother's breast, + Started and screamed with fear. + + + + + +The Surgeon's Warning. + +The subject of this parody was given me by a friend, to whom also I am +indebted for some of the stanzas. + +Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the manner of +Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute to their Saints +and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare that it is by no means my +design to depreciate that useful invention; and all persons to whom this +Ballad shall come are requested to take notice, that nothing here +asserted concerning the aforesaid Coffins is true, except that the maker +and patentee lives by St. Martin's Lane. + + +THE SURGEONS' WARNING. + + +The Doctor whispered to the Nurse + And the Surgeon knew what he said, +And he grew pale at the Doctor's tale + And trembled in his sick bed. + +Now fetch me my brethren and fetch them with speed + The Surgeon affrighted said, +The Parson and the Undertaker, + Let them hasten or I shall be dead. + +The Parson and the Undertaker + They hastily came complying, +And the Surgeon's Prentices ran up stairs + When they heard that their master was dying. + +The Prentices all they entered the room + By one, by two, by three, +With a sly grin came Joseph in, + First of the company. + +The Surgeon swore as they enter'd his door, + 'Twas fearful his oaths to hear,-- +Now send these scoundrels to the Devil, + For God's sake my brethren dear. + +He foam'd at the mouth with the rage he felt + And he wrinkled his black eye-brow, +That rascal Joe would be at me I know, + But zounds let him spare me now. + +Then out they sent the Prentices, + The fit it left him weak, +He look'd at his brothers with ghastly eyes, + And faintly struggled to speak. + +All kinds of carcasses I have cut up, + And the judgment now must be-- +But brothers I took care of you, + So pray take care of me! + +I have made candles of infants fat + The Sextons have been my slaves, +I have bottled babes unborn, and dried + Hearts and livers from rifled graves. + +And my Prentices now will surely come + And carve me bone from bone, +And I who have rifled the dead man's grave + Shall never have rest in my own. + +Bury me in lead when I am dead, + My brethren I intreat, +And see the coffin weigh'd I beg + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +And let it be solder'd closely down + Strong as strong can be I implore, +And put it in a patent coffin, + That I may rise no more. + +If they carry me off in the patent coffin + Their labour will be in vain, +Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +And bury me in my brother's church + For that will safer be, +And I implore lock the church door + And pray take care of the key. + +And all night long let three stout men + The vestry watch within, +To each man give a gallon of beer + And a keg of Holland's gin; + +Powder and ball and blunder-buss + To save me if he can, +And eke five guineas if he shoot + A resurrection man. + +And let them watch me for three weeks + My wretched corpse to save, +For then I think that I may stink + Enough to rest in my grave. + +The Surgeon laid him down in his bed, + His eyes grew deadly dim, +Short came his breath and the struggle of death + Distorted every limb. + +They put him in lead when he was dead + And shrouded up so neat, +And they the leaden coffin weigh + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +They had it solder'd closely down + And examined it o'er and o'er, +And they put it in a patent coffin + That he might rise no more. + +For to carry him off in a patent coffin + Would they thought be but labour in vain, +So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +In his brother's church they buried him + That safer he might be, +They lock'd the door and would not trust + The Sexton with the key. + +And three men in the vestry watch + To save him if they can, +And should he come there to shoot they swear + A resurrection man. + +And the first night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +A guinea of gold the sexton shewed + That Mister Joseph sent. + +But conscience was tough, it was not enough + And their honesty never swerved, +And they bade him go with Mister Joe + To the Devil as he deserved. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The second night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +He whisper'd anew and shew'd them two + That Mister Joseph sent. + +The guineas were bright and attracted their sight + They look'd so heavy and new, +And their fingers itch'd as they were bewitch'd + And they knew not what to do. + +But they waver'd not long for conscience was strong + And they thought they might get more, +And they refused the gold, but not + So rudely as before. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The third night as by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard they went, +He bade them see and shew'd them three + That Mister Joseph sent. + +They look'd askance with eager glance, + The guineas they shone bright, +For the Sexton on the yellow gold + Let fall his lanthorn light. + +And he look'd sly with his roguish eye + And gave a well-tim'd wink, +And they could not stand the sound in his hand + For he made the guineas chink. + +And conscience late that had such weight, + All in a moment fails, +For well they knew that it was true + A dead man told no tales, + +And they gave all their powder and ball + And took the gold so bright, +And they drank their beer and made good cheer, + Till now it was midnight. + +Then, tho' the key of the church door + Was left with the Parson his brother, +It opened at the Sexton's touch-- + Because he had another. + +And in they go with that villain Joe + To fetch the body by night, +And all the church look'd dismally + By his dark lanthorn light. + +They laid the pick-axe to the stones + And they moved them soon asunder. +They shovell'd away the hard-prest clay + And came to the coffin under. + +They burst the patent coffin first + And they cut thro' the lead, +And they laugh'd aloud when they saw the shroud + Because they had got at the dead. + +And they allowed the Sexton the shroud + And they put the coffin back, +And nose and knees they then did squeeze + The Surgeon in a sack. + +The watchmen as they past along + Full four yards off could smell, +And a curse bestowed upon the load + So disagreeable. + +So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back + And they carv'd him bone from bone, +But what became of the Surgeon's soul + Was never to mortal known. + + + + + + + + + +THE VICTORY. + + + Hark--how the church-bells thundering harmony + Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come, + Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships + Met on the element,--they met, they fought + A desperate fight!--good tidings of great joy! + Old England triumphed! yet another day + Of glory for the ruler of the waves! + For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause, + They have their passing paragraphs of praise + And are forgotten. + There was one who died + In that day's glory, whose obscurer name + No proud historian's page will chronicle. + Peace to his honest soul! I read his name, + 'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God + The sound was not familiar to mine ear. + But it was told me after that this man + Was one whom lawful violence [1] had forced + From his own home and wife and little ones, + Who by his labour lived; that he was one + Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel + A husband's love, a father's anxiousness, + That from the wages of his toil he fed + The distant dear ones, and would talk of them + At midnight when he trod the silent deck + With him he valued, talk of them, of joys + That he had known--oh God! and of the hour + When they should meet again, till his full heart + His manly heart at last would overflow + Even like a child's with very tenderness. + Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly + It came, and merciful the ball of death, + For it came suddenly and shattered him, + And left no moment's agonizing thought + On those he loved so well. + He ocean deep + Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter + Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know + What a cold sickness made her blood run back + When first she heard the tidings of the fight; + Man does not know with what a dreadful hope + She listened to the names of those who died, + Man does not know, or knowing will not heed, + With what an agony of tenderness + She gazed upon her children, and beheld + His image who was gone. Oh God! be thou + Her comforter who art the widow's friend! + + +[Footnote 1: The person alluded to was pressed into the service.] + + + + + + + + + +HENRY THE HERMIT. + + + It was a little island where he dwelt, + Or rather a lone rock, barren and bleak, + Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots + Its gray stone surface. Never mariner + Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast, + Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark + Anchored beside its shore. It was a place + Befitting well a rigid anchoret, + Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys + And purposes of life; and he had dwelt + Many long years upon that lonely isle, + For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms, + Honours and friends and country and the world, + And had grown old in solitude. That isle + Some solitary man in other times + Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found + The little chapel that his toil had built + Now by the storms unroofed, his bed of leaves + Wind-scattered, and his grave o'ergrown with grass, + And thistles, whose white seeds winged in vain + Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost. + So he repaired the chapel's ruined roof, + Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone, + And underneath a rock that shelter'd him + From the sea blasts, he built his hermitage. + + The peasants from the shore would bring him food + And beg his prayers; but human converse else + He knew not in that utter solitude, + Nor ever visited the haunts of men + Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed + Implored his blessing and his aid in death. + That summons he delayed not to obey, + Tho' the night tempest or autumnal wind. + Maddened the waves, and tho' the mariner, + Albeit relying on his saintly load, + Grew pale to see the peril. So he lived + A most austere and self-denying man, + Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness + Exhausted him, and it was pain at last + To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less + Tho' with reluctance of infirmity, + He rose at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal + More self-condemning fervour rais'd his voice + For pardon for that sin, 'till that the sin + Repented was a joy like a good deed. + + One night upon the shore his chapel bell + Was heard; the air was calm, and its far sounds + Over the water came distinct and loud. + Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear + Its toll irregular, a monk arose. + The boatmen bore him willingly across + For well the hermit Henry was beloved. + He hastened to the chapel, on a stone + Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff and dead, + The bell-rope in his band, and at his feet + The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light + + +[Footnote 1: This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608.] + + + + + + + + + +English Eclogues. + +The following Eclogues I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in +our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, +and I was induced to attempt by an account of the German Idylls given me +in conversation. They cannot properly be stiled imitations, as I am +ignorant of that language at present, and have never seen any +translations or specimens in this kind. + +With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from ??tyrus [1] and +Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsises. No kind of poetry +can boast of more illustrious names or is more distinguished by the +servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers "more silly than +their sheep" have like their sheep gone on in the same track one after +another. Gay stumbled into a new path. His eclogues were the only ones +that interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were +burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for a long essay, but this +is not the place for it. + +How far poems requiring almost a colloquial plainness of language may +accord with the public taste I am doubtful. They have been subjected to +able criticism and revised with care. I have endeavoured to make them +true to nature. + + +[Footnote 1: The letters of this name are illegible (worn away?) in +the original text; from the remaining bits I have guessed all but the +first two, which are not visible under any magnification. text Ed.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE I. + + +THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE. + + + +STRANGER. + Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, + Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task + Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours. + + +OLD MAN. + Why yes! for one with such a weight of years + Upon his back. I've lived here, man and boy, + In this same parish, near the age of man + For I am hard upon threescore and ten. + I can remember sixty years ago + The beautifying of this mansion here + When my late Lady's father, the old Squire + Came to the estate. + + +STRANGER. + Why then you have outlasted + All his improvements, for you see they're making + Great alterations here. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye-great indeed! + And if my poor old Lady could rise up-- + God rest her soul! 'twould grieve her to behold + The wicked work is here. + + +STRANGER. + They've set about it + In right good earnest. All the front is gone, + Here's to be turf they tell me, and a road + Round to the door. There were some yew trees too + Stood in the court. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye Master! fine old trees! + My grandfather could just remember back + When they were planted there. It was my task + To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me! + All strait and smooth, and like a great green wall! + My poor old Lady many a time would come + And tell me where to shear, for she had played + In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride + To keep them in their beauty. Plague I say + On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have + A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs + And your pert poplar trees;--I could as soon + Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down! + + +STRANGER. + But 'twill be lighter and more chearful now, + A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road + Round for the carriage,--now it suits my taste. + I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh, + And then there's some variety about it. + In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose, + And the laburnum with its golden flowers + Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes + The bright red berries of the mountain ash, + With firs enough in winter to look green, + And show that something lives. Sure this is better + Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look + All the year round like winter, and for ever + Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs + So dry and bare! + + +OLD MAN. + Ah! so the new Squire thinks + And pretty work he makes of it! what 'tis + To have a stranger come to an old house! + + +STRANGER. + + It seems you know him not? + + +OLD MAN. + No Sir, not I. + They tell me he's expected daily now, + But in my Lady's time he never came + But once, for they were very distant kin. + If he had played about here when a child + In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries, + And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers, + That fell so thick, he had not had the heart + To mar all thus. + + +STRANGER. + Come--come! all a not wrong. + Those old dark windows-- + + +OLD MAN. + They're demolish'd too-- + As if he could not see thro' casement glass! + The very red-breasts that so regular + Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs, + Won't know the window now! + + +STRANGER. + Nay they were high + And then so darken'd up with jessamine, + Harbouring the vermine;--that was a fine tree + However. Did it not grow in and line + The porch? + + +OLD MAN. + All over it: it did one good + To pass within ten yards when 'twas in blossom. + There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside. + My Lady loved at evening to sit there + And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet + And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favourite dog + She did not love him less that he was old + And feeble, and he always had a place + By the fire-side, and when he died at last + She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. + Ah I she was good to all! a woful day + 'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! + + +STRANGER. + They lost a friend then? + + +OLD MAN. + You're a stranger here + Or would not ask that question. Were they sick? + She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs + She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter + When weekly she distributed the bread + In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear + The blessings on her! and I warrant them + They were a blessing to her when her wealth + Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir! + It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen + Her Christmas kitchen,--how the blazing fire + Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs + So chearful red,--and as for misseltoe, + The finest bough that grew in the country round + Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went + So bountiful about! a Christmas cask, + And 'twas a noble one! God help me Sir! + But I shall never see such days again. + + +STRANGER. + Things may be better yet than you suppose + And you should hope the best. + + +OLD MAN. + It don't look well + These alterations Sir! I'm an old man + And love the good old fashions; we don't find + Old bounty in new houses. They've destroyed + All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk + Grubb'd up, and they do say that the great row + Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top + They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think + To live to see all this, and 'tis perhaps + A comfort I shan't live to see it long. + + +STRANGER. + But sure all changes are not needs for the worse + My friend. + + +OLD MAN. + May-hap they mayn't Sir;--for all that + I like what I've been us'd to. I remember + All this from a child up, and now to lose it, + 'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left + As 'twas;--I go abroad and only meet + With men whose fathers I remember boys; + The brook that used to run before my door + That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt + To climb are down; and I see nothing now + That tells me of old times, except the stones + In the church-yard. You are young Sir and I hope + Have many years in store,--but pray to God + You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. + + +STRANGER. + Well! well! you've one friend more than you're aware of. + If the Squire's taste don't suit with your's, I warrant + That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste + His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady + E'er broached a better cask. You did not know me, + But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy + To make you like the outside; but within-- + That is not changed my friend! you'll always find + The same old bounty and old welcome there. + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE II. + + +THE GRANDMOTHERS TALE. + + + +JANE. + Harry! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round + The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us + One of her stories. + + +HARRY. + Aye--dear Grandmamma! + A pretty story! something dismal now; + A bloody murder. + + +JANE. + Or about a ghost. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Nay, nay, I should but frighten you. You know + The other night when I was telling you + About the light in the church-yard, how you trembled + Because the screech-owl hooted at the window, + And would not go to bed. + + +JANE. + Why Grandmamma + You said yourself you did not like to hear him. + Pray now! we wo'nt be frightened. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Well, well, children! + But you've heard all my stories. Let me see,-- + Did I never tell you how the smuggler murdered + The woman down at Pill? + + +HARRY. + No--never! never! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Not how he cut her head off in the stable? + + +HARRY. + Oh--now! do tell us that! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + You must have heard + Your Mother, children! often tell of her. + She used to weed in the garden here, and worm + Your uncle's dogs [1], and serve the house with coal; + And glad enough she was in winter time + To drive her asses here! it was cold work + To follow the slow beasts thro' sleet and snow, + And here she found a comfortable meal + And a brave fire to thaw her, for poor Moll + Was always welcome. + + +HARRY. + Oh--'twas blear-eyed Moll + The collier woman,--a great ugly woman, + I've heard of her. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Ugly enough poor soul! + At ten yards distance you could hardly tell + If it were man or woman, for her voice + Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore + A man's old coat and hat,--and then her face! + There was a merry story told of her, + How when the press-gang came to take her husband + As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, + Drest John up in her night-cap, and herself + Put on his clothes and went before the Captain. + + +JANE. + And so they prest a woman! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + 'Twas a trick + She dearly loved to tell, and all the country + Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel + For miles around. All weathers and all hours + She crossed the hill, as hardy as her beasts, + Bearing the wind and rain and winter frosts, + And if she did not reach her home at night + She laid her down in the stable with her asses + And slept as sound as they did. + + +HARRY. + With her asses! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Yes, and she loved her beasts. For tho' poor wretch + She was a terrible reprobate and swore + Like any trooper, she was always good + To the dumb creatures, never loaded them + Beyond their strength, and rather I believe + Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want, + Because, she said, they could not ask for food. + I never saw her stick fall heavier on them + Than just with its own weight. She little thought + This tender-heartedness would be her death! + There was a fellow who had oftentimes, + As if he took delight in cruelty. + Ill-used her Asses. He was one who lived + By smuggling, and, for she had often met him + Crossing the down at night, she threatened him, + If he tormented them again, to inform + Of his unlawful ways. Well--so it was-- + 'Twas what they both were born to, he provoked her, + She laid an information, and one morn + They found her in the stable, her throat cut + From ear to ear,'till the head only hung + Just by a bit of skin. + + +JANE. + Oh dear! oh dear! + + +HARRY. + I hope they hung the man! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + They took him up; + There was no proof, no one had seen the deed, + And he was set at liberty. But God + Whoss eye beholdeth all things, he had seen + The murder, and the murderer knew that God + Was witness to his crime. He fled the place, + But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand + Of heaven, but nowhere could the murderer rest, + A guilty conscience haunted him, by day, + By night, in company, in solitude, + Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him + The weight of blood; her cries were in his ears, + Her stifled groans as when he knelt upon her + Always he heard; always he saw her stand + Before his eyes; even in the dead of night + Distinctly seen as tho' in the broad sun, + She stood beside the murderer's bed and yawn'd + Her ghastly wound; till life itself became + A punishment at last he could not bear, + And he confess'd [2] it all, and gave himself + To death, so terrible, he said, it was + To have a guilty conscience! + + +HARRY. + Was he hung then? + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man, + Your uncles went to see him on his trial, + He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed, + And such a horror in his meagre face, + They said he look'd like one who never slept. + He begg'd the prayers of all who saw his end + And met his death with fears that well might warn + From guilt, tho' not without a hope in Christ. + + +[Footnote 1: I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common +in other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from doing +any mischief should they afterwards become mad.] + +[Footnote 2: There must be many persons living who remember these +circumstances. They happened two or three and twenty years ago, in the +neighbourhood of Bristol. The woman's name was Bees. The stratagem by +which she preserved her husband from the press-gang, is also true.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE III. + + +THE FUNERAL. + + + + The coffin [1] as I past across the lane + Came sudden on my view. It was not here, + A sight of every day, as in the streets + Of the great city, and we paus'd and ask'd + Who to the grave was going. It was one, + A village girl, they told us, who had borne + An eighteen months strange illness, and had pined + With such slow wasting that the hour of death + Came welcome to her. We pursued our way + To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk + That passes o'er the mind and is forgot, + We wore away the time. But it was eve + When homewardly I went, and in the air + Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade + That makes the eye turn inward. Then I heard + Over the vale the heavy toll of death + Sound slow; it made me think upon the dead, + I questioned more and learnt her sorrowful tale. + She bore unhusbanded a mother's name, + And he who should have cherished her, far off + Sail'd on the seas, self-exil'd from his home, + For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched one, + Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues + Were busy with her name. She had one ill + Heavier, neglect, forgetfulness from him + Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote, + But only once that drop of comfort came + To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; + And when his parents had some tidings from him, + There was no mention of poor Hannah there, + Or 'twas the cold enquiry, bitterer + Than silence. So she pined and pined away + And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd, + Nor did she, even on her death bed, rest + From labour, knitting with her outstretch'd arms + Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother + Omitted no kind office, and she work'd + Hard, and with hardest working barely earn'd + Enough to make life struggle and prolong + The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay + On the sick bed of poverty, so worn + With her long suffering and that painful thought + That at her heart lay rankling, and so weak, + That she could make no effort to express + Affection for her infant; and the child, + Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her + With a strange infantine ingratitude + Shunn'd her as one indifferent. She was past + That anguish, for she felt her hour draw on, + And 'twas her only comfoft now to think + Upon the grave. "Poor girl!" her mother said, + "Thou hast suffered much!" "aye mother! there is none + "Can tell what I have suffered!" she replied, + "But I shall soon be where the weary rest." + And she did rest her soon, for it pleased God + To take her to his mercy. + + +[Footnote 1: It is proper to remark that the story related in this +Eclogue is strictly true. I met the funeral, and learnt the +circumstances in a village in Hampshire. The indifference of the child +was mentioned to me; indeed no addition whatever has been made to the +story. I should have thought it wrong to have weakened the effect of a +faithful narrative by adding any thing.] + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE IV. + + +THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. + + + +WOMAN. + Sir for the love of God some small relief + To a poor woman! + + +TRAVELLER. + Whither are you bound? + 'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, + No house for miles around us, and the way + Dreary and wild. The evening wind already + Makes one's teeth chatter, and the very Sun, + Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, + Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night! + + +WOMAN. + Aye Sir + 'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath, + Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end, + For the way is long before me, and my feet, + God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly, + If it pleased God, lie down at once and die. + + +TRAVELLER. + Nay nay cheer up! a little food and rest + Will comfort you; and then your journey's end + Will make amends for all. You shake your head, + And weep. Is it some evil business then + That leads you from your home? + + +WOMAN. + Sir I am going + To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt + In the late action, and in the hospital + Dying, I fear me, now. + + +TRAVELLER. + Perhaps your fears + Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost + There may be still enough for comfort left + An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart + To keep life warm, and he may live to talk + With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd him, + Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude + Makes the maim'd sailor happy. + + +WOMAN. + 'Tis not that-- + An arm or leg--I could have borne with that. + 'Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing + That bursts [1] and burns that hurt him. Something Sir + They do not use on board our English ships + It is so wicked! + + +TRAVELLER. + Rascals! a mean art + Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain! + + +WOMAN. + Yes Sir! and they should show no mercy to them + For making use of such unchristian arms. + I had a letter from the hospital, + He got some friend to write it, and he tells me + That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes, + Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever live + To see this wretched day!--they tell me Sir + There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed + 'Tis a hard journey that I go upon + To such a dismal end! + + +TRAVELLER. + He yet may live. + But if the worst should chance, why you must bear + The will of heaven with patience. Were it not + Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen + Fighting his country's cause? and for yourself + You will not in unpitied poverty + Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country + Amid the triumph of her victory + Remember those who paid its price of blood, + And with a noble charity relieves + The widow and the orphan. + + +WOMAN. + God reward them! + God bless them, it will help me in my age + But Sir! it will not pay me for my child! + + +TRAVELLER. + Was he your only child? + + +WOMAN. + My only one, + The stay and comfort of my widowhood, + A dear good boy!--when first he went to sea + I felt what it would come to,--something told me + I should be childless soon. But tell me Sir + If it be true that for a hurt like his + There is no cure? please God to spare his life + Tho' he be blind, yet I should be so thankful! + I can remember there was a blind man + Lived in our village, one from his youth up + Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, + And he had none to tend on him so well + As I would tend my boy! + + +TRAVELLER. + Of this be sure + His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help + The place affords, as rightly is his due, + Ever at hand. How happened it he left you? + Was a seafaring life his early choice? + + +WOMAN. + No Sir! poor fellow--he was wise enough + To be content at home, and 'twas a home + As comfortable Sir I even tho' I say it, + As any in the country. He was left + A little boy when his poor father died, + Just old enough to totter by himself + And call his mother's name. We two were all, + And as we were not left quite destitute + We bore up well. In the summer time I worked + Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting, + And in long winter nights my spinning wheel + Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too + And never felt distress. So he grew up + A comely lad and wonderous well disposed; + I taught him well; there was not in the parish + A child who said his prayers more regular, + Or answered readier thro' his catechism. + If I had foreseen this! but 'tis a blessing + We do'nt know what we're born to! + + +TRAVELLER. + But how came it + He chose to be a Sailor? + + +WOMAN. + You shall hear Sir; + As he grew up he used to watch the birds + In the corn, child's work you know, and easily done. + 'Tis an idle sort of task, so he built up + A little hut of wicker-work and clay + Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain. + And then he took for very idleness + To making traps to catch the plunderers, + All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make-- + Propping a stone to fall and shut them in, + Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe + Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly-- + And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased + To see the boy so handy. You may guess + What followed Sir from this unlucky skill. + He did what he should not when he was older: + I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught + In wiring hares at last, and had his choice + The prison or the ship. + + +TRAVELLER. + The choice at least + Was kindly left him, and for broken laws + This was methinks no heavy punishment. + + +WOMAN. + So I was told Sir. And I tried to think so, + But 'twas a sad blow to me! I was used + To sleep at nights soundly and undisturb'd-- + Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start + And think of my poor boy tossing about + Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem'd + To feel that it was hard to take him from me + For such a little fault. But he was wrong + Oh very wrong--a murrain on his traps! + See what they've brought him too! + + +TRAVELLER. + Well! well! take comfort + He will be taken care of if he lives; + And should you lose your child, this is a country + Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent + To weep for him in want. + + +WOMAN. + Sir I shall want + No succour long. In the common course of years + I soon must be at rest, and 'tis a comfort + When grief is hard upon me to reflect + It only leads me to that rest the sooner. + + +[Footnote 1: The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the +engagement between the Mars and L'Hercule, some of our sailors were +shockingly mangled by them: One in particular, as described in the +Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be policy and humanity to employ +means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to +destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only inflicts +additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is cruel and +wicked.] + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE V. + + +THE WITCH. + + + +NATHANIEL. + Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe! + Faith it was just in time, for t'other night + I laid two straws across at Margery's door, + And afterwards I fear'd that she might do me + A mischief for't. There was the Miller's boy + Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, + I met him upon crutches, and he told me + 'Twas all her evil eye. + + +FATHER. + 'Tis rare good luck; + I would have gladly given a crown for one + If t'would have done as well. But where did'st find it? + + +NATHANIEL. + Down on the Common; I was going a-field + And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare; + He had hardly said "good day," before I saw + The shoe drop off; 'twas just upon my tongue + To call him back,--it makes no difference, does it. + Because I know whose 'twas? + + +FATHER. + Why no, it can't. + The shoe's the same you know, and you 'did find' it. + + +NATHANIEL. + That mare of his has got a plaguey road + To travel, father, and if he should lame her, + For she is but tender-footed,-- + + +FATHER. + Aye, indeed-- + I should not like to see her limping back + Poor beast! but charity begins at home, + And Nat, there's our own horse in such a way + This morning! + + +NATHANIEL. + Why he ha'nt been rid again! + Last night I hung a pebble by the manger + With a hole thro', and every body says + That 'tis a special charm against the hags. + + +FATHER. + It could not be a proper natural hole then, + Or 'twas not a right pebble,--for I found him + Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, + And panting so! God knows where he had been + When we were all asleep, thro' bush and brake + Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch + At such a deadly rate!-- + + +NATHANIEL. + By land and water, + Over the sea perhaps!--I have heard tell + That 'tis some thousand miles, almost at the end + Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. + They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear + Some ointment over them and then away + Out of the window! but 'tis worse than all + To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it + That in a Christian country they should let + Such creatures live! + + +FATHER. + And when there's such plain proof! + I did but threaten her because she robb'd + Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind + That made me shake to hear it in my bed! + How came it that that storm unroofed my barn, + And only mine in the parish? look at her + And that's enough; she has it in her face-- + A pair of large dead eyes, rank in her head, + Just like a corpse, and purs'd with wrinkles round, + A nose and chin that scarce leave room between + For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff, + And when she speaks! I'd sooner hear a raven + Croak at my door! she sits there, nose and knees + Smoak-dried and shrivell'd over a starved fire, + With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes + Shine like old Beelzebub's, and to be sure + It must be one of his imps!--aye, nail it hard. + + +NATHANIEL. + I wish old Margery heard the hammer go! + She'd curse the music. + + +FATHER. + Here's the Curate coming, + He ought to rid the parish of such vermin; + In the old times they used to hunt them out + And hang them without mercy, but Lord bless us! + The world is grown so wicked! + + +CURATE. + Good day Farmer! + Nathaniel what art nailing to the threshold? + + +NATHANIEL. + A horse-shoe Sir, 'tis good to keep off witchcraft, + And we're afraid of Margery. + + +CURATE. + Poor old woman! + What can you fear from her? + + +FATHER. + What can we fear? + Who lamed the Miller's boy? who rais'd the wind + That blew my old barn's roof down? who d'ye think + Rides my poor horse a'nights? who mocks the hounds? + But let me catch her at that trick again, + And I've a silver bullet ready for her, + One that shall lame her, double how she will. + + +NATHANIEL. + What makes her sit there moping by herself, + With no soul near her but that great black cat? + And do but look at her! + + +CURATE. + Poor wretch! half blind + And crooked with her years, without a child + Or friend in her old age, 'tis hard indeed + To have her very miseries made her crimes! + I met her but last week in that hard frost + That made my young limbs ache, and when I ask'd + What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman + Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad + And pick the hedges, just to keep herself + From perishing with cold, because no neighbour + Had pity on her age; and then she cried, + And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, + And wish'd that she were dead. + + +FATHER. + I wish she was! + She has plagued the parish long enough! + + +CURATE. + Shame farmer! + Is that the charity your bible teaches? + + +FATHER. + My bible does not teach me to love witches. + I know what's charity; who pays his tithes + And poor-rates readier? + + +CURATE. + Who can better do it? + You've been a prudent and industrious man, + And God has blest your labour. + + +FATHER. + Why, thank God Sir, + I've had no reason to complain of fortune. + + +CURATE. + Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish + Look up to you. + + +FATHER. + Perhaps Sir, I could tell + Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. + + +CURATE. + You can afford a little to the poor, + And then what's better still, you have the heart + To give from your abundance. + + +FATHER. + God forbid + I should want charity! + + +CURATE. + Oh! 'tis a comfort + To think at last of riches well employ'd! + I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth + Of a good deed at that most awful hour + When riches profit not. + Farmer, I'm going + To visit Margery. She is sick I hear-- + Old, poor, and sick! a miserable lot, + And death will be a blessing. You might send her + Some little matter, something comfortable, + That she may go down easier to the grave + And bless you when she dies. + + +FATHER. + What! is she going! + Well God forgive her then! if she has dealt + In the black art. I'll tell my dame of it, + And she shall send her something. + + +CURATE. + So I'll say; + And take my thanks for her's. ['goes'] + + +FATHER. + That's a good man + That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit + The poor in sickness; but he don't believe + In witchcraft, and that is not like a christian. + + +NATHANIEL. + And so old Margery's dying! + + +FATHER. + But you know + She may recover; so drive t'other nail in! + + + + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE VI. + + +THE RUINED COTTAGE. + + + + Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye, + This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch, + Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower + Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock + That thro' the creeping weeds and nettles tall + Peers taller, and uplifts its column'd stem + Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen + Many a fallen convent reverend in decay, + And many a time have trod the castle courts + And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike + Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts + As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch + Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof + Part mouldered in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds, + House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss; + So Nature wars with all the works of man. + And, like himself, reduces back to earth + His perishable piles. + I led thee here + Charles, not without design; for this hath been + My favourite walk even since I was a boy; + And I remember Charles, this ruin here, + The neatest comfortable dwelling place! + That when I read in those dear books that first + Woke in my heart the love of poesy, + How with the villagers Erminia dwelt, + And Calidore for a fair shepherdess + Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd's lore; + My fancy drew from, this the little hut + Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love, + Or where the gentle Calidore at eve + Led Pastorella home. There was not then + A weed where all these nettles overtop + The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet + The morning air, rosemary and marjoram, + All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath'd + So lavishly around the pillared porch + Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way, + After a truant absence hastening home, + I could not chuse but pass with slacken'd speed + By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed + Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!-- + Theirs is a simple melancholy tale, + There's scarce a village but can fellow it, + And yet methinks it will not weary thee, + And should not be untold. + A widow woman + Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want, + She lived on some small pittance that sufficed, + In better times, the needful calls of life, + Not without comfort. I remember her + Sitting at evening in that open door way + And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her + Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles + To see the passer by, yet ceasing not + To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden + On some dry summer evening, walking round + To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean'd + Upon the ivory handle of her stick, + To some carnation whose o'erheavy head + Needed support, while with the watering-pot + Joanna followed, and refresh'd and trimm'd + The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child, + As lovely and as happy then as youth + And innocence could make her. + Charles! it seems + As tho' I were a boy again, and all + The mediate years with their vicissitudes + A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid + So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair, + Her bright brown hair, wreath'd in contracting curls, + And then her cheek! it was a red and white + That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome, + The countrymen who on their way to church + Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear + The bell's last summons, and in idleness + Watching the stream below, would all look up + When she pass'd by. And her old Mother, Charles! + When I have beard some erring infidel + Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed, + Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness. + Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love + The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross'd + These fields in rain and thro' the winter snows. + When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself + By the fire-side, have wondered why 'she' came + Who might have sate at home. + One only care + Hung on her aged spirit. For herself, + Her path was plain before her, and the close + Of her long journey near. But then her child + Soon to be left alone in this bad world,-- + That was a thought that many a winter night + Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love + In something better than a servant's slate + Had placed her well at last, it was a pang + Like parting life to part with her dear girl. + + One summer, Charles, when at the holydays + Return'd from school, I visited again + My old accustomed walks, and found in them. + A joy almost like meeting an old friend, + I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds + Already crowding the neglected flowers. + Joanna by a villain's wiles seduced + Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach'd + Her mother's heart. She did not suffer long, + Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow + Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. + + I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes + And think of other days. It wakes in me + A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles + That ever with these recollections rise, + I trust in God they will not pass away. + + + + + + + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, 1799, by Robert Southey + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + +***** This file should be named 8639.txt or 8639.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/6/3/8639/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Poems, 1799 + +Author: Robert Southey + +Release Date: August, 2005 [EBook #8639] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 29, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + +POEMS, + +by + +Robert Southey. + + + + The better, please; the worse, displease; I ask no more. + + SPENSER. + + + +THE SECOND VOLUME. + + + +CONTENTS. + + + THE VISION of THE MAID of ORLEANS. + + Book 1 + 2 + 3 + + + The Rose + + The Complaints of the Poor + + Metrical Letter + + + BALLADS. + + The Cross Roads. + + The Sailor who had served in the Slave Trade + + Jaspar + + Lord William + + A Ballad shewing how an old woman rode double + and who rode before her + + The Surgeon's Warning + + The Victory + + Henry the Hermit + + + ENGLISH ECLOGUES. + + The Old Mansion House + + The Grandmother's Tale + + The Funeral + + The Sailor's Mother + + The Witch + + The Ruined Cottage + + + + + + + + + + +The Vision + +of + +The Maid of Orleans. + + + + + Divinity hath oftentimes descended + Upon our slumbers, and the blessed troupes + Have, in the calme and quiet of the soule, + Conversed with us. + + SHIRLEY. 'The Grateful Servant' + + + + + + +[Sidenote: The following Vision was originally printed as the ninth book +of 'JOAN of ARC'. It is now adapted to the improved edition of that +Poem.] + + + + + + +THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE FIRST BOOK. + + + + Orleans was hush'd in sleep. Stretch'd on her couch + The delegated Maiden lay: with toil + Exhausted and sore anguish, soon she closed + Her heavy eye-lids; not reposing then, + For busy Phantasy, in other scenes + Awakened. Whether that superior powers, + By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream, + Instructing so the passive [1] faculty; + Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog, + Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world, + And all things 'are' that [2] 'seem'. + + Along a moor, + Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate, + She roam'd a wanderer thro' the cheerless night. + Far thro' the silence of the unbroken plain + The bittern's boom was heard, hoarse, heavy, deep, + It made most fitting music to the scene. + Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind, + Swept shadowing; thro' their broken folds the moon + Struggled sometimes with transitory ray, + And made the moving darkness visible. + And now arrived beside a fenny lake + She stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarse + The long sedge rustled to the gales of night. + An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell'd + By powers unseen; then did the moon display + Where thro' the crazy vessel's yawning side + The muddy wave oozed in: a female guides, + And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan'd + As melancholy mournful to her ear, + As ever by the dungeon'd wretch was heard + Howling at evening round the embattled towers + Of that hell-house [3] of France, ere yet sublime + The almighty people from their tyrant's hand + Dash'd down the iron rod. + Intent the Maid + Gazed on the pilot's form, and as she gazed + Shiver'd, for wan her face was, and her eyes + Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep, + Channell'd by tears; a few grey locks hung down + Beneath her hood: then thro' the Maiden's veins + Chill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass'd, + Lifting her tattcr'd mantle, coil'd around + She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart. + + The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by, + And the night-raven's scream came fitfully, + Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid + Look'd to the shore, and now upon the bank + Leaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling still + In recollection. + + There, a mouldering pile + Stretch'd its wide ruins, o'er the plain below + Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon + Shone thro' its fretted windows: the dark Yew, + Withering with age, branched there its naked roots, + And there the melancholy Cypress rear'd + Its head; the earth was heav'd with many a mound, + And here and there a half-demolish'd tomb. + + And now, amid the ruin's darkest shade, + The Virgin's eye beheld where pale blue flames + Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth, + And now in darkness drown'd. An aged man + Sat near, seated on what in long-past days + Had been some sculptur'd monument, now fallen + And half-obscured by moss, and gathered heaps + Of withered yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones; + And shining in the ray was seen the track + Of slimy snail obscene. Composed his look, + His eye was large and rayless, and fix'd full + Upon the Maid; the blue flames on his face + Stream'd a pale light; his face was of the hue + Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud. + + Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice, + Exclaim'd the Spectre, "Welcome to these realms, + These regions of DESPAIR! O thou whose steps + By GRIEF conducted to these sad abodes + Have pierced; welcome, welcome to this gloom + Eternal, to this everlasting night, + Where never morning darts the enlivening ray, + Where never shines the sun, but all is dark, + Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King." + + So saying he arose, and by the hand + The Virgin seized with such a death-cold touch + As froze her very heart; and drawing on, + Her, to the abbey's inner ruin, led + Resistless. Thro' the broken roof the moon + Glimmer'd a scatter'd ray; the ivy twined + Round the dismantled column; imaged forms + Of Saints and warlike Chiefs, moss-canker'd now + And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground, + With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen, + And rusted trophies; and amid the heap + Some monument's defaced legend spake + All human glory vain. + + The loud blast roar'd + Amid the pile; and from the tower the owl + Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest. + He, silent, led her on, and often paus'd, + And pointed, that her eye might contemplate + At leisure the drear scene. + He dragged her on + Thro' a low iron door, down broken stairs; + Then a cold horror thro' the Maiden's frame + Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw, + By the sepulchral lamp's dim glaring light, + The fragments of the dead. + "Look here!" he cried, + "Damsel, look here! survey this house of Death; + O soon to tenant it! soon to increase + These trophies of mortality! for hence + Is no return. Gaze here! behold this skull, + These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws, + That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mock + Thy perishable charms; for thus thy cheek + Must moulder. Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul, + Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heart + At the dread thought, that here its life's-blood soon + Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon + With the cold clod? a thought most horrible! + So only dreadful, for reality + Is none of suffering here; here all is peace; + No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave. + Dreadful it is to think of losing life; + But having lost, knowledge of loss is not, + Therefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose; + Probe deep the seat of life." + So spake DESPAIR + The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice, + And all again was silence. Quick her heart + Panted. He drew a dagger from his breast, + And cried again, "Haste Damsel to repose! + One blow, and rest for ever!" On the Fiend + Dark scowl'd the Virgin with indignant eye, + And dash'd the dagger down. He next his heart + Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid + Along the downward vault. + The damp earth gave + A dim sound as they pass'd: the tainted air + Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews. + "Behold!" the fiend exclaim'd, "how gradual here + The fleshly burden of mortality + Moulders to clay!" then fixing his broad eye + Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse + Lay livid; she beheld with loathing look, + The spectacle abhorr'd by living man. + + "Look here!" DESPAIR pursued, "this loathsome mass + Was once as lovely, and as full of life + As, Damsel! thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes + Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence, + And where thou seest the pamper'd flesh-worm trail, + Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought + That at the hallowed altar, soon the Priest + Should bless her coming union, and the torch + Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy, + Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earth + That Priest consign'd her, and the funeral lamp + Glares on her cold face; for her lover went + By glory lur'd to war, and perish'd there; + Nor she endur'd to live. Ha! fades thy cheek? + Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale? + Look here! behold the youthful paramour! + The self-devoted hero!" + Fearfully + The Maid look'd down, and saw the well known face + Of THEODORE! in thoughts unspeakable, + Convulsed with horror, o'er her face she clasp'd + Her cold damp hands: "Shrink not," the Phantom cried, + "Gaze on! for ever gaze!" more firm he grasp'd + Her quivering arm: "this lifeless mouldering clay, + As well thou know'st, was warm with all the glow + Of Youth and Love; this is the arm that cleaved + Salisbury's proud crest, now motionless in death, + Unable to protect the ravaged frame + From the foul Offspring of Mortality + That feed on heroes. Tho' long years were thine, + Yet never more would life reanimate + This murdered man; murdered by thee! for thou + Didst lead him to the battle from his home, + Else living there in peace to good old age: + In thy defence he died: strike deep! destroy + Remorse with Life." + The Maid stood motionless, + And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand + Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried, + "Avaunt DESPAIR! Eternal Wisdom deals + Or peace to man, or misery, for his good + Alike design'd; and shall the Creature cry, + Why hast thou done this? and with impious pride + Destroy the life God gave?" + The Fiend rejoin'd, + "And thou dost deem it impious to destroy + The life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lot + Assigned to mortal man? born but to drag, + Thro' life's long pilgrimage, the wearying load + Of being; care corroded at the heart; + Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills + That flesh inherits; till at length worn out, + This is his consummation!--think again! + What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd life + But lengthen'd sorrow? If protracted long, + Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs + Outstretch their languid length, oh think what thoughts, + What agonizing woes, in that dread hour, + Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse, + Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew + The shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force, + Mightiest in impotence, the love of life + Seizes the throbbing heart, the faltering lips + Pour out the impious prayer, that fain would change + The unchangeable's decree, surrounding friends + Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears, + And all he loved in life embitters death! + + Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hour + Of calmest dissolution! yet weak man + Dares, in his timid piety, to live; + And veiling Fear in Superstition's garb, + He calls her Resignation! + Coward wretch! + Fond Coward! thus to make his Reason war + Against his Reason! Insect as he is, + This sport of Chance, this being of a day, + Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast, + Believes himself the care of heavenly powers, + That God regards Man, miserable Man, + And preaching thus of Power and Providence, + Will crush the reptile that may cross his path! + + Fool that thou art! the Being that permits + Existence, 'gives' to man the worthless boon: + A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest, + Bask in the sunshine of Prosperity, + And such do well to keep it. But to one + Sick at the heart with misery, and sore + With many a hard unmerited affliction, + It is a hair that chains to wretchedness + The slave who dares not burst it! + Thinkest thou, + The parent, if his child should unrecall'd + Return and fall upon his neck, and cry, + Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and full + Of vacant joys and heart-consuming cares, + I can be only happy in my home + With thee--my friend!--my father! Thinkest thou, + That he would thrust him as an outcast forth? + Oh I he would clasp the truant to his heart, + And love the trespass." + Whilst he spake, his eye + Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul + Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood, + Even as the wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave + Supply, before him sees the poison'd food + In greedy horror. + Yet not long the Maid + Debated, "Cease thy dangerous sophistry, + Eloquent tempter!" cried she. "Gloomy one! + What tho' affliction be my portion here, + Think'st thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy. + Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back + Upon a life of duty well perform'd, + Then lift mine eyes to Heaven, and there in faith + Know my reward? I grant, were this life all, + Was there no morning to the tomb's long night, + If man did mingle with the senseless clod, + Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed + A wise and friendly comforter! But, Fiend! + There is a morning to the tomb's long night, + A dawn of glory, a reward in Heaven, + He shall not gain who never merited. + If thou didst know the worth of one good deed + In life's last hour, thou would'st not bid me lose + The power to benefit; if I but save + A drowning fly, I shall not live in vain. + I have great duties, Fiend! me France expects, + Her heaven-doom'd Champion." + "Maiden, thou hast done + Thy mission here," the unbaffled Fiend replied: + "The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchance + Exulting in the pride of victory, + Forgettest him who perish'd! yet albeit + Thy harden'd heart forget the gallant youth; + That hour allotted canst thou not escape, + That dreadful hour, when Contumely and Shame + Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid! + Destined to drain the cup of bitterness, + Even to its dregs! England's inhuman Chiefs + Shall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame, + Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity, + And force such burning blushes to the cheek + Of Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish + The earth might cover thee! in that last hour, + When thy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the chains + That link thee to the stake; when o'er thy form, + Exposed unmantled, the brute multitude + Shall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt, + More painful than the circling flames that scorch + Each quivering member; wilt thou not in vain + Then wish my friendly aid? then wish thine ear + Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand + Had grasp'd the dagger, and in death preserved + Insulted modesty?" + Her glowing cheek + Blush'd crimson; her wide eye on vacancy + Was fix'd; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend, + Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, "too-timid Maid, + So long repugnant to the healing aid + My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold + The allotted length of life." + He stamp'd the earth, + And dragging a huge coffin as his car, + Two GOULS came on, of form more fearful-foul + Than ever palsied in her wildest dream + Hag-ridden Superstition. Then DESPAIR + Seiz'd on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still. + And placed her in the seat; and on they pass'd + Adown the deep descent. A meteor light + Shot from the Daemons, as they dragg'd along + The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethren glut + On carcasses. + Below the vault dilates + Its ample bulk. "Look here!"--DESPAIR addrest + The shuddering Virgin, "see the dome of DEATH!" + It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid + The entrails of the earth, as tho' to form + The grave of all mankind: no eye could reach, + Tho' gifted with the Eagle's ample ken, + Its distant bounds. There, thron'd in darkness, dwelt + The unseen POWER OF DEATH. + Here stopt the GOULS, + Reaching the destin'd spot. The Fiend leapt out, + And from the coffin, as he led the Maid, + Exclaim'd, "Where never yet stood mortal man, + Thou standest: look around this boundless vault; + Observe the dole that Nature deals to man, + And learn to know thy friend." + She not replied, + Observing where the Fates their several tasks + Plied ceaseless. "Mark how short the longest web + Allowed to man! he cried; observe how soon, + Twin'd round yon never-resting wheel, they change + Their snowy hue, darkening thro' many a shade, + Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!" + + Too true he spake, for of the countless threads, + Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn'd snow, + Or as the lovely lilly of the vale, + Was never one beyond the little span + Of infancy untainted: few there were + But lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue, + Or deeper sable [4] died. Two Genii stood, + Still as the web of Being was drawn forth, + Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn, + The one unsparing dash'd the bitter wave + Of woe; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow + Relax'd to a hard smile. The milder form + Shed less profusely there his lesser store; + Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon, + Mourning the lot of man; and happy he + Who on his thread those precious drops receives; + If it be happiness to have the pulse + Throb fast with pity, and in such a world + Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches + With anguish at the sight of human woe. + + To her the Fiend, well hoping now success, + "This is thy thread! observe how short the span, + And see how copious yonder Genius pours + The bitter stream of woe." The Maiden saw + Fearless. "Now gaze!" the tempter Fiend exclaim'd, + And placed again the poniard in her hand, + For SUPERSTITION, with sulphureal torch + Stalk'd to the loom. "This, Damsel, is thy fate! + The hour draws on--now drench the dagger deep! + Now rush to happier worlds!" + The Maid replied, + "Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven, + Impious I strive not: be that will perform'd!" + + +[Footnote 1: + + May fays of Serapis, + Erudit at placide humanam per somnia mentem, + 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'.] + + +[Footnote 2: I have met with a singular tale to illustrate this +spiritual theory of dreams. + +Guntram, King of the Franks, was liberal to the poor, and he himself +experienced the wonderful effects of divine liberality. For one day as +he was hunting in a forest he was separated from his companions and +arrived at a little stream of water with only one comrade of tried and +approved fidelity. Here he found himself opprest by drowsiness, and +reclining his head upon the servant's lap went to sleep. The servant +witnessed a wonderful thing, for he saw a little beast ('bestiolam') +creep out of the mouth of his sleeping master, and go immediately to the +streamlet, which it vainly attempted to cross. The servant drew his +sword and laid it across the water, over which the little beast easily +past and crept into a hole of a mountain on the opposite side; from +whence it made its appearance again in an hour, and returned by the same +means into the King's mouth. The King then awakened, and told his +companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon the bank of an +immense river, which he had crossed by a bridge of iron, and from thence +came to a mountain in which a great quantity of gold was concealed. When +the King had concluded, the servant related what he had beheld, and they +both went to examine the mountain, where upon digging they discovered an +immense weight of gold. + +I stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled SPHINX +'Theologico-Philosophica. Authore Johanne Heidfeldio, Ecclesiaste +Ebersbachiano.' 1621. + +The same story is in Matthew of Westminster; it is added that Guntram +applied the treasures thus found to pious uses. + +For the truth of this theory there is the evidence of a Monkish miracle. +When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian and visit the world of +souls, his guide said to him, "let thy body rest in the bed for thy +spirit only is about to depart with me; and lest the body should appear +dead, I will send into it a vital breath." + +The body however by a strange sympathy was affected like the spirit; for +when the foul and fetid smoke that arose from tithes witheld, had nearly +suffocated Thurcillus, and made him cough twice, those who were near his +body said that it coughed twice about the same time. + +'Matthew Paris'.] + + +[Footnote 3: The Bastille. The expression is in one of Fuller's works, +an Author from whose quaintness and ingenuity I have always found +amusement, and sometimes assistance.] + + +[Footnote 4: These lines strongly resemble a passage in the Pharonnida +of William Chamberlayne, a Poet who has told an interesting story in +uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and beauty of +expression, with the quaintest conceits, and most awkward inversions. + + + On a rock more high + Than Nature's common surface, she beholds + The Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds + Its sacred mysteries. A trine within + A quadrate placed, both these encompast in + A perfect circle was its form; but what + Its matter was, for us to wonder at, + Is undiscovered left. A Tower there stands + At every angle, where Time's fatal hands + The impartial 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.] + + + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE SECOND BOOK. + + + +She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd +Amid the air, such odors wafting now +As erst came blended with the evening gale, +From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form +Stood by the Maid; his wings, etherial white, +Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun, +Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear'd +Her THEODORE. + Amazed she saw: the Fiend +Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice +Sounded, tho' now more musically sweet +Than ever yet had thrill'd her charmed soul, +When eloquent Affection fondly told +The day-dreams of delight. + "Beloved Maid! +Lo! I am with thee! still thy Theodore! +Hearts in the holy bands of Love combin'd, +Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine! +A little while and thou shalt dwell with me +In scenes where Sorrow is not. Cheerily +Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave, +Rough tho' it be and painful, for the grave +Is but the threshold of Eternity. + +Favour'd of Heaven! to thee is given to view +These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss +Thou treadest, Maiden! Here the dungeons are +Where bad men learn repentance; souls diseased +Must have their remedy; and where disease +Is rooted deep, the remedy is long +Perforce, and painful." + Thus the Spirit spake, +And led the Maid along a narrow path, +Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames, +More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound +Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath +Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach +A wide expanded den where all around +Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze, +Flamed dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood +The meagre form of Care, and as he blew +To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd +His wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus +He toil'd and toil'd, of toil to reap no end +But endless toil and never-ending woe. + +An aged man went round the infernal vault, +Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task: +White were his locks, as is the wintry snow +On hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff +His steps supported; powerful talisman, +Which whoso feels shall never feel again +The tear of Pity, or the throb of Love. +Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way, +The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall, +Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst +Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee +To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few, +Tho' he the Blessed Teacher of mankind +Hath said, that easier thro' the needle's eye +Shall the huge camel [1] pass, than the rich man +Enter the gates of heaven. "Ye cannot serve +Your God, and worship Mammon." + "Missioned Maid!" +So spake the Angel, "know that these, whose hands +Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil, +Were Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not spare +To wring from Poverty the hard-earn'd mite, +They robb'd the orphan's pittance, they could see +Want's asking eye unmoved; and therefore these, +Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere +In Mammon's service; scorched by these fierce fires, +And frequent deluged by the o'erboiling ore: +Yet still so framed, that oft to quench their thirst +Unquenchable, large draughts of molten [2] gold +They drink insatiate, still with pain renewed, +Pain to destroy." + So saying, her he led +Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell, +Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls +Part gleam'd with gold, and part with silver ore +A milder radiance shone. The Carbuncle +There its strong lustre like the flamy sun +Shot forth irradiate; from the earth beneath, +And from the roof a diamond light emits; +Rubies and amethysts their glows commix'd +With the gay topaz, and the softer ray +Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald's hue, +And bright pyropus. + There on golden seats, +A numerous, sullen, melancholy train +Sat silent. "Maiden, these," said Theodore, +Are they who let the love of wealth absorb +All other passions; in their souls that vice +Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree +That with its shade spreads barrenness around. +These, Maid! were men by no atrocious crime +Blacken'd, no fraud, nor ruffian violence: +Men of fair dealing, and respectable +On earth, but such as only for themselves +Heap'd up their treasures, deeming all their wealth +Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven, +To bless them only: therefore here they sit, +Possessed of gold enough, and by no pain +Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss +They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell, +Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour +Of general restitution." + Thence they past, +And now arrived at such a gorgeous dome, +As even the pomp of Eastern opulence +Could never equal: wandered thro' its halls +A numerous train; some with the red-swoln eye +Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek; +Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step, +And eyes lack-lustre. + Maiden? said her guide, +These are the wretched slaves of Appetite, +Curst with their wish enjoyed. The epicure +Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall'd sense +Loaths at the banquet; the voluptuous here +Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight, +And sink in misery. All they wish'd on earth, +Possessing here, whom have they to accuse, +But their own folly, for the lot they chose? +Yet, for that these injured themselves alone, +They to the house of PENITENCE may hie, +And, by a long and painful regimen, +To wearied Nature her exhausted powers +Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish +Of wisdom, and ALMIGHTY GOODNESS grants +That prize to him who seeks it." + Whilst he spake, +The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and eye +Fat swoln, and legs whose monstrous size disgraced +The human form divine, their caterer, +Hight GLUTTONY, set forth the smoaking feast. +And by his side came on a brother form, +With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red +And scurfy-white, mix'd motley; his gross bulk, +Like some huge hogshead shapen'd, as applied. +Him had antiquity with mystic rites +Ador'd, to him the sons of Greece, and thine +Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour'd +The victim blood, with godlike titles graced, +BACCHUS, or DIONUSUS; son of JOVE, +Deem'd falsely, for from FOLLY'S ideot form +He sprung, what time MADNESS, with furious hand, +Seiz'd on the laughing female. At one birth +She brought the brethren, menial here, above +Reigning with sway supreme, and oft they hold +High revels: mid the Monastery's gloom, +The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice +Episcopal, proclaims approaching day +Of visitation, or Churchwardens meet +To save the wretched many from the gripe +Of eager Poverty, or mid thy halls +Of London, mighty Mayor! rich Aldermen, +Of coming feast hold converse. + Otherwhere, +For tho' allied in nature as in blood, +They hold divided sway, his brother lifts +His spungy sceptre. In the noble domes +Of Princes, and state-wearied Ministers, +Maddening he reigns; and when the affrighted mind +Casts o'er a long career of guilt and blood +Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought +To lull the worm of Conscience to repose. +He too the halls of country Squires frequents, +But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades +Thy offspring Rhedycina! and thy walls, +Granta! nightly libations there to him +Profuse are pour'd, till from the dizzy brain +Triangles, Circles, Parallelograms, +Moods, Tenses, Dialects, and Demigods, +And Logic and Theology are swept +By the red deluge. + Unmolested there +He reigns; till comes at length the general feast, +Septennial sacrifice; then when the sons +Of England meet, with watchful care to chuse +Their delegates, wise, independent men, +Unbribing and unbrib'd, and cull'd to guard +Their rights and charters from the encroaching grasp +Of greedy Power: then all the joyful land +Join in his sacrifices, so inspir'd +To make the important choice. + The observing Maid +Address'd her guide, "These Theodore, thou sayest +Are men, who pampering their foul appetites, +Injured themselves alone. But where are they, +The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil +Around the guileless female, so to sting +The heart that loves them?" + "Them," the spirit replied, +A long and dreadful punishment awaits. +For when the prey of want and infamy, +Lower and lower still the victim sinks, +Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word, +One impious imprecation from her lips +Escapes, nay not a thought of evil lurks +In the polluted mind, that does not plead +Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued +Against the foul Seducer." + Now they reach'd +The house of PENITENCE. CREDULITY +Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head +As tho' to listen; on her vacant face, +A smile that promis'd premature assent; +Tho' her REGRET behind, a meagre Fiend, +Disciplin'd sorely. + Here they entered in, +And now arrived where, as in study tranced, +She sat, the Mistress of the Dome. Her face +Spake that composed severity, that knows +No angry impulse, no weak tenderness, +Resolved and calm. Before her lay that Book +That hath the words of Life; and as she read, +Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek, +Tho' heavenly joy beam'd in her eye the while. + +Leaving her undisturb'd, to the first ward +Of this great Lazar-house, the Angel led +The favour'd Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down +On the hard stone that their bare knees had worn, +In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear'd: +Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave; +Yet such expression stealing from the eye, +As tho', that only naked, all the rest +Was one close fitting mask. A scoffing Fiend, +For Fiend he was, tho' wisely serving here +Mock'd at his patients, and did often pour +Ashes upon them, and then bid them say +Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laughed: +For these were Hypocrites, on earth revered +As holy ones, who did in public tell +Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross themselves, +And call themselves most miserable sinners, +That so they might be deem'd most pious saints; +And go all filth, and never let a smile +Bend their stern muscles, gloomy, sullen men, +Barren of all affection, and all this +To please their God, forsooth! and therefore SCORN +Grinn'd at his patients, making them repeat +Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery +Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer, +They pour'd the silent sorrows of the soul +To Heaven, then did they not regard his mocks +Which then came painless, and HUMILITY +Soon rescued them, and led to PENITENCE, +That She might lead to Heaven. + + From thence they came, +Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band +Groan'd underneath the bitter tyranny +Of a fierce Daemon. His coarse hair was red, +Pale grey his eyes, and blood-shot; and his face +Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears +In ecstacy. Well-pleased he went around, +Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some, +Or probing with a poison'd lance their breasts, +Or placing coals of fire within their wounds; +Or seizing some within his mighty grasp, +He fix'd them on a stake, and then drew back, +And laugh'd to see them writhe. + "These," said the Spirit, +Are taught by CRUELTY, to loath the lives +They led themselves. Here are those wicked men +Who loved to exercise their tyrant power +On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo +A long purgation here; the traffickers +In human flesh here too are disciplined. +Till by their suffering they have equall'd all +The miseries they inflicted, all the mass +Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged, +The towns they burnt, for they who bribe to war +Are guilty of the blood, the widows left +In want, the slave or led to suicide, +Or murdered by the foul infected air +Of his close dungeon, or more sad than all, +His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved, +And driven by woe to wickedness. + These next, +Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room, +So sullen, and with such an eye of hate +Each on the other scowling, these have been +False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts +Here they dwell: in the hollow of their hearts +There is a worm that feeds, and tho' thou seest +That skilful leech who willingly would heal +The ill they suffer, judging of all else +By their own evil standard, they suspect +The aid be vainly proffers, lengthening thus +By vice its punishment." + "But who are these," +The Maid exclaim'd, "that robed in flowing lawn, +And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps +Like Cardinals, I see in every ward, +Performing menial service at the beck +Of all who bid them?" + Theodore replied, +These men are they who in the name of CHRIST +Did heap up wealth, and arrogating power, +Did make men bow the knee, and call themselves +Most Reverend Graces and Right Reverend Lords. +They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed, +And in fine linen: therefore are they here; +And tho' they would not minister on earth, +Here penanced they perforce must minister: +For he, the lowly man of Nazareth, +Hath said, his kingdom is not of the world." +So Saying on they past, and now arrived +Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode, +That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye, +And shudder'd: each one was a loathly corpse, +The worm did banquet on his putrid prey, +Yet had they life and feeling exquisite +Tho' motionless and mute. + "Most wretched men +Are these, the angel cried. These, JOAN, are bards, +Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuate +Who sat them down, deliberately lewd, +So to awake and pamper lust in minds +Unborn; and therefore foul of body now +As then they were of soul, they here abide +Long as the evil works they left on earth +Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom! +Yet amply merited by that bad man +Who prostitutes the sacred gift of song!" +And now they reached a huge and massy pile, +Massy it seem'd, and yet in every blast +As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit, +REMORSE for ever his sad vigils kept. +Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch. +Inly he groan'd, or, starting, wildly shriek'd, +Aye as the fabric tottering from its base, +Threatened its fall, and so expectant still +Lived in the dread of danger still delayed. + +They enter'd there a large and lofty dome, +O'er whose black marble sides a dim drear light +Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp. +Enthroned around, the MURDERERS OF MANKIND, +Monarchs, the great! the glorious! the august! +Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire, +Sat stern and silent. Nimrod he was there, +First King the mighty hunter; and that Chief +Who did belie his mother's fame, that so +He might be called young Ammon. In this court +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 [3] was here, 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." + + +[Footnote 1: In the former edition I had substituted 'cable' instead of +'camel'. The alteration would not be worth noticing were it not for the +circumstance which occasioned it. 'Facilius elephas per foramen acus', +is among the Hebrew adages collected by Drusius; the same metaphor is +found in two other Jewish proverbs, and this appears to determine the +signification of [Greek (transliterated): chamaelos]. Matt. 19. 24.] + + +[Footnote 2: The same idea, and almost the same words are in an old play +by John Ford. The passage is a very fine one: + + + Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched, + Almost condemn'd alive! There is a place, + (List daughter!) in a black and hollow vault, + Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, + But flaming horror of consuming fires; + A lightless sulphur, choak'd with smoaky foggs + Of an infected darkness. In this place + Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts + Of never-dying deaths; there damned souls + Roar without pity, there are gluttons fed + With toads and adders; there is burning oil + Pour'd down the drunkard's throat, 'the usurer + Is forced to sup whole draughts of molten gold'; + There is the murderer for ever stabb'd, + Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton + On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul + He feels the torment of his raging lust. + + ''Tis Pity she's a Whore.' + +I wrote this passage when very young, and the idea, trite as it is, was +new to me. It occurs I believe in most descriptions of hell, and perhaps +owes its origin to the fate of Crassus. + +After this picture of horrors, the reader may perhaps be pleased with +one more pleasantly fanciful: + + + O call me home again dear Chief! and put me + To yoking foxes, milking of he-goats, + Pounding of water in a mortar, laving + The sea dry with a nutshell, gathering all + The leaves are fallen this autumn--making ropes of sand, + Catching the winds together in a net, + Mustering of ants, and numbering atoms, all + That Hell and you thought exquisite torments, rather + Than stay me here a thought more. I would sooner + Keep fleas within a circle, and be accomptant + A thousand year which of 'em, and how far + Outleap'd the other, than endure a minute + Such as I have within. + + B. JONSON. 'The Devil is an Ass.'] + + +[Footnote 3: During the siege of Jerusalem, "the Roman commander, 'with +a generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism, +'laboured incessantly, and to the very last moment, to preserve the +place. With this view, he again and again intreated the tyrants to +surrender and save their lives. With the same view also, after carrying +the second wall the siege was intermitted four days: to rouse their +fears, 'prisoners, to the number of five hundred, or more were crucified +daily before the walls; till space', Josephus says, 'was wanting for the +crosses, and crosses for the captives'." + +From the Hampton Lectures of RALPH CHURTON. + +If any of my readers should enquire why Titus Vespasian, the Delight of +Mankind, is placed in such a situation,--I answer, for "HIS GENEROUS +CLEMENCY, THAT INSEPARABLE ATTENDANT ON TRUE HEROISM!] + + + + + + +THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + + +THE THIRD BOOK. + + + + The Maiden, musing on the Warrior's words, + Turn'd from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach'd + A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood, + In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eye + Beam'd promise, but behind, withered and old, + And all unlovely. Underneath his feet + Lay records trampled, and the laurel wreath + Now rent and faded: in his hand he held + An hour-glass, and as fall the restless sands, + So pass the lives of men. By him they past + Along the darksome cave, and reach'd a stream, + Still rolling onward its perpetual waves, + Noiseless and undisturbed. Here they ascend + A Bark unpiloted, that down the flood, + Borne by the current, rush'd. The circling stream, + Returning to itself, an island form'd; + Nor had the Maiden's footsteps ever reach'd + The insulated coast, eternally + Rapt round the endless course; but Theodore + Drove with an angel's will the obedient bark. + + They land, a mighty fabric meets their eyes, + Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamant + The pile was framed, for ever to abide + Firm in eternal strength. Before the gate + Stood eager EXPECTATION, as to list + The half-heard murmurs issuing from within, + Her mouth half-open'd, and her head stretch'd forth. + On the other side there stood an aged Crone, + Listening to every breath of air; she knew + Vague suppositions and uncertain dreams, + Of what was soon to come, for she would mark + The paley glow-worm's self-created light, + And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown, + And desolated nations; ever fill'd + With undetermin'd terror, as she heard + Or distant screech-owl, or the regular beat + Of evening death-watch. + "Maid," the Spirit cried, + Here, robed in shadows, dwells FUTURITY. + There is no eye hath seen her secret form, + For round the MOTHER OF TIME, unpierced mists + Aye hover. Would'st thou read the book of Fate, + Enter." + The Damsel for a moment paus'd, + Then to the Angel spake: "All-gracious Heaven! + Benignant in withholding, hath denied + To man that knowledge. I, in faith assured, + That he, my heavenly Father, for the best + Ordaineth all things, in that faith remain + Contented." + "Well and wisely hast thou said, + So Theodore replied; "and now O Maid! + Is there amid this boundless universe + One whom thy soul would visit? is there place + To memory dear, or visioned out by hope, + Where thou would'st now be present? form the wish, + And I am with thee, there." + His closing speech + Yet sounded on her ear, and lo! they stood + Swift as the sudden thought that guided them, + Within the little cottage that she loved. + "He sleeps! the good man sleeps!" enrapt she cried, + As bending o'er her Uncle's lowly bed + Her eye retraced his features. "See the beads + That never morn nor night he fails to tell, + Remembering me, his child, in every prayer. + Oh! quiet be thy sleep, thou dear old man! + Good Angels guard thy rest! and when thine hour + Is come, as gently mayest thou wake to life, + As when thro' yonder lattice the next sun + Shall bid thee to thy morning orisons! + Thy voice is heard, the Angel guide rejoin'd, + He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breathe + Blessings, and pleasant is the good man's rest. + Thy fame has reached him, for who has not heard + Thy wonderous exploits? and his aged heart + Hath felt the deepest joy that ever yet + Made his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on old Claude! + Peaceful, pure Spirit, be thy sojourn here, + And short and soon thy passage to that world + Where friends shall part no more! + "Does thy soul own + No other wish? or sleeps poor Madelon + Forgotten in her grave? seest thou yon star," + The Spirit pursued, regardless of her eye + That look'd reproach; "seest thou that evening star + Whose lovely light so often we beheld + From yonder woodbine porch? how have we gazed + Into the dark deep sky, till the baffled soul, + Lost in the infinite, returned, and felt + The burthen of her bodily load, and yearned + For freedom! Maid, in yonder evening slar + Lives thy departed friend. I read that glance, + And we are there!" + He said and they had past + The immeasurable space. + Then on her ear + The lonely song of adoration rose, + Sweet as the cloister'd virgins vesper hymn, + Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopes + Already lives in Heaven. Abrupt the song + Ceas'd, tremulous and quick a cry + Of joyful wonder rous'd the astonish'd Maid, + And instant Madelon was in her arms; + No airy form, no unsubstantial shape, + She felt her friend, she prest her to her heart, + Their tears of rapture mingled. + She drew back + And eagerly she gazed on Madelon, + Then fell upon her neck again and wept. + No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief, + The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness, + The languid eye: youth's loveliest freshness now + Mantled her cheek, whose every lineament + Bespake the soul at rest, a holy calm, + A deep and full tranquillity of bliss. + + "Thou then art come, my first and dearest friend!" + The well known voice of Madelon began, + "Thou then art come! and was thy pilgrimage + So short on earth? and was it painful too, + Painful and short as mine? but blessed they + Who from the crimes and miseries of the world + Early escape!" + "Nay," Theodore replied, + She hath not yet fulfill'd her mortal work. + Permitted visitant from earth she comes + To see the seat of rest, and oftentimes + In sorrow shall her soul remember this, + And patient of the transitory woe + Partake the anticipated peace again." + "Soon be that work perform'd!" the Maid exclaimed, + "O Madelon! O Theodore! my soul, + Spurning the cold communion of the world, + Will dwell with you! but I shall patiently, + Yea even with joy, endure the allotted ills + Of which the memory in this better state + Shall heighten bliss. That hour of agony, + When, Madelon, I felt thy dying grasp, + And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death, + The very horrors of that hour assume + A shape that now delights." + "O earliest friend! + I too remember," Madelon replied, + "That hour, thy looks of watchful agony, + The suppressed grief that struggled in thine eye + Endearing love's last kindness. Thou didst know + With what a deep and melancholy joy + I felt the hour draw on: but who can speak + The unutterable transport, when mine eyes, + As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed + Amid this peaceful vale, unclos'd on him, + My Arnaud! he had built me up a bower, + A bower of rest.--See, Maiden, where he comes, + His manly lineaments, his beaming eye + The same, but now a holier innocence + Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume + The enlighten'd glance." + They met, what joy was theirs + He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead + Has wet the midnight pillow with his tears. + + Fair was the scene around; an ample vale + Whose mountain circle at the distant verge + Lay softened on the sight; the near ascent + Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare, + Part with the ancient majesty of woods + Adorn'd, or lifting high its rocks sublime. + The river's liquid radiance roll'd beneath, + Beside the bower of Madelon it wound + A broken stream, whose shallows, tho' the waves + Roll'd on their way with rapid melody, + A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove + Its gay green foliage starr'd with golden fruit; + But with what odours did their blossoms load + The passing gale of eve! less thrilling sweet + Rose from the marble's perforated floor, + Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen + Inhaled the cool delight, [1] and whilst she asked + The Prophet for his promised paradise, + Shaped from the present scene its utmost joys. + A goodly scene! fair as that faery land + Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne + From Camlan's bloody banks; or as the groves + Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say, + Enoch abides, and he who rapt away + By fiery steeds, and chariotted in fire, + Past in his mortal form the eternal ways; + And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there + The beatific vision, sometimes seen + The distant dawning of eternal day, + Till all things be fulfilled. + "Survey this scene!" + So Theodore address'd the Maid of Arc, + "There is no evil here, no wretchedness, + It is the Heaven of those who nurst on earth + Their nature's gentlest feelings. Yet not here + Centering their joys, but with a patient hope, + Waiting the allotted hour when capable + Of loftier callings, to a better state + They pass; and hither from that better state + Frequent they come, preserving so those ties + That thro' the infinite progressiveness + Complete our perfect bliss. + "Even such, so blest, + Save that the memory of no sorrows past + Heightened the present joy, our world was once, + In the first 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 [2] hung its head, that seem'd to grow + Spontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maid + LOVE went submiss, wilh eye more dangerous + Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er + Too bold approached; yet anxious would he read + Her every rising wish, then only pleased + When pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais'd. + + "Glory to thee whose vivifying power + Pervades all Nature's universal frame! + Glory to thee CREATOR LOVE! to thee, + Parent of all the smiling CHARITIES, + That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers! + Glory to thee PRESERVER! to thy praise + The awakened woodlands echo all the day + Their living melody; and warbling forth + To thee her twilight song, the Nightingale + Holds the lone Traveller from his way, or charms + The listening Poet's ear. Where LOVE shall deign + To fix his seat, there blameless PLEASURE sheds + Her roseate dews; CONTENT will sojourn there, + And HAPPINESS behold AFFECTION'S eye + Gleam with the Mother's smile. Thrice happy he + Who feels thy holy power! he shall not drag, + Forlorn and friendless, along Life's long path + To Age's drear abode; he shall not waste + The bitter evening of his days unsooth'd; + But HOPE shall cheer his hours of Solitude, + And VICE shall vainly strive to wound his breast, + That bears that talisman; and when he meets + The eloquent eye of TENDERNESS, and hears + The bosom-thrilling music of her voice; + The joy he feels shall purify his Soul, + And imp it for anticipated Heaven." + + +[Footnote 1: In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the Queen used to +dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there +is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled +that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and windows are +disposed so as to afford the most agreeable prospects, and to throw a +soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents of air too are +admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious coolness of this +apartment. + +(From the sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed to +Florian's Gonsalvo of Cordova).] + + +[Footnote 2: "The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired +her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems +to grow on the breast of the Virgin." P.H.] + + + + + + +The Rose. + + Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus, + that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden + was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadde don + fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be + brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre + began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that + als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help + hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; + and whanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon + was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, + becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise weren the first + Roseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. + And thus was this Maiden saved be the Grace of God. + + 'The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundevile'. + + + + + + +THE ROSE. + + + + Nay EDITH! spare the rose!--it lives--it lives, + It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh'd + The dews of night; let not thy gentle hand + Tear sunder its life-fibres and destroy + The sense of being!--why that infidel smile? + Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful, + And thou shall have a tale of other times, + For I am skill'd in legendary lore, + So thou wilt let it live. There was a time + Ere this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms, + Bedeck'd the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard + How first by miracle its fragrant leaves + Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness. + + There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid + And Zillah was her name, so passing fair + That all Judea spake the damsel's praise. + He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance + How quick it spake the soul, and what a soul + Beam'd in its mild effulgence, woe was he! + For not in solitude, for not in crowds, + Might he escape remembrance, or avoid + Her imaged form that followed every where, + And fill'd the heart, and fix'd the absent eye. + Woe was he, for her bosom own'd no love + Save the strong ardours of religious zeal, + For Zillah on her God had centered all + Her spirit's deep affections. So for her + Her tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverenced + The obdurate virtue that destroyed their hopes. + + One man there was, a vain and wretched man, + Who saw, desired, despair'd, and hated her. + His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek + Even till the flush of angry modesty + Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. + She loath'd the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, + And the strong workings of brute selfishness + Had moulded his broad features; and she fear'd + The bitterness of wounded vanity + That with a fiendish hue would overcast + His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, + For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plot + Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad + Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports + That soon obtain belief; that Zillah's eye + When in the temple heaven-ward it was rais'd + Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those + Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance + With other feelings fill'd; that 'twas a task + Of easy sort to play the saint by day + Before the public eye, but that all eyes + Were closed at night; that Zillah's life was foul, + Yea forfeit to the law. + + Shame--shame to man + That he should trust so easily the tongue + That stabs another's fame! the ill report + Was heard, repeated, and believed,--and soon, + For Hamuel by most damned artifice + Produced such semblances of guilt, the Maid + Was judged to shameful death. + Without the walls + There was a barren field; a place abhorr'd, + For it was there where wretched criminals + Were done to die; and there they built the stake, + And piled the fuel round, that should consume + The accused Maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd, + By God and man. The assembled Bethlemites + Beheld the scene, and when they saw the Maid + Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness + She lifted up her patient looks to Heaven, + They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts + Stood Hamuel near the pile, him savage joy + Led thitherward, but now within his heart + Unwonted feelings stirr'd, and the first pangs + Of wakening guilt, anticipating Hell. + The eye of Zillah as it glanced around + Fell on the murderer once, but not in wrath; + And therefore like a dagger it had fallen, + Had struck into his soul a cureless wound. + Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour + Of triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch, + Not in the hour of infamy and death + Forsake the virtuous! they draw near the stake-- + And lo! the torch! hold hold your erring hands! + Yet quench the rising flames!--they rise! they spread! + They reach the suffering Maid! oh God protect + The innocent one! + They rose, they spread, they raged-- + The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire + Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames + In one long lightning flash collecting fierce, + Darted and blasted Hamuel--him alone. + Hark--what a fearful scream the multitude + Pour forth!--and yet more miracles! the stake + Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves and bowers + The innocent Maid, and roses bloom around, + Now first beheld since Paradise was lost, + And fill with Eden odours all the air. + + + + + + + + +The COMPLAINTS of the POOR. + + + + And wherefore do the Poor complain? + The rich man asked of me,-- + Come walk abroad with me, I said + And I will answer thee. + + Twas evening and the frozen streets + Were cheerless to behold, + And we were wrapt and coated well, + And yet we were a-cold. + + We met an old bare-headed man, + His locks were few and white, + I ask'd him what he did abroad + In that cold winter's night: + + 'Twas bitter keen indeed, he said, + But at home no fire had he, + And therefore, he had come abroad + To ask for charity. + + We met a young bare-footed child, + And she begg'd loud and bold, + I ask'd her what she did abroad + When the wind it blew so cold; + + She said her father was at home + And he lay sick a-bed, + And therefore was it she was sent + Abroad to beg for bread. + + We saw a woman sitting down + Upon a stone to rest, + She had a baby at her back + And another at her breast; + + I ask'd her why she loiter'd there + When the wind it was so chill; + She turn'd her head and bade the child + That scream'd behind be still. + + She told us that her husband served + A soldier, far away, + And therefore to her parish she + Was begging back her way. + + We met a girl; her dress was loose + And sunken was her eye, + Who with the wanton's hollow voice + Address'd the passers by; + + I ask'd her what there was in guilt + That could her heart allure + To shame, disease, and late remorse? + She answer'd, she was poor. + + I turn'd me to the rich man then + For silently stood he, + You ask'd me why the Poor complain, + And these have answer'd thee. + + + + + + + + +METRICAL LETTER, + +Written from London. + + + + Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile; + I love the homely and familiar phrase; + And I will call thee Cousin Margaret, + However quaint amid the measured line + The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill + When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, + Sirring and Madaming as civilly + As if the road between the heart and lips + Were such a weary and Laplandish way + That the poor travellers came to the red gates + Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret, + For many a day my Memory has played + The creditor with me on your account, + And made me shame to think that I should owe + So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, + Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear + So heavy a pack of business, that albeit + I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race + Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I + That for a moment you should lay to me + Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart + That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some + Who know how warm it beats. I am not one + Who can play off my smiles and courtesies + To every Lady of her lap dog tired + Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend + Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love; + Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up + At once without a seed and take no root, + Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere + The little circle of domestic life + I would be known and loved; the world beyond + Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think + That you should know me well, for you and I + Grew up together, and when we look back + Upon old times our recollections paint + The same familiar faces. Did I wield + The wand of Merlin's magic I would make + Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, + Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood + That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth, + The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle + Like that where whilome old Apollidon + Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid + The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers, + That we might stand upon the beach, and mark + The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, + And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound + Told us that never mariner should reach + Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle + We might renew the days of infancy, + And Life like a long childhood pass away, + Without one care. It may be, Margaret, + That I shall yet be gathered to my friends, + For I am not of those who live estranged + Of choice, till at the last they join their race + In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, + Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack + So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine + Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly. + If not, if I should never get beyond + This Vanity town, there is another world + Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, + I gaze at night into the boundless sky, + And think that I shall there be born again, + The exalted native of some better star; + And like the rude American I hope + To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth. + + + + + + + + + + +The Cross Roads. + +The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty +years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at +the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as +I have versified them. + + + + +THE CROSS ROADS. + + + There was an old man breaking stones + To mend the turnpike way, + He sat him down beside a brook + And out his bread and cheese he took, + For now it was mid-day. + + He lent his back against a post, + His feet the brook ran by; + And there were water-cresses growing, + And pleasant was the water's flowing + For he was hot and dry. + + A soldier with his knapsack on + Came travelling o'er the down, + The sun was strong and he was tired, + And of the old man he enquired + How far to Bristol town. + + Half an hour's walk for a young man + By lanes and fields and stiles. + But you the foot-path do not know, + And if along the road you go + Why then 'tis three good miles. + + The soldier took his knapsack off + For he was hot and dry; + And out his bread and cheese he took + And he sat down beside the brook + To dine in company. + + Old friend! in faith, the soldier says + I envy you almost; + My shoulders have been sorely prest + And I should like to sit and rest, + My back against that post. + + In such a sweltering day as this + A knapsack is the devil! + And if on t'other side I sat + It would not only spoil our chat + But make me seem uncivil. + + The old man laugh'd and moved. I wish + It were a great-arm'd chair! + But this may help a man at need; + And yet it was a cursed deed + That ever brought it there. + + There's a poor girl lies buried here + Beneath this very place. + The earth upon her corpse is prest + This stake is driven into her breast + And a stone is on her face. + + The soldier had but just lent back + And now he half rose up. + There's sure no harm in dining here, + My friend? and yet to be sincere + I should not like to sup. + + God rest her! she is still enough + Who sleeps beneath our feet! + The old man cried. No harm I trow + She ever did herself, tho' now + She lies where four roads meet. + + I have past by about that hour + When men are not most brave, + It did not make my heart to fail, + And I have heard the nightingale + Sing sweetly on her grave. + + I have past by about that hour + When Ghosts their freedom have, + But there was nothing here to fright, + And I have seen the glow-worm's light + Shine on the poor girl's grave. + + There's one who like a Christian lies + Beneath the church-tree's shade; + I'd rather go a long mile round + Than pass at evening thro' the ground + Wherein that man is laid. + + There's one that in the church-yard lies + For whom the bell did toll; + He lies in consecrated ground, + But for all the wealth in Bristol town + I would not be with his soul! + + Did'st see a house below the hill + That the winds and the rains destroy? + 'Twas then a farm where he did dwell, + And I remember it full well + When I was a growing boy. + + And she was a poor parish girl + That came up from the west, + From service hard she ran away + And at that house in evil day + Was taken in to rest. + + The man he was a wicked man + And an evil life he led; + Rage made his cheek grow deadly white + And his grey eyes were large and light, + And in anger they grew red. + + The man was bad, the mother worse, + Bad fruit of a bad stem, + 'Twould make your hair to stand-on-end + If I should tell to you my friend + The things that were told of them! + + Did'st see an out-house standing by? + The walls alone remain; + It was a stable then, but now + Its mossy roof has fallen through + All rotted by the rain. + + The poor girl she had serv'd with them + Some half-a-year, or more, + When she was found hung up one day + Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay + Behind that stable door! + + It is a very lonesome place, + No hut or house is near; + Should one meet a murderer there alone + 'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan + Would never reach mortal ear. + + And there were strange reports about + That the coroner never guest. + So he decreed that she should lie + Where four roads meet in infamy, + With a stake drove in her breast. + + Upon a board they carried her + To the place where four roads met, + And I was one among the throng + That hither followed them along, + I shall never the sight forget! + + They carried her upon a board + In the cloaths in which she died; + I saw the cap blow off her head, + Her face was of a dark dark red + Her eyes were starting wide: + + I think they could not have been closed + So widely did they strain. + I never saw so dreadful a sight, + And it often made me wake at night, + For I saw her face again. + + They laid her here where four roads meet. + Beneath this very place, + The earth upon her corpse was prest, + This post is driven into her breast, + And a stone is on her face. + + + + + + + + + + + +The Sailor, + +who had served in the Slave Trade. + +In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol, discovered a +Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City, groaning and praying in a +hovel. The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in +the annexed Ballad, without the slightest addition or alteration. By +presenting it as a Poem the story is made more public, and such stories +ought to be made as public as possible. + + + + +THE SAILOR, + +WHO HAD SERVED IN THE SLAVE-TRADE. + + + He stopt,--it surely was a groan + That from the hovel came! + He stopt and listened anxiously + Again it sounds the same. + + It surely from the hovel comes! + And now he hastens there, + And thence he hears the name of Christ + Amidst a broken prayer. + + He entered in the hovel now, + A sailor there he sees, + His hands were lifted up to Heaven + And he was on his knees. + + Nor did the Sailor so intent + His entering footsteps heed, + But now the Lord's prayer said, and now + His half-forgotten creed. + + And often on his Saviour call'd + With many a bitter groan, + In such heart-anguish as could spring + From deepest guilt alone. + + He ask'd the miserable man + Why he was kneeling there, + And what the crime had been that caus'd + The anguish of his prayer. + + Oh I have done a wicked thing! + It haunts me night and day, + And I have sought this lonely place + Here undisturb'd to pray. + + I have no place to pray on board + So I came here alone, + That I might freely kneel and pray, + And call on Christ and groan. + + If to the main-mast head I go, + The wicked one is there, + From place to place, from rope to rope, + He follows every where. + + I shut my eyes,--it matters not-- + Still still the same I see,-- + And when I lie me down at night + 'Tis always day with me. + + He follows follows every where, + And every place is Hell! + O God--and I must go with him + In endless fire to dwell. + + He follows follows every where, + He's still above--below, + Oh tell me where to fly from him! + Oh tell me where to go! + + But tell me, quoth the Stranger then, + What this thy crime hath been, + So haply I may comfort give + To one that grieves for sin. + + O I have done a cursed deed + The wretched man replies, + And night and day and every where + 'Tis still before my eyes. + + I sail'd on board a Guinea-man + And to the slave-coast went; + Would that the sea had swallowed me + When I was innocent! + + And we took in our cargo there, + Three hundred negroe slaves, + And we sail'd homeward merrily + Over the ocean waves. + + But some were sulky of the slaves + And would not touch their meat, + So therefore we were forced by threats + And blows to make them eat. + + One woman sulkier than the rest + Would still refuse her food,-- + O Jesus God! I hear her cries-- + I see her in her blood! + + The Captain made me tie her up + And flog while he stood by, + And then he curs'd me if I staid + My hand to hear her cry. + + She groan'd, she shriek'd--I could not spare + For the Captain he stood by-- + Dear God! that I might rest one night + From that poor woman's cry! + + She twisted from the blows--her blood + Her mangled flesh I see-- + And still the Captain would not spare-- + Oh he was worse than me! + + She could not be more glad than I + When she was taken down, + A blessed minute--'twas the last + That I have ever known! + + I did not close my eyes all night, + Thinking what I had done; + I heard her groans and they grew faint + About the rising sun. + + She groan'd and groan'd, but her groans grew + Fainter at morning tide, + Fainter and fainter still they came + Till at the noon she died. + + They flung her overboard;--poor wretch + She rested from her pain,-- + But when--O Christ! O blessed God! + Shall I have rest again! + + I saw the sea close over her, + Yet she was still in sight; + I see her twisting every where; + I see her day and night. + + Go where I will, do what I can + The wicked one I see-- + Dear Christ have mercy on my soul, + O God deliver me! + + To morrow I set sail again + Not to the Negroe shore-- + Wretch that I am I will at least + Commit that sin no more. + + O give me comfort if you can-- + Oh tell me where to fly-- + And bid me hope, if there be hope, + For one so lost as I. + + Poor wretch, the stranger he replied, + Put thou thy trust in heaven, + And call on him for whose dear sake + All sins shall be forgiven. + + This night at least is thine, go thou + And seek the house of prayer, + There shalt thou hear the word of God + And he will help thee there! + + + + + + + + + + + + +Jaspar. + +The stories of the two following ballads are wholly imaginary. I may say +of each as John Bunyan did of his 'Pilgrim's Progress', + + + "It came from mine own heart, so to my head, + And thence into my fingers trickled; + Then to my pen, from whence immediately + On paper I did dribble it daintily." + + + + +JASPAR + + + + Jaspar was poor, and want and vice + Had made his heart like stone, + And Jaspar look'd with envious eyes + On riches not his own. + + On plunder bent abroad he went + Towards the close of day, + And loitered on the lonely road + Impatient for his prey. + + No traveller came, he loiter'd long + And often look'd around, + And paus'd and listen'd eagerly + To catch some coming sound. + + He sat him down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way, + So fair a scene might well have charm'd + All evil thoughts away; + + He sat beneath a willow tree + That cast a trembling shade, + The gentle river full in front + A little island made, + + Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone + Upon the poplar trees, + Whose shadow on the stream below + Play'd slowly to the breeze. + + He listen'd--and he heard the wind + That waved the willow tree; + He heard the waters flow along + And murmur quietly. + + He listen'd for the traveller's tread, + The nightingale sung sweet,-- + He started up, for now he heard + The sound of coming feet; + + He started up and graspt a stake + And waited for his prey; + There came a lonely traveller + And Jaspar crost his way. + + But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd + The traveller to appal, + He would not lightly yield the purse + That held his little all. + + Awhile he struggled, but he strove + With Jaspar's strength in vain; + Beneath his blows he fell and groan'd, + And never spoke again. + + He lifted up the murdered man + And plunged him in the flood, + And in the running waters then + He cleansed his hands from blood. + + The waters closed around the corpse + And cleansed his hands from gore, + The willow waved, the stream flowed on + And murmured as before. + + There was no human eye had seen + The blood the murderer spilt, + And Jaspar's conscience never knew + The avenging goad of guilt. + + And soon the ruffian had consum'd + The gold he gain'd so ill, + And years of secret guilt pass'd on + And he was needy still. + + One eve beside the alehouse fire + He sat as it befell, + When in there came a labouring man + Whom Jaspar knew full well. + + He sat him down by Jaspar's side + A melancholy man, + For spite of honest toil, the world + Went hard with Jonathan. + + His toil a little earn'd, and he + With little was content, + But sickness on his wife had fallen + And all he had was spent. + + Then with his wife and little ones + He shared the scanty meal, + And saw their looks of wretchedness, + And felt what wretches feel. + + That very morn the Landlord's power + Had seized the little left, + And now the sufferer found himself + Of every thing bereft. + + He lent his head upon his hand, + His elbow on his knee, + And so by Jaspar's side he sat + And not a word said he. + + Nay--why so downcast? Jaspar cried, + Come--cheer up Jonathan! + Drink neighbour drink! 'twill warm thy heart, + Come! come! take courage man! + + He took the cup that Jaspar gave + And down he drain'd it quick + I have a wife, said Jonathan, + And she is deadly sick. + + She has no bed to lie upon, + I saw them take her bed. + And I have children--would to God + That they and I were dead! + + Our Landlord he goes home to night + And he will sleep in peace. + I would that I were in my grave + For there all troubles cease. + + In vain I pray'd him to forbear + Tho' wealth enough has he-- + God be to him as merciless + As he has been to me! + + When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul + On all his ills intent, + He plied him with the heartening cup + And with him forth he went. + + This landlord on his homeward road + 'Twere easy now to meet. + The road is lonesome--Jonathan, + And vengeance, man! is sweet. + + He listen'd to the tempter's voice + The thought it made him start. + His head was hot, and wretchedness + Had hardened now his heart. + + Along the lonely road they went + And waited for their prey, + They sat them down beside the stream + That crossed the lonely way. + + They sat them down beside the stream + And never a word they said, + They sat and listen'd silently + To hear the traveller's tread. + + The night was calm, the night was dark, + No star was in the sky, + The wind it waved the willow boughs, + The stream flowed quietly. + + The night was calm, the air was still, + Sweet sung the nightingale, + The soul of Jonathan was sooth'd, + His heart began to fail. + + 'Tis weary waiting here, he cried, + And now the hour is late,-- + Methinks he will not come to night, + 'Tis useless more to wait. + + Have patience man! the ruffian said, + A little we may wait, + But longer shall his wife expect + Her husband at the gate. + + Then Jonathan grew sick at heart, + My conscience yet is clear, + Jaspar--it is not yet too late-- + I will not linger here. + + How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought + Thy conscience was asleep. + No more such qualms, the night is dark, + The river here is deep, + + What matters that, said Jonathan, + Whose blood began to freeze, + When there is one above whose eye + The deeds of darkness sees? + + We are safe enough, said Jaspar then + If that be all thy fear; + Nor eye below, nor eye above + Can pierce the darkness here. + + That instant as the murderer spake + There came a sudden light; + Strong as the mid-day sun it shone, + Though all around was night. + + It hung upon the willow tree, + It hung upon the flood, + It gave to view the poplar isle + And all the scene of blood. + + The traveller who journies there + He surely has espied + A madman who has made his home + Upon the river's side. + + His cheek is pale, his eye is wild, + His look bespeaks despair; + For Jaspar since that hour has made + His home unshelter'd there. + + And fearful are his dreams at night + And dread to him the day; + He thinks upon his untold crime + And never dares to pray. + + The summer suns, the winter storms, + O'er him unheeded roll, + For heavy is the weight of blood + Upon the maniac's soul. + + + + + + + + + + +LORD WILLIAM. + + + + No eye beheld when William plunged + Young Edmund in the stream, + No human ear but William's heard + Young Edmund's drowning scream. + + Submissive all the vassals own'd + The murderer for their Lord, + And he, the rightful heir, possessed + The house of Erlingford. + + The ancient house of Erlingford + Stood midst a fair domain, + And Severn's ample waters near + Roll'd through the fertile plain. + + And often the way-faring man + Would love to linger there, + Forgetful of his onward road + To gaze on scenes so fair. + + But never could Lord William dare + To gaze on Severn's stream; + In every wind that swept its waves + He heard young Edmund scream. + + In vain at midnight's silent hour + Sleep closed the murderer's eyes, + In every dream the murderer saw + Young Edmund's form arise. + + In vain by restless conscience driven + Lord William left his home, + Far from the scenes that saw his guilt, + In pilgrimage to roam. + + To other climes the pilgrim fled, + But could not fly despair, + He sought his home again, but peace + Was still a stranger there. + + Each hour was tedious long, yet swift + The months appear'd to roll; + And now the day return'd that shook + With terror William's soul. + + A day that William never felt + Return without dismay, + For well had conscience kalendered + Young Edmund's dying day. + + A fearful day was that! the rains + Fell fast, with tempest roar, + And the swoln tide of Severn spread + Far on the level shore. + + In vain Lord William sought the feast + In vain he quaff'd the bowl, + And strove with noisy mirth to drown + The anguish of his soul. + + The tempest as its sudden swell + In gusty howlings came, + With cold and death-like feelings seem'd + To thrill his shuddering frame. + + Reluctant now, as night came on, + His lonely couch he prest, + And wearied out, he sunk to sleep, + To sleep, but not to rest. + + Beside that couch his brother's form + Lord Edmund seem'd to stand, + Such and so pale as when in death + He grasp'd his brother's hand; + + Such and so pale his face as when + With faint and faltering tongue, + To William's care, a dying charge + He left his orphan son. + + "I bade thee with a father's love + My orphan Edmund guard-- + Well William hast thou kept thy charge! + Now take thy due reward." + + He started up, each limb convuls'd + With agonizing fear, + He only heard the storm of night-- + 'Twas music to his ear. + + When lo! the voice of loud alarm + His inmost soul appals, + What ho! Lord William rise in haste! + The water saps thy walls! + + He rose in haste, beneath the walls + He saw the flood appear, + It hemm'd him round, 'twas midnight now, + No human aid was near. + + He heard the shout of joy, for now + A boat approach'd the wall, + And eager to the welcome aid + They crowd for safety all. + + My boat is small, the boatman cried, + This dangerous haste forbear! + Wait other aid, this little bark + But one from hence can bear. + + Lord William leap'd into the boat, + Haste--haste to yonder shore! + And ample wealth shall well reward, + Ply swift and strong the oar. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Went light along the stream, + Sudden Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + The boatman paus'd, methought I heard + A child's distressful cry! + 'Twas but the howling wind of night + Lord William made reply. + + Haste haste--ply swift and strong the oar! + Haste haste across the stream! + Again Lord William heard a cry + Like Edmund's drowning scream. + + I heard a child's distressful scream + The boatman cried again. + Nay hasten on--the night is dark-- + And we should search in vain. + + Oh God! Lord William dost thou know + How dreadful 'tis to die? + And can'st thou without pity hear + A child's expiring cry? + + How horrible it is to sink + Beneath the chilly stream, + To stretch the powerless arms in vain, + In vain for help to scream? + + The shriek again was heard. It came + More deep, more piercing loud, + That instant o'er the flood the moon + Shone through a broken cloud. + + And near them they beheld a child, + Upon a crag he stood, + A little crag, and all around + Was spread the rising flood. + + The boatman plied the oar, the boat + Approach'd his resting place, + The moon-beam shone upon the child + And show'd how pale his face. + + Now reach thine hand! the boatman cried + Lord William reach and save! + The child stretch'd forth his little hands + To grasp the hand he gave. + + Then William shriek'd; the hand he touch'd + Was cold and damp and dead! + He felt young Edmund in his arms + A heavier weight than lead. + + The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk + Beneath the avenging stream; + He rose, he scream'd, no human ear + Heard William's drowning scream. + + + + + + + + + +A BALLAD, + +SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. + +[Illustration: heavy black-and-white drawing (woodcut) of the title.] + + +A.D. 852. Circa dies istos, mulier 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 percunctata ad quid veniret, affero, inquit, tibi filii tui +obitum & totius familiæ ejus ex subita ruina interitum. Hoc quoque +dolore mulier permota, lecto protinus decubuit graviter infirmata; +sentiensque morbum subrepere ad vitalia, liberos quos habuit +superstites, monachum videlicet et monacham, per epistolam invitavit; +advenientes autem voce singultiente alloquitur. Ego, inquit, o pueri, +meo miserabili fato 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, quarta 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. +Tertia autem nocte, circa gallicinium, strepitu hostium adventantium, +omne monasterium visum est a fundamento moveri. Unus ergo dæmonum, et +vultu cæteris terribilior & statura 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. Qua 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 ecclesia 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 ecclesia 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 Ecclesia 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 SURGEONS' WARNING. + + +The Doctor whispered to the Nurse + And the Surgeon knew what he said, +And he grew pale at the Doctor's tale + And trembled in his sick bed. + +Now fetch me my brethren and fetch them with speed + The Surgeon affrighted said, +The Parson and the Undertaker, + Let them hasten or I shall be dead. + +The Parson and the Undertaker + They hastily came complying, +And the Surgeon's Prentices ran up stairs + When they heard that their master was dying. + +The Prentices all they entered the room + By one, by two, by three, +With a sly grin came Joseph in, + First of the company. + +The Surgeon swore as they enter'd his door, + 'Twas fearful his oaths to hear,-- +Now send these scoundrels to the Devil, + For God's sake my brethren dear. + +He foam'd at the mouth with the rage he felt + And he wrinkled his black eye-brow, +That rascal Joe would be at me I know, + But zounds let him spare me now. + +Then out they sent the Prentices, + The fit it left him weak, +He look'd at his brothers with ghastly eyes, + And faintly struggled to speak. + +All kinds of carcasses I have cut up, + And the judgment now must be-- +But brothers I took care of you, + So pray take care of me! + +I have made candles of infants fat + The Sextons have been my slaves, +I have bottled babes unborn, and dried + Hearts and livers from rifled graves. + +And my Prentices now will surely come + And carve me bone from bone, +And I who have rifled the dead man's grave + Shall never have rest in my own. + +Bury me in lead when I am dead, + My brethren I intreat, +And see the coffin weigh'd I beg + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +And let it be solder'd closely down + Strong as strong can be I implore, +And put it in a patent coffin, + That I may rise no more. + +If they carry me off in the patent coffin + Their labour will be in vain, +Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +And bury me in my brother's church + For that will safer be, +And I implore lock the church door + And pray take care of the key. + +And all night long let three stout men + The vestry watch within, +To each man give a gallon of beer + And a keg of Holland's gin; + +Powder and ball and blunder-buss + To save me if he can, +And eke five guineas if he shoot + A resurrection man. + +And let them watch me for three weeks + My wretched corpse to save, +For then I think that I may stink + Enough to rest in my grave. + +The Surgeon laid him down in his bed, + His eyes grew deadly dim, +Short came his breath and the struggle of death + Distorted every limb. + +They put him in lead when he was dead + And shrouded up so neat, +And they the leaden coffin weigh + Lest the Plumber should be a cheat. + +They had it solder'd closely down + And examined it o'er and o'er, +And they put it in a patent coffin + That he might rise no more. + +For to carry him off in a patent coffin + Would they thought be but labour in vain, +So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker + Who lives by St. Martin's lane. + +In his brother's church they buried him + That safer he might be, +They lock'd the door and would not trust + The Sexton with the key. + +And three men in the vestry watch + To save him if they can, +And should he come there to shoot they swear + A resurrection man. + +And the first night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +A guinea of gold the sexton shewed + That Mister Joseph sent. + +But conscience was tough, it was not enough + And their honesty never swerved, +And they bade him go with Mister Joe + To the Devil as he deserved. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The second night by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard as they went, +He whisper'd anew and shew'd them two + That Mister Joseph sent. + +The guineas were bright and attracted their sight + They look'd so heavy and new, +And their fingers itch'd as they were bewitch'd + And they knew not what to do. + +But they waver'd not long for conscience was strong + And they thought they might get more, +And they refused the gold, but not + So rudely as before. + +So all night long by the vestry fire + They quaff'd their gin and ale, +And they did drink as you may think + And told full many a tale. + +The third night as by lanthorn light + Thro' the church-yard they went, +He bade them see and shew'd them three + That Mister Joseph sent. + +They look'd askance with eager glance, + The guineas they shone bright, +For the Sexton on the yellow gold + Let fall his lanthorn light. + +And he look'd sly with his roguish eye + And gave a well-tim'd wink, +And they could not stand the sound in his hand + For he made the guineas chink. + +And conscience late that had such weight, + All in a moment fails, +For well they knew that it was true + A dead man told no tales, + +And they gave all their powder and ball + And took the gold so bright, +And they drank their beer and made good cheer, + Till now it was midnight. + +Then, tho' the key of the church door + Was left with the Parson his brother, +It opened at the Sexton's touch-- + Because he had another. + +And in they go with that villain Joe + To fetch the body by night, +And all the church look'd dismally + By his dark lanthorn light. + +They laid the pick-axe to the stones + And they moved them soon asunder. +They shovell'd away the hard-prest clay + And came to the coffin under. + +They burst the patent coffin first + And they cut thro' the lead, +And they laugh'd aloud when they saw the shroud + Because they had got at the dead. + +And they allowed the Sexton the shroud + And they put the coffin back, +And nose and knees they then did squeeze + The Surgeon in a sack. + +The watchmen as they past along + Full four yards off could smell, +And a curse bestowed upon the load + So disagreeable. + +So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back + And they carv'd him bone from bone, +But what became of the Surgeon's soul + Was never to mortal known. + + + + + + + + + +THE VICTORY. + + + Hark--how the church-bells thundering harmony + Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come, + Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships + Met on the element,--they met, they fought + A desperate fight!--good tidings of great joy! + Old England triumphed! yet another day + Of glory for the ruler of the waves! + For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause, + They have their passing paragraphs of praise + And are forgotten. + There was one who died + In that day's glory, whose obscurer name + No proud historian's page will chronicle. + Peace to his honest soul! I read his name, + 'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God + The sound was not familiar to mine ear. + But it was told me after that this man + Was one whom lawful violence [1] had forced + From his own home and wife and little ones, + Who by his labour lived; that he was one + Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel + A husband's love, a father's anxiousness, + That from the wages of his toil he fed + The distant dear ones, and would talk of them + At midnight when he trod the silent deck + With him he valued, talk of them, of joys + That he had known--oh God! and of the hour + When they should meet again, till his full heart + His manly heart at last would overflow + Even like a child's with very tenderness. + Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly + It came, and merciful the ball of death, + For it came suddenly and shattered him, + And left no moment's agonizing thought + On those he loved so well. + He ocean deep + Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter + Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know + What a cold sickness made her blood run back + When first she heard the tidings of the fight; + Man does not know with what a dreadful hope + She listened to the names of those who died, + Man does not know, or knowing will not heed, + With what an agony of tenderness + She gazed upon her children, and beheld + His image who was gone. Oh God! be thou + Her comforter who art the widow's friend! + + +[Footnote 1: The person alluded to was pressed into the service.] + + + + + + + + + +HENRY THE HERMIT. + + + It was a little island where he dwelt, + Or rather a lone rock, barren and bleak, + Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots + Its gray stone surface. Never mariner + Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast, + Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark + Anchored beside its shore. It was a place + Befitting well a rigid anchoret, + Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys + And purposes of life; and he had dwelt + Many long years upon that lonely isle, + For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms, + Honours and friends and country and the world, + And had grown old in solitude. That isle + Some solitary man in other times + Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found + The little chapel that his toil had built + Now by the storms unroofed, his bed of leaves + Wind-scattered, and his grave o'ergrown with grass, + And thistles, whose white seeds winged in vain + Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost. + So he repaired the chapel's ruined roof, + Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone, + And underneath a rock that shelter'd him + From the sea blasts, he built his hermitage. + + The peasants from the shore would bring him food + And beg his prayers; but human converse else + He knew not in that utter solitude, + Nor ever visited the haunts of men + Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed + Implored his blessing and his aid in death. + That summons he delayed not to obey, + Tho' the night tempest or autumnal wind. + Maddened the waves, and tho' the mariner, + Albeit relying on his saintly load, + Grew pale to see the peril. So he lived + A most austere and self-denying man, + Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness + Exhausted him, and it was pain at last + To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less + Tho' with reluctance of infirmity, + He rose at midnight from his bed of leaves + And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal + More self-condemning fervour rais'd his voice + For pardon for that sin, 'till that the sin + Repented was a joy like a good deed. + + One night upon the shore his chapel bell + Was heard; the air was calm, and its far sounds + Over the water came distinct and loud. + Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear + Its toll irregular, a monk arose. + The boatmen bore him willingly across + For well the hermit Henry was beloved. + He hastened to the chapel, on a stone + Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff and dead, + The bell-rope in his band, and at his feet + The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light + + +[Footnote 1: This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608.] + + + + + + + + + +English Eclogues. + +The following Eclogues I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in +our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, +and I was induced to attempt by an account of the German Idylls given me +in conversation. They cannot properly be stiled imitations, as I am +ignorant of that language at present, and have never seen any +translations or specimens in this kind. + +With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from ??tyrus [1] and +Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsises. No kind of poetry +can boast of more illustrious names or is more distinguished by the +servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers "more silly than +their sheep" have like their sheep gone on in the same track one after +another. Gay stumbled into a new path. His eclogues were the only ones +that interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were +burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for a long essay, but this +is not the place for it. + +How far poems requiring almost a colloquial plainness of language may +accord with the public taste I am doubtful. They have been subjected to +able criticism and revised with care. I have endeavoured to make them +true to nature. + + +[Footnote 1: The letters of this name are illegible (worn away?) in +the original text; from the remaining bits I have guessed all but the +first two, which are not visible under any magnification. text Ed.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE I. + + +THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE. + + + +STRANGER. + Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, + Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task + Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours. + + +OLD MAN. + Why yes! for one with such a weight of years + Upon his back. I've lived here, man and boy, + In this same parish, near the age of man + For I am hard upon threescore and ten. + I can remember sixty years ago + The beautifying of this mansion here + When my late Lady's father, the old Squire + Came to the estate. + + +STRANGER. + Why then you have outlasted + All his improvements, for you see they're making + Great alterations here. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye-great indeed! + And if my poor old Lady could rise up-- + God rest her soul! 'twould grieve her to behold + The wicked work is here. + + +STRANGER. + They've set about it + In right good earnest. All the front is gone, + Here's to be turf they tell me, and a road + Round to the door. There were some yew trees too + Stood in the court. + + +OLD MAN. + Aye Master! fine old trees! + My grandfather could just remember back + When they were planted there. It was my task + To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me! + All strait and smooth, and like a great green wall! + My poor old Lady many a time would come + And tell me where to shear, for she had played + In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride + To keep them in their beauty. Plague I say + On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have + A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs + And your pert poplar trees;--I could as soon + Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down! + + +STRANGER. + But 'twill be lighter and more chearful now, + A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road + Round for the carriage,--now it suits my taste. + I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh, + And then there's some variety about it. + In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose, + And the laburnum with its golden flowers + Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes + The bright red berries of the mountain ash, + With firs enough in winter to look green, + And show that something lives. Sure this is better + Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look + All the year round like winter, and for ever + Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs + So dry and bare! + + +OLD MAN. + Ah! so the new Squire thinks + And pretty work he makes of it! what 'tis + To have a stranger come to an old house! + + +STRANGER. + + It seems you know him not? + + +OLD MAN. + No Sir, not I. + They tell me he's expected daily now, + But in my Lady's time he never came + But once, for they were very distant kin. + If he had played about here when a child + In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries, + And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers, + That fell so thick, he had not had the heart + To mar all thus. + + +STRANGER. + Come--come! all a not wrong. + Those old dark windows-- + + +OLD MAN. + They're demolish'd too-- + As if he could not see thro' casement glass! + The very red-breasts that so regular + Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs, + Won't know the window now! + + +STRANGER. + Nay they were high + And then so darken'd up with jessamine, + Harbouring the vermine;--that was a fine tree + However. Did it not grow in and line + The porch? + + +OLD MAN. + All over it: it did one good + To pass within ten yards when 'twas in blossom. + There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside. + My Lady loved at evening to sit there + And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet + And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favourite dog + She did not love him less that he was old + And feeble, and he always had a place + By the fire-side, and when he died at last + She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. + Ah I she was good to all! a woful day + 'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! + + +STRANGER. + They lost a friend then? + + +OLD MAN. + You're a stranger here + Or would not ask that question. Were they sick? + She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs + She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter + When weekly she distributed the bread + In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear + The blessings on her! and I warrant them + They were a blessing to her when her wealth + Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir! + It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen + Her Christmas kitchen,--how the blazing fire + Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs + So chearful red,--and as for misseltoe, + The finest bough that grew in the country round + Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went + So bountiful about! a Christmas cask, + And 'twas a noble one! God help me Sir! + But I shall never see such days again. + + +STRANGER. + Things may be better yet than you suppose + And you should hope the best. + + +OLD MAN. + It don't look well + These alterations Sir! I'm an old man + And love the good old fashions; we don't find + Old bounty in new houses. They've destroyed + All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk + Grubb'd up, and they do say that the great row + Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top + They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think + To live to see all this, and 'tis perhaps + A comfort I shan't live to see it long. + + +STRANGER. + But sure all changes are not needs for the worse + My friend. + + +OLD MAN. + May-hap they mayn't Sir;--for all that + I like what I've been us'd to. I remember + All this from a child up, and now to lose it, + 'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left + As 'twas;--I go abroad and only meet + With men whose fathers I remember boys; + The brook that used to run before my door + That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt + To climb are down; and I see nothing now + That tells me of old times, except the stones + In the church-yard. You are young Sir and I hope + Have many years in store,--but pray to God + You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. + + +STRANGER. + Well! well! you've one friend more than you're aware of. + If the Squire's taste don't suit with your's, I warrant + That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste + His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady + E'er broached a better cask. You did not know me, + But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy + To make you like the outside; but within-- + That is not changed my friend! you'll always find + The same old bounty and old welcome there. + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE II. + + +THE GRANDMOTHERS TALE. + + + +JANE. + Harry! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round + The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us + One of her stories. + + +HARRY. + Aye--dear Grandmamma! + A pretty story! something dismal now; + A bloody murder. + + +JANE. + Or about a ghost. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Nay, nay, I should but frighten you. You know + The other night when I was telling you + About the light in the church-yard, how you trembled + Because the screech-owl hooted at the window, + And would not go to bed. + + +JANE. + Why Grandmamma + You said yourself you did not like to hear him. + Pray now! we wo'nt be frightened. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Well, well, children! + But you've heard all my stories. Let me see,-- + Did I never tell you how the smuggler murdered + The woman down at Pill? + + +HARRY. + No--never! never! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Not how he cut her head off in the stable? + + +HARRY. + Oh--now! do tell us that! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + You must have heard + Your Mother, children! often tell of her. + She used to weed in the garden here, and worm + Your uncle's dogs [1], and serve the house with coal; + And glad enough she was in winter time + To drive her asses here! it was cold work + To follow the slow beasts thro' sleet and snow, + And here she found a comfortable meal + And a brave fire to thaw her, for poor Moll + Was always welcome. + + +HARRY. + Oh--'twas blear-eyed Moll + The collier woman,--a great ugly woman, + I've heard of her. + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Ugly enough poor soul! + At ten yards distance you could hardly tell + If it were man or woman, for her voice + Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore + A man's old coat and hat,--and then her face! + There was a merry story told of her, + How when the press-gang came to take her husband + As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, + Drest John up in her night-cap, and herself + Put on his clothes and went before the Captain. + + +JANE. + And so they prest a woman! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + 'Twas a trick + She dearly loved to tell, and all the country + Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel + For miles around. All weathers and all hours + She crossed the hill, as hardy as her beasts, + Bearing the wind and rain and winter frosts, + And if she did not reach her home at night + She laid her down in the stable with her asses + And slept as sound as they did. + + +HARRY. + With her asses! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Yes, and she loved her beasts. For tho' poor wretch + She was a terrible reprobate and swore + Like any trooper, she was always good + To the dumb creatures, never loaded them + Beyond their strength, and rather I believe + Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want, + Because, she said, they could not ask for food. + I never saw her stick fall heavier on them + Than just with its own weight. She little thought + This tender-heartedness would be her death! + There was a fellow who had oftentimes, + As if he took delight in cruelty. + Ill-used her Asses. He was one who lived + By smuggling, and, for she had often met him + Crossing the down at night, she threatened him, + If he tormented them again, to inform + Of his unlawful ways. Well--so it was-- + 'Twas what they both were born to, he provoked her, + She laid an information, and one morn + They found her in the stable, her throat cut + From ear to ear,'till the head only hung + Just by a bit of skin. + + +JANE. + Oh dear! oh dear! + + +HARRY. + I hope they hung the man! + + +GRANDMOTHER. + They took him up; + There was no proof, no one had seen the deed, + And he was set at liberty. But God + Whoss eye beholdeth all things, he had seen + The murder, and the murderer knew that God + Was witness to his crime. He fled the place, + But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand + Of heaven, but nowhere could the murderer rest, + A guilty conscience haunted him, by day, + By night, in company, in solitude, + Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him + The weight of blood; her cries were in his ears, + Her stifled groans as when he knelt upon her + Always he heard; always he saw her stand + Before his eyes; even in the dead of night + Distinctly seen as tho' in the broad sun, + She stood beside the murderer's bed and yawn'd + Her ghastly wound; till life itself became + A punishment at last he could not bear, + And he confess'd [2] it all, and gave himself + To death, so terrible, he said, it was + To have a guilty conscience! + + +HARRY. + Was he hung then? + + +GRANDMOTHER. + Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man, + Your uncles went to see him on his trial, + He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed, + And such a horror in his meagre face, + They said he look'd like one who never slept. + He begg'd the prayers of all who saw his end + And met his death with fears that well might warn + From guilt, tho' not without a hope in Christ. + + +[Footnote 1: I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common +in other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from doing +any mischief should they afterwards become mad.] + +[Footnote 2: There must be many persons living who remember these +circumstances. They happened two or three and twenty years ago, in the +neighbourhood of Bristol. The woman's name was Bees. The stratagem by +which she preserved her husband from the press-gang, is also true.] + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE III. + + +THE FUNERAL. + + + + The coffin [1] as I past across the lane + Came sudden on my view. It was not here, + A sight of every day, as in the streets + Of the great city, and we paus'd and ask'd + Who to the grave was going. It was one, + A village girl, they told us, who had borne + An eighteen months strange illness, and had pined + With such slow wasting that the hour of death + Came welcome to her. We pursued our way + To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk + That passes o'er the mind and is forgot, + We wore away the time. But it was eve + When homewardly I went, and in the air + Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade + That makes the eye turn inward. Then I heard + Over the vale the heavy toll of death + Sound slow; it made me think upon the dead, + I questioned more and learnt her sorrowful tale. + She bore unhusbanded a mother's name, + And he who should have cherished her, far off + Sail'd on the seas, self-exil'd from his home, + For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched one, + Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues + Were busy with her name. She had one ill + Heavier, neglect, forgetfulness from him + Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote, + But only once that drop of comfort came + To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; + And when his parents had some tidings from him, + There was no mention of poor Hannah there, + Or 'twas the cold enquiry, bitterer + Than silence. So she pined and pined away + And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd, + Nor did she, even on her death bed, rest + From labour, knitting with her outstretch'd arms + Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother + Omitted no kind office, and she work'd + Hard, and with hardest working barely earn'd + Enough to make life struggle and prolong + The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay + On the sick bed of poverty, so worn + With her long suffering and that painful thought + That at her heart lay rankling, and so weak, + That she could make no effort to express + Affection for her infant; and the child, + Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her + With a strange infantine ingratitude + Shunn'd her as one indifferent. She was past + That anguish, for she felt her hour draw on, + And 'twas her only comfoft now to think + Upon the grave. "Poor girl!" her mother said, + "Thou hast suffered much!" "aye mother! there is none + "Can tell what I have suffered!" she replied, + "But I shall soon be where the weary rest." + And she did rest her soon, for it pleased God + To take her to his mercy. + + +[Footnote 1: It is proper to remark that the story related in this +Eclogue is strictly true. I met the funeral, and learnt the +circumstances in a village in Hampshire. The indifference of the child +was mentioned to me; indeed no addition whatever has been made to the +story. I should have thought it wrong to have weakened the effect of a +faithful narrative by adding any thing.] + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE IV. + + +THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. + + + +WOMAN. + Sir for the love of God some small relief + To a poor woman! + + +TRAVELLER. + Whither are you bound? + 'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, + No house for miles around us, and the way + Dreary and wild. The evening wind already + Makes one's teeth chatter, and the very Sun, + Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, + Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night! + + +WOMAN. + Aye Sir + 'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath, + Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end, + For the way is long before me, and my feet, + God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly, + If it pleased God, lie down at once and die. + + +TRAVELLER. + Nay nay cheer up! a little food and rest + Will comfort you; and then your journey's end + Will make amends for all. You shake your head, + And weep. Is it some evil business then + That leads you from your home? + + +WOMAN. + Sir I am going + To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt + In the late action, and in the hospital + Dying, I fear me, now. + + +TRAVELLER. + Perhaps your fears + Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost + There may be still enough for comfort left + An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart + To keep life warm, and he may live to talk + With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd him, + Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude + Makes the maim'd sailor happy. + + +WOMAN. + 'Tis not that-- + An arm or leg--I could have borne with that. + 'Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing + That bursts [1] and burns that hurt him. Something Sir + They do not use on board our English ships + It is so wicked! + + +TRAVELLER. + Rascals! a mean art + Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain! + + +WOMAN. + Yes Sir! and they should show no mercy to them + For making use of such unchristian arms. + I had a letter from the hospital, + He got some friend to write it, and he tells me + That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes, + Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever live + To see this wretched day!--they tell me Sir + There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed + 'Tis a hard journey that I go upon + To such a dismal end! + + +TRAVELLER. + He yet may live. + But if the worst should chance, why you must bear + The will of heaven with patience. Were it not + Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen + Fighting his country's cause? and for yourself + You will not in unpitied poverty + Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country + Amid the triumph of her victory + Remember those who paid its price of blood, + And with a noble charity relieves + The widow and the orphan. + + +WOMAN. + God reward them! + God bless them, it will help me in my age + But Sir! it will not pay me for my child! + + +TRAVELLER. + Was he your only child? + + +WOMAN. + My only one, + The stay and comfort of my widowhood, + A dear good boy!--when first he went to sea + I felt what it would come to,--something told me + I should be childless soon. But tell me Sir + If it be true that for a hurt like his + There is no cure? please God to spare his life + Tho' he be blind, yet I should be so thankful! + I can remember there was a blind man + Lived in our village, one from his youth up + Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, + And he had none to tend on him so well + As I would tend my boy! + + +TRAVELLER. + Of this be sure + His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help + The place affords, as rightly is his due, + Ever at hand. How happened it he left you? + Was a seafaring life his early choice? + + +WOMAN. + No Sir! poor fellow--he was wise enough + To be content at home, and 'twas a home + As comfortable Sir I even tho' I say it, + As any in the country. He was left + A little boy when his poor father died, + Just old enough to totter by himself + And call his mother's name. We two were all, + And as we were not left quite destitute + We bore up well. In the summer time I worked + Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting, + And in long winter nights my spinning wheel + Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too + And never felt distress. So he grew up + A comely lad and wonderous well disposed; + I taught him well; there was not in the parish + A child who said his prayers more regular, + Or answered readier thro' his catechism. + If I had foreseen this! but 'tis a blessing + We do'nt know what we're born to! + + +TRAVELLER. + But how came it + He chose to be a Sailor? + + +WOMAN. + You shall hear Sir; + As he grew up he used to watch the birds + In the corn, child's work you know, and easily done. + 'Tis an idle sort of task, so he built up + A little hut of wicker-work and clay + Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain. + And then he took for very idleness + To making traps to catch the plunderers, + All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make-- + Propping a stone to fall and shut them in, + Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe + Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly-- + And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased + To see the boy so handy. You may guess + What followed Sir from this unlucky skill. + He did what he should not when he was older: + I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught + In wiring hares at last, and had his choice + The prison or the ship. + + +TRAVELLER. + The choice at least + Was kindly left him, and for broken laws + This was methinks no heavy punishment. + + +WOMAN. + So I was told Sir. And I tried to think so, + But 'twas a sad blow to me! I was used + To sleep at nights soundly and undisturb'd-- + Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start + And think of my poor boy tossing about + Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem'd + To feel that it was hard to take him from me + For such a little fault. But he was wrong + Oh very wrong--a murrain on his traps! + See what they've brought him too! + + +TRAVELLER. + Well! well! take comfort + He will be taken care of if he lives; + And should you lose your child, this is a country + Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent + To weep for him in want. + + +WOMAN. + Sir I shall want + No succour long. In the common course of years + I soon must be at rest, and 'tis a comfort + When grief is hard upon me to reflect + It only leads me to that rest the sooner. + + +[Footnote 1: The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the +engagement between the Mars and L'Hercule, some of our sailors were +shockingly mangled by them: One in particular, as described in the +Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be policy and humanity to employ +means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to +destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only inflicts +additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is cruel and +wicked.] + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE V. + + +THE WITCH. + + + +NATHANIEL. + Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe! + Faith it was just in time, for t'other night + I laid two straws across at Margery's door, + And afterwards I fear'd that she might do me + A mischief for't. There was the Miller's boy + Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, + I met him upon crutches, and he told me + 'Twas all her evil eye. + + +FATHER. + 'Tis rare good luck; + I would have gladly given a crown for one + If t'would have done as well. But where did'st find it? + + +NATHANIEL. + Down on the Common; I was going a-field + And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare; + He had hardly said "good day," before I saw + The shoe drop off; 'twas just upon my tongue + To call him back,--it makes no difference, does it. + Because I know whose 'twas? + + +FATHER. + Why no, it can't. + The shoe's the same you know, and you 'did find' it. + + +NATHANIEL. + That mare of his has got a plaguey road + To travel, father, and if he should lame her, + For she is but tender-footed,-- + + +FATHER. + Aye, indeed-- + I should not like to see her limping back + Poor beast! but charity begins at home, + And Nat, there's our own horse in such a way + This morning! + + +NATHANIEL. + Why he ha'nt been rid again! + Last night I hung a pebble by the manger + With a hole thro', and every body says + That 'tis a special charm against the hags. + + +FATHER. + It could not be a proper natural hole then, + Or 'twas not a right pebble,--for I found him + Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, + And panting so! God knows where he had been + When we were all asleep, thro' bush and brake + Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch + At such a deadly rate!-- + + +NATHANIEL. + By land and water, + Over the sea perhaps!--I have heard tell + That 'tis some thousand miles, almost at the end + Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. + They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear + Some ointment over them and then away + Out of the window! but 'tis worse than all + To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it + That in a Christian country they should let + Such creatures live! + + +FATHER. + And when there's such plain proof! + I did but threaten her because she robb'd + Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind + That made me shake to hear it in my bed! + How came it that that storm unroofed my barn, + And only mine in the parish? look at her + And that's enough; she has it in her face-- + A pair of large dead eyes, rank in her head, + Just like a corpse, and purs'd with wrinkles round, + A nose and chin that scarce leave room between + For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff, + And when she speaks! I'd sooner hear a raven + Croak at my door! she sits there, nose and knees + Smoak-dried and shrivell'd over a starved fire, + With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes + Shine like old Beelzebub's, and to be sure + It must be one of his imps!--aye, nail it hard. + + +NATHANIEL. + I wish old Margery heard the hammer go! + She'd curse the music. + + +FATHER. + Here's the Curate coming, + He ought to rid the parish of such vermin; + In the old times they used to hunt them out + And hang them without mercy, but Lord bless us! + The world is grown so wicked! + + +CURATE. + Good day Farmer! + Nathaniel what art nailing to the threshold? + + +NATHANIEL. + A horse-shoe Sir, 'tis good to keep off witchcraft, + And we're afraid of Margery. + + +CURATE. + Poor old woman! + What can you fear from her? + + +FATHER. + What can we fear? + Who lamed the Miller's boy? who rais'd the wind + That blew my old barn's roof down? who d'ye think + Rides my poor horse a'nights? who mocks the hounds? + But let me catch her at that trick again, + And I've a silver bullet ready for her, + One that shall lame her, double how she will. + + +NATHANIEL. + What makes her sit there moping by herself, + With no soul near her but that great black cat? + And do but look at her! + + +CURATE. + Poor wretch! half blind + And crooked with her years, without a child + Or friend in her old age, 'tis hard indeed + To have her very miseries made her crimes! + I met her but last week in that hard frost + That made my young limbs ache, and when I ask'd + What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman + Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad + And pick the hedges, just to keep herself + From perishing with cold, because no neighbour + Had pity on her age; and then she cried, + And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, + And wish'd that she were dead. + + +FATHER. + I wish she was! + She has plagued the parish long enough! + + +CURATE. + Shame farmer! + Is that the charity your bible teaches? + + +FATHER. + My bible does not teach me to love witches. + I know what's charity; who pays his tithes + And poor-rates readier? + + +CURATE. + Who can better do it? + You've been a prudent and industrious man, + And God has blest your labour. + + +FATHER. + Why, thank God Sir, + I've had no reason to complain of fortune. + + +CURATE. + Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish + Look up to you. + + +FATHER. + Perhaps Sir, I could tell + Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. + + +CURATE. + You can afford a little to the poor, + And then what's better still, you have the heart + To give from your abundance. + + +FATHER. + God forbid + I should want charity! + + +CURATE. + Oh! 'tis a comfort + To think at last of riches well employ'd! + I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth + Of a good deed at that most awful hour + When riches profit not. + Farmer, I'm going + To visit Margery. She is sick I hear-- + Old, poor, and sick! a miserable lot, + And death will be a blessing. You might send her + Some little matter, something comfortable, + That she may go down easier to the grave + And bless you when she dies. + + +FATHER. + What! is she going! + Well God forgive her then! if she has dealt + In the black art. I'll tell my dame of it, + And she shall send her something. + + +CURATE. + So I'll say; + And take my thanks for her's. ['goes'] + + +FATHER. + That's a good man + That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit + The poor in sickness; but he don't believe + In witchcraft, and that is not like a christian. + + +NATHANIEL. + And so old Margery's dying! + + +FATHER. + But you know + She may recover; so drive t'other nail in! + + + + + + + + + + + + +ECLOGUE VI. + + +THE RUINED COTTAGE. + + + + Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye, + This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch, + Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower + Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock + That thro' the creeping weeds and nettles tall + Peers taller, and uplifts its column'd stem + Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen + Many a fallen convent reverend in decay, + And many a time have trod the castle courts + And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike + Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts + As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch + Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof + Part mouldered in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds, + House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss; + So Nature wars with all the works of man. + And, like himself, reduces back to earth + His perishable piles. + I led thee here + Charles, not without design; for this hath been + My favourite walk even since I was a boy; + And I remember Charles, this ruin here, + The neatest comfortable dwelling place! + That when I read in those dear books that first + Woke in my heart the love of poesy, + How with the villagers Erminia dwelt, + And Calidore for a fair shepherdess + Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd's lore; + My fancy drew from, this the little hut + Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love, + Or where the gentle Calidore at eve + Led Pastorella home. There was not then + A weed where all these nettles overtop + The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet + The morning air, rosemary and marjoram, + All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath'd + So lavishly around the pillared porch + Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way, + After a truant absence hastening home, + I could not chuse but pass with slacken'd speed + By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed + Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!-- + Theirs is a simple melancholy tale, + There's scarce a village but can fellow it, + And yet methinks it will not weary thee, + And should not be untold. + A widow woman + Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want, + She lived on some small pittance that sufficed, + In better times, the needful calls of life, + Not without comfort. I remember her + Sitting at evening in that open door way + And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her + Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles + To see the passer by, yet ceasing not + To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden + On some dry summer evening, walking round + To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean'd + Upon the ivory handle of her stick, + To some carnation whose o'erheavy head + Needed support, while with the watering-pot + Joanna followed, and refresh'd and trimm'd + The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child, + As lovely and as happy then as youth + And innocence could make her. + Charles! it seems + As tho' I were a boy again, and all + The mediate years with their vicissitudes + A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid + So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair, + Her bright brown hair, wreath'd in contracting curls, + And then her cheek! it was a red and white + That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome, + The countrymen who on their way to church + Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear + The bell's last summons, and in idleness + Watching the stream below, would all look up + When she pass'd by. And her old Mother, Charles! + When I have beard some erring infidel + Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed, + Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness. + Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love + The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross'd + These fields in rain and thro' the winter snows. + When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself + By the fire-side, have wondered why 'she' came + Who might have sate at home. + One only care + Hung on her aged spirit. For herself, + Her path was plain before her, and the close + Of her long journey near. But then her child + Soon to be left alone in this bad world,-- + That was a thought that many a winter night + Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love + In something better than a servant's slate + Had placed her well at last, it was a pang + Like parting life to part with her dear girl. + + One summer, Charles, when at the holydays + Return'd from school, I visited again + My old accustomed walks, and found in them. + A joy almost like meeting an old friend, + I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds + Already crowding the neglected flowers. + Joanna by a villain's wiles seduced + Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach'd + Her mother's heart. She did not suffer long, + Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow + Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. + + I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes + And think of other days. It wakes in me + A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles + That ever with these recollections rise, + I trust in God they will not pass away. + + + + + + + + +THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, 1799, by Robert Southey + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1799 *** + +This file should be named 8spm210.txt or 8spm210.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8spm211.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8spm210a.txt + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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