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diff --git a/old/7beth10.txt b/old/7beth10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9533e5f --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7beth10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2546 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Matilda Betham +#5 in our series by Matilda Betham + +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 + +Author: Matilda Betham + +Release Date: February, 2006 [EBook #9998] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on November 6, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram and PG Distributed Proofreaders + + + + +POEMS + +BY + +MATILDA BETHAM. + + +1808. + + +TO LADY ROUSE BOUGHTON, AS A TESTIMONY OF RESPECT AND GRATITUDE FOR +LONG CONTINUED FRIENDSHIP, THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS INSCRIBED BY HER +OBLIGED HUMBLE SERVANT, MATILDA BETHAM. + +_New Cavendish-street,_ + +Feb. 3, 1809. + + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + +Before this book was printed, I thoughtlessly concluded there must be a +preface; but, on consideration, see no particular purpose it would +answer, and gladly decline a task I should have undertaken with much +timidity and reluctance. All I feel necessary to premise, is, that the +tale in the Old Shepherd's Recollections is founded on an event which +happened in Ireland; and that last spring I suppressed the song ending +in page 65 [The Old Man's Farewell], some time after it had been in the +hands of the composer, from meeting accidentally with a quotation in a +magazine that resembled it. + + + + + +CONTENTS. + + POEMS.-- + The Old Fisherman + Lines to Mrs. Radcliffe, on first reading The Mysteries of + Udolpho + The Heir + To a Llangollen Rose, the day after it had been given me by + Miss Ponsonby + L'Homme de l'Ennui + The Grandfather's Departure + Reflections occasioned by the Death of Friends + To Mrs. T. Fancourt + To a Young Gentleman + Fragment + + SONGS.-- + "Thrice lovely Babe" + "What do I love?" + A Sailor's Song + Another + Once more, then farewell! + Henry, on the Departure of his Wife from Calcutta + Sonnet + On the Regret of Youth + Elegy on Sophia Graham + To Miss Rouse Boughton + To the Same + To the River which separates itself from the Dee at Bedkellert + The Old Man's Farewell + Song--Distance from the Place of our Nativity. + The Old Shepherd's Recollections + Reflection + Retrospect of Youth + The Daughter + Youth unsuspicious of evil + The Mother + Edgar and Ellen + + + + +POEMS. + + +THE OLD FISHERMAN. + + 'My bosom is chill'd with the cold, + My limbs their lost vigour deplore! + Alas! to the lonely and old, + Hope warbles her promise no more! + + 'Worn out with the length of my way, + I must rest me awhile on the beach, + To feel the salt dash of the spray, + If haply so far it may reach. + + 'As the white-foaming billows arise, + I reflect on the days that are past, + When the pride of my strength could despise + The keen-driving force of the blast. + + 'Though the heavens might menace on high, + I would still push my vessel from shore; + At my calling undauntedly ply, + And sing as I handled the oar. + + 'When fortune rewarded my toil, + And my nets, deeply-laden, I drew, + I hurried me home with the spoil, + And its inmates rejoic'd at the view. + + 'Though the winds and the waves were perverse, + I was sure to be welcom'd with glee; + My presence the cares would disperse, + That were only awaken'd for me. + + 'Whether weary, with toiling in vain, + Or gay, from abundant success, + I heard the same blessing again,-- + I met the same tender caress: + + 'I fancied the perils repay'd, + That could such affection ensure; + By fondness and gratitude sway'd, + I was eager to dare and endure. + + 'My cot did each comfort contain, + And that gave my bosom delight; + When drench'd by the winterly rain, + I watch'd in my vessel at night. + + 'But, alas! from the tyrant, Disease, + What love or what caution can save! + A fever, more harsh than the seas, + Consign'd my poor wife to the grave. + + 'My children, so tenderly rear'd, + And pining for want of her care, + Though more by my sorrows endear'd, + Could not rescue my heart from despair. + + 'I tempted the dangers of night, + And still labour'd hard at the oar, + My sufferings appear'd to be light, + But I suffer'd with pleasure no more. + + 'And yet, when some seasons had roll'd, + I seem'd to awaken anew; + My children I lov'd to behold, + How tall and how comely they grew. + + 'My boy became hardy and bold, + His spirit was buoyant and free; + And, as I grew thoughtful and old, + Was loud and oppressive to me. + + 'But the girl, like a bird in the bower, + Awaken'd my hope and my pride; + She won on my heart ev'ry hour, + And I could not the preference hide. + + 'I mark'd the address and the care, + The manner endearing and mild, + Not dreaming those qualities rare + Were to murther the peace of my child: + + 'That grandeur would ever descend + To seek for so lowly a bride, + Or his fair one, a lover pretend, + From all she held dear to divide: + + 'That beauty was priz'd like a gem, + Expected to dazzle and shine, + Whose value the world would contemn, + Unless trac'd to some Indian mine: + + 'Alas! hapless girl! had I known + Thou hadst learnt to repine at thy lot; + That splendour and rank were thy own, + Thy home and thy father forgot: + + 'That lore and ambition assail'd, + Thou hadst left us, whatever befel! + My pardon and prayers had prevail'd, + I had blest thee, and bade thee farewel! + + 'With thy husband, from this happy clime, + I had seen thee for ever depart! + Still hoping affection and time + Might soften the pride of his heart: + + 'That a moment perhaps would arise, + When, fondling a child on the knee, + He might read, in its innocent eyes + A lesson of pity for me. + + 'But lips, which till then never said + A word to cause any one pain, + Inform'd me, when reason had fled, + Of a conflict it could not sustain. + + 'And he, who had wish'd to conceal + That the woman he lov'd had been poor, + Began all his folly to feel, + When the victim could hearken no more. + + 'Yet still for himself did he mourn, + And, indignant, I fled from the view: + For my wrongs were not easily borne, + And my anger was hard to subdue. + + 'One prop, one sole comfort, remain'd, + Who saw me o'erladen with grief, + Who saw (though I never complain'd) + My heart was too sick for relief. + + 'One, who always attentive and dear, + Every effort exerted to please, + My desolate prospect to cheer, + To study my health and my ease. + + 'For his was each toil and each care, + The due observations to keep; + To sit watching amid the night air, + And fancy his father asleep. + + 'Yet, dejected, and sadly forlorn, + I dar'd in my heart to repine,-- + To lament that I ever was born, + Though such worth and affection were mine. + + 'Alas! I was destin'd to know, + However intense my despair, + I still was reserv'd for a blow, + More painful and cruel to bear. + + 'Yes! this only one fell in the main! + --I eagerly struggled to save; + But I strove with the current in vain, + And saw him sink under the wave! + + 'My head was astounded and wild,-- + Incessant I roam'd on the shore, + To seek the dead corse of my child, + And to weep on his bosom once more. + + 'Seven days undisturb'd was the sky, + The eighth was a tempest most drear, + I saw the huge billow rise high! + I saw my lost treasure appear! + + 'Like a dream it seem'd passing away:-- + I hurried me onward to meet, + And clasp the inanimate clay, + When senseless I sunk at his feet. + + 'These hands, now enfeebled by time, + The last pious offices paid! + Age sorrow'd o'er youth in its prime, + And my boy near his mother was laid. + + 'Now scar'd by the griefs I have known, + Wounds, apathy only can heal, + My joys and my sorrows are flown, + For I have forgotten to feel. + + 'But I know my Creator is just, + That his hand will deliver me soon; + I have learnt to submit and to trust, + Though I finish my journey alone.' + +Aldborough, September 7, 1800. + + * * * * * + + + +LINES TO MRS. RADCLIFFE, + +ON FIRST READING THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO. + + Enchantress! whose transcendant pow'rs, + With ease, the massy fabric raise;-- + Beneath whose sway the tempest low'rs, + Or lucid stream meaend'ring plays;-- + + Accept the tribute of a heart, + Which thou hast often made to glow + With transport, oft with terror start, + Or sink at strains of solemn woe! + + Invention, like a falcon, tam'd + By some expert and daring hand, + For pride, for strength and fierceness fam'd, + Implicit yields to thy command. + Now mounts aloft in soaring flight, + Shoots, like a star, beyond the sight; + Or, in capricious windings borne, + Mocks our faint hopes of safe return; + Delights in trackless paths to roam, + But hears thy call, and hurries home; + Checks his bold wing when tow'ring free, + And sails, without a pause, to thee! + Enchantress, thy behests declare! + And what thy strong delusions are! + + When spirits in thy circle rise, + Gaunt Wonder, panic-struck, and pale, + Impatient Hope, and dread Surmise, + Attendants on the mystic tale! + + How is it, with such vivid hues, + A harmonizing softness flows! + What are the charms that can diffuse, + Such grandeur as thy pencil throws! + + Say! do the nymphs of classic lore, + So simply graceful, light, and fair, + Forsake their consecrated shore, + Their hallow'd groves, and purer air? + + Tir'd of the ancient Grecian loom, + And smit with Fancy's wayward glance, + Weave they amid the Gothic gloom, + The high-wrought fiction of Romance? + + While the dark Genius of our northern clime, + Whose giant limbs the mist of years enshrouds, + Bursts through the veil which hides his head sublime, + And moves majestic through recoiling clouds! + + O yes! they own the wond'rous spell, + And to each form their hands divine + Give, with nice art, the temper'd swell, + The chasten'd touch and faultless line! + + Each fiction under their command, + Assumes an air severely true, + And, every vision, wildly grand, + Life's measur'd pace and modest hue. + + Reason and fancy, rival powers! + Unite, their RADCLIFFE to befriend; + To decorate her way with flowers, + The minor graces all attend! + +This piece, with the exception of a few lines, has +appeared in the Athenaeum. + + * * * * * + + +THE HEIR. + + See yon tall stripling! how he droops forlorn! + How slow his pace! how spiritless his eye! + Like a dark cloud in summer's rosy dawn, + He saddens pleasure as he passes by. + + Long kept in exile by paternal pride, + He feels no joy beneath this splendid dome; + For, till the elder child of promise died, + He knew a dearer, though a humbler home. + + Then the proud sail was spread! The youth obey'd, + Left ev'ry friend, and every scene he knew; + For ever left the soul-affianc'd maid, + Though his heart sicken'd as he said--Adieu; + And nurses still, with superstitious care, + The sigh of fond remembrance and despair. + + * * * * * + + + +TO A LLANGOLLEN ROSE, + +THE DAY AFTER IT HAD BEEN GIVEN BY MISS PONSONBY. + + Soft blushing flow'r! my bosom grieves, + To view thy sadly drooping leaves: + For, while their tender tints decay, + The rose of Fancy fades away! + As pilgrims, who, with zealous care, + Some little treasur'd relic bear, + To re-assure the doubtful mind, + When pausing memory looks behind; + I, from a more enlighten'd shrine, + Had made this sweet memento mine: + But, lo! its fainting head reclines; + It folds the pallid leaf, and pines, + As mourning the unhappy doom, + Which tears it from so sweet a home! + +_July 22, 1799._ + + * * * * * + + + +L'HOMME DE L'ENNUI. + + Forlornly I wander, forlornly I sigh, + And droop my head sadly, I cannot tell why: + When the first breeze of morning blows fresh in my face, + As the wild-waving walks of our woodlands I trace, + Reviv'd for the moment I look all around, + But my eyes soon grow languid, and fix on the ground. + + I have yet no misfortune to rob me of rest, + No love discomposes the peace of my breast; + Ambition ne'er enter'd the verge of my thought, + Nor by honours, by wealth, nor by power am I caught; + Those phantoms of folly disturb not my ease, + Yet Time is a tortoise, and Life a disease. + + With the blessings of youth and of health on my side, + A temper untainted by envy or pride; + No guilt to corrode, and no foes to molest; + There are many who tell me my station is blest. + This I cannot dispute; yet without knowing why-- + I feel that my bosom is big with a sigh. + + Oh! why do I see that all knowledge is vain; + That Science finds Error still keep in her train; + That Imposture or Darkness, with Doubt and Surmise, + Will mislead, will perplex, and then baffle the wise, + Who often, when labours have shorten'd their span, + Declare--not to know--is the province of man? + + In life, as in learning, our views are confin'd, + Our discernment too weak to discover the mind, + Which, subdued and irresolute, keeps out of sight; + Or if, for a moment, her presence delight, + Our air is too gross for the stranger to stay; + And, back to her prison she hurries away! + + If my own narrow precincts I seek to explore, + My wishes how vain, my attainments how poor! + Tenacious of virtue, with caution I move; + I correct, and I wrestle, but cannot approve; + Till, bewilder'd and faint, I would yield up the rein, + But I dare not in peace with my errors remain! + + With zeal all awake in the cause of a friend, + With warmth unrepress'd by my fear to offend, + With sympathy active in hope or distress, + How keen and how anxious I cannot express, + I shrink, lest an eye should my feelings behold, + And my heart seems insensible, selfish and cold. + + I strive to be gay, but my efforts are weak, + And, sick of existence, for pleasure I seek; + I mix with the empty, the loud, and the vain, + Partake of their folly, and double my pain. + In others I meet with depression and strife; + Oh! where shall I seek for the music of life? + + * * * * * + + + +THE GRANDFATHER'S DEPARTURE. + + The Old Man press'd Palemon's hand; + To Lucy nodded with a smile; + Kiss'd all the little ones around; + Then clos'd the gate, and paus'd awhile. + + "When shall I come again!" he thought, + Ere yet the journey had begun; + It was a tedious length of way, + But he beheld an only son. + + And dearly did he love to take + A rosy grandchild on his knee; + To part his shining locks, and say, + "Just such another boy was he!" + + And never felt he greater pride, + And never did he look so gay, + As when the little urchins strove + To make him partner in their play. + + But when, in some more gentle mood, + They silent hung upon his arm, + Or nestled close at ev'ning pray'r, + The old man felt a softer charm; + + And upward rais'd his closing eye, + Whence slow effus'd a grateful tear, + As if his senses own'd a joy, + Too holy for endurance here. + + No heart e'er pray'd so fervently, + Unprompted by an earthly zeal, + None ever knew such tenderness, + That did not true devotion feel. + + As with the pure, uncolour'd flame, + The violet's richest blues unite, + Do our affections soar to heav'n, + And rarify and beam with light. + + * * * * * + + + +REFLECTIONS + +OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. + + My happiness was once a goodly tree, + Which promis'd every day to grow more fair, + And rear'd its lofty branches in the air, + In sooth, it was a pleasant sight, to see! + Amidst, fair honey-suckles crept along, + Twin'd round the bark, and hung from every bough, + While birds, which Fancy held by slender strings, + Plum'd the dark azure of their shining wings, + Or dipp'd them in the silver stream below, + With many a joyful note, and many a song! + + When lo! a tempest hurtles in the sky! + Dark low'r the clouds! the thunders burst around! + Fiercely the arrowy flakes of lightning fly! + While the scar'd songsters leave the quiv'ring bough, + The blasted honey-suckles droop below, + And many noble branches strew the ground! + + Though soon the air is calm, the sky serene, + Though wide the broad and leafy arms are spread, + Yet still the scars of recent wounds are seen; + Their shelter henceforth seems but insecure; + The winged tribes disdain the frequent lure, + Where many a songster lies benumb'd or dead; + And when I would the flow'ry tendrils train, + I find my late delightful labour vain. + + Affection thus, once light of heart, and gay, + Chasten'd by memory, and, unnerv'd by fear, + Shall sadden each endearment with a tear, + Sorrowing the offices of love shall pay, + And scarcely dare to think that good her own, + Which fate's imperious hand may snatch away, + In the warm sunshine of meridian day, + And when her hopes are full and fairest blown. + + * * * * * + + + +TO MRS. T. FANCOURT, + +July 15, 1803. + + I love not yon gay, painted flower, + Of bold and coarsely blended dye, + But one, whose nicely varied power + May long detain the curious eye. + + I love the tones that softly rise, + And in a fine accordance close; + That waken no abrupt surprise, + Nor leave us to inert repose. + + I love the moon's pure, holy light, + Pour'd on the calm, sequester'd stream; + The gale, fresh from the wings of night, + Which drinks the early solar beam; + + The smile of heaven, when storms subside, + When the moist clouds first break away; + The sober tints of even-tide, + Ere yet forgotten by the day. + + Such sights, such sounds, my fancy please, + And set my wearied spirit free: + And one who takes delight in these, + Can never fail of loving thee! + + * * * * * + + + +TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN. + +July 29th, 1803. + + Dear boy, when you meet with a rose, + Admire you the thorns very much? + Or like you to play with a ball, + When the handling it blisters your touch! + + Yet should it be firm and compact, + It is easy to polish it nice; + If the rose is both pretty and sweet, + The thorns will come off in a trice. + + The thistle has still many more, + As visible too in our eyes, + But who will take pains with a weed, + That nobody ever can prize? + + 'Tis what we deem precious and rare, + We most earnestly seek to amend; + And anxious attention and care, + Is the costliest gift of a friend. + + We all have our follies: what then? + Let us note them, and never look bluff! + Without any caressing at all, + They will cling to us closely enough. + + Weeds are of such obstinate growth, + They elude the most diligent hand; + And, if they were not to be check'd, + Would quickly run over the land. + + If some could be taken away, + That hide part of your worth from the view; + The conquest perhaps would be ours, + But the profit is wholly to you. + + * * * * * + + + +FRAGMENT. + + A Pilgrim weary, toil-subdued, + I reach'd a country, strange and rude, + And trembled, lest approaching eve + My hope of shelter might deceive; + When I espied a hunter train, + Prowling at leisure o'er the plain, + And hasten'd on to ask relief, + Of the ill-omen'd, haughty chief. + His eye was artful, keen, and bold, + His smile malevolently cold, + And had not all my fire been fled, + And every earthly passion dead, + His pity to contempt allied, + Had rous'd my anger and my pride; + But, as it was, I bent my way, + Where his secluded mansion lay, + Which rose before my eyes at length, + A fortress of determin'd strength, + And layers of every colour'd moss + The lofty turrets did emboss, + As tho' the hand of father Time, + Prepar'd a sacrifice sublime,-- + Giving his daily rites away, + To aggrandize some future day. + Here as I roam'd the walk along, + I heard a plaintive broken song; + And ere I to the portal drew, + An open window caught my view, + Where a fair dame appear'd in sight, + Array'd in robes of purest white. + Large snowy folds confin'd her hair, + And left a polish'd forehead bare. + O'er her meek eyes, of deepest blue, + The sable lash long shadows threw; + Her cheek was delicately pale, + And seem'd to tell a piteous tale, + But o'er her looks such patience stole, + Such saint-like tenderness of soul, + That never did my eyes behold, + A beauty of a lovelier mold. + + The Lady sigh'd, and closely prest + A sleeping infant to her breast; + Shook off sweet tears of love, and smil'd, + Kissing the fingers of the child, + Which round her own unconscious clung, + Then fondly gaz'd, and softly sung: + + Once like that sea, which ebbs and flows, + My bosom never knew repose, + And heavily each morn arose. + + I bore with anger and disdain, + I had no power to break my chain, + No one to whom I dar'd complain. + + And when some bird has caught my eye, + Or distant sail been flitting by, + I wish'd I could at freely fly. + + But I can now contented be, + Can tell, dear babe, my griefs to thee. + And feel more brave, and breathe more free. + + And when thy father frowns severe, + Although my spirit faints with fear, + I feel I have a comfort near. + + And when he harshly speaks to me, + If thou art smiling on my knee, + He softens as he looks on thee. + + To soothe him in an evil hour + The bud has balm, oh! may the flower + Possess the same prevailing power! + + Nor forc'd to leave thy native land, + To pledge a cold, unwilling hand, + May'st thou receive the hard command. + + My mother had not half the zeal, + The aching fondness which I feel, + She had no broken heart to heal! + + And I was friendless when she died, + Who could my little failings chide, + And for an hour her fondness hide. + + But I can see no prospect ope, + Can give no fairy vision scope, + If thou art not the spring of hope. + + I cannot thy affection draw, + By childhood's first admiring awe; + Be tender pity then thy law! + + This heart would bleed at every vein, + I could not even life sustain, + If ever thou should'st give me pain. + + O! soul of sweetness! can it be, + That thou could'st prove unkind to me! + That I should fear this blow from thee! + + Alas! e'en then I would not blame, + My love to thee should be the same, + And judge from whence unkindness came! + + Her words grew indistinct and slow, + Her voice more tremulous and low, + When suddenly the song was o'er, + A whisper even heard no more-- + She had discern'd my nearer tread; + Appear'd to feel alarm, and fled. + + * * * * * + + + +SONGS. + + * * * * * + + + +SONG. + + Thrice lovely babe! thus hush'd to rest, + Upon thy warrior father's breast! + Avails it, that his eyes behold, + Thy rosy cheeks, thy locks of gold! + Avails it that he bends his ear, + So fondly thy soft breath to hear! + Or, that his rising smiles confess, + A gracious gleam of tenderness! + The sweetest spell will scarce have pow'r + To hold him for one absent hour! + + Some plant that ceases thus to share, + A daily friend's auspicious care, + Relaxes in its feeble grasp, + The flow'ry tendrils soon unclasp, + Loose in the heedless aether play, + And every idle breeze obey! + Thus vainly had I sought to bind; + Thus watch'd that light, forgetful mind, + Till smiles and sunshine could restore, + My often-blighted hopes no more! + + * * * * * + + + +SONG. + +SET TO MUSIC BY MR. VOIGHT. + + What do I love? A polish'd mind, + A temper cheerful, meek, and kind; + A graceful air, unsway'd by art, + A voice that sinks into the heart, + A playful and benignant smile-- + Alas! my heart responds the while, + All this, my Emily, is true, + But I love more in loving you! + + I love those roses when they rise, + From joy, from anger, or surprise; + I love the kind, attentive zeal, + So prompt to know what others feel, + The mildness which can ne'er reprove, + But in the sweetest tones of love-- + All this, my Emily, is true, + But I love more in loving you! + + The self-command which can sustain, + In silence, weariness and pain; + The transport at a friend's success, + Which has not words or power to bless, + But, by a sudden, starting tear, + Appears more precious, more sincere-- + All this, my Emily, is true, + And this I love in loving you! + + * * * * * + + + +A SAILOR'S SONG. + +SET TO MUSIC BY MR. WALSH. + + I ponder many a silent hour, + On friends belov'd when far at sea, + And, tell me, have I not the power + To draw one kindred thought to me! + + The while we linger on the coast, + My truant fancy homeward flies, + And when the view is almost lost, + Unmanly tears bedew my eyes-- + + And oft forgetful do I stand, + Nor crew, nor ship, nor ocean see; + And often does my heart demand, + If friends belov'd thus think on me! + + And when to England bound once more, + I shall with fond impatience burn, + Will not some others on the shore + As fondly look for my return! + + O! let me of your kindness hear! + Repeat the strain as I depart! + It swells like music on my ear, + It falls like balm upon my heart. + +Aug. 21, 1805. + + * * * * * + + + +ANOTHER, + +WRITTEN EARLIER. + + Adieu to old England! adieu to my friends! + Though fortune and fame I pursue, + On thus looking around me, I cannot conceal, + How reluctant I bid them adieu! + + My heart sinks within me, I sigh to the gale, + Thus slowly receding from shore, + While fancy still whispers some terrible tale, + A perhaps I may see it no more! + + There all that I love, that I value, remain, + That only awakens my fears, + For will the same spot its dear inmates contain, + On the lapse of two lingering years? + + They may smile in good fortune, or weep in distress, + I shall know not a word of their fate! + No pain can I soften, no sorrow redress! + I may come, when, alas! 'tis too late! + + I can fly without fear to encounter the foe, + To my earliest wish I am true; + But I cannot unmov'd quit the friends that I love, + Or bid my dear country adieu! + + * * * * * + + + +SONG. + +SET TO MUSIC BY MR. A. PETTIT, OF NORWICH. + + Once more then farewell! and whilst I'm away, + Oh! let not another entangle thy fancy! + I shall think upon thee every hour of the day, + And let not my love be forgotten by Nancy! + + Oh! were I forsaken, the flow'r in my heart, + Would fold all its leaves, and re-open them never! + The sunshine of joy and of hope would depart, + And belief in affection would perish for ever! + + To talk thus is folly! I doubt not thy truth, + A few years of absence will quickly pass over, + I scorn other perils that menace my youth, + From that wound, I must own, I could never recover! + + * * * * * + + + +HENRY, + +ON THE DEPARTURE OF HIS WIFE FROM CALCUTTA. + + Long is thy passage o'er the main, + And native air alone can save! + No friend thy weakness will sustain, + But India is, for thee, a grave! + Though winds arise, though surges swell, + Maria, we must say farewell! + + Oh! I bethink me of the time, + When with each airy hope in view, + In triumph to this fervid clime + I bore a flowret nurs'd in dew! + No fears did then my joy reprove, + And it was boundless as my love! + + Yet now to strangers I consign + Thy wounded mind, thy feeble health; + A charge more dear than life resign, + To watch a little worldly wealth. + Duty compels me to remain + But oh! how heavy feels the chain! + + My dear Maria! smile no more? + This seeming patience makes me wild! + So would'st thou once my peace restore, + When, mourning for our only child, + Each faint appeal was lost in air, + Or turn'd my sadness to despair. + + Alas! I only make thee grieve. + And hark! the boat awaits below! + They call aloud! and I must leave, + The tears my folly forc'd to flow. + Oh! had I but the time to prove, + That mine are only fears of love! + + * * * * * + + + +SONNET. + + Urge me no more! nor think, because I seem + Tame and unsorrowing in the world's rude strife, + That anguish and resentment have not life + Within the heart that ye so quiet deem: + In this forc'd stillness only, I sustain + My thought and feeling, wearied out with pain! + Floating as 'twere upon some wild abyss, + Whence, silent Patience, bending o'er the brink, + Would rescue them with strong and steady hand, + And join again, by that connecting link, + Which now is broken:--O, respect her care! + Respect her in this fearful self-command! + No moment teems with greater woe than this, + Should she but pause, or falter in despair! + + * * * * * + + + +ON THE REGRET OF YOUTH. + + Before a rose is fully blown, + The outward leaves announce decay; + So, ere the spring of Youth is flown, + Its tiny pleasures die away; + + The gay security we feel, + The careless soul's delighted rest, + That lively hope, that ardent zeal, + And smiling sunshine of the breast. + + Those simple tints, so bright and clear, + No healing dew-drops can restore; + For joys, which early life endear, + Once blighted, can revive no more. + + Yet lovely is the full-blown rose, + Although its infant graces fly; + The various opening leaves disclose, + A fairer banquet to the eye; + + A ruby's beams on drifted snow, + Such pure, harmonious blushes shed; + If distant, cast a tender glow, + But near, its own imperial red; + + The form assumes a prouder air, + And bends more graceful in the gale; + While, from its cup, of essence rare, + A richer hoard of sweets exhale. + + Could we again, by fancy led, + That bower of swelling leaves confine, + And round that fine, luxuriant head, + The mossy tendrils now entwine, + + Over what multitudes of bloom + Would a few timid leaflets close! + What mental joys resign their room, + To causeless mirth, and tame repose! + + The change to Reason's steady eye, + Would neither good nor wise appear; + And we may lay one precept by, + Our discontent is insincere. + + * * * * * + + + +ELEGY ON SOPHIA GRAHAM, + +WHO DIED JAN. 21, 1800. + + Sweet is the voice of Friendship to the ear, + Sweet is Affection's mildly-beaming eye, + Sweet the applause which flows from lips sincere, + And sweet is Pity's soft responsive sigh! + + But now those flowers of life have lost their bloom, + Faint all their beauty, cold their healing breath, + No object fills my eye but yonder tomb, + No sound awakes me but the name of death. + + When in the world, I bear a look serene, + And veil the gloomy temper of my grief; + Sick with restraint at evening quit the scene, + To find in tears and solitude relief. + + Parent of Hope and Fancy! thoughtful Night! + Why are these nurselings absent from thy bower, + While Memory, with sullen, strange delight, + Stalks lonely centinel the live-long hour? + + O dear Sophia! could we e'er forget, + Such fair endowments and unsullied worth, + Thy partial friendship calls for our regret, + And selfish feeling gives remembrance birth. + + How often when this trembling hand essays + Thy lov'd resemblance once again to trace, + The portrait thought in mimic life arrays + With all the sweet expression of thy face; + + Art may its symmetry and beauty show, + A look, a character, the pencil seize, + Give to the form where youthful graces glow, + An air of pensive dignity and ease, + + But warmth of feeling and sensation fine, + By mild reserve from common eyes conceal'd, + The ray of genius and the heart benign, + In artless gaiety so oft reveal'd-- + + All these are lost; no looks can now arise, + Like those which every little act endear'd, + Which even in the stranger's careless eyes + Like innocence from other worlds appear'd! + + Oft have I fear'd the breath of foolish praise, + Might taint the lily which so humbly grew; + That flattery's sun might shoot delusive rays, + Impede her progress, and distract her view. + + But vain the fear--for she remain'd the same, + To outward charms indifferent or blind, + Heedless alike of either praise or blame, + If it respected not her heart and mind. + + Rich in historic lore, the poet's lyre + Had not, though screen'd by time, forsaken hung, + She felt and studied with a kindred fire, + The lofty strain immortal Maro sung. + + She knew--but why essay to trace her thought + Through its wide range, describe her blooming youth, + The heart whose feelings were so finely wrought, + Its meek ambition, and its love of truth? + + All that parental-vanity desires, + All that the friend can muse upon and mourn, + All that the lover's ardent vow inspires, + In thee, Sophia! from the world was torn! + + But still we yield thee to no stranger's care; + No unknown foe our tender love bereaves; + Thou goest the angels' hallow'd bliss to share, + A Father thy exalted soul receives! + + * * * * * + + + +TO MISS ROUSE BOUGHTON, + +NOW THE RIGHT HON. LADY ST. JOHN. + +Aberystwith, July 5th, 17-- + + Louisa, while thy pliant fingers trace + The solemn beauties of the prospect round, + Or, on thy instrument, with touching grace, + Awaken all the witcheries of sound: + + Mild, as thy manners, do the colours rise, + As soft and unobtrusive meet the view; + And, when the varied notes the ear surprize, + We own the harmony as strictly true. + + Be thine the praise, alas! a gift how rare! + Artless, and unpretending, to excel! + Forget the envied charm of being fair, + To learn the noblest science,--acting well! + And let no world the seal of truth displace, + Or spoil the heart's accordance with the face! + + * * * * * + + + +TO THE SAME, + +ON RECEIVING FROM HER A FEW FLOWERS OUT OF A BOUQUET, FROM MELCHBOURNE, +1807. + + Hail! sweet Louisa! o'er these votive flow'rs + Friendship and Fancy weave the joyful song, + Wing with fresh rose-leaves all the train of hours, + That in the distant aether float along! + + Like those fair flowrets given by thy hand, + Like thy own beauty, blooming and serene, + The vision of thy future life is plann'd, + And forms a clear, a bright, and varied scene! + + That countenance so gentle, and so kind, + That heart, which never gave a harsh decree, + Suit all the turns of thy harmonious mind, + And must, perforce, with destiny agree. + This from the Sibyl's leaves affection drew, + O, be the omen just! the promise true! + + * * * * * + + + +TO THE RIVER + +WHICH SEPARATES ITSELF FROM THE DEE, AT BEDKELLERT. + +July 19, 1799. + + Let others hail the tranquil stream, + Whose glassy waters smoothly flow, + And, in the undulating gleam, + Reflect another world below! + + The yellow Conway as it raves, + Demands my tributary song! + When, rushing forth, resistless waves + O'er rocky fragments foam along! + + Like him, whose vigorous mind reviews + The troubles which around him roll; + The ceaseless warfare still pursues, + And keeps a firm, undaunted soul. + + Though sternly bent by toil and care, + The brow hang darkly o'er his eye-- + His features the fix'd meaning wear + Of one who knows not how to sigh. + + It is not apathy that reigns, + O'erweening arrogance, or pride, + For, in his warmly-flowing veins, + The genial feelings all reside. + + It is the breast-plate fortitude + Should still to injury oppose; + It is the shield with power imbu'd, + To blunt the malice of his foes. + + And should the savage country round, + A more engaging aspect show, + O Conway! it will then be found, + How sweet and clear thy waters flow! + + The birds will dip the taper wing-- + The pilgrim there his thirst assuage, + The wandering minstrel sit and sing, + Or muse upon a distant age! + + Bold River! soon within the deep, + Each weary strife and conflict o'er, + Thy venerable waves shall sleep, + And feel opposing rocks no more! + + * * * * * + + + +THE OLD MAN'S FAREWELL. + + Farewell, my pilgrim guest, farewell, + A few days since thou wert unknown, + None shall thy future fortunes tell, + But sweetly have the moments flown! + + And kindness, like the sun on flowers, + Soon chas'd away thy tender gloom; + New-fledg'd the sable-pinion'd hours, + And wove bright tints in Fancy's loom. + + We sought no secrets to divine, + Neither thy name nor lineage knew, + Our hearts alone have question'd thine, + And found that all was just and true. + + Pass not with hasty step, I pray, + Across the threshold of my door! + But pause awhile, with kind delay, + We shall behold thy face no more! + + Once only in a hundred years, + The aloe's precious blossoms swell, + So, in thy presence it appears, + That Time has blossom'd, fare thee well![A] + + [A] See Preface. + + * * * * * + + + +SONG. + +DISTANCE FROM THE PLACE OF OUR NATIVITY. + + Since I married Palemon, though happy my lot, + Though my garden is pleasant, and lightsome my cot, + Though love's smile, like a sunshine, I constantly see, + Those blessings are all insufficient for me, + I repine not at labour, I ask not for gold, + But I want the sweet eyes of my friends to behold. + + With Palemon I think o'er the world I could roam, + Though he liv'd in a desert, would make it my home. + From him no allurements his Lucy could bribe, + And, though timid, no dangers, no menaces drive. + But the heart that can love with devotion so true, + Is not cold or forgetful, my parents, to you! + + Oh idle declaimers! how is it ye say, + That affection and tenderness fade and decay? + Though so easily pain'd, they endure like a gem, + And the heart and the mind imbibe colour from them! + In affliction they brighten, in absence refine, + And are causes of sorrow too sweet to resign. + + * * * * * + + + +THE OLD SHEPHERD'S RECOLLECTIONS. + + Low, heavy clouds are hanging on the hills, + And half-impatient of the sun's approach, + Shake sullenly their cold and languid wings! + Oh! it is fine to see his morning beams + Burst on the gloom, while, in disorder'd flight, + The shuddering, mournful vapours steal away; + Like the tenacious spirit of a man, + Shrinking from the loud voice of cheerfulness, + When it breaks in, so sadly out of tune, + Upon his quiet musing, and dispels + The waking dream of a dejected heart: + The dream I cherish in this solitude, + In all the wanderings of my little flock, + That which beguiles my loneliness, and takes + Its charm and change from the surrounding scene. + + Oh! how unwelcome often are to me + The gayest, most exhilarating sounds! + When slow and sickly Memory, tempted forth + By dint of soft persuasion, brings to light + His treasures--and, with childish eagerness, + Arranges and collects--then suddenly + To have him startled by discordance, drag, + Without discrimination, all away-- + And with them leap to his deep hollow cave-- + Not easily to be withdrawn again, + Grieves one who loves to think of other times, + To talk with those long silent in the grave, + And pass from childhood to old age again. + + Behold this stony rock! whose rifted crest, + Lets the rough, roaring torrent force a way, + And, foaming, pour its waters on the vale! + Behold them tumbling from their dizzy height, + Like clouds, of more than snowy whiteness, thrown + Precipitate from heav'n, which, as they fall, + Diffuse a mist, in form of glory, round! + This was my darling haunt a long time past! + Here, when a boy, in pleasing awe, I sate, + Wistfully silent, with uplifted eye, + And heart attun'd to the sad, lulling sound + They made descending. Far below my feet, + Near where yon little, ruin'd cottage lies, + Oft, at the pensive hour of even-tide + I saw young Osborne bearing on his harp, + And, trusting to an aged mother's care, + His darkling steps: Beneath that falling beech, + Whose wide-spread branches touch the water's edge, + He lov'd to sit, and feel the freshen'd gale + Breathe cool upon him. + + Then that falling beech + Was a young, graceful tree; which, starting up, + Amid the looser fragments of the rock, + Rear'd boldly in the air its lofty head, + While, struggling with the stone, the nervous roots + Pursued their own direction, elbowing out, + Their flinty neighbour; who, o'erspread with moss, + Of varied hues, and deck'd with flow'ring heath, + That from each fissure hung luxuriant down, + Became a seat, where, king of all the scene, + The harper sate, and, in sweet melodies, + Now like the lark rejoicing at the dawn, + Now soothing as the nightingale's sad note, + Hail'd the departing sun, whose golden rays + Glitter'd upon the surface of the wave, + And, as a child upon its mother's arm + Seeks to delay the coming hour of rest, + Till sudden slumbers steal upon his smiles + And veil him in a dream of love and joy, + He seem'd reluctant to withdraw his beams; + And, rich in roseate beauty, for awhile + Kept the green waves beneath his glowing head. + + Kind, gentle Osborne! half a century + Has silver'd o'er the crisp and yellow locks + Of thy young auditor, but memory still + Grasps the torn record of my weary life. + And finds full many a page to tell of thee! + Oh! ye who have a friend ye truly love, + One whom your hearts can trust, whose excellence + Was not obtruded boastingly to view, + But time and happy circumstance reveal'd, + Rays of quick light upon a diamond + Which else had lain unnotic'd in the waste! + Oh! hasten! hasten speedily to pay + Each debt of fond affection! lock not up + So cautiously the tribute due to worth! + Nor let reserve, as I have often done, + Enslave the sweetest feelings of the soul! + And hang around them like an envious mist, + O'er the bright radiance of the morning star, + Leaving us nothing but a spot of light + Bereav'd of all its lustre! For my friend, + He never knew that there was one on earth, + After a parent felt the touch of death, + And Love, a weeping pilgrim, turn'd away + Far from his dwelling--Oh! he never knew, + That there was one who would have follow'd him, + With steady kindness, even to the grave! + + Thou dear, neglected friend! to whom I owe + All that sustains my heart, and makes me think + The gift of life a blessing, Oh! forgive + That in thy sorrows, my forgetful tongue + Spake not of zeal and service; of the debt + Which gratitude was emulous to pay! + I might have trimm'd the dying lamp of hope, + And cheer'd the bitter hours of banishment: + But Oh! my youth was fearful, and I felt + So deep an awe of that unspotted worth + And saint-like gentleness--such a mistrust + Of my own powers to tell him what I wish'd, + That I resisted all my feelings claim'd, + In anguish I resisted; but a spell + Hung o'er me and compell'd me to be mute. + + Methinks I still behold him! tall and fair, + He had a look so tranquil and so mild, + That something holy stole upon the sense + When he appear'd; his language had such power + In converse, that the hearer, as entranced + Sate lingering on to listen; while in song, + Or skill upon the many-stringed harp + Was never heard his equal! Then he knew + All our old ballads, all our father's tales, + All the adventurous deeds of early times, + The punishment of blood or sacrilege, + And the reward of virtue, when it seem'd + Deserted by the world, and left alone, + A prey to scorn, oppression, contumely + And all the ills which make the good despair. + When-e'er we circled round him, one young girl + Was always present, of a nicer ear, + And more refin'd perception than the rest. + Now she was lost in thought, while on her cheek + Lay silent tears--and then that cheek grew pale + In wild amazement--but, when he began + To speak of noble deeds, she rais'd her head, + Bending with looks of mingled awe and love, + And zealous admiration, on the youth, + Alone insensible of all around, + To the soft charm of symmetry and grace, + The smile intelligent, the look benign, + And all the outward raiment of the soul. + Yet, though he saw her not, it was his fate + To have an inward and discerning sense, + Which spake of Lora's gentleness and worth. + He lov'd in her the fondness of his art, + And taught her many wild and simple airs, + Suiting the plaintive tenor of her voice, + Which he would mimic with sweet minstrelsy. + When she was absent, and with strange delight, + Repeat her parting words, her kind adieu, + Or sweetly-spoken promise of return. + + And that return was prompt: she linger'd oft + Till evening wet the ground with heavy dew, + Or came to take her lesson in the morn, + Before her father's anxious eyes unclos'd, + To look upon her beauty with delight, + And soothe the rugged temper of his soul, + By views of future grandeur for his child: + Not thinking that her elegance of mind, + The modest dignity of humble worth + Which fits the low-born peasant to become + A crowned monarch, and to wield with grace + The golden sceptre, had instructed her + To feel no paltry jealousy of power, + No bold aspiring, and no wish beyond + The bounded confines of her present state: + Had counsell'd her, that even mines of wealth, + Could purchase nothing to content the wise, + Esteem or friendship, tenderness or love: + That power at best was but a heavy weight; + If well employ'd, a dubious, unpaid toil, + If ill, a curse, to tempt men to their fate. + + Her cheek had often felt the blush of shame, + At his proud boasting; and her heart had sunk + At the cold arrogance that scorn'd the poor; + But she was fain to turn aside, and weep, + To wring her hands in secret, and to raise + The eye of silent anguish up to heaven; + For though he dearly lov'd her, he would ne'er + Submit to hear a murmur at his will. + Oft with her heart oppress'd, and her blue eyes + Full of unshedden tears, she bent her way + Alone to Osborne's lowly cot, and when + Her faint voice call'd the fond inquiry forth, + Would say, "'tis true, my friends, that I am sad, + Nay sick, with vain repining. O! I wish, + That I were either indigent myself, + Or that I had the power, the blessed power + Of cheering the unhappy! for I want, + By kindness to prevent the act of guilt, + And ward the arrows of incroaching Death, + Who comes, before the time, upon his prey. + Think that there should be means to stay his wrath, + To purchase health, life, comfort, innocence, + And yet those means withholden! + + "O! my heart! + It dies with sorrow! and where most I love, + Sheds all its bitterness; delighting still + To tell the many miseries that flit + At times across me! Those I lightly prize + Partake the sunshine of my happier hours, + Although I seek them with far less delight! + The loud laugh dwells not here, the sportive dance, + The carol of unconscious levity, + And yet how oft, how willingly I come!" + + "Know'st thou not, Lora," cried the youthful sage, + "That there are things the mind must prize above + What captivates the senses! That in them + She feels no interest, and she takes no care! + That though sometimes an alien, she receives + Delighted back the ensigns of her power, + And takes her truant vassals into grace! + That when thou bring'st to us that wounded mind, + The grave of many feelings, language is + As yet too poor to utter, thou canst give + No richer, dearer token of regard." + + "Were man indeed the only hope of man, + I never would reprove thee for thy tears! + But, they are vain! man has a surer trust! + The helpless, weary, miserable wretch, + Left by his fellows in the wilderness, + Shall be supported in that trying hour, + By a right arm, which, in his days of strength, + He did not lean upon! A gracious arm, + Which wounds the sick, and heals them by the stroke. + O! Lora! to the Father of the world, + A Judge so patient and so merciful. + That he refuses not the latest sigh. + Nor suffers sorrow but as means to save, + Canst thou not trust the objects of thy care! + + "Hadst thou the power to help them--it were well, + To be most anxious. To collect thy freight + Of human sorrow, and, by merchandize, + Exchange it for the riches of the world: + For health, for comfort, nay, perchance for life, + That gem of countless value, which sometimes, + Not all the treasures of the East can buy, + Tendered with supplications and with tears, + Is often purchas'd at a petty price, + Nay, in exchange for courtesy. What joy + Must in that moment fill the merchant's heart, + To win a jewel, kings monopolize + The sole disposal of! Be patient then! + This glorious privilege may yet be thine! + Deserve it only by fulfilling all + The gentler duties that have present claims + With cheerfulness and zeal--Let no neglect + Press on thy father's age, no discontent + Sour thee with thy companions, no mistrust + Give pain to friendship, and thy usefulness + Though calm and bounded, has no mean award." + + Thus, like a prophet, did he still enforce + Only the virtues and rare qualities + Congenial with her after destiny; + Yet, not foreseeing evil, he himself + Was unprepared, and when her father led, + Her opposition and entreaty past, + The hapless Lora forth, to promise love + And honour to a man, whose vacant mind, + Throughout a course of long succeeding years, + She vainly strove to soften and to raise, + Though he had taught her patience till that hour, + His own at once forsook him, and he fled. + + She murmur'd not, nor even seem'd to mourn, + But losing all her love of solitude, + Appear'd so active in each new pursuit, + So wholly what her anxious father wish'd, + That he repented not his cruelty. + Believing in her happiness, he felt + Himself the author, and became more proud + Of his own wisdom: yet she often heard + His wayward taunt or querulous complaint, + And, from the lordly partner of her fate, + The harsher sound of ignorant rebuke. + She was a matchless woman, when she lost + The timid graces of retiring youth, + She still was lovely, for her shaded eyes + Beam'd with a lofty sweetness, a content + Beyond the pow'r of fortune to destroy. + Careless of let or hindrance, she went on, + Nor shrunk nor started at the many thorns + Strew'd in her toilsome path; still looking forth + To others' weal, forgetful it would seem, + Perchance in heart despairing of her own. + The friend, the help, the comforter of all, + No voice was heard so cheerful, nor a step + So bounding and so light. 'Twas wonderful! + For I have seen her, when her polish'd arm + Has clasp'd the nurseling, with her face conceal'd + Bent fondly o'er; and I have mark'd each limb + To boast a fine expansion, as if thrill'd + With the deep feelings of maternal love + And aching tenderness, too highly wrought + For happy souls to cherish! they delight + In painless joys, and, on the infant's cheek, + Rounded and glowing with a finer bloom + Than the wild-rose, careless imprint the kiss, + Which sorrow always sanctions by a prayer. + They in the radiance of its glancing eyes + See nothing to suffuse with their own tears! + Borne forward on the easy wing of Time, + They travel on, they scarcely meet with Thought, + Or, like a summer cloud, he passes by, + His shadow rests one instant, and again + The scene is calm and brilliant as before! + + Not so with Lora, trouble, sickness, death, + Were busy with the residue of peace, + When years and care had weaken'd her regrets, + Veil'd the sad recollection of past days, + And overgrown the softness of her mind, + As the close-creeping ivy hides and rusts + The smooth and silver surface of the beech. + An orphan and a widow--she became + Decisive, watchful, prudent, nay severe + To wilful disobedience or neglect; + Though generous where she perceiv'd desert. + She taught her children with unceasing zeal, + Sought knowledge for their sakes, and, more than all, + Anxious, inquisitive about the heart, + Search'd all the motives, all the incidents + In which it was unfolded; fencing still + Each treacherous failing with a double guard, + And oft repeated warnings; well conceal'd, + Or given with so much kindness, that they serv'd + To draw more closely every knot of love. + Nor did she cease to urge her pious cares + By constant vigilance, till riper age + Had fix'd the moral sense, when, as a bow + For a long active season tightly strain'd + Relaxes, tumult and contention o'er, + She sunk into indulgence, glad to yield + To mildness, nature, and herself again. + + Youth, e'en when wise and good, requires a change, + Delights in novelty, and hears of nought + Which suddenly it asks not to behold; + And Lora's children oft assail'd her ear + To let them journey to some rumour'd scene, + Some feast, or village wake, or sprightly dance, + Urging her still to bear them company. + She lov'd to give them pleasure, and one time + (The fav'rite legend of our country folk + Hath oft the tale repeated) as they mix'd + Carelessly in the crowd, remember'd notes + Struck by a harper in a distant tent, + Sweet and soul-piercing as the midnight songs + Which are, they say, the harbingers of death, + Flow'd on her ear--when, with impulsive spring, + As if a magic spell had wing'd her feet, + Fearing the sounds would vanish into air, + And prove delusion ere she reach'd the spot, + She forward rush'd, and soon beheld the friend, + The dear companion of her youth. She seiz'd + The hand that lay upon the quivering chords, + Stopping their melody and resting mute. + The pause was awful--He at length exclaim'd, + In a deep, laboured cry, "Ye heavenly powers! + If Lora lives, the hand I feel is hers!" + She could not speak, but with her other hand + Clasp'd his, and sigh'd and rais'd her eyes to heaven, + When straight the big, round tears began to flow; + "And is it thee, dear Lora! Art thou come + Again to gladden one, who never found + 'Mid countless who are good, a heart like thine! + Oh! speak! that I may know if still my ear + Retains a true remembrance of that voice! + For since, it has not drank so sweet a sound." + + "Hail happy day!" cried Lora, "which restores + The friend whose absence I have mourn'd so long! + For thou, O! Osborne! must with me return, + Me and my children! They shall hear again + Those counsels which inform'd their mother's heart; + Gave courage in the hour of enterprize, + Calmness in danger, patience under ills + That like a swarm of insects buz around, + And vex the spirit which they cannot rouse. + Return, my early, long-lost friend! with us + Thou shalt enjoy repose: our cheerful home + Shall gather round thee many an honest heart + Which knows thy virtues, and will hold thee dear." + + She paus'd, and Osborne joyful gave assent. + Fair hopes of joy engaged his faultering mind, + For long-time had he dragg'd a weary life, + Lone, or bereav'd of relative or friend, + Careful to tend his health, and to divert + His sadness; each succeeding hour had press'd + With its slow-passing wing his gentle head + Drooping and prematurely silver'd o'er, + (Like snows depending on the autumn leaf) + Yet warm, benevolent, serene, resign'd, + And like an angel save in youth and joy. + + A winding path round yonder wooded hill, + Leads to a spot where Nature decks herself + In loveliness and beauty: far below + Spreads the green valley, where a silent stream + Turns, like a serpent writhing in its course; + And, rarified by distance, kissing heaven, + In many noble and fantastic shapes, + A giant range of purple mountains sleeps. + Grand is the scene, and in the centre stands + The tomb of Osborne--after many years + Of happiness and friendship, Lora rais'd + This plain memorial, and her children plac'd + A mother's near, to tell succeeding years + Their talents and their virtue. They themselves + More forcibly express the worth of both, + For they are wise and good, without a shade + Of cold severity or selfish pride. + + * * * * * + + + +REFLECTION. + +August 2, 1798. + + Why should we think the years of life + Will pass serenely by, + When, for a day, the Sun himself + Ne'er sees a cloudless sky! + + And, unassuming as she moves, + The meek-eyed Queen of night, + Meets wand'ring vapours in her path + To dim her paler light! + + Then why should we in vain repine + At man's uncertain lot, + That cares will equally assail + The palace and the cot? + + For Heaven ordains this chequer'd scene + Our mortal pow'rs t' employ; + That we might know, compare, select, + Be grateful, and enjoy. + +[For the last verse I am indebted to the pen of a Friend.] + + * * * * * + + + +RETROSPECT OF YOUTH. + + I wander'd forth amid the flow'rs, + And careless sipp'd the morning air; + Nor hail'd the angel-winged hours, + Nor saw that Happiness was there! + Alas! I often since have wept + That Gratitude unconscious slept! + + For Truth and Pity then were young, + And walk'd in simple, narrow bounds; + Affection's meek, assuasive tongue, + Had sweet, but most capricious sounds. + Once, wild with scornful pride, she fled, + And only turn'd to seek the dead! + + Oh! from a garden of delight, + What fair memento did I bring! + What amaranth of colours bright, + To mark the promise of my spring? + Behold this flow'r! its leaves are wet, + With tears of lasting, vain regret! + + * * * * * + + + +THE DAUGHTER. + +1797. + + "Come, mournful lute! dear echo of my woe! + No stranger's tread in this lone spot I fear, + Sweeter thy notes in such wild places flow, + And, what is more, my Henry cannot hear! + + "He will not know my pain and my despair, + When that dread scene arises on my view, + Where my poor father would not hear my pray'r, + Or grant his only child a last adieu! + + "He will not know that still the hour I mourn, + When death all hopes of pardon snatch'd away; + That still this heart by sad remembrance torn, + Repeats the dreadful mandate of that day. + + "Luckless for him has been my constant love, + Luckless the destiny I bade him brave, + For since a parent did our vows reprove, + Sorrow was all the gift my fondness gave. + + "Then, though I knew my father's stern command, + The short-liv'd conflict of affection o'er, + I offer'd to the youth my dowerless hand, + And fondly reason'd thus on being poor, + + "'Can pomp or splendour elevate the soul, + Brighten the lustre that illumes the eye! + Make the rough stream of life more smoothly roll, + Suppress the tear, or waft away the sigh! + + "'Can happiness a purer joy receive, + In the proud mansions of the rich and great? + Or, tell me, can the wounded bosom heave + With blunted anguish under robes of state! + + "'No! Henry, no! Alas! too well you know, + The misery of an affected smile, + The pain of clearing the thought-clouded brow, + To covet for yourself the hateful toil! + + "'And since my choice, and reason both approve, + Since I have known you many a circling year, + And time has well assur'd me of your love, + Tell me, my Henry, what have I to fear? + + "'My father, though by worldly prudence led, + Will pardon when our happiness is told.' + Alas! no curses fell upon my head, + But never did he more his child behold. + + "He would not, dying, hear my ardent prayer! + But, cruel! said, I leave her all my store; + She wrung my doating heart with deep despair, + And even now perhaps desires no more. + + "This is the stroke which all my peace destroys, + The dagger which no art can draw away, + The thought which every faculty employs, + Withers my bloom, and makes my strength decay. + + "His death, his sorrows are the heavy curse + That hangs above my poor, distracted head! + His dying words have scatter'd vain remorse, + For vain, though bitter, are the tears I shed. + + "And yet my father to my soul was dear, + But tender pity was on Henry's side; + I painted him relenting, not severe, + Nor fancied I could be an orphan bride. + + "Ah me! excuses will not cure my pain! + At least, forgetfulness can little plead. + A widow'd parent!--I deserv'd disdain, + 'Tis fit these eyes should weep, this heart should bleed! + + "But yet assist me heaven! to hide my grief, + My waning health from love's suspicious eyes! + This malady admits of no relief, + And nought augments the pain, but Henry's sighs. + + "Perhaps e'en now he wonders at my stay, + Sees the white fogs of evening rise around, + Comes out to seek me in my devious way, + But turns not to this unfrequented ground. + + "Alas! my love, thy anxious care is vain! + Nothing can stop yon wand'rer of the sky; + Nothing can long this fleeting life retain! + For oh! I feel that I must shortly die. + + "But cease my lute, this low, desponding strain, + It floats too long upon the heavy air; + Henry may pass and know that I complain. + One moment's peace to him is worth my care." + + She said, and toward the cheerless mansion flew, + Her slender, sylph-like form array'd in white, + Not clearly seen amidst surrounding dew, + Seem'd like a spirit ling'ring in its flight. + + Poor Henry, who had watch'd her in the shade, + In aching silence list'ning to her song, + At distance follow'd slowly through the glade, + Pausing forgetful as he pass'd along. + + * * * * * + + + +YOUTH UNSUSPICIOUS OF EVIL. + + O bend thy head, sweet morning flow'r! + And look not up so fresh and bright! + The keen, harsh wind, the heavy show'r, + Will spoil thy beauties ere the night. + + I grieve to see thee look so gay. + And so unconscious of thy lot, + For gloom and tempests wait thy day, + And thou, unhappy, fear'st it not! + + Thy tender leaflets all unfold, + Their colours ripen and refine, + Become most lovely to behold, + And, ah! most apt to shrink and pine. + + Then, bend thy head, sweet morning flow'r! + I grieve to see thee look so gay! + Close thy soft wings against the show'r, + And wait a more auspicious day! + + * * * * * + + + +THE MOTHER. + + "And beats my heart again with joy! + And dances now my spirit light! + The skiff that holds my darling boy + This moment burst upon my sight! + + "Not yet distinctly I perceive + Amid the crew his well-known form, + But still his safety I believe, + I know he has escap'd the storm. + + "I feel as if my heart had wings, + And tender from excess of bliss, + His form, which airy fancy brings, + In fond emotion seem to kiss. + + "Welcome the wild, imperfect rest, + Which these bewilder'd spirits share! + Welcome this tumult of the breast, + After the shudder of despair! + + "My Robert he is brave and strong, + He will these flowing tears reprove. + Alas! how little know the young, + The tremor of a Mother's love. + + "For we are weak from many a care, + From many a sleepless, anxious hour, + When fear and hope the bosom tear, + And ride the brain with fevering power. + + "But lo! he cheerly waves his hand! + I hear his voice! I see his face! + And eager now he springs to land, + To meet a Mother's fond embrace! + + "This failing heart! but joy to me, + If heaven in pity is thy guard; + And of the pangs I feel for thee, + Protection be the dear reward!" + + * * * * * + + + +EDGAR AND ELLEN. + + "Arrest thy steps! On these sad plains, + Fair dame, no farther go! + But listen to the martial strains, + Whose wildness speaks of woe! + + Hark! strife is forward on the field, + I hear the trumpet's bray! + Now spear to spear, and shield to shield, + Decides the dreadful day! + + Unfit for thee, oh! Lady fair! + The scenes where men engage; + Thy gentle spirit could not bear + The fearful battle's rage." + + "I prithee, stranger, let me fly! + Though pallid is my cheek, + The lightning's flash delights my eye, + I love the thunder's break. + + And oft beneath our castle tow'rs, + When tempests rush'd along, + My steady hand has painted flowers, + Or voice has rais'd the song." + + "Oh Lady! that bewilder'd eye + Is red with recent tears; + Already that heart-startling sigh + Proclaims thy anxious fears. + + Then let a stranger's words prevail, + Nor thus in danger roam! + Here many frightful ills assail, + But safety is at home!" + + "No, in some peasant's lowly cot + Perhaps she may abide, + To consecrate the humble spot, + But not where I reside. + + In Hubert's halls, my father's foe, + From childhood have I dwelt, + And for his wily murderer too, + A filial fondness felt. + + Ah me! how often have I press'd + The lips which seal'd his doom! + How oft the cruel hand caress'd + Which sent him to the tomb! + + My nurse reveal'd the dreadful truth, + And, as she told the tale, + A sickly blight pass'd o'er my youth, + And turn'd its roses pale. + + The heavy secret on my heart + Like deadly poison prey'd; + For she forbade me to impart + A word of what she said. + + I, who so blithely sung before, + So peacefully had slept, + Fancied gaunt murder at the door, + And listen'd, shook, and wept. + + No longer with an open smile, + I greeted all around; + My fearful looks were fix'd the while, + In terror on the ground. + + All saw the change, and kindly strove + My sadness to relieve; + Base Hubert feign'd a parent's love, + Which could not see me grieve. + + A painful anger flush'd my cheek, + My lip indignant smil'd, + I cried, "And did he e'er bespeak + Thy friendship for his child?" + + "Ellen! when death was drawing nigh, + Thou wert his only care; + Oh! guard her, Hubert, if I die, + It is my latest prayer. + + To none, dear friend, but thee," he cried, + "Whose love and truth are known, + Could I this precious charge confide, + To cherish, as thy own!" + + I pledg'd my honour, to fulfil + My dearest friend's desire! + And I have ever acted still, + As honour's laws require! + + Thy mind, dear Ellen, is the proof + Of my paternal care, + Since form'd beneath this friendly roof, + So excellent and fair. + + Then why that cloud upon thy brow, + That sullen, fearful sigh! + That something which we must not know, + That cold and altered eye? + + Why must thy proud, suspicious air, + Give every heart a pain? + Why must my son, my Edgar bear + Unmerited disdain?" + + I hung my bead, my fault'ring tongue + In feeble murmurs spoke, + His specious art my bosom wrung, + I shudder'd at his look. + + And thus, bewildered with my woes, + I faint and careless rove; + For oh! I cannot dwell with those + I must no longer love." + + "Fair lady, calm that anxious heart, + And to my voice attend! + Thy father died by Hubert's dart, + And yet he was his friend. + + For Lancaster Sir Philip rose, + And many a Yorkist slew; + Till, singling him amidst his foes, + Lord Hubert's arrow flew. + + But soon we saw the victor stand + Beside, in sorrow drown'd; + And soon Sir Philip took the hand, + Which gave the deadly wound. + + "My friend, unweeting was thy aim, + And is by me forgiv'n, + But oh! one sacred oath I claim, + In sight of men, and heav'n! + + Oh! promise with a father's zeal, + My Ellen to protect! + Nor let her like an orphan feel + Dependence, and neglect! + + And then, almost without regret, + I can my charge resign; + For, during life, I never met + So true a heart as thine." + + Lord Hubert pledg'd his sacred word, + He wept, and, kneeling, swore, + In England ne'er to wield a sword, + Or shoot an arrow more. + + From civil war, whose daily crimes + This island long shall rue, + From all the evil of the times, + In anguish he withdrew. + + I wonder that, by nature bold, + He stoop'd to wear disguise, + Or leave the hapless tale untold, + Which wakens thy surprise! + + Yet the sad shame that fill'd his breast, + May well thy pity crave, + A turtle dove may build her nest + Upon thy father's grave--" + + "Stranger, that warrior from the east, + Who comes with headlong speed, + Is Edgar, Hubert's son, at least, + He rides on Edgar's steed!" + + "Be calm, fair maid! Thou gallant knight, + Who speedest o'er the plain, + Give us some tidings of the fight, + The victor and the slain! + + One moment stay! for many a care + Now fills us with alarm! + Is Edward King? Is Hubert's heir, + Escap'd from death and harm?" + + "The sun of Lancaster is set, + And never more to rise;" + Return'd the knight, "I know not yet + If Edgar lives or dies!" + + And scarce he check'd the flowing rein, + In hurried accents spoke, + And, dull and hollow was the strain + That through the helmet broke. + + "Where is he?" shriek'd fair Ellen forth, + He started at the sound, + And, leaping sudden on the earth, + His armour rang around. + + "Queen of my destiny!" he cried, + "Thy faithful Edgar see! + Whose welfare thou canst best decide, + For it depends on thee! + + I sav'd our youthful Monarch's life, + Whose bounteous hand accords, + A dower to grace the noblest wife + That England's realm affords. + + With thee his splendid gifts I share, + Or soon this youthful head + A solemn monk's dark cowl shall wear, + To love and glory dead. + + Perhaps that tear upon thy cheek + Foretels a milder doom! + Thou wilt again our mansion seek, + Oh! let me lead thee home!" + + +_FINIS._ + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Matilda Betham + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + +This file should be named 7beth10.txt or 7beth10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 7beth11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 7beth10a.txt + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +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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