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 326 Sibylline Leavks : a Collection of 
 
 Poems, first edition, 8vo. hf. maroon morocco 
 gilt, uncut, top edges gilt (scarce), 18s Qd 
 
 apud eundem, 1817 
 Containing all the author's poems to date of issue, many 
 being here first published. 
 
Sif)Ullint %mt}t^. 
 
 BY 
 
 S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES: 
 
 (tolUttion of pojitti9. 
 
 BY 
 
 S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RKST FENNEE, 23, PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 
 1817. 
 
^ \S6bD3 
 
 5". Curtis, Printer, Camberwell. 
 
 fit 
 
 
 %l^ 
 
 ^^(i 
 
 ^^H, 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE following collection has been entitled 
 Sibylline Leaves; in allusion to the frag- 
 mentary and widely scattered state in which 
 they have been long suffered to remain. It 
 contains the whole of the author's poetical 
 compositions, from 1793 to the present date, 
 with the exception of a few works not yet 
 finished, and those published in the first edi- 
 tion of his juvenile poems, over which he has no 
 controul. They may be divided into three 
 classes : First, A selection from the Poems 
 added to the second and third editions, together 
 with those originally published in the Lyrical 
 
11 
 
 Ballads, which after having remained many- 
 years out of print, have been omitted by Mr. 
 Wordsworth in the recent collection of all his 
 minor poems, and of course revert to the au- 
 thor. Second, Poems published at very differ- 
 ent periods, in various obscure or perishable 
 journals, &c. some with, some without the 
 writer's consent ; many imperfect, all incorrect. 
 The third and last class is formed of Poems 
 which have hitherto remained in manuscript. 
 The whole is now presented to the* reader col- 
 lectively, with considerable additions and alte- 
 rations, and as perfect as the author's judgment 
 and powers could render them. 
 
 In my Literary Life, it has been mentioned 
 that, with the exception of this preface, the 
 Sibylline Leaves have been printed almost 
 two years ; and the necessity of troubling the 
 reader with the list of errata, which follows this 
 preface, alone induces me to refer again to the 
 circumstance, at the risk of ungenial feelino-s, 
 from the recollection of its worthless causes. 
 
Ill 
 
 A few corrections of later date have been added. 
 — Henceforward the author must be occupied 
 by studies of a very different kind. 
 
 Ite hinc, Camcen^ ! Vos quoque ite, suaves, 
 Dulces Camcen^ ! Nam (fatebimur verum) 
 Dulces fuistis ! — Et tamen meas chartas 
 Revisitote : sed pudenter et raro ! 
 
 Virgil. Catalect. vii. 
 
 At the request of the friends of my youth, 
 who still remain my friends, and who were 
 pleased with the wiJdness of the composi- 
 tions, I have added two school-boy poems — 
 with a song modernized with some additions 
 from one of our elder poets. Surely, malice 
 itself will scarcely attribute their insertion to 
 any other motive, than the wish to keep alive 
 the recollections from early life. — I scarcely 
 knew what title I should prefix to the first. 
 By imaginary Time, I meant the state of a 
 school boy's mind when on his return to school 
 he projects his being in his day dreams, and 
 lives in his next holidays, six months hence : 
 and this I contrasted with real Time, 
 
TIME, 
 
 REAL AT^D IMAGINARY 
 
 An Allegory. 
 
 On the wide level of a mountain's head, 
 (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) 
 Their pinions, ostrich-like for sails outspread, 
 Two lovely children run an endless race, 
 
 A sister and a brother ! 
 
 This far outstript the other ; 
 Yet ever runs she with reverted face. 
 And looks and listens for the boy behind : 
 
 For he, alas ! is blind ! 
 O'er rough and smooth, with even step he pass'd. 
 And knows not whether he be first or last. 
 
VI 
 
 THE RA VEN. 
 
 A Christmas Tale, told by a School-boy to his little Brothers 
 and Sisters. 
 
 Underneath a huge oak tree 
 
 There was, of swine, a huge company. 
 
 That grunted as they crunch'd the mast ; 
 
 For that was ripe, and fell full fast. 
 
 Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high : 
 
 One acorn they left, and no more might you spy. 
 
 Next came a raven, that liked not such folly : 
 
 He belonged, it was said, to the witch Melancholy! 
 
 Blacker was he than blackest jet. 
 
 Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet. 
 
 He pick'd up the acorn and buried it strait 
 
 By the side of a river both deep and great. 
 
 Where then did the raven ffo? 
 
 He went high and low, 
 Over hill, over dale, did the black raven go. 
 
Vll 
 
 Many autumns, many springs 
 Travell'd he* with wandering wings. 
 Many summers, many winters — 
 I can*t tell half his adventures. 
 
 At length he came back, and with him a she, 
 And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree. 
 They built them a nest in the topmost bough, 
 And young ones they had, and were happy enow. 
 But soon came a woodman, in leathern guise, 
 His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes. 
 He'd an ax in his hand, not a word he spoke. 
 But with many a hem ! and a sturdy stroke, 
 At length be brought down the poor raven's own oak. 
 His young ones were kill'd : for they could not depart. 
 And their mother did die of a broken heart. 
 
 The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever — 
 And they floated it down on the course of tne river. 
 
 * Seventeen or eighteen years ago, an artist of some celebrity 
 was so pleased with this doggerel, that he amused himself with the 
 thought of making a Child's Picture Book of it ; but he could not 
 bit on a picture for these four lines. I suggested a round-about 
 with four seats, and the four seasons, as children, with Time for the 
 shew-man. 
 
Vlll 
 
 They saw'd it in planks, and its bark they did strip, 
 And with this tree and others they made a good ship. 
 The ship, it was launch'd ; but in sight of the land 
 Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand. 
 It bulg'd on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast : 
 The old raven flew round and round, and caw'd to the 
 blast. 
 
 He heard the last shriek of the perishing- souls — 
 See ! see ! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls ! 
 
 Right glad was the raven, and off he went fleet. 
 And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet. 
 And he thank'd him again and again for this treat : 
 
 They had taken his all, and revenge was sweet ! 
 We must not think so ; but forget and forgive, 
 Aud what Heaven gives life to, we'll still let it live I 
 
IX 
 
 MUTUAL PASSION. 
 
 Altered and modernized from an old Poet. 
 
 I love, and lie loves me again. 
 
 Yet dare I not tell who : 
 For if the nymphs should know my swain, 
 I fear they'd love him too. 
 Yet while my joy's unknown, 
 Its rosy buds are but half-blown : 
 What no one with me shares, seems scarce my own. 
 
 I'll tell, that if they be not glad, 
 
 They yet may envy me : 
 But then if I grow jealous mad, 
 And of them pitied be, 
 
 'Twould vex me worse than scorn ! 
 And yet it cannot be forborn. 
 Unless my heart would like my thoughts be torn. 
 
He is, if they can find him, fair 
 And fresh, and fragrant too ; 
 As after rain the summer air. 
 And looks as lillies do, 
 
 That are this morning blown ! 
 Yet, yet I doubt, he is not known, 
 Yet, yet I fear to have him fully shewn. 
 
 But he hath eyes so large, and bright, 
 
 Which none can see, and doubt 
 That Love might thence his torches light 
 Tho' Hate had put them out ! 
 But then to raise my fears. 
 
 His voice what maid so ever hears 
 
 Will be my rival, tho' she have but ears, 
 
 I'll tell no more ! yet I love hint. 
 
 And he loves me ; yet so, 
 That never one low wish did dim 
 Our love's pure light, I know 
 
 In each so free from blanie, 7 j.ai zc 
 That both of us would gain new fanie;i i^ / j 
 If love's strong lears would let me tell his name ! 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 Pf^e 15, erase the 2d stanza, A gust of wind. ^c. 
 
 18, last line but one : foi' cloud read load. 
 
 35, 1. 7 : for The r. Brown. 
 
 57, 1.13: r. (They) for (and.) 
 
 88, 1. 1 and 4 : r. incautum and veniam. 
 
 93, last but 1 : r. good-natured. 
 
 96, 1. 14 : for betrayed in r. betrayed by. 
 
 98, 1. 4 : for four r. three. 
 108, 1. 15 : for mere r. was this intolerance in. 
 119, 1. 3 : for Are all r. All are. 
 126, 1. 16 : for Slush r. Hush. 
 130, 1. 15 : for stream r. brook. 
 
 133, 1. 6: for thy r. m?/,' and instead of lines 14, 15, and 16, 
 
 read as follows : 
 How soon to re-unite I And see ! they meet. 
 Each in the other lost and found : and, see ! 
 Placeless, as spirits, one soft Water-sun 
 Throbbing within them, Heart at once and Eye ! 
 With its soft neighboTirhood of filmy Clouds, 
 The Stains and Shadings of forgotten Tears, 
 Dimness o'erswum with lustre ! — Such the hour 
 Of deep enjoyment, following Love's bi'ief feuds ! 
 But hark ! &c. — and for came r. come. 
 
 134, 1. 4: for Beneath r. At. 
 
 138, 1. 1 : r. And to that covert by a silent stream. 
 
 1. 2 : for o''er i\ near. 
 
 155, 1. 8: omit the full stop after guest. 
 
 157, I. 13 : for fear no sting r. ask no sting. 
 
 168, 1. 9 : for livery r. living. 
 
 1. 15 : for once more r. thou too. 
 
 176 : from the 9th line r. as follows: 
 
 O ! the one Life, within us and abroad, 
 Which meets all Motion, and becomes its soul, 
 A Light in Sound, a sound-like power in Light, 
 Rhythm in all Thought, and Joyance every where — 
 Methinks, it should have been impossible 
 Not to love all things in a world so fill'd, 
 Where the breeze warbles and the mute still Air 
 Is Music slumbering on its instrument ! 
 And thus, my Love ! &c. 
 
 180 : for the last line but four substitute 
 
 Praise, praise it, O my soul ! oft a^ thou scannst. 
 
 187, I. 1 : r. Idolo. 
 
Page 189, 1. 3: substitute Beauties and Feelings, such as would 
 
 have been. ™/>«# 
 
 1. 6 : substitute Friends whom I never more may meet 
 
 191, "\"\o'. for wild r. wide ; and the two following lines thus : 
 
 Less gross than bodily : and of such hues 
 As veil the Almighty Spirit, 
 
 192, 1. 21 : omit the before Light. 
 195, 1. 10: iov guard X. guage. 
 
 207. 1. 2: punctuate thus, reading Sound for sounds; 
 And one low piping Sound more sweet than all — 
 10 : for fair day r. Fair-day. 
 1 1 : for sweet r. wild. 
 
 2 : for dead r. deep. 
 
 3 : for FilVd r. Fill. 
 5 : for Jills r. thrills. 
 
 4 : for traces v. Trances. 
 r. psychological. 
 r. Life, and Life's Effluence, Cloud at once 
 
 and Shower. 
 
 242 : in the Note for wind r. Storm-wind. 
 
 257, 1. 8 : for their r. thy. 
 
 1.14: read Ah ! that once more I were a careless child ! 
 
 269, 1. 8 : r. a mark of interrogation after self. 
 
 276. The metre of this ode, especially in the fifth line of 
 each stanza, is written with a foreknowledge of the Tune, 
 and must therefore be read as it would be sung. 
 
 282, for 8 and 9, substitute : 
 The substance from its shadow. Infinite Love, 
 Whose Latence is the plenitude of All, 
 Thou with retracted Beams, and Self-eclipse 
 Veiling revealest thy eternal Sun. 
 
 283, 1. 20 : for rebellions r. rebellious 
 287, 1. 12 : for mortal ministers r. human ministers. 
 298, 1. 1 : for blended with the clouds r. looming on the mist. 
 for 10 and 11 substitute : 
 
 The power of Justice, like a name all Light, 
 Shone from thy brow ; 
 
THE RIME 
 
 OF THE 
 
 ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 IN SEVEN PAR T S. 
 
 VOL, n. 
 
Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibileg 
 in lerum universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis 
 enarrabit? et gradus et cognationes et disciimina et singulorum 
 munera? Quid agunt? quae loca habitant? Haium rerum no- 
 titiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit, 
 Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in 
 Tabula, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari: ne men» 
 assuefecta hodierniae vitae minutiis se contrahat nimis, & tota 
 subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed verltati interea invigilan- 
 dum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab iucertis, diem a nocte, 
 distinguamus. 
 
 T. Bcrnet: Archceol. Phil, p. 68. 
 

 
 3 
 
 
 Clje mtme 
 
 
 0ftj)e 
 
 
 ainctent farmer* 
 
 
 IN SEVEN PARTS. 
 < 
 
 
 IT is an ancient Mariner, 
 
 An ancient 
 
 And he stoppeth one of three. 
 
 Mariner 
 raeeteth three 
 
 " By thy long grey beard and glittering eye. 
 
 Gallants bid- , 
 den to a wed- 
 
 *' Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 
 
 ding-feast, 
 anddetainetli 
 
 
 one. 
 
 ^^The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide. 
 
 
 " And I am next of kin^ 
 
 
 *' The guests are met, the feast is set : 
 
 ' 
 
 '^May'st hear the mei-ry din." 
 
 
 He holds him with his skinny hand , 
 
 
 " There was a ship," quoth he. 
 
 
 *' Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon !" 
 
 
 Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 
 
 
 VOL. II. B 2 
 
 

 1 ' , 
 
 4; 
 
 The wedding- 
 
 He holds him with his glittering eye — 
 
 guest is spell- 
 bomid by the 
 
 The wedding-guest stood still. 
 
 eye of the old 
 sen faring 
 
 And listens like a three years child : 
 
 iTiHn, and con- 
 
 The Mariner hath his will. 
 
 strained to 
 
 
 hear his tale. 
 
 
 
 The wedding-guest sat on a stone : 
 
 
 He can not chuse but hear ; 
 
 
 And thus spake on that ancient man. 
 
 
 The bright-eyed mariner. 
 
 
 The ship was cheer'd, the harbour clear'd, 
 
 
 Merrily did we drop 
 
 
 Below the kirk, below the hill. 
 
 
 Below the light-house top. 
 
 The Mariner 
 
 The Sun came up upon the left. 
 
 tells how the 
 
 
 ship sailed 
 
 Out of the sea came he ; 
 
 southward 
 with a good 
 
 And he shone bright, and on the right 
 
 wind and fair 
 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 weather, till 
 
 
 it reached the 
 
 
 line. 
 
 Higher and higher every day. 
 
 
 Till over the mast at noon — 
 
 
 The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast. 
 
 
 For he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
5 
 
 
 The bride liatli paced into the hall. 
 Red as a rose is she ; 
 
 The wedding- 
 guest heareth 
 the bridal 
 
 Nodding their heads before her goes 
 
 music; but 
 the mariner 
 
 The merry minstrelsy. 
 
 continuelh 
 his tale. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
 
 
 Yet he can not chuse but hear ; 
 
 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 
 
 The bright-eyed Mariner. 
 
 
 And now the storm-blast came, and he 
 
 The ship 
 
 Was tyrannous and strong : 
 
 drawn by a 
 storm toward 
 
 He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 
 
 the south pole. 
 
 And chased us south along. 
 
 
 With sloping masts and dipping prow. 
 
 
 As who pursued with yell and blow 
 
 
 Still treads the shadow of his foe 
 
 
 And forward bends his head. 
 
 
 The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast. 
 
 
 And southward aye we fled. 
 
 
 And now there came both mist and snow, 
 
 
 And it grew wonderous cold : 
 
 
6 
 
 And ice, mast-highj came floating by, 
 As green as emerald. 
 
 The land of And through the drifts the snowy clif't 
 
 ice, and of 
 
 fearful Did send a dismal sheen : 
 
 ,. . '^ ' '^ Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
 
 no living ^ 
 
 thing was to The ice was all between. 
 
 be seen. 
 
 The ice was here, the ice was there. 
 
 The ice was all around : 
 
 It cracked and growled, and roar'd and 
 
 howl'd. 
 Like noises in a swound ! 
 
 Till a great 
 sea-bird, 
 called the 
 Abaltross, 
 came through 
 the snow-fog, 
 and was 
 received with 
 great joy and 
 hospitality. 
 
 At length did cross an Albatross : 
 Thorough the fog it came ; 
 As if it had been a Christian soul. 
 We hailed it in God's name. 
 
 It ate the food it ne'er had eat. 
 And round and round it flew. 
 The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
 The helmsman steer'd us through ! 
 
And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 
 
 The Albatross did follow^ 
 
 And every day, for food or play. 
 
 Came to the Mariner's hollo ! 
 
 In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud. 
 
 It perch'd for vespers nine; 
 
 Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke 
 
 white. 
 Glimmered the white Moon-shine. 
 
 And lo! the 
 Albatross 
 provethabird 
 of good omen, 
 and foUoweth 
 the ship as it 
 returned 
 northward, 
 through fog 
 and floating 
 ice. 
 
 " God save thee, ancient Mariner ! The ancient 
 
 Mariner 
 From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — inhospitably 
 
 Why look'st thou so?"— With my cross ^^i'let^the 
 
 bow 
 I shot the Albatross ! 
 
 pious bird of 
 good omen. 
 

 ' 
 
 
 a 
 
 » 
 
 THE RIME OF THE AlSCltlNT MARINER. 
 
 , 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 
 The Sun now rose upon the right : 
 
 
 Out of the sea came he. 
 
 
 Still hid in mist, and on the left 
 
 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 
 And the good south wind still blew behind. 
 
 
 But no sweet bird did follow. 
 
 1 
 
 Nor any day for food or play 
 
 
 Came to the mariners' hollo ! 
 
 His ship- 
 mates cry out 
 against the 
 
 And I had done an hellish thing. 
 And if would w^ork 'em woe : 
 
 ancie-nt Mari- 
 iier,forkilling 
 
 For all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 the bird of 
 good luck. 
 
 That made the breeze to blow. 
 
 Ah wretch I said they, the bird to sla- 
 
 
 That made the breeze to blow ! 
 
9 
 
 Nor dim nor red^ like God's own head, 
 
 The glorious Sun uprist : 
 
 Then all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That brought the fog and mist. 
 
 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay. 
 
 That bring the fog and mist. 
 
 But when the 
 fog cleared 
 off, they jus- 
 tify the same- 
 and thus 
 make them- 
 selves accom, 
 plices in the 
 crime. 
 
 The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew. 
 The furrow"^ stream'd oif free : 
 We were the first that ever burst 
 Into that silent sea. 
 
 Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt 
 
 down, 
 "Twas sad as sad could be ; 
 And we did speak only to break 
 The silence of the sea ! 
 
 The fair 
 breeze con- 
 tinues; the 
 ship enters 
 the Pacific 
 Ocean and 
 sails north- 
 ward, even 
 till it reaches 
 the Line. 
 
 The ship hath 
 been sudden- 
 ly becalmed. 
 
 * In the former edition the line was, 
 
 The furrow follow'd free; 
 
 but I had not been long on board a ship, before I perceived that 
 this was the image as seen by a spectator from the shore, or from 
 another vessel. From the ship itself the Wake appears like a 
 brook flowing off fiom the stern. 
 
10 
 
 All in a hot and copper sky. 
 The bloody Sun, at noon. 
 Right up above the mast did stand. 
 No bigger ;than the Moon. 
 
 ' Day after day, day after day. 
 We stuck, nor breath nor motion, 
 As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean. 
 
 And the Water, M'ater, every where. 
 
 Albatross 
 
 begins to be ^^" ^^^ ^^^ boards did shrink ; 
 
 avenged. Water water, every where. 
 
 Nor any drop to drink. 
 
 The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 
 That ever this should be ! 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
 Upon the slimy sea. 
 
 About, about, in reel and rout 
 The death-fires danced at night ; 
 The water, like a witch's oils. 
 Burnt green, and blue and white. 
 
11 
 
 And some in dreams assured were 
 Of the spirit that plagued us so : 
 Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 
 And every tongue, through utter drought. 
 Was wither'd at the root ; 
 We could not speak, no more than if 
 We had been choakM with soot. 
 
 may be consulted. They are very numerous, 
 climate or element without one or more. 
 
 A spirit had 
 followed 
 them ; one of 
 the invisible 
 inhabitants of 
 this planet, 
 neither de- 
 parted souls 
 nor angels ; 
 concerning 
 whom the 
 learned Jew, 
 Josephus,and 
 the Platonic 
 Constantino- 
 politan, Mi- 
 chael Psellus, 
 and there is uo 
 
 Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks 
 Had I from old and young ! 
 Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
 About my neck was hung. 
 
 The ship- 
 mates, in 
 their sore 
 distress, 
 would fain 
 throw the 
 whole guilt 
 on the ancient 
 
 Mariner : in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his 
 
 neck. 
 
» 
 
 It 
 
 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 ' 
 
 PART THE THIRD. 
 
 
 There passed a weary time. Each throat 
 
 
 Was parched^ and glazed each eye. 
 
 
 A weary time ! a weary time ! 
 
 
 How glazed each weary eye ! 
 
 The ancient 
 Mariner be- 
 holdeth a sign 
 
 When looking westward, 1 beheld 
 A something in the sky. 
 
 in the ele- 
 
 
 ment afar off. 
 
 
 
 At first it seem'd a little speck. 
 
 
 And then it seem'd a mist : 
 
 
 It moved and moved, and took at last 
 
 
 A certain shape, 1 wist. 
 
 1 
 
 A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
 
 
 And still it near'd and near'd : 
 
 
 And as if it dodged a water-sprite. 
 
 ' 
 
 It plunged and tack'd and veer'd. 
 
13 
 
 With throat unslack'd^ with black lips At its nearer 
 
 approach, it 
 baked. 
 
 We could nor laugh nor wail ; 
 Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! 
 I bit my arm, I sucked the bloody 
 And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 
 
 seemeth him 
 to be a ship ; 
 and at a dear 
 ransom he 
 freeth his 
 speech from 
 the bonds of 
 thirst. 
 
 With throat unslacked, with black lips 
 
 baked, 
 Agape they heard me call : 
 Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, 
 And all at once their breath drew in. 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 A flash of joy. 
 
 See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! 
 Hither to work us weal ; 
 Without a breeze, without a tide, 
 She steddies with upright keel ! 
 
 And horror 
 follows. For 
 can it be a 
 ship that 
 comes onward 
 withont wind 
 or tide? 
 
 The western wave was all a-flame. 
 The day was well nigh done ! 
 Almost upon the v/estem wave 
 Rested the broad bright Sun ; 
 When that strange shape drove suddenly 
 Betwixt us and the Sun. 
 
> 
 
 14 
 
 It seemeth 
 him but the 
 skeleton of a 
 
 And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 
 (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) 
 
 ship. 
 
 As if through a dungeon-grate he peer'd. 
 
 
 With broad and burning face. 
 
 
 Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
 
 
 How fast she nears and nears ! 
 
 
 Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
 
 
 Like restless gossameres ! 
 
 And its ribs 
 
 Are those her ribs through which the Sun 
 
 are seen as 
 bars on the 
 
 Did peer, as througli a grate ? 
 
 face of the 
 setting Sun. 
 
 The spectre- 
 
 And is that Woman all her crew ? 
 Is that a Death ? and are there two ? 
 
 woman and 
 her death- 
 
 Is Death that woman's mate ? 
 
 mate, and no 
 
 
 other on 
 board the 
 
 Her lips were red, her looks were free, 
 
 skeleton-ship. 
 
 Her locks were yellow as gold : 
 
 Like vessel, 
 like crevp! 
 
 Her skin was as white as leprosy. 
 
 The Night-Mair Life-in-Death was she, 
 
 
 Who thicks man's blood with cold. 
 
 Death, and 
 
 LlFE-IN- 
 
 Death have 
 
 The naked hulk alongside came, 
 And the twain were casting dice ; 
 
15 
 
 / 
 
 *^ The game is done ! rve^ I've won !" 
 
 diced for the 
 
 Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 
 
 ship's crew, 
 and she (the 
 
 
 latter) win- 
 
 
 neth the an- 
 
 A gust of wind sterte up behind 
 
 cientMarinep 
 
 And whistled through his bones ; 
 
 
 Through the holes of his eyes and the hole 
 
 
 of his mouth. 
 
 
 Half whistles and half groans. 
 
 
 The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out : 
 
 
 At one stride comes the dark ; 
 
 
 With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
 
 
 Off shot the spectre-bark. 
 
 
 We listen'd and look'd sideways up ! 
 
 
 Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 
 
 
 My life-blood seem'd to sip ! 
 
 
 The stars were dim, and thick the night, 
 
 
 The steersman's face by his lamp gleam 'd 
 
 
 white; 
 
 
 From the sails the dews did drip — 
 
 - 
 
 Till clombe above the eastern bar 
 
 At the rising 
 
 The horned Moon, with one bright star 
 
 of the Moon, 
 
 Within the nether tip. 
 
 ^ 
 
16 
 
 One after 
 another, 
 
 One after one, by the star-dogg'd Moon 
 Too quick for groan or sigh. 
 Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang, 
 And curs'd me with his eye. 
 
 His ship- 
 mates drop 
 down dead ; 
 
 Four times fifty living men, 
 (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
 With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
 They dropped down one by one. 
 
 Bnt LiFE-iN- The souls did from their bodies fly,- 
 Deatii be- 
 gins her work They fled to bliss or woe ! 
 
 on the ancient \ , j i •- j v 
 
 ,^ . And every soul, it passed me by. 
 Manner. J > f Jf 
 
 Like the whiz of my cross-bow ! 
 
17 
 
 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER, 
 
 PART THE FOURTH. 
 
 ^' I FEAR the^, ancient Mariner! 
 
 I fear thy skinny hand ! 
 
 And thou art long, and lank, and brown^ 
 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand.* 
 
 The wedding, 
 guest feareth 
 that a spirit is 
 talking to 
 him; 
 
 1 fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
 And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 
 Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
 This body dropt not down. 
 
 Alone, alone, all, all alone. 
 Alone on a wide wide sea! 
 
 But the an- 
 cient Mariner 
 assureth him 
 of his bodily 
 life, and pro- 
 ceedeth to 
 relate his hor- 
 rible penance. 
 
 * For the two last lines of this stanza, I am indebted to Mr. 
 Wordsworth. It was on a delightful walk from Nether Stowey 
 to Dulverton, with him and his sister, in the Autumn of 1797, that 
 that this Poem was planned, and in part composed. 
 
 VOL. II. e 
 

 18 
 
 
 And never a saint took pity on 
 
 
 My soul in agony. 
 
 He despiseth 
 the creatures 
 of the calm. 
 
 The many men, so beautiful ! 
 And they all dead did lie: 
 
 
 And a thousand thousand slimy things 
 
 
 Liv'd on; and so did I. 
 
 And envieth 
 that they 
 should live, 
 
 I look'd upon the rotting sea. 
 And drew my eyes away ; 
 
 and so many 
 lie dead. 
 
 I look'd upon the rotting deck, 
 
 
 And there the dead men lay. 
 
 
 I look'd to Heaven, and tried to pray ; 
 
 ' 
 
 But or ever a prayer had gusht. 
 
 
 A wicked whisper came, and made 
 
 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 
 I closed ray lids, and kept them close. 
 
 
 And the balls like pulses beat ; 
 
 
 For the sky and the sea, and the sea and 
 
 
 the sky 
 
 
 Lay, like a cloud, on my weary eye. 
 
 / 
 
 And the dead were at my feet. 
 
19 
 
 
 The cold sweat melted from their limbs. 
 
 But the curse 
 liveth for him 
 
 Nor rot nor reek did they : 
 
 in the eye of 
 
 The look with which they look'd on me 
 
 the dead men. 
 
 Had never pass'd away. 
 
 
 An orphan's curse would drag to Hell 
 
 
 A spirit from on high ; 
 
 
 But oh ! more horrible than that 
 
 
 Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 
 
 
 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse. 
 
 
 And yet I could not die. 
 
 
 The moving Moon went up the sky. 
 
 In hisAnnelU 
 
 And no where did abide : 
 
 ness and 
 fixedness, he 
 
 , Softly she was going up. 
 And a star or two beside— 
 
 yearneth 
 towards the 
 journeying 
 
 
 Moon, and the 
 
 
 stars that still 
 
 Her beams bemock'd the sultry main. 
 Like April hoar-frost spread; 
 
 sojourn, yet 
 still move on- 
 ward ; and 
 
 But where tlie ship's huge shadow lay. 
 
 every where 
 the blue sky 
 
 The charmed water burnt alway 
 
 belongs to 
 them, and is 
 
 A still and awful red. 
 
 their appoint- 
 
 
 ed rest, and 
 
 
 their native 
 
 
 country, and 
 
 their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords 
 
 that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their 
 
 arrival. 
 
 
 C2 
 
 
20 
 
 By the light 
 of the Moon 
 he behckleth 
 God's crea- 
 tures of the 
 great cabn. 
 
 Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
 
 I watch'd the water-snakes : 
 
 They moved in tracks of shining white. 
 
 And when they reared, the elfish light 
 
 Fell off in hoary flakes. 
 
 Within the shadow of the ship 
 
 I watch'd their rich attire : 
 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. 
 
 They coiled and swam; and every track 
 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
 Their beauty O happy living things I no tongue 
 and their , • , i 
 
 Their beauty might declare : 
 
 happiness. 
 
 He blesseth 
 them in his 
 heart. 
 
 A spring of love gusht from my heart, 
 And I blessed them unaware ! 
 Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
 And I blessed them unaware. 
 
 The spell 
 begins to 
 break. 
 
 The self sfime moment I could pray ; 
 And from my neck so free 
 The Albatross fell off, and sank 
 Like lead into the sea. 
 
^1 
 
 \ 
 
 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 PART THE FIFTH. 
 
 
 Oh SLEEP ! it is a gentle thing, 
 
 
 Belov'd from pole to pole ! 
 
 
 To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
 
 
 She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
 
 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 
 The silly buckets on the deck, 
 
 By grace of 
 
 That had so long remained, 
 
 the holy 
 Mother, the 
 
 I dreamt that they v^^ere filled with dew ; 
 
 ancient Mari- 
 ner is refresh- 
 
 And when I awoke, it rained. 
 
 ed with rain. 
 
 My lips were wet, my throat was cold. 
 
 
 My garments all were dank ; 
 
 
 Sure 1 had drunken in my dreams. 
 
 
 And still my body drank. 
 
 • 
 

 
 f 2 
 
 
 
 I moved, and could not feel my limbs: 
 
 
 
 I was so light — almost 
 
 
 
 I thought that I had died in sleep. 
 
 
 
 And was a blessed ghost. 
 
 
 He hearcth 
 
 And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
 
 
 sounds, ami 
 seeth 
 
 It did not come anear ; 
 
 ' 
 
 strange sights 
 and commo- 
 tions in the 
 sky and the 
 element. 
 
 But with its sound it shook the sails. 
 That were so thin and sere. 
 
 The upper air burst into life ! 
 And a hundred fire-flags sheen. 
 To and fro they were hurried about ; 
 And to and fro, and in and out. 
 The wan stars danced between. 
 
 And the coming wind did roar more loud. 
 
 And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
 
 And the rain pour'd down from one black 
 
 
 
 cloud ; 
 The Moon was at its edge. 
 
 The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
 The Moon was at its side ; 
 
is 
 
 • 
 
 Like waters shot from some high crag, 
 
 
 The lightning fell with never a jag. 
 
 , 
 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 
 The loud wind never reached the ship. 
 
 The bodies of 
 
 Yet now the ship moved on ! 
 
 the ship's 
 crew are 
 
 Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
 Tlie dead men gave a groan. 
 
 inspirited, 
 and the ship 
 moves on ; 
 
 They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose. 
 
 
 Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
 
 
 It had been strange, even in a dream. 
 
 
 To have seen those dead men rise. 
 
 
 The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; 
 
 
 Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
 
 » 
 
 The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 
 
 
 Where they were wont to do : 
 
 
 They raised their limbs like lifeless tools'-^ 
 
 - 
 
 We were a ghastly crew. 
 
 
 The body of my brother's son 
 
 
 Stood by me, knee to knee : 
 
 ^ 
 
 The body and 1 pulled at one rope. 
 
 
 But he said nought to me. 
 
 

 24 
 
 Bnt not by 
 
 " I fear thee, ancient Mariner !" 
 
 the souls of 
 
 
 the men, nor 
 
 Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest !, 
 
 by daemons of 
 earth or mid- 
 
 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain. 
 
 dle air, but 
 
 Which to their corses came again. 
 
 by a blessed 
 
 
 troop of an- 
 
 But a troop of spirits blest : 
 
 gelic spirits, 
 
 
 sent down by 
 
 
 the invocation 
 
 For when it dawned — they dropped their 
 
 of Jhe guar- 
 
 
 dian saint. 
 
 arms. 
 
 
 And clustered round the mclst; 
 
 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their 
 
 
 mouths. 
 
 
 And from their bodies passed. 
 
 
 Around, around, flew each sweet sound. 
 
 
 Then darted to the Sun; 
 
 
 Slowly the sounds came back again. 
 
 
 Now mixed, now one by one. 
 
 
 Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 
 
 I heard the sky-lark sing j 
 
 
 Sometimes all little birds that are. 
 
 
 How they seem'd to fill the sea and air 
 
 
 With their sweet j argon ing ! 
 
25 
 
 
 And now 'twas like all instruments, 
 
 
 Now like a lonely flute; 
 
 
 And now it is an angel's song, 
 
 
 That makes the Heavens be mute. 
 
 
 It ceased; yet still the sails made on 
 
 
 A pleasant noise till noon. 
 
 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 
 
 Singeth a quiet tune. 
 
 
 Till noon we quietly sailed on. 
 
 1 
 
 Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
 
 
 Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
 
 
 Moved onward from beneath. 
 
 
 Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 
 The lonesome 
 spirit from 
 thesonth-pole 
 
 The spirit slid : and it was he 
 
 carries on the 
 ship as far as 
 
 That made the ship to go. 
 
 The sails at noon left off their tune, 
 
 the line, in 
 obedience to 
 the angelic 
 
 And the ship stood still also. 
 
 troop, but 
 still requireth 
 
 
 vengeance. 
 

 26 
 
 
 The Sun, right up above the mast, 
 
 
 Had fixt her to the ocean; 
 
 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir. 
 
 
 With a short uneasy motion 
 
 
 Backwards and forwards half her length. 
 
 
 With a short uneasy motion. 
 
 
 Then like a pawing horse let go. 
 
 
 She made a sudden bound : 
 
 
 It flung the blood into my head. 
 
 
 And I fell down in a swound. 
 
 ThePolarSpi- 
 rit's fellow- 
 daemons, the 
 
 How long in that same fit I lay, 
 I have not to declare ; 
 
 invisible in- 
 habitants of 
 
 But ere my living life returned. 
 
 the element, 
 take part in 
 his wrong ; 
 
 I heard and in my soul discerned 
 Two VOICES in the air. 
 
 and two of 
 
 
 them relate, 
 
 
 one to the 
 other, that 
 penance long 
 
 " Is it he ?" quoth one, " Is this the man ? 
 By him who died on cross. 
 
 and heavy for 
 the ancient 
 
 With his cruel bow he laid full low, 
 
 Mariner hath 
 been accord- 
 
 The harmless Albatross, 
 
 ed to the 
 
 
 Polar Spirit, who returneth southward. 
 
The spirit who bideth by himself 
 In the land of mist and snow. 
 He loved the bird that loved the man 
 Who shot him with his bow/' 
 
 The other was a softer voice. 
 
 As soft as honey-dew : 
 
 Quoth he, " The man hath penance done. 
 
 And penance more will do." 
 
m 
 
 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER, 
 
 PART THE SIXTH. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 But tell me, tell me ! speak again. 
 Thy soft response renewing — 
 What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
 What is the ocean doing ? 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 Still as a slave before his lord. 
 The OCEAN hath no blast j 
 His great bright eye most silently 
 Up to the Moon is cast — 
 
 If he may know which way to go ; 
 For she guides him smooth or grim. 
 See, brother, see ! how graciously 
 She looketh down on him. 
 
29 
 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 The Mariner 
 
 But why drives on that ship so fast. 
 
 hath been 
 cast into a 
 
 Without or wave or wind ? 
 
 trance; for 
 the angelic 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 power 
 
 The air is cut away before. 
 
 causeth the 
 vessel to drive 
 
 And closes from behind. 
 
 northward, 
 faster than 
 
 
 human life 
 
 Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
 
 could endure. 
 
 Or we shall be belated : 
 
 
 For slow and slow that ship will go. 
 
 
 When the Mariner's trance is abated." 
 
 
 I woke, and we were sailing on 
 
 The super- 
 
 As in a gentle weather : 
 
 natural mo- 
 tion is retard- 
 
 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was 
 
 ed ; the Ma- 
 
 
 riner awakes, 
 
 high ; 
 
 and his pe- 
 
 The dead men stood together. 
 
 nance begins 
 anew. 
 
 All stood together on the deck. 
 
 
 For a charnel-dungeon fitter: 
 
 
 All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
 
 fry 
 
 > 
 
 That in the Moon did glitter. 
 
 • 
 
The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
 Had never passed away : 
 I could not draw my eyes from theirs^ 
 Nor turn them tip to pray. 
 
 The curse is And now this spell Tp^s snapt : once more 
 
 finally 
 
 expiated. I Viewed the ocean green, 
 
 . And looked far forth, yet little saw 
 
 Of what had else been seen — 
 
 Like one, that on a lonesome road 
 Doth walk in fear and dread. 
 And having once tum'd round, walks on, 
 And turns no more his head ; 
 Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 But soon there breathed a wind on me. 
 Nor sound nor motion made : 
 Its path was not upon the sea. 
 In ripple or in shade. 
 
 It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
 Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
 
» 
 
 - 
 
 It mingled strangely with my fears. 
 
 / 
 
 Yet it felt like a welcoming. 
 
 
 Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. 
 
 
 Yet she sailed softly too : 
 
 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— 
 
 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 > 
 
 Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
 
 And the an- 
 
 The light-house top I see ? 
 
 cient Mariner 
 beholdeth his 
 
 Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 
 Is this mine own countree? 
 
 native 
 country. 
 
 We drifted o'er the harbour-bar. 
 
 
 And I with sobs did pray — 
 
 ^ 
 
 O let me be awake, my God ! 
 
 
 Or let me sleep alway. 
 
 
 The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 
 
 
 So smoothly it was strewn ! 
 
 , 
 
 And on the bay the moonlight lay. 
 
 
 And the shadow of the moon. 
 
 • 
 

 32 
 
 
 The rock slione bright, the kirk no less. 
 
 
 That stands above the rock : 
 
 y 
 
 The moonlight steeped in silentness 
 
 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
 The angelic 
 spirits leave 
 the dead 
 
 And the bay was white with silent light, 
 Till rising from the same. 
 
 bodies, 
 
 Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
 
 
 In crimson colours came. 
 
 And appear 
 in their own 
 forms of light. 
 
 A little distance from the prow 
 Those crimson shadows were : 
 
 
 I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
 
 
 Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! 
 
 
 Each corse lay fiat, lifeless and flat. 
 
 
 And, by the holy rood ! 
 
 
 A man all light, a seraph-man. 
 
 . 
 
 On every corse there stood. 
 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 
 
 
 It was a heavenly sight ! 
 
 
 They stood as signals to the land, 
 
 , 
 
 Each one a lovely light : 
 
33 
 
 This seraph-bandj each waved his hand. 
 No voice did they impart — 
 No voice; but oh! the silence sank 
 Like music on my heart. 
 
 But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
 I heard the Pilot's cheer ; 
 My head was turn'd perforce away. 
 And I saw a boat appear. 
 
 The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy, 
 I heard them coming fast : 
 Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
 The dead men could not blast. 
 
 I saw a third— I heard his voice : 
 
 It is the Hermit good ! 
 
 He singeth loud his godly hymns 
 
 That he makes in the wood. 
 
 He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 
 
 The Albatross's blood. 
 
 VOL, JJ. » 
 
S4 
 
 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 PART THE SEVENTH. 
 
 TheHermitof This Hermit good lives ia that wood 
 the Wood, 
 
 Which slopes down to the sea. 
 
 How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
 
 He loves to talk with mariaeres 
 
 That come from a far countree. 
 
 He kneels at morn, and noon and eve — 
 He hath a cushion plump i 
 It is the moss that wholly hides 
 The rotted old oak-stump. 
 
 The Skiff-boat near'd : I heard them talk, 
 " Why this is strange, I trow I 
 Where are those lights so many and fair. 
 That signal made but now ?" 
 
85 
 
 « Strange, by my faith !" the Hermit said— Approacheth 
 "And they answered not our cheer ! wondeT. ^'^^ 
 
 The planks look warped! and see those 
 
 sails, 
 How thin they are and sere ! 
 I never saw ought like to them. 
 Unless perchance it were 
 
 The skeletons of leaves that lag 
 
 My forest-brook along: 
 
 When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow. 
 
 And the owlet whoops to the wolf below. 
 
 That eats the she-wolfs young/' 
 
 Dear Lord \ it hath a fiendish look— 
 (The Pilot made reply) 
 I am a-feared— Push on, push on ! 
 Said the Hermit cheerily. 
 
 The boat came closer to the ship, 
 But I nor spake nor stirred; 
 The boat came close beneath the ship. 
 And straight a sound was heard. 
 
 D 2 
 

 
 86 
 
 
 The ship sud- 
 denly sinketh. 
 
 Under the water It rumbled on. 
 Still louder and more dread: 
 
 
 - 
 
 It reach'd the ship, it split the bay; 
 The ship went down like lead. 
 
 
 The ancient 
 
 Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 
 
 
 Mariner is 
 saved in the 
 
 Which sky and ocean smote. 
 
 
 Pilot's boat. 
 
 Like one that hath been seven days drown'd. 
 My body lay afloat ; 
 
 ' 
 
 
 But swift as dreams, myself I found 
 Within the Pilot's boat. 
 
 Upon the whirl, where sank the ship. 
 The boat spun round and round; 
 And all was still, save that the hill 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
 
 And fell down in a fit ; 
 
 The holy Hermit raised his eyes. 
 
 ', 
 
 
 And prayed where he did sit. 
 I took the oars : the Pilot's boy. 
 
 
 
 Who now doth crazy go. 
 
37 
 
 ' 
 
 Laughed loud and long, and all the while 
 
 
 His eyes went to and fro. 
 
 
 " Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see. 
 
 
 The Devil knows how to row." 
 
 \ ■ - 
 
 And now, all in my own countree. 
 
 
 - I stood on the firm land ! 
 
 
 The Hermit stepped forth from the boat. 
 
 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
 
 " O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" 
 
 The ancient 
 
 The Hermit cross'd his brow. 
 
 Mariner 
 earnestly 
 
 " Say quick," quoth he, " I bid thee say— - 
 
 fentreateth 
 the Hermit to 
 
 What manner of man art thou?" 
 
 shrieve him ; 
 
 
 and the pe- 
 
 
 nance of life 
 
 Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd 
 
 falls on him. 
 
 With a woeful agony. 
 
 
 Which forced me to begin my tale 3 
 
 
 And then it left me free. 
 
 
 Since then, at an uncertain hour. 
 
 And ever and 
 
 That agony returns j 
 
 anon through- 
 out his future 
 
 And till my ghastly tale is told, 
 
 life an agony 
 constraineth 
 
 This heart within me burns. 
 
 him to travel 
 
38 
 
 from land to I pass^ like nighty from land to land ; 
 land, 
 
 I have strange power of speech ; 
 
 That moment that his face I see, 
 
 I know the man that must hear me: 
 
 To him my tale I teach. 
 
 What loud uproar bursts from that dopr ! 
 The wedding-guests are there ^ 
 But in the garden-bower the bride 
 And bride-maids singing are; 
 And hark the little vesper bell. 
 Which biddeth me to prayer ! 
 
 O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
 Alone on a wide w^ide sea : 
 So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
 Scarce seemed there to be. 
 
 O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
 'Tis sweeter far to me. 
 To walk together to the kirk 
 With a goodly company ! — 
 
 ' To walk together to the kirk. 
 
 And all together pray, ; 
 
39 
 
 ' 
 
 While each to his great Father bends. 
 
 
 Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 
 
 
 And youths and maidens gay ! 
 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
 
 And to teach 
 
 To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
 
 by his own 
 example, 
 
 He prayeth well, who loveth well 
 Both man and bird and beast. 
 
 love and 
 reverence to 
 all things that 
 God made 
 and loveth. 
 
 He prayeth best, who loveth best 
 
 
 All things both great and small ; 
 
 
 For the dear God who loveth us. 
 
 * 
 
 He made aiid loveth all." 
 
 
 The Mariner, whose eye is bright. 
 
 
 Whose beard with age is hoar. 
 
 
 Is gone; and now the Wedding-Guest 
 
 i 
 
 Turned from the bridegroom's door. 
 
 
 He went like one that hath been stunned^ 
 
 
 And is of sense forlorn : 
 
 
 A sadder and a wiser man. 
 
 
 He rose the morrow morn. 
 
 - 
 
41 
 
 THE FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALE. 
 
 A Dramatic Fragment. 
 
 FoSTER-MoTHER. 
 
 I NEVER saw the man whom you describe. 
 
 Maria. 
 'Tis strange, he spake of you familiarly, 
 As mine and Albert's common Foster-Mother. 
 
 Foster-Mother. 
 Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be. 
 That joined your names with mine ! O my sweet lady ! 
 As often as I think of those dear times. 
 When you two little-ones would stand at eve 
 On each side of my chair, and make me learn 
 All you had learnt in the day, and how to talk 
 In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you — 
 'Tis more like heaven to come than what has been, r , ,. 
 
4^ 
 
 Maria. 
 O my dear Mother ! this strange man has left me 
 Troubled with wilder fancies, than the Moon 
 Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it. 
 Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye 
 She gazes idly — But that entrance. Mother ! — 
 
 FoSTER-MoTHER. 
 
 Can no one hear. It is a perilous tale ! 
 
 Maria. 
 No one? 
 
 FoSTER-MoTHER. 
 
 My husband's father told it me. 
 Poor old Leoni : Angels, rest his soul ! 
 He was a woodman, and could fell, and saw. 
 With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam 
 Which props the hanging-wall of the old chapel ? — 
 Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree. 
 He found a baby, wrapt in mosses lined 
 With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool 
 As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home, 
 And reared him at the then Lord Valez* cost ; 
 And so the babe grew up a pretty boy— 
 
m 
 
 A pretty boyj but most unteachable — 
 
 And never learnt a prayer nor told a bead; 
 
 But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes, 
 
 And whistled, as he were a bird himself ! 
 
 And all the autumn 'twas his only play 
 
 To gather seeds of wild-flowers, and to plant them 
 
 With earth and water on the stumps of trees. 
 
 A Friar, who oft cuH'd simples in the wood, 
 
 A grey-haired man — he loved this little boy : 
 
 The boy loved him — and, when the Friar taught him. 
 
 He soon could write with the pen ; and from that time 
 
 Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Gastle. 
 
 So he became a very learned youth. 
 
 But oh ! poor wretch ! he read, and read, and read. 
 
 Till his brain turned — and ere his twentieth year. 
 
 He had unlawful thoughts of many things : 
 
 And though he prayed, he never loved to pray 
 
 With holy men, or in a holy place ; — 
 
 But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet. 
 
 The late Lord Valez ne'er was wearied with him : 
 
 And once, as by the north side of the chapel 
 
 They stood together, chained in deep discourse, 
 
 The earth heaved under them with such a groan. 
 
 That the wall tottered, and had well nigh fallen 
 
 Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened ; 
 
44 
 
 A fever seized him, and he made confession 
 
 Of all the heretical and lawless talk 
 
 Which brought this judgment. So the youth was seized 
 
 And cast into that hole. My husband's father 
 
 Sobbed like a child — it almost broke his heart ; 
 
 And once, as he was working in the cellar. 
 
 He hear'd a voice distinctly j 'twas the youth's. 
 
 Who sung a doleful song about green fields, 
 
 How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah 
 
 To hunt for food, and be a naked man. 
 
 And wander up and down at liberty. 
 
 He always doted on the youth, and now 
 
 His love grew desperate ; and defying death. 
 
 He made that cunning entrance I described ; 
 
 And the young man escaped. 
 
 Maria. 
 'Tis a sweet tale : 
 Such as would lull a listening child to sleep. 
 His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears. — 
 And what became of him ? 
 
 FoSTER-MoTHER. 
 
 He went on ship-board. 
 With those bold voyagers who made discovery 
 
45 
 
 Of golden lands. Leoni's youngest brother 
 Went likewise ; and when he returned to Spain, 
 He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth, 
 Soon after they arrived in that new world. 
 In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat. 
 And, all alone, set sail by silent moonlight 
 Up a great river, great as any sea. 
 And ne'er was heard of more ; but 'tis supposed. 
 He lived and died among the savage men. 
 
POEMS 
 
 OCCASIONED BY POLITICAL EVENTS 
 
 OR 
 
 FEELINGS CONNECTED WITH THEM. 
 
When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 Great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 
 When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 
 
 The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 
 
 I had, my country! Am I to be blamed? 
 But, when I think of Thee, and what Thon art, 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart, 
 
 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
 But dearly must we prize thee; we who find 
 
 In thee a bulwark of the cause of men ; 
 And I by my affection was beguiled. 
 
 What wonder if a poet, now and then, 
 
 Among the many movements of his mind, 
 
 Felt for thee as a Lover or a Child. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
ODE 
 
 THE DEPARTING YEAR. 
 
 'Ttt' av fji^s Ssivog 6§^0[xavrBla,g movos 
 ^T'fofeT, 'fa^do'ffwv f^Oi^lois k^ynj^loi;, 
 ***** * 
 
 To if^eXXov y)^si. Ka) cru ju-ijv T'a;)^£( ita^m 
 
 iEscHYL. Agam. 1225. 
 
 Vol. rj, 
 
ARtiUMENT. 
 
 The Ode commences with an Address to the Divine 
 Providence, that regulates into one vast harmony all the events 
 of time, however calamitous some of them may appear to 
 mortals. The second Strophe calls on men to suspend their 
 private joys and sorrows, and devote them for a while to the 
 cause of human nature i?i general. The first Epode speaks 
 of the Empress of Russia, who died of an apoplexy on the 
 17th of November 1796; having just concluded a subsidiary 
 treaty with the Kings combined against France. The first 
 and second Antistrophe describe the Image of the Departing 
 Year, Sfc. as in a vision. The secoiid Epode prophecies, in 
 cnguish of spirit, the downfall of this country. 
 
51 
 
 ODE ON THE DEPARTING YEAR.'' 
 
 I. 
 
 Spirit who sweepest the wild Harp of Time ! 
 It is most hard, with an untroubled ear 
 Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear ! 
 Yetj mine eye fixt on Heaven's ur^changing clime, 
 Long had I listened, free from mortal fear. 
 With inward stillness, and submitted mind ; 
 When lo ! its folds far waving on the wind, 
 I saw the train of the Departing Year ! 
 Starting from my silent sadness 
 Then with no unholy madness. 
 Ere yet the enter'd cloud foreclos'd my sight, 
 I rais'd th' impetuous song, and solemnized his flight. 
 
 * This Ode was composed on the 24th, 25th, and 2Cth day of 
 December 1796 j and was first published on the last day of that 
 year. 
 
 E 2 
 
52 
 
 II. 
 
 Hither, from the recent Tomb, 
 From the Prison's direr gloom. 
 From Distemper's midnight anguish ; 
 And thence, where Poverty doth waste and languish ; 
 Or where, his two bright torches blending, 
 
 Love illumines Manhood's maze ; 
 Or where o'er cradled infants bending 
 Hope has fix'd her wishful gaze. 
 Hither, in perplexed dance. 
 Ye Woes ! ye young-eyed Joys I advance ! 
 By Time's wild harp, and by the hand 
 Whose indefatigable Sweep 
 Raises it's fateful strings from sleep, 
 I bid you haste, a mixt tumultuous band ! 
 From every private bower. 
 
 And each domestic hearth. 
 Haste for one solemn hour ; 
 And with a loud and yet a louder voice, 
 O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth. 
 
 Weep and rejoice ! 
 Still echoes the dread Name, that o'er the earth 
 Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of Hell. 
 
 And now advance in saintly Jubilee 
 Justice and Truth ! They too have heard thy spell, 
 They too obey thy name, Divinest Liberty ! 
 
53 
 
 III. 
 
 I mark'd Ambition in his war-array ! 
 
 I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry — 
 " Ah ! wherefore does the Northern Conqueress stay ? 
 " Groans not her chariot on it's onward way ?" 
 Fly, mailed Monarch, fly! 
 Stunn'd by Death's twice mortal mace. 
 No more on Murder's lurid face 
 Th' insatiate hag shall glote with drunken eye ! 
 Manes of ih' unnumber'd slain ! 
 Ye that gasp'd on Warsaw's plain I 
 Ye that erst at Ismail's tower. 
 When human ruin choak'd the streams. 
 
 Fell in conquest's glutted hour, 
 Mid women's shrieks and infant's screams ! 
 Spirits of the uncoffin'd slain, 
 
 Sudden blasts of triumph swelling, 
 Oft, at night, in misty train. 
 
 Rush around her narrow dwelling ! 
 The exterminating fiend is fled-^ _ '- - 
 
 (Foul her life, and dark her doom) 
 Mighty armies of the dead. 
 
 Dance like death-fires round her tomb ! 
 Then with prophetic song relate. 
 Each some tyrant-murderer's fate » 
 
54 
 
 IV. 
 
 Departing Year ! 'twas on no earthly shore 
 My soul beheld thy vision ! Where alone^ 
 Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne. 
 Aye Memory sits : thy robe inscrib'd with gore. 
 With many an unimaginable groan 
 
 Thou storied'st thy sad hours ! Silence ensued. 
 Deep silence o'er th' etherial multitude. 
 Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glories 
 shone. 
 Then, his eye wild ardours glancing. 
 From the choired Gods advancing, 
 The Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet. 
 And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. 
 
 V. 
 
 Throughout the blissful throng, 
 Hush'd were harp and song : 
 Till wheeling round the throne the lampads seven, 
 (The mystic Words of Heaven) 
 Permissive signal make ; 
 The fervent Spirit bow'd, then spread his wings and spake ! 
 " Thou in stormy blackness throning 
 
 " Love and uncreated Light, < ' ?' 
 
55 
 
 " By the Earth's unsolaced groaning, 
 " Seize thy terrors^ Arm of might ! 
 " By Peace, with profFer'd insult scar'd, 
 " Masked Hate and envying Scorn ! 
 ^' By Years of Havoc yet unborn ! 
 " And Hunger's bosorn to the frost-winds bared! 
 " But chief by Afric's wrongs^ 
 
 '^ Strange^ horrible, and foul ! 
 " By what deep guilt belongs 
 " To the deaf Synod, ' full of gifts and lies !' 
 " By Wealth's insensate laugh ! by Torture's howl ! 
 '' Avenger, rise ! 
 " For ever shall the thankless Island scowl, 
 '^ Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow ? 
 " Speak ! from thy storm-black Heaven O speak aloud ! 
 
 "^ And on the darkling foe 
 '' Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud ! 
 
 ^' O dart the flash ! O rise and deal the blow ! 
 " The Past to thee, to thee the Future cries I 
 
 " Hark ! how wide Nature joins her groans below ! 
 " Rise, God of Nature ! rise." 
 
 VI. 
 
 The voice had ceased, the vision fled j 
 Yet still I gasp'd and reel'd with dread. 
 
V 
 
 56 
 
 And ever, when the dream of night 
 Renews the phantom to my sight. 
 Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ; 
 
 My ears throb hot; my eye-balls start j 
 My brain with horrid tumult swims : 
 
 Wild is the tempest of my heart ; 
 And my thick and struggling breath 
 Imitates the toil of Death ! 
 No stranger agony confounds 
 
 The Soldier on the war-field spread, 
 ■ When all foredone with toil and wounds. 
 
 Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead ! 
 (The strife is o'er, the day-light fled, 
 
 And the night-wind clamours hoarse I 
 See ! the starting wretch's head 
 
 Lies pillow'd on a brother's corse !) 
 
 VII. 
 
 Not yet enslav'd, not wholly vile, 
 O Albion ! O my mother Isle ! 
 Thy vallies, fair as Eden's bowers. 
 Glitter green with sunny showers ; 
 Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells 
 Echo to the bleat of flocks ; 
 
57 
 
 (Those grassy hills, those glitt'ring dells 
 
 Proudly ramparted with rocks) 
 And Ocean mid his uproar wild 
 Speaks safety to his island-child ! /. 
 
 Hence, for many a fearless age. 
 
 Has social Quiet lov'd thy shore ; 
 Nor ever proud Invader's rage 
 Or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gore. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Abandon'd of Heaven ! mad Avarice thy guide. 
 
 At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride — 
 
 Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast stood, 
 
 And join'd the wild yelling of Famine and Blood 1 ) 
 
 The nations curse thee, and with eager wond'ring 
 
 Shall hear Destruction^ like a vulture, scream ! 
 
 Strange-eyed Destruction ! who with many a dreana 
 Of central fires thro' nether seas upthund'ring 
 
 Soothes her fierce solitude ; yet as she lies 
 By livid fount, or red volcanic stream, 
 
 If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes, 
 
 O Albion ! thy predestin'd ruins rise, 
 The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, 
 Muttering distemper'd triumph in her charmed sleep. 
 
58 
 
 IX. 
 
 Away, my soul, away ! 
 In vain, in vain the Birds of warning sing-r- 
 And hark ! I hear the famishM brood of prey 
 Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind ! 
 Away, my soul, away ! 
 I unpartaking of the evil thing. 
 With daily prayer and daily toil 
 Soliciting for food my scanty soil. 
 Have wailed my country with a loud Lament. 
 Now I recenter my immortal mind 
 
 In the deep sabbath of meek self-content ; 
 Cleans'd from the vaporous passions that bedim 
 God's Image, sister of the Seraphim:. 
 
59 
 
 FRANCE. 
 
 An Ode. 
 
 I. 
 
 YE Clouds ! that far above me float and pause^ 
 Whose pathless march no mortal may controul J 
 Ye Ocean- Waves I that^ wheresoe'er ye roll. 
 
 Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 
 
 Ye Woods ! that listen to the night-birds' singing, 
 Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclin'd. 
 
 Save when your own imperious branches swinging 
 Have made a solemn music of the wio4 • 
 
 Where^ like a man belov'd of God, 
 
 Through glooms, which never woodman trod. 
 How oft, pursuing fancies holy. 
 
 My moonlight way o'er flow'ring weeds I wound. 
 Inspired, beyond the guess of folly. 
 
 By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound ! 
 
 O ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests high ! 
 And O ye Clouds that far above me soar'd ! 
 
60 
 
 Thou rising Sun ! thou blue rejoicing Sky ! 
 Yea, every thing that is and will be free ! 
 Bear witness for me, wheresoe'r ye be^ 
 With what deep worship I have still ador'd 
 The spirit of divincst Liberty. 
 
 II. 
 
 When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared. 
 
 And with that oath, which smote air, earth and sea, 
 
 Stamp'd her strong foot and said she would be free, 
 Bear witness for me, how I hop'd and fear'd ! 
 With what a joy my lofty gratulation 
 
 Unaw'd I sang, amid a slavish band : 
 And when to whelm the disenchanted nation. 
 
 Like fiends embattled by a wizzard's wand. 
 The Monarchs march'd in evil day. 
 And Britain join'd the dire array; 
 
 Though dear her shores and circling ocean, 
 Though many friendships, many youthful loves 
 
 Had swoln the patriot emotion 
 And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves ; 
 Yet still my voice, unalter'd, sang defeat 
 
 To all that brav'd the tyrant-quelling lance. 
 And shame too long delay 'd and vain retreat ! '^^ *X ^ 
 
 jij4 .»fv>v»#» Mil 4IJ1U «iA>iiu»^J df O htti'- 
 
61 
 
 For ne'erj O Liberty ! with partial aim :•"''' '•<!>:. ''' 
 I dimm'd thy light or damp'd thy holy flame ; o J IfiT 
 
 But blest the paeans of deliver'd France, 
 And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 
 
 mtBS'iii in. 
 
 " And what," I said, " though Blasphemy's loud scream 
 
 " With that sweet music of deliverance strove ? 
 
 " Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove 
 *' A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream ? 
 
 " Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled^ 
 " The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light !" 
 
 And when, to sooth my soul, that hoped and trembled. 
 The dissonance ceas'd, and all seem'd calm and bright ; 
 
 When France her front deep-scar'd and gory 
 
 Conceal'd with clustering wreaths of glory ; 
 When, insupportably advancing, 
 
 Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp ; 
 While timid looks of fury glancing. 
 
 Domestic treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp, 
 Writh'd like a wounded dragon in his gore ; 
 
 Then I reproach'd my fears that would not flee ; 
 " And soon," I said, " shall Wisdom teach her lore 
 " In the low huts of them that toil and groan ! 
 " And, conquering by her happiness alone. 
 
" Shall France compel the nations to b6 free. 
 Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their 
 own." 
 
 IV. 
 
 Forgive me. Freedom ! O forgive those dreams ! 
 
 I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament. 
 
 From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent — 
 I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain'd streams ! 
 
 Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish'd. 
 And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows 
 
 With bleeding wounds ; forgive me, that I cherish'd 
 One thought that ever bless'd your cruel foes I 
 
 To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt. 
 
 Where Peace her jealous home had built ; 
 A patriot-race to disinherit 
 Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear ; 
 
 And M'ith inexpiable spirit 
 To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer— 
 O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, 
 
 And patriot only in pernicious toils ! 
 Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind; 
 
 To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway, ' 
 
 Yell in the hunt, and share the murd'rous prey j 
 To insidt the shrine of Liberty with spoils 
 
 From freemen torn j to tempt and to betray ? 
 
63 
 
 V. 
 
 The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain^ 
 Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game 
 They burst their manacles and wear the name 
 
 Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! 
 O Liberty ! with profitless endeavour 
 Have I pursued thee_, many a weary hour ; 
 
 But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever 
 Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. 
 Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, 
 (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) 
 
 Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions. 
 And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves. 
 Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions. 
 The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the wav6s ? 
 And there I felt thee ! — on that sea-cliif's verge. 
 
 Whose pines, scarce travell'd by the breeze above, 
 Had made one murmur with the distant surge ! 
 Yes, while 1 stood and gaz'd, my temples bare. 
 And shot my being through earth, sea and air, 
 Possessing all things with intensest love, 
 O Liberty I my spirit felt thee there. 
 
 February 1798. 
 
64 
 
 FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 
 
 Written in April 1798, during the Alarm of an Invasion. 
 
 A GREEN and silent spot, amid the hills, 
 
 A small and silent dell ! O'er stiller place 
 
 No singing sky-lark ever pois'd himself. 
 
 The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope. 
 
 Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on. 
 
 All golden with the never-bloomless furze. 
 
 Which now blooms most profusely; but the dell, 
 
 Bath'd by the mist, is fresh and delicate 
 
 As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax. 
 
 When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve. 
 
 The level Sunshine glimmers with green light. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook ! 
 
 Which all, methinks, would love ; but chiefly he. 
 
 The humble man, who, in his youthful years. 
 
 Knew just so much of folly, as had made 
 
 His early manhood more securely wise ! 
 
 Here he might lie on fern or wither'd heath. 
 
65 
 
 While from the singing-lark (that sings unseen 
 The minstrelsy that solitude loves best^) 
 And from the Sun, and from the breezy Air, 
 Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; 
 And he, with many feelings, many thoughts. 
 Made up a meditative joy, and found 
 Religious meanings in the forms of nature I 
 And so, his senses gradually wrapt 
 In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds. 
 And dreaming hears thee still, O singing-lark, 
 That singest like an angel in the clouds ! 
 
 My God ! it is a melancholy thing 
 For such a man, who would full fain preserve 
 His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel 
 For all his human brethren — O my God ! 
 It is indeed a melancholy thing. 
 And weighs upon the heart, that he must think 
 What uproar and what strife may now be sturing 
 This way or that way o'er these silent hills — 
 Invasion, and the thunder and the shout. 
 And all the crash of onset; fear and rage. 
 And undetermin'd conflict — even now. 
 Even now, perchance, and in his native isle: 
 Carnage and groans beneath this blessed Sun ! 
 
 VOL. J I. F 
 
66 
 
 We have offended. Oh ! my countrymen ! 
 
 We have offended very grievously. 
 
 And been most tyrannous. From east to west 
 
 A groan of accusation pierces Heaven ! 
 
 The wretched plead against us ; miiltitudes 
 
 Countless and vehement, the Sons of God, 
 
 Our Brethren ! Like a cloud that travels on. 
 
 Steam 'd up from Cairo's swartips of pestilence, 
 
 Ev'n so, my countrymen ! have we gone forth 
 
 And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs. 
 
 And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint 
 
 With slow perdition murders the whole man. 
 
 His body and his soul ! Meanwhile, at home. 
 
 All individual dignity and power 
 
 Engulph'd in Courts, Committees, Institutions, 
 
 Associations and Societies, 
 
 A vain, speech-mouthing, speech -reporting Guild, 
 
 One Benefit-Club for miitual flattery. 
 
 We have drunk up, demure as at a grace, 
 
 Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth j 
 
 Contemptuous of all honorable rule. 
 
 Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life 
 
 For gold, as at a market ! The sweet word^s 
 
 Of Christian promise, words that even yet 
 
 Might stem destmction, were they wisely preach'd^ 
 
67 
 
 Are mutter'd o'er by ipen, whose tones proclaim 
 How flat and wearisome they feel their trade : 
 Rank scoffers somCj but most too indolent 
 To deem them falsehoods or to know their trufh. 
 Oh ! blasphemous i th^ book of life is made 
 A superstitious instrument, on which 
 We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break; 
 For all must swear — all and in every place. 
 College and wharf, council and justice-court ; 
 All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed, 
 Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest. 
 The rich, the poor, the old man and the young ; 
 All, all njake up one scheme of perjury. 
 That faith doth reel ; the very name of God 
 Sounds like a juggler's charm ; and, bold with joy, 
 Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place, 
 (Portentous sight !) the owlet. Atheism, 
 Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon. 
 Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close, 
 And hooting at the glorious Sun in Heaven, 
 Cries out, " Where is it ?" 
 
 Thankless too for peace 
 (Peace long preserv'd by fleets and pejilous seas) 
 
 F 2 ' ^ 
 
Secure from actual warfare, we have lov'S 
 
 To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war1 
 
 Alas ! for ages ignorant of all 
 
 It's ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague. 
 
 Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,) 
 
 We, this whole people, have been clamorous 
 
 For war and bloodshed ; animating sports. 
 
 The which we pay for as a thing to talk of, 
 
 Spectators and not combatants ! No Guess 
 
 Anticipative of a wrong unfelt. 
 
 No speculation on contingency. 
 
 However dim and vague, too ^'^ague and dim 
 
 To yield a justifying cause; and forth, 
 
 (StufTd out with big preamble, holy names. 
 
 And adjurations of the God in Heaven,) 
 
 We send our mandates for the certain death 
 
 Of thousands and ten thousands ! Boys and girls. 
 
 And women, that would groan to see a child 
 
 Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war. 
 
 The best amusement for our morning-meal ! 
 
 The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers 
 
 From curses, who knows scarcely words enougJi 
 
 To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, 
 
 Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute 
 
 And technical in victories ^and deceit. 
 
69 
 
 And all our dainty terms for fratricide; 
 
 Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er om* tongues 
 
 Liiie mere abstractions, empty sounds to which 
 
 We join no feeling and attach no form-! 
 
 As if the soldier died without a wound > 
 
 As if the fibres of this godlike frame 
 
 Were gor'd without a pang ; as if the wretch. 
 
 Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds. 
 
 Passed off to Heaven, translated and not kill'd; — 
 
 As though he had no wife to pine for him. 
 
 No God to judge him ! Therefore, evil days 
 
 Are coming on us, O my countrymen 1 
 
 And what if all-avenging Providence, 
 
 Strong and retributive, should make us know 
 
 The meaning of our words, force us to feel 
 
 The desolation and the agony 
 
 Of our fierce doings ? 
 
 Spare us yet awhile^ 
 Father and God ! Oh ! spare us yet awhile ! 
 Oh ! let not English women drag their flight 
 Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes, . 
 Of the sweet infants, that but" yesterday. 
 Laugh'd at the breast ! Sons, brothers, husbands, all 
 Who ever gaz'd with fondness on the forma 
 
Which grew up with you round the same fire-si(Je, 
 And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells 
 Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure ! 
 Stand forth ! be men ! repel an impious foe. 
 Impious and false, a light yet cruel race. 
 Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth 
 With deeds of murder ; and still promising 
 Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free. 
 Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart 
 Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes 
 And all that lifts the spirit ! Stand we forth ; 
 Render them back upon the insulted ocean. 
 And let them toss as idly on it's waves 
 As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast 
 Swept from our shores ! And oh ! may we return 
 Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear. 
 Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung 
 So fierce a foe to frenzy ! 
 
 I have told, 
 O Britons ! O my brethren ! I have told 
 Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. 
 Nor deem my zeal or factious or mis-tim'd ; 
 For never can true courage dwell with them. 
 Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look 
 
71 
 
 At their own vices. We have been too long 
 Dupes of a deep delusion ! Some^ belike. 
 Groaning with restless enmity, expect 
 All change from change of constituted power ; 
 As if a Government had been a robe. 
 On which our vice and wretchedness were tagg'd 
 Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe 
 Pull'd off at pleasure. Fondly these attach 
 A radical causation to a few 
 Poor drudges of chastising Providence, 
 Who borrow all their hues and qualities 
 From our own folly and rank wickedness. 
 Which gave them birth and nurse them. Others, mean- 
 while. 
 Dote with a mad idolatry; and all 
 Wlio will not fall before their images. 
 And yield them worship, they are enemies 
 Even of their country ! 
 
 Such have I been deem'd — 
 But, O dear Britain ! O my Mother Isle ! 
 Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy 
 To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, 
 A husband, and a father ! who revere 
 All bonds of natural love, and find them all 
 
n 
 
 Within the liinits of thy rocky shores. 
 
 O native Britain ! O my Mother Isle ! 
 
 How shouldst thou prove aught else hut dear and holy 
 
 To me^ who from thy lakes and mountain -hills. 
 
 Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas. 
 
 Have drunk in all my intellectual life. 
 
 All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts. 
 
 All adoration of the God in Nature, 
 
 All lovely and all honorable things. 
 
 Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 
 
 The joy and greatness of its future being ? 
 
 There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul 
 
 Unborrow'd from my country. O divine 
 
 And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole 
 
 And most magnificent temple, in the which 
 
 I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs. 
 
 Loving the God that made me ! 
 
 May my fears. 
 My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts 
 And menace of the vengeful enemy 
 Pass like the gust, that roar'd and died away 
 In the distant tree : which heard, and only heard 
 In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass. 
 
73 
 
 But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad 
 The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze : ^ 
 The light has left the summit of the hill, 
 Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful 
 Aslant the Ivied beacon. Now farewell. 
 Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot ! 
 On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill. 
 Homeward I wind my way ; and, lo ! recall'd 
 From bodings that have well nigh wearied me, 
 I find myself upon the brow, and pause 
 Startled ! And after lonely sojourning 
 In such a quiet and surrounded nook. 
 This burst of prospect, here the shadowy Main, 
 Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty 
 Of that huge amphitheatre of rich 
 And elmy Fields, seems like society — 
 Conversing with the mind, and giving it 
 A livelier impulse and a dance of thought ! 
 And now, beloved Stowey ! I behold 
 Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms 
 Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend ; 
 And close behind them, hidden from my view. 
 Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe 
 And my babe's mother dwell in peace t With light 
 And quicken'd footsteps thitherward I tend, 
 
u 
 
 Remembering thee, O green and silent delll 
 
 And grateful, that by nature's quietness 
 
 And solitary musings, all my heart 
 
 Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge 
 
 Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind. 
 
 Nether Stowey, 
 
 April 28th, 1798. 
 
ih 
 
 RECANTATION. 
 
 Illustrated intheStm-ytfthe Mnei Ox. 
 
 h 
 
 An Ox, long fed with musty hay. 
 
 And work'd with yoke and chain. 
 Was turn'd out on an April day, 
 When fields are in their best array, 
 And growing grasses sparkle gay 
 At once with Sun and rain. 
 
 n. 
 
 The grass was fine, the Sun was bright 
 
 With truth I may aver it ; 
 The Ox was glad, as well he might. 
 Thought a green meadow no bad sight, 
 And frisked, to shew his huge delight. 
 
 Much like a beast of spirit. 
 
76 
 
 III. 
 
 Stop, Neighbours! stop! why these alarms f' 
 
 The Ox is only glad — 
 But still they pour from cots and farms — 
 Halloo ! the parish is up in arms, 
 (A hoaxing-hunt has always charms) 
 
 Halloo ! the Ox is mad. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The frighted beast scamper'd about ; 
 
 Plunge ! through the hedge he drove — 
 The mob pursue with hideous rout, 
 A bull-dog fastens on his snout ; 
 He gores the dog, his tongue hangs out ; 
 
 He's mad ! he's mad, by Jove ! 
 
 V. 
 
 " Stop, Neighbours, stop!" aloud did call 
 
 A sage of sober hue. 
 But all, at once, on him they fall, 
 And women squeak and children squall, 
 " What ! would you have him toss us all J 
 
 " And damme ! who are you ?" 
 
T7 
 
 VI: 
 
 -Oh ] hapless sage^ his ears they stun. 
 
 And curse him o'er and o'er — 
 "*' You bloody-minded dog ! cries one, 
 " To slit your windpipe were good fun, — 
 ^' 'Od blast you for an *impious son 
 
 " Of a presbyterian w — re." 
 
 VII. 
 
 ^' You'd have him gore the parish-priest, 
 
 " And run against the altar — 
 " You fiend !" The sage his warnings ceas'd^ 
 And north and south, and west and east, 
 Halloo ! they follow the poor beast, 
 
 Mat, Dickj Tom, Bob and Walter. 
 
 VIIL 
 
 Old Lewis, ('twas his evil day) 
 
 Stood trembling in his shoes ; 
 The Ox was his — what could he say ? 
 His legs were stiffened with dismay. 
 The Ok ran o'er him mid the fray. 
 
 And gave him his death's bruise. 
 
 * One of the many fine words which the most uneducated tiad 
 mbout this time a constant opportunity of acquiring, from the ser- 
 mons in the pulpit and the proclamations in the corners. 
 
' 78 
 
 I3C. 
 
 The frighted beast ran on — but here, 
 (No tale, tho' in print, more true is) 
 
 My Muse stops short in mid career — 
 
 Nay, gentle reader ! do not sneer ! 
 
 I cannot choose but drop a tear, 
 A tear for good old Lewis 1 
 
 I 
 
 X. 
 
 The frighted beast ran through the town ; 
 
 All followM, boy and dad. 
 Bull-dog, Parson, Shopman, Clown : 
 The Publicans rush'd from the Crown, 
 '^ Halloo ! hamstring him ! cut him down !" 
 
 They drove the poor Ox mad. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Should you a Rat to madness teize. 
 Why e'en a Rat may plague you : 
 There's no Philosopher but sees 
 That Rage and Fear are one disease — 
 Though that may burn and this may freeze. 
 They're both alike the Ague. 
 
n 
 
 Arid so this Ox, in frantic mood, 
 
 Fdced round likie any Bull— ^ 
 The mob turn'd tail, and he pursued^ 
 Till they with heat and fright were stewed. 
 And not a chick of all this brood 
 
 But had his belly full. 
 
 xiii. 
 
 Old Nick's astride the beAst, 'tis clear — 
 
 Old Nicholas, to a tittle ! 
 But all agree, he'd disAppfear, 
 Would but the JParson venture near. 
 And through his teeth,* right o'er the steer. 
 
 Squirt out some fasting-spittle. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Achilles was a warrior fleet. 
 
 The Trojans he could "worry-^— 
 Our Parson too was swift of feet> 
 But shew'd it chiefly in retreat : 
 The victor Ox scour'd down the street. 
 
 The mob fled huriy-scurry. 
 
 * According to the superstition of the West-Countries, if you 
 meet the Devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, or 
 force him to disappear by spitting over his horns. 
 
Bo 
 
 XV. 
 
 Through gardens, lanes and fields new plough'd. 
 Through his hedge, and through her hedge. 
 
 He plung'd and toss'd and bellow'd loud. 
 
 Till in his madness he grew proud, 
 
 To see this helter-skelter crowd. 
 That had more wrath than courage. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Alas ! to mend the breaches wide 
 
 He made for these poor ninnies. 
 They all must work, whate'er betide. 
 Both days and months, and pay beside, 
 (Sad news for Avarice and for Pride) 
 
 A sight of golden guineas ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But here once more to view did pop 
 
 The man that kept his senses j 
 And now he cried — " Stop, neighbours ! stop ; 
 " The Ox is mad ! I would not swop, 
 " No ! not a school-boy's farthing-top^ 
 
 " For all the parish-fences.^' 
 
81 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " The Ox is mad ! Ho ! Dick, Bob, Mat !" 
 
 What means this coward fuss ? 
 " Ho ! stretch this rope across the plat — 
 *' 'Twill trip him up — or if not that, 
 " Why, damme ! we must lay him flat — 
 
 " See, here's my blunderbuss. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 '* A lying dog ! just now he said 
 
 *^ The Ox was only glad — 
 *' Let's break his presbyterian head I" 
 " Hush!" quoth the sage, "you've been misled j 
 *' No quarrels now — let's all make head — 
 
 " You DROVE THE POOR Ox MAD." 
 
 XX. 
 
 As thus I sat, in careless chat. 
 
 With the morning's wet newspaper. 
 
 In eager haste, without his hat. 
 
 As blind and blundering as a bat, 
 
 In came that fierce Aristocrat, 
 Our pursy Woollen-draper. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
82 
 
 XX[. 
 
 And so my Muse perforce drew bit; 
 
 And in he rush'd and panted — 
 a Wellj have you heard ?" No, not a whit. 
 "' What, ha'nt you. heard ?" Come, out with it!- 
 " That TiERNEY votes for Mister Pitt, 
 
 "And Sheridan's recanted!" 
 
BS 
 
 PARLIAMENTARY OSCILLATORS. 
 
 Almost awake ? Why, what is this, and whence, 
 
 O ye right loyal men, all undefiled ? 
 Sure, 'tis not possible that Common Sense 
 
 Has hitch'd her pullies to each heavy eye-lid ? 
 
 Yet wherefore else that start, which discomposes 
 The drowsy waters lingering in your eye ? 
 And are you really able to descry 
 
 That precipice three yards beyond your noses ? 
 
 Yet flatter you 1 cannot, that your wit 
 
 Is much improved by this long loyal dosing; 
 And I admire, no more than Mr. Pitt, 
 Your jumps and starts of patriotic prosing — 
 
 Now cluttering to the Treasury Cluck, like chicken. 
 Now with small beaks the ravenous Bill opposing ; 
 
 With serpent-tongue now stinging, and now licking, 
 JVow semi-sibilant, now smoothly glpzing — 
 G 2 
 
84 
 
 Now having faith implicit that he can't err. 
 Hoping his hopes, alarm'd with his alarms j 
 
 And now believing him a sly inchanter, 
 Yet still afraid to break his brittle charms. 
 
 Lest some mad Devil suddenly unhamp'ring, 
 
 Slap-dash ! the imp should fly off with the steeple. 
 
 On revolutionary broom-stick scampering. — 
 O ye soft-headed and soft-hearted people. 
 
 If you can stay so long from slumber free. 
 My muse shall make an effort to salute 'e : 
 
 For lo ! a very dainty simile 
 Flash'd sudden through my brain, and 'twill just suit 'e! 
 
 You know that water-fowl that cries. Quack ! quack I ? 
 
 Full often have I seen a waggish crew 
 Fasten the Bird of Wisdom on it's back. 
 
 The ivy-haunting bird, that cries, Tu-whoo ! 
 
 Both plunged together in the deep mill-stream, 
 
 (Mill-stream, or farm-yard pond, or mountain-lake,) 
 
 Shrill, as a Church mid Constitution scream, 
 
 Tu-wHoo ! quoth Broad-face, and down dives the 
 Drake ! 
 
85 
 
 The green-neck'd Drake once more pops up to view. 
 Stares round, cries Quack ! and makes an angry pother; 
 
 Then shriller screams the bird with eye-lids blue, 
 The broad-faced bird ! and deeper dives the other. 
 
 Ye quacking Statesmen ! ^tis even so with you — 
 One peasecod is not liker to another. 
 
 Even so on Loyalty's Decoy- pond, each 
 
 Pops up his head, as fir'd with British blood, 
 
 Hears once again the Ministerial screech. 
 
 And once more seeks the bottom's blackest mud ! 
 
 1794. 
 
fixt, jfamine, anD ^laug|)ter, 
 
 A WAR-ECLOGUE. 
 
 WITH 
 
 AN APOLOGETIC PREFACE. 
 
ME DOLOR INCATjfTUM, ME LUBRICA DUXERIT iETAS, 
 ME TUMOR IMPULERIT, ME DEVIUS EGERIT ARDOR: 
 TE TAMEN HAUD DECUIT PARIBUS CONCURRERE TELIS. 
 EN ADSUM; RENIAM, CONFESSUS CRIMIKA, POSCO. 
 
 Claud, Epist. ad Had. 
 
 THERE IS ONE THAT SLIPPETH IN HIS SPEECH, BUT NOT 
 FROM HIS HEART ; AND WHO IS HE THAT HATH NOT OFFENDED 
 WITH HIS TONGUE t 
 
 Ecclesiasiicus, xix. 16. 
 
89 
 
 %. 
 
 /r the house of a gentleman, whtf 
 hy the principles and corresponding virtues of a sincere 
 Christian consecrates a cultivated genius and the favor- 
 able accidents of birth, opulence, and splendid connexions, 
 it was my good fortune to meet, in a dinner-party, with 
 more men of celebrity in science or polite literature, than 
 are commonly found collected round the same table. In the 
 course of conversation, one of the party reminded an illus- 
 trious Poet, then present, of some verses which he had 
 recited that morning, and which had appeared in a news- 
 paper under the name of a War-Eclogue, in which Fire, 
 Famine, and Slaughter, were introduced as the speakers. 
 The gentleman so addressed replied, that he was rather 
 surprised that none of us should have noticed or heard of 
 the Poem, as it had been, at the time, a good deal talked of 
 in Scotland. It may be easily supposed, that my feelings 
 were at this moment not of the most comfortable kind. Of 
 all present, one pnly knew, or suspected me to be the author ; 
 
a man who would have established himself in the first rank 
 of England's living Poets, if the Genius of our country had 
 not decreed that he should rather be the first in the first rank 
 of its Philosophers and scientific Benefactors, It appeared 
 the general wish to hear the lines. As my friend chose to 
 remain silent, I chose to follow his example, and Mr, ***** 
 recited the Poem. This he could do with the better grace, 
 being known to have ever been not only a firm and active 
 Anti-Jacobin and Anti-Gallican, but likewise a zealous ad- 
 mirer of Mr. Pitt, both as a good man and a great Statesman. 
 As a Poet exclusively, he had been amused with the Eclogue; 
 as a Poet, he recited it ; and in a spirit, which made it evi- 
 dent, that he would have read and repeated it with the same 
 pleasure, had his own name been attached to the imaginary 
 object or agent. 
 
 After the recitation, our amiable host observed, that in 
 his opinion Mr. ***** had over-rated the merits of the 
 poetry ; but had they been tenfold greater, they could not 
 have compensated for that malignity of heart, which could 
 alone have prompted sentiments so atrocious. I perceived 
 that my illustrious friend became greatly distressed on my 
 account 3 but fortunately I was able to preserve fortitude 
 and presence of mind enoiigh to take up the subject with- 
 out exciting even a suspicion, how nearly and painfully it 
 interested me. 
 
n 
 
 What follows^ is substantially the same as I then replied^ 
 but dilated and in language less colloquial. It was not my 
 intention, I said^ to justify the publication, whatever its 
 author's feelings might have been at the time of composing 
 it. That they are calculated to call forth so severe a repro- 
 bation from a good man, is not the M^orst feature of such 
 poems. Their moral deformity is aggravated in proportion 
 to the pleasure -which they are capable of affording to 
 vindictive, turbulent, and unprincipled readers. Could it 
 be supposed, though for a moment, that the author seriously 
 wished what he had thus wildly imagined, even the attempt 
 to palliate an inhumanity so monstrous would be an insult 
 to the hearers. But it seemed to me worthy of consider- 
 ation, whether the mood of mind, and the general state of 
 sensations, in which a Poet produces such vivid and fan- 
 tastic images, is likely to co-exist, or is even compatible 
 with, that gloomy and deliberate ferocity which a serious 
 wish to realize them would pre-suppose. It had been often 
 observed, and all my experience tended to confirm the 
 observation, that prospects of pain and evil to others, and 
 in general, all deep feelings of revenge, are commonly 
 expressed in a few words, ironically tame, and mild. The 
 inind under so direful and fiend-like an influence, seems to 
 take a morbid pleasure in contrasting the intensity of itd 
 ti^ish-^s and feelings, with the slightness or levity of the 
 expressions by which they are hinted 5 ami indeed feelin-? 
 
92 
 
 so intense and solitary, if they were not precluded (as ia 
 almost all cases they would be) by a constitutional activity 
 of fancy and association, and by the specific joyousness 
 combined with it, would assuredly themselves preclude such 
 activity. Passion, in its own quality, is the antagonist of 
 action; though in an ordinary and natural degree the 
 former alternates with the latter, and thereby revives and 
 strengthens it. But the more intense and insane the 
 passion is, the fewer and the more fixed are the correspon- 
 dent forms and notions. A rooted hatred, an inveterate 
 thirst of revenge, is a sort of madness, and still eddies 
 round its favourite object, and exercises as it were a per- 
 petual tautology of mind in thoughts and words, which 
 admit of no adequate substitutes. Like a fish in a globe 
 of glass, it moves restlessly round and round the scanty 
 circumference, which it can not leave without losing its 
 vital element. 
 
 I'here is a second character of such imaginary represen- 
 tations as spring from a real and earnest desire of evil to 
 another, which we often see in real life, and might even 
 anticipate from the nature of the mind. The images, I 
 mean, that a vindictive man places before his imagination, 
 will most often be taken from the realities of life : they will 
 be images of pain and suffering which he has himself seen 
 inflicted on other men, and which he can fancy himself as 
 inflicting on the object of his hatred. I will suppose that 
 
9S 
 
 we had heard at different times two common sailors, each 
 speaking of some one who had wronged or offended him ; 
 that the first witli apparent violence had devoted every part 
 of his adversary's body and soul to all the horrid phantoms 
 and fantastic places that ever Quevedo dreamt of, and this 
 in a rapid flow of those outrb and wildly combined execra- 
 tions, which too often with our lower classes serve for 
 escape-valves to carry off the excess of their passions, as so 
 much superfluous steam that would endanger the vessel if it 
 were retained. The other, on the contrary, with that sort 
 of calmness of tone which is to the ear what the paleness 
 of anger is to the eye, shall simply say, " If I chance to be 
 made boatswain, as I hope I soon shall, and can but once 
 get that fellow under my hand (and I shall be upon the 
 watch for him), I'll tickle his pretty skin! I won't hurt 
 
 him ! oh no ! I'U only cut the to the liver .'" 
 
 I dare appeal to all present, which of the two they would 
 regard as the least deceptive symptom of deliberate malig- 
 nity? nay, whether it would surprize them to see the first 
 fellow, an hour or two afterward, cordially shaking hands 
 with the very man, the fractional parts of whose body and 
 soul he had been so charitably disposing of; or even per- 
 haps risking his life for him. What language Shakespear 
 considered characteristic of malignant disposition, we see 
 in the speeqh of the good-natural Gratiano, who spoke "an 
 infinite deal of nothing more than any man in aU Venice ;" 
 
T«o wild, too rnde and bold of voice," 
 
 <the skipping spirit, whose thoughts and words reciprocally 
 ran away with each other ; 
 
 " O be thou damn'd, inexorable dog ! 
 
 And for thy life let justice be accused!" 
 
 and the wild fancies that follow, contrasted with Shylock's 
 tranquil " I stand here for Law." 
 
 Or, to take a case more analogous to the present subject, 
 should we hold it either fair or charitable to believe it to 
 have been Dante's serious wish, that all the persons men- 
 tioned by him, (many recently departed, and some even 
 alive at the time,) should actually suffer the fantastic and 
 horrible jmnishments, to which he has sentenced them in 
 his hell and purgatory ? Or what shall we say of the passages 
 in which Bishop Jeremy Taylor anticipates the state of 
 those who, vicious themselves, have been the cause of vice 
 and misery to their fellow-creatures. Could we endure for 
 a moment to think that a spirit, like Bishop Taylor's, burn- 
 ing with Christian lovej that a man constitutionally over- 
 flowing with pleasurable kindliness 5 who scarcely even in a 
 casual illustration introduces the image of woman, child, or 
 bird, but he embalms the thought with so rieli a tenderness, 
 as makes the very words seem beauties and fragments of 
 poetry from a Euripides or Simonides ; — can we endure to 
 think, that a man so natured and so disciplined, did at the 
 
% 
 
 time of composing this horrible picture, attach a sober feel- 
 ing of reality to the phrases ? or that he would have de- 
 scribed in the same tone of justification, in the same 
 luxuriant flow of phrases, the tortures about to be inflicted 
 on a living individual by a verdict of the Star-Chamber ? or 
 the still more atrocious sentences executed on the Scotch 
 anti-prelatists and schismatics, at the command, and in 
 some instances under the very eye of the Duke of Lauder- 
 dale, and of that wretched bigot who afterwards dishonored 
 and forfeited the throne of Great Britain? Or do we not 
 rather feel and understand, that these violent words were 
 mere bubbles, flashes and electrical apparitions, from the 
 magic cauldron of a fervid and ebuliant fancy, constantly 
 fuelled by an unexampled opulence of language ? 
 
 Were I now to have read by myself for the first time 
 the Poem in question, my conclusion, I fuUy believe, would 
 be, that the writer must have been some man of warm 
 feelings and active fancy j that he had painted to himself 
 the circumstances that accompany war in so many vivid 
 and yet fantastic forms, as proved that neither the images 
 nor the feelings were the result of observation, or in any 
 way derived from realities. I should judge, that they 
 were the product of his own seething imagination, and 
 therefore impregnated with that pleasurable exultation 
 which is experienced in all energetic exertion of intellectual 
 power j that in the same mood he had generalized the 
 
96 
 
 Causes of the war, and then personified the abstract and 
 christened it by the name which he had been accustomed to 
 hear most often associated with its management and mea- 
 sures. I should guess that the minister was in the author's 
 mind at the moment of composition, as completely aTraS-ij;, 
 dvaifj^oo-sc^KO^, as Anacreon's grasshopper, and that he had 
 as little notion of a real person of flesh and blood, 
 
 " Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb," 
 
 as Milton had in the grim and terrible phantoms (half 
 person, half allegory) which he has placed at the gates of 
 Hell. I concluded by observing, that the Poem was not 
 calculated to excite passion in any mind, or to make any im- 
 pression except on poetic readers ; and that from the culpable 
 levity, betrayed in the grotesque union of epigrammatic 
 wit with allegoric personification, in the allusion to the most 
 fearful of thoughts, I should conjecture that the " rantin 
 Bardie," instead of really believing, much less wishing, the 
 fate spoken of in the last line, in application to any human 
 individual, would shrink from passing the verdict even on 
 the Devil himself, and exclaim with poor Burns, 
 
 But fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
 
 Oh ! wad ye tak a thought an' men ! 
 
 Ye aiblins might— I dinna ken- 
 Still hae a stake — 
 
 I'm wae to think upon yon den, 
 
 Ev'n for your sakel- 
 
^T 
 
 I need not say that these thoughts, which are here 
 dilated, were in such a company only rapidly suggested. 
 Our kind host smiled, and with a courteous compliment 
 observed, that the defence was too good for the cause. My 
 voice faultered a little, for I was somewhat agitated ; though 
 not so much on my own account as for the uneasiness that 
 so kind and friendly a man would feel from the thought 
 that he had been the occasion of distressing me. At length 
 I brought out these words : " I must now confess. Sir! that 
 I am the author of that Poem. It was written some years 
 ago. I do not attempt to justify my past self, young as I 
 then was 5 but as little as I would now write a similar poem, 
 so far was I even then from imagining, that the lines would 
 be taken as more or less than a sport of fancy. At all events, 
 if I know my own heart, there was never a moment in my 
 existence in which I should have been more ready, had Mr. 
 Pitt's person been in hazard, to interpose my own body, 
 and defend his life at the risque of my own." 
 
 I have prefaced the Poem with this anecdote, because to 
 have printed it without any remark might well have been 
 understood as implying an unconditional approbation on 
 my part, and this after many years consideration. But if it 
 be asked why I re-published it at all ? I answer, that the 
 Poem had been attributed at different times to different other 
 persons ; and what I had dared beget, I thought it neither 
 VOL.11. oJ ilj^il" 
 
98 
 
 taanly nor honorable not to dare father. From the same 
 motives I should have published perfect copies of two 
 Poems, the one entitled The Devil's Thoughts, and the other 
 The Two Round Spaces on the Tomb-Stone, but that the four 
 first stanzas of the former, which were worth all the rest of 
 the poem, and the best stanza of the remainder, were 
 written by a friend of deserved celebrity ; and because there 
 are passages in both, which might have given offence to the 
 religious feelings of certain readers. I myself indeed see 
 no reason why vulgar superstitions, and absurd conceptions 
 that deform the pure faith of a Christian, should possess a 
 greater immunity from ridicule than stories of witches, or 
 the fables of Greece and Rome. But there ai-e those who 
 deem it profaneness and irreverence to call an ape an ape, if 
 it but wear a monk's cowl on its head ; and I would rather 
 reason with this weakness than offend it. 
 
 The passage from Jeremy Taj^or to which I referred, is 
 found in his second Sermon on Christ's Advent to Judge- 
 ment 5 which is likewise the second in his year's course of 
 isermons. Among many remarkable passages of the'same 
 character in those discotirses, I have selected this as the 
 most so. " But when this Lion of the tribe of Judah shall 
 '' appear, then Justice shall strike and Mercy shall not hold 
 " her hands ; she shall strike sore strokes, and Pity shall 
 " not break the blow. As there are treasures of good things, 
 " so hath God a treasure of wrath and fury, and scourges 
 " and scorpions} and then shall be produced the shaitie of 
 
m 
 
 "■' Lust and the malice of Envy, and the groans of the 
 " oppressed and the persecutions of the saints, and the cares 
 " of Covetousness and the troubles of Ambition, and the 
 " imolencies of traitors and the violences of rebels, and the 
 " rage of anger and the uneasiness of impatience, and the 
 " restlessness of unlawful desires ; and by this time the 
 " monsters and diseases will be numerous and intolerable, 
 " when God's heavy hand shall press the sanks and the 
 " intolerableness, the obliquity and the unreasonableness, 
 " the amazement and the disorder, the smart and the sorrow, 
 " the guilt and the punishment, out from all our sins, and 
 " pour them into one chalice, and mingle them with an 
 "infinite wrath, and make the wicked drink off all the 
 " vengeance, and force it down their unwilling throats 
 '' with the violence of devils and accursed spirits." 
 
 That this Tartarean drench displays the imagination 
 rather than the discretion of the compounder 3 that, in short, 
 this passage and others of the same kind are in a bad taste, 
 few will deny at the present day. It would doubtless have 
 jaipre behoved the good bishop not to be wise beyond what is 
 written, on a subject in which Eternity is opposed to Time, 
 and a death threatened, not the negative, but the positive 
 Opposite of Life 5 a subject, therefore, which must of neces- 
 ,sity be indescribable to the human understanding in our 
 present state. But lean neither find nor believe, that it 
 ever occurred to any reader to ground on such passages a 
 
 H 2 . 
 
100 
 
 charge against Bishop Taylor's humanity, or goodness of 
 heart. I was not a little surprized therefore to find, in the 
 Tursuits of Literature and other works, so horrible a sen- 
 tence passed on Milton's moral character, for a passage in 
 his prose-writings, as nearly parallel to this of Taylor's as 
 two passages can well be conceived to be. All his merits, 
 as a poet, forsooth — all the glory of having written the 
 Paradise Lost, are light in the tcale, na}', kick the beam, 
 compared with the atrocious malignity of heart expressed in 
 the offensive paragraph. I reaiembered, in general, that 
 Milton had concluded one of his works on Reformation, 
 written in the fervour of his youthful imagination, in a 
 high poetic strain, that wanted metre only to become a 
 lyrical poem. I remembered that in the former part he 
 had formed to himself a perfect ideal of human virtue, a 
 character of heroic, disinterested zeal and devotion for 
 Truth, Religion, and public Liberty, in Act and in Suffer- 
 ing, in the day of Triumph and in the hour of Martyrdom. 
 Such spirits, as more excellent than others, he describes as 
 having a more excellent reward, and as distinguished by * 
 transcendent glory : and this reward and this glory he 
 displays and particularizes with an energy and brilliance 
 that announced the Paradise Lost as plainly, as ever the 
 bright purple clouds in the east announced the coming of 
 the Sun. Milton then passes to the gloomy contrast, to 
 such men as from motives of selfish ambition and the lust 
 
mi 
 
 of personal aggrandizement should, against their own light, 
 persecute truth and the true religion, and wilfully abuse the 
 powers and gifts entrusted to them, to bring vicC;, blind- 
 ness, misery and slavery, on their native country, on the 
 very country that had trusted, enriched and honored them. 
 Such beings, after that speedy and appropriate removal from 
 their sphere of mischief which all good and humane men 
 must of course desire, will, he takes for granted by parity- 
 of reason, meet with a punishment, an ignominy, and a 
 retaliation, as much severer than other wicked men, as their 
 guilt and its consequences were more enormous. His 
 description of this imaginary punishment presents more 
 distinct pictures to the fancy than the extract from .Teremy 
 Taylor J but the thoughts in the latter are incom})arably 
 more exaggerated and horrific. All this I knew ; but I 
 neither remembered, nor by reference and careful re-perusal 
 could discover, any other meaning, either in Milton or 
 Taylor, but that good men will be rewarded, and the 
 impenitent wicked punished, in proportion to their dis- 
 positions and intentional acts in this life 5 and that if the 
 punishment of the least wicked be fearful beyond concep- 
 tion, all words and descriptions must be so far true, that 
 they must fall short of the punishment that awaits the tran- 
 scendently wicked. Had Milton stated either his ideal of vir- 
 tue, or of depravity, as an individual or individuals actwilly 
 existing? Certainly not ! Is his representation worded 
 
mi 
 
 historically, or only hypothetical! y ? Assuredly the latter? 
 Does he express it as his own wish, that after death they 
 should suffer these tortures ? or as a general consequence, 
 deduced from reason and revelation, that such will be their 
 fate ? Again, the latter only ! His wish is exjjressly confined 
 to a speedy stop being put by Providence to their power of 
 inflicting misery on others ! But did he name or refer to any 
 persons, living or dead? No! But the calumniators of 
 Milton daresay (for what will calumny not dare say ?) that 
 he had Laud and Stafford in his mind, while writing of 
 remorseless persecution, and the enslavement of a free 
 country, from motives of selfish ambition. Now, what if a 
 stern anti-prelatist should daresay, that in speaking of the 
 insolencies of traitors and the violences of rebels. Bishop Taylor 
 must have individualized in his mind, Haimden, Hollis, 
 Pym, Fairfax, Ireton, and Miltox? And what if he 
 should take the liberty of concluding, that in the after- 
 description the Bishop was feeding and feasting his party- 
 hatred, and with those indhiduals before the eyes of his 
 imagination enjoying, trait by trait, horror after horror, 
 the picture of their intolerable agonies? Yet this Bigot 
 would have an equal right thus to criminate the one good 
 and great man, as these men have to criminate the other, 
 Milton has said, and I doubt not but that Taylor with equal 
 truth could have said it, " that in his whole life he never 
 spake against a man even that his skin should be grazed." 
 
10^ 
 
 He asserted this when one of his opponents (either Bishop 
 Hall ,or his nephew) had called upon the women and chil- 
 dren in the streets to take up stones and stone him (Milton). 
 It is known that Milton repeatedly used his interest to 
 protect the royalists ; but even at a time when all lies would 
 have bee^ meritorious against him, no charge was made, 
 no s,tory pretended, that he had ever directly or indirectly 
 engaged or assisted in their persecution. Oh! methinks 
 there are other and far better feelings, which should be 
 acquired by the perusal of our great elder writers. When 
 I have before me on the same table, the works of Ham- 
 mond and Baxter 5 when I reflect with what joy and dearness 
 their blessed spirits are now loving each other : it seems 
 a mournful thing that their names should be perverted to 
 an occasion of bitterness among us, who are enjoying that 
 happy mean which the human too-much on both sides was 
 perhaps necessary to produce. " The tangle of delusions 
 which stifled and distorted the growing tree of our well- 
 being have been torn away j the parasite-weeds that fed 
 on its very roots have been plucked up with a salutary 
 violence. To us there remain only quiet duties, the con- 
 stant care, the gradual improvement, the cautious un- 
 hazardous labours of the industrious though contented 
 gardener— to prune, to strengthen, to engraft, and one by 
 one to remove from its leaves and fresh shoots the slug and 
 the caterpillar. But far be it from us to undervalue with 
 
104 
 
 light and senseless detraction the conscientious hardihood 
 of our predecessors, or even to condemn in them that 
 vehemence, to which the blessings it won for us leave us 
 now neither temptation nor pretext. We ante-date the 
 feelings, in order to criminate the authors, of our present 
 Liberty, Light and Toleration." (The Friend, p. 54.) 
 
 If ever two great men might seem, during their whole 
 lives, to have moved in direct opposition, though neither of 
 them has at any time introduced the name of the other^ 
 Milton and Jeremy Taylor were they. The former com- 
 menced his career by attacking the Church-Liturgy and all 
 set forms of prayer. The latter, but far more successfully, 
 by defending both. Milton's next work was then against 
 the Prelacy and the then existing Church-Government — 
 Taylor's, in vindication and support of them. Milton 
 became more and more a stern republican, or rather an 
 advocate for that religious and moral aristocracy which, in 
 his day, was called republicanism, and which, even more 
 than royalism itself, is the direct antipode of modern jaco- 
 binism. Taylor, as more and more sceptical concerning 
 the fitness of men in general for power, became more and 
 more attached to the prerogatives of monarchy. From 
 Calvinism, with a still decreasing respect for Fathers, 
 Councils, and for Church -Antiquity in general, Milton 
 seenj? to have ended in an indifference, if not a dislike, 
 to all forms of ecclesiastic government, and to have 
 
10^ 
 
 retreated wholly into the inward and spiritual church-com^ 
 munion of his own spirit with the Light, that lighteth every 
 man that cometh into tl\e world. Taylor, with a growing 
 reverence for authority, an increasing sense of the insuf- 
 ficiency of the Scriptures without the aids of tradition and 
 the consent of authorized interpreters, advanced as far in 
 his approaches (not indeed to Popery, but) to Catholicism, 
 as a conscientious minister of the English Church could 
 well venture. Milton would be, and would utter the same, 
 to all, on all occasions : he would tell the truth, the whole 
 truth, and nothing but the truth. Taylor would become all 
 things to all men, if by any means he might benefit any; 
 hence he availed himself, in his popw/ar writings, of opinions 
 and representations which stand often in striking contrast 
 with the doubts and convictions expressed in his more 
 philosophical works. He appears, indeed, not too severely 
 to have blamed that management of truth (istam fatsitatem 
 dispensativamj authorized and exemplified by almost all the 
 fathers: Integrum omnino Doctoribus et coetus Christiani 
 Antistitibus esse, ut dolos A'ersent, falsa veris intermisceant 
 et imprimis religionis hostes fallant, dummodo veritatis 
 commodis et utilitati inserviant. 
 
 The same antithesis might be carried on with the ele- 
 ments of their several intellectual powers. Milton, austere, 
 condensed, imaginative, supporting his truth by direct 
 enunciation of lofty moral sentiment and by distinct visual 
 
106 
 
 represeiitutions, and in the same spirit overwhelming what 
 he deemed falsehood by moral denuncifjtion and a succes- 
 sion of pictures appiilling or repulsive. In his prose, so 
 many metaphors, so many allegorical miniatures. Taylor, 
 eminently discursive, accuniulative, and (to use one of his 
 own words) agglomerat'wt ; still more rich in images than 
 Milton himself, but images of Fancy, and presented to the 
 common and passive eye, rather than to the eye of the 
 imagination. Whether supporting or assailing, he makes 
 his way either by argument or by appeals to the affections, 
 unsurpassed even by the Schoolmen in subtlety, agility and 
 logical wit, and unrivalled by the most rhetorical of the 
 fathers in the copiousness and vividness of his expressions 
 and illustrations. Here words that convey feelings, and 
 words that flash images, and words of abstract notion, flow 
 together, and at once whirl and rush onv.ard like a stream, 
 at once rapid and full of eddies; and yet still, interfused 
 here and there, we see a tongaie or islet of smooth water, 
 with some picture in it of earth or sky, landscape or living 
 group of quiet beauty. 
 
 Differing, then, so widely, and almost contrariantly, 
 wherein did these great men agree ? wherein did they re- 
 semble each other? In Genius, in Learning, in unfeigned 
 Piety, in blameless Purity of Life, and in benevolent as- 
 pirations and purposes for the moral and temporal improve- 
 ment of their fellow-creatures ! Both of them wrpte a 
 
lot 
 
 Latin Accidence, to render education more easy and less 
 painful to children ; both of them composed hymns and 
 psalms proportioned to the capacity of common congrega- 
 tions ; both, nearly at the same time, set the glorious 
 example of publicly recommending and supporting general 
 Toleration,, and the Liberty both of the Pulpit and the 
 l*ress ! In the writings of neither shall we find a single 
 sentence, like those meek deliverances to God's mercy, with 
 which Laud accompanied his votes for the mutilations and 
 loathsome dungeoning of Leighton and others ! — no where 
 such a pious prayer as we find in Bishop Ilall's memoranda 
 of his own Life, concerning the subtle and witty Atheist 
 that so grievously perplexed and gravelled him at Sir Robert 
 Drury's, till he prayed to the Lord to remove him, and behold ! 
 his prayers were heard; for shortly afterward this philistine- 
 combatant went to London, and there perished of the 
 plague in great misery 1 In short, no where shall we find 
 the least approach, in the lives and writings of John Milton 
 or Jeremy Taylor, to that guarded gentleness^, to that sigh- 
 ing reluctance, with which the holy Brethren of the In- 
 quisition deliver over a condemned heretic to the civil 
 magistrate, recommending him to mercy, and hoping that 
 the magistrate will treat the erring brother with all pos- 
 sible mildness ! — the magistrate, who too well knows what 
 would be his own fate, if he dared offend them by acting 
 on their recommendation. 
 
lOS 
 
 The opportunity of diverting the reader from myself to 
 rhuracters more worthy of his attention, has led me far 
 beyond my first intention 3 but it is not unimportant to 
 exj)ose the false zeal which has occasioned these attacks 
 on our elder patriots. It has been too nnxch the fashion, 
 first to personify the Church of England, and then to 
 speak of different individuals, who in different ages have 
 been rulers in that church, as if in some strange way they 
 constituted its personal identity. AVhy should a clergvman 
 of the present day feel interested in the defence of Laud or 
 Sheldon ? Surely it is sufficient for the warmest partizan 
 of our establishment, that he can assert with truth, — when 
 our Church persecuted, it was on mistaken principles held 
 in common by all Christendom ; and at all events, far less 
 culpable were the Bishops, who were maintaining the 
 existing laws, than the persecuting spirit afterwards shewn 
 by their successful opponents, who had no such excuse, and 
 who should have been taught mercy by their own sufferings, 
 and wisdom by the utter failure of the experiment in their 
 own case. ^Ve can say, that our Church, apostolical in 
 its faith, primitive in its ceremonies, unequalled in its 
 liturgical forms ; that our Church, which has kindled and 
 displayed more bright and burning lights of Genius and 
 Learning, than all other protestant churches since the 
 reformation, wsis (with the single exception of the times of 
 Laud and Sheldon) least intolerant, when all Christians 
 
109 
 
 tinhappily deemed a species of intolerance their religious 
 duty 5 that Bishops of our church were among the first 
 that contended against this error; and finally, that since 
 the reformation, when tolerance became a fashion, the 
 Church of England, in a tolerating age, has shewn her- 
 self eminently tolerant, and far more so, both in Spirit 
 and in Fact, than many of her most bitter opponents, who 
 profess to deem toleration itself an insult on the rights 
 of mankind ! As to myself, who not only know the 
 Church-Establishment to be tolerant, but who see in it 
 the greatest, if not the sole safe bulwark of Toleration, I 
 feel no necessity of defending or palliating oppressions 
 under the two Charleses, in order to exclaim with a full 
 and fervent heart, esto perpetua ! 
 
HI 
 
 5ire, JTatnme, awti B>\mt^Ut. 
 
 A WAR-ECLOGUE, 
 
 The Scene, a desolated Tract in la Vendee. Famine is dis- 
 covered lying on the ground; to her enter Fire 
 and Slaughter. 
 
 Famine. 
 Sisters ! sisters ! who sent you here ? 
 
 Slaughter (to Fire.) 
 I will whisper it in her ear. 
 
 Fire. 
 
 No ! no ! no ! 
 Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
 'Twill make an hohday in Hell. 
 
 No ! no ! no ! 
 Myself, I nara'd him once below, 
 
' 
 
 113 
 
 
 And all the souls, that damned be, 
 
 
 Leapt up at once in anarchy. 
 
 
 Clapp'd their hands and danced for glee. 
 
 
 They no longer heeded me j 
 
 
 But laugh'd to hear Hell's burning rafters 
 
 
 Unwillingly re-echo laughters ! 
 
 
 No ! no ! no ! 
 
 
 Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
 
 
 'Twill make an holiday in Hell ! 
 
 
 Famine. 
 
 
 Whisper it, sister ! so and so ! 
 
 
 In a dark hint, soft and slow. 
 
 
 Slaughter. 
 
 
 Letters four do form his name — 
 
 ' 
 
 And who sent you? 
 
 
 Both. 
 
 
 The same ! the same ! 
 
 
 Slaughter. 
 
 
 He came by stealth, and unlock'd my den. 
 
 
 And I have drank the blood since then 
 
 
 Of thrice three hundred thousand men. 
 
Who bade you do't 
 
 113 
 
 Both. 
 
 Slaughter. 
 
 The same ! the same ! 
 Letters four do form his name. 
 He let me loose, and cried, Halloo ! 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 Famine. 
 Thanks, sister, thanks ! the men have bled, 
 Their wives and their children faint for bread. 
 I stood in a swampy field of battle ; 
 With bones and skulls I made a rattle. 
 To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow 
 And the homeless dog — but they would not go. 
 So off I flew : for how could I bear 
 To see them gorge their dainty fare ? 
 I heard a groan and a peevish squall. 
 And through the chink of a cottage-wall — 
 Can you guess what I saw there ? 
 
 Both. 
 Whisper it, sister ! in our ear. 
 
 VOL. II. I 
 
114 
 
 Famine. 
 A baby beat its dying mother : 
 I had starv'd the one and was starving the other ! 
 
 Both. 
 Who bade you do't ? 
 
 Famine. 
 
 The same ! the same ! 
 Letters four do form his name. 
 He let me loose, and cried, Halloo ! 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 Fire. 
 Sisters ! I from Ireland came ! 
 Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, 
 I triumph'd o'er the setting Sun ! 
 And all the while the work was done, 
 On as I strode with my huge strides, 
 I flung back my head and I held my sides. 
 It was so rare a piece of fun 
 To see the swelter'd cattle run 
 With uncoutli gallop through the night. 
 Scared by the red and ixoisy light ! 
 
115 
 
 By the the light of his own blazing cot 
 Was many a naked Rebel shot : 
 The house-stream met the flame and hiss'dj 
 While crash ! fell in the roof, I wist, 
 On some of those old bed-rid nurses. 
 That deal in discontent and curses. 
 
 Both. 
 Who bade you do't ? 
 
 FiRj:. 
 The same ! the same ! 
 Letters four do form his name. 
 He let me loose, and cried. Halloo ! 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 Jll 
 He let us loose, and cried, Halloo ! 
 How shall we yield him honour due ? 
 
 Famine. 
 Wisdom comes with lack of food, 
 I'll gnaw, I'll gnaw tlie multitude. 
 Till the cup of rage o'erbrim : 
 They shall seize him and his brood — 
 I 2 
 
116 
 
 Slaughter. 
 They shall tear him limb from limb ! 
 
 FlRE^. 
 
 thankless beldames and untrue ! 
 And is this all that you can do 
 
 For him, who did so much for you ? 
 Ninety months he, by my troth ! 
 Hath richly cater'd for you both ; 
 And in an hour would you repay 
 An eight years' work ? — Away ! away ! 
 
 1 alone am faithful ! I 
 Cling to him everlastingly. 
 
 1796. 
 
CitJAS HUMILIS TENERO STYLUS OLIM EFFUDIT IN ^ETO, 
 
 i'erlegis iiic lacrymas, et quod pharetratus acuta 
 ille puer puero fecit mihi cuspide vulnus, 
 omnia paulatim consumit longior (etas, 
 vivendoque simul morimur, rapimurque manendo, 
 ipse mihi collatus enim non ille videbor: 
 frons alia est, moresque alii, nova mentis imago, 
 
 voxque alitsd sonat 
 
 pectore nunc gelido calidos miseremur amantes, 
 jamque arsisse pudet. veteres tranquilla tumultug- 
 mens horret relegensque alium puxat ista locutujf. 
 
 Petrarch, 
 
119 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Alt. thoughts, all passions, all delights. 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame. 
 Are all but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again that happy hour. 
 When midway on the mount I lay, 
 Beside the ruin'd tower. 
 
 The Moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
 Had blended with the lights of eve; 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy. 
 My own dear Genevieve ! 
 
 She leant against the armed man. 
 The statue of the armed knight ; 
 She stood and listen'd to my lay, 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
120 
 
 Few sorrows bath she of her own. 
 My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve f 
 She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
 The songs that make her grieve. 
 
 I play'd a soft and doleful air, 
 I sang an old and moving story — 
 An old rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 She listen'd with a flitting blush. 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace; 
 For well she knew, I could not chuse 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the Knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
 And that for ten long years he woo'd 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
 I told her how he pined ; and ah ! 
 The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
 With which I sang another's love. 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
121 
 
 She listen'd with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
 And she forgave me, that 1 gazed 
 Too fondly on her face ! 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 That craz'd that bold and lovely Knight,- 
 And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, 
 Nor rested day nor night; 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den, 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade. 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade. 
 
 There came and look'd him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright ; 
 And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
 This miserable Knight ! 
 
 And that unknowing what he did. 
 He leap'd amid a murderous band. 
 And sav'd from outrage worse than death 
 The Lady of the Land ! 
 
122 
 
 And how she wept, and claspt his knees ; 
 And how she tended him in vain — 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 The scorn that crazed his brain. 
 
 And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
 And how his madness went away. 
 When on the yellow forest-leaves 
 A dying man he lay. 
 
 His dying words — but when I reach'd 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty. 
 My faultering voice and pausing harp 
 Disturb'd her soul with pity ! 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; 
 The music, and the doleful tale. 
 The rich and balmy eve; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. 
 An undistinguishable throng. 
 And gentle wishes long subdued. 
 Subdued and cherish'd long! 
 
123 
 
 She wept with pity and delight. 
 She blush'd with love, and virgin-shame | 
 And like the murmur of a dream, 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heav'd — she stept aside. 
 As conscious of my look she stept-— 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 She half enclosed me with her arm?, 
 She press'd me with a meek embrace j 
 And bending back her head, look'd up. 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear, 
 And partly 'twas a bashful art. 
 That 1 might rather feel, than see. 
 The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, 
 And told her love vdth virgin-pride. 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous Bride. 
 
124 
 
 LEWTJ, 
 
 OR 
 
 THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHANT. 
 
 At midnight by the stream I roved. 
 To forget the form I loved. 
 Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
 Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 
 
 The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam 
 
 And the shadow of a star 
 Heaved upon Tamaha's stream ; 
 
 But the rock shone brighter far. 
 The rock half sheltered form my view 
 By pendent boughs of tressy yew. — 
 So shines my Lewti's forehead fair. 
 Gleaming through her sable hair. 
 Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
 Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 
 
125 
 
 I saw a cloud of palest hue, 
 
 Onward to the Moon it passed. 
 Still brighter and more bright it grew. 
 With floating colours not a few. 
 
 Till it reached the Moon at last ; 
 Then the cloud was wholly bright, 
 With a rich and amber light ! 
 And so with many a hope I seek 
 
 And with such joy I find my Lewti; 
 And even so my pale wan cheek 
 
 Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty ! 
 Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind. 
 If Lewti never will be kind. 
 
 The little cloud — it floats away, 
 
 Away it goes ; away so soon ? 
 Alas ! it has no power to stay : 
 Its hues are dim, its hues are grey — 
 
 Away it passes from the Moon ! 
 How mournfully it seems to fly. 
 
 Ever fading more and more, 
 To joyless regions of the sky — 
 
 And now 'tis whiter than before! 
 As white as my poor cheek will be, 
 
126 
 
 When, Lewti ! on my couch I lie, 
 A dying man for love of thee. 
 Nay, treacherous Image ! leave my mind — 
 And yet, thou dids't not look unkind. 
 
 I saw a vapour in the sky. 
 
 Thin, and white, and very high : 
 I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud. 
 
 Perhaps the breezes that can fly 
 
 Now below and now above. 
 Have snatch'd aloft the lawny shroud 
 
 Of Lady fair — that died for love. 
 For maids, as well as youths, have perish 'd 
 From fruitless love too fondly cherish'd. 
 Nay, treach'rous image ! leave my mind — 
 For Lewti never will be kind. 
 
 Slush ! my heedless feet from under 
 Slip the crumbling banks for ever : 
 
 Like echoes to a distant thunder. 
 They plunge into the gentle river. 
 
 The river-swans have heard my tread. 
 
 And startle from their reedy bed. 
 
 O beauteous Birds ! methinks ye measure 
 Your movements to some heavenly tune ! 
 
m 
 
 beauteous Birds ! 'tis such a pleasure 
 To see you move beneath the Moon, 
 
 1 would it were your true delight 
 To sleep by day and wake all night. 
 
 I know the place where Lewti lies. 
 When silent night has closed her eyes — 
 
 It is a breezy jasmine-bower. 
 The Nightingale sings o'er her head : 
 
 Voice of the Night ! had I the power 
 That leafy labyrinth to thread. 
 And creep, like thee, with soundless treadj 
 I then might view her bosom white 
 Heaving lovely to my sight. 
 As these two swans together heave 
 On the gently swelling wave. 
 
 Oh ! that she saw me in a dream. 
 And dreamt that I had died for care ! 
 
 All pale and wasted I would seem. 
 Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! 
 
 I'd die indeed, if I might see 
 
 Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! 
 
 Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind ! 
 
 To-morrow Lewti may be kind. 
 
 (From the Morning Post, 1795.,' 
 
128 
 
 THE PICTURE, 
 
 THE LOVER S RESOLUTION. 
 
 Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwood 
 I force my way ; now climb, and now descend 
 O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, wath wild foot 
 Crushing the purple whorts; while oft unseen, 
 Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves. 
 The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil^ 
 I know not, ask not whither ! A new joy. 
 Lovely as light, sudden as summer-gust. 
 And gladsome as the first-born of the spring. 
 Beckons me on, or follows from behind, 
 Playmate, or guide ! The master-passion quell'd, 
 I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark 
 The fir-trees, and th' unfrequent slender oak, 
 Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake 
 Soar up, and form a melancholy vault 
 High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea. 
 
129 
 
 Here Wisdom might resort^ and here Remorse ; 
 
 Here too the love-lorn Man who^ sick in soul 
 
 And of this busy human heart aweary, 
 
 Worships the spirit of unconscious life 
 
 In tree or wild- flower. — Gentle Lunatic! 
 
 If so he might not wholly cease to be. 
 
 He would far rather not be that, he is ; 
 
 But would be something, that he knows not of, 
 
 In winds or waters, or among the rocks ! 
 
 But hence, fond wretch ! breathe not contagion here 1 
 No myrtle-walks are these : these are no groves 
 Where Love dare loiter ! If in sullen mood 
 He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore 
 His dainty feet, the briar and the thorn 
 Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird 
 Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs, 
 Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades ! 
 And you, ye Earth-winds ! you that make at morn 
 The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs! 
 You, O ye wingless Airs ! that creep between 
 The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze. 
 Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon. 
 The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed — 
 Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless Damp, 
 
 VOL. JI. K 
 
130 
 
 Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb. 
 
 Chase, chase liim, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes! 
 
 With prickles sharper than his darts bemock 
 
 His little Godship, making him perforce 
 
 Creep tlirough a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back. 
 
 This is my hour of triumph ! I can now 
 With my own fancies play the merry fool. 
 And laugh away worse folly, being free. 
 Here will I seat myself, beside this old. 
 Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine 
 Cloaths as with net-work : here will couch my limbs. 
 Close by this river, in this silent shade. 
 As safe and sacred from the step of man 
 As an invisible world — unheard, unseen, 
 And listening only to the pebbly stream. 
 That murmurs with a dead, yet bell-like sound 
 Tinkling, or bees, that in the neighbouring trunk 
 Make honey-hoards. This breeze, that visits me. 
 Was never Love's accomplice, never rais'd 
 The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow. 
 And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek; 
 Ne'er play'd the wanton — never half disclosed 
 The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence 
 Eye-poisons for some love-distempered youth, 
 
131 
 
 Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove 
 Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart 
 Shall flow away like a dissolving thing. 
 
 Sweet breeze ! thou only, if I guess aright, 
 Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast, ^ 
 
 Who swells his little breast, so full of song, 
 Singing above me, on the mountain-ash. 
 And thou too, desert Stream ! no pool of thine, 
 Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve. 
 Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe. 
 Her face, her form divine, her downcast look 
 Contemplative ! Ah see ! her open palm 
 Presses her cheek and brow ! her elbow rests 
 On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree. 
 That leans towards its mirror! He, meanwhile. 
 Who from her countenance turn'd, or look'd by stealth, 
 (For fear is true love's cruel nurse,) he now. 
 With stedfast gaze and unoffending eye. 
 Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes 
 Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain. 
 E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed. 
 Sjhe, sportive tyrant ! with her left hand plucks 
 The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow, 
 Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells ; 
 
 K2 
 
132 
 
 And suddenly, as one that toys with time. 
 Scatters them on tlie pool ! Then all the charm 
 Is broken — all that phantom-world so fair 
 Vanishes, and a tliousand circlets spread, 
 And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile. 
 Poor youth, who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes ! 
 The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
 The visions will return ! And lo ! he stays : 
 And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
 Come trembling back, unite, and now once more 
 The pool becomes a mirror, and behold 
 Each wildflower on the marge inverted there,' 
 And there the half-uprooted tree — but where, 
 O where the virgin's snowy arm, that lean'd 
 On its bare branch ? He turns, and she is gone ! 
 Homeward she steals through many a woodland maze 
 Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth ! 
 Go, day by day, and waste tliy manly prime 
 In mad Love-yearning by the vacant brook. 
 Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou 
 Behold'st her shadow still abiding there. 
 The Naiad of the Mirror ! 
 
 Not to thee, 
 O wild and desert Stream ! belongs this tale : 
 
133 
 
 Gloomy and dark art thou — the crowded firs 
 
 Tower from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed. 
 
 Making thee doleful as a cavern-well : 
 
 Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest 
 
 On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream ! 
 
 This be thy chosen haunt — emancipate 
 From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alorte, 
 I rise and trace its devious course. O lead, 
 Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms. 
 Lo ! stealing through the canopy of firs 
 How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock. 
 Isle of the river, whose disparted waters 
 Dart off asunder with an angry sound. 
 How soon to re-unite' They meet, they join 
 In deep embrace, and open to the Sun 
 Lie calm and smooth. Such the delicious hour 
 Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds ! 
 And hark, the noise of a near waterfall ! 
 I came out into light — I find myself 
 Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful 
 Of forest-trees, the Lady of the woods). 
 Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock 
 That overbrows the cataract. How bursts 
 The landscape on my sight I Two crescent hills 
 
134 
 
 Fold in behind each other, and so make 
 
 A circular vale, and land-lock'd, as might seem, . 
 
 With brook and bridge, and grey stone cottages. 
 
 Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. Beneath my feet. 
 
 The whortle-berries are bedewed with spray. 
 
 Dashed upwards by the furious waterfall. 
 
 How solemnly the pendent ivy-mass 
 
 Swings in its winnow! All the air is calm. 
 
 The smoke from cottage-chimnies, ting'd with light, 
 
 Rises in columns : from this house alone, 
 
 Close by the waterfall, the column slants. 
 
 And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this ? 
 
 That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke. 
 
 And close beside its porch a sleeping child. 
 
 His dear head pillowed on a sleeping dog — 
 
 One arm between its fore legs, and the hand 
 
 Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers, 
 
 Unfilletted, and of unequal lengths. 
 
 A curious picture, with a master's haste 
 
 Sketch'd on a strip of pinky-silver skin, 
 
 Peel'd from the birchen bark ! Divinest maid ! 
 
 Yon bark her canvas, and those purple berries 
 
 Her pencil ! See, the juice is scarcely dried 
 
 On the fine skin ! She has been newly here; 
 
 And lo ! yon patch of heath has been her couch— 
 
135 
 
 The pressure still remains ! O blessed couch ! 
 
 For this may'st thou flower early, and the Sun, 
 
 Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long 
 
 Upon thy purple bells ! O Isabel ! 
 
 Daughter of genius ! stateliest of our maids 1 
 
 More beautiful than whom Alcseus woo'd 
 
 The Lesbian woman of immortal song ! 
 
 O child of genius ! stately, beautiful, 
 
 And full of love to all, save only me. 
 
 And not ungentle e'en to me! My heart. 
 
 Why beats it thus ? Through yonder coppice-wood 
 
 Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway 
 
 On to her father's house. She is alone ! 
 
 The night draws on — such ways are hard to hit — 
 
 And fit it is I should restore this sketch, 
 
 Dropt unawares no doubt. Why should I yearn 
 
 To keep the relique ? 'twill but idly feed 
 
 The passion that consumes me. Let me haste ! 
 
 The picture in my hand which she has left ; 
 
 She cannot blame me that I follow'd her : 
 
 And I may be her guide the long wood through 
 
136 
 
 1 
 
 THE NIGHT-SCENE: 
 
 A Dramatic Fragment. 
 
 Sandoval. ' 
 
 You lov'd the daughter of Don Manrique ? 
 
 Earl Hen ay. 
 
 Lov'd? 
 
 Sandoval. 
 
 Did you not say you woo'd her ? 
 
 Earl Henry. 
 
 Once I lov'd 
 
 Her whom I dar'd not woo ! 
 
 Sandoval. 
 
 And woo'dj perchance. 
 
 One whom you lov'd not ! 
 
 > 
 
137 
 
 Earl Henry. 
 
 Oh ! I were most base, 
 Not loving Oropeza. True, I woo'd her. 
 Hoping to heal a deeper wound ; but she 
 Met my advances with empassion'd pride. 
 That kindled love with love. And when her sire, 
 Who in his dream of hope already grasp'd 
 The golden circlet in his hatid, rejected 
 My suit with insult, and in memory 
 Of ancient feuds pour'd curses on my head. 
 Her blessings overtook and bafRed them ! 
 But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance 
 Art inly reasoning whilst thou listen'st to me. 
 
 Sandoval. 
 Anxiously, Henry ! reasoning anxiously. 
 But Oropeza — 
 
 Earl Henry. 
 Blessings gather round her ! 
 Within this wood there winds a secret passage, 
 Beneath the walls, which opens out at length 
 Into the gloomiest covert of the Garden — 
 The night ere my departure to the army. 
 She, nothing trembling, led me thro' that gloom., 
 
And to the covert by that silent stream, 
 
 Which, with one star reflected o'er its marge, 
 
 Was the sole object visible around me. 
 
 No leaflet stirr'd ; the air was almost sultry ; 
 
 So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us ! 
 
 No leaflet stirr'd; — yet pleasure hung upon 
 
 The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air. 
 
 A little further on an arbor stood. 
 
 Fragrant with flowering trees — I well remember 
 
 What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness 
 
 Their snow-white blossoms made— thither she led me. 
 
 To that sweet bower — Then Oropeza trembled — 
 
 I heard her heart beat — if 'twere not my own. 
 
 Sandoval. 
 A rude and scaring note, my friend I 
 
 Earl Henry. 
 
 Oh! no! 
 I have small memory of aught but pleasure. 
 The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams 
 Still flowing, still were lost in those of love : 
 So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature, 
 Fleeing from Pain, shelter'd herself in Joy. 
 The stars above our heads were dim and steady. 
 
139 
 
 Like eyes suffused with rapture. Life was in us : 
 We were all life, each atom of our frames 
 .A living soul — I vow'd to die for her : 
 With the faint voice of one who, having spoken. 
 Relapses into blessedness, I vow'd it : 
 That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard, 
 A murmur breathed against a lady's ear= 
 Oh 1 there is joy above the name of pleasure, 
 Deep self-possession, an intense repose. 
 
 Sandoval ficith a sarcastic smile). 
 No other than as eastern sages paint, 
 Tlie God, who floats upon a Lotos leaf. 
 Dreams for a thousand ages ; then awaking. 
 Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble, 
 Relapses into bliss. 
 
 Earl Henry. 
 
 Ah ! was that bliss 
 Fear'd as an alien, and too vast for man ? 
 For suddenly, impatient of its silence. 
 Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead. 
 I caught her arras ; the veins were swelling on them. 
 Thro' the dark bower she sent a hollow voice, 
 Oh ! what if all betray me ? what if thou ? 
 
J 40 
 
 1 swore, and with an inward thought that seem'd 
 The purpose and the substance of my being, 
 I swore to her, that were she red with guilt, 
 I would exchange my unblench'd state with hers. — 
 Friend ! by that winding passage, to that bower 
 I now will go — all objects there will teach me 
 Unwavering love, and singleness of heart. 
 Go, Sandoval ! I am prepar'd to meet her — 
 Say nothing of me — I myself will seek her — 
 Nay, leave me, friend ! I cannot bear the torment 
 And keen inquiry of that scanning eye. — 
 
 [Earl Henry retires into the wood. 
 
 Sandoval (alone.) 
 O Henry ! always striv'st thou to be great 
 By thine own act — yet art thou never great 
 But by the inspiration of great passion. 
 The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up 
 And shape themselves : from Earth to Heaven they 
 
 stand. 
 As tho' they were the pillars of a temple. 
 Built by Omnipotence in its own honor ! 
 But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit 
 Is fled : the mighty columns were but sand. 
 And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins ! 
 
141 
 
 TO JN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN, 
 
 Whom the Author had known in the days of her Innocence. 
 
 Myrtle -LEAF that, ill besped. 
 
 Finest in the gladsome ray, 
 Soil'd beneath the common tread, 
 . Far from thy protecting spray ! 
 
 When the Partridge o'er the sheaf 
 
 Whirr'd along the yellow vale, 
 Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf ! 
 
 Love the dalliance of the gale. 
 
 Lightly didst thou, foolish thing ! 
 
 Heave and flutter to his sighs, 
 While the flatterer, on his wing, 
 
 Wooed and whisper'd thee to rise. 
 
 Gaily from thy mother-stalk 
 
 Wert thou danced and wafted high — 
 
 Soon on this unshelter'd walk 
 Flung to fade, to rot and die. 
 
142 
 
 JN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN 
 
 At the Theatre. 
 
 Maiden, that with sullen brow 
 Sitt'st behind those virgins gay, 
 
 Like a seorch'd and mildew'd bough, 
 Leafless 'mid the blooms of May ! 
 
 Him who lured thee and forsook. 
 Oft I watch'd with angry gaze. 
 
 Fearful saw his pleading look, 
 Anxious heard his fervid phrase. 
 
 Soft the glances of the youth. 
 
 Soft his speech, and soft his sigh ; 
 
 But no sound like simple truth, 
 But no true love in his eye. 
 
143 , 
 
 Loathing tliy polluted lot. 
 
 Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence ! 
 Seek thy weeping Mother's cot. 
 
 With a wiser innocence. 
 
 Thou hast known deceit and folly, 
 Thou hast felt that vice is woe : 
 
 With a musing melancholy 
 Inly arm'd, go, Maiden ! go. 
 
 Mother sage of Self-dominion, 
 Firm thy steps, O Melancholy ! 
 
 The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion 
 Js the memory of past folly. 
 
 Mute the sky-lark and forlorn. 
 
 While she moults the firstling plumes. 
 
 That had skimm'd the tender corn. 
 Or the bean-field's odorous blooms. 
 
 Soon with renovated wing 
 Shall she dare a loftier flight. 
 
 Upward to the day-star spring 
 And embathe in heavenly light. 
 
144 
 
 LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. 
 
 Nor cold, nor stern, my soul ! yet I detest 
 
 These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, 
 
 Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast, 
 In intricacies of laborious song. 
 
 These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign 
 To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint ; 
 
 But when the long-breath'd singer's uptrill'd strain 
 Bursts in a squall — they gape for wonderment. 
 
 Hark ! the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate ! 
 
 Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer 
 
 My lady eyes some maid of humbler state. 
 
 While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest, 
 Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. 
 
 O give me, from this heartless scene releas'd, 
 To liear our old musician, blind and grey, 
 
 (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kist,) 
 His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play. 
 
145 
 
 By moonshine^ on the balmy summer-night, 
 
 The while I dance amid the tedded hay 
 With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light. 
 
 Or lies the purple evening on the bay 
 Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide 
 
 Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees 
 Around whose roots the fisher's boat is tied, 
 
 On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, 
 And while the lazy boat sways to and fro. 
 
 Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow. 
 That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears. 
 
 But O, dear Anne ! when midnight wind careers. 
 And the gust pelting on the out-house shed 
 
 Makes the cock shrilly in the rain-storm crow, 
 
 To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe. 
 Ballad of ship-wreck'd sailor floating dead, 
 
 Whom his own true-love buried in the sands ! 
 Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures 
 Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 
 
 The Things of Nature utter ; birds or trees 
 Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves. 
 Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-plant waves, 
 Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 
 
 VOL. II. 1. 
 
146 
 
 THE KEEP-SAKE. 
 
 The tedded liay, the first-fruits of the soil. 
 
 The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field, 
 
 Shew summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall 
 
 Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, 
 
 Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark^ 
 
 Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose 
 
 (In vain the darling of successful love) 
 
 Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, 
 
 The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. 
 
 Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk 
 
 By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, 
 
 That blue and bright-eyed flowret of the brook, 
 
 Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not i* 
 
 So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline 
 
 With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk 
 
 Has work'd, (the flowers which most she knew I lov'd,) 
 
 And, more belov'd than they, her auburn hair. 
 
 * One of the names (and meritinj^ to be the only one) Qf the 
 MijosoHs Scorpioides Palustris; a flower from six to twelve inches 
 high, witli blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same 
 name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergissmein nicM), and 
 we believe, in Denmark and Sweden. 
 
147 
 
 In the cool morning twilight, early waked 
 By her full bosom's joyless restlessness, 
 Leaving the soft bed to her sleeping sister, 
 Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, 
 Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, 
 Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, 
 Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung. 
 Making a quiet image of disquiet 
 In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. 
 There, in that bower where first she own'd her love. 
 And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy 
 From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd 
 The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name 
 Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not — 
 Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair ! 
 That forc'd to wander till sweet spring return, 
 I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look. 
 Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood 
 Has made me wish to steal away and weep,) 
 Nor yet th' entrancement of that maiden kiss 
 With which she promis'd, that when spring return'd. 
 She would resign one half of that dear name. 
 And own thenceforth no other name but mine ! 
 
 h 2 
 
148 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 With Falknefs " Shipwreck." 
 
 Ah ! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams. 
 
 In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice ; 
 
 Nor while half-list 'ning, mid delicious dreams, 
 To liarp and song from lady's hand and voice; 
 
 Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood 
 
 On cliff, or cataract, in alpine dell; 
 Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strew'd. 
 
 Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell ; 
 
 Our sea-bard sang this song ! which still he sings. 
 And sings for thee, sweet friend ! Hark, Pity, hai'k ! 
 
 Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's wings, 
 Now groans, and shivers, the replunging Bark ! 
 
149 
 
 ,*' Cling to the shrowds !" In vain ! The breakers roar — 
 Death shrieks ! With two alone of all his clan, 
 
 Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore. 
 No classic roamer, but a ship-wreck'd man ! 
 
 Say then, what muse inspir'd these genial strains, 
 
 And lit his spirit to so bright a flame ? 
 The elevating thought of sufFer'd pains, 
 
 Which gentle hearts shall mourn ; but chief, the name 
 
 Of Gratitude ! Remembrances of Friend, 
 Or absent or no more ! Shades of the Past, 
 
 Which Love makes Substance ! Hence to thee I send, 
 O dear as long as life and memory last ! 
 
 I send with deep regards of heart and head. 
 
 Sweet maid, for friendship form'd! this work to thee : 
 
 And thou, the while thou can'st not choose but shed 
 A tear for Falkner, wilt remember me ! 
 
 1^ 
 
150 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 On her Recovery from a Fever. 
 
 Why need I say, Louisa dear ! 
 How glad I am to see you here, 
 
 A lovely convalescent; 
 Risen from the bed of pain, and fear. 
 
 And feverish heat incessant. 
 
 The sunny Showers, the dappled Sky, 
 The little Birds that warble high, 
 
 Their vernal loves commencing. 
 Will better welcome you than I, 
 
 With their sweet influencing. 
 
 Believe me, while in bed you lay. 
 Your danger taught us all to pray : 
 
 You made us grow devouter ! 
 Each eye look'd up and seemed to say, 
 
 How can we do without her ? 
 
15i 
 
 Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew. 
 They have no need of such as you 
 
 In the place where you were going ; 
 This World has angels all too few. 
 
 And Heaven is overflowing ! 
 
15^ 
 
 SOMErHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY 
 NATURAL. 
 
 Written in Germany. 
 
 If I liad but two little wings, 
 And were a little feathery bird. 
 To you I'd fly, my dear ! 
 But thoughts like these are idle things. 
 And I stay here. 
 
 But in my sleep to you I fly : 
 
 Fm always with you in my sleep ; 
 The world is all one's own. 
 But then one wakes, and where am I ? 
 All, all alone. 
 
 Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids: 
 
 So I love to wake ere break of day: 
 
 For though my sleep be gone. 
 
 Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids. 
 
 And still dreams on. 
 
153 
 
 HOME-SICK. 
 
 Written in Germany. 
 
 'Tis sweet to him, who all the week 
 
 Through city-crowds must push his way. 
 
 To stroll alone through fields and woods. 
 And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day, 
 
 And sweet it is, in summer bower. 
 
 Sincere, aiFectionate and gay. 
 One's own dear children feasting round, 
 
 To celebrate one's marriage-day. 
 
 But what is all, to his delight, 
 
 Who having long been doom'd to roam. 
 Throws off the bundle from his back. 
 
 Before the door of his own home ? 
 
 Home-sickness is a wasting pang; 
 
 This feel I hourly more and more : 
 There's Healing only in thy wings. 
 
 Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore ! 
 
154 
 
 ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 
 
 Do you ask what the birds say ? The Sparrow, the Dove, 
 The Linnet and Thrush say, " I love and I love !" 
 In the winter they're silent — the wind is so strong ; 
 What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. 
 But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather. 
 And singing, and loving — all come back together. 
 But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 
 The green fields beloW him, the blue sky above. 
 That he sings, and he sings ; and for ever sings he — 
 " I love my Love, and my Love loves me !" 
 
155 
 
 THE VISIONARY HOPE. 
 
 Sad lot, TO have no Hope ! Tho' lowly kneeling. 
 He fain would frame a prayer within his breast. 
 Would fain intreat for some sweet breath of healing. 
 That his sick body might have ease and rest; 
 He strove in vain ! the dull sighs from his chest 
 Against his will the stifling load revealing. 
 Tho' Nature forc'd; tho' like some captive guest. 
 Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast. 
 An alien's restless mood but half concealing. 
 The sternness on his gentle brow confest 
 Sickness within and miserable feeling : 
 Tho' obscure pangs made curses of his dreams. 
 And dreaded sleep, each night repell'd in vain. 
 Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams : 
 Yet never could his heart command, tho' fain. 
 One deep full wish to be no more in pain. 
 
 That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast. 
 Which wan'd and died, yet ever near him stood. 
 
156 
 
 Tlio' chang'd in nature, wander where he wou'd — 
 
 For Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost ! 
 
 For this one hope he makes his hourly moan. 
 
 He wishes and can wish for this alone ! 
 
 Pierc'd, as with hght from Heaven, before its gleams 
 
 (So the love-stricken visionary deems) 
 
 Disease would vanish, like a summer shower. 
 
 Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower 
 
 Or let it stay ! yet this one Hope should give 
 
 Such strength that he would bless his pains and live. 
 
157 
 
 THE HAPPY HUSBAND. 
 
 A Fragment. 
 
 Oft, oft metliinks, the while with Thee 
 1 breathe, as from the heart, thy dear 
 And dedicated name, I hear 
 
 A promise and a mystery, 
 
 A pledge of more than passing life, 
 Yea, in that very name of Wife ! 
 
 A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep ! 
 
 A feeling that upbraids the heart 
 
 With happiness beyond desert, 
 That gladness half requests to weep ! 
 
 Nor bless I not the keener sense 
 
 And unalarming turbulence 
 
 Of transient joys, that fear no sting 
 From jealous fears, or coy denying; 
 But born beneath Love's brooding wing, 
 
m 
 
 And into tenderness soon dying, 
 
 Wheel out their giddy moment, then 
 Resign the soul to love again. 
 
 A more precipitated vein 
 
 Of notes, that eddy in the flow 
 
 Of smoothest song, they come, they go. 
 
 And leave their sweeter understrain 
 Its own sweet self — a love of Thee 
 That seemS;, yet cannot greater be ! 
 
159 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. 
 
 I. 
 
 How warm this woodland wild Recess ! 
 
 Love surely hath been breathing here. 
 
 And this sweet bed of heath, my dear ! 
 Swells up, then sinks with faint caress. 
 
 As if to have you yet more near. 
 
 II. 
 
 Eight springs have flown, since last I lay 
 On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills. 
 Where quiet sounds from hidden rills 
 
 Float here and there, like things astray, 
 And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills. 
 
 III. 
 
 No voice as yet Tiad made the air 
 Be music with your name : yet why 
 That asking look ? That yearning sigh ? 
 
 That sense of promise every where? 
 Beloved ! flew your spirit by ? 
 
160 
 
 IV. 
 
 As when a mother doth explore 
 
 The rose-mark on her long lost child, 
 I met, I lov'd you, maiden mild ! 
 
 As whom I loni^ had lov'd before — 
 So deeply had I been beguil'd. 
 
 V. 
 
 You stood before me like a thought,/ 
 A dream remember'd in a dream. 
 But when those meek eyes first did seem 
 
 To tell me, Love within you wrought — 
 O Greta, dear domestic stream ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep. 
 Has not Love's whisper evermore. 
 Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ? 
 
 Sole voice, when other voices sleep. 
 Dear under-song in Clamor's hour. 
 
161 
 
 ON RE-VrSTTING THE SEASHORE, 
 AFTER LONG ABSENCE, 
 
 Under strons medical recommendation not to bathe. 
 
 God be with thee, gladsome Ocean ! 
 
 How gladly greet I thee once more ! 
 Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion, 
 
 And men rejoicing on thy shore. 
 
 Dissuading spake the mild Physician, 
 " Those briny waves for thee are Death 
 
 But my soul fulfill'd her mission, 
 
 And lo ! 1 breathe untroubled breath ! 
 
 Fashion's pining Sons and Daughters, 
 That seek the crowd they seem to fly, 
 
 Trembling, they approach tliy waters ; 
 And what cares Nature, if they die ? 
 
 VOL. II. M 
 
16^ 
 
 Me a thousand hopes and pleasures, 
 A thousand recollections bland. 
 
 Thoughts sublime, and stately measures. 
 Revisit on thy echoing gtrand : 
 
 Dreams, (the Soul herself forsaking,) 
 Tearful raptures, boyish mirth; 
 
 Silent adorations, making 
 
 A blessed shadow of this Earth ! 
 
 O ye hopes, that stir within me. 
 
 Health comes with you from above ! 
 
 God is with me, God is in me ! 
 I cannot die, if Life be Love. 
 
MEDITATIVE POEMS 
 
 IN 
 
 BLANK VERSE. 
 
Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived, 
 
 Who seeks a Heart in the unthinking Man. 
 
 Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life 
 
 Impress their characters on the smooth forehead ; 
 
 Nought sinks into the Bosom's silent depth. 
 
 Quick sensibility of Pain and Pleasure 
 
 Moves the light fluids lightly; but no Soul 
 
 Warmeth the inner frame. 
 
 Schiller. 
 
165 
 
 HYMN 
 
 Before Sun-rise, in the Vale of Chamouny. 
 
 Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their 
 sources in the foot of Mount Blanc, five conspicuous torrents 
 rush down its sides ; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, the 
 Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its " flowers 
 of loveliest blue." 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the Morning-Star 
 In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
 On thy bald awful head^ O sovran Blanc ! 
 The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
 Rave ceaselessly j but thou, most awful Form ! 
 Risest from forth thy silent Sea of Pines, 
 How silently ! Around thee and above 
 Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black. 
 An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it. 
 As with a wedge ! But when I look again. 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine. 
 Thy habitation from eternity ! 
 
166 
 
 dread and silent Mount ! I gaz'd upon thee, 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
 
 Did'st vanish from my thought : entranc'd in prayer 
 
 1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
 So sweet, we know not we are listening to it. 
 Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought, 
 Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret Joy : 
 Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfus'd. 
 Into the mighty Vision passing — there 
 As in her natural form, swell'd vast to Heaven I 
 
 Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
 Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears. 
 Mute thanks and secret extacy ! Awake, 
 Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my Heart, awake ! 
 Green Vales and icy Cliffs, all join my Hymn. 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole Sovran of the Vale ! 
 O struggling with the Darkness all the night. 
 And visited all night by troops of stars. 
 Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : 
 Companion of the Morning-Star at»Dawn, 
 
167 
 
 Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the Dawn 
 Co-herald ! wake, O wake, and utter praise I 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth ? 
 Who fill'd thy Countenance with rosy light ? 
 Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams ? 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 Who call'd you forth from night and utter death, 
 From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth, 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged Rocks 
 For ever shattered and the same for ever ? 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, S,nd your joy, 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 And who commanded (and the silence came), 
 Here let the Billows stiffen, and have Rest ? 
 
 Ye Ice-falls ! ye that from the Mountain's brow 
 Adown enormous Ravines slope amain — 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, 
 And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
 Motionless Torrents ! silent Cataracts ! 
 Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven 
 Beneath the keen full Moon ? Who bade the Sun 
 
168 
 
 Cloath you with Rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? — 
 God ! let the Torrents, like a Shout of Nations 
 Answer ! and let the Ice-plains echo, God ! 
 God ! sing ye meadow -streams with gladsome voice ! 
 Ye Pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
 And they too have a voice, yon piles of Snow, 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Ye livery flowers that skirt th' eternal Frost ! 
 Ye wild goats sporting round the Eagle's nest ! 
 Ye Eagles, play-mates of the Mountain-Storm ! 
 Ye Lightnings, the dread arrows of the Clouds ! 
 Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
 Utter forth God, and fill the Hills with Praise ! 
 
 Once more, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing 
 Peaks, 
 Oft from whose feet the Avalanche, unheard. 
 Shoots downward, glittering thro' the pure Serene, 
 Into the depth of Clouds that veil thy breast — 
 Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
 That as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low 
 In adoration, upward from tliy Base 
 
169 
 
 Slow-travelling with dim eyes sufFus'd with tears^ 
 Solemnly seem est, like a vapoury cloud. 
 To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise, 
 Rise like a cloud of Incense, from the Earth ! 
 Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills. 
 Thou dread Ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
 Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent Sky, 
 And tell the Stars, and tell yon rising Sun, 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
 
170 
 
 LINES 
 
 Written in the Album at Elbingerode, in the Hartz Forest. 
 
 I STOOD on *Brocken's sovran height, and saw 
 
 Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills, 
 
 A surging scene, and only limited 
 
 By the blue distance. Heavily my way 
 
 Downward 1 dragg'd through fir-groves evermore, 
 
 Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms 
 
 Speckled with sunshine ; and, but seldom heard. 
 
 The sweet bird's song became an hollow sound ; 
 
 And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly. 
 
 Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct 
 
 From many a note of many a waterfall. 
 
 And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stones 
 
 The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell 
 
 Leapt frolicsome, or old romantic goat 
 
 Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on 
 
 *The highest mountain in the Hartz and indeed in North Germany. 
 
171 
 
 In low and languid *mood : for I had found 
 That outward Forms^ the loftiest, still receive 
 Their finer influence from the Life within : 
 Fair Cyphers of vague import, where the Eye 
 Traces no spot, in which the Heart may read 
 History or Prophecy of Friend, or Child, 
 Or gentle Maid, our first and early love. 
 Or Father, or the venerable name 
 Of our adored Country ! O thou Queen, 
 Thou delegated Deity of Earth, 
 O dear, dear England ! how my longing eye 
 Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds 
 Thy sands and high white cliffs ! 
 
 My native Land ! 
 Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud. 
 Yea, mine eye swam with tears : that all the view 
 From sovran ^rocken, woods and woody hills, 
 Floated away, like a departing dream, 
 Feeble and dim ! Stranger, these impulses 
 
 * When I have gazed 
 
 From some high eminence on goodly vales, 
 And cots and villages embowered below, 
 The thought would rise that all to me was strange 
 Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot 
 Where my tired mind might rest, and call it home. 
 
 SouTHEY's Hymn to the Penates. 
 
172 
 
 Blame thou not lightly ; nor will I profane. 
 With hasty judgment or injurious doubt. 
 That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel 
 That God is every where ! the God who framed 
 Mankind to be one mighty Family, 
 Himself our Father, and the World our Home. 
 
173 
 
 ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM 
 
 On the 1st of February , 1796. 
 
 Sweet Flower ! that peeping from thy russet stem 
 
 Unfoldest timidly^ (for in strange sort 
 
 This dark, freeze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Month 
 
 Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gaz'd upon thee 
 
 With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor Flower ! 
 
 These are but flatteries of the faithless year. 
 
 Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave, 
 
 Ev'n now the keen North-East is on its way. 
 
 Flower that must perish ! shall I liken thee 
 
 To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth 
 
 Nipp'd by Consumption mid untimely charms ? 
 
 Or to Bristowa's ^Bard, the wonderous boy ! 
 
 An Amaranth, which Earth scarce seem'd to own. 
 
 Blooming mid poverty's drear wintry waste. 
 
 Till Disappointment came, and pelting wrong 
 
 * Chatterton, 
 
i7i 
 
 Beat it to Earth ? or with indignant grief 
 Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's Hope, 
 Bright flower of Hope kill'd in the opening bud ? 
 Farewell, sweet blossom ! better fate be thine 
 And mock my boding ! Dim similitudes 
 Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour 
 From anxious Self, Life's cruel Task-Master ! 
 And the warm wooings of this sunny day 
 Tremble along my frame and harmonize 
 Th' attemper'd organ, that even saddest thoughts 
 Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes 
 Play'd deftly on a soft-toned instrument. 
 
m 
 
 THE EOLIJN HARP. 
 
 Composed at Clevedon, Somersetshire. 
 
 My pensive Sara ! thy soft cheek rechned 
 
 . Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is 
 
 To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown 
 
 With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad-leav'd 
 
 Myrtle, 
 
 (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !) 
 
 - And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light. 
 
 Slow sad'ning round, and mark the star of eve 
 
 Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) 
 
 Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scents 
 
 Snatch'd from yon bean-field! and the world so hush'd! 
 
 The stilly murmur of the distant Sea 
 
 Tells us of Silence. 
 
 And that simplest Lute, 
 
 Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark ! 
 
 J How by the desultory breeze caress'd, 
 
 Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, \ 
 
 \ 
 
 It pours such sweet upbraidings, as must needs \ 
 
 « 
 
176 
 
 ' Tempt to repeat the wrong ! And now, its strings 
 Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes 
 Over delicious surges sink and rise. 
 Such a soft floating witchery of sound 
 As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve 
 Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, 
 Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers. 
 Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, 
 Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing! 
 Methinks, it should have been impossible 
 Not to love all things in a world like this. 
 Where even the breezes, and the common air. 
 Contain the power and spirit of Harmony. 
 
 And thus, my love ! as on the midway slope 
 Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon. 
 Whilst thro' my half-closed eye-lids I behold 
 The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main. 
 And tranquil muse upon tranquillity ; 
 Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd, 
 And many idle flitting phantasies. 
 Traverse my indolent and passive brain. 
 As wild and various as the random gales 
 That swell and flutter on this subject lute I 
 
177 
 
 And what if all of animated nature 
 Be but organic harps diversly fram'd. 
 That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps 
 Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze. 
 At once the Soul of each, and God of All ? 
 
 But thy more serious eye a mild reproof 
 Darts, O beloved woman ! nor such thpughts 
 Dim and unhallow'd dost thou not reject. 
 And biddest me walk humbly with my God. 
 Meek daughter in the family of Christ ! 
 Well hast thou said and holily disprais'd 
 These shapings of the unregenerate mind. 
 Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break 
 On vain Philosophy's aye-babbhng spring. 
 For never guiltless may I speak of him, 
 Th' Incomprehensible I save when with awe 
 I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels ; 
 Who with his saving mercies healed me, 
 A sinful and most miserable Man, 
 Wilder'd and dark, and gave me to possess 
 Peace, and this Cot, and Thee, heart-honor'd Maid ! 
 
 VOL. n. N 
 
178 
 
 REFLECTIONS 
 
 On having left a Place of Retirement. 
 
 Sermoni propriora. — HoR. 
 
 Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest Rose 
 Peep'd at the chamber-window. We could hear 
 At silent noon, and eve, and early morn. 
 The Sea's faint murmur. In the open air 
 Our Myrtles blossom'd ; and across the Porch 
 Thick Jasmins twined : the little landscape round 
 Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye. 
 It was a spot which you might aptly call 
 The Valley of Seclusion ! Once I saw 
 (Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) 
 A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, 
 Bristowa's citizen: methought, it calm'd 
 His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse 
 With wiser feelings : for he paus'd, and look'd 
 With a pleased wsadness, and gazed all around. 
 
179 
 
 Then eyed our Cottage, and gazed round again. 
 And sigh'd, and said, it was a Blessed Place. 
 And we ivere blessed. Oft with patient ear 
 Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note 
 (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 
 Gleaming on sunny wing) in whisper'd tones 
 I've said to my beloved, " Such, sweet girl ! 
 ** The inobstrusive song of Happiness, ^ 
 " Unearthly minstrelsy ! then only heard 
 " When the soul seeks to hear ; when all is hush'd, 
 " And the Heart listens !" 
 
 But the time, when first 
 From that low Dell, steep up the stony Mount 
 I climb'd with perilous toil and reach'd the top. 
 Oh ! what a goodly scene ! Here the bleak Mount, 
 The bare bleak Mountain speckled thin with sheep ; 
 Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields ; 
 And River, now with bushy rocks o'erbrow'd. 
 Now winding bright and full, with naked banks ; 
 And Seats, and Lawns, the Abbey, and the Wood, 
 And Cots, and Hamlets, and faint City-spire : 
 The Channel therej the Islands and white Sails, 
 
 N 2 
 
180 
 
 Dim Coasts^ and cloud-like Hills, and shoreless Ocean- 
 It seem'd like Omnipresence ! God, methought. 
 Had built him there a Temple : the whole World 
 Seem'd imag'd in its vast circumference. 
 No wish prophan'd my overwhelmed Heart. 
 Blest hour ! It was a Luxury, — to be ! 
 
 Ah ! quiet dell ! dear cot ! and mount sublime ! 
 I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right. 
 While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled, 
 That I should dream away th' entrusted hours 
 On rose-leaf Beds, pampering the coward Heart 
 With feelings all too delicate for use ? 
 Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye 
 Drops on the cheek of One, he lifts from Earth : 
 And He, that works me good with immov'd face. 
 Does it but half : he chills me while he aids. 
 My Benefactor, not my Brother Man ! 
 Yet even this, this cold Beneficence 
 Seizes my Praise, when I reflect on those. 
 The Sluggard Pity's vision -weaving Tribe 1 
 Who sigh for Wretchedness, yet shun the Wretched^ 
 Nursing in some delicious solitude 
 Their slothful loves and dainty Sympathies ! 
 
181 
 
 I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand, 
 Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight 
 Of Science, Freedom, and the Tmth in Christ. 
 
 Yet oft when after honorable toil 
 Rests the tir'd mind, and waking loves to dream, 
 My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot ! 
 Thy Jasmin and thy window-peeping Rose, 
 And Myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air. 
 And I shall sigh fond wishes — sweet Abode ! 
 Ah ! — had none greater ! And that all had such ! 
 It might be so — but the time is not yet. 
 Speed it, O Father ! Let thy Kingdom come ! 
 
m% 
 
 TO 
 
 THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, 
 
 Of Ottery St. Mary, Devon. 
 
 WITH SOME POEMS, 
 
 Notus in fratres animi patemi. 
 
 HoR. Carm. Lib. I. 2. 
 
 A BLESSED lot hath he, who having past 
 
 His youth and early manhood in the stir 
 
 And turmoil of the world, retreats at length. 
 
 With cares that move, not agitate the Heart, 
 
 To the same Dwelling where his Father dwelt; 
 
 And haply views his tott'ring little ones 
 
 Embrace those aged knees and climb that lap. 
 
 On which first kneeling his own Infancy 
 
 Lisp'd its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest Friend ! 
 
 Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy. 
 
 At distance did ye climb Life's upland road. 
 
 Yet cheer'd and cheering : now fraternal Love 
 
1^3 
 
 Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days 
 Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live ! 
 
 To me th' Eternal Wisdom hath dispens'd 
 
 A diiFerent fortune and more different mind 
 
 Me from the spot where first I sprang to light. 
 Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fix'd 
 Its first domestic loves -, and hence through Life 
 Chasing chance-started Friendships. A brief while 
 Some have preserv'd me from Life's pelting ills ; 
 But, like a Tree with leaves of feeble stem. 
 If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze 
 Ruflled the boughs, they on my head at once 
 Dropt the collected shower ; and some most false. 
 False and fair foliag'd as the Manchineel, 
 Have tempted me to slumber in their shade 
 E'en mid the storm ; then breathing subtlest damps, 
 Mixt their own venom with the rain from Heaven, 
 That I woke poison'd ! But, all praise to Him 
 Who gives us all things, more have yielded me: 
 Permanent shelter ; and beside one Friend, 
 Beneath th' impervious covert of one Oak, 
 I've raised a lowly shed, and know the names 
 
184 
 
 Of Husband and of Father ; nor unhearing 
 Of that divine and nightly-whispering Voice, 
 Which from my childhood to maturer years 
 Spake to me of predestinated wreaths. 
 Bright with no fading colours I 
 
 Yet at times 
 My soul is sadj that I have roam'd through life 
 Still most a Stranger, most with naked heart 
 At mine own home and birth-place : chiefly then. 
 When I remember thee, my earliest Friend ! 
 Thee, who did'st watch my boy-hood and my youth ; 
 Did'st trace my wanderings with a Father's eye ; 
 And boding evil yet still hoping good 
 Rebuk'd each fault, and over all my woes 
 Sorrow'd in Silence ! He who counts alone 
 The beatings of the solitary heart. 
 That Being knows, how I have lov'd thee ever, 
 Lov'd as a brother, as a Son rever'd thee ! 
 Oh ! tis to me an ever new dehght 
 To talk of thee and thine ; or when the blast 
 Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash. 
 Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl ; 
 
185 
 
 Or when as now, on some delicious eve, 
 
 We in our sweet sequester'd Orchard-Plot 
 
 Sit on the Tree crook'd earth-ward ; whose old boughs, 
 
 That hang above us in an arborous roof, 
 
 Stirr'd by the faint gale of departing May, 
 
 Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads ! 
 
 Nor dost not tliou sometimes recall those hours, 
 When with the joy of hope thou gav'st thine ear 
 To my wild firstling-lays. Since then my song 
 Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem 
 Or that sad wisdom, folly leaves behind ; 
 Or such as, tun'd to these tumultuous times. 
 Cope with the tempest's swell ! 
 
 These various strains, 
 Which I have fram'd In many a various mood. 
 Accept, my Brother ! and (for some perchance 
 Will .strike discordant on thy milder mind) 
 If aught of Error or intemperate Truth 
 Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper age 
 Will ealra it down, and let they Love forgive It I 
 
INSCRIPTION 
 
 For a Fountain on a Heath. 
 
 This Sycamore, oft musical with Bees, — 
 
 Such Tents the Patriarchs lov'd ! O long unharm'd 
 
 May all its aged Boughs o'er- canopy 
 
 The small round Basin, which this jutting stone 
 
 Keeps pure from falling leaves ! Long may the Spring, 
 
 Quietly as a sleeping Infant's breath, 
 
 Send up cold waters to the Traveller 
 
 With soft and even Pulse ! Nor ever cease 
 
 Yon tiny Cone of Sand its soundless Dance, 
 
 Which at the Bottom, like a Fairy's Page, 
 
 As merry and no taller, dances still. 
 
 Nor wrinkles the smooth Surface of the Fount. 
 
 Here Twilight is and Coolness : here is Moss, 
 
 A soft Seat, and a deep and ample Shade. 
 
 Thou may'st toil far and find no second Tree. 
 
 Drink, Pilgrim, here ! Here rest ! and if thy Heart 
 
 Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh 
 
 Thy Spirit, list'ning to some gentle Sound, 
 
 Or passing Gale or Hum of murmuring Bees ! 
 
187 
 
 A TOMBLESS EPITAPH. 
 
 'Tis true, Idooloclastes Satyrane ! 
 
 (So call him, for so mingling Blame with Praise 
 
 And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends. 
 
 Masking his birth-name, wont to character 
 
 His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal,) 
 
 'Tis true that, passionate for ancient truths 
 
 And honoring with religious love the Great 
 
 Of elder times, he hated to excess. 
 
 With an unquiet and intolerant scorn. 
 
 The hollow puppets of an hollow Age, 
 
 Ever idolatrous, and changing ever 
 
 Its worthless Idols ! Learning, Power, and Time, 
 
 (Too much of all) thus wasting in vain war 
 
 Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, tis true. 
 
 Whole years of weary days, besieged him close. 
 
 Even to the gates and inlets of his life ! 
 
 But it is true,- no less, that strenuous, firm. 
 
 And with a natural gladness, he maintained 
 
188 
 
 The Citadel unconquer'dj and in joy 
 Was strong to follow the delightful Muse. 
 For not a hidden Path^, that to the Shades 
 Of the belov'd Parnassian forest leads, 
 Lurk'd undiscover'd by him ; not a rill 
 There issues from the fount of Hippocrene, 
 But he had trac'd it upward to its source. 
 Thro' open glade, dark glen, and secret dell. 
 Knew the gay wild flowers on its banks, and cull'd 
 Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone. 
 Piercing the long-neglected holy cave. 
 The haunt obscure of old Philosophy, 
 He bade with lifted torch its starry walls 
 Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame . 
 Of od'rous Lamps tended by Saint and Sage. 
 O fram'd for calmer times and nobler hearts ! 
 O studious Poet, eloquent for truth ! 
 Philosopher ! contemning wealth and death. 
 Yet docile, childlike, full of Life and Love ! 
 Here, rather than on monumental stone. 
 This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes. 
 Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek. 
 
189 
 
 THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MV PRISON. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 In the June of 1797, some long-expected Friends paid a visit to 
 the Author's Cottage ; and on the morning of their arrival, he met 
 with an accident, which disabled him from walking during the 
 whole time of their stay. One Evening, when they had left him 
 for a few hours, he composed the following lines in the Garden- 
 Bower. 
 
 Well, they are gone, and here must I remain. 
 
 This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison ! I have lost 
 
 Such beauties and such feelings, as had been 
 
 Most sweet to my remembrance, even when age 
 
 Had dimmed mine eyes to blindness ! They, meanwhile, 
 
 My Friends, whom I may never meet again. 
 
 On springy heath, along the hill-top edge. 
 
 Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance. 
 
 To that still roaring dell, of which I told ; 
 
 The roaring dell, o'erwooded, nan'ow, deep, 
 
 And only speckled by the mid-day Sun ; 
 
 Where its slim trunk the Ash from rock to rock 
 
 Flings arching like a fridge ; — that branchless Ash, 
 
190 
 
 Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves 
 Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, 
 Fann'd by the water-fall ! and there my friends 
 Behold the dark green file of long *lank Weeds, 
 That all at once (a most fantastic sight !) 
 Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge 
 Of the blue clay-stone. 
 
 Now, my Friends emerge 
 Beneath the wide wide Heaven — and view again 
 The many-steepled track magnificent 
 Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea. 
 With some fair bark, perhaps, whose Sails light up 
 The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles 
 Of purple shadow ! Yes ! they wander on 
 In gladness all ; but thou, methinks, most glad. 
 My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast pined 
 And hunger'd after Nature, many a year. 
 In the great City pent, winning thy way 
 
 • Of long lank IVeeds.] The Aspleninm Scolopendiium, called in 
 some countries the Adder's Tongue, in others the Hart's Tongue : 
 but Withering gives the A.dder's Tongue as the trivial name of the 
 Ophioglossum only. 
 
191 
 
 With sad yet patient soul^ through evil and pain 
 And strange calamity ! Ah ! slowly sink 
 Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun ! 
 Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb 
 Ye purple heath-flowers ! richlier burn, ye clouds ! 
 Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves ! 
 And kindle, thou blue Ocean ! So my Friend 
 Struck with deep joy may stand, as 1 have stood, 
 Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round 
 On the wild landscape, gaze till all doth seem 
 Less gross than bodily ; a living thing 
 Which acts upon the mind — and with such hues 
 As cloath the Almighty Spirit, when he makes 
 Spirits perceive his presence. 
 
 A delight 
 Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad 
 As I myself were there ! Nor in this bower. 
 This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd 
 Much that has sooth'd me. Pale beneath the blaze 
 Hung the transparent foliage ; and I watch'd 
 Some broad and sunny leaf, and lov'd to see 
 The shadow of the leaf and stem above 
 
192 
 
 Dappling its sunshine ! And that Walnut-tree 
 
 Was richly ting'd, and a deep radiance lay 
 
 Full on the ancient Ivy, which usurps 
 
 Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass 
 
 Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue 
 
 Through the late twilight : and though now the Bat 
 
 Wheels silent by, and not a Swallow twitters, 
 
 Yet still the solitary humble Bee 
 
 Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I shall know 
 
 That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure. 
 
 No Plot so narrow, be but Nature there. 
 
 No waste so vacant, but may well employ 
 
 Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart 
 
 Awake to Love and Beauty ! and sometimes 
 
 'Tis well to be bereft of promised good. 
 
 That we may lift the Soul, and contemplate 
 
 With lively joy the joys we cannot share. 
 
 My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last Rook 
 
 Beat its straight path along the dusky air 
 
 Homewards^ I blest it ! deeming, its black win^ 
 
 {Now a dim speck, now vanishing in the light) 
 
 Had cross'd the mighty Orb's dilated glory. 
 
 While thou stood'st gazing 3 or when all was still. 
 
193 
 
 *Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm 
 For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom 
 No Sound is dissonant which tells of Life. 
 
 * Flew creeM7ig\] Some months after I had written this line, it 
 gave me pleasure to observe that Bartram had observed the same 
 circumstance of the Savanna Crane. " When these Birds move 
 their wings in flight, their strokes are slow, moderate and regular; 
 and even when at a considerable distance or high above us, we 
 plainly hear the quill-feathers ; their shafts and webs upon one 
 another creek as the joints, or working of a vessel in a tempestuous 
 sea." 
 
 vol . II. 
 
194 
 
 TO A FRIEND 
 
 Ulio had declared his intention of writing no more Poetry. 
 
 Dear Charles ! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I ween 
 
 That Genius plunged thee in that wizard fount 
 
 Hight Castalie ; and (sureties of thy faith) 
 
 That Pity and Simplicity stood by, 
 
 And promised for thee, that thou shouldst renounce 
 
 The world's low cares and lying vanities, 
 
 Stedfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse, ' 
 
 And wash'd and sanctified to Poesy. 
 
 Yes — thou wert plunged, but with forgetful hand 
 
 Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior Son : 
 
 And with those recreant unbaptized Heels 
 
 Thou'rt flying from thy bounden Ministeries — 
 
 So sore it seems and burthensome a task 
 
 To weave unwithering flowers ! But take thou heed : 
 
 For thou art vulnerable^ wild- eyed Boy, » 
 
195 
 
 And I have arrows "^mystically dipt. 
 
 Such as may stop thy speed. Is thy Bm-ns dead ? 
 
 And shall he die unwept, and sink to Earth 
 
 " Without the meed of one melodious tear ?" 
 
 Thy Burns, and Nature's own beloved Bard, 
 
 Who to the " Illustrious t of his native Land 
 
 " So properly did look for Patronage." 
 
 Ghost of Maecenas ! hide thy blushing face ! 
 
 They snatch'd him from the Sickle and the Plough — 
 
 To guard Ale-Firkins. 
 
 Oh ! for shame return! 
 On a bleak Rock, midway the Aonian mount. 
 There stands a lone and melancholy tree. 
 Whose aged branches to the midnight blast 
 Make solemn music : pluck its darkest bough. 
 Ere yet the unwholesome Night-dew be exhaled. 
 And weeping wreath it round thy Poet's Tomb. 
 Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow, 
 
 * Vide Find. Olym. ii. 1. 156. 
 
 t Verbatim from Burns's dedication of his Poem to the Nobility 
 and Gentry of the Caledonian Hunt. 
 
 O 2 
 
196 
 
 Pick the rank hensbane and the dusky flowers 
 Of night-shade, or its red and tempting fruit. 
 These with stopped nostril and glove-guarded hand 
 Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine 
 The Illustrious Brow of Scotch Nobility. 
 
 1796. 
 
197 
 
 TO A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Composed on the night after his recitation of a Poem on the 
 Growth of an Individual Mind. 
 
 Friend of the Wise ! and Teacher of the Good ! 
 
 Into my heart have I received that Lay 
 
 More than historic, that prophetic Lay 
 
 Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) 
 
 Of the foundations and the building up 
 
 Of the Human Spirit, thou hast dared to tell 
 
 What may be told, to th' understanding mind 
 
 Revealable ; and what within the mind 
 
 By vital Breathings, like the secret soul 
 
 Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the Heart 
 
 Thoughts all too deep for words ! — 
 
 Theme hard as high I 
 Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears 
 (The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth) 
 
198 
 
 Of tides obedient to external force^ 
 
 And currents self-determined, as might seem. 
 
 Or by some inner Power; of moments awful. 
 
 Now in thy inner life, and now abroad. 
 
 When Power stream 'd from thee, and thy soul received 
 
 The light reflected, as a light bestow'd — 
 
 Of Fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, 
 
 Hyblean murmurs of Poetic Thought 
 
 Industrious in its Joy, in Vales and Glens 
 
 Native or outland, Lakes and famous Hills ! 
 
 Or on the lonely High-road, when the Stars 
 
 Were rising ; or by secret Mountain-streams, 
 
 The Guides and the Companions of thy way ! 
 
 Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense 
 Distending wide, and Man belov'd as Man, 
 Where France in all her Towns lay vibrating 
 Even as a Bark becalm'd beneath the Burst 
 Of Heaven's immediate Thunder, when no cloud 
 Is visible, or shadow on the Main. 
 For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded, 
 Amid the tremor of a realm aglow. 
 Amid a mighty nation jubilant. 
 
199 
 
 When from the general Heart of Human kind 
 Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity ! 
 
 Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down. 
 
 So summon'd homeward^ thenceforth calm and sure 
 
 From the dread Watch-Tower of man's absolute Self, 
 
 With light unwaning on her eyes, to look 
 
 Far on — herself a glory to behold. 
 
 The Angel of the vision 1 Then (last strain) 
 
 Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice. 
 
 Action and Joy I — An orphic song indeed, 
 
 A song divine of high and passionate thoughts, 
 
 To their own Music chaunted ! 
 
 ' O great Bard ! 
 
 Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air,^ 
 With stedfast eye I view'd thee in the choir 
 Of ever-enduring men. The truly Great 
 Have all one age, and from one visible space 
 Shed influence ! They, both in power and act, 
 Are permanent, and Time is not with them, 
 Save as it worketh^r them, they in it. 
 Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old. 
 
200 
 
 And to be placed^ as they, with gradual fame 
 
 Among the Archives of Mankind, thy work 
 
 Makes audible a linked lay of Truth, 
 
 Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay. 
 
 Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes ! 
 
 Ah ! as I listen'd with a heart forlorn 
 
 The pulses of my Being beat anew : 
 
 And even as Life returns upon the Drown'd, 
 
 Life's joy rekindling rous'd a throng of Pains — 
 
 Keen Pangs of Love, awakening as a babe 
 
 Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart; 
 
 And Fears self-will'd, that shunn'd the eye of Hope ; 
 
 And Hope that scarce would know itself from Fear ; 
 
 Sense of past Youth, and Manhood come in vain. 
 
 And Genius given, and Knowledge won in vain ; 
 
 And all which I had cull'd in Wood- walks wild. 
 
 And all which patient toil had rear'd, and all. 
 
 Commune with thee had open'd out — but Flowers 
 
 Strew'd on my corse, and borne upon my Bier, 
 
 In the same Coffin, for the self-same Grave ! 
 
 That way no more ! and ill beseems it me. 
 
201 
 
 Who came a welcomer in Herald's Guise, 
 Singing of Glory, and Futurity, 
 To wander back on such unhealthful road. 
 Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And ill 
 Such Intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths 
 Strew'd before thy advancing ! 
 
 Nor do thou, 
 Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour 
 Of thy communion with my nobler mind 
 By Pity or Grief, already felt too long ! 
 Nor let my words import more blame than needs. 
 The tumult rose and ceas'd : for Peace is nigh 
 Where wisdom's voice has found a listening heart. 
 Amid the howl of more than wintry storms. 
 The Halcyon hears the voice of vernal Hours 
 Already on the wing ! 
 
 Eve following Eve, 
 Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home 
 Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake hail'd 
 And more desired, more precious for thy song, 
 
^2 
 
 In silence listening, like a devout child. 
 My soul lay passive, by thy various strain 
 Driven, as in surges now beneath the starSj, 
 With momentary Stars of my own birth. 
 Fair constellated *Foam, still darting off 
 Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea. 
 Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon. 
 
 And when — O Friend ! my comforter and guide ! 
 Strong in thy self, and powerful to give strength ! — 
 Thy long sustained Song finally closed, 
 And thy deep voice had ceased — yet thou thyself 
 Wert still before my eyes, and round us both 
 That happy vision of beloved Faces — 
 Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close 
 
 * "A beautiful white cloud of Foam at momentary intervals 
 coursed by the side of the Vessel Avith a Roar, and little stars of 
 flame danced and sparkled and went out in it : and every now and 
 then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted off 
 from the vessel's side, each with its own small constellation, over 
 the Sea, and scoured out of sight like a Tartar Troop over 9. 
 Wilderness." — The Friend, p. 220. 
 
203 
 
 I sate, my being blended in one thought 
 (Thought was it ? or Aspiration ? or Resolve ?) 
 Absorb'd, yet hanging still upon the sound — 
 And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. 
 
204 
 ; THE NIGHTINGALE', 
 
 A CONVERSATION POEM. 
 
 Written in April 1798. 
 
 No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 
 Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip 
 Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 
 Come, we will rest on this old, mossy bridge ! 
 You see the glimmer of the stream beneath. 
 But hear no murmuring : it flows silently 
 O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 
 A balmy night ! and tho' the stars be dim. 
 Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 
 That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 
 A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 
 And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 
 * " Most musical, most melancholy" Bird ! 
 
 * " Most musical, most melancholy."^ This passage in Milton 
 possesses an excellence far superior to tbat of mere description. It 
 is spoken in the character of the melancholy man, and has therefore 
 a dramatic propriety. The author makes this remark, to rescue 
 himself from the charge of having alluded with levity, to a line in 
 Milton : a charge than which none could be more painful to him, 
 except perhaps that of having ridiculed his Bible. 
 
205 
 
 A melancholy Bird ? Oh ! idle thought ! 
 
 In nature there is nothing melancholy. 
 
 But some night-wandering man, whose heart was 
 
 pierced 
 With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 
 Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 
 (And so poor Wretch ! fill'd all things with himself 
 And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
 Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he. 
 First named these notes a melancholy strain : 
 And many a poet echoes the conceit ; 
 Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 
 When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs 
 Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell. 
 By Sun or Moon-light, to the influxes 
 Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 
 Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
 And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 
 Should share in Nature's immortality, 
 A venerable thing ! and so his song 
 Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
 Be lov'd like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
 And youths and maidens most poetical. 
 Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring 
 In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
 
206 
 
 Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
 O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 
 
 My Friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have learnt 
 A diiFerent lore : we may not thus profane 
 Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
 And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
 That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
 With fast thick warble his delicious notes. 
 As he were fearful that an April night 
 Would be too short for him to utter forth 
 His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
 Of all its music ! 
 
 And I knov/ a grove 
 Of large extent, hard by a castle huge. 
 Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
 This grove is wild with tangling underwood. 
 And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
 Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. 
 But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
 So many Nightingales ; and far and near. 
 In wood and thicket, over the wide grove. 
 They answer and provoke each other's songs— 
 With skirmish and capricious passagings. 
 
207 
 
 And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, 
 
 And one, low piping, sounds more sweet than all — 
 
 Stirring the air with such an harmony, 
 
 That should you close your eyes, you might almost 
 
 Forget it was not day ! On moonlight bushes. 
 
 Whose dewy leafits are but half disclosed. 
 
 You may perchance behold them on the twigs. 
 
 Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and 
 
 full. 
 Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
 Lights up her love-torch. 
 
 A most gentle Maid, 
 Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
 Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
 (Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate 
 To something more than Nature in the grove) 
 Glides thro' the pathways ; she knov/s all their notes. 
 That gentle Maid ! and oft a moment's space. 
 What time the Moon was lost behind a cloud. 
 Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the Moon 
 Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky 
 With one sensation, and these wakeful Birds 
 Have all burst forth in Choral ministrelsy. 
 As if one quick and sudden Gale had swept 
 An hundred airy harps ! And she hath watch'd 
 
208 
 
 Many a Nightingale perch giddily 
 On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze. 
 And to that motion tune his wanton song 
 Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. 
 
 Farewell, O Warbler ! till to-morrow eve. 
 And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell ! 
 We have been loitering long and pleasantly. 
 And now for our dear homes. — ^That strain again ? 
 Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe. 
 Who, capable of no articulate sound. 
 Mars all things with his imitative lisp. 
 How he would place his hand beside his ear. 
 His little hand, the small forefinger up. 
 And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 
 To make him Nature's Play-mate. He knows well 
 The evening-star ; and once, when he awoke 
 In most distressful mood (some inward pain 
 Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream) 
 I hurried with him to our orchard-plot. 
 And he beheld the Moon, and, hush'd at once. 
 Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, 
 While his fair eyes, that swam with undropt tears 
 Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam ! Well ! — 
 It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven 
 
209 
 
 Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up 
 
 Familiar with these songs, that with the night 
 
 He may associate joy ! Once more farewell. 
 
 Sweet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends ! farewell. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
no 
 
 FROST AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 The Frost performs its secret ministry, 
 Unhelp'd by any wind. The owlet's cry 
 Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as before. 
 The inmates of my cottage, all at rest. 
 Have left me to that solitude, which suits 
 Abstruser musings : save that at my side 
 My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
 'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 
 And vexes meditation with its strange 
 And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood. 
 This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood, 
 With all the numberless goings on of life. 
 Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame 
 Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not ; 
 Only that film, which flutter'd on the grate. 
 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
 Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature 
 Gives it dim sympathies with me who live. 
 Making it a companionable form, 
 
m 
 
 To which the living spirit in our frame, 
 That loves not to behold a lifeless thing, 
 Transfuses its own pleasures, its own will. 
 
 How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 
 Presageful, have Igaz'd upon the bars. 
 To watch that fluttering stranger I and as oft 
 With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
 Of my sweet birth-place; and the old church-tower, 
 Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
 From morn to evening, all the hot fair day. 
 So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me 
 With a sweet pleasure, falling on mine ear 
 Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! 
 So gaz'd 1, till the soothing things, I dreamt, 
 LuU'd me to sleep, and sleep prolong'd my dreams ! 
 And so I brooded all the following morn, 
 Aw'd by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
 Fix'd with mock study on my swimming book : 
 Save if the door half open'd, and I snalch'd 
 A hasty glance, and still my heart leapt up. 
 For still I hop'd to see the stranger's face. 
 Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, 
 Mv plav-mate when we both were cloth'd alike ! 
 p 2 
 
312 
 
 Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, 
 Whose gentle breathings, heard in this dead calm, 
 Fill'd up the interspersed vacancies 
 And momentary pauses of the thought ! 
 My Babe so beautiful ! it fills my heart 
 With tender gladness, thus to look at thee. 
 And think that thou shalt learn far other lore 
 And in far other scenes ! For I was rear'd 
 In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, 
 And saw nouglit lovely but the sky and stars. 
 But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze 
 By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
 Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds 
 Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
 And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear 
 The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
 Of that eternal language, which thy God 
 Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
 Himself in all, and all tilings in himself. 
 Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould 
 Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 
 
 Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee. 
 Whether the summer clothe the general earth 
 With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
 
213 
 
 Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare brancli 
 
 Of mossy apple-tree, Vv^hile the nigh thatch \ 
 
 Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eve-drops fall, 
 
 Heard only in the traces of the blast, 
 
 Or if the secret ministry of frost 
 
 Shall hang them up in silent icicles. 
 
 Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 
 
217 
 
 THE THREE GRAVES. 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON's TALE. 
 
 [The Author has piiblished the following humble fragment, 
 encouraged by the decisive recommendation of more than one of 
 our most celebrated living Poets. The language was intended 
 to be dramatic; that is suited to the narrator; and the metre 
 corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is therefore 
 presented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a common 
 Ballad-tale. Whether this is sufficient to justify the adoption 
 of such a style, in any metrical composition not professedly ludi- 
 crous, the Author is himself in some doubt. At all events, it is 
 not presented as Poetry, and it is in no way connected with the 
 Author's judgement concerning Poetic diction. Its merits, if 
 any, are exclusively Pschycological. The story which must have 
 been supposed to have been narrated in the first and second 
 parts is as follows. 
 
 Edward, a young farmer, meets at the house of Ellen, her 
 bosom-friend Mary, and commences an acquaintance, which ends 
 in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the advice 
 of their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes and in- 
 tentions to Mary's Mother, a widow-woman bordering on her 
 fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession of a com- 
 petent property, and from having had no other children but Mary 
 and another Daughter (the Father died in their infancy) retaining, 
 for the greater part, her personal attractions and comeliness of 
 appearance ; but a woman of low education and violent temper. 
 The answer which she at once returned to Edward's applica- 
 tion was remarkable—" Well, Edward! you are a handsome young 
 fellow, and you shall have my Daughter." From this time all their 
 
218 
 
 wooing passed under the Mother's eyes; and, in fine, she became 
 herself enamoured of her future Son-in-law, and practised every 
 art, both of endearment and of calumny, to transfer his affections 
 from her daughter to herself. (The outlines of the Tale are po- 
 sitive Facts, and of no very distant date, though the author has 
 purposely altered the names and the scene of action, as well as 
 invented the characters of the parties and the detail of the inci- 
 dents.) Edward, however, though perplexed by her strange 
 detractions from her daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence 
 of his own heart still mistaking her increasing fondness for motherly 
 aflfection ; she at length, overcome by her miserable passion, after 
 much abuse of Mary's temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed 
 with violent emotion— O Edward ! indeed, indeed, she is not fit 
 for you — she has not a heart to lo"^ you as you deserve. It is I 
 that love you! Marry me, Edward! and I will this very day 
 settle all my property on you. — The Lover's eyes were now opened: 
 and thus taken by surprize, whether from the effect of the horror 
 which he felt, acting^as it were hysterically on his nervous sys. 
 tern, or that at the first moment he lost the sense of guilt of the 
 the proposal in the feeling of its strangeness and absurdity, he 
 flung her from him and burst into a fit of laughter. Irritated by 
 this almost to frenzy, the woman fell on her knees, and in a loud 
 voice, that approached to a scream, she prayed for a Curse both 
 on him and on her own Child. Mary happened to be in the room 
 directly above them, heard Edward's laugh and her Mother's 
 blasphemous prayer, and fainted away. He, hearing the fall, ran 
 up stairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her off to Ellen's 
 home ; and after some fruitless attempts on her part toward a 
 reconciliation with her Mother, she was married to him. — And 
 here the third part of the Tale begins. 
 
 I was not led to chuse this story from any partiality to tragic, 
 much less to monstrous events (though at the time that I composed 
 the verses, somewhat more than twelve years ago, I was less averse 
 to such subjects than at present), but from finding iu it a striking 
 proof of the possible effect on the imagination, from an Idea vio- 
 lently and suddenly imprest on it. I had been reading Bryan 
 Edwards's account of the effect of the Oiw Witchraft on the Negroes 
 in the West-Indies, and Hearne's deeply interesting Anecdotes of 
 
219 
 
 similar workings on the imagination of the Copper Indians (those 
 of my Readers who have it in their power will be well repaid 
 for the trouble of referring to those works for the passages alluded 
 to); and I conceived the design of shewing that instances of this 
 kind are not peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of illustra- 
 ting the mode in which the mind is affected in these cases, and the 
 progress and symptoms of the morbid action on the fancy from 
 the beginning. 
 
 The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a 
 country church-yard, to a Traveller whose curiosity had been 
 awakened by the appearance of three graves, close by each other, 
 to two only of which there were grave-stones. On the first of these 
 was the name, and dates, as usual: on the second, no name, but 
 only a date, and the words. The Mercy of God is infinite.] 
 
 The Grapes upon the Vicar's wall ^ 
 
 Were ripe as ripe could be ; 
 And yellow leaves in Sun and Wind 
 
 Were falling from the Tree. 
 
 On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane 
 Still swung the strikes of corn : 
 
 Dear Lord ! it seems but yesterday — 
 Young Edward's marriage-morn. 
 
 Up through that wood behind the church. 
 There leads from Edward's door 
 
 A mossy track, all over bough'd, 
 For half a mile or more. 
 
no 
 
 And from their house-door by that track 
 The Bride and Bridegroom went ; 
 
 Sweet Mary, tho' she was not gay, 
 Seem'd chearful and content. 
 
 But when they to the church-yard came^ 
 
 I've heard poor Mary say, 
 As soon as she stept into the Sun, 
 
 Her heart it died away. 
 
 And when the Vicar join'd their hands, 
 Her limbs did creep and freeze ; 
 
 But when they pray'd, she thought she saw 
 Her mother on her knees. 
 
 And o'er the church-path they return'd — 
 
 I saw poor Mary's back. 
 Just as she stept beneath the boughs 
 
 Into the mossy track. 
 
 Her feet upon the mossy track 
 
 The married maiden set : 
 That moment — I have lieard her say — 
 
 She wish'd she could forget. 
 
221 
 
 The shade o'er-flush'd her limbs with heat- 
 Then came a chill like death : 
 
 And when the merry bells rang out, 
 They seem'd to stop her breath. 
 
 Beneath the foulest Mother's curse . 
 
 No child could ever thrive : 
 A Mother is a Mother still. 
 
 The holiest thing alive. 
 
 So five months pass'-d : the Mother still 
 
 Would never heal the strife ; 
 But Edward was a loving man 
 
 And IV^ary a fond wife. 
 
 " My sister may not visit us. 
 My mother says her nay : 
 
 Edward ! you are all to me, 
 
 1 wish for your sake I could be 
 
 More lifesome and more gay. 
 
 I'm dull and sad ! indeed, indeed 
 
 I know I have no reason ! 
 Perhaps T am not well in health, 
 
 And 'tis a gloomy season." 
 
'Twas a drizzly time — no ice, no snow ! 
 
 And on the few fine days 
 She stirr'd not out, lest she might meet 
 
 Her mother in the ways. 
 
 But Ellen, spite of miry ways 
 And weather dark and dreary, 
 
 Trudg'd every day to Edward's house. 
 And made them all more cheary. 
 
 Oh ! Ellen was a faithful Friend, 
 
 More dear than any Sister ! 
 As cheerful too as singing lark ; 
 And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark, 
 
 And then they always miss'd her. 
 
 And now Ash-Wednesday came — that day 
 
 But few to Church repair : 
 For on that day you know we read 
 
 The Commination prayer. 
 
 Our late old Vicar, a kind man. 
 
 Once, Sir ! he said to me. 
 He wish'd that service was clean out 
 
 Of our good Liturgy. 
 
The Mother walk'd into the church- 
 To Ellen's seat she went : 
 
 Tho' Ellen always kept her ehurch 
 All church-days during Lent. 
 
 And gentle Ellen welcom'd her 
 
 With courteous looks and mild : 
 Thought she, '^ what if her heart should melt^ 
 
 And all be reconcil'd \'\ 
 
 The day M^as scarcely like a day — 
 
 The clouds were black outright : 
 And many a night, with half a Moon, 
 
 I've seen the church more light. 
 
 The wind was wild ; against the glass 
 
 The rain did beat and bicker ; 
 The church-tower swaying over head 
 
 You scarce could hear the Vicar ! 
 
 And then and there the Mother knelt. 
 
 And audibly she cried — 
 Oh ! may a clinging curse consume 
 
 This woman by my side ! 
 
224 
 
 O hear me, hear me. Lord in Heaven, 
 Altho' thou take my life — 
 
 curse this woman, at whose house 
 Young Edward wooed his wife. 
 
 By night and day, in bed and bower, 
 
 O let her cursed be ! ! ! 
 So having pray'd, steady and slow. 
 
 She rose up from her knee ! 
 And left the church, nor e'er again 
 
 The church-door enter'd she. 
 
 1 saw poor Ellen kneeling still. 
 
 So pale ! I guess 'd not why : 
 When she stood up, there plainly was 
 A trouble in her eye. 
 
 And when the prayers were done, we all 
 Came round and ask'd her why : 
 
 Giddy she seem'd, and, sure, there was 
 A trouble in her eye. 
 
 But ere she from the church-door stepp'd 
 
 She smil'd and told us why : 
 " It was a wicked woman's curse" 
 
 Quoth she, " and what care I ?" 
 
225 
 
 •She smil'd, and smil'd, and pass'd it off 
 E'er from the door she stept — 
 
 But all agree it would have been 
 Much better had she wept. 
 
 And if her heart was not at ease^ 
 This was her constant cry — 
 
 " It was a wicked woman's curse — 
 God's good^ and what care 1 ?" 
 
 There was a hurry in her looks. 
 Her struggles she redoubled : 
 
 " It was a wicked woman's curse. 
 And why should I be troubled ?" 
 
 These' tears will come — I dandled her 
 When 'twas the merest fairy — 
 
 Good creature ! and she hid it all : 
 She told it not to Mary. 
 
 But Mary heard the tale : her arms 
 Round Ellen's neck she threw ; 
 
 " O Ellen, Ellen, she curs'd me. 
 And now she hath curs'd you !" 
 
 VOL. IJ. Q 
 
I saw young Edward by himself 
 
 Stalk fast adown the lee. 
 He snatcht a stick from every fence, 
 
 A twig from every tree. 
 
 He snapt them still with hand or knee. 
 
 And then away they flew ! 
 As if with his uneasy limbs 
 
 He knew not what to do ! 
 
 You see, good sir I that single hill ? 
 
 His farm lies underneath : 
 He heard it there, he heard it all. 
 
 And only gnash'd his teeth. 
 
 Now Ellen was a darling love 
 
 In all his joys and cares : 
 And Ellen's name and Mary's name 
 Fast-link'd they both together came. 
 
 Whene'er he said his prayers. 
 
 And in the moment of his prayers 
 
 He lov'd them both alike : 
 Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy 
 
 Upon his heart did strike I 
 
227 
 
 He reacli'd his home, and by his looks 
 
 They saw his inward strife : 
 And they clung round him with their arms, 
 
 Both Ellen and his wife. 
 
 And Mary could not check her tears. 
 
 So on his breast she bow'd; 
 Then Frenzy melted into Grief, 
 
 And Edward wept aloud. 
 
 Dear Ellen did not weep at all, 
 
 But closelier did she cling. 
 And turn'd her face and look'd as if 
 
 She saw some frightful thing. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 To see a man tread over Graves 
 
 I hold it no good mark ; 
 'Tis wicked in the Sun and Moon, 
 
 And bad luck in the dark ! 
 
 You see that Grave ? The Lord, he gives, 
 
 The Lord, he takes away : 
 Oh ! 'tis the child of my old age 
 
 Lies there as cold as clay. 
 o2 
 
228 
 
 Except that grave, you scarce see one 
 
 That was not dug by me 
 I'd rather dance upon *em all 
 
 Than tread upon these three ! 
 
 ^' Aye, Sexton ! 'tis a touching tale." 
 
 '^ You, Sir ! are but a lad ; 
 This month I'm in my seventieth year. 
 
 And still it makes me sad. 
 
 And Mary's sister told it me. 
 For three good hours and more ; 
 
 Tho' I had heard it, in the main. 
 From Edward's self, before. 
 
 Well ! it pass'd off ! the gentle Ellen 
 
 Did well nigh dote on Mary; 
 And she went oftener than before, 
 And Mary lov'd her more and more : 
 She manag'd all the dairy. 
 
 To market slie on market-days. 
 To church on Sundays came ; 
 
 All seem'd the same: all seem'd so. Sir ! 
 But all was not the same i 
 
; 229 
 
 Had Ellen lost her mirth ? Oh ! no ! 
 
 But she was seldom cheerful ; 
 And Edward look'd as if he thought 
 
 That Ellen's mirth was fearful. 
 
 When by herself, she to herself 
 Must sing some merry rhime ', 
 
 She could not now be glad for hours. 
 Yet silent all the time. 
 
 And when she sooth'd her friend, thro' all 
 Her soothing words 'twas plain 
 
 She had a sore grief of her own, 
 A haunting in her brain. 
 
 And oft she said, I'm not grown thin } 
 And then her wrist she spann'd : 
 
 And once when Mary was down-cast. 
 She took her by the hand. 
 
 And gaz'd upon her, and at first 
 She gently press'd her hand ; 
 
 Then harder, till her grasp at length 
 
 Did gripe like a convulsion ! 
 Alas ! said she, we ne'er can be 
 
 Made happy by compulsion ! 
 
230 
 
 And once her both arms suddenly 
 Round Mary's neck she flung. 
 
 And her heart panted, and she felt 
 The words upon her tongue. 
 
 She felt them coming, but no power 
 Had she the words to smother ; 
 
 And with a kind of shriek she cried, 
 " Oh Christ ! you're like your Mother V 
 
 So gentle Ellen now no more 
 
 Could make this sad house cheary; 
 
 And Mary's melancholy ways 
 Drove Edward wild and weary. 
 
 Lingering he rais'd his latch at eve. 
 Though tired in heart and limb : 
 
 He lov'd no other place, and yet 
 Home was no home to him. 
 
 One evening he took up a book. 
 
 And nothing in it read ; 
 Then flung it down, and groaning cried. 
 
 Oh ! Heaven ! that I were dead. 
 
231 
 
 Mary look'd up into his face. 
 
 And nothing to him said ; 
 She tried to smile, and on his arm 
 
 Mournfully leaned her head. 
 
 And he burst into tears, and fell 
 
 Upon his knees in prayer : 
 Her heart is broke ! O God ! my grief. 
 
 It is too great to bear ! 
 
 'Twas such a foggy time as makes 
 
 Old Sextons, Sir ! like me. 
 Rest on their spades to cough ; the spring 
 
 Was late uncommonly. 
 
 And then the hot days, all at once. 
 They came, we knew not how : 
 
 You look'd about for shade, when scarce 
 A leaf was on a bough. 
 
 It happen'd then ('twas in the bower 
 
 A furlong up the wood : 
 Perhaps you know the place, and yet 
 
 I scarce know how you shou'd) 
 
252 
 
 No path leads thither^ 'tis not nigh 
 
 To any pasture-plot ; 
 But cluster'd near the chattering brook. 
 
 Lone hollies mark'd the spot. 
 
 Those hollies of themselves a shape 
 
 As of an arbor took, 
 A close, round arbor; and it stands 
 
 Not three strides from a brook. 
 
 Within this arbor, which was still 
 
 With scarlet berries hung. 
 Were these three friends, one Sunday morn. 
 
 Just as the first bell rung. 
 
 ^Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet 
 
 To hear the Sabbath-bell, 
 ^Tis sweet to hear them both at once. 
 
 Deep in a woody dell. 
 
 His limbs along the moss, his head 
 
 Upon a mossy heap, 
 With shut-up senses, Edward lay : 
 That brook e'en on a working day 
 
 Might chatter one to sleep. 
 
233 
 
 And he had pass'd a restless night. 
 
 And was not well in health ; 
 The women sat down by his side. 
 
 And talk'd as 'twere by stealth. 
 
 " The Sun peeps thro' the close thick leaves, 
 
 " See, dearest Ellen ! see ! 
 " 'Tis in the leaves, a little Sun, 
 
 " No bigger than your ee ; 
 
 " A tiny Sun, and it has got 
 
 " A perfect glory too : 
 " Ten thousand threads and hairs of light. 
 Make up a glory, gay and bright, 
 
 " Round that small orb, so blue." 
 
 And then they argued of those rays. 
 
 What colour they might be : 
 Says this, ^'^ they're mostly green; "says that, 
 
 '^ They're amber-like to me." 
 
 So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts, 
 
 Were troubling Edward's rest ; 
 But soon they heard his hard quick pants. 
 
 And the thumping in his breast. 
 
234 
 
 " A Mother, too !" these self-same words 
 Did Edward mutter plain j 
 His face was drawn back on itself. 
 With horror and huge pain. 
 
 Both groan'd at once, for both knew well 
 What thoughts were in his mind ; 
 
 When he wak'd up, and star'd like one 
 That hath been just struck blind. 
 
 He sat upright ; and ere the dream 
 
 Had had time to depart, 
 " O God, forgive me ! (he exclaim'd) 
 
 " I have torn out her heart." 
 
 Then Ellen shriek'd, and forthwith burst 
 
 Into ungentle laughter ; 
 And Mary shiver'd, where she sat. 
 And never she smil'd after. 
 
 Carmen religimm in futiuum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! 
 and To-morrow and To-morrow ! — 
 
ODES 
 
 AND 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
237 
 
 DEJECTION: 
 
 An Ode. 
 
 Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, 
 With the old Moon in her arms ; 
 And I fear, I fear, my Master dear ! 
 We shall have a deadly storm. 
 
 Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. 
 
 I. 
 
 Well ! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made 
 The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
 This nightj so tranquil now, will not go hence 
 Unrous'd by winds, that ply a busier trade 
 Than those which mould yon clouds in lazy flakes. 
 Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes 
 Upon the strings of this iEolian lute. 
 Which better far were mute. 
 For lo ! the New-moon winter-bright ! 
 And overspread with phantom-light. 
 
238 
 
 (With swimming phantom-light o'erspread 
 
 But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread) 
 I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling 
 
 The coming on of rain and squally blast. 
 And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling, 
 
 And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast ! 
 Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed. 
 
 And sent my soul abroad. 
 Might now perha;ps their wonted impulse give. 
 Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live ! 
 
 II. 
 
 A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, 
 
 A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief. 
 
 Which finds no natural outlet, no relief. 
 In word, or sigh, or tear — 
 O Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood. 
 To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd. 
 
 All this long eve, so balmy and serene. 
 Have I been gazing on the western sky. 
 
 And it's peculiar tint of yellow green : 
 And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye ! 
 And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, 
 That give away their motion to the stars ; 
 
239 
 
 Those stars, that glide behind them or between. 
 
 Now sparkling, now bedimmM, but always seen ; 
 
 Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it grew 
 
 In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 
 
 I see them all so excellently fair, 
 
 I see, not feel how beautiful they are ! 
 
 III. 
 
 My genial spirits fail. 
 
 And what can these avail. 
 To lift the smoth'ring weight from off my breast ? 
 
 It were a vain endeavor. 
 
 Though I should gaze for ever 
 On that green light that lingers in the west : 
 I may not hope from outward forms to win 
 The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O Lady ! we receive but what we give. 
 And in our life alone does nature live : 
 Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud i 
 And would we aught behold, of higher worth, 
 Than that inanimate cold world allowM 
 
240 
 
 To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd. 
 Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth, 
 
 A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 
 Enveloping the Earth — 
 
 And from the soul itself must there be sent 
 A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth. 
 
 Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 
 
 V. 
 
 O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me 
 What this strong music in the soul may be ! 
 What, and wherein it doth exist. 
 This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist. 
 This beautiful, and beauty-making power. 
 
 Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er was given, 
 Save to the pure, and in their purest hour. 
 Life, and life's effulgence, cloud at once and shower, 
 Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power. 
 Which wedding Nature to us gives in dow'r 
 
 A new Earth and new Heaven, 
 Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — 
 Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud — 
 
241 
 
 We in ourselves rejoice ! 
 And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, 
 
 All melodies the echoes of that voice. 
 All colours a suffusion from that light. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There was a time when, though my path was rough. 
 This joy within me dallied with distress. 
 
 And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 
 
 Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness : 
 
 For hope grew round me, like the twining vine. 
 
 And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine. 
 
 But now afflictions bow me down to earth : 
 
 Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth, 
 But oh ! each visitation 
 
 Suspends what nature gave me at my birth. 
 My shaping spirit of Imagination. 
 
 For not to think of what I needs must feel, 
 But to be still and patient, all I can ; 
 
 And haply by abstruse research to steal 
 
 From my own nature all the natural Man — 
 This was my sole resource, my only plan : 
 
 Till that which suits a part infects the whole. 
 
 And now is almost grown the habit of my Soul. 
 
 VOL. II. R 
 
243 
 
 VII. 
 
 Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind. 
 
 Reality's dark dream ! 
 I turn from you, and listen to the Avind, 
 
 Which long has rav'd unnotic'd. What a scream 
 Of agony by torture lengthen'd out 
 That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that rav'st without. 
 
 Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree. 
 Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, 
 Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 
 
 Methinks were fitter instruments for thee. 
 Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of show'rs, 
 Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flow'rs, 
 Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wint'ry song, 
 The blossoms, buds, and tim'rous leaves among. 
 
 Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! 
 Thou mighty Poet, e'en to Frenzy bold ! 
 What tell'st thou now about ? 
 "Tis of the Rushing of an Host in rout. 
 
 With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds — 
 At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold ! 
 But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence ! 
 
 And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, 
 
 * Tairn is a small lake, generally it not always applied to the lakes 
 up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the val- 
 lies. This address to the wind will not appear extravagant to those 
 who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country. 
 
243 
 
 With groans, and tremulous shudderings — all is over — 
 It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud ! 
 A tale of less aifright. 
 And temper'd with delight. 
 As Otway's self had fram'd the tender lay — 
 Tis of a little child 
 Upon a lonesome wild. 
 Not far from home, but she hath lost her way : 
 And now moans low in bitter grief and fear. 
 And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother 
 hear. 
 
 VIIT. 
 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep : 
 Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! 
 Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing. 
 And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, 
 May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling. 
 Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping Earth ! 
 With light heart may she rise. 
 Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, 
 Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice : 
 To her may all things live, from Pole to Pole, 
 Their life the eddying of her living soul ! 
 
 O simple spirit, guided from above. 
 Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice, 
 Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice. 
 
 R 2 
 
244 
 
 ODE 
 
 TO 
 
 GEORGIAN A, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE, 
 
 On the 2ith Stanza in her " Passage ocer Mount Gothard." 
 
 '• And hail the Chapel! hail the Platform wild! 
 Where Tell directed the avenging Dart, 
 With well strung arm, that tirst preserv'd his Child, 
 Then aimed the arrow at the Tyrant's heart." 
 
 Splendor's fondly fostered child I 
 And did you hail the Platform wild, 
 Where once the Austrian fell 
 Beneath the shaft of Tell? 
 O Lady^ nurs'd in pomp and pleasure / 
 Whence learnt you that heroic measure ? 
 
 Light as a dream your days their circlets ran. 
 From all that teaches Brotherhood to Man 
 
245 
 
 Far, far removed ! from want, from hope, from fear ! 
 Enchanting music lull'd your infant ear, 
 Obeisant praises sooth'd your infant heart : 
 Emblazonments and old ancestral crests. 
 With many a bright obstrusive form of art. 
 
 Detain 'd your eye from nature : stately vests. 
 That veiling strove to deck your charms divine. 
 Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine. 
 Were your's unearn'd by toil; nor could you see 
 The unenjoying toiler's misery. 
 And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child. 
 You hail'd the Chapel and the Platform wild, 
 W^here once the Austrian fell 
 Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
 O Lady, nurs'd in pomp and pleasure ! 
 Whence learnt you that heroic measure ? 
 
 There crowd your finely-fibred frame, 
 
 All living faculties of bliss : 
 And Genius to your cradle came. 
 His forehead wreath'd with lambent fiame. 
 
 And bending low, with godlike kiss 
 
 Breath'd in a more celestial life ! 
 But boasts not many a fair compeer 
 
246 
 
 A heart as seasltivc to joy and fear ? 
 And some, perchance^ might wage an equal strlfcj, 
 Some few, to nobler being wrought, 
 Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought. 
 Yet these delight to celebrate 
 Laurell'd War and plumy State ; 
 Or in verse and music dress 
 Tales of nistic happiness — 
 Pernicious Tales ! insidious Strains ! 
 That steel the rich man's breast, 
 And mock the lot unblest. 
 The sordid vices and the abject pains. 
 Which evermore must be 
 The doom of Ignorance and Penury ! 
 But you, free Nature's uncorrupted child. 
 You hail'd the Chapel and the Platform wild, 
 Where once the Austrian fell 
 Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
 
 Lady, nurs'd in pomp and pleasure ! 
 Where learnt you that heroic measure ? 
 
 —You were a Mother ! That most holy name, 
 Which Heaven and Nature bless, 
 
 1 iflay not vilely prostitute to those 
 
 Whose Infants owe them less 
 
247 
 
 Than the poor Caterpillar owes 
 Its gaudy Parent Fly. 
 You were a Mother ! at your bosom fed 
 
 The Babes that lov'd you. You, with laughing eye. 
 Each twihght-thought, each nascent feeling read. 
 Which you yourself created. Oh ! delight ! 
 A second time to be a Mother, 
 
 Without the Mother's bitter groans : 
 Another thought, and yet another. 
 By touch, or taste, by looks or tones 
 O'er the growing Sense to roll. 
 The Mother of your Infant's Soul ! 
 The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides 
 
 His chariot-planet round the goal of day. 
 All trembling gazes on the Eye of God, 
 
 A moment turn'd his awful face away ; 
 And as he view'd you, from his aspect sweet 
 
 New influences in your being rose. 
 Blest Intuitions and Communions fleet 
 With living Nature, in her joys and woes ! 
 Thenceforth your soul rejoic'd to see 
 The shrine of social Liberty I 
 O beautiful ! O Nature's child ! 
 'Twas thence you hail'd the Platform wild, 
 
248 
 
 Where once the Austrian fell 
 
 Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
 O Lady, nurs'd in pomp and pleasure ! 
 Thence learnt you that heroic measure. 
 
249 
 
 ODE 
 
 TO 
 
 TRANQUILLITY. 
 
 Tranquillity ! thou better name 
 
 Than all the family of Fame ! 
 
 Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age 
 
 To low intrigue, or factious rage : 
 
 For oh ! dear child of thoughtful Truth, 
 
 To thee I gave my early youth. 
 And left the bark, and blest the stedfast shore. 
 Ere yet the Tempest rose and scar'd me with its roar. 
 
 Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine. 
 On him but seldom, power divine. 
 Thy spirit rests ! Satiety 
 And sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, 
 Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope ^ 
 And dire Remembrance interlope. 
 To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind : 
 The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. 
 
250 
 
 But me thy gentle hand will lead 
 At morning through the accustom'd mead 5 
 And in the sultry summer's heat 
 Will build me up a mossy seat ! 
 And when the gust of Autumn crowds 
 And breaks the busy moonlight-clouds. 
 Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune. 
 Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon, 
 
 The feeling heart, the searching soul, 
 
 To thee I dedicate the whole ! 
 
 And while within myself I trace 
 
 The greatness of some future race. 
 
 Aloof with hermit-eye I scan 
 
 The present works of present man — 
 A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile. 
 Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! 
 
251 
 
 TO A rOUNG FRIEND, 
 
 On his proposing to Dotnesticate with the Author, 
 
 Composed in 1796, 
 
 A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep. 
 
 But a green mountain variously up-piled. 
 Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep. 
 Or color'd lichens with slow oosing weep ', 
 
 Where cypress and the darker yew start wild ; 
 And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash 
 Dance brighten'd the red clusters of the ash ; 
 
 Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds beguil'd, 
 Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; 
 
 Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, 
 That rustling on the bushy clift above, 
 With melancholy bleat of anxious love. 
 
 Made meek enquiry for her wandering lamb : 
 
 Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb. 
 E'en while the bosom ach'd with loneliness — 
 How more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless 
 
 Th' advent'rous toil, and up the path sublime 
 
252 
 
 Now lead, now follow : the glad landscape round. 
 Wide and more wide, increasing without bound 1 
 
 O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark 
 The berries of the half-uprooted ash 
 Dripping and bright ; and list the torrent's dash, — 
 
 Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark. 
 Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock ; 
 Tn social silence now, and now t'unlock 
 The treasur'd heart j arm link'd in friendly arm. 
 Save if the one, his muse's witching charm 
 Mutt'ring brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag ; 
 
 Till high o'er head his beck'ning friend appears. 
 And from the forehead of the topmost crag 
 
 Shouts eagerly : for haply there uprears 
 That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs. 
 
 Which latest shall detain th' enamoured sight^ 
 Seen from below, when eve the valley dims, 
 
 Ting'd yellow with the rich departing light ; 
 
 And haply, bason'd in some unsunn'd cleft, 
 A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, 
 Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale ! 
 
 Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left, 
 
253 
 
 Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pme. 
 
 And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, 
 Ah ! dearest youth ! it were a lot divine 
 To cheat our noons in moralizing mood, 
 While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd : 
 
 Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount, 
 To some lone mansion, in some woody dale. 
 Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss 
 Gives this the Husband's, that the Brother's kiss ! 
 
 Thus rudely vers'd in allegoric lore. 
 The Hill of Knowledge I essay'd to trace; 
 That verd'rous hill with many a resting-place. 
 And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour 
 
 To glad, and fertilize the subject plains ; 
 That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod. 
 And many a fancy-blest and holy sod 
 
 Where Inspiration, his diviner strains 
 Low murmuring, lay ; and starting from the rocks 
 StiiF evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks 
 Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, 
 And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage ! 
 O meek retiring spirit ! we will climb. 
 Cheering and cheer'd, this lovely hill sublime ; 
 
/ 
 
 254 
 
 And from the stirring world up-lifted high, 
 (Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind. 
 To quiet musings shall attune the mind. 
 
 And oft the melancholy theme supply) 
 
 There, while the prospect through the gazing eye 
 
 Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul. 
 We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame. 
 Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same. 
 
 As neighbouring fountains image, each the whole : 
 Then when the mind hath drank its fill of truth. 
 
 We'll discipline the heart to pure delight. 
 Rekindling sober joy's domestic flame. 
 They whom I love shall love thee. Honor'd youth ! 
 
 Now may Heaven realize this vision bright ! 
 
255 
 
 LINES 
 
 To W. L. Esq. while he sang a Song to PurcelVs Music. 
 
 While my young cheek retains its healthful hues, 
 
 And I have many friends who hold me dear; 
 
 L— — ! methinks, I would not often hear 
 Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose 
 All memory of the wrongs and sore distress. 
 
 For which my miserable brethren weep ! 
 
 But should uncomforted misfortunes steep 
 My daily bread in tears and bitterness ; 
 And if at death's dread moment I should lie 
 
 With no beloved face at my bed-side, 
 To fix the last glance of my closing eye, 
 
 Methinks, such strains, breath'd by my angel-guide, 
 Would make me pass the cup of anguish by. 
 
 Mix with the blest, nqv knp.W that I had died ! 
 
256 
 
 ADDRESSED 
 
 TO A YOUI^G MAN OF FORTUNE 
 
 Who abandon'd himself to an indolent and causeless Melancholy. 
 
 Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe, 
 
 O Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear ! 
 To plunder'd Want's half-shelter'd hovel go, 
 
 Go, and some hunger-bitten Infant hear 
 
 Moan haply in a dying Mother's ear : 
 Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood 
 O'er the rank church-yard with sear elm-leaves strew'd, 
 Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part 
 
 Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs 
 The flocking flesh-birds scream'd ! Then, while thy 
 heart 
 
 Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims. 
 Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) 
 What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal ! 
 
 O abject ! if, to sickly dreams resign'd. 
 All effortless thou leave life's common-weal 
 
 A prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind. 
 
257 
 
 SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER. 
 
 Dear native Brook ! wild Streamlet of the West ! 
 
 How many various-fated years have past. 
 
 What happy, and what mournful hours, since last 
 I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast, 
 Numbering its light leaps ! yet so deep impresst 
 Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes 
 
 I never shut amid the sunny ray. 
 But strait with all their tints their waters rise. 
 
 Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey. 
 And bedded sand that vein'd with various dies 
 Gleam'd through thy bright transparence ! On my way. 
 
 Visions of childhood ! oft have ye beguiled 
 Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs. 
 
 Ah ! that I were once more a careless child ! 
 
 VOL, II. 
 
258 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Composed on a journey homeward ; the Author having received 
 intelligence of the birth of a Son, September 20, 1796. 
 
 Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll 
 
 Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) 
 Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, 
 
 Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul 
 
 Self-question'd in her sleep : and some have said* 
 We liv'd, ere yet this robe of Flesh we wore. 
 O my sweet baby ! when I reach my door. 
 
 If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead 
 
 (As sometimes, thro' excess of hope, I fear) 
 
 I think, that I should struggle to believe 
 Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere 
 
 Sentenc'd for some more venial crime to grieve ; 
 
 Did'st scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick 
 reprieve, 
 While we wept idly o'er thy little bier ! 
 
 YSVSff^M, Plat, iw Phcedon. 
 
259 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 To a Friend who asked, how I felt when the Nurse first 
 presented my Infant to me. 
 
 Charles ! my slow heart was only sad, when first 
 T scann'd that face of feeble infancy : 
 
 For dimly on my thoughtful spirit bm-st 
 All I had been, and all my child might be ! 
 
 But when I saw it on its Mother's arm. 
 And hanging at her bosom (she the while 
 Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) 
 
 Then I was thriU'd and melted, and most warm 
 
 Impress'd a Father's kiss : and all beguil'd 
 Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, 
 I seem'd to see an angel-form appear — 
 
 *Twas even thine, beloved wonlan mild ! 
 
 So for the Mother's sake the Child was dear^. 
 
 And dearer was the Mother for the Child. 
 
 s 2 
 
260 
 
 THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE-HYMN. 
 
 Copied from a Print of the Virgin, in a Catholic village in Germany. 
 
 Dor MI, Jesu ! Mater ridet. 
 Quae tam dulcem somnum videt, 
 
 Dormij Jesu ! blandule ! 
 Si non dormis, Mater plorat. 
 Inter fila cantans orat ^ 
 
 Blande, veni, somnule. 
 
 ENGLISH. 
 
 Sleep, sweet babe ! my cares beguiling : 
 Mother sits beside thee smihng : 
 
 Sleep, my darling, tenderly ! 
 If thou sleep not, mother mourneth. 
 Singing as her wheel she turneth : 
 
 Come, soft slumber, balmily I 
 
261 
 
 EPITAPH, ON AN INFANT. 
 
 Its balmy lips the Infant blest 
 Relaxing from its Mother's breast. 
 How sweet it heaves the happy sigh 
 Of innocent Satiety ! 
 
 And such my Infant's latest sigh 1 
 O tell, rude stone ! the passer by. 
 That here the pretty babe doth lie, 
 Death sang to sleep with Lullaby 
 
MELANCHOLY/ 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Stretch 'd on a moulder'd Abbey's broadest wall. 
 
 Where ruining ivies propt the ruins steep — 
 Her folded arms wrapping her tatter'd pall. 
 Had MELANCHOLY mus'd herself to sleep. 
 The fern was press'd beneath her hair. 
 The dark green Adder's Tongue § was there ; 
 And still as past the flagging sea-gale weak, 
 The long lank leaf bow'd fluttering o'er her cheek. 
 
 That pallid cheek was flush'd : her eager look 
 Beam'd eloquent in slumber ! Inly wrought. 
 Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook. 
 And her bent forehead work'd with troubled thought. 
 Strange was the dream that fill'd her soul. 
 Nor did not whispering spirits roll 
 A mystic tumult, and a fateful rhyme 
 Mixt with wild shapings of the unborn time. 
 
 * First published in the Morning Chronicle, in the year 1794. 
 
 $ A botanical mistake. The plant, I meant, is called the Hart's 
 Tongue ; but this would unluckily spoil the poetical effect. Cedat 
 er-s'o Botanice. 
 
263 
 
 TELUs BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 Imitated from Stolberg. 
 
 I. 
 
 Mark this holy chapel well! 
 The Birth-place, this, of William Tell, 
 Here, where stands God's altar dread. 
 Stood his parents' marriage-hed. 
 
 II. 
 Here first, an infant to her breast, 
 Him his loving mother prest } 
 And kiss'd the babe, and bless'd the day. 
 And pray'd as mothers use to pray. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Vouchsafe him health, O God ! and give 
 The child thy servant still to live !" 
 But God had destined to do more 
 Through him, than through an armed power. 
 
264 
 IV. 
 
 God gave him reverence of laws. 
 
 Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause— 
 
 A spirit to his rocks akin. 
 
 The eye of the Hawk, and the fire therein ! 
 
 V. 
 
 To Nature and to Holy writ 
 Alone did God the boy commit : 
 Where flash'd and roar'd the torrent, oft 
 His soul found wings, and soar'd aloft ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 The straining oar and chamois chase 
 Had form'd his limbs to strength and grace ; 
 On wave and wind the boy would toss. 
 Was great, nor knew how great he was ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 He knew not that his chosen hand. 
 Made strong by God, his native land 
 Would rescue from the shameful yoke 
 Of Slavery the which he broke I 
 
265 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL, 
 
 I. 
 
 The Shepherds went their hasty way. 
 
 And found the lowly stable-shed 
 Where the Virgin -Mother lay : 
 
 And now they check'd their eager tread. 
 For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, 
 A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung. 
 
 II. 
 
 They told her how a glorious light. 
 
 Streaming from a heavenly throng, 
 Arround them shone, suspending night ! 
 While sweeter than a Mother's song. 
 Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth. 
 Glory to God on high ! and Peace on Earth. 
 
 III. 
 
 She listen'd to the tale divine, 
 
 And closer still the Babe she pressM ; 
 
 And while she cried, the Babe is mine ! 
 The milk rush'd faster to her breast : 
 
%66 
 
 Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn ; 
 
 Peace, Peace on Earth ! the Prince of Peace. is born. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, 
 
 Poor, simple, and of low estate ! 
 That Strife should vanish. Battle cease, 
 O why should this thy soul elate ? 
 Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story, 
 Did'st thou ne'er love to hear of Fame and Glory ? 
 
 V. 
 
 And is not War a youthful King, 
 
 A stately Hero clad in mail ? 
 Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ; 
 Him Earth's majestic monarch's hail 
 Their Friend, their Playmate ! and his bold bright eye 
 Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Tell this in some more courtly scene, 
 
 " To maids and youths in robes of state ! 
 ^^ I am a woman poor and mean, 
 " And therefore is my Soul elate. 
 '' War is a ruffian, all with guilt defil'd, 
 " That from the aged Father tears his Child ! 
 
267 
 
 VII. 
 
 " A murderous fiend, by fiends ador'd, 
 
 " He kills the Sire and starves the Son ; 
 '^ The Husband kills, and from lier board 
 " Steals all his Widow's toil had won ; 
 " Plunders God's world of beauty ; rends away 
 *^ All safety from the Night, all comfort from the Day." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 *' Then wisely is my soul elate, 
 
 " That Strife should vanish. Battle cease : 
 *^ I'm poor and of a low estate, 
 
 " The Mother of the Prince of Peace. 
 ** Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn : 
 " Peace, Peace on Earth, the Prince of Peace is born." 
 
268 
 
 HUMAN LIFE, 
 
 On the Denial of Immortality . 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 If dead, we cease to be ; if total gloom 
 
 Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare 
 As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom. 
 
 Whose sound and motion not alone declare. 
 But are their whole of being ! If the Breath 
 
 Be Life itself, and not its Task and Tent, 
 If ev'n a soul like Milton's can know death ; 
 
 O Man ! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant. 
 Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes. 
 
 Surplus of nature's dread activity. 
 Which, as she gaz'd on some nigh-finish'd vase, 
 Retreating slow, with meditative pause, 
 
 She form'd with restless hands unconsciously. 
 Blank accident ! nothing's anomaly ! 
 
 If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state. 
 Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy Hopes thy Fears, 
 The counter- weights ! — Thy Laughter and thy Tears 
 
 Mean but themselves, each fittest to create 
 
269 
 
 And to repay the other ! Why rejoices 
 Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good, 
 Why cowl thy face beneath the Mourner's hood, 
 
 Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, - 
 Image of Image, Ghost of Ghostly Elf, 
 
 That such a thing, as thou, feel'st warm or cold ! 
 
 Yet what and whence thy gain, if thou withhold 
 These costless shadows of thy shadowy self. 
 
 Be sad ! be glad! be neither ! seek, or shun ! 
 
 Thou hast no reason why ! Thou can'st have none ! 
 
 Thy being's being is contradiction. 
 
370 
 
 AN ODE TO THE RAIN, 
 
 Composed before day -light, on the morning apjminted for the departure of a 
 very worthy, but not very pleasant Visitor ; whom it was feared the rain 
 miglit detain. 
 
 I. 
 
 I KNOW it is dark ; and though I have lain 
 Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, 
 I have not once open'd the lids of my eyes. 
 But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies. 
 
 Rain ! that I lie listening to. 
 You're but a doleful sound at best : ' 
 
 1 owe you little thanks, 'tis true. 
 
 For breaking thus my needful rest ! 
 Yet if, as soon as it is light, 
 O Rain ! you will but take your flight, 
 I'll neither rail, nor malice keep, 
 Tho' sick and sore for want of sleep : 
 But only now, for this one day. 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 
 
II. 
 
 O Rain ! with your dull two-fold sound. 
 
 The clash hard by, and the murmur all round ! 
 
 You know, if you know aught, that we. 
 
 Both night and day, but ill agree : 
 
 For days, and months, and almost years. 
 
 Have limp'd on thro' this vale of tears, 
 
 Since body of mine, and rainy weather. 
 
 Have liv'd on easy terms together. 
 
 Yet if, as soon as it is light, 
 
 O Rain ! you will but take your flight. 
 
 Though you should come again to-morrow. 
 
 And bring with you both pain and sorrow ; 
 
 Tho' stomach should sicken, and knees should swell- 
 
 ril nothing speak of you but well. 
 
 But only now for this one day. 
 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Dear Rain ! I ne'er refus'd to say 
 You're a good creature in your way. 
 Nay, I could write a book myself. 
 Would fit a parson's lower shelf. 
 Shewing, how very good you are — 
 What then ? sometimes it must be fair ! 
 
272 
 
 And if sometimes, why not to day ? 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 
 
 IV. 
 Dear Rain ! if I've been cold and shy, 
 Take no offence ! I'll tell you, why. 
 A dear old Friend e'en now is here. 
 And with him came my sister dear ; 
 After long absence now first met. 
 Long months by pain and grief beset — 
 We three dear friends ! in truth, we groan 
 Impatiently to be alone. 
 We three, you mark ! and not one more I 
 The strong wish makes my spirit sore. 
 We have so much to talk about. 
 So many sad things to let out ; 
 So many tears in our eye-corners. 
 Sitting like little Jacky Homers — 
 In short, as soon as it is day. 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away. 
 
 V. 
 
 And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain ! 
 Whenever you shall come again, 
 
373 
 
 Be you as dull as e'er you cou'd 
 (And by the bye 'tis understood. 
 You're not so pleasant, as you're good). 
 Yet, knowing well your worth and place, 
 I'll welcome you with cheerful face ; 
 And though you stay'd a week or more, 
 Were ten times duller than before ; 
 Yet with kind heart, and right good will, 
 I'll sit and listen to you still ; 
 Nor should you go away, dear Rain ! 
 Uninvited to remain. 
 But only now, for this one day. 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away. 
 
 VOL. 11. 
 
274 
 
 THE VISIT OF THE GODS. 
 
 Imitated from Schiller. 
 
 Never, believe me. 
 Appear the Immortals, 
 Never alone : 
 Scarce had I welcom'd the Sorrow-beguiler, 
 lacchus ! but in came Boy Cupid, the Smiler ; 
 Lo ! Phoebus, the Glorious, descends from his Throne ! 
 They advance, they float in, the Olympians all ! 
 With Divinities fills my 
 Terrestrial Hall ! 
 
 How shall I yield you 
 Due entertainment. 
 Celestial Quire ? 
 Me rather, bright guests ! with your wings of upbuoyance 
 Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance, 
 That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre ! 
 Hah ! we mount ! op their pinions they waft up my Soul ! 
 O give me the Nectar ! 
 O fill me the Bowl ! 
 
275 
 
 Give him the Nectar ! 
 
 Pour out for the Poet ! 
 
 I 
 
 Hebe ! pour free ! 
 Quicken his eyes with celestial dew. 
 That Styx the destested no more he may view. 
 And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be 
 Thanks, Hebe ! 1 quaff it ! lo Paean, I cry ! 
 The Wine of the Immortals 
 Forbids me to die I 
 
 t2 
 
276 
 
 AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 
 
 Written in America, in the year 1810.* 
 
 All hail ! thou noble Land^ 
 Our Fathers' native soil ! 
 O stretch thy mighty hand^ 
 Gigantic grown by toil, 
 O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore : 
 For thou with magic might 
 Canst reach to where the light 
 Of Phoebus travels bright 
 The world o'er ! 
 
 The Genius of our clime, ' 
 From his pine-embattled steep^ 
 
 Shall hail the guest sublime ; 
 While the Tritons of the deep 
 
 * This Poem, written by an American gentleman, a valued and 
 dear friend, I communicate to the reader for its moral, no less thaa 
 its pontic spirit. 
 
277 
 
 With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. 
 Then let the world combine — 
 O'er the main our Naval Line 
 Like the milky way shall shine 
 Bright in fame I 
 
 Though ages long have past 
 
 Since our Fathers left their home^ 
 Their pilot in the blast. 
 
 O'er untravell'd seas to roam, 
 Yet lives the blood of England in our veins ! 
 And shall we not proclaim 
 That blood of honest fame 
 Which no tyranny can tame 
 By its chains ? 
 
 While the language free and bold 
 Which the Bard of Avon sung, 
 In which our Milton told 
 
 How the vault of Heaven rung 
 When Satan, blasted, fell with his host ; 
 While this, with rev'rence meet. 
 Ten thousand echoes greet, 
 From rock to rock repeat 
 Round our coast; 
 
278 
 
 While the manners, while the arts. 
 
 That mould a nation's soul, 
 Still cling around our hearts — 
 Between let ocean roll. 
 Our joint communion breaking with the Sun : 
 Yet still from either beach 
 
 The voice of blood shall reach, '^ 
 
 More audible than speech, 
 * We are One.'* 
 
 * This alludes merely to the moral union of the two Countries. 
 The Author would not have it supposed that the tribute of respect, 
 offered in these Stanzas to the Land of his Ancestors, would be 
 paid by him, if at the expense of the independence of that vihich 
 gave him birth. 
 
279 
 
 ELEGY, 
 
 Imitated from one of Akenside's Blank-verse Inscriptions. 
 
 Near the lone pile with ivy overspread. 
 
 Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound. 
 
 Where " sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant bed- 
 O humbly press that consecrated ground ! 
 
 For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain ! 
 
 And there his spirit most delights to rove : 
 Young Edmund ! fam'd for each harmonious strain, 
 
 And the sore wounds of ill-requited love. 
 
 Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide. 
 And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume, 
 
 His manhood blossom'd ; till the faithless pride 
 Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb. 
 
 But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue ! 
 
 Wheree'er with wildered steps she wandered pale^ 
 Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view. 
 
 Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale. 
 
280 
 
 With keen regret, and conscious guilt^s alarms. 
 Amid the pomp of affluence she pined ; 
 
 Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arms 
 Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind. 
 
 Go, Traveller ! tell the tale with sorrow fraught : 
 Some tearful maid perchance, or blooming youth. 
 
 May hold it in remembrance ; and be taught 
 That Riches cannot pay for Love or Truth. 
 
281 
 
 THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 Auspicious Reverence ! Hush all meaner song, 
 Ere we the deep preluding strain have poured 
 To the Great Father, only rightful King, 
 Eternal Father I King Omnipotent ! 
 Beneath Avhose shadowy banners, wide unfurlM, 
 Justice leads forth her Tyrant-quelling Hosts. 
 
 Such symphony requires best instrument. 
 Seize, then, my soul ! from Freedom's trophied dome 
 The Harp which hangeth high between the Shields 
 Of Brutus and Leonidas ! With that 
 Strong music, that soliciting «pel}, force back 
 Earth's free and stirring spirit that lies entranced. 
 
 For what is Freedom, but the unfetter'd use 
 Of all the powers which God for use had given ? 
 But chiefly this, him First, him Last to view 
 
282 
 
 Through meaner powers and secondary things 
 
 EfFulgentj as through clouds that veil his blaze. 
 
 For all that meets the bodily sense I deem 
 
 Symbolical, one mighty alphabet 
 
 For infant minds ; and we in this low world 
 
 Placed with our backs to bright Reality, 
 
 That we may learn with young unwounded ken 
 
 The substance from its shadow — Earth's broad shade 
 
 Revealing by Eclipse the Eternal Sun ! 
 
 Bat some there are who deem themselves most free 
 When they within this gross and visible sphere 
 Chain down the winged thought, scoffing ascent 
 Proud in their meanness : and themselves they cheat 
 With noisy emptiness of learned phrase. 
 Their subtle fluids^ impacts, essences. 
 Self-working tools, uncaused effects, and all 
 Those blind Omniscients, those Almighty Slaves, 
 Untenanting creation of its God. 
 
 But properties are God : the naked mass 
 (If mass there be, fantastic Guess or Ghost) 
 Acts only by its inactivity. 
 Here we pause humbly. Others boldlier think 
 That as one body seems the aggregate 
 
283 
 
 Of Atoms numberless, each organized j 
 So by a strange and dim similitude 
 Infinite myriads of self-conscious minds 
 Are one all-conscious Spirit, which informs 
 With absolute ubiquity of thought 
 (His one eternal self-affirming Act !) 
 All his involved Monads, that yet seem 
 With various province and apt agency 
 Each to pursue its own self-centering end. 
 Some nurse the infant diamond in the mine ; 
 Some roll the genial juices through the oak ; 
 Some drive the mutinous clouds to clash in air. 
 And rushing on the storm with whirlwind speed. 
 Yoke the red lightning to their vollying car. 
 Thus these pursue their never-varying course. 
 No eddy in their stream. Others, more wild. 
 With complex interests weaving human fates. 
 Duteous or proud, alike obedient all. 
 Evolve the process of eternal good. 
 
 And what if some rebellions, o'er dark realms 
 Arrogate power ? yet these train up to God, 
 And on the rude eye, unconfirmed for day. 
 Flash meteor-lights better than total gloom. 
 As ere from Lieule-Oaive's vapoury head 
 The Laplander beholds the far-off Sun 
 
284 
 
 Dart his slant beam on unobeying snows. 
 While yet the stern and solitary Night 
 Brooks no alternate sway, the Boreal Morn 
 With mimic lustre substitutes its gleam. 
 Guiding his course or by Niemi lake 
 Or Balda-Zhiok,* or the mossy stone 
 Of Solfar-Kapper,t while the snowy blast 
 Drifts arrowy by, or eddies round h's sledge. 
 Making the poor babe at its mother's back;}; 
 
 * Balda Zhiok: i, e. mons altudinis, the highest mountain in 
 Lapland. 
 
 t Solfar-Kapper : capitium Solfar, hie locus omnium, quotquot 
 veterum Lapponum superstitio sacrificiis religiosoqne cultui dedi- 
 cavit, celebratissimus erat, in parte sinus australis situs, semi- 
 niilliaris spatio a marl distans. Ipse locus, quern curiositatis gratia 
 aliquando me iuvisisse memini, duabus prealtis lapidibus, sibi 
 invicem oppositis, quorum alter musco circumdatus erat, constabat. 
 
 Leemius De Lapponibus. 
 
 % The Lapland women carry their infants at their back in a piece 
 of excavated wood, which serves them for a cradle. Opposite to 
 the infant's mouth there is a hole for it to breathe through. — Mi- 
 randum prorsus est et vix credibile nisi cui vidisse contigit. 
 Lappones hyeme iter facientes per vastos montes, pcrque horrida et 
 invia tesqua, eo presertim tempore quo omnia perpetuis nivibus 
 obtecta sunt et nives ventis agitantur et in gyros aguntur, viam 
 ad destinata loca absque errore invenire posse, lactantem autem 
 infantem, si quem habeat, ipsa mater in dorso bajulat, in excavato 
 ligno (Gieed'k ipsi vocant) quod pro cunis utuntur: in hoc infans 
 pannls et pellibus convolntus colligatus jacet. 
 
 Leemius De Lapponibus. 
 
285 
 
 Scream in its scanty cradle : he the while 
 
 Wins gentle solace as with upward eye 
 
 He marks the streamy banners of the North, 
 
 Thinking himself those happy spirits shall join 
 
 Who there in floating robes of rosy light 
 
 Dance sportively. For Fancy is the Power 
 
 That first unsensualizes the dark mind, 
 
 Giving it new delights ; and bids it swell 
 
 With wild activity ; and peopling air, 
 
 By obscure fears of Beings invisible, 
 
 Emancipates it from the grosser thrall 
 
 Of the present impulse, teaching Self-controul, 
 
 Till Superstition with unconscious hand 
 
 Seat Reason on her throne. Wherefore not vain. 
 
 Nor yet without permitted power impress'd, 
 
 I deem those legends terrible, with which 
 
 The polar ancient thrills his uncouth throng : 
 
 Whether of pitying Spirits that make their moan 
 
 O'er slaughter'd infants, or that Giant Bird 
 
 VuoKHo, of whose rushing wings the noise 
 
 Is Tempest, when the unutterable* shape 
 
 Speeds from the mother of Death, and utters once 
 
 That shriek, which never Murderer heard, and lived. 
 
 * Jaibme Aibmo. 
 
286 
 
 Or if the Greenland Wizard in strange trance 
 Pierces the untravelled realms of Ocean's bed 
 (Where live the innocent as far from cares 
 As from the storms and overwhelming vi^aves 
 Dark tumbling on the surface of the deep). 
 Over the abysm, even to that uttermost cave 
 By mis-shaped prodigies beleaguered, such 
 As Earth ne'er bred, nor Air, nor the upper Sea. 
 
 There dwells the Fury Form, whose unheard name 
 With eager eye, pale cheek, suspended breath. 
 And lips half-opening with the dread of sound. 
 Unsleeping Silence guards, worn out with fear 
 Lest haply escaping on some treacherous blast 
 The fateful word let slip the Elements 
 And frenzy Nature. Yet the wizard her. 
 Armed with *Torngarsuck's power, the Spirit of Good, 
 Forces to unchain the foodful progeny 
 
 * They call the Good Spirit, Torngarsuck. The other great but 
 malignant spirit is a nameless Female ; she dwells under the sea in 
 a great honse, where she can detain in captivity all the animals of 
 the ocean by her magic power. When a dearth befalls the Green- 
 landers, an Angekok or magician must undertake a journey thither: 
 he passes through the kingdom of souls, over an horrible abyss into 
 the Palace of this phantom, and by his enchantments causes the 
 captive creatures to ascend directly to the surface of the ocean. 
 
 ' See Crantz' Hist, of Greenland, vol. i. 206, 
 
287 
 
 Of the Ocean stream. — Wild phantasies ! yet wise, 
 On the victorious goodness of high God 
 Teaching Reliance, and medicinal Hope, 
 Till from Bethabra northward, heavenly Truth 
 With gradual steps winning her difficult way. 
 Transfer their rude Faith perfected and pure. 
 
 If there be Beings of higher class than Man, 
 I deem no nobler province they possess, 
 Than by disposal of apt circumstance 
 To rear up Kingdoms : and the deeds they prompt. 
 Distinguishing from mortal agency. 
 They chuse their mortal ministers from such states 
 As still the Epic Song half fears to name. 
 Repelled from all the Minstrelsies that strike 
 The Palace-Roof and sooth the Monarch's pride. 
 
 And such, perhaps, the Spirit, who (if words 
 Witnessed by answering deeds may claim our Faith) 
 Held commune with that warrior-maid of France 
 Who scourg'd the Invader. — From her infant days. 
 With Wisdom, Mother of retired Thoughts, 
 Her soul had dwelt ; and she was quick to manfk 
 The good and evil thing, in human lore 
 Undisciplin'd. For lowly was her Birth, 
 
288 
 
 And Heaven had doom'd her early years to Toil 
 
 That pure from Tyranny's least deed, herself 
 
 Unfear'd by Fellow-natures, she might wait 
 
 On the poor Lab'ring man with kindly looks, 
 
 And minister refreshment to the tir'd 
 
 Way-wanderer, when along the rough-hewn Bench 
 
 The sweltry man had stretch'd him, and aloft 
 
 Vacantly watch'd the rudely pictured board 
 
 Which on the Mulberry-bough with welcome creek 
 
 Swung to the pleasant breeze. Here, too, the Maid 
 
 Learnt more than Schools could teach : Man's shifting 
 mind. 
 
 His Vices and his Sorrows ! And full oft 
 
 At Tales of cruel Wrong and strange Distress 
 
 Had wept and shiver'd. To the tottering Eld 
 
 Still as a Daughter would she run : she plac'd 
 
 His cold Limbs at the sunny Door, and lov'd 
 
 To hear him story, in his garrulous sort. 
 
 Of his eventful years, all come and gone. 
 
 So twenty seasons past. The Virgin's Form, 
 Active and tall, nor Sloth nor Luxury 
 Had shrunk or paled. Her front sublime and broad, 
 Her flexile eye-brows wildly hair'd and low. 
 And her full eye, now bright, now unillum'd. 
 
289 
 
 Spake more than Woman's Thought : and all her fact 
 
 Was moulded to such Features, as declared. 
 
 That Pity there had oft and strongly work'd. 
 
 And sometimes Indignation. Bold her mien. 
 
 And like an haughty Huntress of the woods 
 
 She mov'd : yet sure she was a gentle maid ! 
 
 And in each motion her most innocent soul 
 
 Beam'd forth so brightly, that who saw would say. 
 
 Guilt was a thing impossible in her ! 
 
 Nor idly would have said, for she had liv'd 
 
 In this bad World, as in a place of Tombs 
 
 And touch'd not the pollutions of the Dead. 
 
 'Twas the cold season when the Rustic's eye 
 From the drear desolate whiteness of his fields 
 Rolls for relief to watch the skiey tints 
 And clouds slow- varying their huge imagery ; 
 When now, as she was wont, the healthful Maid 
 Had left her pallet ere one beam of day 
 Slanted the fog-smoke. She went forth alone. 
 Urged by the indwelling angel-guide, that oft. 
 With dim inexplicable sympathies 
 Disquieting the Heart, shapes out Man's course 
 To the predoomed adventure. Now the ascent 
 She climbs of that steep upland, on whose top 
 
 VOL. II. u 
 
2W 
 
 The Pilgrim-Man, who long since eve had watchM 
 
 The alien shine of unconcerning Stars, 
 
 Shouts to himself, there first the Abbey-lights 
 
 Seen in Neufchatel's vale; now slopes adown 
 
 The winding sheep-track valeward : when, behold 
 
 In the first entrance of the level road 
 
 An unattended Team ! The foremost horse 
 
 Lay with stretch'd limbs ; the others, yet alive 
 
 But stiff and cold, stood motionless, their manes 
 
 Hoar with the frozen night-dews. Dismally 
 
 The dark-red dawn new glimmer 'd ; but its gleams 
 
 Disclosed no face of man. The maiden paused. 
 
 Then hail'd who might be near. No voice replied. 
 
 From the thwart wain at length there reach'd her ear 
 
 A sound so feeble that it almost seem'd 
 
 Distant — and feebly, with slow effort push'd, 
 
 A miserable man crept forth : his limbs 
 
 The silent frost had eat, scathing like fire. 
 
 Faint on the shafts he rested. She, mean time, 
 
 Saw crowded close beneath the coverture 
 
 A mother and her children — lifeless all. 
 
 Yet lovely ! not a lineament was marr'd — 
 
 Death had put on so slumber-like a form I 
 
 It was a piteous sight ; and one, a babe. 
 
 The crisp milk frozen on its innocent lips. 
 
291 
 
 Lay on the woman's arm, its little hand 
 Stretch'd on her bosom. 
 
 Mutely questioning. 
 The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch. 
 He, his head feebly turning, on the group 
 Look'd with a vacant stare, and his eye spoke 
 The drowsy calm that steals on worn-out anguish. 
 She shudder'd: but, each vainer pang subdued. 
 Quick disentangling from the foremost horse 
 The rustic bands, with difficulty and toil 
 The stiff, crampt team forced homeward. There arrived 
 Anxiously tends him she with healing herbs. 
 And weeps and prays — but the numb power of Death 
 Spreads o'er his limbs ; and ere the noon-tide hour. 
 The hov'ring spirits of his Wife and Babes 
 Hail him immortal ! Yet amid his pangs. 
 With interruptions long from ghastly throes. 
 His voice had falter'd out this simple tale. 
 
 The Village, where he dwelt an Husbandman, 
 By sudden inroad had been seiz'd and fired 
 Late on the yester-evening. With his wife 
 And little ones he hurried his escape. 
 
 u2 
 
292 
 
 They saw the neighbouring Hamlets flame, they heard 
 Uproar and shrieks ! and terror-struck drove on 
 Through unfrequented roads, a weary way ! 
 But saw nor house nor cottage. All had quench'd 
 Tiieir evening hearth-fire : for the alarm had spread. 
 The air clipt keen, the nig!)t was fang'd with frost. 
 And they provisionless ! The weeping wife 
 Ill-hush'd her children's moans ; and still they moan'd. 
 Till Fright and Cold and Hunger drank their life. 
 They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 'twas Death. 
 He only, lashing his o'er-wearied team. 
 Gained a sad respite, till beside the base 
 Of the high hill his foremost horse dropt dead. 
 Then hopeless^ strengthless, sick for lack of food, 
 He crept beneath the coverture, entranced. 
 Till waken'd by the maiden. — Such his tale. 
 
 Ah ! suffering to the height of what was suffered, 
 Stung with too keen a sympathy, the Maid 
 Brooded with moving lips, mute, startful, dark ! 
 And now her flush'd tumultuous features shot 
 Such strange vivacity, as fires the eye 
 Of misery Fancy-craz'd ! and now once more 
 Naked, and void, and fix'd, and all, within, 
 The unquiet silence of confused thought 
 
293 
 
 And shapeless feelings. For a miglvty hand 
 Was strong upon her, till in the heat of soul 
 To the high hill-top tracing back her steps. 
 Aside the beacon, up whose smoulder'd stones 
 The tender ivy-trails crept thinly, there. 
 Unconscious of the driving element. 
 Yea, swallow'd up in the ominous dream, she sate. 
 Ghastly as broad-eyed Slumber ! a dim anguish 
 Breath'd from her look ! and still with pant and sob 
 Inly she toil'd to flee, and still subdued 
 Felt an inevitable Presence near. 
 
 Thus as she toil'd in troublous extacy. 
 An horror of great darkness wrapt her round, 
 And a voice uttered forth unearthly tones. 
 Calming her soul, — " O Thou of the Most High 
 " Chosen, whom all the perfected in Heaven 
 <' Behold expectant 
 
 [The followinfi; fragments were intended to form part of the 
 Poem when finished.] 
 
 " Maid belov'd of Heaven ! ■ 
 " (To her the tutelary Power exclaimed) 
 '^ Of Chaos the adventurous progeny 
 
S94 
 
 *' Thou seest ; fqui missionaries of foul sire, 
 
 " Fierce to regain the losses of that hour 
 
 *^ When LOVE rose glittering, and his gorgeous wings 
 
 " Over the abyss flutter'd with such glad noise, 
 
 " As what time after long and pestful calms, 
 
 " With slimy shapes and miscreated life 
 
 " Poisoning the vast Pacific, the fresh breeze 
 
 " Wakens the merchant-sail uprising. Night 
 
 *^ An heavy unimaginable moan 
 
 " Sent forth, when she the Protoplast beheld 
 
 " Stand beauteous on Confusion's charmed wave, 
 
 " Moaning she fled, and entered the Profound 
 
 " That leads with downward windings to the Cave 
 
 *^ Of Darkness palpable, Desart of Death 
 
 " Sunk deep beneath Gehenna's massy roots. 
 
 " There many a dateless age the Beldame lurk'd 
 
 ** And trembled; till engender'd by fierce Hate, 
 
 *' Fierce Hate and gloomy Hope, a Dream arose^ 
 
 " Shap'd like a black cloud mark'd with streaks of fire. 
 
 '' It rous'd the Hell -Hag: she the dew-damp wiped 
 
 '^ From off her brow, and thro' the uncouth maze 
 
 " Retraced her steps ; but ere she reach'd the mouth 
 
 " Of that drear labyrinth, shuddering she paused. 
 
 " Nor dared re-enter the diminish'd Gulph. 
 
 " As thro' the dark vaults of some moulder'd Tower 
 
295 
 
 " (Whicli, fearful to approach, the evening Hind 
 
 " Chxles at distance in his homeward way) 
 
 '^ The winds breathe hollow, deem'd the plaining groan 
 
 " Of prison'd spirits ; with such fearful voice 
 
 " Night murmur'd, and the sound thro' Chaos went. 
 
 '' Leapt at her call her hideous-fronted brood ! 
 
 '' A dark behest they heard, and rush'd on earth, 
 
 *' Since that sad hour, in Camps and Courts adored, 
 
 " Rebels from God, and Monarchs o'er Mankind ! 
 
 From his obscure haunt 
 Shriek'd Fear, of Cruelty the ghastly Dam, 
 Fev'rish yet freezing, eager-paced yet slow. 
 As she that creeps from forth her swampy reeds. 
 Ague, the biform Hag ! when early Spring 
 Beams on the marsh-bred vapours. 
 
 " Even so" (the exulting Maiden said) 
 *' The sainted Heralds of Good Tidings fell^ 
 " And thus they witness'd God ! But now the clouds 
 " Treading, and storms beneath their feet, they soar 
 
296 
 
 '' Higher, and higher soar, and soaring sing 
 
 " Loud songs of Triumph ! O ye spirits of God, 
 
 '' Hover around my mortal agonies !" 
 
 She spake, and instantly faint melody 
 
 Melts on her ear, soothing and sad, and slow. 
 
 Such measures, as at calmest midnight heard 
 
 By aged Hermit in his holy dream. 
 
 Foretell and solace death ; and now they rise 
 
 Louder, as when with harp and mingled voice 
 
 The "'^white-robed multitude of slaughter'd saints 
 
 At Heaven's wide-open'd portals gratulant 
 
 Receive some martyr'd Patriot. The harmony 
 
 Entranced the Maid, till each suspended sense 
 
 Brief slumber seized, and confused extacy. 
 
 At length awakening slow, she gazed around : 
 And thro' a Mist, the relict of that trance. 
 Still thinning as she gaz'd, an Isle appear'd. 
 Its high, o'er-hanging, white, broad-breasted cliffs 
 Glass'd on the subject ocean. A vast plain 
 Stretch'd opposite, where ever and anon 
 
 * Revel, vi. 9, 11. And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw 
 under tlic altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of 
 God, and for the testimony which they held. And white robes were 
 given unto every one of them, that they should rest yet for a little 
 season, until their fellow-servants also and their brethren, that 
 should be killed as they were, should be fulCUed. 
 
297 
 
 The Plough-man following sad his meagre team 
 Turn'd up fresh sculls unstartled, and the bones 
 Of fierce hate-breathing combatants, who there 
 All mingled lay beneath the common earth. 
 Death's gloomy reconcilement I O'er the Fields 
 Stept a fair form, repairing all she might. 
 Her temples olive-wreath'd ; and where she trod. 
 Fresh flowrets rose, and many a foodful herb. 
 But wan her cheek, her footsteps insecure, 
 And anxious pleasure beam'd in her faint eye, 
 As she had newly left a couch of pain. 
 Pale Convalescent ! (Yet some time to rule 
 With power exclusive o'er the willing world. 
 That blest prophetic mandate then fulfill'd, 
 Peace be on Earth!) An happy while, but brief, 
 She seem'd to wander with assiduous feet, 
 x\nd heal'd the recent harm of chill and blight. 
 And nurs'd each plant that fair and virtuous grew. 
 
 But soon a deep precursive sound moan'd hollow : 
 Black rose the clouds, and now, (as in a dream) 
 Their reddening shapes, transform'd to Warrior-hosts, 
 Cours'd o'er the Sky, and battled in mid-air. 
 Nor did not t'ne large blood-drops fall from Heaven 
 Portentous ! while aloft were seen to float, 
 
29B 
 
 Like hideous features blended with the clouds, 
 
 Wan Stains of ominous Light ! Resign'd, yet sad. 
 
 The fair Form bow'd her olive-crowned Brew : 
 
 Then o'er the plain with oft reverted eye 
 
 Fled till a Place of Tombs she reach'd, and there 
 
 Within a ruin'd Sepulchre obscure 
 
 Found Hiding-place. 
 
 The delegated Maid 
 Gaz'd thro' her tears, then in sad tones exclaim'd, 
 '^ Thou mild-ey'd Form ! wherefore, ah ! wherefore fled? 
 '' The name of Justice written on thy brow 
 " Resplendent shone ; but all they, who unblam'd 
 *^ Dwelt in thy dwellings, call thee Happiness. 
 " Ah ! why, uninjured and unprofited, 
 " Should multitudes against their brethren rush ? 
 " Why sow they guilt, still reaping Misery ? 
 ^' Lenient of care, thy songs, O Peace I are sweet, 
 *' As after showers the perfumed gale of eve, 
 *^ That flings the cool drops on a feverous cheek : 
 " And gay thy grassy altar pil'd with fruits. 
 " But boasts the shrine of Daemon War one charm, 
 " Save that with many an orgie strange and foul, 
 " Dancing around with interwoven arms, 
 " The Maniac Suicide and Giant Murder 
 
299 
 
 " Exult in their fierce union ! I am sad, 
 
 " And know not why the simple Peasants crowd 
 
 '' Beneath the Chieftains' standard !" Thus the Maid, 
 
 To her the tutelary Spirit replied : 
 '' When Luxury and Lust's exhausted stores 
 *' No more can rouse the appetites of Kings ; 
 ^' When the low flattery of their reptile Lords 
 " Falls flat and heavy on the accustom'd ear ; 
 " When Eunuchs sing, and Fools buffoonery make^ 
 " And Dancers writhe their harlot-limbs in vain : 
 " Then War and all its dread vicissitudes 
 *' Pleasingly agitate their stagnant Hearts 3 
 " Its hopes, its fears, its victories, its defeats, 
 " Insipid Royalty's keen condiment ! 
 *' Therefore, uninjur'd and unprofited, 
 " (Victims at once and Executioners) 
 " The congregated Husbandmen lay waste 
 " The Vineyard and the Harvest. As along 
 " The Bothnic coast, or southward of the Line, 
 " Though hush'd the Winds and cloudless the 
 
 Noon, 
 " Yet if Leviathan, weary of ease, 
 " In sports unwieldy toss his Island-bulk, 
 " Ocean behind him billows, and before 
 
soo 
 
 " A storm of waves breaks foamy on the strand. 
 
 " And hence, for times and seasons bloody and dark^ 
 
 ** Short Peace shall skin the wounds of causeless War, 
 
 " And War, his strained sinews knit anew, 
 
 " Still violate th' unfinish'd works of Peace. 
 
 " But yonder look ! for more demands thy view !" 
 
 He said : and straightway from the opposite Isle 
 
 A Vapor sail'd, as when a cloud, exhaled 
 
 From Egypt's fields that steam hot pestilence, 
 
 Travels the sky for many a trackless league, 
 
 'Till o'er some Death-doom'd land, distant in vain. 
 
 It broods incumbent. Forthwith from the Plain, 
 
 Facing the Isle, a brighter cloud arose, 
 
 And steer'd its course which way the Vapor went. 
 
 The Maiden paus'd, musing what this might mean. 
 But long time pass'd not, ere that brighter Cloud 
 Returned more bright : along the Plain it swept ; 
 And soon from forth its bursting sides emerg'd 
 A dazzling Form, broad-bosom'd, bold of eye. 
 And wild her hair, save where with laurels bound. 
 Not more majestic stood the healing God, 
 When from his brow the arrow sped that slew 
 Huge Python. Shriek'd Ambition's giant throng, 
 And with them hiss'd the Locust-fiends that crawl'd 
 
301 
 
 And glitter'd in Corruption's slimy track. 
 
 Great was their wrath_, for short they knew their reign : 
 
 And such commotion made they^ and uproar. 
 
 As when the mad Tornado bellows through 
 
 The guilty islands of the western main, 
 
 What time departing from their native shores, 
 
 Eboe, or *Koromantyn's plain of Palms, 
 
 * The Slaves in the West-Indies consider death as a passport to 
 their native country. This sentiment is tlius expressed in the intro- 
 duction to a Greek Prize-Ode on the Slave-Trade, of which the 
 ideas are better than the language in which they are conveyed. 
 
 li (TKOT'QV TTvXas, ®avaT's, irpoXsni'ouv 
 
 Ov ^svKrSrjtrri ysvvouv (Titapoiy^oig 
 OvS' oXoKvy^oj, 
 
 AXXoc nat iivx.Xoi<n ^opoitvn'OKri 
 lCa(riJ.cctujv %apa (po^spog ju-sv s(r<ri, 
 AAA' oi^ous EAeuSepia crvvomBlg, 
 
 l.tuyve TvpocvvB ! 
 
 Aaa-Kioi; sifei ittEpvysa-cn crrj(n 
 A ! ^aXoLfftxiOv yM^opuovtsg OiB^j^x 
 AiQspoitXayrois viro Ttocrtr avsicri 
 TLarpiS W aiav. 
 
 Ev9a pav Epagoci Ep(vi^svy]<nv 
 A[Mft Ttrjyrjcriv wTpivuiv viT aXffuiv, 
 Offer vKo (ipoToii ETta^v ^poroi, ta 
 Asivcc Xsyovfi. 
 
 LITERAL TRANSLATION. 
 
 Leaving the Gates of Darkness, O Death! hasten thou to a 
 Race yoked with Misery! Thou wilt not be received with 
 
302 
 
 The infuriate spirits of the Murdered make 
 Fierce merriment, and vengeance ask of Heaven. 
 Warm'd with new influence, the unwholesome Plain 
 Sent up its fbulest fogs to meet the Morn : 
 The Sun that rose on Freedom, rose in Blood ! 
 
 " Maiden belov'd, and Delegate of Heaven !" 
 (To her the tutelary Spirit said) 
 " Soon shall the Morning struggle into Day, 
 " The stormy Morning into cloudless Noon. 
 " Much hast thou seen, nor all canst understand — 
 " But this be thy best Omen — Save thy Country !" 
 Thus saying, from the answering Maid he pass'd. 
 And with him disappear'd the Heavenly Vision. 
 
 " Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven ! 
 " All conscious Presence of the Universe I 
 " Nature's vast Ever-acting Energy ! 
 " In Will, in Deed, Impulse of All to All ! . 
 
 " Whether thy Love with unrefracted Ray 
 
 lacerations of cheeks, nor with funereal ululation — but with circling 
 dances, and the joy of songs. Thou art terrible indeed, yet thou 
 dwelleth with Liberty, stern Genius ! Borne on thy dark pinions 
 over the swelling of Ocean, they return to their native country. 
 There, by the side of Fountains beneath Citron-groves, the lovers 
 tell to their beloved what horrors, being Men, they had endured 
 from Men. 
 
303 
 
 ^' Beam on the Prophet's purged eye, or if 
 
 " Diseasing Realms the Enthusiast, wild of Thought, 
 
 " Scatter new Frenzies on the infected Throng, 
 
 " Thou Both inspiring and predooming Both, 
 
 " Fit Instruments and best, of perfect End: 
 
 " Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven !" 
 
 And first a Landscape rose. 
 More wild, and waste, and desolate, than where 
 The white bear, drifting on a field of ice. 
 Howls to her sundered cubs with piteous rage 
 And savage agony. 
 
 FINIS. 
 

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