Class "PTT^Q^ o POETICAL WOEKS JAMES MONTGOMERY. WITH A ilTemoir of tl)c ;2lutl)or, BY THE REV. RUFUS W. GRISWOLD. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY. 185 3. Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1845, by SORIN & BALI,, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. ^ ^'>' ^>^ CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. PRISON AMUSEMENTS. Page Verses to a Robin Red-breast, who visits the Window of my Pri- son every Day ^" Moonlight 20 The Captive Nightingale ^^ Ode to the Evening Star 25 Soliloquy of a Water-wagtail on the Walls of York Castle . . 28 The Pleasures of Imprisonment 30 The Bramin. Extract from Canto 1 39 The Bramin. Extract from Canto II 40 A Tale too true ^^ THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND. PartI II Part II II Part III li Part IV. • • ^.^ PartV 67 Part VI ^-^ THE WEST INDIES. Parti. • l\ Part II QQ Pan III ,11 Part IV ^"^ THE WORLD BEFORE THE FLOOD. To the Spirit of a Departed Friend ^^^ Canto First J^^ Canto Second 126 Canto Third 13'^ Canto Fourth 142 Canto Fifth 151 Canto Sixth 1^1 3 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. Page Canto Seventh 169 Canto Eighth 177 Canto Ninth 186 Canto Tenth ... 193 GREENLAND. Canto First 205 Canto Second 214 Canto Third • . . 223 Canton Fourth 235 Canto Fifth 244 THE PELICAN ISLAND. Canto First 265 Canto Second 272 Canto Third 281 Canto Fourth 289 Canto Filth 298 Canto Sixth 304 Canto Seventh 317 Canto Eighth 326 Canto Ninth 332 THE CHRONICLE OF ANGELS. Part 1 349 Part II 351 Fart III 354 SONGS ON THE ABOLITION OF NEGRO SLAVERY, IN THE BRITISH COLONIES, AUGUST I, 1834. No. L The Rainbow 361 No. IL The Negro is Free 3G1 No. III. Slavery that was 362 No. IV. Slavery that is not 363 No. V. The Negro's Vigil: Eve of the First of August, 1834 363 SONNETS, IMITATIONS, AND TRANSLATIONS. A Sea Piece. In three Sonnets 365 Westminster Abbey, on the twenty-eighth of June, 1838 . 366 Imitation from the Italian of Gaetana Passerini .... 367 The Oak. Imitated from the Italian of Metastasio . . . 367 Imitation from the Italian of Giambattista Cotta .... 368 The Crucifixion. Imitated from the Italian of Crescimbeni . 368 To a Bride. Imitated from the Italian of P. Salandri . . . 369 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. Page On the Siege of Genoa by the French Army in 16**. Imitated from the Italian of Gaetana Passerini 369 Imitated from the ItaUan of Petrarch 370 On the Siege of Famagusta, in the Island of Cyprus, by the Turks, in 1571. Imitated from the Italian of Benedetto Dall'uva 370 On the Sepulture of Christ. Imitated from the ItaUan of Gabriello Fiamma 371 On Judith Returning to Bethulia with the head of Holofornes in her hand. From the Italian of Giovambatista Zappi . 371 For a Nun, on taking the Veil. From the Italian of Eustachio Manfredi 372 From Petrarch 372 The Swiss Cowherd's Song, in a Foreign Land. Imitated from the French 373 Meet again 373 Via Crucis, Via Lucis 374 German War Song 375 FROM DANTE. Ugolino and Ruggieri 376 Maestro Adamo 379 Dante and Beatrice 382 The River of Life 383 The Portal of Hell 386 Anteus 387 Cain 388 Farinata 389 Notes 393 MEMOIE OF THE AUTHOE. James Montgomery is admitted by all the critics to be at the head of the rehgious poets of the present age. Since the bard of Olney, no one has surpassed him in purity of sentiment or fervour of devotion. For half a century he has been slowly and constantly increasing in the popular favour, and his reputation has now a compass and a solidity which forbid all thought of its decay. Of the throng of competitors among whom he has won his laurels, Crabbe, Byron, Southey, Coleridge and Campbell have gone before him into the region of the Unknown ; and Rogers and Wordsworth, his venerable brothers, are permitted with him to linger at the gates of the Future and listen to the applauses of posterity. They are the noblest impersonations of Piety, Philosophy, and Taste, and they are all im- mortal. In the last and completest edition of his works, pub- lished recently in London, Mr. Montgomery has given in various prefaces and notes an account of his 7 life and writings, from which, and some other mate- rials, we prepare this brief biography. James Montgomery is the eldest son of a Moravian clergyman, and was born at Irvine, in Scotland, on the fourth of November, 1771. His parents determined to educate him for the ministry, and at a very early age placed him in one of the seminaries of their church, where he remained ten years. At the end of this period he decided not to study the profession to which he had been destined, and was, in consequence, placed with a shop-keeper in Yorkshire. Ill satisfied with his new employment, however, he abandoned it after a few months, and, when but sixteen years of age, made his first appearance in London, with a manuscript volume of poems, of which he vainly endeavoured to procure tlie publication. In 1792, being then about twenty-one years of age, he went to Sheffield, where he was soon after engaged as a writer for The Register, a weekly gazette, pub- lished by a Mr. Gales; and, in 1794, on the flight of his employer from England, to avoid a political prose- cution, he himself became publisher and editor, and changing the name of the paper to The Iris, conducted it, with much taste, ability, and moderation. It was still, however, obnoxious to the government, and Mr. Montgomery was prosecuted for printing in it a song commemorative of the destruction of the Bastile, fined twenty pounds, and imprisoned three months in York Castle. On resuming his editorial duties, he carefully avoided partisan politics, but after a short period he MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. was arrested for an offensive passage in an account which he gave of a riot in Sheffield, and again im- prisoned. It was during his second confinement that he wrote " Prison Amusements," which appeared in 1797. In the preface to the first edition, he says, " These pieces were composed in bitter moments, amid the horrors of a jail, under the pressure of sickness. They were the transcripts of melancholy feelings, — the warm effusions of a bleeding heart. The writer amused his imagina- tion with attiring his sorrows in verse, that, under the romantic appearance of fiction, he might sometimes for- get that his misfortunes were real." Mr. Montgomery returned to his office, and with a strong determination, " come wind or sun, come fire or water, to do what was right," conducted his paper; and his taste, judgment and integrity gradually over- came the prejudices which the course of his pre- decessor, much more than any thing he had himself written, had created against it. Referring to this period of his life, he tells us that he had "foolishly sacrificed all his friends, connections, and prospects in life, and thrown himself headlong into the world, with the sole view of acquiring poetic laurels." " In the retirement of Fulneck, among the Moravian Brethren, by whom I had been educated," he continues, " I was nearly as ignorant of the world and its every-day concerns, as the gold fishes swimming about in the glass globe on the pedestal before us are of what we are doinof around them ; and when I took MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. the rash step of running into the vortex, I was nearly as httle prepared for the business of general life as they would be to take a part in our proceedings, were they to leap out of their element The experience of something more than two years had awakened me to the unpoetical realities around me, and I was left to struggle alone amidst the crowd, without any of those inspiring motives left to cheer me, under the delusive influence of which I had flung myself amidst scenes, and into society, for which I was wholly unfit by feeling, taste, habit, or bodily constitution. Thus, I came to Sheffield, with all my hopes blighted like the leaves and blossoms of a premature spring There was yet life, but it was perverse, unnatural life, in my mind ; and the renown which I found to be unattain- able, at that time, by legitimate poetry, I resolved to secure by such means as made many of my contem- poraries notorious. I wrote verses in the doggerel strain of Peter Pindar, and prose sometimes in imi- tation of Fielding and Smollett, and occasionally in the strange style of the German plays and romances then in vogue. Effort after effort failed. A Providence of disappointment shut every door in my face, by which I attempted to force my way to a dishonourable fame. I was thus happily saved from appearing as the author of works which, at this hour, I should have been ashamed to acknowledge. Disheartened at length with ill success, I gave myself up to indolence and apathy, and lost seven years of that part of my youth which ought to have been the most active MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. and profitable, in alternate listlessness and despond- ency, using no further exertion in my office affairs than was necessary to keep up my credit under heavy pecuniary obligations, and gradually, though slowly, to liquidate them." About the year 1803 he began to write in his better vein of seriousness, and a lyric which he published, under a nom de plume in The Iris, received such unex- pected applauses, that he from that period abjured his former eccentricities. One lay after another, in the " reformed spirit," appeared in the two following years, and he collected the series into a volume, which was printed under the title of " The Ocean, and other Poems," in 1805. In 1798, the independence of Switzerland had been virtually destroyed by France, though till 1803 the cantons were nominally allowed to exercise home juris- diction. In the beginning of the last mentioned year Napoleon abolished the government, and declared that the cantons must in future be the open frontier of France. On the seventeenth of February this circumstance was thus recorded by Mr. Montgomery, in The Lis : " The heart of Switzerland is broken ; and Liberty has been driven from the only sanctuary which she had found on the Continent. But the unconquered, the un- conquerable offspring of Tell, disdaining to die slaves in the land where they were born free, are emigrating to America. There, in some region remote and ro- mantic, where Solitude has never seen the face of man, nor Silence been startled by his voice, since the hour MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. of creation, may the illustrious exiles find another Switzerland, another country rendered dear to them by the presence of Liberty. But even there, amidst mountains more awful, and forests more sombre than his own, when the echoes of the wilderness shall be awakened by the enchantment of that song which no Swiss in a foreign clime ever hears without fondly recalling the land of his nativity, and weeping with affection, how will the heart of the exile be wrung with home-sickness ! and oh ! what a sickness of heart must that be, which arises, not from '■Jwpe deferred^'' but from ^hope extinguished, — yet remembered.'' " A friend, on reading this paragraph, suggested to the author that it was a fine subject for a poem ; and with the intention of composing a ballad in the style and of the length of the well-known fragmentary cento of " The Friar of Orders Gray," he immediately commenced what grew under his hands to be " The Wanderer of Switzer- land." In the year after its publication, when it had reached a third edition, it was violently attacked in one of those smart but shallow criticisms which gave noto- riety to the earlier numbers of the Edinburgh Review. It was still, however, successful ; and twenty-eight years afterward the Review confesses, against its pro- phecy, that our poet has taken a place among the classics of the British nation. His next work was " The West Indies," which ap- peared in 1809, and was designed as a memorial of the then recent abolition by the British government of the Slave Trade. It was followed, in 1812, by " The World before the Flood," in four cantos, suggested by an allusion in "Paradise Lost"* to the translation of Enoch. This is one of Mr. Montgomery's most popular works, and has many passages of quiet, reflective beauty, which will make perpetual its good reputation. " Greenland" appeared in 1819. The subject was well suited to his powers and habits of feeling. In the region of eternal snows to which the pious Moravians bore the gospel. Nature was grand, beautiful, and pe- culiar ; and with the zeal, the faith, and the heroism of the missionaries, the poet had a perfect sympathy. Like " The World before the Flood," it has passages of description and reflection w^hich would add to the fame of the greatest of bards, and in unity and com- pleteness it is superior to any of our author's other works. In 1822 Mr. Montgomery published his "Songs " In other part the sceptred heralds call To council, in the city-gates; — anon, Gray-headed men and grave, with warriors mix'd, Assemble, and harangues are heard ; but soon In factious opposition ; till at last Of middle age one rising, eminent In wise deport, spake much of right and wrong. Of justice, of religion, truth and peace, And judgment from above. Him old and yoimg Exploded, and had seized with violent hands, Had not a cloud descending snatch'd him thence, Unseen amid the throng ; so violence Proceeded, and oppression, and sword-law, Through all the plain, and refuge none was found." MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. of Zion." By many earlier pieces, of a similar kind, he had shown that he possessed, in an eminent degree, all the qualities of a lyrical poet, and he now took his place as a weaver of sacred song on the same elevation with Watts and Cowper. His minor poems will, hereafter, be most frequently read, and most generally admired. They have the antique simplicity of pious George Withers, and a natural, unaffected earnest- ness, joined to a pure and poetical diction, which will secure to them a permanent place in English litera- ture. Mr. Montgomery has little dramatic power, and little skill in narrative. His longest and most elaborate works, though they contain beautiful and touching thoughts, and descriptions distinguished alike for grace, minuteness, and fidelity, are without plot, and are defi- cient in incident. His little songs and cabinet pieces, however, are almost perfect in their way ; and nearly all of them are full of devotion to the Creator, sym- pathy with suffering humanity, and a cheerful and hopeful philosophy. In 1827, Mr. Montgomery gave to the world " The Pelican Island," descriptive of the solitary contempla- tion of nature. It has the faults of his other long poems, but is more graceful and fanciful, and some parts of it were declared by the leading reviewers to be worthy* of Milton. It is the last of his considerable works. After a silence of nearly a decade, he published, in 1835, a " Poet's Portfolio, or Minor Poems," contain- MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. ing, as he states modestly in his preface, " miscella- neous and fugitive pieces, which, with many others, had been collecting on his hands during a period when no recollection of past success could embolden him to attempt greater things." " Speed the Prow," "A Story without a Name," and other pieces in this volume, show that his energy, his perception of the beautiful, his sincere and earnest feelings, and his fine poetical expression, had not passed away with the completion of his three score years. Mr. Montgomery conducted The Iris, until 1825, and on his retirement from the editorial profession, which he had adorned by his uniform courtesy as well as by his integrity and his ability, his friends gave him a public dinner at Sheffield, at which Lord Milton presided. In reply to a complimentary sentiment, he made a speech, in which he reviewed with his cus- tomary modesty his literary career. " Success upon success, in the course of a few years," he said, " crowned my labours, — not indeed with fame and fortune, as these were lavished on my greater contem- poraries, in comparison with whose magnificent pos- sessions on the British Parnassus, my small plot of ground is no more than Naboth's vineyard to Ahab's kingdom ; but it is my own, it is no copyhold ; I bor- rowed it, I leased it, from none. Every foot of it I enclose from the common myself; and I can say that not an inch which I had once gained have I ever lost. I attribute this to no extraordinary power of genius, or felicity of talent in the application of such power as I MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. may possess. The estimate of that I leave to you who hear me, not in tJiis moment of generous enthusiasm, but when the evening's enjoyment shall come under the morning's reflection. The secret of my moderate suc- cess, I consider to have been the right direction of my abilities to right objects. In following this course I have had to contend with many disadvantages, as well as resolutely to avoid the most popular and fashionable ways to fame. I followed no mighty leader, belonged to no school of the poets, pandered to no impure pas- sion ; I veiled no vice in delicate disguise, gratified no malignant propensity to personal satire; courted no powerful patronage ; I wrote neither to suit the man- ners, the taste, nor the temper of the age ; but I appealed to universal principles, to imperishable affec- tions, to primary elements of our common nature, found wherever man is found in civilized society ; wherever his mind has been raised above barbarian ignorance, or his passions purified from brutal selfish- ness. " I sang of war, — but it was the war of freedom, in which death was preferred to chains. I sang the Abolition of the Slave Trade, that most glorious decree of the British Legislature, at any period since the Revolution I sang, likewise, the love of home ; its charities, endearments, and relationship ; all that makes ' home sweet home ;' the recollection of which, when the air of that name was just now played from yonder gallery, warmed every heart throughout this room into quicker pulsations. I sang the love which MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. man ought to bear towards his brother, of every kindred, and country, and dime upon earth. I sang the love of virtue, which elevates man to his true standard under heaven ; I sang, too, the love of God, who is love. Nor did I sing in vain. I found readers and listeners, especially among the young, the fair, and the devout; and as youth, beauty and piety will not soon cease out of the land, I may expect to be remem- bered through another generation at least, if I leave any thing behind me worthy of remembrance. I may add, that from every part of the British empire, from every quarter of the world where our language is spoken, — from America, the East and West Indies, from New Holland and the South Sea Islands themselves, — I have received testimonies of approbation from all ranks and degrees of readers, hailing what I had done, and cheering me forward. I allude not to criticisms and eulogiums from the press, but to voluntary commu- nications from unknown correspondents, coming to me like voices out of darkness, and giving intimation of that which the ear of a poet is always hearkening on- ward to catch, — the voice of posterity." Mr. Montgomery is still living, beloved for his piety and admired for his genius — awaiting calmly and trustfully his summons to that better world for which he has prepared himself by a life of faith and loving obedience. We cannot better conclude this notice, nor better express our judgment of his works, than by quoting the declaration of the Edinburgh Review, that "there is something in all his poetry which makes 2* Fiction the most impressive teacher of truth and wisdom, and by which, while the intellect is gratified and the imagination roused, the heart, if it retains any sensibility to tender or elevating emotions, cannot fail to be made better." Philadelphia, September, 1845. PRISON AMUSEMENTS. VERSES TO A ROBIN RED-BREAST, WHO VISITS THE WINDOW OF MY PRISON EVERY DAY, Welcome, pretty little stranger ! Welcome to my lone retreat ! Here, secure from every danger, Hop about, and chirp, and eat : Robin ! how I envy thee, Happy child of Liberty ! Now, though tyrant Winter, howhng. Shakes the world with tempests round. Heaven above with vapours scowling. Frost imprisons all the ground ; — Robin ! what are these to thee ? Thou art blest with liberty. Though yon fair majestic river* Mourns in solid icy chains ; Though yon flocks and cattle shiver, On the desolated plains ; — Robin ! thou art gay and free, Happy in thy hberty. Hunger never shall distress thee. While my cates one crumb afford ; Colds nor cramps shall e'er oppress thee ; Come and share my humble board : Robin ! come and live with me, Live — yet still at liberty. PRISON AJMUSEMENTS. Soon shall Spring in smiles and blushes Steal upon the blooming year ; Then, amid the enamour'd bushes, Thy sweet song shall warble clear ; Then shall I, too, join'd with thee. Swell the Hymn of Liberty. Should some rough unfeeling Dobbin, In this iron-hearted age, Seize thee on thy nest, my Robin ! And confine thee in a cage, Then, poor prisoner! think of me, Think — and sigh for liberty. Feb. 2, 1795. MOONLIGHT. Gentle Moon ! a captive calls ; Gentle Moon ! awake, arise ; Gild the prison's sullen walls ; Gild the tears that drown his eyes. ThroAv thy veil of clouds aside ; Let those smiles that light the pole Through the liquid ether glide, — Glide into the mourner's soul. Cheer his melancholy mind ; Soothe his sorrows, heal his smart : Let thine influence, pure, refined, Cool the fever of his heart. Chase despondency and care. Fiends that haunt the guiltv breast : Conscious virtue braves despair ; Triumphs most when most oppress'd. MOONLIGHT. Now I feel thy power benign Swell my bosom, thrill my veins ; As thy beams the brightest shine When the deepest midnight reigns. Say, fair shepherdess of night ! Who thy starry flock dost lead Unto rills of living light, On the blue ethereal mead ; At this moment, dost thou see, From thine elevated sphere. One kind friend who thinks of me, — Thinks, and drops a feeling tear ? On a brilliant beam convey This soft whisper to his breast, — " Wipe that generous drop away ; He for whom it falls is blest. " Blest with Freedom unconfined, Dungeons cannot hold the Soul : Who can chain the immortal Mind ? — None but He who spans the pole." Fancy, too, the nimble fairy. With her subtle magic spell, In romantic visions airy Steals the captive from his cell. \ On her moonlight pinions borne. Far he flies from grief and pain ; Never, never to be torn From his friends and home again. Stay, thou dear delusion ! stay ; Beauteous bubble ! do not break ; — Ah ! the pageant flits aAvay ; — Who from such a dream would wake ? March 7, 1795. PRISON AMUSEMENTS. THE CAPTIVE NIGHTINGALE. Nocturnal Silence reigning-, A Nightingale began In his cold cage complaining Of cruel-hearted Man : His drooping pinions shiver'd, Like wither'd moss so dry ; His heart with anguish quiver'd, And sorrow dimm'd his eye. His grief in soothing slumbers No balmy power could steep ; So sweetly flow'd his numbers, The music seem'd to weep. Unfeeling Sons of Folly ! To you the Mourner sung ; While tender melancholy Inspired his plaintive tongue. " Now reigns the moon in splendour Amid the heaven serene ; A thousand stars attend her, And glitter round their queen : Sweet hours of inspiration ! When I, the still night long. Was wont to pour my passion, And breathe my soul in Song. " But now, delicious season ! In vain thy charms invite ; Entomb'd in this dire prison, I sicken at the sight. This morn, this vernal morning, The happiest bird was I, That hail'd the sun returning, Or swam the hquid sky. " In yonder breezy bowers. Among the foh'age green, I spent my tuneful hours In sohtude serene : There soft Melodia's beauty First fired my ravish'd eye ; I vow'd eternal duty ; She look'd — half kind, half shy ! " My plumes with ardour trembling, I flutter'd, sigh'd, and sung : The fair one, still dissembling, Refused to trust my tongue : A thousand tricks inventing, A thousand arts I tried ; Till the SAveet nymph, relenting, Confess'd herself my bride. " Deep in the grove retiring. To choose our secret seat. We found an oak aspiring. Beneath whose mossy feet. Where the tall herbage swelling, Had form'd a green alcove, We built our humble dweUing, And hallow'd it with love. " Sweet scene of vanish'd pleasure ! This day, this fatal day, My little ones, my treasure, My spouse, were stolen away ' I saw the precious plunder. All in a napkin bound ; PRISON AMUSEMENTS. Then smit with human thunder, I flutter'd on the ground ! " O Man ! beneath whose vengeance All Nature bleeding lies ! Who charged thine impious engines With lightning from the skies ? Ah ! is thy bosom iron ? Does it thine heart enchain ? As these cold bars environ, And', captive, me detain ? " Where are my offspring tender ? Where is my widow'd mate ? — Thou Guardian Moon ! defend her ! Ye Stars ! avert their fate ! — O'erwhelm'd with kilhng anguish. In iron cage, forlorn, I see my poor babes languish ; I hear their mother mourn ! " O Liberty ! inspire me. And eagle-strength supply ! Thou, Love almighty ! fire me ! I'll burst my prison — or die !" He sung, and forward bounded ; He broke the yielding door ! But, with the shock confounded. Fell, hfeless, on the floor ! Farewell, then, Philomela : Poor martyr'd bird ! adieu ! There's one, my charming fellow ! Who thinks, who feels like you : The bard that pens thy story. Amidst a prison's gloom, Sighs — not for wealth nor glory, — But freedom, or thy tomb ! Feb. 12, 1796. ODE TO THE EVENING STAR. ODE TO THE EVENING STAR. Hail ! resplendent Evening Star ! Brightly beaming from afar ; Fairest gem of purest light In the diadem of nigl^t. Now thy mild and modest ray Lights to rest the weary day ; While the lustre of thine eye Sweetly trembles through the sky ; As the closing shadows roll Deep and deeper round the pole, Lo ! thy kindling legions bright Steal insensibly to light ; Till, magnificent and clear. Shines the spangled hemisphere. In these calmly pleasing hours, When the soul expands her powers, And, on wings of contemplation, Ranges round the vast creation ; When the mind's immortal eye Bounds, with rapture, to the sky, And, in one triumphant glance, Comprehends the wide expanse, W^here stars, and suns, and systems shine, Faint beams of majesty divine ; — Now, when visionary sleep Lulls the world in slumbers deep ; When silence, awfully profound, Breathes solemn inspiration round ; Q,ueen of Beauty ! queen of stars ! Smile upon these frowning bars. Softly sHding from thy sphere. Condescend to visit here. 26 PRISON AMUSEMENTS. In the circle of this cell, No tormenting demons dwell ; Round these walls in wild despair, No agonizing spectres glare ; Here reside no furies gaunt ; No tumultuous passions haunt ; i Fell revenge, nor treachery base ; Guilt, Avith bold unblushing face ; Pale remorse, within whose breast Scorpion-horrors ;nurder rest ; Coward malice, hatred dire, i Lawless rapine, dark desire ; i Pining envy, frantic ire ; Never, never dare intrude i On this pensive solitude : — But a sorely-hunted, deer i Finds a sad asylum here ; One, whose panting sides have been ! Pierced with many an arrow keen ; One, whose deeply-wounded heart ' Bears the scars of many a dart. In the herd he vainly mingled ; i From the herd, when harshly singled, 1 Too proud to fly, he scorn'd to yield ; 1 Too weak to fight, he lost the field ; Assail'd, and captive led away. He fell a poor, inglorious prey. I Deign then, gentle Star ! to shed Thy soft lustre round mine head ; With cheering radiance gild the room, j And melt the melancholy gloom. When I see thee, from thy sphere, i Trembhng hke a brilliant tear. ! Shed a sympathizing ray i On the pale expiring day, i Then a welcome emanation i i j 1 Of reviving consolation. ODE TO THE EVENING STAR. Swifter than the lightning's dart, Glances through my glowing heart ; Soothes my sorrows, lulls my woes, In a soft, serene repose. Like the undulating motion Of the deep, majestic ocean, AVhen the whispering billows glide Smooth along the tranquil tide ; Calmly thus, prepared, resign'd, Swells the independent mind. But when through clouds thy beauteous light Streams, in splendour, on the night, Hope, like thee, my leading star. Through the sullen gloom of cate, Sheds an animating ray On the dark, bewildering way. Starting, then, with sweet surprise, Tears of transport swell mine eyes ; Wildly through each throbbing vein. Rapture thrills with pleasing pain ; All my fretful fears are banish'd, All my dreams of anguish vanish'd ; Energy my soul inspires. And wakes the Muse's hallow'd fires ; Rich in melody, my tongue Warbles forth spontaneous song. Thus my prison moments gay. Swiftly, sweetly, glide away ; Till the last long day declining. O'er yon tower thy glory shining, Shall the welcome signal be Of to-morrow's liberty ! Liberty triumphant home On the rosy wings of morn. Liberty shall then return ! Rise to set the captive free : Rise, O sun of Liberty ! PRISON AMUSEMENTS. SOLILOaUY OF A WATER- WAGTAIL ON THE WALLS OF YORK CASTLE. On the walls that guard my prison, Swelling with fantastic pride, Brisk and merry as the season, I a feather'd coxcomb spied : When the little hopping elf Gaily thus amused himself. " Hear your sovereign's proclamation. All good subjects, young and old : I'm the Lord of the Creation ; I — a Water- Wagtail bold ! All around, and all you see. All the world was made for me ! " Yonder sun, so proudly shining, Rises — when I leave my nest ; And, behind the hills declining, Sets — when I retire to rest : Morn and evening, thus you see, Day and night, were made for me ! " Vernal gales to love invite me ; Summer sheds for me her beams ; Autumn's jovial scenes dehght me ; Winter paves with ice my streams All the year is mine, you see ; Seasons change, like moons, for me ! " On the heads of giant mountains. Or beneath the shady trees ; By the banks of warbhng fountains, I enjoy myself at ease : THE WATER-WAGTAIL. Hills and valleys, thus you see, Groves and rivers, made for me ! " Boundless are my vast dominions ; I can hop, or swim, or fly ; When I please, my towering pinions Trace my empire through the sky : Air and elements, you see, Heaven and earth, were made for me ! " Birds and insects, beasts and fishes. All their humble distance keep ; Man, subservient to my wishes, Sows the harvest which I reap : Mighty man himself, you see. All that breathe, were made for me ! " 'Twas for my accommodation. Nature rose when I was born : Should I die- — the whole creation Back to nothing would return : Sun, moon, and stars, the world, you see, Sprung — exist, will fall with me !" Here the pretty prattler, ending. Spread his wingS to soar away ; But a cruel Hawk descending, Pounced him up — an helpless prey. — Couldst thou not, poor Wagtail ! see, That the Hawk was made for thee ? ^pril 15, 1796. PRISON AMUSEMENTS. THE PLEASURES OF IMPRISONMENT. IN TWO EPISTLES TO A FRIEND. EPISTLE I. You ask, my friend, and well you may, You ask me how I spend the day ; I'll tell you, in unstudied rhyme, How wisely I befool my time : Expect not wit, nor fancy then, In this effusion of my pen ; These idle lines — they might be worse — Are simple prose, in simple verse. Each morning, then, at five o'clock, The adamantine doors unlock ; Bolts, bars, and portals, crash and thunder ; The gates of iron burst asunder ; Hinges that creak, and keys that jingle. With clattering chains, in concert mingle ; So sweet the din, your dainty ear. For joy, would break its drum to hear ; While my dull organs, at the sound. Rest in tranquillity profound: Fantastic dreams amuse my brain, And waft my spirit home again. Though captive all day long 'tis true, At night I am as free as you ; Not ramparts high, nor dungeons deep, Can hold me when I'm fast sleep. But every thing is good in season, I dream at large — and wake in prison. Yet think not, sir, I he too late, I rise as early even as eight : Ten hours of drowsiness are plenty. THE PLEASURES OF IMPRISONMENT. For any man, in four-and-twenty. You smile — and yet 'tis nobly done, I'm but five hours behind the sun ! When dress'd, I to the yard repair, And breakfast on the pure, fresh air : But though this choice Castalian cheer Keeps both the head and stomach clear, For reasons strong enough with me, I mend the meal with toast and tea. Now air and fame, as poets sing, Are both the same, the self-same thing : Yet bards are not cameleons quite, And heavenly food is very hght ; Whoever dined or supp'd on fame, And went to bed upon a name ? Breakfast despatch'd, I sometimes read, To clear the vapours from my head ; For books are magic charms, I ween, Both for the crotchets and the spleen. When genius, wisdom, wit abound. Where sound is sense, and sense is sound ; When art and nature both combine. And hve, and breathe, in every line ; The reader glows along the page With all the author's native rage ! But books there are with nothing fraught, — Ten thousand words, and ne'er a thought ; Where periods without period crawl. Like caterpillars on a wall. That fall to climb, and climb to fall ; While still their efforts only tend To keep them from their journey's end. The readers yawn with pure vexation. And nod — but not with approbation. In such a fog of dulness lost. Poor patience must give up the ghost ; Not Argus' eyes awake could keep, Even Death might read himself to sleep. PRISON AMUSEMENTS. At half-past ten, or thereabout, My eyes are all upon the scout. To see the lounging post-boy come, With letters or with news from home. Believe it, on a captive's word, Ahhough the doctrine seem absurd. The paper-messengers of friends For absence almost make amends : But if you think I jest or lie, Come to York Castle, sir, and try. Sometimes to fairy land I rove : Those iron rails become a grove ; These stately buildings fall away To moss-grown cottages of clay ; Debtors are changed to jolly swains, Who pipe and whistle on the plains ; Yon felons grim, with fetters bound, Are saij'rs wild, with garlands crown'd; Their clanking chains are wreaths of flowers ; Their horrid cells ambrosial bowers : The oaths, expiring on their tongues, Are metamorphosed into songs ; While wretched female prisoners, lo ! Are Dian's nymphs of virgin snow. Those hideous walls with verdure shoot ; These pillars bend with blushing fruit ; That dunghill swells into a mountain, The pump becomes a purling fountain ; The noisome smoke of yonder mills. The circHng air Avith fragrance fills ; The horse-pond spreads into a lake. And swans of ducks and geese I make ; Sparrows are changed to turtle-doves, That bill and coo their pretty loves ; Wagtails, turn'd thrushes, charm the vales. And tomtits sing like nightingales. No more the wind through key-holes whistles. But sighs on beds of pinks and thistles ; The rattling rain that beats without, And gurgles down the leaden spout, In hght, deh'cious dew distils, And melts away in amber rills ; Elysium rises on the green, And health and beauty crown the scene. Then by the enchantress Fancy led, On violet banks I lay my head ; Legions of radiant forms arise, In fair array, before mine eyes ; Poetic visions gild my brain, And melt in liquid air again ; As in a magic-lantern clear, Fantastic images appear. That beaming from the spectred glass. In beautiful succession pass, Yet steal the lustre of their light From the deep shadow of the night : Thus, in the darkness of my head. Ten thousand shining things are bred, That borrow splendour from the gloom. As glow-worms twinkle in a tomb. But lest these glories should confound me. Kind Dulness draws her curtain round me The visions vanish in a trice. And I awake as cold as ice : Nothing remains of all the vapour, Save — what I send you — ink and paper. Thus flow my morning hours along. Smooth as the numbers of my song : Yet let me wander as I will, I feel I am a prisoner still. Thus Robin, with the blushing breast, Is ravish'd from his httle nest By barbarous boys who bind his leg. To make him flutter round a peg : See the glad captive spreads his wings, Mounts, in a moment, mounts and sings. When suddenly the cruel chain Twitches him back to earth again. — The clock strikes one — I can't delay, For dinner comes but once a day : At present, worthy friend, fareAvell ; But by to-morrow's post I'll tell. How, during these half-dozen moons, I cheat the lazy afternoons. June 13, 1796. EPISTLE II. In this sweet place, where freedom reigns, Secured by bolts, and snug in chains ; Where innocence and guilt together Roost Hke two turtles of a feather ; Where debtors safe at anchor lie From saucy duns and bailiffs sly ; Where highwaymen and robbers stout Would, rather than break in, break out : Where all's so guarded and recluse. That none his liberty can lose ; Here each may, as his means afford. Dine like a pauper or a lord, And those who can't the cost defray, May live to dine another day. Now let us ramble o'er the green. To see and hear what's heard and seen ; To breathe the air, enjoy the light. And hail yon sun, Avho shines as bright Upon the dungeon and the gallows I As on York Minster or Kew Palace. I ' And here let us the scene review : — That's the old castle, this the new ; Yonder the felons walk, and there The lady-prisoners take the air ; THE PLEASURES OF IMPRISONMENT. Behind are solitary cells, Where hermits live Hke snails in shells ; There stands the chapel for good people ; That black balcony is the steeple ; How gaily spins the weathercock ! How proudly shines the crazy clock ! A clock, whose wheels eccentric run. More like my head than like the sun : And yet it shows us, right or wrong, The days are only twelve hours long ; Though captives often reckon here Each day a month, each month a year. There honest William stands in state, The porter, at the horrid gate ; Yet no ill-natured soul is he. Entrance to all the world is free ; One thing, indeed, is rather hard, . Egress is frequently debarr'd : Of all the joys within that reign. There's none like — getting out again ! Across the green, behold the court. Where jargon reigns and wigs resort ! Where bloody tongues fight bloodless battles, For life and death, for straws and rattles ; Where juries yawn their patience out, And judges dream in spite of gout. There, on the outside of the door, (As sang a wicked wag of yore,) Stands Mother Justice, tall and thin. Who never yet hath ventured in. The cause, my friend, may soon be shown, The lady was a stepping-stone, Till — though the metamorphose odd is — A chisel made the block a goddess : — " Odd !" did I say ? — I'm wrong this time ; But I was hamper'd for a rhyme : Justice at — I could tell you where — Is just the same as justice there. PRISON AMUSEMENTS. But lo ! my frisking dog attends, The kindest of four-footed friends ; Brim-full of giddiness and mirth, He is the prettiest fool on earth. The rogue is twice a squirrel's size, With short snub nose and big black eyes ; A cloud of brown adorns his tail, That curls and serves him for a sail ; The same deep auburn d)^es his ears, That never were abridged by shears : While white around, as Lapland snows, His hair, in soft profusion, flows ; Waves on his breast, and plumes his feet With glossy fringe, like feathers fleet. A thousand antic tricks he plays, And looks at one a thousand ways ; His wit, if he has any, lies Somewhere between his tail and eyes ; Sooner the light those eyes will fail, Than BiUi/ cease to wag that tail. And yet the fellow ne'er is safe From the tremendous beak of Ralph ; A raven grim, in black and blue, As arch a knave as e'er you knew ; Who hops about with broken pinions, And thinks these walls his own dominions. This wag a mortal foe to Bill is. They fight hke Hector and Achilles ; Bold Billy runs with all his might. And conquers, Parthian-like, in flight ; While Ralph his own importance feels. And wages endless war with heels : Horses and dogs, and geese and deer, He shly pinches in the rear ; They start surprised with sudden pain. While honest Ralph sheers oflf again. A melancholy stag appears. With rueful look and flagging ears ; THE PLEASURES OF IMPRISONMENT. A feeble, lean, consumptive elf. The very picture of myself! My ghost-like form, and new-moon phiz, Are just the counterparts of his : Blasted like me by fortune's frown ; Like me, twice hunted, twice run down ! Like me pursued, almost to death, He's come to jail, to save his breath ! Still, on his painful limbs, are seen The scars where Avorrying dogs have been Still, on his wo-imprinted face, I weep a broken heart to trace. Daily the mournful wretch I feed With crumbs of comfort and of bread ; But man, false man ! so well he knows. He deems the species all his foes : In vain I smile to soothe his fear. He will not, dare not, come too near ; He lingers — looks — and fain he would — Then strains his neck to reach the food. Oft as his plaintive looks I see, A brother's bowels yearn in me. What rocks and tempests yet await Both him and me, we leave to fate : We know, by past experience taught, That innocence availeth naught : I feel, and 'tis my proudest boast. That conscience is itself an host : While this inspires my swelling breast. Let all forsake me — I'm at rest ; Ten thousand deaths, in every nerve, I'd rather suffer than deserve. But yonder comes the victim's wife, A dappled doe, all fire and life : She trips along with gallant pace, Her limbs alert, her motion grace : Soft as the moonlight fairies bound, Her footsteps scarcely kiss the ground ; PRISON AMUSEMENTS. Gently she lifts her fair brown head, And licks my hand, and begs for broad : I pat her forehead, stroke her neck, She starts and gives a timid squeak ; Then, while her eye with brilliance burns. The fawning animal returns ; Pricks her bob-tail, and waves her ears, And happier than a queen appears : — Poor beast ! from fell ambition free, And all the woes of liberty ; Born in a jail, a prisoner bred, No dreams of hunting rack thine head ; Ah ! mayst thou never pass these bounds To see the world — and feel the hounds ! Still all her beauty, all her art. Have fail'd to win her husband's heart : Her lambent eyes, and lovely chest ; Her swan-white neck, and ermine breast ; Her taper legs, and spotty hide. So softl}^ delicately pied. In vain their fond allurements spread, — To love and joy her spouse is dead. But lo ! the evening shadows fall ^ Broader and browner from the wall ; A warning voice, like curfew bell. Commands each captive to his cell ; My faithful dog and I retire, To play and chatter by the fire : Soon comes a turnkey Avith " Good night, sir !' And bolts the door Avith all his might, sir : Then leisurely to bed I creep. And sometimes wake — and sometimes sleep. These are the joys that reign in prison, And if Pm happy 'tis with reason : Yet still this prospect o'er the rest Makes every blessing doubly blest ; That soon these pleasures will be vanish'd. And I, from all these comforts, banish'd ! THE BRAMIN. THE BRAMIN. EXTRACT FROM CANTO I. Once, on the mountain's balmy lap reclined, The sage unlock'd the treasures of his mind ; Pure from his lips sublime instruction came, As the blest altar breathes celestial flame ; A band of youths and virgins round him press'd, Whom thus the prophet and the sage address'd :— " Through the wide universe's boundless range, All that exist decay, revive, and change : No atom torpid or inactive lies ; A being, once created, never dies. The waning moon, when quench'd in shades of night, Renews her youth with all the charms of light ; The flowery beauties of the blooming year Shrink from the shivering blast, and disappear ; Yet, warm'd with quickening showers of genial rain, Spring from their graves, and purple all the plain. As day the night, and night succeeds the day, So death re-animates, so lives decay : Like billows on the undulating main. The swelling fall, the falling swell again ; Thus on the tide of time, inconstant, roll The dying body and the living soul. In every animal, inspired with breath. The flowers of life produce the seeds of death ; — The seeds of death, though scatter'd in the tomb, Spring with new vigour, vegetate and bloom. " When wasted down to dust the creature dies, Quick, from its cell, the enfranchised spirit flies ; Fills, with fresh energy, another form. And towers an elephant, or glides a worm ; The awful lion's royal shape assumes ; The fox's subtlety, or peacock's plumes ; PRISON AMUSEMENTS. Swims, like an eagle, in the eye of noon. Or wails, a screech-owl, to the deaf, cold moon ; Haunts the dread brakes where serpents hiss and glare, Or hums, a glittering insect in the air. The illustrious souls of great and virtuous men, In noble animals revive again : But base and vicious spirits wind their way, In scorpions, vultures, sharks, and beasts of prey. The fair, the gay, the witty, and the brave, . The fool, the coward, courtier, tyrant, slave ; Each, in congenial animals, shall find A home and kindred for his wandering mind. " Even the cold body, when enshrined in earth, Rises again in vegetable birth : From the vile ashes of the bad proceeds A baneful harvest of pernicious weeds ; The relics of the good, awaked by showers. Peep from the lap of death, and live in flowers ; Sweet modest flowers, that blush along the vale, Whose fragrant lips embalm the passing gale." EXTRACT FROM CANTO II. • *«•*• " Now, mark the words these dying hps impart. And wear this grand memorial round your heart : All that inhabit ocean, air, or earth. From ONE ETKRNAL SIRE derive their birth. The Hand that built the palace of the sky Form'd the light wings that decorate a fly : The Power that wheels the circling planets round Rears every infant floweret on the ground ; That Bounty which the mightiest beings share Feeds the least gnat that gilds the evening air. Thus all the Avild inhabitants of woods. Children of air, and tenants of the floods; All, all are equal, independent, free, And all the heirs of immortality ! THE BRAMIN. For all that live and breathe have once been men, And, in succession, will be such again : Even you, in turn, that human shape must change, And through ten thousand forms of being range. " Ah ! then, refrain your brethren's blood to spill, And, till you can create, forbear to kill ! Oft as a guiltless fellow-creature dies. The blood of innocence for vengeance cries : Even grim, rapacious savages of prey, Presume not, save in self-defence, to slay ; What, though to heaven their forfeit hves they owe, Hath heaven commission'd thee to deal the blow ? Crush not the feeble, inoffensive worm, Thy sister's spirit wears that humble form ! Why should thy cruel arrow smite yon bird ? In him thy brother's plaintive song is heard. When the poor, harmless kid, all trembling, lies, And begs his httle life with infant cries. Think, ere you take the throbbing victim's breath, You doom a dear, an only child, to death. When at the ring the beauteous heifer stands, — Stay, monster ! stay those parricidal hands ; Canst thou not, in that mild, dejected face. The sacred features of thy mother trace ? When to the stake the generous bull you lead, I Tremble, — ah, tremble, — lest your father bleed. j Let not your anger on your dog descend, [ The faithful animal was once your friend ; I The friend whose courage snatch'd you from the grave, When wrapp'd in flames or sinking in the wave. — Rash, impious youth ! renounce that horrid knife. Spare the sweet antelope ! — ah, spare — thy wife ! j In the meek victim's tear-illumined eyes, j See the soft image of thy consort rise ; Such as she is, when by romantic streams Her spirit greets thee in delightful dreams ; Not as she look'd, when blighted in her bloom ; Not as she lies, all pale m yonder tomb ; PRISON AMUSEMENTS. That mournful tomb, where all th}^ joys repose ! That hallow'd tomb, Avhere all thy griefs shall close. " While yet I sing, the weary king of light Resigns his sceptre to the queen of night ; Unnumber'd orbs of living fire appear. And roll in glittering grandeur o'er the sphere. Perhaps the soul, released from earthly ties, A thousand ages hence may mount the skies ; Through suns and planets, stars, and systems range, In each new forms assume, relinquish, change ; From age to age, from world to world aspire, And climb the scale of being higher and higher : But who these awful mysteries dare explore ? Pause, O my soul ! and tremble and adore. " There is a Power, all other powers above. Whose name is Goodness, and His nature Love ; Who call'd the infant universe to light. From central nothing and circumfluent night. On His great providence all worlds depend, As trembling atoms to their centre tend ; In Nature's face His glory shines confess'd, She wears His sacred image on her breast ; His spirit breathes in every living soul ; His bounty feeds, his presence fills the whole ; Though seen, invisible — though felt, unknown ; All that exist, exist in Him alone. But who the wonders of His hand can trace Through the dread ocean of unfathom'd space ? When from the shore we lift our fainting eyes. Where boundless scenes of Godlike grandeur rise ; Like sparkling atoms in the noontide rays. Worlds, stars, and suns, and universes blaze. Yet these transcendent monuments that shine, Eternal miracles of skill divine, These, and ten thousand more, are only still The shadow of his power, the transcript of his will." April 14, 1796. A TALE TOO TRUE. A TALE TOO TRUE: Being a supplement to The Prison Jlmvscments, originally pnbliiitied under the name of Paul Positive, in which ninny of the Author's Juvenile Verses were composed. The fDllowing were written at Scarborough, whither he had re- tired, on being liberated from York Castle, for the recovery of his health, be- fore he returned home. They are dated July 23, 1796, and were literally a summer-day's labour. One beautiful morning, when Paul was a child, And went with a satchel to school, The rogue play'd the truant, which shows he was wild. And though little, a very great fool. He came to a cottage that grew on the moor, No mushroona was ever so strong ; 'Twas snug as a mouse-trap ; and close by the door A river ran rippling along. The cot was embosom'd in rook-nested trees, The chestnut, the elm, and the oak ; Geese gabbled in concert with bagpiping bees. While softly ascended the smoke. At the door sat a damsel, a sweet little girl, Array'd in a petticoat green ; Her skin was lovely as mother of pearl, And milder than moonlight her mien. She sang as she knotted a garland of flowers, Right mellowly Avarbled her tongue ; Such strains in Elysium's romantical bowers, To soothe the departed are sung. Paul stood like a gander, he stood like himself, Eyes, ears, nose, and mouth open'd Avide ; When suddenly rising, the pretty young elf The wonder-struck wanderer spied. PRISON AMUSEMENTS. She started and trembled, she blush'd and she smiled, Then dropping a courtesy she said, " Pray, what brought you hither, my dear little child ? Did your legs run away with your head ?" " Yes ! yes !" stammer'd Paul, and he made a fine bow, At least 'twas the finest he could, Though the lofty-bred belles of St. James's, I trow, Would have call'd it a bow made of wood. No matter, the dimple-cheek'd damsel was pleased, And modestly gave him her wrist ; Paul took the fine present, and tenderly squeezed, As if 'twere a wasp in his fist. Then into the cottage she led the young fool. Who stood all aghast to behold The lass's grim mother, Avho managed a school, A beldame, a witch, and a scold. Her eyes were as red as two lobsters when boil'd, Her complexion the colour of straw ; Though she grinn'd like a death's head whenever she smiled. She show'd not a tooth in her jaw. Her body was shrivell'd and dried like a kecks. Her arms were all veins, bone, and skin ; And then she'd a beard, sir, in spite of her sex, I don't know how long, on her chin. Her dress was as mournful as mourning could be, Black sackcloth, bleach'd white with her tears ; For a widow, fair ladies ! a widow was she. Most dismally stricken in years. The charms of her youth, if she ever had any. Were all under total eclipse ; While the charms of her daughter, who truly had many, Were only unfolding their lips. A TALE TOO TRUE. Thus, far in a wilderness, bleak and forlorn, When winter deflowers the year. All hoary and horrid, I've seen an old thorn, In icicle trappings a|>pear : While a sweet-smiling snow-drop enamels its root, Like the morning-star gladdening the sky; Or an elegant crocus peeps out at its foot, As blue as Miss Who-ye-will's eye. ' Dear mother !" the damsel exclaim'd with a sigh, " I have brought you a poor little wretch. Your victim and mine," — but a tear from her eye Wash'd away all the rest of her speech. The beldame then mounting her spectacles on, Like an arch o'er the bridge of her nose, Examined the captive, and crying " Well done !" Bade him welcome with twenty dry blows. Paul fell down astounded, and only not dead, For death was not quite within call ; Recovering he found himself in a warm bed, And in a warm fever and all. Reclined on her elbow, to anguish a prey. The maiden in lovely distress Sate weeping her soul from her eyelids away ; How could the fair mourner do less ? But when she perceived him reviving again, She caroll'd a sonnet so sweet, The captive, transported, forgot all his pain, And presently fell at her feet. All rapture and fondness, all folly and joy, " Dear damsel ! for your sake," he cried, " I'll be your cross mother's own dutiful boy, And you shall one day be my bride." PRISON AMUSEMENTS. " For shame !" quoth the nymph, though she look'd the reverse, " Such nonsense I cannot approve ; Too youn