ï~~ ï~~ ï~~ ï~~............................................................................................... "ISM..., Fmli 1 0.1101 AM ---------- ---- - ------.................... -A li............ g 110.......................................................................... ï~~THlE POE'M 8 OF EIJNEZI{ LLIOTT, WIT R 2tn ffutu:,-,nctitou,7 Ii 1' RU FUS8 W. GRISW0141. NEXTYOK LAITT &S.- ALEN ï~~ ï~~CONTENTS. Page itleteotn1 of Elliott................. Exordium..................11 The Village Patriarch.............12 Both N.ecll..................143 rho Si)lendid Village.............164 The Press............ 194 '[hte lyi w Boy to the Sloe Blossom 196 The Wonders of the Lane.200 Sleep.....................203 C'ooe and Gone...............204 Forest W'orship......209 Thomas...................211 Flow( rs for tie Heart............214 Thse Vicar-o............... 215 Oni Seeio)g Audibon's Birds of America... 216 1Ribbledin; or the Christening 218 The Pilgran Fathers.............222 A Ghost at Noon................23 Hymn...................225 Corn Law lyniis................27 To the Bramble Flower.............228 Byron...................230 A Shadow..................231 Epigram..................232 Love....................233 For Black wood's Magazine...........258 Poor Andrew................239 Holiday..................261:The Horene of 'laste................ ï~~lV CONtTENTS. Hymn 2634 Aliranion...................265 Don and Rother27 The Spirit of the First Emigi ant. 280 Lines written for the Sheifield Mechanics' First Exhibition................282 The Emigrant's Farewell............285 T.aste....................286 The Woodbine of June.............287 A Tear for Byron...............28 ï~~NOTICE OF ELLIOTT. THE death of this fiery-hearted poet and devoted friend of humanity is an- j nounced, by the last arrival from England, to have taken place on the first of the last month. EBENEZER ELLIOTT was born on the 17th of March, 1781, at the Village of Masborough, near Sheffield, being one of eight children. His father, was a clerk, with a salary of less than four hundred dollars a year, in the iron works of that village. He early gave indications of the poetical genius, which at a subsequent period of life made his V name as a "household word" in both hemispheres. At the same time, he 'Al discovered a singular want of dexterity f I ï~~6 NOTICE OF ELLTTTOT. in practical affairs, and was unable to conquer the difficulties of some of the most common branches of education. In his boyhood he had few companionships. He learned nothing with faScility from books. He was thought too < dull to profit by instruction, and his education was neglected. But he was quick to observe, and had an ardent love of nature. "IHe would wander forth And seek the woods. The sunshine on his path Was to him as a friend. The swelling hills, The quiet dells retiring far between, S, With gentle invitation to explore Their windings, were a calm society That talked with him and soothed him. Then the chant S Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress Of the fresh sylvan air, made him forget The thoughts that broke his peace, and he began i: To gather simples by the fountain's brink, And lose himself in day-dream."*., A4 -Y,> ï~~NOTICE Or ELLYOTT. 7 S Soon after leaving school, he was found to be so deficient in arithmetical knowledge, that he was placed by his father as a laborer in the foundry. On comparing his situation with that of an elder brother in the same establishment, who was employed as a draughtsman and accountant, he was often affected to paroxysms of juvenile tears. Soon after the attainment of his majority, he commenced business as a practical working< man, and devoted many years to illrequited toil, until he was so far successful as toe be able to establish himself as an iron merchant, in which pursuit he laid the foundation of an ample fortune. For a long time he made over a hundred A dollars a day, while, ensconced in his '1 counting-room chair, he did not even S see the goods which passed through his Shands. IK ~; ï~~NOTICE OF ELLIOTT. During the panic of 1837, he suffered great pecuniary losses, and was obliged to wind up the business in which he had been engaged until that time. A favorable turn in affairs renewed his prosS perity, when he erected a handsome country-house on the heights near Sheffield, and his fortune and reputation increased at an equally rapid pace. His stern and indignant attacks on the Corn-laws are well known to the world. The vigorous strains of his poetry had a S great influence in producing the state of public opinion that led to their repeal. His weapons were composed of "songs, sarcasms, curses, and battle-cries." His verses had the best qualities of his own Sheffield steel-strong, keen, pointed, armed with a murderous edge, and flash- " ing a torrent of fun at the slightest fricion Muse Was inspired with a ï~~NOTICE OF ELLIOTT. 9 genuine sympathy with the people, and an indignant horror of every form of social oppression. In many respects, he is entitled to the blessed and venerable name of the Poet of Humanity. He endured a long-protracted illness, which caused him intervals of severe suffering, but he never lost his strong and serene steadfastness of spirit. He left a widow and seven children. His memory will be sacredly cherished by many, who have received from his soulstirring effusions a new sense of the dignity of labor, of the feelings and claims of the down-trodden poor, and of the beauty and worth of our common Humanity, in its lowliest developments. ï~~ ï~~EXORDIUM. MON oPoLY! if every funeral bough Of thine be hung with crimes too foul to name; Accurs'd of millions! if already thou, S Watched by mute vengeance and indignant shame, Art putting forth thy buds of blood and flame, What will thy fruitage be? No matter-wave Thy branches o'er our hearts! and, like a pall, Let thy broad shadow darken Freedom's grave t'_. Not yet the Upas of the Isles shall fall, Ifought shall stand. Spread, then, and cover all! Fear'st thou the axe? Long since the feller lil died; And thou art deaf to thunder. But, Black Tree! Thine own fruits will consume thee.in thyjyprid! O may thy inbred flame blast nought but thee, When burns the beacon which the blind shall see! S Meantime, I make my theme the toil and grief That water thee with tears-the fear and hate. Whose mutter'd curses fan thy deadly eat - Sad, silent changes-buriin g wrongs, that wait To hear Delusion scream at Rapine's gate, I Our master's cause is lost, and Hell's unSdone' ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. CONTENTS. Continued frost.-Enoch Wray leaves his cottage on a visit to the neighbouring town.-His blindness and poverty.-His familiarity with the old roads of the coun. try.-His perplexity in the town -Changes there.Rural names of some of the streets.-Country-born wi(low and her attempts at a garden.-Her consumptive boy, and his flowers.-Female artisans sinping hymns at their labour,-Meeting of Enoch Wray and his old blind servant. BOOK I. I. THROUGH fiery haze broad glares the angry sun; The travell'd road returns an iron sound; Rings in the frosty air the murderous gun; The fieldfare dies; and heavy to the ground, Shot in weak flight, the partridge falls-his wound Purpling with scatter'd drops the crusted snow. Loud thumps the forge; bright burns the cottage fire, ï~~rItE VILLAGE FATRIARCH. 13 From which the tilter's lad is loth to go; Well pleas'd the tramper sees the smoke aspire; High flies the swan; each wild strange bird is YV shyer, And, terror-taught, suspects hill, vale, and plain. @ II. Our poor blind father grasps his astaff againO IHeav'n! pro:ct him on his way alone! Of things familiar to him, what remain? The very road is chang'd; his friend, the stone On which he wont to sit and rest, is gone; And ill the aged blind can spare a friend! III. How lone is he, who, blind and near his end, S Seeks old acquaintance in a stone or tree! All feeling and no sight! 0 let him spend The gloamning hour in chat with memory! Nor start from dreams to curse reality, And friends more hard and cold than tres and stones! IV. He takes the townward road, and inly groans SAt men, whose looks he does not see, but feel; Men whose harsh steps have language! cruel tones That strike his ear and heart, as if with steel! Where dwelt they, ere Corruption's brazen o ' i' seal ï~~14 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. S Stamp'd power's hard image on such dross as their's? V. Thou meanest thing that Heav'n endures and spares! Thou upstart dandy, with the cheek of lead! How dar'st thou from the wall push those gray hairs? Dwarf! if he lift a finger, thou art dead: T His thumb could fillip off thy worthless headHis foot, uplifted, spurn thee o'er the moon! VI. "Some natural tears he drops, but wipes them soon;" And thinks how chang'd his country and his kind, Since he, in England's and in manhood's noon, Toil'd lightly and earn'd much; or, like the wind, Went forth o'er flowers, with not a care behind, And knew nor grief, nor want, nor doubt, nor fear. V II. S Beadle! how canst thou smite, with speech severe, S One who was reverenc'd long ere thou wast born? No homeless, soulless beggar meets thee here, Although that threadbare coat is patched and F1 torn: ï~~pf THE VILLAGE PATRIAIIc. 15 His bursting h art repels thy taunt with scorn, But deems thee human, for thy voice is man's. -4~ VIII. W ' You, too, proud dame, whose eye so keenly scans The king's blind subject on the king's high road t S You who much wonder that, with all our plans To starve the poor, they still should crawl abroad! Ye both are journeying to the same abode. But, lady, your glad eye, o'er wave, and shore, And sioreless heav'n, with sightless speed may A rove, And drink resplendent joy; while he no more Shall look on Nature's face: Rock, river, grove, Hfl ate's withering frown, the heart-sent blush of love, S Noon, midnight, morning, all are dark to him IX. Thou, skaiter! motion-pois'd, may'st proudly swin In air -borne circles o'er the glassy plain, While beauty lauds thy graceful sweep of limb; But to the blind, alas! her praise is pain: It but recalls his boyish days in vain, When he too, seen and prais'd, could see and praise. 4To him there is no beauty but the heart's, No light but that within; the solar blaze xC ï~~16 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. / For him no colour to the rose imparts; The rainbow is a blank; and terror starts S No ghost in darkness thicker than his own. x. Yet sweet to him, ye stream-lov'd valleys lone, S Leafless, or blossoming fragrant, sweet are ye For he can hear the wintry forest groan, And fiel the grandeur which he cannot see, And drink the breath of Nature, blowing free. Sweet still it is through fields and woods to stray; And fearless wanders he the country wide, For well old Enoch knows each ancient way; He finds in every moss-green tree a guideTo every time-dark rock he seems allied Calls the stream " sister!" and is not disown'd. Usurper of the hills hast thou dethron'd The regal oak? He bows his honours hoar, S Too conscious of his fall, in vain bemoan'd; He yields to thee, storm-loving sycamore! And on the inland peak, or sea-beat shore, Thou reign'st alike. But thee, though yonder hill KStoops to thy height, our father planted here;, And still he loves thy palmy shade, and still, E'en when the snow-flake plumes thy branches sere, He climbs the age-worn road that lingers near, And seems, though blind, on distant hills to gaze. C,% s7' {/' ï~~THE VILLAoE rAINUIARCHT. 17 XII.,I But much he dreads the town's distracting maze, ' Where all, to him, is full of change and pain. New streets invade the country; and he strays, Lost in strange paths, still seeking, and in vain, For ancient landmarks, or the lonely lane Where oft he play'd at Crusoe, when a boy. Fire vomits darkness, where his lime-trees grew; Harsh grates the saw, where coo'd the wooddove coy; Tomrb c'owds on tomb, where violets droop'd in dew And, brighter than bright heav'n, the speedwell blue Cluster'd the bank, where now the town-bred boor (Victim and wretch; whose children never smile) Insults the stranger, sightless, old, and poor, On swill'd Saint Monday, with his cronies vile. Drunk for the glory of the holy isle, While pines his wife, and tells to none her woes! XIlI. Here, Enoch, flaunts no more the wild briar rose, Nor basks the lizard here, or harmless snake. No more the broom, in spring, all golden glows O'er the clear rill, that, whimpering through the brake, 4 Heard thy blythe youth the echoing valo awake. r7 ï~~THE "ViLLAUE VATRIARCH, A1 1 tho was lovely then is gloomy now. T'hen, no strange paths perplex'd thee-no new streets, Where draymen bawl, while rogues kick up a row; And fishwives grin, while fopling fopling meets; And milk-lad his rebellious donkey beats. While dwarfish cripple shuffles to the wall;. And hopeless tradesman sneaks to ale house mean; And imps of beggary curse their dad, and squall For mammy's gin; and matron, poor and clean, With tearful eye, begs crust for lodger lean; And famish'd weaver, with his children three, Sings. hymns for bread; and legless soldier, borne In dog-drawn car, imploreth charity And thief with steak from butcher runs forlorn; And debter bows, while banker smiles in scorn; And landed pauper, in his coach and four, Bound to far countries from a realm betray'd, Scowls on the crowd, who curse the scoundrel's power, While coachee grins, and lofty lady's maid Turns up her nose at bread-tax-paying trade, Though master bilketh dun, and is in haste. XIV Chang'd scenes, once rural-chang'd, and not defac'd! Far other woes were yours in times of old, When Locksley o'er the hills of Hallam chasd ï~~THE VILLAGE FATRIARCiH. 19 The wide-horn'd stag, or with his bowmen bold Wag'd war on kinglings. Vassal robbers prowl'd, And, tiger-like, skulk'd robber lords for prey, Where now groan wheelworn streets, and labour bends S O'er thousand anvils. Bled the feudal fray, Or rav'd the foray, where the cloud ascends For ever; and from earth's remotest ends Her merchants meet, where hamlets shriek'd in flames. xv. S Scenes, rural once! ye still retain sweet names, That tell of blossoms and the wandering bee: In black Pea-Croft no lark its lone nest frames; Balm-Green, the thrush hath ceas'd to visit Wethee! When shall Bower-Spring her annual cornerake see, Or start the woodcock, if the storm be near? But, mourning better days, the widow here Still tries to make her little garden bloomFor she was country-born. No weeds appear, Where her poor pinks deplore their prisontomb; To them, alas! no second spring shall come. And there, in May, the lilac gasps for breath; SAnd mint and thymne seem fain their woes to speak, R~ If. 40k ï~~20 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. Like saddest portraits, painted after death; And spindling wall-flowers, in the choaking reek, For life, for life uplift their branches weak. Pale, dwindled lad, that on her slated shop Sett'st moss and groundsel from the frosty lea! O'er them no more the tiny wren shall hop. Poor plants!-poor child! I pity them and Q thee! Yet blame I not wise Mercy's high decree. They fade-thou diest; but thou to live againTo bloom in heav'n. And will thy flowers be c there? Ileav'n, without them, would smile for thee ir vain. Thither, poor boy, the primrose shall repair, There violets breathe of England's dewy air, j S And daisies speak of her, that dearest one, Who then shall bend above thy early bier, - Mourning her feeble boy for ever gone, Yet long to clasp his dust for ever here! No, no, it shall not want or flower or tear. In thy worn hand her sorrow will not fail To place the winter rose, or wind-flower meek; Then kiss thy marble smile, thy forehead pale, But not the icy darkness from thy cheek; Then gaze-then press her heart that yet shall break; And feebly sob-" My child, we part to meet!" xvii. S Hark! music still is here! How wildly sweet, Like flute notes in a storm, the psalm ascends it V ï~~4Z THE VILLACE PATRIARCH. 21 ( SFrom yonder pile, in traffic's dirtiest streei! S There hapless woman at her labaur bends, ' While with the rattling fly her shrill voice blends And ever, as she cuts the headless nail, S She sings-" I waited long, and sought the Lord, And patiently did bear." A deeper wail -s Of sister voices joins, in sad accord"He set my feet upon his rock ador'd!" And then, perchance-" O God, on man look down x XV III. And Enoch seeks, with pensive joy, the town; For there his brother in misfortune dwells, The old and sightless sawyer, once his own. They meet-with pride and grief his bosom ' swells; S And how they once could see, each sadly tells. \ But Charles is chang'd; and Enoch's bosom ' ) bleeds To mark the change. Though aged but eighty years, S Bedrid and blind, the sorrowing sawyer needs All friendly aid. Crack'd, on the wall, appears SHis famous violin. No rival fears I His tremnbling hand, which never more shall call The young, the gay, the mnly, and the fair To penny hop or rusteic festival! No fading prude again shall curl her hair, ï~~22 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. Nor fop new whiskers buy nor age repair STo hear him charm the loveliest ofthe land. The tear is trembling in our father's eye Kindly he takes his ancient servant's hand, Stoops to his whisper, to his feeble sigh Sighs; and, with hands uplifted reverently, And heav'nward eyes upon his bended knees, Implores the Father of the poor to spare His pious friend, and cure his long disease; Or give him strength his painful load to bear, That, dying, he may shew "what good men are: "For Thou disdain'st not pray'r from lowly walls. The squalid hovel, where the poor and just Kneel, is, in thy sight, splendid as the halls Where pray the proud-with contrite hearts, I trustThen highest when they know they are but dust. O God! continue to thy grateful son The grace which thou hast never yet denied To humble faith, that bids thy will be done! And let it still, in meekness, be his pride To praise thy name, and hear it glorified! Poor is thy son, and blind, and scorn'd, like me; Yet thee we bless, that he can proudly say He eats the hoarded bread of industry, And that he hath not, in his evil day, Tasted the bitterness of parish-pay. Though frail thy child, like all who weep below, His life, thou know'st, has been no baneful weed; ï~~THE VILLAGE 'ATRIARCHI. 23 He never gather'd where he did not plough, He reap'd not where he had not scatter'd seed; And Christ, we know, for sinners deign'd to bleed! At thy tribunal want may be forgiv'n; There, to be lowly is not to be base. Oh, then-if equal, in the eye of Heav'n, Are all the children of the human race; If pomp and pride have in thy courts no placeLet humble friends, who long have sojourn'd here In love united, meet in love again, Where dust, divorc'd from sin, and pain, and fear In ever-bless'd communion shall remain, With powers that know not death, nor grief, nor stain, Warbling to heav'nly airs the grateful soul! ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH BOOK II. CONTENTS. A fine day in winter.-Enoch Wray seated in the sunshine at his cottage door.-His nelected garden asymptom of poverty.- fhe condition of the poor changed for the worse since the Patliareh was young.-Great e'ents of his time:-Invasion of England by the pretender;-American War;-French Revolution;-Na. poleon. I. Tiiou call'st the Village Patriarch to his door, Brief, brilliant summer of a winter's day! While the sweet redbreast, minstrel of the poor, Perch'd on the blossoming hazle, trills his lay, To cheer that blind, good man, old Enoch Wray. Behold our Father, still unbow'd by time! Eld with his gentle locks full gently plays; And pain, in reverence, spares the man sub. lime: ï~~THE VILL.AGE PATRIARCH. 25 How few such men grace these degenerate days! / E'en Death, though fain to strike, in awe delays, S As if immortal age defied his might. Lo! where the creeping primrose comes again, To see his sad, bright eyes, that roll in night, While melts the hoar-frost on the cottage pane, And dew-drops glitter in the lonely lane! Calm,, as of old, with not one hoary hair Chang'd, thou art listening for the vernal bee; Thy fingers, like the daisy's petals fair, Spread to the sun, that loves to look on theeThou almost god-like in thy dignity! S Hark, how the glad rill welcomes thee with pride! Ye have been friends and neighbours five-score yearsFather! the stream still loiters at thy side, V" And still unchang'd by envious time appears Like human life, it flows, a stream oftears-- But not to pass, like human life, away. '\h;,) II. t, What, though thy locks of venerable gray Claim not with yon wild cliffs coeval date, Yet, blind old man, shake hands with them, fo., they. Are dark like thee; and, by an equal fate, They too, enduring long, shall perish late. Thou see'st not Winco, in his dusky cap, I Lean'd on his elbow, as becomes his years, With all the past beneath him, like a map, -"3 { "}.,f-."' ". 4.: 4 ï~~26 TIHE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. O'er which he bends and ruminates in tears; But how like thee that wo-mark'd hill appears! Ye are not changeless, though ye long endure, And Eld herself sees but what still hath been, In him and thee. Nor art thou yet mature And ripe for death, but strong in age and green, And alter'd less than this pathetic scene. The cottage, where thy sire and his were born, ' S Seems, as of old, a hillock in the vale: But many a chink admits the breezy morn; Neglect long since divore'd the jasmine pale That clasp'd thy casement; and the sorrowing gale Sighs o'er the plot where erst thy choice flowers bloom'd. Ah! when the cottage garden runs to waste, Full oft the rank weed tells of hopes entomb'd, And points at man, once proud, now scorn'd debas'd! p The dogs bark at him; and hle moves, disgrac'd ' O'er wither'd joys which spring shall ne'er re new. V III. Yet here, e'en yet, the florist's eye may view Sad heirs of noble sires, once dear to thee; And soon faint odours, o'er the vernal dew, Shall tempt the wanderings of the earliest bee Hither, with music sweet as poesy, AÂ~ k To woo the flower whose verge is wiry gold " ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 27 IV. But on thy brow, O ne'er may I behold Sadness!-Alas, 'tis there, and well it may: S For times are chang'd, and friends grow scarce and cold! O let not want "his ready visit pay" To sightless age, that knew a better day! O may no parish crust thy lips profane! V. Man, poor and blind, who liv'st in worse than pain! Where'er thou art, thou helpless, wingless owl! The worm, our eyeless sister, might disdain Thee, subject to thy fellow's proud control. But what a worm is he, the blind in soul, Who makes, and hates, and tortures penury! Ah! who shall teach him mercy's law sublime? He who can sever wo and poverty, S Or pride and power, or poverty and crime; He who can uninstruct the teacher, Time. Oh, yet erect, while all around are bow'd, Let Enoch Wray's majestic pride remain, A lone reproach, to sting the meanly proud, And show their victims-not, perhaps, in vainWhat Britons have been, and may be again. O Age and Blindness, why should you be pair'd? 0O sisters three, worst fates, Want, Blindness, Age! N 2r ï~~T' y 28 THE VILLAGE rATRIARICH. Hope look'd from heav'n, beheld you, and despair'd, But now she rends her hair, in grief and rage; Her words are prophecy, her dreams presage Evil to serf and lord; for want hath sworn Thus, to the delver of the perilous mine, And him who wakes with scrating file the morn"By the sad worm that dies not, I am thine. 4 T And mine art thou; thy joys shall still decline Till death thy woes increase till death-toil V on on VI. 3ut why forestall our griefs Dark thoughts, Sbegone! Sufficient is its evil for the hour. The verdant leaves drop from us one by one; We need not shake them down. Life's weep- - ing flower "j Droops soon enough, however slight the shower; " And hope, unbidden, quits our fond embrace. V II. I will not read dejection in thy face, S Nor aught save tranquil hope and gentle doom; ' But deem thee parent of a happy race,. Thy slumbers peaceful, distant yet thy tomb; k' And, in thy Autumn, late the rose shall bloom. \ Come, let us walk, as we have often walk'd, n/fj ï~~THE VILLAGE rATRIARCH. 29 Through scenes belov'd, that whisper of the past; S And talk to me, as thou hast often talk'd, 4 14 Of winged hours, too happy far to last, When toil was bliss, and thrift could gather fast Funds to sustain his long life's tranquil close; When faces wore no masks, and hearts were glad; When ieedom's champions were lnot labour's foes; When no man deem'd the wise and honest mad; S And Pope was young, and Washington a lad. Thou to the past can'st say, "Rise, live again!" For, Enoch, well rememb'rest thou the time When Britons till'd the Eden of the main, Where manly thoughts were utter'd e'en in rhyme, And poverty was rare, and not a crime. S Whfiat envied England was, long years ago, I" J That times are alter'd, thou can'st truly tell; And if thy thoughts are flowers that bloom in If with the present and the p,st they dwellfi Then, of the lifeless, like a passing bell, Speak to the living, ere they perish, too.. If memory is to thee a precious book, S Brightest where written first, and brightly true, ( - Turning the pictur'd pages, bid me look SOn sunny meadow and rejoicing brook, S And toil-brown'd labour as the throstle gay. ï~~S 30 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. VIII. Thou weepest, sightless man, with tresses gray! But wherefore weep o'er ills thou can'st not cure? The darkest hour will quickly pass away, And man was born to suffer and endure. But, come what may, thy rest is near and sure SThy bed is made, where all is well with all Who well have done. 'Then, Enoch, cease to mourn! Lift up thy voice, and wake the dead! Recall The deeds of other days! and from the urn I Of things which were, shake words that breathe anid burn. O'er the dark mantle of the night are shed Sparks of the sun, in starry spangles proud In show'ry spring, when morn his radianthead Veils, the rich broomi, with glittering diamonds bow'd, Is sunny light beneath the sunless cloud. Though Nature to thine eyesis vainly fair, Green laugh the seasons, and the laughing light Is verdant in thy soul-the flower is there That wither'd four-score years ago, still bright, And bath'd in freshness by the dewy air. And pitying spirits to thine ear repair With tales, to wv.hich unsorrowing hearts are deaf; Anddeeds, whose aclors live not, live with thee; Still laugh and weep long buried joy and grief, AStw V_ V4____.___"C ï~~THIE VILLAGE PATRIARCHI. 31 Which, speaking with thine eloquent tongue, shall be, When thou art gone, alive to memory. Thus to great men their country-when the bust, The urn, the arch, the column fail-remains For ever speaks of godlike deeds the dust Which feet immortal trod; and rocks, and plains, When History's page no symbol'd thought retains, Hear dim tradition talk of deathless men. I X. Bright on the storm-swoll'n torrent of the glen Is angry sunset; bright, and warm, and strong, Are the rich visions which the poet's pen Clothes in sweet verse; but brighter is the song Of truth unwritten, from our father's tongu.e. Ah! who starts now at Belmerino's name, Which England heard pronoune'd in dreams, and woke? Then every mountain had a voice of flame; Blue Kinderscout to starting Snailsden spoke, i And fiery speech from troubled Stanedge broke. Tell, Enoch, yet again, of that huge tree, Old as the hills; that tree to whose broad shade Your herds were driv'n, when age and itfancy, SThe thoughtful matron, and the weeping maid, Fled through the gloom where lonest Rivilin stray'd. 4 Speak of the cellar and the friendly well l~~~~~~ Ni\ ~ 5r J 4:+J ï~~32 THE VILLAGE rATRIARCH. In which thy mother, trembling, hid her plate* The ancient cup, whose maker none can tell; The massive tankard used on days of state; And coins long hoarded, all of sterling weight. Say how retir'd the robbers, disarray'd; t Boast of the arms thy sire was proud to wield; Drawn from its sheath, in thought, the trusty blade That drove rebellion o'er Culloden's field, Oppos'd in vain by Highland dirk and shield; And feel the blood-rust on its splendour keen! X. Then wing my spirit to a grander scene; Let burning thoughts and words for utterance throng And bid me mark-though clouds will intervene To veil the waters swift, and wild, and strongHow pours the tide of human fate along. Tell of sad strife with Britain's sons, who trod Earth's virgin soil, beyond the sun-lov'd wave; Men-owning no superior but their God, Strong as their torrents, as their eagle, braveWho dug with Freedom's sword Oppression's grave' Tell, too, of him, the warrior-sage, whose deeds Uncurs'd the future. and enfranchis'd man! But ah! not yet-Time's darkest hour succeeds, I Unmatch'd in wo since life and death began! For evil hath her place in Mercy's plan, And long will furnish themes for mournful I rhymes. 4111/ A Oto N ï~~STHE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 33 XI. Speak '-if thy soul, too full of ancient times Will condescend of later deeds to tellSpeak of the dlay of blood, the night of crimes, The moral earthquake, and the earthly hell, When slaves smote tyrants serv'd too long and well. Say how attention listen'd, pale, in heav'n, When-madden'd by Abaddon's legion brands, And too, too deeply wrong'd to be forgiv'nThey found redemption in their own right hands, Purg'd with retorted fire their demon'd lands, And clad in fresher green the calcin'd sod. XII. Nor him forget, the stripling demi-god, Before whose glance the herded nations fled. Tell how he crush'd the mountains with his nod, Walk'd on the storm, and to convulsion said, "Be still, thou babbler!" Tell how he who read, The doom of kings fail'd to forsee his own. He plae'd upon his head the crown of steel; But dream'd he of his grave in ocean lone?Toussaint! thy foe was doom'd thy pangs to feel: On jailer-England and on him her seal S Hath History set. For ocean's waste of waves Fenc'd not his throne from million hostile swords; * Therefore he built on multitudinous graves \ A tyrant's power, and strove to bind with cords - 3 ï~~34 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. Thought; for she mock'd him with her wing of words, That withers armies. Who shall credit thee, Genius? Still treacherous, or unfortunate, Victim, or wronger! Why must Hope still see Thy pinions, plum'd with light divine, abate (Their speed when nearest heav'n, to uncreate Her glorious visions? Aye, since time began, Creatures, with hearts of stone and brains of clay, Scorning thy vaunt to wing the reptile, man, O'er thee and thine have held barbarian sway; And in the night which yet may have its day, (The night of ages, moonless, starless, cold,) If the rare splendour of the might of mind Hath sometimes flash'd o'er plagues and errors old, It flash'd but to expire, and leave behind A deadlier gloom. But woodbine wreaths are twin'd Round thorns; and praise, to merit due, is paid, To vulgar dust, best liked when earthy most. While Milton grew, self-nourish'd, in the shade, Ten Wallers bask'd in day. Misrule can boast Of many Alvas; Freedom, oft betray'd, Found her sole Washington. To shine unseen, Or only seen to blast the gazer's eye; Or struggle in eclipse, with vapours mean, That quench your brightness, and usurp the sky; Such, meteor spirits! is your destiny, o Mourn'd in times past, and still deplor'd in these. ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. BOOK III. CONTENTS. Comparative independence of skilled labour.-Fine Sabbath morning.-Sunday stroll of the townsman.-Coach race -Misery and misfortunes of the poor.-Congregation leaving the village church.-Old mansion.-Country youth working in the town.-Poacheo of the manufacturing districts.-Concluding reflections. I. ERE Bedford's loaf or Erin's sty be thine, Cloud-rolling Sheffield! want shall humble all. Town of the unbow'd poor! thou shalt not pine Like the fall'n rustic, licens'd Rapine's thrall; But, first to rise, wilt be the last to fall! Slow are thy sons the pauper's trade to learn. Though, in the land that blossoms like the rose, The English peasant and the Irish kerne Fight for potatoes-thy proud labourer knows Nor workhouse wages, nor the exile's woes. Not yet thy bit of beef, thy pint of ale, ï~~36 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. Thy toil-strung heart which toil could ne'er dismay, Nor yet thy honest, skill'd right hand shall fail; Last, from thy hearths, the poor man's pride shall stray; And still shall come thy well paid Saturday, And still thy morn of rest be near and sure. IT. Light! all is not corrupt, for thou art pure, Unchang'd, and changeless. Though frail man is vile, Thou look'st on him-serene, sublime, secure, Yet, like thy Father, with a pitying smile. Light! we may cloud thy beams, but not defile. Even on this wintry day, as marble cold, Angels might quit their home, to visit thee, And match their plumage with thy mantle, roll'd Beneath God's throne, o'er billows of a sea Whose isles are worlds, whose bounds infinity. Why then is Enoch absent from my side? I miss the rustle of his silver hair; A guide no more, I seem to want a guide, While Enoch journeys to the house of pray'r; And ne'er came Sabbath day but he was there! Lo, how like him, erect and strong, though gray, Yon village tower, time touched, to God appeals! But hark! the chimes of morning die away! V;y ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 37 ark!-to the heart the solemn sweetness steals, Like the heart's voice, unfelt by none who feels That God is love, that man is living dust; Unfelt by none whom ties of brotherhood Link to his kind; by none who puts his trust In nought of earth that hath surviv'd the flood, Save those mute charities, by which the good Strengthen poor worms, and serve their Maker best. III. Hail, Sabbath! day of mercy, peace, and rest! Thou o'er loud cities throw'st a noiseless spell. The hammer there, the wheel, the saw, molest S4 Pale thought n:) more. O'er trade's contentious hell S Meek quiet spreads her wings invisible. I But when thou com'st, less silent are the fields Through whose sweet paths the toil-freed townsman steals. To him the very air a banquet yields. Envious, he watches the pois'd hawk, that wheels His flight on chainless winds. Each cloud re. veals A paradise of beauty to his eye. His little boys are with him, seeking flowers, F So by the daisy's side he spends the hours, Renewing friendship with the budding bowers; And-while might, beauty, good, without alloy, ï~~38 THIE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. Are mirror'd in his children's happy eyesS In his great temple, offering thankful joy To Him, the infinitely Great and Wise, With soul attuned to Nature's harmonies, Serene, and cheerful, as a sporting child. His heart refuses to believe, that man Could turn into a hell the blooming wild, The blissful country, where his childhood ran A race with infant rivers, ere began King-humbling, blind misrule his wolfish sway. IV. Is it the horn that, on this holy day, Insults the songs which rise, like incense sweet, From lowly roofs, where contrite sinners pray, And pious rustics, poor, yet clean and neat, To hear th' apostle of the hamlet, meet? They come, they come! behold, hark!-Thundering down, Two headlong coaches urge the dreadful race Wo to outsiders, should they be o'erthrown! Be ready, Doctor, if they break a trace! Twelve miles an hour-well done; a glorious pace! Poor horses, how they pant, and smoke, and strain What then? our jails are full, and England thrives. Now, Bomb! now, Bomb! Defiance lends again; Hurrah! Bill Breakneck or the Devil drives! ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 39 S Whip!-populous England need not care for lives. 0 blessed Sabbath! to the coach-horse thou Bringest no pause from daily toil. For him There is no day of rest. The laws allow His ever-batter'd hoof, and anguish'd limb, Till, death-struck, flash his brain with dizzy swim, Lo, while his nostrils flame, and, torture-scor'd, Quivers his flank beneath the ruthless goad, Stretch'd, on his neck each vein swells, like a cord! Hark! what a groan! The mute pedestrian, aw'd, Stops-while the steed sinks on the reeling road, Murder'd by hands that know not how to spare! V. Now landed Trader, that, with haughty stare, Thron'd in thy curtain'd pew, o'erlook'st the squire! Be kind and saintly; give, for thou can'st spare, A pittance to the destitute; enquire If yon pale trembler wants not food and fire? Though thou could'st thrive, say not all others can, But look and see how toil and skill are fed; Lo, merit is not food to every man! S Pious thou art, and far thy fame is spread; But thy Saint Peter never preach'd cheap bread. SThough bright the sun, cold blows the winter wind: ï~~)e 40 THE VILLAGE. PATRIARCII. Behold the tramper, with his naked toes! Where for the night shall he a lodging find I Or bid that homeless boy relate his woes; O try to feel what misery only knows, And be like him of Wincobank, who ne'er Sent a fall'n brother heart-struck from his door! Or be like Wentworth's lord, a blessing here! O imitate the steward of the poor, According to thy means, heav'n asks no more! Think of the hope often, the sire of nine, The proud, skill'd man, wheel-shatter'd yesterday: His witb will wring her hands ere eve decline; And, ah! the next week's wages, where are they? Think, too, of her, the maid who dwelt alone, Whose first, sole, hopeless love was Enoch Wray. Forgotten ere she died, she liv'd unknown, And told her love but once, passing away Like a slow shadow, in her tresses gray. Proud, though despis'd, she sternly paid for rent Her all, her weekly eighteenpence, and died, Rather than quit the home where she had spent Twice forty years. Her last pawn'd rug supplied A fortnight's food. None neard her if she sigh'd; None saw her if she wept; or saw too late, That tears were ice upon her lifeless face. 4A ï~~.:;, s 4_L--..: " TIHE VILLAGE 'ATRIARCH. 41 Her Bible on her lap, before the grate That long had known no fire, gnawing a lace With toothless gums-the last of all her raceShe died of cold and hunger in her chair. VI. / The bell strikes twelve. The ancient house of Pours forth its congregated youth and age;.Y The rich, the poor, the gay, the sad, are there; " And some go thence, who, in their hearts, presage That one week more will end their pilgrimage. First, in all haste, comes busy Bolus, croose As bantam cock, and nleat as horse fresh poll'd. Then boys, all glad,, as bottled wasps let loose, I Clapping their hands because their toes are cold. S Then the new Squire (more dreaded than the " p. I old) Raised from the milk-cart by his uncle's willA Norfolk firmner he, who lov'd his joke, S At tax-worn tradesmen aim'd, with practised skill; For, scorning trade, he throve, while traders broke, And did not care a straw for Mister Coke. Next, Io! the monarch of the village school, \ Slow Jedediah comes, not yet the last. " Well can he bear the blame for stubborn fool;, Meekly lie bows to yeoman, stumping past,. S While Bolus, yet in sight, seems travelling fast. Thou, ledediah, learned wight, know'st well? 4% -f' 17 7.. ï~~42 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. Why rush the younglings from the porch with. /-glee. S Dear to thy heart is Nature's breezy fell; Deeply the captive's woes are felt by thee, For thou art Nature's, Freedom's devotee! Witness the moss that winter's rage defies, Cull'd yesterday, beside the lizard's home; Witness thou lichen of the precipice, Beautiful neighbour of the torrent's foam, Pluck'd, where the desert often sees him roam!Next comes the train who better days have known, Condemn'd the taunts of paupers born to brook, With prostrate hearts, that mourn their hopes o'erthrown, s And downcast eyes, that shun th' upbraiding look. Then comes his worship; then his worship's cook; And then, erect as truth, comes Enoch Wray, Bareheaded still, his cheek still wet with tears, Pondering the solemn text, as best he may. Lo, close behind, the curate meek appears! Kindly he greets the man of five-score years, The blind, the poor! while purse-pride turns away, And whispering asks, half-wishful, half-afraid, If Enoch has applied for parish pay, Short-sighted curate! ply the worldling's trade, Or, unpreferr'd, grow pale with hope delay'd, And die, the victin of low craft ad spite. ï~~THE VILLAGE rATRIARCH. 43 Short-sighted curate! do as worldlings do; Flatter the wolf, for he can snarl and bite. What, though thy life is pure, thy doctrine true? The Squireling hates thee; Bolus hates thee too. Physician, surgeon, umpire of thy flock! A Dar'st thou be wise beyond the learned schools? How laughs the Doctor at thy little stock Of drugs and simples! Burn thy useful tools, Priest and Mechanic, scorn'd by knaves and fools! Then fawn on wealth and spurn the all-shunn'd poor. To grandeur's halls, a punctual dun, repair; Or still shall honest rags besiege thy door, And thou be found at Want's bedside in pray'r, While Pain moans low, and Death is watching there, S And Hope sees better worlds beyond the sky. VII. Near yonder archer yews-that solemnly Keep aye uprais'd their desolate hands, in praise Of the old heav'ns, and hoar antiquityBehold the Hall! There once dwelt Matthew Hayes, A trading yeoman of the bygone days. There, where his fathers sojourn'd on the plain, And damn'd the French, yet lov'd all human kind, His annual feast was spread, nor spread in vain; There his own acres billow'd in the wind ï~~44 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. Their golden corn. A man of vulgar mind, ' He laugh'd at learning, while he scrawl'd his k w cross, And rear'd his boy in sloth. But times grew worse: (AWar came-and public waste brought private i loss; S And punctual bankruptcy, the thriving curse,? Beggar'd his debtors, till an empty purse 3 Answer'd all claims. He sold his land-then, died, Following his broken-hearted wife-and left Their son, the heir of prejudice and pride, S To drink, and swear, of self-respect bereft, And feed the day's debauch by nightly theft. Behold his home, that sternly could withstand SThe storms of more than twice a hundred years! In such a home was Shakspeare's "Hamlet" plann'd, SAnd Raleigh's boyhood shed ambitious tears O'er Colon's wrongs. How proudly it uprears Its tower of cluster'd chimneys, tufted o'er With ivy, ever green amid the gray, Yet envy-stung, and muttering evermore ( S To yon red villa, on the king's highway, " Thou dandy! I am not of yesterday." (4 {5 Time seems to reverence these fantastic walls: \ Behold the gables quaint, the cornice strong, S The chambers, bellying over latticed halls, k S The oaken tracery, outlasting long 4. The carven stnme; nor do their old age wrong,, With laughtei vile, or heartless jest profane!...... ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARcIT. 45 V III. Why, Enoch, dost thou start, as if in pain? The sound thou hear'st the blind alone could hear: Alas! Miles Gordon ne'er will walk again; But his poor grandson's footstep wakes thy tear, As if indeed thy long lost friend were near. Here oft, with fading cheek and thoughtful brow, Wanders the youth-town-bred, but desertborn. Too early taglight life's deepening woes to know, i He wakes in sorrow with the weeping morn, And gives much labour for a little corn. In smoke and dust, from hopeless day to day, He sweats, to bloat the harpies of the soil, Who jail no victim, while his pangs can pay. Untaxin" rent, and trebly taxing toil, S They make the labour of his hands their spoil, S And grind him fiercely; but he still can get. A crust of wheaten bread, despite their frowns; They have not sent him like a pauper yet For Workhouse wages, as they send their I"Q. clowns; SSuch tactics do not answer yet in towns. Nor have they gorged his soul. Thrall though he be, Of brutes who bite him while he feeds them, still I l e feels his intellectual dicnity, Works hard, reads usefiully, with no mean skill Writes, and can reason well ofgood and ill. ï~~46 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. He hoards his weekly groat. His tear is shed For sorrows which his hard-worn hand relieves. Too poor, too proud, too just, too wise to wed, (For slaves enough already toil for thieves,) How gratefully his growing mind receives 'Thlie food which tyrants struggle to withhold! Though hourly ills his every sense invade Beneath the cloud that o'er his home is roll'd, He yet respects the power which man hath made, Nor loathes the despot-humbling sons of trade. But, when the silent Sabbath-day arrives,.! He seeks the cottage, bordering on the moor, 1 Where his forefathers pass'd their lowly livesWhere still his mother dwells, content though poor, And ever glad to meet him at the door. Oh, with what rapture he prepares to fly From streets and courts, with crime and sorrow strew'd, And bids the mountain lift him to the sky! How proud, to feel his heart not all subdu'd How happy to shake hands with Solitude! Still, Nature, still he loves thy uplands brownThe rock, that o'er his father's freehold towers! And strangers, hurrying through the dingy town, S May know his workshop by its sweet wild flowers. Cropp'd on the Sabbath f'romi the hedge-side bowers, The hawthorn blossom in his w indow droops; CJ ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 47 Far front the headlong stream and lucid air The pallid alpine rose to meet him stoops, As if to soothe a brother in despair, Exiled from Nature and her pictures fair. E'en winter sends a posy to his jail, Wreath'd of the sunny celandine-the brief, Courageous windflower, loveliest of the frailThe hazel's crimson star-the woodbine's leafThe daisy with its half-clos'd eye of griefProphets of fragrance, beauty, joy, and song! IX. Bird! who would swelter with the laden throng, That had thy wings? Earth spurners, you are free! But thou must drag the chains of life along, I And, all but hopeless, till thou cease to be, Toil, wo-worn Artisan! Yet, unlike thee Is mninion'd Erin's sty'd and root-fed clown. How unlike thee, though once erect and proud, Is England's peasant slave, the trodden down, The parish-paid, in soul and body bow'd! How unlike thee is Jem, the rogue avow'd, Whose trade is poaching! Honest Jem works not, Begs not, but thrives by plundering beggars here. ' Wise as a lord, and quite as good a shot, He, like his betters, lives in hate and fear, SAnd feeds on partridge, because bread is dear. Sire of six sons, apprentic'd to the jail, He prowls in arms, the tory of the night; I...-.. 'tt,.:4 22.z;,. " - ï~~--dot AC: F/-11i 48 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. With them he shares his battles and his ale, With him they feel the majesty of might; No despot better knows that Power is Right. Mark his unpaidish sneer, his lordly frown; Hark, how he calls beadle and flunky liars! See, how magnificently he breaks down His neighbour's fence, if so his will requires! And how his struttle emulates the Squire's! And how like Mistress Gig, late Betty Scrubb, Or Mister Dunghill, with his British pride, He takes the wall of Glossin and his cub, Or loyal Guts, who, bursting, coughs, to hide The wounded meanness he mistakes for pride Jem rises with the moon; but when she sinks, Homeward, with sack-like pockets, and quick heels, Hungry as boroughmongering goul, he slinks. He reads not, writes not, thinks not-scarcely feels; Insolent ape! whate'er he gets he steals, Then plays the devil with his righteous gain! X. O thou, whom conquer'd seas made great in vain, Fall'n Venice! Ocean Queen no more! oppress'd Nurse of true slaves, and lords whom slaves disdain! Whisper thy sickening sister of the West That Trade hath wings, to fly from climes unbless'd!,- ) - r ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCIT. 49 Trade, the transformer, that turns dross to t bread, And reaps rich harvests on the barren main; Trade, that uproots wild flowers, and from their bed Digs forth hard steel, to hew the bondman's chain: Tamer of Tyrants, else oppos'd in vain! S And ye-once guardians of the fainting state, S Shades of the Rockinghams and Savilles! ye Who lived when paupers did not dine on plate! Wake!-can ye sleep? Indignant, wake! and - see ' Alms-taking wealth, alms-giving poverty! Thou too, undemonizer of the proud! S Religion, that canst raise and dignify SThe heart with abject penury hath bow'd! SFrom gorgeous climes beneath the eastern sky, Call homne the lightning of thy seraph eye; Gird thy almighty loins; thy work begin ) Plead for the pariah of the isle of woes, And speak, with Luther's voice, to giant Sin! So may the year of tortur'd ages close Ere the slow Angel start from his repose, Like Stanedge, shaking thunder from his mane. XI., But who will listen when the poor complain? Who read, or hear, a tale of wo if true? SIll fares the friendless Muse of want and pain. S Fool would'st thou prosper, and be honest too? 4 C 'A1 ï~~50 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. Fool! would'st thou prosper? Flatter those who do! If, not unmindful of the all-shunn'd poor, Thou write on tablets frail their troubles deep, The proud, the vain, will scorn thy theme obscure. What wilt thou earn, though lowly hearts may steep With pae l.i With tears the page in which their sorrows weep? Growl, if thou wilt, in vulgar sympathy With piunder'd labour; pour thy honest bile In atire, hiss'd at base prosperity; And let his enviers, from their pittance vile, Reward the pauper virtuous of thy style. But, hark! what accents of what slave enquire Why rude mechanics dare to wield the quill? He bids me from the scribbler's desk retire, In railing foully, and in writing ill. S that my poesy were like the child That gathers daisies from the lap of May, With prattle sweeter than the bloomy wild It then might teach poor Wisdom to be gay As flowers, and birds, and rivers, all at play, And winds, that make the voiceless clouds of H armonious. But distemiper'd, if not mad, I feed on Nature's bane, and mess with scorn. S But, like shade-loving plants, am happiest sad. S My heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarl'd. - -4 _J ï~~TIHE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 51 With gloating on the ills I cannot cure. Like Arno's exil'd bard, whose music snarl'd, I gird my loins to suffer and endure, And woo Contention, f6r her dower is sure. Tear not thy gauze, thou garden-seeking fly, On thorny flowers, that love the dangerous stornm, And flourish most beneath the coldest sky! But ye who honour truth's enduring form, Come! there are heath-flowers, and the fanged worm, Clouds, gorse, and whirlwind, on the gorgeous moor, ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH BOOK IV. CONTENTS. Recitation of Manfred to Enoch Wray.-Byron and his contemporaries.-First perusal of" Schiller's Robbers;" followed by the blindness of the Patriarch.-Further particulars of his history and character I. ENocH, the lights are darken'd on the hill, But in the house a thoughtfil watch is set; Warm on the ancient hearth fire glimmers still; Nor do the travellers their way forget; Nor is the grasshopper a burthen yet. Though blossoms on the mountain top the snow, The maids of music yet are lingering near; Still are the wakefil listeners wise to know; Still to thy soul the voice of song is dear. And when I read to thee that vision drearThe Manfred of stern Byron-thou didst bend, Fix'd, to drink in each touching word and tone, ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 53 On thy chang'd cheek I saw strong feeling blend Impetuous hues; and tears fell, one by one, From thy clos'd eyes, as on the moorland stone The infant river drops its crystal chill. Say, then, is Pope our prince of poets still? S Or may we boast, in these all rhyming days, One climber of the Heliconian hill, Whose classic spirit and unborrow'd lays Johnson or caustic Swift had deign'd to praise? Scott, whose invention is a magic loom; Baillie, artificer ofdeathless dreams; Moore, the Montgomery of the drawing-room; Montgomery, the Moore of solemn themes; Crabbe, whose dark gold is richer than it seems; Keats, that sad name, which time shall write in M tears; Poor Burns, the Scotchman, who was not a slave; Campbell, whom Freedom's deathless Hope endears; White, still remember'd in his cruel grave; Ill-fated Shelly, vainly great and brave; Wordsworth, whose thoughts apquaint us with our own; Didactic, earnest Cowper, grave and gay; Wild Southey, flying like the hern, alone; And dreamy Coleridge, of the wizard lay: S These are true bards, who please not Enoch Wray! kl N ï~~54 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. But may not Byron, dark and grand, compete With him who sung Belinda's ravish'd tress S Chaste is the muse of Pope, and passing sweet; But Byron is aill fervour, rivalless In might and passion. Woman's tendernessWhen woman is most tender, most deplor'dMoves not like his; and still, when least divine, ' He is a god, whose shrines shall be restor'dApollo, self-dethron'd. His mind a mine shine, He-thrice a Ford, twice an Euripides, And half a Schiller-hath a Milton's power But not a Shakespeare's; strength, and fire, and A ease, And alhnost grace; though gloomy as the tower Around whose dangerous brow storms love to lower, His world is all within, like Enoch Wray's. V II'. The full-blown flower, maturely fair, displays Intensest beauty, and th' enamour'd wind Drinks its deep fragrance. But could lengthen'd days Have ripen'd to more worth dark Byron's mind, S And purg'd his thoughts from taint of earth re\ 7fin'd? Or would lie have sent forth a fiercer glow, And gloomier splendour, from his core of fire? We know not what he might have been, but I know S. a< ï~~THE VILLAGE rATRIARCH. b5 What he could not be. Proud of his high lyre, We mourn tihe dead, who never can expire. Proud of his fearless frown, his burning tear; Proud of the poet of all hearts, who heard The mute reproachof Greece; with zeal severe, We scrutinize our least injurious word, Nor longer deem his spleeny whims absurd, His pangs ridiculous, his weakness crime. S, Heaven's favourites are snort liv'd. Stern fate and time Will have their victims; and the best die first, Leaving thle bad still strong, though past their prime, To curse the hopeless world they ever curs'd, Vaunting vile deeds, and vainest of the worst. And he who cannot perish is no more! He died who is immortal, and must be, To time's slow years, like ocean to the shore, The sun to heav'n! He died where fell the free S Of ancitent Greece; and Greeks his loss deplore. ) There, where they fight, as fought their sires of yore, i t he great cause of all the good and great, S Liberty's martyr, England's, Europe's pride, Girding his broken heart, he champion'd fate, And laid down life-though not as Russel died, To him "by better ties than blood," allied. Beyond the deep he perished, far from all That darken'd death with love; a'nd though the, wave S Leagued with his foes to mock his dying call, 0 ï~~56 THE VILLAG1E rATRIACH. S His dust is where his heart was, wheni he gave Years of defeated glory for a grave, Sighing in death his deathless love and wo. V. Father! thy life has been prolong'd to know Strange times, strange men, strange changes and strange lays The warrior-bard whom Athens, long ago, Crown'd peerless heir of never-dying praise, Hath found a greater. In those fearful days When, tempest-driv'n, and toss'd on troubled seas, Thought, like the petral, lov'd the whirlwind Dest, And o'er the waves, and through the foam, with ease, Rose up into the black cloud's thund'rous breast, To rouse the lightning from his gloomy rest; Then, in the shadow of the mountains, dwelt A lady, to whose heart high hopes were dear, Who wildly thought, and passionately felt, And strangely dream'd, that man-the slave of Fear, And Pain, and Want-might be an angel here Full oft that lady of the glen remote Call'd Enoch her wvise mansion; oft partook His humble meal, while, mirror'd in his thought, The pensive past assum'd her own sweet look. 'Twas then she gave him her last gift, a book Dark with strange power, and fearfully divine. r ï~~THE VILLAGE FATRIARCH. 57 3 It chiil'd his blood, it lifted up his hair; S Spirits of terror liv'd in every line; A spell was on its pages of despair, And burning woes, which Nature could not bear. t 'Twas grand, but dreadful as the thoughts that wrung.9 The sun of morning, from the solar beam S Hurl'd to the centre, where his soul, unstrung, S Disdain'd submission still, too proud to seem Unvanquish'd. Was it but a fearful dream, That tale of Schiller's? Did the robber Moor 42 Pierce through Amelia's broken heart his own? S Smite the dark tower and shake the iron door? And was he answered by a father's groan?Th' Avonian seer hath ceas'd to stand alone. But thou no more shall printed vision read, S Enoch!that dire perusal was thy last S For from thine eyeballs, with a spirit's speed, Gone, and forever, light and beauty pass'd. Not that a horror and a wo too vast Had quench'd thy brilliant orbs: nor was thy doom Like his-the bard who sane, of Eden's bowers, The bard of lofty thought, all fire and gloom, All might and purity-whose awful powers, S Too darkly strong for organs frail as ours, Press'd on his visual nerve a pall-like night: S But God, who chastens whom he loves, ordain'd, S Although thy frame was vigorous, thy step light, \ Thy spirit like the autumnal gale unrein'd-,-jl -N.~ 4 r ï~~58 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. That thine should be afflicticn, well sustain'd, To show the proud what humble worth can bear. VI. Then hither, Pride, with tearless eyes repair! S Come, and learn wisdom from unmurmuring wo, S That, 'reft of early hope, yet scorns despair. Still in his bosom light and beauty glow, Though darkness took him captive long ago. Nor is the man of five-score years alone: He listens to a voice of tenderest tone, A heavnly fom, inity, oner Whose accents sweet the happy cannot hear; And, lo, he dashes from his cheek a tear, Caught by an angel shape, with tresses pale. He sees her, in his soul. How fix'd he stands! But, oh, can angels weep? Can grief prevail O'er spirits pure? She waves her thin, white hands; And while her form recedes, her eye expands, Gazing on joys which he who seeks shall find. There is an eye that watches o'er the blind: Ile hath a friend" not lost, but gone before"-- S Who le1ft her image in his heart behind. But when his hands, in darkness, trembled o'er S (',0 Her lifeless features, and he heard no more The voice whose last toe btess'd him, frenzy came! ' Blindness on bhlinness midnih thick and z deep, ï~~THE VILLA'tE PATRIARCH. 59 S Too heavy to be felt!-then pangs, like flame, S That sear'd the brain-sorrow that could not weep; 4 Fever, that would have barter'd worlds for sleep! He had -o tears, but those that inly pour, And scald the heart; no slumbers, but the doze That stuns the mourner who can hope no more; ( But he had shudderings, st por, nameless woes, S Horror, which only he that suffers knows. But frenzy did not kill. His iron frame, Though shaken, stood. The mind's night faded slow. Then would he call upon his daughter's name, Because it was her mother's! And his wo Waned into resignation, pleas'd to show A face of peace, without the smile it wore. ' Nor did the widower learn again to smile Until his daughter to her Albert bore Another Mary, and on yonder stile He nurs'd the babe, that sweetly could beguile, With looks unseen, " all sadness but despair." V 1I. Nay, Enoch do not weep. The day is fair, And flings bright lightnings from his helm abroad; I?1, Let us drink deep the pure and lucid air, S Ere darkness call thee to her damp abode. Hark, how the titling whistles o'er the road! ]'A_ Holm, plume thy palms! and toss thy purple Torse Elm! but, Wood Rose, be not'a bride too soon!, N Il -; ï~~&0 THE VILLAGE PATIARCI. Snows yet may shroud alive the golden gorse Thou early-green! deem not thy bane a boon; Distrust the day that changeth like the moon. But still our father weeps. Ah! though all hues Are dead to him, the floral hours shall yet Shed o'er his heart their fragrance-loving dews! S E'en now, the daisy, like a gem, is set, S Though faint and rare, in winter's coronet. Thy sisters sleep, adventarous windflower pale! And thy weak blush affronts the celandine, The starry herald of that gentlest gale Whose plumes are sunbeams, dipp'd in odours fine: Well may'st thou blush; but sad blight will be thine, If glowing day shut frore in stormy night. VIII. Still dost thou weep, Old Man? The day is brig, ht, And spring is near: come, take a youngster's arm; Come, let us wander where the flocks delight At noon to shun them, when the sun is warm _ And visit then, beyond thy uncle's farm, The one-arch'd bridge-thy glory, and thy pride, Thy Parthenon, the triumph of thy skill; Which still bestrides, and long it shall bestride, 67.. The discontented stream from hill to hill, - Laucghing to scorn the moorland torrent still. How many years hath he slept in the tomb U,. )).jo -, ",..sD4 %!I:#) N.>-4 " ï~~cIA THE VILLAGE PATRIAR CI. 61 Who swore thly bridge would yield to one year's rain! E'en London folks, to see and praise it, come; S And envious masons pray, with shame and pain, For skill like Enoch Wray's, but pray in vain. For lie could do what others could not learn, First having learn'd what Heav'n alone can teach The parish idiot mnight his skill discern; And younglings, with the shell upon their breech, Left top and taw, and listen to his speech. The barber, proudest of mnankind, confest His equal worth-" or so lie story ran"Whate'er hlie did, all own'd, he did it best And e'en the bricklayer, his sworn foe, began To say, that Enoch was no common man. Had he carv'd beauty in the cold white stone, (Like Law, the unknown Phidias of our day,) T'he village Angelo had quail'd to none Whom critics eulongize, or princes pay; And ie'er had Chantrey equall'd Enoch Wray S Forgotten relic of a world that was! But thou art not foreotten, though, alas., Thou art become a stranger, sunny nook, S On which the changeful seasons, as they pass, jj- Wait ever kindly He no more will look V 4 li. On thee warmni bank! will see thy hermit brook S No more no more. But kindled at the blaze / Of day, thy fragrance makes thy presence known. e\ Behold! he counts his footsteps as he strays!,- o Â~:-<%'5,.cV,2:1..-, J Nf K~f 2 v~ K7P. ï~~62 1 HE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. He feels that he is near thy verdure lone And his heart whispers, that thy flowers are blown. Pale primrose, know'st thou Enoch? Long ago Thy fathers knew him and their child is dear, Because he lov'd them. See, he bends him low With reverend grace, to thee-and drops a tear. S " I see thee not," he sighs, " but thou art here Speak to a poor, blind man!" And thou canst T speak To the lone blind. Still, still thy tones can reach His listening heart, and soothe, or bid it break. Oh, memory hears again the thrilling speech Of thy meek beauty! Fain his hand would reach, And pluck thee-No! that would be sacrilege. ï~~1< LJ ï~~68 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. But thou art here, thou rarest cloudberry! O health-restorer! did he know thy worth, The bilious townsman would for thee resign His wall-grown peach, well pleased. In moor land earth Thee would he plant, thou more than nectarine! Thou better grape! and, in thy fruit divine, Quaffstrength and beauty from the living bough. VII. n eo This scene is ancient, Enoch must allow. Marble is less enduring than the flower T3 That wither'd ages hence, and withers now, Where, black as night, th' unalter'd mountain's tower, And baffled Time sees things that mock his power. I thank ye, billows of a granite sea, That the brib'd plough, defeated, halts below! And thanks, majestic Barrenness, to thee, For one grim region in a land of wo, Where tax-sown wheat and paupers will not grow.., Here pause, old Man, the alpine air to taste: Drink it from Nature's goblet, while the morn - Speaks like a fiery trumpet to the waste. Here despot grandeur reigns in pomp forlorn. Despair might sojourn here, with bosom torn, S And long endure, but never smile again. Hail to the tempest's throne, the cloud's high road, Lone as the aged sky, and hoay main! T & ï~~THE VlI'LAGE P'ATRIARCHI. 69 The path we tread the Sherwood outlaws trode,. Where no man bideth, Locksley's band abode, And urg'd the salient roe through bog and ) 4brake. VIII. Know'st thou our father, thou enfeebled snake, That seek'st the sun too soon? Dost thou, in awe S And love, the seldom trodden path forsake? To him, thou seem'st the very snake he saw In ruddy boyhood. While thy folds withdraw, Uncoil'd o'er cranshy roots, and fern-stalks dry, He thinks he sees thee, colour'd like the stone, With cruel and atrocious Tory eye, And anxious look of dog that seeketh bone, Or sour Scotch placeman, when his place is gone, S To feed some Whiggish fool, who will not eat. Ix. S Bee that hast left thy sandy-cov'd retreat Before the living purple hath purvey'd Food for thee; potent pigmy! that the fleet Wing'd moments ofthe past, and years, array'd S In patch-work, from the robe of things decay'd Recall'st from sad oblivion! thou canst do What mightiest spirits cannot-Silence hears - Thy murmur; and our sire, who hears it too, I Lives o'er again a lindred pensive years. S Pathetic insect! thou hast brou-ht fresh tears To sightless eye-balls, and a channel'd cheek. V.. ï~~70 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCIH. O that once more he could become a boy, And see the morning o'er the mountains break In clouds of fire, which, army-like, deployThat he might chase thee, with a hunter's joy, Vainly, o'er mnoss, and heath, and plumy fern! x. Father! we stand upon thle mountain stern, That cannot feel our lightness, and disdains Reptiles, that sting and perish in their turn, That hiss and die-and, lo! no trace remains Of all their joys, their triumphs, and their pains Yet to stand here might well exalt the mind: These are not common moments, nor is this A common scene. flark, how the coming wind Booms, like the funeral dirge of wo, and bliss, And life, and form, and mind, and all that is How like the wafture of a world-wide wing It sounds and sinks-and all is hush'd again! But are our spirits humbled? No We string The lyre of death with mystery and pain, And proudly hear the dreadful notes complain S That man is not the whirlwind, but the leaf, Torn from the tree to soar and disappear. Grand is our weakness, and sublime our grief. Lo! on this rock, I shake off hope and fear, And stand releas'd from clay!-yet am I here, And at my side are blindness, age, and wo. XI. Far to the left, where streams disparted flow, Rude as his home of granite, dark and cold, ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 71 In ancient days, beneath the mountain's brow, S Dwelt, with his son, a widower poor and old. Two steeds he had, whose manes and forelocks bold Comb ne'er had touch'd; and daily to the town They dragg'd the rock, from moorland quarries torn. Years rol'd away. The son, to manhood grown, Married his equal; and a boy was born, Dear to the grandsire's heart. But pride, and scorn, And avarice, fang'd the mother's small gray eyes, That dully shone, like studs of tarnish'd lead. She poison'd soon her husband's mind with lies; Soon naught remain'd to cheer the old man's shed, Save the sweet boy, that nightly shar'd his bed. And worse days were at hand. The son defied The father-seiz'd his goods, his steeds, his cart: The old man saw, and, unresisting, sigh'd: But when tihe child, unwilling to depart, Clung to his knees, then spoke the old man's heart In gushing tears. " The floor," he said, "is dry: SLet the poor boy sleep with me this one night." "Nay," said the mother; and she twich'd awry Her rabid lip; and dreadful was the sight, When the dwarf'd vixen dash'd, with fiendish spite, Her tiny fist into the old man's face ï~~72 THE VILLAGE rATRIARCH. While he, soft-hearted giant, sobb'd and wept. But the child triumphed! Rooted to the place, Clasping the aged knees, his hold he kept, And once more in his grandsire's bosom slept. And nightly still, and every night the boy Slept with his grandsire, on the rush-strewn floor, Till the old man forgot his wrongs, and joy Revisited the cottage of the moor. But a sad night was darkening round his door: The snow had melted silently away, And, at the gloaming, ceas'd the all-day rain; But the child came not. Wherefore did he stay? The old man rose, nor long look'd forth in vain; The stream was bellowing from the hills amain, And screams were mingled with its sullen roar: "The boy is in the burn," said ho, dismay'd, And rush'd forth, wild with anguish. From the shore He plung'd; then, staggering, with both hands display'd, Caught, screaming, at the boy, who shriek'd for aid, And sank, and rais'd his hands, and rose, and scream'd! He leap'd; he struck o'er eddying foam; he cast His wilder'd glance o'er waves that yelp'd and gleam'd; S And wrestled with the stream that grasp'd him fast, Like a bird struggling with a serpent vast. Still, as he miss'd his aim, more faintly tried ï~~THE VILLAGE rPATRIARCH. 73 The boy to scream; still down the torrent went S The lessening cries; and soon, far off, they died S While o'er the waves, that still their boom forth sent, Descended, coffin-black, the firmament. Morn came: the boy return'd not: noon was,/ ~nigh; And then the mother saught the hut in haste. T~ here sat the wretched man, with glaring eye; And in his arms the lifeless child, eminbrac'd., ' Lay like a darkening snow-wreath on the waste. God curse thee, dog! what hast thou done?" she cried, And fiercely on his horrid eye-balls gaz'd: Nor hand, nor voice, nor dreadful eyes replied; Still on the corpse he star'd with head unrais'd But in his fix'd eyes light unnatural blaz d, For 1ind had left them, to return no more. Man of the wither'd heart-strings! is it well?Long in the grave hath slept the maniac hoar; But of the " lost lad" still the mountains tell, When shriek the spirits of the hooded fell, And, many-voic'd, comes down the foaming snow. si! ilence of the desert -I speak low J I!! evernce-here the falcon's wina is awed, A 'r the deep repose, sublimely slow, 1- wheels in consciou mnajestv abroad.. pits should make the desert their abode. ï~~74 THIE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. The meekest, purest, mightiest, that e'er wore S Dust as a garment, stole from crowds unblest ' To sea-like forests, or the sea-beat shore, And utter'd, on the star-sought mountain's ' breast, The holiest precepts e'er to dust address'd. Oh, happy, souls of death-freed men, if here Ye wander, in your noiseless forms, unseen! Though not remote, removed from grief and fear, And all that pride shall be, and guilt hath been; While gentle death his shadow casts between S Thoughts seraph-wing'd, and man's infirmity! X III. Unheard, unseen, with men, or rocks, to dwell! 0 that I were all thought and memory,, A wing'd intelligence invisible!, ' -' Then would I read the virgin's fears, and tell Delicious secrets to her lover's heart., By spectre-haunted wood, or wizard stream Or bid the awful form of Justice start, And prompt the conscience-stricken murderers scream; Or scourge the rich man, in his ghastly dream, S For heartless deeds, unwept, and unaton'd. XTV. S Hail, Desolation! Solitude and, thron'd On changeless rocks, Eternity! Look down, And say, What see ye?-Want that vainly groan'd, } -- ' P '.,> Â~, ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 75 While mercy gave him stones for food The?frown Of guilt, on minds and hearts, in ruins strown! Hate, torturing Constancy, that lov'd too well! Majestic things, in gnats that live an hour! Soul-battering Faction, fain to buy or sell, And 'spous'd to Fraud, with kingdoms for a dower! Ye sister forms of Nature's dread and power! Stand ye upon the earth? Heav'n hath no cloud To be a carpet for your dismal feet. Ye stand upon the earth, and skies are bow'd To knee your throne, this granite-pillar'd seat, That is, and was, and shall be. Wildly beat, Beneath your footstool, passions, feelings, deeds, Like billows on the solitary shore, Where baffled wave to baffled wave succeeds, Spurn'd by the sullen rocks, with sullen roar, And rising, falling, foaming evermore, To rise, and fall, and roar, and foam in vain. XV. Ye rocks! ye elements! thou shoreless main, In whose blue depths, worlds, ever voyaging, Freighted with life and death, of fate complain! Things of immutability! ye brinug Thoughts that with sorrow arid with terror wring The human breast. Unchanrig'd, of sad decay;IVN;~& ï~~76 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. And deathless change ye speak, like prophett old, S Foretelling Evil's ever-present day; And, as when Horror lays his finger cold Upon the heart in dreams, appal the bold. S O thou, Futurity, our hope and dread, Let me unveil thy features, fair or foul! Thou, who shalt see the grave untenanted. And commune with the re-embodied soul! I Tell me thy secrets, ere thy ages roll Their deeds, that yet shall be on earth, in Tiheav'n, And in deep hell, where rabid hearts with pain Must purge their plagues, and learn to be forgiven! Shew me the beauty that shall fear no stain, V" 4 And still, through age-long years, unchang'd. remain! As one who dreads to raise the pallid sheet Which shrouds the beautiful and tranquil face That yet can smile, but never more shall meet With kisses warm, his ever-fond embrace; So, I draw nigh to thee, with timid pace, And tremble, though I long to Fft thy veil., ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. BOOK VI. CONTENTS. Enoch Wray versifies his dream.-His anxiety to recite his composition to his neighbour, Alice Green.-.-Snowstorm.-Disasters of Enoch Wray on his way to the cottage of Alice Green.-Her person described.-An incident in her life; and its consequences.-Her eloquence. I. DREAMS! are ye vapours of the heated brain, Or echoes of our deeds, our fears, our hopes? Fever'd remembrances, that o'er again Tell prose adventures, in poetic tropes, While drowsy judgment with illusion copes Feebly and vainly? Are ye paid when due? Or, like our cobweb wealth, unfound when sought? Be ye of sterling value, weign'd and true, Or the mnere paper currency of thought, ï~~78 THE VILLAGE 2ATRIARCI. S By spendthrift fancy sign'd, and good for noughtEnoch hath dream'd a dream, like saddest truth, And done it into rhyme. And Alice GreenThe shrewish village quack, and ever sooth S Interpreter of dreams-can tell, I ween, S What signs and omens, rhym'd or rhymeless, mean. With all a poet's ardour to rehearse A vision, like the Florentine's of yore, Feverish and nervous, muttering deathless verse., He opens oft, and oft he shuts the door, And every leaden minute seems a score. But he is storm-bound. To the marsh below, While squattering ducks descend, and, with pale beams, The hooded, ineffectual sun, through snow That fell all night, and still is falling, gleams, Like reason, struggling half awake, in dreams, Hie hears the redbreast peck the frosted pane, Asking admittance to the warm fireside And-while o'er muffled ruts each cart and wain Moves without sound he opes the casement:. - wide,,_,! 'To hail once more the guest he ne'er denied; Then spreads his hands, to feel if yet the plumes Of heav'n are wavering in the noiseless air Determin'd-when the burden'd sky resumes Its lucid azure clear, and cold, and fair Through paths of hidden peril to repair, And have some harmless fuin with Alice Green. C V ï~~ITE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 79 How wild, how wondrous, and how chang'd IA the scene Since yesterday! On hill and valley bright Then look'd broad heav'n, all splendid and serene And earth and sky were beauty, music, light. But now the storm-cock shakes the powdery white, With start impatient, from his shivering wings; S And, on the maple's loaded bough depress'd, Perch'd o'er the buried daisy sweetly sings, With modulated throat and speckled breast, To cheer the hen bird, drooping in the nest On dusky eggs, with many a dot and streak. if. Love of the celandine and primrose meek! Star of the leafless hazle! where art thou? Where is the windflower, with its modest cheek? Larch! hast thou dash'd from thy denuded brow S Blossoms, that stole their rose-hues from the glow Of Even, blushing into dreams of love? Flowers of the wintry beam and faithless sky! SGems of the wither'd bank and shadeless grove! Ye are where he who mourns you soon must lie; Beneath the shroud ye slumber, tranquilly; But not for ever. Yet a sudden hour Shall thaw the spotless mantle of your sleep, And bid it, melted into thunder, pour From mountain, waste, and fell, with foamy I sweep, -8. - rV ï~~80 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 41,'-, "k"% Whelming the flooded plain in ruin deep. Yes, little silent minstrels of the wild, Your voiceless song shall touch the heart again! S And shall no morning dawn on Sorrow's child Shall buried mind for ever mute remain Beneath the sod, from which your beauteous Shall yet arise in music, felt, not heard? No! Faith, Hope, Love, Fear, Gladness, Frailty, all, Forbid that man should perish. Like the bird That soars and sings in Nature's festival, y. ~ Our souls shall rise-and fear no second fallOur adoration strike a lyre divine! III. Now, through the clearing storm, the sunbeams shine;! And, lo! the fluttering flakes are winnow'd fire! Thinner and thinner fall the fleeces fine From mantled fells the umber'd clouds retire; And heav'n, that stoop'd to earth, is lifted higher. How Nature dazzles in her bridal vest! Like air-blown fire on fire is light on snow. A long-lost feeling wakes in Enoch's breast;, S, His sightless eye-balls feel a sapphire glow, 4 That speaks of hues and forms dead long agoThe bright, the wild, the beautiful, the grand! I V. Now the third Mary takes li r grandsire's hand ' And leads him forth into the soon-chan'd road; Â~,S. " ",,,:.,0, )',.,,;#.. --',.,"/ '- '... _ ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 81 S A worid unknown, an undiscover'd land! 4 " Confus'd, amaz'd, perturb'd, he walks abroad, Yet inly pleas'd, t'wards Alice Green's abode. S But, too erect on slippery paths to roam, With forward hand, in vain his way he feels. ' When snows are deep, the blind should stay at hiome. At length, the path descends; he staggers, reels, And from beneath him glide his treacherous heels. He lies, with ghastly terror in his face, Like one half-stunn'd beneath the lightning's stroke. Rising, he slips; he moves with timid pace, Almost repenting his intended joke Then clings, half prostrate, to the hoary oak, And gasps, with eye-brows lifted in dismay. S Ye who can gaze on beauty-breathing day, And drink intoxication with your eyes! Compassionate the sightless on his way; With gloomy trepidation sympathise, When faithless snows the icy way disguise; With pity hear his faint and feeble call, With pity see his quivering lip and cheek; His grasping hands that try to catch the wall; His wild, wide eyes, that helpless trouble speak; His sliding feet; his knees, bent, trembling weak; His hatless locks, w'it frantic dread uprears! The beauteous girl, too, trembles, and, in tears, 0 4 ï~~tie2 E VILLAGE PATRIARCH. Pale with her grandsire's fear, laments its cause. S But, lo! the skaiter, sliving Bill appears, And, while the snow-flake on his broad chin thaws, Deigns to instruct him in the skaiter's laws: "Stoop, Enoch, stoop! bend forward! and unscar'd, O'er slapest ice thy gloomy way pursue." And see! old Alice limps from yonder yard! Last night, she dream'd that Enoch came to woo The five times wedded, now aged eighty-two, With fifty guineas sew'd in his left sleeve! Certes, that ancient sleeve is darn'd and stitch'd: But who shall now her dream-craft disbelieve? S He comnes!-she laughs and winks, like one bewi'ch'd, And feels already married, and enr:ch'd. S Her right hand on her hip, her left beneath Her folded apron, at the crippled gate, Where erst the ash tree look'd on fern and heath, With palpitating heart, and shaking pate, And short black pipe between her lips sedate, The dream-expounder stoops! whose skill as- j sures S To dreaming wights, whate'er they wish, and more; The female Galen! famous for her cures, And eke her salve, from Ecclesfield to Dore! Almost to dead men she can health restore; S Her right divine what patient dares dispute V-,. ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 83 Her sacred mysteries deepest awe inspire; Sublime as Laud, inerrable as Bute! Who doubts her skill deserves the stake and fire: Believe! Obey!-'tis treason to enquire. And was she not a beauty in her youth? Still she hath eyes-one red and blind, one green; And in her upper jaw is yet a tooth, Which, when she laughs or yawns, may well be seen, With two below, and bluish stumps between. Ah, faded one! not 'reft of every charm; Was she not formned in Nature's finest mould? The loveliest maiden, once, that cot or farm Sent forth to shake the dew fronm cowslips cold? S The loveliest far of all, save Mary Gold?-,p S Enoch salutes her with a hearty smack, And grasps her right hand in a living vice: The gentle dame smiles meekly, and draws back; But why should friends be formal and precise? She leads him through the yard; and, in a trice, Behold him, in her dear last husband's chair! S Lo! in the cheerful blaze his white locks gleam! She sets before him her best hoarded fare, And pours the long-cork'd bottle's gladdening stream, II Tapp'd from the birch tree, when the moon's wan beam Silver'd the broken cloud and budding grove. ï~~84 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. S But, while he drank, she sigh'd and look'd above, Where hung a portrait, faded in its frame, The keepsake of her first and only love, Who died unmarried, murmuring oft her name. S Still in her bosom glows the cherish'd flame Of virgin love, for low-laid Thomas Broom. Ah, who could dream-when, like a vestal vow'd, Scattering her Sunday posy on his tomb, A stainless, broken-hearted maid, she bow'd That clowns would whisper in the market A crowd, Of Alice Green's warm cordials, over proof 7 And neighbours call her "Cut-and-comeagain!"And to the passer-by point out the roof S Where dwells the widow, buxom, fair, and fain? Too well she lov'd, but lov'd, alas, in vain! And, cross'd in fondest love, her feelings froze, Like dew-drops on the leafless blossoming sloe, Crisp'd into diamonds when the north wind 4 blows. Her grief for Thomas was not worn for show, As oft she told her husbands, long ago; She wish'd he had been her's-and so wish'd, they. VII. But when th' unconscious wooer, Enoch Wray,, Had duly prais'd her wine, her jam, and cream, ' ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 85 SHe look'd like one who had grave things to say,, 7 And 'gan to tell that he had dream'd a dream; S And that he therefore came, her aid to pray, Despite the drifted snow and slippery way. Then Alice sought, with thin and palsied hand, And slowly from hei pouch, at last drew forth Her spectacles, the wonder of the land, Though purchas'd of a native Jew from Perth; Once her third husband's, that best man on earth! To mend hpr insight into things to come, She set them on her snuffy nose astride; S But first she wip'd them with her learned thumb; Then, to a drawer a crooked key applied, And drew there out her book of art and pride. She spread it, open, on her quaking knee, With expectation in her upward look, Gazing on Enoch, or impatiently Turning the pages of the wond'rous book. But-though despotic Alice ill could brook Suspense. and long'd to speak her words of doomHe still delay'd. Slyly he prais'd the rose, S (By him unseen,) which still, he said, in pride 4 Bloom'd on her cheek-he err'd, 'twas on her nose. " Why might we not make up a match?" he cried: N She frown'd, she fuff'd, like eggs with bacon S fried S " She wonder'd that a man like Enoch Wray iA0 i fI "..... - g ' o '':g a;r:.,- 'q5; "..': <{,i,:,)../ /.!>"Y.:.,..,.:,. -.-.. - ï~~86 TIL VILLAGE PATRIARCH. Should talk such stuff--it ill became his years; And yet she had been pretty in her Aay; Nor is she quite so old as she appears; But, foh! she blushes at the trash she hears." Then, oft she drank his health, while Enoch smok'd; And soon her tongue-that deafen'd Albert's mill, When Richard, fifth and last, her rage provok'dS Seem'd able, in the cause of her sweet will, To talk into their graves five husbands still. "I dream'd a dream," quoth he-but Alice Green Is not now in the vein for hearing dreams; And she long used to sov'reignty hath been: But she dilates the more on other themes. " Her house," she boasts, " is richer than it seems. pair; Her blankets twelve; and as for satin gowns, She could lend six, and still have seven to spare! Cotton is only fit for wives of clowns; But she looks well in silks, even envy owns. She once was cheated-when she bought het busts; Her name is buy and pay; and not a straw Cares she for draper Glossop, though he trusts, As Mistress Strut well knows. When Swindler Mawe, ï~~THE VILLAGE tATRIARCH. 87 Ruin'd by women, racing, and the law, Sold dish and spooon, she bought her feather bed And her green sofa; but she quite forgot Her sweet down pillows, and her curtains red. She has a still too-Mistress Strut has not: No doubt, they shall contrive to boil the pot; But much would still have more. Your darn d left sleeve Seems heavy, Enoch. Cash is everything. You must have money-plenty, I believe; And money, Enoch, makes the slave a king. But how much have you? Have you bought the ring? What mortal poet, eager to recite, Could interruption vile as this abide? The village Dante lost his temper quite: But still she talk'd; and he, still baffled, tried, Between her endless words, a word to slide. In vain he hinted that her pipe was out: The paper, which she twisted, and illum'd, To re-ignite thie tube, avail'd hini nought; She talk'd, and held it burning, till, consum'd And thrown upon the floor, it smok'd and fum'd. And still she prais'd one Alice Green--then took Her plenteous pinch of true rappee-then fuff'd S At Mistress Strut; and still, wih heartier snook, S While learnedly her ancient wares she puffd, S Up her hot nose the burning dust was snuffd. I And, lo! heir eager hands, uplifted, meet P Both talk at once: but Alice perseveres; And vanquish' I Enoch, angry, quits his seat. SThen Alice reddens; and in doubt appears 4 " ~ ~~ ï~~88 THE VIL AGE rATRIARCH. Whether to shake his hand or pull his ears. Humbled and vex'd, his vision unrehears'd, Without good b'ye, poor Enoch homeward goes, And hears her laugh of rage behind him burst; That laugh, which sounded like a peal of woes To five bold husbands-let them now repose!But could the widow, too intent to wed, Neglect to hear, on that unlucky morn, Harmonious numbers destin'd to be read, Perchance, in print, by critics yet unborn? And did she laugh the glorious bard to scorn? "Fool!" shc exclaim'd-" I can expound this dream, Whether I hear the dream itself or no: His brain will yet with rhyme and nonsense teem; His gold to cancel Albert's debts will go, Unless I wed him-for a year, or so." And would'st thou, Alice, change thy name again? ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. BOOK VII. CONTENTS. Enoch Wray's dream. I. GONE! are ye gone? Bright dreams of youth, adieu! Old, blind, and poor, I dream of dreadful things. Methought I saw man, renown'd and true, Rise from the grave, upborne on sable wings, Bradshaw his name, abhorr'l by slaves and kings. His hue was Death's, his majesty his own. There was a thoughtful calmness in his air: Decision, like a ready sword undrawn, Repos'd, but slept not, on his forehead bare; But Caution, too, and deep research were there. At first, his lip curl'd fiercely, as he went O'er fields, o'er towns, o'er souls, in baseness bow'd; ï~~' 90 THE VILLAGE PA But, meeken'd soon, his aw S Sad beauty with his sternnh Whose tears are lightnin cried aloud, "Is tyranny immortal? 0 Freedom yet linger, in wha Where proud endurance sc( And wo-nurs'd virtues e bread, Nerves she the heart and dread? Hide not thy head in cloud saw'st The Pyms and Hampden can feel The pang of shame, thoug they boast Nor manly thoughts, nor I steel, Like those that battled for t \ Say, Rock, is that a Briton Who dares not lift his eyes Of pauper Satraps, or the v Whom they depute to tortu Slave-free to toil, that idle What is a Briton? One w To barter souls for untax'd And curse his brutes, who bray. Art thou a Briton, Ass, tha And bray'st in honour of th Say, palac'd pauper, drunk A, 1 t 3 1 1 g 1 t 1 TRIARCH. ful visage blent C-J ss, like the cloud ). gs. " What!" he h, if here t hated shed, rns to drop a tear, at their hard-earn'd hand that despot's t s, thou Rock, that s! these, our sons, h, dwarf'd in soul, earts, nor hands of hie common weal.? that mean thing, above the feet illage king re and to cheat? wolves may eat! A ho runs away, t wine abroad, - sweat at home, and t lov'st the goad, y glorious load?with misery's tears, A" ï~~1W rtH VILLAGE rATRIARCI. 91 44 Did Russel, Fairfax, spring from gods like thee? Or, scourge for poverty! is this Algiers? Dog of the bread-tax-eating Absentee! Our children feed thy lord-why growl at me? Where are thy paper wings of yesterday, Thou bankrupt gambler for the landed knave?Audacious poacher, scorn'st thou parish pay? Kill'st thou God's hares to shun a beggar's grave? What! is it better to be thief than slave?iv Wretch, that didst kill thy sire, to sell him dead! Art thou a Briton! Thou hast Strafford's brow, Poor, corn-hili'd weaver, singing hymns for bread! Could Hampden breathe where crawl such worms as thou? S Spirit of Pym! lo, these are Britons now! Charles Stuart! are they worthy to be thine? Thou smil'st i; scorn, in triumph, and in pride. And thou, at Marston taught by right divine, Thou recreant patron of vain regicide! Laugh'st thou at blasted hop's, whose vauntings lied? Beast, fettured like the angoels! canst thou view SThis dome, outstrotch'd by God's 'eometrv, And doubt that ilan may be sublime sud true? Or, while the boy smiles upward from thy ktiee, S Believe that slaves of slaves shall not be free?S, How like mek Laud yon Cadi-Dervise scowls? 4f N A patent parson, nade to please the squire! / Priest, Judge, and Jury, for the cure of souls'! Virtues like his no still small voice require, \..... ' -- I I-", 5 ' 5! 7.> - 4 '' * 5, e: " i "1~<7A* ï~~92 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. lie cries his wares, and is himself the crier. No school is built, without his fulsome prayer, Which fulsome prints, with fulsome praise, record; No wretch is tried for want, but he is there In solemn session, sourest on the board, Where, like St. Peter, he denies his lord. O, Cant and Cunning! mark the contrast well; The poor, damn'd here, are thankful, though they pine; Through foul and fair, they limp towards heav'n or hell; While he, (snug, martyr,) when the day is fine, S Seeks Abraham's bosom, and a Tory's wine. King of bad ale and hares! he shoots, and hunts; Then whips, or jails, the wo that cannot pay; Grants Lickgrub's license, and refuses Grunt's; Or fines poor Strap, who shav'd on Sabbath day; And, like Saint Barebones, he detests a play. Thrice-loyal Jefferies! greet with shout and song The heir of all the Noodles of past years, Lord Robert Shallow! ready, rough, and wrong, He sheaths a world of wisdom in his ears, S Yet seems no witch, and is what he appears. A sleepy watcher, he must feel to see, I S And, born to teach, may yet be taught to read; Bound by an accident, hlie hates the free; Anid, deaf and blind when Truth and Justice plead, Led by a shadow, seems to take the lead. ï~~TIE VILLAGE PATRIARCT. 93 How like a snake, all frozen but the fangs, S His coldness threatens and his silence chills! How like a poisonous icicle he hangs O'er human hopes, and on the soul distils All mean, malignant, and infectious ills! The freezing cloud descends in snow or hail; t The hill-born deluge floods the reedy fen; And shall not lords teach slaves, and Hfeav'n turn pale, And the grave shudder, at this crowded den Of wolves and worms? 0 Nature, are they men? 0 Time, is this the island of the just And the immortal, in her virtues strong? The land of Shakspeare? Worthy of our dust, Because she guards the right, and loathes the wrongThe land offreton's hones, and Milton's song? S Rise, Bard of our Republic!-wherefore rise, Like Sam uel to the troubled King of old? Could'st thou flash living fire in Britons' eyes, S Would pigmy souls be minds of gaint mould? Oh, what could wake these worse than dead and cold? But thou, 0 Rock! that watchest freemen's graves Well inmays't thou veil thy lofty brow in shade, Scorning to look on boroughmongering knaves, And gamne-law'd, corin-law'd, war-worn, parishpaid, Rae -monied, crawlng wretches, reptile-flay'd! What namelss curse comnes next? Degraded, on es L; L, ï~~94 THE VILLAGE PATRC' ARCII. S How like a Cmsar of thy days of shame, He lolls behind his steeds that ramp and foam, Through crowds of slaves, with long submisf A sion tame,; Hacks, not worth harness, void of tail and mane! All praise to him, to whom all praise is due! To him whose zeal is fire, whose rancour raves; Sworn anti-catholic, and tried true-blue; Champion of game-laws, and the trade in slaves; Mouth of the bread-tax; purchased tongue of knaves; All praise to him!-a menial yesterday, And now a kingling, served by hate and fear; The upstart buyer of yon ruins gray, That mock his tax-built pandemonium near! - Clerk! Thief! Contractor! Boroughmonger! Peer! His mercy would be cruelty in hell; His actions say to God, "Submit to me!" i4 Dey of Starvation, dark and terrible! Men's purses may submit to thy decree, S But why should conscience have no god but thee, - Thou charioted blasphemer? Hence, away, S To Spain, or Naples, with thy loathsome scowl! Why stay'st thou here, to fuddle tax'd tokay? Go, be the Inquisition's holiest goul, And gorge with blood thy sulky paunchof soul, S But ye-poor Erin's cheerful exiles, born, S4 To till the flint in unrepining pain! A Why bow ye to your foe, Hibernia's scorn? ï~~'11 sI t A THE VILLAGE PATRIA 95 This alnoner, whom treadmills might disdain? This pauper, worthier of the whip and chain? Fools: let accusing scorn, in each calm eye, Inform the tax-fed harpy and his hordes That wrongs have brought forth thoughts which cannot die bu fr And that your wives have brought forth sons whose words Shall sting like serpents' teeth, and bite like swords. For what? Sad neighbour of the western star! Land of the daring deed and splendid song! For thee-whomn worse than fiends, with worse than war Aping base Crotowell, and his tyrant throng, Torment (rt gold. Poor land of'deathlesswrong! Scath'd Eden of the vaiily roaring deep! Are those thy gods?-the lowest of the low! Are tilhese the wolves, who make thy millions weep? These lords ofdungeos, partridge eggs, and wo, That think the lig(itning's ruinous wing too slow? But-Isle of Tears! Hispania of the sea! Mourner of ages, helpless in thy pain Still untransorn'd, blood-weeping Niobe Mute, hopeless sutlerer of tte son-loved main-- Whom e'en lihy own Fitzwillianm eheer'd in vain The dawn delay'd is nigh, the dismal morn, The day of grief, without remorse and shame, When of thy very farnmine shall be born A fiend, wlhose breath shall wither hope, like ame; ^ 6 ï~~!i.I v VILLAGE PATIRIARCIH. ) Lean Retribution is his horrid name. - Behold his bare and sinew'd haggardness! Behold his hide-bound arm, his fleshless thigh! 'Tis he! the fearless and the merciless! I see his cheek of bone, his lifeless eye, His frown-which speaks, and there is no reply! I hear his mutter'd scorn, his taunting strain: S. 'Oppressor! hath thy bondage set us free? Is all thy long injustice worse than vain? Art thou, too, fall'n, scourg'd, trampled, weak Ar s we? What! hath our destitution beggar'd thee And can'st thou tell why plunder'd states are poor?' II. The wild words ceas'd, and o'er the blasted moor Slow fled the form of that fierce regicide; While shriek'd beneath my feet the granite floor, From stream to headlong stream. But, eagereyed, I gaz'd on stately shadows at my side; For buried kings, whose will, erewhile, waslaw, (- Around me, like the ghost of Hamlet, kept Their state majestic, armn'd! And when I saw' Their cruel faces bath'd in tears I wept. But o'er my heart a deadlier chillness crept: My white locks, every hair fear-stricken, stirr'd; My limbs, all shaken, trembled every bone My pulse stood still! and in my soul I heard The torrent, tumbling o'er the cold, gray stone, A)I ï~~TRE VILILA,,E PATRIARCH. 97 Prophecy-while the -hadowy mountains lone, yThat saw the Rom-an eaule's wearied wingSpake to the silence of the dead of old; p'King of the poor! thou wast, indeed, a king. b But coin'st thou sorrowing from the charnel cold? Henry Plantagenet, tue unsontroll'd ) Why? Did thiy gracious servants bid thee reign O'er bread-tax'd vermin, and transform thy name Into a synonvymne and type of patn, Writen o'er 1anish'd realms in tears and flame? King of the People! royal is thy fhme; Thou need'st mot blush.'- First Edward! thou here, too? King of the Kingdom, hail! but on thy brow W Vhy grows the, saddening cloud? Is Peterlo, A nobler word than Falkirk? or wast thou The nominee of kinglings, such as now Ordain what shall be best for states and thrones? Did men like them, when thou wast lov'd and f t t r'd, Glut death with blood, and cover earth with boles? Third Edward! weepest thou? 0 prince revered! Lord of the lance,,o chiv lry endear'd! Still dost thou mourn the fall'n, the unrestor'd And was Napoleon, with his burning brain Chain'd to the sunbeam, less to be deplor'd On his hard rock, amid the groaning main, Than captive John, with princes in his tratm,,, --g ", a g,.. ' % "= ï~~98 'THE VILLAGE VArTRIARCH. CA Serv'd by mute kings an-d pensive victory? \ But thou art not that Edward who gave laws To wolfish anarchists. Thou less than he Who tam'd the feudal beast, and pared his claws, And tore the venomous fangs from rabid jaws, And by and for the nation reign'd a king! Dost thou, too, weep thy country's failing weal? O doubt not that futurity will bring For her a purchaser! The North hath steel, The south hath gratitude; and slaves can feelWhat can they feel? the rankling of their chain.' HII. Our souls are lyres, that strangely can retain S The tones that trembled on their stricken chords; A And these, impress'd upon my heart, remain: But the sad monarchs, leaning on their swords, Vanish'd in darkness, with the closing words, S Like voiceless mists o'er ocean's sleepy waves. I V. What saw I next? A temple pavd with graves! Lo! on the floor a giant corpse lay bare! And thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand. slaves, All dead and ghastly, kneel'd for ever there, Statues of baseness worshipping despair! l From many a battle-field and many a sea, I Cast forth by outrag'd earth and loathing tide, T hey made a winter for eternity, M, q ~- I tV 1411 ï~~And seem-id like suppiait (lenons sile bysie For in their loot!s toirni:i es were petrified Bound by ai sp 11, whint1 nc-er, mtogt iIAwoumld r~ Amid tihe dead Ui s to, ill hying- one i, f And, Io! he ial*ro!ro 1oa ona every cheek A li, mmie'(, r 1"n o)li cdti i-i I 1 l oIo ne, As in tiat. ( new, xo t ears were tnrn'd to stone 5 The Titan corps -, stiblinec in stillness lay, t With in-arablom itke powver aod pride asleep; V~ s O God! its dreadlful sileoce could dismay More than the shrieki of' sipwreck o'er the deep! And every it-less f'enin did -c-n to weep, Gazing in tranced horror and remnorse, On the sad feratures Ii 'be nuigliy dead, While, on the forehead of that gaint corpse, In letters of eternal ire, I re-ad This sentence "'I amn he ic'r whom- ye hIed, Undying Death!-ca -t, Dogs, but lap no blood."' 4 V. Then, lo!what, distan'.t, scein'd the ocean's flood. tm Smote on my h. art withi clamnour fierce and foul. Wave shouldering wave, tim,y shtook me where / No I stood. wi nds nrg'd on the billowy, living roll, But whirlwindI dwelt wvitian it, 1l.ke- a soutl, HIeavintg the icatny, foanotg1" SarMfe high, When llbeeidue was voice less, breathless fear, Ait-: ï~~100 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. And, lo! the foam was human agony, Alive with curses, horrible to hear! The waves were men!-a deluge wide and drear! And while, all raving, all at once they came, Heap'd on each other, to devour the shore, The flash of eyes made heaven's red vengeance tame! The thunder dar'd not whisper to the roar; When, with their multitudinous hands, they tore The rocks, that seem'd to live in bestial forms. Lo! frozen there, the tiger's terror glar'd; Stiffen'd the startled folds of fanged worms;, Wolves grinn'd, like nightmare; glassy caymen star'd; And the boar's tusk, his powerless tusk, was bar'd In fear-a tyrant's fear,! High over head, The despot eagle ceas'd his prey to tear; His mighty pinions not for battle spread. But stretch'd to fly, and palsied by despair. Oh, what a hell of silent pangs was there, When like an angel sweeping worlds away, Did that resistless sea of souls assail And crush his foes to dust, in dreadful play, Rending the monsters and their granite mail: Then all was hush'd! a sea without a sail! \ And, black with death, a strand of gory mud! VI. The vision chang'd; and, lo! methought I stood C Where sinners swelter in the penal glare 7b 4 1/ ' - 6 ï~~C6< THE VILLAGE rATRIARCH. 101 Of everlasting noon! A fiery flood, As of steel molten, on their nerves all bare, Rush'd from the brazen sky; and scorching air Burn'd upward from red rocks of solid fire. There I beheld a statesman, evil-fam'd, With unremitting and intense desire To quench immitigable thirst inflam'd; Stretch'd, moaning, on the cinderous marl; and nam'd, In scorn and rage, by spectres pitiless, Who bade him, smiting their clenchd hands, restore Their homes, their innocence, their happiness; And, in dire mockery, to his hot lips bore Rags, steep'd in black, thick, slippery, burning gore. But when he doz'd, worn out with pain, he dream'd S Of fire, and talk'd of fire that ever burn'd; And through his frame, in all his vitals gleam'd Fire; and his heart and brain, to cinder turn'd,I Still crack'd and blaz'd, while, tossing, low he mourn'd, And from his eyes dropp'd tears of sable flame. For now no longer in his fraudful brain f Schoon'd dreams of crime-bought good unting'd with shame, "I False as the mists that loom along the main With shows of golden Ophir, sought in vain Where fiends of shipwreck watch their prey, and smile. ï~~102 TIE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. V I. & Yet seem'd he not the vilest of the vile. An apparition co'd of life in stone, Or life in ice, drew nigh, with lips of bile; A visage to the awed spectators known, That turn'd to frigid rancour, like his own, Their fiery hatred. Frozen where they stood, Chain'd by his smile petrific, and his eye Whose serpent keenness sadden'd while it blaz'd"Make way!" they yellid, the fatal fool draws nigh; The dog of kings, their whip for poverty, Seeks here the luxury of infernal tears." Then shriek'd the prostrate wretch, as black he rose"Even here Democracy his standard rears! Save me, my Brother, fromn unutter'd woes, Worse even than Paine deservd or Ireland knows!" " Thee? Aspect mean!" reply'd the newarriv'd, " Thee! And am I thy brother? Lo, on thee I look with scorn-Driv'ler! whose fears conI triv'd To thrall arm'd kings, whom I was born to free. And dost thou claim fraternity with me? S I blew not up a spark into a flame That set the earth on fire I drove no trade In petty retail havoc: No! I came, I saw, I conquer'd; and a world dismay'd Found safety in my daring, that array'd ï~~~10 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCHI. 103 Slaves, who in freedom's fight like freemen fought, And still are slaves." Then, turning to the crowd Of silent spectres-who regarded nought But him, such awe controll'd them-he, with proud Scorn, read their abject fear, and cried aloud"Hence, vile Plebeians! know your lord." S And well The abject ghosts obey'd; for, while he spoke, He rais'd his hand to strike; but, ere it fell, Approaching sounds, that in the distance broke Murmuring, arrested the descending stroke. As, when black midnight melts from sky to sky, And shriek the lightnings at the wrath of heav'n, Air becomes fire, and, like a sea on high, Wide whirlwind rolls his deluge, sear'd and riv'n, While, with clos'd eyes, guilt prays to be forgiv'n, So, sight shrank, conquer'd, from his visage frore, S That mock'd insulted fire with icy glare, While seem'd the torrid clime to burn the more As if incens'd, and sounds swell'd on the air Which told of foes that knew not how to spare. S Soon, spectre skeletons, like wolves in chase, Came howling on. As outstretch'd greyhounds fleet, Some with riv'n ribs, and one with half a face, 1 k ï~~104 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. They came, all hungry, and their clattering feet Stamped on the soil of adamantine heat. S Then sprang they on him, and his muscles rent With cranching teeth; and still their hate in. creas'd As fast it fed, and joyful sounds forth sent; Yet from the rapturous banquet oft they ceas'd Exclaiming, in the pauses of the feast, "Ice-hearted Dog!-when fell the crimson dew At Wexford, there we died!-In dungeons we! We of slow famine!-We at Peterloo.! We, by the mercy of the scourge set free!" Unvanquish'd by relentless torture, he, While crisp'd in fire his cold flesh, scorch'd and torn, Forgot not, though he wept, the bearing high And proud demeanour of a tyrant born, But cried, uplooking to the hopeless sky"Thou, who inhabitest eternity! Here, too, thy frown is felt, thy mercy just." But when those skinless dogs of hell had par'd The bones of their oppressor, and, with gust Infernal, crunch'd his vitals, till the bared, Cold, burning heart, with pulses unimpair'd, Shone in its grated chamber, like a light That saddens some snaked cavern's solitude; Then, pangs of deathless hunger in their might, Wrung savage howlings from his soul-subdu'd; And, thenceforth and for ever, he pursu'd, Heading that dismal pack, the sentenc'd dead, For food, for food! hunter of souls! with yell Immortal, bounding on his fiends, while fled Â~'// ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 105 Their prey, far shrieking through unbounded hell. In ravenous ardour, sateless, horrible, He champ'd together still his stony jaws. 0 could the living heirs of fear and hate See the lost trampler on eternal laws, Taught by his voice of mourning, ere too late, How would they shun his crimes to shun his fate, And, e'en for mean self-love, be less than fiends! ï~~'IJ4 ASA) THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. I B OOK VIII. CONTENTS. Ezra White unroofs the cottage of Hannah Wray, the widow of an imrouted poachlr.-He detects her and her daughter in the act of re-roofing their cottage.-- He assaults the mother, and is killed by 1he daughter.-Imprisonment, trial, and death of Hannah Wray. I. KIND souls! ye jail the peasant, while ye plough,.1 The wild that lov'd to laugh around his home. Where the broad common fed his father's cow, And where himself, a fearless boy, could roam Unquestion'd, lo! the infant rivers foam S No longer, through a paradise of fern Look how, like burden'd slaves, they steal through fields That.ul'enly obey vour mandate stern! And how.the tortur'd waste, reluctant, yields S-' 7 W-. - ï~~e',i THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 107 Corn bought with souls, while soulless avarice builds flis palace, rafter'd with iniquity! Storm-smitten rock! and thou, time-wrinkled Y tree!Where is the sun-lov'd cottage that of old Ye screen'd from envious winds? And where is he Who dwelt in that lone cottage of the wold? Far from the mountain bee he slumbers cold. Thou, Enoch Wray, shalt hear the son no more Who kill'd the harmless hare that ate his kale: Atrocious crime! for which he sternly bore Slow pain and wasting fever, in a jail. S He perish'd there. Then died his widow pale,,, Who sleeps unsepulchred, and yet sleeps well. But silly Jane, their child, still wanders here, Seeking her mother on the stormy fell. While freezes as it flows the scalding tear, She lifts her left hand to her heart in fear, And waves a fan of bracken in the right, Forbidding evil sprites to melt the snow That veils the fields once till'd by Ezra White. Hark! how she grinds her toeth, and mutters low,, With black lips quivering-" God, let nothing grow!" For Ezra White unroofed their humble home, And thrust them forth, and mock'd the mother's wo, ï~~108 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. S Bidding her, with her brat, a beggar roam, Or hire a hearth of him who feeds the crow, Or to the Workhouse, hope-abandon'd, go. " I to the Workhouse?-I?" the widow cried, And from her shoulders tipt the kerchief thin, Displaying to the tyrant, elder-eyed, A breast that might have tempted saints to sin,. While all th' impassion'd woman raged within-, " I to the Workhouse?" and her forehead burn'd, And swel'd the tortar'd heart that would not break; And her neck thicken'd, and her visage turn'd Black, and she gasp'd, long impotent to speak: "I!-to the Workhouse? Rather will I seek S The welcome grave. But hope not thou to thrive! Though, feeding on old crimes, and plotting new, Thou yet may'st crawl, the meanest thing alive;, Here and hereafter thou shalt have thy due, And this vile deed with snakes shall whip thee. Jew! Am 1 thy tenant?-did I bid thee pay The Squire my rent?-and are three pounds, eleven? Thou tyrant!-yet shall come thine evil day; Yet shalt thou find there is a God in heav'n, Although thy two fat farms have swallow'd seven. S God! see this glutton! how he crams and Sgrasps, Like death, for more-a beast of pray'r and prey ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 109 Would all their maws were stuff'd with stings of wasps! When shall I see them, on the bare highway Toil, like their betters, for a groat a-day? God! let him sow in vain! let nothing grow! Be straw his harvest, grainless chaffhis food. To-morrow he will marry wealth and wo; (Ah, Lucy Hargrove is for him too good!) But may a mother's curse be on his blood! May he die childless!" And she turn'd, and bent, In passionate fondness, o'er her idiot child, Weeping; then took her hand in haste, anid went, She car'd not whither, uttering curses wild; But paus'd, and groan'd, while Jane look'd up and smil'd, When Ezra's parting sneer shot through her brain.. S Morn rose, all splendid, o'er the frosty plain, And Lucy Hargrove married Ezra White. But Ezra strove to cheer his bride in vain; S Long stay'd the day, and linger'd long the night ( For Hannah's curse was on them like a blight. S The homeless widow seem'd to haunt their bedThe idiot child to thunder at the door., " They fire the stacks," he growl'd; " I hear thei- tread." S 0 give them back their cottage on the moor; How canst thou prosper if thou rob the poor?" 7 A ï~~110 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH, r Cold lay the moonbeam on the glittering rock, When Ezra gruffly left his troubled bride; His early steps alarm'd the wondering cock; And the fox saw him on the dim hill side, Plodding through molten snow, with cautious stride And horrid instinct, hither. But, behold! Here labour'd Hannah Wray, and silly Jane, Fearless of blinding sleet, and blue with cold, Busily roofing their sad cot again. Flash'd Ezra's eyes, and rage fired every vein, As when men wound a tiger. On he sprung, And grasp'd the struggling widow by the throat, Till white her eyes upturn'd, and forth her tongue Protruded through retracting lips that caught Sad hues from coming death, while anguish wrought Terrific changes on her pensive cheek. But Jane took up a stone, and smote his brow.. H Ie fell, but held his prey; with stra ngled shriek, He tried to heave his bulk, relaxing slow His murderous gripe, and backward sank; then low I)Dropp'd his large chin, and grim he gap'd in death! But long lay Hannah senseless-happy she, If, senseless. she had yielded up her breath. But her eyes clos'd, then open'd-,what to see?. \ She gaz'd on E.ra's corpse'in agony Thenonher daughter; and then gush'd her tears. JONC4 ~VIV ï~~11h LWAE ATRIAC1. 111 - The horrid future on her spirit gleam'd; Sf She trembled with unutterable fears; And, while the wan dawn o'er the mountains S beain'd, She clasp'd her daughter to h r breast and scream'd- mcl " No, I can die! they shall not hang my child! Then came the hue and cry; the parting wild Of sunder'd bosomns, ne'er again to meet; The dungeon'd weeks; and hope, that never Yet once, in slumber, came a vision sweet, {2"-i;,;. smild.,;' ' Which bore her spirit to the dear retreat Where still, she thought, her husband dwelt, and Jane Still press'd the nipple, pillow'd on her breast; I. The grave had lost its prey; the past its pain; The lead had never died! But thoughts so bless'd Could not endure. A darker dream oppress'd The dosing captive. Not to see her die, But dead, she thought, her child arriv'd, at last; r She saw herself a corpse; saw Jane draw nigh S Shrieking, to gaze upon that corpse, aghast; And, shrieking wak'd, with temples throbbing, fast S. Then came the trial brief; the evidence So clear, so talse so fatal; the sad eyes, All gazing on convicted innocence, But not ii pity her convulsive sighs, fHer sudden tears; the dread solemnities Of sentence on the wrong 'd and guiltless -Oh ï~~I?' 112 THE VILLAGE P'ATRIALCH. Was there no pleader, by the laws allow'd, S To aid the sufferer in her hour of wo? No--not a voice in all that awe-struck crowd Was rais'd for her whom fate had stunn'd and bow'd; For her, who then must plead, or ne'er again. Dreadful, 0 Death, are all thy paths of pain! And many a wretch hath felt, but who shall tell What pangs unnam'd the convict must sustain, Ere frailty, pale as snow, bids hope farewell, And, for the living, tolls the passing bell? Still, in her desolation, nightly she Dream'd that the Lord had heard her earnest prayer; Her child, she thought, poor Jane, was come to see Her mother die, and beg a lock of hair, Which she might kiss in tears and ever wear. Dark roll'd the hours by cruel mercy given, The waking hours of certainty and doom; And, in her cell, she cried to earth and heav'n, " 0 let my child sleep with me in the tomb!" Tomb! I shall have none!" And the echoing gloom Mutter'd, even when she slept, her heavy sigh. IV. As if'no heart had ever ach'd, no eye V Shed bitter tears, another morn arose, All light and smiles; but with the brightening sHannah awoke hon dieams ol death, to close 'Th VIC ï~~40 THE VILLNGE PATRIARCHI. 113 Her eyes in dreamless and profound repose. But Jane came not! poor Jane was far away; She, though oft told, knew not her mother's doom; But much she wonder'd at her lengthen'd stay, With saddening thoughts. and cheek that lost Vts b!oom. Hark! the bell tolls! and yet Jane is not come! SBut she, who murder'd pious Ezra White, And trampled on his brains," (so rumour lies,) Ere minutes pass, must wrestle with the might That none can vanquish. Lo! ten thousand eyes ' Are gazing on the prison where she sighs! The streets are pav'd, the house-tops pil'd with T heads, The windows choak'd with faces, anxious all To look on all that man most hates and dreads. Now the hush deepens near the fetter'd wall; Now a dropp'd feather might be heard to fall; Now, by the scaffold, hearts throb quick and loud; Now, in dire stillness, hark, faint murmurs rise! And, lo! the murderess bends above the crowd, Bursting, with desperate strength, the cord that ties Her arms, and rolling on all sides her eyes Chill'd(, in a mornent, chill'd is every heart. " Where is my child?" she sobs; " My child!" I she shrieks; O let me see my child, ere I depart!" - 24 ï~~114 THE VILLAGE PATRTARCT. And long, for her who is not here, she seeks; Then, to the crowd, with hands uplifted, speaks: o "Ye come to see a murderess? I am none. A stainless conscience is my rock and tower. 'Tis true my foe to his account is gone; But not for all this world's vain pomp and power Would I have shorten'd his bad life an hour. I die his victim, and die reconcil'd. t 1Kind hearts! ye melt-but which of ye will bear A dying mother's keepsake to her child? O for a kindred heart, my grief to share; A kindred voice, to join.my parting prayer!" Lo! as she ended, on her bosom bent A blind old pilgrim, who had left the throng Weeping aloud, all pitied as he went! She clasp'd him with a grasp convuls'd and strongS She kiss'd him fervently, anid held him long. "God bless thee, Enoch, for this last good deed!" She sobb',,-and down her cheeks the tears gush'd free. "But we must bear whatever is decreed. Nay, father of my Joe, be firm, like me: " Hold up! be firm, as innocence should be! Guiltless I go to join thy son in heaven. Jane, too, is guiltless, though she kill'd our foe, Who, when he died, had need to be forgiv'n.Bear to my child this tress; a month ago 'Twas raven black, and now 'tis white as snow. ' A Yes, Enoch, I am guiltless. Let them pare I a N ï~~TIHE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 115 My bones, and make a mockery of my frame; They cannot stain my soul! and I can bear What must be borne. Why, then, should my sad name, Whenever utter'd, flush thy cheek with shame? Poor Enoch! where thy murder'd son lies low, I hop'd to weep again; but hope deceives! O might I rest with him!-no flower will blow O'er me, no redbreast cover me with leaves! This thought, despite my will, appals and grieves My conquering soul, ere it take wing and soar. Should one or two remember me in love, Say I died guiltless.-Though we meet no more On earth, an angel waits for us above; But thou shalt rnurse awhile my orphan dove, Far from the parent bird-when I am free!" V. And all is o'er-the shock, the agony The low-breathed moan of sympathetic wo. But silly Jane, still wandering gloomily, Wears on her breast the lessening lock of snow; And still she mutters, " God! let nothing grow: God! may a mother's curse be on their blood!" ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. BOOK IX. CONTENTS. England twenty years hence.-Secret sorrow and illness of Enoch Wray.-He takes leave of objects associated in his mind with the past. I. HAIL, England of my Children!-not this den Of vermin, and their victims, nick-nam'd freeIsle of the Future!-will thy sons be men, Or Corn-Law bipeds? Lo! I turn to thee, Not hopeless in my fear. What wilt thou be When forty, or when twenty years are past? What will our children's sons in thee behold? Will the next change be loathsome as the last f Will souls be cheap that bodies may be sold? Will pious lords ask alms and worship gold? Will millions thrive by giving all to few? Will Cmesar's image still take rag and fly? 116 ï~~THE VILLAGE rATRIARCI. 117 Will Lethbridge and the Workhouse have their due? Wilt thou be Irish-Russian-French? or vie ' S With Turkey and Algiers in liberty? S Will harpies toll the rags which they deride? Will purse-proud gods, ador'd with curses deep, Awe dandy cowardice and beggar pride? Will Famine's cellar'd fiends, too fierce to weep, Like buried murder, grimnly seem to sleep? Will outrag'd Mercy's only Unforgiven, S Be circumcis'd of heart, and soul'd with stone? S Will Acres cease to curse the Sent of Heav'n? Or tax our bread, that he may beg his own, And be the wandering Jew of every zone? Will Cantwell ride to heav'n on Satan's back? Will root-fed wo thy soul-plough'd deserts till? SWill pauper mean Sir Bread-Tax, or Poor Jack? Will plunder'd trade be capital and skill? Will Glynn accept, when Rentless draws his bill? Will gamblers be thy merchants, chains thy wings? IWill beggary be thy wealth, thy hope despair? Will every village have its leash of kings? SOr will the barren tree begin to bear? Will Nimrod's mortgagee be Nimrod's heir? And labour shout, " Richard's himself again?" Why is our father's look so full of pain? What silent malady, what secret wo, ~~A, f v, A J. srq ' <; ï~~118 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. Weighs on his gloomy heart and dizzy brain? S An evil which he seeks, yet dreads to know, Not yet assur'd, suspected long ago. Hath the dark angel of the night, that still Delights in human agony and tears, Appall'd his slumbers with predicted ill, And confirmation of his worst of fears? The cause I tell not, but th' effect appears In sudden alteration, such as oft Comes on the unailing aged, when they seem Strong as old eagles on the wing aloft. Swift was the change and ghastly, as the gleam Of baneful meteors on a midnight stream, Blighting the waters. His Herculean frame Stood, in the winds of March, erect and bold; But when the cowslip-like a living flame Kindled in April-burn'd its incense cold, He seem'd the shadow of himself, and roll'd, With a strange keenness, his benighted eyes. Bright shines the ice o'er which the skaiter flies, Roofing the waters with transparent stone. Firm as the rock, when umber'd evening dies, But when the cloudy morn arises-gone. So perish human glories, every one. Oh, ne'er again, ye misty mountains dim When the frost parcheth on your sides the heath, Shall its shrill histie whistle welcome him Who otnce could see the tempest loss beneath Your solemn brows, and to the vales bequeath The vollied hail fiom clouds ofi every hue. ~t ï~~THE VILIAGE PATRIARCH. 119 I V. The meanest thing to which we bid adieu, Loses its meanness in the parting hour. When long-neglected worth seems born anew, The heart that scorns earth's pageantry and power May melt in tears, or break, to quit a flower. Thus, Enoch-like a wretch prepar'd to fly, SAnd doom'd to journey far, and come no moreSeeks old acquaintance with a boding sigh. Lo! how he weeps for all he lov'd of yore, Telling to weeds and stones quaint stories o'er! How heavily he climbs the ancientstile, I Whence, on the hill which he no more shall climb, Not with a brief, albeit a mournful smile, He seems to gaze in reverie sublime, Till heard afar, and saddening all the clime, Slow swings from yonder tower the passing bell! V. There is a flower-the housewife knows it wellA flower, which long hath grac'd the warm hedge side Of Enoch's dying neighbour, Andrew Gell ( Whose spleeny sire hlie pummiell'd for hispride, S Ere beauteous Mary Gold became a bride. It is the flower which (pious rustics say) The virgin-mo her on her bosom wore. It hoards no dcw-drop, like the cups of May, S But, rich as stjnset, whei*i the rain is o'er, o Spreads fltniy petal from a burning c)re YT ï~~120 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. Which, if morn weep, their sorrowing beams upfold, To wake and brighten, when bright noon is near. And Enoch bends him o'er the marigold; He loves the plant, because its name is dear. But on the pale green. stalks no flowers appear, Albeit the future disk is growing fast. HIe feels each little bud with pleasing pain, And sighs in sweet communion with the past; But never to his lip, or burning brain, The flower's cold softness shall he press again, Murmuring his long-lost Mary's virgin name. VI. S Deep in the vale, where, known to humble fame, Poor Enoch's rival in immortal verse, The Village Poet, lives-well skill'd to frame The beauteous slipper, and the sonnet terse, Wise to compose, and willing to rehearse; A kind good man, who knows our father's worth, S And owns his skill in everything but rhyme S Sage, too, and meek, as any wight on earth, Save that he laughs at transitory time, S And deems his own a deathless name sublime;There, by the brook, cowers a low edifice, With honeysuckled wall, and ivied roof, A warm safe nest, in which two mortal mice Might slumber tlhrough existence, tfar aloof From city f lks, whose sickly looks give proof That, wilat oe'cr is theirs, thou Health, art i 1101. j}o $(t. 0~ ~ 4_ iA~.. ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 121 A dial, by our skillful father made, Instructs the inmates of that little cot; The masterpiece, which first his skill display'd, When all to him their wondering homage paid. Lo! on a visit, mournfully he wends, To feel the dial, his acquaintance old; But, by the way, in pensive musing bends O'er ancient landmark, now half sunk in mould: Shake hands, sad friends, for times are chang'd and cold! But, lo! he enters at the garden gate! Awhile in chat the rival poets stand: He feels the bench, where oft in youth he sate; The shed, which, long ago, he built and plann'd: And now the dial is beneath his hand. Ah, the slow shadow, measuring the swift hours, S While his touch wanders o'er the figur'd plane, Baffles his patient finger's cunning powers! But man, the shadow, mocks grey Timein vain! Dusky, we pass away; he laughs amain; His sportive trade it is to mow us down; He plays at death, and is industrious too! Thou dark and sorrowing mortal, yet unmown, Weep but thy sun-clock, as of old, is true Oh, better weep than do as others do, SWhose eyes discredit all save what they see! But thou deny'st not beauty, colour, light; Full well thou know'st, that, all unseen by thee, The Vernal Spirit, in the valleys bright, Is scattering diamonds over blossoms white. I, She, though she deign to walk, hath wings of gold ï~~102 'rTe VILLAGE PATRIARCH. And plumes all beauteous; while, in leafing bower, The chrysalis, that ne'er did wing behold, Though born to glide in air o'er fruit and flower, \ Disproves the plume, the beauty, and the power, And deems it quite impossible to fly. o Farewell ye mountains, neighbours of the sky Enoch will tread your silky moss no more, But here he breathes your freshness. Art thou i j nigh, Gray moth of April? On the reedy shore, '1iFor the last time he hears thee, circling o'er The starry flower. Broad poplar, soon in bloom, He listens to thy blossomy voice again, S And feels that it is vernal! but the tomb Awaits him, and thy next year's flow'rs, in vain, 1A Will hearken for his footsteps. Shady lane, Where Fearn, the bloody, felt his deadly arm! Gate, which he climb'd, to cut his bow of yew From the dark tree of ages Upland farm, S His uncle's once! thou furzy bank, whose hue Is of the quenchless fire! adieu, adieu, S For ever! Thy soft answer to the breeze, F Storm.strengthen'd sycamore! is music yet 1 SLL To his tir'd spirit: here, thou King of Trees, I S. His own hand did thine infant weakness set; But thou shalt wear thy palmy coronet S Long, long, when he is clay. Lake of the Mill, That murnmurest of the days when vigour strung ' His oary feet fimrwell! He hears thee still 4 &,' "' >- "-...,~,',",.,...7; " ï~~THI. VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 123 And in his heart beholds thy banks, o'erhung By every tree thou knew'st when he was young!I S Forge!-built by him, against the ash-crown'd rock, And now with ivy grown, a tussock'd moundWhere oft himself, beneath the hammer's shock ' Drew forth the welded steel, bright, blue, and soulnd Vale of the stream-lov'd abbey, woodland bound! - Thou forest of the Druids! 0 thou stone, That once wast worshipp'd!-pillar of the past, On which hie lean'd amid the waste alone! Scorner of change! thou listenest to the blast Unmov'd as death; but Enoch travels fast. Thatch'd alehouse, still yclept the Sickles cross'd! Where died his chib of poverty anrid agceWorst blow of all! where oft the blacksmnith toss'd His truth deciding coin; and, red with rage, The never-silcte'd barber wonlt enigage In argument with Enooh! Fountain dim, In which his boyhood quench'd the sultry beam! School, where crown'd mionarchs might have learn'd of him Who sway'd it, how to reign! Cloud-cradled stream, That in his soul art eloquent as a dream n Path-pencil d hill, now clad ti broomy light Where oft in youth he wak'd the violets cold oi l ï~~124 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. When you, love-listening stars, confess'd the might Of earthly beauty, and o'er Mary Gold S Redden'd with passion, while his tale he told Rose, yet unblown! thoa future woodbine flower! Majestic fox-glove, still to summer true! Blush of the hawthorn! glad May's sunny shower! Scenes long belov'd, and objects dear, adieu! From you, from earth, gray Enoch turns his view; lie longs to pass away, and soon will pass. But not with him will toil and sorrow go! Men drop, like leaves-they wither, and, alas! Are seen no more! but human toil and wo Are lasting as the hills, or ocean's flow, Oder than Death, and but with Death will die. f ~ ~VIIL.7iI Ye sister trees, with branches old and dry! Tower'd ye not huge as now, when Enoch Wray, A happy lad, pursu'd the butterfly O'er broomy banks above the torrent's spray, Whence still ye cast the shadow of your sway Lo-Gray-hair'd Oaks, that sternly execrate The poor man's foes, albeit it nurmurs low! Or, with a stormy voice, like that of fate, Smiting your wrinkled hands, in wrath and wo, P Say to th' avenging lihttings, "Why so slow?'" ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 125 Lo! that glad boy is now a man o"f pain! S Once more he totters through the vernal fields; S Once more he hears the cornerake on the plain; The vale invites, him, where the goldring builds, And the wild bank that primrose fragrance 1 yields; S He cannot die, without a sad adieu To one sweet scene that to his heart is dear;, Yet- -would hlie dream his fears may not be true, And miss a draught of bitterest sorrow here'/- His feet will shun the mill-dam, and the wier S O'er which the stream its idle brawling sends. SIX. But, lo! t'wards Albert's mill the Patriarch wends! (His own hands rear'd the pile: the very wheels Were made by him; and where the archway bends, His name, inletters of hard stone, appeals To time and memory.) With mute step, he steals Along the vale, but does not hear the mill! 'Tis long since he was there. Alas! the wave S Runs all to waste, the mighty wheel is still! Poor Enoch feels as if become a slave SAnd o'er his heart tle long grass of the grave Alrea hy trembles! 'To his stealthy foot, Around the door tick pritgs ahe chance-sown oat. While prune their plumes the wvater-hen and coot, ' AOV ï~~126 TE JLi;, 74 Fearless and fierce the r;t re, do,, S Catching the trout in Albert's lhi-sunk 1oat: '," And, pendant from each bucket, fat weeds S Their slimy verdure in the listless stream. "Albert is ruined, then!" his quivering lip S Mutters in anguish, while with paler beam S His sad eye glistens. " 'Tis, alas, no dream! Heav'n save the blood of Enoch Wray from shame Shame undeserved, the treadmill of the soul!" Thus Enoch mutely prays, but does not blame Albert, who could not, well he knows, control S The fate that hurl'd him down to fortunes foul. S Triumphant Science! what avail thy deeds, Thy sailless navy, and thy steam-drawn car, If growing power to deeper misery leads? - If weeds and worms thy tenfold harvest mar? And all thy fruits but fatten waste and war? S England is chang'd since Enoch was a lad. Grubs dream'd not then that earth for them was made; Men did not sweat to bloat the weak and bad, In hopeless sorrow faithful though betray'd; Nor was toil famine; nor was gambling trade. Albert is strong, laborious, frugal, just; But danger lurk'd where safety seem'd to be, And cloudless thunder turn'd his hopes to dust. While navies sank on fortune's sunny sea, Unskill'd to save his little bark was he. In dreadful calm, the viewless storm increas'd; Most fatal, when least dreaded, came the blow That still was nearest when expected least; ~~~~~? N~v ~ < ï~~TtHtE VILLAcE PATRIARCH. 127 VIA S And none who felt the stroke could see the foe;. But all was wondering fear and helpless wo. The servant took the master by the nose; The beggar'd master slunk aside to die; Down dropp'd the cobweb Crcesus, stunn'd; he rose, And fell again, hie knew not how nor why. Like frost and thaw in April's fickle sky, T'he wretched rich, and not less wretched poor, Chang'd places miserably; and the bad Throve, while the righteous begg'd from door to door: None smil'd, save knaves; but loudly laugh'd the mad, Even at their prayers, and then they kick'd the sad. it And still men fought with shadows, and were slain. For ruin smote, nor warning gave at all Unseen, like pestilence, and fear'd in vain! But when red battle wings the whirling ball, The cannon flashes ere the victims fall, Loud bursts the roar, and then is heard the groat. What is this plague, unsearchable and lone, Sightless and tongueless, till a wild voice howls When nations die? What is this power unknown? And whence thiQ strange simoom that withers souls _f d4 ï~~128 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH, 0 ask the empire-swallowing deep, that rowis Black o'er lost wealth and long-forgotten fame! XI. S Shall I, lost Britain! give the pest a name That, like a cancer, eats into thy core?.,' 'Tis Avarice, hungry as devouring flame; But, swallowing all, it hungers as before, While flame, its food exhausted, burns no more. ( 0 ye hard hearts that grind the poor, and crush Their honest pride, and drink their blood in wine, And eat their children's bread without a blush, Willing to wallow in your pomp, like swine, Why do ye wear the human form divine? Can ye make men of brutes, contemn'd, enslav'd? Canye grow sweetness on the bitter rue? Can ye restore the health of minds deprav'd ' And self-esteem in blighted hearts renew? Why should souls die to feed such worms as you? Numidian! who didst say to hated RomeSThere is no buyer yet to purchase thee!" S Come, from the darmn'd of old, Jugurtha, come! See one Rome fall'n!-another, mightier, see! S And tell us what the second Rome shall be! r " But long, O Heav'n! avert from this sad land The conflict of the many with the few, When, crumpled, like a leaf, in havock's hand,, The great, the old, shall vanish from the view, And slaves be men, all traitors, and all true! P '~~.,! ' ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 129 Nor from the fierce and iron-breathing North, That grimly blossoms with the sword and spear, Call a new Alaric and his robbers forthi To crush what worth is left untrampled here, And shake from Freedom's urn dust still too dear, While trade-left Thames pours mute his shipless wave! But thou, our Father, journeyest to the grave, A Briton, like thy sires, the fear'd of old! Thou shalt not see outlandish king or slave Conquer the green isle of the stern and bold, That despots, erst, though leagued with hell, controll'd. The land where Hampden fell and Russell bled, Is yet no barrack for invading hordes; Mary is undefiled, her boy unled To slaughter, by their country's foreign lords. Yet hast thou seen our fratricidal swords Assail the bondsman, struggling to be free; And strike for tyrants, destin'd, soon or late, To thank our crimes, by which they reign, and be Black vengeance to our hearths, and righteous fate. But go!-no second spring can renovate S Thy blighted soul. A moment, big with wo, O'er thee hath roll'd another hundred years. Go, to the cottage of thy childhood, go! Where green, asin thy youth, the vale appears, And Mary's love awaits her sire, in tears. 9.5_ ï~~130 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. Go to thy cottage-not with humbled look And stealthy pace, a thing of guilt and fear! But thou, alas, dependance canst not brook E'en pity now is insult to thine ear; Fall'n is thy crest, thy heart is cold and drear. Yet go thou to thy home, though daily there Some little comfort is retrench'd; nor blame The child, who veil'd her griefs her sire to spare. " Though Mary is become an ill-starr'd name, Why should her father feel the pang of shame?" How often from thy side doth she retire To weep alone! "Shall he who gave us allShall Enoch Wray, the soul of fearless fire, SThe good, the proud, become in age a thrall I" S Oh, not for this the lord of shroud and pall So long hath pass'd him on his gloomy way! No; he who hears the voiceless worm complain Hath heard his spirit for dismission pray: " O, let me, Lord, my God, till death, retain My humble pride, a name without a stain! When the flesh fail'd not, Lord, I lean'd on thee! Though the flesh fails, let not my soul be mov'd! But now release me, if thy will it be0 let thy child rejoin the lost and lov'd! For long on earth have I thy mercy prov'd, And my heart yearns to bless thy name in heav'n. ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. BOOK X. -0-- CONTENTS. Horrors of paupery to independent minds-Enoch Wray visits the churchyard, where he reads the grave-stonee with his fingers.-Death of the Patriarch. I. LIFE! who would live, to be the helpless prey Of sordid avarice? 0 neglected Age, That, bedrid, lingerest in prolong'd decay! Who would, like thee, a war all hopeless wage With foes that mock his grief and scorn his rage? How sad the sight, when, far from all he loves, By crowds pursu'd, the slander'd terrier flies, Till, wounded by his lord in unknown groves, He mingles looks of love with piteous cries, And, smiling on his dear destroyer, dies! How terrible, to wake, interr'd alive, 131 ï~~132 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. And shriek for instant aid, which cannot come; And scare the worm, that yet shall feed; and 6 strive, Beneath relentless earth, in airless gloom, With desperate wrench, to dispossess the tomb! More dreadful still, lost Captive, is thy fate, To whom a grave is given, and death denied, For life entomb'd by unforgiving hate, W ho bids despair, thy chamberlain, provide Iope's coffin'd corpse, to mate thy sleepless side! But direr, sadder than all these, is man Wasted by want arid superhuman toil; Or fall'n from decent competence, and wan With grief, and forc'd,- while heart and brai. recoil, To beg a crust on his paternal soil, Or ask his equals for a pauper's pay! IT. But thou art not a pauper, Enoch Wray! Free hast thou liv'd, in honesty and pride, A hundred summers; bright hath been thy day, Even in its gloom; and on the grave's dark side Thou little hast to fear, and nought to hide-- Prepar'd to die, as good men wish to die. III. Hark!-like a spirit preaching from the sky, Repent ye, for the kingdom is at hand!" An iron voice-as if Eternity, Dethroning Time, sent forth his high Commandtxon ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 133 Speaks to the aw'd heart of the silent land. From yonder tower, time-darken'd, thunderscar'd, Still the deep toll is floating on the air It calls our father to the lone churchyard; Ah, many, many of his friends are there! And Age, at five-score years, hath few to spare ' Thou antique Fane! that, in thy solemn suit Of carven flowers, and stone-embroidery grand, (Old, yet unshaken; eloquent, though mute,) Tower'st like the sculptur'd guardian of the land! Thy reverend looks what bosom can withstand, And feel nor throb like love, nor chill like fear, Nor glow like adoration? The leaves fall Around thee-men fall with them; both are here; S While thou alike view'st bridal-robe and pall, Sovereign of marriage and of funeral! Witness of Ages, and memorial hoar Of generations, to eternity Gone, like the hour that can return no more! Gray Enoch is a child compared with thee; Yet man like him thou ne'er again shalt see! S How would it gladden thy bewilder'd eyes, (Dusked with cobweb films, and colours old, S And with long gazing on dimni blazonries,) Could'st thou, in these degenerate times, behold S A pair like Enoch Wray and Mary Gold, As to the altar, in their youth, they came; He, like a warrior to the battle feast, With cheek of downy light and umber'd flame ï~~134 TtIE VILLAGE I ATRIARCH. S A presence glorious as the bright'ning east; She, bending at his side, with charms increas'd, Like chaste Andromaihe by Hector led; Her arm in his, her gentle eyes depress'd, Her neck and face with burning crimson spread, And lovely as maternal beauty's breast, Beneath the soft cheek of her child caress'd, Returning love for love and smile for smile! But, oh, not now, thou venerable pile! Comes he, with genial thoughts to rapture true, But with sad heart, though not without a smile, To bid his old remembrances adieu; And, ere he mingle with the clay, renew Feelings, which, when the dust that moulders here, Could sympathise with animated clay, { Joy'd with its joy, return'd it tear for tear, S And, bidding sorrow look for brighter day, Pointed to heav'n, but did not " lead the way." Now on the tombstones, which of old he laid, (Pages with silent admonition fraught,) S He kneels; and, in the twilight of thy &hade, Reads, with his fingers, what his chisel wrought; Perchance th' effusions of his pensive thought, Full oft recited in his soul with pride. I V. Beneath him rest five husbands, side by side: Can aught disturb them? We, perhaps, shall see: But why unite what death and fate divide? ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 135 "John Stot, Charles Lamb, Giles Humble, Simon Flea, And Richard Green, here wait for, Alice, me!" V. Erect, like youth, stands this sepulchral stone: But what is youth? a flower; and life? a dream. SRead!-for youth, life, the flower, the dream, are gone: Read!-" Death is life! I am not what I seem Think of poor Henry still! but rightly deem." VI. The next is dateless; but, aged eighteen years, Died she, whom hardest hearts have ceas'd to blame; i The kind still read her epitaph with tears:"Here rests a stranger-she had once a name: Weep for the gentle dust that died of shame." VII. They did not lay his bones where four roads nmeet. Although his crime was grief, which some called pride, S Wrong not the wrong'd, who slumbers at thy e feet! "Was Jones a coward? Honest, yet belied, He was too brave to live disgrac'd, and died." V III. In yonder grave heaven's grateful debtor lies, Struck blind in youth-old Shiloh Hollischart. ï~~136 THE VILLAGE FATRIARCH. "The beam of beauty left his cheerful eyes, To glow more deeply, brightly, in his heart." Read, mortal! be instructed, and depart. IX. "Tears for the slander'd! tears-but shed too late. Come! if thou come to weep, traducer fell, Whose slighted love hath done the work of hate' But thou, perchance, hast yet more lies to tell Of her who lov'd not thee, and lov'd too well?" X. But why hath Enoch grav'd on this lone tomb The yeoman tall, who grasps, with amorous strain, A snake, that feedeth on his fading bloom? Read!-" I was friendless, and I liv'd in vain, Cramp tore my nerves, and cancer gnaw'd my brain: Yet, to the last, I pray'd for life, in pain." XI. This still retreat, thou faithful to the dead, Claims thy attentive pause, demands thy tear! Stop! read again th' inscription, often read:'Remember me; and, weeping, linger here, If still to thee thy Harcourt's name is dear! But, if thou wed again, 0 come not near!" XII. A broken mast, a bursting wave, a child Weeping, a woman frantic on the shore ï~~TAT THE VILLAGE PATRIARCI. 137 Rude stone! thou tell'st a story sad and wild "Pain, want, unkindness, all ' affliction sore,' S Disease, suspense, with constancy I bore; My heart was broken-Letty lies with me; And now we know that Matthew died at sea." XIII. No sculptur'd stone informs the passer by That the poor clown is now the Squireling's peer: Here lies a rogue, whose crime was poverty! And just Sir Cornlaw sleeps in marble near! Bones of the treadmill'd slave!-what do ye here t Oh, shame to bread-tax'd England's boughtand-sold! The loathsome wretch, who toil'd, and starv'd, and died, And he whose merit was a robber's gold, Repose, like married equals, side by side a Audacious Death, is Mammon thus defied? What, shall the parish-paid of yesterday S Rest with the sacred boroughmongering great? Why fence ye not a Pauper's Golgotha, Where, buried without bell, these dogs may wait The crowing cock, while rich men rot in state? But to one grave the blind man's eyes are / turn'd, bn 4 Mave where he may-and yet he seeks -t not. "-' =,.,'T N... q..: f', 1'. ï~~138 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. He communes with the poor, the lost, the mourn'd, ' S The buried long, by all but him forgot: eN The hated?-no; his bosom never burn'd j With fire so base: the dreaded?-no; he spurn'd Fear, as unworthy of' the human breast. Why does he pause on his dark pilgrimage Hath he forgot what love remembers best? O stoop and find, in this familiar page, The mournful story, dearest to his age! " Here Lucy rests, who, in this vale of tears, Dwelt thirty weeks:-Here waits the judgment- g day Her brother James, who died, aged fifty years: Here slumbers sinless Anne, who lived a day: Children of Mary and of Enoch Wray." His finger pauses, like a trembling wand, Held o'er desponding hope by mercy. Lo! Another line, cut by another hand, On the cold stone, from which he riseth slow, But it is written on his heart of wo "Mary! thou art not lost, but gone before." xv. Oh, no!-not lost. The hour that shall restore S Thy faithful husband, Mary, is at hand; Ye soon shall meet again, to part no more; By angels welcom'd to their blissful land, And wander there, like children, hand in hand, To pluck the daisy of eternal May. ï~~THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. 139 XV I. It is the evening of an April day. Lo! for the last time, in the cheerful sun Our father sits, stooping his tresses gray, To hear the stream, his ancient neighbour, run, Young as if time had yesterday begun. Heaven's gates are like an angel's wing, with plumes Of glorious green and purple gold on fire: Through rifts of mountainous clouds, the light illumes Hill-tops and woods, that, pilgrim-like, retire; And, like a giant's torch, burns Morthern spire. Primrosy odours, violet-mingled, float O'er blue-bells and ground-ivy, on their wings Bearing the music of the blackbird's note; Beneath the dewy cloud the woodlark sings, But on our father's heart no gladness flings. Mary bends o'er him, mute. Her youngest lad Grasps, with small hand, his grandsire's finger fast; Well knows the old man that the boy is sad; And the third Mary, as she hurries past, Trembles, and looks towards the town aghast. Enoch hears footsteps of unwelcome sound, While at his feet the sightless mastiff lies; And, lo! the blind dog, growling, spurns the ground! "Two strangers are approaching," Enoch cries; But Mary's throbbing heart alone replies. I A stern, " Good day, sir!" smites his cheek more pale; ï~~140 THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. A. rude collision shakes him in his chair; The Bible of his sires is mark'd for sale! But degradation is to him despair; The hour is come which Enoch cannot bear! But he can die!-and in his humble grave, Sweet shall his long rest be, by Mary's side; S And o'er his coffin (uninscrib'd) shall wave The willow tree, beneath the dark tower's pride, Set by his own sad hand when Mary died. Though basely branded with a poacher's name, Poor Joseph slumbers in a distant tomb; Though Joseph's widow died a death of shame, Still there was mercy in the old man's doom! But now-dependance and disgrace are come!., "Albert," he sighs, " will perishby this blow.V Where is he?"-No reply.-" And shall the throng Of paupers see my daughter weekly go For parish alms? No, Heav'n! I yet am strong; Restore my sight! or I have liv'd too long." The vain, vain wish, too mighty, leaves him faint; 4:' " His visage wan assumes a darkening hue;. S The blind dog whines a melancholy plaint, S And ghastly roll his eyes of pallid blue;;4 E'en the hard bailiffs dread the scene to view. S Lyre of the past! O, art thou, then, unstrung? J/A S A sweet word lingers on our father's tongue- e O f ' " Mary, dear Mary."-But the tale is told: ï~~414 e THE VILLAGS rATRIARCI. 141 With her whose virgin name was Mary Gold, He hears, in heav'n, his swooning daughter shriek. And when the woodbine's cluster'd trumpet blows; And when the pink's melodious hues shall speak, In unison of sweetness with the rose, Joining the song of every bird that knows How sweet it is of wedded love to sing; And when the fells, fresh-bath'd in azure air, Wide as the summer day's all golden wing, Shall blush to heav'n, that Nature is so fair, S And man condemn'd to labour, in despair;Then, the gay gnat, that sports its little hour; The falcon, wheeling from the ancient wood; The redbreast, fluttering o'er its fragrant bower; The yellow-bellied lizard of the flood And dewy morn, and evening-in her hood Of crimson, fring'd with lucid shadows grand-- Shall miss the Patriarch; at his cottage door The bee shall seek to settle on his hand, But from the vacant bench haste to the moor, Mourning the last of England's high-soul'd poor, S And bid the mountains weep for Enoch Wray!,", And for themselves!--albeit of things that last Unalter'd most; for they shall pass away Like Enoch, though their iron roots seem fast Bound to the eternal future, as the past The Patriarch died! and they shall be no more Yes, and the sailless worlds, which navigate Th' unutterable deep that hath no shore, A-~ ï~~142, THE VILLAGE PATRIARCH. Will lose their starry splendour, soon or late! Like tapers, quench'd by Him whose will is fate! Yes, and the Angel of Eternity, Who numbers worlds, and writes their names in light, Ere long, 0 earth, will look in vain for thee, And start, and stop, in his unerring flight, And, with his wings of sorrow and affright, Veil his impassion'd brow and heav'nly tears! ï~~BOTHWELL A DRAMATIC POEM. SCENE-Inside of a dungeon, in afortress on the coast of Norway. BOTHWELL sleeping. RHINVALT gazing through a barred window on the rocks, and stormy sea below. Rhin. Splendour in heaven, and horror on the main! Sunshine and storm at once-a troubled day. Clouds roll in brightness, and descend in rain. How the waves rush into the rocky bay, Shaking th' eternal barriers of the land! And ocean's face is like a battle plain, Where giant demons combat hand to hand; While, as their voices sink and swell again, Peace, listening on the rainbow, bends in pain. Where is the voice, whose stillness man'sheart hears, Like dream'd-of music, wordless, soft, and low? The voice, whichl dries on Sorrow's cheek her tears, Or, lest she perish, bids the current flow? 143 ï~~144 BOTHWELL. That voice tne whirlwind in his rage reveres; It bids the blast a tranquil sabbath keep:, Lonely as death, harmonious as the spheres, It whispers to the wildness of the deep, 'Till, calm as cradled babe, the billows sleep. Oh, careless of the tempest in his ire, Blush, ruby glow of western heav'n! Oh, cast The hue of roses, steep'd in liquid fire, On ocean in his conflict with the blast, S And quiver into darkness, and retire, / And let wild day to calmest night subside Let the tired sailor from his toil respire, The drench'd flag hang, unmoving, o'er the tide, Anrid, pillow'd on still clouds, the whirlwind ride! Then, Queen of Silence, robe thee, and arise, And, through the barr'd loop of this dungeon old, Visit, once more, its inmate's blasted eyes! Let him again, though late, thy light behold! Soulless, not sightless, have his eye-balls roll'd, Alike, in light and darkness, desolate. The storm beat on his heart-he felt no cold; Summer look'd on him, from heaven's fiery gateShivering, he scowl'd, and knew not that he scowl'd. Unweeping, yet purturb'd; his bed a stone; Bonds on his body-on his mind a spell; Ten years in solitude, (yet not alone,) And conscious only to the inward hell Here hath it been his hideous lot to dwell. Bit heav'n can bid the spirit's gloom depart *~~2-;0> ï~~Can chase from his torn soul the demon fe., And, whisperhlig, find a listener in his heart. O let him weep again! then, tearless dwell. S In his dark, narrow home, unrung by passing bell! [A long pause. Loud thunder; and, after an interval, thunder heard remote.],, The storm hath ceas'd. The sun is set: the trees Are fain to slumber; and, on ocean's breast, How softly, yet how solemnly, the breeze, With unperceiv'd gradation, sinks to rest! No voice, no sound is on the ear impress'd, S Twilight is weeping o'er the pensive rose The stoat slumbers, coil'd up in his nest; The grosbeak on the owl's perch seeks repose And o'er the heights, behold! a pale light glows, Wak'd by the bat, up springs the startled snake; The cloud's edge brightens-lo, the moon! an( grove, And tree, and shrub, bath'd in her beams, awake, With tresses cluster'd like the locks of love. Behold! the ocean's tremor! slowly move The cloud-like sails; and, as their way they urge, Fancy might almost deem she saw, above, The streamer's chasten'd hues; bright sleeps the surge, And dark the rocks, onocean'sglitteringverge. Now lovers meet, and labour's task is done. K 10 ï~~6' 16 146 BOTHWELL. Now stillness hears the breathing heifer. Now ' Heav'ns azure deepens; and, where rock-rills. run, Rest on the shadowy mountain's airy brow Clouds that have ta'en their farewell of the sun; While calmness, reigning o'er that wintry clime, Pauses and listens;-hark! the evening gun! I Oh, hark!-the sound expires! and silence is sublime. Moonlight o'er ocean's stillness! on the crest Of the poor maniac, moonlight!-He is calm; Calmer he soon will be in endless rest:O, be thy coolness to his brow as balm, And breathe, thou fresh breeze, on his burning breast! For memory is returning to his brain; The dreadful past, with worse than wo impress'd; And torturing time's eternity of pain; The curse of mind returns! 0 take it back again! [A long pause, during which he beids anxious. ly over Bothwcll.] Alas! how flutteringly he draws his breath! Both. My blessed Mary! Rhin. Calmer he appearsSad, fatal symptom! swift approaches death. Both. Mary! a hand of fire my bosom i sears.0 do not leave me!-Heavenly Mary!-years, Ages of torture pass'd, and thou cams't not; I waited still, and watch'd, but not in tears; S I could not weep; mine eyes are dry and hot,. %NT ï~~BOTHWELL. 147 S And long, long since, to shed a tear forgot. A word! though it condemn me!-stay! she's " gone! Gone! and to come no more! [He faints.] Rhin. Ah, is it so? His pilgrimage is o'er, his task is done; How grimly still he lies! yet his eyes glow As with strange meaning. Troubled spirit, go! How threateningly his teeth are clench'd! how fast He clutches his grasp'd hair!-hush!--breathless? No! Life still is here, though withering hope be past Come, bridegroom ofdespair! and be this sigh his last. Both. Where am I? What art thou? Rhin. Call me a friend, And this a prison. Both. Voice of torture, cease!Oh, it returns!-terrific vision, end - When was it? Yesterday? no matter-peace! I do remember, and too well, too well! Rhin. How is it with thee? Both. Why wilt thou offend?S Ha! all ye fiends of earth, and ye of hell, I surely am awake! Thine angel send, Thou, King of Terrors call'd, and break this hideous spell! Rhin. A tear? and shed by thee? Both. I breath'd in flame; S The sleepless worm of wrath was busy here; ï~~148 BOTHIWELL. When-ah, it was a dream!-my lady came, Lovely and wan in wo, with the big tear To cool my fever'd soul. In love and fear, O'er me she bent, as at the Hermitage, When (maim'd in conflict with the mountaineer) She kiss'd my wounds, while Darnley swell'd with rage; Tears only! not a word! she fled!-and I am here. She fled; and then, within a sable room, Methought I saw the headsman and the axe; And men stood round the block, with brows of gloom, Gazing, yet mute, as images of wax; And, while the victim moved to meet her doom, All wept for Mary Stuart. Pale, she bent, As when we parted last; yet towards the tomb Calmly she look'd, and, smiling, prayers up sent To pitying heav'n. A deep and fearful boom Of mutter'd accents rose, when to the ground The sever'd head fell bleeding! and, aghast, Horror on horror star'd. And then a sound Swell'd, hoarsely yelling, on the sudden blast, As of a female voice that mimick'd wo; But, as above that hall of death it pass'd, 'Twas chang'd into a laugh, wild, sullen, low, Like a fiend's growl, who, from heav'n's splendour cast, Quaffs fire and wrath, where pain's red embers glow. Do I not know thee? I'm forgetful grown: Where did I see thee first? t10 ï~~BOTHWELL. 149 Rhin. Here, even here, Thy ten years' comrade--still to thee unknown. '. In all that time thou didst not shed a tear Until this hour. Raving, with groan on groan, Thou spak'st of more than horror, and thy moan Was torture's music. O'er thy forehead hot alone, S!,_ Thine hands were clasp'd; and still wast thou Brooding o'er things that have been, and are not, Though I was with thee, almost turn'd to stone, Here, where I pin'd for twenty years before Thy coming. T Both. Thirty years a prisoner! IHere, didst thou say? Rhinm. Ay, thirty years and more. My wife!--O never may I look on her! S My children! /t Both. Didst thou spill man's blood; or why? Rhin. I spilt man's blood in battle. Oh, no more, S Liberty, shall I breathe thy air on high Where the cloud travels, or along the shore When the waves flown, like patriots sworn to die! I met th' oppressors of my native land, Wide wav'd their plumes o'er Norway's wilds mtafar,) I met them, breast to breast, and hand to hand, O'ercome, not vanquish'd, in the unequal war: S And this is Freedom's grave. Beh. Freedom? Thou fool, sr4. ï~~150 OTHIWELL. Deserving chains! Freedom?--a word to scare The sceptred babe. Of tny own dream thou tool And champion, white in folly! From me far '1 Be rant like thine--of sound a senseless jar. Rhin. Say, who art thou that rav'st of mur- N dered kings, And dar'st, before her champion vow'd, profane The name of Freedom? Long forgotten things To my soul beckon; and my hand would fain (Stung by thy venom) grasp a sword again, In battle with these tyrants! Gone?--alas! S 'Tis the deathl-rattle in the throat--his pain Draws to a close. Again? Dark spirit pass! Both. Lift, lift me up! that on my burning brain The pallid light may shine! and let me see Once more the ocean. Thanks! Hail, placid deep! Oh, the cold light is comfort! and to me The freshness of the breeze comes like sweet sleep To him whose tears his painful pillow steep! When last I saw those billows they were red. Mate of my dungeon! know'st thou why I weep? My chariot, and my war-horse, and my bed, I,. Ocean, befibre me swells, in all its glory spread, SLovely! still lovely Nature! and a line Of quivering beanms athwart the wavy space, Runs like a beauteous road to realms divine, EndinL where sea and stooping heav'n embrace. Crisp'd with glad smiles is ocean's aged face * j7 ï~~BOTIIWELL. 151 Gemm'd are the fingers of his wrinkled naad. Like glittering fishes, in the wanton race, The little waves leap laughing to the land, Light following light-an everlasting chase. Lovely, still lovely! chaste moon, is thy beam Now laid on Jedburgh's mossy walls asleep, Where Mary pin'd for me; or dost thou gleam O'er Stirling, where I first, in transport deep, Kiss'd her bless'd hand, when Darnley bade her weep; Or o'er Linlithgow and the billows blue, Where (captur'd on the forest-waving steep) She almost fear'd my love, so dear and true; Or on that sad field, where she could but look adieu? Rhin. Weep on! if thou, indeed, art he whose tame Hath pierc'd th' oblivion even of this tomb, S Where life is buried, and whose fearful name Amazement loves to speak, while o'er thy doom, Trembling, he weeps. Did she, whose charms make tame All other beauty. Scotland's matchless Queen, Creation' s wonder, on that wither'd frame, S Enamour'd smile? Sweet tears there are, I ween: Speak then of her, where tears are shed more X oft than seen. Both. Perhaps the artist might, with cunning hand, S Mimic the morn on Mary's lip of love; S And fancy might before the canvass stand, ï~~152 BOTLHWELL. And deem he saw th' unreal bosom move. S But who could paint her heav'nly soul, which glows With more than kindness-the soft thoughts that rove Over the moonlight of her heart's reposeThe wish to hood the Ialcon, spare the dove, Destroy the thorn, and multiply the rose? * Oh, had'st thou words of fire, thou could'st not paint My Mary in her majesty of mnind, Expressing half'the queen and half the saint! Her fancy, wild as pinions of the wind, Or sky-ascending eagle, that looks down, Calm, on the homeless cloud he leaves behind; Yet beautiful as freshest flower full blown, That bends beneath the midnight dewsreclin'd; Or yon resplendent path, o'er ocean's slumber thrown. 'Twas such a night-O ne'er, bless'd thought, * depart!When Mary uttur'd first, in words of flame, 'T'he love, the guilt, the madness of her heart, While on my bosom burn'd her cheek of shame. Thy blood is ice, and, therefore, thou wilt blame S The Queen, the woman, the adulterous wife, ' The hapless, and the thir!-Oh, but her name Needs not thy mangling! Her disastrous life. Needs not thy curse! Spare, slanderer, spare her fame 2T ï~~,hv d * BOTHWELL. 153 Then wore the heav'ns, as now, the clouded veil; Yet mark'd I well her tears, and that wan smile So tender, so confiding, whose sweet tale, By memory told, can even now beguile My spirit of its gloom! for then the pale Sultana of the night her form display'd, Pavilion'd in the pearly clouds afar, Like brightness sleeping, or a naked maid, In virgin charms unrivall'd; while each star, Astonish'd at her beauty, seem'd to fadeS Each planet, envy-stung, to turn asideVeiling their blushes with their golden hair. Oh! moment rich in transport, love, and pride! Big, too, with wo, with terror, with despair! While, wrestling thus, I strive to choak my groan, And, what I cannot shun, may learn to bear. That moment is immortal, and my own! Fate from my grasp that moment cannot tear! That moment for an age of torture might atone! Poor Rizio of the flute, whom few bewail;, Worth Mary's tears, was well worth Darnley's hate. Jealous again! Why, who could e'er prevail, Monarch or slave, in conflict with his fate? Behold the King of- Hear it not, chaste Al night! King! keep no monkey that has got a tail In nought but things emasculate delight! Let no fly touch her, lest it be a male! ï~~154 BOTHWELL. r And, like the devil, infest a paradise in spite! Pride, without honour! body, without soul! The heartless breast a brainless head implies. If men are mad, when passion scorns control, And self-respect with shame and virtue flies, Darnley hath long been mad.-Thou coxcomb rude! Thou reptile, shone on by an angel's eyes! Intemperate brute, with meanest thoughts imbued! Dunghill I would'st thou the sun monopolize? S Would'st thou have Mary's love? for what? Ingratitude. The quivering flesh, though torture-torn, may Btlive; But souls, once deeply wounded, heal-no more: And deem'st thou that scorn'd woman can forgive? Darnley, thou dream'st, but not as heretotore! Mary's feign'd smile, assassin-like, would gore; There is a snake beneath her sorrowing eye; The crocodile can weep: with bosom frore 1 O'er thy sick-bed she heaves a traitorous sigh Ah, do not hope to live! she knows that thou A shalt die. Yet Mary wept for Darnley, while she kiss'd - His murderer's cheek at midnight. Sad wasshe; And he, who then hadt seen her, wvould have miss'd -.Ji 1 ji e L ï~~BOT HWE LL. 155 A The rose that was not where it wont to be, Or marvell'd at its paleness. None might see The heart, but on the features there was wo., Then put she on a mask, and gloomilyFor dance and ball prepar'd-arose to go: f " Spare, spare my Darnley's life!" she saidbut mean'd she so? Now bends the murderer-Mark his forehead fell! S What says the dark deliberation there?Now bends the murderer-HIark!-it is a knell!Hark!-sound or motion? 'Twas his cringing hair. Now bends the murderer-wherefore doth he start? 'Tis silen e-silence that is terrible! When he hath business, silence should depart, And maniac darkness, borrowing sounds from heil, Suffer him not to hear his throbbing heart?Now bends the murderer o'er the dozing King, Who, like an o'er.gorg'd serpent, motionless, Lies drunk with wine, a seeming-senseless thing Yet his eyes roll with dreadful consciousness, T hickens his throat in impotent distress, And his voice strives for utterance, while that 6 wretch, Doth on his royal victim's bosom press His knee, preparing round his neck to stretch t t,.".., +:...., ''.. ï~~156 BOTHWELL. The horrible cord. Lo! dark as th' alpine vetch, Stares his wide-open, blood-shot, bursting eye, And on the murderer flashes vengeful fire; While the black visage, in dire agony, Swells, like a bloated toad that dies in ire, And quivers into fixedness!-On high Raising the corpse, forth into th' moonlight air The staggering murderer bears it silently, Lays it on earth, sees the fix'd eye-ball glare, And turns, affrighted, from the lifeless stare. Ho! fire the mine! and let the house be rent To atoms!-that dark guile may say to fear, " Ah, dire mischance! mysterious accident! Ah, would it were explain'd! ah, would it were!" Up, up, the rushing, red volcano went, And wide o'er earth, and heav'n, and ocean flash'd A torrent of earth-lightning sky-ward sent; O'er heav'n, earth, sea, the dread explosion crash'd; Then, clattering far, the downward fragments dash'd. Roar'd the rude sailor o'er th' illumin'd sea, " Hellisin Scotland!" Shudder'd Roslin'shall, Low'd the scar'd heifer on the distant lea, Trembled the city, shriek'd the festival, Paus'd the pale dance from his delighted task, Quak'd every masker of the splendid ball; yL S Rais'd hands, unanswer'd questions seem'd to ask; ï~~BOTHWVELL. 157 And there was one who lean'd against the wall, Close pressing to her face, with hands convuls'd, her mask. And night was after that, but blessed night Was never more! for thrilling voices cried To th' dreaming sleep, on th' watcher's pale affright, "Who murder'd Darnley? Who the match applied? Did Hepburn murder Darnley?"-" Fool!" replied Accents responsive, fang'd with scorpion sting, In whispers faint, while all was mute beside, " 'Twas the Queen's husband that did kill the King!" And o'er the murderer's soul swept horror's freezing wing. Rhin. Terrific, but untrue!-Have such I things been? Thy looks say ay! and dire are they to me. Unhappy King! and more unhappy Queen! But who the murderer? Both. What is that to thee? Think'st thou I kill'd him? Come but near my chain, Thou base suspecter of scath'd misery! And I will dash the links into thy brain, And lay thee (champion of the can't-be-free!) There, for thine insolence-never to rise again. [He faints.] S4 Rhin. Alas! how far'st thou now! Darkness hath chas'd ï~~158 BOTHWELL. The dreadful paleness from thy face; thine eye, I, Upturn'd, displays its white; thy cheek is lac'd S With quivering tortuous folds; thy lip, awry, Snarls, as thou tear'st the straw; the speechless storm. Frowns on thy brow, where drops of agony Stand thick and beadlike; and, while all thy Is crumpled with convulsion, threat'ningly Thou breathest, smiting th' air, and writhing like a worm. Both. Treason in arms!-Sirs, ye are envious all. To Mary's mar riage did ye not consent? Do you deny your signatures-this scrawl Of your vile names? True, I do not repent That I divorc'd my wife to wed the Queen; True, I hate Mar; true, I scorn Huntley's bawl; True, I am higher now than I have beenAnd will remain so, though your heads should fall. Craig, of the nasal twang, who pray'st so well! Glencairn, of th' icy eye, and tawny hide! If I am prouder than the Prince of Hell, Are ye all meanness that ye have no pride? My merit is my crime. I love my sword, And that high sin for which the angels fell; Ifwmprue han h th rne ofel Hell But still agrees my action with my word; That your's does not so, let rebellion tell. Submit! or perish here! or elsewhere-by the cord.. I) ï~~BOTHWELL. 19 My comrades, whose brave deeds my heart attests, Their eyes are vanquish'd-not by th' tossing crests, But by yon rag, the pestilence of the breeze, Painted with villanous horror! In their breasts Ardour and manliness make now with fear A shameful treaty, casting all behests That honour loves, into th' inglorious rear. By heav'n, their cowardice hath sold us here! Ha! distards, terror-quell'd as by a charm, S What! steal ye from the field?-My sword for thee, Mary! and courage for his cause! this arm Shall now decide the contest!-Can it be? Did Lindsay claim the fight?-and still lives he? He lives, and I to say it. Hell's black night Lower o'er my soul, and Darniley scowl'd on me, And Mary would not let her coward fight, But bade him barter all for infaniy Dishonour'd, yet unburied! Morton's face Wrinkled with insult; while, with cover'd brow. Bravest Kirkaldy mourn'd a foe's disgrace; And Murray's mean content was mutter'd low Pale, speechless Mary wept, almost asham'd Ofhim she mourn'd. Flash'd o'er my cheek the glow!, Of rage against myself; and undefam'd, SWorse than my reputation, and not slow,, I left my soul behind, and f'ed in wordless wo. \CZ~ ï~~160 roTHtWETr. Then ocean was my home, and I became Outcast of humnian kind, making my prey The pallid merchant; and my wither'd name Was leagued with spoil, and havock, and dismay; Fear'd, as the lightning fiend, on steed of flame-; ~J The Arab of the sky. And from that day Mary I saw no more. Sleepless desire Wept; but she came not, even in dreams, to say,,Until this hour,) "All hopeless wretch, expire!".Rhin. A troubled dream thy changeful life hath been Of storm and splendour. Girt with awe and power, A Thane illustrious; married to a queen; S Obey'd, lov'd, flatterd; blasted in an hour; V A homicide; a homeless fugitive O'er earth, to thee a waste without a flower; A pirate on the ocean, doom'd to live Like the dark osprey! Could Fate sink thee %4 lower? Defeated, captur'd, dungeon'd, in this tower A raving maniac! Both. Ah, what next? the gloom " T4 Of rayless fire eternal, o'er the foam Of torment-uttering curses, and the boom That moans through horror's everlasting home! S Wo, without hope-immortal wakefillnessThe brow of tossing agony-the gloam Of flitting fiends, who, with taunts pitiless, r 6' ~R ï~~Im BOTHWELL. 161 S Talk of lost honour, rancorous, as they roam Through night, whose vales no dawn shall ever bless!Accursed who outlives his fame!-Thou scene Of my last conflict, where the captive's chain Made me acquainted with despair! serene Ocean, thou mock'st my bitterness of pain, For thou, too, saw'st me vanquish'd, yet not slain! O, that my heart's-blood had but stain'd the wave, That I had plung'd never to rise again, And sought in thy profoundest depths a grave! White billow! know'st thou Scotland? did thy wet Foot ever spurn the shell on her lov'd strand? There hast thou stoop'd, the sea-weed gray to fretOr glaze the pebble with thy crystal hand? I am of Scotland. Dear to me the sand That sparkles where my infant days were nurs'd! Dear is the vilest weed of that wild land Where I have been so happy, so accurs'd! Oh, tell me, hast thou seen my lady stand Upon the moonlight shore, with troubled eye, Looking t'wards Norway? dids't thou gaze on her? And did she speak of one far thence, and sigh? 0, that I were with thee a passenger To Scotland, the bless'd Thule, with a sky 111 ï~~i62 BOTHWELL. Changeful, like woman! would, oh, would 1I were!"I S But vainly hence my frantic wishes fly. Who reigns at Holyrood? Is Mary there? And does she sometimes shed, for him ont6 lov'd, a tear? Farewell, my heart's divinity! To kiss T'hy sad lip into smiles of tenderness; To worship at that stainless shrine of bliss; To meet th' elysium of thy warm caress; To be the prisoner of thy tears; to bless Thy dark eye's weeping passion; and to hear 'The word, or sigh, soul-toniied, or accentless, Murmur for one so vile, and yet so dearAlas! 'tis mine no more!-Thou hast undone me, Fear! Champion of Freedom, pray thee, pardon me My laughter, if I now can laugh!-(in hell They laugh not)-he who doth now address thee Is Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell. Hark! my knell! The death-owl shrieks it. Ere I cease to fetch These pantings for the shroud, tell me, O tell Believ'st thou God?-Blow on a dying wretch, Blow, wind that com'st from Scotland!-Farethee-well! rhe owl shrieks-I shall have no other passingbell. S Rhin. As from the chill, bright ice the sunbeam flies, ï~~T IwOTWELL. 163 So (but reluctant) life's last light retires From the cold mirror of his closing eyes: He bids the surge adieu!-alls back-expires! No passing bell? Yea, I that bell will be; Pale night shall hear the requiem of my sighs; My wo-worn heart hath still some tears for thee; Nor will thy shade the tribute sad despise. Brother, farewell!---Ah, yes!-no voice replies: But my tears flow-albeit in vain they flowFor him who at my feet so darkly sleeps; And Freedom's champion, with the locks of snow, Now fears the form o'er which he sternly weeps. An awful gloom upon my spirit creeps. Vy ten years' comrade! whither art thou fled? Thou art not here! Thy lifeless picture keeps Its place before me, while, almost in dread, I shrink, yet gaze, and long to share thy bed. [He retires to a corner of the duigeon farthest from the corpse, and there continues to gaze upon it in silence.j ï~~THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. -4 -PART I. THE WANDERER RETURNED. I. YES, ye green hills that to my soul restore The verdure which in happier days it wore! And thou, glad stream, in whose deep waters lav'd Fathers, whose children were not then enslav'd! Yes, I have roam'd where Freedom's spirit fires The stern descendants of self-exil'd sires; Men who transcend the herd of human kind A foot in stature, half a man in mind. But tir'd, at length, I seek my native home, Resolv'd no more in gorgeous wilds to roam; Again I look on thee, thou loveliest stream! And, seeming poor, am richer than I seem. Too long in woods the forest-Arab ran, A lonely, mateless, childless, homeless man; Too long I paced the ocean and the wild164 ï~~THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. 165 Clinging to Nature's breast, her petted child: But only ploughed the seas to sow the wind, And chas'd the sun to leave my soul behind. But when hot youth's and manhood's pulses cool'd, When pensive thought my failing spirit school'dS Lur'd by a vision which, where'er I rove, Still haunts me with the blush of earliest loveA vision, present still, by night, by day, Which not Niagara's roar could chase away[ left my palace, with its roof of sky, S To look again on Hannah's face, and die. I saw, in thought, beyond the billow's roar, My mother's grave-and then my tears ran o'er! And then I wept for Hannah, wrong'd, yet true! I could not-no-my wasted life renew; But I could wiselier spend my wiser years, And mix a smile with sinking vigour's tears S Sweet village! where my early days were pass'd! Though parted long, we meet-we meet at last! Like friends, embrown'd by many a sun and wind, Much chang'd in mien, but more in heart and mind. Fair, after many years, thy fields appear, With joy beheld, but not without a tear. I met thy little river miles before ï~~166 THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. I saw again my natal cottage door; Unchang'd as truth, the river welcom'd home The wanderer of the sea's heart-breaking foam; But the chang'd cottage, like a time-tried friefid, Smote on my heart-strings, at my journey's N end. For now no lilies bloom the door beside: The very houseleek on the roof hath died; The window'd gable's ivy-bower is gone, The rose departed from the porch of stone; The pink, the violet, have fled away, The polyanthus, and auricula! And round my home, once bright with flowers, AdI found Not one square yard-one foot of garden ground. With gun in hand, and insolence of eye, SA sun-burn'd menial, as I came, drew nigh; By might empower'd small felons to deter, Constable, publican, and warrener. He met me, muttering-" I should know tb 's H tramp;" V n He pass'd me, muttering " Vagabond" and " Scamp!" And, as a beadle eyes a thief, he cast A keen glance at the cottage, as he pass'd. My brother dwelt within. 'Tis true, he took My offer'd hand, but froze me with a look So trouble-worn and lost, so hard yet dull, That I shrank from him, though my heart was full; ï~~THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. 167 I soght society, but stood alone; I came to meet a man, and found a stone! His wife, in tatters, watch'd the fireless grate; Three boys sat near her, all in fierce debate, And all in rags-but one constructing snares, With which, at night, to choke Lold Borough's hares. S My sister, Rose, had parish-pay, they said, S And Ann was sent abroad, and Jane was dead; And these misfortunes laid my sire beside The mother, who in better days had died. Such welcome found the wanderer of the deep! I had no words-I sobb'd, but could not weep. IV. Well, here I am, resolv'd to view the landInquire and ponder-hear and understand. V. The cucking-stool is gone, the stocks remainWhy either or not both? Ye stocks, explain! Chang'd scene! Unchang'd yon frosted tower remains Beneath the hill, it peers o'er vales and plains; S And, like a patriarch of the olden time, Y Sees age around, but none like his sublime. - Ere yon huge house, with jail-like frown, disIK plac'd The wild briar roses of the thymy waste, S There, near the church, the stocks, and cuckiug-stool, A'o, the sovereign of the village school. A -\, hc oee ï~~168 THIE SPLENDID VILLAGE. A half-fac'd man, too timid for his trade, And paid as timid men are ever paid; He taught twelve pupils for six pounds a-year, Made a consumption, and was buried here. None said of him, he reap'd the crop he grew, And liv'd by teaching what he never knew. His school is gone-but still we have a school, Kept by an ignoramus-not a fool; For o'er his mansion, written large, we see " Mister John Suckemwell's Academy;" A boarding-school, where gentlemen are taught To write fine copies, which the teacher wrote! Behold the usher!-I behold and start! For in his face I read a broken heart. Servant of servants! brow-beat by a knave! Why for a coffin labour like a slave? Better break granite on the King's highway Than earn, with Porson's powers, a pauper's pay. Why die to live? I know a wiser planAn easier too-black shoes, and be a man! VI. Village! thy butcher's son, the steward now, Still bears the butcher on his burly brow. Oft with his sire he deigns to ride and stare; And who like them, at market or at fair? King of the Inn, he takes the highest place, And carves the goose, and grimly growls the grace. There, in the loud debate, with might-with might ï~~f~gA f THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. 169 Still speaks he last, and conquers still the right; S Red as a lobster, vicious as his horse, ' That, like its master, worships fraud and force; And, if the stranger 'scape its kick or bite, Low'rs its vex'd ears, and screams for very spite. "He hath enough, thank God, to wear and eat; He gives no alms"-not e'en his putrid meat; S " But keeps his cab, whips beggars from his door, S Votes for my Lord, and hates the thankless poor." A d VII. Hail, Sister Hills, that from each other hide, With belts of evergreen,your mutual pride! Here reigns, in placid splendonr, Madam Grade, Whose husband nobly made a plum in trade; And yonder glitters Rapine's bilious slave, The lucky footman of a palac'd knave; Stern foe of learning, genius, press, and pen, J Who lauds all laws'that ruin honest men. Sublime in Satrap-imitating state, She for her daughter seeks a titled mate; None other, not an angel wing'd from heav'n, SCould woo, or ask to woo, and be forgiv'n. Too oft, perhaps, she calls her neighbour o " Scrub!" Yet justly scorns the mean corruption-grub; SFor many a" ruptur'd Ogden" hath he wrong'd, -: Long gloating on the captive's chain prolong'd.. He hates and apes her pomp, with upstart haste; V.r ï~~170 THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. But what in him is pride, in her is taste. She, queen-like, smiles; he, blustering, crams and treats, And weighs his greatness by the trout he eats S She never dogg'd a beggar from her lawn, And he would hang all dogs that will not fawn. S Yet, Clerk of Taxes, Magistrate, and Squire, Why to be Premier may not he aspire? But what is he that haunts this upstart's doorYon fat, good fellow, who detests the poorYon mass of meanness, baseness, grease, and 4 boneYon jolly soul, that weighs just eighteen stone? Unmatch'd in quibble, great in If and But, 4 Sublime in cant, superlative in smut; He jests as none but British worthies can, Laughs at despair, spurns, tramples, fallen man, Condemns misfortune for its wrongs and wo, S And bids his victim thank him for a blow. Sworn friends are they, Squire Woolpack and Squire Brush; One is their creed-" Impoverish! torture! crush!" Behold two models, unexeell'd on earth, S Of British wisdom, loyalty, and worth! VIII. Broad Beech' thyself a grove! five hundred Aayears, Speak in thy voice of bygone hopes and fears; _And mournfully-how mournfully!-the breeze Sighs through thy boughs, and tells of cottages ï~~THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. 171 Tnat, happy once, beneath thy shadow gaz'd On poor men's fields, which poor men's cattle graz'd! S Now, where three cotters and their children dwelt, The lawyer's pomp alone is seen and felt; And the park-entrance of his acres three Uncrops the ground which fed a family. What then? All see he is a man of state, With his three acres, and his park-like gate! Besides, in time, if times continue dark, His neighbour's woes may buy his gate a park. 0O, then, let trade wear chains, that toil may find S No harvests on the barren sea and wind; Nor glean, at home, the fields of every zone, Nor make the valleys of all climes his own; 4 But, with the music of his hopeless sigh, Charm the blind worm that feeds on poverty! YIx. Lo! where the water-caster once abode, The pinfold, erst his garden, skirts the road! His ample cot, erewhile not ample call'd, Is now with lath and lime partition-wall'd: The humble dwelling of the leech divine Makes six large styes for thirty human swine. Oh! could he see what woes his house contains, What wretched remnants cram its broken panes, How would he swell with righteous rage, and / banan! Ice-hearted Law's forc'd charity to man! For warmer heart thanhis did never beat N) ï~~172 THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. Dup'd by himself, yet hated he deceit; And, pleas'd, he taught my boyhood how o draw The wo-mark'd cowslip, and the thrush-lov'd haw; 1 And how to make sweet pictures of wild flowers, Cull'd in lone lanes, when glow'd the sultry hours, Then press'd, and dried, and all on lawn dispread, S To look as infants do, that smile when dead. Learned he was: nor bird nor insect flew But he its leafy home and history knew; Nor wild-flower deck'd the rock nor moss the well But he its name and qualities could tell. Yes, he was learned-not with learning big, Like you budge doctor of the whip and wig, Who writes in Latin, sucks the sick select, Speaks in the Babylonish dialect, And drives his pair. Great man, sir!-all who thrive Are cur'd of colds and cash, by Doctor Drive. Behold his mansion, southward of the grove, S Complete with coach-house-piggery-alcove! S And, mark! the entrance hath an air of state-. Not copied from the lawyer's park-like gate! X Two stone-throws from the Hall of Doctor Drive, And from the village Workhouse four or five, -J ï~~THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. 173 F Where the swung Turkey, with its plumage rough, Welcomes all loyal men who drink enough, 4 The flying curate lodges-doom'd to say Three well-known sermons every Sabbath-day. His donkey, like a rat without a tail, Cost fifty shillings, and o'er hill and dale Bears his lean master, at a hunter's pace, Duly as comes his weekly steeple-chase. The Rector-a queer plural, one and three, Yet not quite singular in trilogyWho, scandal says, is cousin to my LordWould pay him better, but he can't afford. He lives, they say, in London, and so forth; His country house is somewhere in the North. S Mine host much missed him when he left the lodge, For fewer warrants summon Jem and Hodge. XI Hail, ancient Inn! once kept by Margaret Rose, Ere England's wrongs began, and labour's woes; Inn of the Happy Village! where, of old, Before the bright yule clog, my father told His well-known story of the wolf and child, While-not at him-the tickl'd youngsters smil'd; And sturdy peasants, and the annual guest, Prais'd the stout ale, but thought their own was best. I's When Margaret reign'd, no wanderer pass'd thy door. ï~~174 THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. Dame Margaret's heart felt ever for the poor, And, well they knew, to homeless son or sire She ne'er denied a seat beside the fire, Nor curs'd away the widow, stooping low Beneath the double weight of age and wo. But times are chang'd and alter'd is the inn, For God is wroth,and Britain rife with sin. The village, happy once, is splendid nowt And at the Turkey reigns, with knotted brow Stiff as a mile-stone, set up in his bar, Vice-regal Constable and Bailiff, Marr, Who nods his "yes," and frowns his fatal "no." Wo to the scrimp that ventures near him, wo! He, she, or it-" swag's nifle, skink, or trull," Shall find a bed, or Wakefield's gaol is full! Great man, John Marr! He shoots-or who else may? He knows my Lord, is loyal, and can pay. The poor all hate him, fear hin-all save one; Broad Jem, the poacher, dreaded is by John. To drawv him drink, objects nor man nor maid; - The froth is brought, Jem winks, and John is paid; For John, who hates all poachers, likes poor Jem. While Jem, so kind to others, growls at him; And when their fierce eyes meet, the tax-made slave Quakes in his inmost sonl, if soul he have, Thinking of weasand slt by lantern light, Or slu banig'd tlhrough h at he ded of night. Yet great is lie! rich, prudent, trid, and true: t" Ao ï~~THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. 175 Ie snores at sermon in his curtain'd pewHe knows the Steward-he is known afar To magistrates and bums-great man, John Marr XII Where yon red villa flares before the wood, { The cottage of my Hannah's father stood; That woodbin'd cottage, girt with orchard trees, Last left, and earliest found, by birds and bees: And where the river winds, gnarled oaks between, S Squatter'd his drake, and diving ducks were seen; While scooting hares oft sought this summit bare, If lightning glinted through the glooming air. t But where dwells Hannah now? And where is he?S Gone, like the home of her nativity. S And what vain dame, and what suburban Thane, The site of Hannah's lovely home profane? 4 Who dash'd the plum-trees from the blossomy ridge? From bank to bank, who threw the baby bridge, S Where the huge elm, which twenty bullocks drew, Plank'd o'er with ash, and rootless, sternly grew, While plumy ferns wept o'er the waters dark, Sad for his fall; and, rooted in his bark, -./V J - ï~~176 TriEc LNDiD VIILLE. A world of mosses forested the side Of that fall'n Forest King, to soothe his pride? What dandy Goth the heav'n-made arch displac'd, To shew in painted spars his want of taste? A mortgag'd magnate and a sage is he: His maxims have a deep philosophy. "Hateful," he saith, " and vulgar is the flat, Who deigns to see a poor man touch his hat, Or serves a beggar, though her curtsey fall, Or of the rabble does not take the wall." Squire Grub is proud-for pride and meanness blam'd, Yet poor as proud, and of his wants asham'd. Lo! there he struts-the silk-legg'd King of Cant! Who thanks the Blessed powers for crime and want, Prays to his Demon of Despotic sway And hymns his God of Carnage? Let him pray! Yes, pray for strength or weakness, to sustain The weight of scorn that will crush in his brain, Ere from the Workhouse, like a ghost, he go To mate with madmen, in their den of wo, And tell them that he is not poor-niot he;But lord of vast estates-in Chancery! XIII. Path of the quiet fields! that oft of yore Call'd me at morn, on Shenstone's page to pore: -x W, ï~~THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. 177 0 poor man's footpath! where, at evening's close, He stoop'd, to pluck the woodbine and the rose, Shaking the dew-drops from the wild-briar f bowers, flowers, Then ey'd the west, still bright with fading flame, As whistling homeward by the wood he came; Sweet, dewy, suany, flowery foot-path, thou Art gone for ever, like the poor man's cow! S No nmore the wandering townsman's Sabbath smileNo more the hedger, waiting on the stile For tardy Jane-no more the muttering bard, Startling the heifer, near the lone farm-yardNo more the pious youth, with book in hand, Spelling the words he fain would understand, Shall bless thy mazes,when the village bell Soundso'er the river, soften'd up the dell: But from the parlour of the loyal inn, The Great Unpaid, who cannot err nor sin, Shall see, well-pleas'd, the pomp of Lawyer Ridge, And poor Squire Grub's starv'd maids, and dandy bridge, Where youngling fishers, in the grassy lane, Purloin'd their tackle from the brood-mare's maneAnd truant urchinÂ~, by the river'k brink, - IT ï~~178 THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. Caught the fledg'd throstle as it stoop'd to drinkOr with the ramping colt all joyous play'd, Or scar'd the owlet in the blue-bell'd shade. XIV. Churl Jem! why dost thou thrust me from the wall? I hack no cab, I sham no servant's hall: Coarse is my coat:-how have I earn'd thy curse? Suspectest thou there's money in my purse? Isaid, "Good day, sir," and I touch'd myhat: Art thou, then, vulgar, as the Sage is flat? Alas! that Sage sees not in thy fierce eyes Fire-flooded towers, and pride, that shrieks and dies; The red-foam'd deluge, and the sea-wide tomb; The arm of vengeance, and the brow of doom; The grin of millions o'er the shock of allA people's wreck, an empire's funeral! ï~~THE SPLENDID VILLAGE PART II. THE WANDERER DEPARTED. I. DEAR Village! changed- how changed from what thou wert! Thy good to bane thy beggar-kings convert. They say that, discontented with our lot, We envy wealth, because we have it not; That, could we call yon glowing pile our own, No wight alive would hear our tuneful groan. They ask why writhes the serpent on our brow? When prosper'd England as she prospers now? They err. We envy not the pomp we see, But hate that wealth which makes our poverty If talent thrive, and enterprise prevail, Restore to rustic toil his beef and ale; Be few, or many, splendid, as they can, But let not misery make a fienc of man! 179 ï~~180 THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. II. Yes splendid mansions now these shades adorn, S But wretched children in these huts are born There dwell the heirs of unremitting toil, Who till, but not in hope, a teeming soil, While Erin's hordes contest with them the plain, And competition low'rs the price of pain. What though proud homes their lofty roofs uprear, If humble homes and comfort disappear? O baneful splendour! that but glitters o'er What may be ruin, and is bliss no more! As beacon's fired on some far mountain's brow, Shimmer o'er hamlets, black with plague, below, Where health once glow'd in every fearless face, And in the motions of all forms was graceI look on pomp, that apes a bloated crew, While beggar'd millions hate the biggen'd few. Like rocks of ice our fatal wealth is found; Not like the sea that spreads those rocks around: Hark! o'er their peaks a wild and bird-like wail Tells of approaching thunder, fire, and hail! Lo! at their feet, while cold and bright they sleep, Mines hunger's fathomless and bo indless deep! III. Feast of the Village!-yearly held, when June * Sate with the rose, to hear the goldspink's tune, And lovers happy as the warbling bird, C ï~~THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. 181 Breath'd raptures sweeter than the songs they heard, Stealing through lanes, sun-bright with dewy broom, By fragrant hedge-rows, sheeted o'er with bloom;Feast of the Happy Village! where art thou? Pshaw! thou wast vulgar-we are splendid now. Yet, poor man's pudding!-rich with spicy crumbs, And tiers of currants, thick as both my thumbsWhere art thou, festal pudding of our sires? Gone, to feed fat the heirs of thieves and liars; Gone, to oppress the wrong'd, the true, the brave, And, wide and deep, dig Poland's second grave Gone, like the harvest pie, a bullock's load,, SFour feet across, with crust six inches broad; Gone, like poor England's Satrap-swallow'd store; Gone, as her trade will go, to come no more! Well, let it go, and with it the glad hours ) That yearly o'er kind hearts shed cottage flowers. Nor sisters' daughters now, nor sons of sons, SIliil seek the bridge, where still the river runs, And bless the roof where busy hands prepar'd T eic 1 plenty which their fathers shar'd; V 1, routd Ihcir grandsire met, his numerous B5 F bAr cildren's children in his face; S i yes the light of suns gone down I' I IV. ' V'":.}i I, 2 <.#-:-v' ï~~182 THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. And hoped they saw in his white locks their own. No more, no more, beneath his smile serene, The generations shall in joy convene, All eager to obey the annual call, And twang the cord of love that bound them all. TV. When daisies blush, and windflowers wet with dew; When shady lanes with hyacinths are blue; When the elm blossoms o'er the brooding bird, And, wild and wide, the plover's wail is heard, ' Where melts the mist on mountains far away, 'Till morn is kindled into brightest day; S No more the shouting youngsters shall convene, To play at leap-frog on the village-green, While lasses ripening into love, admire, And youth's first raptures cheer the gazing sire. The Green is gone! and barren splendours gleam, Where hiss'd the gander at the passing team, And the gay traveller from the city prais'd The poor man's cow, and, weary, stopp'd and gaz'd. V. V W here yon broad mansion's tax-built drawingroom Displays its corni'd- gold, dwelt Mary BroomClose by the mnarble hearth her garden smil'dThe widow'd mother of an only child..- <,.... < "!: X...,. ~a '1a-4 ï~~THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. 183 I saw her to the house of marriage move, And weeping o'er the grave of hope and love. Now, where the wo-worn and the weary rest, The child is sleeping on its mother's breast. Not long she mourn'd in duty's lonely shadeNo praise expecting-and she ask'd no aid, But toil'd and faded silently, and stood Alike unnotic'd by the bad and good, Dropping meek tears into the sea of days, Like a pale flower, that, all unseen, displays Its pensive beauty on a river's brink; While overhead the stars rush wild and wink; And shadows, east on earth, at night's bright noon, Move with the clouds, that chase the full-orb'd moon. Oh, happy! with her own proud crust supplied, In her own bed, a Britoness she died! In her own shroud her modest state she keeps! In her own coffin, gloriously, she sleeps!Not thus the brother of her soul will die; O'er him, poor pauper, none will heave a sigh; J No windflower, emblem of his youth, be laid To blush for promise in its bloom decay'd; Nor, emblem of his age, and hopeless pain, The dismal daisy of sad autum i's wane: But Workhouse idiots, and the limping slave, In four rough boards shall bear him to his grave VL. Where is the Coma, on, once with blessings S richÂ~f-rd ï~~184 THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. The poor man's Common?-like the pcor man's flitch And well-fed ham, which erst his means allow'd, 'Tis gone to bloat the idle and the proud! To raise high rents! and low'r low profits!-0, To-morrow of the furies! thou art slow; But where, thou tax-plough'd waste, is now the hind Who lean'd on his own strength, his heart and mind? Where is the matron, with her busy brow? Their sheep-where are they? and their famous cow? Their strutting game-cock, with his many queens? Their glowing hollyoaks, and winter greens? The chubby lad, that cheer'd them with his look, And shar'd his breakfast with the home-bred rook? The blooming girls, that scour'd the snowwhite pail, Then wak'd with joy the echoes of the vale, And, laden homewards, near the sparkling rill, Cropp'd the first rose that blush'd beneath the hill? All vaish'd-with their rights, their hopes, their lands; The shoulder-shaking grasp of hearts and hands; The good old joke, applauded still as new: The wond'rous printe t:le, Xbich must be true ï~~THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. 185. And the stout ale, that shew'd the matron's skill, S For, not to be improv'd, it mended still! Now, lo!the young look base, as graybeard Nwguile! The very children seem afraid to smile! But not afraid to scowl, with early hate, At would-be greatness, or the greedy great; For they who fling the poor man's worth away, Root out security, and plant dismay. Law of the lawless! hast thou conquer'd Heav'n? S Then shall the worm that dies not be forgiv'n. V11. VII. But yonder stalks the greatest man alive! SOne farmer prospers now, where prosper'd five! Ah! where are they?-wives, husbands, children-where?-V Two died in gaol, and one is dying there; One broken-hearted, fills a rural grave; And one still lives, a pauper and a slave. Where are their children?-Some, beyond the main, Convicts for crime; some, here, in hopeless pain, Poor wanderers, blue with want; and some are dead; And some, in towns, earn deathily their bread. All rogues, they died, or fail'd-'twas no great harm Why ask who fails, if Jolter gets a farm? U ï~~7!L!A 186 THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. Full well thrives he-the man is not a fool, Albeit a tyrant, and his landlord's tool. He courses; he affords, and can afford, To keep his blood, and fox-hunt with my Lor d. He dwells where dwelt the knight, for grey hounds fam'd, Who also with the Satrap cours'd and gam'd; S The last of all the little landed Thanes,, Whose acres bound his Lordship's wide do mains. VIII. Oh, happy, if they knew their bliss, are they Who, poor themselves, unbounded wealth sur vey; Who nor in ships, nor cabs, nor chariots go, To view the miracles of art below; But, near their homes, behold august abodes, That like the temples seem of all the gods! Nor err they, if they sometimes kneel in pray'r At shrines like those, for God-like powers are there; Powers that on railroads base no treasures Vwaste, S Nor build huge mills, that blush like brick at taste, Where labour fifteen hours, for twice a groat, The half angelic heirs of speech and thought: S But pour profiusion from a golden hand, To deck,with Grecian forms a Gothic land. Hence, yeoman, hence!-thy grandsire's land resign -1-6 -. +2' ï~~STHE SPLENDID VILLAGE. 187 Yield, peasant, to my Lord and power divine! Thy grange is gone, your cluster'd hovels fall; Proud domes expand, the park extends its wall; Then kennels rise, the massive Tuscan grows; And dogs sublime, like couchant kings, repose! Lo! " still-all- Greek-and-glorious" Art is here! Behold the pagod of a British peer! Admire, ye proud! and clap your hands, ye poor! The father of this kingling was a boor! Not Ispahan, nor Stamboul-though their thrones Make Satraps out of dead-men's blood and bones, And play at death, as God-like power will playCan match free Britain's ancients of to-day. IX. But me nor palaces nor Satraps please; I love to look on happy cottages; The gems I seek are seen in Virtue's eye; These gauds disgust me, and I pass them by. S Shew me a home like that I knew of old, Ere heads grew hot with pride, and bosoms cold; Some frank good deeds, which simple truth M may praise, Some moral grace, on which the heart may X-gaze, p Some little hopes that give to toil its zest, The equal rights that make the labourer blest, IY Th eqargt 6 >zl ï~~188 THE SPLENDID VILLAGV, The smile in which eternal love we scan, And thank his Maker while we look on man. X. I dream'd last night of forests and the sea! My long-lost Hannah! lives she still for me? Is she a matron, lov'd by him she loves? A mother, whomn paternal Heav'n approves? Perchance a widow? Nay, I would not wed The widow of my rival's happier bed. Nor came I to oppress her with my gaze, Or bring disgrace upon her latter days. Forgotten now, perchance, though once too dear, I yet would sojourn near her-oh, not here! For thou, sweet Village! proud in thy decline, Art too, too splendid for a heart like mine! In England. then, can no green spot be found Where men remain whose sympathies are sound? There would I dwell; and, wandering thence, draw nigh Her envied honme-but not to meet her eye: L Perchance to see her shadow, or again Hear her soft voice, with sadly-pleasing pain, X I. I dream'd I saw her, heard her-but she fled! In vain I seek her-is she with the dead? S No meek blue eye, like hers, hath turn'd to me,,. And deign'd to know the pilgrim of the se. S I have not ni'd e r-no-I dare not ame!., p ï~~THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. 189 When I would speak, why burns -;y cheek with shame? S I join'd the schoolboys, where the road is wide, I watch'd the women to the fountain's side, I read their faces as the wise read books, And look'd for Hannah in their wondering looks: S But in no living aspect could I trace The sweet May-morning of my Hannah's face; f S No, nor its evening, fading into night0 Sun! my soul grows weary of thy light! XII. S I sought the churchyard where the lifeless lie, And envied them-they rest so peacefully! SNo wretch comes here, at dead of night," I said, " To drag the weary from his hard-earn'd bed; S No schoolboy here with mournful relics play, And kick 'the dome of thought' o'er common clay No city cur snarls here o'er dead-men's bones; No sordid fiend removes memorial stones: The dead have here what to the dead belongs, Y1 'lThough legislation makes not laws, but wrongs." I sought a letter'd stone, on which my tears 3 Had fall'n like thunder-rain, in other years; My mother's grave I sought, in my despair, But found it not!-Our gravestone was not there! '~~xyt gr, ï~~190 THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. No, we were fallen men, mere Workhouse slavesAnd how could fallen men have names or graves? I thought of sorrow in the wilderness, And death in solitude, and pitiless Interment in the tiger's hideous mdw; I pray'd; and, praying, turn'd from all I saw. My prayers were curses!-But the sexton came: How my heart yearn'd to name my Hannah's name! White was his hair, for full of days was he; He walk'd o'er tombstones, like their history. With well-feign'd carelessness I rais'd a spade, Left near a grave, which seem'd but newly made, And ask'd who slept below? "You knew him t '." well," The old man answer'd, "sir, his name was The Bell. He had a sister-she, alas! is gone, Body and soul, sir! for she married one S Unworthy of her. Many a corpse he took From this churchyard." And then his head he shook, And utter'd-whispering low, as if in fear That the old stones and senseless dead would hearA word-a verb, a noun-too widely famed, Which makes me blush to hear my country named. That word he utter'd gazing on my face, ï~~~~S N THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. 191 As if he loath'd my thoughts, then paus'd a space. "Sir," he resum'd, " a sad death Hannah died; T. Her husband kill'd her, or his own son lied. Vain is your voyage o'er the briny wave, If here you seek her grave-she had no grave!f The terror-stricken murderer fled before His crime was known, and ne'er was heard of more. The poor boy died, sir, uttering fearful cries In his last dreams, and with his glaring eyes, And troubled hands, seem'd acting, as it were, His mother's fate. Yes, sir, his grave is there. S But you are ill? Your looks make me afraidMy God! how frightfully he shakes the spade!" XIII. Ohl, welcome once again black ocean's foam! England! can this be England?-this my home! This country of the crime without a name, And men who know nor mercy, hope, nor shame? O Light! that cheer'st all life, from sky to sky, As with a hymn, to which the stars reply I Canst thou behold this land, 0 holy light! And not turn black with horror at the sight? Fall'n country of my fathers! fall'n and foul Thy body still is here, but where the soul? I look upon a corpse-'tis putrid clayAnd fiends possess it. Vampires, quit your prey! Or vainly tremble, when the dead arise, ï~~a192 THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. Clarion'd to vengeance by shriek-shaken skies, S And cranch your hearts, and drink your blood for ale! Then eat each other, till the banquet fail! 0 thou dark tower that look'st o'er ancient woods To see the tree of fire but forth its buds! JBaronial Keep! whose ruins, ivy-grown, Tihe time-touch'd ash mistakes for living stone, ( Grasping them with his writhen roots, and fast K5 3inding the present to the faded past While, cropp'd with every crime, the taxplough'd moor, And footpaths stolen from the trampled poor, And commons, sown with curses loud and deep, p9 Proclaim a harvest, which the rich shall reap-. Call up the iron men of Runnymeed, And bid them look on lords, whom peasants feed! Then-when the worm sinks down at nature's k Andgroan, And with the shrieking heav'ns thy dungeons 4A O moanO'er the loud fall of greatness, misery fed, Let their fierce laugh awake their vassals dead, The shaft-fam'd men, whom yet tradition sings, Who serv'd, but did not feed, the fear'd of kings, To join the wondering laugh, and wilder yell, While England flames-" a garden" and a hell, XIV. Again upon the deep I toss and swing! The bounding biJow lifs me, like the wing ï~~THE SPLENDID VILLAGE. 193 Of the struck eagle-and away I dart, Bearing afar the arrow in my heart. For thou art with me, though I see no more Thee, stream-lov'd England! Thy impatient shore Hath sunk beneath me-miles, a thousand miles Yet, in my heart, thy verdant Eden smiles. Land where my Hannah died, and hath no tomb! Still in my soul thy dewy roses bloom. E'en in Niagara's roar, remembrance still Shall hear thy throstle, o'er the lucid rill, At lucid eve-thy bee, at stillest noon; And, when clouds chase the heart-awaking moon, The mocking-bird, where Erie's water's swell, Shall sing of fountain'd vales and philomel; To my sick soul bring over worlds of waves, Dew-glistening Albion's woods, and dripping caves; But-with her linnet, redbreast, lark, and wrenHer blasted homes and much-enduring men! 13 ï~~THE PRESS. 0 GoD said-" Let there be light!" Grim darkness felt his might, And fled away; Then startled seas and mountains cold Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold, And cried-" ' Tis day! 'tis day " "Hail, holy light!" exclaim'd The thund'rous cloud, that flam'd O'er daisies white; And, lo! the rose, in crimson dress'd, Lean'd sweetly on the lily's breast; And, blushing, murmur'd-" Light!" Then was the skylark born; Then rose th' embattl'd corn; Then floods of praise Flow'd o'er the sunny hills of noon; And then, in stillest night, the moon Pour'd forth her pensive lays. Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad! Lo, trees and flowers all clad In glory, bloom! And shall the mortal sons of God Be senseless as the trodden clod, And darker than the tomb? 194 ï~~THE PRESS. 195 No, by the mind of man! By the swart artisan! By God, our Sire! Our souls have holy light within, And every form of grief and sin Shall see and feel its fire. By earth, and hell, and heav'n, The shroud of souls is riven! Mind, mind alone Is light, and hope, and life, and power t Earth's deepest night, from this bless'd hour, The night of minds is gone! " The Press!" all lands shall sing; The Press, the Press we bring, All lands to bless: O pallid Want! 0 Labour stark! Behold, we bring the second ark! The Press! the Press! the Press! ï~~THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM. BEFORE thy leaves thou com'st once more, White blossom of the sloe! Thy leaves will come as heretofore; But this poor heart, its troubles o'er Will then lie low. A month at least before thy time Thou com'st, pale flower, to me; For well thou know'st the frosty rime Will blast me ere my vernal prime, No more to be. Why here in winter? No storm lowers O'er Nature's silent shroud! But blithe larks meet the sunny showers, High o'er the doomed untimely flowers In beauty bowed. Sweet violets, in the budding grove, Peep where the glad waves run; The wren below, the thrush above, Of bright to-morrow's joy and love Sing to the sun. 196 ï~~THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM. 197 And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, Hears bees chant hymns to God, The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold, Smiles on the well in summer cold, And daisied sod. But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, And flowers in winter blow, To tell me that the worm makes room For me, her brother, in the tomb, And thinks me slow. For as the rainbow of the dawn Foretells an eve of tears, A sunbeam on the saddened lawn, I smile, and weep to be withdrawn In early years. Thy leaves will come! but songful spring Will see no leaf of mine; Her bells will ring, her bride's-maids sing, When my young leaves are withering Where no suns shine. 0 might I breathe morn's dewy breath, When June's sweet Sabbaths chime! But, thine before my time, 0 death! I go where no flow'r blossometh, Before my time. Even as the blushes of the morn Vanish, and long ere noon ï~~198 TIHE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSO The dew-drop dieth on the thorn, So fair I bloomed; and was I born To die as soon? To love my mother and to dieTo perish in my bloom! Is this my sad brief history?A tear dropped from a mother's eye Into the tomb. He lived and loved-will sorrow sayBy early sorrow tried; He smiled, he sighed, he past away; His life was but an April dayHe loved and died! My mother smiles, then turns away, But turns away to weep: They whisper round me-what they say I need not hear, for in the clay I soon must sleep. Oh, love is sorrow! sad it is To be both tried and true; I ever trembled in my bliss; Now there are farewells in a kissThey sigh adieu. But woodbines flaunt when blue bells fade, Where Don reflects the skies; And many a youth in Shire-cliffs' shade Will ramble where my boyhood played. Though Alfred dies. ï~~THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOIM. 199 Then panting woods the breeze will feel, And bowers, as heretofore, Beneath their load of roses reel; But I thlrough woodbined lanes shall steal No more, no more. WVell, lay me by my brother's side, Where late we stood and wept; For I was stricken when he diedI felt the arrow as he sighed His last and slept. ï~~THE WONDERS OF THE LANE Strong climber of the mountain's side, Though thou the vale disdain, Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide The wonders of the lane. High o'er the rushy springs of Don The stormy gloom is roll'd; The moorland hath not yet put on His purple, green, and gold. But here the titling spreads his wing, Where dewy daisies gleam; And here the sun-flower of the spring Burns bright in morning's beam. To mountain winds the famish'd fox Complains that Sol is slow O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks His royal robe to throw. But here the lizard seeks the sun, Here coils in light the snake; And here the fire-tuft hath begun Its beauteous nest to make. O then, while hums the earliest bee Where verdure fires the plain, Walk thou with me, alid stoop to see The glories of the lae 200 ï~~S For THE WONODERS OF TIHE LANE. 201 For, oh, I love these banks of rock, S This roof of sky and tree, These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock, r And wakes the earliest bee! As spirits from eternal day Look down on earth secure, A world in miniature! A world not scorn'd by Him who made Even weakness by his might; But solemn in his depth of shade, And splendid in his light. Light! not alone on clouds afar O'er storm-lov'd mountains spread, Or widely teaching sun and star, Thy glorious thoughts are read; Oh, no! thou art a wond'rous book, To sky, and sea, and landA page on which the angels look, Which insects understand! And here, O Light! minutely fair, Divinely plain and clear, Like splinters of a crystal hair, Thy bright small hand is here. Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide, 1 Is Huron, girt with wood; This driplet feeds Missouri's tide'It And that, Niagara's flood. What tidings from the Andes brings Yon line of liquid light, That down from hev'n in madness flings S The blind foamn of its might ï~~202 THE WONDEIRS OF THE LANE. Do I not hear his thunder rollThe roar that ne'er is still? 'Tis mute as death!-but in my soul It roars, and ever will. What forests tall of tiniest moss Clothe every little stone! What pigmy oaks their foliage toss O'er pigmy valleys lone! With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, Ambitious of the sky, They feather o'er the steepest edge Of mountains mushroom high. O God of marvels! who can tell What myriad living things On these gray stones unseen may dwell; What nations, with their kings? I feel no shock, I hear no groan, While fate perchance o'erwhelms Empires on this subverted stoneA hundred ruin'd realms! Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me, Impell'd by wo or whim, May crawl some atoms cliffs to seeA tiny world to him! Lo! while he pauses, and admires The works of Nature's might, Spurned by my foot, his world expires And all to him is night! O God of terrors! what are we?Poor insects, spark'd with thought! Thy whisper, Lord, a word from thee Could smite us into nought! ï~~SLEEP. 203 But should'st thou wreck our father-land, And mix it with the deep, Safe in the hollow of thine hand Thy little ones would sleep. SLEEP. 0 Sleep! to the homeless, thou art home; The friendless find in thee a friend; And well is he, where'er he roam, Who meets thee at his journey's end. Thy stillness is the planet's speed; Thy weakness is unmeasur'd might; Sparks from the hoof of death's pale steedWorlds flash and perish in thy sight. The daring will to thee aloneThe will and power are given to theeTo lift the veil of the, unknown, The curtain of eternityTo look uncensured, though unbidden, On marvels from the seraph hidden! Alone to be-where none have been! Alone to see-what none have seen! And to astonish'd reasn tell The secrets of th' Unscarchable! ï~~COME AND GONE. TiE silent moonbeams on the drifted snow Shine cold, and pale, and blue, While through the cottage-door the yule log's glow Cast on the iced oak's trunk and gray rock's brow A ruddy hue. The red ray and the blue, distinct and fair, Like happy groom and bride, With azured green, and emerald-orange glare, Gilding the icicles from branches bare, Lie side by side. The door is open, and the fire burns bright, And Hannah, at the door, Stands-through the clear, cold, moon'd, and starry night, Gazing intently towards the scarce-seen height, O'er the white moor. 'Tis Christmas eve! and, from the distant town Her pale apprenticed son Will to his heart-sick mother hasten down, And snatch his hour of annual transport-flown Ere well begun. 204 ï~~C-ME AND GONt. 205 The Holy Book unread upon his knee, Old Alfred watcheth calm; Till Edwin comes, no solemn prayer prays he, Till Edwin comes, the text he cannot see, Nor chant the psalm. And comes he not? Yea, from the wind-swept hill The cottage-fire he sees; While of the past remembrance drinks her fill, Crops childhood's flowers, and bids the unfrozen rill Shine through green trees. In thought, he hears the bee hum o'er the moor; In thought, the sheep-boy's call; In thought, he meets his mother at the door; In thought, he hears his father, old and poor, " Thank God for all." His sister he beholds, who died when he, In London bound, wept o'er Her last sad letter; vain her prayer to see Poor Edwin yet again:-he iie'er will be Her playmate more! No more with her will hear the bittern boom At evening's dewy close! No more with her will wander where the broom Contends in beauty with the hawthorn bloom And budding rose! ï~~206 COME AND GONE. Oh, love is strength! love, with divine control, Recalls us when we roam! In living light it bids the dimm'd eye roll, And gives a dove's wing to the fainting soul, And bears it home. Home!-that sweet word hath turned his pale lip red, Relumed his fireless eye; Again the morning o'er his cheek is spread; The early rose, that seemed for ever dead, Returns to die. Home! home!-Behold the cottage of the moor, That hears the sheep-boy's call! And Hannah meets him at the open door With faint fond scream; and Alfred, old and poor, "Thanks God for all!" His lip is on his mother's; to her breast She clasps him, heart to heart; His hands between his father's hands are pressed; They sob with joy, caressing and caressed: How soon to part! Why should they know that thou so soon, 0 Death! Wilt pluck him. like a weed? Why fear consumption in his quick-drawn breath? ï~~COME AND GONE. 207 Why dread the hectic flower, which blossometh That worms may feed? They talk of other days, when, like the birds, He culled the wild flower's bloom, And roamed the moorland, with the houseless herds; They talk of Jane's sad prayer, and her last words, "Is Edwin come?" He wept. But still, almost till morning beamed, They talked of Jane-then slept. But, though he slept, his eyes, half open, gleamed; For still of dying Jane her brother dreamed, And, dreaming, wept. At mid-day he arose, in tears, and sought The churchyard where she lies. He found her name beneath the snow-wreath wrought; Then, from her grave, a knot of grass he brought, With tears and sighs. The hour of parting came, when feelings deep In the heart's depth awake. To his sad mother, pausing oft to weep, He gave a token, which he bade her keep For Edwin's sake. ï~~208 coME AND GONE. It was a grassy sprig, and auburn tress, Together twined and tied. He left them, then, for ever! could they less Than bless and love that type of tenderness?Childless they died! Long in their hearts a cherished thought they wore; And till their latest breath, Blessed him, and kiss'd his last gift o'er and o'er; But they beheld their Edwin's face no more In life or death! For where the upheav'd sea of trouble foams, And sorrow's billows rave, Men, in the wilderness of myriad homes, Far from the desert, where the wild flock roams, Dug Edwin's grave. ï~~FOREST WORSHIP. WITHINr the sun-lit forest, Our roof the bright blue sky, Where fountains flow, and wild flowers blow, We lift our hearts on high: Beneath the frown of wicked men Our country's strength is bowing; But, thanks to God! they can't prevent The lone wildflowers from blowing' High, high above the tree-tops, The lark is soaring free; Where streams the light through broken clouds His speckled breast 1 see: Beneath the might of wicked men The poor man's worth is dying; But, thank'd be God! in spite of them, The lark still warbles flying! The preacher prays, " Lord, bless us!" " Lord, bless us!" echo cries; " Amen!" the breezes murmur low; " Amen!" the rill replies: The ceaseless toil of wo-worn hearts The proud with pangs are paying; 14 209 ï~~210 FOREST WORSHIP. But here, O God of earth and heaven The humble heart is praying? How softly, in the pauses Of song, re-echoed wide, The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay, O'er rill and river glide! With evil deeds of evil men Th' affrighted land is ringing; But still, 0 Lord! the pious heart And soul toned voice are singing! Hush! hush! the preacher preacheth " Wo to the oppressor, wo!" But sudden gloom o'ercasts the sun And sadden'd flowers below: So frowns the Lord!-but, tyrants, ye Deride his indignation, And see not in his gather'd brow Your days of tribulation! Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher The tempest bursts above: God whispers in the thunder: hear The terrors of his love! On useful hands, and honest hearts, The base their wrath are wreaking; But, thank'd be God! they can't prevent The storm of heav'n from speaking. ï~~THOMAS TIIOU art not dead, my son! my son! But God hath hence remov'd thee: Thou canst not die, my buried boy, While lives the sire who lov'd thee. How canst thou die, while weeps for thee The broken heart that bore thee; And e'en the thought that thou art not Can to her soul restore thee? Will grief forget thy willingness To run before thy duty? The love of all the good and true, That filled thine eyes with beauty? Thy pitying grace, thy dear request, When others had offended, That made thee look as angels look, When great good deeds are ended? The strength with which thy soul sustain'd Thy woes and daily wasting? Thy prayer, to stay with us, when sure That thou from us wast hasting? And that last smile, which seem'd to say" Why cannot ye restore me?" Thy look'd farewell is in my heart, And brings thee still before me. What though the change, the fearful change, 211 ï~~212 THOMAS. From thought, which left thee never To unremembering ice and clay, Proclaim thee gone for ever? Thy half-clos'd lids, thy upturn'd eyes, Thy still and lifeless tresses; Thy marble lip, which moves no more, Yet more than grief expresses; The silence of thy coffih'd snow, By awed remembrance cherish'd; These dwell with me, like gather'd flowers, That in their April perish'd. Thou art not gone, thou canst not go, My bud, my blasted blossom! The pale rose of thy faded face Still withers in my bosom. 0 Mystery of Mysteries, That took'st my poor boy from me! What art thou, Death? all-dreaded Death! If weakness can o'ercome thee? We hear thee not! we see thee not E'en when thy arrows wound us; But, viewless, printless, echoless, Thy steps are ever round us. Though more than life a mystery Art thou, the undeceiver, Amid thy trembling worshippers Thou seest no true believer. No!-but for life, and more than life, No fearful search could find thee: Tremendous shadow! who is He That ever stands behind thee? The Power who bids the worm deny ï~~THOMAS. 213 The beam that o'er her blazes, And veils from us the holier light On which the seraph gazes, Where burns the throne of Him, whose name TAe sunbeams here write faintly; And where my child a stranger stands Amid the blest and saintly, And sobs aloud-while in his eyes The tears, o'erflowing, gather"They come not yet!-until they come, Heav'n is not Heav'n, my Father! Why come they not? why comes not she From whom thy will removes me? O does she love me-love me still? I know my mother loves me! Then send her soon! and with her send The brethren of my bosom! My sisters too! Lord, let them all Bloom round the parted blossom! The only pang I could not bear Was leaving them behind me: I cannot bear it. Even in heaven The tears of parting blind me.' ï~~FLOWERS FOR THE HEART. FLOWERS! winter flowers!-the child is dead, The mother cannot speak: O softly couch his little head, Or Mary's heart will break! Amid those curls of flaxen hair This pale pink ribbon twine, And on the little bosom there Place this wan lock of mine. How like a form in cold white stone, The coffin'd infant lies! Look, Mother, on thy little one! And tears will fill thine eyes. She cannot weep-more faint she grows, More deadly pale and still: Flowers! oh, a flower! a winter rose, That tiny hand to fill. Go, search the fields! the lichen wet Bends o'er th' unfailing well; Beneath the furrow lingers yet The scarlet pimpernel. Peeps not a snowdrop in the bower, Where never froze the spring? A daisy? Al! bring childhood's flower! The half-blown dai-y bring! 214 ï~~THE VICARAGE. 215 Yes, lay the daisy's little head Beside the little cheek; O haste! the last of five is dead! The childless cannot speak! THE VICARAGE. THE Vicar's house is smother'd in its roses, His garden glows with dahlias large and new "Bees murmur in his limes the summer through;" And on the seat beneath them often dozes A better man than Calumny supposes. His living is three hundred pounds a-year; " But not of servants, wife, and children clear." He gives away his common right and closes, And keeps no horse. When winter strips the tree, To poor men's homes his wife and daughters go, With needful gifts of flannel, food, or fire, And made-wines for the sick. Now, would not he, Who deem'd the labourer worthy of his hire, Have paid it to this faithful servant?-No. ï~~ON SEEING AUDUBON'S "BIRDS OF AMERICA. "PAINTING is silent music." So said one Whose prose is sweetest painting. Audubon! Thou Raphael of great Nature's woods and seas! Thy living forms and hues, thy plants, thy trees, Bring deathless music from the houseless wasteThe immortality of truth and taste. Thou giv'st bright accents to the voiceless sod; And all thy pictures are mute hymns to God. Why hast thou power to bear th' untravell'd soul Through farthest wilds, o'er ocean's stormy roll; And, to the prisoner of disease, bring home The homeless birds of ocean's roaring foam; But that thy skill might bid the desert sing The sun-bright plumage of th' Almighty's wing? With his own hues thy splendid lyre is strung; For genius speaks the universal tongue. "Come," cries the bigot, black with pride and wine216 ï~~AUDVBON?S BIRDS OF AMERICA. 217 Come and hear me-the Word of God is mine!" But I," saith He, who paves with suns his car, And makes the storms his coursers from afar, And, with a glance of his all-dazzling eye, Smites into crashing fire the boundless sky "I speak in this swift sea-bird's speaking eyes, These passion-shiver'd plumes, these lucid dyes: This beauty is my language! in this breeze S I whisper love to forests and the seas; I speak in this lone flower-this dew-drop coldThat hornet's sting-yon serpent's neck of gold: These are my accents. Hear them! and behold How well my prophet-spoken truth agrees With the dread truth and mystery of these Sad, beauteous, grand, love-warbled mysteries!" Yes, Audubon! and men shall read in thee His language, written for eternity; And if, immortal in its thoughts, the soul. Shall live in heaven, and spurn the tomb's control, Angels shall retranscribe, with pens of fire, Thy forms of Nature's terror, love, and ire, Thy copied words of God-when death-struck suns expire. ï~~RIBBLEDIN; OR THE CHRISTENING. No name hast thou! lone streamlet That lovest Rivilin. Here, if a bard may christen thee, I'll call the " Ribbledin;" Here, where first murmuring from thine urn, Thy voice deep joy expresses; And down the rock, like music, flows The wildness of thy tresses. Here, while beneath the umbrage Of Nature's forest bower, Bridged o'er by many a fallen birch, And watch'd by many a flower, To meet thy cloud-descended love, All trembling, thou retirestHere will I murmur to thy waves The sad joy thou inspirest. Dim world of weeping mosses! A hundred years ago, Yon hoary-headed holly tree Beheld thy streamlet flow: See how he bends him down to hear The tune that ceases never! Old as the rocks, wild stream, he seems, While thou art young for ever. 218 ï~~RIBBLEDIN; OR THE CHRISTENING. 219 Wildest and lonest streamlet! Gray oaks, all lichen'd o'er! Rush-bristled isles! ye ivied trunks That marry shore to shore! And thou, gnarl'd dwarf of centuries, Whose snak'd roots twist above me! O for the tongue or pen of Burns, To tell you how I love ye. Would that I were a river, To wander all alone Through some sweet Eden of the wild, In music of my own; And bath'd in bliss, and fed with dew, Distill'd o'er mountains hoary, Return unto my home in heav'n On wings of joy and glory! Or that I were the lichen, That, in this roofless cave, (The dim geranium's lone boudoir,) Dwells near the shadow'd wave, And hears the breeze-bow'd tree-top's sigh, While tears below are flowing, For all the sad and lovely things That to the grave are going! O that I were a primrose, To bask in sunny air! Far, far from all the plagues that make Town-dwelling men despair! ï~~220 RIrBBLEDIN; OR THE CHRISTENI.NG. Then would I watch the building-birds, Where light and shade are moving, And lovers' whisper, and love's kiss, Rewards the lov'd and loving! Or that I were a skylark, To soar and sing above, Filling all hearts with joyful sounds, And my own soul with love! Then o'er the mourner and the dead, And o'er the good man dying, My song should come like buds and flowers, When music warbles flying. O that a wing of splendour, Like yon wild cloud, were mine! Yon bounteous cloud, that gets to give, And borrows to resign! On that bright wing, to climes of spring I'd bear all wintry bosoms, And bid hope smile on weeping thoughts, Like April on her blossoms; Or like the rainbow, laughing O'er Rivilin and Don, When misty morning calleth up Her mountains, one by one, While glistening down the golden broom, The gem-like dew-drop raineth, And round the little rocky isles The little wave complaineth. ï~~RIBILEDIN; Or THE CHIIISTENING. 221 O that the truth of beauty Were married to my rhyme! That it might wear a mountain charm Until the death of Time! Then, Ribbledin! would all the best Of Sorrow's sons and daughters See Truth reflected in my song, Like beauty on thy waters. No longer, nameless streamlet, That marriest Rivilin! Henceforth, lone Nature's devotees Would call thee " Ribbledin," Whenever, listening where thy voice Its first wild joy expresses, And down the rocks all wildly flows The wildness of thy tresses. ï~~THE PILGRIM FATHERS. A VOICE of grief and angerOf pity mix'd with scornMoans o'er the waters of the west, Through fire and darkness borne; And fiercer voices join itA wild triumplant yell! For England's foes, on ocean slain, Have heard it where they fell. What is that voice which cometh Athwart the spectred sea? The voice of men who left their homes To make their children free; Of men whose hearts were torches For freedom's quenchless fire; Of men, whose mothers brave brought forth The sire of Franklin's sire. They speak! -the Pilgrim Fathers Speak to ye from their graves! For earth hath muttered to their bones That we are soulless slaves! The Bradfords, Carvers, Winslows, Have heard the worm complain, 222 ï~~A GHOST AT NOON. 223 That less than men oppress the men Whose sires were Pym and Vane! What saith the voice which boometh Athwart th' upbraiding waves? "Though slaves are ye, our sons are free, Then why will you be slaves? The children of your fathers Were Hampden, Pym, andVane!" Land of the sires of Washington, Bring forth such men again! A GHOST AT NOON. THE day was dark, save when the beam Of noon through darkness broke; In gloom I sate, as in a dream, Beneath my orchard oak; Lo! splendour, like a spirit, came, A shadow like a tree! While there I sat, and nam'd her name, Who once sat there with me. I started from the seat in fear; I look'd around in awe; ï~~224 A GHOST AT NOON. But saw no beauteous spirit near, Though all thatf was I saw; The seat, the tree, where oft, in tears, She mourn'd her hopes o'erthrown, Her joys cut off in early years, Like gather'd flowers half-blown. Again the bud and breeze were met, But Mary did not come; And e'en the rose, which she had set, Was fated ne'er to bloom! The thrush proclaimed, in accents sweet. That winter's rain was o'er; The bluebells throng'd around my feet, But Mary came no more. I think, I feel-but when will she Awake to thought again? A voice of comfort answers me, That God does nought in vain: He wastes nor flower, nor bud, nor leaf, Nor wind, nor cloud, nor wave; And will he waste the hope which grief Hath planted in the grave? ï~~HYMN. NURSE of the Pilgrim Sires, who sought, Beyond the Atlantic foam, For fearless truth and honest thought, A refuge and a home! Who would not be of them or thee A not unworthy son, That hears, amid the chain'd or free, The name of Washington? Cradle of Shakspeare, Milton, Knox! King-shaming Cromwell's throne! Home of the Russells, Watts, and Lockes! Earth's greatest are thine own: And shall thy children forge base chains For men that would he free? No! by thy ELLIOTs, HAIVIPDENS, VANES, PY3as, SYDNEY, yet to be! No!-for the blood which kings have gorged Hath made their victims wise, While every lie that Fraud hath forged Veils wisdom from his eyes: But time shall change the despot's mood: And Mind is mightiest then, 15 225 ï~~226 Hm. When turning evil into good, And monsters into men. If round the soul the chains are bound That hold the world in thrallIf tyrants laugh when men are found In brutal fray to fallLord! let not Britain arm her hands, Her sister states to ban; But bless through her all other lands, Thy family of Man. For freedom if thy HAMIDEN fought; For peace if FALKLAND fell; For peace and love if BENTAM wrote, Arid BURNS sang wildly wellLet Knowledge, strongest of the strong Bid hate and discord cease; Be this the burden of her song: "Love, Liberty. and Peace!" Then, Father, will the nations all, As with the sound of seas, In universal festival, Sing words of joy, like these.Let each love all, and all be free, Receiving as they give; Lord!-Jesus died for Love and Thee! So let thy children live! ï~~CORN LAW HYMNS. LoaRD!call thy pallid angelThe tamer of the strong: And bid him whip with want and wo The champions of the wrong! O say not thou to Ruin's flood, "Up Sluggard! why so slow?" But alone let them groan, The lowest of the low; And basely beg the bread they curse, Where millions curse them now! No; wake not thou the giant' Who drinks hot blood for wine; And shouts unto the east and west, In thunder-tones like thine; Till the slow to move rush all at once, An avalanche of men, While he raves over waves That need no whirlwind then; Though slow to move, mov'd all at once, A sea, a sea of men! Kill not the flower that feeds the useful bee; For more than beauteous is that sweet flower's blush: 227 ï~~228 TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 'Tis toil's reward that sweetens industry, As love inspires with strength th' enraptur'd thrush. To fall'n humanity our Father said, That food and bliss should not be found unsought; Thqt man should labour for his daily bread; But not that man should toil and sweat for nought. Not that the best should live a living death, To give the worst a beastly sense of life; And waste in servitude their fleeting breath, Waging with care and want a hopeless strife. TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. THY fruit full-well the schoolboy knows, Wild bramble of the brake! So, put thou forth thy small white rose; I love it for his sake. Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow O'er all the fragrant bowers, Thou needst not be ashamed to shew Thy satin-threaded flowers; ï~~TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 229 For dull the eye, the heart is dull, That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful, Thy tender blossoms are! How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice, when woods are still, And thou sing'st hymns to them; While silent showers are falling slow And, 'mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts the little bough, Lone whispering through the bush! The primrose to the grave is gone; The hawthorn flower is dead; The violet by the moss'd gray stone Hath laid her weary head; But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, In all their beauteous power, The fresh green days of life's fair spring, And boyhood's blossomy hour. Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more Thou bid'st me be a boy, To rove with thee the woodlands o'er, In freedom and in joy. ï~~BYRON. O'ER Byron's dust our sorrows should be steel'd, Or sternly burn, as, burning slow, he diedTill one long groan from shuddering Greece revealed That fate had done her worst; and o'er the tide Loud yell'd the Turk his triumph-howl of pride. Yet will they flow, these woman's drops; for thou Didst die for woman, though her hand applied No gentle pressure to thy fever'd brow: O Byron, "thou, within, hadst that which passeth show!" Thou, Byron,wast--like him,the iron-crown'd-- Thought-stricken, scorch'd, and " old in middle age." "All-naked feeling's" restless victims bound, Ill could renown your secret pangs assuage. Two names of glory in one deathless page! Both unbelov'd, both peerless, both exil'd, And prison'd both, though one could choose his cage; Dying ye call'd, in vain, on wife and child; And in your living hearts the worm was domiciled. 230 ï~~A SHADOW. A root affrighted worm, Where sky and mountain meet, I stood before the storm, And heard his strong heart beat. He drew his black brows downMy knees each other smote: The mountains felt his frown, His dark unutter'd thought. The mountains, at his scowl, Pray'd mutely to the skies: He spoke, and shook my soul; He scorch'd me with his eyes. Alone, beneath the sky, I stood the storm before: No! God, the Storm, and ITIVe trode the desert floor; High on the mountain sod, The whirlwind's dwelling-place The Worm, the Storm, and God Were present, face to face. From earth a shadow brake, E'en where my feet had trode; The shadow laughed and spake And shook his hand at God. Then up it rear'd its head, 331 ï~~EPIGRAIM. Beneath the lightning's blaze; " Omnipotent!" it said, " Bring back my yesterdays." God smiled the gloom away; Wide earth and heav'n were bright; In light my shadow lay, I stood with God in light; With Him who wings the storm. Or bids the storm be still, The shadow of a worm Held converse on the hill. EPIGRAM. LIFE is short, and time is swift Roses fade, and shadows shift, But the ocean and the river Rise and fall and flow for ever: Bard! not vainly heaves the ocean; Bard! not vainly flows the river; Be thy song then, like their motion, Blessing now, and blessing ever. ï~~LOVE. BOOK I. War marvel, Laura, if thy minstiel shun The peopled waste, the loneliness of crowds? I love the streams, that mirror as they run The voiceless clouds. The stillness of Almighty Power is here, And Solitude-the present DeityThroned on the hills that meet the bending sphere, How silently! O look around thee! On those rocks sublime, Th' impression of eternal feet is seen! These mountains are the eldest-born of Time, Still young and green! What nobler home, what holier company For Love aed Thought, than forests and the heath, Where life's Great Cause, in his sublimity, Dwells lone as Death? What scene more fit than this, though wild and drear, With Heav'n, the universal sea, above, To prompt the song most sweet to lady's ear.The lay f Love? 233 ï~~21 trvr Hear'st thou the murmur of the living riA, That ever seeks the valley, green and still, ( Gliding from view, love-listening groves ber tween, And most melodious when it flows unseen? f What though, at times, the sun in wrath retire, And o'er its course the clouds dissolve in fire? Soon bend the skies in brighter beauty fair, And see where'er it flows, their image there. Softly it steals beneath the lucid sky; So, Love's lone stream steals to eternity. How the flowers freshen where the waters glide, And seem to listen to the limpid tide! So bless'd is he whose life serenely flows, S Reflecting golden clouds, and many a rose. He hears heav'n's voice in every warbling grove, Love! eldest Muse! Time heard thine earliest lay When light through Heaven led forth the newA t- born day. The stars, that give no accent to the wind, Are golden odes and music to the mind; So, passion's thrill is Nature's minstrelsy; So, to the young heart, Love is poetry. God of.the soul! illumination, caught S' And song, bereft of thee, is cold and tame, But when the heart looks through the eyes 3 f T cer. 4, ï~~LOVE. 235 Onr Nature's form, things lifeless bi athe and y move;The dewy forest smiles, dim morning shakes The rainbow from his plumage, music wakes The dimpled ripple of the azure wave, In fiery floods green hills their tresses lave, S And myriad flowers all bright'ning from the dews, Day's earth-born stars, their golden beams effuse: Transported passion bids rocks, floods, and skies Burst into song, while her delighted eyes To all they see their own rich hues impart; And the heart's language speaks to every heart. Love, 'twas my heart that named thee! sweetest word Here, or in highest Heav'n, pronounced or heard! Whether by seraph near the throne above, S Or soul-sick maiden in the vernal grove, Or matron, with her first-born on her knee, Or, sweeter, lisp'd by rose-lipp'd infancy! Yes, Love, my heart did name thee! not because Thy mandate gave the bright-hair'd comet laws; Nor that thy hand, in good almightiest, sh(,wers The overblooming, fiery-petall'd flowers Wide o'er the fields of hyacinthine Heav'n; But that to me thy richest smile hath giv'n Bliss, tried in pain. So, 'mid my rosy boys, In joy and grief, I sing thy griefs and joys. ï~~236 LOVE. Bless'd is the hearth, when daughters gird " P the fire, And sons, that shall be happier than their sire f Who sees them crowd around his evening chair, While Love and Hope inspire his wordless pray'r. O from their home paternal may they go, U With little to unlearn, though much to know! Them may no poison'd tongue, no evil eye AV Curse for the virtues that refuse to die; S The generous heart, the independent mind Till truth, like falsehood, leaves a sting behind! May temperance crown their feast, and friendship share! May pity come, Love's sister spirit, there! May they shun baseness, as they shun the grave! May they be frugal, pious, humble, brave! Sweet peace be their's, the moonlight of the breast, And occupation, and alternate rest; < SAnd, dear to care and thought, the rural walk A ' Their's be no flower that withers on the stalk,. But roses cropp'd, that shall not bloom in vain, And Hope's blessed sun, that sets to rise again! Be chaste their nuptial bed, their home be sweet, Their floor resound the tread of little feet: Bless'd beyond fear and fate, if bless'd by thee, S And heirs, O Love, of thine eternity! Young Devotee, whose fond and guileless 4$ heart Feels, for the first time, Love's delicious smart! 0 ï~~Nt LOVE. 237 Now-while the sun his crimson radiance showers, I And stars the green night of the woods with flowers, That hung, like rubies, on each trembling thorn. Outshine the myriad opals of the mornNow take thy lonely walk of ecstasy; The sun is in the west, young Devotee! Or, wilt thou seek thine idol proud and fair, To throw thee at her feet and worship there The might serene of beauty on her throne, S And feel her power almighty o'er thy own? Then-as a cloud, athwart the desert cast, Relieves the wretch who tracks the sand aghastIf but a ringlet tremble on her cheek, 4'A Or, if her lips but move, and seem to speak, S Or, eveningo brighten in her eye divine, How sweet a pain, young Devotee, is thine! SBut deeper transport far, and sweeter pain, For Love's victorious votaries remain. O may'st thou ne'er, like hapless Tasso, know Ambitious Love's excess of maddening wo! But long, and long thy bride and truth's to be, May beauty smile or weep in bliss with thee; Nor live, like sad Miranda, to deplore, S Where savage grandeur crowns some alien shore, Connubial widowhood in hated arms, And curse, with every kiss, her latal cha-rms s S Oh, bless'd, who drinks the bliss that Hymen yields, ï~~238 LOVE. And pluck's life's roses in his quiet fields! Though in his absence hours seem lengthened years, His presence hallows separation's tears. Oh! clasp'd in dreams, for his delay'd return Fond arms are stretch'd, and speechless wishes 9 burn! Love o'er his fever'd soul sheds tears more sweet Than angel's smiles, when parted angels meet: To him no fabled paradise is given; His very sorrows charm, and breathe of heav'n. And soon the fairest form that walks below Shall bless the name of parent in her wo: Soon o'er her babe shall breathe a mother's pray'r, And kiss its father's living picture there, While the young stranger on life's dangerous way Turns with a smile his blue eye to the day. But where shall poesy fit colours choose To paint the matron morning sprinkling dews O'er half-blown flowers, that pay their early breath In tribute to the Lord of life and death, Who bids the lucid blush of nature glow Till angels see another Heaven below, Dimples the deep with every breeze that blows, And gives its sweet existence to the rose? Matcrnal Love, best type of heavenly bliss! Thtou she-w'st the j. >ys of t.a;rifher -worlds in ï~~LOVE. 239 When sons and daughters rush to thy embrace, And Love is painted on each rosy face! * 1 E'en in the vale of poverty and gloom, Thy joys, like heath-flowers on the moorland, bloom, And o'er thy child of ignorance thy sigh Is wordless pray'r, and not unheard on high. But crown'd with knowledge, best Instructress thou! oTuition smiles seraphic onthy brow. What though Contempt, with simpering sneer aside, D)eems all thy teaching labour misapplied? What though around thee move the slaves of gamin Who oft inflict, but seldom pity pain; Still pointing, as they shake the sapient head, At talent's rags, and learning's sons half-fed? Thy children's worth, maturing day by day, Thy children's glory, shall thy cares repay; Anid they shall bless thine age with accents kind, E'en as his daughter nursed Ferdoosi blind, When three times thirty years and ten had shed Illustrious Winter on his honour'd head. ' A soldier, Charles shall Wolfe's renown transcend, Proud to avenge his country, or defend. i S John, grave in childhood, on the soul shall shower The Gospel-dews, with renovating power; 4, Sublime instruction from his lips shall flowp r-,,, t.. e2,.,,. ï~~240 LOVE. And Mercy's antidote for sin and wo., Matilda's name shall shine, admir'd afar, In Fame's blue night, a new, and lovely star: May she not hope for glory's bright caress, Fair, young, ingenious, and a Britoness? May she not hope, where all can judge and feeL? Where wealth crowns virtue, genius, and O'Neil? Where Opie's pages truth and joy impart. Where Owenson and Edgeworth paint the heart? Where, crown'd with terror, Radcliffe rears her throne, A dread Medea, but a guiltless one; And tragic Baillie stole from Nature's side The mantle left by Shakspeare, when he died?. ~ But better bliss shall glowing Mary prove, Bless'd in a faithful husband's fondest love. Then each sweet grandchild on thy heart shall rise \ - A new existence, rich in ecstasies; - And, mother's mother! a new name, be given To thee, a Heav'n to come, and memory's Heav'n. Peace, like an infant, slumbering at thy feet, Thy day shall melt into the evening sweet; And while elysian breezes fan thy breast, 0 4't Thou shalt sink gently, with a smile, to rest; ' And many a relative, and many a friend, And many a tear, shall note thy gentle end. / S When Cook, a sailor's boy, with aching eye, t Gazed from the deep on oft-climb'd Roseberry, "7,, '" 1 AH \'!It ï~~LOVE. 241 S While, trembling as she listen'd to the Mat, S His anxious parent sea-ward wishes cat, S And fervent pray'r was mute, but not 3uppress'd, Though Love was resignation in her htii; Why did'st thou not-thou happiest name of joy! Bid her cheer'd spirit see that deathless be; Bear round the globe Britannia's flag unfurl'd And from th' abyss unknown call forth a word? Where death-freed wanderers tread celes:il shores, g], And silence, in eternal light, adores! S Spirit of Jones! to earth-born Angels tell What sweet instructress taught her child so wPl, What earthly form is likest their's above, S And, in thy teacher, bless Maternal Love! When Watts' pale mother, o'er her thoughttf I child, In hope and fear alternate wept and smiled, Dare greatest things, and, greatly wise, sue Sceed;Though rapture mingled with her bosom'a smart, And sweetest visions tranquillized her heart, She could not see him give Improvement birth And with his vapoury lever lift the earth. S E'en the bright promise in the parent's soul Mistook and bless'd a portion for the whole; And Love, for once, a timid prophet, told 16 ï~~LOVE, Scarce half the worth that truth-taught Time unroll'd. In Severn's vale, a wan and moonstruck boy Sought, by the daisy's side, a pensive joy; Held converse with the sea-birds as they pass'd, And strange and dire communion with the blast, And read in sunbeams, and the starry sky, The golden language of eternity. Age saw him, and look'd sad; the young men smiled; And wondering maidens shunn'd his aspect wild; But He-the ever kind, the ever wise! Who sees through fate, with omnipresent eyes, Hid from the mother, while she bless'd her son, The woes of genius, and of Chatterton. What child is hopeless in his mother's sight? Say, then, O thou, whose very tears delight, Walks there a wretch, displeased, amid thy flowers, Who, while thy smile illumes life's saddest hours, With serpent hiss malign thy worth denies, And views thy transports with disdainful eyes? There are, sweet power! who blame thy gentle rule, And call thy hearth of happiness the school Where manly hearts, by hate coerced in vain, First learn to like, and then to wear a cnain. Cold, but not wise, a partial task is their's, To blame the rich soil for the weed it bears. ~4 ï~~LOVE. 243 What power invincible, on earth, in heav'n, Like Love can strive with fate, like Love hath striven? m t i v Thou only spark in man that is divine! If thine is transport, Stoic strength is thine And calmly can'st thou smile on danger's form, Like rosy summer on the thunder-storm. Thine is the hand to act, the heart to dare, The soul to feel, the fortitude to bear, S The breast that softly glows, or bravely bleeds, The voice that calls to fame, the step that leads; And time-tried truth and constancy, that prove S He is no wretch who hath no friend but Love. Too oft hath man, his dream of splendour o'er, Seen his friend's dog assail him at the door, SBut often, too, when hope within him dies, S Love clasps him close, though hope despairs and flies! So, when o'er Eden waved the fiery brand, Our exiled parents wander'd, hand in hand, And left, with many a sigh, th' elysian scene, A joyless, widow'd bed where bliss had been, A solitude of beauty, vainly fair, " A flower unseen, that scents the desert air:" Love, and sweet tears, for Eden lost suffice; Though Eden was no longer Paradise; SOft looking back, they went, but side by sideSThe world before them, weeping Love their guide. Yes, Fortune's faithless wrongs may turn to steel The flattering foe, that well can feign to feel; C ï~~244 LOVE. The desperate heart may lean on torture's thorn, The sun be darkness to the eye forlorn; S All may be hopeless gloom, around, above, All, save thy quenchless smile, heroic Love! Of this bear witness Denbigh, and thou den, Too oft the torturing home of hapless men, Where Waller's Angel cheer'd him in the tomb, And smiled a twilight o'er his dungeon's gloom! Bear witness, too, ye groves of Tankersley, And thou, pure rill, whose sky-born melody Warbles of heav'nly peace! for ye beheldt (When Fanshawe sought, by Cromwell's sword compell'd, His care-worn form beneath your shades to bide) The mate of Honour by her husband's side! She, when the iron pierced his soul, was near, To bathe his aching fetters with a tear: And, when her supplication broke his chain, She kiss'd away the mem'ry of his pain, And bade him strike, where Druid oaks aspire, The love-taught Lusian's care-assuaging lyre. O, sink not then, desponding slave of care! Arise, be dreadless! why should man despair? Lo, woman's love can plant the rock with flowers, Gild Fate's black storm, when big with death it lowers, Make c:wards brave, arm Pity's hand to slay, And scatche Invasion's hordes in disarray! Love! when red Battle, o'er the stormy crest Of free lielvetia, roll'd his eye unbless'd, ï~~LOVE. 245 Thou heard'st thy sons on God and Freedom call, The infant Tell, when that sad tale is told, Lowers, with indignant front, his locks of gold, S Clangs his small drum, with despot-daring hand, And half assumes his little wooden brand; S Rage, wonder, grief, his guiltless heart surprise, S And all the mother swells into his eyes. Then, when th' horizon flamed-a flag of doomWhen pale affright heard breeze-born horrors boom, When blazing hamlets spoke of havock near, And beauty paid.her hero with a tear What wonder, if the virgin helm'd her head, Rush'd to the field with thundering volleys red, And, by her lover's side, a martial form, Tower'd the Bellona of the battle-storm? So, when around thy home war's banners fly, And patriots on the threshold fight and die, And dead the famish'd child, that lived in vainClimbs with Thalestrian port the leaguered wall, Where death rides sulphury on the whirling -ball, Fires her loud tube, and on the fiends below Shakes from her widow'd tresses shame and wo. To scathe with dread th' Oppressor's cheek of flame, To foil Death's gambler at his favourite game; ï~~246 Lovr. To soothe despair, and bid e'en anguish please, These are thy triumphs, mighty Conquerer, these! Vaulting Ambition hesitates to meet Thy powerful glance; War crouches at thy feet. When troubles rise, when peril's direst form, Frowning on man, adds darkness to the storm Then-while, in spite of shame, the bravest fearAffection stands her babes and husband near, Endures and dares, for him, and them alone, And, in their danger, quite forgets her own, When Virtue dies, in pallid Want's embrace Not friendless, though abandoned by the base; Then o'er the grave from which all flatterers fly, Love sheds a tear which kingdoms could not buy. And-as the April sunbeam melts the snow Till peeps the golden flower that slept belowThy look can charm the Fiend beneath whose eye All joys, but thine, and bless'd Religion's, die The king of woes, pride-humbling Poverty. ï~~LOVE. BOOK It. O FAITHFUL Love, by Poverty embraced Thy heart is fire, amid a wintry waste; Thy joys are roses, born on Hecla's brow; Thy home is Eden, warm amid the snow; And she, thy mate, when coldest blows the storm, Clings then most fondly to thy guardian form; E'en as thy taper gives intensest light, When o'er thy bow'd roof darkest falls the night. Oh, if thou e'er hast wrong'd her, if thou e'er From those mild eyes hast caused one bitter tear To flow unseen, repent, and sin no more! For richest gems, compared with her, are poor; Gold, weigh'd against her heart, is light-is vile; And when thou sufferest, who shall see her smile? Sighing, ye wake, and sighing sink to sleep, And seldom smile, without fresh cause to weep;