Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

And adjurations of the God in Heaven),
We send our mandates for the certain death
Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls,
And women, that would groan to see a child
Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war,
The best amusement for our morning-meal!
The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers
From curses, who knows scarcely words enough
To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father,
Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute
And technical in victories and defeats,
And all our dainty terms for fratricide;

Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues
Like mere abstractions, empty sounds, to which
We join no feeling and attach no form!
As if the soldier died without a wound;
As if the fibres of this godlike frame
Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch,
Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds,
Pass'd off to Heaven, translated and not kill'd:
As though he had no wife to pine for him,
No God to judge him! Therefore, evil days
Are coming on us, O my countrymen!
And what if all-avenging Providence,
Strong and retributive, should make us know
The meaning of our words, force us to feel
The desolation and the agony

Of our fierce doings!

Spare us yet awhile,

Father and God! O! spare us yet awhile!
Oh! let not English women drag their flight
Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes,
Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday

On which our vice and wretchedness were tagg'd
Like fancy points and fringes, with the robe
Pull'd off at pleasure. Fondly these attach
A radical causation to a few

Poor drudges of chastising Providence,
Who borrow all their hues and qualities
From our own folly and rank wickedness,
Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others
meanwhile,

Dote with a mad idolatry; and all
Who will not fall before their images,
And yield them worship, they are enemies
Even of their country!

Such have I been deem'd

But, O dear Britain! O my Mother Isle !
Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend,

A husband, and a father! who revere

All bonds of natural love, and find them all
Within the limits of thy rocky shores.

O native Britain! O my Mother Isle !

How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and

holy

To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills,
Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas,
Have drunk in all my intellectual life,

All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts,
All adoration of the God in nature,
All lovely and all honorable things,
Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel
The joy and greatness of its future being?
There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul
Unborrow'd from my country. O divine

Laugh'd at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole
Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms
And most magnificent temple, in the which

Which grew up with you round the same fire-side,I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs,

And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells
Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure!
Stand forth be men! repel an impious foe,
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race,
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth
With deeds of murder; and still promising
Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free,
Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart
Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes
And all that lifts the spirit! Stand we forth;
Render them back upon the insulted ocean,
And let them toss as idly on its waves

As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast
Swept from our shores! And oh! may we return
Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear,
Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung
So fierce a foe to frenzy!

I have told,

O Britons! O my brethren! I have told
Most bitter truth, but without bitterness.
Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed;
For never can true courage dwell with them,
Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look
At their own vices. We have been too long
Dupes of a deep delusion! Some, belike,
Groaning with restless enmity, expect

All change from change of constituted power;
As if a Government had been a robe,

Loving the God that made me!

May my fears,

My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts
And menace of the vengeful enemy
Pass like the gust, that roar'd and died away
In the distant tree: which heard, and only heard
In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass.

But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze :
The light has left the summit of the hill,
Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful,
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell,
Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot!
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill,
Homeward I wind my way; and lo! recall'd
From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me,
I find myself upon the brow, and pause
Startled! And after lonely sojourning
In such a quiet and surrounding nook,
This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main,
Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich
And elmy fields, seems like society—
Conversing with the mind, and giving it

A livelier impulse and a dance of thought!
And now, beloved Stowey! I behold

Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms

Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend,
And close behind them, hidden from my view,
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe
And my babe's mother dwell in peace! With light
And quicken'd footsteps thitherward I tend,
Remembering thee, O green and silent dell!
And grateful, that, by nature's quietness
And solitary musings, all my heart

Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge

Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human-kind. Nether Stowey, April 28th, 1798.

FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER.

A WAR ECLOGUE.

WITH AN APOLOGETIC PREFACE.*

The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendée. FAMINE is discovered lying on the ground; to her enter FIRE and SLAUGHTER.

Letters four do form his name.
He let me loose, and cried Halloo'
To him alone the praise is due.

FAMINE.

Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled,
Their wives and their children faint for bread.
I stood in a swampy field of battle;
With bones and sculls I made a rattle,

To frighten the wolf and carrion crow,
And the homeless dog-but they would not go.
So off I flew; for how could I bear
To see them gorge their dainty fare?
I heard a groan and a peevish squall,
And through the chink of a cottage-wall-
Can you guess what I saw there?

BOTH.

Whisper it, sister! in our ear.

FAMINE.

A baby beat its dying mother.

I had starved the one, and was starving the other

[blocks in formation]

Spirits hear what spirits tell :
"Twill make a holiday in Hell.
No! no! no!

Myself, I named him once below,
And all the souls, that damned be,
Leap'd up at once in anarchy,

Clapp'd their hands and danced for glee.
The longer heeded me;

But laugh'd to hear Hell's burning rafters Unwillingly re-echo laughters!

No! no! no!

Spirits hear what spirits tell! "I will make a holiday in Hell!

FAMINE.

Whisper it, sister! so and so! Ia a dark hint, soft and slow.

SLAUGHTER.

Letters four do form his nameAnd who sent you?

The same! the same!

Letters four do form his name.
He let me loose, and cried Halloo!
To him alone the praise is due.

FIRE.

Sisters! I from Ireland came!
Hedge and corn-fields all on flame,

I triumph'd o'er the setting sun!
And all the while the work was done

On as I strode with my huge strides,

I flung back my head and I held my sides,

It was so rare a piece of fun

To see the swelter'd cattle run

With uncouth gallop through the night,
Scared by the red and noisy light!

By the light of his own blazing cot
Was many a naked rebel shot:

The house-stream met the flame and hiss'd,
While crash! fell in the roof, I wist,
On some of those old bedrid nurses,
That deal in discontent and curses.

BOTH.

[blocks in formation]
[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors]
[blocks in formation]

Alas! to mend the breaches wide
He made for these poor ninnies,
They all must work, whate'er betide,
Both days and months, and pay beside
(Sad news for Avarice and for Pride)
A sight of golden guineas.

But here once more to view did pop

The man that kept his senses. And now he cried-" Stop, neighbors! stop! The Ox is mad! I would not swop, No, not a school-boy's farthing top For all the parish fences.

"The Ox is mad! Ho! Dick, Bob, Mat! What means this coward fuss? Ho! stretch this rope across the plat― "T will trip him up or if not that, Why, damme! we must lay him flatSee, here's my blunderbuss!"

"A lying dog! just now he said, The Ox was only glad, Let's break his Presbyterian head!”"Hush!" quoth the sage, "you've been misled, No quarrels now-let's all make headYou drove the poor Ox mad!"

As thus I sat in careless chat,

With the morning's wet newspaper, In eager haste, without his hat, As blind and blundering as a bat, In came that fierce aristocrat, Our pursy woollen draper.

And so my Muse perforce drew bit,

And in he rush'd and panted:"Well, have you heard?"-"No! not a whit." "What! han't you heard?"-Come, out with it!" "That Tierney votes for Mister Pitt,

And Sheridan's recanted."

II. LOVE POEMS.

Quas humilis tenero stylus olim effudit in ævo.
Perlegis hic lacrymas, et quod pharetratus acutâ
Ille puer puero fecit mihi cuspide vulnus,
Omnia paulatim consumit longior ætas,
Vivendoque simul morimur, rapimurque manendo.
Ispe mihi collatus enim non ille videbor:
Frons alia est, moresque alii, nova mentis imago,
Voxque aliud sonat-

Pectore nunc gelido calidos miseremur amantes,
Jamque arsisse pudet. Veteres tranquilla tumultus
Mens horret relegensque alium putat ista locutum.

Petrarch.

INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE.

The following Poem is intended as the introduction to a somewhat longer one. The use of the old Ballad word Ladie for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity [as Camden says] will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and propriety in it A heavier objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties explode around us in all directions, he should

presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But, alas! explosion has succeedes explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear new, and it is possible that now even a simple story, wholly uninspired with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hab bub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinct ly audible. S. T. C

Dec. 21, 1799.

O LEAVE the lily on its stem;

O leave the rose upon the spray;

O leave the elder bloom, fair maids! And listen to my lay.

A cypress and a myrtle-bough

This morn around my harp you twined Because it fashion'd mournfully

Its murmurs in the wind.

And now a Tale of Love and Woe, A woful Tale of Love I sing ; Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs And trembles on the string.

But most, my own dear Genevieve,

It sighs and trembles most for thee! O come, and hear what cruel wrongs Befell the Dark Ladie.

Few Sorrows hath she of her own, My hope, my joy, my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stir this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oh! ever in my waking dreams,
I dwell upon that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I sate,
Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve⚫ And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the armed mañ,

The statue of the armed knight, She stood and listen'd to my harp, Amid the ling'ring light.

I play'd a sad and doleful air,

I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song, that fitted well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace,
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore

Upon his shield a burning brand; And how for ten long years he woo'd The Ladie of the Land:

I told her how he pined: and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sung another's love,
Interpreted my own.

She listen'd with a flitting blush;
With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn

That crazed this bold and lonely Knight, And how he roarn'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day or night;

And how he cross'd the woodman's paths, Through briers and swampy mosses beat; How boughs rebounding scourged his limbs, And low stubs gored his feet;

That sometimes from the savage den,

And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade;

There came and look'd him in the face
An Angel beautiful and bright;
And how he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!

And how, unknowing what he did,
He leapt amid a lawless band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Ladie of the Land!

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; And how she tended him in vain

And meekly strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain:

And how she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay;

His dying words—but when I reach'd
That tend'rest strain of all the ditty,
My falt'ring voice and pausing harp
Disturb'd her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense

Had thrill'd my guiltless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale,

The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,

Subdued and cherish'd long!

She wept with pity and delight,

She blush'd with love and maiden-shame; And, like the murmurs of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.

saw her bosom heave and swell, Heave and swell with inward sighsI could not choose but love to see Her gentle bosom rise.

Her wet cheek glow'd: she stept aside,
As conscious of my look she stepp'd;
Then suddenly, with tim'rous eye,
She flew to me and wept.

She half inclosed me with her arms,

She press'd me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, look'd up. And gazed upon my face.

"T was partly love, and partly fear, And partly 't was a bashful art, That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart.

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous bride.

And now once more a tale of woe, A woeful tale of love I sing: For thee, my Genevieve! it sighs, And trembles on the string.

When last I sang the cruel scorn

That crazed this bold and lonely Knight, And how he roam'd the mountain-woods Nor rested day or night;

I promised thee a sister tale

Of man's perfidious cruelty:

Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong Befell the Dark Ladie.

LEWTI, OR THE CIRCASSIAN
LOVE-CHAUNT.

Ar midnight by the stream I roved,
To forget the form I loved.
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depart; for Lewti is not kind.

The moon was high, the moonlight gleam
And the shadow of a star
Heaved upon Tamaha's stream;

But the rock shone brighter far,
The rock half-shelter'd from my view
By pendent boughs of tressy yew-
So shines my Lewti's forehead fair,
Gleaming through her sable hair.
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depart; for Lewti is not kind.

I saw a cloud of palest hue,
Onward to the moon it pass'd;
Still brighter and more bright it grew.
With floating colors not a few,

Till it reach'd the moon at last :
Then the cloud was wholly bright
With a rich and amber light!
And so with many a hope I seek

And with such joy I find my Lewti:

And even so my pale wan cheek

Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind. If Lewti never will be kind.

« AnteriorContinuar »