(As pauses the tired Cossack's barbarous yell Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell The dirge of murder'd Hope! while Freedom pale Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier, As if from eldest time some Spirit meek Had gather'd in a mystic urn each tear That ever on a Patriot's furrow'd cheek
Fit channel found; and she had drain'd the bowl In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!
As when far off the warbled strains are heard That soar on Morning's wing the vales among, Within his cage the imprison'd matin bird Swells the full chorus with a generous song: He bathes no pinion in the dewy light, No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares, Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight; His Fellows' freedom soothes the Captive's cares: Thou, FAYETTE! who didst wake with startling voice Life's better sun from that long wintry night, Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice, And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might: For lo! the morning struggles into day, And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the ray!
THOU gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile, Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond dream Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile! As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam: What time, in sickly mood, at parting day I lay me down and think of happier years; Of joys, that glimmer'd in Hope's twilight ray, Then left me darkling in a vale of tears. O pleasant days of Hope-for ever gone! Could I recall you!-But that thought is vain. Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone To lure the fleet-wing'd travellers back again: Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam Like the bright rainbow on a willowy stream.
PALE Roamer through the Night; thou poor Forlorn! Remorse that man on his death-bed possess, Who in the credulous hour of tenderness Betray'd, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn! The world is pitiless: the Chaste one's pride, Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress: Thy loves and they, that envied thee, deride: And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness! O! I am sad to think, that there should be Cold-bosom'd lewd ones, who endure to place Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery,
And force from Famine the caress of Love; May He shed healing on the sore disgrace, He, the great Comforter that rules above!
SWEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy gray hairs Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares To clothe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head. My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest That mocks thy shivering! take my garment-use A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child: And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess, Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness. He did not so, the Galilæan mild,
Who met the Lazars turn'd from rich men's doors, And call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome Sores!
THOU bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile, And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness. Why didst tnou listen to Hope's whisper bland? Or, listening, why forget the healing tale, When Jealousy with feverish fancies pale Jarr'd thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand? Faint was that Hope, and rayless!-Yet 'twas fair And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest: Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest And nursed it with an agony of Care, Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE "ROBBERS." SCHILLER! that hour I would have wished to die, If through the shuddering midnight I had sent From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent That fearful voice, a famish'd Father's cry- Lest in some after moment aught more mean Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout Black Horror scream'd, and all her goblin rout Diminish'd shrunk from the more withering scene! Ah Bard tremendous in sublimity!
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye
Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood! Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood: Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy!
COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, may, 1795. WITH many a pause and oft-reverted eye
I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near Warble in shade their wild-wood melody: Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear. Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock That on green plots o'er precipices browse: From the forced fissures of the naked rock The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark-green boughs
(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, I rest-and now have gain'd the topmost site. Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud Towers, and Cots more dear to me, Elm-shadow'd Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea! Deep sighs my lonely heart I drop the tear: Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!
IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.
O PEACE! that on a lilied bank dost love To rest thine head beneath an Olive Tree, I would, that from the pinions of thy Dove One quill withouten pain ypluck'd might be ! For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee, And fain to her some soothing song would write, Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,
Who vow'd to meet her ere the morning light, But broke my plighted word-ah! false and recreant wight!
Last night as I my weary head did pillow With thoughts of my dissever'd Fair engross'd, Chill Fancy droop'd wreathing herself with willow, As though my breast entomb'd a pining ghost. "From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast,
Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way; But leave me with the matin hour, at most! As night-closed Floweret to the orient ray,
My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey."
But Love, who heard the silence of my thought, Contrived a too successful wile, I ween: And whisper'd to himself, with malice fraught— "Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen : To-morrow shall he ken her alter'd mien!" He spake, and ambush'd lay, till on my bed The morning shot her dewy glances keen, When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head-
"Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing Elfin said.
Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;
When twang'd an arrow from Love's mystic string, With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart. Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart?
Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance?
For straight so fair a Form did upwards start (No fairer deck'd the Bowers of old Romance)
That Sleep enamour'd grew, nor moved from his sweet trance!
My Sara came, with gentlest look divine; Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam: I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!
Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme- Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,
He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did 'bide,
That I the living Image of my Dream Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd- "O! how shall I behold my Love at eventide!"
IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.
THE stream with languid murmur creeps, In Lumin's flowery vale:
Beneath the dew the Lily weeps,
Slow-waving to the gale.
Cease, restless gale!" it seems to say, "Nor wake me with thy sighing! The honors of my vernal day
On rapid wing are flying.
"To-morrow shall the Traveller come Who late beheld me blooming: His searching eye shall vainly roam The dreary vale of Lumin."
With eager gaze and wetted cheek My wonted haunts along, Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek The Youth of simplest song.
But I along the breeze shall roll
The voice of feeble power; And dwell, the moon-beam of thy soul, In Slumber's nightly hour.
THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA How long will ye round me be swelling,
O ye blue-tumbling waves of the Sea? Not always in Caves was my dwelling,
Nor beneath the cold blast of the Tree. Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlòma In the steps of my beauty I stray'd; The Warriors beheld Ninathoma,
And they blessed the white-bosom'd Maid!
A Ghost! by my cavern it darted!
In moon-beams the Spirit was drestFor lovely appear the departed
When they visit the dreams of my rest! But, disturb'd by the Tempest's commotion, Fleet the shadowy forms of DelightAh cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean! To howl through my Cavern by Night.
IMITATED FROM THE WELSH IF, while my passion I impart, You deem my words untrue, O place your hand upon my heart- Feel how it throbs for you!
Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim, In pity to your lover!
That thrilling touch would aid the flame It wishes to discover.
Ан cease thy tears and Sobs, my little Life!
I did but snatch away the unclasp'd Knife : Some safer Toy will soon arrest thine eye, And to quick Laughter change this peevish cry!
Poor Stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe, Tutor❜d by Pain each source of Pain to know! Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire Awake thy eager grasp and young desire ; Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy sight, And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright! Untaught, yet wise! 'mid all thy brief alarms Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms, Nestling thy little face in that fond breast Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest! Man's breathing Miniature! thou makest me sigh- A Babe art thou-and such a thing am I! To anger rapid and as soon appeased, For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased, Break Friendship's Mirror with a techy blow,
Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow!
You roused each gentler sense As, sighing o'er the Blossom's bloom, Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume With viewless influence.
And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans Through yon reft house! O'er rolling stones In bold ambitious sweep, The onward-surging tides supply The silence of the cloudless sky With mimic thunders deep.
Dark reddening from the channell❜d Isle* (Where stands one solitary pile
Unslated by the blast)
The Watch-fire, like a sullen star Twinkles to many a dozing Tar
Rude cradled on the mast.
Even there-beneath that light-house towerIn the tumultuous evil hour
Ere Peace with Sara came,
Time was, I should have thought it sweet To count the echoings of my feet,
And watch the storm-vex'd flame.
And there in black soul-jaundiced fit A sad gloom-pamper'd Man to sit,
And listen to the roar : When Mountain Surges bellowing deep With an uncouth monster leap
Plunged foaming on the shore.
Then by the Lightning's blaze to mark Some toiling tempest-shatter'd bark;
Her vain distress-guns hear;
And when a second sheet of light Flash'd o'er the blackness of the nightTo see no Vessel there!
But Fancy now more gaily sings : Or if awhile she droop her wings,
As sky-larks 'mid the corn, On summer fields she grounds her breast: The oblivious Poppy o'er her nest Nods, till returning morn.
O mark those smiling tears, that swell The open'd Rose! From heaven they fell, And with the sun-beam blend. Bless'd visitations from above, Such are the tender woes of Love Fostering the heart, they bend!
When stormy Midnight howling round Beats on our roof with clattering sound, To me your arms you'll stretch: Great God! you'll say-To us so kind, O shelter from this loud bleak wind The houseless, friendless wretch!
The tears that tremble down your cheek, Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek
The Holmes, in the Bristol Channel.
And from your heart the sighs that steal Shall make your rising bosom feel
The answering swell of mine!
How oft, my Love! with shapings sweet I paint the moment we shall meet! With eager speed I dart- I seize you in the vacant air, And fancy, with a Husband's care I press you to my heart!
T is said, on Summer's evening hour Flashes the golden-color'd flower
A fair electric flame:
And so shall flash my love-charged eye When all the heart's big ecstasy
Shoots rapid through the frame!
TO A FRIEND IN ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY LETTER
AWAY, those cloudy looks, that laboring sigh, The peevish offspring of a sickly hour! Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power, When the blind Gamester throws a luckless die.
Yon setting Sun flashes a mournful gleam Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train: To-morrow shall the many-color'd main In brightness roll beneath his orient beam!
Wild, as the autumnal gust, the hand of Time Flies o'er his mystic lyre: in shadowy dance The alternate groups of Joy and Grief advance, Responsive to his varying strains sublime!
Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate;
Despised Galilæan! For the Great Invisible (by symbols only seen) With a peculiar and surpassing light Shines from the visage of the oppress'd good Man When heedless of himself the scourged Saint Mourns for the Oppressor. Fair the vernal Mead, Fair the high Grove, the Sea, the Sun, the Stars; True impress each of their creating Sire! Yet nor high Grove, nor many-color'd Mead, Nor the green Ocean with his thousand Isles, Nor the starr'd Azure, nor the sovran Sun, E'er with such majesty of portraiture Imaged the supreme beauty uncreate, As thou, meek Savior! at the fearful hour When thy insulted Anguish wing'd the prayer Harp'd by Archangels, when they sing of Mercy! Which when the Almighty heard from forth his Throne,
Diviner light fill'd Heaven with ecstasy!
Heaven's hymnings paused: and Hell her yawning mouth
Lovely was the death Of Him whose life was love! Holy with power He on the thought-benighted sceptic beam'd Manifest Godhead, melting into day What floating mists of dark Idolatry Broke and misshaped the Omnipresent Sire: And first by Fear uncharm'd the drowsed Soul.* Till of its nobler nature it 'gan feel Dim recollections: and thence soar'd to Hope, Strong to believe whate'er of mystic good The Eternal dooms for his immortal Sons. From Hope and firmer Faith to perfect Love Attracted and absorb'd: and centred there God only to behold, and know, and feel, Till by exclusive Consciousness of God All self-annihilated it shall make God its Identity: God all in all!
The swain, who, lull'd by Seine's mild murmurs, led We and our Father one! His weary oxen to their nightly shed, To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State.
Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile Survey the sanguinary Despot's might, And haply hurl the Pageant from his height, Unwept to wander in some savage isle.
There, shiv'ring sad beneath the tempest's frown, Round his tir'd limbs to wrap the purple vest; And mix'd with nails and beads, an equal jest! Barter, for food, the jewels of his crown.
RELIGIOUS MUSINGS;
A DESULTORY POEM,
WRITTEN ON THE CHRISTMAS EVE OF 1794.
THIS is the time, when most divine to hear, The voice of Adoration rouses me, As with a Cherub's trump: and high upborne, Yea, mingling with the Choir, I seem to view The vision of the heavenly multitude,
Who hymn'd the song of Peace o'er Bethlehem's fields!
Yet thou more bright than all the Angel blaze, That harbinger'd thy birth, Thou, Man of Woes!
Who in this fleshly World, the elect of Heaven, Their strong eye darting through the deeds of Men, Adore with stedfast unpresuming gaze Him Nature's Essence, Mind, and Energy! And gazing, trembling, patiently ascend Treading beneath their feet all visible things As steps, that upward to their Father's Throne Lead gradual-else nor glorified nor loved. They nor Contempt embosom nor Revenge. For they dare know of what may seem deform The Supreme Fair sole Operant in whose sight All things are pure, his strong controlling Love Alike from all educing perfect good. Theirs too celestial courage, inly arm'd- Dwarfing Earth's giant brood, what time they muse On their great Father, great beyond compare! And marching onwards view high o'er their heads His waving Banners of Omnipotence.
For they are holy things before the Lord,
Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole!
Aye unprofaned, though Earth should league with This fraternizes Man, this constitutes
God's Altar grasping with an eager hand,
Fear, the wild-visaged, pale, eye-starting wretch, Sure-refuged hears his hot pursuing fiends Yell at vain distance. Soon refresh'd from Heaven, He calms the throb and tempest of his heart. His countenance settles; soft solemn bliss Swims in his eye-his swimming eye upraised : And Faith's whole armor glitters on his limbs! And thus transfigured with a dreadless awe, A solemn hush of soul, meek he beholds
All things of terrible seeming: yea, unmoved Views e'en the immitigable ministers
Our charities and bearings. But 't is God Diffused through all, that doth make all one whole; This the worst superstition, him except Aught to desire, Supreme Reality! The plenitude and permanence of bliss! O Fiends of Superstition! not that oft The erring Priest hath stain'd with brother's blood Your grisly idols, not for this may wrath Thunder against you from the Holy One! But o'er some plain that steameth to the sun, Peopled with Death; or where more hideous Trade Loud-laughing packs his bales of human anguish : I will raise up a mourning, O ye Fiends!
That shower down vengeance on these latter days. And curse your spells, that film the eye of Faith,
For kindling with intenser Deity
From the celestial Mercy-seat they come, And at the renovating Wells of Love
Have fill'd their Vials with salutary Wrath, To sickly Nature more medicinal
Than what soft balm the weeping good man pours Into the lone despoiled traveller's wounds!
Thus from the Elect, regenerate through faith, Pass the dark Passions and what thirsty Cares Drink up the spirit and the dim regards Self-centre. Lo they vanish! or acquire New names, new features-by supernal grace Enrobed with light, and naturalized in Heaven. As when a shepherd on a vernal morn
Through some thick fog creeps timorous with slow foot,
Darkling he fixes on the immediate road His downward eye: all else of fairest kind Hid or deform'd. But lo! the bursting Sun! Touch'd by the enchantment of that sudden beam, Straight the black vapor melteth, and in globes Of dewy glitter gems each plant and tree; On every leaf, on every blade it hangs! Dance glad the new-born intermingling rays, And wide around the landscape streams with glory!
There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind, Omnific. His most holy name is Love. Truth of subliming import! with the which Who feeds and saturates his constant soul, He from his small particular orbit flies With bless'd outstarting! From Himself he flies, Stands in the Sun, and with no partial gaze Views all creation; and he loves it all, And blesses it, and calls it very good! This is indeed to dwell with the Most High! Cherubs and rapture-trembling Seraphim Can press no nearer to the Almighty's Throne. But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts Unfeeling of our universal Sire, And that in his vast family no Cain Injures uninjured (in her best-aim'd blow Victorious Murder a blind Suicide), Haply for this some younger Angel now Looks down on Human Nature: and, behold! A sea of blood bestrew'd with wrecks, where mad Embattling Interests on each other rush
Hiding the present God; whose presence lost, The moral world's cohesion, we become An anarchy of Spirits! Toy-bewitch'd, Made blind by lusts, disherited of soul, No common centre Man, no common sire Knoweth! A sordid solitary thing,
'Mid countless brethren with a lonely heart Through courts and cities the smooth Savage roams, Feeling himself, his own low Self the whole; When he by sacred sympathy might make The whole one Self! Self that no alien knows! Self, far diffused as Fancy's wing can travel! Self, spreading still! Oblivious of its own, Yet all of all possessing! This is Faith! This the Messiah's destin'd victory!
But first offences needs must come! Even now* (Black Hell laughs horrible-to hear the scoff!) Thee to defend, meek Galilæan! Thee And thy mild laws of love unutterable, Mistrust and Enmity have burst the bands Of social Peace; and listening Treachery lurks With pious Fraud to snare a brother's life; And childless widows o'er the groaning land Wail numberless; and orphans weep for bread; Thee to defend, dear Savior of Mankind! Thee, Lamb of God! Thee, blameless Prince of Peace!
From all sides rush the thirsty brood of War! Austria, and that foul Woman of the North, The lustful Murderess of her wedded Lord! And he, connatural Mind! whom (in their songs So bards of elder time had haply feign'd) Some Fury fondled in her hate to man, Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge Lick his young face, and at his mouth inbreathe Horrible sympathy! And leagued with these Each petty German princeling, nursed in gore! Soul-harden'd barterers of human blood!
* January 21st, 1794, in the debate on the Address to his Majesty, on the speech from the Throne, the Earl of Guildford moved an Amendment to the following effect:-"That the House hoped his Majesty would seize the earliest opportunity to conclude a peace with France," etc. This motion was opposed by the Duke of Portland, who "considered the war to be merely grounded on one principle-the preservation of the Christian Religion." May 30th, 1794, the Duke of Bedford moved a number of Resolutions, with a view to the Establishment of a Peace with France. He was opposed (among others) by Lord Abingdon in these remarkable words: "The best road to Peace, my Lords, is War! and War carried on in the same manner in which we are taught to worship our Creator, namely, with all our souls, and with all our minds, and with all our hearts, and with all our strength."
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