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The dust flies smothering, as on clatt’ring wheel

Loath’d Aristocracy careers along;

The distant track quick vibrates to the eye,

And white and dazzling undulates with heat,

Where scorching to the unwary traveller’s touch, 5

The stone fence flings its narrow slip of shade;

Or, where the worn sides of the chalky road

Yield their scant excavations (sultry grots!),

Emblem of languid patience, we behold

The fleecy files faint-ruminating lie. 10

ON BALA HILL

With many a weary step at length I gain

Thy summit, Bala! and the cool breeze plays

Cheerily round my brow — as hence the gaze

Returns to dwell upon the journey’d plain.

‘Twas a long way and tedious! — to the eye 5

Tho’ fair th’ extended Vale, and fair to view

The falling leaves of many a faded hue

That eddy in the wild gust moaning by!

Ev’n so it far’d with Life! in discontent

Restless thro’ Fortune’s mingled scenes I went, 10

Yet wept to think they would return no more!

O cease fond heart! in such sad thoughts to roam,

For surely thou ere long shalt reach thy home,

And pleasant is the way that lies before.

LINES: WRITTEN AT THE KING’S ARMS, ROSS, FORMERLY THE HOUSE OF THE ‘MAN OF ROSS’

Richer than Miser o’er his countless hoards,

Nobler than Kings, or king-polluted Lords,

Here dwelt the MAN OF ROSS! O Traveller, hear!

Departed Merit claims a reverent tear.

Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health, 5

With generous joy he view’d his modest wealth;

He heard the widow’s heaven-breath’d prayer of praise,

He mark’d the shelter’d orphan’s tearful gaze,

Or where the sorrow-shrivell’d captive lay,

Pour’d the bright blaze of Freedom’s noontide ray. 10

Beneath this roof if thy cheer’d moments pass,

Fill to the good man’s name one grateful glass:

To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul,

And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl.

But if, like me, through Life’s distressful scene 15

Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been;

And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught,

Thou journeyest onward tempest-tossed in thought;

Here cheat thy cares! in generous visions melt,

And dream of Goodness, thou hast never felt! 20

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 5

In pity to your Lover!

That thrilling touch would aid the flame

It wishes to discover.

LINES: TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE

Once more! sweet Stream! with slow foot wandering near,

I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.

Escap’d the flashing of the noontide hours,

With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers

(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn) 5

My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn.

For not through pathless grove with murmur rude

Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude;

Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,

The Hermit-fountain of some dripping cell! 10

Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply

The scatter’d cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.

The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks

With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,

Releas’d from school, their little hearts at rest, 15

Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.

The rustic here at eve with pensive look

Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook,

Or, starting, pauses with hope-mingled dread

To list the much-lov’d maid’s accustom’d tread: 20

She, vainly mindful of her dame’s command,

Loiters, the long-fill’d pitcher in her hand.

Unboastful Stream! thy fount with pebbled falls

The faded form of past delight recalls,

What time the morning sun of Hope arose, 25

And all was joy; save when another’s woes

A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,

Like passing clouds impictur’d on thy breast.

Life’s current then ran sparkling to the noon,

Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon: 30

Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,

Or o’er the rough rock bursts and foams along!

IMITATIONS: AD LYRAM

(CASIMIR, BOOK II. ODE 3)

The solemn-breathing air is ended —

Cease, O Lyre! thy kindred lay!

From the poplar-branch suspended

Glitter to the eye of Day!

On thy wires hov’ring, dying, 5

Softly sighs the summer wind:

I will slumber, careless lying,

By yon waterfall reclin’d.

In the forest hollow-roaring

Hark! I hear a deep’ning sound — 10

Clouds rise thick with heavy low’ring!

See! th’ horizon blackens round!

Parent of the soothing measure,

Let me seize thy wetted string!

Swiftly flies the flatterer, Pleasure, 15

Headlong, ever on the wing.

AD LYRAM.

Sonori buxi Filia sutilis,

Pendebis alta, Barbite, populo,

Dum ridet aer, et supinas

Solicitat levis aura frondes:

Te sibilantis lenior halitus

Perflabit Euri: me iuvet interim

Collum reclinasse, et virenti

Sic temere iacuisse ripa.

Eheu! serenum quae nebulae tegunt

Repente caelum! quis sonus imbrium!

Surgamus — heu semper fugaci

Gaudia praeteritura passu!

‘Advertisement’ to Ad Lyram,

in Watchman, II, March 9, 1796.

TO LESBIA

Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus.

CATULLUS.

My Lesbia, let us love and live,

And to the winds, my Lesbia, give

Each cold restraint, each boding fear

Of age and all her saws severe.

Yon sun now posting to the main 5

Will set, — but ‘tis to rise again; —

But we, when once our mortal light

Is set, must sleep in endless night.

Then come, with whom alone I’ll live,

A thousand kisses take and give! 10

Another thousand! — to the store

Add hundreds — then a thousand more!

And when they to a million mount,

Let confusion take the account, —

That you, the number never knowing, 15

May continue still bestowing —

That I for joys may never pine,

Which never can again be mine!

THE DEATH OF THE STARLING

Lugete, O Veneres, Cupidinesque. — CATULLUS.

Pity! mourn in plaintive tone

The lovely starling dead and gone!

Pity mourns in plaintive tone

The lovely starling dead and gone.

Weep, ye Loves! and Venus! weep 5

The lovely starling fall’n asleep!

Venus sees with tearful eyes —

In her lap the starling lies!

While the Loves all in a ring

Softly stroke the stiffen’d wing. 10

MORIENS SUPERSTITI

The hour-bell sounds, and I must go;

Death waits — again I hear him calling; —

No cowardly desires have I,

Nor will I shun his face appalling.

I die in faith and honour rich — 5

But ah! I leave behind my treasure

In widowhood and lonely pain; —

To live were surely then a pleasure!

My lifeless eyes upon thy face

Shall never open more tomorrow; 10

Tomorrow shall thy beauteous eyes

Be closed to Love, and drown’d in Sorrow;

Tomorrow Death shall freeze this hand,

And on thy breast, my wedded treasure,

I never, never more shall live; — 15

Alas! I quit a life of pleasure.

MORIENTI SUPERSTES

Yet art thou happier far than she

Who feels the widow’s love for thee!

For while her days are days of weeping,

Thou, in peace, in silence sleeping,

In some still world, unknown, remote, 5

The mighty parent’s care hast found,

Without whose tender guardian thought

No sparrow falleth to the ground.

THE SIGH

When Youth his faery reign began

Ere Sorrow had proclaim’d me man;

While Peace the present hour beguil’d,

And all the lovely Prospect smil’d;

Then Mary! ‘mid my lightsome glee 5

I heav’d the painless Sigh for thee.

And when, along the waves of woe,

My harass’d Heart was doom’d to know

The frantic burst of Outrage keen,

And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen; 10

Then shipwreck’d on Life’s stormy sea

I heaved an anguish’d Sigh for thee!

But soon Reflection’s power imprest

A stiller sadness on my breast;

And sickly Hope with waning eye 15

Was well content to droop and die:

I yielded to the stern decree,

Yet heav’d a languid Sigh for thee!

And though in distant climes to roam,

A wanderer from my native home, 20

I fain would soothe the sense of Care,

And lull to sleep the Joys that were!

Thy Image may not banish’d be —

Still, Mary! still I sigh for thee.

THE KISS

One kiss, dear Maid! I said and sigh’d —

Your scorn the little boon denied.

Ah why refuse the blameless bliss?

Can danger lurk within a kiss?

Yon viewless wanderer of the vale, 5

The Spirit of the Western Gale,

At Morning’s break, at Evening’s close

Inhales the sweetness of the Rose,

And hovers o’er the uninjur’d bloom

Sighing back the soft perfume. 10

Vigour to the Zephyr’s wing

Her nectar-breathing kisses fling;

And He the glitter of the Dew

Scatters on the Rose’s hue.

Bashful lo! she bends her head, 15

And darts a blush of deeper Red!

Too well those lovely lips disclose

The triumphs of the opening Rose;

O fair! O graceful! bid them prove

As passive to the breath of Love. 20

In tender accents, faint and low,

Well-pleas’d I hear the whisper’d ‘No!’

The whispered ‘No’ — how little meant!

Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent!

For on those lovely lips the while 25

Dawns the soft relenting smile,

And tempts with feign’d dissuasion coy

The gentle violence of Joy.

TO A YOUNG LADY WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

Much on my early youth I love to dwell,

Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,

Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,

I heard of guilt and wonder’d at the tale!

Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing, 5

Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.

Aye as the Star of Evening flung its beam

In broken radiance on the wavy stream,

My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom

Mourn’d with the breeze, O Lee Boo! o’er thy tomb. 10

Where’er I wander’d, Pity still was near,

Breath’d from the heart and glisten’d in the tear:

No knell that toll’d but fill’d my anxious eye,

And suffering Nature wept that one should die!

Thus to sad sympathies I sooth’d my breast, 15

Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West:

When slumbering Freedom roused by high Disdain

With giant Fury burst her triple chain!

Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow’d;

Her banners, like a midnight meteor, flow’d; 20

Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies!

She came, and scatter’d battles from her eyes!

Then Exultation waked the patriot fire

And swept with wild hand the Tyrtaean lyre:

Red from the Tyrant’s wound I shook the lance, 25

And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!

Fallen is the Oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,

And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow.

With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,

Where peaceful Virtue weaves the Myrtle braid. 30

And O! if Eyes whose holy glances roll,

Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;

If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien

Than the love-wilder’d Maniac’s brain hath seen

Shaping celestial forms in vacant air, 35

If these demand the empassion’d Poet’s care —

If Mirth and soften’d Sense and Wit refined,

The blameless features of a lovely mind;

Then haply shall my trembling hand assign

No fading wreath to Beauty’s saintly shrine. 40

Nor, Sara! thou these early flowers refuse —

Ne’er lurk’d the snake beneath their simple hues;

No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings

From Flattery’s nightshade: as he feels he sings.

TRANSLATION OF WRANGHAM’S ‘HENDECASYLLABI AD BRUNTONAM

E GRANTA EXITURAM’ [KAL. OCT.MDCCXC]

Maid of unboastful charms! whom white-robed Truth

Right onward guiding through the maze of youth,

Forbade the Circe Praise to witch thy soul,

And dash’d to earth th’ intoxicating bowl:

Thee meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair, 5

Clasp’d to her bosom with a mother’s care;

And, as she lov’d thy kindred form to trace,

The slow smile wander’d o’er her pallid face.

For never yet did mortal voice impart

Tones more congenial to the sadden’d heart: 10

Whether, to rouse the sympathetic glow,

Thou pourest lone Monimia’s tale of woe;

Or haply clothest with funereal vest

The bridal loves that wept in Juliet’s breast.

O’er our chill limbs the thrilling Terrors creep, 15

Th’ entrancéd Passions their still vigil keep;

While the deep sighs, responsive to the song,

Sound through the silence of the trembling throng.

But purer raptures lighten’d from thy face,

And spread o’er all thy form an holier grace, 20

When from the daughter’s breasts the father drew

The life he gave, and mix’d the big tear’s dew.

Nor was it thine th’ heroic strain to roll

With mimic feelings foreign from the soul:

Bright in thy parent’s eye we mark’d the tear; 25

Methought he said, ‘Thou art no Actress here!

A semblance of thyself the Grecian dame,

And Brunton and Euphrasia still the same!’

O soon to seek the city’s busier scene,

Pause thee awhile, thou chaste-eyed maid serene, 30

Till Granta’s sons from all her sacred bowers

With grateful hand shall weave Pierian flowers

To twine a fragrant chaplet round thy brow,

Enchanting ministress of virtuous woe!

TO MISS BRUNTON

WITH THE PRECEDING TRANSLATION

That darling of the Tragic Muse,

When Wrangham sung her praise,

Thalia lost her rosy hues,

And sicken’d at her lays:

But transient was th’ unwonted sigh; 5

For soon the Goddess spied

A sister-form of mirthful eye,

And danc’d for joy and cried:

‘Meek Pity’s sweetest child, proud dame,

The fates have given to you! 10

Still bid your Poet boast her name;

I have my Brunton too.’

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT

Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade,

Death came with friendly care:

The opening Bud to Heaven convey’d,

And bade it blossom there.

PANTISOCRACY

No more my visionary soul shall dwell

On joys that were; no more endure to weigh

The shame and anguish of the evil day,

Wisely forgetful! O’er the ocean swell

Sublime of Hope, I seek the cottag’d dell 5

Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray,

And dancing to the moonlight roundelay,

The wizard Passions weave an holy spell.

Eyes that have ach’d with Sorrow! Ye shall weep

Tears of doubt-mingled joy, like theirs who start 10

From Precipices of distemper’d sleep,

On which the fierce-eyed Fiends their revels keep,

And see the rising Sun, and feel it dart

New rays of pleasance trembling to the heart.

ON THE PROSPECT OF ESTABLISHING A PANTISOCRACY IN AMERICA

Whilst pale Anxiety, corrosive Care,

The tear of Woe, the gloom of sad Despair,

And deepen’d Anguish generous bosoms rend; —

Whilst patriot souls their country’s fate lament;

Whilst mad with rage demoniac, foul intent, 5

Embattled legions Despots vainly send

To arrest the immortal mind’s expanding ray

Of everlasting Truth; — I other climes

Where dawns, with hope serene, a brighter day

Than e’er saw Albion in her happiest times, 10

With mental eye exulting now explore,

And soon with kindred minds shall haste to enjoy

(Free from the ills which here our peace destroy)

Content and Bliss on Transatlantic shore.

ELEGY IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE’S BLANK-VERSE INSCRIPTIONS

Near the lone pile with ivy overspread,

Fast by the rivulet’s sleep-persuading sound,

Where ‘sleeps the moonlight’ on yon verdant bed —

O humbly press that consecrated ground!

For there does Edmund rest, the learnéd swain! 5

And there his spirit most delights to rove:

Young Edmund! fam’d for each harmonious strain,

And the sore wounds of ill-requited Love.

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,

And loads the West-wind with its soft perfume, 10

His manhood blossom’d; till the faithless pride

Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.

But soon did righteous Heaven her Guilt pursue!

Where’er with wilder’d step she wander’d pale,

Still Edmund’s image rose to blast her view, 15

Still Edmund’s voice accus’d her in each gale.

With keen regret, and conscious Guilt’s alarms,

Amid the pomp of Affluence she pined;

Nor all that lur’d her faith from Edmund’s arms

Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind. 20

Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught:

Some tearful Maid perchance, or blooming Youth,

May hold it in remembrance; and be taught

That Riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.

THE FADED FLOWER

Ungrateful he, who pluck’d thee from thy stalk,

Poor faded flow’ret! on his careless way;

Inhal’d awhile thy odours on his walk,

Then onward pass’d and left thee to decay.

Ah! melancholy emblem! had I seen 5

Thy modest beauties dew’d with Evening’s gem,

I had not rudely cropp’d thy parent stem,

But left thee, blushing, ‘mid the enliven’d green

And now I bend me o’er thy wither’d bloom,

And drop the tear — as Fancy, at my side, 10

Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Abra’s tomb —

‘Like thine, sad Flower, was that poor wanderer’s pride!

Oh! lost to Love and Truth, whose selfish joy

Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy!’

THE OUTCAST

Pale Roamer through the night! thou poor Forlorn!

Remorse that man on his deathbed possess,

Who in the credulous hour of tenderness

Betrayed, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn!

The world is pitiless: the chaste one’s pride 5

Mimic of Virtue scowls on thy distress:

Thy Loves and they that envied thee deride:

And Vice alone will shelter Wretchedness!

O! I could weep to think that there should be

Cold-bosom’d lewd ones, who endure to place 10

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!

DOMESTIC PEACE

FROM ‘THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE’, ACT I, L. 210

Tell me, on what holy ground

May Domestic Peace be found?

Halcyon daughter of the skies,

Far on fearful wings she flies,

From the pomp of Sceptered State, 5

From the Rebel’s noisy hate.

In a cottag’d vale She dwells,

Listening to the Sabbath bells!

Still around her steps are seen

Spotless Honour’s meeker mien, 10

Love, the sire of pleasing fears,

Sorrow smiling through her tears,

And conscious of the past employ

Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

ON A DISCOVERY MADE TOO LATE

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 thou listen to Hope’s whisper bland? 5

Or, listening, why forget the healing tale,

When Jealousy with feverous fancies pale

Jarr’d thy fine fibres with a maniac’s hand?

Faint was that Hope, and rayless! — Yet ‘twas fair

And sooth’d with many a dream the hour of rest: 10

Thou should’st have lov’d it most, when most opprest,

And nurs’d 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 wish’d to die,

If thro’ the shuddering midnight I had sent

From the dark dungeon of the Tower timerent

That fearful voice, a famish’d Father’s cry —

Lest in some after moment aught more mean 5

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 10

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!

MELANCHOLY

A FRAGMENT

Stretch’d on a moulder’d Abbey’s broadest wall,

Where ruining ivies propp’d the ruins steep —

Her folded arms wrapping her tatter’d pall, The fern was press’d beneath her hair,

The dark green Adder’s Tongue was there;

And still as pass’d the flagging sea-gale weak,

The long lank leaf bow’d fluttering o’er her cheek.

That pallid cheek was flush’d: her eager look

Beam’d eloquent in slumber! Inly wrought, 10

Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook,

And her bent forehead work’d with troubled thought.

Strange was the dream ——

TO A YOUNG ASS: ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT

Poor little Foal of an oppresséd race!

I love the languid patience of thy face:

And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,

And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.

But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay’d, 5

That never thou dost sport along the glade?

And (most unlike the nature of things young)

That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?

Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,

Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate? 10

The starving meal, and all the thousand aches

‘Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes’?

Or is thy sad heart thrill’d with filial pain

To see thy wretched mother’s shorten’d chain?

And truly, very piteous is her lot — 15

Chain’d to a log within a narrow spot,

Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen,

While sweet around her waves the tempting green!

Poor Ass! thy master should have learnt to show

Pity — best taught by fellowship of Woe! 20

For much I fear me that He lives like thee,

Half famish’d in a land of Luxury!

How askingly its footsteps hither bend?

It seems to say, ‘And have I then one friend?’

Innocent foal! thou poor despis’d forlorn! 25

I hail thee Brother — spite of the fool’s scorn!

And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell

Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,

Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,

And Laughter tickle Plenty’s ribless side! 30

How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,

And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!

Yea! and more musically sweet to me

Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,

Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest 35

The aching of pale Fashion’s vacant breast!

LINES ON A FRIEND WHO DIED OF A FRENZY FEVER INDUCED BY CALUMNIOUS REPORTS

Edmund! thy grave with aching eye I scan,

And inly groan for Heaven’s poor outcast — Man!

‘Tis tempest all or gloom: in early youth

If gifted with th’ Ithuriel lance of Truth

We force to start amid her feign’d caress 5

Vice, siren-hag! in native ugliness;

A Brother’s fate will haply rouse the tear,

And on we go in heaviness and fear!

But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure’s bower

Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour, 10

The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground,

And mingled forms of Misery rise around:

Heart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast,

That courts the future woe to hide the past;

Remorse, the poison’d arrow in his side, 15

And loud lewd Mirth, to Anguish close allied:

Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping Pain,

Darts her hot lightning-flash athwart the brain.

Rest, injur’d shade! Shall Slander squatting near

Spit her cold venom in a dead man’s ear? 20

‘Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow

In Merit’s joy, and Poverty’s meek woe;

Thine all, that cheer the moment as it flies,

The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies.

Nurs’d in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew, 25

And in thy heart they wither’d! Such chill dew

Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed;

And Vanity her filmy network spread,

With eye that roll’d around in asking gaze,

And tongue that traffick’d in the trade of praise. 30

Thy follies such! the hard world mark’d them well!

Were they more wise, the Proud who never fell?

Rest, injur’d shade! the poor man’s grateful prayer

On heavenward wing thy wounded soul shall bear.

As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass, 35

And sit me down upon its recent grass,

With introverted eye I contemplate

Similitude of soul, perhaps of — Fate!

To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assign’d

Energic Reason and a shaping mind, 40

The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot’s part,

And Pity’s sigh, that breathes the gentle heart —

Sloth-jaundic’d all! and from my graspless hand

Drop Friendship’s precious pearls, like hour-glass sand.

I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows, 45

A dreamy pang in Morning’s feverous doze.

Is this piled earth our Being’s passless mound?

Tell me, cold grave! is Death with poppies crown’d?

Tired Sentinel! mid fitful starts I nod,

And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod! 50

TO A FRIEND

CHARLES LAMB TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM

Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme

Elaborate and swelling: yet the heart

Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers

I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse,

Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought 5

Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know)

From business wandering far and local cares,

Thou creepest round a dear-lov’d Sister’s bed

With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look,

Soothing each pang with fond solicitude, 10

And tenderest tones medicinal of love.

I too a Sister had, an only Sister —

She lov’d me dearly, and I doted on her!

To her I pour’d forth all my puny sorrows

(As a sick Patient in a Nurse’s arms) 15

And of the heart those hidden maladies

That e’en from Friendship’s eye will shrink asham’d.

O! I HAVE WAK’D AT MIDNIGHT, AND HAVE WEPT

O! I have wak’d at midnight, and have wept,

Because she was not! — Cheerily, dear Charles!

Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year: 20

Such warm presages feel I of high Hope.

For not uninterested the dear Maid

I’ve view’d — her soul affectionate yet wise,

Her polish’d wit as mild as lambent glories

That play around a sainted infant’s head. 25

He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees,

Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love

Aught to implore were impotence of mind)

That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne,

Prepar’d, when he his healing ray vouchsafes, 30

Thanksgiving to pour forth with lifted heart,

And praise Him Gracious with a Brother’s Joy!

SONNETS ON EMINENT CHARACTERS

CONTRIBUTED TO THE ‘MORNING CHRONICLE’ IN DECEMBER 1794 AND JANUARY 1795

[The Sonnets were introduced by the following letter: —

‘MR. EDITOR — If, Sir, the following Poems will not disgrace

your poetical department, I will transmit you a series of

Sonnets (as it is the fashion to call them) addressed like

these to eminent Contemporaries.

‘JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.’

S. T. C.]

I

TO THE HONOURABLE MR. ERSKINE

When British Freedom for an happier land

Spread her broad wings, that flutter’d with affright,

ERSKINE! thy voice she heard, and paus’d her flight

Sublime of hope, for dreadless thou didst stand

(Thy censer glowing with the hallow’d flame) 5

A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine,

And at her altar pour the stream divine

Of unmatch’d eloquence. Therefore thy name

Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast

With blessings heavenward breath’d. And when the doom

Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb 11

Thy light shall shine: as sunk beneath the West

Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze,

Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.

December 1, 1794.

BURKE

As late I lay in Slumber’s shadowy vale,

With wetted cheek and in a mourner’s guise,

I saw the sainted form of FREEDOM rise:

She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale —

‘Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name, 5

Ere in an evil hour with alter’d voice

Thou bad’st Oppression’s hireling crew rejoice

Blasting with wizard spell my laurell’d fame.

‘Yet never, BURKE! thou drank’st Corruption’s bowl!

Thee stormy Pity and the cherish’d lure 10

Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul

Wilder’d with meteor fires. Ah Spirit pure!

‘That Error’s mist had left thy purgéd eye:

So might I clasp thee with a Mother’s joy!’

December 9, 1794.

PRIESTLEY

Though rous’d by that dark Vizir Riot rude

Have driven our PRIESTLEY o’er the Ocean swell;

Though Superstition and her wolfish brood

Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell;

Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell! 5

For lo! RELIGION at his strong behest

Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell,

And flings to Earth her tinsel-glittering vest,

Her mitred State and cumbrous Pomp unholy;

And JUSTICE wakes to bid th’ Oppressor wail 10

Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly;

And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won

Meek NATURE slowly lifts her matron veil

To smile with fondness on her gazing Son!

December 11, 1794.

LA FAYETTE

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, 5

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, 10

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!

December 15, 1794.

KOSKIUSKO

O what a loud and fearful shriek was there,

As though a thousand souls one death-groan pour’d!

Ah me! they saw beneath a Hireling’s sword

Their KOSKIUSKO fall! Through the swart air

(As pauses the tir’d Cossac’s barbarous yell 5

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 destin’d bier,

As if from eldest time some Spirit meek 10

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!

December 16, 1794.

PITT

Not always should the Tear’s ambrosial dew

Roll its soft anguish down thy furrow’d cheek!

Not always heaven-breath’d tones of Suppliance meek

Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark Scowler view,

Who with proud words of dear-lov’d Freedom came — 5

More blasting than the mildew from the South!

And kiss’d his country with Iscariot mouth

(Ah! foul apostate from his Father’s fame!)

Then fix’d her on the Cross of deep distress,

And at safe distance marks the thirsty Lance 10

Pierce her big side! But O! if some strange trance

The eyelids of thy stern-brow’d Sister press,

Seize, Mercy! thou more terrible the brand, 13

And hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand!

December 23, 1794.

TO THE REV. W. L. BOWLES