Juvenile Poems Read Online

had with A. B. before;

And in mutual affiance

None attempting to soar

Above another,

The unanimous three

C. A. and B. C. and A. B.

All are equal, each to his brother,

Preserving the balance of power so true:

Ah! the like would the proud Autocratix2 do!

At taxes impending not Britain would tremble,

Nor Prussia struggle her fear to dissemble;

Nor the Mah'met-sprung wight

The great Mussulman

Would stain his Divan

With Urine the soft-flowing daughter of Fright.

IV

But rein your stallion in, too daring Nine!

Should Empires bloat the scientific line?

Or with dishevell'd hair all madly do ye run

For transport that your task is done?

For done it is – the cause is tried!

And Proposition, gentle maid,

Who soothly ask'd stern Demonstration's aid,

Has prov'd her right, and A. B. C.

Of Angles three

Is shown to be of equal side;

And now our weary steed to rest in fine,

'Tis raised upon A. B. the straight, the given line.

The Nose

Ye souls unus'd to lofty verse,

Who sweep the earth with lowly wing,

Like sand before the blast disperse –

A Nose! a mighty Nose I sing!

As erst Prometheus stole from heaven the fire

To animate the wonder of his hand;

Thus with unhallow'd hands, O muse, aspire,

And from my subject snatch a burning brand!

So like the Nose I sing – my verse shall glow –

Like Phlegethon my verse in waves of fire shall flow!

Light of this once all darksome spot

Where now their glad course mortals run,

First-born of Sirius begot

Upon the focus of the sun –

I'll call thee –! for such thy earthly name –

What name so high, but what too low must be?

Comets, when most they drink the solar flame

Are but faint types and images of thee!

Burn madly Fire! o'er earth in ravage run,

Then blush for shame more red by fiercer –– outdone!

I saw when from the turtle feast

The thick dark smoke in volumes rose!

I saw the darkness of the mist

Encircle thee, O Nose!

Shorn of thy rays thou shott'st a fearful gleam

(The turtle quiver'd with prophetic fright)

Gloomy and sullen thro' the night of steam: –

So Satan's Nose when Dunstan urg'd to flight,

Glowing from gripe of red hot pincers dread

Athwart the smokes of Hell disastrous twilight shed!

The furies to madness my brain devote –

In robes of ice my body wrap!

On billowy flames of fire I float,

Hear ye, my entrails how they snap?

Some power unseen forbids my lungs to breathe!

What fire-clad meteors round me whizzing fly!

I vitrify thy torrid zone beneath

Proboscis fierce! I am calcin'd! I die!

Thus, like great Pliny, in Vesuvius' fire,

I perish in the blaze while I the blaze admire.

1789

Monody on a Tea-Kettle

O muse who sangest late another's pain,

To griefs domestic turn thy coal-black steed!

With slowest steps thy funeral steed must go,

Nodding his head in all the pomp of woe:

Wide scatter round each dark and deadly weed,

And let the melancholy dirge complain,

(While Bats shall shriek and Dogs shall howling run)

The tea-kettle is spoilt and Coleridge is undone!

Your cheerful songs, ye unseen crickets cease!

Let songs of grief your alter'd minds engage!

For he who sang responsive to your lay,

What time the joyous bubbles 'gan to play,

The sooty swain has felt the fire's fierce rage; –

Yes he is gone, and all my woes increase;

I heard the Water issuing from the Wound –

No more the Tea shall pour its flagrant steams around!

O Goddess best beloved, delightful Tea!

With thee compar'd what yields the madd'ning vine?

Sweet power! who know'st to spread the calm delight,

And the pure joy prolong to midmost night!

Ah! must I all thy varied sweets resign?

Enfolded close in grief thy form I see

No more wilt thou extend thy willing arms,

Receive the fervent Jove and yield him all thy charms!

How sink the mighty low by Fate opprest! –

Perhaps O Kettle! thou by scornful toe

Rude urg'd t' ignoble place with plaintive din,

May'st rust obscure midst heaps of vulgar tin; –

As if no joy had ever seiz'd my breast

When from thy spout the streams did arching flow, –

As if infus'd thou ne'er hadst known t' inspire

All the warm raptures of poetic fire!

But hark! or do I fancy the glad voice –

»What tho' the swain did wondrous charms disclose –

(Not such did Memnon's sister sable drest)

Take these bright arms with royal face imprest,

A better Kettle shall thy soul rejoice,

And with Oblivion's wings o'erspread thy woes!«

Thus Fairy Hope can soothe distress and toil;

On empty Trivets she bids fancied Kettles boil!

1790

Absence

A Farewell Ode on Quitting School for Jesus College, Cambridge

Where graced with many a classic spoil

Cam rolls his reverend stream along,

I haste to urge the learned toil

That sternly chides my love-lorn song:

Ah me! too mindful of the days

Illumed by Passion's orient rays,

When peace, and Cheerfulness, and Health

Enriched me with the best of wealth.

Ah fair Delights! that o'er my soul

On Memory's wing, like shadows fly!

Ah Flowers! which Joy from Eden stole

While Innocence stood smiling by! –

But cease, fond Heart! this bootless moan:

Those Hours on rapid Pinions flown

Shall yet return, by Absence crowned,

And scatter livelier roses round.

The Sun who ne'er remits his fires

On heedless eyes may pour the day:

The Moon, that oft from Heaven retires,

Endears her renovated ray.

What though she leave the sky unblest

To mourn awhile in murky vest?

When she relumes her lovely Light,

We bless the Wanderer of the Night.

[1791]

Sonnet

On the Same

Farewell parental scenes! a sad farewell!

To you my grateful heart still fondly clings,

Tho' fluttering round on Fancy's burnish'd wings

Her tales of future Joy Hope loves to tell.

Adieu, adieu! ye much lov'd cloisters pale!

Ah! would those happy days return again,

When 'neath your arches, free from every stain,

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

Dear haunts! where oft my simple lays I sang,

Listening meanwhile the echoings of my feet,

Lingering I quit you, with as great a pang,

As when ere while, my weeping childhood, torn

By early sorrow from my native seat,

Mingled its tears with hers – my widow'd Parent lorn.

[1791]

To the Muse

Tho' no bold flights to thee belong;

And tho' thy lays with conscious fear,

Shrink from Judgment's eye severe,

Yet much I thank thee, Spirit of my song!

For, lovely Muse! thy sweet employ

Exalts my soul, refines my breast,

Gives each pure pleasure keener zest,

And softens sorrow into pensive Joy.

From thee I learn'd the wish to bless,

From thee to commune with my heart;

From thee, dear Muse! the gayer part,

To laugh with Pity at the crowds, that press

Where Fashion flaunts her robes by Folly spun,

Whose hues gay varying wanton in the sun.

1789

With Fielding's Amelia

Virtues and Woes alike too great for man

In the soft tale oft claim the useless sigh;

For vain the attempt to realize the plan,

On folly's wings must imitation fly.

With other aim has Fielding here display'd

Each social duty and each social care;

With just yet vivid coloring portray'd

What every wife should be, what many are

And sure the Parent of a race so sweet

With double pleasure on the page shall dwell,

Each scene with sympathizing breast shall meet,

While Reason still with smiles delights to tell

Maternal hope, that her lov'd Progeny

In all but Sorrows shall Amelias be!

[1792?]

On Receiving an Account

That His Only Sister's Death Was Inevitable

The tear which mourn'd a brother's fate scarce dry –

Pain after pain, and woe succeeding woe –

Is my heart destin'd for another blow?

O my sweet sister! and must thou too die?

Ah! how has Disappointment pour'd the tear

O'er infant Hope destroy'd by early frost!

How are ye gone, whom most my soul held dear!

Scarce had I lov'd you, ere I mourn'd you lost;

Say, is this hollow eye – this heartless pain

Fated to rove thro' Life's wide cheerless plain –

Nor father, brother, sister meets its ken –

My woes, my joys unshar'd! Ah! long ere then

On me thy icy dart, stern Death, be prov'd; –

Better to die, than live and not be lov'd!

[1791]

On Seeing a Youth

Affectionately Welcomed by a Sister

I too a sister had! too cruel Death!

How sad remembrance bids my bosom heave!

Tranquil her soul, as sleeping Infant's breath;

Meek were her manners as a vernal Eve.

Knowledge, that frequent lifts the bloated mind,

Gave her the treasure of a lowly breast,

And Wit to venom'd Malice oft assign'd,

Dwelt in her bosom in a Turtle's nest.

Cease, busy Memory! cease to urge the dart;

Nor on my soul her love to me impress!

For oh I mourn in anguish – and my heart

Feels the keen pang, th' unutterable distress.

Yet wherefore grieve I that her sorrows cease,

For Life was misery, and the Grave is Peace!

[1791]

The Same

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)

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

Because she was not. –

[1794?]

Pain

Once could the Morn's first beams, the healthful breeze,

All nature charm, and gay was every hour: –

But ah! not Music's self, nor fragrant bower

Can glad the trembling sense of wan disease.

Now that the frequent pangs my frame assail,

Now that my sleepless eyes are sunk and dim,

And seas of pain seem waving through each limb –

Ah what can all Life's gilded scenes avail?

I view the crowd, whom youth and health inspire,

Hear the loud laugh, and catch the sportive lay,

Then sigh and think – I too could laugh and play

And gaily sport it on the Muse's lyre,

Ere Tyrant Pain had chas'd away delight,

Ere the wild pulse throbb'd anguish thro' the night!

[1790?]

Life

As late I journied o'er the extensive plain

Where native Otter sports his scanty stream,

Musing in torpid woe a sister's pain,

The glorious prospect woke me from the dream.

At every step it widen'd to my sight,

Wood, Meadow, verdant Hill, and dreary Steep.

Following in quick succession of delight,

Till all – at once – did my eye ravish'd sweep!

May this (I cried) my course through Life portray!

New scenes of wisdom may each step display,

And knowledge open as my days advance!

Till what time Death shall pour the undarken'd ray,

My eye shall dart thro' infinite expanse,

And thought suspended lie in rapture's blissful Trance.

[1789]

Lines on an Autumnal Evening

O thou wild Fancy, check thy wing! No more

Those thin white flakes, those purple clouds explore!

Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight

Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of light;

Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the day,

With western peasants hail the morning ray!

Ah! rather bid the perished pleasures move,

A shadowy train, across the soul of Love!

O'er Disappointment's wintry desert fling

Each flower that wreathed the dewy locks of Spring,

When blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim bower

She leapt, awakened by the pattering shower.

Now sheds the sinking Sun a deeper gleam,

Aid, lovely Sorceress! aid thy Poet's dream!

With faery wand O bid the Maid arise,

Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes;

As erst when from the Muses' calm abode

I came, with Learning's meed not unbestowed;

When as she twined a laurel round my brow,

And met my kiss, and half returned my vow,

O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrilled heart,

And every nerve confessed the electric dart.

O dear Deceit! I see the Maiden rise,

Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes!

When first the lark high soaring swells his throat,

Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the loud note,

I trace her footsteps on the accustomed lawn,

I mark her glancing mid the gleam of dawn.

When the bent flower beneath the night dew weeps

And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps,

Amid the paly radiance soft and sad,

She meets my lonely path in moon-beams clad.

With her along the streamlet's brink I rove;

With her I list the warblings of the grove;

And seems in each low wind her voice to float,

Lone whispering Pity in each soothing note!

Spirits of Love! ye heard her name! Obey

The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair.

Whether on clustering pinions ye are there,

Where rich snows blossom on the Myrtle trees,

Or with fond languishment around my fair

Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her hair;

O heed the spell, and hither wing your way,

Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze!

Spirits! to you the infant Maid was given

Formed by the wonderous Alchemy of Heaven!

No fairer Maid does Love's wide empire know,

No fairer Maid e'er heaved the bosom's snow.

A thousand Loves around her forehead fly;

A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye;

Love lights her smile – in Joy's red nectar dips

His myrtle flower, and plants it on her lips.

She speaks! and hark that passion-warbled song –

Still, Fancy! still that voice, those notes prolong.

As sweet as when that voice with rapturous falls

Shall wake the softened echoes of Heaven's Halls!

O (have I sighed) were mine the wizard's rod,

Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God!

A flower-entangled Arbour I would seem

To shield my Love from Noontide's sultry beam:

Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous boughs

My Love might weave gay garlands for her brows.

When Twilight stole across the fading vale,

To fan my Love I'd be the Evening Gale;

Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest,

And flutter my faint pinions on her breast!

On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream by night,

To soothe my Love with shadows of delight: –

Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies,

And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes!

As when the savage, who his drowsy frame

Had basked beneath the Sun's unclouded flame,

Awakes amid the troubles of the air,

The skiey deluge, and white lightning's glare –

Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep,

And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep: –

So tossed by storms along Life's wildering way,

Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day,

When by my native brook I wont to rove,

While Hope with kisses nursed the Infant Love.

Dear native brook! like Peace, so placidly

Smoothing through fertile fields thy current meek!

Dear native brook! where first young Poesy

Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dream!

Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's cheek,

As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream!

Dear native haunts! where Virtue still is gay,

Where Friendship's fix'd star sheds a mellowed ray,

Where Love a crown of thornless Roses wears,

Where softened Sorrow smiles within her tears;

And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste employ,

Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy!

No more your sky-larks melting from the sight

Shall thrill the attuned heart-string with delight –

No more shall deck your pensive Pleasures sweet

With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat.

Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene

Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between!

Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song,

That soars on Morning's wing your vales among.

Scenes of my Hope! the aching eye ye leave

Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of eve!

Tearful and saddening with the saddened blaze

Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze:

Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend,

Till chill and damp the moonless night descend.

[1793]

The Rose

As late each flower that sweetest blows

I plucked, the Garden's pride!

Within the petals of a Rose

A sleeping Love I spied.

Around his brows a beamy wreath

Of many a lucent hue;

All purple glowed his cheek, beneath,

Inebriate with dew.

I softly seized the unguarded Power,

Nor scared his balmy rest:

And placed him, caged within the flower,

On spotless Sara's breast.

But when unweeting of the guile

Awoke the prisoner sweet,

He struggled to escape awhile

And stamped his faery feet.

Ah! soon the soul-entrancing sight

Subdued the impatient boy!

He gazed! he thrilled with deep delight!

Then clapped his wings for joy.

»And O!« he cried – »of magic kind

What charms this Throne endear!

Some other Love let Venus find –

I'll fix my empire here.«

[1793]

The Kiss

One kiss, dear maid! I said and sighed –

Your scorn the little boon denied.

Ah why refuse the blameless bliss?

Can danger lurk within a kiss?

Yon viewless Wanderer of the vale,

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 uninjured Bloom

Sighing back the soft perfume.

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,

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.

In tender accents, faint and low,

Well-pleased I hear the whispered »No!«

The whispered »No« – how little meant!

Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent!

For on those lovely lips the while

Dawns the soft relenting smile,

And tempts with feigned dissuasion coy

The gentle violence of Joy.

[1794?]

To a Young Ass

Its Mother Being Tethered Near It

Poor little Foal of an oppressed 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 dismayed,

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?

The starving meal, and all the thousand aches

»Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes?«

Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain

To see thy wretched Mother's shortened Chain?

And, truly very piteous is her Lot –

Chained 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!

For much I fear me that He lives like thee,

Half famished 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 despised Forlorn!

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!

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

The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast!

[1794]

Happiness

On wide, or narrow scale shall Man

Most happily describe life's plan?

Say, shall he bloom and wither there,

Where first his infant buds appear;

Or upwards dart with soaring force,

And tempt some more ambitious course?

Obedient now to Hope's command,

I bid each humble wish expand,

And fair and bright Life's prospects seem,

While Hope displays her cheering beam,

And Fancy's vivid colorings stream,

While Emulation stands me nigh

The Goddess of the eager eye.

With foot advanc'd and anxious heart

Now for the fancied goal I start: –

Ah! why will Reason intervene

Me and my promised joys between!

She stops my course, she chains my speed,

While thus her forceful words proceed.

»Ah! listen, youth, ere yet too late,

What evils on thy course may wait!

To bow the head, to bend the knee,

A minion of Servility,

At low Pride's frequent frowns to sigh,

And watch the glance in Folly's eye;

To toil intense, yet toil in vain,

And feel with what a hollow pain

Pale Disappointment hangs her head

O'er darling Expectation dead!

The scene is changed and Fortune's gale

Shall belly out each prosperous sail.

Yet sudden wealth full well I know

Did never Happiness bestow.

That wealth, to which we were not born

Dooms us to sorrow or to scorn.

Behold yon flock which long had trod

O'er the short grass of Devon's sod,

To Lincoln's rank rich meads transferr'd,

And in their fate thy own be fear'd;

Through every limb contagions fly,

Deform'd and chok'd they burst and die.

When Luxury opens wide her arms,

And smiling wooes thee to those charms,

Whose fascination thousands own,

Shall thy brows wear the stoic frown?

And when her goblet she extends

Which madd'ning myriads press around,

What power divine thy soul befriends

That thou shouldst dash it to the ground? –

No, thou shalt drink, and thou shalt know

Her transient bliss, her lasting woe,

Her maniac joys, that know no measure,

And riot rude and painted pleasure; –

Till (sad reverse!) the Enchantress vile

To frowns converts her magic smile;

Her train impatient to destroy,

Observe her frown with gloomy joy;

On thee – with harpy fangs they seize

The hideous offspring of Disease,

Swoll'n Dropsy ignorant of Rest,

And Fever garb'd in scarlet vest,

Consumption driving the quick hearse,

And Gout that howls the frequent curse,

With Apoplex of heavy head

That surely aims his dart of lead.

But say, Life's joys unmix'd were given

To thee some favorite of Heaven:

Within, without, tho' all were health –

Yet what e'en thus are Fame, Power, Wealth,

But sounds that variously express,

What's thine already – Happiness!

'Tis thine the converse deep to hold

With all the famous sons of old;

And thine the happy waking dream

While Hope pursues some favorite theme,

As oft when Night o'er Heaven is spread,

Round this maternal seat you tread,

Where far from splendour, far from riot,

In silence wrapt sleeps careless quiet.

'Tis thine with fancy oft to talk,

And thine the peaceful evening walk;

And what to thee the sweetest are –

The setting sun, the evening star –

The tints, which live along the sky,

And Moon that meets thy raptur'd eye,

Where oft the tear shall grateful start,

Dear silent pleasures of the Heart!

Ah! Being blest, for Heaven shall lend

To share thy simple joys a friend!

Ah! doubly blest, if Love supply

His influence to complete thy joy,

If chance some lovely maid thou find

To read thy visage in thy mind.

One blessing more demands thy care: –

Once more to Heaven address the prayer:

For humble independence pray

The guardian genius of thy way;

Whom (sages say) in days of yore

Meek competence to wisdom bore,

So shall thy little vessel glide

With a fair breeze adown the tide,

And Hope, if e'er thou 'ginst to sorrow

Remind thee of some fair to-morrow,

Till death shall close thy tranquil eye

While Faith proclaims ›thou shalt not die!‹«

[1791]

Domestic Peace

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,

From the Rebel's noisy hate,

In a cottaged vale She dwells

Listening to the Sabbath bells!

Still around her steps are seen

Spotless Honour's meeker mien,

Love, the sire of pleasing fears,

Sorrow smiling through her tears,

And conscious of the past employ

Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

[1794]

The Sigh

When Youth his faery reign began

Ere sorrow had proclaimed me man;

While Peace the present hour beguiled,

And all the lovely Prospect smiled;

Then Mary! 'mid my lightsome glee

I heav'd the painless Sigh for thee.

And when, along the waves of woe,

My harassed Heart was doomed to know

The frantic burst of Outrage keen,

And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen;

Then shipwrecked on Life's stormy sea

I heaved an anguished Sigh for thee!

But soon Reflection's power imprest

A stiller sadness on my breast;

And sickly hope with waning eye

Was well content to droop and die:

I yielded to the stern decree,

Yet heaved a languid Sigh for thee!

And though in distant climes to roam,

A wanderer from my native home,

I fain would soothe the sense of Care,

And lull to sleep the Joys that were,

Thy Image may not banished be –

Still, Mary! still I sigh for thee.

June, 1794

Epitaph on an Infant

Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade,

Death came with friendly care;

The opening bud to Heaven conveyed,

And bade it blossom there.

[1794]

On Imitation

All are not born to soar – and ah! how few

In tracks, where Wisdom leads, their paths pursue!

Contagious when to wit or wealth allied,

Folly and Vice diffuse their venom wide.

On Folly every fool his talent tries;

It asks some toil to imitate the wise;

Tho' few like Fox can speak – like Pitt can think –

Yet all like Fox can game – like Pitt can drink.

[1791?]

Honor

O, Curas hominum! O, quantum est in rebus inane!

The fervid Sun had more than halv'd the day,

When gloomy on his couch Philedon lay;

His feeble frame consumptive as his purse,

His aching head did wine and women curse;

His fortune ruin'd and his wealth decay'd,

Clamorous his Duns, his gaming debts unpaid,

The youth indignant seiz'd his tailor's bill,

And on its back thus wrote with moral quill:

»Various as colors in the rainbow shown,

Or similar in emptiness alone,

How false, how vain are Man's pursuits below!

Wealth, Honor, Pleasure – what can ye bestow?

Yet see, how high and low, and young and old

Pursue the all delusive power of Gold.

Fond man! should all Peru thy empire own,

For thee tho' all Golconda's jewels shone,

What greater bliss could all this wealth supply?

What, but to eat and drink and sleep and die?

Go, tempt the stormy sea, the burning soil –

Go, waste the night in thought, the day in toil,

Dark frowns the rock, and fierce the tempests rave –

Thy ingots go the unconscious deep to pave!

Or thunder at thy door the midnight train,

Or death shall knock that never knocks in vain.

Next Honor's sons come bustling on amain;

I laugh with pity at the idle train.

Infirm of soul! who think'st to lift thy name

Upon the waxen wings of human fame, –

Who for a sound, articulated breath –

Gazest undaunted in the face of death!

What art thou but a Meteor's glaring light –

Blazing a moment and then sunk in night?

Caprice which rais'd thee high shall hurl thee low,

Or envy blast the laurels on thy brow.

To such poor joys could ancient Honor lead

When empty fame was toiling Merit's mead;

To Modern Honor other lays belong;

Profuse of joy and Lord of right and wrong,

Honor can game, drink, riot in the stew,

Cut a friend's throat; – what cannot Honor do?

Ah me – the storm within can Honor still

For Julio's death, whom Honor made me kill?

Or will this lordly Honor tell the way

To pay those debts, which Honor makes me pay?

Or if with pistol and terrific threats

I make some traveller pay my Honor's debts,

A med'cine for this wound can Honor give?

Ah, no! my Honor dies to make my Honor live.

But see! young Pleasure, and her train advance,

And joy and laughter wake the inebriate dance;

Around my neck she throws her fair white arms,

I meet her loves, and madden at her charms.

For the gay grape can joys celestial move,

And what so sweet below as Woman's love?

With such high transport every moment flies,

I curse experience, that he makes me wise;

For at his frown the dear deliriums flew,

And the chang'd scene now wears a gloomy hue.

A hideous hag th' Enchantress Pleasure seems,

And all her joys appear but feverous dreams.

The vain Resolve still broken and still made,

Disease and loathing and remorse invade;

The charm is vanish'd and the bubble's broke, –

A slave to pleasure is a slave to smoke!«

Such lays repentant did the Muse supply;

When as the Sun was hastening down the sky,

In glittering state twice fifty guineas come, –

His Mother's plate antique had rais'd the sum.

Forth leap'd Philedon of new life possest: –

'Twas Brookes's all till two, – 'twas Hackett's all the rest!

[1791]

Progress of Vice

Deep in the gulph of Vice and Woe

Leaps man at once with headlong throw?

Him inborn Truth and Virtue guide,

Whose guards are shame and conscious pride;

In some gay hour Vice steals into the breast;

Perchance she wears some softer Virtue's vest.

By unperceiv'd degrees she tempts to stray,

Till far from Virtue's path she leads the feet away.

Then swift the soul to disenthrall

Will Memory the past recall,

And fear before the Victim's eyes

Bid future ills and dangers rise.

But hark! the voice, the lyre, their charms combine –

Gay sparkles in the cup the generous wine;

Th' inebriate dance – the fair frail nymph inspires,

And Virtue vanquish'd – scorn'd – with hasty flight retires.

But soon to tempt the pleasures cease;

Yet shame forbids return to peace,

And stern necessity will force

Still to urge on the desperate course.

The drear black paths of Vice the wretch must try,

Where Conscience flashes horror on each eye,

Where Hate – where Murder scowl – where starts Affright!

Ah! close the scene, – ah! close – for dreadful is the sight.

[1790]

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,

With generous joy he viewed his modest wealth;

He heard the widow's heaven-breathed prayer of praise,

He marked the sheltered orphan's tearful gaze,

Or where the sorrow shrivelled captive lay,

Pour'd the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-tide ray.

Beneath this roof if thy cheered 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

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!

[1794]

Destruction of the Bastille

I

Heard'st thou yon universal cry,

And dost thou linger still on Gallia's shore?

Go, Tyranny! beneath some barbarous sky

Thy terrors lost, and ruin'd power deplore!

What tho' through many a groaning age

Was felt thy keen suspicious rage,

Yet Freedom rous'd by fierce Disdain

Has wildly broke thy triple chain,

And like the storm which earth's deep entrails hide,

At length has burst its way and spread the ruins wide.

* * * * *

IV

In sighs their sickly breath was spent; each gleam

Of Hope had ceas'd the long long day to cheer;

Or if delusive, in some flitting dream,

It gave them to their friends and children dear –

Awak'd by lordly Insult's sound

To all the doubled horrors round,

Oft shrunk they from Oppression's band

While anguish rais'd the desperate hand

For silent death; or lost the mind's control,

Thro' every burning vein would tides of Frenzy roll.

V

But cease, ye pitying bosoms, cease to bleed!

Such scenes no more demand the tear humane;

I see, I see! glad Liberty succeed

With every patriot virtue in her train!

And mark yon peasant's raptured eyes;

Secure he views his harvests rise;

No fetter vile the mind shall know,

And Eloquence shall fearless glow.

Yes! Liberty the soul of Life shall reign,

Shall throb in every pulse, shall flow thro' every vein!

VI

Shall France alone a Despot spurn?

Shall she alone, O Freedom, boast thy care?

Lo, round thy standard Belgia's heroes burn,

Tho' Power's blood-stain'd streamers fire the air,

And wider yet thy influence spread,

Nor e'er recline thy weary head,

Till every land from pole to pole

Shall boast one independent soul!

And still, as erst, let favor'd Britain be

First ever of the first and freest of the free!

[1789?]

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.

Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours,

With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers

(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn)

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!

Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply

The scattered cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.

The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks

With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,

Released from school, their little hearts at rest,

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-loved maid's accustomed tread:

She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,

Loiters, the long-filled 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,

And all was joy; save when another's woes

A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,

Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast.

Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon,

Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon:

Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,

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

[1794]

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 the Ithuriel lance of Truth

We force to start amid her feigned caress

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,

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 poisoned arrow in his side,

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?

'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.

Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew,

And in thy heart they withered! Such chill dew

Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed;

And Vanity her filmy net-work spread,

With eye that rolled around in asking gaze,

And tongue that trafficked in the trade of praise.

Thy follies such! the hard world marked them well!

Were they more wise, the proud who never fell?

Rest, injured shade! the poor man's grateful prayer

On heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear.

As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass,

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 assigned

Energic Reason and a shaping mind,

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

And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart.

Sloth-jaundiced all! and from my graspless hand

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

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

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 crowned?

Tired Sentinel! mid fitful starts I nod,

And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod!

[1794]

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 wondered at the tale!

Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing,

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

Mourned with the breeze, O Lee Boo!3 o'er thy tomb.

Where'er I wandered, Pity still was near,

Breathed from the heart and glistened in the tear:

No knell that tolled, but filled my anxious eye,

And suffering Nature wept that one should die!4

Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast,

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 glowed;

Her banners, like a midnight meteor, flowed;

Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies

She came, and scattered battles from her eyes!

Then Exultation waked the patriot fire

And swept with wild hand the Tyrtæan lyre:

Red from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lance,

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.

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-wildered Maniac's brain hath seen

Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,

If these demand the impassioned Poet's care –

If Mirth and softened 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.

Nor, Sara! thou these early flowers refuse –

Ne'er lurked the snake beneath their simple hues;

No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings

From Flattery's night-shade: as he feels he sings.

September, 1792

Sonnet I

»Content, as random Fancies might inspire,

If his weak harp at times or lonely lyre

He struck with desultory hand, and drew

Some softened tones to Nature not untrue.«

Bowles.

My heart has thanked thee, Bowles! for those soft strains

Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring

Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring!

For hence not callous to the mourner's pains

Through Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went:

And when the mightier throes of mind began,

And drove me forth, a thought-bewildered man,

Their mild and manliest melancholy lent

A mingled charm, such as the pang consigned

To slumber, though the big tear it renewed;

Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood

Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,

As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep

Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep.

[1795 or 1796]

Sonnet II

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,

Ere in an evil hour with altered voice

Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice

Blasting with wizard spell my laurelled fame.

Yet never, Burke! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl!

Thee stormy Pity and the cherished lure

Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul

Wildered with meteor fires. Ah Spirit pure!

That error's mist had left thy purged eye:

So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy!«

[1794]

Sonnet III

Though roused 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!

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 the Oppressor wail

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!

[1794]

Sonnet IV

When British Freedom for a happier land

Spread her broad wings, that fluttered with affright,

Erskine! thy voice she heard, and paused her flight

Sublime of hope! For dreadless thou didst stand

(Thy censer glowing with the hallowed flame)

A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine,

And at her altar pour the stream divine

Of unmatched eloquence. Therefore thy name

Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast

With blessings heaven-ward breathed. And when the doom

Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb

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.

[1794]

Sonnet V

It was some Spirit, Sheridan! that breathed

O'er thy young mind such wildly various power!

My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour,

Thy temples with Hymmettian flow'rets wreathed:

And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier

Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glade;

Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade

That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear.

Now patriot rage and indignation high

Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance

Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry!

Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance

The Apostate by the brainless rout adored,

As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's sword.

[1795]

Sonnet VI

O what a loud and fearful shriek was there,

As though a thousand souls one death-groan poured!

Ah me! they saw beneath a hireling's sword

Their Kosciusko fall! Through the swart air

(As pauses the tired Cossac's barbarous yell

Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale

Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell

The dirge of murdered Hope! while Freedom pale

Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier,

As if from eldest time some Spirit meek

Had gathered in a mystic urn each tear

That ever on a Patriot's furrowed cheek

Fit channel found, and she had drained the bowl

In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!

[1794]

Sonnet VII

As when far off the warbled strains are heard

That soar on Morning's wing the vales among,

Within his cage the imprisoned 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!

[1794]

Sonnet VIII

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 glimmered 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-winged Travellers back again:

Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam

Like the bright Rainbow on a willowy stream.

[1793?]

Sonnet IX

Pale Roamer through the night! thou poor Forlorn!

Remorse that man on his death-bed 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

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-bosomed 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!

[1794?]

Sonnet X

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 shrivelled limbs and palsied head.

My Father! throw away this tattered 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 Galilean mild,

Who met the Lazars turned from rich men's doors,

And called them Friends, and healed their noisome sores!

[1795?]

Sonnet XI

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?

Or, listening, why forget the healing tale,

When Jealousy with feverous fancies pale

Jarred 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!

[1794]

Sonnet XII

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 famished Father's cry –

Lest in some after moment aught more mean

Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout

Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin rout

Diminished 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!

[1794?]

Lines

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 deep 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 gained 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!

Lines

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 yplucked 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 vowed 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 dissevered Fair engrost,

Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow,

As though my breast entombed 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 whispered to himself, with malice fraught –

»Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen:

To-morrow shall he ken her altered mien!«

He spake, and ambushed 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 twanged 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 decked the bowers of old Romance)

That Sleep enamoured 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 even-tide!«

[1794]

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 honours 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.

[1793]

The Complaint of Ninathóma

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 Cathlóma

In the steps of my beauty I strayed;

The warriors beheld Ninathóma,

And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid!

A Ghost! by my cavern it darted!

In moon-beams the Spirit was drest –

For lovely appear the departed

When they visit the dreams of my rest!

But disturbed by the tempest's commotion

Fleet the shadowy forms of delight –

Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean!

To howl through my cavern by night.

[1793]

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.

[1794?]

To an Infant

Ah! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life!

I did but snatch away the unclasped 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,

Tutored 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 mak'st 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 tetchy blow,

Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow!

O thou that rearest with celestial aim

The future Seraph in my mortal frame,

Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet

As on I totter with unpractised feet,

Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee,

Meek nurse of souls through their long infancy!

[1795]

Lines

Written at Shurton Bars, Near Bridge-Water, September, 1795, in Answer to a Letter from Bristol

Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better

Received from absent friend by way of Letter.

For what so sweet can laboured lays impart

As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart?

Anon.

Nor travels my meandering eye

The starry wilderness on high;

Nor now with curious sight

I mark the glow-worm, as I pass,

Move with ›green radiance‹ through the grass,

An emerald of light.

O ever present to my view!

My wafted spirit is with you,

And soothes your boding fears:

I see you all oppressed with gloom

Sit lonely in that cheerless room –

Ah me! You are in tears!

Beloved Woman! did you fly

Chilled Friendship's dark disliking eye,

Or Mirth's untimely din?

With cruel weight these trifles press

A temper sore with tenderness,

When aches the Void within.

But why with sable wand unblest

Should Fancy rouse within my breast

Dim-visaged shapes of Dread?

Untenanting its beauteous clay

My Sara's soul has winged its way,

And hovers round my head!

I felt it prompt the tender dream,

When slowly sank the day's last gleam;

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 channelled Isle5

(Where stands one solitary pile

Unslated by the blast)

The watchfire, like a sullen star

Twinkles to many a dozing tar

Rude cradled on the mast.

Even there – beneath that light-house tower –

In 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-vexed flame.

And there in black soul-jaundiced fit

A sad gloom-pampered 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-shattered bark;

Her vain distress-guns hear;

And when a second sheet of light

Flashed o'er the blackness of the night –

To 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 opened rose! From heaven they fell,

And with the sun-beam blend.

Blest 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

In Pity's dew divine;

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!

'Tis said, in Summer's evening hour

Flashes the golden-coloured 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!

Lines

To a Friend in Answer to a Melancholy Letter

Away, those cloudy looks, that labouring 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-coloured 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;

The swain, who, lulled by Seine's mild murmurs, led

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 tired limbs to wrap the purple vest;

And mixed with nails and beads, an equal jest!

Barter for food the jewels of his crown.

[1795?]

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 hymned the song of peace o'er Bethlehem's fields!

Yet thou more bright than all the angel blaze,

That harbingered thy birth, Thou, Man of Woes!

Despised Galilean! For the great

Invisible (by symbols only seen)

With a peculiar and surpassing light

Shines from the visage of the oppressed 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-coloured mead,

Nor the green Ocean with his thousand isles,

Nor the starred azure, nor the sovran sun,

E'er with such majesty of portraiture

Imaged the supreme beauty uncreate,

As thou, meek Saviour! at the fearful hour

When thy insulted anguish winged the prayer

Harped by Archangels, when they sing of mercy!

Which when the Almighty heard from forth his throne

Diviner light filled Heaven with ecstasy!

Heaven's hymnings paused: and Hell her yawning mouth

Closed a brief moment.

Lovely was the death

Of Him whose life was Love! Holy with power

He on the thought-benighted Sceptic beamed

Manifest Godhead, melting into day

What floating mists of dark idolatry

Broke and misshaped the omnipresent Sire:

And first by Fear uncharmed the drowsed Soul.

Till of its nobler nature it 'gan feel

Dim recollections; and thence soared 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 absorbed: 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!

We and our Father one!

And blest are they,

Who in this fleshly World, the elect of Heaven,

Their strong eye darting through the deeds of men,

Adore with steadfast 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.

Their's too celestial courage, inly armed –

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.

Who the Creator love, created might

Dread not: within their tents no terrors walk.

For they are holy things before the Lord

Aye unprofaned, though Earth should league with Hell;

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 refreshed from Heaven

He calms the throb and tempest of his heart.

His countenance settles; a soft solemn bliss

Swims in his eye – his swimming eye upraised:

And Faith's whole armour 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

That shower down vengeance on these latter days.

For kindling with intenser Deity

From the celestial Mercy-seat they come,

And at the renovating wells of Love

Have filled 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 deformed. But lo! the bursting Sun!

Touched by the enchantment of that sudden beam

Straight the black vapour 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 blest 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-aimed blow

Victorious murder a blind suicide)

Haply for this some younger Angel now

Looks down on human nature: and, behold!

A sea of blood bestrewed with wrecks, where mad

Embattling interests on each other rush

With unhelmed rage!

'Tis the sublime of man,

Our noontide majesty, to know ourselves

Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole!

This fraternizes man, this constitutes

Our charities and bearings. But 'tis 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 stained 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!

And curse your spells, that film the eye of Faith,

Hiding the present God; whose presence lost,

The moral world's cohesion, we become

An anarchy of Spirits! Toy-bewitched,

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 destined victory!

But first offences needs must come! Even now6

(Black Hell laughs horrible – to hear the scoff!)

Thee to defend, meek Galilean! 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 Saviour 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 feigned)

Some Fury fondled in her hate to man,

Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge

Lick his young face, and at his mouth imbreathe

Horrible sympathy! And leagued with these

Each petty German princeling, nursed in gore!

Soul-hardened barterers of human blood!

Death's prime slave-merchants! Scorpion-whips of Fate!

Nor least in savagery of holy zeal,

Apt for the yoke, the race degenerate,

Whom Britain erst had blushed to call her sons!

Thee to defend the Moloch priest prefers

The prayer of hate, and bellows to the herd

That Deity, accomplice Deity

In the fierce jealousy of wakened wrath

Will go forth with our armies and our fleets

To scatter the red ruin on their foes!

O blasphemy! to mingle fiendish deeds

With blessedness!

Lord of unsleeping Love,7

From everlasting Thou! We shall not die.

These, even these, in mercy didst thou form,

Teachers of Good through Evil, by brief wrong

Making Truth lovely, and her future might

Magnetic o'er the fixed untrembling heart.

In the primeval age a dateless while

The vacant Shepherd wandered with his flock,

Pitching his tent where'er the green grass waved.

But soon Imagination conjured up

A host of new desires: with busy aim,

Each for himself, Earth's eager children toiled.

So Property began, twy-streaming fount,

Whence Vice and Virtue flow, honey and gall.

Hence the soft couch, and many-coloured robe,

The timbrel, and arch'd dome and costly feast,

With all the inventive arts, that nursed the soul

To forms of beauty, and by sensual wants

Unsensualized the mind, which in the means

Learnt to forget the grossness of the end,

Best pleasured with its own activity.

And hence Disease that withers manhood's arm,

The daggered Envy, spirit-quenching Want,

Warriors, and Lords, and Priests – all the sore ills

That vex and desolate our mortal life.

Wide-wasting ills! yet each the immediate source

Of mightier good. Their keen necessities

To ceaseless action goading human thought

Have made Earth's reasoning animal her Lord;

And the pale-featured Sage's trembling hand

Strong as a host of armed Deities,

Such as the blind Ionian fabled erst.

From avarice thus, from luxury and war

Sprang heavenly science; and from science freedom.

O'er wakened realms Philosophers and Bards

Spread in concentric circles: they whose souls,

Conscious of their high dignities from God,

Brook not wealth's rivalry! and they who long

Enamoured with the charms of order hate

The unseemly disproportion: and whoe'er

Turn with mild sorrow from the victor's car

And the low puppetry of thrones, to muse

On that blest triumph, when the patriot Sage

Called the red lightnings from the o'er-rushing cloud

And dashed the beauteous terrors on the earth

Smiling majestic. Such a phalanx ne'er

Measured firm paces to the calming sound

Of Spartan flute! These on the fated day,

When, stung to rage by pity, eloquent men

Have roused with pealing voice the unnumbered tribes

That toil and groan and bleed, hungry and blind, –

These hushed awhile with patient eye serene

Shall watch the mad careering of the storm;

Then o'er the wild and wavy chaos rush

And tame the outrageous mass, with plastic might

Moulding confusion to such perfect forms,

As erst were wont, – bright visions of the day! –

To float before them, when, the summer noon,

Beneath some arch'd romantic rock reclined

They felt the sea breeze lift their youthful locks;

Or in the month of blossoms, at mild eve,

Wandering with desultory feet inhaled

The wafted perfumes, and the flocks and woods

And many-tinted streams and setting sun

With all his gorgeous company of clouds

Ecstatic gazed! then homeward as they strayed

Cast the sad eye to earth, and inly mused

Why there was misery in a world so fair.

Ah! far removed from all that glads the sense,

From all that softens or ennobles Man,

The wretched Many! Bent beneath their loads

They gape at pageant Power, nor recognise

Their cots' transmuted plunder! From the tree

Of Knowledge, ere the vernal sap had risen

Rudely disbranched! Blest Society!

Fitliest depictured by some sun-scorched waste,

Where oft majestic through the tainted noon

The Simoon sails, before whose purple pomp

Who falls not prostrate dies! And where by night,

Fast by each precious fountain on green herbs

The lion couches; or hyæna dips

Deep in the lucid stream his bloody jaws;

Or serpent plants his vast moon-glittering bulk,

Caught in whose monstrous twine Behemoth8 yells,

His bones loud-crashing!

O ye numberless,

Whom foul oppression's ruffian gluttony

Drives from life's plenteous feast! O thou poor wretch

Who nursed in darkness and made wild by want,

Roamest for prey, yea thy unnatural hand

Dost lift to deeds of blood! O pale-eyed form,

The victim of seduction, doomed to know

Polluted nights and days of blasphemy;

Who in loathed orgies with lewd wassailers

Must gaily laugh, while thy remembered home

Gnaws like a viper at thy secret heart!

O aged women! ye who weekly catch

The morsel tossed by law-forced charity,

And die so slowly, that none call it murder!

O loathly suppliants! ye, that unreceived

Totter heart-broken from the closing gates

Of the full Lazar-house: or, gazing, stand

Sick with despair! O ye to glory's field

Forced or ensnared, who, as ye gasp in death,

Bleed with new wounds beneath the vulture's beak!

O thou poor widow, who in dreams dost view

Thy husband's mangled corse, and from short doze

Start'st with a shriek; or in thy half-thatched cot

Waked by the wintry night-storm, wet and cold,

Cow'rst o'er thy screaming baby! Rest awhile

Children of wretchedness! More groans must rise,

More blood must stream, or ere your wrongs be full.

Yet is the day of retribution nigh:

The Lamb of God hath opened the fifth seal:

And upward rush on swiftest wing of fire

The innumerable multitude of Wrongs

By man on man inflicted! Rest awhile,

Children of wretchedness! The hour is nigh;

And lo! the great, the rich, the mighty Men,

The Kings and the chief Captains of the World,

With all that fixed on high like stars of Heaven

Shot baleful influence, shall be cast to earth,

Vile and down-trodden, as the untimely fruit

Shook from the fig-tree by a sudden storm.

Even now the storm begins:9 each gentle name,

Faith and meek Piety, with fearful joy

Tremble far-off – for lo! the giant Frenzy

Uprooting empires with his whirlwind arm

Mocketh high Heaven; burst hideous from the cell

Where the old Hag, unconquerable, huge,

Creation's eyeless drudge, black ruin, sits

Nursing the impatient earthquake.

O return!

Pure Faith! meek Piety! The abhorred Form

Whose scarlet robe was stiff with earthly pomp,

Who drank iniquity in cups of gold,

Whose names were many and all blasphemous,

Hath met the horrible judgment! Whence that cry?

The mighty army of foul Spirits shrieked

Disherited of earth! For she hath fallen

On whose black front was written Mystery;

She that reeled heavily, whose wine was blood;

She that worked whoredom with the Demon Power,

And from the dark embrace all evil things

Brought forth and nurtured: mitred atheism!

And patient Folly who on bended knee

Gives back the steel that stabbed him; and pale Fear

Haunted by ghastlier shapings than surround

Moon-blasted Madness when he yells at midnight!

Return pure Faith! return meek Piety!

The kingdoms of the world are yours: each heart

Self-governed, the vast family of Love

Raised from the common earth by common toil

Enjoy the equal produce. Such delights

As float to earth, permitted visitants!

When in some hour of solemn jubilee

The massy gates of Paradise are thrown

Wide open, and forth come in fragments wild

Sweet echoes of unearthly melodies,

And odours snatched from beds of amaranth,

And they, that from the crystal river of life

Spring up on freshened wing, ambrosial gales!

The favoured good man in his lonely walk

Perceives them, and his silent spirit drinks

Strange bliss which he shall recognise in heaven.

And such delights, such strange beatitudes

Seize on my young anticipating heart

When that blest future rushes on my view!

For in his own and in his Father's might

The Saviour comes! While as the Thousand Years

Lead up their mystic dance, the Desert shouts!

Old Ocean claps his hands! The mighty Dead

Rise to new life, whoe'er from earliest time

With conscious zeal had urged Love's wondrous plan,

Coadjutors of God. To Milton's trump

The high groves of the renovated Earth

Unbosom their glad echoes: inly hushed,

Adoring Newton his serener eye

Raises to heaven: and he of mortal kind

Wisest, he10 first who marked the ideal tribes

Up the fine fibres through the sentient brain.

Lo! Priestley there, patriot, and saint, and sage,

Him, full of years, from his loved native land

Statesmen blood stained and priests idolatrous

By dark lies maddening the blind multitude

Drove with vain hate. Calm, pitying he retired,

And mused expectant on these promised years.

O Years! the blest pre-eminence of Saints!

Ye sweep athwart my gaze, so heavenly bright,

The wings that veil the adoring Seraphs' eyes,

What time they bend before the Jasper Throne11

Reflect no lovelier hues! Yet ye depart,

And all beyond is darkness! Heights most strange,

Whence Fancy falls, fluttering her idle wing.

For who of woman born may paint the hour,

When seized in his mid course, the Sun shall wane

Making noon ghastly! Who of woman born

May image in the workings of his thought,

How the black-visaged, red-eyed Fiend outstretched12

Beneath the unsteady feet of Nature groans,

In feverous slumbers – destined then to wake,

When fiery whirlwinds thunder his dread name

And Angels shout, Destruction! How his arm

The last great Spirit lifting high in air

Shall swear by Him, the ever-living One,

Time is no more!

Believe thou, O my soul,

Life is a vision shadowy of Truth;

And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave,

Shapes of a dream! The veiling clouds retire,

And lo! the Throne of the redeeming God

Forth flashing unimaginable day

Wraps in one blaze earth, heaven, and deepest hell.

Contemplant Spirits! ye that hover o'er

With untired gaze the immeasurable fount

Ebullient with creative Deity!

And ye of plastic power, that interfused

Roll through the grosser and material mass

In organizing surge! Holies of God!

(And what if Monads of the infinite mind)

I haply journeying my immortal course

Shall sometime join your mystic choir.