Volume 3 / Book 22 — MISCELLANEOUS VERSES (1780—1829) PREVIOUSLY PRINTED AND NOW FIRST ARRANGED IN CHRONOLOGICAL SEQUENCE.

376

POETICAL EPISTLES.

[April, 1780.]

(1.) FROM THE DEVIL. AN EPISTLE GENERAL.

(2.) FROM THE AUTHOR.

An Introduction to the former of these, by the learned Martinus Scriblerus.

Peradventure it may surprize thee, Reader, that an Author of our Dignity and Importance should stoop to the servile employment of introducing to the World the flimsy Production of an anonymous Scribler; unless thou art indeed persuaded that the great Personage above mentioned should have prevailed upon us to recommend his Labours to an Age not extremely partial to poetical Composition.

But, whatever Intimacy we may be favoured with in either “Profound,” we are in this Case totally innocent of any Intention to deceive thee; for, we apprehend, did the Genius aforesaid think proper to add the Sin of Rhyme to his other Failings, he has too great a Correspondence and Reputation among Mankind to need our Solicitations in his Favour, were we ever so well disposed to grant them; but, knowing of no due Authority which any man hath to accuse Satan of this Infirmity, we judge it both Cruel and unnecessary to load him with so heavy a Charge, as would in all probability render him more odious to Company in general than any other Accusation he now labours under.

We are however aware of this Objection, that, as the Devil is “ab Origine” the Author of Evil, so Poetry, as one Species of 377it, may properly be placed to his Account; but, as our argument principally relates to the Piece before us, we shall waive all general Discourse, and observe only that our Reasoning went no farther than to show (whatever may be his Talent for Poetry,) that we have no right to affix his Name in a particular Manner to any one Publication.

The very title of the Work we have thought proper to introduce to our Acquaintance; for, besides that it is an Approved Custom amongst Editors, we did not choose our honest and venerated Name should appear to countenance a Falsity.

As pure Compassion is our motive for recommending this little Work to our learned Friends, so would we have its real Author sensible of the Honour we do him, and not, with an Author-like spirit, carp at our Emendations, at the Time we are studiously aiming at his Benefit. Nor could we allow the Title he has chosen to pass at any rate, did he not assure us he can think of no other so likely to take with the humour of the Town.

It having occurred to us, that the judicious Authors of a periodical Publication, called “The World,” did, in their first Paper, counsel their Readers against being witty—purely for the Wit’s sake—at their Expence, and more particularly did guard them against such Expressions of pretended Disapprobation as these, “’tis a vile World,” “a sad World,” &c.: so, gentle Friends, we would borrow a Thought from the excellent Mr Fitz-Adam, and advise ye, not to abuse our Author with the Terms “poor Devil,” “dull Devil,” “stupid Devil,” and so forth, notwithstanding we do agree that it shall be imputed unto ye for wit when ye shall say of the ensueing Poem, “it is devilish good,” “devilish clever,” and such-like.

And to all our Brethren, the real Critics and Judges of Literary productions, we would towards that before us recommend Lenity; it is a first performance and of a young Author; and, albeit there shall be found blemishes and Failings therein, we do in a certain Degree perceive Beauties not altogether unworthy our Approbation, the which if ye likewise behold, and point out to the Public after a friendly Sort, ye shall do well.

378

EPISTLE I.

Ye Mortals, whom Poets with Verses perplex,

Whom Churchmen misguide, and Philosophers vex,

Whose Heads are disturbed with the Tenets of Schools,

Whom Terror betrays, and whom Conscience befools—

From the Regions below, with a Heart full of Love,

I send to my excellent Subjects above,

And, tho’ ’tis Advice that now dictates my Strain,

I must freely confess I’ve no Cause to complain.

With Pleasure I hear, how the Demon of War

Is hurling his blessed Confusion from far, 10

Has bade the slow Spaniard to Battle advance

And has got a good Footing in England and France.

It delights me to find, the Designs of the Dutch

Are to move for a Peace, but to hinder it much;

For my trusty Disciples of Holland are known

To have no kind of Feeling for aught but their own;

And the Kingdoms around are, as far as I see,

Just acting the Part they have borrow’d from me.

Nor is it without a great Share of Delight

I find so much wrong is confounded with Right. 20

Where Justice alone on one Party is clear,

Why, Truth may prevail and a Peace may be near;

But, where Good and Evil are properly mixed,

The Cause is obscure, and Destruction more fix’d;

Since each on the first will rest all their Pretensions,

The latter to stretch to its utmost Dimensions.

With much Satisfaction, I likewise confess,

I behold so much Deviltry drop from the Press;

But this is a Subject I will not say much on,

Because what hereafter I purpose to touch on. 30

At present to all, in their several Degrees,

I pay my Respect in such Verses as these;

And, my rough-moving Lines should your Critics condemn,

I shall talk in a much rougher Language to them.

379Ye Monarchs! Ye Rulers of Nations! attend

To a Ruler, your Equal! the first Monarch’s Friend!

Whose Empire at least is as large as your own,

As crowded his Army, as splendid his Throne;

His Spirit as great, and, whatever his Cause,

A greater Obedience is paid to his Laws! 40

Attend and receive your Instructions from me;

Though a Counsellor famous, I covet no fee;

Prefer me before all your ignoble Tribe—

What Mortal in Black ever acts without Bribe?

Let Empire unbounded your Bosoms possess;

You’re as noble as Cæsar, and scorn to be less.

Be your Counsellors such as may aid your Designs—

Good Jockeys, great Gamblers, rare Judges of Wines!

And then, should you happen to fail in your Ends,

Your People may lay all the Blame on your Friends, 50

And say, “’tis a pity a Monarch so just

Such a pack of damn’d Villainous Fellows should trust.”

Nor judge in this Case my Advice is confin’d:

Be it common as Air, and as free as the Wind;

Obey’d in the Climes which Sol scarce can appear in,

Caress’d in the Countries he passes the year in!

Nor would I like him from my Friends fly away:

Wherever I’m courted I constantly stay,

To Spain, France, or Flanders extending my Care,

And England! in spite of my Enemies there. 60

With its monarch of old I was social and free,

And the Present must die—that’s some Comfort to me.

Believe me, my Brethren—for when I advise

I always speak Truth, tho’ the Father of Lies—

’Tis a foolish Mistake to imagine Mankind

Were not for their Monarch’s good Pleasure design’d.

We know and believe they’re as truly his own

As the Farmer’s his Beast, or the wheat he has sown;

And he’s a most stupid and scandalous Block

Who would not be part of so noble a Stock, 70

To fetch and to carry, be curried and fed,

As his Master has Work, or his Master has Bread.

Ye Statesmen, I next to your Honours apply:

Ye know the old Subject; ye ken who am I!

380I would give each Advice how to act in his Station;

But most have without it entire Approbation.

Nay, let us confess, and give Mortals their due,

We borrow a great many Maxims from you!

And would ne’er have you heed what your Satirists say,

Who expose to the World all your pensions and pay. 80

Such Wretches, by jealous Emotions betray’d,

Are as knavish as you, and yet never get paid.

Sejanus politely his Compliments sends,

To show he remembers his very good Friends,

And tells you, with Grief which his Feelings betray,

He hears ye are some of ye veering away.

If this—and there’s Reason to fear it—be true,

I’d have ye consider what end ye pursue;

You’ll find you’ve a very bad bargain at last,

Despis’d for the present and damn’d for the past. 90

Ye Commons, your Nation’s most able Protectors,

Ye generous Elected, ye well-paid Electors,

Your Patron here greets you, and, though but in Song,

He praises the Path ye have mov’d in so long—

A Path he has form’d with such exquisite Care

That it leads you directly, he need not say where.

At a Crisis important to Europe and us,

It becomes us, my Friends, to act constantly thus:

To stick to our Cause with a strong perseverance,

Else Nobody knows what may happen a year hence; 100

For in Times of Disturbance ’tis frequently seen,

That Virtue’s more busy than when they’re serene;

And, from a good Spirit in brisk fermentation,

A Clear-settled Habit may reign in each Nation;

The which to prevent ’tis my serious Command

You carefully lend each his Heart and his Hand.

In England I’ve studied that People’s Condition,

And seen the Contents of each County’s petition;

By which I collect, with a Logic my own,

The Seeds of Dissension are properly sown; 110

And I’m not without Hope but, if suffer’d to grow,

I may reap in due Time what I taught you to sow.

But I’m sorry to find that, in spite of my Care

For that Country’s Estate, I’ve my Enemies there,

381Whom though I’ve attended with studious Skill,

I don’t know a people have us’d me so ill.

Go, Wretches ingrate; see my Subjects in France,

With what excellent skill they my Business advance!

Do they stick to Agreements, or such Kind of Things?

Is there Truth in their Courtiers, or Faith in their Kings?

Their Notions of Honour, or keeping of Treaties, 121

Are govern’d by that kind of Body their Fleet is;

While you of a Nation I take such Delight in

Are inferior in Fraud, tho’ you beat them at fighting.

Ye Spirits uncurb’d by the Dictates of Schools,

The Lectures of Priests, or Morality’s Rules,

Or the pitifull Dreams of the Herd we dispise—

The Puritan dull, and the Prelate precise;

Ye learned Philosophers, Deists devout,

Who know not the Depth of the Thing you’re about— 130

But, I’m willing to own it, ’tis proper you should

And Satan here thanks you: ye’ve done him much Good.

Before ye began to reform Men’s Opinions,

How bounded my Realm, how restrain’d my Dominions!

But now, since ’tis clear that there’s no Revelation, }

I’ve a pretty good Footing, my Friends, in the Nation; }

And I’d have you go on with each learn’d Dissertation. }

For our firmest Adherents we commonly call

The Man who believes there’s no Devil at all;

And, as you so clearly convince your attendants 140

We’re nothing, and all our good Company send hence,

Your learned Opinion, I find as I read it,

Advances my Gain, whilst it shatters my Credit,

As Bankrupts who wilfully plunge into Shame,

To gain in their purse what they lose in their Fame.

For the learned, the wise, and the deep-sighted Few,

I’ve an excellent Work which I’d have ye pursue!

Your Genius may mend a dull Devil’s Designs,

May alter my Manner, and polish my Lines.

The Scheme is exalted! is quite in your walk; 150

And I care not in what kind of Language I talk.

’Tis to prove to Mankind, to whom pleasures belong,

Your Moralists, too, as your Pastors, are wrong;

That not to Religion alone is confin’d

382Our work, but a full Reformation’s design’d;

Till your Country all Kinds of Enjoyment excell in,

And [become] much the Kind of a Place which we dwell in.

But first you’ll my Congratulations receive

For the exquisite Pleasure your arguments give,

Which we hear with a vast deal of Joy and Delight 160

At Coachmakers’ Hall, almost every Night,

And are so entertain’d with the things in that Style

That we’d thoughts of erecting our Houses-Carlisle.

But the Motion was quash’d on a due recollection—

Our good Subjects here ev’ry Party and Sect shun—

That we have the same Constant Business in View,

And can never dissent in opinion like you;

Nor suffer we here any Authors to write;

And to talk of the State, why, ’tis deemed impolite;

And the Point Revelation, that’s banish’d your Creed, 170

Would not move a Debate where we all are agreed;

Nor have we a Subject which Satan can reckon

Is fit for a Genius among us to speak on.

But, by Way of Digression, we can but admire

That your Ladies to argue should cooly desire,

Should one at a Time any Subject discuss:

They ne’er could be brought to that Order with us.

But they still altogether their Subjects pursue

With the Knack which they formerly had among you;

And we marvel that Men of Discretion can teach 180

To such Lips the all-conquering Graces of Speech!

But my Plan to return to, ye Sages, assist;

Let’s our Heads lay together, our Arguments twist,

And prove by the Light we thought proper to kindle

In our dearly beloved, our Toland and Tindal!

With Arguments all unresisted as these,

That men have a right to do just what they please;

And, because I shall chance my own Worth to proclaim,

My Actions, my Spirit, my Merit and Fame,

With Modesty such as you can but approve 190

I shall speak in the Words of my Vot’ries above.

Yet, again to digress: you must never suppose

But even the learned are sometimes my Foes;

Nor is it a volatile Genius alone,

383Or eccentric Attempt, that proclaims you my own,

There was Priestley, they told me, had wrote in my Cause,

And publish’d good Things with a deal of Applause;

But ’tis mere Imposition—he scribble for me!

He scrawl in my Favour! No, damn him, not he!

Yet ’tis some Consolation that Blunderers make 200

His meanings so strange, that they’re ours by Mistake.

And now, having settled the principal Points,

Your Master the Head of his Prophet anoints,

And, judging all Conscience no more in the Way,

Thus bids you to sing, or thus bids you to say.

“What pictures of Life do the Dogmatists paint!

What a dull Dissertation comes forth from the Saint!

How they roar against Sin and contribute to drub

Every Demon from Earth, both in Pulpit and Tub;

Enjoyment how plaguily low do they rate it, 210

How rail at all Pleasure, and tell you they hate it;

As Jockeys, designing to purchase your Horse,

Will assure you no Mortal on Earth has a worse,

Display ev’ry Failing with exquisite Skill,

Yet bestride him themselves with a hearty good Will!

“’Twere well if the Earth had their Censure engross’d;

But the Devil engages their Spleen to his Cost!

Poor Devil! from whom half our Blessings accrue,—

But the Saints give to no one the Qualities due.

Else, how might they praise without Flatt’ry’s Appearance 220

His Honour, his Spirit, his known Perseverance;

How seldom his Friendship’s remember’d to alter;

How he smiles on the Block, and how softens the Halter!

The Friends to his Cause he with Spirit supports,

Attends them at Tyburn, conveys them to Courts;

With noble Profusion gives all he can give,

And scorns to forsake them, so long as they live;

In mystery deep, a great Metaphysician;

In history known, and a rare Politician;

A merry Companion, yet sage in due Places, 230

He knows good Behaviour and studies the Graces;

Can the Springs of good Humour and Harmony feel—

Not Stanhope himself could be half so genteel;

Is the last to disturb them where people are gay,

384And the first to drive stupid Reflection away.

Then spare him, ye Preachers, without whose assistance

Your dull Congregations as well were at Distance;

Retract your Abuse, wheresoever you’ve spread it,

And lament your Attack on a Gentleman’s Credit.

“Would you know the vile Sources of Sorrow and Grief, 240

We’re fully persuaded We’ll tell you the Chief.

But, first, ’tis but right we our Talents should use

To take from the Guiltless a Load of abuse.

“Our Moralists tell us, indulg’d Inclinations

Breed all our Disasters, and nurse our Vexations;

That Sin, Satan’s Daughter, as Milton has told us,

Has dealt to Mankind all the Plagues which enfold us.

’Tis false—I acquit her with lenient Sentence;

The Plagues they describe are the Plagues of Repentance;

And surely ’tis hard we should blame her for Woes 250

She strives to keep from us wherever she goes.

To bully Devotion and banter her Laws,

To seduce a Weak Mind, and to plead in the Cause,

A Friend to betray, or a Father to wound,

And revel in Folly’s fantastical round,

Are Vices, they cry—but they make a Man known,

Give Honour, give Pleasure, and Fame and Renown,

Are Gentlemen’s Actions, and Joy must accrue

From Actions which Gentlemen so often do;

And, in spite of what Moralists tell us, I find 260

The antient Philosophers were of our Mind:

Who, each in his Way, though to wisdom akin,

Have labour’d to beautify some kind of Sin.

Then why should we fear on dull Morals to trample,

Who’re blest with the Boon of such noble Example?

“To Sickness and cruel Disease are assign’d

A part of the Sorrows which trouble Mankind;

But do we not see how Mankind are agreed

To be sick unto Death when there can be no Need?

Why faints the soft Nymph? Why the Vapours and Spleen?

What can Nameless Complaints and Infirmities mean— 271

The pain of a Moment, the Headache at will,

Or the languor that’s cur’d without Julep or Pill?

Why riots the Youth, so unhappily sleek?

385Why poisons the Maid the pure Blood in her Cheek?

How happens it, Mortals are jumbled together

Without Care in Crowds and in all kinds of Weather?

Or why press the Throng at Assemblies so thick,

If people had not a Delight to be sick?

“What then are the Causes of human Distress? 280

Let Pedants and Preachers have Grace to confess:

There’s nothing such varied Disasters can hit

Like Religion and Virtue, Good Nature and Wit.

“Religion, what horrid Opinions it starts,

How it cramps our Ambition, and deadens our Hearts;

Continually plagues us with Lectures from Heaven,

And robs us the Year round of one Day in seven;

Denies to the Passions the Flowers in their Road,

And carps at the varying Designs of the Mode!

It teaches few Fashions but such as, we find, 290

Have been hiss’d from good Company, Time out of Mind;

Affords us no rule for the Cut of a Coat,

Nor winks at the Science of cutting a Throat;

A tenth of each Man’s Cultivation commands,

And threatens us all in Return for our Lands;

Still presses the More like a Dun for Neglect,

And is never contented with civil Respect;

Intrudes in the Dance, and grows grave in the Song,

And conjures up Conscience with all her dull Throng.

“And Virtue—what’s Virtue? an obstinate Cur, 300

Who clings to a Rock and refuses to stir;

Whose Lectures on Life are a plague beyond bearing;

So he snaps at your Heels, till you’re quite out of hearing.

But hearken to him, and he’ll tell you the Fancies

Which please the poor School-Boy in Tales and Romances:

How he and his Friends have defeated the Crimes

Of voluptuous Aspirers in horrible Times;

By Patience and Prating done wonderfull Things

To Women consumptive, and Death-alarm’d Kings.

But tell me when Virtue got any Man Pension’d, 310

Or procur’d him a Title that’s fit to be mention’d,

Or taught him to talk for the Praise of the Nation,

Or dictated Themes for a publick Oration?

Did it ever a Brilliant Assembly advance,

386Or import sound Politeness and Claret from France?

Not this; but it hobbles in Gait and in speech

And, laught at by all, is still aiming to teach;

From the gentle ‘in modo’ will angrily flee,

But sternly adhere to the hatefull ‘in re.’

“And what is a properer Object of Satire 320

Than that most ridiculous Failing, Good-nature?

Do you know a Man laugh’d at by all his Acquaintance,

Despis’d and disdain’d by the People he maintains;

Too grave for a Wit, and too mean for a Beau;

A Clown who does nothing as other Men do;

An Awkwardly-generous, blundering Thing,

Who stoops to a Beggar and stares on a King;

A Creature who makes no Distinction at all }

’Twixt a Speech in the Vestry and one in the Hall— }

Leoni who warbles, or Porters who bawl; 330}

His Heart without Judgment, his Head without Rule

And, merely for want of Discretion, a Fool;

Whose Mind with a pitiful Tale is possess’d;

Who is every one’s Friend, yet is every one’s Jest;

Who blunders thro’ Life without forming a Plan,

Is that poor stupid Mortal—a good-natur’d Man.

“But of all the vile Things which torment or molest us

Wit a thousand times worse than the worst of the rest is:

The Poison [that’s] banish’d from every Table, }

As far as the People of Fashion are able, 340}

To the Bookworms in Schools, and the Grooms of the Stable. }

A Man who has Wit is more proud than the Devil;

Is never so welcome, is never so civil;

With Absolute Tenets as stern as the Church’s,

He lashes the failings his wealth can not purchase;

Is ever awakening his Enemies’ Slumber,

Lamenting his Foes, yet increasing their Number.

So dirty, no Gentleman cares to go near him,

And sensible Women don’t know how to bear him.

His Wit is rebellious, and, as a Man’s Wife, 350

If it conquers him once, ’tis his Master for Life;

And, though there are things it may chance to produce

If it takes the right turn of an excellent use,

387Yet, ’tis plain to be seen, it extinguishes Merit

And dashes the Efforts of Genius and Spirit.”

But, not to perplex you with tedious Instruction,

I hope this may serve for a good Introduction;

And, leaving the rest of the Business to you,

Beloved and Trusty, I bid you adieu!

EPISTLE II. TO MIRA.

’Tis by Contrast we shine; without Withers and Prynne,

What had Butler or Wits of that Century been?

Or how, without Dunces, had Dryden or Pope

The strength of their great Reputation kept up?

The Pleasures we share from the Dawning of Light

Are doubled by Thoughts of its following Night;

And Virtue and Sweetness like yours shall repay us

For poring so long over Satan’s Affairs.

At your Company then do not think to repine:

You the fairer appear—for by Contrast we shine. 10

What a Life, my dear Maid, do the Heavens decree

For the Dreamers of Dreams, for the Learned—for me:

Where pale Disappointment awakes to molest

The Study-vex’d Head, and the Sorrow-torn Breast.

Pity much, though you blame, the dull Spleen of your Swain,

Who has Cause to deplore and, he thinks, to complain:

That Fortune has soil’d the gay Dress of each Dream;

That Time has o’erthrown every fairy-built Scheme;

That thinking has slacken’d the Force of his Nerves,

And his Study has met with——the Fate it deserves. 20

What a Plague was my Meaning to add to my own

The Cares of a Kind which I need not have known!

When Nature and Fortune had given their Part,

’Twas stupid to borrow Dejection from Art,

And, with Trouble a pretty large Portion before,

To pilfer Perplexities out of her Store.

388See the Fate of Ambition—contented with Rhyme,

I had softened the Features of Sorrow and Time;

Had play’d with the Evils I might not refuse,

And soften’d their Frowns with the Tears of the Muse; 30

Had mov’d in Life’s Path with a Sigh and a Song,

And laugh’d at her Rubs as I stumbled along.

But, smitten with Science, I’ve laboured to lay

A thousand impediments more in my way;

And, because my poor Muse was too gentle a Guide

To smooth the rough Way, and to sing by my Side,

I’ve coveted Learning, a dangerous Thing

To drag through the Road, and who never could sing.

Of Substance I’ve thought, and the various Disputes

On the Nature of Man, and the Notions of Brutes; 40

Of simple and complex Ideas I’ve read,

How they rose into Life and spring up in my Head;

That the Frolicks I love, and the Fashions I hate,

Are from Causes without, and they rule not innate;

I’ve studied with stupid Attention and Skill

The Destiny’s Law, and the Bounds of the Will;

Of Systems confuted, and Systems explain’d;

Of Science disputed, and Tenets maintain’d;

How Matter and Spirit dissent or unite;

How vary the Natures of Fire and of Light; 50

How Bodies excentric, concentric shall be;

How Authors divide where they seem to agree;

How dissenting unite, by a Touch of the Quill

Which bodies a Meaning, in what Form they will:

These and such Speculations, on these Kind of Things,

Have robb’d my poor Muse of her Plume and her Wings;

Consum’d the Phlogiston you us’d to admire;

The Spirit extracted, extinguished the Fire;

Let out all the Aether so pure and refin’d,

And left but a mere Caput-Mortuum behind. 60

Ah, Priestley! thou Foe to my Numbers, what need

To shock my poor Muses? Thou dost not my Creed,

With Schemes, Dissertations, and Arguments strong

Which I know not how right, and I care not how wrong.

Thou great Necessarian, must I suppose

The Flight of my Verse is o’er rul’d by thy prose;

389And that Matters have been unavoidably led,

That thou must have written, and I must have read?

’Tis certain—for what but a Bias of Fate

Could have tied me so long to the Subjects I hate? 70

O! blest be the Time, when, my Mira, we stray’d

Where the Nightingale perch’d, and the wanton winds play’d;

Where these were the Secrets of Nature we knew,

That her Roses were red, and her Vi’lets were blue;

That soft was the Gloom of the Summer-swell’d shade,

And melting the Fall of the dying Cascade.

Blest, the Song shall repeat, be the Pleasures that reign

In the plenty-prest Vale, on the green-vested Plain!

Give Locke to the Winds, and lay Hume on the Fire;

Let Metaphysicians in Darkness expire, 80

And Fatalists, Fabulists, Logicians fall by

The Laws which Necessity modulates all by;

Let the Slumber of Sense, and the Silence of Spleen,

Lay hold upon Priestley, that learned Machine;

Or, what will to us, my dear Maid, be the same,

May we cease to admire each ostensible Name,

And, blest with those Pleasures the Muses desire,

See Learning, unenvied, to Students retire!

[FROM BELVOIR CASTLE.]

[About 1782–3.]

Oh! had I but a little hut

That I might hide my head in;

Where never guest might dare molest,

Unwelcome or unbidden.

I’d take the jokes of other folks

And mine should then succeed ’em;

Nor would I chide a little pride,

Or heed a little freedom.

390

THE LADIES OF THE LAKE.

[Normanston, 1785.]

Shall I, who oft have woo’d the Muse

For gentle Ladies’ sake,

So fair a theme as this refuse—

The Ladies of the Lake?

Hail, happy pair! ’tis yours to share

Life’s elegance and ease:

The bliss of wealth without the care,

The will and power to please—

To please, but not alone our eyes,

Nor yet alone our mind; 10

Your taste, your goodness, charm the wise—

Your manners all mankind.

The pleasant scenes that round you glow,

Like caskets fraught with gold,

Though beauteous in themselves, yet owe

Their worth to what they hold.

Trees may be found, and lakes, as fair;

Fresh lawns, and gardens green;

But where again the Sister-pair

Who animate the scene? 20

Where sense of that superior kind,

Without man’s haughty air?

And where, without the trifling mind,

The softness of the fair?

Folly, with wealth, may idly raise

Her hopes to shine like you,

And humble flattery sound her praise,

Till she believes it true;

391But wealth no more can give that grace

To souls of meaner kind, 30

Than summer’s fiery sun can chase

Their darkness from the blind.

But drop, you’ll say, the useless pen!

Reluctant, I obey;

Yet let me take it once again,

If not to praise, to pray:

That you, with partial grace, may deign

This poor attempt to take,

And I may oft behold again

The Ladies of the Lake. 40

INFANCY—A FRAGMENT.

Who on the new-born light can back return,

And the first efforts of the soul discern—

Waked by some sweet maternal smile, no more

To sleep so long or fondly as before?

No! Memory cannot reach, with all her power,

To that new birth, that life-awakening hour.

No! all the traces of her first employ

Are keen perceptions of the senses’ joy,

And their distaste—what then could they impart?—

That figs were luscious, and that rods had smart. 10

But, though the Memory in that dubious way

Recalls the dawn and twilight of her day,

And thus encounters, in the doubtful view,

With imperfection and distortion too:

Can she not tell us, as she looks around,

Of good and evil, which the most abound?

Alas! and what is earthly good? ’tis lent

Evil to hide, to soften, to prevent,

By scenes and shows that cheat the wandering eye,

While the more pompous misery passes by— 20

392Shifts and amusements that awhile succeed;

And heads are turn’d, that bosoms may not bleed.

For what is Pleasure, that we toil to gain?

’Tis but the slow or rapid flight of Pain.

Set Pleasure by, and there would yet remain,

For every nerve and sense the sting of Pain:

Set Pain aside, and fear no more the sting,

And whence your hopes and pleasures can ye bring?

No! there is not a joy beneath the skies,

That from no grief nor trouble shall arise. 30

Why does the Lover with such rapture fly

To his dear mistress?—He shall show us why:—

Because her absence is such cause of grief

That her sweet smile alone can yield relief.—

Why, then, that smile is Pleasure!—True, yet still

’Tis but the absence of the former ill:

For, married, soon at will he comes and goes; }

Then pleasures die, and pains become repose, }

And he has none of these, and therefore none of those. }

Yes! looking back as early as I can, 40}

I see the griefs that seize their subject Man; }

That in the weeping Child their early reign began. }

Yes! though Pain softens, and is absent since,

He still controls me like my lawful prince.

Joys I remember, like phosphoric light

Or squibs and crackers on a gala night.

Joys are like oil: if thrown upon the tide

Of flowing life, they mix not, nor subside.

Griefs are like waters on the river thrown:

They mix entirely, and become its own. 50

Of all the good that grew of early date,

I can but parts and incidents relate:

A guest arriving, or a borrow’d day

From school, or schoolboy triumph at some play:

And these from Pain may be deduced; for these

Removed some ill—and hence their power to please.

But it was Misery stung me in the day

Death of an infant sister made a prey;

For then first met and moved my early fears,

A father’s terrors, and a mother’s tears. 60

393Though greater anguish I have since endured—

Some heal’d in part, some never to be cured:

Yet was there something in that first-born ill,

So new, so strange, that memory feels it still!

That my first grief: but, oh! in after-years

Were other deaths, that call’d for other tears.

No! that I cannot, that I dare not, paint— }

That patient sufferer, that enduring saint, }

Holy and lovely—but all words are faint. }

But here I dwell not—let me, while I can, 70

Go to the Child, and lose the suffering Man!

Sweet was the morning’s breath, the inland tide, }

And our boat gliding, where alone could glide }

Small craft—and they oft touch’d on either side. }

It was my first-born joy. I heard them say,

“Let the child go; he will enjoy the day.”

For children ever feel delighted when

They take their portion, and enjoy with men.

Give him the pastime that the old partake,

And he will quickly top and taw forsake. 80

The linnet chirp’d upon the furze as well,

To my young sense, as sings the nightingale.

Without was paradise—because within

Was a keen relish, without taint of sin.

A town appear’d—and, where an infant went,

Could they determine, on themselves intent?

I lost my way, and my companions me,

And all, their comforts and tranquillity.

Mid-day it was, and, as the sun declined,

The good, found early, I no more could find 90

The men drank much, to whet the appetite; }

And, growing heavy, drank to make them light; }

Then drank to relish joy, then further to excite. }

Their cheerfulness did but a moment last;

Something fell short, or something overpast.

The lads play’d idly with the helm and oar, }

And nervous women would be set on shore, }

Till “civil dudgeon” grew, and peace would smile no more. }

Now on the colder water faintly shone

394The sloping light—the cheerful day was gone; 100

Frown’d every cloud, and from the gather’d frown

The thunder burst, and rain came pattering down.

My torpid senses now my fears obey’d,

When the fierce lightning on the eye-balls play’d.

Now, all the freshness of the morning fled,

My spirits burden’d, and my heart was dead;

The female servants show’d a child their fear,

And men, full wearied, wanted strength to cheer;

And when, at length, the dreaded storm went past,

And there was peace and quietness at last, 110

’Twas not the morning’s quiet—it was not

Pleasure revived, but Misery forgot;

It was not Joy that now commenced her reign,

But mere relief from wretchedness and Pain.

So many a day, in life’s advance, I knew;

So they commenced, and so they ended too.

All Promise they—all Joy as they began!

But Joy grew less, and vanish’d as they ran!

Errors and evils came in many a form—

The mind’s delusion, and the passions’ storm. 120

The promised joy, that like this morning rose,

Broke on my view, then clouded at its close;

E’en Love himself, that promiser of bliss,

Made his best days of pleasure end like this:

He mix’d his bitters in the cup of joy

Nor gave a bliss uninjured by alloy.

395

THE MAGNET.

Why force the backward heart on love,

That of itself the flame might feel?

When you the Magnet’s power would prove,

Say, would you strike it on the Steel?

From common flints you may by force

Excite some transient sparks of fire;

And so, in natures rude and coarse,

Compulsion may provoke desire.

But when, approaching by degrees,

The Magnet to the Steel draws nigh, 10

At once they feel, each other seize,

And rest in mutual sympathy.

So must the Lover find his way

To move the heart he hopes to win—

Must not in distant forms delay—

Must not in rude assaults begin.

For such attractive power has Love,

We justly each extreme may fear:

’Tis lost when we too distant prove,

And when we rashly press too near. 20

396

STORM AND CALM.

(From the Album of the Duchess of Rutland.)

At sea when threatening tempests rise,

When angry winds the waves deform,

The seaman lifts to Heaven his eyes,

And deprecates the dreaded storm:

“Ye furious powers, no more contend;

Ye winds and seas, your conflict end;

And on the mild subsiding deep,

Let Fear repose and Terror sleep!”

At length the waves are hush’d in peace,

O’er flying clouds the sun prevails; 10

The weary winds their efforts cease,

And fill no more the flagging sails;

Fix’d to the deep the vessel rides

Obedient to the changing tides;

No helm she feels, no course she keeps,

But on the liquid marble sleeps.

Sick of a Calm the sailor lies,

And views the still, reflecting seas;

Or, whistling to the burning skies,

He hopes to wake the slumbering breeze. 20

The silent noon, the solemn night,

The same dull round of thoughts excite;

Till, tired of the revolving train,

He wishes for the Storm again.

Thus, when I felt the force of Love,

When all the passion fill’d my breast—

When, trembling, with the storm I strove,

And pray’d, but vainly pray’d, for rest:

397’Twas tempest all, a dreadful strife

For ease, for joy, for more than life: 30

’Twas every hour to groan and sigh

In grief, in fear, in jealousy.

I suffer’d much, but found at length

Composure in my wounded heart;

The mind attain’d its former strength,

And bade the lingering hopes depart;

Then Beauty smiled, and I was gay,

I view’d her as the cheerful day;

And, if she frown’d, the clouded sky

Had greater terrors for mine eye. 40

I slept, I waked, and, morn and eve,

The noon, the night appear’d the same;

No thought arose the soul to grieve,

To me no thought of pleasure came;

Doom’d the dull comforts to receive

Of wearied passions still and tame.—

“Alas!” I cried, when years had flown—

“Must no awakening joy be known?

Must never Hope’s inspiring breeze

Sweep off this dull and torpid ease— 50

Must never Love’s all-cheering ray

Upon the frozen fancy play—

Unless they seize the passive soul,

And with resistless power control?

Then let me all their force sustain,

And bring me back the Storm again!”

398

SATIRE.

I love not the satiric Muse:

No man on earth would I abuse;

Nor with empoison’d verses grieve

The most offending son of Eve.

Leave him to law, if he have done

What injures any other son!

It hardens man to see his name

Exposed to public mirth or shame;

And rouses, as it spoils his rest,

The baser passions of his breast. 10

Attack a book—attack a song—

You will not do essential wrong;

You may their blemishes expose,

And yet not be the writer’s foes.

But, when the man you thus attack,

And him expose with critic art,

You put a creature to the rack—

You wring, you agonise, his heart.

No farther honest Satire can

In all her enmity proceed, 20

Than, passing by the wicked Man,

To execrate the wicked Deed.

If so much virtue yet remain

That he would feel the sting and pain,

That virtue is a reason why

The Muse her sting should not apply.

If no such Virtue yet survive,

What is your angry Satire worth,

But to arouse the sleeping hive,

And send the raging Passions forth, 30

In bold, vindictive, angry flight,

To sting wherever they alight?

399

[THE NEW SAMARITAN.]

A weary Traveller walk’d his way,

With grief and want and pain opprest.

His looks were sad, his locks were grey;

He sought for food, he sigh’d for rest.

A wealthy grazier pass’d—“Attend,”

The sufferer cried—“some aid allow!”—

“Thou art not of my parish, Friend;

Nor am I in mine office now.”

He dropt, and more impatient pray’d—

A mild adviser heard the word: 10

“Be patient, Friend!” he kindly said,

“And wait the leisure of the Lord.”

Another comes!—“Turn, stranger, turn!”

“Not so!” replied a voice: “I mean

“The candle of the Lord to burn

With mine own flock on Save-all Green;

“To war with Satan, thrust for thrust;

To gain my lamb he led astray;

The Spirit drives me: on I must—

Yea, woe is me, if I delay!” 20

But Woman came! by Heaven design’d

To ease the heart that throbs with pain—

She gave relief—abundant—kind—

And bade him go in peace again.

400

BELVOIR CASTLE.

(Written at the request of the Duchess Dowager of Rutland, and inscribed in her Album, 1812.)

When native Britons British lands possess’d—

Their glory freedom, and their blessing rest—

A powerful chief this lofty Seat survey’d,

And here his mansion’s strong foundation laid.

In his own ground the massy stone he sought,

From his own woods the rugged timbers brought,

Rudeness and greatness in his work combined—

An humble taste with an aspiring mind.

His herds the vale, his flocks the hills, o’erspread;

Warriors and vassals at his table fed; 10

Sons, kindred, servants, waited on his will,

And hail’d his mansion on the mighty hill.

In a new age a Saxon Lord appear’d,

And on the lofty base his dwelling rear’d.

Then first the grand but threatening form was known,

And to the subject-vale a Castle shown,

Where strength alone appear’d—the gloomy wall

Enclosed the dark recess, the frowning hall;

In chilling rooms the sudden fagot gleam’d;

On the rude board the common banquet steam’d. 20

Astonish’d peasants fear’d the dreadful skill

That placed such wonders on their favourite hill;

The soldier praised it as he march’d around,

And the dark building o’er the valley frown’d.

A Norman Baron, in succeeding times,

Here, while the minstrel sang heroic rhymes,

In feudal pomp appear’d. It was his praise

A loftier dome with happier skill to raise;

His halls, still gloomy, yet with grandeur rose;

Here friends were feasted—here confined were foes. 30

In distant chambers, with her female train,

401Dwelt the fair partner of his awful reign.

Curb’d by no laws, his vassal-tribe he sway’d—

The Lord commanded, and the slave obey’d.

No soft’ning arts in those fierce times were found,

But rival Barons spread their terrors round;

Each, in the fortress of his power, secure,

Of foes was fearless, and of soldiers sure;

And here the chieftain, for his prowess praised,

Long held the Castle that his might had raised. 40

Came gentler times—the Barons ceased to strive

With kingly power, yet felt their pomp survive;

Impell’d by softening arts, by honour charm’d,

Fair ladies studied and brave heroes arm’d.

The Lord of Belvoir then his Castle view’d,

Strong without form, and dignified but rude;

The dark long passage, and the chambers small,

Recess and secret hold, he banish’d all;

Took the rude gloom and terror from the place,

And bade it shine with majesty and grace. 50

Then arras first o’er rugged walls appear’d;

Bright lamps at eve the vast apartment cheer’d;

In each superior room were polish’d floors,

Tall ponderous beds, and vast cathedral doors.

All was improved within, and then below

Fruits of the hardier climes were taught to grow;

The silver flagon on the table stood,

And to the vassal left the horn and wood.

Dress’d in his liveries, of his honours vain,

Came at the Baron’s call a menial train— 60

Proud of their arms, his strength and their delight;

Loud in the feast, and fearless in the fight.

Then every eye the stately fabric drew

To every part; for all were fair to view.

The powerful chief the far-famed work descried,

And heard the public voice that waked his pride.

Pleased he began—“About, above, below,

What more can wealth command, or science show?

Here taste and grandeur join with massy strength;

Slow comes perfection, but it comes at length. 70

Still must I grieve: these halls and towers sublime,

402Like vulgar domes, must feel the force of time;

And, when decay’d, can future days repair

What I in these have made so strong and fair?

My future heirs shall want of power deplore,

When Time destroys what Time cannot restore.”

Sad in his glory, serious in his pride,

At once the chief exulted and he sigh’d;

Dreaming he sigh’d, and still, in sleep profound,

His thoughts were fix’d within the favourite bound: 80

When lo! another Castle rose in view,

That in an instant all his pride o’erthrew.

In that he saw what massy strength bestows,

And what from grace and lighter beauty flows—

Yet all harmonious; what was light and free,

Robb’d not the weightier parts of dignity;

Nor what was ponderous hid the work of grace,

But all were just, and all in proper place.

Terrace on terrace rose, and there was seen

Adorn’d with flowery knolls the sloping green, 90

Bounded by balmy shrubs from climes unknown,

And all the nobler trees that grace our own.

Above, he saw a giant-tower ascend,

That seem’d the neighbouring beauty to defend

Of some light graceful dome—“And this,” he cried,

“Awakes my pleasure, though it wounds my pride.”

He saw apartments where appear’d to rise

What seem’d as men, and fix’d on him their eyes—

Pictures that spoke; and there were mirrors tall,

Doubling each wonder by reflecting all. 100

He saw the genial board, the massy plate,

Grace unaffected, unencumber’d state;

And something reach’d him of the social arts,

That soften manners, and that conquer hearts.

Wrapt in amazement, as he gazed he saw

A form of heav’nly kind, and bow’d in awe:

The spirit view’d him with benignant grace,

And styled himself the Genius of the Place.

“Gaze, and be glad!” he cried, “for this, indeed,

Is the fair Seat that shall to thine succeed, 110

When these famed kingdoms shall as sisters be,

403And one great sovereign rule the powerful three.

Then yon rich Vale, far stretching to the west,

Beyond thy bound, shall be by one possess’d;

Then shall true grace and dignity accord—

With splendour, ease—the Castle with its Lord.”

The Baron waked—“It was,” he cried, “a view

Lively as truth, and I will think it true.

Some gentle spirit to my mind has brought

Forms of fair works to be hereafter wrought; 120

But yet of mine a part will then remain,

Nor will that Lord its humbler worth disdain;

Mix’d with his mightier pile shall mine be found,

By him protected, and with his renown’d;

He who its full destruction could command, }

A part shall save from the destroying hand, }

And say, ‘It long has stood—still honour’d let it stand!’” }

THE WORLD OF DREAMS.

I.

And is thy soul so wrapt in sleep?

Thy senses, thy affections, fled?

No play of fancy thine, to keep

Oblivion from that grave, thy bed?

Then art thou but the breathing dead;

I envy, but I pity too:

The bravest may my terrors dread,

The happiest fain my joys pursue.

II.

Soon as the real World I lose,

Quick Fancy takes her wonted way, 10

Or Baxter’s sprites my soul abuse—

For how it is I cannot say,

404Nor, to what powers a passive prey,

I feel such bliss, I fear such pain;

But all is gloom, or all is gay,

Soon as th’ ideal World I gain.

III.

Come, then, I woo thee, sacred Sleep!

Vain troubles of the world, farewell!

Spirits of Ill! your distance keep—

And in your own dominions dwell, 20

Ye, the sad emigrants from hell!

Watch, dear seraphic beings, round,

And these black Enemies repel;

Safe be my soul, my slumbers sound!

IV.

In vain I pray! It is my sin

That thus admits the shadowy throng.

Oh! now they break tumultuous in—

Angels of darkness fierce and strong!

Oh! I am borne of fate along;

My soul, subdued, admits the foe, 30

Perceives and yet endures the wrong,

Resists, and yet prepares to go.

V.

Where am I now? and what to meet?

Where I have been entrapt before:

The wicked city’s vilest street—

I know what I must now explore.

The dark-brow’d throng, more near and more,

With murderous looks are on me thrust;

And lo! they ope the accursed door,

And I must go—I know I must! 40

405VI.

That female fiend!—Why is she there?

Alas! I know her.—Oh, begone!

Why is that tainted bosom bare?

Why fix’d on me that eye of stone?

Why have they left us thus alone?

I saw the deed—why then appear?

Thou art not form’d of blood and bone!

Come not, dread being, come not near!

VII.

So! all is quiet, calm, serene;

I walk a noble mansion round— 50

From room to room, from scene to scene,

I breathless pass, in gloom profound;

No human shape, no mortal sound—

I feel an awe, I own a dread,

And still proceed—nor stop nor bound—

And all is silent, all is dead.

VIII.

Now I’m hurried, borne along,

All is business! all alive!

Heavens! how mighty is the throng,

Voices humming like a hive! 60

Through the swelling crowd I strive,

Bustling forth, my way to trace;

Never fated to arrive

At the still-expected place.

IX.

Ah me! how sweet the morning sun

Deigns on yon sleepy town to shine!

How soft those far-off rivers run—

Those trees their leafy heads decline!

406Balm-breathing zephyrs, all divine,

Their health-imparting influence give: 70

Now, all that earth allows is mine—

Now, now I dream not, but I live.

X.

My friend, my brother, lost in youth,

I meet in doubtful, glad surprise;

In conscious love, in fearless truth;

What pleasures in the meeting rise!

Ah! brief enjoyment!—Pleasure dies

E’en in its birth, and turns to pain:

He meets me with hard glazèd eyes!

He quits me—spurns me—with disdain! 80

XI.

I sail the sea, I walk the land;

In all the world am I alone:

Silent I pace the sea-worn sand,

Silent I view the princely throne;

I listen heartless for the tone

Of winds and waters, but in vain;

Creation dies without a groan;

And I without a hope remain!

XII.

Unnumber’d riches I behold;

Glories untasted I survey— 90

My heart is sick, my bosom cold,

Friends! neighbours! kindred! where are they,

In the sad, last, long, endless day:

When I can neither pray nor weep,

Doom’d o’er the sleeping world to stray,

And not to die, and not to sleep?

407XIII.

Beside the summer sea I stand,

Where the slow billows swelling shine.

How beautiful this pearly sand,

That waves, and winds, and years refine! 100

Be this delicious quiet mine—

The joy of youth, so sweet before,

When I could thus my frame recline,

And watch th’ entangled weeds ashore!

XIV.

Yet, I remember not that sea,

That other shore on yonder side:

Between them narrow bound must be,

If equal rise th’ opposing tide—

Lo! lo! they rise—and I abide

The peril of the meeting flood: 110

Away, away, my footsteps slide—

I pant upon the clinging mud!

XV.

Oh, let me now possession take

Of this—it cannot be a dream.

Yes! now the soul must be awake—

These pleasures are—they do not seem.

And is it true? Oh joy extreme!

All whom I loved, and thought them dead,

Far down in Lethe’s flowing stream,

And, with them, life’s best pleasures fled: 120

XVI.

Yes, many a tear for them I shed—

Tears that relieve the anxious breast;

And now, by heavenly favour led,

We meet—and One, the fairest, best,

408Among them—ever-welcome guest,

Within the room, that seem’d destroy’d—

This room endear’d, and still possess’d,

By this dear party still enjoy’d!

XVII.

Speak to me! speak! that I may know

I am thus happy!—dearest, speak! 130

Those smiles that haunt fond memory show!

Joy makes us doubtful, wavering, weak;

But yet ’tis joy—And all I seek

Is mine! What glorious day is this!

Now let me bear with spirit meek

An hour of pure and perfect bliss.

XVIII.

But do ye look indeed as friends?

Is there no change? Are [ye not] cold?

Oh! I do dread that Fortune lends

Fictitious good!—that I behold, 140

To lose, these treasures, which of old

Were all my glory, all my pride:

May not these arms that form infold?

Is all affection asks denied?

XIX.

Say, what is this?—How are we tried

In this sad world!—I know not these—

All strangers, none to me allied—

Those aspects blood and spirit freeze:

Dear forms, my wandering judgment spare;

And thou, most dear, these fiends disarm, 150

Resume thy wonted looks and air,

And break this melancholy charm!

409XX.

And are they vanish’d? Is she lost?

Shall never day that form restore?

Oh! I am all by fears engross’d;

Sad truth has broken in once more,

And I the brief delight deplore.

How durst they such resemblance take?

Heavens! with what grace the mask they wore!

Oh, from what visions I awake! 160

XXI.

Once more, once more upon the shore!

Now back the rolling ocean flows:

The rocky bed now far before

On the receding water grows—

The treasures and the wealth it owes

To human misery—all in view;

Fate all on me at once bestows,

From thousands robb’d and murder’d too.

XXII.

But, lo! whatever I can find

Grows mean and worthless as I view: 170

They promise, but they cheat the mind,

As promises are born to do.

How lovely every form and hue,

Till seized and master’d—Then arise,

For all that admiration drew,

All that our senses can despise!

XXIII.

Within the basis of a tower,

I saw a plant—it graced the spot;

There was within nor wind nor shower,

And this had life that flowers have not. 180

410I drew it forth—Ah, luckless lot!

It was the mandrake; and the sound

Of anguish deeply smother’d shot

Into my breast with pang profound.

XXIV.

“I would I were a soaring bird,”

Said Folly, “and I then would fly.”

Some mocking Muse or Fairy heard—

“You can but fall—suppose you try!

And, though you may not mount the sky,

You will not grovel in the mire.” 190

Hail, words of comfort! Now can I

Spurn earth, and to the air aspire.

XXV.

And this, before, might I have done

If I had courage—that is all.

’Tis easier now to soar than run;

Up! up!—we neither tire nor fall.

Children of dust, be yours to crawl

On the vile earth!—while, happier, I

Must listen to an inward call,

That bids me mount, that makes me fly. 200

XXVI.

I tumble from the loftiest tower,

Yet evil have I never found;

Supported by some favouring power,

I come in safety to the ground.

I rest upon the sea, the sound

Of many waters in mine ear;

Yet have no dread of being drown’d,

But see my way, and cease to fear.

411XXVII.

Awake, there is no living man

Who may my fixed spirit shake; 210

But, sleeping, there is one who can,

And oft does he the trial make.

Against his might resolves I take,

And him oppose with high disdain;

But quickly all my powers forsake

My mind, and I resume my chain.

XXVIII.

I know not how, but I am brought

Into a large and Gothic hall,

Seated with those I never sought—

Kings, Caliphs, Kaisers—silent all; 220

Pale as the dead; enrobed and tall,

Majestic, frozen, solemn, still;

They wake my fears, my wits appal,

And with both scorn and terror fill.

XXIX.

Now are they seated at a board

In that cold grandeur—I am there.

But what can mummied kings afford?

This is their meagre ghostly fare,

And proves what fleshless things they stare!

Yes! I am seated with the dead: 230

How great, and yet how mean they are!

Yes! I can scorn them while I dread?

XXX.

They’re gone!—and in their room I see

A fairy being, form and dress

Brilliant as light; nor can there be

On earth that heavenly loveliness;

412Nor words can that sweet look express,

Or tell what living gems adorn

That wond’rous beauty: who can guess

Where such celestial charms were born? 240

XXXI.

Yet, as I wonder and admire,

The grace is gone, the glory dead;

And now it is but mean attire

Upon a shrivel’d beldame spread;

Laid loathsome on a pauper’s bed,

Where wretchedness and woe are found,

And the faint putrid odour shed

By all that’s foul and base around!

XXXII.

A garden this? oh, lovely breeze!

Oh, flowers that with such freshness bloom!— 250

Flowers shall I call such forms as these,

Or this delicious air perfume?

Oh! this from better worlds must come;

On earth such beauty who can meet?

No! this is not the native home

Of things so pure, so bright, so sweet!

XXXIII.

Where? where?—am I reduced to this—

Thus sunk in poverty extreme?

Can I not these vile things dismiss?

No! they are things that more than seem: 260

This room with that cross-parting beam

Holds yonder squalid tribe and me—

But they were ever thus, nor dream

Of being wealthy, favour’d, free!—

413XXXIV.

Shall I a coat and badge receive,

And sit among these crippled men,

And not go forth without the leave

Of him—and ask it humbly then—

Who reigns in this infernal den—

Where all beside in woe repine? 270

Yes, yes, I must: nor tongue nor pen

Can paint such misery as mine!

XXXV.

Wretches! if ye were only poor,

You would my sympathy engage;

Or, were ye vicious, and no more,

I might be fill’d with manly rage;

Or had ye patience, wise and sage

We might such worthy sufferers call;

But ye are birds that suit your cage—

Poor, vile, impatient, worthless all! 280

XXXVI.

How came I hither? Oh, that Hag!

’Tis she the enchanting spell prepares;

By cruel witchcraft she can drag

My struggling being in her snares:

Oh, how triumphantly she glares;

But yet would leave me, could I make

Strong effort to subdue my cares!—

’Tis made!—and I to Freedom wake!

414

[HIS MOTHER’S WEDDING-RING.]

[About 1813–4.]

The ring so worn, as you behold,

So thin, so pale, is yet of gold.

The passion such it was to prove:

Worn with life’s cares, love yet was love.

[PARHAM REVISITED.]

[1814.]

Yes, I behold again the place,

The seat of joy, the source of pain;

It brings in view the form and face

That I must never see again.

The night-bird’s song that sweetly floats

On this soft gloom—this balmy air,

Brings to the mind her sweeter notes

That I again must never hear.

Lo! yonder shines that window’s light,

My guide, my token, heretofore; 10

And now again it shines as bright,

When those dear eyes can shine no more.

Then hurry from this place away!

It gives not now the bliss it gave;

For Death has made its charm his prey,

And joy is buried in her grave.

415

FLIRTATION.

A Dialogue.

(May, 1816.)

From her own room, in summer’s softest eve,

Stept Celia forth, her Delia to receive—

Joy in her looks, that half her tale declared:

C. War and the waves my fav’rite Youth have spared;

Faithful and fond, through many a painful year,

My Charles will come——Do give me joy, my dear!

D. I give you joy, and so may he; but still,

’Tis right to question, if ’tis sure he will;

A sailor’s open honest heart we prize;

But honest sailors have their ears and eyes. 10

C. Oh! but he surely will on me depend,

Nor dare to doubt the firmness of his friend.

D. Be not secure; the very best have foes, }

And facts they would not to the world expose; }

And these he may be told, if he converse with those. }

C. Speak you in friendship?—let it be sincere

And naked truth—and what have I to fear?

D. I speak in friendship; and I do confess

If I were you, the Truth should wear a dress:

If Charles should doubt, as lovers do, though blind, 20

Would you to him present the naked mind?

If it were clear as crystal, yet it checks

One’s joy to think that he may fancy specks;

And now, in five long years, we scarcely know

How the mind gets them, and how large they grow.

Let woman be as rigid as a nun,

She cannot censures and surmises shun.

Wonder not, then, at tales that Scandal tells—

Your father’s rooms were not like sisters’ cells;

Nor pious monks came there, nor prosing friars, 30

But well-dress’d captains, and approving squires.

416C. What these to me, admit th’ account be true?

D. Nay, that yourself describe—they came to you!

C. Well! to my friend I may the truth confess,

Poor Captain Glimmer loved me to excess;

Flintham, the young solicitor, that wrote

Those pretty verses, he began to dote;

That Youth from Oxford, when I used to stop

A moment with him, at my feet would drop;

Nor less your Brother, whom, for your dear sake, 40}

I to my favour often used to take— }

And was, vile world! my character at stake? }

If such reports my Sailor’s ear should reach,

What jealous thoughts and fancies may they teach;

If without cause ill-judging men suspect,

What may not all these harmless Truths effect?

And what, my Delia, if our virtues fail,

What must we fear if conscious we are frail?

And well you know, my friend, nor fear t’ impart,

The tender frailties of the yielding heart. 50

D. Speak for yourself, fair lady! speak with care;

I not your frailties, but your suffering, share.

You may my counsel, if you will, refuse;

But, pray, beware how you my name accuse!

C. Accuse you! No! there is no need of One,

To do what long the public voice has done.

What misses, then at school, forget the fall }

Of Ensign Bloomer, when he leapt the wall? }

That was a first exploit, and we were witness all; }

And that sad night, upon my faithful breast, 60

We wept together, till we sank to rest.

You own’d your love——

D. A girl, a chit, a child!

Am I for this, and by a friend, reviled?

C. Then lay your hand, fair creature! on your heart,

And say how many there have had a part!

Six I remember; and, if Fame be true,

The handsome Serjeant had his portion too.

D. A Serjeant! Madam, if I might advise,

Do use some small discretion in such lies!

A Serjeant, Celia?——

417C. Handsome, smart, and clean. 70

Yes! and the fellow had a noble mien,

That might excuse you, had you giv’n your hand—

But this your father could not understand.

D. Mercy! how pert and flippant are you grown,

As if you’d not a secret of your own!

Yet would you tremble, should your Sailor know

What I, or my small cabinet, could show:

He might suspect a heart with many a wound,

Shallow and deep, could never more be sound;

That of one pierced so oft, so largely bled, 80}

The feeling ceases, and the love is dead; }

But sense exists, and passion serves instead. }

C. Injurious Delia! cold, reproachful maid!

Is thus my confidential faith repaid?

Is this the counsel that we two have held,

When duty trembled, and desire rebell’d;

The sister-vows we made, through many a night,

To aid each other in the arduous fight

With the harsh-minded powers who never think

What nature needs, nor will at weakness wink? 90

And now, thou cruel girl! is all forgot, }

The wish oft whisper’d, the imagined lot, }

The secret Hymen, the sequester’d cot? }

And will you thus our bond of friendship rend,

And join the world in censure of your friend?

Oh! ’tis not right! as all with scorn must see,

Although the certain mischief falls on me.

D. Nay, never weep! but let this kiss restore

And make our friendship perfect as before;

Do not our wiser selves ourselves condemn, 100

And yet we dearly love their faults and them?

So our reproofs to tender minds are shown:

We treat their wanderings as we treat our own;

We are each other’s conscience, and we tell

Our friend her fault, because we wish her well;

We judge, nay prejudge, what may be her case,

Fore-arm the soul, and shield her from disgrace.

Creatures in prison, ere the trying day,

Their answers practise, and their powers essay.

418By means like these they guard against surprise, 110

And all the puzzling questions that may rise.

“Guilty or not?” His lawyer thus address’d

A wealthy rogue—“Not guilty, I protest.”—

“Why, then, my friend, we’ve nothing here to say,

But you’re in danger! prithee heed your way!

You know your truth, I where your error lies:

From your ‘Not guilty’ will your danger rise.”—

“Oh! but I am, and I have here the gain

Of wicked craft”—“Then let it here remain;

For we must guard it by a sure defence, 120

And not professions of your innocence;

For that’s the way, whatever you suppose,

To slip your neck within the ready noose.”

Thus, my beloved friend, a girl, if wise,

Upon her Prudence, not her Truth, relies;

It is confess’d, that not the good and pure

Are in this world of calumny secure—

And therefore never let a lass rely

Upon her goodness and her chastity!

Her very virtue makes her heedless: youth 130

Reveals imprudent, nay injurious, truth;

Whereas, if conscious that she merit blame,

She grows discreet, and well defends her fame,

And thus, offending, better makes her way—

As Joseph Surface argues in the play—

Than when in virtue’s strength she proudly stood,

So wrongly right, and so absurdly good.

Now, when your Charles shall be your judge, and try }

His own dear damsel—questioning how and why— }

Let her be ready, arm’d with prompt reply; 140}

No hesitation let the man discern,

But answer boldly, then accuse in turn:

Some trifling points with candid speech confess’d,

You gain a monstrous credit for the rest.

Then may you wear the Injured Lady frown,

And with your anger keep his malice down;

Accuse, condemn, and make him glad at heart

To sue for pardon, when you come to part.

But let him have it; let him go in peace,

419And all inquiries of themselves will cease; 150

To touch him nearer, and to hold him fast,

Have a few tears in petto at the last—

But this with care! for ’tis a point of doubt,

If you should end with weeping or without.

’Tis true you much affect him by your pain,

But he may want to prove his power again;

And, then, it spoils the look, and hurts the eyes—

A girl is never handsome when she cries.

Take it for granted, in a general way,

The more you weep for men, the more you may. 160

Save your resources; for, though now you cry

With good effect, you may not by and by.

It is a knack; and there are those that weep

Without emotion, that a man may sleep;

Others disgust—’tis genius, not advice,

That will avail us in a thing so nice.

If you should love him, you have greater need

Of all your care, and may not then succeed.

For that’s our bane—we should be conquerors all

With hearts untouch’d—our feelings cause our fall. 170

But your experience aids you: you can hide

Your real weakness in your borrow’d pride.

But to the point—should so the Charge be laid,

That nought against it fairly can be said—

How would you act? You would not then confess?—

C. Oh! never! no!—nor even my Truth profess!

To mute contempt I would alone resort

For the Reporters, and for their Report.

If he profess’d forgiveness, I would cry—

“Forgive such faithlessness! so would not I! 180

Such errors pardon! he that so would act

Would, I am sure, be guilty of the fact.

Charles, if I thought your spirit was so mean,

I would not longer in your walks be seen;

Could you such woman for a moment prize?

You might forgive her, but you must despise.”

D. Bravo, my girl! ’tis then our sex command,

When we can seize the weapon in their hand;

When we their charge so manage, that ’tis found

420To save the credit it was meant to wound. 190

Those who by reasons their acquittal seek,

Make the whole sex contemptible and weak;

This, too, observe—that men of sense in love

Dupes more complete than fools and blockheads prove;

For all that knowledge lent them as a guide,

Goes off entirely to the lady’s side;

Whereas the blockhead rather sees the more,

And gains perception that he lack’d before.

His honest passion blinds the man of sense.

While want of feeling is the fool’s defence; 200

Arm’d with insensibility he comes;

When more repell’d, he but the more assumes,

And thus succeeds where fails the man of wit;

For, where we cannot conquer, we submit.

But come, my love! let us examine now, }

These Charges all—say, what shall we avow, }

Admit, deny; and which defend, and how? }

That old affair between your friend and you,

When your fond Sailor bade his home adieu,

May be forgotten; yet we should prepare 210

For all events—and are you guarded there?

C. Oh! ’tis long since—I might the whole deny—

“So poor, and so contemptible a lie!

Charles, if ’tis pleasant to abuse your friend,

Let there be something that she may defend;

This is too silly—”

D. Well you may appear

With so much spirit—not a witness near;

Time puzzles judgment; and, when none explain,

You may assume the airs of high disdain.

But, for my Brother—night and morn were you 220

Together found, th’ inseparable two,

Far from the haunts of vulgar prying men—

In the old abbey—in the lonely glen—

In the beech-wood—within the quarry made

By hands long dead—within the silent glade,

Where the moon gleams upon the spring that flows

By the grey willows as they stand in rows—

Shall I proceed? there’s not a quiet spot

421In all the parish where the pair were not

Oft watch’d, oft seen. You must not so despise 230

This weighty charge—Now, what will you devise?

C. “Her brother! What, Sir? jealous of a child!

A friend’s relation! Why, the man is wild—

A boy not yet at college! Come, this proves

Some truth in you! This is a freak of Love’s:

I must forgive it, though I know not how

A thing so very simple to allow.

Pray, if I meet my cousin’s little boy,

And take a kiss, would that your peace annoy?

But I remember Delia—yet, to give 240

A thought to this is folly, as I live—

But I remember Delia made her prayer

That I would try and give the Boy an air;

Yet awkward he, for all the pains we took—

A bookish boy, his pleasure is his book;

And since the lad is grown to man’s estate,

We never speak—Your bookish youth I hate.”

D. Right! and he cannot tell, with all his art,

Our father’s will compelled you both to part.

C. Nay, this is needless—

D. Oh! when you are tried, 250

And taught for trial, must I feed your pride?

Oh! that’s the vice of which I still complain:

Men could not triumph were not women vain.

But now proceed—say boyhood in this case

(The last obscure one) shields you from disgrace.

But what of Shelley? all your foes can prove,

And all your friends, that here indeed was love.

For three long months you met as lovers meet,

And half the town has seen him at your feet;

Then, on the evil day that saw you part, 260

Your ashy looks betray’d your aching heart.

With this against you——

C. This, my watchful friend,

Confess I cannot, therefore must defend.

“Shelley! dear Charles, how enter’d he your mind?

Well may they say that jealousy is blind!

Of all the men who talk’d with me of love,

422His were the offers I could least approve;

My father’s choice—and, Charles, you must agree }

That my good father seldom thinks with me— }

Or his had been the grief, while thou wert tost at sea! }

It was so odious—when that man was near, 271

My father never could himself appear;

Had I received his fav’rite with a frown,

Upon my word he would have knock’d me down.”

D. Well! grant you durst not frown—but people say

That you were dying when he went away.

Yes! you were ill! of that no doubts remain;

And how explain it?—

C. Oh! I’ll soon explain.

“I sicken’d, say you, when the man was gone—

Could I be well, if sickness would come on? 280

Fact follows fact; but is ‘t of Nature’s laws

That one of course must be the other’s cause?

Just as her husband tried his fav’rite gun,

My cousin brought him forth his first-born son—

The birth might either flash or fright succeed,

But neither, sure, were causes of the deed.

That Shelley left us, it is very true—

That sickness found me, I confess it too;

But that the one was cause, and one effect,

Is a conceit I utterly reject. 290

You may, my Friend, demonstrate, if you please,

That disappointment will bring on disease;

But, if it should, I would be glad to know

If ’tis a quinsy that such griefs bestow?

A heart may suffer, if a lady doat;

But will she feel her anguish in the throat?

I’ve heard of pangs that tender folks endure,

But not that linctuses and blisters cure.”—

Your thoughts, my Delia?

D. What I think of this?

Why! if he smile, it is not much amiss. 300

But there are humours; and, by them possess’d,

A lover will not hearken to a jest.

Well, let this pass!—but, for the next affair,

We know your father was indignant there:

423He hated Miller. Say! if Charles should press

For explanation, what would you confess?

You cannot there on his commands presume;

Besides, you fainted in a public room;

There own’d your flame, and, like heroic maid,

The sovereign impulse of your will obey’d. 310

What, to your thinking, was the world’s disdain?

You could retort its insolence again.

Your boundless passion boldly you avow’d,

And spoke the purpose of your soul aloud;

Associates, servants, friends, alike can prove

The world-defying force of Celia’s love.

Did she not wish, nay vow, to poison her

Whom, some durst whisper, Damon could prefer?

And then that frantic quarrel at the ball—

It must be known, and he will hear it all. 320

Nay! never frown, but cast about, in time,

How best to answer what he thinks a crime;

For what he thinks might have but little weight,

If you could answer—

C. Then I’ll answer straight—

Not without Truth; for who would vainly tell

A wretched lie, when Truth might serve as well?

Had I not Fever? is not that the bane

Of human wisdom? was I not insane?

“Oh! Charles, no more! would you recall the day

When it pleased Fate to take my wits away? 330

How can I answer for a thousand things

That this disorder to the sufferer brings?

Is it not known, the men whom you dislike

Are those who now the erring fancy strike?

Nor would it much surprise me, if ’twere true,

That in those days of dread I slighted you.

When the poor mind, illumined by no spark

Of reason’s light, was wandering in the dark,

You must not wonder, if the vilest train

Of evil thoughts were printed on the brain; 340

Nor, if the loyal and the faithful prove

False to their king, and faithless to their love.”—

424Your thoughts on this?

D. With some you may succeed

By such bold strokes; but they must love indeed.

C. Doubt you his passion?—

D. But in five long years

The passion settles—then the reason clears.

Turbid is love, and to ferment inclined,

But by and by grows sober and refined,

And peers for facts; but, if one can’t rely

On truth, one takes one’s chance—you can but try. 350

Yet once again I must attention ask

To a new Charge, and then resign my task.

I would not hurt you; but confess at least

That you were partial to that handsome Priest;

Say what they will of his religious mind,

He was warm-hearted, and to ladies kind.

Now, with his reverence you were daily seen,

When it was winter and the weather keen,

Traced to the mountains when the winds were strong,

And roughly bore you, arm in arm, along— 360

That wintry wind, inspired by love or zeal,

You were too faithful or too fond to feel,

Shielded from inward and from outward harm

By the strong spirit, and the fleshly arm—

The winter-garden you could both admire,

And leave his sisters at the parlour fire;

You trusted not your speech these dames among—

Better the teeth should chatter, than the tongue!

Did not your father stop the pure delight

Of this perambulating Love at night? 370

It is reported, that his craft contrived

To get the Priest with expedition wived,

And sent away; for fathers will suspect

Her inward worth, whose ways are incorrect—

Patience, my dear! your Lover will appear;

At this new tale, then, what will be your cheer?

“I hear,” says he—and he will look as grim

As if he heard his lass accusing him—

“I hear, my Celia, your alluring looks

425Kept the young Curate from his holy books. 380

Parsons, we know, advise their flocks to pray; }

But ’tis their duty—not the better they; }

’Tis done for policy, for praise, for pay— }

Or, let the very best be understood,

They’re men, you know, and men are flesh and blood.

Now, they do say—but let me not offend— }

You were too often with this pious friend, }

And spent your time”—— }

C. “As people ought to spend. }

And, sir, if you of some divine would ask

Aid in your doubts, it were a happy task. 390

But you, alas! the while, are not perplex’d

By the dark meaning of a threat’ning text;

You rather censure her who spends her time

In search of Truth, as if it were a crime!

Could I your dread of vulgar scandal feel,

To whom should I, in my distress, appeal?

A time there may be, Charles, indeed there must, }

When you will need a faithful Priest to trust, }

In conscience tender, but in counsel just. }

Charles, for my Fame I would in prudence strive, 400

And, if I could, would keep your Love alive;

But there are things that our attention claim,

More near than Love, and more desired than Fame!”

D. “But why in secret?” he will ask you—

C. “Why?

Oh, Charles! could you the doubting spirit spy,

Had you such fears, all hearers you would shun;

What one confesses should be heard by one.

Your mind is gross, and you have dwelt so long

With such companions, that you will be wrong.

We fill our minds from those with whom we live, 410

And, as your fears are Nature’s, I forgive;

But learn your peace and my good name to prize,

And fears of fancy let us both despise!”

D. Enough, my friend! Now let the man advance—

You are prepared, and nothing leave to chance.

’Tis not sufficient that we’re pure and just;

The wise to nothing but their wisdom trust—

426Will he himself appear, or will he send,

Duteous as warm, and not alarm my friend?

We need not ask—behold! his servant comes: 420

His father’s livery! no fond heart presumes.

Thus he prepares you—kindly gives you space

To arm your mind, and rectify your face.

Now, read your Letter—while my faithful heart

Feels all that his can dictate or impart.

Nay! bless you, love! what melancholy tale

Conveys that paper? Why so deadly pale?

It is his sister’s writing, but the seal

Is red: he lives. What is it that you feel?

C. Oh, my dear friend! let us from man retreat, 430

Or never trust him if we chance to meet—

The fickle wretch! that from our presence flies

To any flirt that any place supplies,

And laughs at vows!—but see the Letter!—here—

“Married at Guernsey!!!”—Oh! the Villain, dear!

LINES IN LAURA’S ALBUM.

(These lines, were written at the desire of a young lady, who requested some verses on a cameo in her possession.)

See with what ease the child-like god

Assumes his reins, and shakes his rod;

How gaily, like a smiling boy,

He seems his triumphs to enjoy,

And looks as innocently mild

As if he were indeed a child!

But in that meekness who shall tell

What vengeance sleeps, what terrors dwell?

By him are tamed the fierce—the bold

And haughty are by him controll’d; 10

The hero of th’ ensanguined field

427Finds there is neither sword nor shield

Availing here. Amid his books

The student thinks how Laura looks;

The miser’s self, with heart of lead,

With all the nobler feelings fled,

Has thrown his darling treasures by,

And sigh’d for something worth a sigh.

Love over gentle natures reigns,

A gentle master; yet his pains 20

Are felt by them, are felt by all,

The bitter sweet, the honied gall,

Soft pleasing tears, heart-soothing sighs,

Sweet pain, and joys that agonise.

Against a power like this, what arts,

What virtues, can secure our hearts?

In vain are both—the good, the wise,

Have tender thoughts and wandering eyes;

And then, to banish Virtue’s fear,

Like Virtue’s self will Love appear; 30

Bid every anxious feeling cease,

And all be confidence and peace.

He such insidious method takes,

He seems to heal the wound he makes;

Till, master of the human breast,

He shows himself the foe of rest,

Pours in his doubts, his dread, his pains,

And now a very tyrant reigns.

If, then, his power we cannot shun,

And must endure—what can be done? 40

To whom, thus bound, can we apply?—

To Prudence, as our best ally:

For she, like Pallas, for the fight

Can arm our eye with clearer sight;

Can teach the happy art that gains

A captive who will grace our chains,

And, as we must the dart endure,

To bear the wound we cannot cure.

428

LINES WRITTEN AT WARWICK.

“You that in warlike stories take delight,” &c.

Hail, centre-county of our land, and known

For matchless worth and valour all thine own—

Warwick! renown’d for him who best could write,

Shakspeare the Bard, and him so fierce in fight,

Guy, thy brave Earl, who made whole armies fly,

And giants fall—who has not heard of Guy?

Him sent his Lady, matchless in her charms,

To gain immortal glory by his arms—

Felice the fair, who, as her bard maintain’d,

The prize of beauty over Venus gain’d; 10

For she, the goddess, had some trivial blot

That marr’d some beauty, which our nymph had not:

But, this apart—for in a fav’rite theme

Poets and lovers are allow’d to dream—

Still we believe the lady and her knight }

Were matchless both: he in the glorious fight, }

She in the bower by day, and festive hall by night. }

Urged by his love, th’ adventurous Guy proceeds,

And Europe wonders at his warlike deeds.

Whatever prince his potent arm sustains, 20

However weak, the certain conquest gains;

On every side the routed legions fly,

Numbers are nothing in the sight of Guy.

To him the injured made their sufferings known,

And he relieved all sorrows but his own;

Ladies who owed their freedom to his might

Were grieved to find his heart another’s right.

The brood of giants, famous in those times,

Fell by his arm, and perish’d for their crimes.

Colbrand the strong, who by the Dane was brought, 30

When he the crown of good Athelstan sought,

429Fell by the prowess of our champion brave,

And his huge body found an English grave.

But what to Guy were men, or great or small,

Or one or many?—he despatch’d them all;

A huge dun Cow, the dread of all around,

A master-spirit in our hero found:

’Twas desolation all about her den—

Her sport was murder, and her meals were men.

At Dunmore Heath the monster he assail’d, 40

And o’er the fiercest of his foes prevail’d.

Nor fear’d he lions more than lions fear

Poor trembling shepherds, or the sheep they shear.

A fiery dragon, whether green or red

The story tells not, by his valour bled;

What more I know not, but by these ’tis plain

That Guy of Warwick never fought in vain.

When much of life in martial deeds was spent,

His sovereign lady found her heart relent,

And gave her hand. Then all was joy around, 50

And valiant Guy with love and glory crown’d;

Then Warwick Castle wide its gate display’d,

And peace and pleasure this their dwelling made.

Alas! not long—a hero knows not rest;

A new sensation fill’d his anxious breast.

His fancy brought before his eyes a train

Of pensive shades, the ghosts of mortals slain;

His dreams presented what his sword had done;

He saw the blood from wounded soldiers run,

And dying men, with every ghastly wound, 60

Breathed forth their souls upon the sanguine ground.

Alarm’d at this, he dared no longer stay, }

But left his bride, and as a pilgrim gray, }

With staff and beads, went forth to weep and fast and pray. }

In vain his Felice sigh’d—nay, smiled in vain; }

With all he loved he [dared] not long remain, }

But roved he knew not where, nor said, “I come again.” }

The widow’d countess pass’d her years in grief,

But sought in alms and holy deeds relief;

And many a pilgrim ask’d, with many a sigh, 70

To give her tidings of the wandering Guy.

430Perverse and cruel! could it conscience ease,

A wife so lovely and so fond to tease?

Or could he not with her a saint become,

And, like a quiet man, repent at home?

How different those who now this seat possess!

No idle dreams disturb their happiness.

The Lord who now presides o’er Warwick’s towers

To nobler purpose dedicates his powers;

No deeds of horror fill his soul with fear, 80

Nor conscience drives him from a home so dear.

The lovely Felice of the present day

Dreads not her lord should from her presence stray;

He feels the charm that binds him to a seat

Where love and honour, joy and duty, meet.

But forty days could Guy his fair afford;

Not forty years would weary Warwick’s lord.

He better knows, how charms like hers control

All vagrant thoughts, and fill with her the soul;

He better knows, that not on mortal strife, 90

Or deeds of blood, depend the bliss of life—

But on the ties that first the heart enchain,

And every grace that bids the charm remain.

Time will, we know, to beauty work despite,

And youthful bloom will take with him its flight;

But Love shall still subsist, and, undecay’d,

Feel not one change of all that Time has made.

431

ON A DRAWING OF THE ELM TREE, UNDER WHICH THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON STOOD SEVERAL TIMES DURING THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

Is there one heart that beats on English ground,

One grateful spirit in the kingdoms round—

One who had traced the progress of the foe,

And does not hail the field of Waterloo;

Who o’er that field, if but in thought, has gone,

Without a grateful wish for Wellington?

Within that field of glory rose a Tree

(Which a fair hand has given us here to see),

A noble tree that, pierced by many a ball,

Fell not—decreed in time of peace to fall. 10

Nor shall it die unsung; for there shall be }

In many a noble verse the praise of thee, }

With that heroic chief—renown’d and glorious tree!— }

Men shall divide thee, and thy smallest part

Shall be to warm and stir the English heart;

Form’d into shapes as fancy may design,

In all, fair fame and honour shall be thine.

The noblest ladies in the land with joy

Shall own thy value in the slightest toy;

Preserved through life, it shall a treasure prove, 20

And left to friends, a legacy of love.

And thou, fair semblance of that tree sublime,

Shalt a memorial be to distant time;

Shalt wake a grateful sense in every heart,

And noble thoughts to opening minds impart:

Who shall hereafter learn what deeds were done,

What nations freed, by Heaven and Wellington.

Heroic tree we surely this may call— }

Wounded it fell, and numbers mourn’d its fall; }

It fell for many here, but there it stood for all. 30}

432

ON RECEIVING FROM A LADY A PRESENT OF A RING.

A ring to me Cecilia sends—

And what to show?—that we are friends;

That she with favour reads my lays,

And sends a token of her praise:

Such as the nun, with heart of snow,

Might on her confessor bestow;

Or which some favourite nymph would pay,

Upon her grandsire’s natal day,

And to his trembling hand impart

The offering of a feeling heart. 10

And what shall I return the fair

And flattering nymph?—A verse?—a prayer?

For, were a Ring my present too,

I see the smile that must ensue—

The smile that pleases, though it stings,

And says—“No more of giving rings:

Remember, thirty years are gone,

Old friend, since you presented one!”

Well! one there is, or one shall be,

To give a ring instead of me; 20

And with it sacred vows for life

To love the fair—the angel-wife.

In that one act may every grace,

And every blessing have their place—

And give to future hours the bliss,

The charm of life, derived from this;

And—when even love no more supplies;

When weary nature sinks to rest—

May brighter, steadier light arise,

And make the parting moment blest! 30

433

TO A LADY, WITH SOME POETICAL EXTRACTS.

Say, shall thine eye, and with the eye the mind,

Dwell on a work for thee alone design’d?

Traced by my hand, selected by my heart,

Will it not pleasure to a friend impart,

And her dear smile an ample payment prove

For this light labour of aspiring love?

Read, but with partial mind, the themes I choose;

A friend transcribes, and let a friend peruse!

This shall a charm to every verse impart,

And the cold line shall reach the willing heart; 10

For willing hearts the tamest song approve,

All read with pleasure, when they read with love.

There are no passions to the Muse unknown—

Fear, sorrow, hope, joy, pity are her own.

She gives to each the strength, the tone, the power,

By varying moods to suit the varying hour;

She plays with each, and veils in changing robes

The grief she pities, and the love she probes.

’Tis hers for we the sullen smile to feign, }

And Laughter lend to Envy’s rankling pain, 20}

Soft Pity’s look to Scorn, mild Friendship’s to Disdain. }

Joy inexpressive with her tear she veils,

And weeps her transport, where expression fails.

434

TO A LADY, ON LEAVING HER AT SIDMOUTH.

Yes! I must go—it is a part

That cruel Fortune has assign’d me—

Must go, and leave, with aching heart,

What most that heart adores, behind me.

Still I shall see thee on the sand

Till o’er the space the water rises;

Still shall in thought behind thee stand,

And watch the look affection prizes.

But ah! what youth attends thy side,

With eyes that speak his soul’s devotion— 10

To thee as constant as the tide

That gives the restless wave its motion?

Still in thy train must he appear,

For ever gazing, smiling, talking?

Ah! would that he were sighing here,

And I were there beside thee walking!

Wilt thou to him that arm resign,

Who is to that dear heart a stranger,

And with those matchless looks of thine

The peace of this poor youth endanger? 20

Away this fear that fancy makes,

When night and death’s dull image hide thee!

In sleep, to thee my mind awakes;

Awake, it sleeps to all beside thee.

Who could in absence bear the pain

Of all this fierce and jealous feeling,

But for the hope to meet again,

And see those smiles all sorrow healing!

Then shall we meet, and, heart to heart,

Lament that fate such friends should sever; 30

And I shall say—“We must not part;”

And thou wilt answer—“Never, never!”

435

TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

Of all the subjects poetry commands

Praise is the hardest nicely to bestow;

’Tis like the streams in Afric’s burning sands,

Exhausted now, and now they overflow.

As heaping fuel on a kindling fire,

So deals a thoughtless poet with his praise;

For, when he would the cheerful warmth inspire,

He chokes the very thing he hopes to raise.

How shall I, then, the happy medium hit,

And give the just proportion to my song? 10

How speak of beauty, elegance, and wit,

Yet fear at once t’offend thee and to wrong?

Sure to offend, if far the Muse should soar,

And sure to wrong thee if her strength I spare:

Still, in my doubts, this comfort I explore—

That all confess what I must not declare.

Yet on this day, in every passing year,

Poets the tribute of their praise may bring;

Nor should thy virtues then be so severe,

As to forbid us of thy worth to sing. 20

Still I forbear; for why should I portray

Those looks that seize—that mind that wins the heart—

Since all the world, on this propitious day,

Will tell how lovely and how good thou art?

436

TO A LADY WHO DESIRED SOME VERSES AT PARTING.

Oh! do not ask the Muse to show

Or how we met, or how we part:

The bliss, the pain, too well I know,

That seize in turn this faithful heart.

That meeting—it was tumult all—

The eye was pleased, the soul was glad;

But thus to memory I recall,

And feel the parting doubly sad.

Yes, it was pleasant so to meet

For us, who fear’d to meet no more, 10

When every passing hour was sweet—

Sweeter, we thought, than all before.

When eye from eye new meanings steal,

When hearts approach, and thoughts unite—

Then is, indeed, the time to feel,

But, Laura! not a time to write.

And when at length compell’d to part,

When fear is strong, and fancy weak;

When in some distant good the heart

For present ease is forced to seek; 20

When hurried spirits fall and rise,

As on the changing views we dwell—

How vainly then the sufferer tries

In studied verse his pains to tell!

Time brings, indeed, his slow relief,

In whom the passions live and die;

He gives the bright’ning smile to grief,

And his the soft consoling sigh.

Till then, we vainly wish the power

To paint the grief, or use the pen; 30

But distant far that quiet hour—

And I must feel and grieve till then.

437

THE FRIEND IN LOVE.

[About 1816.]

Unhappy is the wretch who feels

The trembling lover’s ardent flame,

And yet the treacherous hope conceals

By using Friendship’s colder name.

He must the lover’s pangs endure,

And still the outward sign suppress;

Nor may expect the smiles that cure

The wounded heart’s conceal’d distress.

When her soft looks on others bend,

By him discern’d, to him denied, 10

He must be then the silent friend,

And all his jealous torments hide.

When she shall one blest youth select,

His bleeding heart must still approve;

Must every angry thought correct,

And strive to like, where she can love.