FREDERIC.

(Time Night. Scene the woods.)

Where shall I turn me? whither shall I bend My weary way? thus worn with toil and faint How thro' the thorny mazes of this wood Attain my distant dwelling? that deep cry That rings along the forest seems to sound My parting knell: it is the midnight howl Of hungry monsters prowling for their prey! Again! oh save me—save me gracious Heaven! I am not fit to die! Thou coward wretch Why heaves thy trembling heart? why shake thy limbs Beneath their palsied burden? is there ought So lovely in existence? would'st thou drain Even to its dregs the bitter draught of life? Dash down the loathly bowl! poor outcast slave Stamp'd with the brand of Vice and Infamy Why should the villain Frederic shrink from Death?

Death! where the magic in that empty name That chills my inmost heart? why at the thought Starts the cold dew of fear on every limb? There are no terrors to surround the Grave, When the calm Mind collected in itself Surveys that narrow house: the ghastly train That haunt the midnight of delirious Guilt Then vanish; in that home of endless rest All sorrows cease.—Would I might slumber there!

Why then this panting of the fearful heart? This miser love of Life that dreads to lose Its cherish'd torment? shall the diseased man Yield up his members to the surgeon's knife, Doubtful of succour, but to ease his frame Of fleshly anguish, and the coward wretch, Whose ulcered soul can know no human help Shrink from the best Physician's certain aid? Oh it were better far to lay me down Here on this cold damp earth, till some wild beast Seize on his willing victim!

If to die Were all, it were most sweet to rest my head On the cold clod, and sleep the sleep of Death. But if the Archangel's trump at the last hour Startle the ear of Death and wake the soul To frenzy!—dreams of infancy! fit tales For garrulous beldames to affrighten babes! I have been guilty, yet my mind can bear The retrospect of guilt, yet in the hour Of deep contrition to THE ETERNAL look For mercy! for the child of Poverty, And "disinherited of happiness,"

What if I warr'd upon the world? the world Had wrong'd me first: I had endur'd the ills Of hard injustice; all this goodly earth Was but to me one wild waste wilderness; I had no share in Nature's patrimony, Blasted were all my morning hopes of Youth, Dark DISAPPOINTMENT follow'd on my ways, CARE was my bosom inmate, and keen WANT Gnaw'd at my heart. ETERNAL ONE thou know'st How that poor heart even in the bitter hour Of lewdest revelry has inly yearn'd For peace!

My FATHER! I will call on thee, Pour to thy mercy seat my earnest prayer, And wait thy peace in bowedness of soul. Oh thoughts of comfort! how the afflicted heart, Tired with the tempest of its passions, rests On you with holy hope! the hollow howl Of yonder harmless tenant of the woods Bursts not with terror on the sober'd sense. If I have sinn'd against mankind, on them Be that past sin; they made me what I was. In these extremest climes can Want no more Urge to the deeds of darkness, and at length Here shall I rest. What tho' my hut be poor— The rains descend not thro' its humble roof: Would I were there again! the night is cold; And what if in my wanderings I should rouse The savage from his thicket!

Hark! the gun! And lo—the fire of safety! I shall reach My little hut again! again by toil Force from the stubborn earth my sustenance, And quick-ear'd guilt will never start alarm'd Amid the well-earn'd meal. This felon's garb— Will it not shield me from the winds of Heaven? And what could purple more? Oh strengthen me Eternal One in this serener state! Cleanse thou mine heart, so PENITENCE and FAITH Shall heal my soul and my last days be peace.

Sonnets

SONNET I.

Go Valentine and tell that lovely maid Whom Fancy still will pourtray to my sight, How her Bard lingers in this sullen shade, This dreary gloom of dull monastic night. Say that from every joy of life remote At evening's closing hour he quits the throng, Listening alone the ring-dove's plaintive note Who pours like him her solitary song. Say that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh, Say that of all her charms he loves to speak, In fancy feels the magic of her eye, In fancy views the smile illume her cheek, Courts the lone hour when Silence stills the grove And heaves the sigh of Memory and of Love.

SONNET II.

Think Valentine, as speeding on thy way Homeward thou hastest light of heart along, If heavily creep on one little day The medley crew of travellers among, Think on thine absent friend: reflect that here On Life's sad journey comfortless he roves, Remote from every scene his heart holds dear, From him he values, and from her he loves. And when disgusted with the vain and dull Whom chance companions of thy way may doom, Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full, Turns to itself and meditates on home, Ah think what Cares must ache within his breast Who loaths the lingering road, yet has no home of rest!

SONNET III.

Not to thee Bedford mournful is the tale Of days departed. Time in his career Arraigns not thee that the neglected year Has past unheeded onward. To the vale Of years thou journeyest. May the future road Be pleasant as the past! and on my friend Friendship and Love, best blessings! still attend, 'Till full of days he reach the calm abode Where Nature slumbers. Lovely is the age Of Virtue. With such reverence we behold The silver hairs, as some grey oak grown old That whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's rage Now like the monument of strength decayed With rarely-sprinkled leaves casting a trembling shade.

SONNET IV.

What tho' no sculptur'd monument proclaim Thy fate-yet Albert in my breast I bear Inshrin'd the sad remembrance; yet thy name Will fill my throbbing bosom. When DESPAIR The child of murdered HOPE, fed on thy heart, Loved honored friend, I saw thee sink forlorn Pierced to the soul by cold Neglect's keen dart, And Penury's hard ills, and pitying Scorn, And the dark spectre of departed JOY Inhuman MEMORY. Often on thy grave Love I the solitary hour to employ Thinking on other days; and heave the sigh Responsive, when I mark the high grass wave Sad sounding as the cold breeze rustles by.

SONNET V.

Hard by the road, where on that little mound The high grass rustles to the passing breeze, The child of Misery rests her head in peace. Pause there in sadness. That unhallowed ground Inshrines what once was Isabel. Sleep on Sleep on, poor Outcast! lovely was thy cheek, And thy mild eye was eloquent to speak The soul of Pity. Pale and woe-begone Soon did thy fair cheek fade, and thine eye weep The tear of anguish for the babe unborn, The helpless heir of Poverty and Scorn. She drank the draught that chill'd her soul to sleep. I pause and wipe the big drop from mine eye, Whilst the proud Levite scowls and passes by.

SONNET VI to a brook near the village of Corston.

As thus I bend me o'er thy babbling stream And watch thy current, Memory's hand pourtrays The faint form'd scenes of the departed days, Like the far forest by the moon's pale beam Dimly descried yet lovely. I have worn Upon thy banks the live-long hour away, When sportive Childhood wantoned thro' the day, Joy'd at the opening splendour of the morn, Or as the twilight darken'd, heaved the sigh Thinking of distant home; as down my cheek At the fond thought slow stealing on, would speak The silent eloquence of the full eye. Dim are the long past days, yet still they please As thy soft sounds half heard, borne on the inconstant breeze.

SONNET VII to the evening rainbow.

Mild arch of promise! on the evening sky Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray Each in the other melting. Much mine eye Delights to linger on thee; for the day, Changeful and many-weather'd, seem'd to smile Flashing brief splendor thro' its clouds awhile, That deepen'd dark anon and fell in rain: But pleasant is it now to pause, and view Thy various tints of frail and watery hue, And think the storm shall not return again. Such is the smile that Piety bestows On the good man's pale cheek, when he in peace Departing gently from a world of woes, Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease.

SONNET VIII.

With many a weary step, at length I gain Thy summit, Lansdown; and the cool breeze plays, Gratefully round my brow, as hence the gaze Returns to dwell upon the journeyed plain. 'Twas a long way and tedious! to the eye Tho fair the extended vale, and fair to view The falling leaves of many a faded hue, That eddy in the wild gust moaning by. Even so it fared with Life! in discontent Restless thro' Fortune's mingled scenes I went, Yet wept to think they would return no more! But cease fond heart in such sad thoughts to roam, For surely thou ere long shall reach thy home, And pleasant is the way that lies before.

SONNET IX.

Fair is the rising morn when o'er the sky The orient sun expands his roseate ray, And lovely to the Bard's enthusiast eye Fades the meek radiance of departing day; But fairer is the smile of one we love, Than all the scenes in Nature's ample sway. And sweeter than the music of the grove, The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight EDITH! is mine, escaping to thy sight From the hard durance of the empty throng. Too swiftly then towards the silent night Ye Hours of happiness! ye speed along, Whilst I, from all the World's cold cares apart, Pour out the feelings of my burthen'd heart.

SONNET X.

How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns The gather'd tempest! from that lurid cloud The deep-voiced thunders roll, aweful and loud Tho' distant; while upon the misty downs Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain. I never saw so terrible a storm! Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain Wraps his torn raiment round his shivering form Cold even as Hope within him! I the while Pause me in sadness tho' the sunbeams smile Cheerily round me. Ah that thus my lot Might be with Peace and Solitude assign'd, Where I might from some little quiet cot, Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind!

Sappho.

A MONODRAMA.

Argument.

To leap from the promontory of LEUCADIA was believed by the Greeks to be a remedy for hopeless love, if the self-devoted victim escaped with life. Artemisia lost her life in the dangerous experiment: and Sappho is said thus to have perished, in attempting to cure her passion for Phaon.

SAPPHO

(Scene the promontory of Leucadia.)

This is the spot:—'tis here Tradition says That hopeless Love from this high towering rock Leaps headlong to Oblivion or to Death. Oh 'tis a giddy height! my dizzy head Swims at the precipice—'tis death to fall!

Lie still, thou coward heart! this is no time To shake with thy strong throbs the frame convuls'd. To die,—to be at rest—oh pleasant thought! Perchance to leap and live; the soul all still, And the wild tempest of the passions husht In one deep calm; the heart, no more diseas'd By the quick ague fits of hope and fear, Quietly cold! Presiding Powers look down! In vain to you I pour'd my earnest prayers, In vain I sung your praises: chiefly thou VENUS! ungrateful Goddess, whom my lyre Hymn'd with such full devotion! Lesbian groves, Witness how often at the languid hour Of summer twilight, to the melting song Ye gave your choral echoes! Grecian Maids Who hear with downcast look and flushing cheek That lay of love bear witness! and ye Youths, Who hang enraptur'd on the empassion'd strain Gazing with eloquent eye, even till the heart Sinks in the deep delirium! and ye too Shall witness, unborn Ages! to that song Of warmest zeal; ah witness ye, how hard, Her fate who hymn'd the votive hymn in vain! Ungrateful Goddess! I have hung my lute In yonder holy pile: my hand no more Shall wake the melodies that fail'd to move The heart of Phaon—yet when Rumour tells How from Leucadia Sappho hurl'd her down A self-devoted victim—he may melt Too late in pity, obstinate to love.

Oh haunt his midnight dreams, black NEMESIS! Whom,[1] self-conceiving in the inmost depths Of CHAOS, blackest NIGHT long-labouring bore, When the stern DESTINIES, her elder brood. And shapeless DEATH, from that more monstrous birth Leapt shuddering! haunt his slumbers, Nemesis, Scorch with the fires of Phlegethon his heart, Till helpless, hopeless, heaven-abandon'd wretch He too shall seek beneath the unfathom'd deep To hide him from thy fury.

How the sea Far distant glitters as the sun-beams smile, And gayly wanton o'er its heaving breast Phoebus shines forth, nor wears one cloud to mourn His votary's sorrows! God of Day shine on— By Man despis'd, forsaken by the Gods, I supplicate no more.

How many a day, O pleasant Lesbos! in thy secret streams Delighted have I plung'd, from the hot sun Screen'd by the o'er-arching groves delightful shade, And pillowed on the waters: now the waves Shall chill me to repose.

Tremendous height! Scarce to the brink will these rebellious limbs Support me. Hark! how the rude deep below Roars round the rugged base, as if it called Its long-reluctant victim! I will come. One leap, and all is over! The deep rest Of Death, or tranquil Apathy's dead calm Welcome alike to me. Away vain fears! Phaon is cold, and why should Sappho live? Phaon is cold, or with some fairer one— Thought worse than death!

(She throws herself from the precipice.)

[Footnote A: [Greek (transliterated)]: Ou tini choimaetheisa thea teche NUTH erezennae. HESIOD]