Volume 8 — 1792 (or earlier)

Sweet was the walk along the narrow lane At noon, the bank and hedgerows all the way Shagged with wild pale green tufts of fragrant hay, Caught by the hawthorns from the loaded wain Which Age, with many a slow stoop, strove to gain; 5 And Childhood seeming still more busy, took His little rake with cunning sidelong look, Sauntering to pluck the strawberries wild unseen. Now too, on melancholy’s idle dream Musing, the lone spot with my soul agrees 10 Quiet and dark; for through the thick-wove trees Scarce peeps the curious star till solemn gleams The clouded moon, and calls me forth to stray Through tall green silent woods and ruins grey.

When Love was born of heavenly line, What dire intrigues disturb’d Cythera’s joy! Till Venus cried, “A mother’s heart is mine; None but myself shall nurse my boy.” But, infant as he was, the child 5 In that divine embrace enchanted lay; And, by the beauty of the vase beguiled, Forgot the beverage—and pined away. “And must my offspring languish in my sight?” (Alive to all a mother’s pain, 10 The Queen of Beauty thus her court address’d) “No: Let the most discreet of all my train Receive him to her breast: Think all, he is the God of young delight.” Then Tenderness with Candour join’d, 15 And Gaiety the charming office sought; Nor even Delicacy stay’d behind: But none of those fair Graces brought Wherewith to nurse the child—and still he pined. Some fond hearts to Compliance seem’d inclined; 20 But she had surely spoil’d the boy: And sad experience forbade a thought On the wild Goddess of Voluptuous Joy. Long undecided lay th’ important choice, Till of the beauteous court, at length, a voice 25 Pronounced the name of Hope:—The conscious child Stretch’d forth his little arms, and smiled.[340] ’Tis said Enjoyment (who averr’d The charge belong’d to her alone) Jealous that Hope had been preferr’d 30 Laid snares to make the babe her own. Of Innocence the garb she took, The blushing mien and downcast look; And came her services to proffer: And Hope (what has not Hope believed!) 35 By that seducing air deceived, Accepted of the offer. It happen’d that, to sleep inclined, Deluded Hope for one short hour To that false Innocence’s power 40 Her little charge consign’d. The Goddess then her lap with sweetmeats fill’d And gave, in handfuls gave, the treacherous store: A wild delirium first the infant thrill’d; But soon upon her breast he sunk—to wake no more. 45

The glory of evening was spread through the west; —On the slope of a mountain I stood, While the joy that precedes the calm season of rest Rang loud through the meadow and wood. “And must we then part from a dwelling so fair?” 5 In the pain of my spirit I said, And with a deep sadness I turned, to repair To the cell where the convict is laid. The thick-ribbed walls that o’ershadow the gate Resound; and the dungeons unfold: 10 I pause; and at length, through the glimmering grate, That outcast of pity behold. His black matted hair on his shoulder is bent, And deep is the sigh of his breath, And with stedfast dejection his eyes are intent 15 On the fetters that link him to death. ’Tis sorrow enough on that visage to gaze, That body dismiss’d from his care; Yet my fancy has pierced to his heart, and pourtrays More terrible images there. 20 His bones are consumed, and his life-blood is dried, With wishes the past to undo; And his crime, through the pains that o’erwhelm him, descried, Still blackens and grows on his view. When from the dark synod, or blood-reeking field, 25 To his chamber the monarch is led, All soothers of sense their soft virtue shall yield, And quietness pillow his head. But if grief, self-consumed, in oblivion would doze, And conscience her tortures appease, 30 ’Mid tumult and uproar this man must repose, In the comfortless vault of disease. When his fetters at night have so press’d on his limbs, That the weight can no longer be borne, If, while a half-slumber his memory bedims, 35 The wretch on his pallet should turn, While the jail-mastiff howls at the dull clanking chain, From the roots of his hair there shall start A thousand sharp punctures of cold-sweating pain, And terror shall leap at his heart. 40 But now he half-raises his deep-sunken eye, And the motion unsettles a tear; The silence of sorrow it seems to supply, And asks of me why I am here. “Poor victim! no idle intruder has stood 45 With o’erweening complacence our state to compare, But one, whose first wish is the wish to be good, Is come as a brother thy sorrows to share. “At thy name though compassion her nature resign, Though in virtue’s proud mouth thy report be a stain, 50 My care, if the arm of the mighty were mine, Would plant thee where yet thou might’st blossom again.”