Poems, &c. (1790) Wherein It Is Attempted To Describe Certain Views Of Nature And Of Rustic Manners; And Also, To Point Out, In Some Instances, The Different Influence Which The Same Circumstances Produce On Different Characters

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Ti­tle: Po­ems, &c. (1790) Where­in It Is At­tempt­ed To De­scribe Cer­tain Views Of Na­ture And Of Rus­tic Man­ners; And Al­so, To Point Out, In Some In­stances, The Dif­fer­ent In­flu­ence Which The Same Cir­cum­stances Pro­duce On Dif­fer­ent Char­ac­ters

Au­thor: Joan­na Bail­lie

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PO­EMS, &c.

PO­EMS;

WHERE­IN IT IS AT­TEMPT­ED TO DE­SCRIBE

CER­TAIN VIEWS OF NA­TURE

AND OF

RUS­TIC MAN­NERS;

AND AL­SO,

TO POINT OUT, IN SOME IN­STANCES, THE DIF­FER­ENT IN­FLU­ENCE WHICH THE SAME CIR­CUM­STANCES PRO­DUCE ON DIF­FER­ENT CHAR­AC­TERS.

LON­DON:

PRINT­ED FOR J. JOHN­SON, SAINT PAUL'S CHURCH-​YARD.

MD­CCXC.

A WIN­TER DAY.

The cock, warm roost­ing 'midst his feath­er'd dames, Now lifts his beak and snuffs the morn­ing air, Stretch­es his neck and claps his heavy wings, Gives three hoarse crows, and glad his talk is done; Low, chuck­ling, turns him­self up­on the roost, Then nes­tles down again amongst his mates. The lab'ring hind, who on his bed of straw, Be­neath his home-​made cov­er­ings, coarse, but warm, Lock'd in the kind­ly arms of her who spun them, Dreams of the gain that next year's crop should bring; Or at some fair dis­pos­ing of his wool, Or by some lucky and un­look'd-​for bar­gain. Fills his skin purse with heaps of tempt­ing gold, Now wakes from sleep at the un­wel­come call, And finds him­self but just the same poor man As when he went to rest.-- He hears the blast against his win­dow beat, And wish­es to him­self he were a lord, That he might lie a-​bed.-- He rubs his eyes, and stretch­es out his arms; Heigh ho! heigh ho! he drawls with gap­ing mouth, Then most un­will­ing­ly creeps out of bed, And with­out look­ing-​glass puts on his clothes. With rue­ful face he blows the smoth­er'd fire, And lights his can­dle at the red'ning coal; First sees that all be right amongst his cat­tle, Then hies him to the barn with heavy tread, Print­ing his foot­steps on the new fall'n snow. From out the heap of corn he pulls his sheaves, Dis­lodg­ing the poor red-​breast from his shel­ter, Where all the live-​long night he slept se­cure; But now afright­ed, with un­cer­tain flight He flut­ters round the walls, to seek some hole, At which he may es­cape out to the frost. And now the flail, high whirling o'er his head, De­scends with force up­on the jump­ing sheave, Whilst ev­ery rugged wall, and neigh­bor­ing cot Re-​echoes back the noise of his strokes.

The fam'ly cares call next up­on the wife To quit her mean but com­fort­able bed. And first she stirs the fire, and blows the flame, Then from her heap of sticks, for win­ter stor'd, An arm­ful brings; loud crack­ling as they burn, Thick fly the red sparks up­ward to the roof, While slow­ly mounts the smoke in wreathy clouds. On goes the seething pot with morn­ing cheer, For which some lit­tle wish­ful hearts await, Who, peep­ing from the bed-​clothes, spy, well pleas'd, The cheery light that blazes on the wall, And bawl for leave to rise.---- Their busy moth­er knows not where to turn, Her morn­ing work comes now so thick up­on her. One she must help to tye his lit­tle coat, Un­pin his cap, and seck an­oth­er's shoe. When all is o'er, out to the door they run, With new comb'd sleeky hair, and glist'ning cheeks, Each with some lit­tle project in his head. One on the ice must try his new sol'd shoes: To view his well-​set trap an­oth­er hies, In hopes to find some poor un­wary bird (No worth­less prize) en­tan­gled in his snare; Whilst one, less ac­tive, with round rosy face, Spreads out his pur­ple fin­gers to the fire, And peeps, most wish­ful­ly, in­to the pot.

But let us leave the warm and cheer­ful house, To view the bleak and drea­ry scene with­out, And mark the dawn­ing of a win­ter day. For now the morn­ing vapour, red and grum­ly, Rests heavy on the hills; and o'er the heav'ns Wide spread­ing forth in lighter grad­ual fli­ades, Just faint­ly colours the pale mud­dy sky. Then slow­ly from be­hind the south­ern hills, In­larg'd and rud­dy looks the ris­ing sun, Shoot­ing his beams askance the hoary waste, Which gild the brow of ev'ry swelling height, And deep­en ev­ery val­ley with a shade. The crust­ed win­dow of each scat­ter'd cot, The ici­cles that fringe the thatched roof, The new swept slide up­on the frozen pool, All light­ly glance, new kin­dled with his rays; And e'en the rugged face of scowl­ing Win­ter Looks some­what gay. But for a lit­tle while He lifts his glo­ry o'er the bright'ning earth, Then hides his head be­hind a misty cloud,

The birds now quit their holes and lurk­ing sheds, Most mute and melan­choly, where thro' night All nestling close to keep each oth­er warm, In downy sleep they had for­got their hard­ships; But not to chant and car­ol in the air, Or light­ly swing up­on some wav­ing bough, And mer­ri­ly re­turn each oth­er's notes; No; silent­ly they hop from bush to bush, Yet find no seeds to stop their crav­ing want, Then bend their flight to the low smok­ing cot, Chirp on the roof, or at the win­dow peck, To tell their wants to those who lodge with­in. The poor lank hare flies home­ward to his den, But lit­tle bur­then'd with his night­ly meal Of with­er'd greens grubb'd from the farmer's gar­den; A poor and scanty por­tion snatch'd in fear; And fear­ful crea­tures, forc'd abroad by want, Are now to ev'ry en­emy a prey.

The hus­band­man lays bye his heavy flail, And to the house re­turns, where on him wait His smok­ing break­fast and im­pa­tient chil­dren; Who, spoon in hand, and long­ing to be­gin, To­wards the door cast many a weary look To see their dad come in.---- Then round they sit, a chear­ful com­pa­ny, All ea­ger­ly be­gin, and with heap'd spoons Be­smear from ear to ear their rosy cheeks. The faith­ful dog stands by his mat­ter's side Wag­ging his tail, and look­ing in his face; While hum­ble puss pays court to all around, And purs and rubs them with her fur­ry sides; Nor goes this lit­tle flat­tery un­re­ward­ed. But the la­bo­ri­ous sit not long at ta­ble; The grate­ful fa­ther lifts his eyes to heav'n To bless his God, whose ev­er boun­teous hand Him and his lit­tle ones doth dai­ly feed; Then ris­es sat­is­fied to work again.

The chear­ful rous­ing noise of in­dus­try Is heard, with var­ied sounds, thro' all the vil­lage. The hum­ming wheel, the thrifty house­wife's tongue, Who scolds to keep her maid­ens at their work, Rough grat­ing cards, and voice of squal­ing chil­dren Is­sue from ev­ery house.---- But, hark!--the sports­man from the neighb'ring hedge His thun­der sends!--loud bark each vil­lage cur; Up from her wheel each cu­ri­ous maid­en starts, And has­tens to the door, whilst ma­trons chide, Yet run to look them­selves, in spite of thrift, And all the lit­tle town is in a stir.

Strut­ting be­fore, the cock leads forth his train, And, chuck­ling near the barn among the straw, Re­minds the farmer of his morn­ing's ser­vice; His grate­ful mas­ter throws a lib'ral hand­ful; They flock about it, whilst the hun­gry spar­rows Perch'd on the roof, look down with en­vi­ous eye, Then, aim­ing well, amidst the feed­ers light, And seize up­on the feast with greedy bill, Till an­gry partlets peck them off the field. But at a dis­tance, on the leaf­less tree, All woe be gone, the lone­ly black­bird sits; The cold north wind ruf­fles his glossy feath­ers; Full oft' he looks, but dare not make ap­proach; Then turns his yel­low bill to peck his side, And claps his wings close to his sharp­en'd breast. The wand'ring fowler, from be­hind the hedge, Fas­tens his eye up­on him, points his gun, And fir­ing wan­ton­ly as at a mark, E'en lays him low in that same cheer­ful spot Which oft' hath ccho'd with his ev'ning's song.

The day now at its height, the pent-​up kine Are driv­en from their flails to take the air. How stupid­ly they stare! and feel how strange! They open wide their smok­ing mouths to low, But scarce­ly can their fee­ble sound be heard; Then turn and lick them­selves, and step by step Move dull and heavy to their flails again. In scat­ter'd groups the lit­tle idle boys With pur­ple fin­gers, mould­ing in the snow Their icy am­mu­ni­tion, pant for war; And, draw­ing up in op­po­site ar­ray, Send forth a mighty fliow­er of well aim'd balls, Whilst lit­tle hero's try their grow­ing flrength, And burn to beat the en'my off the field. Or on the well worn ice in ea­ger throngs, Aim­ing their race, shoot rapid­ly along, Trip up each oth­er's heels, and on the sur­face With knot­ted shoes, draw many a chalky line. Un­tir'd of play, they nev­er cease their sport Till the faint sun has al­most run his course, And threat'ning clouds, slow ris­ing from the north, Spread grum­ly dark­ness o'er the face of heav'n; Then, by de­grees, they scat­ter to their homes, With many a bro­ken head and bloody nose, To claim their moth­ers' pity, who, most skil­ful, Cures all their trou­bles with a bit of bread.

The night comes on a pace---- Chill blows the blast, and drives the snow in wreaths. Now ev'ry crea­ture looks around for shel­ter, And, whether man or beast, all move alike To­wards their sev­er­al homes; and hap­py they Who have a house to screen them from the cold! Lo, o'er the frost a rev'rend form ad­vances! His hair white as the snow on which he treads, His fore­head mark'd with many a care-​worn fur­row, Whose fee­ble body, bend­ing o'er a staff, Still shew that once it was the seat of strength, Tho' now it shakes like some old ru­in'd tow'r, Cloth'd in­deed, but not dis­grac'd with rags, He still main­tains that de­cent dig­ni­ty Which well be­comes those who have serv'd their coun­try. With tott'ring steps he to the cot­tage moves: The wife with­in, who hears his hol­low cough, And patt'ring of iris stick up­on the thresh­old, Sends out her lit­tle boy to see who's there. The child looks up to view the stranger's face, And see­ing it en­light­en'd with a smile, Holds out his lit­tle hand to lead him in. Rous'd from her work, the moth­er turns her head, And sees them, not ill-​pleas'd.---- The stranger whines not with a piteous tale, But on­ly asks a lit­tle, to re­lieve A poor old sol­dier's wants.---- The gen­tle ma­tron brings the ready chair, And bids him sit, to rest his wea­ried limbs, And warm him­self be­fore her blaz­ing fire. The chil­dren, full of cu­rios­ity, Flock round, and with their fin­gers in their mouths, Stand star­ing at him; whilst the stranger, pleas'd, Takes up the youngest boy up­on his knee. Proud of its seat, it wags its lit­tle feet, And prates, and laughs, and plays with his white locks. But soon the sol­dier's face lays off its smiles; His thought­ful mind is turn'd on oth­er days, When his own boys were wont to play around him, Who now lie dis­tant from their na­tive land In hon­ourable, but un­time­ly graves. He feels how help­less and for­lorn he is, And bit­ter tears gush from his dim-​worn eyes. His toil­some dai­ly labour at an end, In comes the wea­ried mas­ter of the house, And marks with sat­is­fac­tion his old guest, With all his chil­dren round.-- His hon­est heart is fill'd with man­ly kind­ness; He bids him stay, and share their home­ly meal, And take with them his quar­ters for the night. The weary wan­der­er thank­ful­ly ac­cepts, And, seat­ed with the cheer­ful fam­ily, Around the plain but hos­pitable board, For­gets the many hard­ships he has pass'd.

When all are sat­is­fied, about the fire They draw their seats, and form a cheer­ful ring. The thrifty house­wife turns her spin­ning wheel; The hus­band, use­ful even in his rest, A lit­tle bas­ket weaves of wil­low twigs, To bear her eggs to town on mar­ket days; And work but serves t'en­liv­en con­ver­sa­tion. Some idle neigh­bours now come strag­gling in, Draw round their chairs, and widen out the cir­cle. With­out a glass the tale and jest go round; And ev­ery one, in his own na­tive way, Does what he can to cheer the mer­ry group. Each tells some lit­tle sto­ry of him­self, That con­stant sub­ject up­on which mankind, Whether in court or coun­try, love to dwell. How at a fair he sav'd a sim­ple clown From be­ing tricked in buy­ing of a cow; Or laid a bet up­on his horse's head Against his neigh­bour's, bought for twice his price, Which fail'd not to re­pay his bet­ter skill: Or on a har­vest day, bound in an hour More sheaves of corn than any of his fel­lows, Tho' ne'er so keen, could do in twice the time. But chief the land­lord, at his own fire-​side, Doth claim the right of be­ing lis­ten'd to; Nor dares a lit­tle bawl­ing tongue be heard, Tho' but in play, to break up­on his sto­ry. The chil­dren sit and lis­ten with the rest; And should the youngest raise its lit­tle voice, The care­ful moth­er, ev­er on the watch, And al­ways pleas'd with what her hus­band says, Gives it a gen­tle tap up­on the fin­gers, Or stops its ill tim'd prat­tle with a kiss. The sol­dier next, but not unask'd, be­gins, And tells in bet­ter speech what he has seen; Mak­ing his sim­ple au­di­ence to shrink With tales of war and blood. They gaze up­on him, And al­most weep to see the man so poor, So bent and fee­ble, help­less and for­lorn, That oft' has stood un­daunt­ed in the bat­tle Whilst thund'ring can­nons shook the quak­ing earth, And show­er­ing bul­lets hiss'd around his head. With lit­tle care they pass away the night, Till time draws on when they should go to bed; Then all break up, and each re­tires to rest With peace­ful mind, nor torn with vex­ing cares, Nor danc­ing with the un­equal beat of plea­sure.

But long ac­cus­tom'd to ob­serve the weath­er, The labour­er can­not lay him down in peace Till he has look'd to mark what bodes the night, He turns the heavy door, thrusts out his head, Sees wreathes of snow heap'd up on ev'ry side, And black and grim­ily all above his head, Save when a red gleam shoots along the waste To make the gloomy night more ter­ri­ble Loud blows the north­ern blast---- He hears it hol­low grum­bling from afar, Then, gath'ring strength, roll on with dou­bl'd might, And break in dread­ful bel­low­ings o'er his head; Like pith­less saplings bend the vexed trees, And their wide branch­es crack. He shuts the door, And, thank­ful for the roof that cov­ers him, Hies him to bed.

A SUM­MER DAY.

The dark-​blue clouds of night in dusky lines, Drawn wide and streaky o'er the pur­er sky, Wear faint the morn­ing pur­ple on their skirts. The stars that full and bright shone in the west, But dim­ly twin­kle to the sted­fast eye; And seen, and van­ish­ing, and seen again, Like dy­ing ta­pers smoth'ring in their sock­ets, Ap­pear at last shut from the face of heav'n; Whilst ev­ery less­er flame which shone by night, The flashy me­te­or from the op'ning cloud, That shoots full oft' across the dusky sky; Or wand'ring fire which looks across the marsh, Beam­ing like can­dle in a lone­ly cot, To cheer the hopes of the be­night­ed trav'ller, Till swifter than the very change of thought, It shifts from place to place, es­capes his glance, And makes him wond'ring rub his doubt­ful eyes; Or hum­ble glow-​worm, or the sil­ver moth, Which cast a fee­ble glimm'ring o'er the green, All die away.---- For now the sun, slow mov­ing in his grandeur, Above the east­ern moun­tains lifts his head. The webs of dew spread o'er the hoary lawn, The smooth clear bo­som of the set­tled pool, The pol­ish'd ploughshare on the dis­tant field, Catch fire from him, and dart their new got beams Up­on die daz­zled eye.

The new-​wak'd birds up­on the branch­es hop, Peck their loft down, and bris­tle out their feath­ers; Then stretch their throats and tune their morn­ing song; Whilst state­ly crows, high swing­ing o'er their heads. Up­on the top­most boughs, in lord­ly pride, Mix their hoarse croak­ing with the lin­net's note; Till gath­er'd clos­er in a sable band, They take their flight to leek their dai­ly food. The vil­lage labour­er, with care­ful mind, As soon as doth the morn­ing light ap­pear, Opens his eyes with the first dart­ing ray That pierces thro' the win­dow of his cot, And quits his easy bed; then o'er the field, With length­en'd swing­ing strides, be­takes his way, Bear­ing his spade and hoe across his moul­der, Seen from afar clear glanc­ing in the sun, And with good will be­gins his dai­ly work. The stur­dy sun-​burnt boy drives forth the cat­tle, And vain of pow­er, bawls to the lag­ging kine, Who fain would stay to crop the ten­der shoots Of the green tempt­ing hedges as they pass; Or beats the glist'ning bush­es with his club, To please his fan­cy with a show­er of dew, And fright­en the poor birds who lurk with­in. At ev'ry open door, thro' all the vil­lage, Half naked chil­dren, half awake, are seen Scratch­ing their heads, and blink­ing to the light; Till roused by de­grees, they run about, Or rolling in the sun, amongst the sand Build many a lit­tle house, with heed­ful art. The house­wife tends with­in, her morn­ing care; And stoop­ing 'midst her tubs of cur­dled milk, With busy pa­tience, draws the clear green whey From the press'd sides of the pure snowy curd; Whilst her brown dim­pled maid, with tuck'd-​up sleeve, And swelling arm, as­sists her in her toil. Pots smoke, pails rat­tle, and the warm con­fu­sion Still thick­ens on them, till with­in its mould, With care­ful hands, they press the well-​wrought curd.

So goes the morn­ing, till the pow'rful sun High in the heav'ns sends forth his strength­en'd beams, And all the fresh­ness of the morn is fled. The sweat­ing trav'ller throws his bur­den down, And leans his weary shoul­der 'gainst a tree. The idle horse up­on the grassy field Rolls on his back, nor heeds the tempt­ing clover. The swain leaves off his labour, and re­turns Slow to his house with heavy sober steps, Where on the board his ready break­fast plac'd, In­vites the eye, and his right cheer­ful wife Doth kind­ly serve him with un­feign'd good will. No sparkling dew-​drops hang up­on the grass; Forth steps the mow­er with his glitt'ring scythe, In snowy shirt, and dou­blet all un­brac'd, White moves he o'er the ridge, with sidel­ing bend, And lays the wav­ing grass in many a heap. In ev'ry field, in ev'ry swampy mead, The cheer­ful voice of in­dus­try is heard; The hay-​cock ris­es, and the fre­quent rake Sweeps on the yel­low hay, in heavy wreaths, Leav­ing the smooth green mead­ow bare be­hind. The old and young, the weak and strong are there, And, as they can, help on the cheer­ful work. The fa­ther jeers his awk­ward half-​grown lad, Who trails his tawdry arm­ful o'er the field, Nor does he fear the jeer­ing to re­pay. The vil­lage or­acle, and sim­ple maid, Jest in their turns, and raise the ready laugh; For there au­thor­ity, hard favour'd, frowns not; All are com­pan­ions in the gen'ral glee, And cheer­ful com­plai­sance still thro' their rough­ness, With placid look en­light­ens ev'ery face. Some more ad­vanced raise the tow'ring rick, Whilst on its top doth stand the parish toast In loose at­tire, and swelling rud­dy cheek; With taunts and harm­less mock'ry she re­ceives The toss'd-​up heaps from the brown gap­ing youth, Who flar­ing at her, takes his aim awry, Whilst half the load comes tum­bling on him­self. Loud is her laugh, her voice is heard afar; Each mow­er, bus­ied in the dis­tant field, The carter, trudg­ing on his dis­tant way, The shrill found know, cad up their hats in air, And roar across the fields to catch her no­tice: She waves her arm, and shakes her head at them, And then re­news her work with dou­ble spir­it. Thus do they jest, and laugh away their toil, Till the bright sun, full in his mid­dle course, Shoots down his fiercest beams, which none may brave. The stoutest arm hangs list­less by its side, And the broad shoul­der'd youth be­gins to fail. But to the weary, lo! there comes re­lief! A troop of wel­come chil­dren, o'er the lawn, With slow and wary steps, their bur­thens bring. Some bear up­on their heads large bas­kets, heap'd With piles of bar­ley bread, and gusty cheese, And some full pots of milk and cool­ing whey. Be­neath the branch­es of a spread­ing tree, Or by the shad'wy side of the tall rick, They spread their home­ly fare, and seat­ed round, Taste all the plea­sure that a feast can give.

A drowzy in­do­lence now hangs on all, And ev'ry crea­ture seeks some place of rest, Screen'd from the vi­olence of the op­pres­sive heat. No scat­ter'd flocks are seen up­on the lawn, Nor chirp­ing birds among the bush­es heard. With­in the nar­row shad­ow of the cot The sleepy dog lies stretched on his side, Nor heeds the heavy-​foot­ed pas­sen­ger; At noise of feet but half his eye-​lid lifts, Then gives a fee­ble growl, and sleeps again: Whilst puss, less nice, e'en in the scorch­ing win­dow, On t'oth­er side, sits wink­ing to the sun. No sound is heard but hum­ming of the bee, For she alone re­tires not from her labour, Nor leaves a mead­ow flow­er un­sought for gain.

Heavy and slow so pass the mid-​day hours, Till gen­tly bend­ing on the ridge's top, The heavy seed­ed grass be­gins to wave, And the high branch­es of the slen­der poplar Shiv­er aloft in air their rustling leaves. Cool breaths the ris­ing breeze, and with it wakes The worn out spir­it from its state of stu­por. The lazy boy springs from his mossy bed, To chace the gaudy tempt­ing but­ter­fly, Who spread­ing on the grass its mealy wings, Oft lights with­in his reach, e'en at his seer, Yet still eludes his grasp, and o'er his head Light hov'ring round, or mount­ed high in air Temps his young eye, and wea­ries out his limbs. The drouzy dog, who feels the kind­ly breeze That pass­ing o'er him, lifts his shag­gy ear, Be­gins to stretch him, on his legs half-​rais'd, Till ful­ly wak'd, with bristling cock'd-​up tail, He makes the vil­lage echo to his bark.

But let us not for­get the busy maid Who, by the side of the clear pe­bly stream, Spreads out her snowy linens to the sun, And sheds with lib'ral hand the chrys­tal show'r O'er many a fav'rite piece of fair at­tire, Re­volv­ing in her mind her gay ap­pear­ance In all this dress, at some ap­proach­ing fair. The dim­pling half-​check'd smile, and mutt'ring lip Be­tray the se­cret work­ings of her fan­cy, And flat­ter­ing thoughts of the com­pla­cent mind. There lit­tle va­grant bands of tru­ant boys Amongst the bush­es try their harm­less tricks; Whilst some a sport­ing in the shal­low stream Toss up the lash­ing wa­ter round their heads, Or strive with wily art to catch the trout, Or 'twixt their fin­gers grasp the slipp'ry eel. The shep­herd-​boy sits singing on the bank, To pass away the weary lone­ly hours, Weav­ing with art his lit­tle crown of rush­es, A guilt­less easy crown that brings no care, Which hav­ing made he places on his head, And leaps and skips about, and bawls full loud To some com­pan­ion, lone­ly as him­self, Far in the dis­tant field; or else de­light­ed To hear the echo'd sound of his own voice Re­turn­ing an­swer from the neigh­bor­ing rock, Holds no un­pleas­ing con­verse with him­self.

Now weary labour­ers per­ceive, well-​pleas'd, The shad­ows length­en, and th' op­pres­sive day With all its toil fast wear­ing to an end. The sun, far in the west, with side-​long beam Plays on the yel­low head of the round hay-​cock, And fields are check­er'd with fan­tas­tic shapes Or tree, or shrub, or gate, or rugged stone, All length­en'd out, in an­tic dis­pro­por­tion, Up­on the dark­en'd grass.---- They fin­ish out their long and toil­some talk. Then, gath­er­ing up their rakes and scat­ter'd coats, With the less cumb'rous frag­ments of their feast, Re­turn right glad­ly to their peace­ful homes.

The vil­lage, lone and silent thro' the day, Re­ceiv­ing from the fields its mer­ry bands, Sends forth its ev'ning sound, con­fus'd but cheer­ful; Whilst dogs and chil­dren, ea­ger house­wives' tongues, And true love dit­ties, in no plain­tive strain, By shrill voic'd maid, at open win­dow sung; The low­ing of the home-​re­turn­ing kine, The herd's low dron­ing trump, and tin­kling bell Tied to the col­lar of his fav'rite sheep, Make no con­temptible va­ri­ety To ears not over nice.---- With care­less loung­ing gait, the saunt'ring youth Up­on his sweet­heart's open win­dow leans, And as she turns about her buzzing wheel Di­verts her with his jokes and harm­less taunts. Close by the cot­tage door, with placid mien, The old man sits up­on his seat of turf, His staff with crooked head laid by his side, Which oft the younger race in wan­ton sport, Gam­bolling round him, sly­ly steal away, And strad­dling o'er it, shew their horse­man­ship By rais­ing round the clouds of sum­mer sand, While still he smiles, yet chides them for the trick. His sil­ver locks up­on his shoul­ders spread, And not un­grace­ful is his stoop of age. No stranger pass­es him with­out re­gard; And ev'ry neigh­bour stops to wish him well, And ask him his opin­ion of the weath­er. They fret not at the length of his dis­course, But lis­ten with re­spect to his re­marks Up­on the var­ious sea­sons he re­mem­bers; For well he knows the many divers signs Which do fortell high winds, or rain, or drought, Or ought that may af­fect the ris­ing crop. The silken clad, who court­ly breed­ing boast, Their own dis­course still sweet­est to their ears, May grum­ble at the old man's length­ened sto­ry, But here it is not so.----

From ev'ry chim­ney mounts the curl­ing smoke, Mud­dy and gray, of the new ev'ning fire; On ev'ry win­dow smokes the fam'ly sup­per, Set out to cool by the at­ten­tive house­wife, While cheer­ful groups at ev­ery door con­ven'd Bawl cross the nar­row lane the parish news, And oft the burst­ing laugh dis­turbs the air. But see who comes to set them all agag! The weary-​foot­ed ped­lar with his pack. How stiff he bends be­neath his bulky load! Cov­er'd with dust, slip-​shod, and out at el­bows; His greasy hat sits back­ward on his head; His thin straight hair di­vid­ed on his brow Hangs lank on ei­ther side his glist'ning cheeks, And woe-​be­gone, yet va­cant is his face. His box he opens and dis­plays his ware. Full many a var­ied row of pre­cious stones Cast forth their daz­zling lus­tre to the light. To the de­sir­ing maid­en's wish­ful eye The ru­by neck­lace shews its tempt­ing blaze: The chi­na but­tons, stamp'd with love de­vice, At­tract the no­tice of the gap­ing youth; Whilst stream­ing garters, fas­ten'd to a pole, Aloft in air their gaudy stripes dis­play, And from afar the dis­tant strag­glers lure. The chil­dren leave their play and round him flock; E'en sober aged grand-​dame quits her seat, Where by the door she twines her length­en'd threads, Her spin­dle stops, and lays her distaff by, Then joins with step se­date the cu­ri­ous throng. She prais­es much the fash­ions of her youth, And scorns each gaudy non­sense of the day; Yet not ill-​pleas'd the glossy rib­band views, Up­ro­ll'd, and chang­ing hues with ev'ry fold, New mea­sur'd out to deck her daugh­ter's head.

Now red, but lan­guid, the last weak­ly beams Of the de­part­ing sun, across the lawn Deep gild the top of the long sweepy ridge, And shed a scat­ter'd bright­ness, bright but cheer­less, Be­tween the op'nings of the rift­ed hills; Which like the farewell looks of some dear friend, That speaks him kind, yet sad­den as they smile, But on­ly serve to deep­en the low vale, And make the shad­ows of the night more gloomy. The var­ied nois­es of the cheer­ful vil­lage By slow de­grees now faint­ly die away, And more dis­tinct each fee­ble sound is heard That gen­tly steals ad own the riv­er's bed, Or thro' the wood comes with the ruf­fling breeze. The white mist ris­es from the swampy glens, And from the dap­pled flat­ting of the heav'ns Looks out the ev'ning star.---- The lover skulk­ing in the neighb'ring copse, (Whose half-​seen form shewn thro' the thick­en'd air, Large and ma­jes­tic, makes the tray'ller start, And spreads the sto­ry of the haunt­ed grove,) Curs­es the owl, whose loud ill-​omen'd scream, With cease­less spite, robes from his watch­ful ear The well known foot­steps of his dar­ling maid; And fret­ful, chaces from his face the night-​fly, Who buzzing round his head doth of­ten skim, With flutt'ring wing, across his glow­ing cheek: For all but him in deep and balmy sleep For­get the toils of the op­pres­sive day; Shut is the door of ev'ry scat­ter'd cot, And si­lence dwells with­in.

NIGHT SCENES OF OTH­ER TIMES.

A PO­EM, IN THREE PARTS.

PART I.

"The wild winds bel­low o'er my head, And spent eve's fad­ing light; Where shall I find some friend­ly shed To screen me from the night?

"Ah! round me lies a desert vast, No habi­ta­tion near; And dark and path­less is the waste, And fills the mind with fear

"Thou dis­tant tree, whose lone­ly top Has bent to many a storm, No more canst thou de­ceive my hope, And take my lover's form;

"For o'er thy head the dark cloud rolls, Black as thy blast­ed pride. How deep the an­gry tem­pest growls Along the moun­tain's side!

"Se­cure­ly rests the moun­tain deer With­in his hol­low den, His slum­ber undis­turb'd by fear, Far from the haunts of men.

"Be­neath the fern the moor­cock sleeps, And twist­ed adders lie; Back to his rock the night-​bird creeps, Nor gives his wont­ed cry.

"For an­gry spir­its of the night Ride in the trou­bled air, And to their dens, in wild af­fright, The beasts of prey re­pair.

"But oh! my love! where do'st thou rest? What shel­ter cov­ers thee? O, may this cold and wint'ry blast But on­ly beat on me!

"Some friend­ly dwelling may'st thou find, Where, undis­turb'd with care, Thou shalt not feel the chilly wind That ruf­fles Marg'ret's hair.

"Ah, no! for thou did'st give thy word To meet me on the way; Nor friend­ly roof, nor coast­ly board Will tempt a lover's stay.

"O, raise thy voice, if thou art near! Its weak­est sound were bliss: What oth­er sound my heart can cheer In such a gloom as this?

"But from the hills with stun­ning sound The dash­ing tor­rents fall; Loud is the rag­ing tem­pest round, And mocks a lover's call.

“Ha! see across the drea­ry waste A gen­tle form ap­pears! It is my love, my cares are past, How vain were all my fears?”

The form ap­proach'd, but sad and slow, Nor with a lover's tread; And from his cheek the youth­ful glow, And greet­ing smile was fled.

Dim sad­ness hung up­on his brow; Fix'd was his beam­less eye: His face was like the moon-​light bow Up­on a win'try sky.

And fix'd and ghast­ly to the sight, His strength­en'd fea­tures rose; And bend­ed was his grace­ful height, And bloody were his clothes.

"O Marg'ret, calm thy trou­bled breast! Thy sor­row now is vain: Thy Ed­ward from his peace­ful rest Shall ne'er re­turn again.

"A treach'rous friend has brought me low, And fix'd my ear­ly doom; And laid my corpse, with feigned woe, Be­neath a vault­ed tomb

"To take thee to my home I sware, And here we were to meet: Wilt thou a nar­row cof­fin share, And part my wind­ing-​sheet?

"But late the lord of many lands, And now a grave is all: My blood is warm up­on his hands Who rev­els in my hall.

"Yet think thy fa­ther's hoary hair Is wa­ter'd with his tears; He has but thee to sooth his care, And prop his load of years.

"Re­mem­ber Ed­ward when he's gone, He on­ly liv'd for thee; And when thou'rt pen­sive, and alone, O Marg'ret call on me!

“Yet deep be­neath the mould'ring clod I rest my wound­ed head: And ter­ri­ble that call, and loud, Which shall awake the dead.”

"No, Ed­ward, I will fol­low thee, And share thy hap­less doom: Com­pan­ions shall our spir­its be, Tho' dis­tant is thy tomb.

"O! nev­er to my fa­ther's tow­er Will I re­turn again! A bleed­ing heart has lit­tle pow­er To ease an­oth­er's pain.

“Up­on the wing my spir­it flies, I feel my course is run; Nor shall these dim and weary eyes Be­hold to-​mor­row's sun.”

Like ear­ly dew, or hoary frost, Spent with the beam­ing day, So shrunk the pale and wat'ry ghost, And dim­ly wore away.

No longer Marg'ret felt the storm, She bow'd her love­ly head; And with her lover's fleet­ing form, Her gen­tle spir­it fled.

PART II.

Loud roars the wind that shakes this wall; It is no com­mon blast: Deep hol­low sounds pass thro' my hall, O would the night were past!

"Me­thinks the dae­mons of the air Up­on the tur­rets growl; While down the emp­ty wind­ing stair Their deep'ning mur­murs roll.

"The glimm'ring fire cheers not the gloom: How blue its weak­ly ray! And like a ta­per in a tomb, But spreads the more dis­may.

"Athwart its melan­choly light The length­en'd shad­ow falls: My grand­sires, to my trou­bled sight, Low'r on me from these walls.

"Me­thinks yon an­gry war­rior's head Doth in its case­ment frown, And darts a look, as if it said, Where hast thou laid my son?

"But will these fan­cies nev­er cease? O, would the night were run! My trou­bled soul can find no peace, But with the morn­ing sun.

"Vain hope! the guilty nev­er rest; Dis­may is al­ways near: There is a mid­night in the breast No morn shall ev­er cheer.

"The weary hind is now at rest, Tho' low­ly is his head, How sweet­ly lies the guilt­less breast, Up­on the hard­est bed!

"The beg­gar, in his wretched haunt, May now a monarch be; For­get his woe, for­get his want, For all can sleep but me.

"I've dar'd whate'er the bold­est can, Then why this child­ish dread; I nev­er fear'd a liv­ing man, And shall I fear the dead!

"No, whistling storms may shake my tow­er, And pass­ing spir­its scream: Their shad­owy arms are void of pow­er, And but a gloomy dream.

“But, lo! a form ad­vanc­ing slow Across my dusky hall! Art thou a friend? art thou a foe? O, an­swer to my call!”

Still near­er to the glimm'ring light The tow'ring fig­ure strode, Till full, and hor­rid to the sight, The mur­ther'd Ed­ward stood.

His hand a bro­ken dag­ger sway'd, Like Time's dark threat'ning dart; And point­ed to the rugged blade That quiver'd in his heart.

The blood still trick­led from his head, And clot­ted was his hair, That on his man­ly shoul­ders spread; His man­gled breast was bare.

His face was like the mud­dy sky Be­fore the com­ing snow; And dark and dread­ful was his eye, And cloudy was his brow.

Pale Con­rad shrunk, but grasp'd his sword; Fear thrill'd in ev'ry vein; His quiv'ring lip half-​spoke its word; He paus'd, and shrunk again.

"Pale bloody spec­tre, at this hour Why do'st thou haunt the night? Has the deep gloomy vault no pow­er To keep thee from my sight?

"Why do'st thou glare? Why do'st thou wave That fa­tal cursed knife? The deed is done, and from the grave Who can re­call to life?

"Why rolls thine eye be­neath thy brow, Dark as the mid­night storm? What do'st thou want? O, let me know! But hide thy dread­ful form.

"I'd give the life's blood from my heart To wash my crime away: If thou'rt a spir­it, O, de­part! Nor haunt a wretch of clay.

“Say, do'st thou with the blessed dwell? Re­turn and blessed be! Or com'st thou from the low­est hell? I am more curst than thee.”

The form ad­vanc'd with solemn step, As though it meant to speak; And thrice it mov'd its mutt'ring lip, But si­lence did not break.

Then stern­ly stalk'd with heavy pace, Which shook the trem­bling wall; And, frown­ing, turn'd its an­gry face, And van­ish'd from the hall.

With fixed eyes, pale Con­rad stood, That from their sock­ets swell; Back on his heart ran the cold blood, He shud­der'd as he fell.

Night fled, and thro' the win­dow 'gan The ear­ly light to play; But on a more un­hap­py man Ne'er shone the dawn­ing day.

The glad­some sun all na­ture cheers, But can­not charm his cares: Still dwells his mind with gloomy fears, And mur­ther'd Ed­ward glares.

PART III.

"No rest nor com­fort can I find, I watch the mid­night hour; I sit and lis­ten to the wind Which beats up­on my tow­er.

"Me­thinks low voic­es from the ground Break mourn­ful on mine ear, And thro' these emp­ty cham­bers sound So dis­mal and so drear.

"The ghost of some de­part­ed friend Doth in my sor­rows share; Or is it but the rush­ing wind That mock­eth my de­spair.

"Sad thro' the hall the pale lamp gleams Up­on my fa­ther's arms: My soul is fill'd with gloomy dreams, I fear un­known alarms.

"Oh! I have known this lone­ly place With ev'ry bless­ing stor'd; And many a friend with cheer­ful face Sit smil­ing at my board,

"Whilst round the fire, in ear­ly bloom, My harm­less chil­dren play'd, Who now with­in the nar­row tomb Are with their moth­er laid.

"And now low bends my wretched head, And those I lov'd are gone: My friends, my fam­ily, all are fled, And I am left alone.

"Oft' as the cheer­less fire de­clines, In it I sad­ly trace, As 'lone I sit, the half form'd lines Of many a much lov'd face.

"But chief, O Marg'ret! to my mind Thy love­ly fea­tures rise: I strive to think thee less un­kind, And wipe my stream­ing eyes.

"For on­ly thee I had to vaunt, Thou wert thy moth­er's pride: She left thee like a shoot­ing plant To screen my wid­ow'd side.

"But thou hast left me weak, for­lorn, And chill'd with age's frost, To count my weary days, and mourn The com­forts I have lost.

"Un­kind­ly fair! why did'st thou go? O, had I known the truth! Tho' Ed­ward's fa­ther was my foe, I would have bless'd the youth.

"O could I see that face again, Whose smile calm'd ev'ry strife! And hear that voice, which sooth'd my pain, And made me wish for life!

"Thy harp hangs silent by the wall: My nights are sad and long: And thou art in a dis­tant hall, Where strangers raise the song.

“Ha! some delu­sion of the mind My sens­es doth con­found! It was the harp, and not the wind, That did so sweet­ly sound.”

Old Arno rose, all wan as death, With bro­ken steps of care; And oft' he check'd his quick-​heav'd breath, And turn'd his ea­ger ear.

When like a full, but dis­tant choir The swelling sound re­turn'd; And with the soft and trem­bling wire, The sigh­ing echoes mourn'd.

Then soft­ly whis­per'd o'er the song Which Marg'ret lov'd to play, Like some sweet dirge, and sad, and long, It faint­ly died away.

His dim-​worn eyes to heav'n he cast, Where all his griefs were known; And smote up­on his trou­bled breast, And heav'd a heavy groan.

"I know it is my daugh­ter's hand, But 'tis no hand of clay: And here a lone­ly wretch I stand, All child­less, bent, and grey.

"And art thou low, my love­ly child? And hast thou met thy doom? And has thy flatt'ring morn­ing smil'd, To lead but to the tomb?

"O let me see thee ere we part, For souls like thine are blest; O let me fold thee to my heart If aught of form thou hast.

"This pass­ing mist en­robes thy charms: Alas, to nought 'tis shrunk! And hol­low strike my emp­ty arms Against my aged trunk.

“Thou'rt fled like the low ev'ning breath That sighs up­on the hill: O stay! tho' in thy weeds of death, Thou art my daugh­ter still.”

Loud wak'd the sound, then fainter grew, And long and sad­ly mourn'd; And soft­ly sigh'd a long adieu, And nev­er more re­turn'd.

Old Arno stretch'd him on the ground, Thick as the gloom of night, Death's misty shad­ows gath­er'd round, And swam be­fore his sight.

He heav'd a deep and dead­ly groan, Which rent his lab'ring breast; And long be­fore the morn­ing shone, His spir­it was at rest.

A REVER­IE.

Be­side a spread­ing elm, from whose high boughs Like knot­ted tufts the crow's light dwelling shows, Where screen'd from north­ern blasts, and win­ter proof, Snug stands the par­son's barn with thatched roof; At chaff-​strew'd door, where, in the morn­ing ray, The gild­ed mots in mazy cir­cles play, And sleepy Com­rade in the sun is laid, More grate­ful to the cur than neighb'ring shade; In snowy shirt un­brac'd, brown Robin stood, And leant up­on his flail in thought­ful mood: His full round cheek where deep­er flush­es glow, The dewy drops which glis­ten on his brow; His dark cropt pate that erst at church or fair, So smooth and silky, shew'd his morn­ing's care, Which all un­couth in mat­ted locks com­bin'd, Now, ends erect, de­fies the ruf­fling wind; His neck-​band loose, and ho­sen rum­pled low, A care­ful lad, nor slack at labour shew. Nor scrap­ing chick­ens chirp­ing 'mongst the straw, Nor croak­ing rook o'er-​head, nor chatt'ring daw; Loud-​breath­ing cow amongst the rampy weeds, Nor grunt­ing sow that in the fur­row feeds; Nor sud­den breeze that shakes the quak­ing leaves, And light­ly rus­tles thro' the scat­ter'd sheaves; Nor float­ing straw that skims athwart his nose, The deeply mus­ing youth may dis­com­pose. For Nel­ly fair, and blythest vil­lage maid, Whose tune­ful voice be­neath the hedge-​row shade, At ear­ly milk­ing, o'er the mead­ows born, E'er cheer'd the plough­man's toil at ris­ing morn: The neat­est maid that e'er, in linen gown, Bore cream and but­ter to the mar­ket town: The tight­est lass, that with un­tu­tor'd air E'er foot­ed ale-​house floor at wake or fair, Since East­er last had Robin's heart pos­sest, And many a time dis­turb'd his night­ly rest. Full oft' re­turn­ing from the loosen'd plough, He slack'd his pace, and knit his thought­ful brow; And oft' ere half his thresh­er's talk was o'er, Would muse, with arms across, at cool­ing door: His mind thus bent, with down­cast eyes he stood, And leant up­on his flail in thought­ful mood. His soul o'er many a soft re­memb'rance ran, And, mutt'ring to him­self, the youth be­gan.

“Ah! hap­py is the man whose ear­ly lot Hath made him mas­ter of a fur­nish'd cot; Who trains the vine that round his win­dow grows, And af­ter set­ting sun his gar­den hoes; Whose wat­tled pales his own en­clo­sure shield, Who toils not dai­ly in an­oth­er's field. Where'er he goes, to church or mar­ket town, With more re­spect he and his dog are known: A brisker face he wears at wake or fair, Nor views with long­ing eyes the ped­lar's ware, But buys at will or ribands, gloves, or beads, And will­ing maid­ens to the ale-​house leads: And, Oh! se­cure from toils which cum­ber life, He makes the maid he loves an easy wife. Ah, Nel­ly! can'st thou with con­tent­ed mind, Be­come the help-​mate of a lab'ring hind, And share his lot, whate'er the chances be, Who hath no dow'r, but love, to fix on thee? Yes, gayest maid may meek­est ma­tron prove, And things of lit­tle note may 'to­ken love. When from the church thou cam'st at even­tide And I and red-​hair'd Su­san by thy side, I pull'd the blos­soms from the bend­ing tree, And some to Su­san gave, and some to thee; Thine were the best, and well thy smil­ing eye The diff'rence mark'd, and guess'd the rea­son why. When on a holy-​day we ram­bling stray'd, And pass'd old Hodge's cot­tage in the glade; Neat was the gar­den dress'd, sweet hum'd the bee, I wish'd both cot and Nel­ly made for me; And well methought thy very eyes re­veal'd The self-​same wish with­in thy breast con­ceal'd. When art­ful, once, I sought my love to tell, And spoke to thee of one who lov'd thee well, You saw the cheat, and jeer­ing home­ward hied, Yet se­cret plea­sure in thy looks I spied. Ay, gayest maid may meek­est ma­tron prove, And small­er signs than these have 'to­ken'd love.”

Now, at a dis­tance, on the neighb'ring plain, With creak­ing wheels slow comes the heavy wain: High on its tow'ring load a maid ap­pears, And Nel­ly's voice sounds shrill in Robin's ears. Quick from his hand he throws the cumb'rous flail, And leaps with light­some limbs th' en­clos­ing pale. O'er field and fence he scours, and fur­row wide, With wak­en'd Com­rade bark­ing by his side; Whilst tracks of trod­den grain, and side­long hay, And bro­ken hedge-​flow'rs sweet, mark his im­petu­ous way.

A DIS­AP­POINT­MENT.

On vil­lage green, whose smooth and well worn sod, Cross-​path'd with ev­ery gos­sip's foot is trod; By cot­tage door where play­ful chil­dren run, And cats and curs sit bask­ing in the sun: Where o'er the earth­en seat the thorn is bent, Cross-​arm'd, and back to wall, poor William leant. His bon­net broad drawn o'er his gath­er'd brow, His hang­ing lip and length­en'd vis­age shew A mind but ill at ease. With mo­tions strange, His list­less limbs their way­ward pos­tures change; Whilst many a crooked line and cu­ri­ous maze, With clout­ed shoon, he on the sand pour­trays. The half-​chew'd straw fell slow­ly from his mouth, And to him­self low mutt'ring spoke the youth.

“How sim­ple is the lad! and reft of skill, Who thinks with love to fix a wom­an's will: Who ev'ry Sun­day morn, to please her sight, Knots up his neck-​cloth gay, and ho­sen white: Who for her plea­sure keeps his pock­ets bare, And half his wages spends on ped­lar's ware; When ev­ery nig­gard clown, or dotard old, Who hides in se­cret nooks his oft told gold, Whose field or or­chard tempts with all her pride, At lit­tle cost may win her for his bride; Whilst all the meed her sil­ly lover gains Is but the neigh­bours' jeer­ing for his pains. On Sun­day last when Su­san's bands were read, And I as­ton­ish'd sat with hang­ing head, Cold grew my shrink­ing limbs, and loose my knee, Whilst ev­ery neigh­bour's eye was fix'd on me. Ah, Sue! when last we work'd at Hodge's hay, And still at me you jeer'd in wan­ton play; When last at fair, well pleas'd by show-​man's stand, You took the new-​bought fair­ing from my hand; When at old Hobb's you sung that song so gay, Sweet William still the bur­then of the lay, I lit­tle thought, alas! the lots were cast, That thou shou'd'st be an­oth­er's bride at last: And had, when last we trip'd it on the green And laugh'd at stiff-​back'd Rob, small thought I ween, Ere yet an­oth­er scanty month was flown, To see thee wed­ded to the hate­ful clown. Ay, lucky swain, more gold thy pock­ets line; But did these shape­ly limbs re­sem­ble thine, I'd stay at home, and tend the house­hold geer, Nor on the green with oth­er lads ap­pear. Ay, lucky swain, no store thy cot­tage lacks, And round thy barn thick stands the shel­ter'd stacks; But did such fea­tures hard my vis­age grace, I'd nev­er budge the bon­net from my face. Yet let it be: it shall not break my ease: He best de­serves who doth the maid­en please. Such sil­ly cause no more shall give me pain, Nor ev­er maid­en cross my rest again. Such griz­zly suit­ors with their taste agree, And the black fiend may take them all for me!”

Now thro' the vil­lage rise con­fused sounds, Hoarse lads, and chil­dren shrill, and yelp­ing hounds. Straight ev'ry ma­tron at the door is seen, And paus­ing hedgers on their mat­tocks lean. At ev­ery nar­row lane, and al­ley mouth, Loud laugh­ing lass­es stand, and jok­ing youth. A near ap­proach­ing band in colours gay, With min­strels blythe be­fore to cheer the way, From clouds of curl­ing dust which on­ward fly, In ru­ral splen­dour break up­on the eye. As in their way they hold so gay­ly on, Caps, beads, and but­tons glanc­ing in the sun, Each vil­lage wag, with eye of rogu­ish cast, Some maid­en jogs, and vents the ready jest; Whilst vil­lage toasts the pass­ing belles de­ride, And sober ma­trons mar­vel at their pride. But William, head erect, with set­tled brow, In sullen si­lence view'd the pass­ing shew; And oft' he scratch'd his pate with man­ful grace, And scorn'd to pull the bon­net o'er his face; But did with steady look un­moved wait, Till hind­most man had turn'd the church-​yard gate; Then turn'd him to his cot with vis­age flat, Where hon­est Tray up­on the thresh­old sat. Up jump'd the kind­ly beast his hand to lick, And, for his pains, re­ceiv'd an an­gry kick. Loud shuts the flap­ping door with thund'ring din; The echoes round their cir­cling course be­gin, From cot to cot, in wide pro­gres­sive swell, Deep groans the church-​yard wall and neighb'ring dell, And Tray, re­spon­sive, joins with long and piteous yell.

A LAMEN­TA­TION.

Where an­cient bro­ken wall en­clos­es round, From tread of law­less feet, the hal­low'd ground, And somber yews their dewy branch­es wave O'er many a motey stone and mound­ed grave: Where parish church, con­fus'dly to the sight, With deep­er dark­ness prints the shades of night, And mould'ring tombs un­couth­ly gape around, And rails and fall­en stones be­strew the ground: In loosen'd garb de­rang'd, with scat­ter'd hair, His bo­som open to the night­ly air, Lone, o'er a new heap'd grave poor Basil bent, And to him­self be­gan his sim­ple plaint.

“Alas! how cold thy home! how low thou art! Who wert the pride and mis­tress of my heart. The fall­en leaves light rustling o'er thee pass, And o'er thee waves the rank and dewy grass. The new laid sods in de­cent or­der tell How nar­row now the space where thou must dwell. Now rough and wint'ry winds may on thee beat, And driz­zly drift­ing snow, and sum­mer's heat; Each pass­ing sea­son rub, for woe is me! Or storm, or sun­shine, is the same to thee. Ah, Mary! love­ly was thy slen­der form, And sweet thy cheer­ful brow, that knew no storm. Thy steps were grace­ful on the vil­lage-​green, As tho' thou had'st some court­ly la­dy been: At church or mar­ket, still the gayest lass, Each younker slack'd his speed to see thee pass. At ear­ly milk­ing, tune­ful was thy lay, And sweet thy home­ward song at close of day; But sweet­er far, and ev'ry youth's de­sire, Thy cheer­ful con­verse by the ev'ning fire. Alas! no more thou'lt foot the grassy sward! No song of thine shall ev­er more be heard! Yet now they trip it light­ly on the green, As blythe and gay as thou hadst nev­er been: The care­less younker whit­tles light­some by, And oth­er maid­ens catch his rov­ing eye: Around the ev'ning fire, with lit­tle care, The neigh­bours sit, and scarce­ly miss thee there; And when the night ad­vanc­ing dark­ens round, They to their rest re­tire, and slum­ber sound. But Basil can­not rest; his days are sad, And long his nights up­on the weary bed. Yet still in bro­ken dreams thy form ap­pears, And still my bo­som proves a lover's fears. I guide thy foot­steps thro' the tan­gled wood; I catch thee sink­ing in the boist'rous flood; I shield thy bo­som from the threat­en'd stroke; I clasp thee falling from the head­long rock; But ere we reach the dark and dread­ful deep, High heaves my trou­bled breast, I wake, and weep. At ev'ry wail­ing of the mid­night wind Thy low­ly dwelling comes in­to my mind. When rain beats on my roof, wild storms abroad, I think up­on thy bare and beat­en sod; I hate the com­fort of a shel­ter'd home, And hie me forth o'er fence­less fields to roam: I leave the paths of men for drea­ry waste, And bare my fore­head to the howl­ing blast. O Mary! loss of thee hath fix'd my doom: This world around me is a weary gloom: Dull heavy mus­ings down my spir­its weigh, I can­not sleep by night, nor work by day. Or wealth or plea­sure slow­est minds in­spire, But cheer­less is their toil who nought de­sire. Let hap­pi­er friends di­vide my farm­ers' dock, Cut down my grain, and sheer my lit­tle flock; For now my on­ly care on earth shall be Here ev'ry Sun­day morn to vis­it thee; And in the holy church, with heart sin­cere, And hum­ble mind, our wor­thy cu­rate hear: He best can tell, when earth­ly cares are past, The surest way to meet with thee at last. I'll thus a while a weary life abide, Till wast­ing Time hath laid me by thy side; For now on earth there is no place for me, Nor peace, nor slum­ber, till I rest with thee.”

Loud, from the lofty spire, with pierc­ing knell, Solemn, and aw­ful, toll'd the parish bell; A lat­er hour than rusties deem it meet That church-​yard ground be trode by mor­tal feet, The wail­ing lover star­tled at the sound, And rais'd his head and cast his eyes around. The gloomy pile in strength­en'd hor­rour low­er'd, Large and ma­jes­tic ev'ry ob­ject tow­er'd: Dim thro' the gloom they shew'd their forms un­known, And tall and ghast­ly rose each whiten'd stone: Aloft the wak­ing screech-​owl 'gan to sing, And past him skim'd the bat with flap­ping wing. The fears of na­ture woke with­in his breast; He left the hal­lowed spot of Mary's rest, And sped his way the church-​yard wall to gain, Then check'd his cow­ard heart, and turn'd again. The shad­ows round a deep­er hor­rour wear; A deep­er si­lence hangs up­on his ear; A stiller rest is o'er the set­tled scene; His flutt'ring heart re­coils, and shrinks again. With hasty steps he mea­sures back the ground, And leaps with sum­mon'd force the church-​yard bound; Then home with knock­ing limbs, and quick­en'd breath, His foot­step urges from the place of death.

AN AD­DRESS TO THE MUS­ES.

Ye tune­ful Sifters of the lyre, Who dreams and fan­tasies in­spire; Who over poesy pre­side, And on a lofty hill abide Above the ken of mor­tal fight, Fain would I sing of you, could I ad­dress ye right.

Thus known, your pow'r of old was sung, And tem­ples with your prais­es rung; And when the song of bat­tle rose, Or kin­dling wine, or lovers' woes, The po­et's spir­it in­ly burn'd, And still to you his up­cast eyes were turn'd.

The youth all wrapp'd in vi­sion bright, Be­held your robes of flow­ing white: And knew your forms be­nign­ly grand, An aw­ful, but a love­ly band; And felt your in­spi­ra­tion strong, And warm­ly pour'd his rapid lay along.

The aged bard all heav'n-​ward glow'd, And hail'd you daugh­ters of a god: Tho' to his dim­mer eyes were seen Nor grace­ful form, nor heav'nly mien, Full well he felt that ye were near, And heard you in the blast that shook his hoary hair.

Ye light­en'd up the val­ley's bloom, And deep­er spread the for­est's gloom; The lofty hill sub­limer flood, And grander rose the mighty flood; For then Re­li­gion lent her aid, And o'er the mind of man your sa­cred em­pire spread.

Tho' rolling ages now are past, And al­tars low, and tem­ples wade; Tho' rites and or­acles are o'er, And gods and heros rule no more; Your fad­ing hon­ours still re­main, And still your vot'ries call, a long and mot­ley train.

They seek you not on hill and plain, Nor court you in the sa­cred sane; Nor meet you in the mid-​day dream, Up­on the bank of hal­lowed stream; Yet still for in­spi­ra­tion sue, And still each lifts his fer­vent prayer to you.

He knows ye not in wood­land gloom, But wooes ye in the shelfed room; And seeks you in the dusty nook, And meets you in the let­ter'd book; Full well he knows you by your names, And still with po­ets faith your pres­ence claims.

The youth­ful po­et, pen in hand, All by the side of blot­ted stand, In rev'rie deep, which none may break, Sits rub­bing of his beard­less cheek; And well his in­spi­ra­tion knows, E'en by the dewy drops that trick­le o'er his nose.

The tune­ful sage of riper fame, Per­ceives you not in heat­ed frame; But at con­clu­sion of his verse, Which still his mutt'ring lips re­hearse, Oft' waves his hand in grate­ful pride, And owns the heav'nly pow'r that did his fan­cy guide.

O love­ly sis­ters! is it true, That they are all in­spir'd by you? And while they write, with mag­ic charm'd, And high en­thu­si­asm warm'd, We may not ques­tion heav'nly lays, For well I wot, they give you all the praise.

O love­ly sis­ters! well it shews How wide and far your boun­ty flows: Then why from me with­hold your beams? Un­vis­it­ed of heav'nly dreams, Whene'er I aim at heights sub­lime, Still down­ward am I call'd to seek some stub­born rhyme.

No hasty light­ning breaks the gloom, Nor flash­ing thoughts un­sought for come, Nor fan­cies wake in time of need; I labour much with lit­tle speed; And when my stud­ied task is done, Too well, alas! I mark it for my own.

Yet should you nev­er smile on me, And rugged still my vers­es be; Un­pleas­ing to the tune­ful train, Who on­ly prize a slow­ing strain; And still the learned scorn my lays, I'll lift my heart to you, and sing your praise.

Your var­ied min­istry to trace, Your hon­our'd names, and god­like race; And lofty bow'rs where foun­tains flow, They'll bet­ter sing who bet­ter know; I praise ye not with Gre­cian lyre, Nor will I hail ye daugh­ters of a hea­then fire.

Ye are the spir­its who pre­side In earth, and air, and ocean wide; In hiss­ing flood, and crack­ling fire; In hor­ror dread, and tu­mult dire; In stil­ly calm, and stormy wind, And rule the an­sw'ring changes in the hu­man mind.

High on the tem­pest-​beat­en hill, Your misty shapes ye shift at will; The wild fan­tas­tic clouds ye form; Your voice is in the mid­night storm; Whilst in the dark and lone­ly hour, Oft' starts the bold­est heart, and owns your se­cret pow'r.

From you, when growl­ing storms are past, And light'ning ceas­es on the wade, And when the scene of blood is o'er, And groans of death are heard no more, Still holds the mind each part­ed form, Like af­ter echo­ing of the o'er­passed storm.

When clos­ing glooms o'er­spread the day, And what we love has pass'd away, Ye kind­ly bid each pleas­ing scene With­in the bo­som still re­main, Like moons who doth their watch­es run With the re­flect­ed bright­ness of the part­ed sun.

The shin­ing day, and night­ly shade, The cheer­ful plain and gloomy glade, The home­ward flocks, and shep­herds play, The busy ham­let's clos­ing day, Full many a breast with plea­sures swell, Who ne'er shall have the gift of words to tell,

Oft' when the moon looks from on high, And black around the shad­ows lie; And bright the sparkling wa­ters gleam, And rush­es rus­tle by the stream, Shrill sounds, and fairy forms are known By sim­ple 'night­ed swains, who wan­der late alone.

Ye kin­dle up the in­ward glow, Ye strength­en ev'ry out­ward show; Ye over­leap the strongest bar, And join what Na­ture sun­ders far: And vis­it oft' in fan­cies wild, The bread of learned sage, and sim­ple child.

From him who wears a monarch's crown, To the un­let­ter'd art­less clown, All in some strange and lone­ly hour Have felt, un­sought, your se­cret pow'r, And lov'd your rov­ing fan­cies well, You add but to the bard the art to tell.

Ye mighty spir­its of the song, To whom the po­ets' pray'rs be­long, My low­ly bo­som to in­spire, And kin­dle with your sa­cred fire, Your wild ob­scur­ing heights to brave, Is boon, alas! too great for me to crave.

But O, such sense of mat­ter bring! As they who feel and nev­er sing Wear on their hearts, it will avail With sim­ple words to tell my tale; And still con­tent­ed will I be, Tho' greater in­spi­ra­tions nev­er fall to me.

A MELAN­CHOLY LOVER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MIS­TRESS.

My Phillis, all my hopes are o'er, And I shall see thy face no more. Since ev'ry se­cret wish is vain, I will not stay to give thee pain. Then do not hang thy low'ring brow, But let me bless thee ere I go: Nor, O, de­spise my last adieu! I've lov'd thee long, and lov'd thee true.

The prospects of my youth are crost, My health is flown, my vigour lost; My sooth­ing friends aug­ment my pain, And cheer­less is my na­tive plain; Dark o'er my spir­it hangs the gloom, And thy dis­dain has fix'd my doom. But light gales ruf­fle o'er the sea, Which soon shall bear me far from thee; And where­foe'er our course is cast, I know will bear me to my rest. Full deep be­neath the briny wave, Where rest the ven­tur­ous and brave, A place may be de­creed for me; And should no tem­pest raise the sea, Far hence up­on a for­eign land, Whose sons, per­haps, with friend­ly hand The stranger's low­ly tomb may raise; A bro­ken heart will end my days.

But Heav­en's bless­ing on thee rest! And may no trou­bles vex thy breast! Per­haps, when pen­sive and alone, You'll think of me when I am gone; And gen­tle tears of pity shed, When I am in my nar­row bed. Yet soft­ly let thy sor­row flow! And greater may'st thou nev­er know! All free from world­ly care and strife, Long may'ft thou live a hap­py life! And ev'ry earth­ly bless­ing find, Thou loveli­est of wom­ankind: And blest thy se­cret wish­es be! Tho' cru­el thou hast been to me.

And do'st thou then thine arm ex­tend And may I take thy love­ly hand? And do thine eyes thus gen­tly look, As tho' some kind­ly wish they spoke? My gen­tle Phillis, tho' se­vere, I do not grudge the ills I bear; But still my great­est grief will be, To think my love has trou­bled thee. O, do not scorn this swelling grief! The laden bo­som seeks re­lief: Nor yet this in­fant weak­ness blame, For thou hast made me what I am. But hark! the sailors call away, No longer may I ling'ring stay; May peace with­in thy man­sion dwell! O, gen­tle Phillis, fare thee well!

A CHEER­FUL TEM­PERED LOVER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MIS­TRESS.

The light winds on the stream­ers play That soon shall bear me far away; My com­rades give the part­ing cheer, And I alone have linger'd here. Now Phill. my love, since it will be, And I must bid farewell to thee, Since ev'ry hope of thee is flown, Ne'er send me from thee with a frown; But let me kind­ly take thy hand, And bid God bless me in a for­eign land.

No more I'll loi­ter by thy side, Well pleas'd thy game­some taunts to bide; Nor lovers' gam­bols light­ly try To make me grace­ful in thine eye; Nor sing the mer­ry rounde­lay, To cheer thee at the close of day. Yet ne'erthe­less tho' we must part, I'll bear thee still up­on my heart; And oft' I'll fill the rud­dy glass, To toast my love­ly scorn­ful lass. Far hence, up­on a for­eign shore, Still will I keep an open door, And still my lit­tle for­tune share With all who ev­er breath'd my na­tive air. And who thy beau­teous face hath seen, Or ev­er near thy dwelling been, Shall push about the flow­ing bowl, And be the mat­ter of the whole. And ev'ry wom­an for thy sake, Though proud and cru­el, as they're weak, Shall in my walls pro­tec­tion find, Thou fairest of a fick­le kind.

O, dear­ly! dear­ly! have I paid, Thou lit­tle haughty cru­el maid, To give that in­ward peace to thee, Which thou hast ta'en away from me. Soft hast thou slept, with bo­som light, Whilst I have watch'd the weary night; And now I cross the sur­gy deep, That thou may'st still un­trou­bled sleep-- But in thine eyes, what do I see, That looks as tho' they pitied me? I thank thee, Phill. yet be not sad, I leave no blame up­on thy head. I would, more grac'd with pleas­ing make, I had been bet­ter for thy sake, But yet, per­haps, when I shall dwell Far hence, thou'lt some­times think how well-- I dare not stay, since we must part, T'ex­pose a fond and fool­ish heart; Where'er I go, it beats for you, God bless ye, Phill. adieu! adieu!

A PROUD LOVER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MIS­TRESS.

Farewell thou haughty, cru­el fair! Up­on thy brow no longer wear That som­bre look of cold dis­dain, Thou ne'er shalt see my face again. Now ev'ry sil­ly wish is o'er, And fears and doubt­ings are no more.

All cru­el as thou art to me, Long has my heart been fix'd on thee; On thee I've mus'd the live-​long day, And thought the weary night away; I've trac'd thy foot­steps o'er the green, And shar'd thy ram­bles oft un­seen; I've linger'd near thee night and day, When thou hast thought me far away; I've watch'd the turn­ing of thy face, And fond­ly mark'd thy mov­ing grace; And wept thy ris­ing smiles to see; I've been a fool for love of thee. Yet do not think I stay the while Thy weak­ly pity to be­guile: Let forced favour fruit­less prove! The pity curst, that brings not love! No wom­an e'er shall give me pain, Or ev­er break my rest again: Nor aught that comes of wom­an kind Have pow'r again to move my mind. Far on a for­eign shore I'll seek Some lone­ly is­land, bare and bleak; I'll seek some wild and rugged cell, And with un­tamed crea­tures dwell. To hear their cries is now my choice, Far more than man's de­ceit­ful voice: To lis­ten to the howl­ing wind, Than lur­ing tongue of wom­ankind. They look not beau­ti­ful and good, But rongh­some seem as they are rude.

O Phillis! thou hast wreck'd a heart, Which proud­ly bears, but feels the smart. Adieu! adieu! should'st thou e'er prove The pang of ill-​re­quit­ed love, Thou'lt know what I have borne for thee, And then thou wilt re­mem­ber me.

A PO­ET, OR, SOUND-​HEART­ED LOVER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MIS­TRESS.

Fair Nymph, who dost my fate con­troul, And reign'st the mis­tress of my soul, Where thou all bright in beau­ties ray Hast held a long tyran­nick sway, They who the hard­est rule main­tain, In their com­mands do still re­frain From what im­pos­si­ble must prove, But thou hast bade me cease to love; Nor would some gen­tle mer­cy give, And on­ly bid me cease to live. Ah! when the mag­net's pow'r is o'er, The com­pass then will point no more; And when no ver­dure cloaths the spring, The tune­ful birds for­get to sing: But thou all sweet and heav'nly fair, Hast bade thy swain from love for­bear. In pity let thine own fair hand A death's-​wound to this bo­som send: This ten­der heart of purest faith May then re­sign thee with its breath; And in the sun-​beam of thine eye A proud and will­ing vic­tim die.

But since thou wilt not have it so, Far from thy pres­ence will I go: Far from my heart's dear bliss I'll stray, Since I no longer can obey. In for­eign climes I'll dis­tant roam, No more to hail my na­tive home: To for­eign swains I'll pour my woe, In for­eign plains my tears shall flow: By murm'ring stream and shady grove Shall oth­er echoes tell my love; And rich­er flow'rs of vivid hue Up­on my tomb shall oth­er maid­ens strew.

Adieu, dear Phillis! should'ft thou e'er Some soft and plain­tive sto­ry hear, Of hap­less youth who died for love, Or all for­lorn did ban­ish'd rove, O think of me! nor then de­ny The gen­tle trib­ute of a sigh.

* * * * *

It may be ob­ject­ed that all these lovers are equal­ly sad, though one is a cheer­ful, the oth­er a melan­choly lover. It is true they are all equal­ly sad, for they are all equal­ly in love, and in de­spair, when it is im­pos­si­ble for them to be oth­er­wise; but if I have pic­tured their farewell com­plaints in such a way as to give you an idea that one lover is nat­ural­ly of a melan­choly, one of a cheer­ful, and one of a proud tem­per, I have done all that is in­tend­ed.

THE STORM-​BEAT MAID.

SOME­WHAT AF­TER THE STYLE OF OUR OLD EN­GLISH BAL­LADS.

All shroud­ed in the win­ter snow, The maid­en held her way; Nor chilly winds that rough­ly blow, Nor dark night could her stay.

O'er hill and dale, through bush and bri­ar, She on her jour­ney kept; Save of­ten when she 'gan to tire, She stop'd awhile and wept.

Wild crea­tures left their cav­erns drear, To raise their night­ly yell; But lit­tle doth the bo­som fear, Where in­ward trou­bles dwell.

No watch-​light from the dis­tant spire, To cheer the gloom so deep, Nor twin­kling star, nor cot­tage fire Did thro' the dark­ness peep.

Yet heed­less still she held her way, Nor fear'd the crag nor dell; Like ghost that thro' the gloom to stray, Wakes with the mid­night bell.

Now night thro' her dark watch­es ran, Which lock the peace­ful mind; And thro' the neighb'ring ham­lets 'gan To wake the yawn­ing hind.

Yet bark of dog, nor vil­lage cock, That spoke the morn­ing near; Nor gray-​light trem­bling on the rock, Her 'night­ed mind could cheer.

The whirling flail, and clack­ing mill Wake with the ear­ly day; And care­less chil­dren, loud and shrill, With new-​made snow-​balls play.

And as she pass'd each cot­tage door, They did their gam­bols cease; And old men shook their locks so hoar, And wish'd her spir­it peace.

For some­times slow; and some­times fast, She held her wav'ring pace; Like ear­ly spring's in­con­stant blast, That ruf­fles evening's face.

At length with weary feet she came, Where in a shelt'ring wood, Whose mas­ter bore no hum­ble name, A state­ly cas­tle stood.

The open gate, and smok­ing fires, Which cloud the air so thin; And shrill bell tin­kling from the spires, Be­spoke a feast with­in.

With busy looks, and hasty tread, The ser­vants cross the hall; And many a page, in buskins red, Await the mas­ter's call.

Fair stream­ing bows of bridal white On ev'ry shoul­der play'd; And clean, in lily ker­chief dight, Trip'd ev­ery housh­old maid.

She ask'd for nei­ther lord nor dame, Nor who the man­sion own'd; But straight in­to the hall she came, And sat her on the ground.

The busy crew all croud­ed nigh, And round the stranger star'd; But still she roll'd her wand'ring eye, Nor for their ques­tions car'd.

“What dost thou want, thou storm-​beat' maid, That thou these por­tals past? Ill suit­eth here thy looks dis­may'd, Thou art no bid­den guest.”

“O chide not!” said a gen­tle page, And wip'd his tear-​wet cheek, "Who would not shun the win­ter's rage? The wind is cold and bleak.

“Her robe is stiff with dri­zly snow, And rent her man­tle grey; None ev­er bade the wretched go Up­on his wed­ding-​day.”

Then to his lord he hied him straight, Where round on silken seat Sat many a cour­te­ous dame and knight. And made obei­sance meet,

"There is a stranger in your hall, Who wears no com­mon mien; Hard were the heart, as flinty wall, That would not take her in.

"A fair­er dame in hall or bow­er Mine eyes did ne'er be­hold; Tho' shel­ter'd in no fa­ther's tow­er, And turn'd out to the cold.

"Her face is like an ear­ly morn, Dimm'd with the night­ly dew; Her skin is like the sheet­ed torn, Her eyes are wat'ry blue.

"And tall and slen­der is her form, Like wil­low o'er the brook; But on her brow there broods a storm, And rest­less is her look,

"And well her trou­bled mo­tions shew The tem­pest in her mind; Like the un­shel­ter'd sapling bough Vex'd with the win­try wind.

“Her head droops on her un­girt breast, And scat­ter'd is her hair; Yet la­dy brac'd in court­ly vest Was nev­er half so fair.”

Re­verse, and cold the turn­ing blood The bride­groom's cheek for­sook: He shook and stag­ger'd as he stood, And fal­ter'd as he spoke.

“So soft and fair I know a maid, There is but on­ly she; A wretched man her love be­trayed, And wretched let him be.”

Deep frown­ing, turn'd the bride's dark eye, For bridal morn un­meet; With trem­bling steps her lord did hie The stranger fair to greet.

Tho' loose in scat­ter'd weeds ar­ray'd, And ruf­fled with the storm; Like lam­bkin from its fel­lows stray'd, He knew her grace­ful form.

But when he spy'd her sunken eye, And fea­tures sharp and wan, He heav'd a deep and heavy sigh, And down the big tears ran.

“Why droops thy head, thou love­ly maid, Up­on thy hand of snow? Is it be­cause thy love be­tray'd, That thou art brought so low?”

Quick from her eye the keen glance came Who ques­tion'd her to see: And oft she mut­ter'd o'er his name, And wist not it was he.

Full hard against his writhing brows His clenched hands he prest; Full high his lab'ring bo­som rose, And rent its silken vest.

"O cursed be the gold­en price, That did my base­ness prove! And cursed be my friends ad­vice, That wil'd me from thy love!

"And cursed be the wom­an's art, That lur'd me to her snare! And cursed be the faith­less heart That left thee to de­spair!

"Yet now I'll hold thee to my side, Tho' worth­less I have been, Nor friends, nor wealth, nor dizen'd bride, Shall ev­er stand be­tween.

"When thou art weary and de­press'd, I'll lull thee to thy sleep; And when dark fan­cies vex thy breast, I'll sit by thee and weep.

"I'll tend thee like a rest­less child Where'er thy rov­ings be; Nor ges­ture keen, nor eye-​ball wild, Shall turn my love from thee.

"Night shall not hang cold o'er thy head, And I se­cure­ly lie; Nor dri­zly clouds up­on thee shed, And I in covert dry.

“I'll share the cold blast on the heath, I'll share thy wants and pain: Nor friend nor foe, nor life nor death, Shall ev­er make us twain.”

THUN­DER.

Spir­it of strength, to whom in wrath 'tis giv­en To mar the earth, and shake the vasty heav­en: Be­hold the gloomy robes, that spread­ing hide Thy se­cret majesty, lo! slow and wide, Thy heavy skirts sail in the mid­dle air, Thy sul­try shroud is o'er the noon­day glare: Th' ad­vanc­ing clouds sub­lime­ly roll'd on high, Deep in their pitchy vol­umes clothe the sky; Like hosts of gath'ring foes ar­ray'd in death, Dread hangs their gloom up­on the earth be­neath, It is thy hour: the aw­ful deep is still, And laid to rest the wind of ev'ry hill. Wild crea­tures of the for­est home­ward scour, And in their dens with fear un­wont­ed cow'r. Pride in the lord­ly palace is for­got, And in the low­ly shel­ter of the cot The poor man sits, with all his fam'ly round, In aw­ful ex­pec­ta­tion of thy sound. Lone on his way the trav'ller stands aghast; The fear­ful looks of man to heav'n are cast, When, lo! thy light­ning gleams on high, As swift­ly turns his star­tled eye; And swift­ly as thy shoot­ing blaze Each half per­formed mo­tion stays, Deep awe, all hu­man strife and labour stills, And thy dread voice alone, the earth and heav­en fills.

Bright bursts the light­ning from the cloud's dark womb, As quick­ly swal­low'd in the clos­ing gloom. The dis­tant streamy flash­es, spread askance In paler sheet­ings, skirt the wide ex­panse. Dread flam­ing from aloft, the cat'ract dire Oft meets in mid­dle space the nether fire. Fierce, red, and ragged, shiv'ring in the air, Athwart mid-​dark­ness shoots the length­en'd glare. Wild glanc­ing round, the fee­bler light­ning plays; The rift­ed cen­tre pours the gen'ral blaze; And from the war­ring clouds in fury driv­en,[A] Red writhing falls the keen em­bod­ied bolt of heav­en.

[Foot­note A: In po­et­ry we have on­ly to do with ap­pear­ances; and the zig-​zag light­ning, com­mon­ly thought to be the thun­der-​bolt, is cer­tain­ly firm and em­bod­ied, com­pared to the or­di­nary light­ning, which takes no dis­tinct shape at all.]

From the dark bow­els of the bur­then'd cloud Dread swells the rolling peal, full, deep'ning, loud. Wide ratt'ling claps the heav­ens scat­ter'd o'er, In gath­ered strength lift the tremen­dous roar; With wean­ing force it rum­bles over head, Then, growl­ing, wears away to si­lence dread. Now wak­ing from afar in dou­bled might, Slow rolling on­ward to the mid­dle height; Like crash of mighty moun­tains down­ward hurl'd, Like the up­break­ing of a wreck­ing world, In dread­ful majesty, th' ex­plo­sion grand Bursts wide, and aw­ful, o'er the trem­bling land. The lofty moun­tains echo back the roar, Deep from afar re­bounds earth's rocky shore; All else ex­ist­ing in the sens­es bound Is lost in the im­men­si­ty of sound. Wide jar­ring sounds by turns in strength con­vene, And deep, and ter­ri­ble, the solemn pause be­tween.

Aloft up­on the moun­tain's side The kin­dled for­est blazes wide. Huge frag­ments of the rugged deep Are tum­bled to the lash­ing deep. Firm root­ed in the cloven rock, Loud crash­ing falls the stub­born oak. The light­ning keen, in waste­ful ire, Fierce dart­ing on the lofty spire, Wide rends in twain the ir'n-​knit stone, And state­ly tow'rs are low­ly thrown. Wild flames o'er­scour the wide cam­paign, And plough askance the hiss­ing main. Nor strength of man may brave the storm, Nor shel­ter skreen the shrink­ing form; Nor cas­tle wall its fury stay, Nor masy gate may bar its way. It vis­its those of low es­tate, It shakes the dwellings of the great, It looks athwart the se­cret tomb, And glares up­on the prison's gloom; While dun­geons deep, in un­known light, Flash hid­ious on the wretch­es' fight, And low­ly groans the down­ward cell, Where dead­ly si­lence wont to dwell.

Now up­cast eyes to heav'n adore, And knees that nev­er bow'd be­fore. In stupid won­der flares the child; The maid­en turns her glances wild, And lifts to hear the com­ing roar: The aged shake their locks so hoar: And stoutest hearts be­gin to fail, And many a man­ly cheek is pale; Till near­er clos­ing peals as­tound, And crash­ing ru­in min­gles round; Then 'numb­ing fear awhile up-​binds The paus­ing ac­tion of their minds, Till wak'd to dread­ful sense, they lift their eyes, And round the strick­en corse, shrill shrieks of hor­ror rise.

Now thin­ly spreads the falling hall A mot­ly win­ter o'er the vale, The hail­stones bound­ing as they fall On hardy rock, or storm-​beat' wall. The loud be­gin­ning peal its fury checks, Now full, now fainter, with ir­reg'lar breaks, Then weak in force, unites the scat­ter'd found; And rolls its length­en'd grum­blings to the dis­tant bound. A thick and mud­dy white­ness clothes the sky, In paler flash­es gleams the light­ning by; And thro' the rent cloud, sil­ver'd with his ray, The sun looks down on all this wild af­fray; As high en­thron'd above all mor­tal ken, A greater Pow'r be­holds the strife of men: Yet o'er the dis­tant hills the dark­ness scowls, And deep, and long, the part­ing tem­pest growls.

WIND.

Pow'r un­con­trol­lable, who hold'st thy sway In the un­bound­ed air, whose track­less way Is in the fir­ma­ment, un­known of fight, Who bend'st the sheet­ed heav­ens in thy might, And lift'st the ocean from its low­est bed To join in mid­dle space the con­flict dread; Who o'er the peo­pled earth in ru­in scours, And buf­fets the firm rock that proud­ly low'rs, Thy signs are in the heav'ns. The up­per clouds Draw shape­less o'er the sky their misty shrowds; Whilst dark­er frag­ments rove in low­er bands, And mourn­ful pur­ple cloaths the dis­tant lands. In gath­er'd tribes, up­on the hang­ing peak The sea-​fowl scream, ill-​omen'd crea­tures shriek: Un­wont­ed sounds groan on the dis­tant wave, And mur­murs deep break from the down­ward cave. Un­look'd-​for gusts the qui­et forests shake, And speak thy com­ing--aw­ful Pow'r, awake!

Like burst of mighty wa­ters wakes the blast, In wide and bound­less sweep: thro' re­gions vast The floods of air in loosen'd fury drive, And meet­ing cur­rents strong, and fierce­ly strive. First wild­ly rav­ing on the moun­tain's brow 'Tis heard afar, till o'er the plains be­low With even rush­ing force it bears along, And grad­ual swelling, loud­er, full, and strong, Breaks wide in scat­ter'd bel­low­ing thro' the air. Now is it hush'd to calm, now rous'd to war, Whilst in the paus­es of the near­er blast, The far­ther gusts howl from the dis­tant waste. Now rush­ing fu­ri­ous by with loosen'd sweep, Now rolling grand­ly on, solemn and deep, Its burst­ing strength the full em­bod­ied sound In wide and shal­low brawl­ings scat­ters round; Then wild in ed­dies shrill, with rage dis­traught, And force ex­haust­ed, whis­tles in­to naught. With grow­ing might, aris­ing in its room, From far, like waves of ocean on­ward come Suc­ceed­ing gusts, and spend their waste­ful ire, Then slow, in grum­bled mut­ter­ings re­tire: And solemn still­ness over­awes the land, Save where the tem­pest growls along the dis­tant strand. But great in dou­bled strength, afar and wide, Re­turn­ing bat­tle wakes on ev'ry side; And rolling on with full and threat'ning sound, In wild­ly min­gled fury clos­es round. With bel­low­ings loud, and hol­low deep'ning swell, Re­it­er­at­ed hiss, and whistlings shrill, Fierce wars the var­ied storm, with fury tore, Till all is over­whelm'd in one tremen­dous roar.

The vexed for­est, toss­ing wide, Up­root­ed strews its fairest pride; The lofty pine in twain is broke, And crush­ing falls the knot­ted oak. The huge rock trem­bles in its might; The proud tow'r tum­bles from its height; Un­cov­er'd stands the so­cial home; High rocks aloft the city dome; Whilst burst­ing bar, and flap­ping gate, And crash­ing roof, and clatt'ring grate, And hurl­ing wall, and falling spire, Min­gle in jar­ring din and ru­in dire. Wild ru­in scours the works of men; Their mot­ly frag­ments strew the plain. E'en in the desert's path­less waste, Un­couth de­struc­tion marks the blast: And hol­low caves whose se­cret pride, Grotesque and grand, was nev­er ey'd By mor­tal man, abide its drift, Of many a good­ly pil­lar reft. Fierce whirling mounts the desert sand, And threats aloft the peo­pl'd land. The great ex­pand­ed ocean, heav­ing wide, Rolls to the far­thest bound its lash­ing tide; Whilst in the mid­dle deep afar are seen, All state­ly from the sunken gulfs be­tween, The tow'ring waves, which bend with hoary brow, Then dash im­petu­ous to the deep be­low. With broad­er sweepy base, in gath­er'd might Ma­jes­tic, swelling to stu­pen­dous height, The moun­tain bil­low lifts its aw­ful head, And, curv­ing, breaks aloft with roar­ings dread. Sub­limer still the mighty wa­ters rise, And min­gle in the strife of nether skies. All wild­ness and up­roar, above, be­neath, A world im­mense of dan­ger, dread, and death.

In dumb de­spair the sailor stands, The fran­tic mer­chant wrings his hands, Ad­vent'rous hope clings to the yard, And sink­ing wretch­es shriek un­heard: Whilst on the land, the ma­tron ill at rest, Thinks of the dis­tant main, and heaves her heavy breast. The peas­ants leave their ru­in'd home, And o'er the fields dis­tract­ed roam: In­sen­si­ble the 'numbed in­fant sleeps, And help­less bend­ing age, weak and un­shel­ter'd weeps. Low shrink­ing fear, in place of state, Skulks in the dwellings of the great. The rich man marks with care­ful eye, Each waste­ful gust that whis­tles by; And ill men fear'd with fan­cied screams Sit list'ning to the creak­ing beams. At break of ev'ry ris­ing squall On storm-​beat' roof, or an­cient wall, Full many a glance of fear­ful eye Is up­ward cast, till from on high, From crack­ing joist, and gap­ing rent, And falling frag­ments warn­ing sent, Loud wakes around the wild af­fray, 'Tis all con­fu­sion and dis­may.

Now pow­er­ful but in­con­stant in its course, The tem­pest varies with un­cer­tain force. Like dole­ful wail­ings on the lone­ly waste, Solemn and drea­ry sounds the wean­ing blast. Ex­haust­ed gusts re­coil­ing growl away, And, wak'd anew, re­turn with fee­bler sway; Save where be­tween the ridgy moun­tains pent, The fierce im­prison'd cur­rent strives for vent, With hol­low howl, and lamen­ta­tion deep, Then rush­es o'er the plain with par­tial sweep. A part­ing gust o'er­scours the weary land, And low­ly growls along the dis­tant strand: Light thro' the wood the shiv'ring branch­es play, And on the ocean far it slow­ly dies away.

AN AD­DRESS TO THE NIGHT.

A FEAR­FUL MIND.

Un­cer­tain, aw­ful as the gloom of death, The Night's grim shad­ows cov­er all be­neath. Shape­less and black is ev'ry ob­ject round, And lost in thick­er gloom the dis­tant bound. Each swelling height is clad with dim­mer shades, And deep­er dark­ness marks the hol­low glades. The moon in heavy clouds her glo­ry veils, And slow along their pass­ing dark­ness sails; While less­er clouds in part­ed frag­ments roam, And red stars glim­mer thro' the riv­er's gloom.

Nor cheer­ful voice is heard from man's abode, Nor sound­ing foot­steps on the neighb'ring road; Nor glimm'ring fire the dis­tant cot­tage tells; On all around a fear­ful still­ness dwells: The min­gled noise of in­dus­try is laid, And si­lence deep­ens with the night­ly shade. Though still the haunts of men, and shut their light, Thou art not silent, dark mys­te­ri­ous Night, The cries of sav­age crea­tures wild­ly break Up­on thy qui­et; birds ill-​omen'd shriek; Com­mo­tions strange dis­turb the rustling trees; And heavy plaints come on the pass­ing breeze. Far on the lone­ly waste, and dis­tant way, Un­wont­ed sounds are heard, un­known of day. With shril­ly screams the haunt­ed cav­ern rings; And heavy tread­ing of un­earth­ly things Sounds loud and hol­low thro' the ru­in'd dome; Yea, voic­es is­sue from the se­cret tomb.

But lo! a sud­den flow of burst­ing light! What wild sur­round­ing scenes break on the sight! Huge rugged rocks un­couth­ly low'r on high, Whilst on the plain their length­en'd shad­ows lie. The wood­ed banks in streamy bright­ness glow; And wav­ing dark­ness skirts the flood be­low. The rov­ing shad­ow has­tens o'er the stream; And like a ghost's pale shrowd the wa­ters glean. Black fleet­ing shapes across the val­ley stray: Gi­gan­tic forms tow'r on the dis­tant way: The sud­den winds in wheel­ing ed­dies change: 'Tis all con­fus'd, un­nat­ural, and strange. Now all again in hor­rid gloom is lost: Wild wakes the breeze like sound of dis­tant host: Bright shoots along the swift re­turn­ing light: Suc­ceed­ing shad­ows close the star­tled sight. Some rest­less spir­it holds the night­ly sway: Long is the wild, and doubt­ful is my way. In­con­stant Night, whate'er thy changes be, It suits not man to be alone with thee. O! for the shelt'ring roof of low­est kind, Se­cure to rest with oth­ers of my hind!

AN AD­DRESS TO THE NIGHT.

A DIS­CON­TENT­ED MIND.

How thick the clouds of night are rang'd o'er head! Con­found­ing dark­ness o'er the earth is spread. The cloud­ed moon her cheer­ing count'nance hides; And fee­ble stars, be­tween the ragged sides Of bro­ken clouds, with un­avail­ing ray, Look thro' to mock the trav'ller on his way. Tree, bush, and rugged rock, and hol­low dell, In deep­er shades their forms con­fus'dly tell, To cheat the weary wand'rer's doubt­ful eye; Whilst chilly pass­ing winds come ruf­fling by; And tan­gled bri­ars per­plex the dark­en'd pass; And slimy rep­tiles glim­mer on the grass; And sting­ing night-​flies spend their cursed spite; Un­hos­pitable are thy shades, O Night!

Now hard sus­pi­cion bars the creak­ing door; And safe with­in the self­ish worldlings snore: And wealthy fools are warm in downy bed: And house­less beg­gars shel­ter in the shed: And nestling cov­eys cow'r be­neath the brake; While prowl­ing mis­chief on­ly is awake. Each hole and den fends forth its cursed brood, And sav­age bloody crea­tures range the wood. The thievish va­grant plies his thrift­less trade Be­neath the friend­ly shel­ter of the shade; Whilst bold­est risk the law­less rob­ber braves: The day for fools was made, and night for knaves.

O wel­come, kind­ly moon! thy light dis­play, And guide a weary trav'ller on his way. Hill, wood, and val­ley, bright­en in her beam; And wavy sil­ver glit­ters on the stream. The dis­tant path-​way shews dis­tinct and clear, From far invit­ing, but per­plex'd when near. For black­ning shad­ows add de­ceit­ful length, And less­er ob­jects gain un­wont­ed strength; Each step mis­guid­ing; to the eye un­known, The shin­ing gut­ter, from the glist'ning stone; While cross­ing shad­ows check­er o'er the ground, The more per­plex­ing for the bright­ness round. De­ceit­ful are thy smiles, un­to­ward Night! Thy gloom is bet­ter than mis­guid­ing light. Then wel­come is yon cloud that on­ward fails, And all this glary shew in dark­ness veils. But see how soon the fleet­ing shade is past, And streamy bright­ness moots across the waste. Now fly the shad­ows borne up­on the wind; Suc­ceed­ing bright­ness trav­els fast be­hind. And now it low'rs again. In­con­stant Night, Con­found thy freaks! be ei­ther dark or light. Yet let them come; whate'er thy changes be, I was a fool to put my trust in thee.

AN AD­DRESS TO THE NIGHT.

A SOR­ROW­FUL MIND.

How lone and drea­ry hangs the som­bre Night O'er wood and val­ley, stream and crag­gy height! While near­er ob­jects, bush, and wav­ing bough, Their dark un­cer­tain forms but dim­ly show; Like those with which dis­turbed fan­cies teem, And shape the scen'ry of a gloomy dream. The moon is cov­er'd with her sable shrowd; And o'er the heav'us rove many a dusky cloud; Thro' ragged rents the paly sky is seen, And fee­bly glance the twin­kling stars be­tween: Whilst earth be­low is wrapt in stil­ly gloom, All sad and silent as the closed tomb.

No bleat­ing flock is heard up­on the vale; Nor low­ing kine up­on the open dale; Nor voice of hunter on the lone­ly heath; Nor sound of trav'ller on the dis­tant path. Shut is the fenced door of man's abode; And ruf­fling breezes on­ly are abroad. How mourn­ful is thy voice, O night­ly gale! Across the wood, or down the nar­row vale; And sad, tho' se­cret and un­known they be, The sighs of woe­ful hearts that wake with thee. For now no friends the haunts of sor­row seek; Tears hang unchid­den on the mourn­er's cheek: No side-​look vex­es from the cu­ri­ous eye; Nor calm re­prov­ing rea­son­er is by; The kind­ly cum­brous vis­itor is gone, And laden spir­its love to sigh alone. O Night! wild sings the wind, deep low'rs the shade; Thy robe is gloomy, and thy voice is sad: But weary souls con­fin'd in earth­ly cell Are deep in kin­dred gloom, and love thee well.

But now the veil­ing dark­ness pass­es by; The moon un­cloud­ed holds the mid­dle sky. A soft and mel­low light is o'er the wood; And silv'ry pure­ness sparkles on the flood. White tow'r the clifts from many a crag­gy breach; The brown heath shews afar its drea­ry stretch. While fair­er as the bright­en'd ob­ject swells, Fast by its side the dark­er shad­ow dwells: The lofty moun­tains form the deep­er glade, And keen­er light but marks the black­er made. Then wel­come yon­der clouds that swift­ly sail, And o'er yon glary op'ning draw the veil. But, ah! too swift­ly flies the friend­ly shade! Re­turn­ing bright­ness trav­els up the glade, And all is light again. O fick­le Night! No trav­eller is here to bless thy light. I seek nor home, nor shed; I have no way; Why send thy beams to one who can­not stray? Or wood, or desert, is the same to me; O low'r again, and let me rest with thee!

AN AD­DRESS TO THE NIGHT.

A JOY­FUL MIND.

The warp­ing gloom of night is gath­er'd round; And var­ied dark­ness marks the un­even ground. A dim­mer shade is on the moun­tain's brow, And deep­er low'rs the length­en'd vale be­low; While near­er ob­jects all en­larged and dark, Their strange and shape­less forms un­couth­ly mark; Which thro' mud­dy night are dim­ly shown, Like old com­pan­ions in a garb un­known. The heavy sheet­ed clouds are spread on high, And streaky dark­ness bounds the far­ther sky: And swift along the lighter va­grants sweep, Whilst clear stars thro' their riv­en edges peep. Soft thro' each ragged breach, and streamy rent, And open gaps in dusky cir­cle pent, The up­per heav­en looks serene­ly bright In dap­pled gold, and snowy fleeces dight: And on the mid­dle cur­rent light­ly glides The less­er cloud, with sil­ver wreathy sides. In sud­den gusts awakes the night­ly breeze Across the wood, and rus­tles thro' the trees; Or whis­tles on the plain with ed­dy­ing sweep; Or is­sues from the glen in wail­ings deep, Which die away up­on the open vale: Whilst in the paus­es of the ruf­fling gale The buzzing night-​fly ris­es from the ground, And wings his flight in many a mazy round; And lone­ly owls be­gin their night­ly strain, So hate­ful to the ear of 'night­ed swain. Thou do'st the weary trav'ller mis­lead; Thy voice is rough­some, and un­cooth thy weed, O gloomy Night! for black thy shad­ows be, And fools have rais'd a bad re­port on thee. Yet art thou free and friend­ly to the gay, And light hearts prize thee equal to the day.

Now tire­some plod­ding folks are gone to rest; And sooth­ing slum­ber locks the care­ful breast. And tell-​tale friends, and wise ad­vis­ers snore; And soft­ly slip-​shod youths un­bar the door. Now foot­steps echo far, and watch-​dogs bark; Worms glow, and cats' eyes glit­ter in the dark. The va­grant lover cross­es moor and hill, And near the low­ly cot­tage whis­tles shrill: Or, bold­er grown, be­neath the friend­ly shade, Taps at the win­dow of his fav'rite maid; Who from above his sim­ple tale re­ceives, Whilst stupid ma­trons start, and think of thieves, Now dai­ly fools un­bar the nar­row soul, All wise and gen'rous o'er the night­ly bowl. The haunt­ed wood re­ceives its mot­ley host, (By trav'ller shun'd) tho' nei­ther fag nor ghost; And there the crack­ling bon­fire blazes red, While mer­ry va­grants feast be­neath the shed. From sleep­less beds un­qui­et spir­its rise, And cun­ning wags put on their bor­row'd guise: Whilst sil­ly maid­ens mut­ter o'er their boon, And crop their fairy weeds be­neath the moon: And harm­less plot­ters sly­ly take the road, And trick and play­ful mis­chief is abroad.

But, lo! the moon looks forth in splen­dour bright, Fair and un­cloud­ed, from her mid­dle height. The pass­ing cloud un­veils her kind­ly ray, And slow­ly sails its weary length away; While bro­ken frag­ments from its fleecy side, In dusky bands be­fore it swift­ly glide; Their misty tex­ture chang­ing with the wind, A strange and scat­ter'd group, of mot­ley kind As ev­er earth or fruit­ful ocean fed, Or ev­er youth­ful po­ets fan­cy bred. His sur­gy length the wreath­ing ser­pent trails, And by his side the rugged camel sails: The winged grif­fith fol­lows close be­hind, And spreads his dusky pin­ions to the wind. Athwart the sky in scat­ter'd bands they range From shape to shape, trans­form'd in end­less change; Then piece meal torn, in ragged por­tions stray, Or thin­ly spread­ing, slow­ly melt away. A soft­er bright­ness cov­ers all be­low; Hill, dale, and wood, in mel­low'd colour's glow. High tow'rs the whiten'd rock in added strength; The brown heath shews afar its drea­ry length. The wind­ing riv­er glit­ters on the vale; And gild­ed trees wave in the pass­ing gale. Up­on the ground each black'ning shad­ow lies, And hasty dark­ness o'er the val­ley flies. Wide sheet­ing shad­ows trav­el o'er the plain, And swift­ly close up­on the var­ied scene. Re­turn, O love­ly moon! and look from high, All state­ly rid­ing in thy mo­tled sky, Yet, O thy beams in hasty vis­its come! As swift­ly fol­low'd by the fleet­ing gloom. O Night! thy smiles are short, and short thy shade; Thou art a freak­ish friend, and all un­stay'd: Yet from thy var­ied changes who are free? Full many an hon­est friend re­sem­bles thee. Then let my doubt­ful foot­steps dark­ling stray, Thy next fair beam will set me on my way: E'en take thy free­dom, whether rough or kind, I came not forth to quar­rel with the wind.

TO FEAR.

O thou! be­fore whose hag­gard eyes A thou­sand im­ages arise, Whose forms of hor­ror none may see, But with a soul dis­turb'd by thee! Wilt thon for ev­er haunt mankind, And glare up­on the dark­en'd mind! Whene'er thou en­ter­est a breast, Thou robb'st it of its joy and rest; And ter­ri­ble, and strange to tell, On what that mind de­lights to dwell. The ruf­fi­an's knife with reek­ing blade, The stranger mur­der'd in his bed: The howl­ing wind, the rag­ing deep, The sailor's cries, the sink­ing ship: The aw­ful thun­der break­ing round: The yaun­ing gulf, the rock­ing ground: The precipice, whose low'ring brow O'er­hangs the hor­rid deep be­low; And tempts the wretch, worn out with strife, Of world­ly cares, to end his life.

But when thou rais­est to the fight Un­earth­ly forms that walk the night, The chilly blood, with mag­ic art, Runs back­ward on the stoutest heart. Lo! in his post the sol­dier stands[See Spec­ta­tor, No. 12.]! The dead­ly weapon in his hands. In front of death he rush­es on, Renown with life is cheap­ly won, Whilst all his soul with ar­dour burns, And to the thick­est dan­ger turns. But see the man alone, un­bent, A church-​yard near, and twi­light spent, Re­turn­ing late to his abode, Up­on an un­fre­quent­ed road: No choice is left, his feet must tread The aw­ful dwelling of the dead. In foul mist doth the pale moon wade, No twin­kling star breaks thro' the shade: Thick rows of trees in­crease the gloom, And aw­ful si­lence of the tomb. Swift to his thoughts, un­bid­den, throng Full many a tale, for­got­ten long, Of ghosts, who at the dead of night Walk round their graves all wrapt in white, And o'er the church-​yard dark and drear, Beck­en the trav­eller to draw near: And rest­less sprites, who from the ground, Just as the mid­night clock doth sound, Rise slow­ly to a dread­ful height, Then van­ish quick­ly from the fight: And wretch­es who, re­turn­ing home, By chance have stum­bled near some tomb, Athwart a cof­fin or a bone, And three times heard a hol­low groan; With fear­ful steps he takes his way, And shrinks, and wish­es it were day. He starts and quakes at his own tread, But dare not turn about his head. Some sound he hears on ev'ry side; And thro' the trees strange phan­toms glide. His heart beats thick against his breast, And hard­ly stays with­in its chest: Wild and un­set­tled are his eyes; His quick­en'd hairs be­gin to rise: Ghast­ly and strong his fea­tures grow; The cold dew trick­les from his brow; Whilst grin­ning beat his clatt'ring teeth, And loosen'd knock his joints be­neath. As to the char­nel he draws nigh The whiten'd tomb-​stone strikes his eye: He starts, he stops, his eye-​balls glare, And set­tle in a death-​like stare: Deep hol­low sounds ring in his ear; Such sounds as dy­ing wretch­es hear When the grim dread­ed tyrant calls, A hor­rid sound, he groans and falls.

Thou do'st our fairest hope de­stroy; Thou art a gloom o'er ev'ry joy; Un­heed­ed let my dwelling be, O Fear! but far re­mov'd from thee!

A STO­RY OF OTH­ER TIMES.

SOME­WHAT IN IM­ITA­TION OF THE PO­EMS OF OS­SIAN.

LATH­MOR. But why do'st thou stop on the way, and hold me thus hard in thy grasp? It was but the voice of the winds from the deep nar­row glens of Glanar­ven.

ALLEN. The heath is un­ruf­fled around, and the oak o'er thy head is at rest: Calm swells the moon on the lake, and noth­ing is heard in the reeds. Sad was the sound, O my fa­ther! but it was not the voice of the wind.

LATH­MOR. What dark tow'ring rock do I see 'midst the grey spread­ing mist of the hills? This is not the vale of Cla­nar­ven: my son, we have err'd from the way,

ALLEN. It is not a dark tow'ring rock, 'midst the grey set­tled mist of the hills. 'Tis a dark tow'r of strength which thou seest, and the ocean spreads dim­ly be­hind it.

LATH­MOR. Then here will we stop for the night, for the tow'r of Arthu­la is near. Pro­ceed not, my son, on the way, for it was not the voice of the wind. The ghost of the val­liant is forth; and it mourns round the place of its woe. The tray'ller oft' hears it at mid­night, and turns him aside from its haunt. The sharp moon is spent in her course, and the way of the desert is doubt­ful. This oak with his wide leavy branch­es will shel­ter our heads from the night; And I'll tell thee a sto­ry of old, since the tow'r of Arthu­la is near.

From the walls of his strength came Lochallen, with his broad chest­ed sons of the hills. He was strong as a bull of the for­est, and keen as a bird of the rock. His friends of the chace were around him, the sons of the heroes of Mo­ra. They were clad in the strength of their youth; and the sound of their arms rung afar. For Uthal had led his dark host from the blue misty isle of his pow­er; And o'er­spread like a cloud of the desert, the land of the white-​head­ed Lor­ma. Of Lor­ma who sat in the hall, and lament­ed the sons of his youth; For Orv­ina re­mained alone to sup­port the frail steps of his age. He sent to the king of Ithona: he re­mem­bered the love of his fa­ther: And Lochallen soon join'd him on Loarn with the high mind­ed chief­tains of Mo­ra.

Loud was the sound of the bat­tle, and many the slain of the field. Red was the sword of Lochallen: it was red with the blood of the brave. For his eye sought the com­bat of heroes, and the mighty with­stood not his arm. He rag'd like a flame on the heath; and the en­emy fled from his face.

But short was the tri­umph of Lor­ma; the hour of his fad­ing was near. Whilst a bard rais'd the song of the bat­tle, his dim eyes were closed in death. He fell like a ru­ined tow'r; like a frag­ment of times that are past: Like a rock whose foun­da­tion is worn with the lash­es of many a wave. Four grey head war­riors of Lor­ma re­main'd from the days of his youth: They mourn'd o'er the fall of their lord; and they bore him to his dark nar­row house. His memo­ri­al was rais'd on the hill; and the love­ly Orv­ina wept over it. She bent her fair form o'er the heap; and her sor­row was silent, and gen­tle. It flow'd like the pure twin­kling dream be­neath the green shade of the fern. The hunters oft bless it at noon, tho' the strangers per­ceive not its course. The wind of the hill rais'd her locks, and Lochallen be­held her in grief. The soul of the hero was knit to the tear-​eyed daugh­ter of Lor­ma. She was grace­ful and tall as the wil­low, that bends o'er the deep shady stream. Her eye like a sun-​beam on wa­ter, that gleams thro' the dark skirt­ing reeds. Her hair like the light wreath­ing cloud, that floats on the brow of the hill, When the beam of the morn­ing is there, and it scat­ters its skirts to the wind. Love­ly and soft were her smiles, like a glimpse from the white riv­en cloud, When the sun has­tens over the lake, and a sum­mer show'r ruf­fles its bo­som. Her voice was the sweet sound of mid­night, that vis­its the ear of the bard, When he darts from the place of his slum­ber, and calls on some far dis­tant friend. She was fair 'mongst the maids of her time; and she soft­en'd the wrath of the mighty. Their eyes light­en'd up in her pres­ence; they dropt their dark spears as she spoke. Lochallen was firm in his strength, and un­mov'd in the bat­tle of heroes; Like a rock-​fenced isle of the ocean, that shews its dark head thro' the storm. His brow was like a cliff on the shore, that fore-​war­neth the hunters of Ithona; For there gleams the first ray of morn­ing, and there broods the mist ere the storm: It shone, and it dark­en'd by turns, as the strength of his pas­sions arose. He was ter­ri­ble as a gath­er­ing storm, when his soul learnt the wrongs of the fee­ble. His eye was the light­ning of shields; he was swift as a blast in its course. When the war­riours re­turn'd from the field, and the sons of the mighty as­sem­bled, He was grace­ful as the light tow'ring cloud that ris­es from the blue bound­ed main. Gen­tle and fair was his form in the tow'rs of the hilly Ithona. His voice cheer'd the soul of the sad; he would sport with a child in the hall.

Match­less in the days of their love were Lochallen and the daugh­ter of Lor­ma. But their beau­ty has ceas'd on Arthu­la; and the place of their rest is un­known. The fam­ily of Lor­ma has fail'd, and strangers re­joice in his hall: But voic­es of sor­row are heard when the still­ness of mid­night is there; The stranger is wak'd with the sound, and en­quires of the race that is gone. But where­fore thus dole­ful and sad, do ye wan­der alone on Arthu­la? Why look ye thus lone­ly and sad, ye chil­dren of the dark nar­row house? Your names shall be known in the song, when the fame of the mighty is low.

ALLEN. From what cloud of the hills do they look? for I see not their forms, O my fa­ther!

LATH­MOR. Why do'st thou trem­ble my son? thou hast fought in the bat­tle of shields. They look'd from no cloud of the hills; but the soul of thy fa­ther be­held them. Lochallen re­turn'd from the field, to the sea-​beat­en tow­er of Arthu­la. Five days he abode in the hall, and they pass'd like a glimpse of the sun, When the clouds of the tem­pest are rent, and the green is­land smiles 'midst the storm. On the sixth a cloud hung on his brow, and his eye shun'd the looks of his friends. He spoke to the maid of his soul, and the trou­ble of his bo­som was great. Pleas­ant is the hall of my love; but the storm gath­ers round us, Orv­ina. I must go to the is­land of Uthal, and scat­ter his gath­er­ing force. But like a cleft oak of the for­est, I'll quick­ly re­turn to my love: When the hard wedge is drawn from its side, it re­turns to it­self again. The daugh­ter of Lor­ma was silent: she turn'd her fair face from his sight. Go to the war, son of Mo­ra; and the strength of thy fa­thers go with thee. I will sit on the high rocky shore, and look o'er the wide foam­ing sea. I will watch ev'ry blue ris­ing cloud, till I see thy dark ves­sels re­turn.

He gath­er'd his war­riours around him; they dark­en'd the brown rugged shore. The rocks echo'd wide to their cries, and loud was the dash­ing of oars. Orv­ina stood high on a rock, that hung o'er the deep lash­ing main; Big swell'd the tear in her eye, and high heav'd the sighs of her bo­som; As she saw the white bil­lows en­creas­ing be­tween his dark ship and the shore. Her fixed eye fol­low'd its course o'er many a far dis­tant wave, Till its broad sails, and high tow'ring mast but ap­pear'd like a speck on the wa­ters; Yet still she be­held in her fan­cy the form of her love on its side; And she stretched her white arms to the ocean, and wav'd her loose gir­dle on high.

Soon reach'd the sons of Ithona the blue misty isle of their foe. Like the pent up dogs of the hunter when let loose from their prison of night; Who snuff up the air of the morn­ing, and re­joice at the voice of the chace; They leapt from the sides of their ves­sels, and spread o'er the wide sound­ing shore. Thick on the brown heathy plain, were spread the dark thou­sands of Uthal. The war­riours of Lochallen were few, but their fa­thers were known in the song. Like a small rapid stream of the hills when it falls on the broad set­tled lake, And trou­bles its dark mud­dy bo­som, and dash­es its wa­ters aloft, So rush'd the keen sons of Ithona on the thick gath­er'd host of the foe. Red gleam'd the arms of the brave thro' the brown ris­ing dust of the field. Fierce glar'd the eyes of Lochallen; he fought the dark face of his en­emy. He found the grim king of the isle; but the strength of his chief­tains was round him. Come forth in thy might, said Lochallen; come forth to the com­bat of kings. Great is the might of thy war­riours; but where is the strength of thine arms? Youth of Ithona, said Uthal, thy fa­thers were mighty in bat­tle, Re­turn to thy brown woody hills, till the hair is grown dark on thy cheek; Then come from the tow'rs of thy safe­ty, a foe less un­wor­thy of Uthal. But thou lovest a weak­ly en­emy, foe of the white haired chief. Thou lovest a foe that is weak, said the red swelling pride of Lochallen. Seest thou this sword of my youth? it is red with the blood of thy heroes. Come forth in the strength of thine years, and hand its dark blade in thy hall. He lift­ed a spear in his wrath o'er the head of his high word­ed foe; But the strength of his chief­tains was there, and it rung on their broad spread­ing shields. He turned him­self scorn­ful away, to look for some no­bler en­emy; He met thee fair son of Hi­dal­lo, as chaffing he strode in his wrath; But thou nev­er did'st turn from the valiant, youth of the far dis­tant land. Fierce fought the heroes, and won­der'd each chief at the might of his foe. They found them­selves matched in strength, and they fought in the pride of their souls. Bloody and long was the fight, but the arm of Lochallen pre­vail'd. Ah, why did you com­bat, ye heroes! ah, why did ye meet in the field! Your souls had been broth­ers of love, had ye met in the dwellings of peace. He was like to thy­self, son of Mo­ra, where his voice cheer'd the heart of the stranger In the far dis­tant hall of his fa­ther, who nev­er shall hear it again; He was like to thy­self whom thou slewest; and he fell in his youth like thee. The maid of thy bo­som is love­ly, thou fair fall­en son of the stranger. She sits on her high hang­ing bow­er, and looks to the way of thy promise. She combs down her long yel­low hair; and pre­pares a fine robe for thy com­ing. She starts at the voice of the breeze, and runs to the door of her bow'r. But thou art a dim misty form on the clouds of far dis­tant hills.

Fierce was the rage of the bat­tle, and ter­ri­ble the clang­ing of arms. Loud were the shouts of the mighty, like the wide scat­ter'd thun­der of Lo­ra, When its voice is re­turn'd from the rocks, and it strength­ens in its broad spread­ing course. Heavy were the groans of the dy­ing; the voice of the fall­en was sad, Like the deep 'prison'd winds of the cav­ern, when the roar of the tem­pest is laid. The sons of Ithona were ter­ri­ble: the en­emy fled from be­fore them, Like the dark gath­er'd fowls of the ocean, that flock to the shore ere a storm. They fled from the might of their foes, and the dark­ness of night clos'd around them.

Cold rose the wind of the desert, and blew o'er the dark bloody field. Sad was its voice on the heath, where it lift­ed the locks of the dead. Hol­low roar'd the sea at a dis­tance: the ghosts of the slain shriek'd aloud. Pale shady forms stalk'd around, and their airy swords gleam'd thro' the night; For the spir­its of war­riours de­part­ed came born on the deep rush­ing blast; There hail'd they their new fall­en sons, and the sound of their meet­ing was ter­ri­ble. At a dis­tance was gath­er'd Ithona round many a bright flam­ing oak; Till morn­ing rose red o'er the main, like a new bloody field of bat­tle.

Lochallen as­sem­bled his heroes; they rang'd o'er the land of their en­emy. But they found not the king in the field; and the walls of his strength were de­sert­ed. Then spoke the friend of his bo­som, the dark haired chief of Trevallen; Why seek you the king in his tow'rs? he is fled to the caves of his fear. Let us fly, said the chief of Ithona, let us fly to the daugh­ter of Lor­ma! Let us fight with man in the field, but pull not a deer from his den.

Two days they buried their dead, and rais'd their memo­ri­al on high. On the third day they loosen'd their ves­sels, and left the blue isle of their fame. The dark­ness of night was around when the bay of Arthu­la re­ceiv'd them. Thick beat the joy of his bo­som, as he drew near the place of his love; But the strength of his limbs was un­loos'd, as he trode on the dark sound­ing shore. Thou did'st promise, O maid of my soul! thou did'st promise to watch for thy love! But no kind­ly mes­sen­ger waits to hail my re­turn from the war. The tow'r of Arthu­la is dark; and I hear not the sound of its hall. The watch dog howls to the night, nor heeds the ap­proach of our feet. He seized a bright flam­ing brand, and he has­ten'd his steps to the tow'r. Wide stood the black low'ring gate; and deep was the si­lence with­in. Hol­low and loud rung his steps, as he trode thro' the dark emp­ty hall. He flew to the bow'r of his love; it was still as the cham­ber of death. His eyes search'd wild­ly around him; he call'd on the name of his love; But his own voice re­turned alone from the deep-​sound­ing walls of the tow'r. He leant with his back to the wall, and cross'd his arms over his breast. Heavy sunk his head on his shoul­der: the blue flame burnt dou­ble be­fore him. A voice, like the evening breeze when it steals down the bed of the riv­er, Came soft­ly and sad to his ear, and he raised his droop­ing head. The form of his love stood be­fore him: yet it was not the form of his love; For fixed and dim was her eye, and the beams of her beau­ty were fled. She was pale as the white frozen lake, when it gleams to the light of the moon. Her gar­ments were heavy and drench'd, and the streams trick­led fast from her hair. She was like a snow-​crust­ed tree in win­ter, when it drops to the mid-​day sun. O seek not for me, son of Mo­ro, in the light cheer­ful dwellings of men! For low is my bed in the deep, and cold is the place of my rest. The sea mon­ster sports by my side, and the wa­ter-​snake twines round my neck. But do not for­get me, Lochallen: O think on the days of our love! I sat on the high rocky shore, mine eyes look'd afar o'er the ocean. I saw two dark ships on the waves, and quick beat the joy of my breast. One ves­sel drew near to the shore, and six war­riours leapt from its side. I has­ten'd to meet thee, my love; but mine ear met the stern voice of Uthal. I thought that my hero was slain, and I felt me alone in my weak­ness. I felt me de­sert­ed and lone­ly: I flew to the steep hang­ing rock: I threw my robe over my head; and I hid me in the dark clos­ing deep. Yet O do not leave me, Lochallen, to waste in my wa­tery bed! But raise me a tomb on the hill, where the daugh­ter of Lor­ma should lie. The voice of her sor­row did cease; and her form passed quick­ly away. It pass'd like the pale shiv'ring light, that is lost in the dark clos­ing cloud.

But, lo! the first light of the morn­ing is red on the skirts of the heav­ens. Let us go on my jour­ney, my son, for the length of the heath is be­fore us.

ALLEN. It is not the light of the morn which thou see'st on the skirts of the heav­ens; It is but a clear shiv'ring bright­ness, that changes its hue to the night. I have seen it like a bloody-​spread robe when it hung o'er the waves of the North. Sad was the fate of his love, but how fell the king of Ithona? I have heard of the strength of his arm; did he fall in the bat­tle of heroes?

LATH­MOR. He fell in the strength of his youth, but he fell not in bat­tle, my son. He knew not the sword of a foe, yet he died not the death of the peace­ful. They car­ried them both to the hill, but the place of their rest is un­known.

ALLEN. But fee­ble and spent is thy voice, thou grey haired bard of the hill.

LATH­MOR. Long is this song of the night, and I feel not the strength of my youth.

ALLEN. Then let us go on our way: let us go by the way of the heath. For it is the fair light of the morn­ing which thou see'st on the far bound­ing waves. Slow­ly it grows in its beau­ty, and promis­es good to the trav­eller. Red are the small bro­ken clouds that hang on the skirts of the heav­ens. Deep glows the clear open sky with the light of the yet hid­den sun, Save where the dark nar­row cloud hath stretched its vast length o'er the heav­ens; And the clear rud­dy bright­ness be­hind it looks fair thro' its blue stream­ing lines. A bloom like the far dis­tant heath is dark on the wide rov­ing clouds. The broad wavy breast of the ocean is grand in the beau­ty of morn­ing. Thick rests the white set­tled mist on the deep rugged clifts of the shore; And the grey rocks look dim­ly be­tween, like the high dis­tant isles in a calm. But grim low'r the walks of Arthu­la; the light of the morn is be­hind them.

LATH­MOR. Dark low'rs the tow'r of Arthu­la: the time of its glo­ry is past. The valiant have ceas'd from its hall; and the son of the stranger is there. The works of the mighty re­main, but they are the vapour of morn­ing.

A MOTH­ER TO HER WAK­ING IN­FANT.

Now in thy daz­zling half-​op'd eye, Thy curled nose, and lip awry, Thy up-​hoist arms, and nod­dling head, And lit­tle chin with crys­tal spread, Poor help­less thing! what do I see, That I should sing of thee?

From thy poor tongue no ac­cents come, Which can but rub thy tooth­less gum: Small un­der­stand­ing boast thy face, Thy shape­less limbs nor step, nor grace: A few short words thy feats may tell, And yet I love thee well.

When sud­den wakes the bit­ter shriek, And red­der swells thy lit­tle cheek; When rat­tled keys thy woe be­guile, And thro' the wet eye gleams the smile, Still for thy weak­ly self is spent Thy lit­tle sil­ly plaint.

But when thy friends are in dis­tress, Thou'lt laugh and chuck­le ne'er the less; Nor e'en with sym­pa­thy be smit­ten, Tho' all are sad but thee and kit­ten; Yet lit­tle var­let that thou art, Thou twitch­est at the heart.

Thy rosy cheek so soft and warm; Thy pinky hand, and dim­pled arm; Thy silken locks that scant­ly peep, With gold-​tip'd ends, where cir­cle deep Around thy neck in harm­less grace So soft and sleek­ly hold their place, Might hard­er hearts with kind­ness fill, And gain our right good will.

Each pass­ing clown be­stows his bless­ing, Thy mouth is worn with old wives' kiss­ing: E'en lighter looks the gloomy eye Of surly sense, when thou art by; And yet I think whoe'er they be, They love thee not like me.

Per­haps when time shall add a few Short years to thee, thou'lt love me too. Then wilt thou thro' life's weary way Be­come my sure and cheer­ing stay: Wilt care, for me, and be my hold, When I am weak and old.

Thou'lt lis­ten to my length­en'd tale, And pity me when I am frail-- But see, the sweepy spin­ning fly Up­on the win­dow takes thine eye. Go to thy lit­tle sense­less play-- Thou doest not heed my lay.

A CHILD TO HIS SICK GRAND­FA­THER.

Grand-​dad, they say your old and frail, Your stocked legs be­gin to fail: Your knobbed stick (that was my horse) Can scarce sup­port your bend­ed corse; While back to wall, you lean so sad, I'm vex'd to see you, dad.

You us'd to smile, and stroke my head, And tell me how good chil­dren did; But now I wot not how it be, You take me sel­dom on your knee; Yet ne'erthe­less I am right glad To sit be­side you, dad.

How lank and thin your beard hangs down! Scant are the white hairs on your crown: How wan and hol­low are your cheeks! Your brow is rough with cross­ing breaks; But yet, for all his strength is fled, I love my own old dad.

The house­wives round their po­tions brew, And gos­sips come to ask for you: And for your weal each neigh­bour cares, And good men kneel, and say their pray'rs: And ev'ry body looks so sad, When you are ail­ing, dad.

You will not die, and leave us then? Rouse up and be our dad again. When you are qui­et and laid in bed, We'll doff our shoes and soft­ly tread; And when you wake we'll aye be near, To fill old dad his cheer.

When thro' the house you shift your stand, I'll lead you kind­ly by the hand: When din­ner's set, I'll with you bide, And aye be serv­ing by your side: And when the weary fire burns blue, I'll sit and talk with you.

I have a tale both long and good, About a part­let and her brood; And cun­ning greedy fox, that stole, By dead of mid­night thro' a hole, Which sly­ly to the hen-​roost led-- You love a sto­ry, dad?

And then I have a wond'rous tale Of men all clad in coats of mail. With glitt'ring swords----you nod, I think? Your fixed eyes be­gin to wink: Down on your bo­som sinks your head: You do not hear me, dad.

THE HORSE AND HIS RID­ER.

Brac'd in the sinewy vigour of thy breed, In pride of gen'rous strength, thou state­ly steed, Thy broad chest to the bat­tle's front is giv­en, Thy mane fair float­ing to the winds of heav­en. Thy champ­ing hoofs the flinty peb­bles break; Grace­ful the ris­ing of thine arched neck. White churn­ing foam thy chaffed bits en­lock; And from thy nos­tril bursts the curl­ing smoke. Thy kin­dling eye-​balls brave the glar­ing south; And dread­ful is the thun­der of thy mouth: Whilst low to earth thy curv­ing haunch­es bend, Thy sweepy tail in­volv'd in clouds of sand; Erect in air thou rear'st thy front of pride, And ring'st the plat­ed har­ness on thy side. But, lo! what crea­ture, good­ly to the sight, Dares thus be­stride thee, chaffing in thy might? Of port­ly stature, and de­ter­min'd mien? Whose dark eye dwells be­neath a brow serene? And for­ward looks un­mov'd to fields of death: And smil­ing, gen­tly strokes thee in thy wrath? Whose bran­dish'd falch'on dread­ed gleams afar? It is a British sol­dier, arm'd for war!

FI­NIS.

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