Chapter XXIV: Book XXII: The Visit Concluded (13)

Here then they dwelt; the dying Man and Wife
Together past this Fragment of their Life.
Daily they bade to earthly things Adieu,
Their Moments numbered and the Number few.
The softened Brother let his Anger sleep,
With the fond Pair to sympathise and weep.
Then Frederick told, how on that dreadful Night,
When urged by Conscience he resolved on Flight,
To lose all Comfort in this World and live 470
Without one Joy that Life or Love can give;
To meet no more the Forms he loved, no more
The playful Smiles of Fondness to explore;
But to bid all, and Hope with all, farewell—
What to such Evil can a Soul compell?
He told, how then he went from place to place
In fact a Beggar, more than Beggary base;
How, grieved at length and humbled in the Dust, }
He then began the Sacred Word to trust; }
To feel that God was Love, but yet with Love was just; 480}
A Saviour’s Sufferings to his Heart he laid,
And felt the Balm of Mercy as he prayed.
How then he dared his past offences view,
And the first dawn of Hope’s soft Comfort knew;
But never more must Home’s soft Comfort see,
But a lone Wanderer in the World must be.
Filled with such thoughts, he join’d a serious few }
Who showed the Way that he must then pursue, }
The Aid he was to yield, the Work he was to do. }
He told what Hovels then he sought, and where 490
He heard the Tale of Woe and taught the Prayer.
He sought the Mine, and in that World below
Had seen the Tears of strong Contrition flow;
Now near the Pole, and now beneath the Line,
To Suffering Man he bore the Word divine;
Where’er the Brethren bade him go he went—
So the first Years of Penitence were spent.
Dispute with them was none, was no delay;
To give Command was theirs, and his t’ obey.
What, if the Climate should your frame offend— 500
Can Health be wasted to a better end?
What, if Death meets you on a foreign Shore—
He met the Martyrs at the Work before;
And what is all we fear or all we feel }
But Proofs of Favour and Rewards of Zeal; }
Acceptance of your Love and Suffering is the seal. }
He spoke of Years that fled, while thus employed,
Of Dangers conquered and of Health destroyed;
“And then,” he said, “I felt my Heart incline
To its loved Scenes, to [feel] for thee and thine.” 510

* * * * *

Thus they communed, and holy thoughts and Prayers
Of Souls devoted to their God were theirs.
Yet would they sometimes Earthly Comfort seek,
And of Enjoyments, nay Amusements, speak.
The deep green Lane, the golden-sanded Lake
That would a thousand soft Emotions wake;
The bare old Oaks who with their dismal tone
Seemed at the Music of the Grove to groan—
These and the Scenes of many a pleasant Thought
Were from that Distance to their fancy brought; 520
And they would smile at many an idle thing
Or chearful Fact that to the Mind would cling;
And the fond Pair, although oppress’d and pained,
Their mutual Fate with brightest Hope sustained.

* * * * *

Life ebbed apace; the Brother’s Hope and Fear
Led him to speak of—yet another Year;
And then of Season: “’tis the Chill of Spring,
But Summer’s Breath will balmy Influence bring.”
As Billows beat upon the peb’ly Shore,
Nor reach the Place which Others past before; 530
Yet in short Time the bolder Waves press on,
And the faint marks of humbler kind are gone;
Till at the highest Mark the Waves ascend
And there their Prowess and the Progress end—
So in departing Life our days appear:
One, fiercely threatening speaks, the Period near;
A fairer Kind succeed, so soft and mild
That Love is soothed and Hope again beguil’d;
Then comes the last—that must our Fate decide,
And there’s no Turning in this mortal Tide! 540
It’s come, is gone; nor is there much of strife—
Consenting nature yields the weary life.
Placed on his pillowed Chair Matilda by,
The Husband saw the dim and speechless Eye;
Felt the cold Hand, and said, “’Tis now a last;
This One dear Look and all will then be past;
She will precede me.”—Yet he wrongly guess’d:
Ev’n as he spake, he sank himself to rest.
She knew th’ Event, but knew not long; her sight,
Her Hearing fails; ’twas Dimness, and ’twas Night! 550
They sleep together, and our Record ends;
But first a Priest his Application lends.

* * * * *

Pains, Troubles, Sorrows, Life’s more grievous cares,
All from our ill, or for our Good arise;
For all correction thank the Hand that spares,
For all Affliction bless the Power that tries!

THE FUNERAL OF THE SQUIRE.

I left my Friend, and at the Closing day
Took to the Church-Yard walk my evening way.
’Twas there, invited by th’unusual Sound,
The Good old Sexton in the Church I found;
He from a Vault had thrown the Earth aside—
Proof that some Person of Respect had died;
And now was coming to that vaulted Home
To which—but not in Churches—we must come.
There the old Sexton, on the Heap he made,
Looked at his Work and leaned upon his Spade; 10
As if with some Complacency he dwelt
Upon his Task and its Importance felt.
“Stranger,” said Good-man Sexton—I was strange
To my old Neighbour—“here’s an awful change!”
This provoked Question; Question to such Man
Provoked Reply; and thus his Tale began.
“In yonder Place—for so our People call
That large new House; the other is the Hall;
’Tis the more Antient—yet, for many a Year,
The Squire and his Forefathers flourished here. 20
Long had the last with his good Lady kept
Their Wedding-vow, together walked and slept,
And were a loving, grave, Church-going Pair;
Howbeit, Heaven vouchsafed them not an Heir.
“But Oh! the sad Events of Mortal Life!
The Squire in ripe old age forgot his Wife;
Forgot the Sayings of the Law divine,
And took an Harlot for his Concubine.
From thence, O stranger! we may date his Fall;
In fact it was the Ruin of them all. 30
For my good Lady grieved to think how Sin
His Heart, by Prayer unguarded, entered in;
For, though the Squire observed the Sabbath Day,
It was forsooth to shew the Poor the Way.
’Twas not to have his Conscience clean and swept;
For, though he listened for a while, he slept.—
But, not to tarry in the tale I tell,
He sought not Grace to stand; and so he fell.
“Some two Years since, he walked his Fields to see; }
Saw them at Distance, and his Mind was free; 40}
Approaching near, a bounden slave was he. }
Like the rich Boaz, he his People saw
In his own Land, and where his Word was Law;
And he, poor Mortal, was rejoicing then
Among his laughing Maids and labouring Men.
“So the great King of Babylon was glad
In his proud Heart, and in a Moment mad.
“For there the Squire beheld a dangerous Face,
Alluring, lovely, but with Lack of Grace,
And not of Craft; for then the Squire, betray’d 50
By lawless Love, his wild Behests obeyed.
The artful Damsel could her Way discern,
And had not much of this bad World to learn
Or its Deceits, but made her Will her Way; }
Could look as pure as on her Wedding-day }
The Maiden-Bride, and be in Heart as gay. }
“Then, as a simple Child, whene’er he spoke,
She laughed, delighted at his Honour’s Joke;
And thus the Frailty in his Heart began—
Frailty the same that bound the wisest man; 60
And far into that foul Reproach was gone,
Although our Squire was not a Solomon.
I knew the Damsel; she was not a Ruth,
And had been wild and wanton all her Youth.
She from her Bible no Instruction took,
But studied like a Dalilah to look;
Till Grace forsook her, left to the Controul
Of Evil Things that War against the Soul.—
“But I am wandering. When a Man is old,
His Words come slowly, for his Blood is cold; 70
And, the less time he has his Tale to tell,
The longer he on every part will dwell.
Alas! I’m like an old and crippled Steed,
Slow but not sure—yet now I will proceed.
“The tempted Man was Mad and deaf and blind,
And sold his Peace to make an Harlot kind.
He bought what he called Virtue at a Price
She dared not ask, and then he found it Vice.
Her purchased Smiles were as the changeful Ray
Of April Suns—a Glimmer, and away! 80
“He who loved Gold, and all that Gold could win,
Gave all a Costly Sacrifice to Sin;
Wife, Friends and his good Name were but as Dust
In his Mind’s Ballance, that was now unjust.
His Lady wept, but was no longer dear;
His Friends admonished, Friends he would not hear;
His Preacher threaten’d, he despised the Threat;
Told of his Sin, he grew more sinful yet.
Warnings were sent, at first the slight and slow,
Then more Awakening; and then came the Blow. 90
Fever and Pain confined him to his Bed,
And Hope smiled faintly; but she quickly fled.
Lost and bewildered, he repeats the Name
That none can hear without Disgust or Shame.
‘Bring her,’ he cried, ‘and place her on a Throne;
For she is worthy, and shall reign alone!’
Alas! his Queen was, like himself, attacked
By that same Fever and with Terror racked;
And now a Message to the Vicar sent,
[Told that] his dying Honour would repent. 100
“The Vicar came [at once, with] Christian speed;
The Doctor bade him, if he dared, proceed;
For he was watching how his drugs would back
The struggling Nature in this strong Attack:
Such Thoughts at best would Nature’s force impair
And stop his Progress; ’twas not fighting fair.
‘If I succeed, there’s nothing more to do;
And, if I fail, you’ll have a Day or two;
When Hope is over, and a Man prepares
Body and Soul to settle his Affairs.’ 110
The Doctor fought, no doubt, with all his Might,
But Nature yielded in the Doctor’s Spite;
And the good Vicar had his leave to try
All he could offer; for the Man must die.
But there was no repose; the troubled Brain
Could little bear and nothing could retain.
“In the same Night his troubled Spirit past
That object of his Frailty breathed her last.
Her we have buried in an earlier Day,
And laid her where our parish poor we lay; 120
It took not long that Business to adjust—
When common Folk are carried Dust to Dust.
A few kind Neighbours, by the setting Sun,
Bear the light Burden when their Work is done,
And there’s an End.—But, when the Wealthy sleep,
We keep the Body long as we can keep,
And seek for help of those who will contrive
To make things seem as all were yet alive.
He lies in state, his Visits duly paid,
And is—or he appears to be—obeyed. 130
An intermediate State, when stopt the Breath,
We make a kind of Compromise with Death:
His is the Body, that he needs must have;
But all is Life on this side of the Grave—
As if alive, with Care we tend his Bed
And bear him off, as if he felt us tread.
With sad slow Pomp the Crowd behold him come }
And laid discreetly in his vaulted Home, }
O’er which, his Worth inscribed, shall rise the stately Tomb. }
Thus, when a Town has yielded, ’tis agreed— 140
So have I heard—some Favour shall succeed;
For, though the conquered Army must obey
The Conqueror’s Will and sadly walk away,
Yet ’tis allowed to valiant Men and stout
With War’s proud Honours to march proudly out.”

JOSEPH AND CHARLES.

To an old Friend with friendly Spirit came
A brave old Seaman, Fletcher was his Name;
Late from Madras, and eager to behold
The Place he knew, the Scenes he loved of old.
Two days had past, since he that friend had seen,
And heard and told of what had acted been,
Or what befallen, in that favourite Town
Which the sea washed, in fact had half-washed down.
When all pertaining to themselves had End,
The Captain spake of what concerned a Friend— 10
A wealthy Man, whom he had left behind,
And hoped again an healthy Man to find.
“Well, my dear Jonas, you have heard of all
That you or I concern of Ours can call;
Now for my Friend! ’Tis thirty years at least
Since he began adventuring in the East;
And, after labouring much with much Success,
He now is worth—but think a bit and guess!
He married early, but his Wife was weak;
And his Boys died before they learn’d to speak. 20
Still he went on, though free from all the Itch
Of living grandly or of dying rich.
Parting, he said—for our Concerns in Trade
Had us fast Friend of slight Acquaintance made—
‘Fletcher, there are, not distant from the Place
Which you will visit, Remnants of our Race.
I left an elder Brother, only one
Of all our Kin, and he an only Son.
Ben had small sense, but yet had, [as] they tell—
For I have made Enquiry—acted well; 30
Married a Dame with Money, and began,
As Burgess told, to be a noted Man.
But the Wife died, who was his Stay and Prop;
Then Fortune varied, and he made a stop.
She left one Boy—and never Boy betrayed
Less Wit than Ben; who married with his Maid,
A close young Shrew—yet, do her right, she kept
Together closely all that could be swept
From his half-wasted Substance. Children more
Than I can name she to the Blockhead bore, 40
To share his Pittance with the former Son;
And he survived not long, when this was done.
Years pass’d with them, I need not tell you how,
For they are gone and are forgotten now;
But [how] the Children, Men and Women, they,
Were placed, how fed, is more than I can say.
Yet near the Place I may suppose they dwell,
And some the state in which they live may tell;
When your Report shall be to me a Guide
How I my little scraping may divide.’” 50

* * * * *

[CONTENTMENT.]

* * * * *

Not so our Manor[‘s] Lord; no part hath he
Within our Borough, therefore may be free;
In his own Mansion he resides, with all,
That Man requires attending on his Call.
He loves his Ease, but yet has ofttimes proved
That, Minds assenting, Bodies may be moved.
He loves his own good Lady, and her Word
Is Law to all—except her own good Lord.
He takes Life’s Comforts for a general Good,
But does not take her Cordials for his Food. 10
Nor thinks, because the Vine grew [juice] for Man,
That he may take what Quantity he can—
So that our worthy Squire is one who tries
To be as merry as becomes the Wise;
And, tho’ for Wisdom he was not renowned,
He answered Questions puzzling or profound.

He loved his Daughters, but did not believe
They were the fairest ever sprung from Eve.

* * * * *

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF RUTLAND.

(Belvoir, August, 1784.)

From your own Belvoir, ‘mid your flow’ring Lymes
And loftier Oaks, accept these feeble rhymes—
Feeble, and far unlike this beauteous scene
Of Woods and Turrets grey and vallies green!—

To Rutland Health! Where’er his way he takes—
By Ireland’s frowning Hills or simple Lakes;
By Shannon’s spacious current, spreading wide
His aged Banks, or Allo’s tumbling Tide;
By Barrow’s Deeps, where Silver Salmon play;
Or where stout Nore winds on his waters grey; 10
By sedgy Lee, and Bandon’s Woods among,
Or Spenser’s Mulla, where he wept and sung—
Health to the Muses’ Judge, the Muses’ friend,
The last and meanest of her vot’ries send.

Health to her Grace; both ours and Dublin’s pride—
Yet chiefly ours, nor we the boast divide!
Tho’ like the Sun she quits her favourite Line
And deigns awhile in colder climes to shine:
Let not the children of the pole aver
Theirs is that sun, nor Ireland boast of her! 20
Ye nymphs of Leicester, famed for Maidens fair!
When now your poets paint the fairest there,
No luckless Lucy yields the favourite theme,
But Rutland, bright as Liffey’s limpid stream—
Liffey, that rolls with prouder current on
And bear[s] our sighs, who mourn, now she is gone!—

Health to the future glories of that race,
In whom the likeness of the past we trace;
Who live to add new honours to their name,
Their Uncle’s blooming praise and their brave grandsire’s fame! 30
And that sweet pair, whose milder prowess lies
Not in their conquering arms, but in their eyes—
Health to that pair, these sister charms that show
To whom the world their varying beauties owe;
Varying but as the sun’s bright rays that shine
With separate hues, which in their source combine!—

So glow my wishes; and, my Lord, you know
They flow sincere, howe’er my numbers flow;
These are the tribute I can better pay,
Who have forgot to write, but not to pray.— 40

Think you, my Lord; your Belvoir heights infuse
Vigor, like old Parnassus, to the Muse?
Not so; Parnassus was a dismal scene,
And hunger made the wretched Tenants keen;
Still the same kinds of Inspiration last:
A London garret and a long day’s fast.—

I—and I thank your Grace—have ceased to strive
In niggard rhymes to keep us just alive,
And little can, if now it pleased the State
To tax your poets as they tax your plate. 50
Exempt from both, my useless life I’d close,
Use humbler ware, and correspond in prose.—

Yet, if it pleased your Grace, I’d now and then
Employ a grateful, but a lazy, pen,
To paint these laughing scenes that round me shine—
Scenes worthy thee, and then to call them thine;
Nor vainly then the Village Squire should charm,
The buried Cottage [or] the busy Farm;
Nor then unpaid the blooming banks should die,
Nor Wood-shop’s little rill run vainly by.— 60

Then, Granby, humble village of the Vale
How should thy name inspire the glorious tale!
Like Beth’lem thou, the least of all thy race;
Yet the Redeemer chose that humble place
To give Him birth, and thou hast lent a name
To Him who pays thee with eternal fame.—

[Bottesford] should then the rising song bring on,
And the great dead, to their last Mansion gone;
Where, like the Hero’s and the Statesman’s Dust,
Crown’d with the fretted scroll, and sleeping bust, 70
And guiltless trappings, which poor wits deride
With little spite and moralising pride,
The grateful tribute[’s] paid the glorious dead—
The wise who governed and the brave who bled.

Long, long, ye sacred dead, in peace remain,
Ere yet your hallowed home resounds again,
With groans resound[s] and the loud sighs which tell,
Another Rutland bids the sun farewell;
Ere yet the mourning crowd’s slow steps attend
The friend to merit and the poor man’s friend, 80
Or read with weeping eyes the finished sum
Of all his days—blest days, and yet to come!

Belvoir should then the closing stanzas fill, }
This sacred dome that crowns the lordly Hill, }
Rever’d through rolling times and venerable still: }
She that looks down o’er the rich Vale and sees
Trees at her feet and hills adorned with Trees;
She that contains within her stately towers
The works of ages past and the delight of ours!—

Here might the poet chuse the noblest themes, 90
Indulge his vein and dream enchanting dreams;
Might trace the relics of the days of old,
When Kings’ [Impeachment] warned our Barons bold,
Whose arms the love of Sovereign Pride withstood,
And veiled the freedom of their sons with blood.

Here doubtless, long before the Romans came,
Dwelt Glorious Lords in now forgotten fame,
Who met the world’s proud victors on the shore,
And drove them back who drove the world before.
The Saxon then a [subject] race appear, 100
What time bold William reigned the Sovereign here.
Let Leland tell how their fair damsels stood,
Like beauty’s Goddess, as she left the wood;
When one to wife an amorous Monarch chose;
For these are tales that suit with solemn prose.
The giddy Muses must forbear to touch
On themes, when poets always tell too much.
Too much has West—but let his beauties die,
For there are those who Time and Death defy;
Guido and rich Salvator’s offspring wild, 110
And meek Murillo, holy, modest, mild;
Rubens, whose matchless tints as sunbeams strike;
Claud[e]’s woodland glories and the strong Vandyke;
Painstaking Flemings here display their art
And charm the eye, although they miss the heart;
Numbers beside, the rich, the grave, the free—
Names known to glory but unknown to me:
These in their turns all tastes and Judgments please,
And Reynolds last, not least, nor less than these.

Pardon, my Lord, these idle fits of rhyme 120
That flow from too much ease and too much time!
You bade th’ inspiring Days of Gloom depart
And spoiled the poet when you eas’d his heart:
Take then such feeble thanks as he can pay, }
Who feels more grateful as his powers decay, }
And finds the will to sing, but cannot find the way! }

[THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.]

This is my Place of pilgrimage: a Vale
Where piety oft slumbers, while Desire,
Like one new waken’d, snatches up in haste,
With Grasp insane, Light Joys, fantastic Hopes,
Remnants of Motley Bliss, confus’dly join’d
To woes alternate, sure of something ill,
Where the Good lies beneath——

[SORROW.]

O Sacred Sorrow, by whom Souls are tried,
Sent not to punish Mortals, but to guide:
If Thou art mine (and who shall proudly dare
To tell his Maker, he has had his share?)—
Still let me feel for what thy pangs are sent,
And be my Guide, and not my punishment!

[A FRAGMENT.]

What, though the Horse I hired, the villain Hack,
Meek as I [am], would throw me on my Back;
Tho’ musing much—in slow and solemn pace,
The Urchin Crew would laugh me to my face!
I woo’d the Muses, meditating Song,

* * * * *

Some Sideway ditch would woo my feet, half Mud,
Half Ink, and plunge me in the sombre flood.

* * * * *

[POVERTY AND LOVE.]

* * * * *

These little Evils, and a thousand such, }
Which the proud poor will ever feel too much, }
Touch not the heart, or transient is the Touch. }
Fly Reason’s Voice; but, oh! the pain to prove
That dreadful Union, Poverty and Love;
To dream of mutual Joy and raise the Mind
To all things noble, generous and refin’d;
Above the low-born Cares of Life to dwell;
To be more blest than human tongue can tell;
With golden Hope, that soothes all Care the while, 10
And construes every Look and every Smile—
And all at once the golden Vision fled,
To find cold Truth and feel the want of Bread!

[THE CURATE’S PROGRESS.]

Near forty years with all my Care and Skill,
Dear Flock, I fed you, as I feed you still.
Tho’ mine at first was but the Curate’s fare—
Half full the Belly, and the Back half bare—
Yet, freed from College Rules and classic Song,
The light Heart laugh’d and the young hope rose strong,
And (wrapt in visions of preferment) found
No Grief in Want and from Contempt no wound.
In pride and pity when the Farmer gave
A Sunday’s Dinner to the Vicar’s slave, 10
And more than hinted from my languid Looks,
I fed the Six remaining Days on Books:
Patient I [star’d], and saw thro’ rolling years
His tith’d Sheaf humble thro’ its golden Ears;
Saw the proud Man of Land his Joke resign,
And labour for a Laugh to flatter mine.

[THE TASK.]

(Jan. 20) [1813?]

The Task is dull; but I was taught
Myself, and ’tis a debt I owe
To those who [seek the] truths I sought,
The Knowledge I have gain’d to shew.

In many a dull and drowsy lad
I strove to wake the slumbering Soul,
And raise what faculties he had
By patient Care and mild Controul.

And, when there came a sprightly boy,
As ardent was the Task; for still 10
He relished not the grave Employ,
Nor to his duty bent his Will.

* * * * *

[CONSCIOUS GUILTINESS.]

(Jan. 23, 1813.)

The Good are happy—in the joyful hour
No inward fears the present peace o’erpower,
And in the Evil time the pleasant force
Of conscious Virtue checks it in its Course.
Men all Abandon’d, Desperation all,
Feel not their Guilt nor tremble at their fall;
Vice for herself has found the desperate Cure
And banished thoughts no bosom could endure.
But the most wretched of the Guilty train
Are they who Virtue love and prize in vain; 10
Griev’d by the Life they yet resolve to lead,
Bound by the Ill, yet panting to be freed—
To them the Ways of Sacred Truth are known,
Yet they proceed and suffer in their Own.
Onward they go, still sighing to retrieve
Their Steps, and longing for the Good they leave.

[BELIEF AND UNBELIEF.]

(March 7) [1813?]

“Dost thou believe,” the Saviour said;
The trembling parent look’d around;
A thousand Wonders he survey’d,
And Hope and kindling faith he found.
The Sick, the blind, the Deaf, and Lame,
All whole and sound and light became;
He knew such power could not deceive
And answer’d, joyful, “I believe.”

But, when he look’d his Heart within,
And saw the Darkness, felt the Shame, 10
The fear, the Dread, the Doubt, the Sin—
How cold and humble he became!
The former Joy was now suppress’d,
And grieving, guilty, and distress’d,
He added, in despairing Grief:
“Help thou, O Lord, mine Unbelief!”

VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE DUKE OF RUTLAND’S BIRTHDAY.

(January 4, 1814.)

When Poets kindle at some noble View,
The Muse is said t’ inspire the ardent Mind;
The Muse is feign’d, the Inspiration true;
Poets their Ardours in their Subjects find.
Yet he to whom the Noblest is assign’d
Must feel what much alarms him, yet delights:
His Views indeed are of a glorious Kind;
But there is danger in those lofty Flights,
And Hope and Fear at once each bold attempt excites.

Be honour freely paid, where justly due; 10
And where is Honour due if here denied?
What happy Place can yield a nobler View?
In what fair Seat can nobler Race abide,
And o’er what happier Act can Man preside?
Place! Persons! Action! All engage the Mind,
And all the Heart with glad Emotions fill;
Where shall I Language for my Subject find;
Where glowing Thoughts, apt Words and curious Skill?
Oh[, that] the humble Verse could match th’ inspiring Will!
Great Lady! Fair as great, and good as fair, 20
Receive a People’s Praise, their Love, their Prayer;
Blest Parent to thy Granby, born to Shine
An Honour to thy Rutland’s House and thine!
Accept the Homage grateful Numbers pay,
Exulting all in this triumphant Day;
When all in one event rejoice,
And mine is as the public Voice—
An Echo to the general Joy
That thanks thee for the noble Boy!
All join in Wishes for the generous Race, 30
That through revolving Ages it may run—
Blest each lov’d Daughter with the Mother’s Grace
And with the Father’s Virtue every Son;
Whilst [you, the] happy Parents, look around,
With love rewarded and with Honour crown’d.

Who has not heard of [Howard’s] noble Blood:
Which, tho’ it cannot, as the Poet tells,
Ennoble Sots and Cowards, is a Flood
That Vice and Folly from the Soul repels;
And that which cannot the Disease endure 40
Is nobler still than if it wrought the Cure.

Howards were seen in Times of civil strife
In Honor’s Cause to hazard all and bleed;
May Peace in England spare thy Granby’s Life,
Since the same Cause would prompt the kindred Deed!
The Virtue still will in his Breast abide;
But Heaven forefend it be so harshly tried!

Great Prince, the Ruler of a People free,
While bound in Duty and in love to Thee;
Supreme in Britain’s happy Days; 50
Endued with Princely Grace and Power,
To win by Worth the Meed of Praise,
To share with Ease the festive Hour!
The Infant Granby thy Attention sees,
And smiles, the Tokens of his feeling shows,
As conscious of thy boundless Power to please,
And happy in the pleasing Debt he owes.

Soon shall his opening Mind for Knowledge seek,
When Time his Prince’s Favours shall reveal;
And, what the infant Tongue wants Power to speak, 60
The grateful Man will never cease to feel.
The Royal Brother too appears
And to the Scene new Pleasure gives,
Past in One Day, but in successive Years
To be recorded long as Memory lives.
Belvoir! This Day shall be thy Boast and Pride,
While o’er the Subject Vale thy lofty Towers preside!

And thou, the Father of a Noble Race,
In whom we now thy Form and Features trace,
But in succeeding years whose Worth shall shine 70
A just and fair Epitome of thine:
Behold thy Granby! His a Name
Already in the Rolls of Fame,
Not Plac’d amid a dubious Class—
Names heard but for the fleeting Day,
Who then to dark Oblivion pass.
This will no Time nor Accident decay,
Nor Envy blot, nor Malice tear away.
Such are the Men to whom, when troubles rise,
A prudent People turn their anxious Eyes; 80
Who love their Prince, and whom their Princes love;
The Wise and Virtuous ever but approve—
They who are stedfast in their Country’s Cause,
The Sovereign’s Power respect, nor less the Guarding Laws.

Fresh as the Showers of Eden and as fair,
Thy lovely Daughters wake a Father’s Pride.
Great were such gifts; and, if thou wish’d an Heir,
It was with Hope that still on Heaven relied—
Thankful if blest, and patient if denied.
Vast the Reward; for thee thy Granby lives, 90
And noble Promise of the future gives;
Strength, Health and Beauty in his Form combine,
And all the Grace that grows with ripening years;
The best Affections in his features shine,
And all that love could ask for he appears.

Be this blest Day in future Years renown’d,
Mark’d as the chosen, the auspicious One;
In this thy Birth the fondest Wishes crown’d—
And thou wert hail’d with joy th’ expected Son;
Thou too wert Granby; but thy Fate 100
Soon gave thee Title to a greater Name.
Not so thy Granby—may his Change be late,
Differing in this, in all beside the same!
Let the same Honours on the Name attend;
As Life advances, may its Joys increase;
Upon its Progress may no cloud descend,
But, ris’n in glory, may it set in Peace;
And still another and another Race
Preserve the Honours of the Name and Place!

See a third Parent Granby at thy Side, 110}
Thy present Pleasure and thy future Pride, }
Thy never failing Friend, thine ever watchful Guide! }
The same her Title—Rutland’s Princely Name,
That Sons of Kings alone with Manners claim.
Smile, Granby, now; thus only can’st thou prove
For her unwearied care awakening Love!
But, when succeeding Years impart
Strength to thy Form and Feeling to thy Heart,
Then shall her Value to the View arise,
That thou shalt dearly love and richly prize. 120
Nor shalt thou need a Verse to show
The Truths admiring Numbers know;
For, when the willing Muse is weak,
Then shall a thousand Voices speak.
Go, ask where Virtue, Beauty, Merit, dwell—
All that Mankind approve, applaud, revere—
And hear what Numbers shall delighted tell
Their Pride, Their Glory in a Name so dear!

Heir to thy noble House, this Day to thee
Shall be, while Memory lives, a joyful Date; 130
Thou wilt look backward on the time, and see
The First, the Greatest, in the Church and State.
All take an Interest in their Granby’s Fate:
What happy Infant in the World is found,
Whom so much Grace and Dignity surround?
What favour’d Being through his Life shall say:
“I had like Honours and as great a Day?”

Smile, Son of Rutland, in a Day of Bliss;
While Praise and grateful Thanks to Heaven arise,
And happy Nations for a Time like this 140
Make public Joy and private [sympathies].
As thou art nam’d, and each glad Voice repeats,
“Granby, the Heir of his Forefather’s Fame!”
’Tis then the troubler of the World retreats
From his lost Kingdoms, fill’d with Rage and Shame;
Foil’d and disgrac’d, he to his People goes,
To veil his Loss and aggravate their Woes.

What Happy Language shall describe the Times,
When British Virtue bade the World be free,
Mark’d with a Tyrant’s Fall, his Flight, his Crimes, 150
And with our Hope, Heaven-favour’d Boy, in thee?
Thus all Things happy in the Date agree,
When Charms that grace the Land, and Powers that sway,
Give Triumph to the Deed and Pleasure to the Day.

MISS WALDRON’S BIRTHDAY.

(Dec. 18, 1815.)

How, my Marie, on this Day
Shall I my best good wishes pay?—
By asking of the Power above
All happiness for her I love.
The best of earthly Things would be
The Things that are denied to me:
Established Health and Spirits pure,
That in each worldly Change endure;
The Competence that not on Friends,
But on a certainty, depends; 10
The Love for one in whom thy Choice
But ratifies the general Voice;
One who[se] Esteem will grow and last,
When passion’s warmer Day is past—
And you have past more years than he
Who prays for all this good to thee—
He who will then have ceas’d to share
The common Lot of Grief and Care;
Whose Love will then be such as thou
Wilt not refuse—nor need’st thou now; 20
Though not perhaps to that dear Mind
Alone devoted and confined;
For, while this fleshly veil endure,
The best are but the least impure.
Yet, tho’ not free from earthly Stain[s],
From Daily Jealousies and pains,
Still, before all itself approves,
Thy Happiness it seeks and loves.
It prays [for thee]: may every Day,
That takes some part of Life away, 30
To that immortal part supply
Some Virtue that will never die!

TO THE HON. MRS SPENCER.

(Written July 12, 1817, after a Visit to Petersham.)

That new-made Honour doth forget Men’s Names,
Engrossed and happy in itself—is true;
But still my Want of Memory Pardon claims;
For mine is Honour great as well as new—
Honour to know, and to be known by, you.
Wonder not, then, that I should cast away
The common Stores that in the Memory grew;
That, GEORGE appearing, I should RICHARD say
Or tell the Moon’s pale Light, “lo! thine the glorious Day!”

But her best Treasures Memory still retains; 10
The Power of Beauty I remember yet;
Thy Smile for ever in the Soul remains,
And, though the Sun upon that Joy hath set,
Remembrance lives—it is my Pride, we met.
Oh! could I give that Day its proper Fame,
Not distant Ages should those Hours forget,
When I thy Friend—allow the Word—became;
And Honours new or old shall not efface that Name.

AN INSCRIPTION AT GUY’S CLIFF.

(October 11, 1824.)

Ye who come with hallowed Feet
To this grave, Time-honoured Seat,
Sit [ye] down in Passion’s Rest:
’Tis Peace who bids You here be bless’d!
Here is Silence and a Grove
That the pensive pleasures love:
Here are Meads and limpid Springs,
Where sportive Fancy strays and sings.
In living Rock the mossy Cave,
Silver Avon’s sleeping Wave, 10
Solitude and Conscience clear,
And Quiet and the Muse, are here.
Then sit ye down, and know my Rest:
’Tis Peace who bids you here be bless’d!
(By——)

ADDITION TO THE FOREGOING VERSES.

Gentle Peace, Commands like thine
Every feeling Heart incline
To sit and to enjoy the Good
Of thy delicious Solitude;
Within thy favourite Scene to dwell
Thy Poet has described so well; 20
And feel how sweet it is to dream
By silver Avon’s sober Stream,
While yet with silent Pace it moves
And prompts the Flight that Fancy loves.

Here we survey each lovely Place;
The Rock, the Stream, the Mead admire;
Dwell on each unobtrusive Grace;
Then to the mossy Cave retire;
And sit us down at thy Request,
O gentle Power, and feel us blest. 30
But No! we own there is a Debt
We ought to pay and rest not yet;
Before thy Call can be obeyed,
That sacred Debt must first be paid;
For can we all these Blessings share
And not enquire—how came they there?
[Ere] Peace upon the Bosom steals,
It would express the Joy it feels;
Although the Eye delights to rove
In Scenes that all the Muses love. 40
Though much of Good these Views impart,
’Tis other Good that fills the Heart:
’Tis inbred Worth and feelings Kind, }
With Manners that bespeak the Mind }
Enriched, informed, replete, refined; }
And Hospitality, that lives
Delighted with the Joy it gives;
And native Ease, and pure good Sense,
And unalloyed Benevolence.
To him, to her, who kindly press 50
Each Friend to share what they possess,
To them be all the Good each Heart
Desires so largely to impart;
And ever to their Hearts may flow
The Tide of Blessings they bestow!
With them may Peace, who loves to dwell
In mossy Cave and lonely Cell—
The Peace of Nature, she who loves
The quiet Streams and shady Groves—
May she within her Entrance find, 60
And there be lasting Peace of Mind!

[ON A VIEW OF] BARFORD.

(October 11, 1824.)

When we the pictured Forms survey
Of Moated Hall or Castle grey,
Where ruined Walls and Towers declare
What once their noble Masters were—
Barons and Earls who, far from Court,
Prepared to meet their Country’s Foes,
Her lawful Sovereigns to support,
And lawless Tyrants to oppose—

Or when, presented to the Eye,
The antient Abbey we discry, 10
Whose sacred walls with awe profound
Possessed th’ admiring people round:
There Fancy holy Men perceive[s],
Who slowly pace the Choir alone,
Or there the pensive Spirit leave,
To chaunt the Grace and dine at Noon.

So this fair Artist, who has plan’d
This lovely Place with skilful Hand,
Has given us, by this outward Shew,
The sterling Worth within to know, 20
Here Memory dwells with vast Delight
On many an hospitable Deed;
While grateful Minds with Joy recite
From whom the bounteous Acts proceed.

A View, with so much Skill designed,
Shall through the Eye inform the Mind:
That BARFORD is the happy Seat
To which the Virtues all retreat,
And there, to every Grace allied,
With Peace and Elegance abide. 30

BROMPTON PARK COTTAGE.

(1824.)

Fair Cottage—if indeed that Name
To so much Beauty may belong—
Would I could give thee lasting Fame
And pay thee with a grateful Song!

Here Health, the Grace of Life, abides;
In every Walk and View is found;
O’er every Tree and Shrub presides,
And Breathes her Animation round.

Languid I came, as One who feels
Oppressed by long and slow Disease, 10
Which neither Time nor Medicine heals,
When Hope and Fancy fail to please.

“When shall these clouded Spirits rise,
And all their Native Force impart?
When shall gay Objects greet the Eyes,
And a light Spirit fill the Heart?”

I said, and heard or seemed to hear
In gentle Sounds a soft Reply:
“To Brompton Park,” it said, “repair;
And We shall meet, for there am I. 20

“The Lord of that fair Scene for Thee
Shall with delight the Way prepare,
All at thy sole Command to be,
Till I be thy Attendant there.

“For all in that pure Air is mine.
Go then, and there my Blessing seek!
My Spirit in Thine Eye shall shine,
My Roses blossom on Thy Cheek.”

Thus Health on slumbering Fancy wrought;
Thus promised We should quickly meet; 30
I came, as She required, and sought
And found Her in Her Favourite Seat.

This Scene Sophia’s Pencil drew,
Not for its many Charms Alone;
But much She felt, and well She knew,
What good this favourite Spot had done.

Say Ye, who see Her gently move,
Who know Her many Powers to please,
Who hear the general Voice approve:
What need of adding Arts like These? 40

Yet these She has, and adds to these
Much that can win the Heart and bind;
Much that has power t’ attract and please,
To charm the Sense and rule the Mind.

Graceful in all she does, as they
Who round the Queen of Beauty move;
And, cautious, those should keep away
Who know and fear the Power of Love;

Who cannot in that Form and Face,
Where all is graceful, all is fair, 50
The noble Stem of Granby trace,
And see the Worth of Manners there!

’Tis her fair hand these forms bestow,
These flowing Lines to Nature true;
But who in equal Verse can shew
The Wonders that her Eyes can do?

[MOMENTARY GRIEF.]

(Aldborough, 1825.)

Creator, Father, Lord, it is Thy Will,
It is Thy Act; and Thou canst do [no ill;]
The time may come when [things] that [grievous seem]
Will be the Trouble of a feverish Dream;
And that which now such Grief and Sorrow brings
Shall be the Solace of the Heart it wrings.
We our Impressions from the Moment take,
And know not why we grieve, till we Awake.

LA FEMME JALOUSE (TENIERS).

(Nov. 1826.)

Who shall describe what Pains they share,
Whom Doubts and jealous Terrors prove;
Who in their every Look declare
How much they feel, how much they love!

Thy Pencil here, fair Artist, shews
One Form the Tyrant-Passion wears;
But sure thy happier Bosom knows
No jealous Pangs, no trying Fears!

But, [though] thy Work demands our Praise,
Yet why thine own the Subject make? 10
Thou may’st indeed the Spirit raise,
But not thyself th’ Infection take.

Those Looks so pure, so bright, so clear,
Those ruby Lips and Eyes of Light,
Will many an anxious Hope and Fear
And many a jealous Pang excite.

Those Pangs which none can long conceal,
Disguise in Smiles or rule by Laws—
Some cause Them, but They cannot feel; 20
Some feel Them, but they cannot cause.

Thou from such cruel Pains art free,
By which the Heart of Man is tried;
For that which may be won by thee
[With] thee will, while it beats, abide.

[THE FLOWERS OF THE SPRING.]

The Crocus, new expanded, mourns
Her Fate, and many a tear is shed;
Lest, when Maria home returns,
Her transient Sweets should all be [sped].

The Vi’let yet remains unclos’d,
Nor gives her fragrance to the Gale;
But soon, to every Eye expos’d,
She must her balmy breath exhale.

Then come, ere yet the wandering Bee,
Has all her hoarded wealth possess’d; 10
While yet she holds her Sweets for thee
Enfolded in her Azure Vest!

For, tho’ we cannot yet describe
The Bloom that warmer Scenes unfold,
We now can boast a lovely Tribe
That bare their bosoms to the Cold.

These Children of the early Year
Must soon their rip’ning Charm[s] disclose;
Then, while they live, do thou appear;
In mercy, wait not for the rose! 20

[LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.]

* * * * *

And prophecied of years to come,
Whence hapless youth would date their Doom:
Is this her praise, is this her Due,
“Whom all admire, esteem, approve?
And, if you say the Charge is true,
“Is it her Crime, if Men will love?
If they will gaze where Bullets fly,
No wonder they are struck and die.”

Not so the Muse the Murd’ress reads;
Alas! she glories in her Deeds. 10
Observe her Looks, remark her Air:
Lo! all is wicked Triumph there.

Could I but think, on this same day,
She would with some Contrition pray,
That never she again would take
A Captive Heart or Conquest make;
But would with penitential Sighs
Veil that fair face, hide those bright Eyes;
Command that Wit, and try her best
To let poor gazing Mortals rest— 20
Then would I all these Charges blot,
And all the past should be forgot!

Alas! I see no Signs of Grace:
Still there is Triumph in her face;
And on this very Day we find
The same her Form, the same her Mind!

Then, since the Fair affects her Reign,
’Tis bootless that her Slaves complain.
At once, then, let them own her power,
And hail the Day and bless the Hour, 30
That to the World a Sovereign gave,
Who, though she will mankind enslave,
Yet rules she with so sweet a Sway,
’Tis Pride, ’tis pleasure to obey!—

[HOPELESS LOVE.]

Why wilt thou thus our Hopes defeat,
My too impatient, pleading heart?
Why shew in us such Joy to meet,
Yet fear in her ’tis Joy to part?

For what has our Impatience gain’d,
But more to fear the fate to come;
While, half-respected, half-disdain’d,
We trembling wait the dreaded Doom?

Can’st thou support that grievous State
That Hearts like thee too often prove, 10
The darkest, the severest Fate—
An endless, joyless, hopeless Love?—

She may indeed with pitying Smile
The pain she causes kindly meet;
May sweetly soothe our Woes awhile,
And hold us fast in Bondage sweet.

May yield the Hand, may drop the Tear,
And with Reproof Compassion blend—
Then, with harsh Looks and Words severe,
May drop into the distant Friend. 20

For then some happier Man may wake
The slumbering Wish, the new Desire;
When she the offer’d Hand may take
And give the Heart his prayers require.

And then what Pangs wilt thou endure,
When all the Friendship she can spare
Will grieve the Wound it cannot cure,
And mock the Love it will not share;

While his triumphant Looks convey
The proud Delight that fills his breast, 30
And those dear Eyes themselves betray
The Thoughts not yet by Words confest.

O Jealousy, severest Ill
That suffering Man is doom’d to know,
That so the Root of Joy can kill
The fruit again can never Grow!

Yet still there is a Way to heal
[All that] I suffer, dread, deplore;
Since, what is worse than Death to feel,
In Death will soon be felt no more. 40

[UNION.]

Say, when I leave thee, Love, wilt thou
Some moments to my Love allow,
And his in this fond Absence be
Who lives and who would die for thee?
And, when thy Friends adjure thee, “Come,
And leave thy pensive thoughts at home”—
Wilt thou reply, in that sweet tone:
“The Man who loves me thinks alone,
And thinks of me with many a sigh;
In all his Visions there am I; 10
For me one constant wish he forms,
To shield me from Life’s Cares and Storms;
Still Watchful at my Side to stand
And still present the guarding Hand.
For I can feel no Grief nor Care
But he would heal or he would share;
And never Joy could touch an Heart
That he would not to mine impart.
Then say, tho’ I confess not Love,
If this should not my Bosom move? 20
Shall I not his one Instant be,
Who lives and who would die for me?”

[REVIVAL.]

(Sept. 29–30.)

Say, can there be a second Spring
Thus fair and frail, so gay and brief;
Will Time the autumnal Blossom bring
To glow beside the withering Leaf?
No, no! the Voice of Nature cries:
“The Flower that’s dead for ever dies.”

Say, can a second Youth be felt
Again its freshness to impart;
To bid Life’s freezing Current melt;
To thrill with Joy the languid Heart? 10
No, no! Youth’s Warmth and rosy Hue
Shall Time no more in Life renew.

Yet Love shall have another Spring
And, more than Nature’s, fair and gay;
A second Hope of Blessing bring
That seemed with Youth to fly away:
It is the Mind that makes the Truth,
And feels again the Spring of Youth!

Love can awaken all the Fires
That dormant in the Bosom lie; 20
Love every sleeping Sense inspires
To feel new Charms when Nature’s die;
He all around his Magic throws
And all that he [can give] bestows.

[METAMORPHOSIS.]

When Damon woo’d the growing Charms
Of lovely Celi[a] to his Arms,
He lived in Dread the While;
He trembled at a Rival’s Name
And felt Distress, if any came
To catch a transient Smile.

The gentle Maid at Length complied;
And “why is Damon hurt?” she cry’d,
“That I his Rivals see?”
“Because I dread,” [said he, “my Dear,] 10
[Thy Person] should to them appear
“As it appears to me.”—

They married, and their Love decay’d;
For then the Slattern Wife repaid
The Husband’s Scorn and Slight;
While he to other Scenes retir’d,
And kept her whom he once admir’d
From every Stranger’s Sight.

But “why,” the Wife indignant cry’d,
“Am I insulted and denied 20
Our Friends or Foes to see?”—
“Because I feel a prudent fear
[Thy] Person should to all appear
As it appears to me.”

JANE ADAIR.

Wert thou, my Love, some Vagrant Maid
Who beg’d from Door to Door,
And wert thou then of Vice afraid,
And good as well as poor:
I still would true and faithful prove
And Fortune’s Wrongs repair;
I’d lead thee to the Altar, Love,
And wed with Jane Adair.

Wert thou a Lady of the Land,
Thy Charm should be my theme; 10
Still would I ask that lovely Hand,
Still woo thy fond Esteem;
Thro’ Rivals I would win my Way
To one so good and fair;
And do the Deeds I dare not say,
To wed with Jane Adair.

The Treasures that in Mountains hide
Adventurous Men explore;
Or deep in cavern’d Mines abide,
And dig the glittering ore; 20
And shall the Wretch who toils for gain
More persevering be
Than I, who labour to obtain
Love, Happiness, and thee?

[HORATIO.]

Might I from all Mankind select
The Friend, I would Horatio take.
What gentler Mind could I expect?
What nobler Conquest could I make?

Was he not One who, suffering all
Yet kept his rising Anger down;
Nor felt his Spirits rise or fall,
As Fortune pleas’d to smile or frown?

He was no Pipe on which she play’d,
As her capricious Hand inclin’d; 10
But that sweet Music that he made
Rose from his own harmonious Mind.

Aspiring, yet he never gave
Himself to watch a Patron’s Will;
Tender, but yet no Beauty’s Slave,
Nor Victim to coquettish Skill.

Humble, and with high Talents born;
Prepar’d alternate Fates to try;
A Roman holding Death in Scorn;
A Chieftain learning how to die. 20

“Something too much of this!” Yet, then
How shall I thoughts like mine explain?
How inexpert a Maiden’s pen,
Since more than this I write in vain!

“But can the Friend of Denmark’s Prince
Such fond and strange Emotions give;
Whose Death or happen’d Ages since,
Or who was never known to live?”

Yes, Souls alike in Times appear
Far distant, minds of mould divine: 30
The Friend whom Hamlet priz’d so dear,
[Horatio—is a friend of mine.]

[JACOB AND RACHEL.]

When Jacob with his Rachel fed
The flock from year to year,
To him how sweet the Seasons fled;
And so it seem’d to her.

But wretched was the Shepherd’s fate,
And sorely was he tried,
When he beheld, in sober state,
That Leah was his Bride.

But Leah, who to Jacob seem’d
A Wife he could not prize, 10
Had yet the Virtues that redeem’d
The weakness of her Eyes.

But Jacob’s love, and Laban’s flock,
And Labours for their Sake,
Took all the Terror from the Shock
That Care and Time could take.

It was poor Rachel’s harder part
Her Love, her Lord to [lose],
And in an Instant rob her Heart
Of Life’s delicious Views. 20

She ofttimes up the mountain went,
With bitter thoughts opprest,
And weeping saw the Shepherd’s Tent
Her Sister now possess’d.

Leah, she knew, would faithful prove,
And Jacob would give Truth applause;
And, when he once had vow’d to love,
He for his vow would find a Cause.—

Thou too art wed to Duty stern,
And to thy Vow wilt prove sincere; 30
And I, like Rachel, doom’d to [yearn],
Victim to Virtues I revere.

But she had Hope the Time would come,
And Jacob would for her be free;
Mine is an ever-during Doom,
And not a Hope remains for me.

[DAVID AND SAUL.]

When David fled from Saul oppress’d,
Who should have held the Shepherd dear,
He carried Patience in his breast,
And Conscience light, a heavenly Guest;
He fear’d not, nor had Cause of fear.

But, when he fled the holy Place
In horror from his rebel Son,
He carried Terror and Disgrace;
Nor could a gleam of Comfort trace
In all the battles he had won. 10