Chapter XX

Together, still their flocks they tend,
More happy than the proudly great;
The Shepherd has no other friend—
No Lordly home, no bed of state!
But on a pallet, clean and low,
They hear, unmov’d, the wild winds blow,
And though they ne’er another spring may see,
The Shepherd, and his Dog, are chearful company.

THE
_FUGITIVE_.

Oft have I seen yon Solitary Man
Pacing the upland meadow. On his brow
Sits melancholy, mark’d with decent pride,
As it would fly the busy, taunting world,
And feed upon reflection. Sometimes, near
The foot of an old Tree, he takes his seat
And with the page of legendary lore
Cheats the dull hour, while Evening’s sober eye
Looks tearful as it closes. In the dell
By the swift brook he loiters, sad and mute,
Save when a struggling sigh, half murmur’d, steals
From his wrung bosom. To the rising moon,
His eye rais’d wistfully, expression fraught,
He pours the cherish’d anguish of his Soul,
Silent yet eloquent: For not a sound
That might alarm the night’s lone centinel,
The dull-eyed Owl, escapes his trembling lip,
Unapt in supplication. He is young,
And yet the stamp of thought so tempers youth,
That all its fires are faded. What is He?
And why, when morning sails upon the breeze,
Fanning the blue hill’s summit, does he stay
Loit’ring and sullen, like a Truant boy,
Beside the woodland glen; or stretch’d along
On the green slope, watch his slow wasting form
Reflected, trembling, on the river’s breast?

His garb is coarse and threadbare, and his cheek
Is prematurely faded. The check’d tear,
Dimming his dark eye’s lustre, seems to say,
“This world is now, to me, a barren waste,
“A desart, full of weeds and wounding thorns,
“And I am weary: for my journey here
“Has been, though short, but chearless.” Is it so?
Poor Traveller! Oh tell me, tell me all—
For I, like thee, am but a Fugitive
An alien from delight, in this dark scene!

And, now I mark thy features, I behold
The cause of thy complaining. Thou art here
A persecuted Exile! one, whose soul
Unbow’d by guilt, demands no patronage
From blunted feeling, or the frozen hand
Of gilded Ostentation. Thou, poor PRIEST!
Art here, a Stranger, from thy kindred torn—
Thy kindred massacred! thy quiet home,
The rural palace of some village scant,
Shelter’d by vineyards, skirted by fair meads,
And by the music of a shallow rill
Made ever chearful, now thou hast exchang’d
For stranger woods and vallies.
What of that!
Here, or on torrid desarts; o’er the world
Of trackless waves, or on the frozen cliffs
Of black Siberia, thou art not alone!
For there, on each, on all, The DEITY
Is thy companion still! Then, exiled MAN!
Be chearful as the Lark that o’er yon hill
In Nature’s language, wild, yet musical,
Hails the Creator! nor thus, sullenly
Repine, that, through the day, the sunny beam
Of lust’rous fortune gilds the palace roof,
While thy short path, in this wild labyrinth,
Is lost in transient shadow.
Who, that lives,
Hath not his portion of calamity?
Who, that feels, can boast a tranquil bosom?
The fever, throbbing in the Tyrant’s veins
In quick, strong language, tells the daring wretch
That He is mortal, like the poorest slave
Who wears his chain, yet healthfully suspires.

The sweetest Rose will wither, while the storm
Passes the mountain thistle. The bold Bird,
Whose strong eye braves the ever burning Orb,
Falls like the Summer Fly, and has at most,
But his allotted sojourn. EXILED MAN!
Be chearful! Thou art not a fugitive!
All are thy kindred—all thy brothers, here—
The hoping—trembling Creatures—of _one_ GOD!

THE
_HAUNTED BEACH_.

Upon a lonely desart Beach
Where the white foam was scatter’d,
A little shed uprear’d its head
Though lofty Barks were shatter’d.
The Sea-weeds gath’ring near the door,
A sombre path display’d;
And, all around, the deaf’ning roar,
Re-echo’d on the chalky shore,
By the green billows made.

Above, a jutting cliff was seen
Where Sea Birds hover’d, craving;
And all around, the craggs were bound
With weeds—for ever waving.
And here and there, a cavern wide
Its shad’wy jaws display’d;
And near the sands, at ebb of tide,
A shiver’d mast was seen to ride
Where the green billows stray’d.

And often, while the moaning wind
Stole o’er the Summer Ocean;
The moonlight scene, was all serene,
The waters scarce in motion:
Then, while the smoothly slanting sand
The tall cliff wrapp’d in shade,
The Fisherman beheld a band
Of Spectres, gliding hand in hand—
Where the green billows play’d.

And pale their faces were, as snow,
And sullenly they wander’d:
And to the skies with hollow eyes
They look’d as though they ponder’d.
And sometimes, from their hammock shroud,
They dismal howlings made,
And while the blast blew strong and loud
The clear moon mark’d the ghastly croud,
Where the green billows play’d!

And then, above the haunted hut
The Curlews screaming hover’d;
And the low door with furious roar
The frothy breakers cover’d.
For, in the Fisherman’s lone shed
A MURDER’D MAN was laid,
With ten wide gashes in his head
And deep was made his sandy bed
Where the green billows play’d.

A Shipwreck’d Mariner was he,
Doom’d from his home to sever;
Who swore to be thro’ wind and sea
Firm and undaunted ever!
And when the wave resistless roll’d,
About his arm he made
A packet rich of Spanish gold,
And, like a British sailor, bold,
Plung’d, where the billows play’d!

The Spectre band, his messmates brave
Sunk in the yawning ocean,
While to the mast he lash’d him fast
And brav’d the storm’s commotion.
The winter moon, upon the sand
A silv’ry carpet made,
And mark’d the Sailor reach the land,
And mark’d his murd’rer wash his hand
Where the green billows play’d.

And since that hour the Fisherman
Has toil’d and toil’d in vain!
For all the night, the moony light
Gleams on the specter’d main!
And when the skies are veil’d in gloom,
The Murd’rer’s liquid way
Bounds o’er the deeply yawning tomb,
And flashing fires the sands illume,
Where the green billows play!

Full thirty years his task has been,
Day after day more weary;
For Heav’n design’d, his guilty mind
Should dwell on prospects dreary.
Bound by a strong and mystic chain,
He has not pow’r to stray;
But, destin’d mis’ry to sustain,
He wastes, in Solitude and Pain—
A loathsome life away.

_OLD BARNARD_,
_A MONKISH TALE_.

OLD BARNARD was still a lusty hind,
Though his age was full fourscore;
And he us’d to go
Thro’ hail and snow,
To a neighb’ring town,
With his old coat brown,
To beg, at his GRANDSON’s door!

OLD BARNARD briskly jogged along,
When the hail and snow did fall;
And, whatever the day,
He was always gay,
Did the broad Sun glow,
Or the keen wind blow,
While he begg’d in his GRANDSON’s Hall.

His GRANDSON was a Squire, and he
Had houses, and lands, and gold;
And a coach beside,
And horses to ride,
And a downy bed
To repose his head,
And he felt not the winter’s cold.

Old BARNARD had neither house nor lands,
Nor gold to buy warm array;
Nor a coach to carry,
His old bones weary
Nor beds of feather
In freezing weather,
To sleep the long nights away.

But BARNARD a quiet conscience had,
No guile did his bosom know;
And when Evening clos’d,
His old bones repos’d,
Tho’ the wintry blast
O’er his hovel past,
And he slept, while the winds did blow!

But his GRANDSON, he could never sleep
’Till the Sun began to rise;
For a fev’rish pain
Oppress’d his brain,
And he fear’d some evil
And dream’d of the Devil;
Whenever he clos’d his eyes!

And whenever he feasted the rich and gay,
The Devil still had his joke;
For however rare
The sumptuous fare,
When the sparkling glass
Was seen to pass,—
He was fearful the draught would choke!

And whenever, in fine and costly geer,
The Squire went forth to ride:
The owl would cry,
And the raven fly
Across his road,
While the sluggish toad
Would crawl by his Palfry’s side.

And he could not command the Sunny day,
For the rain would wet him through;
And the wind would blow
Where his nag did go,
And the thunder roar,
And the torrents pour,
And he felt the chill Evening dew.

And the cramp would wring his youthful bones,
And would make him groan aloud;
And the doctor’s art
Could not cure the heart,
While the conscience still
Was o’ercharg’d with ill;
And he dream’d of the pick-axe and shroud.

And why could Old BARNARD sweetly sleep,
Since so poor, and so old was he?
Because he could say
At the close of day,
“I have done no wrong
“To the weak or strong,
“And so, Heaven look kind on me!”

One night, the GRANDSON hied him forth,
To a MONK, that liv’d hard by;
“O! Father!” said he,
“I am come to thee,
“For I’m sick of sin,
“And would fain begin
“To repent me, before I die!”

“I must pray for your Soul; the MONK replied,
“But will see you to-morrow, ere noon:
Then the MONK flew straight
To Old BARNARD’s gate,
And he bade him haste
O’er the dewy waste,
By the light of the waning Moon.

In the Monkish cell did old BARNARD wait,
And his GRANDSON went thither soon;
In a habit of grey
Ere the dawn of day,
With a cowl and cross,
On the sill of moss,
He knelt by the light of the Moon.

“O! shrive me, Father!” the GRANDSON cried,
“For the Devil is waiting for me!
“I have robb’d the poor,
“I have shut my door,
“And kept out the good
“When they wanted food,—
“And I come for my pardon, to Thee.”

“Get home young Sinner,” Old BARNARD said,
“And your GRANDSIRE quickly see;
“_Give him half your store_,
“For he’s old, and poor,
“And avert each evil
“And cheat the Devil,—
“By making him _rich as thee_.”

The SQUIRE obey’d; and Old BARNARD now
Is rescued from every evil:
For he fears no wrong,
From the weak or strong,
And the Squire can snore,
When the loud winds roar,
For he dreams no more of THE DEVIL!

_The HERMIT of MONT-BLANC._

High, on the Solitude of Alpine Hills,
O’er-topping the grand imag’ry of Nature,
Where one eternal winter seem’d to reign,
An HERMIT’s threshold, carpetted with moss,
Diversified the Scene. Above the flakes
Of silv’ry snow, full many a modest flow’r
Peep’d through its icy veil, and blushing ope’d
Its variegated hues; The ORCHIS sweet,
The bloomy CISTUS, and the fragrant branch
Of glossy MYRTLE. In his rushy cell,
The lonely ANCHORET consum’d his days,
Unnotic’d, and unblest. In early youth,
Cross’d in the fond affections of his soul
By false Ambition, from his parent home
He, solitary, wander’d; while the Maid
Whose peerless beauty won his yielding heart
Pined in monastic horrors! Near his sill
A little cross he rear’d, where, prostrate low
At day’s pale glimpse, or when the setting Sun
Tissued the western sky with streamy gold,
His Orisons he pour’d, for her, whose hours
Were wasted in oblivion. Winters pass’d,
And Summers faded, slow, unchearly all
To the lone HERMIT’s sorrows: For, still, Love
A dark, though unpolluted altar, rear’d
On the white waste of wonders!
From the peak
Which mark’d his neighb’ring Hut, his humid Eye
Oft wander’d o’er the rich expanse below;
Oft trac’d the glow of vegetating Spring,
The full-blown Summer splendours, and the hue
Of tawny scenes Autumnal: Vineyards vast,
Clothing the upland scene, and spreading wide
The promised tide nectareous; while for him
The liquid lapse of the slow brook was seen
Flashing amid the trees, its silv’ry wave!
Far distant, the blue mist of waters rose
Veiling the ridgy outline, faintly grey,
Blended with clouds, and shutting out the Sun.
The Seasons still revolv’d, and still was he
By all forgotten, save by her, whose breast
Sigh’d in responsive sadness to the gale
That swept her prison turrets. Five long years,
Had seen his graces wither ere his Spring
Of life was wasted. From the social scenes
Of human energy an alien driv’n,
He almost had forgot the face of Man.—
No voice had met his ear, save, when perchance
The Pilgrim wand’rer, or the Goatherd Swain,
Bewilder’d in the starless midnight hour
Implored the HERMIT’s aid, the HERMIT’s pray’rs;
And nothing loath by pity or by pray’r
Was he, to save the wretched. On the top
Of his low rushy Dome, a tinkling bell
Oft told the weary Trav’ller to approach
Fearless of danger. The small silver sound
In quick vibrations echo’d down the dell
To the dim valley’s quiet, while the breeze
Slept on the glassy LEMAN. Thus he past
His melancholy days, an alien Man
From all the joys of social intercourse,
Alone, unpitied, by the world forgot!

His Scrip each morning bore the day’s repast
Gather’d on summits, mingling with the clouds,
From whose bleak altitude the Eye look’d down
While fast the giddy brain was rock’d by fear.
Oft would he start from visionary rest
When roaming wolves their midnight chorus howl’d,
Or blasts infuriate shatter’d the white cliffs,
While the huge fragments, rifted by the storm,
Plung’d to the dell below. Oft would he sit
In silent sadness on the jutting block
Of snow-encrusted ice, and, shudd’ring mark
(Amid the wonders of the frozen world)
Dissolving pyramids, and threatening peaks,
Hang o’er his hovel, terribly Sublime.

And oft, when Summer breath’d ambrosial gales,
Soft sailing o’er the waste of printless dew
Or twilight gossamer, his pensive gaze
Trac’d the swift storm advancing, whose broad wing
Blacken’d the rushy dome of his low Hut;
While the pale lightning smote the pathless top
Of tow’ring CENIS, scatt’ring high and wide
A mist of fleecy Snow. Then would he hear,
(While MEM’RY brought to view his happier days)
The tumbling torrent, bursting wildly forth
From its thaw’d prison, sweep the shaggy cliff
Vast and Stupendous! strength’ning as it fell,
And delving, ’mid the snow, a cavern rude!

So liv’d the HERMIT, like an hardy Tree
Plac’d on a mountain’s solitary brow,
And destin’d, thro’ the Seasons, to endure
Their wond’rous changes. To behold the face
Of ever-varying Nature, and to mark
In each grand lineament, the work of GOD!
And happier he, in total Solitude
Than the poor toil-worn wretch, whose ardent Soul
That GOD has nobly organiz’d, but taught,
For purposes unknown, to bear the scourge
Of sharp adversity, and vulgar pride.
Happier, O! happier far, than those who feel,
Yet live amongst the unfeeling! feeding still
The throbbing heart, with anguish, or with Scorn.

One dreary night when Winter’s icy breath
Half petrified the scene, when not a star
Gleam’d o’er the black infinity of space,
Sudden, the HERMIT started from his couch
Fear-struck and trembling! Ev’ry limb was shook
With painful agitation. On his cheek
The blanch’d interpreter of horror mute
Sat terribly impressive! In his breast
The ruddy fount of life convulsive flow’d
And his broad eyes, fix’d motionless as death,
Gaz’d vacantly aghast! His feeble lamp
Was wasting rapidly; the biting gale
Pierc’d the thin texture of his narrow cell;
And Silence, like a fearful centinel
Marking the peril which awaited near,
Conspir’d with sullen Night, to wrap the scene
In tenfold horrors. Thrice he rose; and thrice
His feet recoil’d; and still the livid flame
Lengthen’d and quiver’d as the moaning wind
Pass’d thro’ the rushy crevice, while his heart
Beat, like the death-watch, in his shudd’ring breast.

Like the pale Image of Despair he sat,
The cold drops pacing down his hollow cheek,
When a deep groan assail’d his startled ear,
And rous’d him into action. To the sill
Of his low hovel he rush’d forth, (for fear
Will sometimes take the shape of fortitude,
And force men into bravery) and soon
The wicker bolt unfasten’d. The swift blast,
Now unrestrain’d, flew by; and in its course
The quiv’ring lamp extinguish’d, and again
His soul was thrill’d with terror. On he went,
E’en to the snow-fring’d margin of the cragg,
Which to his citadel a platform made
Slipp’ry and perilous! ’Twas darkness, all!
All, solitary gloom!—The concave vast
Of Heav’n frown’d chaos; for all varied things
Of air, and earth, and waters, blended, lost
Their forms, in blank oblivion! Yet not long
Did Nature wear her sable panoply,
For, while the HERMIT listen’d, from below
A stream of light ascended, spreading round
A partial view of trackless solitudes;
And mingling voices seem’d, with busy hum,
To break the spell of horrors. Down the steep
The HERMIT hasten’d, when a shriek of death
Re-echoed to the valley. As he flew,
(The treach’rous pathway yielding to his speed,)
Half hoping, half despairing, to the scene
Of wonder-waking anguish, suddenly
The torches were extinct; and second night
Came doubly hideous, while the hollow tongues
Of cavern’d winds, with melancholy sound
Increas’d the HERMIT’s fears. Four freezing hours
He watch’d and pray’d: and now the glimm’ring dawn
Peer’d on the Eastern Summits; (the blue light
Shedding cold lustre on the colder brows
Of Alpine desarts;) while the filmy wing
Of weeping Twilight, swept the naked plains
Of the Lombardian landscape.
On his knees
The ANCHORET blest Heav’n, that he had ’scap’d
The many perilous and fearful falls
Of waters wild and foamy, tumbling fast
From the shagg’d altitude. But, ere his pray’rs
Rose to their destin’d Heav’n, another sight,
Than all preceding far more terrible,
Palsied devotion’s ardour. On the Snow,
Dappled with ruby drops, a track was made
By steps precipitate; a rugged path
Down the steep frozen chasm had mark’d the fate
Of some night traveller, whose bleeding form
Had toppled from the Summit. Lower still
The ANCHORET descended, ’till arrived
At the first ridge of silv’ry battlements,
Where, lifeless, ghastly, paler than the snow
On which her cheek repos’d, his darling Maid
Slept in the dream of Death! Frantic and wild
He clasp’d her stiff’ning form, and bath’d with tears
The lilies of her bosom,—icy cold—
Yet beautiful and spotless.
Now, afar
The wond’ring HERMIT heard the clang of arms
Re-echoing from the valley: the white cliffs
Trembled as though an Earthquake shook their base
With terrible concussion! Thund’ring peals
From warfare’s brazen throat, proclaim’d th’ approach
Of conquering legions: onward they extend
Their dauntless columns! In the foremost group
A Ruffian met the HERMIT’s startled Eyes
Like Hell’s worst Demon! For his murd’rous hands
Were smear’d with gore; and on his daring breast
A golden cross, suspended, bore the name
Of his ill-fated Victim!—ANCHORET!
Thy VESTAL Saint, by his unhallow’d hands
Torn from RELIGION’s Altar, had been made
The sport of a dark Fiend, whose recreant Soul
Had sham’d the cause of Valour! To his cell
The Soul-struck Exile turn’d his trembling feet,
And after three lone weeks, of pain and pray’r,
Shrunk from the scene of Solitude—and DIED!

_DEBORAH’s PARROT_,
_A VILLAGE TALE_.

’Twas in a little western town
An ancient Maiden dwelt:
Her name was MISS, or MISTRESS, Brown,
Or DEBORAH, or DEBBY: She
Was doom’d a Spinster pure to be,
For soft delights her breast ne’er felt:
Yet, she had watchful Ears and Eyes
For ev’ry youthful neighbour,
And never did she cease to labour
A tripping female to surprize.

And why was she so wond’rous pure,
So stiff, so solemn—so demure?
Why did she watch with so much care
The roving youth, the wand’ring fair?
The tattler, Fame, has said that she
A Spinster’s life had long detested,
But ’twas her quiet destiny,
Never to be molested!—
And had Miss DEBBY’s form been grac’d,
Fame adds,—She had not been so chaste;—
But since for frailty she would roam,
She ne’er was taught—to _look at home_.

Miss DEBBY was of mien demure
And blush’d, like any maid!
She could not saucy man endure
Lest she should be betray’d!
She never fail’d at dance or fair
To watch the wily lurcher’s snare;
At Church, she was a model Godly!
Though sometimes she had other eyes
Than those, uplifted to the skies,
Leering most oddly!
And Scandal, ever busy, thought
She rarely practic’d—what she taught.

Her dress was always stiff brocade,
With laces broad and dear;
Fine Cobwebs! that would thinly shade
Her shrivell’d cheek of sallow hue,
While, like a Spider, her keen eye,
Which never shed soft pity’s tear,
Small holes in others geer could spy,
And microscopic follies, prying view.
And sorely vex’d was ev’ry simple thing
That wander’d near her never-tiring sting!

Miss DEBBY had a PARROT, who,
If Fame speaks true,
Could prate, and tell what neighbours did,
And yet the saucy rogue was never chid!
Sometimes, he talk’d of roving Spouses
Who wander’d from their quiet houses:
Sometimes, he call’d a Spinster pure
By names, that Virtue can’t indure!
And sometimes told an ancient Dame
Such tales as made her blush with shame!
Then gabbled how a giddy Miss
Would give the boist’rous Squire a kiss!
But chiefly he was taught to cry,
“_Who with the Parson toy’d? O fie!_”

This little joke, Miss DEBBY taught him,
To vex a young and pretty neighbour;
But by her scandal-zealous labour
To shame she brought him!
For, the Old PARROT, like his teacher
Was but a false and canting preacher,
And many a gamesome pair had sworn
Such lessons were not to be borne.

At last, Miss DEBBY sore was flouted
And by her angry neighbours scouted;
She never knew one hour of rest,
Of ev’ry Saucy Boor, the jest:
The young despis’d her, and the Sage
Look’d back on Time’s impartial page;
They knew that youth was giv’n to prove
The season of extatic joy,
That none but Cynics would destroy,
The early buds of Love.
They also knew that DEBBY sigh’d
For charms that envious Time deny’d;
That she was vex’d with jealous Spleen
That Hymen pass’d her by, unseen.

For though the Spinster’s wealth was known,
_Gold_ will not purchase Love—_alone_.
She, and her PARROT, now were thought
The torments of their little Sphere;
He, because mischievously taught,
And She, because a maid austere!—
In short, she deem’d it wise to leave
A Place, where none remain’d, to grieve.

Soon, to a distant town remov’d,
Miss DEBBY’s gold an husband bought;
And all she had her PARROT taught,
(Her PARROT now no more belov’d,)
Was quite forgotten. But, alas!
As Fate would have it come to pass,
Her Spouse was giv’n to jealous rage,
For, both in _Person_ and in _Age_,
He was the partner of his love,
Ordain’d her second Self to prove!

One day, Old JENKINS had been out
With merry friends to dine,
And, freely talking, had, no doubt
Been also free with wine.
One said, of all the wanton gay
In the whole parish search it round,
None like the PARSON could be found,
Where a frail Maid was in the way.
Another thought the Parson sure
To win the heart of maid or wife;
And would have freely pledg’d his life
That young, or old, or rich or poor
None could defy
The magic of his roving eye!

JENKINS went home, but all the night
He dream’d of this strange tale!
Yet, bless’d his stars! with proud delight,
His partner was not young, nor frail.
Next morning, at the breakfast table.
The PARROT, loud as he was able,
Was heard repeatedly to cry,
“_Who with the Parson toy’d? O fie!_”

Old JENKINS listen’d, and grew pale,
The PARROT then, more loudly scream’d,
And MISTRESS JENKINS heard the tale
And much alarm’d she seem’d!
Trembling she tried to stop his breath,
Her lips and cheek as pale as death!
The more she trembled, still the more
Old JENKINS view’d her o’er and o’er;
And now her yellow cheek was spread
With blushes of the deepest red.

And now again the PARROT’s Tale
Made his old Tutoress doubly pale;
For cowardice and guilt, they say
Are the twin brothers of the soul;
So MISTRESS JENKINS, her dismay
Could not controul!
While the accuser, now grown bold,
Thrice o’er, the tale of mischief told.

Now JENKINS from the table rose,
“_Who with the Parson toy’d?_” he cried.
“So MISTRESS FRAILTY, you must play,
“And sport, your wanton hours away.
“And with your gold, a pretty joke,
“You thought to buy a pleasant cloak;
“A screen to hide your shame—but know
“I will not _blind_ to ruin go.—
“I am no _modern Spouse_, dy’e see,
“_Gold_ will not _gild disgrace_, with me!”
Some say he seiz’d his fearful bride,
And came to blows!
Day after day, the contest dire
Augmented, with resistless ire!
And many a drubbing DEBBY bought
For mischief, she her PARROT taught!

Thus, SLANDER turns against its maker;
And if this little Story reaches
A SPINSTER, who her PARROT teaches,
Let her a better task pursue,
And here, the certain VENGEANCE view
Which surely will, in TIME, O’ERTAKE HER.

_The NEGRO GIRL._