Chapter IV: Part III (1)

"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.