Chapter VI: Book I: I (1)

I sing the Cross!--Ye white-robed angel choirs,
Who know the chords of harmony to sweep,
Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires
Were wont, of old, your hovering watch to keep,
Oh, now descend! and with your harpings deep,
Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream
Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep,
Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream,
And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious theme.

II.

Mourn! Salem, mourn! low lies thine humbled state,
Thy glittering fanes are level'd with the ground!
Fallen is thy pride!--Thine halls are desolate!
Where erst was heard the timbrels' sprightly sound,
And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly round,
There breeds the wild fox lonely,--and aghast
Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound,
Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast
Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste.

III.

It is for this, proud Solyma! thy towers
Lie crumbling in the dust; for this forlorn
Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers,
While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn,
That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born;
And, with most bitter persecuting ire,
Pursued his footsteps till the last day dawn
Rose on his fortunes--and thou saw'st the fire
That came to light the world, in one great flash expire.

IV.

Oh! for a pencil dipp'd in living light,
To paint the agonies that Jesus bore!
Oh! for the long lost harp of Jesse's might,
To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore;
While seraph hosts the lofty pæan pour,
And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim!
May a frail mortal dare the theme explore?
May he to human ears his weak song frame?
Oh! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name.

V.

Spirits of pity! mild crusaders, come!
Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float,
And give him eloquence who else were dumb,
And raise to feeling and to fire his note!
And thou, Urania! who dost still devote
Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine,
Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote,
Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of thine,
And clothe him for the fight with energy divine.

VI.

When from the temple's lofty summit prone,
Satan, o'ercome, fell down; and 'throned there,
The son of God confess'd in splendour shone:
Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air,
Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair,
* * * * *
Fled the stern king of Hell--and with the glare
Of gliding meteors, ominous and red,
Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his head.

VII.

Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late
The rude Massagetæ adored, he bent
His northering course, while round, in dusky state
The assembling fiends their summon'd troops augment;
Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they went,
While as they pass'd to regions more severe,
The Lapland sorcerer swell'd with loud lament
The solitary gale; and, fill'd with fear,
The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near.

VIII.

Where the North Pole, in moody solitude,
Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes around,
There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude,
Form a gigantic hall, where never sound
Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound
The smoke-frost mutter'd: there drear Cold for aye
Thrones him,--and, fix'd on his primæval mound,
Ruin, the giant, sits; while stern Dismay
Stalks like some woe-struck man along the desert way.

IX.

In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair,
No sweet remain of life encheers the sight;
The dancing heart's blood in an instant there
Would freeze to marble.--Mingling day and night
(Sweet interchange, which makes our labours light)
Are there unknown; while in the summer skies
The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly height,
Nor ever sets till from the scene he flies,
And leaves the long bleak night of half the year to rise.

X.

'T was there, yet shuddering from the burning lake,
Satan had fix'd their next consistory,
When parting last he fondly hoped to shake
Messiah's constancy,--and thus to free
The powers of darkness from the dread decree
Of bondage brought by him, and circumvent
The unerring ways of Him whose eye can see
The womb of Time, and, in its embryo pent,
Discern the colours clear of every dark event.

XI.

Here the stern monarch stay'd his rapid flight,
And his thick hosts, as with a jetty pall,
Hovering obscured the north star's peaceful light,
Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's call.
He, meanwhile, downward, with a sullen fall,
Dropp'd on the echoing ice. Instant the sound
Of their broad vans was hush'd, and o'er the hall,
Vast and obscure, the gloomy cohorts bound,
Till, wedged in ranks, the seat of Satan they surround.

XII.

High on a solium of the solid wave,
Prank'd with rude shapes by the fantastic frost,
He stood in silence;--now keen thoughts engrave
Dark figures on his front; and, tempest-toss'd,
He fears to say that every hope is lost.
Meanwhile the multitude as death are mute;
So, ere the tempest on Malacca's coast,
Sweet Quiet, gently touching her soft lute,
Sings to the whispering waves the prelude to dispute.

XIII.

At length collected, o'er the dark Divan
The arch fiend glanced as by the Boreal blaze
Their downcast brows were seen, and thus began
His fierce harangue:--"Spirits! our better days
Are now elapsed; Moloch and Belial's praise
Shall sound no more in groves by myriads trod.
Lo! the light breaks;--The astonish'd nations gaze,
For us is lifted high the avenging rod!
For, spirits! this is He,--this is the Son of God!

XIV.

"What then!--shall Satan's spirit crouch to fear?
Shall he who shook the pillars of God's reign
Drop from his unnerved arm the hostile spear?
Madness! The very thought would make me fain
To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy plain,
And hurl them at their Maker!--Fix'd as Fate
I am his foe!--Yea, though his pride should deign
To soothe mine ire with half his regal state,
Still would I burn with fix'd unalterable hate.

XV.

"Now hear the issue of my cursed emprize.
When from our last sad synod I took flight,
Buoyed with false hopes, in some deep-laid disguise,
To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write
His own self-condemnation; in the plight
Of aged man in the lone wilderness,
Gathering a few stray sticks, I met his sight;
And, leaning on my staff, seem'd much to guess
What cause could mortal bring to that forlorn recess.

XVI.

"Then thus in homely guise I featly framed
My lowly speech:--'Good Sir, what leads this way
Your wandering steps? must hapless chance be blamed
That you so far from haunt of mortals stray?
Here have I dwelt for many a lingering day.
Nor trace of man have seen: but how! methought
Thou wert the youth on whom God's holy ray
I saw descend in Jordan, when John taught
That he to fallen man the saving promise brought.'

XVII.

"'I am that man,' said Jesus, 'I am He.
But truce to questions--Canst thou point my feet
To some low hut, if haply such there be
In this wild labyrinth, where I may meet
With homely greeting, and may sit and eat;
For forty days I have tarried fasting here,
Hid in the dark glens of this lone retreat,
And now I hunger; and my fainting ear
Longs much to greet the sound of fountains gushing near.'

XVIII.

"Then thus I answer'd wily:--'If, indeed,
Son of our God thou be'st, what need to seek
For food from men?--Lo! on these flint stones feed,
Bid them be bread! Open thy lips and speak,
And living rills from yon parch'd rock will break'
Instant as I had spoke, his piercing eye
Fix'd on my face;--the blood forsook my cheek,
I could not bear his gaze;--my mask slipp'd by;
I would have shunn'd his look, but had not power to fly.

XIX.

"Then he rebuked me with the holy word--
Accursed sounds; but now my native pride
Return'd, and by no foolish qualm deterr'd,
I bore him from the mountain's woody side
Up to the summit, where extending wide
Kingdoms and cities, palaces and fanes,
Bright sparkling in the sunbeams, were descried,
And in gay dance, amid luxuriant plains,
Tripp'd to the jocund reed the emasculated swains.

XX.

"'Behold,' I cried, 'these glories! scenes divine!
Thou whose sad prime in pining want decays;
And these, O rapture! these shall all be thine,
If thou wilt give to me, not God, the praise.
Hath he not given to indigence thy days?
Is not thy portion peril here and pain?
Oh! leave his temples, shun his wounding ways!
Seize the tiara! these mean weeds disdain,
Kneel, kneel, thou man of woe, and peace and splendour gain.'

XXI.

"'Is it not written,' sternly he replied,
'Tempt not the Lord thy God!' Frowning he spake,
And instant sounds, as of the ocean tide,
Rose, and the whirlwind from its prison brake,
And caught me up aloft, till in one flake
The sidelong volley met my swift career,
And smote me earthward.--Jove himself might quake
At such a fall; my sinews crack'd, and near,
Obscure and dizzy sounds seem'd ringing in mine ear.

XXII.

"Senseless and stunn'd I lay; till casting round
My half unconscious gaze, I saw the foe
Borne on a car of roses to the ground,
By volant angels; and as sailing slow
He sunk the hoary battlement below,
While on the tall spire slept the slant sunbeam,
Sweet on the enamour'd zephyr was the flow
Of heavenly instruments. Such strains oft seem,
On star-light hill, to soothe the Syrian shepherd's dream.

XXIII.

"I saw blaspheming. Hate renew'd my strength;
I smote the ether with my iron wing,
And left the accursed scene.--Arrived at length
In these drear halls, to ye, my peers! I bring
The tidings of defeat. Hell's haughty king
Thrice vanquished, baffled, smitten, and dismay'd!
O shame! Is this the hero who could fling
Defiance at his Maker, while array'd,
High o'er the walls of light, rebellion's banners play'd!

XXIV.

"Yet shall not Heaven's bland minions triumph long;
Hell yet shall have revenge. O glorious sight,
Prophetic visions on my fancy throng,
I see wild Agony's lean finger write
Sad figures on his forehead!--Keenly bright
Revenge's flambeau burns! Now in his eyes
Stand the hot tears,--immantled in the night,
Lo! he retires to mourn!--I hear his cries!
He faints--he falls--and lo!--'t is true, ye powers, he dies."

XXV.

Thus spake the chieftain,--and as if he view'd
The scene he pictured, with his foot advanced
And chest inflated, motionless he stood,
While under his uplifted shield he glanced,
With straining eyeball fix'd, like one entranced,
On viewless air;--thither the dark platoon
Gazed wondering, nothing seen, save when there danced
The northern flash, or fiend late fled from noon,
Darken'd the disk of the descending moon.

XXVI.

Silence crept stilly through the ranks.--The breeze
Spake most distinctly. As the sailor stands,
When all the midnight gasping from the seas
Break boding sobs, and to his sight expands
High on the shrouds the spirit that commands
The ocean-farer's life; so stiff--so sear
Stood each dark power;--while through their numerous bands
Beat not one heart, and mingling hope and fear
Now told them all was lost, now bade revenge appear.

XXVII.

One there was there, whose loud defying tongue
Nor hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell
Of over-boiling malice. Utterance long
His passion mock'd, and long he strove to tell
His labouring ire; still syllable none fell
From his pale quivering lip, but died away
For very fury; from each hollow cell
Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray,
And....
* * * * *

XXVIII.

"This comes," at length burst from the furious chief,
"This comes of distant counsels! Here behold
The fruits of wily cunning! the relief
Which coward policy would fain unfold,
To soothe the powers that warr'd with Heaven of old!
O wise! O potent! O sagacious snare!
And lo! our prince--the mighty and the bold,
There stands he, spell-struck, gaping at the air,
While Heaven subverts his reign, and plants her standard there."

XXIX.

Here, as recovered, Satan fix'd his eye
Full on the speaker; dark it was and stern;
He wrapp'd his black vest round him gloomily,
And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts concern.
Him Moloch mark'd, and strove again to turn
His soul to rage. "Behold, behold," he cried,
"The lord of Hell, who made these legions spurn
Almighty rule--behold he lays aside
The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man defied."

XXX.

Thus ended Moloch, and his burning tongue
Hung quivering, as if [mad] to quench its heat
In slaughter. So, his native wilds among,
The famish'd tiger pants, when, near his seat,
Press'd on the sands, he marks the traveller's feet.
Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword
Had from its scabbard sprung; but toward the seat
Of the arch-fiend all turn'd with one accord,
As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde.

* * * * *

"Ye powers of Hell, I am no coward. I proved this of old: who led your forces against the armies of Jehovah? Who coped with Ithuriel and the thunders of the Almighty? Who, when stunned and confused ye lay on the burning lake, who first awoke, and collected your scattered powers? Lastly, who led you across the unfathomable abyss to this delightful world, and established that reign here which now totters to its base? How, therefore, dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a stain on Satan's bravery? he who preys only on the defenceless--who sucks the blood of infants, and delights only in acts of ignoble cruelty and unequal contention. Away with the boaster who never joins in action, but, like a cormorant, hovers over the field, to feed upon the wounded, and overwhelm the dying. True bravery is as remote from rashness as from hesitation; let us counsel coolly, but let us execute our counselled purposes determinately. In power we have learned, by that experiment which lost us Heaven, that we are inferior to the Thunder-bearer:--In subtlety, in subtlety alone we are his equals. Open war is impossible.

* * * * *

"Thus we shall pierce our conqueror through the race
Which as himself he loves; thus if we fall,
We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace,
Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call
Of vengeance rings within me! Warriors all,
The word is vengeance, and the spur despair.
Away with coward wiles!--Death's coal-black pall
Be now our standard!--Be our torch the glare
Of cities fired! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air!"

Him answering rose Mecashpim, who of old,
Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves,
Was worshipp'd, God of Fire, with charms untold
And mystery. His wandering spirit roves,
Now vainly searching for the flame it loves;
And sits and mourns like some white-robed sire,
Where stood his temple, and where fragrant cloves
And cinnamon unheap'd the sacred pyre,
And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire.

He waved his robe of flame, he cross'd his breast,
And sighing--his papyrus scarf survey'd,
Woven with dark characters, then thus address'd
The troubled council.

* * * * *

I.

Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme
With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung
Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem
The lyre which I in early days have strung:
And now my spirit's faint, and I have hung
The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour,
On the dark cypress! and the strings which rung
With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er,
Or, when the breeze comes by, moan and are heard no more.

And must the harp of Judah sleep again?
Shall I no more reanimate the lay?
Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men,
Thou who dost listen when the humble pray,
One little space prolong my mournful day!
One little lapse suspend thy last decree!
I am a youthful traveller in the way,
And this slight boon would consecrate to thee,
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free.

* * * * *

LINES WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS,

IN THE MORNING BEFORE DAYBREAK.

Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hold Your brilliant places in the sable vault Of night's dominions!--Planets, and central orbs Of other systems!--big as the burning sun Which lights this nether globe,--yet to our eye Small as the glowworm's lamp!--To you I raise My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd, My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts; Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind, Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold, And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring, Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him, The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, The great Creator! Him! who now sublime, Wrapt in the solitary amplitude Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres Sits on his silent throne and meditates.

The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven, Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime, Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great," In varied harmonies.--The glorious sounds Roll o'er the air serene--The Æolian spheres, Harping along their viewless boundaries, Catch the full note, and cry, "The Lord is great," Responding to the Seraphim. O'er all From orb to orb, to the remotest verge Of the created world, the sound is borne, Till the whole universe is full of Him. Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now In fancy strikes upon my listening ear, And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile On the vain world, and all its bustling cares, And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss.

Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height, What even are kings, when balanced in the scale Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God! Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works! Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, One look of kind benevolence?--Thou canst: For Thou art full of universal love, And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart Thy beams as well to me as to the proud, The pageant insects of a glittering hour.

Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, How insignificant do all the joys, The gaudes, and honours of the world appear! How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp Outwatch'd the slow-paced night!--Why on the page, The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd The hours devoted by the world to rest, And needful to recruit exhausted nature? Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay The loss of health? or can the hope of glory Lend a new throb into my languid heart, Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow, Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye, Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?

Say, foolish one--can that unbodied fame, For which thou barterest health and happiness, Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave? Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs Of everlasting punishment condign? Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires! How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God! Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth, And oh! assist me so to live on earth, That I may die in peace, and claim a place In thy high dwelling.--All but this is folly, The vain illusions of deceitful life.

LINES SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS.

OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE.

Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave, And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling, The big tear in his eye.--Mary, awake, From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low. Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale, Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love, To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul, And cheer his breaking heart.--Come, as thou didst, When o'er the barren moors the night wind howl'd, And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne Of the startled night!--O! then, as lone reclining, I listen'd sadly to the dismal storm, Thou on the lambent lightnings wild careering Didst strike my moody eye;--dead pale thou wert, Yet passing lovely.--Thou didst smile upon me, And oh! thy voice it rose so musical, Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm, That at the sound the winds forgot to rave, And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd, Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose, Lock'd in the arms of silence.

Spirit of her! My only love! O! now again arise, And let once more thine aëry accents fall Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm, The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling On the still air, the distant waterfall Mingles its melody;--and, high above, The pensive empress of the solemn night, Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds, Shows her chaste face in the meridian sky. No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll Dare now assemble at their mystic revels. It is a night when, from their primrose beds, The gentle ghosts of injured innocents Are known to rise and wander on the breeze, Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch, And strike grim terror to his guilty soul. The spirit of my love might now awake, And hold its custom'd converse.

Mary, lo! Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave, And calls upon thy name. The breeze that blows On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him In solemn music a funereal dirge, Wild and most sorrowful. His cheek is pale, The worm that prey'd upon thy youthful bloom It canker'd green on his. Now lost he stands, The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew, Which bathes his aching temples, gives sure omen Of speedy dissolution. Mary, soon Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine, And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death.

MY STUDY.

A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE.

You bid me, Ned, describe the place Where I, one of the rhyming race, Pursue my studies con amore, And wanton with the muse in glory.

Well, figure to your senses straight, Upon the house's topmost height, A closet just six feet by four, With whitewash'd walls and plaster floor. So noble large, 'tis scarcely able To admit a single chair and table: And (lest the muse should die with cold) A smoky grate my fire to hold: So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose To melt the icedrop on one's nose; And yet so big, it covers o'er Full half the spacious room and more.

A window vainly stuff'd about, To keep November's breezes out, So crazy, that the panes proclaim That soon they mean to leave the frame.

My furniture I sure may crack-- A broken chair without a back; A table wanting just two legs, One end sustain'd by wooden pegs; A desk--of that I am not fervent, The work of, Sir, your humble servant; (Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler;) A glass decanter and a tumbler, From which my night-parch'd throat I lave, Luxurious, with the limpid wave. A chest of drawers, in antique sections, And saw'd by me in all directions; So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em. To these, if you will add a store Of oddities upon thee floor, A pair of globes, electric balls, Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls, And crowds of books, on rotten shelves, Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves; I think, dear Ned, you curious dog, You'll have my earthly catalogue. But stay,--I nearly had left out My bellows destitute of snout; And on the walls,--Good Heavens! why there I've such a load of precious ware, Of heads, and coins, and silver medals, And organ works, and broken pedals; (For I was once a-building music, Though soon of that employ I grew sick); And skeletons of laws which shoot All out of one primordial root; That you, at such a sight, would swear Confusion's self had settled there. There stands, just by a broken sphere, A Cicero without an ear, A neck, on which, by logic good, I know for sure a head once stood; But who it was the able master Had moulded in the mimic planter, Whether 't was Pope, or Coke, or Burn, I never yet could justly learn: But knowing well, that any head Is made to answer for the dead, (And sculptors first their faces frame, And after pitch upon a name, Nor think it aught of a misnomer To christen Chaucer's busto Homer, Because they both have beards, which, you know, Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,) For some great man, I could not tell But Neck might answer just as well, So perch'd it up, all in a row With Chatham and with Cicero.

Then all around, in just degree, A range of portraits you may see, Of mighty men and eke of women, Who are no whit inferior to men.

With these fair dames, and heroes round, I call my garret classic ground. For though confined, 't will well contain The ideal flights of Madam Brain. No dungeon's walls, no cell confined Can cramp the energies of mind! Thus, though my heart may seem so small, I've friends, and 't will contain them all; And should it e'er become so cold That these it will no longer hold, No more may Heaven her blessings give, I shall not then be fit to live.

DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE.

Down the sultry arc of day The burning wheels have urged their way; And eve along the western skies Sheds her intermingling dyes. Down the deep, the miry lane, Creaking comes the empty wain, And driver on the shaft-horse sits, Whistling now and then by fits: And oft, with his accustom'd call, Urging on the sluggish Ball. The barn is still, the master's gone, And thresher puts his jacket on, While Dick, upon the ladder tall, Nails the dead kite to the wall. Here comes shepherd Jack at last, He has penn'd the sheepcote fast, For 't was but two nights before, A lamb was eaten on the moor: His empty wallet Rover carries, Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries. With lolling tongue he runs to try If the horse-trough be not dry. The milk is settled in the pans, And supper messes in the cans; In the hovel carts are wheel'd, And both the colts are drove a-field; The horses are all bedded up, And the ewe is with the tup. The snare for Mister Fox is set, The leaven laid, the thatching wet, And Bess has slink'd away to talk With Roger in the holly walk.

Now, on the settle all, but Bess, Are set to eat their supper mess; And little Tom and roguish Kate Are swinging on the meadow gate. Now they chat of various things, Of taxes, ministers, and kings, Or else tell all the village news, How madam did the squire refuse; How parson on his tithes was bent, And landlord oft distrain'd for rent. Thus do they talk, till in the sky The pale-eyed moon is mounted high, And from the alehouse drunken Ned Had reel'd--then hasten all to bed. The mistress sees that lazy Kate The happing coal on kitchen grate Has laid--while master goes throughout, Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out, The candles safe, the hearths all clear, And nought from thieves or fire to fear; Then both to bed together creep, And join the general troop of sleep.

LINES,

Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr. Capel Lofft's beautiful and interesting Preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield's Poems, just published:--"It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the impression of its melancholy close. I could have wished, as I have said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of life less offend my taste than its sweets delight it."

Go to the raging sea, and say, "Be still!" Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will; Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair, But tell not Misery's son that life is fair.

Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd, And every year with new delight hast told, Thou, who, recumbent on the lacquer'd barge, Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge, Thou mayst extol life's calm untroubled sea, The storms of misery never burst on thee.

Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines, Go to the shade obscure, where merit pines; Abide with him whom Penury's charms control, And bind the rising yearnings of his soul, Survey his sleepless couch, and, standing there, Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair! Press thou the lonely pillow of his head, And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled; Mark his dew'd temples, and his half shut eye, His trembling nostrils, and his deep drawn sigh, His muttering mouth contorted with despair, And ask if Genius could inhabit there.

Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleam'd, And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd: But now Neglect has stung him to--the core, And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more; Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round, And added Grief compels him to the ground. Lo! o'er his manly form, decay'd and wan, The shades of death with gradual steps steal on; And the pale mother, pining to decay, Weeps for her boy her wretched life away.

Go, child of Fortune! to his early grave, Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave; Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there, And tell us then that life is wondrous fair!

Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd forth, To encourage genius, and to foster worth; On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend, 'T is just that every blessing should descend; 'T is just that life to thee should only show Her fairer side but little mix'd with woe.

WRITTEN IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

Sad solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils. Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind; Communing lonely with his sinking soul, And musing on the dubious glooms that lie In dim obscurity before him,--thee, Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call At this still midnight hour, this awful season, When, on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, I turn me wearisome; while all around, All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness; I only wake to watch the sickly taper Which lights me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals, Slow sapping the warm current of existence. My moments now are few--the sand of life Ebbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little, And the last fleeting particle will fall Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate, While meditate we may.--We have now --But a small portion of what men call time To hold communion; for even now the knife, The separating knife, I feel divide The tender bond that binds my soul to earth. Yes, I must die--I feel that I must die; And though to me has life been dark and dreary, Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive, And Disappointment still pursued her blandishments, Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me As I contemplate the dim gulf of death, The shuddering void, the awful blank--futurity. Ay, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme Of earthly happiness--romantic schemes, And fraught with loveliness; and it is hard To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps, Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes, And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades, Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion. Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry? Oh! none;--another busy brood of beings Will shoot up in the interim, and none Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets Of busy London:--Some short bustle's caused, A few inquiries, and the crowds close in, And all's forgotten.--On my grassy grave The men of future times will careless tread, And read my name upon the sculptured stone; Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears, Recall my vanish'd memory. I did hope For better things!--I hoped I should not leave The earth without a vestige;--Fate decrees It shall be otherwise, and I submit. Henceforth, oh, world, no more of thy desires! No more of hope! the wanton vagrant Hope! I abjure all. Now other cares engross me, And my tired soul, with emulative haste, Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for heaven.

VERSES.

When pride and envy, and the scorn Of wealth my heart with gall imbued, I thought how pleasant were the morn Of silence, in the solitude; To hear the forest bee on wing; Or by the stream, or woodland spring, To lie and muse alone--alone, While the tinkling waters moan, Or such wild sounds arise, as say, Man and noise are far away.

Now, surely, thought I, there's enow
To fill life's dusty way;
And who will miss a poet's feet,
Or wonder where he stray:
So to the woods and wastes I'll go,
And I will build an osier bower,
And sweetly there to me shall flow
The meditative hour.

And when the Autumn's withering hand, Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land, I'll to the forest caverns hie: And in the dark and stormy nights I'll listen to the shrieking sprites, Who, in the wintry wolds and floods, Keep jubilee, and shred the woods; Or, as it drifted soft and slow, Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow.

* * * * *

FRAGMENT.

Oh! thou most fatal of Pandora's train, Consumption! silent cheater of the eye; Thou comest not robed in agonizing pain, Nor mark'st thy course with Death's delusive dye, But silent and unnoticed thou dost lie; O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost diffuse, And, while thou givest new lustre to the eye, While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy hues, E'en then life's little rest thy cruel power subdues.

Oft I've beheld thee, in the glow of youth,
Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there bloom'd;
And dropp'd a tear, for then thy cankering tooth
I knew would never stay, till all consumed,
In the cold vault of death he were entomb'd.

But oh! what sorrow did I feel, as swift, Insidious ravager, I saw thee fly Through fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow, Preparing swift her passage to the sky. Though still intelligence beam'd in the glance, The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye; Yet soon did languid listlessness advance, And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant trance.

Even when her end was swiftly drawing near, And dissolution hover'd o'er her head: Even then so beauteous did her form appear, That none who saw her but admiring said, Sure so much beauty never could be dead. Yet the dark lash of her expressive eye Bent lowly down upon the languid--

* * * * *

FRAGMENT.

Loud rage the winds without.--The wintry cloud O'er the cold northstar casts her flitting shroud; And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale, Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale; Where now, shut out from every still retreat, Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat, Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood, Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood? Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askance The drifted fleeces that around him dance, And hurries on his half-averted form, Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm. Him soon shall greet his snow-topp'd [cot of thatch], Soon shall his numb'd hand tremble on the latch, Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame; Round the light fire, while roars the north wind loud, What merry groups of vacant faces crowd; These hail his coming--these his meal prepare, And boast in all that cot no lurking care.

What though the social circle be denied, Even Sadness brightens at her own fireside, Loves, with fix'd eye, to watch the fluttering blaze, While musing Memory dwells on former days; Or Hope, bless'd spirit! smiles--and still forgiven, Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven. Then heap the fire--shut out the biting air, And from its station wheel the easy chair: Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweet To hear without the bitter tempest beat, All, all alone--to sit, and muse, and sigh, The pensive tenant of obscurity.

* * * * *

TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS,

WHO, WHEN THE AUTHOR REASONED WITH HIM CALMLY, ASKED, "IF HE DID NOT FEEL FOR HIM."

"Do I not feel?" The doubt is keen as steel. Yea, I do feel--most exquisitely feel; My heart can weep, when, from my downcast eye, I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh: Deep buried there I close the rankling dart, And smile the most when heaviest is my heart. On this I act--whatever pangs surround, 'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound! When all was new, and life was in its spring, I lived an unloved, solitary thing; Even then I learn'd to bury deep from day The piercing cares that wore my youth away: Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel; Even then I wept I had not power to heal: Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom, I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's doom. Who were my friends in youth?--The midnight fire-- The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir; To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight, To bless my lonely taper's friendly light; I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn, For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn; The sacred source of woe I never ope, My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope. But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show, Though the cold crowd the secret never know; With them I laugh--yet, when no eye can see, I weep for nature, and I weep for thee. Yes, thou didst wrong me, ... I fondly thought, In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought! I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise, And read the truth that in my bosom lies; I fondly thought, ere Time's last days were gone, Thy heart and mine had mingled into one! Yes--and they yet will mingle. Days and years Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears: We then shall feel that friendship has a power To soothe affliction in her darkest hour; Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand, And wait the passport to a better land.

Thine

H.K. WHITE.

Half past Eleven o'clock at Night.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

1804.

Yet once more, and once more, awake, my Harp, From silence and neglect--one lofty strain; Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven, And speaking mysteries more than words can tell, I ask of thee; for I, with hymnings high, Would join the dirge of the departing year.

Yet with no wintry garland from the woods, Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear, Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now; Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song, And fearful joy, to celebrate the day Of the Redeemer.--Near two thousand suns Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse Of generations, since the dayspring first Beam'd from on high!--Now to the mighty mass Of that increasing aggregate we add One unit more. Space in comparison How small, yet mark'd with how much misery; Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence, Over the nations hanging her dread scourge; The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness, Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong, Forcing the scanty portion from the weak, And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears.

So has the year been character'd with woe In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes; Yet 't was not thus He taught--not thus He lived, Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer And much thanksgiving. He, a man of woes, Went on the way appointed,--path, though rude, Yet borne with patience still:--He came to cheer The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick, And on the wandering and benighted mind To pour the light of truth. O task divine! O more than angel teacher! He had words To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds; And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas, Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm, He, pointing to the star of peace on high, Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile At the surrounding wreck.---- When with deep agony his heart was rack'd, Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek, For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd, His persecutors--"Father, pardon them, They know not what they do."

Angels of Heaven, Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross, And did him homage, say, may mortal join The halleluiahs of the risen God? Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard Amid the seraphim in light divine? Yes, he will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign, For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith, Low though it be and humble. Lord of life, The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now Fills my uprising soul.--I mount, I fly Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs; The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes, And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more.

* * * * *

NELSONI MORS.

Yet once again, my Harp, yet once again One ditty more, and on the mountain ash I will again suspend thee. I have felt The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last, At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd, I woke to thee the melancholy song. Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe, I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks Of frolic fancy to the line of truth; Not unrepining, for my froward heart Stills turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow Of spring-gales past--the woods and storied haunts Of my not songless boyhood.--Yet once more, Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, My long-neglected Harp. He must not sink; The good, the brave--he must not, shall not sink Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour No precious dews of Aganippe's well, Or Castaly,--though from the morning cloud I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse: Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows, Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent Of Britain, my loved country; and with tears Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd Fast from thy honest heart. Thou, Pity, too, If ever I have loved, with faltering step, To follow thee in the cold and starless night, To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff; And, as I heard the deep gun bursting loud Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds, The dying soul's viaticum; if oft Amid the carnage of the field I've sate With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul, With mercy and forgiveness--visitant Of Heaven--sit thou upon my harp, And give it feeling, which were else too cold For argument so great, for theme so high.

How dimly on that morn the sun arose,
'Kerchief'd in mists, and tearful, when--

* * * * *

EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

Bloomfield, thy happy omen'd name Ensures continuance to thy fame; Both sense and truth this verdict give, While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live!

ELEGY

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. GILL, WHO WAS DROWNED IN THE RIVER TRENT, WHILE BATHING, 9TH AUGUST, 1802.

He sunk, the impetuous river roll'd along,
The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath;
And rising sad the rustling sedge among,
The gale of evening touch'd the cords of death.

Nymph of the Trent! why didst thou not appear
To snatch the victim from thy felon wave!
Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier,
And deck with waterflags his early grave.

Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey,
Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride;
While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay,
And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tide.

The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye,
The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved,
I mark them rise--I mark the general sigh!
Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved?

On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink,
When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade;
On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink
To hold mysterious converse with thy shade.

Of thee, as early, I, with vagrant feet,
Hail the gray-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale,
Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet,
And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale.

And, oh! ye nymphs of Pæon! who preside
O'er running rill and salutary stream.
Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide
From the rude death-shriek and the dying scream.

INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT TO THE MEMORY OF COWPER.

Reader! if with no vulgar sympathy Thou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth, Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallow'd spot. Here Cowper rests. Although renown have made His name familiar to thine ear, this stone May tell thee that his virtues were above The common portion:--that the voice, now hush'd In death, was once serenely querulous With pity's tones, and in the ear of woe Spake music. Now, forgetful, at thy feet, His tired head presses on its last long rest, Still tenant of the tomb;--and on the cheek, Once warm with animation's lambent flush, Sits the pale image of unmark'd decay. Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part; And, these sad garments of Mortality Put off, we trust, that to a happier land He went a light and gladsome passenger. Sigh'st thou for honours, reader? Call to mind That glory's voice is impotent to pierce The silence of the tomb! but virtue blooms Even on the wreck of life, and mounts the skies. So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walk With Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ.

"I'M PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD."

When twilight steals along the ground, And all the bells are ringing round, One, two, three, four, and five, I at my study window sit, And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit, To bliss am all alive.

But though impressions calm and sweet Thrill round my heart a holy heat, And I am inly glad; The tear-drop stands in either eye, And yet I cannot tell thee why, I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad.

The silvery rack that flies away, Like mortal life or pleasure's ray, Does that disturb my breast? Nay, what have I, a studious man, To do with life's unstable plan, Or pleasure's fading vest?

Is it that here I must not stop, But o'er yon blue hill's woody top Must bend my lonely way? No, surely no! for give but me My own fireside, and I shall be At home where'er I stray.

Then is it that yon steeple there, With music sweet shall fill the air, When thou no more canst hear? Oh, no! oh, no! for then, forgiven, I shall be with my God in heaven, Released from every fear.

Then whence it is I cannot tell, But there is some mysterious spell That holds me when I'm glad; And so the tear-drop fills my eye, When yet in truth I know not why, Or wherefore I am sad.

SOLITUDE.

It is not that my lot is low, That bids this silent tear to flow; It is not grief that bids me moan; It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tired hedger hies him home; Or by the woodland pool to rest, When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs, With hallow'd airs and symphonies, My spirit takes another tone, And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sere and dead, It floats upon the water's bed; I would not be a leaf, to die Without recording sorrow's sigh!

The woods and winds, with sullen wail, Tell all the same unvaried tale; I've none to smile when I am free, And when I sigh, to sigh with me.

Yet in my dreams a form I view, That thinks on me, and loves me too; I start, and when the vision's flown, I weep that I am all alone.

If far from me the Fates remove Domestic peace, connubial love, The prattling ring, the social cheer, Affection's voice, affection's tear, Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart, To me your iron aid impart! O teach me when the nights are chill, And my fireside is lone and still; When to the blaze that crackles near, I turn a tired and pensive ear, And Nature conquering bids me sigh For love's soft accents whispering nigh; O teach me, on that heavenly road, That leads to Truth's occult abode, To wrap my soul in dreams sublime, Till earth and care no more be mine. Let bless'd Philosophy impart Her soothing measures to my heart; And while with Plato's ravish'd ears I list the music of the spheres, Or on the mystic symbols pore, That hide the Chald's sublimer lore, I shall not brood on summers gone, Nor think that I am all alone.

Fanny! upon thy breast I may not lie!
Fanny! thou dost not hear me when I speak!
Where art thou, love?--Around I turn my eye,
And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek.
Was it a dream? or did my love behold
Indeed my lonely couch?--Methought the breath
Fann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold
And hollow, and the livery of death
Invested her pale forehead. Sainted maid!
My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave,
Through the long wintry night, when wind and wave
Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid.
Yet, hush! my fond heart, hush! there is a shore
Of better promise; and I know at last,
When the long sabbath of the tomb is past,
We two shall meet in Christ--to part no more.

FRAGMENTS.[1]

Saw'st thou that light? exclaim'd the youth, and paused: Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the stream That skirts the woods it for a moment play'd. Again, more light it gleam'd,--or does some sprite Delude mine eyes with shapes of wood and streams, And lamp far beaming through the thicket's gloom, As from some bosom'd cabin, where the voice Of revelry, or thrifty watchfulness, Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour? No sprite deludes mine eyes,--the beam now glows With steady lustre.--Can it be the moon Who, hidden long by the invidious veil That blots the Heavens, now sets behind the woods? No moon to-night has look'd upon the sea Of clouds beneath her, answer'd Rudiger, She has been sleeping with Endymion.

* * * * *

The pious man, In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms Hide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields Of ether, where the day is never veil'd With intervening vapours, and looks down Serene upon the troublous sea, that hides The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all; But on whose billowy back, from man conceal'd, The glaring sunbeam plays.

Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in gray,
Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes,
And from his tower of mist,
Night's watchman hurries down.

There was a little bird upon that pile; It perch'd upon a ruin'd pinnacle, And made sweet melody. The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear, For other note none swell'd the air but his. It seem'd as if the little chorister, Sole tenant of the melancholy pile, Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind, Yet withal cheerful. I have heard the note Echoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn, ----Much musing----

O pale art thou, my lamp, and faint
Thy melancholy ray:
When the still night's unclouded saint
Is walking on her way.
Through my lattice leaf embower'd,
Fair she sheds her shadowy beam,
And o'er my silent sacred room
Casts a checker'd twilight gloom;
I throw aside the learned sheet,
I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet.
Sad vestal, why art thou so fair,
Or why am I so frail?

Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon, And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards! Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd; So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave.

O give me music--for my soul doth faint;
I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine ear
Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint,
That may the spirit from its cell unsphere.

Hark how it falls! and now it steals along,
Like distant bells upon the lake at eve,
When all is still; and now it grows more strong,
As when the choral train their dirges weave,
Mellow and many-voiced; where every close,
O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows.

Oh! I am wrapt aloft. My spirit soars Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind. Lo! angels lead me to the happy shores, And floating pæans fill the buoyant wind. Farewell! base earth, farewell! my soul is freed, Far from its clayey cell it springs,--