Chapter VIII: Part 8

[Footnote 129: The book would be utterly and for ever sealed, but for our Lord Jesus Christ.]

[Footnote 130: Quails and rock pigeons are the only land-birds on the island, as there are no bushes.]

[Footnote 131: The islands of the AEgean are divided into the Sporades and Clycades; Patmos is among the Sporades.]

[Footnote 132: Evodias succeeded St Peter as Bishop of Antioch; Ignatius, disciple of St John, succeeded Evodias (_Eusebius_).]

[Footnote 133: The disciples were first called Christians at Antioch.]

[Footnote 134: "And Elijah went up to the top of Carmel" (1 Kings xviii. 42).]

[Footnote 135: The wind which blew when St Paul was shipwrecked, now called Levanter, from its violence.]

[Footnote 136: [Greek: Oroon ep oinopa ponton] (_Homer_.)]

[Footnote 137: Seven Churches of Asia.]

[Footnote 138: Adriatic.]

[Footnote 139: Sardis, now Sart. Thyatira, now Ist-kissar, or White Castle.]

[Footnote 140: A fine expression of Sharon Turner.]

[Footnote 141: Priests of Cybele.]

[Footnote 142: There were a hundred altars to the goddess in Cyprus.]

[Footnote 143: The names of the illustrious visitors who heard the sound, twelve centuries past, may be seen in Pocock.]

[Footnote 144: The pyramids. The first time the author met the celebrated Dr Clarke, before the publication of his Travels, the first question eagerly asked was, "Of what colour are the pyramids?" To his surprise, the answer was, "As white as snow." But I have used the word "pale," as more in harmony with the picture, and less startling.]

[Footnote 145: The Hermes of the Greeks, the Mercury of the Romans, the Teut of the Celts, and the great teacher of the one unknown God, before Egypt sank into the grossest superstition.]

[Footnote 146: Perhaps the idea may be fanciful, but, to my ear, nothing more clearly reflects the image than the very words of the sentence--

"R[']an [)]al[']ong [)]up[']on th[)]e gr[']ound"

Handel, in his sublime Oratorio, "Israel in Egypt," seems to have felt this.]

[Footnote 147: Thomas, as by tradition we receive, chose Parthia; Andrew, Scythia (_Eusebius_).]

[Footnote 148: "Scythicae non mitior ara Dianae" (_Lucan_).]

[Footnote 149: See the exquisite tragedy of "Iphigenia in Tauris," by Euripides. Euripides may be alluded to here, as St Paul quoted Menander.]

[Footnote 150: "Then certain philosophers of the Epicureans and of the Stoics encountered him" (Acts xvii. 18),--a singular and most interesting circumstance.]

[Footnote 151: Epicurus.]

[Footnote 152: The Hill of Mars. How striking the coincidence! Ovid says--

"Mavortis in Arce."]

[Footnote 153: Temple of Minerva, on the Acropolis.]

[Footnote 154: The celebrated gardens of Epicurus.]

[Footnote 155: Philippi and Thessalonica, in Macedonia.]

[Footnote 156: Grecian Apollo.]

[Footnote 157: Nero.]

[Footnote 158: See that most interesting chapter in Irenaeus, descriptive of the progress of the gospel to the Celts, and to the "extremities of the earth."]

[Footnote 159: Mediterranean.]

[Footnote 160: See, in Josephus, the account of Pedanius.]

[Footnote 161: This was not an uncommon circumstance during the famine and this most terrible siege. See Josephus.]

[Footnote 162: Jews crucified, by order of Titus, without the walls.]

[Footnote 163: Adommin, the supposed scene of the wounded traveller in the Gospel.]

[Footnote 164: Flowers of Carmel, growing wildly.]

[Footnote 165: The highest point of the island.]

[Footnote 166: It should be remembered, that Domitian was murdered on the 18th of October; this could not have been known at Patmos before the beginning of November.]

[Footnote 167: Applied, generally, to the conquests of Trajan.]

[Footnote 168: Allusive, as generally conceived, to the Emperor Severus.]

[Footnote 169: "To kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth" (Rev. vi. 8).]

[Footnote 170: Rev. iv.]

[Footnote 171: Rev. vii.]

[Footnote 172: I must refer to the commentators in general for an illustration of these striking passages.]

[Footnote 173: The ensign of military command in the Roman legions.]

[Footnote 174: This seems no improbable cause.]

[Footnote 175: Rev. xvi.]

[Footnote 176: Rev. xix.]

[Footnote 177: /* [Greek: Elike ge men andres Achaioi Ein ali tekmairontai, ina chre neas aginein] (_Aratus_). */]

[Footnote 178: Samuel.]

[Footnote 179: The dawn of knowledge and the Reformation; ignorance only being the parent of superstition.]

[Footnote 180: The classical reader will remember the beautiful tragedy of "Ion" in Euripides, from whom were named the Ionian islands.]

[Footnote 181: A beautiful image from Ovid.]

[Footnote 182: The Island of Roses.]

[Footnote 183: See that beautiful chapter in the Wisdom of Solomon.]

[Footnote 184: A broken column on the shore is spoken of by early writers, supposed to have been a relic of the earliest ages.]

[Footnote 185: See the 45th chapter of Isaiah.]

[Footnote 186: The classical reader will remember the farewell of Philoctates to his solitary cave in Lemnos.]

[Footnote 187: He published, it is true, one edict against the increase of the Jews and Christians in the empire.]

THE

SORROWS OF SWITZERLAND.

THE SORROWS OF SWITZERLAND.[188]

PART FIRST.

Why art thou come, man of despair and blood!
To these green vales and streams, o'erhung with wood;
These hills, where, far from life's discordant throng,
The lonely goat-maid chaunts her matin song;
This sylvan glen, where age in peace reclines,
Soothed by the whisper of his native pines;
Where, in the twilight of his closing days,
Upon the glimmering lake he loves to gaze;
And, like his life, sees on the shadowy flood,
The still, sweet eve descending! Man of blood, 10
Break not his holy musings! Innocence
And peace these vales inhabit. Hie thee hence
To the waste wilderness, the mournful main,
To caves where silence and deep stillness reign,
Where God's eye only can the gloom pervade;
And shroud thy visage in their dreariest shade!
Or, if these scenes, so beauteous, may impart
A momentary softness to thine heart,
Let nature plead, plead for a guiltless land,
Ere yet thou lift'st the desolating brand; 20
Ere yet thou bidst the peaceful echoes swell 21
With havoc's shouts and many a mingled yell!
Pause yet a moment! By the beard
Of him whose eyes to heaven are reared;
By her who frantic lifts her helpless hand;
By those poor little ones, that speechless stand;
If thou hast nature in thee, oh relent,
Nor crush the lowly shed of virtue and content!
No golden shrines can tempt thy plunder here,
No jealous castles their dark turrets rear. 30
Peeping at dawn among the mountain vines,
The village pastor's simple mansion shines
Beneath the tower, the music of whose bells
Soft o'er the azure lake each Sabbath swells.
No lighted halls that blaze till morn reply
To sounds of proud, voluptuous revelry;
But one sweet pipe, by lingering lover played,
Cheers the dim valley as the day-tints fade;
Whilst, 'mid the rocks, the torrents, and the trees,
Her little world, with pride, affection sees. 40
Survey the prospect well. Soldier! dost thou
(Thy blood-red plumage waving o'er thy brow)
Bid the poor villagers, who in the shed
Of their forefathers eat their virtuous bread,
To hard oppression bend the prostrate knee,
Or learn benevolence and love from thee!
And dost thou talk of freedom! Freedom here
Lifted with death-denouncing frown her spear;
Here joining her loud voice's solemn call
To the deep thunders of the waterfall, 50
She hailed her chosen home: these dark woods rang
As her bold war-song on the rocks she sang.
At once a thousand banners to the air
Streaming, a thousand falchions brandished bare,
Proclaimed her sons' dread homage: We will die 55
Or live thy children, holiest Liberty!
Oh think of this! Alas! the voice is vain;
Poor injured land, thy brave, thy blameless train,
Thy lovely landscapes, bursting bright around,
Thy gleam that echoed every cheering sound, 60
Thy rocks that gleamed with many a high-hung cot,
And Freedom's holy name, avail thee not!
Then rise, insulted country! in despair
Lift thy brave arm so terrible, and swear,
Swear thou wilt never sheathe the avenging steel
Till thou hast made the fell invader feel
How vain the terrors of his glittering crest,
How warm the flame that fires a patriot's breast!
How nerved their arm, opposed to tenfold might, 69
Who for the dearest hopes, their homes, their offspring fight!
And, hark! even now, methought stern Freedom called,
From the wild shores of rocky Underwald!
Rush like the mountain avalanche on those
Who, foes to you, my sons, are Virtue's foes!
Lo, where the legions of insulting France
Already on your ravaged plains advance;
See your pale daughters, they for mercy plead;
Behold your white-haired sires, they sink, they bleed!
Oh! yet your patriot energies unite
To quell the insolent oppressor's might! 80
Behold the scene where your forefathers broke
And sternly trampled on the Austrian yoke!
Behold the spot where the undaunted band
First met, and, clasping each his brother's hand,
Bade the Almighty hear their solemn vow,
That never should their injured country bow,
A slave! then lifted in the midnight air
Their spears, whilst the dun rocks echoed--We swear!
Think that the dead behold you! He whose bow 89
Laid the grim tyrant of these valleys low,
On yonder eminence yet seems to stand;
To you he dimly wares his awful hand:
Go forth, my sons, in each bold bosom swell
The injured spirit of another Tell!
And rush, like yon huge avalanche, on those
Who, foes to you, are Freedom's, Virtue's foes!
So Freedom spake: she stood august and high;
Like a pale meteor shone her troubled eye;
She smote her shield, and, with indignant look,
More awful her uplifted war-spear shook. 100
From many a wild and woodland solitude,
O'erhung with snowy-silvered mountains rude;
From glassy lakes, or where the brawling brook
Wells, sparkling, through some beech-embowered nook;
From scattered chalets, decked with mantling vines,
Above whose blue smoke wave the impending pines;
From many a covert green, or gleaming rock,
The bold defenders of their country flock!
Upon a cliff, that at gray morning throws
Its shadow o'er the deep clear lake's repose, 110
Their gallant leader stands. Children, he cries,
And one sad tear-drop gathers in his eyes,
Their arms prevail! Helvetia mourns in vain!
Bound by the ruthless victor's galling chain,
We only 'mid these rocky ramparts find
Brief shelter from the vultures of mankind;
Hither they speed their desolating sway,
They flap their bloody pinions o'er their prey;
But we have hearts, my brethren, and we know
What to our country and our God we owe; 120
And we have arms, arms that may make them rue
(Though rude our ramparts, our defenders few),
The hour when they assailed this last retreat. 123
Feel we our hearts beat high, our pulses beat?
Death calls us, yet, oh, lowly let us bend,
And pray to Him who is the poor man's friend,
That he would guard our orphans when we bleed,
And shield them in the bitter hour of need!
Now, soldier, let thy huge artillery roar,
Thy marshalled columns flash along the shore, 130
Thy armed transports with long shadow ride
Terrific o'er the lake's once tranquil tide,
And thy loud trumpets bray, as in disdain
Of the poor tenants of the snowy plain.
They fear thee not, they are oppression's foes;
Unscared, thy march of carnage they oppose;
Though their fallen brethren have in vain withstood;
Though yet thy sword be red with their best blood;
Thy sword, thy steeds, thy legions, they defy,
And death is couched within their flashing eye! 140
Age has new energies; in traces weak
An angry hectic rises on his cheek;
And as his time-touched features kindling glow,
Lead me, he cries, yet lead me to the foe!
Stern manhood o'er his boy low murmuring bends,
Then, as his deadly weapon he extends,
Proudly exclaims, Freedom or death, my son!
And thou, O God of justice, lead us on!
Hark! with one shout they rush into the fight,
The pale foe shrinks before their gathering might! 150
Fragments of rocks in wild despair they wield,
And helms and shivered swords bestrew the field.
The frantic mother, hushing every grief,
Joins the dread scene, and to some plumed chief
All pale with rage, with desperation wild,
Cries, as she smites his heart: Hadst thou a child!
Unequal strife! the scene of death is o'er; 157
Mother and child lie side by side in gore!
When evening comes, through the lone cottage pane,
No light looks cheerful in the darkening plain,
No soothing sounds stray the dim hills along,
No home-returning goat-herd trills the song;
At intervals, wild accents of despair,
Or shouts are heard, or dismal nightfires glare;
But all is dark and silent near yon heap
Where the fallen heroes of the hamlet sleep;
Save that, at times, a hollow groan is heard,
Or melancholy cry of the night-bird;
Save where some dog, amid the scene of death,
Moans as he watches yet his master's breath; 170
Whilst with despair and love that seems to speak,
He licks the blood that stagnates on his cheek.
The morn looks through the hurrying clouds, the air
Sighs as it lifts, at times, the dead man's hair;
Upon those slaughtered heaps the cold stars shine,
And Freedom sighs: The triumph, Gaul, is thine!
Now dawns the morn o'er vales with blood defiled,
Where late affection's sweetest pictures smiled.
O'er the still lake how sadly peals the bell
That sounds of every earthly hope the knell! 180
Pale on the crimsoned snow, without a home,
The sad survivors of that death-storm roam;
Their infants, outcast on the desert plain,
Demand their mothers and their sires in vain;
And when the red sun leaves the darkening sky,
Amid those gory tracks sit down and sigh.
Shores of Lucerne! where many a winding bay
Shone beauteous to the morn's returning ray;
Where rosy tints upon the blue lake shone,
And touched the rock with colours not their own; 190
Who now, with eyes that swim in tenderness, 191
Those scenes to every virtue dear shall bless!
What pleasure now can the rich landscape yield,
The sparkling cataract, the pendent field,
'Mid hoar declivities, the sunny tower
Peering o'er beeches that its roof embower,
And cottage tops with light smoke trailing slow
O'er the gray vapours looming far below!
Who shall ascend proud Pilate's[189] height, and mark
The motley clouds sail o'er the champagne dark, 200
Now breaking in fantastic forms, and now
Dappling the distant promontory's brow?
Then when the sun, that lights the scene, rides high,
And far away the scattered volumes fly,
Look up to the great God that rules the world,
By whom proud empires from their seats are hurled,
And feel a glow of holy gratitude,
That here, 'mid hollow glens and mountains rude,
Far from Ambition's march and Discord's yell,
Content with Love and Happiness should dwell. 210
Who now along those banks shall, listening, stray
When evening lights each inlet west away,
And hear the solitary boatman's oar
Dip duly as he nears the shaded shore;
Or catch the whispers of the waterfall
That through the ivied clefts swell musical?
These scenes, these sounds, could many a joy impart,
With sadness mixed. The wandering youth, whose heart
Was sick with many sorrows, resting here
At such an hour, forgot his starting tear; 220
He felt a pensive calm, sweeter than sleep,
Steal gently o'er his aching breast; the deep
And clear repose of the unruffled lake 223
His spirit seemed, unconscious, to partake;
And still the water, as it whispered near,
Or high woods, as they rustled, soothed his ear,
Like the remembrance of a melody
Heard in his infant, happy years gone by.
Now in his distant country, when, with tears,
The tale of ruffian violence he hears; 230
Hears that the spot which smiled with lovely gleam,
Like some sweet image of a tender dream,
Upon his morning path, is drenched with gore,
Its harmless tenants weltering on the shore;
He will exclaim, whilst from his breast he draws
A deep, deep sigh, Avenge, O God, their cause!
Who would not sigh for Switzerland! What heart
That ever bore in human woes a part;
That ever felt affection's genuine flame;
That ever leaped at injured Freedom's name; 240
Would not for her dark foes feel honest hate,
And swell with indignation at her fate!
If thus her lot of sorrow have impressed
Grief and resentment on a stranger's breast,
How must he hear the cruel tale of death,
He who in these sad vales first drew his breath!
'Tis his perhaps in distant climes to roam,
Far from the shelter of his early home;
Yet still, as fancy paints the spot, he sees
His father's cottage, and the mountain trees; 250
Again by the wild streams he seems to rove;
He hears the voice of her who won his love,
His heart's first love; for her he prunes the vine,
Whose clustering leaves the rustic porch entwine;
The mountain's van together they ascend;
They see Alps piled on Alps far on extend;
They mark the casual sunshine light the mass, 257
Or vernal showers along the valley pass;
Whilst tinging the dark rocks, more lovely glow
The braided colours of heaven's humid bow.
But now the maid he loved, with whom all day
He used in summer o'er the hills to stray,
The faithful maid he loved--oh! cold despair,
Freeze his warm life-blood; and that thrilling air,
Which erst he sang, when, all alive to joy,
He carolled on the Alps, a shepherd boy,
Let him not hear it now, lest tears quick start,
And madness harrow up his broken heart!
How touching was the simple strain! The tear
Of memory started when it met the ear; 270
And he whose front was rough with many a scar,
Whose bold heart bounded at the trump of war,
Stood all dissolved in sadness at its tone,
Remembering him of pleasant seasons gone.
Perhaps full many a heavy hour had passed,
Since in its native nooks he heard it last;
And when again its well-known music thrilled,
A thousand thronging recollections filled
His soul, that, sick with longing, homeward roved;
Remote from scenes which most on earth he loved, 280
Cast on a world tempestuous, bleak, and wide,
More ardent for his once-loved hills he sighed;
And sighed again to think how it might fare
With sisters, brothers, friends, and parents there;
For be its music and its name forgot,
The desert is his home, and those he loved are not!

PART SECOND.

I was a child of sorrow when I passed,
Sweet country, through your rocky valleys last;
For one whom I had loved, whom I had pressed
With honest, ardent passion to my breast,
Was to another vowed: I heard the tale,
And to the earth sank heartless, faint, and pale.
Till that sad hour when every hope had flown,
I thought she lived for me, and me alone;
Yet did I not, though pangs my heart must rend,
Prove to thy weakness a sustaining friend? 10
Did I not bid thee, never, never more
Or think of me or mine? As firm I swore
To cast away the dream, and bury deep,
As in oblivion of the dead man's sleep,
All that once soothed, and from the soul to tear
Each longing wish that youth had cherished there.
But when 'twas midnight, to the woods I hied,
Despairing, and with frantic anguish cried:
Oh, had relentless death with instant dart
Smitten and snatched thee from my bleeding heart; 20
Through life had niggard fortune bid us pine,
And withered with despair thy hopes and mine;
Yes, yes, I could have borne it; but to see
The accusing tear, and know it falls for me;
Oh cease the thought--a long and last farewell--
We must forget--nor shall my soul rebel!
Then to my country's cliffs I bade adieu,
And what my sad heart felt God only knew.
Helvetia, thy rude scenes, a drooping guest,
I sought, and sorrowing sought a spot of rest. 30
Through many a mountain pass and shaggy vale 31
I roamed an exile, passion-crazed and pale.
I saw your clouded heights sublime impend,
I heard your foaming cataracts descend;
And oft the rugged scene my heart endued
With a strange, sad, distempered fortitude;
Oft on the lake's green marge I lay reclined,
Murmuring my moody fancies to the wind;
But when some hanging hamlet I surveyed,
A wood-cot peeping in the sheltered glade, 40
A tear, perforce, would steal; and, as my eye
Fondly reverted to the days gone by,
How blest, I cried, remote from every care,
To rest with her we loved, forgotten there!
Then soft, methought, from the sequestered grove,
I heard the song of happiness and love:

Come to these scenes of peace,
Where, to rivers murmuring,
The sweet birds all the summer sing,
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease! 50
Stranger, does thy heart deplore
Friends whom thou wilt see no more;
Does thy wounded spirit prove
Pangs of hopeless, severed love?
Thee the stream that gushes clear,
Thee the birds that carol near,
Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie,
And dream of their wild lullaby;
Come to bless these scenes of peace,
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease! 60

Start from the feeble dream! The woodland shed
Flames, and the tenants of that vale are dead!
All dark the torrent of their fate hath rushed; 63
Each cheering echo of the plain is hushed;
And every joyous, every tender sound,
In the loud roaring of the night-storm drowned.
How cheerily the rocks, from side to side,
Oft to the tabor's festive sounds replied!
There, when the bells upon a holiday
Rang out, and all the villagers were gay, 70
In summer-time, the happy groups were seen;
Youth linked with beauty bounded on the green,
And age sat smiling, as the joyous train
Round the tall May-pole, tapering from the plain,
Their locks entwined with ribands streaming red,
And crowned with flowers, the rural pastimes led.
Oh! on the bleeding turf the sad flowers throw,
And weep for them that sleep in dust below;
There sleep together, in their deathbed cold,
The beautiful, the brave, the young, the old! 80
No voice is heard that charmed their earthly road:
Around their desolate and last abode
The blast that swept them to the earth yet raves,
And strews with havoc their insulted graves.
As on the lucid lake's unruffled breast
Soft silvery lights and blending shadows rest,
Above, around the heavens' blue calm is spread,
And sleeps the sunshine on the mountain's head;
Then purple rocks and woods smile to the eye,
Like fairy landscapes of the evening sky; 90
And all is sad, save where some forest bird,
With small and solitary trill, is heard.
Sudden the scene is changed, the hurricane
Is up among the mountains, wind and rain
Drive, and strange darkness closes on the vale;
And high rocks to the lightning glimmer pale;
And nought is heard but the deep thunder's roar, 97
Or vultures screaming round the desert shore.
So mourns the prospect, changed and overcast,
And shrieks the spirit in the passing blast!
But ah! how feller burst the ruthless storm
That speeds the moral prospect to deform!
To-morrow, and the man of blood may see
Again fresh verdure deck the dripping tree;
Again pure splendour light yon bursting views,
And the clear lake reflect the fairest hues;
Whilst the gay lark seems, with a livelier voice,
In scorn of his stern spirit, to rejoice.
But, hapless land, what dayspring shall restore
The lovelier morals that now smile no more! 110
Affection tender as the murmuring dove,
That in the noiseless wood her home-nest wove;
And piety, that the blue mountains trod,
With kindling eyes upraised to nature's God;
Virtues that made thy streams, and woods, and hills,
Thy lakes all sunshine, and thy shaded rills
Like pictures of no earthly paradise,
Beaming remote from sorrow and from vice.
Far from the earthly scenes that wasteful lie,
Virtue and peace, and arts and freedom fly; 120
Arts which the wild surrounding views inspired,
And freedom, such as genuine patriots fired.
When the great sun sinks in the crimson west,
And all the pines in golden pomp are dressed,
Whose daring hand shall snatch the vivid light,
That purples o'er the promontory's height;
And with a Loutherbourg's rich pencil throw
On the warm tablet all the lucid glow?
When the slow convent's bell sounds from afar,
And the dim lake reflects the evening star; 130
When shall again the rapt enthusiast rove 131
And deck the visionary bower of love?
Hushed be the Doric strain, that, in the shade
Of his own pines, the pensive Gesner played;
Which oft the homeward-plodding woodman, near,
Paused with his gray beard on his staff to hear;
Whilst his lean dog, whose opening lips disclose,
Just peeping forth, his white teeth's even rows,
Lifted his long ears with sagacious heed,
And fixed his full eye on his trilling reed! 140
High on the broad Alps' solitary van,
Where not a sound is heard of busy man,
Hark! with loud orgies, o'er the bloody dew,
Lewd Comus leads his nightly madding crew!
Strong shouts and clangours through the high wood run,
And distant arms flash to the sinking sun;
Dark forests their lone empire, the tall rocks
Their shelter, and their wealth their wandering flocks.
To the proud Macedon, whose conquering car
Rolled terrible through the ranks of armed war; 150
Whose banners chilled the plain with fearful shade;
Whose sovereignty a thousand trumpets brayed,
The Scythian chiefs spoke nobly: What have we,
King of the world, to do with thine or thee?
Far o'er the snowy solitudes we roam,
Or by wild rivers fix our casual home.
O'er the green champagne let thy cities shine;
We ne'er invaded fields or seats of thine;
Nor will we bow, proud lord, at thy decree;
Hence, hence, and leave us to our forests free! 160
But the stern soldier, with war's banners spread,
Through thy still vales his glittering squadrons led;
And wild despair, and unrelenting hate. 163
Stalk o'er thine inmost valleys desolate;
And she, that like the nimble mountain roe,
With step scarce heard, went bounding o'er the snow;
She whose green buskins swept the frosts of morn,
Who walked the high wood with her bugle horn;
She who once called these hills her own, and found
Her loveliest sojourn 'mid the hallowed ground, 170
Blessing the spot where, shaded with high wood,
And decked with simple flowers, her altar stood;
Freedom insulted sees, as pale she flies,
A monster phantom in her name arise!
On weltering carcases it seems to stand,
Waving a dim-seen dagger in its hand;
Its look is unrelenting as the grave,
Around its brow the muttering whirlwinds rave;
Its spreading shadow chills the scene beneath,
Ah! fly--it onward moves, and murmurs, Death! 180
Earth fades beneath its footstep, and around
Long sighs and distant dying shrieks resound![190]
Could arms alone o'er thy brave sons prevail,
Helvetia? No, it was the fraudful tale
Of this false phantom which the heart misled;
That spoke of peace, peace to the poor man's shed,
Then left him, houseless, to the tempest's gloom
That swept his hopes and comforts to the tomb!
High towered the grisly spectre, half concealed,
And gathering clouds its dismal forests veiled; 190
The clouds disperse, and lo! 'mid murderous bands,
Dark in its might the hideous phantom stands!
Now see the triumph of its reign complete!
Behold it throned in its own sovereign seat!
The orgies peal, the banners wave on high, 195
And dark rocks ring to shouts of liberty!
Now, soldier, lift thy loud acclaiming voice!
Children of high-souled sentiment, rejoice!
Round the scathed tree, upon the desert plain,
Dance o'er the victims of the village slain! 200
Thou who dost smiling sit, as fancy flings
Her hues unreal o'er created things,
And as the scenes in gay distemper shine,
Dost wondering cry, How sweet a world is mine!
Ah! see the shades, receding, that disclose
The direst spectacle of living woes!
And ye who, all enlightened, all sublime,
Pant in indignant thraldom till the time
When man, bursting his fetters, proud and free,
The wildest savage of the wilds shall be; 210
Artful instructors of our feeble kind,
Illumined leaders of the lost and blind,
Behold the destined glories of your reign!
Behold yon flaming sheds, yon outcast train!
Hark! hollow moaning on the fitful blast,
Methought, Rousseau, thy troubled spirit passed;
His ravaged country his dim eyes survey.
Are these the fruits, he said, or seemed to say,
Of those high energies of raptured thought,
That proud philosophy my precepts taught? 220
Then shrouding his sad visage from the sight,
Flew o'er the cloud-dressed Alps to solitude and night.
Thou too, whilst pondering History's vast plan,
Didst sit by the clear waters of Lausanne,[191]
(What time Imperial Rome rose to thy view,
And thy bold hand her mighty image drew),
Thou too, methinks, as the sad wrecks extend, 227
Dost seem in sorrow o'er the scene to bend.
With steady eye and penetrating mind,
Thou hast surveyed the toil of human kind;
Hast marked Ambition's march and fiery car,
And thousands shouting in the fields of war.
But direr woes might ne'er a sigh demand,
Than those of hapless, injured Switzerland!
Oh, may they teach, whatever feelings start,
One awful truth, that here we know in part:
Whatever darkness round his ark may rest,
There is a God, who knows what is best.
Submissive, still adoring may we stand
Beneath the terrors of his chastening hand! 240
And though the clouds of carnage dim the sun,
Bend to the earth and say, Thy will be done!

DONHEAD, 1801.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 188: Inscribed (1801) to Mrs William Douglas, a native of Switzerland.]

[Footnote 189: Mount Pilate, on the Lake of Lucerne.]

[Footnote 190: Contrast between genuine liberty and the spirit of Jacobinism.]

[Footnote 191: Gibbon completed his "Decline and Fall" in a summer-house on the banks of this lake.]

THE

VILLAGER'S VERSE-BOOK.

PREFACE.

The following compositions were written originally to be learned by
heart by poor children of my own parish, who have been instructed
every Sunday through the summer, on the garden lawn before the
parsonage house, by Mrs Bowles. The object, which, to the best of
my knowledge, is entirely novel, was briefly to describe the most
obvious images in country life, familiar to every child; and in the
smallest compass to connect every distinct picture with the
earliest feelings of humanity and piety, in language which the
simplest might understand; but which, from the objects represented,
might be read, perhaps, with some interest by those whose minds
were more cultivated. About fourteen of these little poems were
composed with this view many years ago; but it was not thought of
extending their knowledge beyond the village circle, to which they
were originally limited, except by a very few copies given away. I
have now added to the number, and revised the whole; thinking that,
when early education is so greatly extended, they may be found upon
a wider scale to answer the purpose for which they were written.
They may also prove acceptable to mothers in a higher station of
life, who might wish to impress upon the memory of their children
as they grow up, a love of natural scenes, combined with the
earliest feelings of sympathy and religion. Some of these verses,
such as "The Mower," "The Swan," _etc._, are purposely designed for
the exercise of a more advanced intellect.

THE VILLAGER'S VERSE-BOOK.

PATH OF LIFE.

1 O Lord, in sickness and in health,
To every lot resigned,
Grant me, before all worldly wealth,
A meek and thankful mind!

2 As, life, thy upland path we tread,
And often pause in vain,
To think of friends and parents dead,
Oh, let us not complain!

3 The Lord may give or take away,
But nought our faith can move,
Whilst we to heaven can look and say,
Our Father lives above.

* * * * *

SUNRISE.

1 When from my humble bed I rise,
And see the morning sun,
That, glorious in the eastern skies,
Its journey has begun,

2 I think of the Almighty Power
Which called this orb from night;
I think how many at this hour
Rejoice beneath its light.

3 And then I pray, in every land,
Where'er this light is shed,
That all who live may bless the Hand
Which gives their daily bread.

* * * * *

SUMMER'S EVENING.

1 As homeward by the evening star
I pass along the plain,
I see the taper's light afar,
Shine through our cottage pane.

2 My brothers and my sisters dear,
The child upon the knee,
Spring when my hastening steps they hear,
And smile to welcome me.

3 But when the fire is growing dim,
And mother's labours cease,
I fold my hands, repeat my hymn,
And lay me down in peace.

* * * * *

SPRING--CUCKOO.

1 The bee is humming in the sun,
The yellow cowslip springs,
And, hark! from yonder woodland's side
Again the cuckoo sings!

2 Cuckoo, cuckoo, no other note
She sings from day to day;
But I, though a poor cottage girl,
Can work, and read, and pray.

3 And whilst in knowledge I rejoice,
Which heavenly truth displays,
Oh! let me still employ my voice
In my Redeemer's praise.

* * * * *

SHEEPFOLD.

1 The sheep were in the fold at night,
And now a new-born lamb
Totters and trembles in the light,
Or bleats beside its dam.

2 How anxiously the mother tries,
With every tender care,
To screen it from inclement skies,
And the cold morning air!

3 The hailstorm of the east is fled,
She seems with joy to swell,
Whilst ever as she bends her head,
I hear the tinkling bell.

4 So while for me a mother's prayer
Ascends to heaven above,
May I repay her tender care
With gratitude and love!

* * * * *

HEN AND CHICKENS.

1 See, sister, where the chickens trip,
All busy in the morn!
Look how their heads they dip and dip,
To peck the scattered corn!

2 Dear sister, shall we shut our eyes,
And to the sight be blind,
Nor think of HIM who food supplies
To us and all mankind?

3 Whether our wants be much or few,
Or fine or coarse our fare,
To Heaven's protecting care is due
The voice of praise and prayer.

* * * * *

POOR MAN'S GRAVE.

1 Old Andrews of the hut is dead,
And many a child appears,
Whilst slowly "dust to dust" is read,
Around his grave in tears.

2 A good man gone where small and great,
And poor, and high and low,
And Dives, proud in worldly state,
And Lazarus, must go.

3 May we among the just be found,
Though short our sojourn here,
Who, when the trump of death shall sound,
May hear it without fear!

* * * * *

SABBATH MORNING.

1 The Sabbath bells are knolling slow,
The summer morn how fair!
Whilst father, mother, children go,
And seek the house of prayer.

2 Some, musing, roam the churchyard round,
Some turn their heads with sighs,
And gaze upon the new-made ground
Where old Giles Summers lies.

3 But see the pastor in his band,
The bells have ceased to knoll;
Now enter, and at God's command,
Think, Christian, of thy soul.

4 Whilst heavenly hopes around thee shine,
As in God's presence live,
And calmer comforts shall be thine,
Than all the world can give.

* * * * *

THE PRIMROSE.

1 'Tis the first primrose! see how meek,
Yet beautiful, it looks;
As just a lesson it may teach
As that we read in books.

2 While gardens show in flowering pride
The lily's stately ranks,
It loves its modest head to hide
Beneath the bramble banks.

3 And so the little cottage maid
May bloom unseen and die;
But she, when transient flowerets fade,
Shall live with Christ on high.

* * * * *

THE HOUR-GLASS.

1 As by my mother's side I stand,
Whose hairs, alas, are few and gray,
I watch the hour-glass shed its sand,
To mark how wears the night away.

2 Though age must many ills endure,
As time for ever runs away,
This shows her Christian comforts sure,
And leads to heaven's eternal day.

* * * * *

THE BIRD'S NEST.

1 In yonder brake there is a nest;
But come not, George, too nigh,
Lest the poor mother, frightened thence,
Should leave her young, and fly!

2 Think with what pain, for many a day,
Soft moss and straw she brought;
And let our own dear mother's care
Be present to our thought.

3 And think how must her heart deplore,
And droop with grief and pain,
If those she reared, and nursed, and loved,
She ne'er should see again.

* * * * *

THE MOWER.

1 Hark to the mower's whistling blade!
How steadily he mows!
The grass is heaped, the daisies fade,
All scattered as he goes.

2 The flowers of life may bloom and fade,
But He in whom I trust,
Though cold and in my grave-clothes laid,
Can raise me from the dust.

* * * * *

SATURDAY NIGHT.

1 Come, let us, ere we go to bed,
O'er the decaying embers chat,
Though little Mary hangs her head,
And strokes no more the purring cat.

2 And let us tell how prisoners pine
In silent dungeons dark and drear;
Whilst on each face the embers shine,
And all is calm and peaceful here.

3 The English cot is free from cares;
But, see, the brand is wasted quite;
Come, little Mary, say your prayers;
Kiss, mother, kiss! good night, good night!

* * * * *

SUNDAY NIGHT.

1 Let us unfold God's holy book,
And by the taper's light,
With hearts subdued, and sober look,
So spend the Sabbath night.

2 Where now the thoughts of anxious life,
Its guilty pleasures, where?
Here dies its loud and mourning strife,
And all its sounds of care.

3 Let other views our hearts engross,
To our Redeemer true,
Who seems expiring on the cross,
To say, I died for you!

* * * * *

THE APRIL SHOWER.

1 When rain-drops, glistening from the thatch,
Like drops of silver run,
Our old blind grandame lifts the latch,
To feel the cheering sun.

2 She sees no rainbow in the sky,
But when the cuckoo sung,
She thought upon the years gone by,
When she was blithe and young.

3 But God, who comforts want and age,
Shall be her only friend,
And bless her till her pilgrimage
In silent dust shall end.

* * * * *

THE ROBIN REDBREAST.

1 Poor Robin sits and sings alone
When showers of driving sleet,
By the cold winds of winter blown,
The cottage casement beat.

2 Come, let him share our chimney nook,
And dry his dripping wing;
See, little Mary shuts her book,
And cries, "Poor Robin, sing!"

3 Methinks I hear his faint reply:
When cowslips deck the plain,
The lark shall carol in the sky,
And I shall sing again.

4 But in the cold and wintry day,
To you I owe a debt,
That in the sunshine of the May
I never can forget!

* * * * *

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE.

1 Methought I heard a butterfly
Say to a labouring bee,
Thou hast no colours of the sky
On painted wings, like me.

2 Poor child of vanity! those dyes,
And colours bright and rare,
With mild reproof, the bee replies,
Are all beneath my care.

3 Content I toil from morn till eve,
And, scorning idleness,
To tribes of gawdy sloth I leave
The vanities of dress.

* * * * *

THE GLOW-WORM.

1 Oh, what is this which shines so bright,
And in the lonely place
Hangs out his small green lamp at night,
The dewy bank to grace!

2 It is a glow-worm, still and pale
It shines the whole night long,
When only stars, O nightingale,
Seem listening to thy song!

3 And so amid the world's cold night,
Through good report or ill,
Shines out the humble Christian's light,
As lonely and as still.

* * * * *

THE CONVICT.

Luke Andrews is transported! Never more
To see his sisters, mother, or the shore
Of his own country! Never more to see
The cottage smoke rise o'er the sheltering tree;
Never again beneath the morning beam,
Jocund, to drive afield his tinkling team!
When first the path of idleness he trod,
And left on Sabbath-days the house of God,
The fellowship of wild companions kept,
How oft at night his mother waked and wept!
When he is homeless, and far off at sea,
She now will sigh, Does he remember me!
Remember her! alas, the thought is vain!
She ne'er will see him in this world again.
And she is broken-hearted; but her trust,
Is still in Him whose works and ways are just.
Oh! may we still revere His dread command,
And die remembered in our native land!

* * * * *

THE BLIND GRANDFATHER.

1 Though grandfather has long been blind,
And his few locks are gray,
He loves to hear the summer wind
Round his pale temples play.

2 We'll lead him to some quiet place,
Some unfrequented nook,
Where winds breathe soft, and wild-flowers grace
The borders of the brook.

3 There he shall sit, as in a dream,
Though nought can he behold,
Till the brook's murmuring flow shall seem
The voice of friends of old.

4 Think no more of them, aged man,
For here thou hast no friend;
Think, since this life is but a span,
Of joys that have no end.

* * * * *

THE OLD LABOURER.

1 Are you not tired, you poor old man!
The drops are on your brow;
Your labour with the sun began,
And you are labouring now!

2 I murmur not to dig the soil,
For I have heard it read,
That man by industry and toil
Must eat his daily bread.

3 The lark awakes me with his song,
That hails the morning gray,
And when I mourn for human wrong,
I think of God, and pray.

4 Let worldlings waste their time and health,
And try each vain delight;
They cannot buy, with all their wealth,
The labourer's rest at night.

* * * * *

THE SWAN.

1 Look at the swan! how still he goes!
His neck and breast like silver gleam;
He seems majestic as he rows;
The glory of the lonely stream.

2 There is a glory in the war,
A glory when the warrior wears
(His visage marked with many a scar)
The laurel wet with human tears.

3 Such scenes no glory can impart,
With trumps, and drums, and noises rude,
Like that which fills his silent heart
Who walks with God in quietude.

* * * * *

THE VILLAGE BELLS.

1. Who does not love the village bells,
Their cheerful peal, and solemn toll!
_One_ of the rustic wedding tells,
And _one_ bespeaks a parting soul.

2 The lark in sunshine sings his song,
And, dressed in garments white and gay,
The village lasses trip along,
For this is Susan's wedding-day.

3 Ah! gather flowers of sweetest hue,
Young violets from the bank's green side,
And on poor Mary's coffin strew,
For in the bloom of life she died.

4 So passes life! the smile, the tear,
Succeed, as in our path we stray,
Thy kingdom come, for we are here
As guests who tarry but a day.

* * * * *

THE CAGED BIRD.

Oh, who would keep a little bird confined,
When cowslip bells are nodding in the wind;
When every hedge as with "good morrow" rings,
And, heard from wood to coombe, the blackbird sings!
Oh! who would keep a little bird confined
In his cold wiry prison? Let him fly,
And hear him sing: How sweet is liberty!

* * * * *

THE DUTIFUL CHILD

READING THE STORY OF JOSEPH TO A SICK FATHER.

Brother and sister are a-Maying gone;
By my sick father's bed I watch alone;
Light in the sun, from field to field they roam,
To bring a cowslip-ball or May-thorn home;
I sit and read of Joseph, in the land
Of Egypt, when his guilty brothers stand
Before him--but they know him not; aside
He turns his face, the bursting tears to hide:
Scarce to these words an utterance can he give;
I am your brother Joseph! Doth he live,
My father, the old man of whom ye speak?
And tears are falling on my father's cheek.
Though my loved mother rests among the dead,
And pain and sickness visit this sad bed,
We think not, whilst we turn the holy page,
Of this vain world--of sorrow and of age!
And oh, my father, I am blessed indeed,
Blessed for your sake, that I have learned to read!

* * * * *

LITTLE MARY'S LINNET.

1 Dear Mary, if thy little bird
Should, all the winter long,
Pleased from the window to be heard,
Repay thee with a song;

2 A lesson let it still convey
To all with sense endued;
And such the voice, oh! let it say,
The still small voice of love.

* * * * *

THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG.

1 My dog and I are both grown old;
On these wild downs we watch all day;
He looks in my face when the wind blows cold,
And thus methinks I hear him say:

2 The gray stone circlet is below,
The village smoke is at our feet;
We nothing hear but the sailing crow,
And wandering flocks, that roam and bleat.

3 Far off, the early horseman hies,
In shower or sunshine rushing on;
Yonder the dusty whirlwind flies;
The distant coach is seen and gone.

4 Though solitude around is spread,
Master, alone thou shalt not be;
And when the turf is on thy head,
I only shall remember thee!

5 I marked his look of faithful care,
I placed my hand on his shaggy side;
There is a sun that shines above,
A sun that shines on both, I cried.

* * * * *

THE WITHERED LEAF.

1 Oh! mark the withered leaves that fall
In silence to the ground;
Upon the human heart they call,
And preach without a sound.

2 They say, So passes man's brief year!
To-day, his green leaves wave;
To-morrow, changed by time, and sere,
He drops into the grave.

3 Let Wisdom be our sole concern,
Since life's green days are brief!
And faith and heavenly hope shall learn
A lesson from the LEAF.

* * * * *

THE GIPSY'S TENT.

1 When now cold winter's snows are fled,
And birds sing blithe again,
Look where the gipsy's tent is spread,
In the green village lane.

2 Oft by the old park pales, beneath
The branches of the oak,
The watchdog barks, when, in slow wreath,
Curls o'er the woods the smoke.

3 No home receives the wandering race;
The panniered ass is nigh,
Which patient bears from place to place
Their infant progeny.

4 Lo! houseless o'er the world they stray,
But I at home will dwell,
Where I may read my book and pray,
And hear the Sabbath-bell.

* * * * *

MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

1 My father's grave, I heard her say,
And marked a stealing tear;
Oh, no! I would not go away,
My father's grave is here!

2 A thousand thronging sympathies
The lonely spot endear,
And every eve remembrance sighs,
My father's grave is here!

3 Some sudden tears unbidden start,
As spring's gay birds I hear,
For all things whisper to my heart,
My father's grave is here!

4 Young hope may blend each colour gay,
And fairer views appear;
But, no! I will not go away,
My father's grave is here!

* * * * *

THE SWALLOW AND THE RED-BREAST.

AN APOLOGUE.

The swallows, at the close of day,
When autumn shone with fainter ray,
Around the chimney circling flew,
Ere yet they bade a long adieu,
To climes where soon the winter drear
Shall close the unrejoicing year.
Now with swift wing they skim aloof,
Now settle on the crowded roof,
As counsel and advice to take,
Ere they the chilly north forsake.
Then one, disdainful, turned his eye,
Upon a red-breast twittering nigh,
And thus began, with taunting scorn:
Thou household imp, obscure, forlorn,
Through the deep winter's dreary day,
Here, dull and shivering, shalt thou stay;
Whilst we, who make the world our home,
To softer climes impatient roam,
Where summer, still on some green isle
Rests, with her sweet and lovely smile?
Thus speeding, far and far away,
We leave behind the shortening day.
'Tis true (the red-breast answered, meek)
No other scenes I ask, or seek;
To every change alike resigned,
I fear not the cold winter's wind.
When spring returns, the circling year
Shall find me still contented here;
But whilst my warm affections rest
Within the circle of my nest,
I learn to pity those that roam,
And love the more my humble home.

* * * * *

THE BLIND MAN OF SALISBURY CATHEDRAL.

There is a poor blind man, who, every day,
In summer sunshine, or in winter's rain,
Duly as tolls the bell, to the high fane
Explores, with faltering footsteps, his dark way,
To kneel before his Maker, and to hear
The chaunted service, pealing full and clear.
Ask why alone in the same spot he kneels
Through the long year. Oh, the wide world is cold,
As dark, to him! Here he no longer feels
His sad bereavement. Faith and Hope uphold
His heart; he feels not he is poor and blind,
Amid the unpitying tumult of his mind.
As through the aisles the choral anthems roll,
His soul is in the choirs above the skies,
And songs far off of angel companies,
When this dim earth hath perished like a scroll.
Oh! happy if the rich, the vain, the proud--
The plumed actors in life's motley crowd--
Since pride is dust, and life itself a span,
Would learn one lesson from a poor blind man!

* * * * *

THE BLIND SOLDIER AND HIS DAUGHTER.

1 Old soldier! old soldier! the beams of the day,
That shone on thy sabre, have long passed away,
And thy sun is gone down, and thy few hairs are gray,
Old soldier!

2 The drum and the hurrahs, where victory led,
No longer are heard on the battle-field red;
Thy comrades in glory are scattered or dead,
Old soldier!

3 Perhaps thou wert foremost of some gallant band,
By Acre's white walls, or in that ancient land
Where the sphynx and gray pyramid shaded the sand,
Old soldier!

4 Left lonely and poor, but to fortune resigned,
Forgetting the trumpet that clanged in the wind,
Thou turnest thy organ unnoticed and blind,
Old soldier!

5 That faded red jacket still speaks of some pride,
And a dutiful daughter is seen at thy side,
To beat her light drum, and thy footsteps to guide,
Old soldier!

6 Ah! woe to the heart that would seek to betray,
Or turn from a desolate father away,
That dutiful child, of thy age the last stay,
Old soldier!

7 But may every true Briton, whose country is dear,
Bestow a small boon, now the season is drear,
Thy warm chimney corner at Christmas to cheer,
Old soldier!

8 Then the thought of the days of past glory shall spring,
And wiping one tear from thy cheek, thou shalt sing,
Old England for ever, and God save the King!
Old soldier!

* * * * *

THE LITTLE SWEEP.

WRITTEN FOR JAMES MONTGOMERY'S CHIMNEY-SWEEPER'S ALBUM.

1 They sing of the poor sailor-boy, who wanders o'er the deep,
But few there are who think upon the friendless little sweep!
In darkness to his dreary toil, through winter's frost and snows,
When the keen north wind is piping shrill, the shivering urchin goes.

2 He has no father; and from grief, his mother's eyes are dim,
And none beside, in all the world, awakes to pray for him;
For him no summer Sundays smile, no health is in the breeze;
His mind is dark as his face, a prey to dire disease.[192]

3 O English gentlemen! your hearts have bled for the black slave,--
You heard his melancholy moan from the Atlantic wave;
He thought upon his father's land, and cried, A long farewell,
But blessed you, gazing at the sun, when first his fetters fell.

4 And if ye plead for creatures dumb, and deem their fate severe,
Shall _human_ wrongs, in _your own_ land, call forth no generous tear?
Humanity implores; awake from apathy's cold sleep,
And when you plead for others' wrongs, forget not the poor sweep.

5 When summer comes, the bells shall ring, and flowers and hawthorns
blow,
The village lasses and the lads shall all a-Maying go:
Kind-hearted lady, may thy soul in heaven a blessing reap,
Whose bounty at that season flows, to cheer the little sweep.[193]

6 'Tis yours, ye English gentlemen, such comforts to prolong;
'Tis yours the friendless to protect, and all who suffer wrong;
But _one_ day in the toiling year the friendless sweep is gay,
Protect, and smiling industry shall make his long year May.

* * * * *

THE BLACKSMITH.