TELL me, on what holy ground
May DOMESTIC PEACE be found?
Halcyon Daughter of the skies,
Far on fearful wings she flies,
From the pomp of Sceptered State,
From the Rebel's noisy hate.
In a cottaged vale She dwells
Listening to the Sabbath bells!
Still around her steps are seen
Spotless HONOUR'S meeker mien,
LOVE, the sire of pleasing fears,
SORROW Smiling through her tears,
And conscious of the past employ
MEMORY, bosom-spring of joy.
LINES WRITTEN AT THE KING'S-ARMS, ROSS,
FORMERLY THE HOUSE OF "THE MAN OF ROSS."
RICHER than MISER o'er his countless hoards,
Nobler than KINGS, or king-polluted LORDS,
Here dwelt the MAN OF ROSs! O Traveller, hear!
Departed Merit claims a reverent tear.
Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health,
With generous joy he viewed his modest wealth;
He hears the widow's heaven-breathed prayer of praise,
He marks the sheltered orphan's tearful gaze,
Or where the sorrow-shrivelled captive lay,
Pours the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-tide
Beneath this roof if thy cheered moments pass,
Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass:
To higher zest shall MEMORY wake thy soul,
And VIRTUE mingled in the ennobled bowl.
But if, like me, through life's distressful scene
Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been;
And if, thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught,
Thou journeyest onward tempest-tossed in thought;
Here cheat thy cares! in generous visions melt,
And dream of Goodness, thou hast never felt!
LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE.
ONCE more, sweet Stream! with slow foot wandering near,
I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.
Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn)
My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn.
For not through pathless grove with murmur rude
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, SOLITUDE;
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,
The HERMIT-FOUNTAIN of some dripping cell!
Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply
The scattered cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks
With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,
Released from school, their little hearts at rest,
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
The rustic here at eve with pensive look
Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook,
Or starting pauses with hope-mingled dread
To list the much-loved maid's accustomed tread :
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,
Loiters, the long-filled pitcher in her hand.
Unboastful Stream! thy fount with pebbled falls
The faded form of past delight recalls,
What time the morning sun of Hope arose,
And all was joy; save when another's woes
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,
Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast.
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon,
Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon:
Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along!
WHO DIED OF A FRENZY FEVER INDUCED BY CALUMNIOUS
REPORTS.
EDMUND! thy grave with aching eye I scan,
And inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast-Man !
'Tis tempest all or gloom: in early youth
If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of Truth
We force to start amid her feigned caress
VICE, siren-hag! in native ugliness;
A Brother's fate will haply rouse the tear,
And on we go in heaviness and fear!
But if our fond hearts call to PLEASURE'S bower
Some pigmy FOLLY in a careless hour,
The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground
And mingled forms of Misery rise around:
Heart-fretting FEAR, with pallid look aghast,
That courts the future woe to hide the past;
REMORSE, the poisoned arrow in his side,
And loud lewd MIRTH, to Anguish close allied:
Till FRENZY, fierce-eyed child of moping pain,
Darts her hot lightning flash athwart the brain.
Rest, injured shade! Shall SLANDER squatting near
Spit her cold venom in a DEAD MAN's ear?
'Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow
In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe;
Thine all, that cheer the moment as it flies,
The zoneless CARES, and smiling COURTESIES.
Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew,
And in thy heart they withered! Such chill dew
Wan INDOLENCE on each young blossom shed;
And VANITY her filmy net-work spread,
With eye that rolled around in asking gaze,
And tongue that trafficked in the trade of praise,
Thy follies such! the hard world marked them well--
Were they more wise, the PROUD who never fell?
Rest, injured shade! the poor man's grateful prayer
On heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear.
As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass,
And sit me down upon its recent grass,
With introverted eye I contemplate
Similitude of soul, perhaps of-Fate!
To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assigned
Energic Reason and a shaping mind,
The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part,
The Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart.
Sloth-jaundiced all! and from my graspless hand
Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand.
I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows,
A dreamy pang in Morning's feverish doze.
Is this piled earth our Being's passless mound?
Tell me, cold grave! is Death with poppies crowned ?
Tired Centinel! mid fitful starts I nod,
And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod!
COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795.
WITH many a pause and oft-reverted eye
I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock
That on green plots o'er precipices browse :
From the forced fissures of the naked rock
The Yew tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest :-and now have gained the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud Towers, and Cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadowed Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea!
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my SARA here!
TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
MUCH on my early youth I love to dwell,
Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,
Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,
I heard of guilt and wondered at the tale!
Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing,
Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.
Aye as the star of evening flung its beam
In broken radiance on the wavy stream,
My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom
Mourned with the breeze, O LEE BOO!* o'er thy tomb.
Where'er I wandered, PITY still was near,
Breathed from the heart and glistened in the tear:
No knell that tolled, but filled my anxious eye,
And suffering Nature wept that one should die! +
Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast,
Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West:
When slumbering FREEDOM roused by high DISDAIN
With giant fury burst her triple chain !
Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glowed;
Her Banners, like a midnight Meteor, flowed;
Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies
She came, and scattered battles from her eyes!
Then EXULTATION waked the patriot fire
And swept with wilder hand the Alcoean lyre :
Red from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lance,
And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!
Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,
And my heart aches, though MERCY struck the blow.
With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,
Where peaceful Virtue weaves the MYRTLE braid.
And O if EYES whose holy glances roll,
Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;
If SMILES more winning, and a gentler MIEN
Than the love-wildered Maniac's brain hath seen
* LEE BOO, the son of ABBA THULE, Prince of the Pelew Islands, came over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the small-pox, and is buried in Greenwich church-yard. See Keate's Account.
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,
If these demand the impassioned Poet's care-
If MIRTH, and softened SENSE, and WIT refined,
The blameless features of a lovely mind;
Then haply shall my trembling hand assign
No fading wreath to BEAUTY'S saintly shrine.
Nor, SARA! thou these early flowers refuse-
Ne'er lurked the snake beneath their simple hues ;
No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings
From Flattery's night-shade: as he feels he sings.
September, 1792.
Content, as random Fancies might inspire,
If his weak harp at times or lonely lyre
He struck with desultory hand, and drew
Some softened tones to Nature not untrue.
My heart has thanked thee, BOWLES! for those soft strains
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring
Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring!
For hence not callous to the mourner's pains
Through Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went :
And when the mightier Throes of mind began,
And drove me forth, a thought-bewildered man!
Their mild and manliest melancholy lent
A mingled charm, such as the pang consigned
To slumber, though the big tear it renewed;
Bidding a strange mysterious PLEASURE brood
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,
As the great SPIRIT erst with plastic sweep
Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep.
As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale,
With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise,
I saw the sainted form of FREEDOM rise:
She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale-
"Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,
"Ere in an evil hour with altered voice
"Thou badst Oppression's hireling crew rejoice
"Blasting with wizard spell my laurelled fame.
"Yet never, BURKE! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl! "Thee stormy Pity and the cherished lure "Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul "Wildered with meteor fires. Ah Spirit pure! "That error's mist had left thy purged eye:
"So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy!"
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