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By guilt and sorrow, and the opening morn
No more condemu'd the mercenary tool
HUMPHREY AND WILLIAM.
Still wilt thou haunt me, Memory! still present The fields of England to my exiled eyes, The joys which once were mine! Even now I see The lowly lovely dwelling! even now Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls, Where fearlessly the red-breasts chirp around To ask their morning meal: and where at eve I loved to sit and watch the rook sail by, And hear his hollow tones, what time he sought The church-yard elm, that with its ancient bouglis Full-foliaged half conceal'd the house of God; That holy house, where I so oft have heard My father's voice explain the wondrous works Of heaven to sinful man. Ah! little deem'd His virtuous bosom, that his shameless child So soon should spurn the lesson! sink, the slave Of Vice and Jofamy! the lireliny prey Of brutal appetite ! at length worn out With famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt, Should share dishonesty-Yet dread to die!
HUMPHREY. Seest thou not, William, that the scorching Sun Ry this time half his daily race has run? The savage thrusts his light canoe to shore, And hurries homeward with his fishy store. Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soil, To cat our dinner and to rest from toil!
Welcome, ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes, Where angry England sends her outcast sons, I hail your joyless shores! My weary bark, Long tempest-lost on Life's inclement sea, Here hails her haven! welcomes the drear scene, The marshy plain, the briar-entangled wood, And all the perils of a world unknown. For Elinor has nothing now to fear From fickle Fortune! All her rankling shafts, Barb'd with disgrace, and venom'd with discase, Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death las lost its terrors to a wretch like me.
Agreed. Yon tree, whose purple gum bestows
and sits beneath the oak;
Welcome, ye marshy heathis! ye pathless woods, Where the rude pative rests his wearied frame Beneath the sheltering shade: where, when the storm, As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky, Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seek The dripping shelter. Welcome, ye wild plains Unbroken by the plough, undelved by hand Of patient rustic; where for lowing herds, And for the music of the bleating tlocks, Alone is heard the kangaroo's sad note Deepening in distance. Welcome, ye rude climes, The realm of Nature ; for, as yet unknown The crimes and comforts of luxurious life, Nature benignly gives to all enoughi, Denics to all a superfluity. What though the garb of infamy I wear, Though day by day along the echoing beach J cull the wave-worn shells; yet day by day I earn in honesty my frugal food, And lay me down at night to calm repose,
I too have loved this hour, nor yet forgot
Come, Humphrey, come! thou art a lad of spirit;
Wouldst thou believe it? even I was once
As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce;
Didst ever see a guinca look so bright?
The girls would crowd around thec to be kist!
Dost love a girl?»-«Od Zounds!» I cried, « I 'll list! So covey upon covey ate my secd.
So pass'd the night : anon the morning came,
« Back shoulders, turn out your toes, hold up your head, That cursed morning brought on my undoing ; Stand casy!» so I did-till almost dead. I went to prison, and my farm to ruin.
O how I long'd to tend the plough again, Poor Mary! for her grave the parish paid,
Trudge up the field, and whistle o'er the plain, No lomb-stone tells where her poor corpse is laid! When tired and sore amid the piteous throng My Children--my poor boys
Hungry and cold and wet I limp'd along,
And growing fainter as I pass'd and colder,
Come!-Grief is dry.- Cursed that ill bour when I became a soldier! You to your dinner--to my story I.
In town I found the hours more gaily pass, To you my friend who happier days lave known, And time fled swiftly with my girl and glass; And cach calm comfort of a home your own,
The girls were wondrous kind and wondrous fair, This is bad living : I have spent my
They soon transferr'd me to the Doctor's care; In hardest soil and unavailing strife,
The Doctor undertook to cure the evil, And here (from forest ambush safc at least)
And he almost transferrd me to the Devil. To me this scanty pittance seems a feast.
'T were tedious to relate the dismal story I was a ploughi-boy once; as free from woes
Of fighting, fasting, wretchedness, and glory. And blithesome as the lark with wliom I rose.
At last discharged, to England's shores I came, Each evening at return a meal I found;
Paid for my wounds with want instead of fame; And, though my bed was hard, my sleep was sound. Found my fair friends, and plunder'd as they bade me One Whitsuntide, to go to Fair, I drest
They kist me, coax'd me, robb'd me, and betray'd me. Like a great bumpkin in my Sunday's best;
Tried and condemn'd llis Majesty transports me, A primrose posry in my bat I stuck,
And here in peace, I thank liim, be supports me. And to the revel went to try my luck.
So ends my dismal and heroic story,
JOHN, SAMUEL, AND RICHARD.
"T is a calm pleasant evening, the light fades away,
It is but to work, and we must be supported,
Dick! Success here to Botany-Bay!
Success if you will,-- but God send me away! Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating, The English marching on, the French retreating.- You lubberly landsmen doo't know when you're well! « Push on--push on, my lads! tey fly before ye, Hadst thou known half the fiardships of which I can tell March on to riches, happiness, and glory!»
The sailor has no place of safely in store; At first I wonder d, by degrees grew bolder,
From the tempest at sea, to the press-gang on shore! Then cried, « 'T is a fine thing to be a soldier'» When Roguery rules all the rest of the carth, « Aye, Humphrey!» says the Scrgeant, ,-« that's your God be thank'd in this corner I've got a good birth.
pame? 'T is a fine thing to fight the French for fame! Talk of hardships! what these are the sailor don't know; March to the field,-knock out a Mounseer's brains, 'T is the soldier, my friend, that's acquainted with woe; And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your paips. Long journeys, short halting, hard work and small paj,
To be popt at like pigeons for sixpence a day!
When we work'd at the pumps worn with labour and Thank God I'm safe quarter'd at Botany-Bay.
And with dread still beheld the increase of the leak?
Sometimes as we rose on the wave couid our sight
In vain to the beach to assist us they press,
We fire faster and faster our guns of distress;
Still with rage unabating the wind and waves roar;
llow the giddy wreck reels, as the billows burst o'er! Done. 'T is a wager, and I shall be winner; Leap, leap; for she yawns, for she sinks in the wave! Thou wilt go without grog, Sam, to-morrow at dinner. Call on God to preserve-for God only can save!
And when I in the waggon of wounded was cast,
When my wounds with the chilly night-wind smarted And was drilld to repentance and reason to-morrow.
And I thought of the friends I should never see more,
No hand to relieve, scarce a morsel of bread,
Left to vot in a jail till by treaty set free,
I liad gain'd enough glory, some wounds, but no good,
When I think what I've suffer'd, and where I am now,
I curse him who snared me away from the plough. All chill'd by the wind and benumb'd by the rain.
When I was discharged I went home to my wife,
There in comfort to spend all the rest of
And though little we had, were with little content;
And whenever I listen'd and hicard the wind roar, Wet and weary bour'd, yet sung to the blast.
I bless'd God for little
my snug cabin on shore.
At midnight they seized me, they drage'd me away, I have march'd, trumpets sounding, drums beating. They wounded me sore when I would not obey, flags flying,
And because for my country I'd ventured my life, Where the music of war drown'd the shrieks of the I was drage'd like a thief from my home and my wife. dying,
Then the fair wind of fortune chopt round in my face, When the shots whizz'd around me all dangers defied,
And Want at length drove me to guilt and disgrace. Push'd on when my comrades fell dead at my side;
But all 's for the best ;-on the world's wide sea cast,
I am haven'd in peace in this corner at last.
Come, Dick! we have done-and for judgment we call.
And in faith I can give you no judgment at all:
But that as you 're now settled, and safe from foul
You drink up your grog, and be merry together.
Time, Night. Scene, The Woods.
WHERE shall I turn me? whither shall I bend
My weary way? thus worn with toil and faint,
Uov through the thorny mazes of this wood
Attain my distant dwelling? That deep cry
That rings along the forest seems to sound
My parting koell: it is the midnight howl
Again! O save me-save me, gracious Heaven !
I am not fit to die !
Thou coward wretch,
So lovely in existence? wouldst thou drain
And quick-ear'd guilt will never start alarm'd
Death! Where the magic in that empty name
Whom fancy still will portray to my sight,
This dreary gloom of dull monastic night.
At evening's closing hour I quit the throny,
like me hier solitary song.
Say, that of all her charms I love to speak, In fancy feel the magic of her eye,
In fancy view the smile illume her check, Court the lone hour when silence stills the grove, And heave the sighi of Memory and of Love.
Why then this panting of the fearful heart?
If to die
heart. ETERNAL One, thou knowest llow that poor heart even in the bitter hour Of lewdest revelry bas inly yearu'd For peace!
My Father! I will call on thee,
Hark! the gun!
Think, Valentine, as speeding on thy way
Homeward thou hastest light of heart along,
The medley crew of travellers among,
On life's sad journey comfortless he roves,
From him he values, and from her he loves. And when, disgusted with the vain and dull
Whom chance companions of thy way may doom, Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full,
Turns to itself and meditates on home,
Not to thee, Bedford, mournful is the tale
Of days departed. Time in his career
Arraigos not thee that the neglected year
Be pleasant as the past! and on my friend
Friendship and Love, best blessings! still attend, Till full of days he reach the calm abode Where Nature slumbers. Lovely is the age
Of Virtue: with such reverence we behold
The silver hairs, as some grey oak crown old That whilom mock'd the rushing tempest's rage,
Now like the monument of strength decay'd. With rarely-sprinkled leaves casting a trembling shade.
As thus I stand beside the murmuring stream
And watch its current, Memory here portrays
Scenes faintly form of half-forgotten days, Like far-off woodlands by the moon's bright beam
Dimly descried, but lovely. I have worn
Fair is the rising morn when o'er the sky Amid these haunts the heavy hours away,
The orient sun expands his roseate ray, When Childhood idled through the Sabbath-day; And lovely to the bard's enthusiast eye Risen to my tasks at winter's earliest morn;
Fades the soft radiance of departing day; And when the twilight slowly darken'd, here, But fairer is the smile of one we love Thinking of home, and all of heart forlorn,
Than all the scenes in Nature's ample sway, Have sigh'd and shed in silence many a tear.
And sweeter than the music of the grove, Dream like and indistinct those days appear,
The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight, As the faint sounds of this low brooklet borne
Edita! is mine, escaping to thy sight Upon the breeze, reach fitfully the ear."
From the hard durance of the empty throng. 1794 Too swiftly then towards the silent night,
Ye hours of happiness ! ye speed along;
Whilst I, from all the World's cold cares apart,
Pour out the feelings of my burthea'd heart. TO THE EVENING RAINBOW.
1794. Mild arch of promise! on the evening sky
Thou shinese fair with many a lovely ray Each in the other melting.
Much mise eye
How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns
The gather'd tempest! from that lurid cloud Delights to linger on thce; for the day,
The deep-voiced thunders roll, awful and loud Changeful and many-weather'd, seem'd to smile
Though distanı; while upon the misty downs Flashing brief splendour through the clouds awhile,
Fast falls in shadowy sereaks the pelting rain. Which deepen'd dark anon and fell in rain :
I never saw so terrible a storm! But pleasant is it now to pause, and view
Perhaps some way-woro traveller in vain Thy various tints of frail and watery hue,
Wraps his torn raiment round his shivering form, And think the storm shall not return again.
Cold even as llope within him! I the while Such is the smile that Piety bestows
Pause me in sadness, though the sun-beains smile Ou the good man's pale cheek, when he, in peace
Cheerily round me. Al that thus my lot Departing gently from a world of woes,
Miglie be with Peace and Solitude assigned, Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease.
Where I might from some little quiet cot 1794. Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankiod !
Witi many a weary step, at length I gain
Thy summit, Lansdown; and the cool breeze plays
Gratefully round my brow, as hence I gaze Back on the fair expanse of yonder plain.
'T was a long way and tedious! To the eye Though fair the extended vale, and fair to view The autumnal leaves of many a faded hue,
That eddy in the wild gust moaning by.
Yet wept to think they would return no more!
O mnou sweet Lark, that in the heaven so high
I watch thee soaring with no mcan delight;
That lags, how far below that lofty flight,
Not for the joy it were in yon bluc light
Upward to plunge, and from my heavenly height
But that I soon would wing my eager flight
This beautiful sonnet was originally addressed. To a Brook near the Village of Corston ;, but as the alterations which ar Soutley Taou lingcrest, Spring! still wintry is the scene, afterwards thongbt fit to make on it are considerable, the reader will not be displeased to see it such as it appeared when first given
The fields their dead and sapless russet wear; to the public.- Epit.
Scarce does the glossy celaudine appear
Starring the sunny bank, or early green
The elder yet its circling tufts put forthi.
The sparrow feuants still the eaves-built nest
Where we should see our martin's snowy breast Dimly descried yet lovely. I have worn
Oft darting out. The blasts from the bleak north Upon thy banks the live-long hour away, When sportive childhood wantoned through the day,
And from the keener east still frequent blow. Joy'd at the opening splendour of the moru,
Sweet Spring, thou lingerest! and it should be so,Or as the twilight darken'd, heaved the sight
Late let the fields and gardens blossom out! Thinking of distant home; as down my cheek
Like man when most with smiles thy face is drest, At the food thought slow stealing on, would speak The silent eloquence of the full eye.
'Tis 10 deceive, and he who knows Dim are the long past days, you still they please
When most ye promise, ever most must doubt. As thy soft sounds balf beard, borne on the inconstant breeze.