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The scalps that we number'd in triumph were there, And the youth of the nation were told
And the musket that never was levell'd in vain,- | To respect him and tread in his path.
What a leap has it given to my heart -
To see thee suspend it in peace! My Boy! I have seen, and with hope,
The courage that rose in thine eye
When the black and blood-banner was spread to the when I told thee the tale of his death.
gale, His war-pole now is grey with moss,
When thrice the deep voice of the war-drum was heard, - His tomahawk red with rust;
I remember thy terrible eyes His bowstring whose twang was death
How they flash'd the dark blance of thy joy. Now sings as it cuts the wind!
But his memory is fresh in the land,
I remember the hope that shone over thy cheek And his name with the names that we love.
As thy hand from the pole reaclid its doers of death;
Like the ominous gleam of the cloud
Ere the thunder and lightning are born.
Go now and revenge him, my Boy!
That his Spirit no longer may hover by day
O'er the hut where his bones are at rest,
Nor trouble our dreams in the night.
My Boy, I shall watch for the warriors return,
. And my soul will be sad
Till the steps of thy coming I see.
He went, and ye came not to warn him in dreams,
Kindred Spirits of him who is holy and great!
And where was thy warning, O Bird,
The timely announcer of ill?
Alas! when thy brethren in conquest return'd;
When I saw the white plumes bending over their heads INSCRIPTIONS.
And the pine-boughs of triumph before,
r - - ... it rotto - Where the scalps of their victory swung, The three utilities of Poetry: the praise of Virtue and Goodness,
the memory of things remarkable, and to invigorate the Affections.
The war-hymn they pour'd, and thy voice was not –Welsh Triad.
I call'd thee,_alas, the white deer-skin was brought; FOR A COLUMN AT NEW BURY.
And thy grave was prepared in the tent
Which I had mad dw for iov : A at thou a Patriot, Traveller?–On this field
Which I had made ready for joy!
Did FAlkland fall, the blameless and the brave, Beneath a Tyrant's banners—Dost thou boast Of loyal ardour? HAMbden perished here, The rebel HAMB pen, at whose glorious name The heart of every honest Englishman Beats high with conscious pride. Both uncorrupt, Friends to their common country both, they fought, They died in adverse armies. Traveller! THE OLD CHIKKASAH TO HIS GRANDSON. If with thy neighbour thou shouldst not accord, In charity remember these good men, And quell all angry and injurious thoughts.
Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sit, L
Ollanahta, all night I weep over thy grave!
To-morrow the victims shall die,
And I shall have joy in revenge.
Now go to the battle, my Boy!
Dear child of my son,
There is strength in thine arm, 9
There is hope in thy heart,
Thou art ripe for the labours of war. FOR A CAVERN THAT OVERLOOKS THE
Thy Sire was a stripling like thee RIVER AWON.
When he went to the first of his fields. ENTER this cavern, Stranger! the ascent
He return'd, in the glory of conquest return'd; Is long and steep and toilsome; here awhile
Before him his trophies were borne, Thou mayst repose thee, from the noontide heat
These scalps that have hung till the Sun and the Rain shelter'd beneath this bending vault of rock.
Have rusted their raven locks.
Round the rude portal clasping with rough arms, Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arrived,
The antique ivy spreads a canopy,
The day of the warrior's reward; From whose torey blossoms the wild bees collect When the banners sun-beaming were spread, Their last autumnal stores. No common spot And all hearts were dancing in joy Receives thee, for the power who prompts the song To the sound of the victory drum. Loves this secluded cell. The tide below The Heroes were met to receive their reward; Scarce sends the sound of waters to thine ear; But distinguish'd among the young Heroes that day, And yon high-hanging forest to the wind The pride of his nation, thy Father was seen: Varies its many hues. Gaze, Stranger, here! .The swan-feathers hung from his neck, And let thy soften’d heart intensely feel His face like the rainbow was linged, How good, how lovely, Nature! When from hence And his eye, -how it sparkled in pride! Departiug to the city's crowded streets,
The Elders approach'd, and they placed on his brow Thy sickening eye at every step revolts
The crown that his valour had won, From scenes of vice and wretchedness; reflect
And they gave him the old honour'd name. That Man creates the evil he endures.
They reported the deeds he had done in the war, 1796.
FOR A TABLET AT SILBURY-HILL.1
This mound in some remote and dateless day
Reard o'er a Chieftain of the Age of Hills,
May here detain thce, Traveller! from thy road
Not idly lingering. In his narrow house
Some Warrior sleeps below, whose gallant deeds
Haply at many a solemn festival
The Bard hath harp d. but perish'd is the song
Of praise, as o'er these bleak and barren downs
The wind that passes and is heard no more.
Go, Traveller, and remember when the pomp
Of earthly Glory fades, that one good deed,
Unseen, unleard, unnoted by mankind,
Lives in the eternal register of Heaven.
FOR A MONUMENT IN THE NEW FOREST.
This is the place where William's kingly power
Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel,
Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless,
The habitants of all the fertile track
Far as these wilds extend. He evell'd down
Their little cottages, he bade their fields
Lie barren, so that o'er the forest waste
lie might more royally pursue his sports!
If that thine heart be human, Passenger!
Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips
Will mutter curses on lim. Think thou then
What cities llame, what hosts unsepulchred
Pollute the passing wind, when raging Power
Drives on his blood-hounds to the chase of Mau;
And as thy thoughts anticipate that day
When God shall judge aright, in charity
Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind.
FOR A TABLET ON THE BANKS OF A STREAM.
Sri ANG En! a while upon this mossy bank
Recline thee. If the Sun rides high, the breeze,
That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet,
Will play around thy brow, and the cool sound
Of running waters soothe thee. Mark how clear
It sparkles o'er the shallows, and behold
Where o'er its surface wheels with restless speed
Yon glossy insect, on the sand below
Ilow the swift shadow flits. The stream is pure
In solitude, and many a healthful herb
Bends o'er its course and drinks the vital wave:
I}ut passing on amid the haunts of man,
It finds pollution there, and rolls from thence
A tainted tide. Seek'st thou for H Appi Ness?
Go, Stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot
Of INNocence, and thou shalt find her there.
FOR THE CENOTAPH AT EIRMEN ON VILLE.
Staa Ng Ea' the MAN of NA rure lies not here: Enshrined far distant by the Scoffer's side
Isis relics rest, there by the giddy throng
With blind idolatry alike revered!
Wiselier directed have thy pilgrim feet
Explored the scenes of Ermenonville. Rousseau
Loved these calm launts of Solitude and Peace;
Here he has heard the murmurs of the lake,
And the soft rustling of the poplar grove,
When o'er their bending boughs the passing wind
Swept a grey shade. Here, if thy breast be full,
lf in thine eye the tear devout should gush,
His Sri air shall behold thee, to thine home
From hence returning, purified of heart.
FOR A MONUMENT AT OXFOR!).
IIERE Latimer and Ridley in the flames
Bore witness to the truth. If thou hast walk'd
Uprightly through the world, proud thoughts of joy
Will fill thy breast in contemplating here
Congenial virtue. But if thou hast swerved
From the right path, if thou hast sold thy soul,
And served, with hireling and apostate zeal,
The cause thy heart disowns,—oh cherish well
The honourable shame that sure this place
Will wake within thee, timely penitent,
And let the future expiate the past.
FOR A MONUMENT IN THE WALE OF EVVIAS.
HERE was it, Stranger, that the patron Saint
Of Cambria past his age of penitence,
A solitary man; and here he made
His hermitage, the roots his food, his drink
Of Hodney's mountain stream. Perchance thy youth
Ilas read with eager wonder how the Knight
Of Wales in Ormandine's enclianted bower,
Slept the long sleep; and if that in thy veins
Flow the pure blood of Iritain, sure that blood
Hath flow’d with quicker impulse at the tale
Of David's deeds, when through the press of war
His gallant comrades follow'd his green crest
To conquest. Stranger! Ilatterill's mountain heights
And this fair vale of Ewias, and the stream
of Hodney, to thine after-thoughts will rise
More grateful, thus associate with the name
Of David and the deeds of other days.
EPITAPH on ALGERNoN sidSEY.
IIERE Sidney lies, he whom perverted law,
The pliant jury and the bloody judge,
Doom'd to the traitor's death. A tyrant King
Required, an abject country saw and shared
The crime. The noble cause of Liberty
tle loved in life, and to that noble cause
In death bore witness. But his Country rose
Like Sampson from her sleep, and broke her chains,
And proudly with her worthies she enroll d
Her murder'd Sidney's name. The voice of man
Gives honour or destroys; but earthly power
Gives not, nor takes away, the self-applause
which on the scaffold suffering virtue feels, Nor that which God appointed its reward. 1709.
John rests below. A man more infamous
Never hath held the sceptre of these realms,
And bruised beneath the iron rod of Power
The oppressed men of England. Englishman!
Curse not his memory. Miurderer as he was,
Coward and slave, yet he it was who sign'd
That Charter which should make thee morn and night
Be thankful for thy birth-place:—Englishmans
That holy Charter, which, shouldst thou permit
Force to destroy, or Fraud to undermine,
Thy children's groans will persecute thy soul,
For they must bear the burthen of thy crime.
Srn ANGER' whose steps have reach'd this solitude,
Know that this lonely spot was dear to one
Devoted with no unrequited zeal
To Nature. Here, delighted he has heard
The rustling of these woods, that now perchance
Melodious to the gale of summer move;
And underneath their shade on yon smooth rock,
with grey and yellow lichens overgrown,
Often reclined; watching the silent flow
Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals
Along its verdant course, till all around
Had fill'd his senses with tranquillity,
And ever sooth'd in spirit he return'd
A happier, better man. Stranger! perchance,
Therefore the stream more lovely to thine eye
Will glide along, and to the summer gale
The woods wave more melodious. Cleanse thou then
The weeds and mosses from this letter'd stone.
FOR A MONUMENT AT TORDESILLAS.
Spax: And' if thou art one who bows the knee
Refore a despot's footstool, hie thee hence!
This ground is holy: here Padilla died,
Martyr of Freedom. But if thou dost love
Her cause, stand then as at an altar here,
And thank the Almighty that thine homest heart,
Full of a brother's feelings for mankind,
Rebels against oppression. Not unheard
Nor unavailing shall the grateful prayer
Ascend; for loftiest impulses will rise
To elevate and strengthen thee, and prompt
To virtuous action. Itelics silver-shrined,
And chaunted mass, would wake within the soul
Thoughts valueless and cold compared with these.
FOR A COLUMN AT TRUXILLO.
PrzAnno here was born; a greater name
The list of Glory boasts not. Toil and Pain,
Famine and hostile Elements, and Hosts
Embattled, fail'd to check him in his course,
Not to be wearied, not to be deterr'd,
Not to be overcome. A mighty realm
He overran, and with relentless arm
Slew or enslaved its unoffending sons,
And wealth, and power, and fame, were his rewards.
There is another world, beyond the Grave,
According to their deeds where men are judged.
0 reader! if thy daily bread be earn'd
By daily labour, yea, however low,
However wretched be thy lot assign'd,
Thank thou, with deepest gratitude, the God
Who made thee, that thou art not such as he.
FOR THE CELL OF HONORIUS, AT THE CORR CONVENT, NEAR CINTRA.
HERE cavern'd like a beast Honorius dwelt
In self-denial, solitude, and prayer,
Long years of penance. Ile had rooted out
All human feelings from his heart, and fled
With fear and loathing from all human joys
As from perdition. But the law of Christ
Enjoins not this. To aid the fatherless,
Coinfort the sick, and be the poor man's friend,
And in the wounded heart pour gospel-balm;
These are the active duties of that law,
Which whoso keeps shall have a joy on earth,
Calm, constant, still increasing, preluding
The eternal bliss of Ileaven. Yet mock not thou,
Stranger, the Anchorite's mistaken zeal |
He painfully his painful duties kept,
Sincere though erring: Stranger, do thou keep
Thy better and thine easier rule as well.
FOR A MONUMENT AT TAUNTON.
They suffer'd here whom Jefferies doom'd to death
In mockery of all justice, when the Judge
Unjust, subservient to a cruel King,
Perform'd his work of blood. They suffer'd here,
The victims of that Judge, and of that King,
In mockery of all justice here they bled,
Unheard' But not unpitied, nor of God
Unseen, the innocent suffered not in vain
The innocent blood cried vengeance! for at length,
The indignant Nation in its power arose,
Resistless. Then that wicked Judge took flight,
Disguised in vain:—not always is the Lord
Slow to revenge! a miserable man
Ile fell beneath the people's rage, and still
The children curse his memory. From his throne
The lawless bigot who commission'd him,
Inhuman James, was driven. He lived to drag
Long years of frustrate hope, he lived to load
More blood upon his soul. Let tell the Boyne,
Let Londonderry tell his guilt and shame;
And that immortal day when on thy shores,
La Hogue, the purple ocean dash'd the dead!
FOR A TABLET AT PENSII UIRST.
| ARE days of old familiar to thy mind, O Reader? Hast thou let the midnight hour
Pass unperceived, whilst thou in fancy lived
with high-born beauties and enamour’d chiefs,
Sharing their hopes, and with a breathless joy
Whose expectation touch'd the verge of pain,
Following their dangerous fortunes? If such lore
liath ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread,
As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts,
The groves of Penshurst. Sidney here was born,
Sidney, than whom no gentler, braver man
His own delightful genius ever feign'd,
Illustrating the vales of Arcady
With courteous courage and with royal loves.
Upon his natal day the acorn here
Was planted. It grew up a stately oak,
And in the beauty of its strength it stood
And flourish'd, when his perishable part
liad moulder'd dust to Just. That stately oak
Itself hath moulder'd now, but Sidney's fame
Endureth in his own immortal works.
This to a mother's sacred memory
Her son hath hallow'd. Absent many a year
Far over sea, his sweetest dreams were still
Of that dear voice which soothed his infancy:
And after many a fight against the Moor
And Malabar, or that fierce Cavalry
Which he had seen covering the boundless plain
Even to the utmost limits where the eye
Could pierce the far horizon, his first thought
In safety was of her, who when she heard
The tale of that day's danger, would retire
And pour her pious gratitude to Heaven
In prayers and tears of joy. The lingering hour
Of his return, long-look d-for, came at length,
And full of hope he reach'd his native shore.
Vain hope that puts its trust in human life!
For ere he came the number of her days
Was full. O Ileader, what a world were this,
Ilow unendurable its weight, if they
Whom Death hath sunder'd did not meet again!
HERE in the fruitful vales of Somerset
Was Emma born, and here the Maiden grew
To the sweet season of her womanhood
Beloved and lovely, like a plant whose leaf
And bud and blossoin all are beautiful.
In peacefulness her virgin years were past;
And when in prosperous wedlock she was given,
Amid the Cumbrian mountains far away
She had her summer bower. T was like a dream
of old Romance to see her when she plied
Her little skiff on Derwent's glassy lake;
The roseate evening resting ou the hills,
The lake returning back the hues of heaven,
Mountains and vaies and waters all imbued
With beauty and in quietness; and she,
Nymph-like, amid that glorious solitude
A heavenly presence, gliding in her joy.
But soon a wasting malady began
To prey upon her, frequent in attack,
Yet with such flattering intervals as mock
The hopes of anxious love, and most of all
The sufferer, self-deceived. During those days
Of treacherous respite, many a time hath he,
Who leaves this record of his friend, drawn back
Into the shadow from her social board,
Because too surely in her cheek he saw
The insidious bloom of death; and then her smiles
And innocent mirth excited deeper grief
Than when long-look d-for tidings came at last,
That, all her sufferings ended, she was laid
Amid Madeira's orange groves to rest.
O gentle Emma' o'cr a lovelier form
Than thine, Earth never closed; nor cer did Heaven
Receive a purer spirit from the world!
The following Eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in our language. This species of composition has become po
pular in Germany, and I was induced to attem t it by an account of
the German idylls given me in conversation. They cannot properly
be styled imitations, as I am ignorant of that language at present .
and have never seen any translations or specimens in this kind.— With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from Tityras and Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsisses. No kind of
poetry can boast of more illustrious names, or is more distinguished .
by the servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers, • more silly than their sheep, - have, like their sheep, gone on in the same track one after another. Gay stumbled into a new path. iii. eclogues were the only ones which interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were burlesque. The subject would furn matter for an essay, but this is not the place for it.—1799.
stri ANG era.
Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty,
Dreaking the highway stones, and "t is a task
Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours!
Why yes! for one with such a weight of years
Upon his back—I've lived here, man and boy,
In this same parish, well nigli the full age
Of man, being hard upon threescore and ten.
I can remember sixty years ago
The beautifying of this mansion here,
When my late Lady's father, the old Squire,
Came to the estate.
Why then you have outlasted
All his improvements, for you see they're making Great alterations here.
And if my poor old Lady could rise up—
God rest her soul!'t would grieve her to behold
The wicked work is here.
st to ANG to it.
They've set about it
In right good earnest. All the front is gone;
Here's to be turf, they tell me, and a road
Round to the door. There were some yew trees too
Stood in the court.—
old M.A. n.
Aye, Master! fine old trees!
My grandfather could just remember back
When they were planted there. It was my task
To keep them trimm'd, and 't was a pleasure to me;
All straight and smooth, and like a great green wall!
My poor old Lady many a time would come
And tell me where to shear, for she had play'd
In childhood under them, and 't was her pride
To keep them in their beauty. Plague, I say,
On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have
A modern shrubbery here stuck full of sirs
And your pert poplar trees;–I could as soon
Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down!
st RAN Gen.
But 't will be lighter and more cheerful now;
A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road
Round for the carriage, now it suits my taste.
I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh;
And then there's some variety about it.
In spring the lilac and the snow-ball flower,
And the laburnum with its golden strings
Waving in the wind: And when the autumn comes
The bright red berries of the mountain-ash,
With pines enough in winter to look green,
And show that something lives. Sure this is better
Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look
All the year round like winter, and for ever
Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs
Wither'd and bare!
ol, in M.A.N.
All so the new Squire thinks,
And pretty work he makes of it! what "t is
To have a stranger come to an old house!
Stro A N Gen.
It seems you know him not?
o Llo M.A.N.
No, Sir, not I.
They tell me he's expected daily now;
But in my Lady's time he never came
But once, for they were very distant kin.
If he had play’d about here when a child
In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries,
And sate in the porch threading the jessamine flowers
Which fell so thick, he had not had the heart
To mar all thus!
Come—come! all is not wrong;
Those old dark windows—
They're demolish'd too,
As if he could not see through casement glass!
The very red-breasts, that so regular
Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs,
Won't know the window now !
sta ANG Eft.
Nay they were small,
And then so darken'd round with jessamine,
Harbouring the vermin;–yet I could have wish'd
That jessamine had been saved, which cauopied
And bower'd and lined the porch.
ol. d M.A.N.
It did one good
To pass within ten yards when 't was in blossom.
There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside;
My Lady loved at evening to sit there
And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet
And slept in the sun; 't was an old favourite dog—
She did not love him less that he was old
And feeble, and he always had a place
By the fire-side: and when he died at last
She made me dig a grave in the garden for him.
Ah! she was good to all! a woeful day
T was for the poor when to her grave she went!
st RAN Gen.
They lost a friend then?
old M.A. N.
You're a stranger here,
Or you wouldn't ask that question. Were they sick?
She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs !
She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter,
When weekly she distributed the bread
In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear
The blessings on her! and I warrant them
They were a blessing to her when her wealth
Had been no comfort else. At Cliristmas, Sir!
It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen
Her Christmas kitchen, how the blazing fire |
Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs
So cheerful red,—and as for miseltoe,
The finest bough that grew in the country round
Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went
So bountiful about ! a Christmas cask,
And 't was a noble one!—God help me, Sir!
But I shall never see such days again.
st R A N G is fa.
Things may be better yet than you suppose,
And you should hope the best.
old m AN.
It don't lock well,—
These alterations, Sir! I'm an old man,
And love the good old fashions; we don't find
Old bounty in new houses. They've destroy'd
All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk
Grubb’d up, and they do say that the great row
Of elms behind the house, which meet a-top,
They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think
To live to see all this, and "t is perhaps
A comfort I sha'n't live to see it long.
str A N Gen.
But sure all changes are not needs for the worse, |
My friend? |
May-hap they mayn't, Sir:-for all that
I like what I've been used to. I remember
All this from a child up, and now to lose it,
T is losing an old friend. There 's nothing left
As 't was;–I go abroad and only meet
With men whose fathers I remember boys;
The brook that used to run before my door,
That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt
To climb are down; and I see nothing now
That tells me of old times, except the stones
In the church-yard. You are young, Sir, and I hope
Have many years in store, but pray to God
You mayn't be left the last of all your friends.
st to ANG er.
well well you've one friend more than you're aware of
If the Squire's taste don't suit with yours, I warrant
That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste
His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady
Eer broach'd a better cask. You did not know me,
But we're acquainted now. T would not be easy
To make you like the outside; but within,