And she threw the fingers in the fire,
The red flame flamed high,
And round about the caldron stout
They danced right merrily.
The third arose: She said she'd been
To Holy Palestine ;
And seen more blood in one short day,
Than they had all seen in nine.
Now Gondoline, with fearful steps,
Drew nearer to the flame.
For much she dreaded now to hear
Her hapless lover's name.
The hag related then the sports
Of that eventful day,
When on the well-contested field
Full fifteen thousand lay.
She said that she in human gore
Above the knees did wade,
And that no tongue could truly tell
The tricks she there had play'd.
There was a gallant-featured youth,
Who like a hero fought;
He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist,
And every danger sought.
And in a vassal's garb disguised,
Unto the knight she sues,
And tells him she from Britain comes,
And brings unwelcome news.
That three days ere she had embark'd,
His love had given her hand
Unto a wealthy Thane, and thought
Him dead in holy land.
And to have seen how he did writhe
When this her tale she told,
It would have made a wizard's blood
Within his heart run cold.
Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed,
And sought the battle's bed:
And soon, all mangled o'er with wounds,
He on the cold turf bled.
And from his smoking corse she tore
His head, half clove in two,-
She ceased, and from beneath her garb
The bloody trophy drew.
The eyes were starting from their socks,
The mouth it ghastly grinn'd,
And there was a gash across the brow,
The scalp was nearly skinn'd.
Insensible the maiden lay
Upon the hellish ground,
And still mysterious sounds were heard
At intervals around.
She woke she half arose,-and wild,
She cast a horrid glare:
The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled,
And all was stillness there.
And through an awning in the rock,
The moon it sweetly shone,
And show'd a river in the cave
Which dismally did moan.
The stream was black, it sounded deep,
As it rush'd the rocks between,
It offer'd well, for madness fired
The breast of Gondoline.
She plunged in, the torrent moan'd
With its accustom'd sound,
And hollow peals of laughter loud
Again rebellow'd round.
The maid was seen no more.-But oft
Her ghost is known to glide,
At midnight's silent solemn hour,
Along the ocean's side.
WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS, IN THE
MORNING BEFORE DAY-BREAK.
YE many twinkling stars, who yet do hold
Your brilliant places in the sable vault
Of night's dominions!-Planets, and central orbs
Of other systems;-big as the burning sun
Which lights this nether globe,-yet to our eye
Small as the glow-worm's lamp!-To you I raise
My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd,
My vision strays o'er your etherial hosts;
Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind,
Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold,
And sagely comprehend, thence higher soaring,
Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him,
The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze,
The great Creator! Him! who now sublime,
Wrapt in the solitary amplitude
Of boundless space, above the rolling sphere
Sits on his silent throne, and meditates.
The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven,
Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime,
Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great!"
In varied harmonies.-The glorious sounds
Roll o'er the air serene.-The Eolian spheres,
'Twas BERTRAND'S HEAD!! With a terrible scream, Harping along their viewless boundaries,
The maiden gave a spring,
And from her fearful hiding-place
She fell into the ring.
The lights they fled-the caldron sunk,
Deep thunders shook the dome,
And hollow peals of laughter came
Resounding through the gloom.
Catch the full note, and cry, "The Lord is great!"
Responding to the Seraphim.-O'er all,
From orb to orb, to the remotest verge
Of the created world, the sound is borne,
Till the whole universe is full of HIM.
Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear,
463
And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile
On the vain world, and all its bustling cares,
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss.
Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height,
What even are kings, when balanced in the scale
Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God!
Thou, the dread Author of these wondrous works!
Say, canst Thou cast on me, poor passing worm,
One look of kind benevolence -Thou can'st;
For Thou art full of universal love,
And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud,
The pageant insects of a glittering hour.
Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime,
How insignificant do all the joys,
The gauds, and honors of the world appear!
How vain ambition!-Why has my wakeful lamp
Outwatch'd the slow-paced night?-Why on the page,
The schoolman's labor'd page, have I employ'd
The hours devoted by the world to rest,
And needful to recruit exhausted nature?
Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay
The loss of health? or can the hope of glory
Lend a new throb unto my languid heart,
Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow,
Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye,
Or paint new colors on this pallid cheek?
Say, foolish one-can that unbodied fame,
For which thou barterest health and happiness,
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave?
Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs
Of everlasting punishment condign?
Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires!
How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God!
Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth,
And oh! assist me so to live on earth,
That I may die in peace, and claim a place
In thy high dwelling.-All but this is folly,
The vain illusions of deceitful life.
That at the sound the winds forgot to rave,
And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd,
Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose,
Lock'd in the arms of silence.
Spirit of her!
My only love!-O! now again arise,
And let once more thine aëry accents fall
Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm,
The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence
With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swellag
On the still air, the distant waterfall
Mingles its melody;-and, high above,
The pensive empress of the solemn night,
Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds,
Shows her chaste face in the meridian sky.
No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll
Dare now assemble at their mystic revels;
The gentle ghosts of injured innocents
It is a night, when from their primrose beds,
Are known to rise and wander on the breeze,
Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch,
And strike grim terror to his guilty soul.
The spirit of my love might now awake,
And hold its custom'd converse.
Mary, lo!
Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave,
And calls upon thy name.-The breeze that blows
On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him
In solemn music, a funereal dirge,
Wild and most sorrowful.-His cheek is pale:
The worm that play'd upon thy youthful bloom,
It canker'd green on his.-Now lost he stands,
The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew
Which bathes his aching temples gives sure omen
Of speedy dissolution.Mary, soon
Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine,
And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death.
SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER AT THE
GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS.
OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE.
MARY, the moon is sleeping on thy grave,
And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling,
The big tear in his eye.-Mary, awake,
From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight
On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low,
Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale,
Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love,
To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul,
And cheer his breaking heart.-Come, as thou didst,
When o'er the barren moors the night-wind howl'd,
And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne
Of the startled night,-Oh! then, as lone reclining,
I listen'd sadly to the dismal storm,
Thou on the lambent lightnings wild careering
Didst strike my moody eye;-dead pale thou wert,
Yet passing lovely.-Thou didst smile upon me,
And, oh! thy voice it rose so musical,
Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm,
A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE.
You bid me, Ned, describe the place
Where I, one of the rhyming race,
Pursue my studies con amore,
And wanton with the Muse in glory.
Well, figure to your senses straight,
Upon the house's topmost height,
A closet, just six feet by four,
With white-wash'd walls and plaster floor,
So nobly large, 't is scarcely able
To admit a single chair and table;
And (lest the Muse should die with cold),
A smoky grate my fire to hold,
So wondrous small, 't would much it pose
To melt the ice-drop on one's nose;
And yet so big, it covers o'er
Full half the spacious room and more.
A window vainly stuff'd about,
To keep November's breezes out,
So crazy, that the panes proclaim
That soon they mean to leave the frame.
My furniture I sure may crack-
A broken chair without a back;
A table wanting just two legs,
One end sustain'd by wooden pegs;
A desk-of that I am not fervent,
The work of, Sir, your humble servant,
(Who, though I say 't, am no such fumbler);
A glass decanter and a tumbler,
From which my night-parch'd throat I lave,
Luxurious, with the limpid wave.
A chest of drawers, in antique sections,
And saw'd by me in all directions;
So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em
Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em.
To these, if you will add a store
Of oddities upon the floor,
A pair of globes, electric balls,
Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobblers' awls,
And crowds of books, on rotten shelves,
Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves;
I think, dear Ned, you curious dog,
You'll have my earthly catalogue.
But stay, I nearly had left out
My bellows, destitute of snout;
And on the walls,-Good Heavens! why there
I've such a load of precious ware,
Of heads, and coins, and silver medals
And organ works, and broken pedals,
(For I was once a-building music,
Though soon of that employ I grew sick);
And skeletons of laws which shoot
All out of one primordial root;
That you, with such a sight, would swear
Confusion's self had settled there.
There stands, just by a broken sphere,
A Cicero without an ear,
A neck, on which, by logic good,
I know for sure a head once stood;
But who it was the able master
Had moulded in the mimic plaster,
Whether 't was Pope, or Coke, or Burn,
I never yet could justly learn:
But knowing well, that any head
Is made to answer for the dead,
(And sculptors first their faces frame,
And after pitch upon a name,
Nor think it aught of a misnomer
To christen Chaucer's busto Homer,
Because they both have beards, which, you know,
Will mark them well from Joan and Juno),
For some great man, I could not tell
But NECK might answer just as well,
So perch'd it up, all in a row
With Chatham and with Cicero.
Then all around, in just degree,
A range of portraits you may see
Of mighty men, and eke of women,
Who are no whit inferior to men.
With these fair dames, and heroes round,
I call my garret classic ground,
For though confined, 't will well contain
The ideal flights of Madam Brain.
No dungeon's walls, no cell confined,
Can cramp the energies of mind!
Thus, though my heart may seem so small,
I've friends, and 't will contain them all;
And should it e'er become so cold
That these it will no longer hold,
No more may Heaven her blessings give,
I shall not then be fit to live.
TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.
MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nursed in whirling storms,
And cradled in the winds.
Thee, when young Spring first question'd Winter's sway,
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,
Thee on this bank he threw
To mark his victory.
In this low vale the promise of the year, Serene thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone,
Thy tender elegance.
So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity in some lone walk
Of life she rears her head,
Obscure and unobserved;
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,
And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life.
TO THE RIVER TRENT.-WRITTEN ON RECOVERY
FROM SICKNESS.
ONCE more, oh TRENT! along thy pebbly marge
A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,
From the close sick-room newly let at large,
Wooes to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale.
O! to his ear how musical the tale
Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat; And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail! How wildly novel on his senses float!
It was on this that, many a sleepless night,
As, lone, he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, And at his casement heard, with wild affright, The owl's dull wing and melancholy scream, On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.
GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, Where, far from cities, I may spend my days, And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,
May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,
I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,
Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more ; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.
SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED BY A FEMALE LUNATIC TO A LADY.
LADY, thou weepest for the maniac's woe,
And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young: Oh! may thy bosom never, never know
The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung. I had a mother once,-a brother too
(Beneath yon yew my father rests his head :) I had a lover once, and kind and true,
But mother, brother, lover, all are fled! Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye? Oh! gentle lady-not for me thus weep,
The green sod soon upon my breast will lie,
And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep. Go thou and pluck the roses while they bloomMy hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY THE UNHAPPY POET, DERMODY, IN A STORM, WHILE ON BOARD A SHIP IN HIS MAJESTY'S SERVICE.
Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds
Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind
Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds;
While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined,
Lists to the changeful storm, and as he plies
His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him sad,
Of wife, and little home, and chubby lad,
And the half-strangled tear bedews his eyes.
I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn,
View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep,
Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep;
For not for me shall wife or children mourn,
And the wild winds shall ring my funeral knell,
Sweetly, as solemn peal of pious passing-bell.
THE WINTER TRAVELLER.
God help thee, Traveller! on thy journey far;
The wind is bitter keen,-the snow o'erlays
The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways,
And darkness will involve thee.-No kind star
To-night will guide thee, Traveller,-and the war
Of winds and elements on thy head will break,
And in thy agonizing ear the shriek
Of spirits howling on their stormy car,
Will often ring appalling-I portend
A dismal night-and on my wakeful bed
Thoughts, Traveller, of thee, will fill my head,
And him who rides where winds and waves contend,
And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide
His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide.
1 This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnet, "occasioned by seeing a young Female Lunatic," written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in the Monthly Mirror
This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this Volume, ni was occasioned by several little Quatorzains, missconsi Sonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. Helep leave to return his thanks to the much-respected writer, fot the permission so politely granted to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has been pleased to express of his productions.
YE, whose aspirings court the muse of lays,
"Severest of those orders which belong,
Distinct and separate, to Delphic song,"
Why shun the Sonnet's undulating maze?
And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days,
Assume, its rules disown'd? whom from the throng
The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys
Of its full harmony:-they fear to wrong
The Sonnet, by adorning with a name
Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet,
Yet not in magic texture taught to meet
Of that so varied and peculiar frame.
O think! to vindicate its genuine praise
Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favoring impulse
RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING
ELEGANT ADMONITION.
LET the sublimer muse, who, wrapt in night,
Rides on the raven pennons of the storm,
Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm,
Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight,
Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight,
Disdain the plaintive Sonnet's little form,
And scorn to its wild cadence to conform
The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight.
But me, far lowest of the sylvan train,
Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade
With wildest song;-Me, much behoves thy aid
Of mingled melody to grace my strain,
And give it power to please, as soft it flows
Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close.
ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN EOLIAN HARP.
So ravishingly soft upon the tide
Of the infuriate gust it did career.
It might have soothed its rugged charioteer, And sunk him to a zephyr ;-then it died, Melting in melody:-and I descried,
Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear Of Druid sage, who on the far-off ear Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell, Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied:
Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds, By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds Such, as 't is said, at night are known to swell By startled shepherd on the lonely heath, Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death ↑
BE hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds!
Ye pelting rains, a little rest;
Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts,
That wring with grief my aching breast.
Oh! cruel was my faithless love,
To triumph o'er an artless maid;
Oh! cruel was my faithless love,
To leave the breast by him betray'd.
When exiled from my native home,
He should have wiped the bitter tear; Nor left me faint and lone to roam,
A heart-sick, weary wand'rer here. My child moans sadly in my arms,
The winds they will not let it sleep: Ah, little knows the hapless babe
What makes its wretched mother weep!
Now lie thee still, my infant dear, I cannot bear thy sobs to see, Harsh is thy father, little one,
And never will he shelter thee.
Oh, that I were but in my grave,
And winds were piping o'er me loud, And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud!
OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD, THE NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION.
SLEEP, Baby mine,' enkerchieft on my bosom,
Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast; Sleep, Baby mine, not long thou 'lt have a mother To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest.
Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining,
Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, And I would fain compose my aching head.
Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping,
When soon an outcast on the world thou 'lt be? Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping In her low grave of shame and infamy?
Sleep, baby mine-To-morrow I must leave thee,
And I would snatch an interval of rest:
Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee,
For never more thou 'lt press a mother's breast.
1 Sir Philip Sidney has a poem beginning, "Sleep, baby mine."
These lines were composed extempore soon after the publica
tion of "Clifton Grove," in the presence of an acquaintance who doubted the author's ability to write poetry.
THOU base repiner at another's joy,
Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own,
Oh, far away from generous Britons fly,
And find in meaner climes a fitter throne.
Away, away; it shall not be,
Thou shalt not dare defile our plains;
The truly generous heart disdains
Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he
Joys at another's joy, and smiles at others' jollity.
Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed;
Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night,
Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed,
Thy happy victim will emerge to light;
When o'er his head in silence that reposes,
Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear;
Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses,
Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe;
Then will thy baseness stand confest, and all
Will curse the ungen'rous fate, that bade a Poet fall.
Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure:
Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey?
Alas! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor,
Who only boast what thou wouldst take away.
See the lorn Bard at midnight-study sitting,
O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp;
While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting,
Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp.
Yet say, is bliss upon his brow imprest?
Does jocund Health in thought's still mansion live!
Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest,
That short quick sigh-their sad responses give.
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