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By guilt and sorrow, and the opening morn Woke her from quiet sleep to days of peace. In other occupation then I trod

The beach at eve; and then when I beheld The billows as they roll'd before the storm Burst on the rock and rage, my timid soul Shrunk at the perils of the boundless deep, And heaved a sigh for suffering mariners. Ah! little thinking I myself was doom'd To tempt the perils of the boundless deep, An Outcast, unbeloved and unbewail'd.

Even now I see

Still wilt thou haunt me, Memory! still present The fields of England to my exiled eyes, The joys which once were mine! 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 boughs 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 Infamy! the hireling prey Of brutal appetite! at length worn out With famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt, Should share dishonesty-Yet dread to die!

Welcome, ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes, Where angry England sends her outcast sons, I hail your joyless shores! My weary bark, Long tempest-tost 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 disease, Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death Has lost its terrors to a wretch like me.

Welcome, ye marshy heaths! ye pathless woods,
Where the rude native 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 flocks,
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 enough,
Denies to all a superfluity.

What though the garb of infamy I wear,
Though day by day along the echoing beach
I 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,

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Agreed. Yon tree, whose purple gum bestows
A ready medicine for the sick man's woes,
Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreat
To shield us from the noontide's sultry heat.
Ah, Humphrey! now upon old England's shore
The weary labourer's morning work is o'er:
The woodman there rests from his measured stroke,
Flings down his axe, and sits beneath the oak;
Savour'd with hunger there he eats his food,
There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood.
To us no cooling streamlet winds its way,
No joys domestic crown for us the day;
The felon's name, the outcast's garb we wear,
Toil all the day, and all the night despair.

HUMPHREY.

Aye, William! labouring up the furrow'd ground,
I used to love the village clock's dull sound,
Rejoice to hear my morning toil was done,
And trudge it homewards when the clock went one.
'T was ere I turn'd a soldier and a sinner!
Pshaw! curse this whining- let us fall to dinner.

WILLIAM.

I too have loved this hour, nor yet forgot
Each joy domestic of my little cot.
For at this hour my wife with watchful care
Was wont her humble dainties to prepare;
The keenest sauce by hunger was supplied,
And my poor children prattled at my side.
Methinks I see the old oak table spread,
The clean white trencher and the good brown bread,
The cheese my daily food which Mary made,
For Mary knew full well the housewife's trade:
The jug of cider,-cider I could make-
And then the knives,-I won 'em at the wake.
Another has them now! I toiling here
Look backward like a child, and drop a tear.

HUMPHREY.

I love a dismal story: tell me thine,
Meantime, good Will, I'll listen as I dine.
I too, my friend, can tell a piteous story,
When I turn'd hero, how I purchased glory.

WILLIAM.

But, Humphrey, sure thou never canst have known
The comforts of a little home thine own:
A home so snug, so cheerful too, as mine-

'T was always clean, and we could make it fine;
For there King Charles's Golden Rules were seen,
And there-God bless 'em both-the King and Queen.
The pewter plates, our garnish'd chimney's grace,
So bright that in them you might see your face;
And over all, to frighten thieves, was hung,
Well clean'd, although but seldom used, my gun.
Ah! that damn'd gun! I took it down one morn,—
A desperate deal of harm they did my corn!
Our testy Squire too lov'd to save the breed,
So covey upon covey ate my seed.

my aim;

I marked the mischievous rogues, and took
I fired, they fell, and-up the keeper came.
That cursed morning brought on my undoing;
I went to prison, and my farm to ruin.
Poor Mary! for her grave the parish paid,

No tomb-stone tells where her poor corpse is laid!
My Children-my poor boys-

HUMPHREY.

You to your dinner-to my story I.

To you my friend who happier days have known,
And each calm comfort of a home your own,
This is bad living: I have spent my life
In hardest toil and unavailing strife,
And here (from forest ambush safe at least)

Come, Humphrey, come! thou art a lad of spirit;
Rise to a halbert, as I did,—by merit!
Wouldst thou believe it? even I was once

As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce;
But courage raised me to my rank. How now, boy!
Shall Hero Humphrey still be Numps the plough-boy?
A proper-shaped young fellow! tall and straight!
Why, thou wert made for glory!-five feet eight!
The road to riches is the field of fight!
Didst ever see a guinea look so bright?
Why, regimentals, Numps, would give thee grace,
A hat and feather would become that face;
The girls would crowd around thee to be kist!
Dost love a girl?»-«Od Zounds!» I cried, «< I'll list!»
So pass'd the night: anon the morning came,

And off I set a volunteer for fame.

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Back shoulders, turn out your toes, hold up your head,
Stand easy!» so I did-till almost dead.

O how I long'd to tend the plough again, `
Trudge up the field, and whistle o'er the plain,
When tired and sore amid the piteous throng
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 hour when I became a soldier!
In town I found the hours more gaily pass,
And time fled swiftly with my girl and glass;
The girls were wond'rous kind and wond'rous fair,
They soon transferr'd me to the Doctor's care;
The Doctor undertook to cure the evil,
And he almost transferr'd me to the Devil.
'T were tedious to relate the dismal story
Of fighting, fasting, wretchedness, and glory.
At last discharged, to England's shores I came,
Paid for my wounds with want instead of fame;
Found my fair friends, and plunder'd as they bade me
They kist me, coax'd me, robb'd me, and betray'd me.
Tried and condemn'd His Majesty transports me,
And here in peace, I thank him, he supports me.
So ends my dismal and heroic story,

To me this scanty pittance seems a feast.
I was a plough-boy once; as free from woes
And blithesome as the lark with whom I rose.
Each evening at return a meal I found;

And, though my bed was hard, my sleep was sound.
One Whitsuntide, to go to Fair, I drest

Like a great bumpkin in my Sunday's best;

A primrose posey in my hat I stuck,

And to the revel went to try my luck.

From show to show, from booth to booth I stray,
See, stare, and wonder all the live-long day.
A Sergeant to the fair recruiting came,

game;

Skilled in man-catching, to beat
up for
Our booth he enter'd and sat down by me;-
Methinks even now the very scene I see!
The canvas roof, the hogshead's running store,
The old blind fiddler seated next the door,
The frothy tankard passing to and fro,
And the rude rabble round the puppet-show.
The Sergeant eyed me well; the punch-bowl comes,
And as we laugh'd and drank, up struck the drums.
And now he gives a bumper to his wench,

God save the King, and then, God damn the French!
Then tells the story of his last campaign,
How many wounded and how many slain,
Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating,
The English marching on, the French retreating.-
« Push on-push on, my lads! they fly before ye,
March on to riches, happiness, and glory!»
At first I wonder'd, by degrees grew bolder,
Then cried, «T is a fine thing to be a soldier!»

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Aye, Humphrey !» says the Sergeant,- - that's your God be thank'd in this corner I've got a good birth.

name?

T is a fine thing to fight the French for fame!
March to the field,-knock out a Mounseer's brains,
And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains.

SAMUEL.

Talk of hardships! what these are the sailor don't know; 'Tis the soldier, my friend, that's acquainted with woe; Long journeys, short halting, hard work and small pay,

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When we work'd at the pumps worn with labour and weak,

And with dread still beheld the increase of the leak?
Sometimes as we rose on the wave could our sight
From the rocks of the shore catch the light-house's
light;

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;
How the giddy wreck reels, as the billows burst o'er!
Leap, leap; for she yawns, for she sinks in the wave!
Call on God to preserve-for God only can save!

SAMUEL.

There's an end of all troubles, however, at last!
And when I in the waggon of wounded was cast,
When my wounds with the chilly night-wind smarted

sore,

And I thought of the friends I should never see more,
No hand to relieve, scarce a morsel of bread,
Sick at heart, I have envied the peace of the dead!
Left to rot in a jail till by treaty set free,
Old England's white cliffs with what joy did I see!
I had gain'd enough glory, some wounds, but no good,
And was turn'd on the public to shift how I could.
When I think what I've suffer'd, and where I am now,
I curse him who snared me away from the plough.

JOHN.

When I was discharged I went home to my wife,
There in comfort to spend all the rest of my life.
My wife was industrious, we earn'd what we spent,
And though little we had, were with little content;
And whenever I listen'd and heard the wind roar,
I bless'd God for my little snug cabin on shore.
At midnight they seized me, they dragg'd me away,
They wounded me sore when I would not obey,
And because for my country I'd ventured my life,
I was dragg'd like a thief from my home and my wife.
Then the fair wind of fortune chopt round in my face,
And Want at length drove me to guilt and disgrace.
But all 's for the best;-on the world's wide sea cast,
I am haven'd in peace in this corner at last.

SAMUEL.

Come, Dick! we have done-and for judgment we call.

RICHARD.

And in faith I can give you no judgment at all: But that as you 're now settled, and safe from foul weather,

You drink up your grog, and be merry together.

FREDERIC.

Time, Night. Scene, The Woods.

WHERE shall I turn me? whither shall I bend
My weary way? thus worn with toil and faint,
How through the thorny mazes of this wood
Attain my distant dwelling? That deep cry
That rings along the forest seems to sound
My parting kneli: it is the midnight howl
Of hungry monsters prowling for their prey!
Again! O save me-save me, gracious Heaven!
I am not fit to die!

Thou coward wretch,
Why heaves thy trembling heart? why shake thy limbs
Beneath their palsied burden? Is there aught

So lovely in existence? wouldst thou drain
Even to its dregs the bitter draught of life?
Stamp'd with the brand of Vice and Infamy,
Why should the felon Frederic shrink from Death?

Death! Where the magic in that empty name
That chills my inmost heart? why at the thought
Starts the cold dew of fear on every limb?
There are no terrors to surround the Grave,
When the calm Mind collected in itself
Surveys that narrow house: the ghastly train
That haunt the midnight of delirious Guilt
Then vanish; in that home of endless rest

All sorrows cease!-Would I might slumber there!

Why then this panting of the fearful heart?
This miser love of life, that dreads to lose
Its cherish'd torment? Shall the man diseased
Yield up
his members to the surgeon's knife,
Doubtful of succour, but to rid his frame
Of fleshly anguish; and the coward wretch,
Whose ulcerated soul can know no help,
Shrink from the best Physician's certain aid?
Oh, it were better far to lie me down

Here on this cold damp earth, till some wild beast
Seize on his willing victim!

If to die

Were all, 't were sweet indeed to rest my head
On the cold clod, and sleep the sleep of Death.
But if the Archangel's trump at the last hour
Startle the ear of Death, and wake the soul
To frenzy ?-Dreams of infancy; fit tales
For garrulous beldames to affrighten babes!
What if I warr'd upon the world? the world
Had wrong'd me first: I had endur'd the ills
Of hard injustice; all this goodly earth
Was but to me one wide waste wilderness;
I had no share in nature's patrimony;
Blasted were all my morning hopes of youth,
Dark DISAPPOINTMENT followed on my ways,
CARE was my bosom inmate, and keen WANT
Gnawed at my heart. ETERNAL ONE, thou knowest
How that poor heart even in the bitter hour
Of lewdest revelry has inly yearn'd
For peace!

MY FATHER! I will call on thee,
Pour to thy mercy-seat my earnest prayer,
And wait thy righteous will, resign'd of soul.
O thoughts of comfort! how the afflicted heart,
Tired with the tempest of its passions, rests
On you with holy hope! The hollow howl
Of yonder harmless tenant of the woods
Comes with no terror to the sober'd sense.
If I have sinn'd against mankind, on them
Be that past sin; they made me what I was.
In these extremest climes can Want no more
Urge to the deeds of darkness, and at length
Here shall I rest. What though my hut be poor-
The rains descend not through its humble roof:-
Would I were there again! The night is cold;
And what if in my wanderings I should rouse
The savage from his thicket!

Hark! the gun!
And lo, the fire of safety! I shall reach
My little hut again! again by toil
Force from the stubborn earth my sustenance,

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THINK, Valentine, as speeding on thy way
Homeward thou hastest light of heart along,
If heavily creep on one little day

The medley crew of travellers among,
Think on thine absent friend: reflect that here
On life's sad journey comfortless he roves,
Remote from every scene his heart holds dear,
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,

Ah think what cares must ache within his breast Who loathes the road, yet sees no home of rest!

1794.

Nor to thee, Bedford, mournful is the tale
Of days departed. Time in his career
Arraigus not thee that the neglected year
Hath past unheeded onward. To the vale
Of years thou journeyest; may the future road
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 grown 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.

1794

As thus I stand beside the murmuring stream
And watch its current, Memory here portrays
Scenes faintly form'd of half-forgotten days,
Like far-off woodlands by the moon's bright beam

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MILD arch of promise! on the evening sky
Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray
Each in the other melting. Much mine eye
Delights to linger on thee; for the day,
Changeful and many-weather'd, seem'd to smile
Flashing brief splendour through the clouds awhile,
Which deepen'd dark anon and fell in rain:
But pleasant is it now to pause, and view
Thy various tints of frail and watery hue,

And think the storm shall not return again.
Such is the smile that Piety bestows

On the good man's pale cheek, when he, in peace Departing gently from a world of woes,

Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease.

1794

WITH 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. Even so it fared with life! in discontent Restless through Fortune's mingled scenes I wentYet wept to think they would return no more! But cease, fond heart, in such sad thoughts to roam; For surely thou ere long shalt reach thy home, And pleasant is the way that lies before.

1794.

This beautiful sonnet was originally addressed To a Brook near the Village of Corston; but as the alterations which Mr Southey afterwards thonght fit to make on it are considerable, the reader will not be displeased to see it such as it appeared when first given to the public.-EDIT.

As thus I bend me o'er thy babbling stream

And watch thy current, Memory's hand portrays
The faint form'd scenes of the departed days,
Like the far forest by the moon's pale beam
Dimly descried yet lovely. I have worn

Upon thy banks the live-long hour away,
When sportive childhood wantoned through the day,
Joy'd at the opening splendour of the morn,
Or as the twilight darken'd, heaved the sigh
Thinking of distant home; as down my cheek

At the fond thought slow stealing on, would speak
The silent eloquence of the full eye.

Dim are the long past days, yet still they please

As thy soft sounds half heard, borne on the inconstant breeze.

FAIR is the rising morn when o'er the sky
The orient sun expands his roseate ray,
And lovely to the bard's enthusiast eye

Fades the soft radiance of departing day;
But fairer is the smile of one we love
Than all the scenes in Nature's ample sway,
And sweeter than the music of the grove,
The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight,
EDITH! is mine, escaping to thy sight
From the hard durance of the empty throng.
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 burthen'd heart.

How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns

1794.

The gather'd tempest! from that lurid cloud
The deep-voiced thunders roll, awful and loud
Though distant; while upon the misty downs
Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain.
I never saw so terrible a storm!
Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain

Wraps his torn raiment round his shivering form,
Cold even as Hope within him! I the while
Pause me in sadness, though the sun-beams smile
Cheerily round me. Ah that thus my lot
Might be with Peace and Solitude assigned,
Where I might from some little quiet cot
Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind!

1794.

O THOU Sweet Lark, that in the heaven so high
Twinkling thy wings dost sing so joyfully,

I watch thee soaring with no mean delight;
And when at last I turn mine aching eye

That lags, how far below that lofty flight,
Still silently receive thy melody.

O thou sweet Lark, that I had wings like thee!
Not for the joy it were in yon blue light
Upward to plunge, and from my heavenly height
Gaze on the creeping multitude below,

But that I soon would wing my eager flight
To that loved home where Fancy even now
Hath fled, and Hope looks onward through a tear,
Counting the weary hours that keep her here,

1798.

THOU lingerest, Spring! still wintry is the scene,
The fields their dead and sapless russet wear;
Scarce does the glossy celandine appear
Starring the sunny bank, or early green

The elder yet its circling tufts put forth.
The sparrow tenants still the eaves-built nest
Where we should see our martin's snowy breast

Oft darting out. The blasts from the bleak north
And from the keener east still frequent blow.
Sweet Spring, thou lingerest! and it should be so,—
Late let the fields and gardens blossom out!
Like man when most with smiles thy face is drest,
'Tis to deceive, and he who knows ye best,
When most ye promise, ever most must doubt.

1799.

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