Poems

REFLECTIONS

UPON THE SUBJECT—

Quid juvat errores, mersâ jam puppe, fateri?
Quid lacrymæ delicta juvant commissa secutæ?
Claudian. in Eutropium, lib. ii. lin. 7.

What avails it when shipwreck’d, that error appears?
Are the crimes we commit, wash’d away by our tears?

Reflections.

“Quid juvat errores, mersâ jam puppe, fateri?
“Quid lacrymæ delicta juvant commissa secutæ?”
Claudian. in Eutrop. lib. ii. lin. 7.

When all the fiercer Passions cease,
(The Glory and Disgrace of Youth,)
When the deluded Soul in peace,
Can listen to the Voice of Truth;
When we are taught in whom to trust,
And how to spare, to spend, to give;
(Our Prudence kind, our Pity just,)
’Tis then we rightly learn to live.

Its Weakness when the Body feels,
Nor Danger in Contempt defies;
To Reason, when Desire appeals,
When on Experience, Hope relies;
When every passing Hour we prize,
Nor rashly on our Follies spend;
But use it as it quickly flies,
With sober Aim, to serious End:
When Prudence bounds our utmost Views,
And bids us Wrath and Wrong forgive;
When we can calmly gain or lose,
’Tis then we rightly learn to live.

Yet thus when we our Way discern,
And can upon our Care depend,
To travel safely, when we learn,
Behold! we’re near our Journey’s End.
We’ve trod the Maze of Error round,
Long wand’ring in the winding Glade;
And now the Torch of Truth is found,
It only shews us where we stray’d:
Light for ourselves, what is it worth
When we no more our Way can choose?
For others when we hold it forth,
They in their pride, the Boon refuse.

By long Experience taught, we now
Can rightly judge of Friends and Foes,
Can all the Worth of these allow,
And all their Faults discern in those;
Relentless Hatred, erring Love,
We can for sacred Truth forego;
We can the warmest Friend reprove,
And bear to praise the fiercest Foe:
To what effect? our Friends are gone,
Beyond Reproof, Regard, or Care;
And of our Foes remains there one,
The mild relenting Thoughts to share?

Now ’tis our boast that we can quell
The wildest Passions in their Rage;
Can their destructive Force repel,
And their impetuous Wrath assuage:
Ah! Virtue, dost thou arm when now,
This bold rebellious Race are fled;
When all these Tyrants rest, and thou
Art warring with the mighty Dead?
Revenge, Ambition, Scorn, and Pride,
And strong Desire and fierce Disdain,
The Giant-brood by thee defied,
Lo! Time’s resistless Strokes have slain.

Yet Time, who could that Race subdue,
(O’erpow’ring Strength, appeasing Rage,)
Leaves yet a persevering Crew,
To try the failing Powers of Age;
Vex’d by the constant Call of these,
Virtue awhile for Conquest tries,
But weary grown and fond of Ease,
She makes with them a Compromise;
Av’rice himself she gives to Rest,
But rules him with her strict Commands;
Bids Pity touch his torpid Breast,
And Justice hold his eager Hands.

Yet is there nothing Men can do,
When chilling Age comes creeping on?
Cannot we yet some Good pursue?
Are Talents buried? Genius gone?
If Passions slumber in the Breast,
If Follies from the Heart be fled;
Of Laurels let us go in quest,
And place them on the Poet’s Head.

Yes, we’ll redeem the wasted Time,
And to neglected Studies flee;
We’ll build again the lofty Rhyme
Or live, Philosophy, with Thee;
For Reasoning clear, for Flight sublime,
Eternal Fame Reward shall be;
And to what glorious Heights we’ll climb,
Th’ admiring Crowd shall envying see.

Begin the Song! begin the Theme!—
Alas! and is Invention dead?
Dream we no more the golden Dream?
Is Mem’ry with her Treasures fled?
Yes! ’tis too late,—now Reason guides
The Mind, sole Judge in all Debate;
And thus th’ important Point decides,
For Laurels, ’tis, alas! too late.
What is possest, we may retain,
But for new Conquests strive in vain.

Beware then Age, that what was won,
In Life’s past Labours, Studies, Views,
Be lost not, now the Labour’s done,
When all thy Part is,—not to lose:
When thou canst toil or gain no more,
Destroy not what was gain’d before.

For, all that’s gain’d of all that’s Good,
When Time shall his weak Frame destroy,
(Their Use then rightly understood,)
Shall Man, in happier State, enjoy.
Oh! Argument for Truth divine,
For Study’s Cares, for Virtue’s Strife;
To know th’ Enjoyment will be thine,
In that renew’d, that endless Life!

SIR EUSTACE GREY:

A Poem.

SIR EUSTACE GREY.

Scene.—A MADHOUSE.

Persons.

VISITOR, PHYSICIAN, AND PATIENT.

Veris miscens falsa.—
Seneca in Herc. furente.

VISITOR.

I’ll know no more;—the Heart is torn
By Views of Woe, we cannot heal;
Long shall I see these Things forlorn,
And oft again their Griefs shall feel,
As each upon the Mind shall steal;
That wan Projector’s mystic Style,
That lumpish Idiot leering by,
That peevish Idler’s ceaseless Wile,
And that poor Maiden’s half-form’d Smile,
While struggling for the full-drawn Sigh!—-
I’ll know no more.

PHYSICIAN.

— Yes, turn again;
Then speed to happier Scenes thy Way,
When thou hast view’d, what yet remain,
The Ruins of Sir Eustace Grey,
The Sport of Madness, Misery’s Prey:
But he will no Historian need,
His Cares, his Crimes will he display,
And shew (as one from Frenzy freed)
The proud-lost Mind, the rash-done Deed.

That Cell, to him is Greyling Hall:—
Approach; he’ll bid thee welcome there;
Will sometimes for his Servant call,
And sometimes point the vacant Chair:
He can, with free and easy air,
Appear attentive and polite;
Can veil his Woes in Manners fair,
And Pity with Respect excite.

PATIENT.

Who comes?—Approach!—‘Tis kindly done:—
My learn’d Physician, and a Friend,
Their Pleasures quit, to visit One,
Who cannot to their Ease attend,
Nor Joys bestow, nor Comforts lend,
As when I liv’d so blest, so well,
And dream’d not, I must soon contend
With those malignant Powers of Hell.

PHYSICIAN.

“Less warmth, Sir Eustace, or we go.”—

PATIENT.

See! I am calm as Infant-Love,
A very Child, but one of Woe,
Whom you should pity, not reprove:—
But Men at ease, who never strove
With Passions wild, will calmly show,
How soon we may their Ills remove,
And Masters of their Madness grow.

Some twenty Years I think are gone,—
(Time flies, I know not how, away,)
The Sun upon no happier shone,
Nor prouder Man, than Eustace Grey.
Ask where you would, and all would say,
The Man admir’d and prais’d of all,
By Rich and Poor, by Grave and Gay,
Was the young Lord of Greyling Hall.
Yes! I had Youth and rosy Health;
Was nobly form’d, as Man might be;
For Sickness then, of all my Wealth,
I never gave a single Fee:
The Ladies fair, the Maidens free,
Were all accustom’d then to say,
Who would an handsome Figure see,
Should look upon Sir Eustace Grey.

He had a frank and pleasant Look,
A cheerful Eye and Accent bland;
His very Speech and Manner spoke
The generous Heart, the open Hand;
About him all was gay or grand,
He had the Praise of Great and Small;
He bought, improv’d, projected, plann’d,
And reign’d a Prince at Greyling Hall.

My Lady!—she was all we love;
All Praise (to speak her Worth) is faint;
Her Manners shew’d the yielding Dove,
Her Morals, the seraphic Saint;
She never breath’d nor look’d Complaint,
No Equal upon Earth had she:—-
Now, what is this fair Thing I paint?
Alas! as all that live, shall be.
There was beside, a gallant Youth,
And him my Bosom’s Friend, I had:—-
Oh!I was rich—in very truth,
It made me proud—it made me mad!—
Yes I was lost—but there was Cause!——
Where stood my Tale?—I cannot find—
But I had all Mankind’s Applause,
And all the Smiles of Womankind.

There were two Cherub-things beside,
A gracious Girl, a glorious Boy;
Yet more to swell my full-blown Pride,
To varnish higher my fading Joy,
Pleasures were ours without alloy,
Nay Paradise,—- till my frail Eve
Our Bliss was tempted to destroy;
Deceiv’d and fated to deceive.

But I deserv’d; for all that time,
When I was lov’d, admir’d, caress’d,
There was within, each secret Crime,
Unfelt, uncancell’d, unconfess’d;
I never then my God address’d,
In grateful Praise or humble Prayer;
And if His Word was not my Jest!
(Dread thought!) it never was my Care.

I doubted:—Fool I was to doubt!
If that all-piercing Eye could see,—
If He who looks all Worlds throughout,
Would so minute and careful be,
As to perceive and punish me:—
With Man I would be great and high,
But with my God so lost, that He,
In his large View, should pass me by.

Thus blest with Children, Friend, and Wife,
Blest far beyond the vulgar Lot;
Of all that gladdens human Life,
Where was the Good, that I had not?
But my vile Heart had sinful Spot,
And Heaven beheld its deep’ning Stain,
Eternal Justice I forgot,
And Mercy, sought not to obtain.

Come near,—- I’ll softly speak the rest!—
Alas! ’tis known to all the Crowd,
Her guilty Love was all confest;
And his, who so much Truth avow’d,
My faithless Friends.—In Pleasure proud
I sat, when these curs’d Tidings came;
Their Guilt, their Flight was told aloud,
And Envy smil’d to hear my shame!

I call’d on Vengeance; at the Word
She came:—Can I the Deed forget?
I held the Sword, th’ accursed Sword,
The Blood of his false Heart made wet;
And that fair Victim paid her Debt,
She pin’d, she died, she loath’d to live;—
I saw her dying—see her yet:
Fair fallen Thing! my Rage forgive!

Those Cherubs still, my Life to bless,
Were left; could I my Fears remove,
Sad Fears that check’d each fond Caress,
And poison’d all parental Love:
Yet that, with jealous Feelings strove,
And would at last have won my Will,
Had I not, Wretch! been doom’d to prove
Th’ Extremes of mortal Good and Ill.

In Youth! Health! Joy! in Beauty’s Pride!
They droop’d: As Flowers when blighted bow,
The dire Infection came:—They died,
And I was curs’d—as I am now——
Nay frown not, angry Friend,—allow,
That I was deeply, sorely tried;
Hear then, and you must wonder how
I could such Storms and Strifes abide.

Storms!—not that Clouds embattled make,
When they afflict this earthly Globe;
But such as with their Terrors shake
Man’s Breast, and to the bottom probe;
They make the Hypocrite disrobe,
They try us all, if false or true;
For this, one Devil had pow’r on Job;
And I was long the Slave of two.

PHYSICIAN.

Peace, peace, my Friend; these Subjects fly;
Collect thy Thoughts—go calmly on.—

PATIENT.

And shall I then the Fact deny?
I was,—thou know’st,—I was begone,
Like him who fill’d the Eastern Throne,
To whom the Watcher cried aloud [16];
That royal Wretch of Babylon,
Who was so guilty and so proud.

Like him with haughty, stubborn Mind,
I, in my State, my Comforts sought;
Delight and Praise I hop’d to find,
In what I builded, planted, bought!
Oh! Arrogance! by Misery taught—
Soon came a Voice! I felt it come;
“Full be his Cup, with Evil fraught,
“Dæmons his Guides, and Death his Doom!”

Then was I cast from out my State;
Two Fiends of Darkness led my Way;
They wak’d me early, watch’d me late,
My Dread by Night, my Plague by Day!
Oh! I was made their Sport, their Play,
Through many a stormy troubled Year,
And how they us’d their passive Prey,
Is sad to tell: but you shall hear.

And first, before they sent me forth,
Through this unpitying World to run,
They robb’d Sir Eustace of his Worth,
Lands, Manors, Lordships, every one;
So was that gracious Man undone,
Was spurn’d as vile, was scorn’d as poor,
Whom every former Friend would shun,
And Menials drove from every Door.

Then those ill-favour’d Ones [17], whom none
But my unhappy Eyes could view,
Led me, with wild Emotion on,
And, with resistless Terror, drew.
Through Lands we fled, o’er Seas we flew,
And halted on a boundless Plain;
Where nothing fed, nor breath’d nor grew,
But Silence rul’d the still Domain.

Upon that boundless Plain, below,
The setting Sun’s last Rays were shed,
And gave a mild and sober Glow,
Where all were still, asleep or dead;
Vast Ruins in the midst were spread,
Pillars and Pediments sublime,
Where the grey Moss had form’d a Bed,
And cloth’d the crumbling Spoils of Time.

There was I fix’d, I know not how,
Condemn’d for untold Years to stay;
Yet Years were not;—one dreadful Now,
Endur’d no Change of Night or Day;
The same mild Evening’s sleeping Ray,
Shone softly-solemn and serene.
And all that time, I gaz’d away,
The setting Sun’s sad Rays were seen.

At length a Moment’s Sleep stole on,—
Again came my commission’d Foes;
Again through Sea and Land we’re gone,
No Peace, no Respite, no Repose;
Above the dark broad Sea we rose,
We ran through bleak and frozen Land;
I had no Strength, their Strength t’ oppose,
An Infant in a Giant’s hand.

They plac’d me where those Streamers play,
Those nimble Beams of brilliant Light;
It would the stoutest Heart dismay,
To see, to feel, that dreadful Sight:
So swift, so pure, so cold, so bright,
They pierc’d my Frame with icy Wound,
And all that half-year’s polar Night,
Those dancing Streamers wrapt me round.

Slowly that Darkness pass’d away,
When down upon the Earth I fell,—
Some hurried Sleep, was mine by day;
But soon as toll’d the Evening Bell,
They forc’d me on, where-ever dwell
Far-distant Men in Cities fair,
Cities of whom no Travellers tell,
Nor Feet but mine were Wanderers there.

Their Watchmen stare, and stand aghast,
As on we hurry through the dark;
The Watch-light blinks, as we go past,
The Watch-dog shrinks and fears to bark;
The Watch-tower’s Bell sounds shrill; and, hark!
The free Wind blows—we’ve left the Town—
A wide Sepulchral Ground I mark,
And on a Tomb-stone place me down.

What Monuments of mighty Dead!
What Tombs of various kinds are found!
And Stones erect, their Shadows shed,
On humble Graves, with Wickers bound;
Some risen fresh, above the Ground,
Some level with the native Clay,
What sleeping Millions wait the Sound,
“Arise, ye Dead, and come away!”

Alas! they stay not for that Call;
Spare me this Woe! ye Dæmons, spare!—
They come! the shrowded Shadows all,—
’Tis more than mortal Brain can bear!
Rustling they rise, they sternly glare
At Man upheld by vital Breath;
Who led by wicked Fiends should dare
To join the shadowy Troops of Death!

Yes! I have felt all Man can feel,
Till he shall pay his Nature’s Debt;
Ills that no Hope has Strength to heal,
No Mind the Comfort to forget:
Whatever Cares the Heart can fret,
The Spirits wear, the Temper gall;
Woe, Want, Dread, Anguish, all beset
My sinful Soul!—together all!

Those Fiends, upon a shaking Fen,
Fix’d me, in dark tempestuous Night;
There never trod the Foot of Men,
There flock’d the Fowl in wint’ry Flight;
There danc’d the Moor’s deceitful Light,
Above the Pool where Sedges grow;
And when the Morning-Sun shone bright,
It shone upon a Field of Snow.

They hung me on a Bough, so small,
The Rook could build her Nest no higher;
They fix’d me on the trembling Ball,
That crowns the Steeple’s quiv’ring Spire;
They set me where the Seas retire,
But drown with their returning Tide;
And made me flee the Mountain’s Fire,
When rolling from its burning Side.

I’ve hung upon the ridgy Steep
Of Cliffs, and held the rambling Brier;
I’ve plung’d below the billowy Deep,
Where Air was sent me to respire;
I’ve been where hungry Wolves retire;
And (to complete my Woes) I’ve ran,
Where Bedlam’s crazy Crew conspire
Against the Life of reasoning Man.

I’ve furl’d in Storms the flapping Sail,
By banging from the Top-mast-head;
I’ve serv’d the vilest Slaves in Jail,
And pick’d the Dunghill’s Spoil for Bread;
I’ve made the Badger’s Hole my Bed,
I’ve wander’d with a Gipsey Crew,
I’ve dreaded all the Guilty dread,
And done what they would fear to do.

On Sand where ebbs and flows the Flood,
Midway they plac’d and bade me die;
Propt on my Staff, I stoutly stood
When the swift Waves came rolling by;
And high they rose, and still more high,
Till my Lips drank the bitter Brine;
I sobb’d convuls’d, then cast mine Eye
And saw the Tide’s re-flowing Sign.

And then, my Dreams were such as nought
Could yield but my unhappy Case;
I’ve been of thousand Devils caught,
And thrust into that horrid Place,
Where reign Dismay, Despair, Disgrace;
Furies with iron Fangs were there,
To torture that accursed Race,
Doom’d to Dismay, Disgrace, Despair.

Harmless I was; yet hunted down
For Treasons, to my Soul unfit;
I’ve been pursued through many a Town,
For Crimes that petty Knaves commit:
I’ve been adjudg’d t’ have lost my Wit,
Because I preach’d so loud and well,
And thrown into the Dungeon’s Pit,
For trampling on the Pit of Hell.

Such were the Evils, Man of Sin,
That I was fated to sustain;
And add to all, without—within,
A Soul defil’d with every Stain,
That Man’s reflecting Mind can pain;
That Pride, Wrong, Rage, Despair can make;
In fact, they’d nearly touch’d my Brain,
And Reason on her Throne would shake.

But Pity will the vilest seek,
If punish’d Guilt will not repine,—
I heard an heavenly Teacher speak,
And felt the Sun of Mercy shine:
I hail’d the Light! the Birth divine!
And then was seal’d among the few;
Those angry Fiends beheld the Sign;
And from me in an instant flew.

Come hear how thus, the Charmers cry,
To wandering Sheep the Strays of Sin;
While some the Wicket-gate pass by,
And some will knock and enter in;
Full joyful ’tis a Soul to win,
For he that winneth Souls is wise;
Now hark! the holy Strains begin,
And thus the sainted Preacher cries [18]:—

“Pilgrim burthen’d with thy Sin,
“Come the way to Zion’s Gate,
“There, till Mercy lets thee in,
“Knock and weep and watch and wait.
“Knock!—He knows the Sinner’s Cry;
“Weep!—He loves the Mourner’s Tears:
“Watch!—for, saving Grace is nigh:
“Wait,—till heavenly Light appears.”

“Hark! it is the Bridegroom’s Voice:
“Welcome, Pilgrim, to thy Rest;
“Now within the Gate rejoice,
“Safe and seal’d and bought and blest!
“Safe—from all the Lures of Vice,
“Seal’d—by Signs the Chosen know,
“Bought by Love and Life the Price,
“Blest—the mighty Debt to owe.

“Holy Pilgrim! what for thee,
“In a World like this remain?
“From thy guarded Breast shall flee,
“Fear and Shame, and Doubt and Pain.
“Fear—the Hope of Heaven shall fly,
“Shame—from Glory’s View retire,
“Doubt—in certain Rapture die,
“Pain—in endless Bliss expire.”

But though my Day of Grace was come,
Yet still my Days of Grief I find;
The former Clouds’ collected Gloom,
Still sadden the reflecting Mind;
The Soul to evil Things consign’d,
Will of their Evil some retain;
The Man will seem to Earth inclin’d,
And will not look erect again.

Thus, though elect, I feel it hard,
To lose what I possess’d before,
To be from all my Wealth debarr’d,—
The brave Sir Eustace is no more;
But old I wax and passing poor,
Stern, rugged Men my Conduct view;
They chide my Wish, they bar my Door,
’Tis hard—I weep—you see I do.—

Must you, my Friends, no longer stay?
Thus quickly all my Pleasures end?
But I’ll remember, when I pray,
My kind Physician and his Friend;
And those sad Hours, you deign to spend
With me, I shall requite them all;
Sir Eustace for his Friends shall send,
And thank their Love at Greyling Hall.

VISITOR.

The poor Sir Eustace!—Yet his Hope,
Leads him to think of Joys again;
And when his Earthly Visions droop,
His Views of Heavenly Kind remain:—
But whence that meek and humbled Strain,
That Spirit wounded, lost, resign’d;
Would not so proud a Soul disdain
The Madness of the poorest Mind?

PHYSICIAN.

No! for the more he swell’d with Pride,
The more he felt Misfortune’s Blow;
Disgrace and Grief he could not hide,
And Poverty had laid him low:
Thus Shame and Sorrow working slow,
At length this humble Spirit gave;
Madness on these began to grow,
And bound him to his Fiends a Slave.

Though the wild Thoughts had touch’d his Brain,
Then was he free:—So, forth he ran;
To soothe or threat, alike were vain;
He spake of Fiends; look’d wild and wan;
Year after year, the hurried Man
Obey’d those Fiends from place to place;
Till his religious Change began
To form a frenzied Child of Grace.

For, as the Fury lost its Strength,
The Mind repos’d; by slow Degrees,
Came lingering Hope, and brought at length,
To the tormented Spirit, Ease:
This Slave of Sin, whom Fiends could seize,
Felt or believ’d their Power had end;—
“’Tis faith,” he cried, “my Bosom frees,
“And now my Saviour is my Friend.”

But ah! though Time can yield Relief,
And soften Woes it cannot cure;
Would we not suffer Pain and Grief,
To have our Reason sound and sure?
Then let us keep our Bosoms pure,
Our Fancy’s favourite Flights suppress;
Prepare the Body to endure,
And bend the Mind to meet Distress;
And then His Guardian Care implore,
Whom Dæmons dread and Men adore.

THE

HALL OF JUSTICE.

Part the First.

Confiteor facere hoc annos; sed et altera causa est,
Anxietas animi, continuusque dolor.
Ovid.

MAGISTRATE, VAGRANT, CONSTABLE, &C.

VAGRANT.

Take, take away thy barbarous Hand,
And let me to thy Master speak;
Remit awhile the harsh Command,
And hear me, or my Heart will break.

MAGISTRATE.

Fond Wretch! and what canst thou relate,
But Deeds of Sorrow, Shame, and Sin?
Thy Crime is prov’d, thou know’st thy Fate;
But come, thy Tale! begin, begin!—

VAGRANT.

My Crime!—— This sick’ning Child to feed,
I seiz’d the Food, your Witness saw;
I knew your Laws forbad the Deed,
But yielded to a stronger Law.

Know’st thou, to Nature’s great Command,
All human Laws are frail and weak?
Nay! frown not—stay his eager Hand,
And hear me, or my Heart will break.

In this, th’ adopted Babe I hold,
With anxious Fondness to my Breast,
My Heart’s sole Comfort, I behold,
More dear than Life, when Life was blest,
I saw her pining, fainting, cold,
I begg’d—but vain was my Request.

I saw the tempting Food, and seiz’d—
My Infant-Sufferer found Relief;
And, in the pilfer’d Treasure pleas’d,
Smil’d on my Guilt and hush’d my Grief.

But I have Griefs of other Kind,
Troubles and Sorrows more severe;
Give me to ease my tortur’d Mind,
Lend to my Woes a patient ear;
And let me—if I may not find
A Friend to help—find one to hear.

Yet nameless let me plead—my Name
Would only wake the Cry of Scorn;
A Child of Sin, conceiv’d in Shame,
Brought forth in Woe, to Misery born.

My Mother dead, my Father lost,
I wander’d with a vagrant Crew;
A common Care, a common Cost,
Their Sorrows and their Sins I knew;
With them, on Want and Error forc’d,
Like them, I base and guilty grew.

Few are my Years, not so my Crimes;
The Age, which these sad Looks declare,
Is Sorrow’s Work, it is not Time’s,
And I am old in Shame and Care.

Taught to believe the World a place,
Where every Stranger was a Foe,
Train’d in the Arts that mark our Race,
To what new People could I go?
Could I a better Life embrace,
Or live as Virtue dictates? No!—

So through the Land, I wandering went,
And little found of Grief or Joy;
But lost my Bosom’s sweet Content,
When first I lov’d, the Gipsey-Boy.

A sturdy Youth he was and tall,
His Looks would all his Soul declare,
His piercing Eyes were deep and small,
And strongly curl’d his Raven-Hair.

Yes, Aaron had each manly Charm,
All in the May of youthful Pride,
He scarcely fear’d his Father’s Arm,
And every other Arm defied.—
Oft when they grew in Anger warm,
(Whom will not Love and Power divide?)
I rose, their wrathful Souls to calm,
Not yet in sinful Combat tried.

His Father was our Party’s Chief,
And dark and dreadful was his Look,
His Presence fill’d my Heart with Grief,
Although to me, he kindly spoke.

With Aaron I delighted went,
His Favour was my Bliss and Pride;
In growing Hope our Days we spent,
Love, growing Charms in either spied,
It saw them, all which Nature lent,
It lent them, all which she denied.

Could I the Father’s Kindness prize,
Or grateful Looks on him bestow;
Whom I beheld in wrath arise,
When Aaron sank beneath his Blow?

He drove him down with wicked Hand,
It was a dreadful Sight to see;
Then vex’d him, till he left the Land,
And told his cruel Love to me;—
The Clan were all at his Command,
Whatever his Command might be.

The Night was dark, the Lanes were deep,
And one by one, they took their way;
He bade me lay me down and sleep,
I only wept and wish’d for Day.

Accursed be the Love he bore,—
Accursed was the Force he us’d,—
So let him of his God implore
For Mercy, and be so refus’d!

You frown again,—to show my Wrong,
Can I in gentle Language speak?
My Woes are deep, my Words are strong,—
And hear me, or my Heart will break.

MAGISTRATE.

I hear thy Words, I feel thy Pain;
Forbear awhile to speak thy Woes;
Receive our Aid, and then again,
The Story of thy Life disclose.

For, though seduc’d and led astray,
Thou’st traveil’d far and wander’d long;
Thy God hath seen thee all the way,
And all the Turns that led thee wrong.

THE

HALL OF JUSTICE.

Part the Second.

About This Book

REFLECTIONS

Reflections.

SIR EUSTACE GREY:

SIR EUSTACE GREY.

THE HALL OF JUSTICE.

THE HALL OF JUSTICE.

THE

HALL OF JUSTICE.

THE

HALL OF JUSTICE.