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POEMS

by

Robert Southey

1797

  GODDESS of the LYRE! with thee comes
  Majestic TRUTH; and where TRUTH deigns to come,
  Her sister LIBERTY will not be far.

Akenside.

SONNET.

  With wayworn feet a Pilgrim woe-begone
    Life's upward road I journeyed many a day,
    And hymning many a sad yet soothing lay
  Beguil'd my wandering with the charms of song.
    Lonely my heart and rugged was my way,
  Yet often pluck'd I as I past along
    The wild and simple flowers of Poesy,
  And as beseem'd the wayward Fancy's child
    Entwin'd each random weed that pleas'd mine eye.
  Accept the wreath, BELOVED! it is wild
    And rudely garlanded; yet scorn not thou
  The humble offering, where the sad rue weaves
  'Mid gayer flowers its intermingled leaves,
    And I have twin'd the myrtle for thy brow.

I have collected in this Volume the productions of very distant periods. The lyric pieces were written in earlier youth; I now think the Ode the most worthless species of composition as well as the most difficult, and should never again attempt it, even if my future pursuits were such as allowed leisure for poetry. The poems addressed to the heart and the understanding are those of my maturer judgment. The Inscriptions will be found to differ from the Greek simplicity of Akenside's in the point that generally concludes them. The Sonnets were written first, or I would have adopted a different title, and avoided the shackle of rhyme and the confinement to fourteen lines.

CONTENTS

  To Mary Wollstonecraft …………. 3
  The Triumph of Woman …………… 7
  Poems on the Slave-Trade ………. 29
  Sonnet 1 …………………….. 33
         2 …………………….. 34
         3 …………………….. 35
         4 …………………….. 36
         5 …………………….. 37
         6 …………………….. 38
  To the Genius of Africa ……….. 39
  To my own Miniature Picture ……. 44
  The Pauper's Funeral ………….. 47
  Ode written on 1st of January ….. 49
  Inscription 1 ………………… 55
              2 ………………… 56
              3 ………………… 57
              4 ………………… 59
              5 ………………… 61
              6 ………………… 62
              7 ………………… 63
              8 ………………… 64
  Birth-Day Ode ………………… 67
  Birth-Day Ode ………………… 71
  Botany-bay Eclogues …………… 75
  Elinor ………………………. 77
  Humphrey and William ………….. 83
  John, Samuel, and Richard ……… 92
  Frederic …………………….. 99
  Sonnet 1 ……………………. 107
         2 ……………………. 108
         3 ……………………. 109
         4 ……………………. 110
         5 ……………………. 111
         6 ……………………. 112
         7 ……………………. 113
         8 ……………………. 114
         9 ……………………. 115
        10 ……………………. 116
  Sappho ……………………… 121
  Ode written on 1st. Dece. …….. 126
  Written on Sunday Morning …….. 129
  On the death of a favorite
    old Spaniel ……………….. 132
  To Contemplation …………….. 135
  To Horror …………………… 140
  The Soldier's Wife …………… 145
  The Widow …………………… 147
  The Chapel Bell ……………… 149
  The Race of Banquo …………… 152
  Musings on a landscape of
    Caspar Poussin …………….. 154
  Mary ……………………….. 163
  Donica ……………………… 175
  Rudiger …………………….. 187
  Hymn to the Penates ………….. 203

ERRORS

p.151 - in the last line but one, for nosal, read nasal. p.192 - line 8, for wild, read mild. p. 203 - in the note, for Complicces, read Complices.

THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN

  [Greek (transliterated):
                           Ou gar thaeluierais demas opasen aemiielesion
                           Morphaen, ophra xai allaperi chroi technaesainio.

NATMACHIOS.]

TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

  The lilly cheek, the "purple light of love,"
  The liquid lustre of the melting eye,—
  Mary! of these the Poet sung, for these
  Did Woman triumph! with no angry frown
  View this degrading conquest. At that age
  No MAID OF ARC had snatch'd from coward man
  The heaven-blest sword of Liberty; thy sex
  Could boast no female ROLAND'S martyrdom;
  No CORDE'S angel and avenging arm
  Had sanctified again the Murderer's name
  As erst when Caesar perish'd: yet some strains
  May even adorn this theme, befitting me
  To offer, nor unworthy thy regard.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

The Subject of the following Poem may be found in the Third and Fourth
Chapters of the first Book of Esdras.

THE TRIUMPH of WOMAN.

     Glad as the weary traveller tempest-tost
  To reach secure at length his native coast,
  Who wandering long o'er distant lands has sped,
  The night-blast wildly howling round his head,
  Known all the woes of want, and felt the storm
  Of the bleak winter parch his shivering form;
  The journey o'er and every peril past
  Beholds his little cottage-home at last,
  And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow,
  Feels his full eyes with transport overflow:
  So from the scene where Death and Anguish reign,
  And Vice and Folly drench with blood the plain,
  Joyful I turn, to sing how Woman's praise
  Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise,
  Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,
  And freed the nation best-belov'd of God.

     Darius gives the feast: to Persia's court,
  Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort,
  Attending Satraps swell the Prince's pride,
  And vanquish'd Monarchs grace their Conqueror's side.
  No more the Warrior wears the garb of war,
  Sharps the strong steel, or mounts the scythed car;
  No more Judaea's sons dejected go,
  And hang the head and heave the sigh of woe.
  From Persia's rugged hills descend the train.
  From where Orontes foams along the plain,
  From where Choaspes rolls his royal waves,
  And India sends her sons, submissive slaves.
  Thy daughters Babylon to grace the feast
  Weave the loose robe, and paint the flowery vest,
  With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair.
  They tinge the cheek which Nature form'd so fair,
  Learn the soft step, the soul-subduing glance,
  Melt in the song, and swim adown the dance.
  Exalted on the Monarch's golden throne
  In royal state the fair Apame shone;

  Her form of majesty, her eyes of fire
  Chill with respect, or kindle with desire.
  The admiring multitude her charms adore,
  And own her worthy of the crown she wore.

     Now on his couch reclin'd Darius lay,
  Tir'd with the toilsome pleasures of the day;
  Without Judaea's watchful sons await
  To guard the sleeping pageant of the state.
  Three youths were these of Judah's royal race,
  Three youths whom Nature dower'd with every grace,
  To each the form of symmetry she gave,
  And haughty Genius curs'd each favorite slave;
  These fill'd the cup, around the Monarch kept,
  Serv'd as he spake, and guarded whilst he slept.

     Yet oft for Salem's hallowed towers laid low
  The sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would flow;
  And when the dull and wearying round of Power
  Allowed Zorobabel one vacant hour,
  He lov'd on Babylon's high wall to roam,
  And stretch the gaze towards his distant home,
  Or on Euphrates' willowy banks reclin'd
  Hear the sad harp moan fitful to the wind.

     As now the perfum'd lamps stream wide their light,
  And social converse chears the livelong night,
  Thus spake Zorobabel, "too long in vain
  "For Sion desolate her sons complain;
  "In anguish worn the joyless years lag slow,
  "And these proud conquerors mock their captive's woe.
  "Whilst Cyrus triumph'd here in victor state
  "A brighter prospect chear'd our exil'd fate,
  "Our sacred walls again he bade us raise,
  "And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise.
  "Quickly these fond hopes faded from our eyes,
  "As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies,
  "And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain,
  "Soon hid by clouds that dim the scene again.

     "Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign
  "We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain.
  "Now when Darius, chief of mild command,
  "Bids joy and pleasure fill the festive land,
  "Still shall we droop the head in sullen grief,
  "And sternly silent shun to seek relief?
  "What if amid the Monarch's mirthful throng
  "Our harps should echo to the chearful song?

     "Fair is the occasion," thus the one replied,
  "And now let all our tuneful skill be tried.
  "Whilst the gay courtiers quaff the smiling bowl,
  "And wine's strong fumes inspire the madden'd soul,
  "Where all around is merriment, be mine
  "To strike the lute, and praise the power of Wine.

     "And whilst" his friend replied in state alone
  "Lord of the earth Darius fills the throne,
  "Be yours the mighty power of Wine to sing,
  "My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's King."

     To them Zorobabel, on themes like these
  "Seek ye the Monarch of Mankind to please;
  "To Wine superior or to Power's strong arms,
  "Be mine to sing resistless Woman's charms.
  "To him victorious in the rival lays
  "Shall just Darius give the meed of praise;
  "The purple robe his honor'd frame shall fold,
  "The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold;
  "A golden couch support his bed of rest,
  "The chain of honor grace his favor'd breast;
  "His the soft turban, his the car's array
  "O'er Babylon's high wall to wheel its way;
  "And for his wisdom seated on the throne,
  "For the KING'S COUSIN shall the Bard be known."

     Intent they meditate the future lay,
  And watch impatient for the dawn of day.
  The morn rose clear, and shrill were heard the flute,
  The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute;
  To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort,
  Swarm thro' the gates, and fill the festive court.
  High on his throne Darius tower'd in pride,
  The fair Apame grac'd the Sovereign's side;
  And now she smil'd, and now with mimic frown
  Placed on her brow the Monarch's sacred crown.
  In transport o'er her faultless form he bends,
  Loves every look, and every act commends.

    And now Darius bids the herald call
  Judaea's Bard to grace the thronging hall.
  Hush'd is each sound—the attending crowd are mute,
  The Hebrew lightly strikes the chearful lute:

      When the Traveller on his way,
    Who has toil'd the livelong day,
    Feels around on every side
    The chilly mists of eventide,
    Fatigued and faint his wearied mind
    Recurs to all he leaves behind;
    He thinks upon the well-trimm'd hearth,
    The evening hour of social mirth,
    And her who at departing day
    Weeps for her husband far away.
    Oh give to him the flowing bowl,
    Bid it renovate his soul;
    Then shall sorrow sink to sleep,
    And he who wept, no more shall weep;
    For his care-clouded brow shall clear,
  And his glad eye shall sparkle thro' the tear.

      When the poor man heart-opprest
    Betakes him to his evening rest,
    And worn with labour thinks in sorrow
    Of the labor of to-morrow;
    When sadly musing on his lot
    He hies him to his joyless cot,
    And loathes to meet his children there,
    The rivals for his scanty fare:
    Oh give to him the flowing bowl,
    Bid it renovate his soul;
    The generous juice with magic power
    Shall cheat with happiness the hour,
    And with each warm affection fill
  The heart by want and wretchedness made chill.

      When, at the dim close of day,
    The Captive loves alone to stray
    Along the haunts recluse and rude
    Of sorrow and of solitude;
    When he sits with moveless eye
    To mark the lingering radiance die,
    And lets distemper'd Fancy roam
    Amid the ruins of his home,—
    Oh give to him the flowing bowl,
    Bid it renovate his soul;
    The bowl shall better thoughts bestow,
    And lull to rest his wakeful woe,
    And Joy shall bless the evening hour,
  And make the Captive Fortune's conqueror.

      When the wearying cares of state
    Oppress the Monarch with their weight,
    When from his pomp retir'd alone
    He feels the duties of the throne,
    Feels that the multitude below
    Depend on him for weal or woe;
    When his powerful will may bless
    A realm with peace and happiness,
    Or with desolating breath
    Breathe ruin round, and woe, and death:
    Oh give to him the flowing bowl,
    Bid it humanize his soul;
    He shall not feel the empire's weight,
    He shall not feel the cares of state,
    The bowl shall each dark thought beguile,
  And Nations live and prosper from his smile.

     Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceas'd the song;
  Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng;
  Each tongue the liberal words of praise repaid,
  On every cheek a smile applauding play'd;
  The rival Bard advanced, he struck the string,
  And pour'd the loftier song to Persia's King.

    Why should the wearying cares of state
    Oppress the Monarch with their weight?
    Alike to him if Peace shall bless
    The multitude with happiness;
  Alike to him if frenzied War
    Careers triumphant on the embattled plain,
    And rolling on o'er myriads slain,
  With gore and wounds shall clog his scythed car.
  What tho' the tempest rage! no sound
    Of the deep thunder shakes his distant throne,
  And the red flash that spreads destruction round,
    Reflects a glorious splendour on the Crown.

    Where is the Man who with ennobling pride
  Beholds not his own nature? where is he
    Who but with deep amazement awe allied
  Must muse the mysteries of the human mind,
      The miniature of Deity.
  For Man the vernal clouds descending
      Shower down their fertilizing rain,
  For Man the ripen'd harvest bending
    Waves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain.
      He spreads the sail on high,
    The rude gale wafts him o'er the main;
    For him the winds of Heaven subservient blow,
    Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow,
  He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below!

  Where is the King who with elating pride
    Sees not this Man—this godlike Man his Slave?
  Mean are the mighty by the Monarch's side,
    Alike the wife, alike the brave
    With timid step and pale, advance,
    And tremble at the royal glance;
    Suspended millions watch his breath
  Whose smile is happiness, whose frown is death.

  Why goes the Peasant from that little cot,
  Where PEACE and LOVE have blest his humble life?
    In vain his agonizing wife
    With tears bedews her husband's face,
  And clasps him in a long and last embrace;
    In vain his children round his bosom creep,
    And weep to see their mother weep,
  Fettering their father with their little arms;
    What are to him the wars alarms?
    What are to him the distant foes?
    He at the earliest dawn of day
      To daily labor went his way;
      And when he saw the sun decline,
      He sat in peace beneath his vine:—
    The king commands, the peasant goes,
    From all he lov'd on earth he flies,
  And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds, and dies.

    What tho' yon City's castled wall
      Casts o'er the darken'd plain its crested shade?
    What tho' their Priests in earnest terror call
      On all their host of Gods to aid?
    Vain is the bulwark, vain the tower;
      In vain her gallant youths expose
      Their breasts, a bulwark, to the foes.
    In vain at that tremendous hour,
    Clasp'd in the savage soldier's reeking arms,
      Shrieks to tame Heaven the violated Maid.
    By the rude hand of Ruin scatter'd round
  Their moss-grown towers shall spread the desart ground.
      Low shall the mouldering palace lie,
    Amid the princely halls the grass wave high,
  And thro' the shatter'd roof descend the inclement sky.

      Gay o'er the embattled plain
      Moves yonder warrior train,
    Their banners wanton on the morning gale!
      Full on their bucklers beams the rising ray,
      Their glittering helmets flash a brighter day,
    The shout of war rings echoing o'er the vale:
    Far reaches as the aching eye can strain
      The splendid horror of their wide array.
      Ah! not in vain expectant, o'er
      Their glorious pomp the Vultures soar!
      Amid the Conqueror's palace high
      Shall sound the song of victory:
    Long after journeying o'er the plain
      The Traveller shall with startled eye
  See their white bones then blanched by many a winter sky.

    Lord of the Earth! we will not raise
    The Temple to thy bounded praise.
    For thee no victim need expire,
    For thee no altar blaze with hallowed fire!
    The burning city flames for thee—
    Thine altar is the field of victory!
      Thy sacred Majesty to bless
    Man a self-offer'd victim freely flies;
      To thee he sacrifices Happiness,
    And Peace, and Love's endearing ties,
  To thee a Slave he lives, to thee a Slave he dies.

  Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceas'd to sing;
  The shout rush'd forth—for ever live the King!
  Loud was the uproar, as when Rome's decree
  Pronounc'd Achaia once again was free;
  Assembled Greece enrapt with fond belief
  Heard the false boon, and bless'd the villain Chief;
  Each breast with Freedom's holy ardor glows,
  From every voice the cry of rapture rose;
  Their thundering clamors burst the astonish'd sky,
  And birds o'erpassing hear, and drop, and die.
  Thus o'er the Persian dome their plaudits ring,
  And the high hall re-echoed—live the King!
  The Mutes bow'd reverent down before their Lord,
  The assembled Satraps envied and ador'd,
  Joy sparkled in the Monarch's conscious eyes,
  And his pleas'd pride already doom'd the prize.

  Silent they saw Zorobabel advance:
  Quick on Apame shot his timid glance,
  With downward eye he paus'd a moment mute,
  And with light finger touch'd the softer lute.
  Apame knew the Hebrew's grateful cause,
  And bent her head and sweetly smil'd applause.

    Why is the Warrior's cheek so red?
    Why downward droops his musing head?
    Why that slow step, that faint advance,
    That keen yet quick-retreating glance?
    That crested head in war tower'd high,
    No backward glance disgrac'd that eye,
    No flushing fear that cheek o'erspread
    When stern he strode o'er heaps of dead;
    Strange tumult now his bosom moves—
    The Warrior fears because he loves.

    Why does the Youth delight to rove
    Amid the dark and lonely grove?
    Why in the throng where all are gay,
      His wandering eye with meaning fraught,
      Sits he alone in silent thought?
    Silent he sits; for far away
    His passion'd soul delights to stray;
    Recluse he roves and strives to shun
  All human-kind because he loves but One!

    Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest;
      But not because the sparkling bowl
      To rapture lifts thy waken'd soul [1]
    But not because of Power possest,
    Not that the Nations dread thy nod,
    And Princes reverence thee their earthly God,
    Even on a Monarch's solitude
    Care the black Spectre will intrude,
    The bowl brief pleasure can bestow,
    The Purple cannot shield from Woe.
    But King of Persia thou art blest,
  For Heaven who rais'd thee thus the world above
  Has made thee happy in Apame's love!

    Oh! I have seen his fond looks trace
    Each angel feature of her face,
    Rove o'er her form with eager eye,
    And sigh and gaze, and gaze and sigh.
    Lo! from his brow with mimic frown,
    Apame takes the sacred crown;
    Her faultless form, her lovely face
    Add to the diadem new grace
    And subject to a Woman's laws
    Darius sees and smiles applause!

  He ceas'd, and silent still remain'd the throng
  Whilst rapt attention own'd the power of song.
  Then loud as when the wintry whirlwinds blow
  From ev'ry voice the thundering plaudits flow;
  Darius smil'd, Apame's sparkling eyes
  Glanc'd on the King, and Woman won the prize.

  Now silent sat the expectant crowd, alone
  The victor Hebrew gaz'd not on the throne;
  With deeper hue his cheek distemper'd glows,
  With statelier stature, loftier now he rose;
  Heavenward he gaz'd, regardless of the throng,
  And pour'd with awful voice sublimer song.

    Ancient of Days! Eternal Truth! one hymn
  One holier strain the Bard shall raise to thee,
  Thee Powerful! Thee Benevolent! Thee Just!
  Friend! Father! All in All! the Vines rich blood,
  The Monarch's might, and Woman's conquering charms,—
  These shall we praise alone? Oh ye who sit
  Beneath your vine, and quaff at evening hour
  The healthful bowl, remember him whose dews,
  Whose rains, whose sun, matur'd the growing fruit,
  Creator and Preserver! Reverence Him,
  O thou who from thy throne dispensest life
  And death, for He has delegated power.
  And thou shalt one day at the throne of God
  Render most strict account! O ye who gaze
  Enrapt on Beauty's fascinating form,
  Gaze on with love, and loving Beauty, learn
  To shun abhorrent all the mental eye
  Beholds deform'd and foul; for so shall Love
  Climb to the Source of Virtue. God of Truth!
  All-Just! All-Mighty! I should ill deserve
  Thy noblest gift, the gift divine of song,
  If, so content with ear-deep melodies [2]
  To please all profitless, I did not pour
  Severer strains; of Truth—eternal Truth,
  Unchanging Justice, universal Love.
  Such strains awake the soul to loftiest thoughts,
  Such strains the Blessed Spirits of the Good
  Waft, grateful incense, to the Halls of Heaven.

  The dying notes still murmur'd on the string,
  When from his throne arose the raptur'd King.
  About to speak he stood, and wav'd his hand,
  And all expectant sat the obedient band.

  Then just and gen'rous, thus the Monarch cries,
  "Be thine Zorobabel the well earned prize.
  "The purple robe of state thy form shall fold,
  "The beverage sparkle in thy cup of gold;
  "The golden couch, the car, and honor'd chain,
  "Requite the merits of thy favor'd strain,
  "And rais'd supreme the ennobled race among
  "Be call'd MY COUSIN for the victor song.
  "Nor these alone the victor song shall bless,
  "Ask what thou wilt, and what thou wilt, possess."
  "Fall'n is Jerusalem!" the Hebrew cries.
  And patriot anguish fills his streaming eyes,
  "Hurl'd to the earth by Rapine's vengeful rod,
  "Polluted lies the temple of our God,
  "Far in a foreign land her sons remain,
  "Hear the keen taunt, and drag the captive chain:
  "In fruitless woe they wear the wearying years,
  "And steep the bread of bitterness in tears.
  "O Monarch, greatest, mildest, best of men,
  "Restore us to those ruin'd walls again!
  "Allow our race to rear that sacred dome,
  "To live in liberty, and die at Home."

  So spake Zorobabel—thus Woman's praise
  Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise,
  Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,
  And freed the Nation best belov'd of God.

[Footnote 1: text showed "foul" which we think was a long s transferred to the modern edition by mistake. Gutenberg Proofreading.]

[Footnote 2: This expression is from OWEN FELLTHAM.]

POEMS

on the

SLAVE TRADE.

I am Innocent of this Blood, SEE YE TO IT!

PREFACE.

When first the Abolition of the SLAVE-TRADE was agitated in England, the friends of humanity endeavoured by two means to accomplish it.—To destroy the Trade immediately by the interference of Government or by the disuse of West-Indian productions: a slow but certain method. For a while Government held the language of justice, and individuals with enthusiasm banished sugar from their tables. This enthusiasm soon cooled; the majority of those who had made this sacrifice (I prostitute the word, but they thought it a sacrifice) persuaded themselves that Parliament would do all, and that individual efforts were no longer necessary. Thus ended the one attempt; and the duplicity with which Mr. Wilberforce has been amused, and the Slave-Merchants satisfied, has now effectually destroyed the other.

There are yet two other methods remaining, by which this traffic will probably be abolished. By the introduction of East-Indian or Maple Sugar, or by the just and general rebellion of the Negroes: by the vindictive justice of the Africans, or by the civilized Christians finding it their interest to be humane.

To these past and present prospects the following Poems occasionally allude: to the English custom of exciting wars upon the Slave Coast that they may purchase prisoners, and to the punishment sometimes inflicted upon a Negro for murder, of which Hector St. John was an eye-witness.

SONNET I

  Hold your mad hands! for ever on your plain
    Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood?
    For ever must your Nigers tainted flood
  Roll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain?
  Hold your mad hands! what daemon prompts to rear
    The arm of Slaughter? on your savage shore
    Can hell-sprung Glory claim the feast of gore,
  With laurels water'd by the widow's tear
  Wreathing his helmet crown? lift high the spear!
    And like the desolating whirlwinds sweep,
    Plunge ye yon bark of anguish in the deep;
  For the pale fiend, cold-hearted Commerce there
  Breathes his gold-gender'd pestilence afar,
  And calls to share the prey his kindred Daemon War.

SONNET II

  Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair,
    And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries?
    Before the gale the laden vessel flies;
  The Heavens all-favoring smile, the breeze is fair;
  Hark to the clamors of the exulting crew!
    Hark how their thunders mock the patient skies!
    Why dost thou shriek and strain thy red-swoln eyes
  As the white sail dim lessens from thy view?
  Go pine in want and anguish and despair,
    There is no mercy found in human-kind—
  Go Widow to thy grave and rest thee there!
    But may the God of Justice bid the wind
  Whelm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave,
  And bless with Liberty and Death the Slave!

SONNET III

  Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run
    Down his dark cheek; hold—hold thy merciless hand,
    Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command
  O'erwearied Nature sinks. The scorching Sun,
  As pityless as proud Prosperity,
    Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies
    Arraigning with his looks the patient skies,
  While that inhuman trader lifts on high
    The mangling scourge. Oh ye who at your ease
    Sip the blood-sweeten'd beverage! thoughts like these
  Haply ye scorn: I thank thee Gracious God!
    That I do feel upon my cheek the glow
  Of indignation, when beneath the rod
    A sable brother writhes in silent woe.

SONNET IV

  'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep
    As undisturb'd as Justice! but no more
    The wretched Slave, as on his native shore,
  Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep!
  Tho' thro' the toil and anguish of the day
    No tear escap'd him, not one suffering groan
    Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone
  In bitterness; thinking that far away
  Tho' the gay negroes join the midnight song,
    Tho' merriment resounds on Niger's shore,
  She whom he loves far from the chearful throng
    Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door
  With dim grown eye, silent and woe-begone,
    And weeps for him who will return no more.

SONNET V

  Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword
    Of Vengeance? drench'd he deep its thirsty blade
  In the cold bosom of his tyrant lord?
    Oh! who shall blame him? thro' the midnight shade
  Still o'er his tortur'd memory rush'd the thought
    Of every past delight; his native grove,
    Friendship's best joys, and Liberty and Love,
  All lost for ever! then Remembrance wrought
  His soul to madness; round his restless bed
    Freedom's pale spectre stalk'd, with a stern smile
    Pointing the wounds of slavery, the while
  She shook her chains and hung her sullen head:
  No more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath,
  But sweetens with revenge, the draught of death.

SONNET VI

  High in the air expos'd the Slave is hung
    To all the birds of Heaven, their living food!
  He groans not, tho' awaked by that fierce Sun
    New torturers live to drink their parent blood!
  He groans not, tho' the gorging Vulture tear
    The quivering fibre! hither gaze O ye
    Who tore this Man from Peace and Liberty!
  Gaze hither ye who weigh with scrupulous care
  The right and prudent; for beyond the grave
    There is another world! and call to mind,
    Ere your decrees proclaim to all mankind
  Murder is legalized, that there the Slave
  Before the Eternal, "thunder-tongued shall plead
  "Against the deep damnation of your deed."

TO THE GENIUS OF AFRICA

    O thou who from the mountain's height
    Roll'st down thy clouds with all their weight
  Of waters to old Niles majestic tide;
    Or o'er the dark sepulchral plain
  Recallest thy Palmyra's ancient pride,
    Amid whose desolated domes
    Secure the savage chacal roams,
  Where from the fragments of the hallow'd fane
  The Arabs rear their miserable homes!

  Hear Genius hear thy children's cry!
    Not always should'st thou love to brood
    Stern o'er the desert solitude
  Where seas of sand toss their hot surges high;
    Nor Genius should the midnight song
  Detain thee in some milder mood
    The palmy plains among
  Where Gambia to the torches light
  Flows radiant thro' the awaken'd night.

  Ah, linger not to hear the song!
  Genius avenge thy children's wrong!
  The Daemon COMMERCE on your shore
    Pours all the horrors of his train,
  And hark! where from the field of gore
    Howls the hyena o'er the slain!
  Lo! where the flaming village fires the skies!
  Avenging Power awake—arise!

  Arise thy children's wrong redress!
  Ah heed the mother's wretchedness
  When in the hot infectious air
    O'er her sick babe she bows opprest—
  Ah hear her when the Christians tear
    The drooping infant from her breast!
    Whelm'd in the waters he shall rest!
  Hear thou the wretched mother's cries,
  Avenging Power awake! arise!

    By the rank infected air
    That taints those dungeons of despair,
    By those who there imprison'd die
    Where the black herd promiscuous lie,
    By the scourges blacken'd o'er
    And stiff and hard with human gore,
    By every groan of deep distress
    By every curse of wretchedness,
    By all the train of Crimes that flow
    From the hopelessness of Woe,
    By every drop of blood bespilt,
    By Afric's wrongs and Europe's guilt,
    Awake! arise! avenge!

  And thou hast heard! and o'er their blood-fed plains
  Swept thine avenging hurricanes;
  And bade thy storms with whirlwind roar
  Dash their proud navies on the shore;
  And where their armies claim'd the fight
  Wither'd the warrior's might;
  And o'er the unholy host with baneful breath
  There Genius thou hast breath'd the gales of Death.

  So perish still the robbers of mankind!
  What tho' from Justice bound and blind
  Inhuman Power has snatch'd the sword!
    What tho' thro' many an ignominious age
    That Fiend with desolating rage
  The tide of carnage pour'd!
  Justice shall yet unclose her eyes,
  Terrific yet in wrath arise,
  And trample on the tyrant's breast,
  And make Oppresion groan opprest.

  To my own
  MINIATURE PICTURE
  taken at two years of age.

  And I was once like this! that glowing cheek
  Was mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes, that brow
  Smooth as the level lake, when not a breeze
  Dies o'er the sleeping surface! twenty years
  Have wrought strange alteration! Of the friends
  Who once so dearly prized this miniature,
  And loved it for its likeness, some are gone
  To their last home; and some, estranged in heart,
  Beholding me with quick-averted glance
  Pass on the other side! But still these hues
  Remain unalter'd, and these features wear
  The look of Infancy and Innocence.
  I search myself in vain, and find no trace
  Of what I was: those lightly-arching lines
  Dark and o'erhanging now; and that mild face
  Settled in these strong lineaments!—There were
  Who form'd high hopes and flattering ones of thee
  Young Robert! for thine eye was quick to speak
  Each opening feeling: should they not have known
  When the rich rainbow on the morning cloud
  Reflects its radiant dies, the husbandman
  Beholds the ominous glory sad, and fears
  Impending storms? they augur'd happily,
  For thou didst love each wild and wonderous tale
  Of faery fiction, and thine infant tongue
  Lisp'd with delight the godlike deeds of Greece
  And rising Rome; therefore they deem'd forsooth
  That thou shouldst tread PREFERMENT'S pleasant path.
  Ill-judging ones! they let thy little feet
  Stray in the pleasant paths of POESY,
  And when thou shouldst have prest amid the crowd
  There didst thou love to linger out the day
  Loitering beneath the laurels barren shade.
  SPIRIT of SPENSER! was the wanderer wrong?
  This little picture was for ornament
  Design'd, to shine amid the motley mob
  Of Fashion and of Folly,—is it not
  More honour'd by this solitary song?

THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL

  What! and not one to heave the pious sigh!
  Not one whose sorrow-swoln and aching eye
  For social scenes, for life's endearments fled,
  Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead!
  Poor wretched Outcast! I will weep for thee,
  And sorrow for forlorn humanity.
  Yes I will weep, but not that thou art come
  To the stern Sabbath of the silent tomb:
  For squalid Want, and the black scorpion Care,
  Heart-withering fiends! shall never enter there.
  I sorrow for the ills thy life has known
  As thro' the world's long pilgrimage, alone,
  Haunted by Poverty and woe-begone,
  Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on:
  Thy youth in ignorance and labour past,
  And thine old age all barrenness and blast!
  Hard was thy Fate, which, while it doom'd to woe,
  Denied thee wisdom to support the blow;
  And robb'd of all its energy thy mind,
  Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellow-kind,
  Abject of thought, the victim of distress,
  To wander in the world's wide wilderness.

  Poor Outcast sleep in peace! the wintry storm
  Blows bleak no more on thine unshelter'd form;
  Thy woes are past; thou restest in the tomb;—
  I pause—and ponder on the days to come.

ODE

written on the first of January, 1794

  Come melancholy Moralizer—come!
  Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;
      With me engarland now
      The SEPULCHRE OF TIME!

  Come Moralizer to the funeral song!
  I pour the dirge of the Departed Days,
      For well the funeral song
      Befits this solemn hour.

  But hark! even now the merry bells ring round
  With clamorous joy to welcome in this day,
      This consecrated day,
      To Mirth and Indolence.

  Mortal! whilst Fortune with benignant hand
  Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness,
      Whilst her unclouded sun
      Illumes thy summer day,

  Canst thou rejoice—rejoice that Time flies fast?
  That Night shall shadow soon thy summer sun?
      That swift the stream of Years
      Rolls to Eternity?

  If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish,
  If Power be thine, remember what thou art—
      Remember thou art Man,
      And Death thine heritage!

  Hast thou known Love? does Beauty's better sun
  Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile,
      Her eye all eloquence,
      Her voice all harmony?

  Oh state of happiness! hark how the gale
  Moans deep and hollow o'er the leafless grove!
      Winter is dark and cold—
      Where now the charms of Spring?

  Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future scene
  In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stol'd Maid
      With stern and frowning front
      Appals the shuddering soul?

  And would'st thou bid me court her faery form
  When, as she sports her in some happier mood,
      Her many-colour'd robes
      Dance varying to the Sun?

  Ah vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road
  Leads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height,
      With anxious gaze survey
      The fruitful far-off vale.

  Oh there are those who love the pensive song
  To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant!
      There are who at this hour
      Will love to contemplate!

  For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time,
  Rejoicing when the fading orb of day
      Is sunk again in night,
      That one day more is gone.

  And he who bears Affliction's heavy load
  With patient piety, well pleas'd he knows
      The World a pilgrimage,
      The Grave the inn of rest.

Inscriptions

The three Utilitise of Poetry: the praise of Virtue and Goodness, the
Memory of things remarkable, and to invigorate the affections.

Welsh Triad.

INSCRIPTION I.

For a TABLET at GODSTOW NUNNERY.

  Here Stranger rest thee! from the neighbouring towers
  Of Oxford, haply thou hast forced thy bark
  Up this strong stream, whose broken waters here
  Send pleasant murmurs to the listening sense:
  Rest thee beneath this hazel; its green boughs
  Afford a grateful shade, and to the eye
  Fair is its fruit: Stranger! the seemly fruit
  Is worthless, all[1] is hollowness within,
  For on the grave of ROSAMUND it grows!
  Young lovely and beloved she fell seduced,
  And here retir'd to wear her wretched age
  In earnest prayer and bitter penitence,
  Despis'd and self-despising: think of her
  Young Man! and learn to reverence Womankind!

[Footnote 1: I have often seen this hazel: its nuts are apparently very fine, but always without a kernel.]

INSCRIPTION II.

For a COLUMN at NEWBURY.

  Art thou a Patriot Traveller? on this field
  Did FALKLAND fall the blameless and the brave
  Beneath a Tyrant's banners: dost thou boast
  Of loyal ardor? HAMBDEN perish'd here,
  The rebel HAMBDEN, 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!
  If with thy neighbour thou should'st not accord,
  In charity remember these good men,
  And quell each angry and injurious thought.

INSCRIPTION III.

For a CAVERN that overlooks the River AVON.

  Enter this cavern Stranger! the ascent
  Is long and steep and toilsome; here awhile
  Thou mayest repose thee, from the noontide heat
  O'ercanopied by this arch'd rock that strikes
  A grateful coolness: clasping its rough arms
  Round the rude portal, the old ivy hangs
  Its dark green branches down, and the wild Bees,
  O'er its grey blossoms murmuring ceaseless, make
  Most pleasant melody. No common spot
  Receives thee, for the Power who prompts the song,
  Loves this secluded haunt. The tide below
  Scarce sends the sound of waters to thine ear;
  And this high-hanging forest to the wind
  Varies its many hues. Gaze Stranger here!
  And let thy soften'd heart intensely feel
  How good, how lovely, Nature! When from hence
  Departing to the City's crouded streets,
  Thy sickening eye at every step revolts
  From scenes of vice and wretchedness; reflect
  That Man creates the evil he endures.

INSCRIPTION IV.

For the Apartment in CHEPSTOW-CASTLE where HENRY MARTEN the Regicide was imprisoned Thirty Years.

  For thirty years secluded from mankind,
  Here Marten linger'd. Often have these walls
  Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread
  He paced around his prison: not to him
  Did Nature's fair varieties exist;
  He never saw the Sun's delightful beams,
  Save when thro' yon high bars it pour'd a sad
  And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime?
  He had rebell'd against the King, and sat
  In judgment on him; for his ardent mind
  Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,
  And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! But such
  As PLATO lov'd; such as with holy zeal
  Our MILTON worshipp'd. Blessed hopes! awhile
  From man withheld, even to the latter days,
  When CHRIST shall come and all things be fulfill'd.

INSCRIPTION V.

For a MONUMENT at SILBURY-HILL.

  This mound in some remote and dateless day
  Rear'd o'er a Chieftain of the Age [1] of Hills,
  May here detain thee Traveller! from thy road
  Not idly lingering. In his narrow house
  Some Warrior sleeps below: his gallant deeds
  Haply at many a solemn festival
  The Bard has 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 on thy way, and contemplate
  Glory's brief pageant, and remember then
  That one good deed was never wrought in vain.

[Footnote 1: The Northern Nations distinguished the two periods when the bodies of the dead were consumed by fire, and when they were buried beneath the tumuli so common in this country, by the Age of Fire and the Age of Hills.]

INSCRIPTION VI.

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 levell'd down
  Their little cottages, he bade their fields
  Lie barren, so that o'er the forest waste
  He might most royally pursue his sports!
  If that thine heart be human, Passenger!
  Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips
  Will mutter curses on him. Think thou then
  What cities flame, what hosts unsepulchred
  Pollute the passing wind, when raging Power
  Drives on his blood-hounds to the chase of Man;
  And as thy thoughts anticipate that day
  When God shall judge aright, in charity
  Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind.

INSCRIPTION VII.

For a TABLET on the Banks of a Stream.

  Stranger! awhile 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
  How the swift shadow flies. The stream is pure
  In solitude, and many a healthful herb
  Bends o'er its course and drinks the vital wave:
  But passing on amid the haunts of man,
  It finds pollution there, and rolls from thence
  A tainted tide. Seek'st thou for HAPPINESS?
  Go Stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot
  Of INNOCENCE, and thou shalt find her there.

INSCRIPTION VIII.

For the CENOTAPH at ERMENONVILLE.

  STRANGER! the MAN OF NATURE lies not here:
  Enshrin'd far distant by his [1] rival's side
  His relics rest, there by the giddy throng
  With blind idolatry alike revered!
  Wiselier directed have thy pilgrim feet
  Explor'd the scenes of Ermenonville. ROUSSEAU
  Loved these calm haunts of Solitude and Peace;
  Here he has heard the murmurs of the stream,
  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,
  If in thine eye the tear devout should gush,
  His SPIRIT shall behold thee, to thine home
  From hence returning, purified of heart.

[Footnote 1: Voltaire.]

Birth-Day Odes.

                   O my faithful Friend!
  O early chosen, ever found the same,
  And trusted and beloved! once more the verse
  Long destin'd, always obvious to thine ear,
  Attend indulgent.

AKENSIDE.

  BIRTH-DAY ODE,
  1793.

    Small is the new-born plant scarce seen
    Amid the soft encircling green,
      Where yonder budding acorn rears,
    Just o'er the waving grass, its tender head:
      Slow pass along the train of years,
    And on the growing plant, their dews and showers they shed.
      Anon it rears aloft its giant form,
      And spreads its broad-brown arms to meet the storm.
    Beneath its boughs far shadowing o'er the plain,
  From summer suns, repair the grateful village train.

      Nor BEDFORD will my friend survey
    The book of Nature with unheeding eye;
      For never beams the rising orb of day,
      For never dimly dies the refluent ray,
    But as the moralizer marks the sky,
  He broods with strange delight upon futurity.

    And we must muse my friend! maturer years
    Arise, and other Hopes and other Fears,
      For we have past the pleasant plains of Youth.
    Oh pleasant plains! that we might stray
      For ever o'er your faery ground—
      For ever roam your vales around,
    Nor onward tempt the dangerous way—
    For oh—what numerous foes assail
    The Traveller, from that chearful vale!

    With toil and heaviness opprest
    Seek not the flowery bank for rest,
    Tho' there the bowering woodbine spread
    Its fragrant shelter o'er thy head,
  Tho' Zephyr there should linger long
  To hear the sky-lark's wildly-warbled song,
  There heedless Youth shalt thou awake
  The vengeance of the coiling snake!

  Tho' fairly smiles the vernal mead
  To tempt thy pilgrim feet, proceed
    Hold on thy steady course aright,
  Else shalt thou wandering o'er the pathless plain,
    When damp and dark descends the night
  Shivering and shelterless, repent in vain.

  And yet—tho' Dangers lurk on every side
  Receive not WORLDLY WISDOM for thy guide!
    Beneath his care thou wilt not know
    The throb of unavailing woe,
    No tear shall tremble in thine eye
    Thy breast shall struggle with no sigh,
    He will security impart,
    But he will apathize thy heart!

    Ah no!
    Fly Fly that fatal foe,
  Virtue shall shrink from his torpedo grasp—
    For not more fatal thro' the Wretches veins
    Benumb'd in Death's cold pains
  Creeps the chill poison of the deadly asp.

    Serener joys my friend await
    Maturer manhood's steady state.
    The wild brook bursting from its source
    Meanders on its early course,
    Delighting there with winding way
    Amid the vernal vale to stray,
    Emerging thence more widely spread
    It foams along its craggy bed,
    And shatter'd with the mighty shock
    Rushes from the giddy rock—
    Hurl'd headlong o'er the dangerous steep
    On runs the current to the deep,
      And gathering waters as it goes
      Serene and calm the river flows,
      Diffuses plenty o'er the smiling coast,
  Rolls on its stately waves and is in ocean lost.

  BIRTH-DAY ODE,
  1796.

    And wouldst thou seek the low abode
      Where PEACE delights to dwell?
    Pause Traveller on thy way of life!
    With many a snare and peril rife
      Is that long labyrinth of road:
    Dark is the vale of years before
      Pause Traveller on thy way!
    Nor dare the dangerous path explore
  Till old EXPERIENCE comes to lend his leading ray.

    Not he who comes with lanthorn light
    Shall guide thy groping pace aright
      With faltering feet and slow;
    No! let him rear the torch on high
    And every maze shall meet thine eye,
      And every snare and every foe;
    Then with steady step and strong,
    Traveller, shalt thou march along.

    Tho' POWER invite thee to her hall,
    Regard not thou her tempting call
      Her splendors meteor glare;
    Tho' courteous Flattery there await
    And Wealth adorn the dome of State,
      There stalks the midnight spectre CARE;
      PEACE, Traveller! does not sojourn there.

    If FAME allure thee, climb not thou
    To that steep mountain's craggy brow
      Where stands her stately pile;
    For far from thence does PEACE abide,
      And thou shall find FAME'S favouring smile
  Cold as the feeble Sun on Heclas snow-clad side,

  And Traveller! as thou hopest to find
    That low and loved abode,
    Retire thee from the thronging road
  And shun the mob of human kind.
  Ah I hear how old EXPERIENCE schools,
  "Fly fly the crowd of Knaves and Fools
    "And thou shalt fly from woe;
  "The one thy heedless heart will greet
  "With Judas smile, and thou wilt meet
    "In every Fool a Foe!"

  So safely mayest thou pass from these,
  And reach secure the home of PEACE,
    And FRIENDSHIP find thee there.
  No happier state can mortal know,
  No happier lot can Earth bestow
    If LOVE thy lot shall share.
  Yet still CONTENT with him may dwell
    Whom HYMEN will not bless,
  And VIRTUE sojourn in the cell
    Of HERMIT HAPPINESS.

BOTANY BAY

Eclogues

  Where a sight shall shuddering Sorrow find.
  Sad as the ruins of the human mind!

BOWLES.

ELINOR.

(Time, Morning. Scene, the Shore.[1])

  Once more to daily toil—once more to wear
  The weeds of infamy—from every joy
  The heart can feel excluded, I arise
  Worn out and faint with unremitting woe;
  And once again with wearied steps I trace
  The hollow-sounding shore. The swelling waves
  Gleam to the morning sun, and dazzle o'er
  With many a splendid hue the breezy strand.
  Oh there was once a time when ELINOR
  Gazed on thy opening beam with joyous eye
  Undimm'd by guilt and grief! when her full soul
  Felt thy mild radiance, and the rising day
  Waked but to pleasure! on thy sea-girt verge
  Oft England! have my evening steps stole on,
  Oft have mine eyes surveyed the blue expanse,
  And mark'd the wild wind swell the ruffled surge,
  And seen the upheaved billows bosomed rage
  Rush on the rock; and then my timid soul
  Shrunk at the perils of the boundless deep,
  And heaved a sigh for suffering mariners.
  Ah! little deeming I myself was doom'd.
  To tempt the perils of the boundless deep,
  An Outcast—unbeloved and unbewail'd.

  Why stern Remembrance! must thine iron hand
  Harrow my soul? why calls thy cruel power
  The fields of England to my exil'd eyes,
  The joys which once were mine? even now I see
  The lowly lovely dwelling! even now
  Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls
  And hear the fearless red-breasts chirp around
  To ask their morning meal:—for I was wont
  With friendly band to give their morning meal,
  Was wont to love their song, when lingering morn
  Streak'd o'er the chilly landskip the dim light,
  And thro' the open'd lattice hung my head
  To view the snow-drop's bud: and thence at eve
  When mildly fading sunk the summer sun,
  Oft have I loved to mark the rook's slow course
  And hear his hollow croak, what time he sought
  The church-yard elm, whose wide-embowering boughs
  Full foliaged, half conceal'd the house of God.
  There, my dead father! often have I heard
  Thy hallowed voice explain the wonderous works
  Of Heaven to sinful man. Ah! little deem'd
  Thy virtuous bosom, that thy 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 dare 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 new 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, undelv'd 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 tho' the garb of infamy I wear,
  Tho' 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.
  No more condemn'd the mercenary tool
  Of brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heart
  With Virtue's stiffled sigh, to fold my arms
  Round the rank felon, and for daily bread
  To hug contagion to my poison'd breast;
  On these wild shores Repentance' saviour hand
  Shall probe my secret soul, shall cleanse its wounds
  And fit the faithful penitent for Heaven.

[Footnote 1: The female convicts are frequently employed in collecting shells for the purpose of making lime.]

HUMPHREY and WILLIAM.

(Time, Noon.)

HUMPHREY:

  See'st thou not William that the scorching Sun
  By 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 eat our dinner and to rest from toil!

WILLIAM:

  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 now rests from his measur'd 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:

  Ah William! labouring up the furrowed 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.
  'Twas 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 each humbler dainty 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 cyder,—cyder 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 purchas'd glory.

WILLIAM:

  But Humphrey, sure thou never canst have known
  The comforts of a little home thine own:
  A home so snug, So chearful too as mine,
  'Twas 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 grace
  So nicely scour'd, you might have seen your face;
  And over all, to frighten thieves, was hung
  Well clean'd, altho' but seldom us'd, 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 loved to save the breed,
  So covey upon covey eat my seed.
  I mark'd the mischievous rogues, and took my aim,
  I fir'd, 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 cold corpse is laid!
  My children—my dear boys—

HUMPHREY:

                      Come—Grief is dry—
  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)
  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, tho' my bed was hard, my sleep was sound.
  One Whitsuntide, to go to fair, I drest
  Like a great bumkin 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 Serjeant to the fair recruiting came
  Skill'd in man-catching to beat up for game;
  Our booth he enter'd and sat down by me;—
  Methinks even now the very scene I see!
  The canvass 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 Serjeant 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—"tis a fine thing to be a soldier!"
  "Aye Humphrey!" says the Serjeant—"that's your name?
  "'Tis 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.
  "Come Humphrey come! thou art a lad of spirit!
  "Rise to a halbert—as I did—by merit!
  "Would'st thou believe it? even I was once
  "As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce;
  "But Courage rais'd 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 past the night: anon the morning came,
  And off I set a volunteer for fame.
  "Back shoulders, turn out your toes, hold up your head,
  "Stand easy!" so I did—till almost dead.
  Oh how I long'd to tend the plough again
  Trudge up the field and whistle o'er the plain,
  When tir'd and sore amid the piteous throng
  Hungry and cold and wet I limp'd along,
  And growing fainter as I pass'd and colder,
  Curs'd that ill hour when I became a soldier!
  In town I found the hours more gayly pass
  And Time fled swiftly with my girl and glass;
  The girls were wonderous kind and wonderous fair,
  They soon transferred me to the Doctor's care,
  The Doctor undertook to cure the evil,
  And he almost transferred me to the Devil.
  'Twere tedious to relate the dismal story
  Of fighting, fasting, wretchedness and glory.
  At last discharg'd, 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
  And Humphrey gets more good from guilt than glory.