Muse of my Spenser, who so well could sing

The passions all, their bearings and their ties;

Who could in view those shadowy beings bring,

And with bold hand remove each dark disguise,

Wherein love, hatred, scorn, or anger lies:

Guide him to Fairy-land, who now intends

That way his flight; assist him as he flies,

To mark those passions, Virtue's foes and friends,

By whom when led she droops, when leading she ascends.

Yes! they appear, I see the fairy-train!

And who that modest nymph of meek address?

Not Vanity, though loved by all the vain;

Not Hope, though promising to all success;

Nor Mirth, nor Joy, though foe to all distress;

Thee, sprightly syren, from this train I choose,

Thy birth relate, thy soothing arts confess;

'Tis not in thy mild nature to refuse,

When poets ask thine aid, so oft their meed and muse.

In Fairy-land, on wide and cheerless plain,

Dwelt, in the house of Care, a sturdy swain;

A hireling he, who, when he till'd the soil,

Look'd to the pittance that repaid his toil;

And to a master left the mingled joy

And anxious care that follow'd his employ.

Sullen and patient he at once appear'd,

As one who murmur'd, yet as one who fear'd;

Th' attire was coarse that clothed his sinewy frame,

Rude his address, and Poverty his name.

In that same plain a nymph, of curious taste,

A cottage (plann'd with all her skill) had placed;

Strange the materials, and for what design'd

The various parts, no simple man might find;

What seem'd the door, each entering guest withstood,

What seem'd a window was but painted wood;

But by a secret spring the wall would move,

And day-light drop through glassy door above.

'Twas all her pride, new traps for praise to lay,

And all her wisdom was to hide her way;

In small attempts incessant were her pains,

And Cunning was her name among the swains.

Now, whether fate decreed this pair should wed,

And blindly drove them to the marriage-bed;

Or whether love in some soft hour inclined

The damsel's heart, and won her to be kind,

Is yet unsung: they were an ill-match'd pair,

But both disposed to wed—and wed they were.

Yet, though united in their fortune, still

Their ways were diverse; varying was their will;

Nor long the maid had bless'd the simple man,

Before dissensions rose, and she began:—

"Wretch that I am! since to thy fortune bound,

What plan, what project, with success is crown'd?

I, who a thousand secret arts possess,

Who every rank approach with right address;

Who've loosed a guinea from a miser's chest,

And worm'd his secret from a traitor's breast;

Thence gifts and gains collecting, great and small,

Have brought to thee, and thou consum'st them all:

For want like thine—a bog without a base—

Ingulfs all gains I gather for the place;

Feeding, unfill'd; destroying, undestroy'd;

It craves for ever, and is ever void:—

Wretch that I am! what misery have I found,

Since my sure craft was to thy calling bound!"

"Oh! vaunt of worthless art," the swain replied,

Scowling contempt, "how pitiful this pride!

What are these specious gifts, these paltry gains,

But base rewards for ignominious pains?

With all thy tricking, still for bread we strive;

Thine is, proud wretch! the care that cannot thrive;

By all thy boasted skill and baffled hooks

Thou gain'st no more than students by their books;

No more than I for my poor deeds am paid,

Whom none can blame, will help, or dare upbraid.

"Call this our need, a bog that all devours—

Then what thy petty arts but summer-flowers,

Gaudy and mean, and serving to betray

The place they make unprofitably gay?

Who know it not, some useless beauties see—

But ah! to prove it, was reserved for me."

Unhappy state! that, in decay of love,

Permits harsh truth his errors to disprove;

While he remains, to wrangle and to jar

Is friendly tournament, not fatal war;

Love in his play will borrow arms of hate,

Anger and rage, upbraiding and debate;

And by his power the desperate weapons thrown,

Become as safe and pleasant as his own;

But left by him, their natures they assume,

And fatal, in their poisoning force, become.

Time fled, and now the swain compell'd to see

New cause for fear—"Is this thy thrift?" quoth he.

To whom the wife with cheerful voice replied:—

"Thou moody man, lay all thy fears aside,

I've seen a vision;—they, from whom I came,

A daughter promise, promise wealth and fame;

}

Born with my features, with my arts, yet she

}

Shall patient, pliant, persevering be,

}

And in thy better ways resemble thee.

The fairies round shall at her birth attend;

The friend of all in all shall find a friend;

And, save that one sad star that hour must gleam

On our fair child, how glorious were my dream!"

This heard the husband, and, in surly smile,

Aim'd at contempt, but yet he hoped the while:

For as, when sinking, wretched men are found

To catch at rushes rather than be drown'd;

So on a dream our peasant placed his hope,

And found that rush as valid as a rope.

Swift fled the days, for now in hope they fled,

When a fair daughter bless'd the nuptial bed;

Her infant-face the mother's pains beguiled,

She look'd so pleasing, and so softly smiled;

Those smiles, those looks, with sweet sensations moved

The gazer's soul, and, as he look'd, he loved.

And now the fairies came, with gifts, to grace

So mild a nature and so fair a face.

They gave, with beauty, that bewitching art,

That holds in easy chains the human heart;

They gave her skill to win the stubborn mind,

To make the suffering to their sorrows blind,

To bring on pensive looks the pleasing smile,

And Care's stern brow of every frown beguile.

These magic favours graced the infant-maid,

Those more enlivening smile the charming gifts repaid.

Now Fortune changed, who, were she constant long,

Would leave us few adventures for our song.

A wicked elfin roved this land around,

Whose joys proceeded from the griefs he found;

Envy his name:—his fascinating eye

From the light bosom drew the sudden sigh;

Unsocial he, but with malignant mind,

He dwelt with man, that he might curse mankind;

Like the first foe, he sought th' abode of Joy,

Grieved to behold, but eager to destroy;

Round blooming beauty, like the wasp, he flew,

Soil'd the fresh sweet, and changed the rosy hue;

The wise, the good, with anxious heart, he saw,

And here a failing found, and there a flaw;

Discord in families 'twas his to move,

Distrust in friendship, jealousy in love;

He told the poor, what joys the great possess'd,

The great—what calm content the cottage bless'd;

To part the learned and the rich he tried,

Till their slow friendship perish'd in their pride.

Such was the fiend, and so secure of prey,

That only Misery pass'd unstung away.

Soon as he heard the fairy-babe was born,

Scornful he smiled, but felt no more than scorn;

For why, when Fortune placed her state so low,

In useless spite his lofty malice show?

Why, in a mischief of the meaner kind,

Exhaust the vigour of a ranc'rous mind?

But, soon as Fame the fairy-gifts proclaim'd,

Quick-rising wrath his ready soul inflamed,

To swear, by vows that e'en the wicked tie,

The nymph should weep her varied destiny;

That every gift, that now appear'd to shine

In her fair face, and make her smiles divine,

Should all the poison of his magic prove,

And they should scorn her, whom she sought for love.

His spell prepared, in form an ancient dame,

A fiend in spirit, to the cot he came;

There gain'd admittance, and the infant press'd

(Muttering his wicked magic) to his breast;

And thus he said:—"Of all the powers, who wait

On Jove's decrees, and do the work of fate,

Was I alone, despised or worthless, found,

Weak to protect, or impotent to wound?

See then thy foe, regret the friendship lost,

And learn my skill, but learn it at your cost.

"Know then, O child! devote to fates severe,

The good shall hate thy name, the wise shall fear;

Wit shall deride, and no protecting friend

Thy shame shall cover, or thy name defend.

Thy gentle sex, who, more than ours, should spare

A humble foe, will greater scorn declare;

The base alone thy advocates shall be,

Or boast alliance with a wretch like thee."

He spake and vanish'd, other prey to find,

And waste in slow disease the conquer'd mind.

Awed by the elfin's threats, and fill'd with dread,

The parents wept, and sought their infant's bed:

Despair alone the father's soul possess'd,

But hope rose gently in the mother's breast;

For well she knew that neither grief nor joy

Pain'd without hope, or pleased without alloy;

And while these hopes and fears her heart divide,

A cheerful vision bade the fears subside.

She saw descending to the world below

An ancient form, with solemn pace and slow.

"Daughter, no more be sad," (the phantom cried,)

"Success is seldom to the wise denied;

In idle wishes fools supinely stay—

Be there a will, and wisdom finds a way:

Why art thou grieved? Be rather glad, that he,

Who hates the happy, aims his darts at thee,

But aims in vain; thy favour'd daughter lies,

Serenely blest, and shall to joy arise.

For, grant that curses on her name shall wait,

(So envy wills and such the voice of fate,)

Yet, if that name be prudently suppress'd,

She shall be courted, favour'd, and caress'd.

"For what are names? and where agree mankind

In those to persons or to acts assign'd?

Brave, learn'd, or wise, if some their favourites call,

Have they the titles or the praise from all?

Not so, but others will the brave disdain

As rash, and deem the sons of wisdom vain;

The self-same mind shall scorn or kindness move,

And the same deed attract contempt and love.

"So all the powers who move the human soul,

With all the passions who the will control,

Have various names—[one] giv'n by Truth Divine,

(As Simulation thus was fix'd for mine,)

The rest by man, who now, as wisdom's, prize

My secret counsels, now as art despise;

One hour, as just, those counsels they embrace,

And spurn, the next, as pitiful and base.

"Thee, too, my child, those fools as Cunning fly,

Who on thy counsel and thy craft rely;

That worthy craft in others they condemn,

But 'tis their prudence, while conducting them.

"Be Flattery, then, thy happy infant's name,

Let Honour scorn her and let Wit defame;

Let all be true that Envy dooms, yet all,

Not on herself, but on her name, shall fall;

While she thy fortune and her own shall raise,

And decent Truth be call'd, and loved as modest Praise.

}

"O happy child! the glorious day shall shine,

}

When every ear shall to thy speech incline,

}

Thy words alluring and thy voice divine.

The sullen pedant and the sprightly wit,

To hear thy soothing eloquence, shall sit;

And both, abjuring Flattery, will agree

That truth inspires, and they must honour thee.

}

"Envy himself shall to thy accents bend,

}

Force a faint smile and sullenly attend,

}

When thou shalt call him Virtue's jealous friend,

Whose bosom glows with generous rage to find

How fools and knaves are flatter'd by mankind.

"The sage retired, who spends alone his days,

And flies th' obstreperous voice of public praise;

The vain, the vulgar cry shall gladly meet,

And bid thee welcome to his still retreat;

Much will he wonder, how thou cam'st to find

A man to glory dead, to peace consign'd.

'O Fame!' he'll cry, (for he will call thee Fame,)

'From thee I fly, from thee conceal my name.'

But thou shalt say, 'Though Genius takes his flight,

He leaves behind a glorious train of light,

And hides in vain;—yet prudent he that flies

The flatterer's art, and for himself is wise.'

"Yes, happy child! I mark th' approaching day,

When warring natures will confess thy sway;

When thou shalt Saturn's golden reign restore,

And vice and folly shall be known no more.

"Pride shall not then in human-kind have place,

Changed, by thy skill, to Dignity and Grace;

While Shame, who now betrays the inward sense

Of secret ill, shall be thy Diffidence;

Avarice shall thenceforth prudent Forecast be,

And bloody Vengeance, Magnanimity;

}

The lavish tongue shall honest truths impart,

}

The lavish hand shall show the generous heart,

}

And Indiscretion be contempt of art:

Folly and Vice shall then, no longer known,

Be, this as Virtue, that as Wisdom, shown.

"Then shall the Robber, as the Hero, rise

To seize the good that churlish law denies;

Throughout the world shall rove the generous band,

And deal the gifts of Heaven from hand to hand.

"In thy blest days no tyrant shall be seen,

Thy gracious king shall rule contented men;

In thy blest days shall not a rebel be,

But patriots all and well approved of thee.

"Such powers are thine, that man, by thee, shall wrest

The gainful secret from the cautious breast;

Nor then, with all his care, the good retain,

But yield to thee the secret and the gain.

In vain shall much experience guard the heart

Against the charm of thy prevailing art;

Admitted once, so soothing is thy strain,

It comes the sweeter, when it comes again;

And when confess'd as thine, what mind so strong

Forbears the pleasure it indulged so long?

"Soft'ner of every ill! of all our woes

The balmy solace! friend of fiercest foes!

Begin thy reign, and like the morning rise!

Bring joy, bring beauty, to our eager eyes;

}

Break on the drowsy world like opening day,

}

While grace and gladness join thy flow'ry way;

}

While every voice is praise, while every heart is gay.

"From thee all prospects shall new beauties take,

'Tis thine to seek them and 'tis thine to make;

On the cold fen I see thee turn thine eyes,

Its mists recede, its chilling vapour flies;

Th' enraptured lord th' improving ground surveys,

And for his Eden asks the traveller's praise,

Which yet, unview'd of thee, a bog had been,

Where spungy rushes hide the plashy green.

"I see thee breathing on the barren moor,

That seems to bloom although so bleak before;

There, if beneath the gorse the primrose spring,

Or the pied daisy smile below the ling,

They shall new charms, at thy command, disclose,

And none shall miss the myrtle or the rose.

The wiry moss, that whitens all the hill,

Shall live a beauty by thy matchless skill;

Gale[26] from the bog shall yield Arabian balm,

And the grey willow wave a golden palm.

"I see thee smiling in the pictured room,

Now breathing beauty, now reviving bloom;

There, each immortal name 'tis thine to give

To graceless forms, and bid the lumber live.

Should'st thou coarse boors or gloomy martyrs see,

These shall thy Guidos those thy Teniers' be;

}

There shalt thou Raphael's saints and angels trace,

}

There make for Rubens and for Reynolds place,

}

And all the pride of art [shalt] find in her disgrace.

}

"Delight of either sex! thy reign commence;

}

With balmy sweetness soothe the weary sense,

}

And to the sickening soul thy cheering aid dispense.

}

Queen of the mind! thy golden age begin;

}

In mortal bosoms varnish shame and sin;

}

Let all be fair without, let all be calm within."

The Vision fled; the happy mother rose,

Kiss'd the fair infant, smiled at all her foes,

And Flattery made her name:—her reign began,

Her own dear sex she ruled, then vanquish'd man;

A smiling friend, to every class, she spoke,

Assumed their manners, and their habits took;

Her, for her humble mien, the modest loved;

Her cheerful looks the light and gay approved;

The just beheld her, firm; the valiant, brave;

Her mirth the free, her silence pleased the grave;

Zeal heard her voice, and, as he preach'd aloud,

Well-pleased he caught her whispers from the crowd—

(Those whispers, soothing-sweet to every ear,

Which some refuse to pay, but none to hear);

Shame fled her presence; at her gentle strain,

Care softly smiled, and guilt forgot its pain;

The wretched thought, the happy found her true;

The learn'd confess'd that she their merits knew;

The rich—could they a constant friend condemn?

The poor believed—for who should flatter them?

Thus on her name though all disgrace attend,

In every creature she beholds a friend.

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 shows 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 possess'd 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!

See! I am calm as infant-love,

A very child, but one of wo,

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 admired and praised 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 a 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, improved, 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 show'd the yielding dove,

Her morals, the seraphic saint;

She never breathed 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,

Deceived and fated to deceive.

But I deserved; for all that time,

When I was loved, admired, 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 bless'd with children, friend, and wife,

Bless'd 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 confess'd,

And his, who so much truth avow'd,

My faithless friend's.—In pleasure proud

I sat, when these cursed tidings came;

Their guilt, their flight was told aloud,

And Envy smiled 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 pined, 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 checked 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 cursed—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.

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[27];

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 hoped 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,

"Demons his guides, and death his doom!"

Then was I cast from out my state;

Two fiends of darkness led my way;

They waked 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 used 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[28], 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 breathed, nor grew,

But silence ruled 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 clothed 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

Endured no change of night or day;

The same mild evening's sleeping ray

Shone softly-solemn and serene,

And all that time I gazed 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 placed 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 pierced my frame with icy wound,

And, all that half-year's polar night,

Those dancing streamers wrapp'd 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 forced me on, where ever dwell

Far-distant men in cities fair,

Cities of whom no trav'lers 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 tombstone 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 wo! ye demons, spare!—

They come! the shrouded 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,

Wo, 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 danced 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 plunged 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 hanging from the topmast-head;

I've served 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 gipsy 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 placed and bade me die;

Propp'd 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 convulsed, 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,

Doomed 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 adjudged 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 defiled 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 a 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[29]:—

"Pilgrim, burthen'd with thy sin,

Come the way to Zion's gate,

There, till Mercy let 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 bless'd!

Safe—from all the lures of vice;

Seal'd—by signs the chosen know;

Bought—by love and life the price;

Bless'd—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 inclined,

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.