Or else the mystic tale would tell
Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell.
THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN. OH! yonder is the well-known spot,
My dear, my long-lost native home! Oh! welcome is yon little cot,
Where I shall rest, no more to roam ! Oh! I have travell'd far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land; Each place, each province I have tried, And sung and danced my saraband: But all their charms could not prevail To steal my heart from yonder vale.
Of distant climes the false report
Allured me from my native land;
It bade me rove-my sole support
My cymbals and my saraband.
The woody dell, the hanging rock,
The chamois skipping o'er the heights;
The plain adorn'd with many a flock,
And, oh! a thousand more delights,
That graced yon dear beloved retreat,
Have backward won my weary feet.
Now safe return'd, with wandering tired,
No more my little home I'll leave;
And many a tale of what I've seen
Shall while away the winter's eve. Oh! I have wander'd far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband;
But all their charms could not prevail,
To steal my heart from yonder vale.
Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr. Capel Lofft's beautiful and interesting Preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield's Poems, just published.-"It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the impression of its melancholy close. I could have wished, as I have said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of life less offend my taste than its sweets delight it."
Go to the raging sea, and say, "Be still!"
Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will;
Preach to the storm, and reason with despair,
But tell not misery's son that life is fair.
Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd,
And every year with new delight hast told,
Thou, who recumbent on the lacquer'd barge,
Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge,
Thou may'st extol life's calm, untroubled sea-
The storms of misery never burst on thee.
Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines,
Go to the shade obscure, where Merit pines;
Abide with him whom Penury's charms control,
And bind the rising yearnings of his soul;
Survey his sleepless couch, and standing there,
Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair!
Press thou the lonely pillow of his head,
And ask why sleep his languid eyes had fled:
Mark his dew'd temples, and his half-shut eye,
His trembling nostrils, and his deep-drawn sigh,
His muttering mouth contorted with despair,
And ask if Genius could inhabit there.
Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleam'd,
And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd;
But now Neglect has stung him to the core.
And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more;
Domestic anguish winds his vitals round,
And added Grief compels him to the ground.
Lo! o'er his manly form, decay'd and wan,
The shades of death with gradual steps steal on;
And the pale mother, pining to decay,
Weeps for her boy her wretched life away.
Go, child of fortune! to his early grave,
Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds ware:
Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her bead
On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed.
Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there,
And tell us then that life is wondrous fair!
Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd forth, T'encourage genius, and to foster worth; On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfading friend, "Tis just that every blessing should descend; "Tis just that life to thee should only show Her fairer side, but little mix'd with woe.
WRITTEN IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.
SAD solitary Thought! who keep'st thy vigils,
Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind;
Communing lonely with his sinking soul,
And musing on the dubious glooms that lie
In dim obscurity before him,-thee,
At this still midnight hour, this awful season,
Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call
When on my bed in wakeful restlessness,
I turn me wearisome; while all around,
All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness;
I only wake to watch the sickly taper
Which lights me to my tomb.-Yes, 't is the hand
Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals,
Slow sapping the warm current of existence.
My moments now are few-the sand of life
Ebbs fastly to its finish.-Yet a little,
And the last fleeting particle will fall,
Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented.
Come then, sad Thought! and let us meditate
While meditate we may-We have now
But a small portion of what men call time
To hold communion; for even now the knife,
The separating knife, I feel divide
The tender bond that binds my soul to earth.
Yes, I must die-I feel that I must die;
And though to me has life been dark and dreary,
Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive.
And Disappointment still pursued her blandishments,
Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me
As I contemplate the dim gulf of death,
The shuddering void, the awful blank-futurity.
Ay, I had plann'd full many a sanguine scheme
Of earthly happiness-romantic schemes,
And fraught with loveliness; and it is hard
To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps,
Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes,
And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades,
Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion.
Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry?
Oh! none;-another busy brood of beings
Will shoot up in the interim, and none
Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink,
As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets
Of busy London:-Some short bustle's caused,
A few inquiries, and the crowds close in,
And all 's forgotten.-On my grassy grave
The men of future times will careless tread,
And read my name upon the sculptured stone;
Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears,
Recall my vanish'd memory.-I did hope
For better things!-I hoped I should not leave
The earth without a vestige;-Fate decrees
It shall be otherwise, and I submit.
Henceforth, O world, no more of thy desires!
No more of Hope! the wanton vagrant Hope!
I abjure all. Now other cares engross me,
And my tired soul, with emulative haste,
Looks to its God, and plumes its wings for Heaven.
To hear the forest bee on wing,
Or by the stream, or woodland spring,
To lie and muse alone-alone,
While the tinkling waters moan,
Or such wild sounds arise, as say,
Man and noise are far away.
Now, surely, thought I, there's enow
To fill life's dusty way;
And who will miss a poet's feet,
Or wonder where he stray?
So to the woods and waste I'll go :
And I will build an osier bower:
And sweetly there to me shall flow
The meditative hour.
And when the Autumn's withering hand
Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land,
I'll to the forest caverns hie:
And in the dark and stormy nights,
I'll listen to the shrieking sprites,
Who, in the wintry wolds and floods,
Keep jubilee, and shred the woods:
Or, as it drifted soft and slow,
Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow.
COME, Anna! come, the morning dawns,
Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies:
Come, let us seek the dewy lawns,
And watch the early lark arise;
While Nature, clad in vesture gay,
Hails the loved return of day.
Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade
Upon the moor, shall seek the vale;
And then, secure beneath the shade,
We'll listen to the throstle's tale;
And watch the silver clouds above,
As o'er the azure vault they rove.
Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute,
That with its tones, so softly sweet,
In cadence with my mellow flute,
We may beguile the noontide heat;
While near the mellow bee shall join,
To raise a harmony divine.
And then at eve, when silence reigns,
Except when heard the beetle's hum,
We'll leave the sober-tinted plains,
To these sweet heights again we'll come;
And thou to thy soft lute shall play
A solemn vesper to departing day.
WHEN pride and envy, and then scorn Of wealth, my heart with gall imbued, I thought how pleasant were the morn Of silence, in the solitude;
ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.
BLOOMFIELD, thy happy-omen'd name
Insures continuance to thy fame;
Both sense and truth this verdict give,
While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live!
SEASON of general rest, whose solemn still Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill,
But speaks to philosophic souls delight, Thee do I hail, as at my casement high, My candle waning melancholy by,
I sit and taste the holy calm of night.
Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, And gilds the misty shadows of the vales,
Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame, To her, while all around in sleep recline, Wakeful I raise my orisons divine,
And sing the gentle honors of her name :
While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends,
To lift my soul her fairy visions sends,
And pours upon my ear her thrilling song,
And Superstition's gentle terrors come,
See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom!
See round yon church-yard elm what spectres
throng!
Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay,
My flageolet-and, as I pensive play,
The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: The traveller late journeying o'er the moors, Hears them aghast (while still the dull owl pours Her hollow screams each dreary pause between),
Till in the lonely tower he spies the light
Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night,
Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep,
And 'mid the dreary solitude serene,
Cast a much meaning glance upon the scene,
And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep.
ODE TO THOUGHT.
Written at Midnight.
HENCE away, vindictive Thought!
Thy pictures are of pain;
The visions through thy dark eye caught,
They with no gentle charms are fraught,
So pr'ythee back again.
I would not weep,
I wish to sleep,
Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?
Why dost o'er bed and couch recline?
Is this thy new delight?
Pale visitant! it is not thine
To keep thy sentry through the mine,
The dark vault of the night:
"T is thine to die,
While o'er the eye
The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly.
Go thou, and bide with him who guides
His bark through lonely seas;
And as reclining on his helm,
Sadly he marks the starry realm,
To him thou mayst bring ease;
But thou to me
So pr'ythee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and from my pillow flee.
And, Memory! pray what art thou?
Art thou of Pleasure born?
Does bliss untainted from thee flow?
The rose that gems thy pensive brow,
Is it without a thorn?
With all thy smiles,
And witching wiles,
By them unheeded, carking Care,
Green-eyed Grief, and dull Despair;
Smoothly they pursue their way,
With even tenor and with equal breath,
Alike through cloudy and through sunny day,
Then sink in peace to death.
But, ah! a few there be whom griefs devour,
And weeping Woe and Disappointment keen,
Repining Penury, and Sorrow sour,
And self-consuming Spleen,
And these are Genius' favorites: these
Know the thought-throned mind to please,
And from her fleshy seat to draw
To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll,
Disdaining all but 'wildering Rapture's law,
The captivated soul.
Genius, from thy starry throne,
High above the burning zone,
In radiant robe of light array'd,
Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favorite made,
His melancholy moan.
He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,
Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, Pangs that his sensibility uprouse
To curse his being and his thirst for praise.
Thou gavest to him with treble force to feel
The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn;
And what o'er all does in his soul preside
Predominant, and tempers him to steel,
His high indignant pride.
Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life,
That Genius visits not your lowly shed;
For ah! what woes and sorrows ever rife
Distract his hapless head!
For him awaits no balmy sleep,
He wakes all night, and wakes to weep;
Or by his lonely lamp he sits
At solemn midnight when the peasant sleeps,
Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway In feverish study, and in moody fits
His mournful vigils keeps.
Will I thy pangs proclaim;
For still to misery closely thou 'rt allied.
Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side,
And far-resounding Fame.
What though to thee the dazzled millions bow,
And to thy posthumous merit bend them low;
Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe,
And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw,
Yet, ah! unseen behind thee fly
Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain,
And Discontent, that clouds the fairest sky:
A melancholy train.
Yes, Genius! thee a thousand cares await,
Mocking thy derided state :
Thee chill Adversity will still attend,
Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend,
And leaves thee all forlorn;
While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs,
And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides,
And while the cup of affluence he quaffs,
With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides,
Who toils, and every hardship doth out-brave,
To gain the meed of praise, when he is mouldering
in his grave.
FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON.
I.
Twin sisters! faintly now ye deign
Your magic sweets on me to shed,
In vain your powers are now essay'd
To chase superior pain.
And art thou fled, thou welcome orb?
So swiftly pleasure flies!
So to mankind, in darkness lost,
The beam of ardor dies.
Wan Moon! thy nightly task is done,
And now, encurtain'd in the main,
Thou sinkest into rest;
But I, in vain, on thorny bed,
Shall woo the god of soft repose-
LOUD rage the winds without.-The wintry cloud
O'er the cold north star casts her flitting shroud;
And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale,
Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale:
Where now, shut out from every still retreat,
Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat,
Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood,
Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood?
Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askance
The drifted fleeces that around him dance,
MILD orb, who floatest through the realm of night, And hurries on his half-averted form,
A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild,
Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light,
Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled.
Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat,
Nocturnal Study's still retreat,
It casts a mournful melancholy gleam,
And through my lofty casement weaves,
Dim through the vine's encircling leaves,
An intermingled beam.
These feverish dews that on my temples hang,
This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame;
These the dread signs of many a secret pang:
These are the meed of him who pants for fame!
Pale moon! from thoughts like these divert my soul;
Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high:
My lamp expires;-beneath thy mild control,
These restless dreams are ever wont to fly.
Come, kindred mourner! in my breast
Soothe these discordant tones to rest,
And breathe the soul of peace:
Mild visitor! I feel thee here,
It is not pain that brings this tear,
For thou hast bid it cease.
Oh! many a year has pass'd away
Since I, beneath thy fairy ray,
Attuned my infant reed:
When wilt thou, Time! those days restore,
Those happy moments now no more-
When on the lake's damp marge I lay,
And mark'd the northern meteor's dance,
Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there
To inspirate my trance.
Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm.
Him soon shall greet his snow-topt [cot of thatch,]
Soon shall his 'numb'd hand tremble on the latch,
Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame
Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame;
Round the light fire, while roars the north wind loud,
What merry groups of vacant faces crowd;
These hail his coming-these his meal prepare,
And boast in all that cot no lurking care.
What, though the social circle be denied?
Even sadness brightens at her own fire-side,
Loves, with fix'd eye, to watch the fluttering blaze,
While musing Memory dwells on former days;
Or Hope, blest spirit! smiles-and, still forgiven,
Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven.
Then heap the fire,-shut out the biting air,
And from its station wheel the easy chair:
Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit 't is sweet
To hear without the bitter tempest beat,
All, all alone to sit, and muse, and sigh,
The pensive tenant of obscurity.
Oft I've beheld thee, in the glow of youth,
Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there bloom'd, And dropt a tear, for then thy cankering tooth
I knew would never stay, till, all consumed,
In the cold vault of death he were entomb'd.
But oh! what sorrow did I feel, as swift,
Insidious ravager! I saw thee fly
Through fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow,
Preparing swift her passage to the sky!
Though still intelligence beam'd in the glance,
The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye;
Yet soon did languid listlessness advance,
And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant trance.
Even when her end was swiftly drawing near,
And dissolution hover'd o'er her head;
Even then so beauteous did her form appear,
That none who saw her but admiring said,
Sure so much beauty never could be dead.
Yet the dark lash of her expressive eye,
Bent lowly down upon the languid-
I HAVE a wish, and near my heart
That wish lies buried;
To keep it there's a foolish part,
For, oh! it must not be,
It must not, must not be.
Why, my fond heart, why beat'st thou so?
The dream is fair to see
But, did the lovely flatterer go;
It must not, must not be,
Oh! no, it must not be.
"T is well this tear in secret falls,
This weakness suits not me;
I know where sterner duty calls-
It must not, cannot be,
Oh! no, it cannot be.
ONCE more his beagles wake the slumb'ring morn,
And the high woodland echoes to his horn,
As on the mountain cliff the hunter band
Chase the fleet chamois o'er the unknown land;
Or sadly silent, from some jutting steep,
He throws his line into the gulfy deep,
Where, in the wilderness grotesque and drear,
The loud Arve stuns the eve's reposing ear;
Or, if his lost domestic joys arise,
Once more the prattler its endearments tries-
It lisps, "My father!" and as newly prest
Its close embraces meet his lonely breast.
His long-lost partner, too, at length restored,
Leans on his arm, and decks the social board.
Yet still, mysterious on his fever'd brain
The deep impressions of his woes remain ;
He thinks she weeps." And why, my love, so pale?
What hidden grief could o'er thy peace prevail,
Or is it fancy-yet thou dost but **;"
And then he weeps, and weeps, he knows not why.
DREAR winter! who dost knock
So loud and angry on my cottage roof,
In the loud night-storm wrapt, while drifting snow
The cheerless waste invest, and cold, and wide,
Seen by the flitting star, the landscape gleams;
With no unholy awe I hear thy voice,
As by my dying embers, safely housed,
I, in deep silence, muse. Though I am lone,
And my low chimney owns no cheering voice
Of friendly converse; yet not comfortless
Is my long evening, nor devoid of thoughts
To cheat the silent hours upon their way.
There are, who in this dark and fearful night,
Houseless, and cold of heart, are forced to bide
These beating snows, and keen relentless winds-
Wayfaring men, or wanderers whom no home
Awaits, nor rest from travel, save the inn
Where all the journiers of mortal life
Lie down at last to sleep. Yet some there be
Who merit not to suffer.-Infancy,
And sinew-shrinking age, are not exempt
From penury's severest, deadliest gripe.
Oh! it doth chill the eddying heart's blood to see
The guileless cheek of infancy turn'd blue
With the keen cold.-Lo, where the baby hangs
On his wan parent's hand; his shiv'ring skin
Half bare, and opening to the biting gale.
Poor shiverer, to his mother he upturns
A meaning look in silence! then he casts
Askance, upon the howling waste before,
A mournful glance upon the forward way-
But all lies dreary, and cold as hope
In his forsaken breast.
BEHOLD the shepherd boy, who homeward tends, Finish'd his daily labor.-O'er the path, Deep overhung with herbage, does he stroll With pace irregular: by fits he runs, Then sudden stops with vacant countenance, And picks the pungent herb, or on the stile Listlessly sits and twines the reedy whip, And carols blithe his short and simple song. Thrice happy idler!-thou hast never known Refinement's piercing pang; thy joys are small, Yet are they unalloy'd with bitter thought And after misery.-As I behold Thy placid, artless countenance, I feel Strange envy of thy state, and fain would change These short, uncommon hours of keener bliss For thy long day of equal happiness.
Heaven grant no after trials may imprint Trouble's deep wrinkle on thine open face, And cloud thy generous features.-May'st thou tread In the calm paths through which thy fathers trod, To their late graves of honorable rest: So will thy lot be happy. So the hour Of death come clad in loveliness and joy; And as thou lay'st down thy blanched head Beneath the narrow mound, affection's hand Will bend the osier o'er thy peaceful grave, And bid the lily blossom on thy turf. But, oh! may Heaven avert from thee the curse Of mad fanaticism: away, away!Let not the restless monster dare pollute The calm abodes of rural innocence! Oh! if the wide contagion reach thy breast,
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