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The scalps that we number'd in triumph were there,
And the musket that never was levell'd in vain,_
What a leap has it given to my heart
To see thee suspend it in peace!
When the black and blood-banner was spread to the
When thrice the deep voice of the war-drum was heard,
I remember thy terrible eyes
How they flash'd the dark glance of thy joy.
I remember the hope that shone over thy cheek
As thy hand from the pole reach d its doers of death;
Like the ominous gleam of the cloud
Ere the thunder and lightning are born.
He went, and ye came not to warn him in dreams,
Kindred Spirits of him who is holy and great!
And where was thy warning, O Bird,
The timely announcer of ill?
Alas! when thy brethren in conquest return'd;
When I saw the white plumes bending over their heads
And the pine-boughs of triumph before,
Where the scalps of their victory swung,
The war-hymn they pour'd, and thy voice was not
I call'd thee,_alas, the white deer-skin was brought;
And thy grave was prepared in the tent
Which I had made ready for joy!
Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sit,
Ollanahta, all night I weep over thy grave!
To-morrow the victims shall die,
And I shall have joy in revenge.
THE OLD CHIKKASAH TO HIS GRANDSON.
Now go to the battle, my Boy! Dear child of my son, There is strength in thine arm, There is hope in thy heart, Thou art ripe for the labours of war. Thy Sire was a stripling iike thee When he went to the first of his fields. He return'd, in the glory of conquest return'd; Before him his trophies were borne, These scalps that have hunt; till the Sun and the Rain Ilave rusted their raven locks. Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arrived, The day of the warrior's reward; When the banners sun-beaming were spread, And all hearts were dancing in joy To the sound of the victory drum. The Heroes were met to receive their reward; But distinguish'd among the young Heroes that day, The pride of his nation, thy Father was seen : The swan-feathers hung from his neck, His face like the rainbow was tinged, And his eye, -how it sparkled in pride! The Elders approach'd, and they placed on his brow The crown that his vaiour had won, And they gave him the old honour d name. They reported the deeds he had done in the war,
ENTER this cavern, Stranger! the ascent
Is long and steep and toilsome; here awhile
Thou mayst repose thee, from the noontide heat
Shelter'd beneath this bending vault of rock.
| Round the rude portal claspins; with rough arms,
| The antique ivy spreads a canopy,
From whose grey blossoms the wild bees collect
| Their last autumnal stores. No common spot
Receives thce, for the power who prompts the song
Loves this secluded cell. The title below
Scarce sends the sound of waters to thine car; | And yon high-hanging forest to the wind | Varies its many hues. Gaze, Stranger, here! | And let tly soften d heart intensely feel Ilow good, how lovely, Nature; when from hence Departing to the city's crowded streets,
Thy sickening eye at every step revolts . Froin scenes of vice and wretchedness; reflect i That Alan creates the evil he endures.
The three utilities of Poetry: the praise of virtue and Goodness. the memory of things remarkable, and to invigorate the Affections.
FOR A TABLET AT SilBURY-hill.”
This mound in some remote and dateless day Reard o'er a Chieftain of the Age of Hills, - May here detain thee, Traveller: from thy road Not idly lingering. In his narrow house Some Warrior sleeps below, whose gallant deeds Haply at many a solemn festival The Bard hath 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, and remember when the pomp Of earthly Glory fades, that one good deed, Unseen, unleard, unnoted by mankind, Lives in the eternal register of Heaven.
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
Ile might more royally pursue his sports!
If that thine heart be human, Passenger!
Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips
Will mutter curses on lim. 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 Mau;
And as thy thoughts anticipate that day
When God shall judge aright, in charity
Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind.
FOR A TABLET ON THE BANKS OF A STREAM.
STRANGER! a while 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 beliold
Where o'er its surface wheels with restless speed
You glossy insect, on the sand below
How the swift shadow slits. The stream is pure
In solitude, and many a healthful herb
sends 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.
FOR THE CENOTAPH AT ERMENONVILLE.
Staang ER the MAN of NATURE lies not here: Enshrined far distant by the Scoffer's side
Here was it, Stranger, that the patron Saint
Of Cambria past his age of penitence,
A solitary man; and here he made
His hermitage, the roots his food, his drink
Of Hodney's mountain stream. Perchance thy youth
Has read with eager wonder how the Knight
Of Wales in Ormandine's enclianted bower,
Slept the long sleep: and if that in thy veins
Flow the pure blood of Britain, sure that blood
Hath flow’d with quicker impulse at the tale
Of David's deeds, when through the press of war
His gallant comrades follow'd his green crest
To conquest. Stranger! Hatterill's mountain heights
And this fair vale of Ewias, and the stream
of Hodney, to thine after-thoughts will rise
More grateful, thus associate with the name
Of David and the deeds of other days.
EPITAPH ON ALGERNON SIDNEY.
Hear Sidney lies, he whom perverted law,
The pliant jury and the bloody judge,
Doom'd to the traitor's death. A tyrant King
Required, an abject country saw and shared
The crime. The noble cause of Liberty
He loved in life, and to that noble cause
In death bore witness. But his Country rose
Like Sampson from her sleep, and broke her chain".
And proudly with her worthies she enroll'd
IIer murder'd Sidney's name. The voice of man
Gives honour or destroys; but earthly power
Gives not, nor takes away, the self-applause
Which on the scaffold suffering virtue feels, Nor that which God appointed its reward.
Jo HN rests below. A man more infamous
Never hath held the sceptre of these realms,
And bruised beneath the iron rod of Power
The oppressed men of England. Englishman!
Curse not his memory. Murderer as he was,
Coward and slave, yet he it was who sign'd
That Charter which should make thee morn and night
Be thankful for thy birth-place:–Englishmans
That holy Charter, which, shouldst thou permit
Force to destroy, or Fraud to undermine,
Thy children's groans will persecute thy soul,
For they must bear the burthen of thy crime.
Srn Anger! whose steps have reach'd this solitude,
Know that this lonely spot was dear to one
Devoted with no unrequited zeal
To Nature. Here, delighted he has heard
The rustling of these woods, that now perchance
Melodious to the gale of summer move;
And underneath their shade on yon smooth rock,
with grey and yellow lichens overgrown,
Often reclined; watching the silent flow
Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals
A long its verdant course,_till all around
Had fill'd his senses with tranquillity,
And ever sooth'd in spirit he return'd
A happier, better man. Stranger! perchance,
Therefore the stream more lovely to thine eye
Will glide along, and to the summer gale
The woods wave more melodious. Cleanse thou then
The weeds and mosses from this letter'd stone.
FOf A MONUMENT AT TORDESILLAS.
SpAN IARD ! if thou art one who bows the knee
Before a despot's footstool, hic thee hence!
This ground is holy: here Padilla died,
Martyr of Freedom. But if thou dost love
Her cause, stand then as at an altar here,
And thank the Almighty that thine honest heart,
Full of a brother's feelings for mankind,
Rebels against oppression. Not unheard
Nor unavailing shall the grateful prayer
Ascend, for loftiest impulses will rise
To elevate and strengthen thee, and prompt
To virtuous action. Relics silver-shrined,
And chaunted mass, would wake within the soul
Thoughts valueless and cold compared with these.
FO1: A COLUMN AT TRUXILLO.
Piz Anno here was born; a greater name
The list of Glory boasts not. Toil and Pain,
Famine and hostile Elements, and Hosts
Embattled, fail'd to check him in his course,
Not to be wearied, not to be deterr'd,
Not to be overcome. A mighty realm
He overran, and with relentless arm
Slew or enslaved its unoffending sons,
And wealth, and power, and fame, were his rewards.
There is another world, beyond the Grave,
According to their deeds where men are judged.
0 reader! if thy daily bread be earn'd
By daily labour, yea, however low,
However wretched be thy lot assign'd,
Thank thou, with deepest gratitude, the God
Who made thee, that thou art not such as he.
FOR THE CELL OF HONORIUS, AT THE CORR CONVENT, NEAR CINTRA.
He he cavern'd like a beast Honorius dwelt
In self-denial, solitude, and prayer,
Long years of penance. Ile had rooted out
All human feelings from his heart, and sled
With fear and loathing from all human joys
As from perdition. But the law of Christ
Enjoins not this. To aid the fatherless,
Coinfort the sick, and be the poor man's friend,
And in the wounded heart pour gospel-balm;
These are the active duties of that law,
Which whoso keeps shall have a joy on earth,
Calm, constant, still increasing, preluding
The eternal bliss of Ileaven. Yet mock not thou,
Stranger, the Anchorite's mistaken zeal |
He painfully his painful duties kept,
Sincere though erring: Stranger, do thou keep
Thy better and thine easier rule as well.
FOR A MONUMENT AT TAUNTON.
Tuey suffer'd here whom Jefferies doom'd to death
In mockery of all justice, when the Judge
Unjust, subservient to a cruel King,
Perform'd his work of blood. They suffer'd here,
The victims of that Judge, and of that King,
In mockery of all justice here they bled,
Unheard' But not unpitied, nor of God
Unseen, the innocent suffered not in vain
The innocent blood cried vengeance! for at length,
The indignant Nation in its power arose,
Resistless. Then that wicked Judge took flight,
Dist;uised in vain:-not always is the Lord
Slow to revenge! a miserable man
Ile fell beneath the people's rage, and still
The children curse his memory. From his throne
The lawless bigot who commission'd him,
Inhuman James, was driven. He lived to drag
Long years of frustrate hope, he lived to load
More blood upon his soul. Let tell the Boyne,
Let Londonderry tell his guilt and shame;
And that immortal day when on thy shores,
La Ilogue, the purple ocean dash'd the dead!
FOR A TABLET AT PENSHURST.
Ane days of old familiar to thy mind,
O Reader? Hast thou let the midnight hour
Pass unperceived, whilst thou in fancy lived
With high-born beauties and enamour’d chiefs,
Sharing their hopes, and with a breathless joy
Whose expectation touch'd the verge of pain,
Following their dangerous fortunes? If such lore
Hath ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread,
As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts,
The groves of Penshurst. Sidney here was born,
Sidney, than whom no gentler, braver man
Ilis own delightful genius ever feign'd,
Illustrating the vales of Arcady
With courtcous courage and with royal loves.
Upon his natal day the acorn here
Was planted. It grew up a stately oak,
And in the beauty of its strength it stood
And flourish'd, when his perishable part
Ilad moulder'd dust to Just. That stately oak
Itself hath moulder'd now, but Sidney's fame
Endureth in his own innuortal works.
This to a mother's sacred memory
Iler son hath hallow'd. Absent many a year
Far over sea, his sweetest dreams were still
Of that dear voice which soothed his infancy:
And after many a fight against the Moor
And Malabar, or that fierce Cavalry
Which he had seen covering the boundless plain
Even to the utmost limits where the eye
Could pierce the far horizon,-his first thought
In safety was of her, who when she heard
The tale of that day's danger, would retire
And pour her pious gratitude to Heaven
In prayers and tears of joy. The lingering hour
Of his return, long-look d-for, came at length,
And full of hope he reach'd his native shore.
Vain hope that puts its trust in human life!
For ere he came the number of her days
Was full. O leader, what a world were this,
How unendurable its weight, if they
Whom Death hath sunder'd did not meet again!
Heae in the fruitful vales of Somerset
Was Emma born, and here the Maiden grew
To the sweet season of her womanhood
Beloved and lovely, like a plant whose leaf
And bud and blossom all are beautiful.
In peacefulness her virgin years were past;
And when in prosperous wedlock she was given,
Amid the Cumbrian mountains far away
She had her summer bower. T was like a dream
Of old Romance to see her when she plied
Her little skiff on Derwent's glassy lake;
The roseate evening resting on the hills,
The lake returning back the hues of heaven,
Mountains and vales and waters all imbued
With beauty and in quietness; and she,
Nymph-like, amid that glorious solitude
A heavenly presence, gliding in her joy.
But soon a wasting malady began
To prey upon her, frequent in attack,
Yet with such flattering intervals as mock
The hopes of anxious love, and most of all
The sufferer, self-deceived. During those days
Of treacherous respite, many a time hath lie,
Who leaves this record of his friend, drawn back
Into the shadow from her social board,
Recause too surely in her cheek he saw
The insidious bloom of death; and then her smiles
And innocent mirth excited deeper grief
Than when long-look d-for tidings came at last,
That, all her sufferings ended, she was laid
Amid Madeira's orange groves to rest.
O gentle Emma! o'er a lovelier form
Than thine, Earth never closed; more'er did Heaven
Receive a purer spirit from the world!
The following Eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance to sm poems in our language. This species of composition has tecome Ppular in Germany, and I was induced to attem t it by an account as the German Idylls given me in conversation. They cannot propert: be styled imitations, as I am is norant of that lan; eage at pre-eat. and have never seen any translations or specimens in this kind. – With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from Tityrus and Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsisses. No kind ef poetry can boast of more illustrious names, or is more distinguished ly the servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writer, • more silly than their sheep, - have, like their sheep. Rone on in the same track one after another. Gay stumbled into a new path. His eclogues were the only ones which interested use when I was a bes, and did not know they were burlesque. The subject would furni.i. matter for an essay, but this is not the place for it.—1799.
staan Gra. Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, Breaking the highway stones, and "t is a task Somewhat too hard methinks for age ike yours! old man. Why yes! for one with such a weight of years Upon his back—I've lived here, man and boy, In this same parish, well nigh the full age Of man, being hard upon threescore and ten. I can remember sixty years ago The beautifying of this mansion here, When my late Lady's father, the old Squire, Came to the estate. sta ANGER. Why then you have outlasted All his improvements, for you see they're making Great alterations here. old MAN. Aye—great indeed! And if my poor old Lady could rise up— God rest her soul!'t would grieve her to behold The wicked work is here. - staa NGER. They 've set about it In right good earnest. All the front is gone; Here's to be turf, they tell me, and a road Round to the door. There were some yew trees too Stood in the court.— old Man. Aye, Master! fine old trees!
My grandfather could just remember back
When they were planted there. It was my task
To keep them trimm'd, and 't was a pleasure to me;
All straight and smooth, and like a great green wall!
My poor old Lady many a time would come
And tell me where to shear, for she had play'd
In childhood under them, and 't was her pride
To keep them in their beauty. Plague, I say,
On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have
A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs
And your pert poplar trees;–I could as soon
IIave plough'd my father's grave as cut them down!
But 't will be lighter and more cheerful now;
A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road
Round for the carriage, now it suits my taste.
I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh;
And then there 's some variety about it.
In spring the lilac and the snow-ball flower,
And the laburnum with its golden strings
Waving in the wind: And when the autumn comes
The bright red berries of the mountain-ash,
With pines enough in winter to look green,
And show that something lives. Sure this is better
Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look
All the year round like winter, and for ever
Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs
Wither'd and bare!
Ah! so the new Squire thinks,
And pretty work he makes of it! what "t is
To have a stranger come to an old house!
It seems you know him not?
No, Sir, not I.
They tell me he's expected daily now;
But in my Lady's time he never came
But once, for they were very distant kin.
If he had play’d about here when a child
In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries,
And sate in the porch threading the jessamine flowers
Which fell so thick, he had not had the heart
To mar all thus!
Come—come! all is not wrong;
Those old dark windows—
They're demolish'd too,
As if he could not see through casement tolass!
The very red-breasts, that so regular
Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs,
Won't know the window now !
sta ANG est.
Nay they were small,
And then so darken'd round with jessamine,
Harbouring the vermin;—yet I could have wish'd
That jessamine had been saved, which canopied
And bower'd and lined the porch.
It did one good
To pass within ten yards when 't was in blossom.
There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside;
My Lady loved at evening to sit there
And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet
And slept in the sun; 't was an old favourite dog-
She did not love him less that he was old
And feeble, and he always had a place
By the fire-side; and when he died at last
She made me dig a grave in the garden for him.
Ah! she was good to all! a woeful day
T was for the poor when to her grave she went'
They lost a friend then?
You're a stranger here,
Or you wouldn't ask that question. Were they sick?
She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs
She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter,
When weekly she distributed the bread
In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear
The blessings on her! and I warrant them
They were a blessing to her when her wealth
Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir!
It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen
Her Christmas kitchen, how the blazing fire
Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs
So cheerful red,—and as for miseltoe,
The finest bough that grew in the country round
Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went
So bountiful about! a Christmas cask,
And 't was a noble one!—God help me, Sir!
But I shall never see such days again.
st R A N Gett.
Things may be better yet than you suppose,
And you should hope the best.
It don't lock well,—
These alterations, Sir! I'm an old man,
And love the good old fashions; we don't find .
old bounty in new houses. They've destroy'd
All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk
Grubb’d up, and they do say that the great row
Of elms behind the house, which meet a-top,
They must fall too. Wells well! I did not think
To live to see all this, and "t is perhaps
A comfort I sha'n't live to see it long.
But sure all changes are not needs for the worse,
May-hap they mayn't, Sir:-for all that
I like what I've been used to. I remember
All this from a child up, and now to lose it,
'T is losing an old friend. There's nothing left
As 't was;–I go abroad and only meet
With men whose fathers I reinember boys;
The brook that used to run before my door,
That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt
To climb are down; and I see nothing now
That tells me of old times, except the stones
In the church-yard. You are young, Sir, and I hope
Have many years in store, but pray to God
You mayn't be left the last of all your friends.
sta ANG era.
well well you've one friend more than you're aware of
If the Squire's taste don't suit with yours, I warrant
That's all you ll quarrel with : walk in and taste
His beer, old friend and see if your old Lady
Eer broach'd a better cask. You did not know me,
But we're acquainted now. T would not be easy
To make you like the outside; but within,