Then had the village youth at vernal hour flung round with flowery wreaths thy friendly gate, And blest in gratitude that sovereign power That made the man of mercy good as great. The traveller then to view thy towers had stood, Whilst babes had lispt their benefactor's name, And call'd on heaven to give thee every good, And told abroad thy hospitable fame. In every joy of life the hours had fled, Whilst time on downy pinions hurried by, And, as thy liberal hand had shower'd around And angels hymn'd the rich man's soul to heaven. HOSPITALITY. «LAY low yon impious trappings on the ground, But lo! with stern and threatful mien, Thou, AVALON! in whose polluted womb Where wont the hospitable fire In cheering volumes to aspire, And with its genial warmth the pilgrim's woes assuage. Low lie thy turrets now, The desert ivy clasps the joyless hearth; With mouldering ruins loads the unfrequented earth. Ye minstrel throng, In whose bold breasts once glow'd the tuneful fire, No longer struck by you shall breathe the plaintive lyre: The walls, whose trophied sides along Now damp and moss-ymantled load the ground; Shall spread from Thule's distant shore; In hospitable hall, shall rest the child of song. Where shall we seek thee now? No more thy cheering smiles impart Wilt thou bestow the bosom-warming smile. Whilst haughty pride his gallery displays, Where hangs the row in sullen show Of heroes and of chiefs of ancient days, The gaudy toil of Turkish loom Shall decorate the stately room; Yet there the traveller, with wistful eye, Beholds the guarded door, and sighs, and passes by. Not so where o'er the desert waste of sand Speeds the rude Arab wild his wandering way; Leads on to rapine his intrepid band, And claims the wealth of India for his prey; There, when the wilder'd traveller distrest Holds to the robber forth the friendly hand, The generous Arab gives the tent of rest, Guards him as the fond mother guards her child, Relieves his every want, and guides him o'er the wild. Not so amid those climes where rolls along Patient of hunger, and of pain, Close in their haunts the chiefs remain, And lift in secret stand the deadly spear. Yet, should the unarm'd traveller draw near, And proffering forth the friendly hand, Claim their protection from the warrior band, The savage Indians bid their anger cease, Lay down the ponderous spear,and give the pipe of peace. Such virtue Nature gives: when man withdraws And steels the soul of apathy to rest; INSCRIPTION FOR THE APARTMENT IN CHEPSTOW CASTLE, WHERE For thirty years, secluded from mankind, He never saw the sun's delightful beams, An imitation of this by Mr Canning appeared in the first number of the Anti-Jacobin, Nov. 20, 1797, entitied-Inscription for the door of the cell in Newgate, where Mrs Brownrigg the Prentice-cide was confined previous to her execution.-EDITOR. FOR THE BANKS OF THE HAMPSHIRE AVON. A LITTLE while, O traveller, linger here, Nor fraught with merchant wealth, nor famed in song, Its gentle charms may soothe and satisfy INSCRIPTION UNDER AN OAK. HERE, Traveller! pause awhile. This ancient Oak Wastes on the wandering wind. Nor wilt thou want For from these fruitful boughs the acorns fall Hark to the warblings of some wretched bird INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT AT OLD SARUM. READER, if thou canst boast the noble name Of Englishman, it is enough to know Thou standest in Old Sarum. But if, chance, 'T was thy misfortune in some other land, Inheritor of slavery, to be born, Read and be envious! dost thou see yon hut, Its old mud mossy walls with many a patch Spotted? Know, foreigner! so wisely well In England it is order'd, that the laws Which bind the people, from themselves should spring; Know that the dweller in that little hut, That wretched hovel, to the senate sends Two delegates. Think, foreigner, where such An individual's rights, how happy all! ЕРІТАРН. TIME and the world, whose magnitude and weight Yet on the summit of yon craggy steep Stands Hope, surrounded with a blaze of light; Fair smiles the morn, in all the hues of day And darksome clouds presage the stormy night: Yet may the sun anew extend his ray, Anew the heavens may shine in splendour bright; Anew the sunshine gild the lucid plain, And nature's frame reviv'd, may thank the genial rain. And what, my friend, is life? Let the reed yielding bend its weakly form, For, firm in rooted strength, the oak defies the storm. If thou hast plann'd the morrow's dawn to roam Wilt thou despond in sadness at thy home, Or will thy hope expect the coming day, If thy light bark have met the storm, And sooth'd the dangers with the song: And reach the port of fame adown the stream of time. TO LYCON. AND does my friend again demand the strain, Still seek to list the sorrow-soothing lay? Still would he hear the woe-worn heart complain, When melancholy loads the lingering day? Shall partial friendship turn the favouring eye No fault behold, but every charm descry; And shall the thankless bard his honour'd strain deay? «No single pleasure shall your pen bestow;» Ah, Lycos! 't is that thought affords delight; 'Tis that can soothe the wearying weight of woe, When memory reigns amid the gloom of night For fancy loves the distant scene to see, Far from the gloom of solitude to flee, And think that absent friends may sometimes think of me. Oft when my steps have trac'd the secret glade, What time the pale moon glimmering on the plain Just mark'd where deeper darkness dyed the shade, Has contemplation lov'd the night-bird's strain: Still have I stood, or sileat mov'd and slow, Whilst o'er the copse the thrilling accents flow, Nor deem'd the pensive bird might pour the notes of woe. Yet sweet and lovely is the night-bird's lay, The passing pilgrim loves her notes to hear, When mirth's rude reign is sunk with parted day, And silence sleeps upon the vacant ear; For staid reflection loves the doubtful light, When sleep and stillness lull the noiseless night, And breathes the pensive song a soothing sad delight. Fearful the blast, and loud the torrent's roar, And sharp and piercing drove the pelting rain, When wildly wandering on the Volga's shore, The exil'd OviD pour'd his plaintive strain; He mourn'd for ever lost the joys of Rome, He mourn'd his widow'd wife, his distant home, And all the weight of woe that load the exile's doom. Oh! could my lays, like SULMO's minstrel, flow, Eternity might love her Bios's name; The muse might give a dignity to woe, And griefs steep path should prove the path to But I have pluck'd no bays from PHOEBUS' bower, When bright the sun may shine with unremitted ray? May haply smile and bloom to last one little hour. Wilt thou float careless down the stream of time, To please that little hour is all I crave: Lov'd by my friends, I spurn the love of fame; High let the grass o'erspread my lonely grave. Let cankering moss obscure the rough-hewn name There never may the pensive pilgrim go, These are the crimes that harrow up my heart, Be mine, whilst journeying life's rough road along O'er hill and dale the wandering bard shall go, To hail the hour of pleasure with the song, Or soothe with sorrowing strains the hour of woe; The song each passing moment shall beguile; Perchance too, partial friendship deigns to smile: Let fame reject the lay, I sleep secure the while. Be mine to taste the humbler joys of life, Lull'd in oblivion's lap to wear away, And flee from grandeur's scenes of vice and strife, And flee from fickle fashion's empty sway: Be mine, in age's drooping hour, to see The lisping children climb their grandsire's knee, And train the future race to live and act like me. Then, when the inexorable hour shall come To tell my death, let no deep requiem toll, No hireling sexton dig the venal tomb, Nor priest be paid to hymn my parted soul; But let my children, near their little cot, Lay my old bones beneath the turfy spot: So let me live unknown, so let me die forgot. ROSAMUND TO HENRY. WRITTEN AFTER SHE HAD TAKEN THE VEIL. HENRY, 't is past! each painful effort o'er, Why bursts the big tear from my guilty eye? Why heaves my love-lorn breast the impious sigh? Down, bosom! down, and learn to heave in prayer; Flow, flow, my tears, and wash away despair: Ah, no still, still the lurking sin I see, My heart will heave, my tears will fall for thee. Yes, HENRY! through the vestal's guilty veins, With burning sway the furious passion reigns; For thee, seducer, still the tear will fall, And Love torment in Godstow's hallow'd wall. Yet virtue from her deathlike sleep awakes, Remorse comes on, and rears her whip of snakes. Ah, HENRY! fled are all those fatal charms That led their victim to the monarch's arms; No more responsive to the evening air In wanton ringlets waves my golden hair; No more amid the dance my footsteps move, No more the languid eye dissolves with love; Fades on the cheek of ROSAMUND the rose, And penitence awakes from sin's repose. Harlot! adultress! HENRY! can I bear Such aggravated guilt, such full despair! By me the marriage-bed defil'd, by me The laws of heaven forsook, defied for thee! Dishonour fix'd on CLIFFORD's ancient name, A father sinking to the grave with shame; Yet these, and more than these, are lost in love. Yes, even here amid the sacred pile, The echoing cloister, and the long-drawn aisle; Even here, when pausing on the silent air, The midnight bell awakes and calls to prayer; As on the stone I bend my clay-cold knee, Love heaves the sigh, and drops the tear for thee: All day the penitent but wakes to weep, Till nature and the woman sink in sleep; Nightly to thee the guilty dreams repair, And morning wakes to sorrow and despair! Lov'd of my heart, the conflict soon must cease, Soon must this harrow'd bosom rest in peace; Soon must it heave the last soul-rending breath, And sink to slumber in the arms of death. Oh, I was cheerful as the lark, whose lay Trills through the ether, and awakes the day! Mine was the heartfelt smile, when earliest light Shot through the fading curtain of the night; Mine was the peaceful heart, the modest eye That met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why. At evening hour I struck the melting lyre, Whilst partial wonder fill'd my doating sire, Till he would press me to his aged breast, And cry, « My child, in thee my age is blest! Oh! may kind heaven protract my span of life To see my lovely ROSAMUND a wife; To view her children climb their grandsire's knee, To see her husband love, and love like me! Then, gracious heaven, decree old CLIFFORD's end, Let his grey hairs in peace to death descend.» The dreams of bliss are vanish'd from his view, The buds of hope are blasted all by you; Thy child, O CLIFFORD! bears a mother's name, A mother's anguish, and a harlot's shame; Even when her darling children climb her knee, Feels the full force of guilt and infamy! Wretch, most unhappy! thus condemn'd to know, Even in her dearest bliss, her keenest woeCurst be this form, accurst these fatal charms That buried virtue in seduction's arms; Or rather curst that sad, that fatal hour, When HENRY first beheld and felt their power; When my too partial brother's doating tongue On each perfection of a sister hung; Told of the graceful form, the rose-red cheek, Thine, HENRY, is the crime! 't is mine to bear The aggravated weight of full despair; To wear the day in woe, the night in tears, And pass in penitence the joyless years: Guiltless in ignorance, my love-led eyes Knew not the monarch in the knight's disguise; Fraught with deceit th' insidious monarch came To blast his faithful subject's spotless name; To pay each service of old CLIFFORD's race With all the keenest anguish of disgrace! Of love he talk'd; abash'd down-cast eye Nor seem'd to seek, nor yet had power to fly; Still, as he urg'd his suit, his wily art Told not his rank till victor o'er my heart: Ah, known too late! in vain my reason strove, Fame, honour, reason, all were lost in love. my eye How heav'd thine artful breast the deep-drawn sigh? How spoke thy looks? how glow'd thine ardent eye? When skill'd in guile, that soft seductive tongue Talk'd of its truth, and CLIFFORD was undone. Oh, cursed hour of passion's maddening sway, Guilt which a life of tears must wash away! Gay as the morning lark no more I rose, No more each evening sunk to calm repose; No more in fearless innocence mine Or met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why; No more my fingers struck the trembling lyre, No more I ran with joy to meet my sire; But guilt's deep poison ran through every vein, But stern reflection claim'd his ruthless reign; Still vainly seeking from myself to fly, In anxious guilt I shunn'd each friendly eye; A thousand torments still my steps pursue, And guilt, still lovely, haunts my soul with you. Harlot, adultress, each detested name, Stamps everlasting blots on CLIFFORD'S fame! How can this wretch prefer the prayer to heaven? How, self-condemn'd, expect to be forgiven? And yet, fond Hope, with self-deluding art, Why, nature, didst thou give this fatal face? Oh! had fate plac'd amidst Earl CLIFFORD'S hall Of menial vassals, me most mean of all; Low in my hopes, and homely rude my face, Nor form, nor wishes, rais'd above my place; How happy, ROSAMUND, had been thy lot, In peace to live unknown, and die forgot! Guilt had not then infix'd her piercing sting, Nor scorn revil'd the harlot of a king; Contempt had not revil'd my fallen fame, Nor infamy debas'd a CLIFFORD's name. Oh, CLIFFORD! Oh! my sire! thy honours now Thy child has blasted on thine ancient brow; Fallen is that darling child from virtue's name, And thy grey hairs sink to the grave with shame? Still busy fancy bids the scene arise, Still paints the father to these wretched eyes. Yet still the same kind parent, still all mild, Oft will remembrance, in her painful hour, Cast the keen glance to Woodstock's lovely bower; Recal each sinful scene of bliss to view, And give the soul again to guilt and you. Oh! I have seen thee trace the bower around, And heard the forest echo RoSAMUND; Have seen thy frantic looks, thy wildering eye, Heard the deep groan and bosom-rending sigh! |