And adjurations of the God in Heaven), Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues Of our fierce doings! Spare us yet awhile, Father and God! O! spare us yet awhile! On which our vice and wretchedness were tagg'd Poor drudges of chastising Providence, Dote with a mad idolatry; and all Such have I been deem'd But, O dear Britain! O my Mother Isle ! A husband, and a father! who revere All bonds of natural love, and find them all O native Britain! O my Mother Isle ! How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills, All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, Laugh'd at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole Which grew up with you round the same fire-side,I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast I have told, O Britons! O my brethren! I have told All change from change of constituted power; Loving the God that made me! May my fears, My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad A livelier impulse and a dance of thought! Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend, Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human-kind. Nether Stowey, April 28th, 1798. FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. A WAR ECLOGUE. WITH AN APOLOGETIC PREFACE.* The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendée. FAMINE is discovered lying on the ground; to her enter FIRE and SLAUGHTER. Letters four do form his name. FAMINE. Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled, To frighten the wolf and carrion crow, BOTH. Whisper it, sister! in our ear. FAMINE. A baby beat its dying mother. I had starved the one, and was starving the other Spirits hear what spirits tell : Myself, I named him once below, Clapp'd their hands and danced for glee. But laugh'd to hear Hell's burning rafters Unwillingly re-echo laughters! No! no! no! Spirits hear what spirits tell! "I will make a holiday in Hell! FAMINE. Whisper it, sister! so and so! Ia a dark hint, soft and slow. SLAUGHTER. Letters four do form his nameAnd who sent you? The same! the same! Letters four do form his name. FIRE. Sisters! I from Ireland came! I triumph'd o'er the setting sun! On as I strode with my huge strides, I flung back my head and I held my sides, It was so rare a piece of fun To see the swelter'd cattle run With uncouth gallop through the night, By the light of his own blazing cot The house-stream met the flame and hiss'd, BOTH. Alas! to mend the breaches wide But here once more to view did pop The man that kept his senses. And now he cried-" Stop, neighbors! stop! The Ox is mad! I would not swop, No, not a school-boy's farthing top For all the parish fences. "The Ox is mad! Ho! Dick, Bob, Mat! What means this coward fuss? Ho! stretch this rope across the plat― "T will trip him up or if not that, Why, damme! we must lay him flatSee, here's my blunderbuss!" "A lying dog! just now he said, The Ox was only glad, Let's break his Presbyterian head!”"Hush!" quoth the sage, "you've been misled, No quarrels now-let's all make headYou drove the poor Ox mad!" As thus I sat in careless chat, With the morning's wet newspaper, In eager haste, without his hat, As blind and blundering as a bat, In came that fierce aristocrat, Our pursy woollen draper. And so my Muse perforce drew bit, And in he rush'd and panted:"Well, have you heard?"-"No! not a whit." "What! han't you heard?"-Come, out with it!" "That Tierney votes for Mister Pitt, And Sheridan's recanted." II. LOVE POEMS. Quas humilis tenero stylus olim effudit in ævo. Pectore nunc gelido calidos miseremur amantes, Petrarch. INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE. The following Poem is intended as the introduction to a somewhat longer one. The use of the old Ballad word Ladie for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity [as Camden says] will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and propriety in it A heavier objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties explode around us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But, alas! explosion has succeedes explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear new, and it is possible that now even a simple story, wholly uninspired with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hab bub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinct ly audible. S. T. C Dec. 21, 1799. O LEAVE the lily on its stem; O leave the rose upon the spray; O leave the elder bloom, fair maids! And listen to my lay. A cypress and a myrtle-bough This morn around my harp you twined Because it fashion'd mournfully Its murmurs in the wind. And now a Tale of Love and Woe, A woful Tale of Love I sing ; Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs And trembles on the string. But most, my own dear Genevieve, It sighs and trembles most for thee! O come, and hear what cruel wrongs Befell the Dark Ladie. Few Sorrows hath she of her own, My hope, my joy, my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stir this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oh! ever in my waking dreams, The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve⚫ And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She lean'd against the armed mañ, The statue of the armed knight, She stood and listen'd to my harp, Amid the ling'ring light. I play'd a sad and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story- She listen'd with a flitting blush, I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And how for ten long years he woo'd The Ladie of the Land: I told her how he pined: and ah! She listen'd with a flitting blush; But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed this bold and lonely Knight, And how he roarn'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day or night; And how he cross'd the woodman's paths, Through briers and swampy mosses beat; How boughs rebounding scourged his limbs, And low stubs gored his feet; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, There came and look'd him in the face And how, unknowing what he did, And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; And how she tended him in vain And meekly strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain: And how she nursed him in a cave; His dying words—but when I reach'd All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guiltless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve; And hopes and fears that kindle hope, Subdued and cherish'd long! She wept with pity and delight, She blush'd with love and maiden-shame; And, like the murmurs of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. saw her bosom heave and swell, Heave and swell with inward sighsI could not choose but love to see Her gentle bosom rise. Her wet cheek glow'd: she stept aside, She half inclosed me with her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, look'd up. And gazed upon my face. "T was partly love, and partly fear, And partly 't was a bashful art, That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart. I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride. And now once more a tale of woe, A woeful tale of love I sing: For thee, my Genevieve! it sighs, And trembles on the string. When last I sang the cruel scorn That crazed this bold and lonely Knight, And how he roam'd the mountain-woods Nor rested day or night; I promised thee a sister tale Of man's perfidious cruelty: Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong Befell the Dark Ladie. LEWTI, OR THE CIRCASSIAN Ar midnight by the stream I roved, The moon was high, the moonlight gleam But the rock shone brighter far, I saw a cloud of palest hue, Till it reach'd the moon at last : And with such joy I find my Lewti: And even so my pale wan cheek Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind. If Lewti never will be kind. |