Chapter 2
"But thou, my heart, wilt thou be calm? Oh! tell me, can reflection cease; And this fond bosom, now so warm, Be ever tranquilliz'd to peace!
"Ah, no! a father's scornful eye Is ever present to my view; And tells me, Herbert dar'd to die, Though Normans could his son subdue.
"Each feeble plea his soul disdains, They cannot for the fault atone; Though, when I left Northumbria's plains, I had not fifteen summers known.
"And hear me, Herbert, when I swear It was not fear that urg'd my flight; A worthless life was not my care, I thought but of a parent's right.
"Then pardon that my youth comply'd, To ease a mother's anxious fears That, when I rather would have died, I yielded to a sister's tears.
"Alas! a peasant's humble shed, Soon saw our sainted parents' death, Who, while our hearts in anguish bled, With pious hopes resign'd her breath.
"When mists foretel the ev'ning near, And clouds of chilling dew arise, We sought the grave of her so dear, And offer'd there our tears and sighs.
"'Till mild reflection lent her aid, And bade our filial sorrows cease; The fever of our souls allay'd, We sunk into a mournful peace.
"My pensive bosom strove to keep A dying mother's last request; I let the thoughts of vengeance sleep, And studied to make Emma blest.
"No longer shunning of the dawn, Or seeking the sequester'd shade, I call'd my sister to the lawn, And trod with her the flow'ry glade.
"Submitting to our wayward fate, I talk'd not of the treasures flown; But still seem'd easy and sedate, While pressing verdure not my own.
"Then all I wish'd, and all I fear'd, Was by fraternal love inspir'd; And one, by every tie endear'd, The only friend my soul desir'd.
"Yet soon that pleasing calmness fled, A Norman beauty won my heart, Imperious love my footsteps led, And bade all secrecy depart.
"I own'd the splendour of my race, Altho' a peasant's form I bore; I fancied silence was disgrace, And hid my sentiments no more.
"Her father's tongue my fate decreed, And doom'd great Herbert's son to shame; For, tho' by love from prison freed, I bear an outlaw's hateful name.
"My sister no fond friend can shield, No relative allay her grief; For tyranny all hearts hath steel'd, And nought can give her soul relief.
"With ev'ry quality to charm, A guardian will not heaven allow, To screen thy artless youth from harm, And, fair deserted! help thee now!
"No aid, no comfort, can be nigh! And shall thy brother here remain? Has he not fortitude to fly, And burst the heavy, servile chain?
"Why should I linger here alone, Unseen by every human eye? To live unfriended and unknown, And in this dreary desart die.
"For now the sun-beams gild the sky, And give the misty morning grace, Far from the light I'm doom'd to fly, Abandon'd by the human race.
"But no! I'll bear suspense no more! Too dear a price to purchase breath; I'll seek the scenes I yet deplore, And meet a welcome, wish'd-for, death."
Tortur'd to frenzy, Alwin flew, And as he left his sad retreat, He, turning, look'd a last adieu, And shook the dew-drops from his feet.
His hurried steps nor press'd the ground, Nor pointed out the path he came; And, though so long the way he found, Despair buoy'd up his fainting frame.
The sun shot forth a feeble ray, But hid his glorious orb from sight, And the pale evening's modest grey, Had soften'd the too-glaring light,
When Alwin reach'd the humble cot, That once he did with Emma share, And, weeping, hail'd the well-known spot, In vain, for Emma was not there.
Repuls'd, he turn'd his languid eye, Where Ranulph's lofty turrets rose; And, heaving disappointment's sigh, He sought the mansion of his foes.
His faltering step, when there he came, A proud, disdainful air possest; Memory recall'd his former shame, And indignation fill'd his breast.
He enter'd, in his wild attire, With hasty pace and haggard brow, Scorn fill'd his azure eye with fire, And gave his cheeks a deeper glow.
A graceful knight who met his view, Sat pleading by a lady's side; And Alwin's jealous bosom knew Lord Percy, and his fated bride.
Mistaken youth! thy eyes have seen, The persons pictur'd in thy mind; But who is that, with pensive mien, And forehead on her hand reclin'd?
O'er whom Lord Ranulph fondly bends, With sorrow seated on his brow; While the regretting tear descends O'er his pale cheek, in silent woe.
"Ah! is it thus?" sad Alwin said, The fancied bride the accents knew, Lord Percy rais'd his drooping head, And lovely Emma met his view.
Then rapture and surprize prevail'd, Each bosom felt confus'd delight; While his return the mourner hail'd, And thus his sorrows did requite.
"O, dearest Alwin, now no more My father disapproves our flame; No longer we thy loss deplore, Or tremble to pronounce thy name.
"A noble friend has gain'd our cause, And vanquish'd all his former hate; Who, ere he own'd a lover's laws, With generous tears had wept thy fate."
"Yes, injur'd youth," Lord Ranulph cried, "Thou art this day my chosen heir; In Adelaide behold thy bride, Thy sister's future husband, there.
"Lord Percy, to a candid mind, Unites a fervour like thy own; And Emma, not to merit blind, Refers his cause to thee alone.
"If thou wilt grant his fond desire, 'Twill gain a brave, a noble friend; And the possessions of thy sire, To his posterity descend."
"And did my Emma stay to hear, Her brother sanctify her choice? Ah Percy! now you need not fear From Alwin, a dissenting voice.
"Blest in my love, in Emma blest, My heart each cherish'd wish obtains; Northumbrians, now no more opprest, Shall own a son of Herbert reigns.
"May ye rebuild the peasant's cot, Exalt the woe-depressed head, And o'er each desolated spot, The fostering calm of quiet spread!
"May sterne reserve and caution cease! With lenient hand dispense your sway; Give them the healing balm of peace, Their wounded spirits will obey.
"Ah! cheer their gloom! dispel their care! The smile will soon replace the tear; And, wedded to a Saxon fair, The foreign lord no more appear."
1794.
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[Footnote 10: "Wreathing his arms in this sad knot."--SHAKESPERE'S TEMPEST.]
[Footnote 11: Lord of Cumberland.]
INVITATION,
To J.B.C.
Now spring appears, with beauty crown'd, And all is light and life around, Why comes not Jane? When friendship calls, Why leaves she not Augusta's walls? Where cooling zephyrs faintly blow, Nor spread the cheering, healthful glow. That glides through each awaken'd vein, As skimming o'er the spacious plain, We look around with joyous eye, And view no boundaries but the sky.
Already April's reign is o'er, Her evening tints delight no more; No more the violet scents the gale, No more the mist o'erspreads the vale; The lovely queen of smiles and tears, Who gave thee birth, no more appears; But blushing May, with brow serene, And vestments of a livelier green, Commands the winged choir to sing, And with wild notes the meadows ring.
O come! ere all the train is gone, No more to hail thy twenty-one; That age which higher honor shares, And well becomes the wreath it wears. From lassitude and cities flee, And breathe the air of heav'n, with me.
MAY 5, 1795.
WRITTEN ON
WHITSUN-MONDAY,
1795.
At an open window sitting, On this day of mirth and glee, 'Cross a flow'ry vista flitting, Many passing forms I see. Ah! lovely prospect, stay awhile! And longer glad my doating eye, With poverty's delighted smile, And lighten'd step, as passing by;
With labour's spruce and ruddy train, Deck'd out in all their best array, Who, months of toil and care disdain, Paid by the pleasures of a day. The village girl still let me view, Hast'ning to the neighb'ring fair; Her cap adorn'd with pink or blue, And nicely smooth her glossy hair.
With sparkling eye and smiling face, Ting'd o'er with beauty's warmest glow; With timid air, and humble grace, With clear and undepressed brow. Go! lovely girl, and share the day, To thy industrious merit due; There join the dance, or choral lay; Thou blooming, village rose, adieu!
And thou, O youth, so blythe and free, Bounding swiftly o'er the plain, Go, taste the joys of liberty, And cheer thy spirit, happy swain! How different to the lonely hour, When slowly following the plough, Self-buoyant joy forgets the pow'r, Which warms thy gladden'd bosom now.
If some rural prize desiring, Or ambitious of applause, Loud huzzas thy wishes firing, Thy steady hand the furrow draws; Ne'er a victor fam'd in story, Greater praise and reverence drew, Than thou, attir'd in humble glory, So, guiltless conqueror, adieu!
Oh, here a charming group appears! A cottage family, so gay, Whose youthful hopes, uncheck'd by fears, In smiles of thoughtless rapture play. Here, borne in fond, parental arms, The infant's roving eye we view; Boasting a thousand, thousand charms, Endearing innocents, adieu!
They go! no more with beating heart, And lively, dancing step to tread; Unwillingly will they depart, To seek again their homely shed. Ah! Eve, I love thy veil of grey, Which will conceal them from my view, For, bending home their weary way, How sad would be our last adieu!
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_The following was suggested by reading a whimsical description, given by Scarron, of the deformity of his person, contrasted with its former elegance, in the Curiosities of Literature, vol. 2, page 247_.
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PHILEMON.
Ye blooming youth, possest of every grace, Which can delight the eye, or please the ear, Who boast a polish'd mind and faultless face, Awhile the councils of Philemon hear!
Let not pride lift the thoughtless head too high, Temerity arch o'er the scornful brow, Contemptuous glances arm the sparkling eye, Or the high heart with self-complacence glow!
Alas! full soon the eve of life arrives, Though pale Disease's train approach not nigh; Short is the summer of the happiest lives, If no rude storm disturbs the smiling sky.
This wretched body, bending to the earth, Once, on the wings of health, alert and gay, Shone forth the foremost in the train of mirth, And cloudless skies announc'd a beauteous day.
My parents oft, with fond complacence view'd, The elegance of my external form; And thought my mind with excellence endued, Bright as my genius, as my fancy warm.
There was a time, poor as I now appear, I admiration met in every look; And, harsh as now my words may grate your ear, Each tongue was silent when Philemon spoke.
Once could this voice make every bosom thrill, As it pour'd forth the light or plaintive lay; And once these fingers, with superior skill, Upon the lute could eloquently play.
By partial friendship sooth'd, by flattery fann'd, I learnt with conscious grace the dance to lead, To guide the Phaeton with careless hand, And rule, with flowing rein, the prancing steed.
Sick with the glory of a trifler's fame, By folly nurtur'd, I was proud and vain; Till Chastisement in kindest mercy came, Though then her just decrees I dar'd arraign.
The form that sought so late the public view, That glow'd with transport, as the world admir'd, Fill'd with false shame, from every eye withdrew, And to the shades of solitude retir'd.
Consum'd by fevers, spiritless, forlorn, Blasted by apoplexy's dreadful rage, My bleeding heart by keen remembrance torn, I past my prime in premature old age.
I heard my parent's ill-suppressed sighs, And wish'd myself upon the peaceful bier; I saw the anguish of their sleepless eyes, The smile dissembled, and the secret tear.
Oft, with a kind of gratifying woe, I recollected every former charm, And, with the spleen of a malicious foe, Delighted still to keep my sorrows warm.
"Where is the lustre of the gladsome eye, The airy smile, the animated mien, The rounding lip of liveliest crimson dye, So lately envied, now no longer seen.
"I too have gloried in my waving hair, No ringlets now remain to raise my pride; Nor can I now lay the white forehead bare, And push the too luxuriant locks aside."
Thus, like a child, I sigh'd for pleasures past, And lost my hours in a delusive dream; But Reason op'd my blinded eyes at last, And clear'd each mist by her refulgent beam.
I saw futurity before me spread, A scourge or sceptre offer'd to my view, Alarm'd, from Folly's erring mazes fled, And to my God with humble rev'rence drew.
I bow'd, submissive, at the holy shrine, His mercy with warm gratitude confest, Which had reveal'd the spark of life divine, That slumber'd in my earth-enamoured breast.
Had I, as friendship and self-love desir'd, Still suck'd delirium at the fane of praise, I might, my conscience lull'd and passions fir'd, Have lost my soul in the bewitching blaze.
Dear rising train, let not my words offend! Nor the pure dictates of my love despise; To one, late like yourselves, attention lend, And, taught by his experience, be wise!
Ah! banish from your eye the fiend Disdain; Let fair simplicity supply its place; Nor longer let conceit the bosom stain; The child of weakness, follow'd by disgrace.
Should time from you each glowing beauty wrest, You will not then those self-reproaches feel, Which every eye awaken'd in my breast, And twenty winters scarce suffic'd to heel.
Nor will your friends observe each faded charm, Since still your countenance its smile retains, And the same lov'd companion, kind and warm, With unassuming manners, yet remains.
SEPT. 8, 1795.
ON A FAN.
Now I've painted these flowers, say what can I do, To render them worthy acceptance from you? I know of no sybil, whose wonderful art Could to them superior virtues impart, Who, of magical influence wonders could tell, And, who over each blossom could mutter a spell.
You only the humbler enchantments can prove, That arise from esteem, from respect, and from love; With such I assail you, and pow'rful the charm, When applied to a heart sympathetic and warm; To a heart such as that, which, if right I divine, O C--ll--n--n! dwells in that bosom of thine.
NOV. 10, 1795.
TO SIMPLICITY.
Fair village nymph, ah! may I meet Thy pleasing form where'er I stray! With open air and converse sweet, Still cheer my undiscover'd way!
With eyes, that shew the placid mind, And with no feign'd emotions roll; With mien, that sprightly or resign'd, Bespeaks the temper of the soul.
With smiles, where not the lips alone Receive a brighter, vermil hue, The cheek does warmer roses own, And the eyes beam, a deeper blue!
Though Fashion's minions scorn thy pow'r, And slight thee, 'cause in russet drest, Yet Joy frequents thy peaceful bow'r, And sorrow flies to thee for rest.
The echoing laugh, the rapturous tear, The smile of friendship, gay and free, Delight but when they are sincere, And given, lovely nymph, by thee.
When my Rosina reads a tale, Though sweet the tuneful accents flow, No studied pathos does prevail To bid the hearer's bosom glow;
Her voice to sympathy resign'd, Each different feeling can impart. And, tell me not, we e'er can find A modulator, like the heart!
And Mary's locks of glossy brown, That fall in waves, with graceful swell, In ever-varying ringlets thrown, The fairest curls of art excel.
Still rob'd in innocence and ease, Daughter of Truth, shall thou prevail, When Affectation cannot please, And all the spells of Fashion fail.
NOV. 17, 1795.
THE TERRORS OF GUILT.
Yon coward, with the streaming hair, And visage, madden'd to despair, With step convuls'd, unsettled eye, And bosom lab'ring with a sigh, Is _Guilt!_--Behold, he hears the name, And starts with horror, fear, and shame!
See! slow Suspicion by his side, With winking, microscopic eye! And Mystery, his muffled guide, With fearful speech, and head awry.
See! scowling Malice there attend, Bold Falsehood, an apparent friend; Avarice, repining o'er his pelf, Mean Cunning, lover of himself; Hatred, the son of conscious Fear, Impatient Envy, with a fiend-like sneer, And shades of blasted Hopes, which still are hovering near!
All other woes will find relief, And time alleviate every grief; Memory, though slowly, will decay, And Sorrow's empire pass away. Awhile Misfortune may controul, And Pain oppress the virtuous soul, Yet Innocence can still beguile The patient sufferer of a smile, The beams of Hope may still dispense A grateful feeling to the sense; Friendship may cast her arms around, And with fond tears embalm the wound, Or Piety's soft incense rise, And waft reflection to the skies; But those fell pangs which he endures, Nor Time forgets, nor Kindness cures; Like Ocean's waves, they still return, Like Etna's fires, forever burn.
Round him no genial zephyrs fly, No fair horizon glads his eye, No joys to him does Nature yield, The solemn grove, or laughing field; Though both with loud rejoicings ring, No pleasure does the echo bring, Not bubbling waters as they roll, Can tranquillize his bursting soul, For Conscience still, with tingling smart, Asserts his empire o'er his heart, And even when his eye-lids close, With clamourous scream affrights repose.
Oppress'd with light, he seeks to shun The splendid glories of the sun; The busy crowds that hover near, Torment his eye, distract his ear; He hastens to the secret shades, Where not a ray the gloom pervades; Where Contemplation may retreat, And Silence take his mossy seat; Yet even there no peace he knows, His fev'rish blood, no calmer flows; Some hid assassins 'vengeful knife, Is rais'd to end his wretched life. He shudders, starts, and stares around, With breathless fright, to catch the fancied sound; Seeks for the dagger in his breast, And gripes it 'neath his ruffled vest.
Lo! now he plunges in the flood, To cleanse his garments, stain'd with blood, His sanguine arm, in terror, laves; But ah! its hue defies the waves. Deprest, bewildered, thence he flies, And, to avoid Detection, tries, Who, frowning, still before him stands, The sword of Justice in her hands; Abhorrent Scorn, unpitying Shame, And Punishments without a name, Still on her sounding steps attend, And every added horror lend. He turns away, with dread and fear, But the fell spectres still are near. Though Falsehood's mazes see him wind! Yet Infamy is close behind, Lifting her horn, with horrors fraught, Whose hideous yell is frenzy to the thought.
Now, maniac-like, he comes again, And mixes with the jocund train; But still those eyes that wildly roll, Bespeak the tempest in his soul. In yon deep cave he strives to rest, But Mem'ry harrows up his breast; He clasps the goblet, foe to Care, And lo! Distraction hovers there.
Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to know, The sad varieties of woe; Where'er thy footsteps turn, to meet, An earthquake yawning at thy feet, While o'er thy head pale meteors glare, And boding tempests fill the air, In throbbing anguish doom'd to roam, Yet never find a peaceful home. Haste! to the shrine of Mercy hie, There lift the penitential eye, With breaking heart thy sins deplore, And wound Integrity no more! Repentance then thy soul shall save, And snatch thee, ransom'd, from the grave.
JULY 1796.
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_The death of Selred, last King of the East-Saxons, reduced that part of the Heptarchy to dependance on Mercia. The rest is imaginary_.
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CEN'LIN, PRINCE OF MERCIA.
When Britain many chiefs obey'd, And seven Saxon princes sway'd, The Mercian monarch, fam'd afar, In peace respected, fear'd in war, Favour'd by heav'n above the rest, In his brave son was fully blest; For none like Cen'lin did arise, So virtuous, elegant, and wise.
Of partial Mercian eyes the joy, His parents idoliz'd the boy; Saw with just pride each op'ning grace, His charms of mind, of form, and face. And as he oft, with modest air, His thoughts and feelings did declare, His father would delighted hear, Would fondly drop the grateful tear; And proudly cast his eyes around, But not an equal could be found. Warm from each lip applauses broke, And every tongue his praises spoke; The list'ning courtiers spread his fame, And blessings follow'd Cen'lins name.
Now twenty summer's suns had flown, And Mercia's hopes were fully blown; When ah! conceal'd in coarse disguise, To Selred's[12] court their darling flies. Selred, his father's scorn and hate, Became the ruler of his fate. There flatter'd, lov'd, the youth remain'd, Till Cenulph's threats his heir regain'd. But ah! no more the son of mirth, His pensive eye now sought the earth; No more within the dance to move, Or list to sages, did he love; But from surrounding friends would fly, To pour in solitude the sigh. And soon again the youth withdrew, Again to th' Eastern-Saxons flew. His father heard, opprest with woe, His aged heart forgot to glow; He learnt his foes an army led, With youthful Cen'lin at their head, He call'd his warriors forth to meet, And stretch the rebel at his feet: Tears from his eyes in anguish broke, As thus the aged monarch spoke:
"Ye Mercians, let your banners fly! The graceless youth this day shall die! For, since he dares an army bring Against his father and his king, Though dear as life, I will not spare, Nor listen to affection's pray'r! If all my people should implore, I'll pardon the rash boy no more! His harden'd heart, to duty blind, No ties of gratitude can bind; This hoary head would else have rest, And pleasure warm this aching breast. Ah, cruel youth! thy wrongs I feel, More deep than wounds of pointed steel. For, if forlorn the parent's doom, Who bears his offspring to the tomb, Some comfort still his breast may know, Some soothing thought may calm his woe, And when he gives a loose to pain, He feels not that he mourns in vain, But fancies still his darling nigh, And grateful for each bursting sigh, Still bending o'er, with list'ning ear, Each weeping, fond complaint to hear, The dear-lov'd phantom hovers round, And pours a balm in every wound.
"How doubly poignant is my smart, Bereaved of my Cen'lin's heart! Exil'd from that deluded breast, Where I had fondly hop'd to rest, With faith undoubting, sweet repose, Till Death should bid my eye-lids close. And sometimes yet will hope arise; Till now he ever scorn'd disguise; Some cursed fiend might taint his youth, And warp a temper form'd for truth. When late he humbly knelt for grace, And clasp'd my knees in close embrace, Upon his lips a secret hung, But something seem'd to stay his tongue; I prest not, for my anger slept, And fondness only saw he wept; Ah! fatal haste! then had I known The serpent, I had sav'd my son! Yet surely pardon frank as mine, A noble heart would more confine! When leaguing with my bitter foe, To strike some grand, decisive blow; Perhaps to rob me of my throne, And make it, ere the time, his own; Or, should wan guilt a danger dread, To humble this devoted head, Each throbbing pang of conscience drown, And seize, with bloody hands, the crown. O'er this offence I cast a veil, And fondly hush'd the whisper'd tale. Ah fool! deluded by the grace, Of that fine form, and perfect face; I thought his bosom free from sin, Nor dreamt a demon lurk'd within. His voice, which ever could controul, Each passion of the hearer's soul, With ease my partial heart beguil'd, Who knew no sorrows when he smil'd. And ah! my friends, your downcast eyes, Your pensive air, and smother'd sighs, All tell me you lament the fate, Of him, whom yet you cannot hate. And shall I bear then to behold, That form inanimate and cold, His smiling lips depriv'd of breath, His eyes for ever clos'd in death! Ah no! my heart with anguish swells, And every throbbing vein rebels. Let sorrow weep, or anger thrill, Yet all the parent triumphs still.