Part 2

Thus, often, we with anguish sore The _dead_, in clam’rous grief deplore; Who, were they once _alive_ again Would meet the sting of cold disdain! For FRIENDS, whom trifling faults can sever, Are _valued most_, WHEN LOST FOR EVER!

_The LASCAR._ _IN TWO PARTS._

I.

“Another day, Ah! me, a day “Of dreary Sorrow is begun! “And still I loathe the temper’d ray, “And still I hate the sickly Sun! “Far from my Native Indian shore, “I hear our wretched race deplore; “I mark the smile of taunting Scorn, “And curse the hour, when I was born! “I weep, but no one gently tries “To stop my tear, or check my sighs; “For, while my heart beats mournfully, “Dear Indian home, I sigh for Thee!

II.

“Since, gaudy Sun! I see no more “Thy hottest glory gild the day; “Since, sever’d from my burning shore, “I waste the vapid hours away; “O! darkness come! come, deepest gloom! “Shroud the young Summer’s op’ning bloom; “Burn, temper’d Orb, with fiercer beams “This northern world! and drink the streams “That thro’ the fertile vallies glide “To bathe the feasted Fiends of Pride! “Or, hence, broad Sun! extinguish’d be! “For endless night encircles Me!

III.

“What is, to me, the City gay? “And what, the board profusely spread? “I have no home, no rich array, “No spicy feast, no downy bed! “I, with the dogs am doom’d to eat, “To perish in the peopled street, “To drink the tear of deep despair; “The scoff and scorn of fools to bear! “I sleep upon a bed of stone, “I pace the meadows, wild—alone! “And if I curse my fate severe, “Some Christian Savage mocks my tear!

IV.

“Shut out the Sun, O! pitying Night! “Make the wide world my silent tomb! “O’ershade this northern, sickly light, “And shroud me, in eternal gloom! “My Indian plains, now smiling glow, “There stands my Parent’s hovel low, “And there the tow’ring aloes rise “And fling their perfumes to the skies! “There the broad palm Trees covert lend, “There Sun and Shade delicious blend; “But here, amid the blunted ray, “Cold shadows hourly cross my way!

V.

“Was it for this, that on the main “I met the tempest fierce and strong, “And steering o’er the liquid plain, “Still onward, press’d the waves among? “Was it for this, the LASCAR brave “Toil’d, like a wretched Indian Slave; “Preserv’d your treasures by his toil, “And sigh’d to greet this fertile soil? “Was it for this, to beg, to die, “Where plenty smiles, and where the Sky “Sheds cooling airs; while fev’rish pain, “Maddens the famish’d LASCAR’s brain?

VI.

“Oft, I the stately Camel led, “And sung the short-hour’d night away; “And oft, upon the top-mast’s head, “Hail’d the red Eye of coming day. “The Tanyan’s back my mother bore; “And oft the wavy Ganges’ roar “Lull’d her to rest, as on she past— “’Mid the hot sands and burning blast! “And oft beneath the Banyan tree “She sate and fondly nourish’d me; “And while the noontide hour past slow, “I felt her breast with kindness glow.

VII.

“Where’er I turn my sleepless eyes, “No cheek so dark as mine, I see; “For Europe’s Suns, with softer dyes “Mark Europe’s favour’d progeny! “Low is my stature, black my hair, “The emblem of my Soul’s despair! “My voice no dulcet cadence flings, “To touch soft pity’s throbbing strings! “Then wherefore cruel Briton, say, “Compel my aching heart to stay? “To-morrow’s Sun—may rise, to see— “The famish’d LASCAR, blest as thee!”

VIII.

The morn had scarcely shed its rays When, from the City’s din he ran; For he had fasted, four long days, And faint his Pilgrimage began! The LASCAR, now, without a friend,— Up the steep hill did slow ascend; Now o’er the flow’ry meadows stole, While pain, and hunger, pinch’d his Soul; And now his fev’rish lip was dried, And burning tears his thirst supply’d, And, ere he saw the Ev’ning close, Far off, the City dimly rose!

IX.

Again the Summer Sun flam’d high The plains were golden, far and wide; And fervid was the cloudless sky, And slow the breezes seem’d to glide: The gossamer, on briar and spray, Shone silv’ry in the solar ray; And sparkling dew-drops, falling round Spangled the hot and thirsty ground; The insect myriads humm’d their tune To greet the coming hour of noon, While the poor LASCAR Boy, in haste, Flew, frantic, o’er the sultry waste.

X.

And whither could the wand’rer go? Who would receive a stranger poor? Who, when the blasts of night should blow, Would ope to him the friendly door? Alone, amid the race of man, The sad, the fearful alien ran! None would an Indian wand’rer bless; None greet him with the fond caress; None feed him, though with hunger keen He at the Lordly gate were seen, Prostrate, and humbly forc’d to crave A shelter, for an Indian Slave.

XI.

The noon-tide Sun, now flaming wide, No cloud its fierce beam shadow’d o’er, But what could worse to him betide Than begging, at the proud man’s door? For clos’d and lofty was the gate, And there, in all the pride of State, A surly Porter turn’d the key, A man of sullen soul was he— His brow was fair; but in his eye Sat pamper’d scorn, and tyranny; And, near him, a fierce mastiff stood, Eager to bathe his fangs in blood.

XII.

The weary LASCAR turn’d away, For trembling fear his heart subdued, And down his cheek the tear would stray, Though burning anguish drank his blood! The angry Mastiff snarl’d, as he Turn’d from the house of luxury; The sultry hour was long, and high The broad sun flamed athwart the sky— But still a throbbing hope possess’d The Indian wand’rer’s fev’rish breast, When from the distant dell a sound Of swelling music echo’d round.

XIII.

It was the church-bell’s merry peal; And now a pleasant house he view’d: And now his heart began to feel As though, it were not quite subdu’d! No lofty dome, shew’d loftier state, No pamper’d Porter watch’d the gate, No Mastiff, like a tyrant stood, Eager to scatter human blood; Yet the poor Indian wand’rer found, E’en where Religion smil’d around— That tears had little pow’r to speak When trembling, on a sable cheek!

XIV.

With keen reproach, and menace rude, The LASCAR Boy away was sent; And now again he seem’d subdu’d, And his soul sicken’d, as he went. Now, on the river’s bank he stood; Now, drank the cool refreshing flood; Again his fainting heart beat high; Again he rais’d his languid eye; Then, from the upland’s sultry side, Look’d back, forgave the wretch, and sigh’d! While the proud PASTOR bent his way To preach of CHARITY—and PRAY!

_PART SECOND._

I.

The LASCAR Boy still journey’d on, For the hot Sun, HE well could bear, And now the burning hour was gone, And Evening came, with softer air! The breezes kiss’d his sable breast, While his scorch’d feet the cold dew prest; The waving flow’rs soft tears display’d, And songs of rapture fill’d the glade; The South-wind quiver’d, o’er the stream Reflecting back the rosy beam, While, as the purpling twilight clos’d, On a turf bed—the Boy repos’d!

II.

And now, in fancy’s airy dream, The LASCAR Boy his Mother spied; And, from her breast, a crimson stream Slow trickled down her beating side: And now he heard her wild, complain, As loud she shriek’d—but shriek’d in vain! And now she sunk upon the ground, The red stream trickling from her wound, And near her feet a murd’rer stood, His glitt’ring poniard tipp’d with blood! And now, “farewell, my son!” she cried, Then clos’d her fainting eyes—and died!

III.

The Indian Wand’rer, waking, gaz’d With grief, and pain, and horror wild; And tho’ his fev’rish brain was craz’d, He rais’d his eyes to Heav’n, and smil’d! And now the stars were twinkling clear, And the blind Bat was whirling near; And the lone Owlet shriek’d, while He Still sate beneath a shelt’ring tree; And now the fierce-ton’d midnight blast Across the wide heath, howling past, When a long cavalcade he spied By torch-light near the river’s side.

IV.

He rose, and hast’ning swiftly on, Call’d loudly to the Sumptuous train,— But soon the cavalcade was gone— And darkness wrapp’d the scene again. He follow’d still the distant sound; He saw the lightning flashing round; He heard the crashing thunder roar; He felt the whelming torrents pour; And, now beneath a shelt’ring wood He listen’d to the tumbling flood— And now, with falt’ring, feeble breath, The famish’d LASCAR, pray’d for Death.

V.

And now the flood began to rise And foaming rush’d along the vale; The LASCAR watch’d, with stedfast eyes, The flash descending quick and pale; And now again the cavalcade Pass’d slowly near the upland glade;— But HE was dark, and dark the scene, The torches long extinct had been; He call’d, but, in the stormy hour, His feeble voice had lost its pow’r, ’Till, near a tree, beside the flood, A night-bewilder’d Trav’ller stood.

VI.

The LASCAR now with transport ran “Stop! stop!” he cried—with accents bold; The Trav’ller was a fearful man— And next his life he priz’d his gold!— He heard the wand’rer madly cry; He heard his footsteps following nigh; He nothing saw, while onward prest, Black as the sky, the Indian’s breast; ’Till his firm grasp he felt, while cold Down his pale cheek the big drop roll’d; Then, struggling to be free, he gave— A deep wound to the LASCAR Slave.

VII.

And now he groan’d, by pain opprest, And now crept onward, sad and slow: And while he held his bleeding breast, He feebly pour’d the plaint of woe! “What have I done?” the LASCAR cried— “That Heaven to me the pow’r denied “To touch the soul of man, and share “A brother’s love, a brother’s care; “Why is this dingy form decreed “To bear oppression’s scourge and bleed?— “Is there a GOD, in yon dark Heav’n, “And shall such monsters be forgiv’n?

VIII.

“Here, in this smiling land we find “Neglect and mis’ry sting our race; “And still, whate’er the LASCAR’s mind, “The stamp of sorrow marks his face!” He ceas’d to speak; while from his side Fast roll’d life’s swiftly-ebbing tide, And now, though sick and faint was he, He slowly climb’d a tall Elm tree, To watch, if, near his lonely way, Some friendly Cottage lent a ray, A little ray of chearful light, To gild the LASCAR’s long, long night!

IX.

And now he hears a distant bell, His heart is almost rent with joy! And who, but such a wretch can tell, The transports of the Indian boy? And higher now he climbs the tree, And hopes some shelt’ring Cot to see; Again he listens, while the peal Seems up the woodland vale to steal; The twinkling stars begin to fade, And dawnlight purples o’er the glade— And while the sev’ring vapours flee, The LASCAR boy looks chearfully!

X.

And now the Sun begins to rise Above the Eastern summit blue; And o’er the plain the day-breeze flies, And sweetly bloom the fields of dew! The wand’ring wretch was chill’d, for he Sate, shiv’ring in the tall Elm tree; And he was faint, and sick, and dry, And bloodshot was his fev’rish eye; And livid was his lip, while he Sate silent in the tall Elm tree— And parch’d his tongue; and quick his breath, And his dark cheek, was cold as Death!

XI.

And now a Cottage low he sees, The chimney smoke, ascending grey, Floats lightly on the morning breeze And o’er the mountain glides away. And now the Lark, on flutt’ring wings, Its early Song, delighted sings; And now, across the upland mead, The Swains their flocks to shelter lead; The shelt’ring woods, wave to and fro; The yellow plains, far distant, glow; And all things wake to life and joy, All! but the famish’d Indian Boy!

XII.

And now the village throngs are seen, Each lane is peopled, and the glen From ev’ry op’ning path-way green, Sends forth the busy hum of men. They cross the meads, still, all alone, They hear the wounded LASCAR groan! Far off they mark the wretch, as he Falls, senseless, from the tall Elm tree! Swiftly they cross the river wide And soon they reach the Elm tree’s side, But, ere the sufferer they behold, _His wither’d Heart, is_ DEAD,—_and_ COLD!

THE _WIDOW’s HOME_.

Close on the margin of a brawling brook That bathes the low dell’s bosom, stands a Cot; O’ershadow’d by broad Alders. At its door A rude seat, with an ozier canopy Invites the weary traveller to rest. ’Tis a poor humble dwelling; yet within, The sweets of joy domestic, oft have made The long hour not unchearly, while the Moor Was covered with deep snow, and the bleak blast Swept with impetuous wing the mountain’s brow!

On ev’ry tree of the near shelt’ring wood The minstrelsy of Nature, shrill and wild, Welcomes the stranger guest, and carolling Love-songs, spontaneous, greets him merrily. The distant hills, empurpled by the dawn And thinly scatter’d with blue mists that float On their bleak summits dimly visible, Skirt the domain luxuriant, while the air Breathes healthful fragrance. On the Cottage roof The gadding Ivy, and the tawny Vine Bind the brown thatch, the shelter’d winter-hut Of the tame Sparrow, and the Red-breast bold.

There dwells the Soldier’s Widow! young and fair Yet not more fair than virtuous. Every day She wastes the hour-glass, waiting his return,— And every hour anticipates the day, (Deceiv’d, yet cherish’d by the flatt’rer hope) When she shall meet her Hero. On the Eve Of Sabbath rest, she trims her little hut With blossoms, fresh and gaudy, still, herself The queen-flow’r of the garland! The sweet Rose Of wood-wild beauty, blushing thro’ her tears.

One little Son she has, a lusty Boy, The darling of her guiltless, mourning heart, The only dear and gay associate Of her lone widowhood. His sun-burnt cheek Is never blanch’d with fear, though he will climb The broad oak’s branches, and with brawny arm Sever the limpid wave. In his blue eye Beams all his mother’s gentleness of soul; While his brave father’s warm intrepid heart Throbs in his infant bosom. ’Tis a wight Most valourous, yet pliant as the stem Of the low vale-born lily, when the dew Presses its perfum’d head. Eight years his voice Has chear’d the homely hut, for he could lisp Soft words of filial fondness, ere his feet Could measure the smooth path-way. On the hills He watches the wide waste of wavy green Tissued with orient lustre, till his eyes Ache with the dazzling splendour, and the main, Rolling and blazing, seems a second Sun! And, if a distant whitening sail appears, Skimming the bright horizon while the mast Is canopied with clouds of dappled gold, He homeward hastes rejoicing. An old Tree Is his lone watch-tow’r; ’tis a blasted Oak Which, from a vagrant Acorn, ages past, Sprang up, to triumph like a Savage bold Braving the Season’s warfare. There he sits Silent and musing the still Evening hour, ’Till the short reign of Sunny splendour fades At the cold touch of twilight. Oft he sings; Or from his oaten pipe, untiring pours The tune mellifluous which his father sung, When HE could only listen. On the sands That bind the level sea-shore, will he stray, When morn unlocks the East, and flings afar The rosy day-beam! There the boy will stop To gather the dank weeds which ocean leaves On the bleak strand, while winter o’er the main Howls its nocturnal clamour. There again He chaunts his Father’s ditty. Never more Poor mountain minstrel, shall thy bosom throb To the sweet cadence! never more thy tear Fall as the dulcet breathings give each word Expression magical! Thy Father, Boy, Sleeps on the bed of death! His tongue is mute, His fingers have forgot their pliant art, His oaten pipe will ne’er again be heard Echoing along the valley! Never more Will thy fond mother meet the balmy smile Of peace domestic, or the circling arm Of valour, temper’d by the milder joys Of rural merriment. His very name Is now forgotten! for no trophied tomb Tells of his bold exploits; such heraldry Befits not humble worth: For pomp and praise Wait in the gilded palaces of Pride To dress Ambition’s Slaves. Yet, on his grave, The unmark’d resting place of Valour’s Sons, The morning beam shines lust’rous; The meek flow’r Still drops the twilight tear, and the night breeze Moans melancholy music! Then, to ME, O! dearer far is the poor Soldier’s grave, The Widow’s lone and unregarded Cot, The brawling Brook, and the wide Alder-bough, The ozier Canopy, and plumy choir, Hymning the Morn’s return, than the rich Dome Of gilded Palaces! and sweeter far— O! far more graceful! far more exquisite, The Widow’s tear bathing the living rose, Than the rich ruby, blushing on the breast, Of guilty greatness. Welcome then to me— The WIDOW’S LOWLY HOME: The Soldier’s HEIR; The proud inheritor of Heav’n’s best gifts— The mind unshackled—and the guiltless Soul!

THE _SHEPHERD’s DOG_.

I.

A Shepherd’s Dog there was; and he Was faithful to his master’s will, For well he lov’d his company, Along the plain or up the hill; All Seasons were, to him, the same Beneath the Sun’s meridian flame; Or, when the wintry wind blew shrill and keen, Still the Old Shepherd’s Dog, was with his Master seen.

II.

His form was shaggy clothed; yet he Was of a bold and faithful breed; And kept his master company In smiling days, and days of need; When the long Ev’ning slowly clos’d, When ev’ry living thing repos’d, When e’en the breeze slept on the woodlands round, The Shepherd’s watchful Dog, was ever waking found.

III.

All night, upon the cold turf he Contented lay, with list’ning care; And though no stranger company, Or lonely traveller rested there; Old Trim was pleas’d to guard it still, For ’twas his aged master’s will;— And so pass’d on the chearful night and day, ’Till the poor Shepherd’s Dog, was very old, and grey.

IV.

Among the villagers was he Belov’d by all the young and old, For he was chearful company, When the north-wind blew keen and cold; And when the cottage scarce was warm, While round it flew, the midnight storm, When loudly, fiercely roll’d the swelling tide— The Shepherd’s faithful Dog, crept closely by his side.

V.

When Spring in gaudy dress would be, Sporting across the meadows green, He kept his master company, And all amid the flow’rs was seen; Now barking loud, now pacing fast, Now, backward he a look would cast, And now, subdu’d and weak, with wanton play, Amid the waving grass, the Shepherd’s Dog would stay.

VI.

Now, up the rugged path would he The steep hill’s summit slowly gain, And still be chearful company, Though shiv’ring in the pelting rain; And when the brook was frozen o’er, Or the deep snow conceal’d the moor, When the pale moon-beams scarcely shed a ray, The Shepherd’s faithful Dog, would mark the dang’rous way.

VII.