Part 3

On Sunday, at the old Yew Tree, Which canopies the church-yard stile, Forc’d from his master’s company, The faithful TRIM would mope awhile; For then his master’s only care Was the loud Psalm, or fervent Pray’r, And, ’till the throng the church-yard path retrod, The Shepherd’s patient guard, lay silent on the sod.

VIII.

Near their small hovel stood a tree, Where TRIM was ev’ry morning found— Waiting his master’s company, And looking wistfully around; And if, along the upland mead, He heard him tune the merry reed, O, then! o’er hedge and ditch, thro’ brake and briar, The Shepherd’s dog would haste, with eyes that seem’d on fire.

IX.

And now he pac’d the valley, free, And now he bounded o’er the dew, For well his master’s company Would recompence his toil he knew; And where a rippling rill was seen Flashing the woody brakes between, Fearless of danger, thro’ the lucid tide, The Shepherd’s eager dog, yelping with joy, would glide.

X.

Full many a year, the same was he His love still stronger every day, For, in his master’s company, He had grown old, and very grey; And now his sight grew dim: and slow Up the rough mountain he would go, And his loud bark, which all the village knew, With ev’ry wasting hour, more faint, and peevish grew.

XI.

One morn, to the low mead went he, Rous’d from his threshold-bed to meet A gay and lordly company! The Sun was bright, the air was sweet; Old TRIM was watchful of his care, His master’s flocks were feeding there, And, fearful of the hounds, he yelping stood Beneath a willow Tree, that wav’d across the flood.

XII.

Old TRIM was urg’d to wrath; for he Was guardian of the meadow bounds; And, heedless of the company, With angry snarl attack’d the hounds! Some felt his teeth, though they were old, For still his ire was fierce and bold, And ne’er did valiant chieftain feel more strong Than the Old Shepherd’s dog, when daring foes among.

XIII.

The Sun was setting o’er the Sea The breezes murmuring sad, and slow, When a gay lordly company, Came to the Shepherd’s hovel low; Their arm’d associates stood around The sheep-cote fence’s narrow bound, While its poor master heard, with fix’d despair, That TRIM, his friend, deem’d MAD, was doom’d to perish there!

XIV.

The kind old Shepherd wept, for he Had no such guide, to mark his way, And kneeling pray’d the company, To let him live, his little day! “For many a year my Dog has been “The only friend these eyes have seen, “We both are old and feeble, he and I— “Together we have liv’d, together let us die!

XV.

“Behold his dim, yet speaking eye! “Which ill befits his visage grim “He cannot from your anger fly, “For slow and feeble is old TRIM! “He looks, as though he fain would speak, “His beard is white—his voice is weak— “He IS NOT MAD! O! then, in pity spare “The only watchful friend, of my small fleecy care!”

XVI.

The Shepherd ceas’d to speak, for He Leant on his maple staff, subdu’d; While pity touch’d the company, And all, poor TRIM with sorrow view’d: Nine days, upon a willow bed Old TRIM was doom’d to lay his head, Oppress’d and sever’d from his master’s door, Enough to make him MAD—were he not so before!

XVII.

But not forsaken yet, was he, For ev’ry morn, at peep of day, To keep his old friend company, The lonely Shepherd bent his way: A little boat, across the stream, Which glitter’d in the sunny beam, Bore him, where foes no longer could annoy, Where TRIM stood yelping loud, and ALMOST MAD with joy!

XVIII.

Six days had pass’d and still was he Upon the island left to roam, When on the stream a wither’d tree Was gliding rapid midst the foam! The little Boat now onward prest, Danc’d o’er the river’s bounding breast, ’Till dash’d impetuous, ’gainst the old tree’s side, The Shepherd plung’d and groan’d, then sunk amid the tide.

XIX.

Old TRIM, now doom’d his friend to see Beating the foam with wasted breath, Resolv’d to bear him company, E’en in the icy arms of death; Soon with exulting cries he bore His feeble master to the shore, And, standing o’er him, howl’d in cadence sad, For, fear and fondness, now, had nearly made him MAD.

XX.

Together, still their flocks they tend, More happy than the proudly great; The Shepherd has no other friend— No Lordly home, no bed of state! But on a pallet, clean and low, They hear, unmov’d, the wild winds blow, And though they ne’er another spring may see, The Shepherd, and his Dog, are chearful company.

THE _FUGITIVE_.

Oft have I seen yon Solitary Man Pacing the upland meadow. On his brow Sits melancholy, mark’d with decent pride, As it would fly the busy, taunting world, And feed upon reflection. Sometimes, near The foot of an old Tree, he takes his seat And with the page of legendary lore Cheats the dull hour, while Evening’s sober eye Looks tearful as it closes. In the dell By the swift brook he loiters, sad and mute, Save when a struggling sigh, half murmur’d, steals From his wrung bosom. To the rising moon, His eye rais’d wistfully, expression fraught, He pours the cherish’d anguish of his Soul, Silent yet eloquent: For not a sound That might alarm the night’s lone centinel, The dull-eyed Owl, escapes his trembling lip, Unapt in supplication. He is young, And yet the stamp of thought so tempers youth, That all its fires are faded. What is He? And why, when morning sails upon the breeze, Fanning the blue hill’s summit, does he stay Loit’ring and sullen, like a Truant boy, Beside the woodland glen; or stretch’d along On the green slope, watch his slow wasting form Reflected, trembling, on the river’s breast?

His garb is coarse and threadbare, and his cheek Is prematurely faded. The check’d tear, Dimming his dark eye’s lustre, seems to say, “This world is now, to me, a barren waste, “A desart, full of weeds and wounding thorns, “And I am weary: for my journey here “Has been, though short, but chearless.” Is it so? Poor Traveller! Oh tell me, tell me all— For I, like thee, am but a Fugitive An alien from delight, in this dark scene!

And, now I mark thy features, I behold The cause of thy complaining. Thou art here A persecuted Exile! one, whose soul Unbow’d by guilt, demands no patronage From blunted feeling, or the frozen hand Of gilded Ostentation. Thou, poor PRIEST! Art here, a Stranger, from thy kindred torn— Thy kindred massacred! thy quiet home, The rural palace of some village scant, Shelter’d by vineyards, skirted by fair meads, And by the music of a shallow rill Made ever chearful, now thou hast exchang’d For stranger woods and vallies. What of that! Here, or on torrid desarts; o’er the world Of trackless waves, or on the frozen cliffs Of black Siberia, thou art not alone! For there, on each, on all, The DEITY Is thy companion still! Then, exiled MAN! Be chearful as the Lark that o’er yon hill In Nature’s language, wild, yet musical, Hails the Creator! nor thus, sullenly Repine, that, through the day, the sunny beam Of lust’rous fortune gilds the palace roof, While thy short path, in this wild labyrinth, Is lost in transient shadow. Who, that lives, Hath not his portion of calamity? Who, that feels, can boast a tranquil bosom? The fever, throbbing in the Tyrant’s veins In quick, strong language, tells the daring wretch That He is mortal, like the poorest slave Who wears his chain, yet healthfully suspires.

The sweetest Rose will wither, while the storm Passes the mountain thistle. The bold Bird, Whose strong eye braves the ever burning Orb, Falls like the Summer Fly, and has at most, But his allotted sojourn. EXILED MAN! Be chearful! Thou art not a fugitive! All are thy kindred—all thy brothers, here— The hoping—trembling Creatures—of _one_ GOD!

THE _HAUNTED BEACH_.

Upon a lonely desart Beach Where the white foam was scatter’d, A little shed uprear’d its head Though lofty Barks were shatter’d. The Sea-weeds gath’ring near the door, A sombre path display’d; And, all around, the deaf’ning roar, Re-echo’d on the chalky shore, By the green billows made.

Above, a jutting cliff was seen Where Sea Birds hover’d, craving; And all around, the craggs were bound With weeds—for ever waving. And here and there, a cavern wide Its shad’wy jaws display’d; And near the sands, at ebb of tide, A shiver’d mast was seen to ride Where the green billows stray’d.

And often, while the moaning wind Stole o’er the Summer Ocean; The moonlight scene, was all serene, The waters scarce in motion: Then, while the smoothly slanting sand The tall cliff wrapp’d in shade, The Fisherman beheld a band Of Spectres, gliding hand in hand— Where the green billows play’d.

And pale their faces were, as snow, And sullenly they wander’d: And to the skies with hollow eyes They look’d as though they ponder’d. And sometimes, from their hammock shroud, They dismal howlings made, And while the blast blew strong and loud The clear moon mark’d the ghastly croud, Where the green billows play’d!

And then, above the haunted hut The Curlews screaming hover’d; And the low door with furious roar The frothy breakers cover’d. For, in the Fisherman’s lone shed A MURDER’D MAN was laid, With ten wide gashes in his head And deep was made his sandy bed Where the green billows play’d.

A Shipwreck’d Mariner was he, Doom’d from his home to sever; Who swore to be thro’ wind and sea Firm and undaunted ever! And when the wave resistless roll’d, About his arm he made A packet rich of Spanish gold, And, like a British sailor, bold, Plung’d, where the billows play’d!

The Spectre band, his messmates brave Sunk in the yawning ocean, While to the mast he lash’d him fast And brav’d the storm’s commotion. The winter moon, upon the sand A silv’ry carpet made, And mark’d the Sailor reach the land, And mark’d his murd’rer wash his hand Where the green billows play’d.

And since that hour the Fisherman Has toil’d and toil’d in vain! For all the night, the moony light Gleams on the specter’d main! And when the skies are veil’d in gloom, The Murd’rer’s liquid way Bounds o’er the deeply yawning tomb, And flashing fires the sands illume, Where the green billows play!

Full thirty years his task has been, Day after day more weary; For Heav’n design’d, his guilty mind Should dwell on prospects dreary. Bound by a strong and mystic chain, He has not pow’r to stray; But, destin’d mis’ry to sustain, He wastes, in Solitude and Pain— A loathsome life away.

_OLD BARNARD_, _A MONKISH TALE_.

OLD BARNARD was still a lusty hind, Though his age was full fourscore; And he us’d to go Thro’ hail and snow, To a neighb’ring town, With his old coat brown, To beg, at his GRANDSON’s door!

OLD BARNARD briskly jogged along, When the hail and snow did fall; And, whatever the day, He was always gay, Did the broad Sun glow, Or the keen wind blow, While he begg’d in his GRANDSON’s Hall.

His GRANDSON was a Squire, and he Had houses, and lands, and gold; And a coach beside, And horses to ride, And a downy bed To repose his head, And he felt not the winter’s cold.

Old BARNARD had neither house nor lands, Nor gold to buy warm array; Nor a coach to carry, His old bones weary Nor beds of feather In freezing weather, To sleep the long nights away.

But BARNARD a quiet conscience had, No guile did his bosom know; And when Evening clos’d, His old bones repos’d, Tho’ the wintry blast O’er his hovel past, And he slept, while the winds did blow!

But his GRANDSON, he could never sleep ’Till the Sun began to rise; For a fev’rish pain Oppress’d his brain, And he fear’d some evil And dream’d of the Devil; Whenever he clos’d his eyes!

And whenever he feasted the rich and gay, The Devil still had his joke; For however rare The sumptuous fare, When the sparkling glass Was seen to pass,— He was fearful the draught would choke!

And whenever, in fine and costly geer, The Squire went forth to ride: The owl would cry, And the raven fly Across his road, While the sluggish toad Would crawl by his Palfry’s side.

And he could not command the Sunny day, For the rain would wet him through; And the wind would blow Where his nag did go, And the thunder roar, And the torrents pour, And he felt the chill Evening dew.

And the cramp would wring his youthful bones, And would make him groan aloud; And the doctor’s art Could not cure the heart, While the conscience still Was o’ercharg’d with ill; And he dream’d of the pick-axe and shroud.

And why could Old BARNARD sweetly sleep, Since so poor, and so old was he? Because he could say At the close of day, “I have done no wrong “To the weak or strong, “And so, Heaven look kind on me!”

One night, the GRANDSON hied him forth, To a MONK, that liv’d hard by; “O! Father!” said he, “I am come to thee, “For I’m sick of sin, “And would fain begin “To repent me, before I die!”

“I must pray for your Soul; the MONK replied, “But will see you to-morrow, ere noon: Then the MONK flew straight To Old BARNARD’s gate, And he bade him haste O’er the dewy waste, By the light of the waning Moon.

In the Monkish cell did old BARNARD wait, And his GRANDSON went thither soon; In a habit of grey Ere the dawn of day, With a cowl and cross, On the sill of moss, He knelt by the light of the Moon.

“O! shrive me, Father!” the GRANDSON cried, “For the Devil is waiting for me! “I have robb’d the poor, “I have shut my door, “And kept out the good “When they wanted food,— “And I come for my pardon, to Thee.”

“Get home young Sinner,” Old BARNARD said, “And your GRANDSIRE quickly see; “_Give him half your store_, “For he’s old, and poor, “And avert each evil “And cheat the Devil,— “By making him _rich as thee_.”

The SQUIRE obey’d; and Old BARNARD now Is rescued from every evil: For he fears no wrong, From the weak or strong, And the Squire can snore, When the loud winds roar, For he dreams no more of THE DEVIL!

_The HERMIT of MONT-BLANC._

High, on the Solitude of Alpine Hills, O’er-topping the grand imag’ry of Nature, Where one eternal winter seem’d to reign, An HERMIT’s threshold, carpetted with moss, Diversified the Scene. Above the flakes Of silv’ry snow, full many a modest flow’r Peep’d through its icy veil, and blushing ope’d Its variegated hues; The ORCHIS sweet, The bloomy CISTUS, and the fragrant branch Of glossy MYRTLE. In his rushy cell, The lonely ANCHORET consum’d his days, Unnotic’d, and unblest. In early youth, Cross’d in the fond affections of his soul By false Ambition, from his parent home He, solitary, wander’d; while the Maid Whose peerless beauty won his yielding heart Pined in monastic horrors! Near his sill A little cross he rear’d, where, prostrate low At day’s pale glimpse, or when the setting Sun Tissued the western sky with streamy gold, His Orisons he pour’d, for her, whose hours Were wasted in oblivion. Winters pass’d, And Summers faded, slow, unchearly all To the lone HERMIT’s sorrows: For, still, Love A dark, though unpolluted altar, rear’d On the white waste of wonders! From the peak Which mark’d his neighb’ring Hut, his humid Eye Oft wander’d o’er the rich expanse below; Oft trac’d the glow of vegetating Spring, The full-blown Summer splendours, and the hue Of tawny scenes Autumnal: Vineyards vast, Clothing the upland scene, and spreading wide The promised tide nectareous; while for him The liquid lapse of the slow brook was seen Flashing amid the trees, its silv’ry wave! Far distant, the blue mist of waters rose Veiling the ridgy outline, faintly grey, Blended with clouds, and shutting out the Sun. The Seasons still revolv’d, and still was he By all forgotten, save by her, whose breast Sigh’d in responsive sadness to the gale That swept her prison turrets. Five long years, Had seen his graces wither ere his Spring Of life was wasted. From the social scenes Of human energy an alien driv’n, He almost had forgot the face of Man.— No voice had met his ear, save, when perchance The Pilgrim wand’rer, or the Goatherd Swain, Bewilder’d in the starless midnight hour Implored the HERMIT’s aid, the HERMIT’s pray’rs; And nothing loath by pity or by pray’r Was he, to save the wretched. On the top Of his low rushy Dome, a tinkling bell Oft told the weary Trav’ller to approach Fearless of danger. The small silver sound In quick vibrations echo’d down the dell To the dim valley’s quiet, while the breeze Slept on the glassy LEMAN. Thus he past His melancholy days, an alien Man From all the joys of social intercourse, Alone, unpitied, by the world forgot!

His Scrip each morning bore the day’s repast Gather’d on summits, mingling with the clouds, From whose bleak altitude the Eye look’d down While fast the giddy brain was rock’d by fear. Oft would he start from visionary rest When roaming wolves their midnight chorus howl’d, Or blasts infuriate shatter’d the white cliffs, While the huge fragments, rifted by the storm, Plung’d to the dell below. Oft would he sit In silent sadness on the jutting block Of snow-encrusted ice, and, shudd’ring mark (Amid the wonders of the frozen world) Dissolving pyramids, and threatening peaks, Hang o’er his hovel, terribly Sublime.

And oft, when Summer breath’d ambrosial gales, Soft sailing o’er the waste of printless dew Or twilight gossamer, his pensive gaze Trac’d the swift storm advancing, whose broad wing Blacken’d the rushy dome of his low Hut; While the pale lightning smote the pathless top Of tow’ring CENIS, scatt’ring high and wide A mist of fleecy Snow. Then would he hear, (While MEM’RY brought to view his happier days) The tumbling torrent, bursting wildly forth From its thaw’d prison, sweep the shaggy cliff Vast and Stupendous! strength’ning as it fell, And delving, ’mid the snow, a cavern rude!

So liv’d the HERMIT, like an hardy Tree Plac’d on a mountain’s solitary brow, And destin’d, thro’ the Seasons, to endure Their wond’rous changes. To behold the face Of ever-varying Nature, and to mark In each grand lineament, the work of GOD! And happier he, in total Solitude Than the poor toil-worn wretch, whose ardent Soul That GOD has nobly organiz’d, but taught, For purposes unknown, to bear the scourge Of sharp adversity, and vulgar pride. Happier, O! happier far, than those who feel, Yet live amongst the unfeeling! feeding still The throbbing heart, with anguish, or with Scorn.