Chapter 4

The anchor dropp’d, he springs upon the shore, His wife and children press to meet his kiss; Half-told, a thousand things they prattle o’er, And, safe at home, renew their former bliss.

EPIGRAM,

ON WINNING A YOUNG LADY’S MONEY AT CARDS.

How fairly Fortune all her gifts imparts; We win your money, Ann, and you our hearts.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A FINE WINTER’S DAY,

_At the Shooting-Box of my Friend, W. Cope, Esq_.

NEAR ORPINGTON, KENT.

Tho’ leafless are the woods, tho’ flow’rs no more, In beauty blushing, spread their fragrant store, Yet still ’tis sweet to quit the crowded scene, And rove with Nature, tho’ no longer green; For Winter bids her winds so softly blow, That, cold and famine scorning, even now The feather’d warblers still delight the ear, And all of Summer, but her leaves, is here. Here, on this winding garden’s sloping bound, ’Tis sweet to listen to each rustic sound, The distant dog-bark, and the rippling rill, Or catch the sparkling of the water-mill. The tranquil scene each tender feeling moves; As the eye rests on Holwood’s naked groves, A tear bedims the sight for Chatham’s son, For him whose god-like eloquence could stun, Like some vast cat’ract, Faction’s clam’rous tongue, Or by its sweetness charm, like Virgil’s song, For him, whose mighty spirit rous’d afar Europe’s plum’d legions to the hallow’d war; But who, ah! hapless tale! could not inspire Their recreant chiefs with his heroic fire; Who, as _they_ pass’d the tyrant Conqu’ror’s yoke, Felt, as the bolt of Heav’n, the ruthless stroke; And having long, in vain, the tempest brav’d, Could breathe no longer in a world enslav’d.

LINES ON A LITTLE BIRD

_Singing at the Window of the Author_,

SOON AFTER THE DEATH OF A BELOVED SISTER.

Go, little flutt’rer! seek thy feather’d loves, And leave a wretched mourner to his woe; Seek out the bow’rs of bliss, seek happier groves, Nor here unheeded let thy music flow.

Yet think me not ungrateful for thy song, If meant to cheer me in my lone retreat; Ah! not to thee, my little friend! belong The pow’rs to soothe the pangs of adverse fate.

Fly, then! the window of the wretched, fly! And be thy harmless life for ever blest; I only can reward thee with a sigh, And wish that joys may crown thy peaceful nest.

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.

By painful sickness long severely prest, Here sinks, on Nature’s sacred lap of rest, A friend, who, in a life too short, display’d A mind in virtue bright, without one shade. Hence with unusual grief is Fondness mov’d, Hence more than Pity’s sighs for one belov’d; Unshaken Honour sheds a manly tear, And weeping Virtue stops, a mourner here.

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF AN AMIABLE YOUTH, OF GREAT PROMISE,

Whose afflicted Parents received the Intelligence of his having been drowned, at the very time when his Arrival was expected from abroad.

Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm, That for young Lycid form’d a wat’ry grave; Oh! many wept to see his fainting form Unaided sink beneath th’ o’erwhelming wave.

Ah! hapless youth! yet, tho’ the billowy waste Has thus, with ruthless fury, snatch’d away Thy various charms, thy genius, wit, and taste, From those who fondly watch’d their rich display,—

Their cherish’d, lov’d, impression still shall last; Mem’ry shall ride triumphant o’er the storm, Shall shield thy gen’rous virtues from the blast, And Fancy animate again thy form.

Yes, gentle youth! to her, tho’ little known, Save by the rich effusions of thy lyre, Th’ admiring Muse shall breathe a mournful tone, And sounds of grief shall o’er the floods expire.

But, far more grateful to thy pensive shade, Parental Fondness mourns her Lycid gone, Lycid! who to her bosom oft convey’d The liveliest joys to tend’rest feelings known.

For her the lustre of the dawning day, With all its charms, no longer yields delight; And silent sorrow marks its parting ray, And saddens ev’ry vision of the night.

Oh! what ecstatic joys inspir’d her breast, When, fast advancing to thy native shore, She thought she saw thee in the bay at rest, And now in fancy heard th’ approaching oar.

Oh! sad reverse! The dire delusive wind, Which promis’d fair to bring thee to her breast, Thy youthful honours to the wave consign’d, And bore thy spirit to the realms of rest

Ah! had the song of ancient Bard been true, Had Genius still the pow’r to soothe the storm, Harmless had been each blast that round thee blew, And safe and sacred, ’midst its rage, thy form.

What tho’ no marble urn thy relics hold, Where grief at midnight hour may sit and sigh, Like gem in amber, Fancy shall enfold Thy relics in each wave that murmurs by.

Still shall she listen to thy glowing song, And dwell with rapture on each vivid line, Shall round thy lyre, neglected and unstrung, Of sweetest flow’rs a fun’ral wreath entwine.

Ah! since thy tuneful song no more shall flow, Nor here again thy op’ning virtues shine, May those who, Lycid! lov’d thee living, know To bear the sorrows of a loss like thine!

And, while they linger yet another hour On life’s extended, tempest-beaten, strand, Waiting the gale that shall convey them o’er, To hail their Lycid in a happier land,

Oh! may religion lull each sigh to rest, Teach them a God, in mercy rob’d, to praise, To know that ev’ry act of his is best, And, tho’ mysterious, still to prize his ways!

EPIGRAM

ON THE AUTHOR AND ELIZA FREQUENTLY DIFFERING IN OPINION.

To such extremes were I and Bet Perpetually driven, We quarrell’d every time we met, To kiss, and be forgiven.

LINES

TO MY MOTHER,

_On her attaining her 70th Year_.

Oh! with what genuine pleasure do I trace Each line of that long-lov’d, accustom’d, face, Where Time, as if enchanted, and imprest With all the virtues of thy peaceful breast, Tho’ sev’nty varied years have roll’d away, Still loves to linger, and, with soft decay, Permits thy cheek to wear a healthy bloom, In all the grace of age, without its gloom.

So on some sacred temple’s mossy walls, With feath’ry force, the snow of winter falls! Yes, venerable parent! may I long Thus happy hail thee with an annual song. Till, having clos’d thine eyes in such soft rest As infants feel when to the bosom prest, Angels shall bear thy spotless soul away To realms of pure delight and endless day!

LINES TO SELINA

’Twas when the leaves were yellow turn’d, Selina, with the gentlest sigh, Exclaim’d, “For you I long have burn’d, For you alone, my love! I’ll die.”

Unthinking youth! I thought her true, And, when the trees grew white with snow, The wint’ry wind with music blew, So did her love upon me grow.

The Spring had scarce unlock’d her store, When lo! in much ungentle strain, She bade me think of her no more, She bade me never love again.

Then did my heart at once reply, “If you are false, who can be true? There’s nothing here deserves a sigh, Take this, the last, ’tis heav’d for you.”

Ah! fickle fair! amid the scene That giddy pleasure may prepare, A pensive thought shall intervene, And touch your wand’ring heart with care.

And when, alone, at eve you rove, Where arm in arm we oft have mov’d, Each Zephyr in the well-known grove Shall whisper that we once have lov’d.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE, AT DRONNINGAARD, NEAR COPENHAGEN.

Delicious gloom! asylum of repose! Within your verdant shades, your tranquil bound, A wretched fugitive[14], oppress’d by woes, The balm of peace, that long had left him, found.

Ne’er does the trump of war disturb this grove; Throughout its deep recess the warbling bird Discourses sweetly of its happy lore, Or distant sounds of rural joy are heard.

Life’s checquer’d scene is softly pictur’d here; Here the proud moss-rose spreads its transient pride; Close by, the willow drops a dewy tear, And gaudy flow’rs the modest lily hide.

Alas! poor Hermit! happy had it been For thee, if in these shades thy days had past, If, well contented with the happy scene, Thou ne’er again had fac’d life’s stormy blast!

And Pity oft shall shed the gen’rous tear O’er the sad moral which thy days disclose; There view how restless is our nature here, How strangely hostile to its own repose.

[14] Dronningaard is the first private residence in Denmark: it belongs to the wealthy family of the De Conincks. The grounds, which are very extensive, and tastefully laid out, slope down to a noble lake, twelve English miles in circumference, which is skirted with fine woods and romantic country-houses. At the end of a beautiful walk is an elegant marble column, with a tablet, on which is inscribed by Mr. D.C. “This monument is erected in gratitude to a mild and beneficent Government, under whose auspices I enjoy the blessings that surround me.” In another part of the grounds, in a spot of deep seclusion, are the ruins of a Hermitage; and a little further, in a nook, an open grave and tombstone. The story connected with this retired spot deserves to be mentioned:—Time has shed many snows upon the romantic beauties of Dronningaard, since one, who, weary of the pomp of courts and the tumult of camps, in the prime of life, covered with honours and with fortune, sought from its hospitable owner permission to raise a sequestered cell, in which he might pass the remainder of his days in all the austerities and privations of an Anchorite. This singular man had, long previously to the revolution in Holland, distinguished himself at the head of his regiment, when, in an unhappy moment, the love of aggrandizement took possession of his heart, and, marrying under its influence, misery soon followed; and here, in a little wood of tall firs, he raised this simple fabric: moss warmed it within, and the bark of the birch defended it without; a stream of rock-water once flowed in a bed of pebbles before the door, in which the young willow dipped its leaves; and, at a little distance from a bed of wild roses, the labernum gracefully rose, and suspended her yellow flowers; and adjoining was a spot which the Recluse had selected for his grave, of which, like the monks of La Trappe, he dug a small portion every day until he had finished it. He composed his Epitaph in French, and had it inscribed on a stone. If the reader is as much interested as I was in the history of the poor Hermit, he will be pleased with the translation of it, which follows, from the pen of my respected and distinguished friend, William Hayley, Esq. In this solitude he passed several years, when the plan of his life became suddenly reversed by a letter of recall, which he received from his Prince, containing the most flattering expressions of regard. He obeyed the summons, returned to Holland, and at the head of his regiment most gallantly fought and fell.

THE HERMIT’S EPITAPH.

Here may he rest, who, shunning scenes of strife, Enjoy’d at Dronningaard a Hermit’s life: The faithless splendour of a court he knew, And all the ardour of the tented field, Soft Passion’s idler charm, not less untrue, And all that listless Luxury can yield. He tasted, tender Love! thy chatter sweet; Thy promis’d happiness prov’d mere deceit. To Hymen’s hallow’d fane by Reason led, He deem’d the path he trod the path of bliss; Oh! ever-mourn’d mistake! from int’rest bred, Its dupe was plung’d in misery’s abyss: But Friendship offer’d him, benignant pow’r! Her cheering hand, in trouble’s darkest hour: Beside this shaded stream, her soothing voice Bade the disconsolate again rejoice: Peace in his heart revives, serenely sweet; The calm content, so sought for as his choice, Quits him no more in this belov’d retreat.

LINES TO MISS E. ATKINSON,

ON HER PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH AN IRISH PEBBLE.

Oft does the lucid pebble shine, Just cover’d by the murm’ring sea; Thus precious, thus conceal’d, it shews, Fair maid! thy mind and modesty.

If searching eyes the stone discern, Quick will the hand of Art remove Each ruder part, till, brilliant grown, It seals the fond record of love.

And here the sweet connexion ends,

Eliza! ’twixt the gem and thee; For thou wast polish’d from the first, By Nature’s hand, more happily!

THE WATER-NYMPH OF THE ROCK.

[The French is by Bosquillon, which I translated as under, in a beautiful Swedish island in the Baltic, as I sat by the side of a fine clear stream of rock-water.]

_ORIGINAL_.

La nymphe qui donne de cette eau Au plus creux de rocher se cache, Suivez un example si beau: Donnez sans vouloir qu’on le sache.

_TRANSLATION_.

The nymph, to whom this stream you owe, Conceals herself in caves of stone: Like her your benefits bestow; Give, without wishing to be known.

LINES

UPON MADEMOISELLE DELPHINE SAULOT

_Singing some equisite Airs_

IN THE GARDENS OF MOUSSEAU, NEAR PARIS.

In Mousseau’s sweet Arcadian dale Fair Delphine pours the plaintive strain; She charms the list’ning nightingale, And seems th’ enchantress of the plain.

Bless’d be those lips, to music dear; Sweet songstress! never may they move But with such sounds, to soothe the ear, And melt the yielding heart to love.

May sorrow never bid them pour From the torn heart one suff’ring sigh; But be thy life a fragrant flow’r, Blooming beneath a cloudless sky!

IMPROMPTU TO MADAME C——

WRITTEN AT PARIS,

Upon her appearing equally modestly and elegantly dressed, amidst the Semi-Nakedness of the Rest of the Female Fashionables.

Whilst, in a dress that one might swear The whole was made of woven air, Pert Fashion spreads her senseless sway Over the giddy and the gay (Who think, by showing all their charms, Lovers will fly into their arms), In thee shall Wit and Virtue find A friend more genial to their mind; And Modesty shall gain in thee A surer, chaster, victory.

SONNET

UPON A SWEDISH COTTAGE,

_Written on the Road_,

WITHIN A FEW MILES OF STOCKHOLM.

Here, far from all the pomp Ambition seeks, Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais’d, Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks, Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais’d.

On a gray rock it stands, whose fretted base The distant cat’ract’s murm’ring waters lave, Whilst o’er its mossy roof, with varying grace, The slender branches of the white birch wave.

Around the forest-fir is heard to sigh, On which the pensive ear delights to dwell, Whilst, as the gazing trav’ller passes by, The gray goat, starting, sounds his tinkling bell. Oh! in my native land, ere life’s decline, May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine!

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. B——

Ah, stranger! if thy pilgrim footsteps love, By meditation led, to wander here, A suff’ring husband may thy pity move, Who weeps the loss of all his soul holds dear!

Cold as this mourning marble is that heart, Which Virtue warm’d with pure and gen’rous heat, Which to each checquer’d scene could joy impart, Nor ceas’d to love until it ceas’d to beat.

Yet, gentle spirit! o’er thine early grave Shall Consolation, like a seraph, prove, When Sickness clos’d thy faultless life, she gave Another angel to the realms above!

STATE TRICKS

_Or a Peep into the Cabinet of the Premier Consul_,

AT ST. CLOUD,

ON THE NIGHT OF THE 26th OCT. 1803.

—“they show an outward hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dang’rous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst; And this is all.”

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Act V. Scene 4.

FIRST CONSUL.

My dear Talleyrand! I am sorry to send For you out of your bed; but you know you’re my friend: No secret I hide from your generous breast; This invasion is always _invading my rest_: My soldiers, poor devils! are ready to start, But to stay where I am is the wish of my heart; And yet I have sworn at their head to appear: I am puzzl’d to act ’twixt my threats and my fear; If I go, I am lost!—say, what shall I do?

TALLEYRAND.

Why I think I’ve a snug little project in view: I have felt for you long, and have ransack’d my brain To relieve you from so much embarrassing pain. To-morrow our principal tools shall repair To this spot, to implore you to stay where you are: Little Jancourt, you know, has a tear at command, The rest shall have muslin-wrapp’d onions in hand; An expedient which you, my good Consul, must try, For a drop never yet wag observ’d in your eye! And therefore I think ’twould be better for you The largest to pluck from the beds of St Cloud. When these fellows appear, they shall fall at your feet, Portalis shall pen a few words to repeat; He shall state ’tis the nation’s imperial will That you do not your _dangerous promise_ fulfil; But snug in this closet put all into motion, Nor hazard your life with these sons of the ocean. _You_ shall say, “I have sworn by my glory to go;” } _They_ shall all of them blubber out “No, no, no, no!} It must not, thou world’s second saviour! be so. } If you go, mighty Chieftain! and should not escape, All Gallia, the world, will be cover’d with crape[15]! Oh! stay where you are; on our knees we implore!” Then, apparently chok’d, they shall utter no more. When thrice sixty seconds have nearly expir’d (Now mind, my dear Consul, and do as desir’d), You must mimic some hero you’ve seen at the play, Of the tragical cast, when his soul melts away (And, without any compliment ’twixt you and I, You re’lly have talents and pow’rs very high, To make the most striking tragedian alive). But now to the point. You must tenderly strive To raise these sweet prostrates; then, heaving a sigh, And wiping the drops that shall stand in each eye, Like one sorely cross’d, you shall, weeping, exclaim, “Oh! why do you tear me from conquest and fame? But still, if the nation commands me, ’tis fit” (Your breast thumping hard) “that its Chief should submit.” Then you see, if the army of England should sail, And the schemes of this cursed armada should fail, In the _Moniteur’s_ faithful official page, I can humbug the people, and soften their rage; I will tell them, that, had but the nation permitted Her Chief to have gone, we had ne’er been outwitted; That merely the terrible glance of his eye Would have made all those shop-keeping islanders fly; This will quiet our friends, and, to harass our foes, A second invasion I’ll slyly propose, In which, in the van, Buonaparte shall pour His vengeance divine on that mercantile shore. Not that I, my dear Premier! conceive ’twould be right To renew with these cursed tough fellows the fight; But our people ’twill please, until some new occasion Shall call from this project the eye of the nation.

FIRST CONSUL.

It will do, it will do, my dear Tally! thy brain Has my terrors remov’d, and “a man I’m again.” I will rise with the dawn, for this scene to prepare; Denon, with his crayons, so swift shall be there; The Parisians the subject with rapture will trace In my Nosegay[16]; I’ll hang it up full in their face. I embrace thee, my dear little Tal! with delight; _Ca ira! Ca ira_! Thy hand, and good night.

[The First Consul is said to have enjoyed half an hour’s uninterrupted repose that night. What followed, the next day, all Europe knows, and all Europe laughs at.]

[15] Black crape and the bolt of Heaven are the favourite rhetorical figures of Napoleon the First.

[16] “Nosegay”—The anti-chamber of the Hall of the Arts in the Louvre, in which there are many fine paintings, is called, by the Parisians, Buonaparte’s Nosegay.

LINES

TO MISS CHINNERY, OF GILLWELL-HOUSE,

_Upon her appearing in a Dress_

WITH MAY-FLOWERS AND LEAVES TASTEFULLY DISPLAYED.

Tell me what taught thee to display A choice so sweet, and yet so rare, To prize the modest buds of May Beyond the diamond’s prouder glare?

Say, was the grateful pref’rence paid To Nature, since, with skill divine, So many fairy charms she made, To grace her fav’rite Caroline?

Or was it Taste that bade thee try How soon the richest gem must yield, In beauty and attractive die, To this wild blossom of the field?

Whate’er the cause, in Nature’s glow Well does the choice thyself pourtray; Thine innocence the blossoms show, Thy youth the green leaves well display.

SONG.

Ah! if my voice is heard in vain, This fond, this falling, tear May yet thy dire intent restrain, May yet dissolve my fear.

Th’ unsparing wound that lays thee low Will bend thy Julia too: Could she survive the fatal blow Who only lives in you?

LINES

TO MRS. A. CLARKE.

Within his cold and cheerless cell, I heard the sighing Censor tell That ev’ry charm of life was gone, That ev’ry noble virtue long Had ceas’d to wake the Minstrel’s song, And Vice triumphant stood alone.

“Poor gloomy reas’ner! come with me; Smooth each dark frown, and thou shall see Thy tale is but a mournful dream; I’ll show thee scenes to yield delight, I’ll show thee forms in Virtue bright, Illum’d by Heav’n’s unclouded beam.

“See Clarke, with ev’ry goodness grac’d, Her mind the seat of Wit and Taste; Tho’ Wealth invites to Pleasure’s bow’r, See her the haunts of Woe descend; Of many a friendless wretch the friend, Pleas’d she exerts sweet Pity’s pow’r.

“See her, with parent patriot care, The infant orphan-mind prepare, Assur’d, without Instruction’s aid, The proudest nation soon will show A wasted form, a hectic glow, A robb’d, diseas’d, revolting, shade.

“See her with Prince-like spirit pour On genuine worth her ample store[17]; See her, by ev’ry gentle art, Protect the plant she loves to rear, And, as she bathes it with a tear, Grateful it twines around her heart.

“And there are more, of kindred mind;”— When, with a face more bland and kind, The Sage, in soften’d tone, replied: “’Twas Error made to me the den More grateful than the haunts of men; Henceforth mankind shall be my pride.”

[17] This alludes to a munificent donation of a very handsome fortune, which this Lady presented, without any claim of consanguinity or connexion, to a young Lady of great merit.

LINES

_To the Tune of “Oh! Lady fair! where art thou going_?”

Sing, bird of grief! still eve descending, And soothe a mind with sorrow rending; Ne’er may I see the blush of morrow, But close this night the sigh of sorrow;

Then, if some wand’rer here directed Shall find my mossy grave neglected, May he replace the weed that’s growing With the nearest flow’r that’s blowing!

IMPROMPTU LINES

UPON A VERY HANDSOME WOMAN

_Keeping the Hotel de Lion Blanc, at Dantzig_.

The sign of the house should be chang’d, I’ll be sworn, Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace; Then quick from the door let the _lion_ be torn, And an _angel_ expand her white wings in his place.

LINES

UPON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL INFANT SLEEPING ON THE BOSOM OF ITS MOTHER.

Upon its native pillow dear, The little slumb’rer finds repose; His fragrant breath eludes the ear— A zephyr passing o’er a rose.

Yet soon from that pure spot of rest

(Love’s little throne!) shalt thou be torn; Time hovers o’er thy downy nest, To crown thy baby-brow with thorn.

Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but see On what a world thou soon must move, Or taste the cup prepar’d for thee Of grief, lost hopes, or widow’d love,

Ne’er from that breast thou’d’st raise thine head, But thou would’st breathe to Heav’n a pray’r To let thee, ere thy blossom fade, In one fond sigh exhale thee there.

LINES

WRITTEN AT FREDENSBORG,

_The deserted Palace of the late Queen Dowager Juliana Maria_[18].

Bless’d are the steps of Virtue’s queen! Where’er she moves fresh roses bloom; And, when she droops, kind Nature pours Her genuine tears in gentle show’rs, That love to dew the willow green That over-canopies her tomb.