Chapter 1
POEMS
BY
MATILDA BETHAM.
1808.
TO LADY ROUSE BOUGHTON, AS A TESTIMONY OF RESPECT AND GRATITUDE FOR LONG CONTINUED FRIENDSHIP, THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS INSCRIBED BY HER OBLIGED HUMBLE SERVANT, MATILDA BETHAM.
_New Cavendish-street,_
Feb. 3, 1809.
ADVERTISEMENT.
Before this book was printed, I thoughtlessly concluded there must be a preface; but, on consideration, see no particular purpose it would answer, and gladly decline a task I should have undertaken with much timidity and reluctance. All I feel necessary to premise, is, that the tale in the Old Shepherd's Recollections is founded on an event which happened in Ireland; and that last spring I suppressed the song ending in page 65 [The Old Man's Farewell], some time after it had been in the hands of the composer, from meeting accidentally with a quotation in a magazine that resembled it.
CONTENTS.
POEMS.-- The Old Fisherman Lines to Mrs. Radcliffe, on first reading The Mysteries of Udolpho The Heir To a Llangollen Rose, the day after it had been given me by Miss Ponsonby L'Homme de l'Ennui The Grandfather's Departure Reflections occasioned by the Death of Friends To Mrs. T. Fancourt To a Young Gentleman Fragment
SONGS.-- "Thrice lovely Babe" "What do I love?" A Sailor's Song Another Once more, then farewell! Henry, on the Departure of his Wife from Calcutta Sonnet On the Regret of Youth Elegy on Sophia Graham To Miss Rouse Boughton To the Same To the River which separates itself from the Dee at Bedkellert The Old Man's Farewell Song--Distance from the Place of our Nativity. The Old Shepherd's Recollections Reflection Retrospect of Youth The Daughter Youth unsuspicious of evil The Mother Edgar and Ellen
POEMS.
THE OLD FISHERMAN.
'My bosom is chill'd with the cold, My limbs their lost vigour deplore! Alas! to the lonely and old, Hope warbles her promise no more!
'Worn out with the length of my way, I must rest me awhile on the beach, To feel the salt dash of the spray, If haply so far it may reach.
'As the white-foaming billows arise, I reflect on the days that are past, When the pride of my strength could despise The keen-driving force of the blast.
'Though the heavens might menace on high, I would still push my vessel from shore; At my calling undauntedly ply, And sing as I handled the oar.
'When fortune rewarded my toil, And my nets, deeply-laden, I drew, I hurried me home with the spoil, And its inmates rejoic'd at the view.
'Though the winds and the waves were perverse, I was sure to be welcom'd with glee; My presence the cares would disperse, That were only awaken'd for me.
'Whether weary, with toiling in vain, Or gay, from abundant success, I heard the same blessing again,-- I met the same tender caress:
'I fancied the perils repay'd, That could such affection ensure; By fondness and gratitude sway'd, I was eager to dare and endure.
'My cot did each comfort contain, And that gave my bosom delight; When drench'd by the winterly rain, I watch'd in my vessel at night.
'But, alas! from the tyrant, Disease, What love or what caution can save! A fever, more harsh than the seas, Consign'd my poor wife to the grave.
'My children, so tenderly rear'd, And pining for want of her care, Though more by my sorrows endear'd, Could not rescue my heart from despair.
'I tempted the dangers of night, And still labour'd hard at the oar, My sufferings appear'd to be light, But I suffer'd with pleasure no more.
'And yet, when some seasons had roll'd, I seem'd to awaken anew; My children I lov'd to behold, How tall and how comely they grew.
'My boy became hardy and bold, His spirit was buoyant and free; And, as I grew thoughtful and old, Was loud and oppressive to me.
'But the girl, like a bird in the bower, Awaken'd my hope and my pride; She won on my heart ev'ry hour, And I could not the preference hide.
'I mark'd the address and the care, The manner endearing and mild, Not dreaming those qualities rare Were to murther the peace of my child:
'That grandeur would ever descend To seek for so lowly a bride, Or his fair one, a lover pretend, From all she held dear to divide:
'That beauty was priz'd like a gem, Expected to dazzle and shine, Whose value the world would contemn, Unless trac'd to some Indian mine:
'Alas! hapless girl! had I known Thou hadst learnt to repine at thy lot; That splendour and rank were thy own, Thy home and thy father forgot:
'That lore and ambition assail'd, Thou hadst left us, whatever befel! My pardon and prayers had prevail'd, I had blest thee, and bade thee farewel!
'With thy husband, from this happy clime, I had seen thee for ever depart! Still hoping affection and time Might soften the pride of his heart:
'That a moment perhaps would arise, When, fondling a child on the knee, He might read, in its innocent eyes A lesson of pity for me.
'But lips, which till then never said A word to cause any one pain, Inform'd me, when reason had fled, Of a conflict it could not sustain.
'And he, who had wish'd to conceal That the woman he lov'd had been poor, Began all his folly to feel, When the victim could hearken no more.
'Yet still for himself did he mourn, And, indignant, I fled from the view: For my wrongs were not easily borne, And my anger was hard to subdue.
'One prop, one sole comfort, remain'd, Who saw me o'erladen with grief, Who saw (though I never complain'd) My heart was too sick for relief.
'One, who always attentive and dear, Every effort exerted to please, My desolate prospect to cheer, To study my health and my ease.
'For his was each toil and each care, The due observations to keep; To sit watching amid the night air, And fancy his father asleep.
'Yet, dejected, and sadly forlorn, I dar'd in my heart to repine,-- To lament that I ever was born, Though such worth and affection were mine.
'Alas! I was destin'd to know, However intense my despair, I still was reserv'd for a blow, More painful and cruel to bear.
'Yes! this only one fell in the main! --I eagerly struggled to save; But I strove with the current in vain, And saw him sink under the wave!
'My head was astounded and wild,-- Incessant I roam'd on the shore, To seek the dead corse of my child, And to weep on his bosom once more.
'Seven days undisturb'd was the sky, The eighth was a tempest most drear, I saw the huge billow rise high! I saw my lost treasure appear!
'Like a dream it seem'd passing away:-- I hurried me onward to meet, And clasp the inanimate clay, When senseless I sunk at his feet.
'These hands, now enfeebled by time, The last pious offices paid! Age sorrow'd o'er youth in its prime, And my boy near his mother was laid.
'Now scar'd by the griefs I have known, Wounds, apathy only can heal, My joys and my sorrows are flown, For I have forgotten to feel.
'But I know my Creator is just, That his hand will deliver me soon; I have learnt to submit and to trust, Though I finish my journey alone.'
Aldborough, September 7, 1800.
* * * * *
LINES TO MRS. RADCLIFFE,
ON FIRST READING THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.
Enchantress! whose transcendant pow'rs, With ease, the massy fabric raise;-- Beneath whose sway the tempest low'rs, Or lucid stream meänd'ring plays;--
Accept the tribute of a heart, Which thou hast often made to glow With transport, oft with terror start, Or sink at strains of solemn woe!
Invention, like a falcon, tam'd By some expert and daring hand, For pride, for strength and fierceness fam'd, Implicit yields to thy command. Now mounts aloft in soaring flight, Shoots, like a star, beyond the sight; Or, in capricious windings borne, Mocks our faint hopes of safe return; Delights in trackless paths to roam, But hears thy call, and hurries home; Checks his bold wing when tow'ring free, And sails, without a pause, to thee! Enchantress, thy behests declare! And what thy strong delusions are!
When spirits in thy circle rise, Gaunt Wonder, panic-struck, and pale, Impatient Hope, and dread Surmise, Attendants on the mystic tale!
How is it, with such vivid hues, A harmonizing softness flows! What are the charms that can diffuse, Such grandeur as thy pencil throws!
Say! do the nymphs of classic lore, So simply graceful, light, and fair, Forsake their consecrated shore, Their hallow'd groves, and purer air?
Tir'd of the ancient Grecian loom, And smit with Fancy's wayward glance, Weave they amid the Gothic gloom, The high-wrought fiction of Romance?
While the dark Genius of our northern clime, Whose giant limbs the mist of years enshrouds, Bursts through the veil which hides his head sublime, And moves majestic through recoiling clouds!
O yes! they own the wond'rous spell, And to each form their hands divine Give, with nice art, the temper'd swell, The chasten'd touch and faultless line!
Each fiction under their command, Assumes an air severely true, And, every vision, wildly grand, Life's measur'd pace and modest hue.
Reason and fancy, rival powers! Unite, their RADCLIFFE to befriend; To decorate her way with flowers, The minor graces all attend!
This piece, with the exception of a few lines, has appeared in the Athenaeum.
* * * * *
THE HEIR.
See yon tall stripling! how he droops forlorn! How slow his pace! how spiritless his eye! Like a dark cloud in summer's rosy dawn, He saddens pleasure as he passes by.
Long kept in exile by paternal pride, He feels no joy beneath this splendid dome; For, till the elder child of promise died, He knew a dearer, though a humbler home.
Then the proud sail was spread! The youth obey'd, Left ev'ry friend, and every scene he knew; For ever left the soul-affianc'd maid, Though his heart sicken'd as he said--Adieu; And nurses still, with superstitious care, The sigh of fond remembrance and despair.
* * * * *
TO A LLANGOLLEN ROSE,
THE DAY AFTER IT HAD BEEN GIVEN BY MISS PONSONBY.
Soft blushing flow'r! my bosom grieves, To view thy sadly drooping leaves: For, while their tender tints decay, The rose of Fancy fades away! As pilgrims, who, with zealous care, Some little treasur'd relic bear, To re-assure the doubtful mind, When pausing memory looks behind; I, from a more enlighten'd shrine, Had made this sweet memento mine: But, lo! its fainting head reclines; It folds the pallid leaf, and pines, As mourning the unhappy doom, Which tears it from so sweet a home!
_July 22, 1799._
* * * * *
L'HOMME DE L'ENNUI.
Forlornly I wander, forlornly I sigh, And droop my head sadly, I cannot tell why: When the first breeze of morning blows fresh in my face, As the wild-waving walks of our woodlands I trace, Reviv'd for the moment I look all around, But my eyes soon grow languid, and fix on the ground.
I have yet no misfortune to rob me of rest, No love discomposes the peace of my breast; Ambition ne'er enter'd the verge of my thought, Nor by honours, by wealth, nor by power am I caught; Those phantoms of folly disturb not my ease, Yet Time is a tortoise, and Life a disease.
With the blessings of youth and of health on my side, A temper untainted by envy or pride; No guilt to corrode, and no foes to molest; There are many who tell me my station is blest. This I cannot dispute; yet without knowing why-- I feel that my bosom is big with a sigh.
Oh! why do I see that all knowledge is vain; That Science finds Error still keep in her train; That Imposture or Darkness, with Doubt and Surmise, Will mislead, will perplex, and then baffle the wise, Who often, when labours have shorten'd their span, Declare--not to know--is the province of man?
In life, as in learning, our views are confin'd, Our discernment too weak to discover the mind, Which, subdued and irresolute, keeps out of sight; Or if, for a moment, her presence delight, Our air is too gross for the stranger to stay; And, back to her prison she hurries away!
If my own narrow precincts I seek to explore, My wishes how vain, my attainments how poor! Tenacious of virtue, with caution I move; I correct, and I wrestle, but cannot approve; Till, bewilder'd and faint, I would yield up the rein, But I dare not in peace with my errors remain!
With zeal all awake in the cause of a friend, With warmth unrepress'd by my fear to offend, With sympathy active in hope or distress, How keen and how anxious I cannot express, I shrink, lest an eye should my feelings behold, And my heart seems insensible, selfish and cold.
I strive to be gay, but my efforts are weak, And, sick of existence, for pleasure I seek; I mix with the empty, the loud, and the vain, Partake of their folly, and double my pain. In others I meet with depression and strife; Oh! where shall I seek for the music of life?
* * * * *
THE GRANDFATHER'S DEPARTURE.
The Old Man press'd Palemon's hand; To Lucy nodded with a smile; Kiss'd all the little ones around; Then clos'd the gate, and paus'd awhile.
"When shall I come again!" he thought, Ere yet the journey had begun; It was a tedious length of way, But he beheld an only son.
And dearly did he love to take A rosy grandchild on his knee; To part his shining locks, and say, "Just such another boy was he!"
And never felt he greater pride, And never did he look so gay, As when the little urchins strove To make him partner in their play.
But when, in some more gentle mood, They silent hung upon his arm, Or nestled close at ev'ning pray'r, The old man felt a softer charm;
And upward rais'd his closing eye, Whence slow effus'd a grateful tear, As if his senses own'd a joy, Too holy for endurance here.
No heart e'er pray'd so fervently, Unprompted by an earthly zeal, None ever knew such tenderness, That did not true devotion feel.
As with the pure, uncolour'd flame, The violet's richest blues unite, Do our affections soar to heav'n, And rarify and beam with light.
* * * * *
REFLECTIONS
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF FRIENDS.
My happiness was once a goodly tree, Which promis'd every day to grow more fair, And rear'd its lofty branches in the air, In sooth, it was a pleasant sight, to see! Amidst, fair honey-suckles crept along, Twin'd round the bark, and hung from every bough, While birds, which Fancy held by slender strings, Plum'd the dark azure of their shining wings, Or dipp'd them in the silver stream below, With many a joyful note, and many a song!
When lo! a tempest hurtles in the sky! Dark low'r the clouds! the thunders burst around! Fiercely the arrowy flakes of lightning fly! While the scar'd songsters leave the quiv'ring bough, The blasted honey-suckles droop below, And many noble branches strew the ground!
Though soon the air is calm, the sky serene, Though wide the broad and leafy arms are spread, Yet still the scars of recent wounds are seen; Their shelter henceforth seems but insecure; The winged tribes disdain the frequent lure, Where many a songster lies benumb'd or dead; And when I would the flow'ry tendrils train, I find my late delightful labour vain.
Affection thus, once light of heart, and gay, Chasten'd by memory, and, unnerv'd by fear, Shall sadden each endearment with a tear, Sorrowing the offices of love shall pay, And scarcely dare to think that good her own, Which fate's imperious hand may snatch away, In the warm sunshine of meridian day, And when her hopes are full and fairest blown.
* * * * *
TO MRS. T. FANCOURT,
July 15, 1803.
I love not yon gay, painted flower, Of bold and coarsely blended dye, But one, whose nicely varied power May long detain the curious eye.
I love the tones that softly rise, And in a fine accordance close; That waken no abrupt surprise, Nor leave us to inert repose.
I love the moon's pure, holy light, Pour'd on the calm, sequester'd stream; The gale, fresh from the wings of night, Which drinks the early solar beam;
The smile of heaven, when storms subside, When the moist clouds first break away; The sober tints of even-tide, Ere yet forgotten by the day.
Such sights, such sounds, my fancy please, And set my wearied spirit free: And one who takes delight in these, Can never fail of loving thee!
* * * * *
TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.
July 29th, 1803.
Dear boy, when you meet with a rose, Admire you the thorns very much? Or like you to play with a ball, When the handling it blisters your touch!
Yet should it be firm and compact, It is easy to polish it nice; If the rose is both pretty and sweet, The thorns will come off in a trice.
The thistle has still many more, As visible too in our eyes, But who will take pains with a weed, That nobody ever can prize?
'Tis what we deem precious and rare, We most earnestly seek to amend; And anxious attention and care, Is the costliest gift of a friend.
We all have our follies: what then? Let us note them, and never look bluff! Without any caressing at all, They will cling to us closely enough.
Weeds are of such obstinate growth, They elude the most diligent hand; And, if they were not to be check'd, Would quickly run over the land.
If some could be taken away, That hide part of your worth from the view; The conquest perhaps would be ours, But the profit is wholly to you.
* * * * *
FRAGMENT.
A Pilgrim weary, toil-subdued, I reach'd a country, strange and rude, And trembled, lest approaching eve My hope of shelter might deceive; When I espied a hunter train, Prowling at leisure o'er the plain, And hasten'd on to ask relief, Of the ill-omen'd, haughty chief. His eye was artful, keen, and bold, His smile malevolently cold, And had not all my fire been fled, And every earthly passion dead, His pity to contempt allied, Had rous'd my anger and my pride; But, as it was, I bent my way, Where his secluded mansion lay, Which rose before my eyes at length, A fortress of determin'd strength, And layers of every colour'd moss The lofty turrets did emboss, As tho' the hand of father Time, Prepar'd a sacrifice sublime,-- Giving his daily rites away, To aggrandize some future day. Here as I roam'd the walk along, I heard a plaintive broken song; And ere I to the portal drew, An open window caught my view, Where a fair dame appear'd in sight, Array'd in robes of purest white. Large snowy folds confin'd her hair, And left a polish'd forehead bare. O'er her meek eyes, of deepest blue, The sable lash long shadows threw; Her cheek was delicately pale, And seem'd to tell a piteous tale, But o'er her looks such patience stole, Such saint-like tenderness of soul, That never did my eyes behold, A beauty of a lovelier mold.
The Lady sigh'd, and closely prest A sleeping infant to her breast; Shook off sweet tears of love, and smil'd, Kissing the fingers of the child, Which round her own unconscious clung, Then fondly gaz'd, and softly sung:
Once like that sea, which ebbs and flows, My bosom never knew repose, And heavily each morn arose.
I bore with anger and disdain, I had no power to break my chain, No one to whom I dar'd complain.
And when some bird has caught my eye, Or distant sail been flitting by, I wish'd I could as freely fly.
But I can now contented be, Can tell, dear babe, my griefs to thee. And feel more brave, and breathe more free.
And when thy father frowns severe, Although my spirit faints with fear, I feel I have a comfort near.
And when he harshly speaks to me, If thou art smiling on my knee, He softens as he looks on thee.
To soothe him in an evil hour The bud has balm, oh! may the flower Possess the same prevailing power!
Nor forc'd to leave thy native land, To pledge a cold, unwilling hand, May'st thou receive the hard command.
My mother had not half the zeal, The aching fondness which I feel, She had no broken heart to heal!
And I was friendless when she died, Who could my little failings chide, And for an hour her fondness hide.
But I can see no prospect ope, Can give no fairy vision scope, If thou art not the spring of hope.
I cannot thy affection draw, By childhood's first admiring awe; Be tender pity then thy law!
This heart would bleed at every vein, I could not even life sustain, If ever thou should'st give me pain.
O! soul of sweetness! can it be, That thou could'st prove unkind to me! That I should fear this blow from thee!
Alas! e'en then I would not blame, My love to thee should be the same, And judge from whence unkindness came!
Her words grew indistinct and slow, Her voice more tremulous and low, When suddenly the song was o'er, A whisper even heard no more-- She had discern'd my nearer tread; Appear'd to feel alarm, and fled.
* * * * *
SONGS.
* * * * *
SONG.
Thrice lovely babe! thus hush'd to rest, Upon thy warrior father's breast! Avails it, that his eyes behold, Thy rosy cheeks, thy locks of gold! Avails it that he bends his ear, So fondly thy soft breath to hear! Or, that his rising smiles confess, A gracious gleam of tenderness! The sweetest spell will scarce have pow'r To hold him for one absent hour!
Some plant that ceases thus to share, A daily friend's auspicious care, Relaxes in its feeble grasp, The flow'ry tendrils soon unclasp, Loose in the heedless aether play, And every idle breeze obey! Thus vainly had I sought to bind; Thus watch'd that light, forgetful mind, Till smiles and sunshine could restore, My often-blighted hopes no more!
* * * * *
SONG.
SET TO MUSIC BY MR. VOIGHT.
What do I love? A polish'd mind, A temper cheerful, meek, and kind; A graceful air, unsway'd by art, A voice that sinks into the heart, A playful and benignant smile-- Alas! my heart responds the while, All this, my Emily, is true, But I love more in loving you!