Chapter 2

Ah me! abandoned on the lonesome plain, As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore, Save when against the winter's drenching rain, And driving snow, the cottage shut the door. Then, as instructed by tradition hoar, Her legends when the Beldam 'gan impart, Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er, Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart; Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful art.

XLIV.

Various and strange was the long-winded tale; And halls, and knights, and feats of arms, displayed; Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale, And sing, enamoured of the nut-brown maid; The moon-light revel of the fairy glade; Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood, And ply in caves the unutterable trade, 'Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood, Yell in the midnight storm, or ride the infuriate flood.

XLV.

But when to horror his amazement rose, A gentler strain the Beldam would rehearse, A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce. O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce That heart by lust of lucre seared to stone! For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse, To latest times shall tender souls bemoan Those helpless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.

XLVI.

Behold, with berries smeared, with brambles torn, The babes, now famished, lay them down to die; 'Midst the wild howl of darksome woods forlorn, Folded in one another's arms they lie; Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry: 'For from the town the man returns no more.' But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance darest defy, This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore, When Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store.

XLVII.

A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy Brightened one moment Edwin's starting tear.-- 'But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy, 'And innocence thus die by doom severe?' O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere, The assaults of discontent and doubt repel: Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere; But let us hope; to doubt, is to rebel; Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well.

XLVIII.

Nor be thy generous indignation checked, Nor checked the tender tear to misery given; From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect, This soften and refine the soul for heaven. But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt hath driven To censure Fate, and pious hope forego; Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven, Perfection, beauty, life, they never know, But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe.

XLIX.

Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age, Scarce fill the circle of one summer-day, Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage, Exclaim that Nature hastens to decay, If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray, If but a momentary shower descend! Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay, Which bade the series of events extend Wide through unnumbered worlds, and ages without end!

L.

One part, one little part, we dimly scan, Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream; Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan, If but that little part incongruous seem. Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem; Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. O then, renounce that impious self-esteem, That aims to trace the secrets of the skies: For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise.

LI.

Thus, Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years. For Nature gave him strength, and fire, to soar, On Fancy's wing above this vale of tears; Where dark cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, pore Through microscope of metaphysic lore: And much they grope for truth, but never hit. For why? their powers, inadequate before, This art preposterous renders more unfit; Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit.

LII.

Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth. Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device, Oft cheered the shepherds round their social hearth; Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice To purchase chat or laughter at the price Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed, That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice. Ah! had they been of court or city breed, Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed.

LIII.

Oft when the winter-storm had ceased to rave, He roamed the snowy waste at even, to view The cloud stupendous, from the Atlantic wave High-towering, sail along the horizon blue: Where, 'midst the changeful scenery ever new, Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries, More wildly great than ever pencil drew; Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise.

LIV.

Thence, musing, onward to the sounding shore, The lone enthusiast oft would take his way, Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array When sulphurous clouds rolled on the vernal day, Even then he hastened from the haunt of man, Along the darkening wilderness to stray, What time the lightning's fierce career began, And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran.

LV.

Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all In sprightly dance the village-youth were joined, Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall, From the rude gambol far remote reclined, Soothed with the soft notes warbling in the wind. Ah then, all jollity seemed noise and folly. To the pure soul, by Fancy's fire refined, Ah, what is mirth, but turbulence unholy, When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy!

LVI.

Is there a heart that music cannot melt? Ah me! how is that rugged heart forlorn! Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt, Of solitude and melancholy born? He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn. The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine; Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn, And delve for life, in Mammon's dirty mine; Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine.

LVII.

For Edwin, Fate a nobler doom had planned; Song was his favourite and first pursuit. The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand, And languished to his breath the plaintive flute. His infant muse, though artless, was not mute: Of elegance, as yet, he took no care; For this of time and culture is the fruit; And Edwin gained, at last, this fruit so rare: As in some future verse I purpose to declare.

LVIII.

Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or new, Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky, By chance, or search, was offered to his view, He scanned with curious and romantic eye. Whate'er of lore tradition could supply From Gothic tale, or song, or fable old, Roused him, still keen to listen and to pry. At last, though long by penury controuled, And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold.

LIX.

Thus, on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, For many a long month lost in snow profound, When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland, And in their northern cave the storms hath bound; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurled; green hills emerge; and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crowned; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.

LX.

Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little while. The leisure hour is all that thou can'st claim. But on this verse if MONTAGU should smile, New strains, ere long, shall animate thy frame: And his applause to me is more than fame; For still with truth accords his taste refined. At lucre or renown let others aim, I only wish to please the gentle mind, Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of humankind.

THE MINSTREL; BOOK SECOND.

_Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam, Rectique cultus pectora roborant._

HORAT.

THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS.

BOOK SECOND.

I.

Of chance or change, O let not man complain, Else shall he never never cease to wail: For, from the imperial dome, to where the swain Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale, All feel the assault of fortune's fickle gale; Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doomed; Earthquakes have raised to heaven the humble vale; And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entombed; And where the Atlantic rolls wide continents have bloomed.

II.

But sure to foreign climes we need not range, Nor search the ancient records of our race, To learn the dire effects of time and change, Which in ourselves, alas! we daily trace. Yet, at the darkened eye, the withered face, Or hoary hair, I never will repine: But spare, O Time, whate'er of mental grace, Of candour, love, or sympathy divine, Whate'er of fancy's ray, or friendship's flame, is mine.

III.

So I, obsequious to Truth's dread command, Shall here, without reluctance, change my lay, And smite the Gothic lyre with harsher hand; Now when I leave that flowery path, for aye, Of childhood, where I sported many a day, Warbling, and sauntering carelessly along; Where every face was innocent and gay, Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue, Sweet, wild, and artless all, as Edwin's infant song.

IV.

'Perish the lore that deadens young desire,' Is the soft tenor of my song no more. Edwin, though loved of heaven, must not aspire To bliss, which mortals never knew before. On trembling wings let youthful fancy soar, Nor always haunt the sunny realms of joy, But now and then the shades of life explore; Though many a sound and sight of woe annoy, And many a qualm of care his rising hopes destroy.

V.

Vigour from toil, from trouble patience grows. The weakly blossom, warm in summer bower, Some tints of transient beauty may disclose; But ah, it withers in the chilling hour. Mark yonder oaks! Superior to the power Of all the warring winds of heaven, they rise, And from the stormy promontory tower, And toss their giant arms amid the skies, While each assailing blast increase of strength supplies.

VI.

And now the downy cheek and deepened voice Gave dignity to Edwin's blooming prime; And walks of wider circuit were his choice, And vales more wild, and mountains more sublime. One evening, as he framed the careless rhyme, It was his chance to wander far abroad, And o'er a lonely eminence to climb, Which heretofore his foot had never trode; A vale appeared below, a deep retired abode.

VII.

Thither he hied, enamoured of the scene: For rocks on rocks piled, as by magic spell, Here scorched with lightning, there with ivy green, Fenced from the north and east this savage dell; Southward a mountain rose with easy swell, Whose long long groves eternal murmur made; And toward the western sun a streamlet fell, Where, through the cliffs, the eye, remote, surveyed Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold arrayed.

VIII.

Along this narrow valley, you might see The wild deer sporting on the meadow ground, And, here and there, a solitary tree, Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine crowned. Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound Of parted fragments tumbling from on high; And, from the summit of that craggy mound, The perching eagle oft was heard to cry, Or on resounding wings to shoot athwart the sky.

IX.

One cultivated spot there was, that spread Its flowery bosom to the noon-day beam, Where many a rose-bud rears its blushing head, And herbs, for food, with future plenty teem. Soothed by the lulling sound of grove and stream, Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul: He minded not the sun's last trembling gleam, Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll, When slowly on his ear these moving accents stole.

X.

'Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast, 'And woo the weary to profound repose; 'Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest, 'And whisper comfort to the man of woes! 'Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes, 'And Contemplation soar on seraph wings. 'O Solitude, the man who thee foregoes, 'When lucre lures him, or ambition stings, 'Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs.

XI.

'Vain man, is grandeur given to gay attire? 'Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid: 'To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hire? 'It is thy weakness that requires their aid: 'To palaces, with gold and gems inlaid? 'They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm: 'To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade? 'Behold the victor vanquished by the worm! 'Behold what deeds of woe the locust can perform!

XII.

'True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind 'Virtue has raised above the things below; 'Who, every hope and fear to heaven resigned, 'Shrinks not, though Fortune aim her deadliest blow.' This strain, from midst the rocks, was heard to flow In solemn sounds. Now beamed the evening-star; And from embattled clouds, emerging slow, Cynthia came riding on her silver car; And hoary mountain-cliffs shone faintly from afar.

XIII.

Soon did the solemn voice its theme renew; (While Edwin, wrapt in wonder, listening stood) 'Ye tools and toys of tyranny, adieu; 'Scorned by the wise, and hated by the good! 'Ye only can engage the servile brood 'Of Levity and Lust, who, all their days, 'Ashamed of truth and liberty, have wooed, 'And hugged the chain, that, glittering on their gaze, 'Seems to outshine the pomp of heaven's empyreal blaze.

XIV.

'Like them, abandoned to Ambition's sway, 'I sought for glory in the paths of guile; 'And fawned and smiled, to plunder and betray, 'Myself betrayed and plundered all the while; 'So gnawed the viper the corroding file. 'But now, with pangs of keen remorse, I rue 'Those years of trouble and debasement vile. 'Yet why should I this cruel theme pursue? 'Fly, fly, detested thoughts, for ever from my view!

XV.

'The gusts of appetite, the clouds of care, 'And storms of disappointment, all o'erpast, 'Henceforth, no earthly hope with heaven shall share 'This heart, where peace serenely shines at last. 'And if for me no treasure be amassed, 'And if no future age shall hear my name, 'I lurk the more secure from fortune's blast, 'And with more leisure feed this pious flame, 'Whose rapture far transcends the fairest hopes of fame.

XVI.

'The end and the reward of toil is rest. 'Be all my prayer for virtue and for peace. 'Of wealth and fame, of pomp and power possessed, 'Who ever felt his weight of woe decrease! 'Ah! what avails the lore of Rome and Greece, 'The lay, heaven-prompted, and harmonious string, 'The dust of Ophir, or the Tyrian fleece, 'All that art, fortune, enterprise, can bring, 'If envy, scorn, remorse, or pride, the bosom wring!

XVII.

'Let Vanity adorn the marble tomb 'With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of renown, 'In the deep dungeon of some Gothic dome, 'Where night and desolation ever frown. 'Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down; 'Where a green grassy turf is all I crave, 'With here and there a violet bestrown, 'Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave; 'And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.

XVIII.

'And thither let the village swain repair; 'And, light of heart, the village maiden gay, 'To deck with flowers her half-dishevelled hair, 'And celebrate the merry morn of May. 'There let the shepherd's pipe, the live-long day, 'Fill all the grove with love's bewitching woe; 'And when mild Evening comes with mantle grey, 'Let not the blooming band make haste to go; 'No ghost, nor spell, my long and last abode shall know.

XIX.

'For though I fly to 'scape from fortune's rage, 'And bear the scars of envy, spite, and scorn, 'Yet with mankind no horrid war I wage, 'Yet with no impious spleen my breast is torn: 'For virtue lost, and ruined man, I mourn. 'O Man! creation's pride, heaven's darling child, 'Whom Nature's best, divinest, gifts adorn, 'Why from thy home are truth and joy exiled, 'And all thy favourite haunts with blood and tears defiled!

XX.

'Along yon glittering sky what glory streams! 'What majesty attends night's lovely queen! 'Fair laugh our vallies in the vernal beams; 'And mountains rise, and oceans roll between, 'And all conspire to beautify the scene. 'But, in the mental world, what chaos drear! 'What forms of mournful, loathsome, furious mien! 'O when shall that eternal morn appear, 'These dreadful forms to chace, this chaos dark to clear!

XXI.

'O Thou, at whose creative smile, yon heaven, 'In all the pomp of beauty, life, and light, 'Rose from the abyss; when dark Confusion, driven 'Down down the bottomless profound of night, 'Fled, where he ever flies thy piercing sight! 'O glance on these sad shades one pitying ray, 'To blast the fury of oppressive might, 'Melt the hard heart to love and mercy's sway, 'And cheer the wandering soul, and light him on the way.'

XXII.

Silence ensued: and Edwin raised his eyes In tears, for grief lay heavy at his heart. 'And is it thus in courtly life,' (he cries) 'That man to man acts a betrayer's part? 'And dares he thus the gifts of heaven pervert, 'Each social instinct, and sublime desire? 'Hail Poverty! if honour, wealth, and art, 'If what the great pursue, and learned admire, 'Thus dissipate and quench the soul's ethereal fire!'

XXIII.

He said, and turned away; nor did the Sage O'erhear, in silent orisons employed. The Youth, his rising sorrow to assuage, Home as he hied, the evening scene enjoyed: For now no cloud obscures the starry void; The yellow moonlight sleeps on all the hills; Nor is the mind with startling sounds annoyed; A soothing murmur the lone region fills, Of groves, and dying gales, and melancholy rills.

XXIV.

But he, from day to day, more anxious grew. The voice still seemed to vibrate on his ear. Nor durst he hope the Hermit's tale untrue; For man he seemed to love, and heaven to fear; And none speaks false, where there is none to hear. 'Yet, can man's gentle heart become so fell? 'No more in vain conjecture let me wear 'My hours away, but seek the Hermit's cell; 'Tis he my doubt can clear, perhaps my care dispel.'

XXV.

At early dawn the youth his journey took, And many a mountain passed, and valley wide, Then reached the wild; where, in a flowery nook, And seated on a mossy stone, he spied An ancient man: his harp lay him beside. A stag sprang from the pasture at his call, And, kneeling, licked the withered hand, that tied A wreath of woodbine round his antlers tall, And hung his lofty neck with many a floweret small.

XXVI.

And now the hoary Sage arose, and saw The wanderer approaching: innocence Smiled on his glowing cheek, but modest awe Depressed his eye, that feared to give offence. 'Who art thou, courteous stranger? and from whence? 'Why roam thy steps to this abandoned dale?' 'A shepherd-boy (the Youth replied), far hence 'My habitation; hear my artless tale; 'Nor levity nor falsehood shall thine ear assail.

XXVII.

'Late as I roamed, intent on Nature's charms, 'I reached, at eve, this wilderness profound; 'And, leaning where yon oak expands her arms, 'Heard these rude cliffs thine awful voice rebound, '(For, in thy speech, I recognise the sound.) 'You mourned for ruined man, and virtue lost, 'And seemed to feel of keen remorse the wound, 'Pondering on former days, by guilt engrossed, 'Or in the giddy storm of dissipation tossed.

XXVIII.

'But say, in courtly life can craft be learned, 'Where knowledge opens, and exalts the soul? 'Where Fortune lavishes her gifts unearned, 'Can selfishness the liberal heart controul? 'Is glory there achieved by arts, as foul 'As those which felons, fiends, and furies plan? 'Spiders ensnare, snakes poison, tygers prowl; 'Love is the godlike attribute of man. 'O teach a simple Youth this mystery to scan!

XXIX.

'Or else the lamentable strain disclaim, 'And give me back the calm, contented mind; 'Which, late, exulting, viewed, in Nature's frame, 'Goodness untainted, wisdom unconfined, 'Grace, grandeur, and utility combined. 'Restore those tranquil days, that saw me still 'Well pleased with all, but most with humankind; 'When Fancy roamed through Nature's works at will, 'Unchecked by cold distrust, and uninformed of ill.'

XXX.

'Wouldst thou (the Sage replied) in peace return 'To the gay dreams of fond romantic youth, 'Leave me to hide, in this remote sojourn, 'From every gentle ear the dreadful truth: 'For if my desultory strain with ruth 'And indignation make thine eyes o'erflow, 'Alas! what comfort could thy anguish sooth, 'Shouldst thou the extent of human folly know? 'Be ignorance thy choice, where knowledge leads to woe.

XXXI.

'But let untender thoughts afar be driven; 'Nor venture to arraign the dread decree: 'For know, to man, as candidate for heaven, 'The voice of The Eternal said, Be free: 'And this divine prerogative to thee 'Does virtue, happiness, and heaven convey; 'For virtue is the child of liberty, 'And happiness of virtue; nor can they 'Be free to keep the path, who are not free to stray.

XXXII.

'Yet leave me not. I would allay that grief, 'Which else might thy young virtue overpower; 'And in thy converse I shall find relief, 'When the dark shades of melancholy lower: 'For solitude has many a dreary hour, 'Even when exempt from grief, remorse, and pain: 'Come often then; for, haply, in my bower, 'Amusement, knowledge, wisdom, thou may'st gain: 'If I one soul improve, I have not lived in vain.'

XXXIII.

And now, at length, to Edwin's ardent gaze The Muse of History unrolls her page. But few, alas! the scenes her art displays, To charm his fancy, or his heart engage. Here, chiefs their thirst of power in blood assuage, And straight their flames with tenfold fierceness burn: Here, smiling Virtue prompts the patriot's rage, But lo, ere long, is left alone to mourn, And languish in the dust, and clasp the abandoned urn.

XXXIV.