Part 4

Spirit of Death! whose outstretched pennons dread Wave o'er the world beneath their shadow spread; Who darkly speedest on thy destined way, Midst shrieks and cries, and sounds of dire dismay; Spirit! behold thy victory! Assume A form more terrible, an ampler plume; For he, who wandered o'er the world alone, Listening to Misery's universal moan; He who, sustained by Virtue's arm sublime, Tended the sick and poor from clime to clime, 10 Low in the dust is laid, thy noblest spoil! And Mercy ceases from her awful toil! 'Twas where the pestilence at thy command Arose to desolate the sickening land, When many a mingled cry and dying prayer Resounded to the listening midnight air, When deep dismay heard not the frequent knell, And the wan carcase festered as it fell: 'Twas there, with holy Virtue's awful mien, Amid the sad sights of that fearful scene, 20 Calm he was found: the dews of death he dried; He spoke of comfort to the poor that cried; He watched the fading eye, the flagging breath, Ere yet the languid sense was lost in death; And with that look protecting angels wear, Hung o'er the dismal couch of pale Despair! Friend of mankind! thy righteous task is o'er; The heart that throbbed with pity beats no more. Around the limits of this rolling sphere, Where'er the just and good thy tale shall hear, 30 A tear shall fall: alone, amidst the gloom Of the still dungeon, his long sorrow's tomb, The captive, mourning, o'er his chain shall bend, To think the cold earth holds his only friend! He who with labour draws his wasting breath On the forsaken silent bed of death, Remembering thy last look and anxious eye, Shall gaze around, unvisited, and die. Friend of mankind, farewell! These tears we shed-- So nature dictates--o'er thy earthly bed; 40 Yet we forget not, it was His high will, Who saw thee Virtue's arduous task fulfil, Thy spirit from its toil at last should rest:-- So wills thy GOD, and what He wills is best! Thou hast encountered dark Disease's train, Thou hast conversed with Poverty and Pain, Thou hast beheld the dreariest forms of woe, That through this mournful vale unfriended go; And, pale with sympathy, hast paused to hear The saddest plaints e'er told to human ear. 50 Go then, the task fulfilled, the trial o'er, Where sickness, want, and pain are known no more! How awful did thy lonely track appear, Enlightening Misery's benighted sphere! As when an angel all-serene goes forth To still the raging tempest of the north, The embattled clouds that hid the struggling day, Slow from his face retire in dark array; On the black waves, like promontories hung, A light, as of the orient morn, is flung, 60 Till blue and level heaves the silent brine, And the new-lighted rocks at distance shine; Ev'n so didst thou go forth with cheering eye-- Before thy glance the shades of misery fly; So didst thou hush the tempest, stilling wide Of human woe the loud-lamenting tide. Nor shall the spirit of those deeds expire, As fades the feeble spark of vital fire, But beam abroad, and cheer with lustre mild Humanity's remotest prospects wild, 70 Till this frail orb shall from its sphere be hurled, Till final ruin hush the murmuring world, And all its sorrows, at the awful blast Of the archangel's trump, be but as shadows past! Relentless Time, that steals with silent tread, Shall tear away the trophies of the dead. Fame, on the pyramid's aspiring top, With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop; The feeble characters of Glory's hand Shall perish, like the tracks upon the sand; 80 But not with these expire the sacred flame Of Virtue, or the good man's honoured name. HOWARD! it matters not, that far away From Albion's peaceful shore thy bones decay: Him it might please, by whose sustaining hand Thy steps were led through many a distant land. Thy long and last abode should there be found, Where many a savage nation prowls around: That Virtue from the hallowed spot might rise, And, pointing to the finished sacrifice, 90 Teach to the roving Tartar's savage clan Lessons of love, and higher aims of man. The hoary chieftain, who thy tale shall hear, Pale on thy grave shall drop his faltering spear; The cold, unpitying Cossack thirst no more To bathe his burning falchion deep in gore; Relentless to the cry of carnage speed, Or urge o'er gasping heaps his panting steed! Nor vain the thought that fairer hence may rise New views of life, and wider charities. 100 Far from the bleak Riphean mountains hoar, From the cold Don, and Wolga's wandering shore, From many a shady forest's lengthening tract, From many a dark-descending cataract, Succeeding tribes shall come, and o'er the place, Where sleeps the general friend of human race, Instruct their children what a debt they owe; Speak of the man who trode the paths of woe; Then bid them to their native woods depart, With new-born virtue stirring in their heart. 110 When o'er the sounding Euxine's stormy tides In hostile pomp the Turk's proud navy rides, Bent on the frontiers of the Imperial Czar, To pour the tempest of vindictive war; If onward to those shores they haply steer, Where, HOWARD, thy cold dust reposes near, Whilst o'er the wave the silken pennants stream, And seen far off the golden crescents gleam, Amid the pomp of war, the swelling breast Shall feel a still unwonted awe impressed, 120 And the relenting Pagan turn aside To think--on yonder shore the _Christian_ died! But thou, O Briton! doomed perhaps to roam An exile many a year and far from home, If ever fortune thy lone footsteps leads To the wild Nieper's banks, and whispering reeds, O'er HOWARD's grave thou shalt impassioned bend, As if to hold sad converse with a friend. Whate'er thy fate upon this various scene, Where'er thy weary pilgrimage hath been, 130 There shalt thou pause; and shutting from thy heart Some vain regrets that oft unbidden start, Think upon him to every lot resigned, Who wept, who toiled, and perished for mankind. For me, who musing, HOWARD, on thy fate, These pensive strains at evening meditate, I thank thee for the lessons thou hast taught To mend my heart, or animate my thought. I thank thee, HOWARD, for that awful view Of life which thou hast drawn, most sad, most true. 140 Thou art no more! and the frail fading bloom Of this poor offering dies upon thy tomb. Beyond the transient sound of earthly praise Thy virtues live, perhaps, in seraph's lays! I, borne in thought, to the wild Nieper's wave, Sigh to the reeds that whisper o'er thy grave.[24]

[24] The town of Cherson, on the Black Sea, where Howard the philanthropist died, is entirely supplied with fuel by reeds, of which there is an inexhaustible forest in the shallows of the Nieper.--_Craven's Travels._

SHAKSPEARE.

O sovereign Master! who with lonely state 1 Dost rule as in some isle's enchanted land, On whom soft airs and shadowy spirits wait, Whilst scenes of "faerie" bloom at thy command, On thy wild shores forgetful could I lie, And list, till earth dissolved to thy sweet minstrelsy!

Called by thy magic from the hoary deep, 2 AÎrial forms should in bright troops ascend, And then a wondrous masque before me sweep; Whilst sounds, _that the earth owned not_, seem to blend Their stealing melodies, that when the strain Ceased, _I should weep, and would so dream again_!

The song hath ceased. Ah! who, pale shade, art thou, 3 Sad raving to the rude tempestuous night! Sure thou hast had much wrong, so stern thy brow, So piteous thou dost tear thy tresses white; So wildly thou dost cry, _Blow, bitter wind_! _Ye elements, I call not you unkind_![25]

Beneath the shade of nodding branches gray, 4 'Mid rude romantic woods, and glens forlorn, The merry hunters wear the hours away; Rings the deep forest to the joyous horn! Joyous to all, but him,[26] who with sad look Hangs idly musing by the brawling brook.

But mark the merry elves of fairy land![27] 5 To the high moon's gleamy glance, They with shadowy morrice dance; Soft music dies along the desert sand; Soon at peep of cold-eyed day, Soon the numerous lights decay; Merrily, now merrily, After the dewy moon they fly.

The charm is wrought: I see an aged form, 6 In white robes, on the winding sea-shore stand; O'er the careering surge he waves his wand: Hark! on the bleak rock bursts the swelling storm: Now from bright opening clouds I hear a lay, _Come to these yellow sands, fair stranger,[28] come away!_

Saw ye pass by the weird sisters pale![29] 7 Marked ye the lowering castle on the heath! Hark, hark, is the deed done--the deed of death! The deed is done:--Hail, king of Scotland, hail! I see no more;--to many a fearful sound The bloody cauldron sinks, and all is dark around.

Pity! touch the trembling strings, 8 A maid, a beauteous maniac, wildly sings: They laid him in the ground so cold,[30] Upon his breast the earth is thrown; High is heaped the grassy mould, _Oh! he is dead and gone._ The winds of the winter blow o'er his cold breast, But pleasant shall be his rest.

O sovereign Master! at whose sole command 9 We start with terror, or with pity weep; Oh! where is now thy all-creating wand; Buried ten thousand thousand fathoms deep! The staff is broke, the powerful spell is fled, And never earthly guest shall in thy circle tread.

[25] Lear.

[26] Jaques: _As You Like It._

[27] _Midsummer Night's Dream._

[28] Ferdinand: see _The Tempest._

[29] See _Macbeth._

[30] Ophelia: _Hamlet._

ABBA THULE'S LAMENT FOR HIS SON PRINCE LE BOO.

I climb the highest cliff; I hear the sound Of dashing waves; I gaze intent around; I mark the gray cope, and the hollowness Of heaven, and the great sun, that comes to bless The isles again; but my long-straining eye, No speck, no shadow can, far off, descry, That I might weep tears of delight, and say, It is the bark that bore my child away! Sun, that returnest bright, beneath whose eye The worlds unknown, and out-stretched waters lie, 10 Dost thou behold him now! On some rude shore, Around whose crags the cheerless billows roar, Watching the unwearied surges doth he stand, And think upon his father's distant land! Or has his heart forgot, so far away, These native woods, these rocks, and torrents gray, The tall bananas whispering to the breeze, The shores, the sound of these encircling seas, Heard from his infant days, and the piled heap Of holy stones, where his forefathers sleep! 20 Ah, me! till sunk by sorrow, I shall dwell With them forgetful in the narrow cell, Never shall time from my fond heart efface His image; oft his shadow I shall trace Upon the glimmering waters, when on high The white moon wanders through the cloudless sky. Oft in my silent cave, when to its fire From the night's rushing tempest we retire, I shall behold his form, his aspect bland; I shall retrace his footsteps on the sand; 30 And, when the hollow-sounding surges swell, Still think I listen to his echoing shell. Would I had perished ere that hapless day, When the tall vessel, in its trim array, First rushed upon the sounding surge, and bore My age's comfort from this sheltering shore! I saw it spread its white wings to the wind, Too soon it left these hills and woods behind, Gazing, its course I followed till mine eye No longer could its distant track descry; 40 Till on the confines of the billows hoar A while it hung, and then was seen no more, And only the blue hollow cope I spied, And the long waste of waters tossing wide. More mournful then each falling surge I heard, Then dropt the stagnant tear upon my beard. Methought the wild waves said, amidst their roar At midnight, Thou shalt see thy son no more! Now thrice twelve moons through the mid heavens have rolled And many a dawn, and slow night, have I told: 50 And still as every weary day goes by, A knot recording on my line I tie;[31] But never more, emerging from the main, I see the stranger's bark approach again. Has the fell storm o'erwhelmed him! Has its sweep Buried the bounding vessel in the deep! Is he cast bleeding on some desert plain! Upon his father did he call in vain! Have pitiless and bloody tribes defiled The cold limbs of my brave, my beauteous child! 60 Oh! I shall never, never hear his voice; The spring-time shall return, the isles rejoice, But faint and weary I shall meet the morn, And 'mid the cheering sunshine droop forlorn! The joyous conch sounds in the high wood loud, O'er all the beach now stream the busy crowd; Fresh breezes stir the waving plantain grove; The fisher carols in the winding cove; And light canoes along the lucid tide With painted shells and sparkling paddles glide. 70 I linger on the desert rock alone, Heartless, and cry for thee, my son, my son.

[31] I find on referring to the narrative of Captain Wilson's voyage to the Pelew Islands, that the knots were tied at the time of Prince Le Boo's departure, and that one was untied every moon by the disconsolate father.

The evening before the "Oroolong" sailed, the King asked Captain Wilson how long it might be before his return to Pelew; and being told that it would probably be about thirty moons, or might chance to extend to six more, Abba Thule drew from his basket a piece of line, and after making thirty knots on it, a little distance from each other, left a long space, and then adding six others, carefully put it by.

SOUTHAMPTON WATER.

Smooth went our boat upon the summer seas, Leaving, for so it seemed, the world behind, Its sounds of mingled uproar: we, reclined Upon the sunny deck, heard but the breeze That o'er us whispering passed, or idly played With the lithe flag aloft. A woodland scene On either side drew its slope line of green, And hung the water's shining edge with shade. Above the woods, Netley! thy ruins pale Peered as we passed; and Vecta's[32] azure hue 10 Beyond the misty castle[33] met our view; Where in mid channel hung the scarce seen sail. So all was calm and sunshine as we went Cheerily o'er the briny element. Oh! were this little boat to us the world, As thus we wandered far from sounds of care, Circled by friends and gentle maidens fair, Whilst morning airs the waving pennant curled; How sweet were life's long voyage, till in peace We gained that haven still, where all things cease! 20

[32] Isle of Wight.

[33] Kelshot Castle.

THE PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETY.[34]

INSCRIBED TO THE DUKE OF LEEDS.