Chapter 3

I seek thee where, with all his might, The joyous bird his rapture tells, Amidst the half-excluded light, That gilds the fox-glove's pendant bells; Where, cheerly up this bold hill's side The deep'ning groves triumphant climb; In groves Delight and Peace abide, And Wisdom marks the lapse of time.

To hide me from the public eye, To keep the throne of Reason clear, Amidst fresh air to breathe or die, I took my staff and wander'd here. Suppressing every sigh that heaves, And coveting no wealth but thee, I nestle in the honied leaves, And hug my stolen liberty.

O'er eastward uplands, gay or rude, Along to Erith's ivied spire, I start, with strength and hope renew'd, And cherish life's rekindling fire. Now measure vales with straining eyes, Now trace the church-yard's humble names: Or, climb brown heaths, abrupt that rise, And overlook the winding Thames.

I love to mark the flow'ret's eye, To rest where pebbles form my bed, Where shapes and colours scatter'd lie In varying millions round my head. The soul rejoices when alone, And feels her glorious empire free; Sees GOD in every shining stone, And revels in variety.

Ah me! perhaps within my sight, Deep in the smiling dales below, Gigantic talents, Heav'n's pure light, And all the rays of genius glow In some lone soul, whom no one sees With _power_ and _will_ to say "Arise," Or chase away the slow disease, And Want's foul picture from his eyes.

A worthier man by far than I, With more of industry and fire, Shall see fair Virtue's meed pass by, Without one spark of fame expire! Bleed not my heart, it will be so. The throb of care was thine full long; Rise, like the Psalmist from his woe, And pour abroad the joyful song.

Sweet Health, I seek thee! hither bring Thy balm that softens human ills; Come, on the long drawn clouds that fling Their shadows o'er the Surry-Hills. Yon green-topt hills, and far away Where late as now I freedom stole, And spent one dear delicious day On thy wild banks, romantic _Mole_.

Aye, there's the scene![1] beyond the sweep Of London's congregated cloud, The dark-brow'd wood, the headlong steep, And valley-paths without a crowd! Here, Thames, I watch thy flowing tides, Thy thousand sails am proud to see; But where the _Mole_ all silent glides Dwells Peace--and Peace is wealth to me.

[Footnote 1: Box-Hill, and the beautiful neighbourhood of Dorking, in Surry.]

Of Cambrian mountains still I dream, And mouldering vestiges of war; By time-worn cliff or classic stream Would rove,--but prudence holds a bar. Conic then, O Health, I'll strive to bound My wishes to this airy stand; 'Tis not for _me_ to trace around The wonders of my native land.

Yet, the loud torrent's dark retreat, Yet Grampian hills shall Fancy give, And, towering in her giddy scat, Amidst her own creation live, Live, if thou'lt urge my climbing feet, Give strength of nerve and vigorous breath, If not, with dauntless soul I meet The deep solemnity of death.

This far-seen monumental tower Records th' achievements of the brave, And Angria's subjugated power, Who plunder'd on the eastern wave. I would not that such turrets rise To point out where my bones arc laid; Save that some wandering bard might prize The comforts of its broad cool shade.

O Vanity! since thou'rt decreed Companion of our lives to be, I'll seek the moral songster's meed, An earthly immortality; Most vain!--O let me, from the past Remembering what to man is given, Lay Virtue's broad foundations fast, Whose glorious turrets reach to Heav'n:

A VISIT TO RENELAGH

To Ranelagh, once in my life, By good-natur'd force I was driv'n; The nations had ceas'd their long strife, And PEACE[1] beam'd her radiance from Heav'n. What wonders-were there to be found That a clown might enjoy or disdain? First we trac'd the gay ring all around, Aye--and then we went round it again.

[Footnote 1: A grand Fete, in honour of the peace of 1802.]

A thousand feet rustled on mats, A carpet that once had been green; Men bow'd with their outlandish hats, With corners so fearfully keen! Fair maids, who at home in their haste Had left all clothing else but a train, Swept the floor clean, as slowly they pac'd, And then--walk'd round and swept it again.

The music was truly enchanting! Right glad was I when I came near it; But in fashion I found I was wanting:-- 'Twas the fashion to walk and not hear it! A fine youth, as beauty beset him, Look'd smilingly round on the train; "The king's nephew," they cried, as they met him; Then--we went round and met him again.

Huge paintings of Heroes and Peace Seem'd to smile at the sound of the fiddle, Proud to fill up each tall shining space Round the lanthorn[1] that stood in the middle. And GEORGE'S head too; Heav'n screen him! May he finish in peace his long reign! And what did we when we had seen him? Why--went round and saw him again.

[Footnote 1: The intervals between the pillars in the centre of the Rotunda were filled up by transparent paintings]

A bell rang, announcing new pleasures, A crowd in an instant prest hard, Feathers nodded, perfumes shed their treasures. Round a door that led into the yard. 'Twas peopled all o'er in a minute, As a white flock would cover a plain! We had seen every soul that was in it, Then we went round and saw them again.

But now came a scene worth the showing, The fireworks! midst langhs and huzzas, With explosions the sky was all glowing, Then down stream'd a million of stars; With a rush the bright rockets ascended, Wheels spurted blue fires like a rain; We turn'd with regret when 'twas ended, Then--star'd at each other again.

There thousands of gay lamps aspir'd To the tops of the trees and beyond; And, what was most hugely admir'd, They look'd all up-side-down in a pond! The blaze scarce an eagle could bear; And an owl had most surely been slain; We return'd to the circle, and there-- And there we went round it again.

'Tis not wisdom to love without reason, Or to censure without knowing why: I had witness'd no crime, nor no treason, "O Life, 'tis thy picture," said I. 'Tis just thus we saunter along, Months and years bring their pleasures or pain; We sigh midst the _right_ and the _wrong_; --And then _we go round them again_!

LOVE OF THE COUNTRY.

Written At Clare-Hall, Herts. June 1804.

Welcome silence! welcome peace! O most welcome, holy shade! Thus I prove as years increase, My heart and soul for quiet made. Thus I fix my firm belief While rapture's gushing tears descend; That every flower and every leaf Is moral Truth's unerring friend.

I would not for a world of gold That Nature's lovely face should tire; Fountain of blessings yet untold; Pure source of intellectual fire! Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song, Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife, Shall sweet retirement render strong, And morning silence bring to life.

Then tell me not that I shall grow Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy; From Nature and her changes flow An everlasting tide of joy. I grant that summer heats will burn, That keen will come the frosty night; But both shall please: and each in turn Yield Reason's most supreme delight.

Build me a shrine, and I could kneel To Rural Gods, or prostrate fall; Did I not see, did I not feel, That one GREAT SPIRIT governs all. O heav'n permit that I may lie Where o'er my corse green branches ware; And those who from life's tumult fly With kindred feelings press my grave.

THE WOODLAND HALLÓ.

_(Perhaps) adapted for Music._

In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood, I am mistress, no mother have I; Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good, And kind is my lover hard by; They both work together beneath the green shade, Both woodmen, my father and Joe. Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made So much of a laugh or--_Halló_.

From my basket at noon they expect their supply, And with joy from my threshold I spring; For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waring high, And Echo that sings as I sing. Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food, As I call the dear name of my Joe; His musical shout is the pride of the wood, And my heart leaps to hear the--Halló.

Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease, I wish not to wander from you; I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees, For I know that my Joe will be true. The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove, Are charms that I'll never forego; But resting through life on the bosom of love, Will remember the Woodland Halló.

BARNHAM WATER

Fresh from the Hall of Bounty sprung,[1] With glowing heart and ardent eye, With song and rhyme upon my tongue, And fairy visions dancing by, The mid-day sun in all his pow'r The backward valley painted gay; Mine was a road without a flower, Where one small streamlet cross'd the way.

[Footnote 1: On a sultry afternoon, late in the summer of 1802, Euston-Hall lay in my way to Thetford, which place I did not reach until the evening, on a visit to my sister: the lines lose much of their interest except they could be read on the spot, or at least at a coresponding season of the year.]

What was it rous'd my soul to love? What made the simple brook so dear? It glided like the weary dove, And never brook seem'd half so clear. Cool pass'd the current o'er my feet, Its shelving brink for rest was made, But every charm was incomplete, For Barnham Water wants a shade.

There, faint beneath the fervid sun, I gaz'd in ruminating mood; For who can see the current run And snatch no feast of mental food? "Keep pure thy soul," it seem'd to say, "Keep that fair path by wisdom trod, "That thou may'st hope to wind thy way "To fame worth boasting, and to God."

Long and delightful was the dream, A waking dream that Fancy yields, Till with regret I left the stream And plung'd across the barren fields; To where of old rich abbeys smil'd In all the pomp of gothic taste, By fond tradition proudly styl'd, The mighty "City in the East."

Near, on a slope of burning sand, The shepherd boys had met to play, To hold the plains at their command, And mark the trav'ller's leatless way. The trav'ller with a cheerful look Would every pining thought forbear, If boughs but shelter'd Barnham brook He'd stop and leave his blessing there.

The Danish mounds of partial green, Still, as each mouldering tower decays, Far o'er the bleak unwooded scene Proclaim their wond'rous length of days. My burning feet, my aching sight, Demanded rest,--why did I weep? The moon arose, and such a night! Good Heav'n! it was a sin to sleep.

All rushing came thy hallow'd sighs, Sweet Melancholy, from my breast; "'Tis here that eastern greatness lies, "That Might, Renown, and Wisdom rest! "Here funeral rites the priesthood gave "To chiefs who sway'd prodigious powers, "The Bigods and the Mowbrays brave, "From Framlingham's imperial towers.

Full of the mighty deeds of yore, I bade good night the trembling beam; Fancy e'en heard the battle's roar, Of what but slaughter could I dream? Bless'd be that night, that trembling beam, Peaceful excursions Fancy made; All night I heard the bubbling stream, Yet, Barnham Water wants a shade.

Whatever hurts my country's fame, When wits and mountaineers deride, To me grows serious, for I name My native plains and streams with pride. No mountain charms have I to sing, No loftier minstrel's rights invade; From trifles oft _my_ raptures spring; --Sweet Barnham Water wants a shade

MARY'S EVENING SIGH

How bright with pearl the western sky! How glorious far and wide, Yon lines of golden clouds that lie So peaceful side by side! Their deep'ning tints, the arch of light, All eyes with rapture see; E'en while I sigh I bless the sight That lures my love from me.

Green hill, that shad'st the valley here, Thou bear'st upon thy brow The only wealth to Mary dear, And all she'll ever know. There, in the crimson light I see, Above thy summit rise, My Edward's form, he looks to me A statue in the skies.

Descend my love, the hour is come, Why linger on the hill? The sun hath left my quiet home, But thou canst see him still; Yet why a lonely wanderer stray, Alone the joy pursue? The glories of the closing day Can charm thy Mary too.

Dear Edward, when we stroll'd along Beneath the waving corn, And both confess'd the power of song, And bless'd the dewy morn; Your eye o'erflow'd, "How sweet," you cried. (My presence then could move) "How sweet, with Mary by my side, "To gaze and talk of love"

Thou art not false! that cannot be; Yet I my rivals deem Each woodland charm, the moss, the tree, The silence, and the stream; Whate'er my love, detains thee now, I'll yet forgive thy stay; But with to-morrow's dawn come thou, We'll brush the dews away.

GOOD TIDINGS OR, _NEWS FROM THE FARM_.

How vain this tribute; vain, this lowly lay; Yet nought is vain which gratitude inspires! The Muse, besides, her duty thus approves To virtue, to her country, to mankind! _Thomson._

ADVERTISEMENT

To the few who know that I have employed my thoughts on the importance of Dr. Jenners's discovery, it has generally and almost unexceptionably appeared a subject of little promise; peculiarly unfit indeed for poetry. My method of treating it has endeared it to myself, for it indulges in domestic anecdote. The account given of my infancy and of my father's burial, is not only poetically, but strictly true, and with me it has its weight accordingly. I have witnessed the destruction described in my brother's family: and I have, in my own, insured the lives of four children by Vaccine Inoculation, who, I trust, are destined to look back upon the Small-pox of the scourge of days gone by.--My hopes are high, and my prayers sincere, for its universal adoption.

The few notes subjoined are chiefly from "Woodville on Inoculation;" and if I may escape the appearance of affectation of research, or a scientific treatment of the subject, I think the egotism, so conspicuous in the poem, (as facts give force to argument,) ought to be forgiven.

GOOD TIDINGS;

OR,

_NEWS FROM THE FARM_.

Where's the Blind Child, so admirably fair, With guileless dimples, and with flaxen hair That waves in ev'ry breeze? he's often seen Beside yon cottage wall, or on the green, With others match'd in spirit and in size, Health on their cheeks and rapture in their eyes; That full expanse of voice, to childhood dear, Soul of their sports, is duly cherish'd here: And, hark! that laugh is his, that jovial cry; He hears the ball and trundling hoop brush by, And runs the giddy course with all his might, A very child in every thing but sight; With circumscrib'd but not abated pow'rs,-- Play! the great object of his infant hours;-- In many a game he takes a noisy part, And shows the native gladness of his heart; But soon he hears, on pleasure all intent, The new suggestion and the quick assent; The grove invites, delight thrills every breast-- To leap the ditch and seek the downy nest Away they start, leave balls and hoops behind, And one companion leave----the boy is blind!

His fancy paints their distant paths so gay, That childish fortitude awhile gives way, He feels his dreadful loss--yet short the pain, Soon he resumes his cheerfulness again; Pond'ring how best his moments to employ, He sings his little songs of nameless joy, Creeps on the warm green turf for many an hour, And plucks by chance the white and yellow flow'r; Smoothing their stems, while resting on his knees, He binds a nosegay which he never sees; Along the homeward path then feels his way, Lifting his brow against the shining day, And, with a playful rapture round his eyes, Presents a sighing parent with the prize.

She blest _that_ day, which he remembers too, When he could gaze on heav'n's ethereal blue, See the green Spring, and Summer's countless dies, And all the colours of the morning rise.-- 'When was this work of bitterness begun? How came the blindness of your only son?' Thus pity prompts full many a tongue to say, But never, till she slowly wipes away Th' obtruding tear that trembles in her eye. This dagger of a question meets reply:-- "My boy was healthy, and my rest was sound, When last year's corn was green upon the ground From yonder town infection found its way; Around me putrid dead and dying lay, I trembled for his fate: but all my care Avail'd not, for he breath'd the tainted air; Sickness ensu'd--in terror and dismay I nurs'd him in my arms both night and day, When his soft skin from head to foot became One swelling purple sore, unfit to name: Hour after hour, when all was still beside, When the pale night-light in its socket died, Alone I sat; the thought still sooths my heart, That surely I perform'd a mother's part, Watching with such anxiety and pain Till he might smile and look on me again; But that was not to be--ask me no more: GOD keep small-pox and blindness from your door!"

Now, ye who think, whose souls abroad take wing, And trace out human troubles to their spring, Say, should Heav'n grant us, in some hallow'd hour, Means to divest this demon of his power, To loose his horrid grasp from early worth, To spread a saving conquest round the earth, Till ev'ry land shall bow the grateful knee, Would it not be a glorious day to see?-- That day is come! my soul, in strength arise, Invoke no muse, no power below the skies; To Heav'n the energies of verse belong, Truth is the theme, and truth shall be the song; Arm with conviction ev'ry joyful line, Source of all mercies, for the praise is thine! Sweet beam'd the star of peace upon those days When Virtue watch'd my childhood's quiet ways, Whence a warm spark of Nature's holy flame Gave the farm-yard an honourable name, But left one theme unsung: then, who had seen In herds that feast upon the vernal green, Or dreamt that in the blood of kine there ran Blessings beyond the sustenance of man? We tread the meadow, and we scent the thorn, We hail the day-spring of a summer's morn Nor mead at dawning day, nor thymy heath, Transcends the fragrance of the heifer's breath: May that dear fragrance, as it floats along O'er ev'ry flow'r that lives in rustic song; May all the sweets of meadows and of kine Embalm, O Health! this offering at thy shrine.

Dear must that moment be when first the mind, Ranging the paths of science unconfin'd, Strikes a new light; when, obvious to the sense, Springs the fresh spark of bright intelligence. So felt the towering soul of MONTAGU, Her sex's glory, and her country's too; Who gave the spotted plague one deadly blow, And bade its mitigated poison flow With half its terrors; yet, with loathing still, We hous'd a visitant with pow'r to kill. Then when the healthful blood, though often tried, Foil'd the keen lancet by the Severn side, Resisting, uncontaminated still, The purple pest and unremitting skill; When the plain truth tradition seem'd to know, By simply pointing to the harmless Cow, Though wise distrust to reason might appeal; What, when hope triumph'd, what did JENNER feel! Where even hope itself could scarcely rise To scan the vast, inestimable prize? Perhaps supreme, alone, triumphant stood The great, the conscious power of doing good, The power to will, and wishes to embrace Th' emancipation of the human race; A joy that must all mortal praise outlive, A wealth that grateful nations cannot give. Forth sped the truth immediate from his hand, And confirmations sprung in ev'ry land; In ev'ry land, on beauty's lily arm, On infant softness, like a magic charm, Appear'd the gift that conquers as it goes; The dairy's boast, the simple, saving Rose! Momentous triumph--fiend! thy reign is o'er; Thou, whose blind rage hath ravag'd ev'ry shore, Whose name denotes destruction, whose foul breath For ever hov'ring round the dart of death, Fells, mercilessly fells, the brave and base, Through all the kindreds of the human race.

Who has not heard, in warm, poetic tales, Of eastern fragrance and Arabian gales? Bowers of delight, of languor, and repose, Where beauty triumph'd as the song arose? Fancy may revel, fiction boldly dare, But truth shall not forget that _thou_ wert there, Scourge of the world! who, borne on ev'ry wind, From bow'rs of roses [1] sprang to curse mankind. [Footnote 1: The first medical account of the small-pox is given by the Arabian physicians, and is traced no farther back than the siege of Alexandria, about the year of Christ, 640.--Woodville.]

The Indian palm thy devastation knows: Thou sweep'st the regions of eternal snows [2]: [Footnote 2: First introduced into Greenland in 1733, and almost depopulated the country.--Ibid.]

Climbing the mighty period of his years, The British oak his giant bulk uprears; He, in his strength, while toll'd the passing bell, Rejoic'd whole centuries as thy victims fell: Armies have bled, and shouts of vict'ry rung, Fame crown'd _their_ deaths, _thy_ deaths are all unsung: 'Twas thine, while victories claim'd th' immortal lay, Through private life to cut thy desperate way; And when full power the wondrous magnet gave Ambition's sons to dare the ocean wave, Thee, in their train of horrid ills, they drew Beneath the blessed sunshine of Peru [3]. [Footnote 3: In 1520, says Mr. Woodville, when the small-pox visited New Spain, it proved fatal to one half of the people in the provinces to which the infection extended; being carried thither by a negro slave, who attended Narvaez in his expedition against Cortes. He adds, about fifty years after the discovery of Peru, The small-pox was carried over from Europe to America by way of Carthagena, when it overran the Continent of the New World, and destroyed upwards of 100,000 Indians in the single province of Quito.--_Hist. of Inoculation._]