Chapter 4

But why unskill'd th' historic page explore? Why thus pursue thee to a foreign shore? A homely narrative of days gone by, Familiar griefs, and kindred's tender sigh Shall still survive; for thou on ev'ry mind Hast left some traces of thy wrath behind. There dwelt, beside a brook that creeps along Midst infant hills and meads unknown to song, One to whom poverty and faith were giv'n, Calm village silence, and the hope of heav'n: Alone she dwelt; and while each morn brought peace And health was smiling on her years' increase, Sudden and fearful, rushing through her frame, Unusual pains and feverish symptoms came. Then, when debilitated, faint, and poor, How sweet to hear a footstep at her door! To see a neighbour watch life's silent sand, To hear the sigh, and feel the helping hand! Soon woe o'erspread the interdicted ground, And consternation seiz'd the hamlets round: Uprose the pest--its widow'd victim died; And foul contagion spread on ev'ryside; The helping neighbour for her kind regard, Bore home _that_ dreadful tribute of reward, _Home_, where six children, yielding to its pow'r, Gave hope and patience a most trying hour; One at her breast still drew the living stream, And, sense of danger never marr'd his dream; Yet all exclaim'd, and with a pitying eye, "Whoe'er survives the shock, _that child will die!_" But vain the fiat,--Heav'n restor'd them all, And destin'd one of riper years to fall. Midnight beheld the close of all his pain, His grave was clos'd when midnight came again; No bell was heard to toll, no funeral pray'r, No kindred bow'd, no wife, no children there; Its horrid nature could inspire a dread That cut the bonds of custom like a thread The humble church-tow'r higher seem'd to shew, Illumin'd by their trembling light below; The solemn night-breeze struck each shiv'ring check; Religious reverence forbade to speak: The starting Sexton his short sorrow chid When the earth murmur'd on the coffin lid, And falling bones and sighs of holy dread Sounded a requiem to the silent dead!

'Why tell us tales of woe, thou who didst give Thy soul to rural themes, and bade them live? What means this zeal of thine, this kindling fire? The rescu'd infant and the dying sire.' Kind heart, who o'er the pictur'd Seasons glow'd, When smiles approv'd the verse, or tears have flow'd, Was then the lowly minstrel dear to thee? Himself appeals--What, if _that child_ were HE!

What, if those midnight sighs a farewel gave, While hands, all trembling, clos'd his father's grave! Though love enjoin'd not infant eyes to weep, In manhood's zenith shall his feelings sleep? Sleep not my soul! indulge a nobler flame; _Still_ the destroyer persecutes thy name. Seven winter's cannot pluck from memory's store That mark'd affliction which a brother bore; That storm of trouble bursting on his head, When the fiend came, and left _two children_ dead! Yet, still superior to domestic woes, The native vigour of his mind arose, And, as new summers teem'd with brighter views, He trac'd the wand'rings of his darling Muse, And all was joy--this instant all is pain, The foe implacable returns again, And claims a sacrifice; the deed is done-- _Another child_ has fall'n, another son [4]! [Footnote 4: I had proceeded thus far with the Poem, when the above fact became a powerfull stimulus to my feelings, and to the earnestness of my exhortations.]

His young cheek even now is scarcely cold, And shall his early doom remain untold? No! let the tide of passion roll along, Truth _will_ be heard, and GOD will bless the song Indignant Reason, Pity, Joy, arise, And speak in thunder to the heart that sighs: Speak loud to parents;--knew ye not the time When age itself, and manhood's hardy prime, With horror saw their short-liv'd friendships end. Yet dar'd not visit e'en the dying friend? Contagion, a foul serpent lurking near, Mock'd Nature's sigh and Friendship's holy tear. Love ye your children?--let that love arise, Pronounce the sentence, and the serpent dies; Bid welcome a mild stranger at your door, Distress shall cease, those terrors reign no more. Love ye your neighbours?--let that love be shown; Risk not _their_ children while you guard your own; Give not a foe dominion o'er your blood, Plant not a poison, e'en to bring forth good; For, woo the pest discreetly as you will, Deadly infection must attend him still. Then, let the serpent die! this glorious prize Sets more than life and health before our eyes, For beauty triumphs too! Beauty! sweet name, The mother's feelings kindling into flame! For, where dwells she, who, while the virtues grow. With cold indifference marks the arching brow? Or, with a lifeless heart and recreant blood, Sighs not for daughters fair as well as good? That sigh is nature, and cannot decay, 'Tis universal as the beams of day; Man knows and feels its truth; for, Beauty's call Rouses the coldest mortal of us all; A glance warms age itself, and gives the boy The pulse of rapture and the sigh of joy. And is it then no conquest to insure Our lilies spotless and our roses pure? Is it no triumph that the lovely face Inherits every line of Nature's grace? That the sweet precincts of the laughing eye Dread no rude scars, no foul deformity? Our boast, old Time himself shall not impair. Of British maids pre-eminently fair; But, as he rolls his years on years along, Shall keep the record of immortal song; For song shall rise with ampler power to speak The new-born influence of Beauty's cheek, Shall catch new fires in every sacred grove, Fresh inspiration from the lips of Love, And write for ever on the rising mind-- DEAD IS ONE MORTAL FOE OF HUMAN KIND!

Yes, we have conquer'd! and the thought should raise A spirit in our prayers as well as praise, For who will say, in Nature's wide domain There lurk not remedies for every pain? Who will assert, where Turkish banners fly, Woe still shall reign--the plague shall never die? Or who predict, with bosom all unblest, An everlasting fever in the West? Forbid it Heav'n!--Hope cheers us with a smile, The sun of Mercy's risen on our isle: Its beams already, o'er th' Atlantic wave, Pierce the dark forests of the suffering brave: There, e'en th' abandon'd sick imbib'd a glow, When warrior nations, resting on the bow, Astonish'd heard the joyful rumour rise, And call'd the council of their great and wise: The truth by female pray'rs was urg'd along, Youth ceas'd the chorus of the warrior song, And present ills bade present feelings press With all the eloquence of deep distress; Till forth their chiefs [A] o'er dying thousands trod To seek the white man and his bounteous God: [Footnote A: The chiefs of the Cherokee Indians, in North America, have applied to the government of the United States for information on the subject of Vaccine Inoculation, and have spread the practice in the Woods.]

Well sped their errand; with a patriot zeal They spread the blessing for their country's weal.

Where India's swarthy millions crowd the strand, And round that isle, which crowns their pointed land, Speeds the good angel with the balmy breath, And checks the dreadful tyranny of death: Whate'er we hear to hurt the peace of life, Of Candian treachery and British strife, The sword of commerce, nations bought and sold, They owe to England more than mines of gold; England has sent a balm for private woe; England strikes down the nations' bitterest foe.

Europe, amidst the clangor of her arms, While life was threaten'd with a thousand harms, And Charity was freezing to its source, Still saw fair Science keep her steady course; And, while whole legions fell, by friends deplor'd, New germs of life sprung up beneath the sword, And spread amain.--Then, in our bosoms, why Must exultation mingle with a sigh?

Thought takes the retrospect of years just fled, And, conjuring up the spirits of the dead, Whispers each dear and venerated name Of the last victims ere the blessing came, Worthies, who through the lands that gave them birth Breath'd the strong evidence of growing worth; Parents, cut down in life's meridian day, And childhood's thousand thousand swept away; Life's luckless mariners! ye, we deplore Who sunk within a boat's length of the shore [A]. [Footnote A: So lately as the year 1793, the small-pox was carried to the Isle of France by a Dutch ship, and there destroyed five thousand four hundred persons in six weeks.--Woodville.]

A stranger youth, from his meridian sky, Buoyant with hopes, came here but came to _die_! O'er his sad fate I've ponder'd hours away, It suits the languor of a gloomy day: He left his bamboo groves, his pleasant shore, He left his friends to hear new oceans roar, All confident, ingenuous, and bold, He heard the wonders by the white men told; With firm assurance trod the rolling deck, And saw his isle diminish to a speck, Plough'd the rough waves, and gain'd our northern clime, In manhood's ripening sense and nature's prime. Oh! had the fiend been vanquished ere he came, The gen'rous youth had spread my country's fame. Had known that honour dwells among the brave, And England had not prov'd the stranger's grave: Then, ere his waning sand of life had run, Poor ABBA THULE might hare seen his son! [A] [Footnote A: Lee Boo, second son of the King of the Pelew Islands, was brought to England by Capt. Wilson, and died of the Small-pox at Rotherhithe, in 1784.]

Rise, exultation! spirit, louder speak! Pity, dislodge thy dewdrops from my cheek: Sleep sound, forefathers; sleep, brave stranger boy, While truth impels the current of my joy: To all mankind, to all the earth 'tis giv'n, Conviction travels like the light of heav'n: Go, blessing, from thy birth-place still expand, For that dear birth-place is my native land! A nation consecrates th' auspicious day, And wealth, and rank, and talents lead the way! Time, with triumphant hand, shall truth diffuse, Nor ask the unbought efforts of the Muse. Mothers! the pledges of your loves caress, And heave no sighs but sighs of tenderness. Fathers, be firm! keep down the fallen foe, And on the memory of domestic woe Build resolution,--Victory shall increase Th' incalculable wealth of private peace; And such a victory, unstain'd with gore, That strews its laurels at the cottage door, Sprung from the farm, and from the yellow mead, Should be the glory of the pastoral reed. In village paths, hence, may we never find Their youth on crutches, and their children blind; Nor, when the milk-maid, early from her bed, Beneath the may bush that embow'rs her head, Sings like a bird, e'er grieve to meet again The fair cheek injur'd by the scars of pain; Pure, in her morning path, where'er she treads, Like April sunshine and the flow'rs it feeds, She'll boast new conquests; Love, new shafts to fling; And Life, an uncontaminated spring. In pure delight didst thou, my soul, pursue A task to conscience and to kindred due, And, true to feeling and to Nature, deem The dairy's boast thy own appropriate theme; Hail now the meed of pleasurable hours, And, at the foot of Science, strew thy flow'rs!

THE END