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HAPPY ISLE;
AND
OTHER POEMS.
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-- Managing Editor
Charlotte Payne
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Nancy Kushigian
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December 3, 2007
Charlotte Payne
-- ed.
BY MARY HUTTON.
In that fair Isle, so bright and green,
No beastly drunkard was ever seen
The human form to brutalize,
And man debase in his Maker's eyes;
They knew it not, not even in the name,
It neither brought disgrace nor shame
Upon God's goodly image, man;
They scorn'd to be under its withering ban.
The great esteem which a very near and dear relative of mine entertained for your late amiable and lamented Mother, when she was the all-accomplished Lady CHARLOTTE CURZON, (and in whose family she held a situation of trust,) alone induces me to dedicate my plain untutored Poems, with all their faults, to your Lordship, knowing well, that if the hearts of your gallant and philanthropic Grand-father, and your excellent Father, beats in your bosom, their being the productions of an humble and uneducated individual, will not at all deduct from their very little portion of merit. I beg to subscribe myself, with all due respect, your Lordship's very humble and obedient Servant,
THE AUTHOR.THIS little volume owes its publication, to a number of very respectable and worthy Mechanics in this town, who think that they discern in my writings, sufficient merit to justify their presentation to the world; in fact, they have interested themselves greatly in my behalf, for which they have my warmest thanks. Indeed, if I must speak the whole truth, they have admired, and applauded some of my humble performances in a manner, which, even when engaged in the writing of them, my own ardent mind could not in the least anticipate. By the particular request of those worthy and warm-hearted individuals, two or three Poems will appear
Noticing my former publication reminds me of what I cannot mention without a degree of satisfaction, as well as gratitude; that is, the great increase in my list of friends. When I sent forth my former little work, there was but one person of any considerable influence who afforded me particular patronage. It is true, the amiable and accomplished Mrs. Sterndale, is herself a host; and her kind-hearted condescension I shall never forget.
I may here state, that I felt some diffidence in re-publishing the pieces which have appeared before, until I consulted several of my judicious and literary friends. On the whole, I would rather, myself, have published a Poem which I wrote some time back, in four Cantos, than those miscellaneous pieces: but amongst my humble friends and acquaintance, I could not possibly have found a suf-
The Poems here published, with all their faults, and I am well aware they have many, have been written from thoughts and feelings which came over me at the moment, just as any object presented itself to my sympathy, or fancy. To a long list of friends, whom I should wish to name, could I feel justified in so doing, I beg, in conclusion, to present my humble, heart-felt, and deep gratitude.
MARY HUTTON.Sheffield, Jan. 1, 1836.
WE'LL try to sing of a happy Isle,
A spot in the midst of the sea it lay,
No matter if near or far away;
The heavens upon it did always smile,
For it was as free from sin and guile,
As a beautiful, innocent child can be:
Nor vice, nor want, nor misery,
Were ever felt in that land, or known;
Nor bloated wealth, nor fortune's frown,
Nor wilful perjured bankruptcy,
That rogues may live more splendidly;
Which every kindly feeling stains,
And every honest bosom pains.
Oh! no, that Isle was ne'er disgraced,
For innate truth and purity,
In every face might there be traced;
And virtue and sobriety,
And every beautiful feeling bright,
Which made it look like a land of light,
In that fair Isle, so bright and green,
No beastly drunkard was ever seen
The human form to brutalize,
And man debase in his Maker's eyes;
They knew it not, not even in name,
It neither brought disgrace nor shame
Upon God's goodly image, man;
They scorn'd to be under its withering ban.
No emigrant ship, with its freight of woe,
Did yearly from that Island go,
The broken-hearted to sink in the sea,
To end their wants and misery;
For love and Christian charity
In every heart and breast did dwell,
And God they loved, and fear'd as well.
There was no gaudy splendidness,
Nor ghastly want nor bleak distress,
No scorn'd and starving loneliness;
No envy there—no empty pride;
The rich did not the poor deride.
The earth was fruitful, the heavens were kind,
And every man had a generous mind;
There was not even a lonely wight,
Who wished to live in satrap state;
Who always take an unholy delight
The goodly gifts of God to blight,
That the world may hail them rich and great.
No sharks, who prey on human woes,
(Who fill the land with painful throes,
And every ill, and every care,
And burning wrongs, and black despair,)
Could flourish in that Isle so fair.
No baneful workhouses were there;
The rich were not alone protected;
Nor yet the poor sold and dissected;
No prisons for pale infancy;
No fetters to enthral the mind;
No palaces of luxury;
No despots where the poor are pined;
No laws the good alone to bind;
No ignorant—proud magistrate
Did there wink at the rich and great,
And deal destruction on the poor,
For daring justice to implore.
All lived together in peace and love,
They were happy below, and blest above.
The seas had fish, and the skies had fowl,
And they quaff'd content from the homely bowl;
There was an old fabric, a mouldering one,
Yet consecrated was every stone,
And with ivy its turrets were overgrown,
And laurel, and cypress, its summit did crown.
It was holy without, and holy within,
There was no gaudy glittering;
No costly silks the pews did grace,
To bring the blush on poverty's face;
No prayer books printed in costly mould,
With their glaring backs, and letters of gold,
Enough to turn religion cold.
No lady light, with imperious train,
Did ever profane that holy fane;
Or flaunt her finery to show,
To raise the wonder of the low.
There was not seen conspicuously.
That badge of low servility,
The degrading garb of charity;
Each wore his own garb, and each man was free,
And there was, in fact, no poverty.
And every Sabbath, the Islanders all
Both old and young, and great and small,
Did duly, eve and morn, within
That holy fane, resort to pray,
That each stain of man-degrading sin,
In the blood of the Lamb might be wash'd away,
Holy was kept the Sabbath day;
It was a most heavenly sight to see
All meet together in harmony,
And sweet ennobling charity;
And praise their Friend and Father above,
With holy songs of heavenly love.
Britain, wouldst thou but imitate
That happy Isle, thou may'st yet be great,
And, O my country! it is not too late.
Let the rich in a righteous God confide,
And banish oppression, and fraud, and pride,
And deeply drink of the waters of life,
Then murmurs will fly, and unholy strife.
OUR own dear homes are lonely now!
Our hearths are desolate!
No cheerful smiles with friendly glow.
With welcome on us wait.
No kindly sweet domestic joys,
So beautiful and bright,
Can wake our hearts to pleasure now,
Or soothe fell sorrow's blight.
For keen has been the deathly storm,
That has blown across our land;
And many a fair and lovely form
Has felt its burning brand.
Whilst hearts at noon, alive with glee,
At evening tide have died;
And that dread word—eternity,
Has knell'd on every side.
As solemnly the death-cart wheels
Its melancholy way,
The stoutest heart sore trembling feels,
And quakes with sad dismay.
Each guilty sinner asks with fear,
Thou Great Supreme, shall I,
Be laid within that sable bier,
'Ere another hour pass by?
Life—life, is grown both dark and drear,
The earth is fill'd with gloom,
At every step we meet a bier
Slow wheeling to the tomb;—
That nameless tomb where hundreds lie
In one commingled heap—
Where few of all the passers by,
Dare pause awhile to weep.
How vacant now each sorrowing home!
How deep is the distress!
For a darkening cloud of sable gloom
Has veiled our happiness—
And thus it is with human life,
We lesser ails pass by,
Which, though they drain the springs of life,
Scarce meet the careless eye.
We notice not the gentle wind,
Nor the balmy breeze of spring;
But the storms that lofty oaks unbind,
Will some reflection bring.
The still small voice of conscience speaks,
Yet flies unheeded by;
But when the loud-toned thunder breaks
Its terrors through the sky;—
'Tis then the thoughtless soul is brought
To meditate on Heaven,
When every hour with death is fraught,
We pray to be forgiven.
Oh! hear our prayer, our Friend, our God!
To Thee we raise our cry!
Avert awhile thy chastening rod—
Or make us fit to die!
THOU HOLY ONE, who reign'st above,
Before thy throne I bend;
Thy name is everlasting LOVE,
My Father! and my Friend!
All nature owns thy powerful sway,
Above, around, below;
Where'er I bend my devious way,
Thy mighty wonders glow.
I hear thy voice when winds are high,
And in the thunder's roll,
While, as the lightning flashes by,
I feel Thee in my soul.
I see Thee in the sunshine bright,
And in the darkest gloom:
Through all the dreary hours of night;
And by the peaceful tomb.
In every bud, flower, leaf, and tree,
I own thy hand divine;
Alike in calm and stormy sea,
And in the fathomless mine.
Yes, wheresoe'er I turn mine eyes,
All-perfect works I see;
On every side new beauties rise,
GOD of ETERNITY!
Thou know'st my thoughts long ere they come,
Their aim and sole intent,
While whereso'er my fancies roam,
Thou know'st on what they're bent.
Though pride may blind my sins from me,
Yet thy all-searching eye
Can all my faults and follies see,
Spite of hypocrisy.
Lord, in the hours of deep distress—
And such are most to me—
Teach me thy Holy Will to bless,
With deep humility.
Teach me to bow before thy throne,
In penitential prayer,
Lord! hear the contrite sinner's moan,
And keep her from despair.
'TWAS in that hour, so sweet and bright,
The calm, still hour of soft twilight,
And as the beauties of the day
In lingering glory died away,
I thought upon that awful scene,
Awful, yet beauteously serene,
When dying Christians, freed from care,
Leave this frail world—heaven's joys to share.
It was a fair and lovely sky,
And as I gazed the heavens upon,
The mournful visions flitted by,
I look'd again, and all were gone;
Yet they had left upon my soul,
Feelings I could not then controul;
A kind of holy awe and dread,
Such as the spectres of the dead,
Leave on the minds of mortals here,
When they to fearful wights appear.
Ah then, I heard a dismal wail,
'Twas like a sad funeral tale;
It was a strange unearthly tone,
Like a wild sea bird's dying moan;
It told of anguish and of woe,
Of torments tediously slow,
Of dark oppressions, deep and wide,
Of infamous infanticide,—
Of fields deluged with human blood,
Of British plains with corses strew'd,
Of fearful famine's frantic cries,
Of wild and horrid agonies,
Of bloated rank and palling pride
That can a nation's woes deride,
That can insult and rob the poor,
And laugh to scorn what men endure.
And when that fearful voice, unknown,
Had ceased its wild and sorrowing tone,
Then, then, I saw pass by again,
The visions which had caused me pain.
The first was pure Religion, meek,
The tears were rolling down her cheek,
And labouring sigh succeeded sigh,
So piteous, and so plaintively,
As would have moved a heart of steel,
Though much she struggled to conceal
Her anguish'd and heart-burning throes,
Of bitter wounds and bitter woes.
Before her sad and bleeding breast,
The sacred word of God was press'd,
That blessed book she firmly held,
Whilst hideous demons sprawl'd and yell'd.
Then Justice and sweet Liberty,
Passed in sad solemnity.
And England, left in darksome night,
Whilst they flew back to realms of light,
And there awhile to weep and stay,
Till phrenzied faction's had its day.
IN Cold Siberia's dreary clime,
Where patriots' sighs embalm the air,
Where many a Pole, in youthful prime,
Lingers in life of deep despair:—
Torn from his country, friends, and home,
From all a generous soul esteems;
Condemn'd o'er barren wastes to roam,
Madden'd with retrospective dreams.—
Oh! as they flash across his mind,
Like sunshine on a turbid sea,
What fearful pangs they leave behind,
What pains for anguish'd memory.
IMMORTAL Spirit! I have wander'd on
With thee, through Portugal, and lovely Spain,
And o'er the glorious plain of Marathon,
Which Persia's sons must ever view with pain.
Deep has thy magical, thy deathless strain,
Sunk in my heart, and charm'd and sooth'd my soul,
That tears would come which I could not control;
Tears, that the matchless bard is now no more,
And that he breath'd his last upon a foreign shore.
The glorious straits of famed Thermopylae,
Where bravely fought a firm, devoted band
Of gallant patriots, for liberty—
For freedom, and their own sweet native land;
Leonidas, whilst this wide world shall stand,
Thy name shall be the glory of the brave,
And every Spartan, too, who fell with thee;
For ever holy shall remain your grave,—
Whilst o'er the sacred spot unfading laurels wave.
Epialtes consign'd to infamy,
Despised and spurn'd, alike by friends and foes,
How can fell tyrants of their dear country
E'er hope to find a place of calm repose,
Whose hellish souls delight in home-bred woes,
Sweet bard! my heart has often bled for thee!
Thy genius merited a happier doom:
But poets oft see nought but misery,
And withering clouds, deeply obscured with gloom,
Pursue them e'en beyond the welcome tomb;
And restless envy seeks, with deadly aim,
And poisonous breath, and all her treachery,
In this short life to blight an honest name,—
Whilst malice whets his fangs, to crush a rising fame.
Why this should be, is not for us to know;
But so it is, alas! how many feel?
That every breast, warm'd with poetic glow,
Oft bleeds with woes which only death can heal.
Secure, in fancied happiness, are those
Who never range the fruitful fields of thought,—
Who view unmoved the tide of human woes,
Though every gale is with destruction fraught,—
Whose love with gold is only to be bought;
Whose iron breasts for self can only feel;
Adown whose cheeks no tear can ever steal;
Let such enjoy their narrow useless sphere,
I'd rather be the prey of grief, of hope, and fear.
Sensitive hearts, alive to every woe,
Sometimes a sad and soothing pleasure feel,
Which grosser souls can never care to know,
But which will oft the wounded spirit heal.
What grateful scenes from fancied visions flow,
And bitter throbs will rise from care and grief,
Throbs which in iron hearts can never glow;
Yet scalding tears oft yield a sweet relief—
Oh! would that pains and cares, like pleasures, were as brief!
O'er Waterloo's blood-stain'd and reeking plain,
Immortal Spirit! I have been with thee:
And yet the deeds of those I cannot praise,
Whose fears enchain'd a fallen enemy;
Dooming him to live out his weary days,
In a lone wild, far from society.
How beautiful is sweet humanity!
But every breast towards that man was cold;
When prejudice the human bosom sways,
It turns to stone even hearts of softest mould,
And with its withering touch defiles the purest gold.
In fancy, I have seen destructive war;
Have heard the solitary widow's groan;
Have seen the maimed limb, the veteran's scar;
Have heard the unprotected orphan's moan—
Which all must hear who have not hearts of stone.
Oh! would I had as strong a power as will,
The anguish of distress and woe to still;
Then willingly I would your plaints attend,
Chase sorrow far away, and be your constant friend.
Immortal Spirit! I have been with thee,
Over the glowing realms of giddy France;
The throne is vacant, and that wily one
Is call'd a patriotic people's choice:
See, how it totters as he mounts upon
The frail materials! exiled hearts rejoice!
Is he selected by the public voice?
Yet that may change before to-morrow's sun;
A fickle crowd, with wild unwelcome noise,
May teach him his short kingly race is run;
This favour'd god, too soon, may find himself undone.
Think not I censure that soul-stirring fire
Which warms the breast with spotless liberty;
But when fierce men, ambitiously, conspire
To bring destruction on the good, and free,
And peaceful homes stain with foul cruelty—
How call fair Liberty with such embrace?
She ne'er can flourish in wild anarchy:
No, she will fly the base, polluted place,
And wander till she finds a more exalted race.
A patriot's name too oft is misapplied,
This truth the crowd may sometime learn to know,
That those ambitious men who set them on,
Use them like pliant puppets in a show:
When danger comes, the leaders all are gone.
Will no one brave a trying hour? not one!
The unprotected poor alone must die,—
They, for their leader's crimes, must now atone.
Why, what are they? they are not worth a sigh;
Now, thick and fast they fall; the dogs! there let them lie.
What are they but wild faction's useful tools,
To sport and play with, as proud people please;
What were they made for but to be the fools
Of those who live a life of bloated ease?
Their untaught minds will turn with every breeze;
O! would they, with consistency, unite!
Then those who agitate both land and seas,
Might by themselves their bloody battles fight,
And such will be when men know wrong from right.
Immortal Spirit! thy exalted pages
Have charm'd me with their rich and varied tone,
As I have wander'd through departed ages,
Adoring the brave deeds of heroes gone!
Lamenting battles, whether lost or won;
But restless man too oft delights in strife;
Ambitious rule his aims are fix'd upon;
To him, how valueless is human life!
What cares he, though the world, with blood, and woes, is rife.
O! would that men could live in holy love,
Like brothers of their Maker's family;
O! that some peaceful spirit from above
Would tune their hearts to sweet humanity;
What interchange of joys! what harmony
Would then this frail, this lovely world, illume,—
It sure would be a heaven on earth to be
So blest whilst in this transitory gloom,
What joyfulness would beam beyond the welcome tomb!
With thee I've wander'd o'er fair Italy,
Deeply lamenting its degraded state:
Ah! much I fear, my own beloved countrèe,
That such, ere long, will be thy hapless fate,—
For dangers and distress on thee await!
Where, now, are thy undaunted peasantry?
See, how they work and toil, both soon and late,—
Yet pine in anguish and deep misery,
And hopeless want and woe, and chilling poverty.
"Why don't you save?" most rich, proud people, cry,
"For if you can but earn a groat a day,
Half of that sum might surely be put by!"
"What, if both rent and taxes are to pay!
And should stern sickness come, why, still you may
Lay up one half your gains, whate'er they be;
Ah! even when out of work, you must obey,
And by this means you banish poverty,
On air and water live, then want away will flee."
But o'er my country's faults I fain would draw
The oblivious veil of sweet forgetfulness;
On her fair front she should not wear a flaw,
And even the proud and vain I fain would bless:
The great Supreme, in time, will wrongs redress,
Till then, if 'tis his will, the poor should feel
The bitter pangs of famine and distress;
We ought, in all humility, to kneel
Before his holy throne—He can our troubles heal:
Farewell thou matchless bard! thy passionate theme
Has so entranced my heart, and soothed my mind,
As though some pleasing and delightful dream
Had drawn me for a while from human kind,
To mix with spirits long in heaven refined,
Exalted to the highest purity;
Where all that is celestial has combined
To beautify the soul most gloriously,
Peace to thy shades, sweet bard! a long farewell to thee!
A long farewell to thee! yet, will thy pages,
Live in my heart, till I shall be no more,
When ills of life appal, or trouble rages,
Then memory shall recount thy verses o'er;
In happier moments too, I must adore
The mighty mind of Byron, and the skill,
Which could such heavenly piercing raptures pour,
Around his rich immortal works at will,
What bard, like thee, so well the human heart could thrill!
AUTUMN, I love thy deep blue tinctured sky;
I love the rustle of each falling leaf;
They strike upon my soul so mournfully,
So solemn, and so sad:—they seem to say;—
"Prepare thee for that dread accounting day,
For longest life of man is swift and brief:"
Yes, flowerets now have lost their sweet perfume,
And all appear disrobed of that rich dress,
Once beaming round in gay and sweetest bloom:
Those golden tints and many mingled dyes,
That through the pensive soul made feeling rise
In blissful throbs of sweet expressiveness:
All—all are fled; but soon another Spring,
Will show the power of heaven's eternal King.
A MOURNFUL solemn sound strikes on my ear,—
Deep sighs are borne upon the midnight gale—
Sighs that o'ercome my trembling soul with fear—
Ah me! I dread some melancholy tale!
'Tis done—the blow is struck—the Stranger's dead;
O! Death, why not thy fated arrow fling
At some far less esteemed, less honoured head?
But ah! the mighty falls beneath thy sting.
It is the will of God, and I have done;
'Tis sinful to repine at Heaven's decree,
For every living thing beneath the sun
Must at some future period cease to be.
A feeling soul, a high exalted mind
Illumed with pious zeal his noble breast;
The father, friend, and patron of mankind,—
The sons of misery he made them blest.
Immortal Science, weep—fair Freedom, mourn—
Your votary and pupil sleeps in death;—
Come, mourn around his consecrated urn,—
He sang your praises with an infant's breath.
GOD of the fearful, and the brave!
God of the free, and lowly slave!
Oh, stretch thy mighty arm to save;
To Thee, great Lord, we cry.
Haste, haste, redeem our captive land,
Remove from us the iron brand
Of Russia's stern, all-grasping hand,
For low in dust we lie.
Long, long with woes our land has bled,
Oppressive wrongs have bow'd the head
Of Poland's sons, till hope has fled;
Oh, God! attend our moan.
Our wives and children, groaning, lie
Beneath a despot's tyranny,
In stranger-lands our warriors die,
Lorn exiles from their home.
Oh! let the sun of Freedom shine;
This glorious work must all be thine;
Restore us, by thy power divine,
To life and liberty.
Let us no longer mourn in night;
Oh! come array'd in all thy might,
For ours will be a righteous fight,
Help! help! and we are free.
DEAR land of the brave, how faded thy glory!
How dark are the clouds that surround thee with gloom!
How woful thy fate, how heart-rending thy story,
For the hand of oppression has seal'd up thy doom!
How galling the chains which so long have entwined thee,
Whose wild withering links have corroded thy soul!
And tyrants exult as still deeper they bind thee,
And triumph aloud with demoniac howl.
Oh! where are the heroes, whose high deeds of splendour,
So bravely ennobled the land of their birth,
Whose spirited cry was—"Friends, never surrender!"
Whose valourous actions astonished the earth.
Those heroes repose in the tomb—but for ever
Most sacred their memory shall be to the brave,
The stern iron hand of oppression can never
Tear off the bright laurels that wave o'er their grave.
"THE silvery snow" has few charms for me,
Although it's as lovely as lovely can be;
Although it reminds me of that purity
That hovers around the abodes of the blest,
Or beams in the saintlike and spotless breast;
For I think on the babe with its shoeless feet,
As it painfully paddles through cold and sleet;
One sweet little hand to its mouth is prest,
The other is laid on its innocent breast.
How it shivers with cold! how it totters and lingers,
As it stops to breathe warmth on its beautiful fingers.
"The crinkling frost and the silvery snow,"
Though lovely, but mind me of pain and woe,
For as the white beautiful flakes descend,
I think on the wretch without home or friend,
With hardly clothing to keep out the cold,
Without any food his weak frame to uphold;
His once ruddy cheeks, how wither'd with care!
His dark eye how sunk, yet how wild with despair!
HOW sweetly smells around the new-mown hay!
And oh, how sweetly smiles the summer's morning!
Now all the blooming flowers, so fresh and gay,
Are with their richest tints the fields adorning.
I love to range the leafy groves among,
And ramble in the verdant meadows fair;
To hear the linnets and the skylark's song;
Their cheerful strains dispel my anxious care.
And oft within the green romantic bower,
Where gentle rills in softest murmurs flow,
I love to spend the solitary hour,
Far from the haunts of human pride and woe:
My passive mind is wrapt in wild amaze;
My swelling heart expands and sings its Maker's praise.
STERN winter wore his garb of snow,
And wildly blew the raging wind,
'Twas almost dark, a child of woe,
With trembling steps, but looks resign'd—
Went sad and slowly on her way,
And at her breast a baby bright:
Where, where, poor wanderer wilt thou stray,
Where lay thy hapless head this night?
Alas! no kind, no sheltering wing
Extends o'er thee, thou fallen one;
Thou art a scorn'd and guilty thing,
No aid for thy poor nameless son.
But ye shall mercy find in heaven,
Though here so pointed at with scorn;
Yes, there your sins will be forgiven,
Though here with want and hunger worn.
"My babe," she cried, "oh! did'st thou know,
How lost, how destitute, we are,
"Thy little life must end in spring,
For thee no kind affections glow,
Save mine, and I'm fast withering
Beneath my load of want and woe.
"Thy father, oh! no father's love,
No father's care will shelter thee;
Yet once I thought he could not prove,
So cruel to his babe and me."
And then she look'd to heaven and sigh'd,
And closer clasp'd her baby fair,
"God of the injured poor!" she cried,
"In mercy end my life of care.
"In mercy take my spotless boy;
Alas, he is the child of sin,
He is my grief, he is my joy,
And for my fault condemn not him.
"Condemn not,—no, the branded name
Of bastard will not stay thy grace,
If pure in life, the child of shame
In heaven will see its Saviour's face.
"Thou thought'st upon poor Ishmael,
And Hagar in the wilderness,
"The voice of misery and woe
Will never plead to Thee in vain;
Oh Thou! who dost our sufferings know,
Release us from our load of pain.
"I'm dying, oh, my God! I come,
Receive my soul, forgive my sin,
My boy, too, meets an early doom;
He dies, have mercy, Lord, on him!"
'TIS now the end of dark December,
And on the winds a voice I hear,
Which says in solemn tones, "Remember,
For ere expires another year,
There's many a gladsome eye, now bright,
Will be dark and cold in a long, long night.
There's many a wild and youthful spirit,
And others too in sin grown grey,
Will either bliss or woe inherit,
Ere another year has passed away;
"Old year,—old year,—I part from thee
As from a dear and long tried friend,
Though many a rainbow hope for me,
Yes, rainbows in the clouds that blend,
"Thou hast held up so brief and fair,
That few would fear delusion there.
"Yet I have fear'd and felt it too,
Still hopes would come so dazzling bright,
That though I well their flatteries knew,
Still would they leave a brief delight,
Resembling a fair sparkling star,
That's from a dungeon seen afar.
"Old year,—old year,—farewell to thee!
Another year's almost begun,
Say will the new one brighter be,
Than this that's now so nearly done?
Yes, it will have its hopes and joys,
But not without some base alloys.
"Hark, hark, a warning voice I hear,
It comes in moans upon the wind;
It cries,—the new and coming year,
If ye would rest and mercy find,
Make better use of than the last,
For it will fly as soon and fast."
I LOOK'D upon the silvery wave,
No bliss it promised me;
The sky serene, no pleasure gave,
Brought no tranquility:
I look'd upon the silent tomb—
Oh! would the wanderer were at home!
Oh! could I now my sorrows close,
In one eternal night:
'Twould ease these agonizing throes,
'Twould check this cruel blight,
Which long I've been condemn'd to feel
From callous hearts encased in steel.
I raised again my tearful eye,
—A radiant form so bright,
So calm, so sweet, so heavenly,
So full of soft delight—
Now stood before me—whilst my breast
Felt peace serene, and soothing rest.
She wore a robe of spotless white;
Her crown of purest gold,
Adorn'd with gems so dazzling bright,
Mortals could scarce behold;
Her graceful scarf of azure blue,
Entranced awhile my wondering view.
She said, "Now mark yon boundless sea—
Know'st thou its wide expanse?
Look on yon azure canopy;
Are these the works of chance?
And He who made those works from nought,
Can search thy heart,—knows every thought!
"Oh! rashly why shouldst thou repine
In unavailing sorrow?
Perhaps thy stars may brighter shine,
And bring relief to-morrow;"
I stood reproved and bent my knee,
And worshipp'd heaven's high majesty.
"My name is Hope—in me confide—
Come, mortal, take my hand;
Thee, I will through misfortunes guide,
Thy pilot to that strand,
Beyond life's wide tempestuous sea,
The strand of blest eternity."
WANDERERS on a cheerless strand,
Exiles from a ruin'd land,
Cease, oh! cease, your moans;
Europe soon will rise to arms,
Your cause each generous bosom warms,
The brave have heard your groans.
Wanderers on a cheerless strand,
Exiles from a ruin'd land,
In time you shall be free;
Soon shall the paralyzing cry,
Grate on the ears of tyranny—
Poland and liberty!
Exiles 'mongst Siberian snow,
Whose hearts with manly yearnings glow,
For the calm delights of home,
For by-gone days of bliss and rest,
When husbands, fathers, all were blest,
Now doom'd, alas! to roam.
O'er the dreary desert wild,
From every social tie exiled,
From country, home, and friends;
But by departed warriors brave,
By every patriot's dear-loved grave,
By Kosciusko's gallant spirit,
By the soul of Sobieski too,
By all the great, the good, and true—
Ye shall your native land inherit.
Your fallen land again shall bloom,
And heroes from the living tomb
Of cold Siberia drear,
Shall from their prison house be freed,
And Heaven will smile upon the deed,
The day of glory's near.
Yes, Poland will again be great,
Though now she lies at Russia's feet
In low humility;
Yes, like a Phœnix, she shall rise,
For now her murder'd children's cries
Have reach'd the throne on High.
Redemption comes on angel wing,
And Poland's freedom seraphs sing,
Such is the will of God;
For He has heard the patriot's prayer;
And He will free us from the snare
Of Russia's iron rod.
HERE, my lamented, dear-loved father lies,
But with the dead I may not sympathise—
I may not water with affection's tear
The earth that hides from me his form so dear.
Dear is this spot; yet here I may not come,
I may not weep beside my father's tomb;
For wretches such as me, there is no room.
Yet, spite of all, my tears unbidden flow—
Is it a sin to feel this softening woe?
Is it a sin a dear-loved sire to mourn?
Is it a sin to weep beside his urn?
Does right require that I abjure the spot?
Never can such a father be forgot.
Here, all I loved on earth unconscious lies,
Unconscious of his daughter's tears and sighs,
Unconscious that his child is borne away
By savage hands, in prison dark to lay;
And with the vile and base of woman kind,
For her affection, wickedly confined.
WHAT form is that near my dungeon wall,
With looks so sweet and bright?
Alas! alas! I cannot crawl—
For, since Polonia's woful fall,
I have known no day, but night:
I have known no day, but a long, long night;
And dismal has been my spirit's blight:
My years of woe have been so slow,
That I think on them now with affright;
Oh, say! hast thou enter'd the realms of light?
A spirit of bliss I know thou art,
Thy looks are so pure and heavenly,
On earth thou didst look most beautifully;
Yet now there is such a radiant glow
Around thy exalted and dignified brow,
That I cannot express
Thy loveliness;
But I see you have pity for my distress
To me thy mission of mercy impart,
A word from thee would ease my heart:
What! silent, still? it cannot be
My own true love!
She would not thus, so cruelly,
Hold out delusive hope to me;
ON the eagle's back I should like to straddle,
Without either bridle, or bit, or saddle;
In fine shiney weather,
Away I would fly
To the top of the sky,
Through pathless fields of ether.
O what a novel and frolicsome ride!
The wide world below, I should view with pride,
The sea's pathless way,
Where the dolphins play;
Burning mountains,
And chrystal fountains,
For me would their wonderful beauties display.
The holy land I would wander o'er,
Where no little boy ever rode before;
Through tropical climes away, away,
We should see the mighty Ganges play;
Through regions bright
That teem with delight,
Where diamonds shine with resplendent ray,
Pellucid waters o'er sands of gold
Would numberless beauties and wonders unfold.
And birds, whose rich plumes,
The sunshine illumes,
Would fill us with raptures, their dress to behold;
Through frozen regions away we should go,
O'er mountains array'd with eternal snow;
Over deserts sterile,
That seldom smile,
Or cheer with cultivation's glow.
Then when I came back, and told where I'd been,
And of all the wonderful things I had seen,
To sweet sister Fanny,
And dear old Granny,
Oh! how they would listen and marvel, I ween;
Mamma would applaud me, and father would stare,
When I told of my wonderful flight through the air,
On the eagle's back,
Through a pathless track;—
All would cry, "Wonderful, well, I declare!"
UNSHEATH your swords, ye mighty brave,
He comes—the proud invader comes;—
His eagles now insulting wave—
Hark! hark! ye hear his rolling drums.
Come on, array'd in all your might,
Come—prove yourselves a gallant band:
Sacred the cause in which we fight,—
'Tis freedom and our native land.
Proudly o'er mountain, cliff, and glen,
See, see, what hostile banners spread!
Rush on them now like gallant men,
And strike your haughty foes with dread.
How glorious is fair freedom's cause,—
My brave Guerillas, march away!
Defend your native land and laws
Against the proud invader's sway.
Hark! hark! your country loudly groans
From Pyrenees to the Atlantic wave;
Avenge her wrongs, assuage her moans;
She calls on you, ye fearless brave.
'Tis not with men of noble might,
But, cruel, reckless, fierce brigands,
You now are call'd upon to fight,
To save your threaten'd homes and lands.
Look on your own bright native sky,
In all her pride and beauty dress'd;
Is there beneath heavn's canopy,
Another clime more highly blest?
Look on your mountains, hills, and dales,
So richly clothed with Nature's store;
Look on your fertile fields and vales,
Each famed and hallow'd scene explore.
And let your wives and children dear,
Now urge you on to deeds of fame:
Stay with your swords the mad career
Of those who spurn the Spanish name.
Now dry your tears, ye sorrowing fair,
They come, the great—the illustrious brave
The British cohorts come to share
Our strife—our country's cause to save.
Then march, Guerillas, march away,
And join this high and gallant band;
Stand foremost in this bloody fray,
For freedom and your native land!
THOMAS and Gerard de Furnival, in the heroic spirit of the age, went to the holy wars in Asia, where Thomas was slain. His brother Gerard returned home without his body; their mother overwhelmed with anguish, sorrow, and distress, by the sudden bereavement of her beloved son, prevailed upon Gerard to return to Palestine for the purpose of redeeming the remains of his brother, for which the Saracens demanded a high price. He nevertheless most heroically and piously fulfilled his mission, and brought Thomas's remains to Worksop, where they were entombed with all due solemnity. I have attempted in the following verses, to commemorate so singular and meritorious an act of filial piety.
MATILDA fair sat in her bower,
De Furnival's lady bright;
And many a tedious day and hour,
And many an anxious night,—
She pass'd, o'erwhelmed with woe and care;
For two bold sons so brave
Had gone the battle's rage to share,
Where the Turkish banners wave.
And every coming day she hied
To the watch tower in the keep;
She long'd to see her heart's dear pride;
—Her grief was wild and deep.
For care press'd heavy on her heart,
She fear'd, she knew not why:
She dreaded some distressful smart—
Some strange calamity.
Now a coal coffin from the fire
Most ominously flies;
And as portending something dire,
She saw three chattering pyes.
And when she heard the ravens cry,
She shrunk in wild dismay;
The fearful owl, too, flitted by:
—She knelt her down to pray.
"Oh! would my wanderers were at home;
Would I could see my boys!
But oh! if they should find a tomb—
Then, farewell all my joys!
"If, on a foul unchristian shore,
My warriors brave should fall;
Then bliss will visit me no more,
I die, bereft of all."
One morn she look'd out east and west,
And did a knight behold;
Now highly beat her labouring breast,
Her very blood ran cold.
And as the warrior nearer came,
With solemn step and slow;
Her care-worn, weak, and trembling frame
Could scarce support life's glow.
No glittering plume adorn'd his crest,
He wore his beaver down;
His head reclined upon his breast,
His features wore a frown.
But such a frown as sorrow wears,
When burning griefs oppress;
And soon a flood of manly tears
Relieved his deep distress.
For he had felt both pain and toil,
And peril, and distress;
Yet his heart was bound to his natal soil,
By dreams of blessedness.
"How shall I meet my mother dear,
Since she has lost her pride?
Her presence now I greatly fear:
—Would I had also died!
"But oh! my heart it pants to share,
The music of her voice;
Away then every anxious care,
For now I will rejoice.
"For I long to hear that seraph tongue,
Which in infancy I loved;
On which I oft with rapture hung,
Which every fault reproved.
"But oh! in such a winsome way,
So gentle, sweet, and mild,
That I did cheerfully obey,
And bade her kiss her child.
"Ah! then my days were fair and bright,
For all was mirth and joy;
I loved to see her smile delight
Upon her darling boy.
"And this proud day, I shall be prest,
With a love so heavenly,
To that fair, pure, maternal breast,
Which oft has beat for me."
The knight now lighted from his steed,
And lowly bent his knee;
"Heaven," cried he, "has at length decreed,
"That I thy face should see."
"My dearest mother, oh! bless thy son,
Thy blessing I humbly crave;
For I have the meed of glory won,
O'er the proud Saracen's grave."
The mother look'd with tearful eye,
"—Oh! pity my despair;
Thy look is dire calamity!
Where is my darling?—where?—
"Two sons I sent to the Holy Land,
But I see only thee;
Cover'd with honourable scars;
Where can my lost one be?
"Oh! speak my Gerard, quickly tell;
Relieve thy mother's heart;
Say if he in the battle fell;
The dreadful tale impart!
"Oh! why that look of downcast grief?
That agonizing sigh?
Come—give my anxious breast relief—
Look not so mournfully.
"Come, now, my dearest Gerard, tell;
Where is thy brother bold?
Methinks I hear his funeral knell—
My very blood runs cold.
"Now, now he died, I know full well;
I read thy death-pale cheek:
By Turkish hands he surely fell—
The dreadful truth now speak.
"Alas! that thus thy brother brave
Should fall on a foreign shore;
That he should lie in an unblest grave,
I must till death deplore."
Then oft brave Gerard strove to speak,
The effort still was vain;
He sigh'd as though his heart would break,
His tears fell down amain.
At length he cried, "Oh! cease thy grief;
Thy son fell not alone;
In Christendom, there's scarce a chief,
Who hath not cause to moan.
"For many a gay and gallant knight
Lay bleeding on the plain;
And many an high-born beauty bright
Is left in woe and pain.
"For oh! it was a fearful day,
Which saw my brother fall;
Well fought he in the bloody fray,
The bravest of us all."
"Then he is dead!" Matilda cried,
In a voice so fall of woe:
"Since I have lost my darling pride,
Down to the grave I'll go.
"For there is now no peace for me,
In this sad, lonesome place;
Since I no more on earth shall see
My first-born's beauteous face."
Then Gerard said, "My brother's face
Here we no more shall see;
But at the throne of heavenly grace,
In blest eternity;—
"We haply shall again embrace,
And with the saints rejoice:
We then shall see my brother's face,
And once more hear his voice.
"So calm thy grief, my mother dear,
'Tis useless to complain;
Look to that blessed mansion, where
We all shall meet again."
"Good Gerard, now thou reason'st well;
But oh! it cannot be:
I feel, I feel my bosom swell
With this calamity.
"Oh! could I but have seen my son;
Could I have closed his eyes:
But now the dreadful deed is done—
In a far land he lies!
"Oh! would that I could strew his grave
With flowers so fair and sweet;
Fain would I every danger brave,
His clay-cold corpse to greet.
"A boon, my Gerard, now I ask;
Say, wilt thou then comply?
I own it is a painful task,
Yet do not me deny."
Then Gerard lowly bent his knee,
And kiss'd his mother's hand;
"May all the saints now witness be,
I will do thy command."
"I wish thee now, my Gerard dear,
To go to Palestine;
Let not the raging storm's career
Retard the bold design:
"And bring those loved remains to me,
To ease my bursting grief;
Could I his sainted corse once see,
'Twould give my heart relief.
"And I will pray at yon holy shrine,
Thy weary way to bless;
And heaven will graciously incline
And hear our deep distress.
"But oh! if I should lose thee too,
My noble boy so brave!
Then, then I shall have cause to rue,
Till I rest in the silent grave."
"Fear not, my mother,—fear not me,
I'll speed my mission well;
If God wills me not back to thee,
Some friend my fate will tell.
"Some favouring angel, bright and fair,
Will to my suit attend:
Some holy saint will hover near
And thee from ill defend.
"Now may that Power who reigns on high;
Whom winds and storms obey;
Protect thee from calamity!
Thus will I ever pray."
The fatal hour at length drew nigh,
The hour they were to part;
And painfully the burning sigh
Now rent the mother's heart.
The knight he press'd her to his breast;
Which beat with filial love;
"Farewell," he cried, "I'll bring thee rest—
So witness heaven above!"
And now he kiss'd her trembling hand,
Then quickly rode away,
To Palestina's far off land;—
As broke the dawn of day.
And long in mournful solitude,
Matilda pray'd and wept:
For tenderness of heart imbued,
And love maternal kept,
The good old harper often play'd
Some sadly soothing strain;
Matilda no attention paid
For nought could ease her pain.
At length a mournful cavalcade,
Came slowly on its way;
The sable plumes and banners play'd
In stateliest array.
"It is my son"—Matilda cried—
"His dear—dear form I see;
And nought on earth shall now divide
My warrior child from me.
"He brings me now the dear remains
Of Furnival's first-born pride;
Who bravely fought on hostile plains,
And for his country died.
"My gracious God has heard my prayer,
And brought thee back again:
Now shall a tender mother's care
Requite thy pious pain."
And now a solemn dirge was sung,
So mournful, plaintive, sweet:
Around were sable draperies hung,
And red-cross banners meet.
Now sleeps the knight in grave so wide,
In Worksop Church so fair;
And every day Matilda hied,
To breathe a fervent prayer.
For peace, and blessedness, and rest,
For her dear slaughter'd son;
And as she cross'd her snow-white breast
She cried—"Thy will be done;
Thou Great Supreme who reign'st enthroned on high,
Grant we may meet in pure felicity!"
MADAM, why weep for sterling worth,
Why mourn your two departed flowers,
Their virtues well adorn'd this earth,
And both exerted all their powers,
To tread the footsteps of their sire;
Whose fervid heart and soul of fire,
May well complain
In moving strain,
And sing the death-dirge of the twain,
To sooth the wounded bosom's pain;
Yet you will meet your boys again.
Cease, ELLIOTT, cease thy plaintive lyre,
Cease, cease thy melting tale of woe,
I cannot speak it moves me so;
Thy William's dirge I cannot read,
It makes my heart so sadly bleed.
'Tis past again, I will proceed:
Oft have I heard young Edwin speak
Of his dear brother's virtue bright,
And praise sweet Fanny's lovely cheek,
With deep affection's fond delight:
Dear Madam, tell to me, I pray,
Where your departed flowers lay;
Whom at your spotless breast you nourish'd,
And with a mother's fondness cherish'd,
Your treasures who so early perish'd;
And there sometimes, at silent eve,
I'll bend my way to mourn and grieve,
And not to weep for those who sleep
Beneath the cold dark sod;
But there to breathe a prayer and sigh,
That when the time comes I must die,
I may like them repose with God.
"HEAVEN'S will be done! My destined hour is come,
And I must glide into the silent tomb!
Yes, I must leave my lovely home so bright,
To tread the realms of Death's o'ershaded night;
For such I feel is righteous Heaven's decree;
SELINA, dearest, sweetest, must this be?
Am I so soon to part from love and thee?
A burning, beating pain is at my side,
And I must leave, ere long, my beauteous bride;
The flower of Liverpool, and Wentworth's pride;
This burning, pain ere long, will strike my head,
And I shall soon be numbered with the dead.
What dreams of love had this fond heart in store!
But all those dreams of earthly bliss are o'er,
And youthful MILTON soon will be no more.
My cherish'd dreams of bliss with thee are fled!
Oh! my poor breaking heart, my burning head;
And I must ne'er behold my pledge of love;
My unborn pledge—for One who reigns above,
Calls me away in this eventful hour,
And I must yield to his almighty power.
"SELINA, dearest, I did dream last night,
I saw my mother's lovely form in light,
Array'd in shining robes of glory bright;
She gazed upon me with intense delight,
And, Oh! such more than earthly bliss I felt,
That, struck with awe, before that form I knelt;
Upon her brow she wore a diadem,
Which shone resplendently with many a gem;
Around her waist was girt a zone of gold,
Studded with pearls most lovely to behold,
Whilst on this earth her worth and loveliness
An angel's tongue would only half express;
But in that sweet and dear delicious dream,
She did to me so more than lovely seem;
And there was of bright light so rich a stream,
It fill'd my heart with holy love and awe,
I ne'er before such light and beauty saw;
'Twas thus the heir of Wentworth meekly said,
Then sank in death his fair and honour'd head.
Ah! little could the young VICTORIA know,
Twice four brief weeks since, that such weighty woe,
So soon would fall upon the youthful head,
But royalty will weep for WENTWORTH dead,
And all the helpless whom his bounty fed,
Will weep with honest tears his early doom,
And deeply mourn around his honoured tomb.
SOFT music sounded sweetly through the halls
Of Wentworth, for it was the natal day
Of the young heir, so bright and promising;
And can it be, so rich and fair a spring
Should thus be snatch'd so suddenly away;
Yes, he must die, his gracious Saviour calls,
And virtue's darling son—into the grave now falls;
The sweet and beauteous bride was more than fair,
And on her noble husband's natal day,
She really look'd the loveliest lady there,
And danced most gracefully the night away;
How could the young, the beautiful then deem
That death so soon would blight her bower of love?
How could she think her bright-love wedded dream
Would only like a passing meteor prove;
Ills and afflictions are ordain'd above,
And He who wounds the breast can also heal,
And every pang, and every pain remove;
But still the tender heart must deeply feel,
With bitter throes and anguish'd agonies,
The sudden bursting of the best of ties.
Well I remember that auspicious day,
On which the goodly sun so brightly shone,
When in Fitzwilliam's halls, the great and gay
Danced most enchantingly the night away.
Oh! hark, I hear a wild unusual moan,
There is a softening sadness in the sound
Of that sweet music too, which few can feel,
Yet I can deeply feel it, whilst around
A dark solemnity, a funeral mound—
Is almost seen before my eyes to rise;
Whilst I distinctly hear convulsive sighs,
And shrieks of woe, which make my senses reel;—
It is a wailing for the youthful dead,
And every note of blissful joy has fled.
And is the generous heart, the honour'd head,
To perish from this lovely earth so soon,
Ere he has scarcely reach'd the useful noon
Of manhood, but such bright and goodly flowers,
When early wafted to the immortal bowers
Of bliss, a sweet and rich perfume they breathe;
A never-fading fresh green laurel'd wreath,
Whilst those who knew them on this lovely earth,
Vie which shall emulate their excellence and worth.
Then that fair, pure, etherial Spirit fled,
And noble Wentworth's virtuous heir is dead:
Yet long his worth will be remembered
By all who knew him on this bounteous earth,
For well he graced his high and noble birth.
———"Oh! pity human woe,
'Tis what the happy to the unhappy owe."
So sang the mighty bards in days of yore,
When kings and princes help'd the lowly poor,
When ladies spun, and nobles till'd the land;
To feed the poor, was then high heaven's command;
But is it so, in these degenerate days,
When Christian temples ring with prayer and praise,
And from lips of Christian pastors flow,
Fair truths that teach, to feel for want and woe?
But now no more, these pleasing truths we read,
The poor, are by our boasted laws decreed,
To writhe with endless pain and misery;
For the fair sacred streams of charity
Are now for ever and for ever dried
By human avarice—and human pride.
Fair charity, celestial maid, ascend
To heaven thy home—no more on man attend,
No more thy humanizing influence shed,
Cover no more the poor unshelter'd head,
Though famine rages with infernal stride,
Though cries for bread are heard, both far and wide,
Yet these are prosperous days, and we are free!
We are not now enchain'd in slavery;
If these are prosperous days—return again,
Ye golden days of plenty, war, and pain,
When men were sold at their proud lord's command,
As part and parcel of their master's land.
'Twere better far to live a tyrant's slave,
Than pine through want into an early grave.
In feudal times blest was the peasant's lot,
Then plenty smiled upon his humble cot;
He knew no throbs of agonizing pain,
No ghastly want with all its frightful train:
No wife's deep woe, no children's cries for bread,
Rived his sad heart with apprehensive dread.
No want of work, no pale consuming care,
Goaded him on to deeds of dark despair;
If bounteous heaven but crown'd his life with health;
He envied not the pamper'd sons of wealth;
For then his industry was sure to bring
The blessings of a fair and smiling spring.
How different now in these enlighten'd times,
Impell'd by want, onward he flies to crimes
Which once he view'd with horror and dismay,
Now desperation leads and points the way,
MUSE, let us sing of the Poor Law Bill,
That lump of oppression, fraud, and ill;
That mass of injustice and iniquity;
That new born monster of cruelty.
Let us tell how old Lucifer, cunning and sly,
Sat in St. S——n's, its inmates to ply,
With measures destructive, and unhallow'd things,
Such as angels of darkness bear on their wings.
An Angel of Love—and an Angel of Light,
From heaven came down with his features so bright
Impress'd with benignance and serenity,
Such as blest spirits are in eternity;
But still that benignance was intermix'd
With gloom—for he saw that the fate was fix'd,
Of the poor of old England, for they are destined,
To be ousted and massacred, murder'd and pined:
Old Lucifer cast his malignant eye,
On the celestial servant of heaven, so high;
IN every good and generous mind
There dwells a sympathy,
A love for all of human kind,
A heavenly charity.
The brave and virtuous e'er I bless,
And love with fervour strong;
But words of mine cannot express
What I feel for the Sons of Song.
Whene'er I read the rapturous lines
Of those who deeply think,
Sweet music in my spirit chimes,
And a chain of a golden link,—
Binds me with such blessedness
To the gifted form above,
That oh! I cannot half express
What I feel for those I love.
How sweet to dwell with pure delight;
How exquisite the thrill
Of those immortal pages bright,
'Tis a fount from a heavenly rill.
'Tis like a fair celestial choir,
Descended from above,
The feelings of our hearts to fire
With holy light and love.
Such feelings be for ever mine,
I would not wake from them;
No, sooner would I life resign;
Not for a diadem
Would I ever forget thee,
Sweet and sacred Poesy!
THE tuneful tongue has ceased to flow,
The feeling heart lies still and low;
And closed for ever is that eye,
That did so sweetly beautify
The heavens above and earth below
With such a deep poetic glow,
That winter stern oft seem'd a spring,
When touch'd with his imagining.
His bonny lark fast journeying
To heaven,—oh, hark! I hear her sing;
That gentle bright and lovely thing,
With song of love and soaring wing,
Has nearly reach'd yon glorious sky,—
Oh! would that I, too, there could fly,
From all my cares and all my woe;
But, gentle bird, in
can't be so.
Fair maids, and larks, and gallant men,
Most truly hast thou painted them;
And every hill and every glen,
And cot, and princely diadem,
In peace, may Ettrick's bard repose,
And there shall rise around his grave,
The fairest, sweetest flower that grows,
And mournfully the grass shall wave;
And little robinets shall sing
The death-dirge of the peasant king;
Young men and maidens too shall bring
Of choicest flowers a drooping wreath,
To honour him who lies beneath.
'TIS of the doom'd, ill-fated Amphitrite,
With trembling hands I now attempt to write;
Let deep calamity my Muse inspire,
And fill my heart with melancholy fire!
Ye spirits of the wild and stormy sea,
That fill the world with human misery,
Whilst thus I sing, let your proud waves be stay'd,
Oh! why for stern destruction were ye made?
Numbers will view these humble lines with scorn,
Numbers will cry, "Oh! heavens, must this be borne;
Can wretches such as these excite a sigh?
Their crimes too well deserved that they should die.
Could they expect the Lord would them befriend?
Justly they merited their dreadful end."
Stay, stay my friends, let lovely Mercy plead—
For sinners vile the Lord did intercede;
For those whose lives were stain'd with sin and guilt,
Ah! even for those our Saviour's blood was spilt—
Thus saying, that bright being vanished,
To realms of bliss, I hope, her spirit sped,
I look'd around, but there were nought but dead.
To Henin and Henrit, our thanks are due,
To you, brave men, and to your gallant crew,
For ever will be due, our warm esteem,
Oh! could I tell you in this humble theme,
How much your bold humanity we adore;
And your exalted philanthropy more;
You then would see, though English, we could feel,
For all our nation have not hearts of steel,
"THE wind blows loud, the snow is deep,
My child, thou must no longer sleep;
Though bitter is the piercing morn,
Yet thou must brave the pelting storm.
Thou must through ice and cold away;
Come, come, my love, thou must not stay;
So wake thee, love—it grieves me sore,
But we are miserably poor;
And thou must toil both hard and long,
Our lives of misery, to prolong,—
No work can I procure to do,
Or thou shouldst not be tortured; go—
Britons! inconsistent ever,
Tell us why ye cross the main,
The chains of Africa to sever,
Whilst slaves your native babes remain?
This enigma, pray reveal;
Tell us why ye cannot feel
For woes which make even stones to weep.
For griefs would make the dumb to speak.
The deadly spell of tyranny
Has blighted every generous thought,
Britons, up! awake! arise!
Those little mourning doves attend;—
Hark! hark! in thrilling symphonies,
They pray you will their cause befriend.
Oh! let them not appeal in vain—
Redress their wrongs, and heal their pain;—
Their little hands to you they raise—
Let mercy smile on future days;
Then heartless gloom, distrust, and fear,
Will from their natures disappear;
And in their soul-destroying place,
Will rise a frank and native grace;
For when the human mind is free,
What sweet harmonious symphony
In every look and action shine—
A dignity almost divine.
"OH vengeance, vengeance dire!"
Exclaim'd the more than frantic sire,
"Shall my rebellious son
Impiously usurp my throne?—
No, ALLAH frowns upon so black a deed;
My son, my son, Mustapha bold, must bleed."
Frenzied and fired with Syrian rue,
The Sultan cared not whom he slew;
His mad,—intoxicated brain,
Felt all the extremes of love, or hate, or pain;
FATHER! in this wild solitude of snow,
Before thy throne thy wretched suppliants bow;
Pity, oh God! the mourning captive's woe;
Father of Mercy! hear the exile's prayer;
Once more in Freedom's blessings let us share.
And Poland keep in thy protecting care!
Thou hast redeem'd us with a Saviour's love;
Look down upon us from thy throne above,
And Russia's slavish chains, great Lord, remove!
GREAT QUEEN! if I may read thy speaking eye,
In which is seen the stamp of royalty,
The dignified, yet sweet commanding grace,
Characteristic of a noble race,
I well may prophesy that thou wilt be
A gracious Queen to all the good and free;
THOSE silvery tones I hear no more,
Soft breathings of that happy shore,
Where angel seraphs meet;
Those soothing tones that sweetly thrill'd,
And my young heart with rapture fill'd,
No more my soul will greet.
No more the breathings of her lute,
When listening nature all was mute,
Entranced to bear the strain,—
Will charm the groves with soft delight,
Or wrap the soul in visions bright,
Or soothe a wretch's pain.
No more that knee will bend with mine,
Before our great Creator's shrine,
To offer up our payers;
No more that voice will thrill my breast,
Or warble all my pains to rest,
In sweet celestial airs.
That sweet and lovely sylph-like form,
I wish'd, ere long, to call my own,
I never more may see;
Oh! had I wings, I now would fly,
To where a cold Siberian sky
O'er-canopies the brave;
Thy guardian angel I would be,
And softly sing thy lullaby,
When furious night-winds rave.
How glorious is yon bright blue sky!
How beautiful yon sun!
Have Poland's sons a friend on high?
Yes, yes, a mighty ONE!
Who sees our woe, and knows our pain,
And pity's our distress;
His justice will avenge the slain,
And all our wrongs redress,
FRIENDS, we have left our own dear land,
For England's bright and happy shore,
We pray you aid a mournful band,
And heaven will smile on all your store.
Friends, we have left our father-land,
We scorn'd to stay at home to die,
Beneath a despot's iron brand
Of torturing woe and cruelty.
Friends, we have left our native land,
Our babes, our wives, our homes once dear,
For tyranny's fell withering brand
Had chill'd our homes with fraud and fear.
Oh! could we tell the pains we feel
For treasures we have left behind,
Oh! could we but the pangs reveal
With which remembrance mocks the mind.
But eloquence would surely fail
To tell our many wrongs and woes,
Were we to breathe the dreadful tale,
'Twould wring your breasts with bleeding throes.
Wives, parents, sons, and daughters dear,
In dungeons bound, or sent to pine
Away in cold Siberia drear,
Or suffering in some deathly mine.
Oh, God! what horrors in the thought,
Distraction rends the swelling breast;
But bravely we for freedom fought,
Let faithful history tell the rest.
Now as we look around we see,
Deeply impress'd in every eye,
The heart-felt look of sympathy,
The innate love of liberty.
We hail that bold determined tone,
Those looks of independence bright,
That seem to say the lost and lone
Shall not for ever mourn in night.
Britannia's sons will soon send forth
A powerful loud and thrilling cry,
Shall reach the despot of the north
In his strong hold of tyranny.
Soon, soon shall sorrowing Poland rise,
Her glory has not fled for ever;
Her wrongs have reach'd the pitying skies,
And every Russian heart shall quiver.
Until that time, we you implore
To save us by your generous aid;
And God himself will bless your store,
For charity can never fade.
It is a sweet and spotless gem,
A jewel ever pure and bright,
More rich than princely diadem,
It leads to everlasting light.
OH! that angelic and uplifted eye,
That look of meekness, penitence, and prayer,
Methinks that lovely portrait heaves a sigh,
So beauteous are the feelings pictured there.
There is express'd so pure a holiness,
So bright and undefinable a grace,
Thy folded hands and wild dishevell'd hair,
Are with a look so suppliantly exprest,
That fancy hears thy penitential prayer;
And sees the throbbing of thy anxious breast.
Methinks I see the bright seraphic smile,
Which beam'd on our Redeemer's face;
And now behold thy down-cast looks the while,
When He restored thee to his love and grace.
Oh! may that lovely maid who painted thee,
And graced thee with so heaven-inspired an art,
Be blest with pure, heartfelt felicity:
May sorrow ne'er assail her feeling heart.
Oh! may her life be one continued scene
Of bliss, and harmony, and pleasing joy;
Nor gloomy shade, or cloud come in between,
But happiness be hers without alloy.
DEAR land of the brave, how faded thy glory!
How dark are the clouds that surround thee with gloom!
How woful thy fate, how heart-rending thy story,
For the hand of oppression has seal'd up thy doom!
How galling the chains which so long have entwined thee,
Whose wild withering limbs have corroded thy soul,
And tyrants exult as still deeper they bind thee,
And triumph aloud with demoniac howl!
Oh! where are the heroes, whose high deeds of splendour,
So bravely ennobled the land of their birth,
Whose spirited cry was,—"Friends, never surrender!"
Whose valorous actions astonish the earth?
Those heroes repose in the tomb,—but for ever
Most sacred their memory shall be to the brave,
But is there not left one whose voice can awaken,
Whose touching appeal will strike through each heart,
And arouse, to avenge us, each slumbering nation,
And a bright ray of hope to poor Poland impart?
Oh! yes, there's a chief left, the gallant Schrynechi,
Whose brave soul was never debased by a fear,
The bright star of freedom he'll raise at Varsovie,
And the day of redemption for Poland draws near.
Come, draw out your sabres, and march on to glory,
The sheaths throw away as ye hie to the field,
And teach your fell tyrants this unwelcome story,
That ye know how to die, but ye know not to yield.
WHERE now are England's hardy sons?
Where now her poor but virtuous daughters?
Destruction like the Siroc comes,
Now fearfully stern famine slaughters;
Look how they fall both ripe and fast,
Before this new wild withering blast.
Look where the bloated sons of pride
Are wallowing in high luxury,
They now our burning woes deride,
Mark, how they shout and laugh with glee,
"Curse the hated poor," they cry,
"Let the soul-less wretches die."
Old England's poor must hence be fed
With horse beans, garbage, and such stuff,
For long of good and wholesome bread,
And meat, they've had more than enough;
Yes, we will make the wretches groan
With woes and wrongs, till now unknown;—
So we economise, and save,
What care we for fell misery?
But those will be reduced at last,
To that forlorn and wretched state,
When shivering from the bitter blast,
No clothes, no food, they'll curse their fate,
Yet will their iron chains press down
So firmly that we need but frown.
But hark! a retributive crash
Comes thundering from afar,
More wildly than the torrent's dash,
It sets old England's star!
Ye mockers of humanity,
Where then, where then, will ye flee?