And adjurations of the God in Heaven), Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch, Of our fierce doings! Spare us yet awhile, Father and God! O! spare us yet awhile! Oh! let not English women drag their flight Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes, Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday On which our vice and wretchedness were tagg'd Poor drudges of chastising Providence, Dote with a mad idolatry; and all Such have I been deem'd But, O dear Britain! O my Mother Isle ! A husband, and a father! who revere All bonds of natural love, and find them all O native Britain! O my Mother Isle ! How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills, All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, Laugh'd at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all And beauteous island! thou hast been Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast I have told, O Britons! O my brethren! I have told sole my And most magnificent temple, in the which I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, Loving the God that made me! May my fears, My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend, Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human-kind. Nether Stowey, April 28th, 1798. FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. A WAR ECLOGUE. The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendée. FAMINE is discovered lying on the ground; to her enter FIRE and SLAUGHTER. FAMINE. SISTERS! sisters! who sent you here? Letters four do form his name. FAMINE. Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled, To frighten the wolf and carrion crow, SLAUGHTER (to FIRE). I will whisper it in her ear. FIRE. No! no! no! Spirits hear what spirits tell: Myself, I named him once below, Clapp'd their hands and danced for glee. But laugh'd to hear Hell's burning rafters Unwillingly re-echo laughters! No! no! no! Spirits hear what spirits tell! "Twill make a holiday in Hell! FAMINE. Whisper it, sister! so and so! In a dark hint, soft and slow. SLAUGHTER. Letters four do form his nameAnd who sent you? FAMINE. The same! the same! Letters four do form his name. FIRE. Sisters! I from Ireland came! I triumph'd o'er the setting sun! I flung back my head and I held my sides, It was so rare a piece of fun To see the swelter'd cattle run With uncouth gallop through the night, By the light of his own blazing cot The house-stream met the flame and hiss'd, BOTH. Till the cup of rage o'erbrim: SLAUGHTER. They shall tear him limb from limb! FIRE. O thankless beldames and untrue! An eight years' work?-Away! away! Cling to him everlastingly. 1796. RECANTATION ILLUSTRATED IN THE STORY OF THE MAD OX. An Ox, long fed with musty hay, And work'd with yoke and chain, Was turn'd out on an April day, The grass was fine, the sun was bright, The Ox was glad, as well he might, "Stop, neighbors! stop! why these alarms? The Ox is only glad." But still they pour from cots and farmsHalloo! the parish is up in arms (A hoaring hunt has always charms), Halloo! the Ox is mad. The frighted beast scamper'd about, Stop, neighbors, stop!" aloud did call But all at once on him they fall, Ah, hapless sage! his ears they stun, And curse him o'er and o'er"You bloody-minded dog!" (cries one,) To slit your windpipe were good fun'Od bl-you for an impious* son Of a Presbyterian w-re! * One of the many fine words which the most uneducated had about this time a constant opportunity of acquiring from the sermons in the pulpit, and the proclamations on the corners. "You'd have him gore the parish-priest, And run against the altar You Fiend!"-The sage his warnings ceased, And North, and South, and West, and East, Halloo! they follow the poor beast, Mat, Dick, Tom, Bob, and Walter. Old Lewis, 't was his evil day, Stood trembling in his shoes; The Ox was his-what could he say ? His legs were stiffen'd with dismay, The Ox ran o'er him 'mid the fray, And gave him his death's bruise. The frighted beast ran on-but here, The frighted beast ran through the town, Bull-dog, Parson, Shopman, Clown, Should you a rat to madness tease, Why even a rat might plague you: There's no philosopher but sees That rage and fear are one diseaseThough that may burn and this may freeze, They're both alike the ague. And so this Ox, in frantic mood, Faced round like any BullThe mob turn'd tail, and he pursued, Till they with fright and fear were stew'd, And not a chick of all this brood But had his belly-full. Old Nick's astride the beast, 't'is clear- But all agree he'd disappear, Achilles was a warrior fleet, The Trojans he could worryOur parson too was swift of feet, But show'd it chiefly in retreat! The victor Ox scour'd down the street, The mob fled hurry-skurry. Through gardens, lanes, and fields new-plow'd, That had more wrath than courage. † According to the superstition of the West Countries, if you meet the Devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, or you may cause him instantly to disappear by spitting over his horns. 28 INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE. The following Poem is intended as the introduction to a somewhat longer one. The use of the old Ballad word Ladie for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity [as Camden says] will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties explode around us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love: and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But, alas! explosion has succeeded explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear new; and it is possible that now even a simple story, wholly uninspired with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hubbub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinct ly audible. S. T. C. Dec. 21, 1799. O LEAVE the lily on its stem; O leave the rose upon the spray; O leave the elder bloom, fair maids! And listen to my lay. A cypress and a myrtle-bough This morn around my harp you twined, Because it fashion'd mournfully Its murmurs in the wind. And now a Tale of Love and Woe, A woful Tale of Love I sing ; Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs And trembles on the string. But most, my own dear Genevieve, It sighs and trembles most for thee! O come, and hear what cruel wrongs Befell the Dark Ladie. Few Sorrows hath she of her own, My hope, my joy, my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. All thoughts, all passions, all delights, All are but ministers of Love, Oh! ever in my waking dreams, The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She lean'd against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listen'd to my harp, Amid the ling'ring light. I play'd a sad and doleful air, I sang an old and moving storyAn old rude song, that fitted well That ruin wild and hoary. She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And how for ten long years he woo'd The Ladie of the Land: I told her how he pined: and ah! She listen'd with a flitting blush; But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed this bold and lonely Knight, And how he roam'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day or night; And how he cross'd the woodman's paths, Through briers and swampy mosses beat; How boughs rebounding scourged his limbs, And low stubs gored his feet; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, There came and look'd him in the face And how, unknowing what he did, He leapt amid a lawless band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Ladie of the Land! And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; And how she tended him in vain— And meekly strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain: And how she nursed him in a cave; His dying words-but when I reach'd All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guiltless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve; And hopes and fears that kindle hope, Subdued and cherish'd long! She wept with pity and delight, She blush'd with love and maiden-shame; I saw her bosom heave and swell, I could not choose but love to see I saw a cloud of palest hue, Onward to the moon it pass'd; Till it reach'd the moon at last: And with such joy I find my Lewti: And even so my pale wan cheek Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind, If Lewti never will be kind. |