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"To bid the memory of the great and good live for ever--to say to the
name of Genius, 'ESTO PERPETUUM'--is the very grandest fiat that human
power can issue; nor does man ever seem more deserving of immortality
himself, than when, as far as in him lies, he thus worthily confers it upon
others."--
Speech of Mr Moore
at the Freemasons' Tavern, London, 5th
June,
1819, in order to promote a Subscription for a Monument to Burns
at Edinburgh.
PRINTED BY MACPHERSON & SYME,
31 EAST ROSE LANE.
I WAS led in early life to admire the writings of Miss Blamire, and the first task I imposed on myself to perform was to collect them. Being born in India, and my father belonging to the Indian Army, the imagery and sentiment contained in "The Nabob," perpetually occupied my mind as I brooded over the fond hope
of his revisiting his native land; in this I was doomed to disappointment;--not so however in the eventual
accomplishment of my early research, though that was long deferred. Many years passed away, and I found myself in possession of only the three lyrics by which she is so generally known, "The Nabob," "What ails this heart o' mine," and "The Chelsea Pensioners." The next thing which fell in my way, was what may be entitled "The Carrier Pigeon," commencing thus:
"Why tarries my love ?
Magazine"
for 1805, p. 336
Ah ! where does he rove ?
My love is long absent from me."
This little lyric, which will be found in the Appendix, I copied from "The Mason's Magazine," if my memory serves me rightly, for I have no note of the exact title of the work, nor of the year in which it was published;
it is there said however to be by Miss Blamire. A
considerable while afterwards I found it in the
"Scots
Page x
My kind and amiable friend Miss Russell of Knottyholm, Canobie, daughter of Dr Russell, author of "Ancient and Modern Europe," in one of her excursions to Carlisle learned from her friend Mrs Lawrie, that the late Mr Robert Anderson, the ingenious author of "Cumberland Ballads," was in possession of many of Miss Blamire's writings; she accordingly took the trouble to procure me his address, and I wrote to him twice concerning them, but received no answer. However, in August 1829, I went into Cumberland for the express purpose of pursuing my researches, and fortunately obtained an interview with Mr Anderson . He then informed me he was in possession of fifteen songs and one poem of the Poetess, but he happened not to have them with him at that time, which I much regretted: he had however a short memoir of her, composed several years before, but which he said her relatives would not allow him to publish. This memoir he was kind enough to read to me, and allowed me to take some notes and dates; but that it was not published we need not very much deplore, as I find from my notes he had not even her Christian name correctly, having called her Louisa, and his facts and observations were but few and unimportant. He was in his dotage, poor old man, and whatever powers his mind might have originally possessed were entirely
gone; he was still pleasing and amiable, and I congratulated myself with having met the author of "The Cumberland Ballads," even though in decay. He died at Carlisle, 26th September, 1833, aged sixty-three, where a monument is erected to his memory in the cathedral. After being put in possession of Miss Blamire's MSS. I found that Anderson had printed five, if not six, of her songs in the edition of his "Ballads" published at Wigton in 1808, with her name only attached to one of them; the sixth, entitled "Gobbleston Parish," bears such internal evidence of Miss Blamire's style, that I have not scrupled to insert it in this collection of her works. The way in which Anderson has delineated the manners and customs of his countrymen, shows him to have been a keen and an acute observer of human actions and feelings; and the style in which he has generally depicted these is that of a true poet. That he is less known, is solely owing to his having written in a provincial dialect; though it must be confessed that his compositions in English seldom reach mediocrity,--his Ballads however can never be forgotten.
In July 1833 I made another excursion to Carlisle, and my perseverance this time was crowned with considerable success. I had the good fortune to be introduced to the late Miss Thompson ; and when that worthy lady learned the purpose of my visit, she instantly, and with the utmost frankness, allowed me to take away her common-place book, in which were fourteen pieces of Miss Blamire's, eleven of which I had never before seen. This seems to have been the little hoard, copies
of which Anderson was in possession of; for in it were thirteen songs and one poem, only one short of the number he said he possessed.
Still pursuing my inquiries whenever and wherever there appeared to be a chance of obtaining any information, in 1835 I had the happiness of becoming acquainted with my excellent and talented friend Henry Lonsdale, Esq. M.D., Edinburgh, a native of Carlisle, who was then pursuing his medical studies at our University. Dr Lonsdale entered into my views with the ardour of an enthusiast; and it is to him that I am indebted for all my success. Having obtained his degree of Doctor in Medicine, he went to pursue his profession for a short time at Raughton-Head, near Thackwood, where he made the valuable acquaintance of Miss Jane Christian Blamire, niece of the Poetess, who showed him her aunt's MSS.; after which he was not long in informing me of the treasure he had found; and thus very agreeably confirmed an opinion I had long entertained, that one who had written so well must have written a great deal more than what had hitherto met my sight, or what was generally known to the world. Ultimately Dr Lonsdale obtained the consent of Miss Blamire and her excellent brother William Blamire, Esquire, of Thackwood, chief Tithe Commissioner, that the MSS. should be placed in our hands preparatively to publication; and my friend and myself feel much indebted to the various members of the Poetess's family at Thackwood, Carlisle, and Newcastle, for the facilities they have afforded us in the prosecution
of our labours. From a notice which appeared in the Carlisle Journal concerning the recovery of the MSS., and the intention of presenting them to the world, Miss Susanna Brown of Newcastle, niece of the Poetess, kindly and promptly gave us the use of her mother's papers, among which were many MSS. in the author's handwriting. It was delightful to see the affectionate manner in which they had been preserved and valued, many of them being indorsed, "My dear sister Susan's MSS.," "My dear sister's poetry." These have been of important service to us.
Our acknowledgments are also due to Mrs Lowthian of Kellington, and to Miss Graham of Carlisle, daughter of the late venerable Rector of Arthuret, for the very liberal way in which we have been favoured with the use of the MSS., and copies of Miss Blamire's writings in their possession, which have forwarded our labours in no inconsiderable degree.
It is with extreme regret that, notwithstanding all my diligence, I have been able to glean so few materials for illustrating the life and writings of Miss Susanna Blamire. All her kindred now living were children at the period of their accomplished relative's death, and therefore remember little of her; those still alive, resident near Thackwood and the Oaks, of an age contemporary with the Poetess, are, from circumstances and situation, but little fitted to appreciate her talents; and all concerning her with which their memories are stored is, that she was a fine, lively young lass. Had my good fortune but made me acquainted
with the late worthy Mrs Blamire
of Thackwood,
whose clear memory and vigorous understanding remained entire down to the date of her death, I should
have been put in possession of much relative to her sister,
which is now irretrievably lost. Mrs Brown
of Newcastle could also have furnished me with much valuable
information, and she too is gone; for, from the notes
in her MSS., and transcriptions of her sister's poetry,
I have been induced to think that she had at one time
meditated their publication. Mrs Colonel Graham
of
Gartmore, to whom her sister Susan left by will the
principal part of her effects, would also have been of great service to me; but she also is dead. The Misses
Graham
of Gartmore, to whom several of the poems are
addressed (especially one, exceedingly interesting as
descriptive of herself), I have been unfortunate enough
not to reach, and know not if they are still alive. A
few years more, and the little which has been gathered
together would have perished; and the name of her
whom every one loved and admired, whom every one
delighted to see and associate with, would only have been
known in connexion with her incomparable "Nabob"
and "What ails this heart o' mine."
EDINBURGH, 5 ARCHIBALD PLACE,
May
, 1842.
THE Life of Miss Blamire, I feel assured, would have formed an instructive and interesting portion of biography, had it been possible to procure its details with that fulness and accuracy which are indispensable to the purposes of truth, and those minuter lights and shades which enter into the composition of every human character. Much of this however will be supplied by her writings; for she wrote not for the world, but because it gave her pleasure, and to amuse a friend; and sometimes, it would appear, to give utterance to feelings that could not otherwise be controlled. The few compositions known to be hers, and some others now for the first time claimed in her name, have stood the test of public opinion for upwards of fifty years; have been taught us in our infancy; and have taken root in our memories like the holier scenes and attachments of our
juvenile days. They spoke to our young hearts in the language of truth and of nature, and aided in implanting better feelings there; and it cannot be wondered at that they gained our early regard, nor, that they now in maturer age, to use her own beautiful phraseology, "moan in our ears" like voices long since heard, and which can never be forgotten. Of a being so amiable, and with such powers, who would not be desirous of possessing the fullest information ! yet I grieve to say that I have but a few scanty facts, obtained by Dr Lonsdale from the family, and collected by myself in various quarters, to gratify so laudable a curiosity. Miss Susanna Blamire was the youngest child, by his first marriage, of William Blamire, Esquire, of the Oaks, and Isabella Simpson, daughter of George Simpson, Esquire, of Thackwood, and Miss Richmond of High Head Castle, in the county of Cumberland. She was born at Cardew Hall, about two miles west of the Oaks, and six from Carlisle, between the hours of eleven and twelve in the morning of the 12th of January, 1747.
The Poetess's father was a fine specimen of the open-hearted English yeoman of his period, who lived on his estate, and freely enjoyed the hospitalities which a handsome independence placed within his reach. He died on the 7th of June, 1758, in the fifty-sixth year of
his age. By his first wife he had two sons and two daughters. William, his eldest son, was born on the 11th November, 1740, and died on the 29th January, 1814. He studied physic, and afterwards entered the Royal Navy as a surgeon; letters still in the possession of the family, bear ample evidence of the high regard in which he was held by men of naval eminence. Having remained in the service for a number of years, he at length retired, and took up his residence at the Oaks, where he cheerfully gave his valuable advice and assistance gratuitously to the poor, and to any who thought fit to consult him. It would be doing manifest injustice to his memory to withhold, that Lord Vernon travelled from London to Cumberland to avail himself of his professional abilities, so highly were they held. "A more temperate man," says Dr Lonsdale, "never lived; and as a father, few, if any, excelled Dr Blamire, as he was generally called, for kindness of heart and warmth of affection." In 1786 he married Miss Jane Christian of Ewanrigg Hall, by whom he had one son, the present William Blamire, Esquire, of Thackwood, chief Tithe Commissioner--who represented East Cumberland in the first Reformed Parliament--and three daughters. The second was named Richmond, the father of the Misses Blamire of Carlisle. The eldest daughter was called Sarah ; she married Colonel Graham of Gart-
more. The youngest daughter was Susanna, the subject of this memoir.
At the tender age of seven our Poetess had the sad misfortune to lose her mother. Mrs Blamire was born in 1709, and died in June, 1754. Her health was never robust, and she might perhaps have imparted some of the infirmities of her constitution to her talented daughter, who early betrayed symptoms of delicate health. Be this as it may, her amiable manners, her charitable disposition, and the kind concern she ever manifested towards the poor, were largely inherited by her children; and every one who had the pleasure of her acquaintance long deplored so dear a friend, so kind a benefactress.
Some time afterwards, Mr Blamire married Miss Bridget Ritson, who bore him a daughter, christened Bridget, and who at a future period married a gentleman of the name of Brown, a lawyer in Newcastle-on-Tyne. Mrs Brown died in 1832, leaving a family.
In the vocabulary of any language there is no word which conveys so thrilling an emotion as that of mother. Few there are that can supply a mother's place; I had almost said none. Strangers think that by attention to our ordinary wants and wishes, food and clothing, that they have to do is done. Far otherwise is it with the fond parent. Her yearning thoughts, sleeping or
awake, are ever with her offspring; all her care is for their health and happiness. In sickness or in sorrow, where can we pillow our head so softly as in a mother's arms ? and when success in life wafts us along its smooth current, where arises so holy a joy as that in a mother's heart ? Can there anywhere be found such a total negation of self, or that perpetual welling of affection, save in a mother's breast ? In her angriest voice we discover no asperity; we even rush to those arms which threaten us with chastisement: and how delicious is her approbation ! the proudest realizations of after-life afford no charm equal to the bland smile we perceive irradiating a mother's honest face. O ! narrow must that heart be which has not a corner for the memory of a mother, however dear the ties he may have formed in future years.1
Miss Blamire however was singularly fortunate in finding one to watch over her infancy; for, after the death of her mother, she was removed to the care of her aunt Mrs Simpson, the wife of her mother's brother; whose maiden name was Stevenson, of Kettleside, Cumberland; a lady possessed of considerable property. She was born in 1702, and died in April, 1785; her husband had died in 1745. Having no family, she besought Mr Blamire, on his second marriage, to allow her to take the charge of his children--for there is ever a distrust of stepmothers--and they were accordingly removed from the Oaks to Thackwood. She was a woman of a very active mind, and, like many of those notable housewives--a bygone race--neither disdained, nor deemed it unbecoming her station in life, to take the entire management of her household. The excellent arrangement of her domestic affairs increased her means of usefulness, ample as her fortune was, for her economy was not parsimony; and she knew well that that prudence which prevents waste adds to our power of doing good. It is not unreasonable to conclude, that
it was from the exhibition of such activity and discipline her niece obtained the touching and forcible sentiment conveyed in the following verse:
"The saddest sight the pitying eyes receive,
Is to see wretchedness with nought to give."
The force of her character procured her respect from every one who knew her, and her warm-hearted benevolence secured it. Her charities were constant and liberal; and the following anecdote is related how she relieved the more important and urgent cases of distress which solicited her attention. She kept her ready money--chiefly gold--in a basin which stood on a table in her parlour; and whoever came to ask her assistance received an ample supply to relieve their wants, so long as the basin contained any of its precious store. Of course, we must suppose that this liberality was always exerted with due discrimination.
Under the eye of this vigilant and kind-hearted relative did Susanna, accompanied with her sister and her brothers, attend the village school of Raughton-Head, distant about a mile from Thackwood. Here boys and girls were taught reading, writing, and arithmetic; and if the amount of information obtained was small, it was obtained at as small a charge; for Dr Lonsdale was informed by one of her schoolfellows, that the quarter's wages did not exceed a shilling. There is every reason
to believe that this was the only school the Poetess attended; no such thing being known as boarding-schools in those days for the education of young ladies, at least in those parts. But after the difficulties of reading, writing, and arithmetic had been conquered-- and she wrote a clear bold hand--she must have acquired at home a considerable relish for reading, as her aunt spent much of her leisure in the perusal of books; and although prevented from any thing like close application or systematic study, by the frivolity of youth and the extraordinary buoyancy of her spirits, yet a mind constituted like hers, apart from all regular training, would be constantly picking up knowledge from observation and reflection.
In 1767 Susanna's sister Sarah married Colonel Graham of Gartmore, who belonged to the 42d Regiment. She died in 1798, the Colonel in 1773; they had been married for only about six years, and had no family. Mrs Graham was a lady of elegant manners, and possessed of the most amiable dispositions; she is said to have been one of the handsomest women in Cumberland. The sisters had the most unbounded affection for each other. In her will, written with her own hand, which is dated 25th March, 1786, the Poetess, after giving instructions concerning her interment, makes the following touching appeal to her sister to moderate
her grief, should she survive her: "Whenever this awful event shall take place, I humbly trust in the mercies of Almighty God, that I shall be received into everlasting happiness; and that my dear sister Græme will not suffer her grief to become excessive for the loss of one whose every hour she was the means of rendering easy, happy, and delightful."
Susanna, at the time of her sister's marriage, was in her twentieth year. She had a graceful form, somewhat above the middle size, and a countenance--though slightly marked with the smallpox--beaming with good nature; her dark eyes sparkled with animation, and won every heart at the first introduction. She was called by her affectionate countrymen "a bonny and varra lish young lass," which may be interpreted as meaning a beautiful and very lively young girl. Her affability and total freedom from affectation, put to flight that reserve which her presence was apt to create in the minds of her humbler associates; for they quickly perceived she really wished them happiness, and aided in promoting it by every effort in her power. She freely mingled in their social parties, called merry neets in Cumberland; and by her graceful figure, elegant dancing, and kind-hearted gayety, gave a zest to the entertainments, which without her presence would have been wanting. She has been described to me as enjoying
herself greatly on these occasions; marking with a keen eye the various shades of character around her, and the whole proceedings with intense interest. Before the hilarity of the evening had melted the restraint usual at the commencement of such parties, I have been told she would relish the bashful approaches of the young villager as he, with much hesitation, made his homely bow, and begged she would honour him with her presence at the dance; that she would start up with hearty good-will, spring round the room, and thus dispel those timid fears which at first somewhat marred the free expression of delight, or the loud laugh of enjoyment. How much she was the cynosure of those parties, as will be afterwards shown she was equally so in those of a higher grade, may be gathered from the following anecdote, which was told me by the late Miss Thompson of Carlisle. A worthy farmer, who almost worshipped the Poetess, about two weeks after her death came to Miss Rowlands, a relation of Miss Binmire, for the sole purpose of having some conversation concerning Miss Sukey, as she was fondly and familiarly called by her neighbours and the people in the district, and for mutually bemoaning their loss. Miss Rowlands excused herself on the plea that the affliction was so recent, she could not summon fortitude sufficient to converse on the subject, and entreated him to call on
some future day. "Well, well," said the kind-hearted farmer, as he was taking his departure, "I could find neither rest nor comfort till I called on you to have some talk about her: the merry-neets will not now be worth going to since she is no more !" So vividly does the memory of worth and of genius dwell on our minds, and so fondly do we regard their most trivial actions.
From whatever source her passion for poetry arose it would now be vain to inquire; but we find that, so early as in 1766, when only in her nineteenth year, her stanzas "Written in a churchyard" betoken no inconsiderable familiarity with poetical numbers, and afford conclusive evidence that she must have been in the habit of composing poetry at some anterior date. Having been thus early "smit with the love of literature and sacred song," her sister's marriage with Colonel Graham, and their consequent residence at Gartmore, whither Susanna accompanied them, could not fail in having a material influence over her poetical pursuits. On whatever themes she had exercised her abilities before this period, we cannot now discover, as but few of her writings have any dates; yet from the few notes--I wish they had been more--appended to the transcript of her poetry by her sister Mrs Brown, we find that several of the subjects which she has woven into verse were obtained in Scotland. Great Britain being at that
period engaged in active warfare, every village furnished its quota of soldiers and sailors, and every cottage could tell of some relative who had stood "i' the imminent deadly breach:" thus we find that "The Soldier's Return" was a real incident which happened in the Highlands; it is entitled in Mrs Brown 's copy "The old Chelsea Pensioner's Return," but I have retained the title which the authoress herself has given it in a MS. written in her own hand. Then, in "Old Harry's Return," as Mrs Brown informs us, this was one Harry Macdowal, evidently a Scottish subject too: she also tells us that that exquisite ballad "The Nabob" was also founded on fact; and although it is not so stated, yet we cannot help thinking that, from the imagery and sentiment which pervade it, it must have been composed on some Scottish incident also. Among Mrs Brown 's MSS. in the handwriting of her sister, I found a poem on the ruins of the Priory of Inch-mahome, situate on the largest of the islands in the Lake of Menteath, in Stirlingshire. There is considerable interest attached to this spot, as having been the residence of Mary Queen of Scots for about two years, when only four years of age, previously to her being sent to France. The poem, consisting of a good number of stanzas, is written upon an old letter, now much decayed; and is evidently a first draft, so interlined and defaced as to
defy transcription, else I should have copied it and inserted it among her works;--perhaps there may yet be a fair and correct copy of it in existence.
Along with her sister and the Colonel Miss Blamire visited London, and was with them in Ireland. Miss Stubbs mentioned to me that she heard her relate, that when in the latter place, and sleeping in an old castle, in an apartment which had the reputation of being haunted, during the middle of the night her courage was put to a considerable trial. She was roused out of her sleep by feeling her bed evidently upheaved; and hearing heavy steps on the floor, she started from her couch, and ran to the head of the stair to awaken the family--there being no bells in the rooms in those days --when a large Newfoundland dog, that had been in the habit of taking up its abode here, rushed past her, and thus revealed the cause of her alarm. This betokened considerable courage in a being so young and so sensitive, whose ardent imagination was but too apt to people with a double portion of hobgoblins a domicile which was said to be their favourite rendezvous.
Whether the Mr Graham of Gartmore, author of the song entitled "O tell me how to woo thee," was the father of the Colonel, or how they stood related to each other, I have not been able to ascertain; but we may readily conclude that Miss Blamire was aware that
it was written by some relative of the family; and we find that the Misses Graham fostered her love for poetry, from the circumstance of her having addressed them in rhyme, which she scarcely would have done had they not been admirers of verse. Whether her acquaintance with Scottish poetry commenced before her visit to Scotland, cannot now be ascertained; but we find she was well acquainted with the writings of Ramsay, by the direct allusion she makes in one of her songs to a passage in "The Gentle Shepherd :" if she had perused Ramsay and other Scottish writers before her visit to Gartmore, it is natural to suppose she would have her admiration of them increased by her residence in Scotland. We have a clear proof, however, that she was conversant, even at this period of her life, with the writings of Milton, Collins, Gray, and Prior, and doubtless with many others of the English classics; but it is curious to remark, we do not find one solitary allusion to the works of Burns, which she unquestionably would have relished much and appreciated highly. How far the Poetess's passion for literature was encouraged by Mrs Graham I have not discovered, but am disposed to think, from the love they bore each other, that she would indulge her in every thing that tended to promote her happiness and give her pleasure. From her aunt, and her brother the surgeon, she obtained no counte-
nance; her aunt, though an excellent being in every
point of view, was too much a matter of fact woman
to see any virtue in stringing verses together, and used
to admonish her niece against the unprofitable occupation of writing poetry; and her brother, from having
been brought up in the active duties of the royal navy,
and leading even a laborious life by the benevolent exercise of his profession among the poor around him, could
also see no enjoyment in the indulgence of the pleasures
of imagination. Yet, had she met with any encouragement from her family to follow her favourite pursuit,
we may readily conceive what a stimulus such would
have given her mind, and how beneficially it would
have operated upon it; so kind a heart and so lively
a fancy could never be indifferent either to praise or
blame;--she even has said with infantine simplicity,
"For me, I own, that hope of praise can charm
This little heart, and all its feelings warm."
Between her twentieth and thirtieth year, before her bodily infirmities pressed hard upon her, and somewhat damped the ardour of her spirits, I could fancy her to have been like one of those radiant beings whose joyousness of heart--whose amiable and innocent gayety-- was more akin to heaven than to earth. Wherever she went she diffused joy and happiness around her; the
old loved her as their own, and the young joined to their admiration a feeling of a more tender sentiment. We have seen how much she was the delight of the humbler classes, how keenly and cordially she entered into the spirit of their social parties; but she was not the less beloved by those who moved in the world of fashion. When on a visit to her aunt Mrs Fell, whose husband was curate of Chillingham, the noble family of Tankerville was residing at Chillingham Castle, and Miss Blamire soon became acquainted with the Earl and his family. They quickly discovered her superiority of mind, and loved as much as they admired her; and, to please the Earl, who was much amused with the Cumberland dialect, she wrote at his request that clever dialogue commencing "Wey, Ned, man ! thou luiks sae down-hearted." The lady Francis Isabella felt such a regard for her, that she petitioned aunt Simpson to allow Miss Susanna to remain constantly with them, declaring that they could not live without her; this the worthy aunt could not comprehend, for we find her writing to her brother the surgeon, "how unaccountable it was that the family should take such an interest in her," though admitting at the same time "that Susan was a fine girl."
Her aunt Mrs Simpson died in 1785, at the advanced age of eighty-three; and in 1786 her brother the sur-
geon married Miss Jane Christian, of Ewanrigg Hall, Cumberland, by whom he had one son, the present proprietor of Thackwood, and three daughters. Mrs Blamire of Thackwood was born 5th August, 1749, and died 15th March, 1837, at the venerable age of eighty-eight, having survived her husband twenty-three years. She was a well-educated lady, of varied accomplishments, and of the most engaging and amiable manners; even down to the day of her death she possessed a clear and vigorous understanding. The Poetess and she had been acquainted previously to her marriage with her brother, and the friendship then formed was strengthened by the union. This happy event, I am disposed to think, must have had the most favourable effect on the mind of Miss Blamire; for she must have felt the deficiencies of her own education, and consequently would quickly avail herself of the superior mental training of her sister, and, by her affection for her, become an apt scholar to all her instructions. That the one was as ready to receive as the other to impart advice, may readily be believed; and the strength of the attachment which Miss Susanna had for her sister-in-law may be gathered from the fact, that "the very accomplished woman" to whom "The Bower of Elegance" is addressed, was Mrs Blamire, after she had become the mother of her brother's children. In that
beautiful poem the Poetess has done justice to her sister, and has drawn her character at page 63 under the semblance of the nymph Elegance, in a few felicitous touches, and farther on, has illustrated her varied accomplishments. The scene of the children mimicking the manners of their seniors is true to life; and our Poetess has not only given us a fine example of her powers of observation and force of delineation, but also of that sterling good sense--characteristic of all her compositions--which never lost sight of the moral of her song.
To her other accomplishments Miss Blamire added those of painting and music; her sketches display no inconsiderable excellence; and her proficiency in music is attested by the fact, that Dr Courrier --a foreigner at that time well known in the musical world of London-- was so pleased with her performance, that he presented her with a psaltery. The guitar--still in the possession of the family at Thackwood--was her favourite instrument, and she usually carried it with her to the woods, and played the air while she was composing her songs. Her passion for dancing was so extreme, that if, when riding along the public road, she happened to meet with an itinerant musician, she would sometimes dismount from her pony, ask him to strike up a jig or a hornpipe, whilst she footed it away upon the grass.
Her brother the surgeon used to remark, that the most vivacious youths of his day were dull and phlegmatic in comparison with his lively sister.
At that period the wealthier families repaired to Carlisle during the winter months. Here her numerous and agreeable qualities of head and heart procured her a ready admittance into every family circle. Among the most distinguished of the acquaintance she here made was Miss Gilpin, sister to Sir Joseph Gilpin, a surgeon of the royal navy, who lately died at Bath. The Gilpins are descendants of Bernard Gilpin, the Apostle of the North, and formerly lived at Scaleby Castle. This lady survived Miss Blamire some years, but unfortunately I have not been able to procure the date of her death, or any particulars of her life. That she was of a congenial spirit, and of kindred pursuits, is manifest from her graphic picture entitled "The Village Club," printed in the appendix, and her co-operation with Miss Blamire in the composition of "The Cumberland Scold." That they were much together, and loved one another dearly, may readily be believed. They not only lived together under the same roof, Miss Gilpin occupying the parlour on the ground-floor, and Miss Blamire the room above, in the lodgings of the Misses Forester ; (the house is still standing, and is No. 14
Finkle Street, now tenanted by Mrs Cartmell ;) but they also used to resort together to Gilsland Spa in the summer, for the benefit of their health. It was at this place that my worthy friend the late Mrs Russell of Knottyholm, Canobie, widow of Dr Russell, the historian already mentioned, met with Miss Blamire near the close of her life. She had then lost much of that vivacity which was so characteristic of her earlier years, but none of that amiability of which she was ever possessed; she was pensive, but not melancholy, and amused herself by playing on the flageolet, which Mrs Russell said she did exceedingly sweetly.
Even so early as her twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth year--if the two epistles to her friends at Gartmore were written about the same date--we find her playfully complaining of rheumatism, and exclaiming, "O girls ! these aches play me sad tricks." And in her thirty-seventh year, in her elegant "Call to Hope," written after a long illness when not expecting to recover, she seems to have been afflicted with something like asthma; the whole of the paragraph commencing "Then dost thou fly me ?--Goddess, stay !" cannot be read but with interest. From the frequent allusions to the state of her health to be
found in her writings, we gather that her constitution was never robust; but her good sense would not allow her to complain and injure the feelings of her friends; she was always patient--always thankful for all their attention and care. Under that easy gayety with which she at all times mingled in society, was concealed a thoughtful mind, which glanced with no superficial gaze at whatever was going on around her. Drs Harrington and Blamire of Carlisle attended her in her last illness with the most affectionate solicitude. As her last hour drew nigh, she desired her friend Mrs Pearson, who was with her, to pray, for she felt a conviction she had not long to live; she complied with her request, and Susanna thanked her, adding she was happy, and felt that peace of God which passeth all understanding, only known in the Christian's faith. She then tasted a little wine, laid her head on the pillow, and expired within half an hour without a groan. Miss Blamire died in Carlisle at about four o'clock in the afternoon of Saturday, 5th April, 1794, in the forty-seventh year of her age; and was buried on the Wednesday following at Raughton-Head. The manner in which her memory was held is well exemplified by the fact, that between eighty and ninety people attended the funeral, the distance being seven miles, and that without any invitation. So poignant was the grief of Mrs
Graham, that she never afterwards could approach her sister's grave.
Miss Blamire's character may be gathered from her writings; her heart flowed with her pen; and the kindly expressions of her well-regulated mind and keen feelings are all undisguisedly exhibited to us as to a friend. She wrote not for the public, but because it gave her pleasure to embody her thoughts in verse; had it been otherwise, it is difficult to understand how one so talented could not but have found a ready publisher. If I am correct in supposing that her longest poem "Stoklewath" was composed in 1771, when about twenty-four years of age, at which time her sister Sarah was the wife of Colonel Graham, we find her young affections strongly breaking forth in the mention of her sister and her brother in the last paragraph but one of that poem, and giving a playful glance at her own character. Her love for her relations is again finely displayed in her poem of "The Invitation to two Sisters." There is a pun here introduced--seldom, and properly, attempted in serious poetry--yet so simply and kindly, that I cannot help taking notice of it. She has been describing the beauties of the landscape she invited them to witness, in all its gorgeousness of summer and autumnal clothing; yet, when the winter comes, if she have her friends around her, these would "yield a pro-
spect more charming than May." But without these
friends, with all the advantages of "the wood-hanging
bank, and the cottage so still," her regrets for the want
of their conversation would always be renewed
"As she listen'd and heard the soft clack
of the mill."
In the last paragraph of her "Address to Health," she
again exultingly breaks forth in the praise of her sisters;
it is delightful to see this, for it proves to us how reciprocal was the attachment between them:
"But what have I of comfort lost,
That healthier, stouter frames can boast !
Have I not sisters, ever near,
O ever kind ! O ever dear !
Who suffer not the winds to wave
O'er the bent shrub they prop and save.
From Autumn's faded form they hide,
And Winter's stripping hand they guide;
And even midst the Summer's heat
An equal watchfulness I meet.
Away then, Health ! thy powers are vain,
Thou canst not touch my soul with pain !"
"On the dangerous illness of my friend Mrs L.," the
elegant "Address to Miss Gale
on her marriage," the
Brown 's collection; it is quite biographical, and gives us a fine glimpse, freely and unreservedly, into her character. Of a being so amiable, whose beauty and accomplishments were acknowledged by all, it would have been more than surprising had her hand never been sought in marriage. It is however said that a scion of a noble house aspired to that honour; but, for reasons not very apparent, his family did not find it expedient to encourage the connexion, and hence it was broken off. That she would have reflected a dignity, not usually attendant on wealth and distinction, on any house however numerous its heraldic quarterings, all who have seen her mind, as revealed in her writings, will readily acknowledge. I am strongly disposed to believe that this story is true, and that the attachment on her part was so pure, so strong, that she never afterwards allowed the feeling to be supplanted. It is to this passage of her life, I think, that we owe many, if not all, of those exquisite delineations of the heart which are so frequently met with in her writings. It could not have been by any imaginary feeling of love that she was enabled to depict with such power and such truth her very touching "Adieu and recall to Love," "Farewell to Affection," and "Recall to Affection." It required no ordinary kindling of emotion to produce "What ails this heart o' mine," "The Siller Croun," "O there
is not a sharper dart," and many passages of that highly imaginative poem "To the flower Love-in-Idleness," as well as of those sentiments of love and regret put into the mouth of the hermit in "Stoklewath." "The Letters of the Lovers" I am disposed to think are real, and that "Anna" and "The Mourner" were not imaginary beings, nor one and the same individual.
Miss Blamire's poetry is characterized by ease, a happy gayety, great earnestness, and often displays considerable imagination, rigour, and exuberance of thought. She was unquestionably the best female writer of her age; and had her works been published during her life, with the final corrections of their author, her name by this date would have attained an honourable position among the poets of our country. Late as they have been in being brought before the public, I have no fear for their fate, but anticipate her poems will be found in the collection of every reader of taste. Many of her songs, the greater part of which are now for the first time published, would have made the reputation of any writer of lyric poetry in her day; that however is a species of composition which has been much and successfully cultivated since her time.
In claiming in her name the authorship of "The Siller Croun," I candidly acknowledge I found it not among her manuscripts, but make the claim on the
authority of her niece Miss Blamire of Thackwood, who perfectly remembers her mother having said that it was written by her aunt Susanna. It affords me infinite satisfaction to be thus enabled to point out the true author of this exquisite lyric, upon such unquestioned authority. My friend Dr Lonsdale had the kindness to inform me that the song was published in a collection entitled "The National Minstrel," printed in Glasgow or Greenock by the late Mr D. Weir, with Miss Blamire's name attached to it, but it was a very incorrect edition; this was the first time I had seen her name associated with it, and before I was prepared to address Mr Weir to inquire how he obtained the knowledge that she was the author of the song, I was told he was dead.
I have taken an unwarrantable liberty--but which I hope may be of use--in printing among her works that touching Scottish lyric "The Waefu' Heart." Having long had a settled conviction in my mind, that the writer of "The Siller Croun" was also the writer of "The Waefu' Heart;" and having ascertained beyond a doubt that the first-mentioned song was the production of Miss Blamire, I thought it would be useful to print the songs together, the, better to examine their styles, and to see how closely they resembled each other in sentiment and expression. I think it cannot
fail to strike every one, that the second song is a continuation of the first; had the "Jamie" of the latter
but been the "Donald" of the former, the likeness
would have been perfect. The same impassioned feeling which resolves "Brave Donald's fate to share," is
also very visible in that distraction which calls on
heaven to
"--take this life, now naething worth,
Since Jamie's in his grave."
It is not less apparent that the "Heart, wi' a' its virtues rare," bears a very marked resemblance to
"And, O ! what a heart was that to lose;"
and various other coincidences may be traced between
the two songs, to lead to the conclusion that they are
the composition of the same author. Both these songs
first appeared together in Johnston's
"Scots Musical
Museum," vol. iii. 1790
, and, it may be worthy of remark, within a page or two of each other, indicating
perhaps that the Editor had some suspicion that they
were from the same pen. "The Siller Croun" was
copied into the "Museum" from a single sheet copy,
which, Mr Stenhouse
tells us, was some time previously
published by Napier,
a well-known musician in Edinburgh; "The Waefu' Heart" was taken from a single
sheet copy also, which the same authority informs us was
published in London about the year 1788;--a strong corroboration that both are by the same author, independently of the internal evidence of their similarity of style. The lady-writers of that period--as confessed by Lady Anne Lindsay was the case with herself, in a letter to Sir Walter Scott about "Auld Robin Gray"--had a horror at seeing their names published as authors; even the Della Cruscans concealed their blushes under feigned names; and we cannot be surprised that Miss Blamire acted on the same principle. I know not one poem or song of hers, which was printed during her life, that has her name attached to it. I find her fine song "Though Bacchus may boast of his care-killing bowl" printed in the "Calliope, or the Musical Miscellany," London, 8vo, 1788 , without her name; and in "The Edinburgh Magazine" for 1790, p. 216 , is her beautiful little poem "The Adieu and Recall to Love"--there entitled "To Love"--also anonymous. Thus, if dates can enable us to come to any conclusion concerning the authorship of "The Waefu' Heart," I have produced sufficient to show, that it is extremely probable it was written by Miss Blamire; and along with these dates, the remarkable resemblance in style and sentiment must inevitably lead us to the conviction, that the author of "The Siller Croun" was also the author of "The Waefu' Heart :" I have proved that Miss Blamire was
the author of the first, and gone far to settle her claim to the latter.
It has been a grateful task for me to adduce the arguments in the above inquiry; but I have two points to bring forth which will oblige me to assume the appearance of an editor militant, but which I shall close in a very few words. The first is connected with the poem of "To-morrow." I was made aware by Dr Lonsdale that there was some doubt concerning this poem's being Miss Blamire's, and that the matter had been discussed in the "Gentleman's Magazine;" but, before I had looked into this controversy, the poem was printed, when another friend mentioned to me that it was claimed by the venerable author of "The World before the Flood," in his interesting selection "The Christian Poet," as the production of Mary Parken . I was not a little staggered at this; for Mr Montgomery is not the man to make an assertion without due deliberation, and I assuredly should have written to that gentleman, and inquired on what grounds he made the claim for his author, had the poem not been printed. But I refrained, because that I had found it among the transcripts of her sister's poetry by Mrs Brown, who, I had no doubt in my mind, was perfectly aware of its being her sister's before she inserted it among her writings;--that was one reason, for Mrs
Brown must have had her knowledge from personal facts, and her sister was too high-minded a lady to appropriate the labours of another:--on the same principle I have inserted "Auld Robin Forbes," which has been by some ascribed to Miss Gilpin . Another reason why I thought it, and still think it, Miss Blamire's is, in the version ascribed to Miss Parken (she is called Parker in the Gentleman's Magazine), the last stanza is wholly omitted, which, in my mind, is not a little conclusive of the matter; for we cannot well conceive a poet writing on the subject and omitting the very striking and obvious contrast of the Christian and the infidel. Moreover, in the poem printed in the text, there is much more closeness of composition, a clearer arrangement of thought, and a closer sequence of circumstances; which strongly induce me to conclude it is the production of Miss Blamire. The difficulty is also much lessened concerning who was the author, now that we have the writings of Miss Blamire before us; and I feel no hesitation in saying that the poem in question bears a very striking resemblance to the general spirit of her poetry; nay, that the frequent allusion to to-morrow in her works, showing how much it entered into the usual current of her thoughts, is of itself almost conclusive of the matter. The Rev. Mr Lowthian, Rector of Kellington, Yorkshire, first published the poem in the
"Gentleman's Magazine" for 1820 , in which volume the authorship is disputed, on the authority of Dr Styles, who, in a biography which he had written of Miss Parken 's brother, made mention of the poem as being hers. In the "Gentleman's Magazine" for December 1823 , Mr Lowthian (I should have said, under the signature of Omicron in both instances) again adverted to the authorship of "To-morrow;" and, it would appear, had invited Dr Styles in a former communication to give up the sources of his information that the poem in question was Miss Parken 's; but it seems that gentleman had not complied with the invitation. That it is Miss Blamire's I am firmly persuaded, and for the reasons already produced. Miss Stubbs had the kindness to favour me with a copy of the poem, which she extracted from her mother's commonplace-book, verbatim as that printed by the Rev. Mr Lowthian, with the exception of the last line in the last stanza, which ending in "to-morrow" ought to have been "to-day:"-- the same mistake appears in Mrs Brown's copy. It is possible that Miss Parken might have seen the poem, and have taken a copy of it, as being soothing to her feelings, and suited to her infirm health; for Mr Montgomery informs us that she died young in 1811, and thus the mistake of her being the author of it might have originated.
The second dispute is with the song "O dinna think, my bonnie lass," at page 246. It so happens that Hector Macneill, the ingenious author of "Will and Jean," and of numerous and deservedly popular poems and songs, has one directly of the same title, the hint of which seems evidently to have been taken from this; there can be no mistake of the paternity. Mr Stenhouse informs us that Macneill said to him, the cause why he had not included this song in the uniform edition of his poetical works was, that "Mr John Hamilton, music-seller in Edinburgh, took the liberty to add to it (the last stanza), and to publish it as a sheet song." Now, I wish to impute no motive beyond what the amiable author in question has stated; but I cannot help thinking that there must have been some impression lurking in his memory, that he had heard some part of the song before he began to work it out on his own plan.
I have now finished my task; and having finished it, I cannot help wishing it had fallen into better hands: but this I must say for myself, that with me it has been a labour of love. The earnest object of my juvenile days was to collect the writings of a lady who had awakened my young mind to the beauties of poetry; and I cannot but rejoice that it has been my lot, in mature
age, to be the humble instrument of giving them to
the world. I now leave them to their fate, conscious
that "The Muse of Cumberland" will be the favourite
of many yet unborn; and shall conclude by saying to
the rising generation, in the words of her own undying
lyric--
When time has past, and seasons fled,
Your hearts will feel like mine;
And aye the sang will maist delight
That minds ye o' langsyne !
FROM where dark clouds of curling smoke arise,
And the tall column mounts into the skies;
Where the grim arches of the forge appear,
Whose fluted pillars prop the thickening air;
Where domes of peers and humble roofs are found
Alike to spread their mingled vapours round;
From denser air and busy towns I run,
To catch a glimpse of the unclouded sun;
Foe to the toils which wealth and pomp create,
And all the hard-wrought tinsel of the great.
Aurora now had left her crimson bed,
And the sky glowed with pure reflected red;
The moving stars withdrew their timorous light,
As her gilt chariot burst upon the sight;
The glittering pearls that gentle Eve had born,
Were all adorning the sweet brow of Morn;
And every shrub, and every opening flower,
Unlock'd some jewel for the rising hour.
Meanwhile unseen the fragrant zephyr flew,
And gather'd essence from the balmy dew;
I wander'd on, till Fancy bade me stay,
And spend with Health and her one holiday.
Where the clear stream its useful tenor holds,
And the shorn flocks come whiten'd from the folds;
Where on each side the cottages are seen,
Which orchards shelter, and which poplars screen;
There many an apple, in autumnal pride,
Glows with red cheek, and blushes side by side;
Which with nice care is lock'd in oaken chest,
Till Christmas comes, and tarts draw out the feast.
Nor does the garden useful herbs deny,
Fenc'd round with thorns that point their spears on high;
There the thyme blows, from which brown bees distil
The sweets that all their waxen storehouse fill.
The parsley next extends its useful row,
And marjorum sweet is ever taught to grow;
Next balm, and sage, and hyssop, physic yield,
With cordial mint, the doctor of the field.
There spreading cabbage all their strength produce,
And take firm root to stand for winter's use.
Carrots and turnips Sunday-feasts, supply,
Till blest potatoes meet the thankful eye.
There the tall pea in stately grandeur stalks,
And humbler bean midst her own fragrance walks.
The ripening currant many a warbler brings,
'Mongst whom the blackbird spreads his sooty wings.
But O ! forbear with lure or artful snare
To trap this sweetest songster of the air,
Nor quench in darkness his quick visual ray,
Shut out from liberty and glorious day.
Enough, enough ! while to the cage confin'd,
Through all the house his wilding wood-notes wind;
Let him at least the gift of light retain,
Nor hear his whistling pipe with conscious pain !
And, look, where ornament her care bestows !
Above the lily nods the blushing rose,
The fringing poppy and the peony vie
Which shall look gayest in the village eye.
Nor think not these unmeet for Sunday's pride,
When with a woollen thread the nosegay's tied !
There southernweed, and thyme, like broom, behold
Spreading their shade o'er the dark marigold.
Sweetwilliam next, in wig of early pride,
Smiles on himself as if his bob he eyed;
The rose and lily round the posy stray,
And in the church waft faintness far away,
When tir'd with walking many a sultry morn
Through new cut hay, or fields of standing corn;
E'en while at prayers a sudden chillness steals,
And all the heart the creeping sickness feels;
No salts are there,--yet thyme and mint renew
The wasting sense, and cheer from pew to pew.
But now the sun sends forth his scorching rays,
And the hot cattle startling cease to graze;
While to the pool, or darkest shade they hie,
And with the scourging tail whip off th' offending fly.
Along the path that winds around the hill
You lose the milkmaid--though you hear her still.
At the last fair she caught yon thrilling lay,
And now the woods repeat "Auld Robin Gray."*
The waving pail swims lightly on her head,
For equal steps to measur'd music tread.
Adown the stream where woods begin to throw
Their verdant arms around the rocks below,
A rustic bridge across the tide is thrown,
Where briars and woodbine hide the hoary stone,
A simple arch salutes th' admiring eye,
And the mill's clack the tumbling waves supply.
But lest society some loss should share,
And nearest neighbours lack their neighbour's fare,
The tottering step-stones cross the stream are laid,
O'er which trips lightly many a busy maid,
And many a matron, when one failing cow
Bids no big cheese within the cheese-vat grow,
Their wealthier neighbour then, her bowls to swell,
Will gladly take what they as gladly sell.
The morning toils are now completely o'er,
The bowls well scalded, and well swept the floor.
The daughter at the needle plies the seam,
While the good mother hastens to the stream:
There the long webs, that wintry moons began,
Lie stretch'd and beaming in the summer's sun;
And lest he scorch them in his fervid hours,
She scoops along the nice conducted showers;
Till like the snow, that tips the mountain's height,
The brown's dull shade gives place to purest white;
While her sweet child knee-deep is wading seen,
Picking bright stones, or tumbling on the green.
But now the sun's bright whirling wheels appear
On the broad front of noon, in full career,
A sign more welcome hangs not in the air,
For now the sister's call the brothers hear;
Dinner's the word, and every cave around
Devours the voice, and feasts upon the sound.
'Tis dinner, father ! all the brothers cry,
Throw down the spade, and heave the pickaxe by;
'Tis dinner, father ! home they panting go,
While the tired parent still pants on more slow.
Now the fried rasher meets them on the way,
And savoury pancakes welcome steams convey.
Their pace they mend, till at the pump they stand,
Deluge the face, and purify the hand,
And then to dinner. There the women wait,
And the tired father fills his chair of state;
Smoking potatoes meet their thankful eyes,
And Hunger wafts the grateful sacrifice;
To her libations of sweet milk are pour'd,
And Peace and Plenty watch around the board.
Now, till the sun has somewhat sunk in height,
Yet long before he dips his wheels in night,
The nut-brown labourers their senses steep
In the soft dews of renovating sleep;
The worthy sire to the soft bed repairs,
The sons beneath the shade forget their cares.
The clock strikes two, it beats upon the ear,
And soon the parent's anxious voice they hear;
Come, come, my lads, you must not sleep all day !
They rub their eyes, start up, then stalk away.
But let me not at twelve forget to eye
The learned school-dame's jumping, shrill-ton'd fry.
Some near at home to dinner dancing run,
Eager for play when the repast is done;
Others more distant, bring their satchel'd fare
Safely infolded by a mother's care.
On a wood trencher stands the tower-like pie,
While bread and cheese form battlements on high;
A crust for 'tween-meals in a corner stows,
And guarded butter oaten-cakes enclose;
And shining tin-flasks of new milk, which seem
Best to demand the name of good thick cream !
The dinner done; the happy train so gay,
In various groups disperse to various play;
Some to the hounded-hare the sinews strain,
And fleet as greyhounds scour along the plain.
At last the hare through all her windings caught
Gets leave to breathe, and breath brings change of thought;
For races some, but more for foot-ball cry,
Mark out their ground, and toss the globe on high;
The well fought field deals many a galling stroke,
And many a chief's o'erthrown, and many a shin is broke.
These active feats, while manly imps essay,
The gentler sex choose out a gentler play;
They form a smiling circle on the green,
Where chuckstones, dolls, and totums, all are seen;
A nest of linnets, a few happy elves,
Run home to see if yet they pick themselves,
Though but an hour ago their throats they cramm'd,
And chirp'd, and cheep'd, and well the mother shamm'd.
Escap'd in happy hour from rod-taught lore,
Their books forgot, nor work remember'd more;
All share the joy, but one imprison'd slave,
Who from offended worth no boon would save.
The dame he said was like a clocking hen,
Who ne'er would let them out when it did rain;
And if again his hands she dar'd to switch,
He'd call her to her face a wrinkl'd witch.
This told a wheedler, much dislik'd by all,
Whom in abhorrence they tale-pyet call,
Who for a raisin or a fig would tell
Faults of a brother he lov'd ne'er so well;
Th' offender's soul no threaten'd pain unbends,
Nor with the dame will his proud heart be friends,
He loves her not; for this the hour of play,
And much-wish'd dinner, both are snatch'd away.
And now the dame in neat white mob is seen,
Her russet gown, silk kerchief, apron clean,
At the school door her tremulous voice is heard,
And the blithe game's unwillingly deferr'd.
From noon till morn rests female toil; save come
The evening hours when lowing cows draw home.
Now the good neighbour walks her friend to see,
And knit an hour, and drink a dish of tea.
She comes unlook'd for,--wheat-bread is to seek,
The baker has none, got no yeast last week;
And little Peggy thinks herself ill sped,
Though she has got a great piece gingerbread.
Home she returns, but disappointment's trace
Darkens her eye, and lengthens all her face;
She whispers lowly in her sister's ear,
Scarce can restrain the glistening, swelling tear.
The mother marks, and to the milk-house goes,
Blythe Peggy smiles, she well the errand knows
There from the bowl where cream so coolly swims,
The future butter generously skims,
And, flour commixing, forms a rural bread
That for the wheaten loaf oft stands in stead;
Cup after cup sends steaming circles round,
And oft the weak tea's in the full pot drown'd;
It matters not, for while their news they tell
The mind's content, and all things move on well.
The sun has now his saffron robe put on,
Stept from his chariot that with rubies shone,
The glittering monarch gains the western gate,
And for a moment shines in regal state;
His streaming mantle floats along the sky,
While he glides softly from the gazing eye;
From saffron tinge to yellow soon it flew,
Sea-green the next, and then to darkest blue.
Now different cares employ the village train,
The rich in cattle press the milky vein;
When, lo ! a voice sends direful notes around,
And sharp vexation mingles in the sound;
'Tis little Peggy, she the pail would fill,
And on old Hawky try her early skill.
She strok'd and clapp'd her, but she'd not allow;
The well known hand best pleased the knowing cow;
Tho' cabbage leaves before her band was cast,
Hawky refus'd the coaxing rich repast;
And when the little hand unapt she found,
She kick'd, and whelm'd her on the slippery ground.
Along yon hedge now mouldering and decay'd,
In gather'd heaps you see the fragments laid;
Piled up with care to swell the nightly blaze,
And in the widow's hut a fire to raise.
See where she comes with her blue apron full,
Crown'd with some scatter'd locks of dingy wool.
In years she seems, and on her well patch'd clothes
Want much has added to her other woes.
There is a poor-house; but some little pride
Forbids her there her humbled head to hide;
O'er former scenes of better days she runs,
And every thing like degradation shuns !
Now hooded Eve slow gliding comes in view,
Busied in threading pearls of diamond dew;
Waking the flowers that early close the eye,
And giving drops to those that else would die.
And what is man but such a tender flower,
That buds, blooms, fades, and dies within the hour ?
Where round yon cottage the rosemary grows,
And turncap lilies flaunt beside the rose,
Two aged females turn the weary wheel,
And, as they turn, their slumbering thoughts reveal:
"How long is't, think ye, since th' old style was lost
Poor England may remember't to her cost !
E'er since that time the weather has grown cold,
(For Jane forgets that she is now grown old).
I knew when I liv'd servant at Woodmile,
So scorching hot the weather was in April,
The cows would startle, and by ten o'clock
My master us'd his horses to unyoke;
'Tis not so now; the sun has lost its power;
The very apples now-a-days are sour !
Could not the Parson tell the reason why
There are such changes both in earth and sky ?"
"'Tis not these only," Margaret replied,
"For many a change besides have I espied.
Look at the girls !--they all dress now-a-days
Like them fine folk who act them nonsense plays !
No more the decent mob surrounds the face,
Border'd with edging, or bit good bone-lace;
Gauze flappets soon--that will not last a day--
We'll see them flaunting whilst they're making hay !
All things are chang'd, the world's turned upside down,
And every servant wears a cotton gown,
Bit flimsy things, that have no strength to wear,
And will like any blotting-paper tear !
I made my Nelly a half-worsted gown,
She slighting told me 't would not do in town !
This pride ! this pride ! it sure must have a fall,
And bring some heavy judgment on us all !
They're grown so bold too, and their lads allow,
When courting them, to skulk behind a cow,
Till all's in bed. My John, when courting me,
Us'd after supper to come manfully;
For oft he us'd to say he knew no place
Where honesty need fear to shew its face.
No more it need ! My master us'd to cry,--
He fear'd but two things--to turn thief, and lie."
The leading crow her colony brings home,
And two by two they seek their leafy dome.
Of all the branches that invite to rest,
Each loves the one that hangs above its nest;
What though of rudest architecture made,
Nor thorns surrounding nor with clay inlaid,
Yet 'tis the spot where infant days began,
That thus attaches both the crow and man !
Now on the green the youth their gambols keep,
Stretching their sinews in the bounding leap;
Others the wrestler's glory would maintain,
Twist the strong nerve and fill the swelling vein;
One youth his pipe blows from the rocky hill,
Seated like Pan above the clacking mill;
Another strikes the violin's cheerful string,
Light to the dance the bounding virgins spring:
'Tis most part nature, yet some art is found
When one--two--three lies heavy on the ground;
For 'tis not airy feet which seem to fly,
Then come descended quivering from the sky,
Nor form that every Grace was known to bend,
Nor foot that every feathered Hour would lend,
Has any merit here;--but feet of sound,
Which tabour-like re-echo on the ground;
Or as the drum a certain sound repeats,
Flutters now low, and then in thunder beats;
From Nature and from Art how wide the sphere
Courts unimprov'd would be what you see here.
Now Eve had sprinkled every flower with dew,
And her gauze hood was wet and dripping through;
A light grey cloak to the warm fleece allied,
Her chilly fingers close and closer tied,
That, with a fur-lined cap, the ears' delight,
Was given her by her elder sister Night.
From walks retired, that shun the inquiring view,
A faithful couple to the shades withdrew.
The maid had every blush that bloom can give,
Where youth fresh glowing bids the blossom live,
And the fair cheek, with lilies all bespread,
Shades the full rose, and hides its bolder red,
Pure as the drop that in the early morn
Hangs with such sweetness smiling on the thorn,
Artless as youth before the cranky wile
Shadows the frown, or plays within the smile;
She moves, the wonder of the rural plain,
And many a sigh steals to her ear in vain.
A youth there was like her, of better mould,
Whose soul deem'd lightly of the weight of gold.
Around his birth some favouring fortune shone,
Which some call merit, though no way their own;
The Church was laid out as his rising line,
Himself delighting in the text divine;
That text, at home by country masters taught,
Might stint the learning but keep back the fault,
For sure great knowledge we should all despise,
Unless the man be virtuous as he's wise.
The mother's eye had long o'er all her son
With many a fear, and much observance run,
Seen where beneath the elms a path was worn,--
Mark'd him at pensive eve, and laughing morn
Still seek the shade,--now with sad step, and slow,
With folded arms, and head declining low;
Then livelier thoughts awake a quicker pace,
And hope breaks out and glows along his face.
Thus to the partner of her thirty years
She soft began:--Thou calmer of my fears,
Oft has thy firmer mind my sorrows stilled,
As from thy lips thy better sense distilled,
Hast thou observ'd our dearest hope of late ?
Whose spirits flag with some uncommon weight,--
Some secret anguish sickens o'er his soul,
And silent night has seen the torrent roll,
The wandering stream has from his eyelids crept,
And his moist pillow shown he has not slept.
My life, rejoin'd the father, in thy mind
The mist of tenderness the optics blind,
Imagin'd ills from feeling ever flow,
All things look big when seen through clouds of woe;
I've mark'd no difference save what study brings,
They all turn grave who search the source of things.
This not believing, ceas'd she to reply,
But still sent forth her keen inquiring eye,
Mark'd when sweet Anna's name breath'd in the sound,
How quick his eye sprung from the thoughtful ground;
And when just praise the beauteous maid would grace,
Joy smooth'd his brow, and blushes dyed his face.
This wak'd suspicion--rumour told the whole,
And now she knew what sicken'd o'er his soul.
The father skill'd in all the ways of man,
Thus, to his mate affectionate, began:
In all distempers of the feverish mind,
The greatest good from change of scene we find.
Tho' one dear object, touchstone of our woe,
Seems to go with us wheresoe'er we go,
Yet gay variety divides the view,--
Spite of ourselves we gaze at what is new;
Back-turning thought will far-past scenes survey,
That fainter grow, worn out by length of way;
A softer mist o'er every object spreads,
Figures grow dim, and towers scarce shew their heads:
Back-turning thought strains his sunk hollow eye,
But scenes retire, and dearest objects fly;
He lags no more--by soft degrees is stole
The keenest anguish that inwraps the soul.
To college, then, our sorrowing son shall go,
New loves, or friends, shall wear out all his woe;
Ideas changing as new views arise
Let in new light, and almost change the eyes;
Objects adored, that matchless seem'd before,
Excite no wonder, and delight no more.
The mother sigh'd, the starting tear withheld,
To her fond partner ever fond to yield;
Nor ever felt she what is call'd command,
His wish grew hers in magic quickness bland.
And now Pretence had whisper'd to the maid
Thro' all the wood her new wash'd flock had stray'd;
The youth too sought the shade in hopes to clear
Her pearl-set eye that hung with many a tear.
Far from the uproar of the loud cascade,
Where the slow stream crept softly to the shade,
Beneath a rock with venturous trees o'erhung,
That seem by some enchantment to have sprang,
For the scant soil nor moss nor grass bestows,
But yawning cliffs the sinewy roots expose;
There on her cheek the roses felt the dew,
Which drop by drop extracts their softest hue:
"Why weeps my Anna ? Sure she knows this heart,
And knows in absence we but seem to part;
Though mountains rise, and the slow weary day
Draws out the journey a long length of way,
Yet trust me, Anna, still my soul shall be
Chain'd to thy soul, and never part from thee !"
Sweet Anna shook her head--sad sighs oppose
The labouring words that to the threshold rose;
The lip kept moving, but no accent fell,
Yet the round tear perhaps can speak as well.
"O cease, my Anna, or declare thy fears,
I cannot, cannot bear these softening tears !
What have I done to tempt thy generous mind
To form a thought that I can grow unkind ?"
"Nothing"--she sobb'd,--"but--but it cannot be--
But every eye must take delight in thee !
Some maid whom education softens o'er,
To whose rich mind each day keeps adding more;
Whose winning manners mixed with every grace,
Invite the eye, and keep it from the face,--
And, when she speaks, Persuasion's lyre is strung,
And the sweet words come warbling from her tongue;
If such a one thy heart in fetters hold,--
For I have not one fear from sordid gold,
I shall not blame my William,--still may he
Taste every bless, whate'er becomes of me."
"Dearest of women," William thus rejoined,
"How can such fears e'er cloud so bright a mind !
In finer arts I know some may excel,
Some have more grace, and some few speak as well
Yet the sweet accent will but thrill my ear,
Trust me, my Anna, 't will not reach me here.
This heart is thine, and every faithful chord
Will only vibrate to thy well known word:
From infant years thy growing worth I've known,
Our wish the same, and our delights but one;
Believest thou this ? The winged hours shall press
One after one, to crown my happiness;
The day shall come when I shall claim my own,
And freely to the world my love make known."
So saying, to their homes they separate go,
He more at ease--she something less in woe.
In this gay village hangs a wonderous sign,
The Hounds and Hare are the immense design.
There hunters crack their whips, and seem to bound
O'er every hedge, nor touch the mimic ground;
The huntsman winds his horn, his big cheeks swell,
And whippers-in make lagging terriers yell;
The sportive scene tempts many a wight to stay,
As to the school he drags th' unwilling way.
Around the front inviting benches wait,
Conscious of many a glass and sage debate;
The great man of the village cracks his joke,
Reads o'er the news, and whiffs the curling smoke;
Tells tales of old, and nods, and heaves the can,
Makes fixed decrees, and seems much more than man.
"Come, Jack, sit down. Thy father, man, and me,
Broke many a glass, and many a freak had we.
'Twas when he sought thy mother, at Carel Fair
(I mind the corn was very bad that year)
We met thy mother and my wife i' the street,
And took them into Beck's to get a treat;
Blind Joseph played, and I took out thy mother,
Thy father, he was shy, he got another;
And when I took her back, as you may see,
I whipp'd her blushing on thy father's knee.
Then in came Robin Bell, who lik'd her too,
And bit his lip, and turn'd both red and blue,
Teas'd her to dance, as you may see, and then
Kept her himself, nor brought her back again.
I fir'd at this, while up thy father rose,
Gave him a kick, and tweak'd him by the nose.
They stripped to fight, as you may see, and I
In seeing fair play got a blacken'd eye;
I durst not shew my face at home next day,
But bade my mother say I went away,
But kept my bed, i'fegs, as you may see;
Who is it now fights for their lasses ? eh !"
The blacksmith laugh'd, the cobbler gave a smile,
And the pleas'd tailor scratch'd his head the while.
But hark ! what sounds of mingl'd joy and woe
From yon poor cottage bursting seem to flow.
'Tis honest Sarah. Sixpence-Harry's come,
And, after all his toils, got safely home.
"Welcome, old soldier, welcome from the wars !
Honour the man, my lads, seam'd o'er with scars !
Come give's thy hand, and bring the t' other can,
And tell us all thou'st done, and seen, my man."
Now expectation stares in every eye,
The jaw falls down, and every soul draws nigh,
With ear turn'd up, and head held all awry.
"Why, sir, the papers tell you all that's done,
What battle's lost, and what is hardly won.
But when the eye looks into private woes,
And sees the grief that from one battle flows,
Small cause of triumph can the bravest feel,
For never yet were brave hearts made of steel.
It happen'd once, in storming of a town,
When our bold men had push'd the ramparts down,
We found them starving, the last loaf was gone,
Beef was exhausted, and they flour had none;
Their springs we drain, to ditches yet they fly--
The stagnant ditch lent treacherous supply;
For soon the putrid source their blood distains,
And the quick fever hastens through their veins.
In the same room the dying and the dead--
Nay, sometimes, even in the self-same bed,--
You saw the mother with her children lie,
None but the father left to close the sunken eye.
In a dark corner, once myself I found
A youth whose blood was pouring through the wound;
No sister's hand, no tender mother's eye
To stanch that wound was fondly watching by;
Famine had done her work, and low were laid
The loving mother and the blooming maid.
He rais'd his eyes, and bade me strike the blow,
I've nought to lose, he cried, so fear no foe;
No foe is near, I softly made reply,
A soldier, friend, would save and not destroy.
A drop of cordial in my flask I found;
(And I myself am sovereign for a wound;
I'll bleed you all, lads ! if you should be ill,
And in the toothache I've no little skill.
Our drummer too, poor man, dealt much in horns,
And I've his very knack of cutting corns.)
Well; as I dress'd the youth, I found 'twas he
That oft had charm'd the sentinels and me;
From post to post like lightning he would fly,
And pour down thunder from his red-hot sky;
We prais'd him for't,--so I my captain told,
For well I knew he lik'd the foe that's bold;
So then the surgeon took him in his charge,
And the captain made him prisoner at large."
"Was he a Spanishman, or Frenchman, whether ?
But it's no matter; they're all rogues together !"
"You're much mistaken: Goodness I have found
Spring like the grass that clothes the common ground;
Some more, some less, you know, grows every where;
Some soils are fertile, and some are but bare.
Nay, 'mongst the Indians I've found kindly cheer,
And as much pity as I could do here !
Once in their woods I stray'd a length of way,
And thought I'd known the path that homeward lay;
We'd gone to forage, but I lost the rest,
Which, till quite out of hearing, never guess'd.
I hollow'd loud, some voices made reply,
But not my comrades; not one friend was nigh.
Some men appear'd, their faces painted o'er,
The wampum-belt, and tomahawk they bore;
Their ears were hung with beads, that largely spread
A breadth of wing, and cover'd half the head.
I kiss'd the ground; one older than the rest
Stepp'd forth, and laid his hand upon my breast,
Then seiz'd my arms, and sign'd that I should go,
And learn with them to bend the sturdy bow:
I bow'd and follow'd; sadly did I mourn,
And never more expected to return."
Here Sarah sobb'd, and stepp'd behind the door,
And with her tears bedew'd the dusty floor.
"We travell'd on some days through woods alone,
At length we reach'd their happy silent home.
A few green acres the whole plot compose,
Which woods surround, and fencing rocks enclose,
Skirting whose banks, a river fond of play
Sometimes stood still, and sometimes ran away;
The branching deer would drink the dimpl'd tide,
And crop the wild herbs on its flowery side,--
Around the silent hut would sometimes stray,
Then, at the sight of man, bound swift away;
But all in vain; the hunter's flying dart
Springs from the bow, and quivers in the heart.
A mother and four daughters here we found,
With shells encircled, and with feathers crown'd,
Bright pebbles shone amidst the plaited hair,
While lesser shells surround the moon-like ear.
With screams at sight of me away they flew
(For fear or pleasure springs from what is new);
Then, to their brothers, screaming still they ran,
Thinking my clothes and me the self-same man;
When bolder grown, they ventur'd something near,
Light touch'd my coat, but started back with fear.
When time and use had chas'd their fears away,
And I had learned some few short words to say,
They oft would tell me, would I but allow
The rampant lion to o'erhang my brow,
And on my cheek the spotted leopard wear,
Stretch out my ears, and let my arms go bare."
"O mercy on us ?" cried the listeners round,
Their gaping wonder bursting into sound.
"Tho' different in their manners, yet their heart
Was equal mine in every better part.
Brave to a fault, if courage fault can be;
Kind to their fellows, doubly kind to me.
Some little arts my travell'd judgment taught,
Which, tho' a prize to them, seem'd greater than they ought.
"Needless with bows for me the woods to roam,
I therefore tried to do some good at home.
The birds, or deer, or boars, were all their food,
Save the swift salmon of the silver flood;
And when long storms the winter-stores would drain,
Hunger might ask the stinted meal in vain.
Some goats I saw that brows'd the rocks among,
And oft I thought to trap their playful young;
But not till first a fencing hedge surrounds
Their future fields, and the enclosure bounds;
For many a father owns a hatchet here,
Which falls descending to his wealthy heir.
The playful kid we from the pitfall bring,
O'erspread with earth, and many a tempting thing;
Light lay the branches o'er the treacherous deep,
And favourite herbs among the long grass creep.
The little prisoner soon is taught to stand,
And crop the food from the betrayer's hand.
A winter-store now rose up to their view,
And in another field the clover grew;
But, without scythes or hooks, how could we lay
The ridgy swathe and turn it into hay;
At last, of stone we form'd a sort of spade,
Broad at the end, and sharp, for cutting made;
We push'd along, the tender grass gave way,
And soon the sun turn'd every pile to hay.
It was not long before the flocks increased,
And I first gave the unknown milky feast.
Some clay I found, and useful bowls I made,
Tho', I must own, I marr'd the potter's trade;
Yet use is every thing--they did the same
As if from China the rude vessels came.
The curdling cheese I taught them next to press;
And twirl'd on strings the roasting meat to dress.
In all the woods the Indian corn was found,
Whose grains I scatter'd in the faithful ground;
The willing soil leaves little here to do,
Or asks the furrows of the searching plough;
Yet something like one with delight I made,
For tedious are the labours of the spade,
The coulter and the sock were pointed stone,
The eager brothers drew the traces on,
I stalk'd behind, and threw the faithful grain,
And wooden harrows closed the earth again:
Soon sprung the seed, and soon 'twas in the ear,
Nor wait the golden sheaves the falling year;
In this vast clime two harvests lead the field,
And fifty crops th' exhaustless soil can yield.
"Some bricks I burnt, and now a house arose,
Finer than aught the Indian chieftain knows;
A wicker door, with clay-like plaster lin'd,
Serv'd to exclude the piercing wintry wind;
A horn-glaz'd window gave a scanty light,
But lamps cheer'd up the gloom of lengthen'd night;
The cotton shrub through all the woods had run,
And plenteous wicks our rocks and spindles spun.
Around their fields the yam I taught to grow,
With all the fruits they either love or know.
The bed I rais'd from the damp earth, and now
Some little comfort walk'd our dwelling through.
My fame was spread: the neighbouring Indians came,
View'd all our works, and strove to do the same.
The wampum-belt my growing fame records,
That tells great actions without help of words.
I gain'd much honour, and each friend would bring
'Mong various presents many a high-priz'd thing.
And when, with many a prayer, I ask once more
To seek my friends, and wander to the shore,
They all consent,--but drop a sorrowing tear,
While many a friend his load of skins would bear.
Riches were mine; but fate will'd it not
They grew the treasure of the Spanish foe;
My Indian friends threw down their fleecy load,
And, like the bounding elk, leap'd back into the wood.
"What though a prisoner ! countrymen I found,
Heard my own tongue, and bless'd the cheerful sound;
It seem'd to me as if my home was there,
And every dearest friend would soon appear.
At length a cartel gave us back to share
The wounds and dangers of a bloody war.
Peace dawn'd at last, and now the sails were spread,
Some climb the ship unhurt, some few half dead.
Not this afflicts the gallant soldier's mind,
What is't to him tho' limbs are left behind !
Chelsea a crutch and bench will yet supply,
And be the veteran's dear lost limb and eye !
"When English ground first struck the sailor's view,
Huzza ! for England, roar'd the jovial crew.
The waving crutch leaped up in every hand,
While one poor leg was left alone to stand;
The very name another limb bestows,
And through the artery the blood now flows.
We reach'd the shore, and kiss'd the much-lov'd ground,
And fondly fancied friends would crowd around;
But few with wretchedness acquaintance claim,
And little pride is every where the same.
"In coming down, the seeing eye of day
Darken'd around me, and I lost my way.
Where'er a light shot glimmering through the trees,
I thither urg'd my weary trembling knees,
Tapp'd at the door, and begg'd, in piteous tone,
They'd let a wandering soldier find his home;
They barr'd the door, and bade me beg elsewhere,
They'd no spare beds for vagabonds to share.
This was the tale where'er I made a halt,
And greater houses grew upon the fault;
The dog was loos'd to keep me far at bay,
And saucy footmen bade me walk away,
Or else a constable should find a home
For wandering captains from the wars new come.
Alas ! thought I, is this the soldier's praise
For loss of health, of limb, and length of days ?
And is this England ?--England, my delight !
For whom I thought it glory but to fight--
That has no covert for the soldier's night !
I turn'd half fainting, led through all the gloom
By the faint glimmerings of the clouded moon.
One path I kept, that seem'd at times to end,
And oft refus'd the guiding clew to lend;
The thread unhop'd as oft again I found,
Till it forsook the open fields around;
By slow degrees, to towering woods it crept,
As if beneath their shade it nightly slept.
I here had halted, lest some beasts of prey,
In midnight theft, had pac'd the treacherous way,
But that a twinkling light sometimes appear'd,
Sometimes grew dim, and sometimes brightly clear'd
This could not be the lure of beasts of prey;
They know no art of imitating day,
Much pleas'd I thought. The mazy path yet led
Through shrubby copse, by taller trees o'erspread;
A wimpling rill ran on, and wreath'd its way
Through tufts of flowers, that made its borders gay;
And now a rock the parting leaves unfold,
On which a withering oak had long grown old,
The curling ivy oft attempts to hide
Its sad decay, with robes of verdant pride,
Yet through her leafy garb the eye can peer,
And see it buys the youthful dress too dear.
A hollow cavern now methought I spied,
Where clustering grapes came wandering down its side,
Between whose leaves a ray of light would dart,
That both rejoic'd and terrified my heart.
I ventur'd in,--my breath I scarcely drew,
Nought save a taper met my wondering view;
An inner cavern beamed with fuller light,
And gave a holy hermit to my sight;
Himself and Piety seem'd but the same,
And Wisdom for grey hairs another name;
Some traces yet of sorrow might be found,
That o'er his features walk'd their pensive round;
Devotion seem'd to bid them not to stray,
But human feelings gave the wanderers way.
His eye he rais'd from the instructive page,
An eye more sunk by wearing grief than age;
Surprise a moment o'er his features spread,
And gave them back their once accustom'd red."
"Welcome my son--a hermit's welcome share,
And let the welcome mend the scanty fare.
A soldier's toils the softest couch requires,
The strengthening food, and renovating fires;
Not such the hermit's needy cell bestows,
Pamper'd alone by luxury of woes,
The falling tears bedew the crusty bread,
And the moss pillow props the weary head;
The limpid brook the heats of thirst allay,
And gather'd fruits the toilsome search repay;
When hunger calls, these are a feastful store,
And languid Sorrow asks for nothing more;
Sufficient that her eye unseen can weep,
Stream while awake, and flow yet more in sleep.
'Tis now twelve years since Solitude first drew
Her closing curtain round my opening view,
Since first I left my once delightful home,
Along with Grief and Solitude to roam."
Much I express'd my wonder, how a mind
So stor'd as his could herd from all mankind.
"You speak," he said, "like one whose soul is free,
Slave to no wish, nor chain'd to misery.
When ceaseless anguish clouds the summer's sky,
And fairest prospects tarnish in the eye;
When cheerful scenes spread every lure in vain,
And sweet Society but adds to pain;
When weeping Memory incessant brings
The sad reversion of all former things,
And show-like Fancy all her colouring lends,
To gild those views that opened with our friends:
When joyful days through the whole year would run,
And Mirth set out and travel with the sun;
When Youth and Pleasure hand in hand would stray,
And every month was little less than May;
When changing Fortune shifts th' incessant scene,
And only points to where our joys have been,
Is it a wonder from the world we run,
And all its fleeting empty pageants shun ?
"There is a something in a well known view,
That seems to shew our long past pleasures through;
Sure in the eye a fairy land is found,
When former scenes bring former friends around.
Let but the woods, the rocks, the streams appear,
And every friend you see and think you hear;
Their words, their dress, their every look, you find
Swell to the sight, and burst upon the mind;
Though many a spring has lent the blossom gay,
And many an autumn blown the leaf away,
Unchang'd the lasting images remain,
Of which Remembrance ever holds the chain.
E'en the mind's eye a glassy mirror shews,
And far too deeply her bold pencil draws;
The life-like pictures rise before the sight,
Glow through the day, and sparkle through the night.
Ah ! sure e'en now my Ethelind appears,
Though dimly seen through this sad vale of tears.
That winning form, where elegance has wove
The thousand softnesses of gentlest love;
That meaning eye, that artless blushing cheek,
Which leaves so little for the tongue to speak;
The nameless graces of her polish'd mind;
That laughing wit, and serious sense refined;
That altogether which no art can reach,
And which 'tis nature's very rare to teach;
That nameless something which pervades the soul,
Wins not by halves, but captivates the whole;
Yet, if one feature shone before the rest,
'Twas surely Pity by Religion drest.
Have I not seen the softly stealing tear,
Hung in her eye, like gem in Ethiop's ear !
Whilst the dark orb the glittering diamond shed,
From her fair cheek the frighten'd roses fled,
Asham'd that, such a gem so sweetly clear,
Aught, save the lily, should presume to wear.
"Sure there's a pleasure in recounting woes !
And some relief in every tear that flows !
Else why call back those days for ever flown,
And with them every joy this heart can own ?
Pleasure and pain is the sad mixture still,
Taste but the good, and you must taste the ill;
Dear Recollection is a sorceress fair
That brings up pleasures livelier than they were;
Delighted Fancy dwells upon the view,
Compares old scenes with what she meets with new;
The present hour grows dull, her charms decay,
And, one by one, drop silently away.
Neglect succeeds--Neglect, the worst of foes,
That married love or single friendship knows,
Whose torpid soul congeal'd in stupor lies,
Nor sees one charm, nor hears the smothering sighs;
Sees not the hourly load of comforts brought
By fond affection, watching every thought,
Nor the heart beating with the wish to please,--
Cold, cold Neglect, nor hears, nor feels, nor sees !
"Thus, in the present hour too, oft slides by
The many a charm that might detain the eye;
But just as if from woes we could not part,
We veil the sight, and close shut up the heart;
So I myself would ne'er forget the day
When Ethelinda vowed her heart away.
Our births were equal, but exalted views
For the fair daughter bade the sire refuse.
O'er seas I roam, in quest of much-priz'd wealth,
Though, after all, the greatest good is health !
Where'er I roam'd, my Ethelind was there,
My soul's companion join'd me every where;
Whatever scenes entrapped my travelling eye,
My fancied Ethelind stood smiling by,
Her just opinion met my listening ear,
And her remarks on men, and climes, I hear.
This was not absence, or it was a dream,
Which, though unreal, yet would real seem.
Each day the tongue-like pen some story told,
Of growing love, or less increasing gold;
Yet fortune frown'd not; and, in lengthening time,
One day I saw that mark'd her to be mine.
Hail ! heaven-taught letters, that through years convey
The deathless thought, as if just breath'd to-day !
That gives the converse of an absent friend,
And, for a moment, makes that absence end;
For, while the eager eyes the lines run o'er,
Distance steps back, and drags the chain no more;
For one short moment the dear friends we see
Close by our side, just as they used to be.
Such sweet delusions are not form'd to last,
And Fancy's visions far too soon are past.
No such delights my heart-wrote lines attend,
They met the hand of a deceitful friend;
Her brother, anxious for a lord's success,
Thought it no sin to blast my happiness,
Kept up my letters, and base stories told,
That I had sold myself to age, and gold.
Her good opinion baffled long the tale,
And love for long kept down the struggling scale.
But when, from year to year, Hope pointed on,
And the last hope with the last year was gone,
She tried to think I must be base, and strove
To scorn the man who could give up her love;
Yet her soft heart no other flame confessed,
It lodged the tenant of her faithful breast.
"Home I return'd, much wearied out with woes,
And every fear that fretful silence knows.
Fear for her death was far my greatest dread;
How could I bear to think her with the dead !
Did she but live, methought my griefs might end,
When the warm lover cool'd into the friend.
I reach'd my home, and quick inquiries made,
Found her unmarried--found she was not dead.
And now, to know the cause of all my woe,
With hope and fear, and joy, and grief, I go;
A thousand fears would stop me in my way,
A thousand hopes forbid one moment's stay.
As nigh the house with anxious step I drew,
Fond recollections crowded all the view;
I felt a tear creep round and round my eye,
That shame of man, and yet I know not why.
While at the door her faithful maid I saw,
The short quick breath I scarce had power to draw;
Where--is--your la--my lips no more would move.
"She's in the arbour, sir, you us'd to love."
"Something like hope a cordial drop bestow'd,
The heart grew warm, and the pale cheek now glow'd.
Near to the arbour silently I drew,
And trembling look'd the leafy lattice through;
The sprightly air which once lit up her face,
To pensive softness long had given place;
Its gentle charms around her features crowd,
And tenderest feeling her fine figure bow'd;
More dear she seem'd, more interesting far,
Than when her eye was call'd the evening star;
On her fair hand she lean'd her drooping head,
And many a tear bedew'd the page she read;
'Twas Milton
's Paradise--the book I knew,
Once my own profile on the leaf I drew,
And wrote beneath this truth-dictated line--
'With thee conversing I forget all time;'
Her eye I saw ran every feature o'er,
And scann'd the line where truth seem'd writ no more;
She shook her head, its meaning well I knew:
"'Twas even thus, ye once lov'd lines adieu;"
The book she shut--so softly was it clos'd,
As if life's joys alone were there repos'd.
"I walk'd around, the crimping grass would say,--
Some heavy foot has brush'd our dews away;
She started up, and, shaking off the tear,
Strove hard to make the pearl-set eye more clear;
But when my form the parting leaves betray'd,
And fuller light around my features play'd,
She grows a statue, wrought by Michael's art,
A marble figure, with a human heart,
More pale, more cold, than Medici can seem,
Or all the forms that from the quarry teem.
I bow'd, but spoke not, injur'd as I thought,
And wishing much to show the sense I ought;
I durst not trust th' impatient tongue to move,
For, ah ! I felt it would but talk of love.
I silent stand." "What art thou, vision, say,
Why dost thou cross a wretched wanderer's way ?
Sure 'tis the whimsy of a feverish mind
That fancies forms none but itself can find !"
"I bow'd again." "Oh ! speak if thou art he
That once was dear--so very dear to me ?"
"Yes, Ethelind, most sure--too sure I'm he
That once was dear, so very dear to thee;
Why has thy heart its fondness all forborne
To swell my sails, and ask my quick return ?"
"A married man !--she sharply made reply,"
With much resentment sparkling in her eye,--
"A married man has every right to hear
What thoughts pursue us through the changing year !
Yes, I will tell you: happy was the day
In which you gave your heart and hand away.
I gave not mine, yet free from every vow
That would have tied me to a wretch like you.
I feel as blissful in my single state,
As you, no doubt, feel in your wealthy mate !"
She rose to go: "My Ethelind, forbear !
Some cruel monster has abus'd your ear;
Your faithful lover see before you stand,
Your faithful lover dares to claim your hand;
No other vows that plighted faith could stain,
No other loves melt o'er this heart again !
Let easy fortune nameless comforts spread,
And slope for life the soft descending tread.
No needful cares, to study how the year
Shall rule its squares, and run its circles clear;
The generous hand no close restraint shall know,
But opening bounty from the fingers flow.
The saddest sight the pitying eyes receive,
Is to see wretchedness with nought to give;
The heart-wrung tear, though e'er so fully shed,
Brings no warm clothing, and affords no bread.
On you shall pleasure wait with ready call,
Speed to the play, or hasten to the ball;
Where safest ease her flowery carpet throws,
And gilded domes their rainbow-lights dispose;
Where splendour turns e'en common things to show,
And plain good comforts ornamental grow.
'Midst scenes like these would Ethelinda blaze,
While wreathing diamonds lend their mingling rays;
Wealth is her own, for it is mine to give,
As it is hers, to bid me how to live.
But should domestic peace her soul allure,
For splendour but hides grief, it cannot cure,--
If in sweet converse hours should steal away,
While we still wander at the close of day;
If every wish preventing love should see,
And all the world we to ourselves should be,
I only wait the soft assenting smile,
To be whate'er her heart would ask the while;
O yes, dear friend ! I yet can read the line,
'With thee conversing I forget all time;'
Domestic peace has every charm for me,
How doubly charming when enjoy'd with thee !
"Now honour pleaded that my fame should bleed.
And life is rul'd by her detested creed;
This idol, honour, at whose shrine appears
The heart-broke friend, dissolv'd in endless tears.
He, fiery youth, impatient of control,
And the grey veteran sorry from his soul,
Th' injuring and the injur'd both repair,
And both expect her laurel wreath to wear;
It matters not where right or wrong began,
The man who fights must be an honest man,
Though every baseness that the heart can know
Should damp his soul, and keep his sword in awe;
Sole proof of excellence such warriors give--
Wretches who die, because they dare not live !
The guilty breast is ever up in arms,
And the least look the conscious soul alarms !
Should your quick eye the shuffling card detect,
Or should the gamester think you but suspect,
His injur'd honour dares you to the fight,
And all the world admits the challenge right !
Not to accept it blasts a virtuous fame,
And links your memory with eternal shame;
It matters not though pure your life appears
On the long record of revolving years;
Though heaven you fear, arid heaven's forbidding law,
That stamps him criminal who dares to draw,
Yet man, vain man, breaks through the laws of heaven,
Dies by the sword, and hopes to be forgiven;
For what we duels from high fashion call,
Is Suicide, or Murder, after all !
"Sometimes the heart almost approves the deed,
When barbarous wounds make reputation bleed;
Of all the crimes of any shape or dye,
That looks the blackest in true feeling's eye,
If a dear sister's purity we feel,
Nature cries out--where is th' avenging steel ?
Avenging steel ! how impotent the word,
And all the threats and cures that tend the sword !
"Sweet Reputation, like a lily fair,
Scents every breath that winnows through the air;
The colouring sunbeam on its whiteness plays,
And dances round and round with gilding rays;
Anon dark clouds these gilding rays withhold,
And the leaf shrivels with the sudden cold;
A blighting vapour sails along the skies,
And the meek lily droops its head, and dies:
Nor can a sword, or the depending pen,
Clear the lost female character again;
The vindication better never hear,--
That fame is safest that has nought to clear;
And female fame is such a tender flower,
It cannot even bear a pitying shower;
Courage in man is something near as nice,
Which life must buy, and wear at any price.
"Much 'gainst my conscience, and against heaven's law,
My destin'd brother to account I draw;
Against his life I meant no hand to rear,--
I meant but with the world to settle clear;
A self-defense, e'en in th' appointed field,
Was all the sword I ever thought to wield.
Hard was the onset; in the fatal strife
His hand I saw aim'd only at my life;
I wav'd its point, still hoping to disarm,
And guard both lives secure from every harm.
I parried long; he made a lounging stroke,
And my sad weapon in his bosom broke."
"'Tis past he said--much injur'd man, adieu !
I've done you wrong--but you'll forgive it now."
"In that sad moment every pang I found
That darts through father's, brother's, sister's, wound !
In what new lights I then saw Honour's creed,
How sunk in sin seem'd the detested deed;
The world's applause was stripped of all its charms,
And the whole Conscience met the Man in arms,
Guilt, sorrow, pity, warr'd within the breast,
With sad remorse, that never can have rest.
My weeping Ethelind now, too, I saw,
Lost in the floods of never ending woe !
For, ah ! what woes can ever hope an end
That mourn a brother slaughter'd by a friend !
Then from his breast some brief, brief lines he drew,--
The blots were many, though the words were few:"
"Fly me, for ever, it is time we part,
You've kill'd a brother, and you've broke a heart."
"Tortur'd in soul from place to place I flew,
But swift-wing'd thought as swiftly would pursue;
Unless from memory our thoughts can run,
How vain to journey round and round the sun.
At last this solitude my sorrow sought,
For cities leave no bar for entering thought;
I here have liv'd, in hopes the time will come,
That makes my cell my wish'd-for silent tomb."
"His tears fresh flow'd, and mine ran down my cheek,
Our griefs were such as neither tongue could speak;
At last we parted--he to endless woe,
While happy I to wife and children go."
Now scolding Nancy to the ale-house flies--
"What are you doing--hearing Harry's lies !
Thomas, get in, and do not sit to drink,
There's work enough at home, if you would think !"
And now the sisters take their evening walk;
One fam'd for goodness, and one fam'd for joke,
For physic, too, some little is renown'd,
With every salve that loves to heal the wound;
The pulse she feels with true mysterious air,
While Mrs Graham of strengthening broths takes care.
That sickness must be hopeless of all end,
Which her good home-made wine no way can mend;
The brother then his skill of medicine tries,
And rarely in his hands the lingering patient dies.
Now the white owl flits o'er the dusky ground,
Foreruns the night, and makes his trumpet sound.
The winds are lull'd asleep, and now you hear
The murmuring stream hum slumber in your ear.
Sweet Row, flow on, and be thy little vale
The future glory of the happy tale;
Long be thy banks bespread as they are now
With nibbling sheep, or richer feeding cow;
With rock, and scar, and cottage on the hill,
With curling smoke, and busy useful mill;
Long may yon trees afford their leafy screen,
And long from winter save the fading green;
In every season in their speckled pride,
Safe may the trout through all thy windings glide;
Safe may the fowl adown thy waters swim,
Bathe the webb'd foot, or o'er thy mirror skim,
Nor yet the schoolboy cast the deadly stone,
And take that life, no frailer than his own;
For peace and plenty, and the cheerful tale,
For happy wives, for mirth, and honest ale,
For maidens fair, and swains of matchless truth,
And all the openness of artless youth,
Whene'er a Cumbrian Village shall be fam'd,
Let Stoklewath be not the last that's nam'd !
SOPHROSYNE, companion dear,
Who hangs a pearl in Pity's ear,
And wanders through the dewy lawn
To catch the rose-bud newly blown,
And tied yon knot of fringy flowers,
And darken'd all the grove with bowers;
Who bade yon Lily of the Vale
Tell o'er her artless simple tale;
That, going to queen Flora's court,
Where once a year flowers all resort,
She wander'd through the woodlands wide,
And saw the babbling streamlet glide,
With many a Daisy sitting here,
And many a Cowslip walking there,
And many a Harebell tinkling loud,
And many a Pansy dress'd and proud,
And many a Primrose faint and pale,
All stationed up and down the dale;
With these acquaintance soon she made,
And lov'd the flowers that lov'd the shade;
Ask'd Flora if she there might stay,
And shun the fervour of the day;
And when the Primrose pale should die,
With purer sweets her loss supply.
This humble prayer gay Flora grants,
For soon supply'd are little wants;
And bade Retirement form a shade
Of willows sweet, to sooth the maid.
But Innocence one day had been
Culling some flowerets on the green,
And many a gay one fondly press'd,
And many a sweet one wooed her breast,
But yet an emblem of her mind
This blue-eyed stranger could not find.
It chanc'd Sophrosyne with Eve
Went out, her 'custom'd bower to weave,
And sprinkling with soft Pity's dew
Each drooping flower that lost its hue,
Bade gentle Eve refreshment lend
To all that faint or lowly bend.
Not far from hence a Nymph was seen
Of meek-set eye and artless mien;
Soft white the well turn'd limbs enfolds;
Her tresses a blue riband holds,
And as the winds the locks unfurl,
Give birth to many a beauteous curl.
A straw-wrought hat with care was tied,
As if her lovely face to hide;
Her apron tuck'd and full of flowers,
She carried to Sophrosyne's bowers,
While Innocence was waiting there,
And tying up her nut-brown hair--
For all the flowers she yet had found
She threw upon the thankless ground--
And thus she cried: "Lie there--I see
Nought can prevent my destiny;
My race is run unless I find
An emblem of my spotless mind;
This Fate avers--to that I yield,
And quit this for th' Elysian field."
"Simplicity !" Sophrosyne cried,
"Where hast thou been ?--I will not chide;
But haste, some emblem thou can'st find
Of the pure, spotless, artless mind !"
"O ! yes, Sophrosyne, see here
The sweetest flower of all the year;
But 'tis not mixed among the rest,
I ever wear it in my breast."
So saying, show'd the Lily fair,
The Valley's pride, was shelter'd there;
Then Innocence her emblem knew,
And own'd how strong the likeness grew;
And own'd, too, that no other flower
That shows its face at any hour,
Could e'er so tenderly declare
'Twas half so spotless, pure, and fair.
THOUGH low is my cot, and the scene all around
Unconscious that Art with rude Nature can play,
Yet here, even here, it is thought, may be found
Some fugitive pleasures that happen to st