CANTO I.

    'MID Cambria's hills a lowly cottage stood,
        Circled with mossy tufts of sombre green;
    A vagrant brook flow'd wildly thro' the wood,
        Flashing in lucid lapse the shades between;
        And, cloth'd in mist, a distant hut was seen:
    A village spire above the copse rose white;
        And oft, when summer clos'd the day serene,
    The broad horizon glisten'd golden-bright,
Beskirted here and there with purple-tinted light.

2.

    Close by the river's marge a ruin stands,
        Which time, for ages, taught to moulder slow;
    And there, as legends tell, the Druid bands
        To SNOWDEN'S summit rais'd the dirge of woe,
        Whene'er the warriors' blood was bade to flow;
    And when the yellow dawn, with weeping eye,
        Above the ivy'd battlements 'gan glow,
    From the black towr's their fading ghosts would cry,
Till the wide gates of day flam'd in the eastern sky.

3.

    And there the minstrel's airy harp would sound,
        In soft vibrations musically sad;
    And there a stream of light would quiver 'round,
        While spectres gleam'd, in shroudy vestments clad;
        And many, hearing their loud shrieks, grew mad !
    And still the little cot was cheerful seen;
        And the poor foster-mother, smiling, glad
    That pride and pomp had ne'er her portion been,
But all her nights and days pass'd on in peace serene.

4.

    Sprung from a race obscure, she little knew
        The many snares that lurk in paths of state:
    She, mountain-cherish'd with the guileless few,
        Nor fear'd the cunning nor obeyed the great;
        Her bosom tranquil, and her soul elate !
    She from soft slumbers merrily awoke
        'Ere morn with humid fingers op'd her gate;
    And listen'd, cheerful, while the Woodman's stroke
Levell'd the loftiest pine, or cleft the proudest oak.

5.

    And happy had the foster-mother been,
        But that her wedded mate was old and poor;
    Tho', as no splendid days the pair had seen,
        They envied not the rich their shining store,
        The costly banquet, nor the marble floor.
    Pleas'd with her toil, the nurse of lusty Health,
        She found contentment, and she sought no more;
    While Time, which conquers e'en the brave by stealth,
Scatter'd 'mid Folly's train the miseries of wealth.

6.

    Full sixty summers had old OWEN seen,
        And now his hair grew whiter ev'ry day;
    And he, who once a sturdy hind had been,
        Now found his strength was wasting quick away,
        While creeping Palsy shook his feeble clay;--
    And now came Discontent, with pining mien,
        And eager Avarice, which, gossips say,
    Is age's bitter curse; and so, I ween,
Old OWEN found the hag, the nurse of envious spleen:

7.

    And now he hobbled through the splashy lane,
        While the night-breeze his weary bones would shake;
    And now the mountain's summit to attain
        He panted loud, as tho' his heart would break,
        And sorely did his limbs begin to ache:
    And when the snow was drifted, or the rain
        Swell'd the small rivulet to foaming rage,
    He felt the chilling mist in every vein,
And, like a wounded deer, droop'd languid o'er the plain.

8.

    And sometimes to the ruin he would hie,
        And there, upon a mossy fragment, wait,
    Watching the red blaze of the ev'ning sky,
        Gilding with flaming gold the roofs of state,
        The fretted column, and the trophied gate:
    And thus he ponder'd on the wrecks of Time,
        While o'er his head the bird of gloom would cry,
    And all around the black'ning ivy climb,
Shadowing the sacred Haunts of Solitude sublime.

9.

    And then the varying destiny of Man
        Employ'd his thoughts till twilight's veil was spread;
    And much he murmur'd at the chequered plan,
        And many a tear, repining sore, he shed;
        And now in mute reflection bow'd his head,
    With arms enwoven, and with downcast eyes,
        The page of human misery he read,
    Where Wealth for Honesty its thralment tries
While at Oppression's feet the child of Virtue dies.

10.

    Then fancy led him to the battle's rage,
        Where flush'd Ambition rear'd its sanguine crest,
    Where men with men, like tigers, fierce engage;
        The brother's sword against the brother's breast:
        And then he rais'd his eyes to heav'n, and bless'd;
    For blood had never stain'd his trembling hand,
        But holy Innocence, by Pity drest,
    Spurning the pride of insolent command,
Had nerv'd his shuddering heart to scorn th' oppressor's brand.

11.

    Thus did he ruminate; while many a tale,
        Told by the gabbling gossips of the plain,
    O'er his lean cheek diffused a deadly pale,
        Bidding him seek his cheerful home again:
        Now fancy bade him ken the warrior train
    Winding the mazes of the merry dance,
        With pages silken-clad, and ladies vain,
    And banners thickly pierc'd with many a lance,
And palfries milky-white, that champing loud did prance;

12.

    While airy harps, by sainted Druids smote,
        Pour'd the soft cadence from their golden strings;
    And groans of murder'd chieftains seem'd to float,
        O'er Cambria's tow'ring pride, on Echo's wings:
        And now the gushing of a thousand springs
    Call'd forth the elfin tribes, in dew bedight;
        And now the vaulted arch with clamors rings;
    And starry eyes, spangling the face of Night,
Seem'd thro' the murky gloom to shed translucent light.

13.

    Now OWEN , rising from his moss-clad seat,
        Thro' the lone forest bent his silent way;
    And faint the pulses of his bosom beat,
        Till, peering calm and clear, the moony ray
        Diffus'd o'er SNOWDEN'S summit mimic day;
    And, while the dry leaves whisper'd thro' the wood,
        He mark'd the casement of his hut display
    A long pale stream of light--and swift his blood
Danc'd in his shrivell'd veins, like youth's returning flood.

14.

    But suddenly a voice was heard to moan,
        Soft as the sighing of the southern wind;
    And then a milder and a milder tone:----
        He started, stopp'd, and trembling look'd behind.
        What feeble spells can hold the human mind !
    And now, in tears, before old OWEN stood
        A beauteous lady !  Of the loftiest kind
    So did she seem; but those of loftiest blood
Live not in noblest deeds, as noblest natures should.

15.

    The moony light fell clear upon her vest,
        For whiteness rivalling the stately swan;
    And yet less snowy than her beating breast,
        Whose fires the quenching tears fell fast upon;
        And mournful was her mien, and woe-begone:
    Yet her soft eyes might ruffian-rage command,
        Tho' her cold cheek and lip were deathly wan;
    For on her heart she laid her trembling hand,
And, like a guilty wretch, did faint and feeble stand.

16.

    And now she rush'd the woody brakes among;
        And now again she quits the dim retreat,
    While suddenly her nerves grew firm and strong--
        For in her arms she bore a baby sweet,
        Wrapp'd in a costly robe, with trappings meet,
    That glisten'd where the moon's pale lustre fell;
        And now she knelt forlorn at OWEN'S feet,
    While with such rending woes her heart 'gan swell
As only those who feel can ever learn to tell.

17.

    Slow from her breast a purse of gold she drew
        (Ah, poison fatal to the soul of man !)
    While o'er the world a misty vapor flew;
        For Nature shrunk the guilty deed to scan:
        The fount in OWEN'S bosom chilly ran;
    The lady sigh'd--the babe his finger press'd--
        The lonely owl its nightly shriek began,
    The ring-dove murmur'd in its leafy nest,
While the fell murd'rer's ghost laugh'd on his grave unblest.

18.

    And now the lady spoke, with fault'ring tongue:--
        "Know'st thou the torrent by the mountain's side ?
    There a fantastic crag, with wild weeds hung,
        Frowns o'er the thunders of the foaming tide;
        No mortal sounding yet the gulph has tried:"
    Now OWEN shudder'd; for his heart grew cold:
        And now again the lady sternly cried,--
    "Down the black rock this baby must be roll'd !
Nay, shrink not from the deed; be rich, as thou art bold.

19.

    "Waste not in vulgar toil thy feeble age;
        Bid Poverty, with all its ills, retire:
    Ought Conscience warfare with the heart to wage,
        When all its passions, all its joys, expire ?
        Who shall condemn Ambition's glorious fire ?
    Who bid thee linger thro' thy little day
        The slave of gilded fools ?  whose ruthless ire
    Will bend thee to the grave, a willing prey,
And bid, in envious scorn, thy very name decay.

20.

    "The soldier sheds, for gold, a brother's blood;
        The sons of Rapine revel wild in joys;
    For gold the sailor ploughs the billowy flood;
        The statesman barters for Ambition's toys:
        And shall vile Misery thy peace annoy ?
    Shall threat'ning Famine pinch thee to the heart
        While gold can every scorpion care destroy,
    Pouring its unction sweet on ev'ry smart,
And blunting, ere it falls, Oppression's with'ring dart ?"

21.

    And now again the babe his finger press'd,
        Imploring silently his fost'ring care:
    'Twas Nature's eloquence; it touch'd his breast,--
        For Nature's spark was not extinguish'd there !
        He to his bosom snatch'd the treasure rare;
    It nestled fondly: while the lady base
        Rush'd thro' the forest; and the morning-air,
    Fanning with fragrant wings the baby's face,
O'erspread his dimpled cheek with tints of rosy grace.

22.

    Now to the margent of the rock they came:
        The hunter's merry horn was heard afar;
    The cold dew glitter'd, while the sunny flame
        Rush'd unimpeded o'er the morning-star,
        Rolling o'er clouds of gold Day's burning car:
    And now the lark its hymn of rapture sung,
        The sheep-bell tinkled, and the deaf'ning jar
    Of tumbling torrents thro' the valley rung,
While the young playful kid frisk'd the dank weeds among.

23.

    Now OWEN , pacing by the bounding flood,
        With arms extended held the fearless child;
    And soon an icy languor chill'd his blood;
        And now his starting eye-balls, gazing wild,
        Fix'd on the baby, as it sweetly smil'd,
    While the rude crag the trembling caitiff trod;
        When lo !  his wither'd hands, by gold defil'd,
    Were numb'd and palsied like a senseless clod,
Smote by the chast'ning pow'r of NATURE'S shudd'ring GOD !

24.

    Now up the mazes of the dark'ning dell
        The foster-mother, like a maniac, hied;
    And bursting sighs her bosom taught to swell,
        For at the dawn of day her son had died !
        Her only son-old OWEN'S lusty pride !
    But grief to horror turn'd when OWEN told
        The story of the lady--who, to hide
    Her guilt and shame, had sought, by 'witching gold,
To have her own dear babe down the black mountain roll'd !

25.

    And ere the setting sun, with vivid ray,
        Gilded the casement of their hovel low,
    She saw the raven cross the foamy way;
        She heard the screech-owl o'er the mountain go;
        While the true sheep-dog howl'd, portending woe.
    Now a dim circle round the moon was roll'd,
        And now the church-yard elms wav'd to and fro,
    While the small death-watch bitter griefs foretold,--
For OWEN'S cheek was pale, and OWEN'S heart was cold !

CANTO II.

    EIGHT years pass'd on, and still the stripling grew,
        But nothing lovely in his face was seen;
    His stature low, his brow of swarthy hue,
        And coarse and vulgar was his infant mien;
        A more unseemly thing scarce liv'd, I ween:
    Yet in his soul the pure affections shone,
        Meek charity, with modest pride serene;
    While truth and dauntless courage were his own,
Tho', when he wept, his tear would melt a heart of stone.

2.

    The village gossips, 'round the blazing hearth,
        Would talk in wonder of the foster-child ;
    And one would say he was of lowly birth,
        While others thought him born of savage wild;
        And so they many a freezing night beguil'd:
    Till, falling once from an o'erhanging tree,
        Amidst the torrent strong, he fearless smil'd !
    And then the wrinkled hags, with devilish glee,
Swore "the undaunted boy some witch's brat must be !"

3.

    And oft, upon the brow of mountain-steep,
        As slow the landscape faded from his view,
    With devious steps he wander'd far, to weep,
        (While all around the sultry' vapours flew),
        Heedless of with'ring bolt, or drizzly dew:
    And as the giant shadows vanquish'd day,
        Veiling the woodland dell in dusky hue,
    By the small tinkling sheep-bell would he stray,
And, like to elfin ghost, bemoan the hours away:

4.

    And often, on the mossy bank, alone,
        Strange figures would he draw, and features vile;
    And, building a rude seat of rugged stone,
        Would sit whole hours, and ponder all the while;
        Or, talking to himself, would nod and smile;
    And sometimes by the starry light he'd go
        Where the dank yew o'erhangs the church-yard stile,
    And there, with hemlock, nightshade, misletoe,
Weaving a poison'd wreath, would chaunt a strain of woe.

5.

    No wealth had he, no garland of renown;
        Slow pass'd the minutes thro' the livelong day,
    Till from the upland mead, or thistled down,
        He watch'd the sun's last lustre fade away:
        And if perchance his little heart was gay,
    It beat to hear some merry minstrel's note,
        Or goat-herd caroling his roundelay
    On craggy cliffs, while from the linnet's throat
Full many a winding trill on airy wings did float:

6.

    And when the wint'ry moon, with crystal eye,
        Above the promontory bleak 'gan sail,
    Shrouding her modest brow in amber sky,
        While shrill the night-breeze whistled o'er the vale,
        Oft would he tell some melancholy tale
    To the deep lucid stream that wander'd slow,
        Listless and weary, indolent and pale,
    His bosom swelling high with bitter woe,
Which none but luckless wight with tender heart can know:

7.

    And oft to others' plaints would he give heed:--
        For all, that griev'd, his bosom learn'd to sigh:
    He could not see the fleecy victim bleed,
        Nor snare the free-born tenant of the sky,
        Nor lesser wight be teized when he stood by;
    For brute oppression rous'd his little rage;
        In combat fierce the younker to defy
    He would, with breathless ire, his limbs engage,
While neither threats nor pain his anger could assuage.

8.

    With ebon locks unkempt, and mean attire,
        A mountain weather-beaten wight was he:--
    And passing meek; save when resentful ire
        Bade from his glance the living lightning flee,
        To think that Vice would Virtue's master be:
    For, tho' no classic knowledge grac'd his mind
        From legends old, or feats of chivalry,
    Still 'round his heart the wond'rous instinct twin'd
Which throbb'd in every vein--the love of human kind.

9.

    One night, the murky eve of Christmas-day,
        When mystic-fraught the wint'ry tempest blows,
    Dim shadows hover'd in the blunted ray,
        While red the moon o'er SNOWDEN'S summit rose:
        And soon fierce hurricanes the heav'ns unclose;
    Howling, the wild blast danc'd upon the wave;
        And now a blazing fire the mountain shows;
    The troubled streams like blood their margents lave;
And rays of livid light gleam o'er old OWEN'S grave:

10.

    The foster-mother rose in dread dismay,
        And to the wayward stripling's chamber went;
    And now the paly stream of tardy day
        Stole down the hill, with frozen dew besprent,
        Silv'ring with light the little tenement:
    The swarthy boy upon his pallet rude
        Slept sweet and soundly, dreaming of content;
    While eager-ey'd the foster-mother stood,
Like a fell bird of prey watching a victim brood:

11.

    For, idle tales had now been widely spread,--
        That potent witchcraft had possest the child;
    That mystic spells, from pois'nous herbage shed,
        The urchin's wand'ring senses had beguil'd,
        Filling his brain with incantations wild:
    And some did swear that, by a fiend possest,
        Like a vile killcrop * , breathing airs defil'd,
    The corn would mildew, by his fingers prest,
And new-born babes expire, meeting his glance unblest.

12.

    Near where the black-thorn mark'd the barren hill,
        Dotting with frequent tufts its rugged side,
    In a clay hut, a wither'd imp of ill
        Her art accurst for many a year had plied:
        Bearded she was, and swart, and haggard-eyed;
    And on her back a lump deforming grew;
        A huge dried snake about her waist was tied,
    And hideous forms upon the floor she drew
With hemlock's poison'd juice mingled with midnight dew:

*A witch's changeling.

13.

    The wings of bats, the hides of toads, were seen
        Clothing the walls of her infernal cell;
    And spiders grim, hiding their webs between,
        Watch'd the foul HAG weaving her potent spell,
        Low-muttering like a sullen fiend of hell:
    A murderer's scull, fall'n from a gibbet high,
        And fill'd with water from a stagnant well,
    Oft to her skinny lips she would apply,
With many a bitter curse and many a labour'd sigh:

14.

    Close at her feet a brindled mastiff lay,
        Watching her busy toil with blodshot eyes;
    And now he howl'd, as if with dire dismay,
        Shaking the hovel with his fearful cries;
        And now, with hide erect, he couching lies:
    A rav'ning kite, which on the lattice stood,
        With side-glance keen the wither'd sorc'ress spies,
    His talons streaming with the wild kid's blood,
Which down the thorny steep roll'd in a crimson flood.

15.

    Thither in haste the foster-mother flew,
        To traffic with the wicked child of hell:
    For ev'ry starry path the sorc'ress knew;
        Could mark how high the stormy flood would swell;
        Of comets prattle, and eclipse foretel;
    Draw from their mould'ring shrouds the guilty dead;
        Ride on the whirlwind over hill and dell;
    Dance on the murderer's grave, and fearless tread
O'er the wide-yawning wave of Ocean's foamy bed.

16.

    And now the foster-mother told her tale
        (The sorc'ress list'ning with malignant smile),--
    How the lorn boy would wander, sad and pale;
        Or pluck the yew-tree from the church-yard stile;
        Or bind his brows with weeds and herbage vile:
    How he would sing his wild song to the blast,
        And so night's melancholy noon beguile;
    Or, when the death-knell o'er the meadow pass'd,
Smile thro' the dreary hour, and wish it were his last.

17.

    And now again the witch, with ghastly grin,
        Turn'd to her rushy bed, and shriek'd with joy:
    For, there full many a wither'd branch was seen,
        And many a herb infectious, to destroy,
        Gather'd at dawn-light by the foster-boy;
    For, oftimes he the spiteful HAG would taunt,
        And, scatt'ring poisons, her lone hours annoy;
    Or, shrieking like a ghost, her threshold haunt,
Till morn above the steep its gaudy beams would flaunt:

18.

    And now across her path the straw he threw,
        Or scratch'd her shrivel'd arm with crooked pin;
    Now up the moon-light lane her feet pursue,
        And shout behind her with insulting din:----
        To mock the old and feeble were a sin:
    But that the subtle HAG , with menac'd rage,
        Would urge the daily warfare to begin;
    And oft with stick and stone in fight engage,
Mingling with potent wrath the peevish bent of age.

19.

    The tale being told, the little wretch forlorn
        Was sentenc'd to endure each wounding wrong;
    Assail'd by all the shafts of ribald scorn,
        And mark'd the make-game of a senseless throng;--
        For, Persecution is a giant strong.
    And now his food was frequently denied;
        His sport was seldom, and his labor long;
    His hunger, herbs medicinal supplied,
With ears of mildew'd corn, steep'd in the sandy tide.

20.

    One morn the foster-mother early rose;
        'Twas the blythe morn of love-inspiring May:
    But fearful dreams had haunted her repose,
        Dark'ning the splendor of the rising day:
        She sought the boy,--but he was far away !
    For sharp unkindness did his peace annoy,
        And little could he brook the rigid sway
    Which tyrant natures, tyrant souls, enjoy;
Their cruel sport to wound--their triumph to destroy.

21.

    Yet wither could the little wand'rer go ?
        A stranger to the world's wide mazes he;
    Despair his guide, his sole companion Woe--
        A solitary exile doom'd to be:
        He gaz'd aghast; no friend his eyes could see;
    And yet in fancy he beheld the day
        When, smiling, on his foster-mother's knee,
    He oftentimes has heard her sighing say,
How to her cot he came bedight in rich array.

22.

    Perchance, he thought, some lord his sire might live;
        Some lady sweet his bashful mother prove,
    While shame might bid her to a stranger give
        The holy treasure of a parent's love.
        O barbarous Pride !   which NATURE cannot move;
    Shall her poor offspring ever plead in vain ?
        Shall they, unown'd by guilty greatness, rove;
    Or, lost in ignorance, unblest remain,
Like a wild with'ring tree plac'd on a desert plain ?--

23.

    And now his fev'rish brain began to burn,
        While Mem'ry conjur'd up each hour to view
    Which, erst so tranquil, never could return--
        Ah, MEMORY ! sad thy visions are, and true !--
        When dark Despair a gloomy picture drew;
    While Fancy madden'd on the varied scene:
        And now the clouds resum'd a cheerful hue;
    Yet, while he watch'd the rays of light between,
On all the earth there breath'd no wretch so lorn, I ween.

24.

    O'er hill and dale the friendless foster-child,
        With weary footsteps, bent his lonely way:
    And now he hasten'd o'er the thorny wild;
        Now by the rippling brook would musing stay;
        Or dream, on flow'ry banks, of visions gay:
    Then, starting wild, his pilgrimage pursue,
        Not knowing whither he was doom'd to stray,
    While his wan cheek was sprent with chilling dew,
Or fierce the angry storm athwart his bosom flew.

25.

    At length gaunt Poverty, of sallow hue,
        And cold Neglect, with all their rueful train,
    About his heart their with'ring mischiefs threw;
        And sorely was he pinch'd with bitter pain:
        Yet proud was he, and fraught with high disdain,
    Tho' many a day he fasted sad and lone;
        And all night long across the dismal plain
    He pour'd, amid the blast, his rending groan,
While the faint glimm'ring stars in chilling lustre shone:

26.

    And many a burning day, and freezing night,
        The little trav'ller on his journey bent;
    And often, by the moon-beam's quiv'ring light,
        He watch'd his shadow length'ning as he went,
        And, so companion'd, seem'd awhile content:
    Yet when, perchance, he met a lady gay,
        With sudden pangs his feeling heart was rent;
    For then remembrance shew'd the rich array
Which (so the tale was told) bedeck'd his natal day.

27.

    It so befel that, on a summer's eve,
        A stately mansion met his tearful eyes:
    And suddenly his soul forgot to grieve;
        And straight a beauteous lady he espies:
        With unknown hopes his heavy heart did rise,
    For on her cheek a gentle smile was seen;
        And now she mark'd his form with fond surprise !
    For, by his father's smile, his father's mien,
Her own wrong'd baby-boy she knew full well, I ween.

28.

    'Twas INSTINCT rushing thro' her beating breast !
        Instinct, the lamp divine that lights the soul;
    For many a night, depriv'd of balmy rest,
        Her fev'rish eye-balls had been taught to roll:
        Oh ! what can conscious agony control ?
    And, when she ponder'd on the foaming tide,
        From her shrunk heart Hope's soothing visions stole;
    And sick'ning was the luxury of Pride,
While all the mother's fears beat high against her side.

29.

    Now the wide country 'round with revels rung;
        "The Stranger Boy " was sov'reign of the scene;
    And there the minstrel play'd, the peasant sung,
        And dancing circles dotted o'er the green;
        Such rural merriment had ne'er been seen:
    The soft harp echo'd down the woody dell;
        And, sporting gay, the sombre shades between,
    The wild goat wanton'd; while afar the swell
On the light breeze was borne, of many a distant bell.

30.

    But who can paint the mother's silent joy ?
        Who measure the full transport of her soul ?
    While on the smiling cheek of her lost boy
        Her tears repentant swiftly now 'gan roll:
        And woe to him who would their course control !
    For 'twas the extract of the wounded heart,
        Wafted to Heaven by sighs that NATURE stole--
    Sighs which more sacred rapture can impart
Than all the pomp of wealth, and all the smiles of art !

Oct . 22, 1800.

EDWIN AND ELLEN.

HARD by the limpid Conway's murm'ring stream
        A cottage stood, by thickest trees surrounded;
    The creeping vine, o'er lattic'd windows twining,
    Gave a soft light, when low the sun declining
Shot o'er the distant hills his sinking beam.

This cot was all its owner's watch and pride:
For in its bounds his sum of earthly blessings
Was all contain'd: kind Nature there bestowing
A being who, with artless beauty glowing,
Shone lovelier far than all her sex beside.

Her lip outvied the richest tints of art;
        Her cheek the rose's blush, the lily's beauty:
    Thro' her black downcast lashes, softly stealing,
    Her sparkling eyes reveal'd each inmost feeling:
And her pure form enshrin'd as pure a heart.

To EDWIN it had vow'd its earliest love--
        EDWIN , the tenant of this little cottage;
    And he, on his lov'd ELLEN fondly smiling,
    In her dear presence every care beguiling,
Enjoy'd that bliss true hearts alone can prove.

But, ah !  let none deem earthly bliss secure !
        One ev'ning, with his ELLEN , EDWIN straying,
    Tasting the cool and balmy hour of leisure,
    Was prest by villains from his bosom's treasure,
And doom'd the keenest anguish to endure:

In vain did Ellen weep, entreat, implore;
        The gang were dead to feeling, and to pity;
    From her firm grasp the madd'ning Edwin tearing;
    They dragged him wounded, dying, and despairing,
And from her last embrace their victim bore.

Oh !  hapless Ellen, never will thy sight
        Be blest again, with him it lov'd so dearly:
    Never again, to those sad eyes returning,
    Shall joy for thee awake its rosy morning,
Nor Edwin's smiles inspire the soft delight.

In death's cold arms his youthful graces sleep;
        Nor can thy cries disturb his leaden slumbers:
    O'er his pale form the whitening surge is rolling,
    Where, to the sea-gull's scream, the winds are howling,
And o'er the shatter'd wreck the lightnings sweep.

Too soon did Ellen hear the fatal tale !
        No more her breaking heart its woes sustaining,
    She soon was laid within her last cold dwelling,
    While, on the hollow breeze, the death-bell, swelling,
In solemn cadence echo'd thro' the vale.

Rest, gentle Fair !  from this world's cruel wrong:
        In other climes ye now receive a blessing:
    The village bards, 'round your deserted dwelling,
    Shall tune their harps, the tide of sorrow swelling,
And to your fate and virtues raise the song.

SUSAN .

"THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER."

"WATCH no more the twinkling stars;
    Watch no more the chalky bourne;
Lady !  from the Holy wars,
    Never will thy Love return !
        Cease to watch, and cease to mourn,
        Thy Lover never will return !

2.

"Watch no more the yellow moon,
    Peering o'er the mountain's head;
Rosy day, returning soon,
    Will see thy Lover, pale and dead !
        Cease to weep, and cease to mourn,
        Thy Lover will no more return !

3.

"Lady, in the Holy wars,
    Fighting for the Cross, he died;
Low he lies, and many scars
    Mark his cold and mangled side;
        In his winding-sheet he lies,
        Lady !  check those rending sighs.

4.

"Hark !  the hollow sounding gale
    Seems to sweep in murmurs by,
Sinking slowly down the vale;
    Wherefore, gentle Lady, sigh ?
        Wherefore moan, and wherefore sigh ?
        Lady !  all that live must die.

5.

"Now the stars are fading fast:
    Swift their brilliant course are run;
Soon shall dreary night be past:
    Soon shall rise the cheering sun !

        The sun will rise to gladden thee;
        Lady, Lady, cheerful be."

6.

So spake a voice !  While sad, and lone,
    Upon a lofty tower, reclin'd,
A Lady sat: the pale moon shone,
    And sweetly blew the summer wind;
        Yet still, disconsolate in mind,
        The lovely Lady sat reclin'd.

7.

The lofty tow'r was ivy clad;
    And round a dreary forest rose;
The midnight bell was tolling sad;
    'Twas tolling for a soul's repose !
        The Lady heard the gates unclose,
        And, from her seat, in terror, rose.

8.

The summer moon shone bright and clear;

    She saw the castle gates unclose;
And now she saw four monks appear,
    Loud chanting for a soul's repose.
        Forbear, oh, lady !  look no more:--
        They pass'd--a livid corpse they bore.

9.

They pass'd, and all was silent now:
    The breeze upon the forest slept;
The moon stole o'er the mountain's brow;
    Again the Lady sigh'd, and wept:
        She watch'd the holy fathers go
        Along the forest path below.

10.

And now the dawn was bright, the dew
    Upon the yellow heath was seen;
The clouds were of a rosy hue,
    The sunny lustre shone between:
        The Lady to the chapel ran,
        While the slow matin prayer began.

11.

And then, once more, the fathers grey
    She mark'd, employ'd in holy prayer:
Her heart was full, she cou'd not pray,
    For love and fear were masters there !
        Ah, Lady !  thou wilt pray ere long
        To sleep those lonely aisles among !

12.

And now the matin prayers were o'er;
    The barefoot monks, of order grey,
Were thronging to the chapel door,
    When there the Lady stopp'd the way:
        "Tell me," she cried, "whose corpse, so pale,
        "Last night ye bore along the vale ?"

13.

"Oh Lady !  question us no more:
    "No corpse did we bear down the dale !"
The lady sunk upon the floor,
    Her quivering lip was deathly pale !

        The barefoot monks now whisper'd, sad,
        "God grant our Lady be not mad."

14.

The monks departing, one by one,
    The chapel gates in silence close;
When from the altar steps, of stone,
    The trembling lady feebly goes:
        While the morning sheds a ruby light,
        The painted windows glowing bright.

15.

And now she heard a hollow sound;
    It seem'd to come from graves below;
And now again she look'd around,
    A voice came murm'ring sad and slow;
        And now she heard it feebly cry,
        "Lady !  all that live must die !

16.

"Watch no more from yonder tow'r,

    "Watch no more the star of day !
"Watch no more the dawning hour,
    "That chases sullen night away !
        "Cease to watch, and cease to mourn,
        "Thy lover will no more return !"

17.

She look'd around, and now she view'd,
    Clad in a doublet gold and green,
A youthful knight: he frowning stood
    And noble was his mournful mien;
        And now he said, with heaving sigh
        "Lady, all that live must die."

18.

She rose to quit the altar's stone,
    She cast a look to heaven and sigh'd,
When lo !  the youthful knight was gone;
    And, scowling by the lady's side,
        With sightless skull and bony hand:
        She saw a giant spectre stand !

19.

His flowing robe was long and clear,
    His ribs were white, as drifted snow:
The Lady's heart was chill'd with fear;
    She rose, but scarce had power to go:
        The spectre grinn'd a dreadful smile,
        And walked beside her down the aisle.

20.

And now he wav'd his rattling hand;
    And now they reached the chapel door,
And there the spectre took his stand;
    While, rising from the marble floor,
        A hollow voice was heard to cry,
        "Lady, all that live must die.

21.

"Watch no more the evening star !
    "Watch no more the glimpse of morn !
"Never from the Holy War.
    "Lady, will thy love return !

        "See this bloody cross; and, see,
        "His bloody scarf he sends to thee !"

22.

And now again the youthful knight
    Stood smiling by the Lady's side !
His helmet shone with crimson light,
    His sword with drops of blood was dy'd:
        And now a soft and mournful song
        Stole the chapel aisles among.

23.

Now from the spectre's paley cheek
    The flesh began to waste away;
The vaulted doors were heard to creek ,
    And dark became the Summer day !
        The spectre's eyes were sunk, but he
        Seem'd with their sockets still to see !

24.

The second bell is heard to ring:

    Four barefoot monks, of orders grey,
Again their holy service sing;
    And round the chapel altar pray:
        The Lady counted o'er and o'er,
        And shudder'd while she counted--four !

25.

"Oh !  Fathers, who was he, so gay,
    "That stood beside the chapel door ?
"Oh !  Tell me fathers, tell me pray."
    The monks replied, "We fathers four:
        "Lady, no other have we seen,
        "Since in this holy place we've been !"

PART SECOND.

NOW the merry bugle horn
    Thro' the forest sounded far;
When on the lofty tow'r, forlorn,
    The Lady watch'd the evening star;

        The evening star that seem'd to be
        Rising from the dark'ned sea !

2.

The Summer sea was dark and still,
    The sky was streak'd with lines of gold,
The mist rose grey above the hill,
    And low the clouds of amber roll'd:
        The Lady on the lofty tow'r
        Watch'd the calm and silent hour.

3.

And, while she watch'd, she saw advance
    A ship, with painted streamers gay:
She saw it on the green wave dance,
    And plunge amid the silver spray;
        While from the forest's haunts, forlorn,
        Again she heard the bugle-horn:

4.

The sails were full; the breezes rose;

    The billows curl'd along the shore;
And now the day began to close;--
    The bugle-horn was heard no more,
        But, rising from the wat'ry way,
        An airy voice was heard to say:

5.

"Watch no more the evening star;
    "Watch no more the billowy sea;
"Lady, from the Holy War
    "Thy lover hastes to comfort thee:
        "Lady, Lady, cease to mourn;
        "Soon thy lover will return."

6.

Now she hastens to the bay:
    Now the rising storm she hears:
Now the sailors smiling say,
    "Lady, Lady, check your fears:
        "Trust us, Lady; we will be
        "Your pilots o'er the stormy sea."

7.

Now the little bark she view'd,
    Moor'd beside the flinty steep;
And now, upon the foamy flood,
    The tranquil breezes seem'd to sleep.
        The moon arose; her silver ray
        Seem'd on the silent deep to play.

8.

Now music stole across the main:
    It was a sweet but mournful tone;
It came a slow and dulcet strain;
    It came from where the pale moon shone:
        And, while it pass'd across the sea,
        More soft, and soft, it seem'd to be.

9.

Now on the deck the Lady stands.
    The vessel steers across the main;
It steers towards the Holy Land,
    Never to return again:

        Still the sailors cry, "We'll be
        Your Pilots o'er the stormy sea."

10.

Now she hears a low voice say,
    "Deeper, deeper, deeper still;
"Hark !  the black'ning billows play;
    "Hark !  the waves the vessel fill:
        "Lower, lower, down we go;
        "All is dark and still below.

11.

Now a flash of livid light,
    On the rolling deep, was seen !
And now the Lady saw the Knight,
    With doublet rich of gold and green:
        From the sockets of his eyes,
        A pale and streaming light she spies !

12.

And now his form transparent stood,

    Smiling with a ghastly mien;--
And now the calm and boundless flood
    Was, like the emerald, bright and green;
        And now 'twas of a troubled hue,
        While "Deeper, deeper," sang the crew.

13.

Slow advanced the morning-light,
    Slow they plough'd the wavy tide;
When, on a cliff of dreadful height,
    A castle's lofty tow'rs they spied:
        The Lady heard the sailor-band,
        Cry, "Lady, this is Holy Land.

14.

"Watch no more the glitt'ring spray;
    "Watch no more the weedy sand;
"Watch no more the star of day;
    "Lady, this is Holy Land:
        "This castle's lord shall welcome thee;
        "Then Lady, Lady, cheerful be !"

15.

Now the castle-gates they pass;
    Now across the spacious square,
Cover'd high with dewy grass,
    Trembling steals the Lady fair:
        And now the castle's lord was seen,
        Clad in a doublet gold and green.

16.

He led her thro' the gothic hall,
    With bones and skulls encircled 'round;
Oh, let not this thy soul appal !"
    He cried, "for this is Holy Ground."
        He led her thro' the chambers lone,
        'Mid many a shriek, and many a groan.

17.

Now to the banquet-room they came:
    Around a table of black stone
She mark'd a faint and vapoury flame;
    Upon the horrid feast it shone--

        And there, to close the madd'ning sight,
        Unnumber'd spectres met the light.

18.

Their teeth were like the brilliant, bright;
    Their eyes were blue as saphire clear;
Their bones were of a polish'd white;
    Gigantic did their ribs appear !--
        And now the Knight the Lady led,
        And plac'd her at the table's head !----

19.

Just now the Lady WOKE :--for she
    Had slept upon the lofty tow'r,
And dreams of dreadful phantasie
    Had fill'd the lonely moon-light hour:
        Her pillow was the turret-stone,
        And on her breast the pale moon shone:

20.

But now a real voice she hears:

    It was her lover's voice;--for he,
To calm her bosom's rending fears,
    That night had cross'd the stormy sea:
        "I come," said he, "from Palestine,
        "To prove myself, sweet Lady , THINE .

FUGITIVE PIECES.

LINES

    IN these degenerate times the Muses blend
For thee a wreath, their guardian and their friend;
Thee, lib'ral MOIRA , in whose glowing mind
Exulting Nature ev'ry grace combin'd !
Honour's nice sense, by judgment wisely taught;
And hardy Valour, with soft Pity fraught;
TRUTH without ostentation ; and a soul,
Thro' which the purest tides of Feeling roll;
And inborn Dignity, which springs elate
Above the tinsel of mere lofty state !

    Blest is the isle where Virtue such as thine
Waves its broad standard o'er the MUSE'S shrine
Blest is the hour when manly feelings own
A PATRIOT'S laurels twining round a THRONE !
With honest zeal when proud affections blend;
And courtly splendors dignify the Friend ,--
The gen'rous friend, whom int'rest cannot bind,
But whose strong ruler is HIS GOD-LIKE MIND !

    Where'er I trace thee, through Life's varying day,
I mark attending Virtues lead thy way:
I mark the mild Affections following near;
Now deck'd in smiles, now bath'd in pity's tear.
Beside thee VALOR moves with giant crest,
While Mercy's ensign hides his iron breast;
And TIME , with glowing pen, on Nature's page,
Transcribes thy deeds, to charm a future age !

    MOIRA !  accept the Muse's grateful songs;
For all THE MUSE can give to THEE belongs !
The flow'rs of Fancy at thy bidding rise,
And their wild fragrance blend, with purest dyes.

No flatt'rer's voice the labour'd cadence flings;
No Syren mischief witches while she sings;
No hireling slave contaminates the tide
Where bright PIERIAN fountains proudly glide;--
The Wreath that suits with thee may Virtue claim,
'Tis BRITAIN'S offering,--'tis the WREATH OF FAME .

    Take from A STRANGER Muse the song sincere;
The wild note greets time with a mingling tear:
Take from her trembling hand a thornless flow'r,
And wear it on thy breast through Life's dull hour:
Haply, when Contemplation sighs to scan
The weedy pathway mark'd for wretched man,
This humble Flow'r may fragrance still impart;
If not to charm, to harmonize thy heart;
To prove that, e'en where darkest ills are found,
Where weedy mischiefs poison while they wound,
The sweetest emblem which the mind can know
Is the pure bud which Kindness taught to blow;
The bud which in thy wreath its leaves shall rear,
Bath'd in the lustre of a grateful tear.

TO LAURA.

    SWEET is the calmly-cheerful hour
When, from mute Midnight's ebon tow'r,
The moon escapes, and sportive flies
O'er the gay garden of the skies,
Where NATURE'S loveliest flow'rs unfold
The starry buds of burning gold:
The weary winds pant on the deep,
Or amongst the cradling billows sleep:
All is delight !----But, ah, in vain
Such varying glories fill the plain;--
For, see !  the frenzied Lover speeds
From the bright skies and glittering meads,

From gaudy hills, enchanted bow'rs,
From whisp'ring gales and perfum'd show'rs;--
He seeks the lonely pensive cave
Where he may think , and weep , and rave ,
And muse upon the murd'rous eye:
Then, there he calls down from on high
Unhallow'd curses, wild and dread,
Upon his rival's hated head.
He wraps his thought in sablest gloom,
And lures a transport from the tomb,
Where he may hope to rest at last,
When Passion's rending pangs are past.

    But, oh !  if he should chance to hear
The warblings of the bird sincere,
Who loves her secret pangs to throw
In all the melodies of woe,
His nerves relax,--his trembling lid
By Pity's pearly veil is hid,
Subjected agonies depart,
And soft'ning sorrow soothes his heart.

    So I, dear Laura, long suppress'd
The thorn of anguish in my breast:
Lost to each social solace gay,
And heedless of the blooms of May;
And heedless of the haughty sun,
When, to his mad meridian run,
He lifts his red refulgent shield,
And fires the Heaven's eternal field:----
I have from each allurement fled,
To where incumbent darkness spread;
Trod the black torrent's gloomy side,
And held fierce converse with the tide:
But when thy numbers seiz'd my soul,
I found the thrilling sadness roll
In sweet similitude of joy,
That could my deadliest griefs destroy.
They stole upon my 'tranced sense,
As the fresh gales of morn dispense
New life to ev'ry flow'r that fades
In Solitude's neglected glades.
    Then frown not on my daring lay,

That strives to paint the golden day;
To tell the lustre of the rose,
And thy resistless charms disclose:
But think, when in the grave's cold sleep
My wretched eyes shall cease to weep,
And, senseless of the wint'ry breeze,
This sad, this burning heart shall freeze,--
Then shall my ling'ring verse declare
How much I priz'd thee, good and fair !
What tenderness my soul conceiv'd !
How deeply for thy suff'rings griev'd !
While future lovers, future bards, shall join,
To pour in Laura's praise their melodies divine.

LINES

    IN yonder skies the stealing shades of Even
Soften the glories of departing day;
    Light feath'ry clouds o'erspread the face of Heaven;
The distant spire reflects the gilded ray,
And o'er the silent wave the ling'ring sun-beams play.

    Soft on the ear, with mournful magic, dwells
    The less'ning cadence of the village-bells,
Borne by faint echo o'er the river's breast;
    While, wearied with the labours of the day,
    To his dear cot the hedger bends his way,
As the low song of birds proclaims the hour of rest.

O Stranger !  is thy anxious mind perplex'd
By worldly cares ?  By human folly vex'd ?
Visit these scenes, whose gentle influence move
To kinder thoughts of charity and love !--
Is thy heart sad ?  This balmy ev'ning air
Might whisper comfort to the worst despair--
Might tune the rudest passions into peace,
And bid all jarring cares, all human sorrows, cease.

    But not to Thee , who sleep'st yon' stone beneath,
Can scenes like these a gleam of joy impart,
Or waken to delight thy frozen heart !
    The ling'ring sun-beam lights thy simple grave,
And bids the turf with life and beauty glow,
Yet fails to warm the breast that lies below !--
    No more for thee the blushing flow'rets breathe,
    And sparkling rays illume the peaceful wave:
Heedless the birds in tuneful chorus sing,
And with melodious concert hail the Spring;
While vainly Friendship , o'er thy mournful bier,
Sheds with some short-liv'd flow'r the melancholy tear.

Oft, EMMA , on thy virtues and thy fate,
At silent eve, I love to meditate;
Fondly retracing to my burthen'd heart
The hours that join'd us, and that bade us part.
And oft I'm borne, in thought, to yonder skies,
Where, 'mongst departed spirits pure and wise,
Thy well-tried modest worth receives a heavenly prize.

Such thoughts as these my pensive heart beguile,
And soothe me, as I sadly pause awhile
    To view the peaceful spot where thou art laid.--
Perchance, ere long, I in my turn shall rest,
Within the precincts of its hallow'd breast,
    And share with thee thy cold and silent bed !--
Yet, whatsoe'er my doom, I'll ne'er repine,
If, when that hour arrives, my heart is pure as thine.

SUSAN.

THE FELON.

OH, mark his wan and hollow cheek !  and mark his eye-balls' glare !
And mark his teeth in anguish clench'd, the anguish of despair !
Know, since three days, his penance borne, yon Felon left a jail,
And since three days no food has pass'd those lips so parch'd and pale.

" Where shall I turn ?" the wretch exclaims; "Where hide my shameful head ?"
"How fly from scorn?  Oh !  how contrive to earn my honest bread ?

"This branded hand would gladly toil; but, when for work I pray,
"Who sees this mark, 'A Felon !' cries, and loathing turns away.

"This heart has greatly err'd, but now would fain revert to good:
"This hand has deeply sinn'd, but yet has ne'er been stain'd with blood:
"For work, or alms, in vain I sue; the scorners both deny:
"I starve; I starve--Then what remains ?--This choice; to sin , or die !

"Here Virtue spurns me with disdain; there Pleasure spreads her snare:
"Strong habit drags me back to vice; and, urg'd by fierce Despair,
"I strive, while Hunger gnaws my heart, to fly from shame in vain !--

"World, 'tis thy cruel will !  I yield, and plunge in guilt again.
"There's Mercy in each ray of light that mortal eyes e'er saw;
"There's Mercy in each breath of air that mortal lips e'er draw;
"There's Mercy both for bird and beast in GOD'S indulgent plan;
"There's Mercy for each creeping thing;--but MAN HAS NONE FOR MAN !

"Ye proudly honest !  when ye heard my wounded conscience groan,
"Had generous hand, or feeling heart, one glimpse of Mercy shown,--
"That act had made, from burning eyes, sweet tears of virtue roll,
"Had fix'd my heart, assur'd my faith, and Heav'n had gain'd a Soul ! "

INGRATITUDE.

WHAT wounds more deep than arrows keen,
    Piercing the heart subdu'd ?
What renders life a dreary scene ?--
    Thy sting, INGRATITUDE !
For ev'ry pain that man can know
    Has still an antidote for woe,
Save where INGRATITUDE is found
    Giving its deep and deadly wound.

Does Love neglected, pining, sad,
    On ev'ry joy obtrude ?
Does pleasure fly the bosom glad
    Stung by INGRATITUDE ?

Oh, yes !  For what is life to those
Who feel no hour of soft repose ?
Who find in ev'ry path a weed
Which bids the feeling bosom bleed !

HELL-BORN INGRATITUDE !  to thee
    All lesser evils bend;
Thou potent shaft of destiny,
    Where all her poisons end !
The wretch, who smarts beneath thy fang,
Day after day endures the pang;
And finds no balm, alas !  will cure
Thy wound , for ever DEEP and SURE !

Where'er in Life's precarious scene
    My weary feet have stray'd,
Thou hast my taunting follower been,
    In sunshine and in shade !
In poverty I found thee ever
The bonds of social feelings sever;
And when I sank, by grief subdu'd,
I felt thy wound, INGRATITUDE .

I found thee in the smile of Love;
    In Friendship's sacred vest;
In rustic meekness saw thee move,
    Pois'ning the untaught breast.
When Fortune, often dull and blind,
Heap'd splendor on the vulgar mind,
Scatt'ring on Pride and Vice her favour;
INGRATITUDE I found thee ever !

Thou imp infernal !  bane of rest !
    Turn from my aching heart;
Nor still, in artful kindness drest,
    Thy fatal stings impart:
This bosom, long assail'd by thee,
No more thy victim slave shall be,
No more shall be by thee subdu'd,
Thou worst of fiends, INGRATITUDE !

THE WINT'RY DAY* .

    IS it in mansions rich and gay,
        On downy beds, or couches warm,
    That NATURE owns the WINT'RY DAY ,
        Or shrinks to hear the howling storm ?--
                Ah, No !----

'Tis on the bleak and barren heath,
    Where Mis'ry feels the shaft of Death,
As to the dark and freezing grave
    Her children,--not a friend to save,--
                Unheeded go.

*This Poem has given rise to the exertions of Mrs. Cosway's genius, who, a few months previously to Mrs. Robinson's death, painted a beautiful set of subjects from it,--inscribed to her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales.

2.

Is it in chambers silken drest,
    At tables which profusions heap:
Is it on pillows soft to rest,
    In dreams of long and balmy sleep ?
                Ah, No !----

'Tis in the rushy hut obscure,
    Where Poverty's low sons endure;
And, scarcely daring to repine,
    On a straw pallet, mute, recline,
                O'erwhelm'd with woe !

3.

Is it to flaunt in warm attire ?
    To laugh, and feast, and dance and sing ?
To crowd around the blazing fire ?
    And make the roof with revels ring ?--
                Ah, No !----

'Tis on the prison's flinty floor,
    'Tis where the deaf'ning whirlwinds roar;

'Tis when the sea-boy on the mast
    Hears the waves bounding to the blast,
                And looks below !

4.

Is it beneath the taper's ray
    The banquet's luxury to share,
And waste the midnight hour away
    With Fashion's splendid vot'ries there ?
                Ah, No !

'Tis in the cheerless naked room
    Where Misery's victims wait their doom;
Where a fond mother famish'd dies,
    While forth a frantic father flies,
                Man's desp'rate foe !

5.

Is it to lavish fortune's store
    In vain, fantastic, empty joys !
To scatter 'round the glittering ore,

    And covet Folly's gilded toys ?
                Ah, No !----

'Tis in the silent spot obscure,
    Where, forc'd all sorrows to endure,
Pale GENIUS learns (OH ! LESSON SAD !)
    To court the vain, and on the bad ,
                FALSE PRAISE BESTOW !

6.

Is it where gamesters, thronging round,
    Their shining heaps of wealth display ?
Where CHANCE'S giddy tribes are found
    Sporting their giddy hours away ?
                Ah, No !

'Tis where neglected Virtue sighs;
    Where Hope , exhausted, silent dies;
Where Merit starves, by Pride opprest,
    'Till ev'ry stream that warms the breast
                Forbears to flow.

[Engraved illustration at top of first page of poem, To An Infant Sleeping.]