Young Herbert's girl? He'as cloath'd her all in white.
You never saw so beautiful a sight!
Ah! he's a fine young man, and such a face!
I knew his grandfather and all his race;
He rode a tall white horse, and look'd so big,
But how shall I describe his hat and wig?"
A promising Story cut short.
"Plague take his wig," cried Gilbert, "and his hat,
Where's Peggy Meldrum? can you tell me _that_?"
"Aye; but have patience man, you'll hear anon,
For I shall come to her as I go on,
So hark 'ye friend; his grandfather I say," -
"Poh, poh," - cried Gilbert, as he turn'd away.
Her eyes were fix'd, her story at a stand,
The snuff-box lay half open'd in her hand;
"You great ill-manner'd clown! but I must bear it;
You oaf; to ask the news, and then won't hear it!"
But Gilbert had gain'd forty paces clear,
When the reproof came murmuring on his ear.
Again he ask'd the first that past him by;
A cow-boy stopt his whistle to reply.
"Why, I've a mistress coming home, that's all,
They're playing Meg's diversion at the Hall;
A Cow-Boy's Bravery
"For master's gone, with Peggy, and his cousin,
And all the lady folks, about a dozen,
To church, down there; he'll marry one no doubt,
For that it seems is what they're gone about;
I know it by their laughing and their jokes,
Tho' they _wor'nt_ ask'd at church like other folks."
Gilbert kept on, and at the Hall-door found
The winking servants, where the jest went round:
All expectation; aye, and so was he,
But not with heart so merry and so free.
The kitchen table, never clear from beef,
Where hunger found its solace and relief,
Free to all strangers, had no charms for him,
For agitation worried every limb;
Ale he partook, but appetite had none,
And grey-hounds watch'd in vain to catch the bone.
Sitting upon Thorns.
All sounds alarm'd him, and all thoughts perplex'd,
With dogs, and beef, himself, and all things vex'd,
Till with one mingled caw above his head,
Their gliding shadows o'er the court-yard spread,
The rooks by thousands rose: the bells struck up;
He guess'd the cause, and down he set the cup,
And listening, heard, amidst the general hum,
A joyful exclamation, "Here they come!" -
Soon Herbert's cheerful voice was heard above,
Amidst the rustling hand-maids of his love,
And Gilbert follow'd without thought or dread,
The broad oak stair-case thundr'd with his tread;
Light tript the party, gay as gay could be,
Amidst their bridal dresses - there came he!
And with a look that guilt could ne'er withstand,
Approach'd his niece and caught her by the hand,
Anger disarmed.
"Now are you married, Peggy, yes or no?
Tell me at once, before I let you go!"
Abrupt he spoke, and gave her arm a swing,
But the same moment felt the wedding ring,
And stood confus'd. - She wip'd th' empassion'd tear,
"I am, I am; but is my father here?"
Herbert stood by, and sharing with his bride,
That perturbation which she strove to hide;
"Come, honest Gilbert, you're too rough this time,
Indeed here's not the shadow of a crime;
But where's your brother? When did you arrive?
We waited long, for Nathan went at five!"
All this was Greek to Gilbert, downright Greek:
He knew not what to think, nor how to speak.
The case was this; that Nathan with a cart
To fetch them both at day-break was to start,
An Explanation.
And so he did - but ere he could proceed,
He suck'd a charming portion with a reed,
Of that same wedding-ale, which was that day
To make the hearts of all the village gay;
Brim full of glee he trundled from the Hall,
And as for sky-larks, he out-sung them all;
Till growing giddy with his morning cup.
He, stretch'd beneath a hedge, the reins gave up;
The horse graz'd soberly without mishap,
And Nathan had a most delightful nap
For three good hours - Then, doubting, when he woke,
Whether his conduct would be deem'd a joke,
With double haste perform'd just half his part,
And brought the lame John Meldrum in his cart:
And at the moment Gilbert's wrath was high,
And while young Herbert waited his reply,
A general Meeting.
The sound of rattling wheels was at the door;
"There's my dear father now," - they heard no more,
The bridegroom glided like an arrow down,
And Gilbert ran, though something of a clown,
With his best step; and cheer'd with smiles and pray'rs
They bore old John in triumph up the stairs:
Poor Peggy, who her joy no more could check,
Clung like a dewy woodbine round his neck,
And all stood silent - Gilbert, off his guard,
And marvelling at virtue's rich reward,
Loos'd the one loop that held his coat before,
Down thumpt the broken crutch upon the floor!
They started, half alarm'd, scarce knowing why,
But through the glist'ning rapture of his eye
The bridegroom smil'd, then chid their simple fears,
And rous'd the blushing Peggy from her tears;
Gilbert put upon his Defense.
Around the uncle in a ring they came,
And mark'd his look of mingled pride and shame.
"Now honestly, good Gilbert, tell us true
What meant this cudgel? What was it to do?
I know your heart suspected me of wrong,
And that most true affection urg'd along
Your feelings and your wrath; you were beside
Till now the rightful guardian of the bride.
But why this cudgel?" - "Guardian! that's the case,
Or else to day you had not seen my face,
But John about the girl was so perplex'd,
And I, to tell the truth, so mortal vex'd,
That when he broke _this crutch_, and stampt and cried,
For John and Peggy, Sir, I could have died,
I know I could; for she was such a child,
So tractable, so sensible, and mild,
The plain Truth.
That if between you roguery had grown,
(Begging your pardon,) 'twould have been your own;
She would not hurt a fly. - So off I came
And had you only sought to blast her fame,
Been base enough to act as hundreds would,
And ruin a poor maid - because you _could_,
With this same cudgel, (you may smile or frown)
An' please you, Sir, I meant to knock you down."
A burst of laughter rang throughout the hall,
And Peggy's tongue, though overborne by all,
Pour'd its warm blessings, for, without control
The sweet unbridled transport of her soul
Was obviously seen, till Herbert's kiss
Stole, as it were, the eloquence of bliss.
Mirth and Reconciliation.
"Welcome, my friends; good Gilbert, here's my hand;
Eat, drink, or rest, they're all at your command:
And whatsoever pranks the rest may play,
Still you shall be the hero of to-day,
Doubts might torment, and blunders may have teaz'd,
But ale can cure them; let us all be pleas'd.
Thou, venerable man, let me defend
The father of my new dear bosom friend;
You broke your crutch, well, well, worse luck might be,
I'll be your crutch, John Meldrum, lean on me,
And when your lovely daughter shall complain,
Send Gilbert's wooden argument again.
If still you wonder that I take a wife
From the unpolish'd walks of humble life,
I'll tell you on what ground my love began,
And let the wise confute it if they can.
I saw a girl, with nature's untaught grace,
Turn from my gaze a most engaging face;
Herbert's Apology.
I saw her drop the tear, I knew full well
She felt for _you_ much more than she could tell.
I found her understanding, bright as day,
Through all impediments still forc'd its way;
On that foundation shall my soul rely,
The rock of genuine humility.
Call'd as she is to act a nobler part,
To rule my houshold, and to share my heart,
I trust her prudence, confident to prove
Days of delight, and still unfading love;
For, while her inborn tenderness survives,
That heav'nly charm of mothers and of wives,
I'll look for joy: - Here come the neighbours all;
Broach the old barrel, feast them great and small,
For I'm determin'd while the sun's so bright,
That this shall be a wedding-day outright:
John Meldrum's wish. - Conclusion.
How cheerly sound the bells! my charmer, come,
Expand your heart, and know yourself at home.
Sit down, good John;" - "I will," the old man cried,
"And let me drink to you, Sir, and the bride;
My blessing on you: I am lame and old,
I can't make speeches, and I wo'nt be bold;
But from my soul I wish, and wish with pain,
_That brave good gentlemen would not disdain_
_The poor, because they're poor_: for, if they live
Midst crimes that parents _never can_ forgive,
If, like the forest beast they wander wild,
To rob a father, or to crush a child,
Nature _will_ speak, aye, just as Nature feels,
And wish - a Gilbert Meldrum at their heels."
SHOOTER'S HILL.
[Footnote: Sickness may be often an incentive to poetical composition;
I found it so; and I esteem the following lines only because they remind
me of past feelings which I would not willingly forget.]
Health! I seek thee; - dost thou love
The mountain top or quiet vale,
Or deign o'er humbler hills to rove
On showery June's dark south-west gale?
If so, I'll meet all blasts that blow,
With silent step, but not forlorn;
Though, goddess, at thy shrine I bow,
And woo thee each returning morn.
I seek thee where, with all his might,
The joyous bird his rapture tells,
Amidst the half-excluded light,
That gilds the fox-glove's pendant bells;
Where, cheerly up this bold hill's side
The deep'ning groves triumphant climb;
In groves Delight and Peace abide,
And Wisdom marks the lapse of time.
To hide me from the public eye,
To keep the throne of Reason clear,
Amidst fresh air to breathe or die,
I took my staff and wander'd here.
Suppressing every sigh that heaves,
And coveting no wealth but thee,
I nestle in the honied leaves,
And hug my stolen liberty.
O'er eastward uplands, gay or rude,
Along to Erith's ivied spire,
I start, with strength and hope renew'd,
And cherish life's rekindling fire.
Now measure vales with straining eyes,
Now trace the church-yard's humble names:
Or, climb brown heaths, abrupt that rise,
And overlook the winding Thames.
I love to mark the flow'ret's eye,
To rest where pebbles form my bed,
Where shapes and colours scatter'd lie
In varying millions round my head.
The soul rejoices when alone,
And feels her glorious empire free;
Sees GOD in every shining stone,
And revels in variety.
Ah me! perhaps within my sight,
Deep in the smiling dales below,
Gigantic talents, Heav'n's pure light,
And all the rays of genius glow
In some lone soul, whom no one sees
With _power_ and _will_ to say "Arise,"
Or chase away the slow disease,
And Want's foul picture from his eyes.
A worthier man by far than I,
With more of industry and fire,
Shall see fair Virtue's meed pass by,
Without one spark of fame expire!
Bleed not my heart, it will be so.
The throb of care was thine full long;
Rise, like the Psalmist from his woe,
And pour abroad the joyful song.
Sweet Health, I seek thee! hither bring
Thy balm that softens human ills;
Come, on the long drawn clouds that fling
Their shadows o'er the Surry-Hills.
Yon green-topt hills, and far away
Where late as now I freedom stole,
And spent one dear delicious day
On thy wild banks, romantic _Mole_.
Aye, there's the scene![1] beyond the sweep
Of London's congregated cloud,
The dark-brow'd wood, the headlong steep,
And valley-paths without a crowd!
Here, Thames, I watch thy flowing tides,
Thy thousand sails am proud to see;
But where the _Mole_ all silent glides
Dwells Peace - and Peace is wealth to me.
[Footnote 1: Box-Hill, and the beautiful neighbourhood of Dorking, in
Surry.]
Of Cambrian mountains still I dream,
And mouldering vestiges of war;
By time-worn cliff or classic stream
Would rove, - but prudence holds a bar.
Conic then, O Health, I'll strive to bound
My wishes to this airy stand;
'Tis not for _me_ to trace around
The wonders of my native land.
Yet, the loud torrent's dark retreat,
Yet Grampian hills shall Fancy give,
And, towering in her giddy scat,
Amidst her own creation live,
Live, if thou'lt urge my climbing feet,
Give strength of nerve and vigorous breath,
If not, with dauntless soul I meet
The deep solemnity of death.
This far-seen monumental tower
Records th' achievements of the brave,
And Angria's subjugated power,
Who plunder'd on the eastern wave.
I would not that such turrets rise
To point out where my bones arc laid;
Save that some wandering bard might prize
The comforts of its broad cool shade.
O Vanity! since thou'rt decreed
Companion of our lives to be,
I'll seek the moral songster's meed,
An earthly immortality;
Most vain! - O let me, from the past
Remembering what to man is given,
Lay Virtue's broad foundations fast,
Whose glorious turrets reach to Heav'n:
A VISIT TO RENELAGH
To Ranelagh, once in my life,
By good-natur'd force I was driv'n;
The nations had ceas'd their long strife,
And PEACE[1] beam'd her radiance from Heav'n.
What wonders-were there to be found
That a clown might enjoy or disdain?
First we trac'd the gay ring all around,
Aye - and then we went round it again.
[Footnote 1: A grand Fete, in honour of the peace of 1802.]
A thousand feet rustled on mats,
A carpet that once had been green;
Men bow'd with their outlandish hats,
With corners so fearfully keen!
Fair maids, who at home in their haste
Had left all clothing else but a train,
Swept the floor clean, as slowly they pac'd,
And then - walk'd round and swept it again.
The music was truly enchanting!
Right glad was I when I came near it;
But in fashion I found I was wanting: -
'Twas the fashion to walk and not hear it!
A fine youth, as beauty beset him,
Look'd smilingly round on the train;
"The king's nephew," they cried, as they met him;
Then - we went round and met him again.
Huge paintings of Heroes and Peace
Seem'd to smile at the sound of the fiddle,
Proud to fill up each tall shining space
Round the lanthorn[1] that stood in the middle.
And GEORGE'S head too; Heav'n screen him!
May he finish in peace his long reign!
And what did we when we had seen him?
Why - went round and saw him again.
[Footnote 1: The intervals between the pillars in the centre of the
Rotunda were filled up by transparent paintings]
A bell rang, announcing new pleasures,
A crowd in an instant prest hard,
Feathers nodded, perfumes shed their treasures.
Round a door that led into the yard.
'Twas peopled all o'er in a minute,
As a white flock would cover a plain!
We had seen every soul that was in it,
Then we went round and saw them again.
But now came a scene worth the showing,
The fireworks! midst langhs and huzzas,
With explosions the sky was all glowing,
Then down stream'd a million of stars;
With a rush the bright rockets ascended,
Wheels spurted blue fires like a rain;
We turn'd with regret when 'twas ended,
Then - star'd at each other again.
There thousands of gay lamps aspir'd
To the tops of the trees and beyond;
And, what was most hugely admir'd,
They look'd all up-side-down in a pond!
The blaze scarce an eagle could bear;
And an owl had most surely been slain;
We return'd to the circle, and there -
And there we went round it again.
'Tis not wisdom to love without reason,
Or to censure without knowing why:
I had witness'd no crime, nor no treason,
"O Life, 'tis thy picture," said I.
'Tis just thus we saunter along,
Months and years bring their pleasures or pain;
We sigh midst the _right_ and the _wrong_;
- And then _we go round them again_!
LOVE OF THE COUNTRY.
Written At Clare-Hall, Herts. June 1804.
Welcome silence! welcome peace!
O most welcome, holy shade!
Thus I prove as years increase,
My heart and soul for quiet made.
Thus I fix my firm belief
While rapture's gushing tears descend;
That every flower and every leaf
Is moral Truth's unerring friend.
I would not for a world of gold
That Nature's lovely face should tire;
Fountain of blessings yet untold;
Pure source of intellectual fire!
Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song,
Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife,
Shall sweet retirement render strong,
And morning silence bring to life.
Then tell me not that I shall grow
Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy;
From Nature and her changes flow
An everlasting tide of joy.
I grant that summer heats will burn,
That keen will come the frosty night;
But both shall please: and each in turn
Yield Reason's most supreme delight.
Build me a shrine, and I could kneel
To Rural Gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not see, did I not feel,
That one GREAT SPIRIT governs all.
O heav'n permit that I may lie
Where o'er my corse green branches ware;
And those who from life's tumult fly
With kindred feelings press my grave.
THE WOODLAND HALLO.
_(Perhaps) adapted for Music._
In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood,
I am mistress, no mother have I;
Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good,
And kind is my lover hard by;
They both work together beneath the green shade,
Both woodmen, my father and Joe.
Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made
So much of a laugh or - _Hallo_.
From my basket at noon they expect their supply,
And with joy from my threshold I spring;
For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waring high,
And Echo that sings as I sing.
Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food,
As I call the dear name of my Joe;
His musical shout is the pride of the wood,
And my heart leaps to hear the - Hallo.
Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease,
I wish not to wander from you;
I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees,
For I know that my Joe will be true.
The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove,
Are charms that I'll never forego;
But resting through life on the bosom of love,
Will remember the Woodland Hallo.
[Illustration: a woman with a basket walking past a cottage]
BARNHAM WATER
Fresh from the Hall of Bounty sprung,[1]
With glowing heart and ardent eye,
With song and rhyme upon my tongue,
And fairy visions dancing by,
The mid-day sun in all his pow'r
The backward valley painted gay;
Mine was a road without a flower,
Where one small streamlet cross'd the way.
[Footnote 1: On a sultry afternoon, late in the summer of 1802,
Euston-Hall lay in my way to Thetford, which place I did not reach until
the evening, on a visit to my sister: the lines lose much of their
interest except they could be read on the spot, or at least at a
coresponding season of the year.]
What was it rous'd my soul to love?
What made the simple brook so dear?
It glided like the weary dove,
And never brook seem'd half so clear.
Cool pass'd the current o'er my feet,
Its shelving brink for rest was made,
But every charm was incomplete,
For Barnham Water wants a shade.
There, faint beneath the fervid sun,
I gaz'd in ruminating mood;
For who can see the current run
And snatch no feast of mental food?
"Keep pure thy soul," it seem'd to say,
"Keep that fair path by wisdom trod,
"That thou may'st hope to wind thy way
"To fame worth boasting, and to God."
Long and delightful was the dream,
A waking dream that Fancy yields,
Till with regret I left the stream
And plung'd across the barren fields;
To where of old rich abbeys smil'd
In all the pomp of gothic taste,
By fond tradition proudly styl'd,
The mighty "City in the East."
Near, on a slope of burning sand,
The shepherd boys had met to play,
To hold the plains at their command,
And mark the trav'ller's leatless way.
The trav'ller with a cheerful look
Would every pining thought forbear,
If boughs but shelter'd Barnham brook
He'd stop and leave his blessing there.
The Danish mounds of partial green,
Still, as each mouldering tower decays,
Far o'er the bleak unwooded scene
Proclaim their wond'rous length of days.
My burning feet, my aching sight,
Demanded rest, - why did I weep?
The moon arose, and such a night!
Good Heav'n! it was a sin to sleep.
All rushing came thy hallow'd sighs,
Sweet Melancholy, from my breast;
"'Tis here that eastern greatness lies,
"That Might, Renown, and Wisdom rest!
"Here funeral rites the priesthood gave
"To chiefs who sway'd prodigious powers,
"The Bigods and the Mowbrays brave,
"From Framlingham's imperial towers.
Full of the mighty deeds of yore,
I bade good night the trembling beam;
Fancy e'en heard the battle's roar,
Of what but slaughter could I dream?
Bless'd be that night, that trembling beam,
Peaceful excursions Fancy made;
All night I heard the bubbling stream,
Yet, Barnham Water wants a shade.
Whatever hurts my country's fame,
When wits and mountaineers deride,
To me grows serious, for I name
My native plains and streams with pride.
No mountain charms have I to sing,
No loftier minstrel's rights invade;
From trifles oft _my_ raptures spring;
- Sweet Barnham Water wants a shade
MARY'S EVENING SIGH
How bright with pearl the western sky!
How glorious far and wide,
Yon lines of golden clouds that lie
So peaceful side by side!
Their deep'ning tints, the arch of light,
All eyes with rapture see;
E'en while I sigh I bless the sight
That lures my love from me.
Green hill, that shad'st the valley here,
Thou bear'st upon thy brow
The only wealth to Mary dear,
And all she'll ever know.
There, in the crimson light I see,
Above thy summit rise,
My Edward's form, he looks to me
A statue in the skies.
Descend my love, the hour is come,
Why linger on the hill?
The sun hath left my quiet home,
But thou canst see him still;
Yet why a lonely wanderer stray,
Alone the joy pursue?
The glories of the closing day
Can charm thy Mary too.
Dear Edward, when we stroll'd along
Beneath the waving corn,
And both confess'd the power of song,
And bless'd the dewy morn;
Your eye o'erflow'd, "How sweet," you cried.
(My presence then could move)
"How sweet, with Mary by my side,
"To gaze and talk of love"
Thou art not false! that cannot be;
Yet I my rivals deem
Each woodland charm, the moss, the tree,
The silence, and the stream;
Whate'er my love, detains thee now,
I'll yet forgive thy stay;
But with to-morrow's dawn come thou,
We'll brush the dews away.
GOOD TIDINGS OR, _NEWS FROM THE FARM_.
How vain this tribute; vain, this lowly lay;
Yet nought is vain which gratitude inspires!
The Muse, besides, her duty thus approves
To virtue, to her country, to mankind!
_Thomson._
ADVERTISEMENT
To the few who know that I have employed my thoughts on the importance of
Dr. Jenners's discovery, it has generally and almost unexceptionably
appeared a subject of little promise; peculiarly unfit indeed for poetry.
My method of treating it has endeared it to myself, for it indulges in
domestic anecdote. The account given of my infancy and of my father's
burial, is not only poetically, but strictly true, and with me it has its
weight accordingly. I have witnessed the destruction described in my
brother's family: and I have, in my own, insured the lives of four
children by Vaccine Inoculation, who, I trust, are destined to look back
upon the Small-pox of the scourge of days gone by. - My hopes are high, and
my prayers sincere, for its universal adoption.
The few notes subjoined are chiefly from "Woodville on Inoculation;" and
if I may escape the appearance of affectation of research, or a scientific
treatment of the subject, I think the egotism, so conspicuous in the poem,
(as facts give force to argument,) ought to be forgiven.
GOOD TIDINGS;
OR,
_NEWS FROM THE FARM_.
Where's the Blind Child, so admirably fair,
With guileless dimples, and with flaxen hair
That waves in ev'ry breeze? he's often seen
Beside yon cottage wall, or on the green,
With others match'd in spirit and in size,
Health on their cheeks and rapture in their eyes;
That full expanse of voice, to childhood dear,
Soul of their sports, is duly cherish'd here:
And, hark! that laugh is his, that jovial cry;
He hears the ball and trundling hoop brush by,
And runs the giddy course with all his might,
A very child in every thing but sight;
With circumscrib'd but not abated pow'rs, -
Play! the great object of his infant hours; -
In many a game he takes a noisy part,
And shows the native gladness of his heart;
But soon he hears, on pleasure all intent,
The new suggestion and the quick assent;
The grove invites, delight thrills every breast -
To leap the ditch and seek the downy nest
Away they start, leave balls and hoops behind,
And one companion leave - - the boy is blind!
[Illustration: a child beneath a tree.]
His fancy paints their distant paths so gay,
That childish fortitude awhile gives way,
He feels his dreadful loss - yet short the pain,
Soon he resumes his cheerfulness again;
Pond'ring how best his moments to employ,
He sings his little songs of nameless joy,
Creeps on the warm green turf for many an hour,
And plucks by chance the white and yellow flow'r;
Smoothing their stems, while resting on his knees,
He binds a nosegay which he never sees;
Along the homeward path then feels his way,
Lifting his brow against the shining day,
And, with a playful rapture round his eyes,
Presents a sighing parent with the prize.
She blest _that_ day, which he remembers too,
When he could gaze on heav'n's ethereal blue,
See the green Spring, and Summer's countless dies,
And all the colours of the morning rise. -
'When was this work of bitterness begun?
How came the blindness of your only son?'
Thus pity prompts full many a tongue to say,
But never, till she slowly wipes away
Th' obtruding tear that trembles in her eye.
This dagger of a question meets reply: -
"My boy was healthy, and my rest was sound,
When last year's corn was green upon the ground
From yonder town infection found its way;
Around me putrid dead and dying lay,
I trembled for his fate: but all my care
Avail'd not, for he breath'd the tainted air;
Sickness ensu'd - in terror and dismay
I nurs'd him in my arms both night and day,
When his soft skin from head to foot became
One swelling purple sore, unfit to name:
Hour after hour, when all was still beside,
When the pale night-light in its socket died,
Alone I sat; the thought still sooths my heart,
That surely I perform'd a mother's part,
Watching with such anxiety and pain
Till he might smile and look on me again;
But that was not to be - ask me no more:
GOD keep small-pox and blindness from your door!"
Now, ye who think, whose souls abroad take wing,
And trace out human troubles to their spring,
Say, should Heav'n grant us, in some hallow'd hour,
Means to divest this demon of his power,
To loose his horrid grasp from early worth,
To spread a saving conquest round the earth,
Till ev'ry land shall bow the grateful knee,
Would it not be a glorious day to see? -
That day is come! my soul, in strength arise,
Invoke no muse, no power below the skies;
To Heav'n the energies of verse belong,
Truth is the theme, and truth shall be the song;
Arm with conviction ev'ry joyful line,
Source of all mercies, for the praise is thine!
Sweet beam'd the star of peace upon those days
When Virtue watch'd my childhood's quiet ways,
Whence a warm spark of Nature's holy flame
Gave the farm-yard an honourable name,
But left one theme unsung: then, who had seen
In herds that feast upon the vernal green,
Or dreamt that in the blood of kine there ran
Blessings beyond the sustenance of man?
We tread the meadow, and we scent the thorn,
We hail the day-spring of a summer's morn
Nor mead at dawning day, nor thymy heath,
Transcends the fragrance of the heifer's breath:
May that dear fragrance, as it floats along
O'er ev'ry flow'r that lives in rustic song;
May all the sweets of meadows and of kine
Embalm, O Health! this offering at thy shrine.
Dear must that moment be when first the mind,
Ranging the paths of science unconfin'd,
Strikes a new light; when, obvious to the sense,
Springs the fresh spark of bright intelligence.
So felt the towering soul of MONTAGU,
Her sex's glory, and her country's too;
Who gave the spotted plague one deadly blow,
And bade its mitigated poison flow
With half its terrors; yet, with loathing still,
We hous'd a visitant with pow'r to kill.
Then when the healthful blood, though often tried,
Foil'd the keen lancet by the Severn side,
Resisting, uncontaminated still,
The purple pest and unremitting skill;
When the plain truth tradition seem'd to know,
By simply pointing to the harmless Cow,
Though wise distrust to reason might appeal;
What, when hope triumph'd, what did JENNER feel!
Where even hope itself could scarcely rise
To scan the vast, inestimable prize?
Perhaps supreme, alone, triumphant stood
The great, the conscious power of doing good,
The power to will, and wishes to embrace
Th' emancipation of the human race;
A joy that must all mortal praise outlive,
A wealth that grateful nations cannot give.
Forth sped the truth immediate from his hand,
And confirmations sprung in ev'ry land;
In ev'ry land, on beauty's lily arm,
On infant softness, like a magic charm,
Appear'd the gift that conquers as it goes;
The dairy's boast, the simple, saving Rose!
Momentous triumph - fiend! thy reign is o'er;
Thou, whose blind rage hath ravag'd ev'ry shore,
Whose name denotes destruction, whose foul breath
For ever hov'ring round the dart of death,
Fells, mercilessly fells, the brave and base,
Through all the kindreds of the human race.
Who has not heard, in warm, poetic tales,
Of eastern fragrance and Arabian gales?
Bowers of delight, of languor, and repose,
Where beauty triumph'd as the song arose?
Fancy may revel, fiction boldly dare,
But truth shall not forget that _thou_ wert there,
Scourge of the world! who, borne on ev'ry wind,
From bow'rs of roses [1] sprang to curse mankind.
[Footnote 1: The first medical account of the small-pox is given by the
Arabian physicians, and is traced no farther back than the siege of
Alexandria, about the year of Christ, 640. - Woodville.]
The Indian palm thy devastation knows:
Thou sweep'st the regions of eternal snows [2]:
[Footnote 2: First introduced into Greenland in 1733, and almost
depopulated the country. - Ibid.]
Climbing the mighty period of his years,
The British oak his giant bulk uprears;
He, in his strength, while toll'd the passing bell,
Rejoic'd whole centuries as thy victims fell:
Armies have bled, and shouts of vict'ry rung,
Fame crown'd _their_ deaths, _thy_ deaths are all unsung:
'Twas thine, while victories claim'd th' immortal lay,
Through private life to cut thy desperate way;
And when full power the wondrous magnet gave
Ambition's sons to dare the ocean wave,
Thee, in their train of horrid ills, they drew
Beneath the blessed sunshine of Peru [3].
[Footnote 3: In 1520, says Mr. Woodville, when the small-pox visited New
Spain, it proved fatal to one half of the people in the provinces to which
the infection extended; being carried thither by a negro slave, who
attended Narvaez in his expedition against Cortes. He adds, about fifty
years after the discovery of Peru, The small-pox was carried over from
Europe to America by way of Carthagena, when it overran the Continent of
the New World, and destroyed upwards of 100,000 Indians in the single
province of Quito. - _Hist. of Inoculation._]
But why unskill'd th' historic page explore?
Why thus pursue thee to a foreign shore?
A homely narrative of days gone by,
Familiar griefs, and kindred's tender sigh
Shall still survive; for thou on ev'ry mind
Hast left some traces of thy wrath behind.
There dwelt, beside a brook that creeps along
Midst infant hills and meads unknown to song,
One to whom poverty and faith were giv'n,
Calm village silence, and the hope of heav'n:
Alone she dwelt; and while each morn brought peace
And health was smiling on her years' increase,
Sudden and fearful, rushing through her frame,
Unusual pains and feverish symptoms came.
Then, when debilitated, faint, and poor,
How sweet to hear a footstep at her door!
To see a neighbour watch life's silent sand,
To hear the sigh, and feel the helping hand!
Soon woe o'erspread the interdicted ground,
And consternation seiz'd the hamlets round:
Uprose the pest - its widow'd victim died;
And foul contagion spread on ev'ryside;
The helping neighbour for her kind regard,
Bore home _that_ dreadful tribute of reward,
_Home_, where six children, yielding to its pow'r,
Gave hope and patience a most trying hour;
One at her breast still drew the living stream,
And, sense of danger never marr'd his dream;
Yet all exclaim'd, and with a pitying eye,
"Whoe'er survives the shock, _that child will die!_"
But vain the fiat, - Heav'n restor'd them all,
And destin'd one of riper years to fall.
Midnight beheld the close of all his pain,
His grave was clos'd when midnight came again;
No bell was heard to toll, no funeral pray'r,
No kindred bow'd, no wife, no children there;
Its horrid nature could inspire a dread
That cut the bonds of custom like a thread
The humble church-tow'r higher seem'd to shew,
Illumin'd by their trembling light below;
The solemn night-breeze struck each shiv'ring check;
Religious reverence forbade to speak:
The starting Sexton his short sorrow chid
When the earth murmur'd on the coffin lid,
And falling bones and sighs of holy dread
Sounded a requiem to the silent dead!
'Why tell us tales of woe, thou who didst give
Thy soul to rural themes, and bade them live?
What means this zeal of thine, this kindling fire?
The rescu'd infant and the dying sire.'
Kind heart, who o'er the pictur'd Seasons glow'd,
When smiles approv'd the verse, or tears have flow'd,
Was then the lowly minstrel dear to thee?
Himself appeals - What, if _that child_ were HE!
[Illustration: men digging a grave?]
What, if those midnight sighs a farewel gave,
While hands, all trembling, clos'd his father's grave!
Though love enjoin'd not infant eyes to weep,
In manhood's zenith shall his feelings sleep?
Sleep not my soul! indulge a nobler flame;
_Still_ the destroyer persecutes thy name.
Seven winter's cannot pluck from memory's store
That mark'd affliction which a brother bore;
That storm of trouble bursting on his head,
When the fiend came, and left _two children_ dead!
Yet, still superior to domestic woes,
The native vigour of his mind arose,
And, as new summers teem'd with brighter views,
He trac'd the wand'rings of his darling Muse,
And all was joy - this instant all is pain,
The foe implacable returns again,
And claims a sacrifice; the deed is done -
_Another child_ has fall'n, another son [4]!
[Footnote 4: I had proceeded thus far with the Poem, when the above fact
became a powerfull stimulus to my feelings, and to the earnestness of my
exhortations.]
His young cheek even now is scarcely cold,
And shall his early doom remain untold?
No! let the tide of passion roll along,
Truth _will_ be heard, and GOD will bless the song
Indignant Reason, Pity, Joy, arise,
And speak in thunder to the heart that sighs:
Speak loud to parents; - knew ye not the time
When age itself, and manhood's hardy prime,
With horror saw their short-liv'd friendships end.
Yet dar'd not visit e'en the dying friend?
Contagion, a foul serpent lurking near,
Mock'd Nature's sigh and Friendship's holy tear.
Love ye your children? - let that love arise,
Pronounce the sentence, and the serpent dies;
Bid welcome a mild stranger at your door,
Distress shall cease, those terrors reign no more.
Love ye your neighbours? - let that love be shown;
Risk not _their_ children while you guard your own;
Give not a foe dominion o'er your blood,
Plant not a poison, e'en to bring forth good;
For, woo the pest discreetly as you will,
Deadly infection must attend him still.
Then, let the serpent die! this glorious prize
Sets more than life and health before our eyes,
For beauty triumphs too! Beauty! sweet name,
The mother's feelings kindling into flame!
For, where dwells she, who, while the virtues grow.
With cold indifference marks the arching brow?
Or, with a lifeless heart and recreant blood,
Sighs not for daughters fair as well as good?
That sigh is nature, and cannot decay,
'Tis universal as the beams of day;
Man knows and feels its truth; for, Beauty's call
Rouses the coldest mortal of us all;
A glance warms age itself, and gives the boy
The pulse of rapture and the sigh of joy.
And is it then no conquest to insure
Our lilies spotless and our roses pure?
Is it no triumph that the lovely face
Inherits every line of Nature's grace?
That the sweet precincts of the laughing eye
Dread no rude scars, no foul deformity?
Our boast, old Time himself shall not impair.
Of British maids pre-eminently fair;
But, as he rolls his years on years along,
Shall keep the record of immortal song;
For song shall rise with ampler power to speak
The new-born influence of Beauty's cheek,
Shall catch new fires in every sacred grove,
Fresh inspiration from the lips of Love,
And write for ever on the rising mind -
DEAD IS ONE MORTAL FOE OF HUMAN KIND!
Yes, we have conquer'd! and the thought should raise
A spirit in our prayers as well as praise,
For who will say, in Nature's wide domain
There lurk not remedies for every pain?
Who will assert, where Turkish banners fly,
Woe still shall reign - the plague shall never die?
Or who predict, with bosom all unblest,
An everlasting fever in the West?
Forbid it Heav'n! - Hope cheers us with a smile,
The sun of Mercy's risen on our isle:
Its beams already, o'er th' Atlantic wave,
Pierce the dark forests of the suffering brave:
There, e'en th' abandon'd sick imbib'd a glow,
When warrior nations, resting on the bow,
Astonish'd heard the joyful rumour rise,
And call'd the council of their great and wise:
The truth by female pray'rs was urg'd along,
Youth ceas'd the chorus of the warrior song,
And present ills bade present feelings press
With all the eloquence of deep distress;
Till forth their chiefs [A] o'er dying thousands trod
To seek the white man and his bounteous God:
[Footnote A: The chiefs of the Cherokee Indians, in North America, have
applied to the government of the United States for information on the
subject of Vaccine Inoculation, and have spread the practice in the
Woods.]
Well sped their errand; with a patriot zeal
They spread the blessing for their country's weal.
Where India's swarthy millions crowd the strand,
And round that isle, which crowns their pointed land,
Speeds the good angel with the balmy breath,
And checks the dreadful tyranny of death:
Whate'er we hear to hurt the peace of life,
Of Candian treachery and British strife,
The sword of commerce, nations bought and sold,
They owe to England more than mines of gold;
England has sent a balm for private woe;
England strikes down the nations' bitterest foe.
Europe, amidst the clangor of her arms,
While life was threaten'd with a thousand harms,
And Charity was freezing to its source,
Still saw fair Science keep her steady course;
And, while whole legions fell, by friends deplor'd,
New germs of life sprung up beneath the sword,
And spread amain. - Then, in our bosoms, why
Must exultation mingle with a sigh?
Thought takes the retrospect of years just fled,
And, conjuring up the spirits of the dead,
Whispers each dear and venerated name
Of the last victims ere the blessing came,
Worthies, who through the lands that gave them birth