Select Works of the British Poets

Rebels, still warring with the laws that give
To them subsistence ?-Yes, such wretches live.
"Ours is a church reform'd, and now no more
Is aught for man to mend or to restore;
"Tis pure in doctrines, 'tis correct in creeds,
Has naught redundant, and it nothing needs;
No evil is therein-no wrinkle, spot,
Stain, blame, or blemish :-I affirm there's not.
"All this you know-now mark what once be-
fell,

With grief I bore it, and with shame I tell ;
I was entrapp'd-yes, so it came to pass,
'Mid heathen rebels, a tumultuous class;
Each to his country bore a hellish mind,

Each like his neighbour was of cursed kind;

The land that nursed them they blasphemed; the laws,

Their sovereign's glory, and their country's cause; And who their mouth, their master-fiend, and

who

Rebellion's oracle?-You, caitiff, you!"

He spoke, and standing stretch'd his mighty arm, And fix'd the man of words, as by a charm. "How raved that railer! Sure some hellish

power

Restrain'd my tongue in that delirious hour,
Or I had hurl'd the shame and vengeance due
On him, the guide of that infuriate crew;
But to mine eyes such dreadful looks appear'd,
Such mingled yell of lying words I heard,
That I conceived around were demons all,
And till I fled the house, I fear'd its fall.

"O! could our country from her coasts expel
Such foes! to nourish those who wish her well:
This her mild laws forbid, but we may still
From us eject them by our sovereign will;
This let us do."-He said, and then began
A gentler feeling for the silent man;
E'en in our hero's mighty soul arose
A touch of pity for experienced woes;
But this was transient, and with angry eye
He sternly look'd, and paused for a reply.
"Twas then the man of many words
speak-

would

But, in his trial, had them all to seek :
To find a friend he look'd the circle round,
But joy or scorn in every feature found;
He sipp'd his wine, but in those times of dread
Wine only adds confusion to the head;
In doubt he reason'd with himself—" And how
Harangue at night, if I be silent now?
From pride and praise received, he sought to draw
Courage to speak, but still remain'd the awe;
One moment rose he with a forced disdain,
And then abash'd sunk sadly down again;
While in our hero's glance he seem'd to read,
"Slave and insurgent! what hast thou to plead ?"
By desperation urged, he now began:
"I seek no favour-I-the Rights of Man!
Claim; and I-nay!—but give me leave-and I
Insist-a man-that is-and in reply,
I speak."-Alas, each new attempt was vain :
Confused he stood, he sate, he rose again;
At length he growl'd defiance, sought the door,
Cursed the whole synod, and was seen no more.
Laud we," said Justice Bolt, "the Powers
above;

Thus could our speech the sturdiest foe remove."

Exulting now he gained new strength of fame,
And lost all feelings of defeat and shame.

He dared not strive, you witness'd-dared not
lift

His voice, nor drive at his accursed drift:
So all shall tremble, wretches who oppose
Our church or state-thus be it to our foes."

He spoke, and, seated with his former air,
Look'd his full self, and fill'd his ample chair;
Took one full bumper to each favourite cause,
And dwelt all night on politics and laws,
With high applauding voice, that gain'd him high
applause.

TALE II.

THE PARTING HOUR.

I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say: ere I could tell him How I would think of him, at certain hours, Such thoughts and such ;-or ere I could Give him that parting kiss, which I had set Betwixt two charming words-comes in my fatherCymbeline, act i. sc. 4. Grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time's deformed hand face. Comedy of Errors, act v. sc. 1. O! if thou be the same Egean, speak, And speak unto the same Emilia.

Have written strange defeatures o'er my

Ibid. act v. sc. 5.

I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days
To the very moment that she bade me tell it :
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents, by flood and field;
Of being taken by th' insolent foe
And sold to slavery.

Othello, act i. sc. 3.

An old man, broken with the storms of fate,
Is come to lay his weary bones among you;
Give him a little earth for charity.

Henry VIII. act iv. sc. 2.

MINUTELY trace man's life; year after year
Through all his days let all his deeds appear,
And then, though some may in that life be strange
Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change :
The links that bind those various deeds are seen,
And no mysterious void is left between.

But let these binding links be all destroy'd
All that through years he suffer'd or enjoy'd;
Let that vast gap be made, and then behold-
This was the youth, and he is thus when old;
Then we at once the work of time survey,
And in an instant see a life's decay;
Pain mix'd with pity in our bosoms rise,
And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise.
Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair-
A sleeping man; a woman in her chair,
Watching his looks with kind and pensive air;
No wife, nor sister she, nor is the name
Nor kindred of this friendly pair the same;
Yet so allied are they, that few can feel
Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal;
Their years and woes, although they long have
loved,

Keep their good name and conduct unreproved

Thus life's small comforts they together share,
And while life lingers for the grave prepare.
No other subjects on their spirits press,
Nor gain such interest as the past distress;
Grievous events that from the memory drive
Life's common cares, and those alone survive,
Mix with each thought, in every action share,
Darken each dream, and blend with every prayer.
To David Booth, his fourth and last born boy,
Allen his name, was more than common joy;
And as the child grew up, there seem'd in him
A more than common life in every limb,
A strong and handsome stripling he became
And the gay spirit answer'd to the frame;
A lighter, happier lad was never seen,
For ever easy, cheerful, or serene ;
His early love he fix'd upon a fair

And gentle maid—they were a handsome pair.
They at an infant-school together play'd,
Where the foundation of their love was laid;
The boyish champion would his choice attend
In every sport, in every fray defend.
As prospects open'd and as life advanced,
They walk'd together, they together danced;

On all occasions, from their early years,

O! could I labour for thee," Allen cried,

Why should our friends be thus dissatisfied?
On my own arm I could depend, but they
Still urge obedience-must I yet obey?"
Poor Judith felt the grief, but grieving begg'd
delay.

At length a prospect came that seem'd to smile,
And faintly woo them, from a western isle;
A kinsman there a widow's hand had gain'd,
"Was old, was rich, and childless yet remain'd;
Would some young Booth to his affairs attend,
And wait a while, he might expect a friend."
The elder brothers, who were not in love,
Fear'd the false seas, unwilling to remove;
But the young Allen, an enamour'd boy,
Eager an independence to enjoy,
Would through all perils seek it,-by the sea,—
Through labour, danger, pain, or slavery.
The faithful Judith his design approved,

For both were sanguine, they were young and loved.

The mother's slow consent was then obtain'd;
The time arrived, to part alone remain'd:
All things prepared, on the expected day
Was seen the vessel anchor'd in the bay.

They mix'd their joys and sorrows, hopes and From her would seamen in the evening come,

fears;

Each heart was anxious, till it could impart

Its daily feelings to its kindred heart;
As years increased, unnumber'd petty wars
Broke out between them, jealousies and jars ;
Causeless indeed, and follow'd by a peace,
That gave to love-growth, vigour, and increase.
Whilst yet a boy, when other minds are void,
Domestic thoughts young Allen's hours em-
ploy'd;

Judith in gaining hearts had no concern,
Rather intent the matron's part to learn;
Thus early prudent and sedate they grew,
While lovers thoughtful-and though children,

true.

To either parents not a day appear'd,
When with this love they might have interfered:
Childish at first, they cared not to restrain;
And strong at last, they saw restriction vain;
Nor knew they when that passion to reprove-
Now idle fondness, now resistless love.

So while the waters rise, the children tread
On the broad estuary's sandy bed;
But soon the channel fills, from side to side
Comes danger rolling with the deepening tide;
Yet none who saw the rapid current flow
Could the first instant of that danger know.
The lovers waited till the time should come
When they together could possess a home :
In either house were men and maids unwed,
Hopes to be soothed, and tempers to be led.
Then Allen's mother of his favourite maid
Spoke from the feelings of a mind afraid :
Dress and amusements were her sole employ,"
She said," entangling her deluded boy;"
And yet, in truth, a mother's jealous love
Had much imagined and could little prove;
Judith had beauty; and if vain, was kind,
Discreet, and mild, and had a serious mind.
Dull was their prospect-when the lovers met,
They said, we must not-dare not venture yet:

To take th' adventurous Allen from his home;
With his own friends the final day he pass'd,
And every painful hour, except the last.
The grieving father urged the cheerful glass,
To make the moments with less sorrow pass;
Intent the mother look'd upon her son,
And wish'd th' assent withdrawn, the deed un-
done;

The younger sister, as he took his way,
Hung on his coat, and begg'd for more delay:
But his own Judith call'd him to the shore,
Whom he must meet, for they might meet no

And there he found her-faithful, mournful, true, Weeping and waiting for a last adieu!

The ebbing tide had left the sand, and there Moved with slow steps the melancholy pair; Sweet were the painful moments-but how sweet And without pain, when they again should meet! Now either spoke, as hope and fear impress'd Each their alternate triumph in the breast.

Distance alarm'd the maid-she cried," "Tis far!' And danger too-" it is a time of war: Then in those countries are diseases strange, And women gay, and men are prone to change; What then may happen in a year, when things Of vast importance every moment brings! But hark! an oar!" she cried, yet none appear'd"Twas love's mistake, who fancied what it fear'd; And she continued-" Do, my Allen, keep Thy heart from evil, let thy passions sleep; Believe it good, nay glorious, to prevail And stand in safety where so many fail; And do not, Allen, or for shame, or pride, Thy faith abjure, or thy profession hide; Can I believe his love will lasting prove, Who has no reverence for the God I love

I know thee well! how good thou art and kind; But strong the passions that invade thy mind.-Now, what to me hath Allen to commend ?'

Forget her spleen, and in my place appear;
Her love to me will make my Judith dear:
Oft I shall think, (such comfort lovers seek,)
Who speaks of me, and fancy what they speak;
Then write on all occasions, always dwell
On hope's fair prospects, and be kind and well,
And ever choose the fondest, tenderest style."
She answer'd "No," but answer'd with a smile.
"And now, my Judith, at so sad a time,
Forgive my fear, and call it not my crime,
When with our youthful neighbours 'tis thy chance
To meet in walks, the visit, or the dance,
When every lad would on my lass attend,
Choose not a smooth designer for a friend :
That fawning Philip!-nay, be not severe,
A rival's hope must cause a lover's fear."

Displeased she felt, and might in her reply
Have mix'd some anger, but the boat was nigh,
Now truly heard!-it soon was full in sight;-
Now the sad farewell, and the long good-night;-
For, see his friends come hastening to the beach,
And now the gunwale is within the reach :
"Adieu-farewell!-remember!"-and what more
Affection taught was utter'd from the shore!
But Judith left them with a heavy heart,
Took a last view, and went to weep apart!
And now his friends went slowly from the place,
Where she stood still the dashing oar to trace,
Till all were silent!-for the youth she pray'd,
And softly then return'd the weeping maid.

They parted, thus by hope and fortune led, And Judith's hours in pensive pleasure fled; But when return'd the youth ?-the youth

Return'd exulting to his native shore;

Seamen returning to their ship, were come,
With idle numbers straying from their home;
Allen among them mix'd, and in the old
Strove some familiar features to behold;
While fancy aided memory :-" Man! what cheer!"
A sailor cried; "art thou at anchor here ?"
Faintly he answer'd, and then tried to trace
Some youthful features in some aged face:
A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought
She might unfold the very truths he sought
Confused and trembling, he the dame address'd:
"The Booths! yet live they?" pausing and op-
press'd;

Then spake again;-" Is there no ancient man,
David his name?-assist me if you can.-
Flemmings there were-and Judith, doth she
live?"

The woman gazed, nor could an answer give;
Yet wondering stood, and all were silent by,
Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy.
The woman musing said,-" She knew full well
Where the old people came at last to dwell;
They had a married daughter and a son,
But they were dead, and now remain'd not one."

"Yes," said an elder, who had paused intent On days long pass'd, "there was a sad event;— One of these Booths-it was my mother's taleHere left his lass, I know not where to sail : She saw their parting, and observed the pain But never came th' unhappy man again."

The ship was captured," Allen meekly said,
"And what became of the forsaken maid ?"
no The woman answer'd: "I remember now,
She used to tell the lasses of her vow,
And of her lover's loss, and I have seen
The gayest hearts grow sad where she has been;
Yet in her grief she married, and was made
Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey'd,
And early buried: but I know no more.

But forty years were past, and then there came
A worn-out man, with wither'd limbs and lame,
His mind oppress'd with woes, and bent with age
his frame :

Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay,
Was Allen landing in his native bay,

And hark! our friends are hastening to the shore."
Allen soon found a lodging in the town,

Willing his breathless form should blend with kin- | And walk'd, a man unnoticed, up and down.

dred clay.

In an autumnal eve he left the beach,

In such an eve he chanced the port to reach;
He was alone; he press'd the very place
Of the sad parting, of the last embrace :
There stood his parents, there retired the maid,
So fond, so tender, and so much afraid;
And on that spot, through many a year, his mind
Turn'd mournful back, half-sinking, half-resign'd.
No one was present; of its crew bereft.
A single boat was in the billows left;
Sent from some anchor'd vessel in the bay,
At the returning tide to sail away:

O'er the black stern the moonlight softly play'd,
The loosen'd foresail flapping in the shade;
All silent else on shore; but from the town
A drowsy peal of distant bells came down :
From the tall houses here and there, a light
Served some confused remembrance to excite :
66 There," he observed, and new emotions felt,
"Was my first home; and yonder Judith dwelt:
Dead! dead are all! I long-I fear to know,"
He said, and walk'd impatient, and yet slow.
Sudden there broke upon his grief a noise
Of merry tumult and of vulgar joys:

This house, and this, he knew, and thought a face
He sometimes could among a number trace:
Of names remember'd there remain'd a few,
But of no favourites, and the rest were new;
A merchant's wealth, when Allen went to sea,
Was reckon'd boundless.-Could he living be?
Or lived his son? for one he had, the heir
To a vast business and a fortune fair.
No! but that heir's poor widow, from her shed,
With crutches went to take her dole of bread.
There was a friend whom he had left a boy
With hope to sail the master of a hoy;

Him, after many a stormy day, he found

With his great wish, his life's whole purpose,

crown'd.

This hoy's proud captain look'd in Allen's face,—
Yours is, my friend," said he, "a woful case;
We cannot all succeed; I now command
The Betsy sloop, and am not much at land;
But when we meet you shall your story tell
Of foreign parts-I bid you now farewell!"
Allen so long had left his native shore,
He saw but few whom he had seen before;
The older people, as they met him, cast
A pitying look, oft speaking as they pass'd—

The man is Allen Booth, and it appears
He dwelt among us in his early years;
We see the name engraved upon the stones,
Where this poor wanderer means to lay his bones."
Thus where he lived and loved-unhappy change!
He seems a stranger, and finds all are strange.
But now a widow, in a village near,
Chanced of the melancholy man to hear;
Old as she was, to Judith's bosom came
Some strong emotions at the well-known name;
He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay'd
Ten troubled years, a sad afflicted maid;
Then was she wedded, of his death assured,
And much of misery in her lot endured;

My good adviser taught me to be still,
Nor to make converts had I power or will.
I preach'd no foreign doctrine to my wife,
And never mention'd Luther in my life;
I, all they said, say what they would, allow'd,
And when the fathers bade me bow, I bow'd:
Their forms I follow'd, whether well or sick,
And was a most obedient Catholic.

But I had money, and these pastors found
My notions vague, heretical, unsound:
A wicked book they seized; the very Turk
Could not have read a more pernicious work;
To me pernicious, who if it were good
Or evil question'd not, nor understood:

Her husband died; her children sought their bread O! had I little but the book possess'd,

In various places, and to her were dead.
The once fond lovers met; not grief nor age,
Sickness or pain, their hearts could disengage:
Each had immediate confidence; a friend
Both now beheld, on whom they might depend :
Now is there one to whom I can express
My nature's weakness and my soul's distress."
Allen look'd up, and with impatient heart-
Let me not lose thee-never let us part:

So Heaven this comfort to my sufferings give,
It is not all distress to think and live."
Thus Allen spoke-for time had not removed
The charms attach'd to one so fondly loved;
Who with more health, the mistress of their cot,
Labours to soothe the evils of his lot.
To her, to her alone, his various fate,
At various times, 'tis comfort to relate;
And yet his sorrow-she too loves to hear
What wrings her bosom, and compels the tear.
First he related how he left the shore,
Alarm'd with fears that they should meet no more:
Then, ere the ship had reach'd her purposed course,
They met and yielded to the Spanish force;
Then 'cross th' Atlantic seas they bore their prey,
Who grieving landed from their sultry bay;
And marching many a burning league, he found
Himself a slave upon a miner's ground:
There a good priest his native language spoke,
And gave some ease to his tormenting yoke;
Kindly advanced him in his master's grace,
And he was station'd in an easier place :
There, hopeless ever to escape the land,
He to a Spanish maiden gave his hand;
In cottage shelter'd from the blaze of day
He saw his happy infants round him play;
Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees,
Waved o'er his seat, and soothed his reveries;
E'en then he thought of England, nor could sigh,
But his fond Isabel demanded, "Why?"
Grieved by the story, she the sigh repaid,
And wept in pity for the English maid :
Thus twenty years were pass'd, and pass'd his views
Of further bliss, for he had wealth to lose :
His friend now dead, some foe had dared to paint
"His faith as tainted: he his spouse would taint;
Make all his children infidels, and found
An English heresy on Christian ground."

I might have read it, and enjoy'd my rest."
Alas! poor Allen, through his wealth was seen
Crimes that by poverty conceal'd had been:
Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown
Are in an instant through the varnish shown.
He told their cruel mercy; how at last,
In Christian kindness for the merits past,
They spared his forfeit life, but bade him fly
Or for his crime and contumacy die;

Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight:
His wife, his children, weeping in his sight,
All urging him to flee, he fled, and cursed his
flight.

He next related how he found a way,
Guideless and grieving, to Campeachy Bay :
There in the woods he wrought, and there, among
Some labouring seamen, heard his native tongue :
The sound, one moment, broke upon his pain
With joyful force; he long'd to hear again :
Again he heard; he seized an offer'd hand,
"And when beheld you last our native land?"
He cried, "and in what country? quickly say"-
The seamen answer'd-strangers all were they;
One only at his native port had been;
He, landing once, the quay and church had seen,
For that esteem'd; but nothing more he knew.
Still more to know, would Allen join the crew,
Sail where they sail'd, and many a peril past,
They at his kinsman's isle their anchor cast;
But him they found not, nor could one relate
Aught of his will, his wish, or his estate.
This grieved not Allen; then again he sail'd
For England's coast, again his fate prevail'd:
War raged, and he, an active man and strong,
Was soon impress'd, and served his country long.
By various shores he pass'd, on various seas,
Never so happy as when void of ease.-
And then he told how in a calm distress'd,
Day after day, his soul was sick of rest;
When, as a log upon the deep they stood,
Then roved his spirit to the inland wood;
Till, while awake, he dream'd, that on the seas
Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the
trees:

He gazed, he pointed to the scenes :-"There stand
My wife, my children, 'tis my lovely land;
See! there my dwelling-O! delicious scene

"Whilst I was poor," said Allen, "none would Of my best life-unhand me-are ye men ?"

care

What my poor notions of religion were,

None ask'd me whom I worshipp'd, how I pray'd,
If due obedience to the laws were paid:

And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind
Brush'd the fond pictures from the stagnant mind.
He told of bloody fights, and how at length
The rage of battle gave his spirit strength;

"Twas in the Indian seas his limb he lost,
And he was left half dead upon the coast;
But living gain'd, 'mid rich aspiring men,
A fair subsistence by his ready pen.

Thus," he continued, "pass'd unvaried years,
Without events producing hopes or fears.
Augmented pay procured him decent wealth,
But years advancing undermined his health;
Then oft-times in delightful dreams he flew
To England's shore, and scenes his childhood knew:
He saw his parents, saw his favourite maid,
No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay'd;
And thus excited in his bosom rose

A wish so strong, it baffled his repose;
Anxious he felt on English earth to lie;
To view his native soil, and there to die.

He then described the gloom, the dread he
found,

When first he landed on the chosen ground,
Where undefined was all he hoped and fear'd,
And how confused and troubled all appear'd ;
His thoughts in past and present scenes employ'd,
All views in future blighted and destroy'd;
His were a medley of bewildering themes,
Sad as realities, and wild as dreams.

Here his relation closes, but his mind
Flies back again some resting place to find;
Thus silent, musing through the day, he sees
His children sporting by those lofty trees,
Their mother singing in the shady scene,
Where the fresh springs burst o'er the
green;-

So strong his eager fancy, he affrights
The faithful widow by its powerful flights;
For what disturbs him he aloud will tell,
And cry-""Tis she, my wife! my Isabel!

His promises are, as he then was, mighty,
And his performance, as he now is, nothing.
Henry VIII. act iv. sc. 2.

GWYN was a farmer, whom the farmers all,
Who dwelt around, the Gentleman would call;
Whether in pure humility or pride,

They only knew, and they would not decide.

Far different he from that dull plodding tribe,
Whom it was his amusement to describe;
Creatures no more enliven'd than a clod,
But treading still as their dull fathers trod;
Who lived in times when not a man had seen
Corn sown by drill, or thresh'd by a machine:
He was of those whose skill assigns the prize
lively For creatures fed in pens, and stalls, and sties;
And who, in places where improvers meet,
To fill the land with fatness, had a seat;
Who in large mansions live like petty kings,
And speak of farms but as amusing things;
Who plans encourage, and who journals keep,

Where are my children ?"-Judith grieves to hear And talk with lords about a breed of sheep.

How the soul works in sorrows so severe;
Assiduous all his wishes to attend,

Deprived of much, he yet may boast a friend;
Watch'd by her care, in sleep, his spirit takes
Its flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes.
"Tis now her office; her attention see!
While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree,
Careful she guards him from the glowing heat,
And pensive muses at her Allen's feet.

Two are the species in this genus known;
One, who is rich in his profession grown,
Who yearly finds his ample stores increase,
From fortune's favours and a favouring lease;
Who rides his hunter, who his house adorns ;
Who drinks his wine, and his disbursements scorns;
Who freely lives, and loves to show he can-
This is the farmer made the gentleman.

The second species from the world is sent,

And where is he? Ah! doubtless in those Tired with its strife, or with his wealth content;

scenes

Of his best days, amid the vivid greens,
Fresh with unnumber'd rills, where every gale
Breathes the rich fragrance of the neighb'ring vale;
Smiles not his wife, and listen's as there comes
The night-bird's music from the thickening glooms?
And as he sits with all these treasures nigh,
Blaze not with fairy light the phosphor-fly,

In books and men beyond the former read,
To farming solely by a passion led,
Or by a fashion: curious in his land;
Now planning much, now changing what he

plann'd ;

Pleased by each trial, not by failures vex'd,
And ever certain to succeed the next;
Quick to resolve, and easy to persuade-

When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by? This is the gentleman, a farmer made.

This is the joy that now so plainly speaks
In the warm transient flushing of his cheeks;
For he is listening to the fancied noise
Of his own children, eager in their joys:
All this he feels, a dream's delusive bliss
Gives the expression, and the glow like this.
And now his Judith lays her knitting by,
These strong emotions in her friend to spy;
For she can fully of their nature deem-
But see! he breaks the long-protracted theme,
And wakes and cries-" My God! 'twas but
dream."

Gwyn was of these; he from the world withdrew
Early in life, his reasons known to few;
Some disappointment said, some pure good sense,
The love of land, the press of indolence;
His fortune known, and coming to retire,
If not a farmer, men had call'd him 'squire

Forty and five his years, no child or wife
Cross'd the still tenor of his chosen life;
Much land he purchased, planted far around,
And let some portions of superfluous ground
a To farmers near him, not displeased to say,
"My tenants," nor "our worthy landlord," they.

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Select Works of the British Poets: In a Chronological Series from Falconer ...