In the steerage a woman I saw ;
Such at least was the form that she wore,
Whose beauty impress'd me with awe,
Ne'er taught me by woman before.
She sat, and a shield at her side
Shed light, like a sun on the waves,
And smiling divinely, she cried-
"I go to make freemen of slaves."
Then raising her voice to a strain
The sweetest that ear ever heard,
She sung of the slave's broken chain
Wherever her glory appear'd.
Some clouds, which had over us hung,
Fled, chased by her melody clear,
And methought while she liberty sung,
'Twas liberty only to hear.
Thus swiftly dividing the flood,
To a slave-cultured island we came,
Where a Demon, her enemy, stood-
Oppression his terrible name.
In his hand, as the sign of his sway,
A scourge hung with lashes he bore,
And stood looking out for his prey
From Africa's sorrowful shore.
But soon as approaching the land
That goddess-like woman he view'd, The scourge he let fall from his hand, With blood of his subjects imbrued. I saw him both sicken and die,
And the moment the monster expired, Heard shouts that ascended the sky, From thousands with rapture inspired. Awaking, how could I but muse
At what such a dream should betide ? But soon my ear caught the glad news,
Which served my weak thought for a guide,That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves For the hatred she ever had shown To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves, Resolves to have none of her own.
PART OF A POEM ENTITLED "THE VALEDICTION."
On Friendship! cordial of the human breast!
So little felt, so fervently profess'd !
Thy blossoms deck our unsuspecting years;
The promise of delicious fruit appears:
We hug the hopes of constancy and truth,
Such is the folly of our dreaming youth;
But soon, alas! detect the rash mistake,
That sanguine inexperience loves to make;
And view with tears the expected harvest lost,
Decay'd by time, or wither'd by a frost.
Whoever undertakes a friend's great part
Should be renew'd in nature, pure in heart,
Prepared for martyrdom, and strong to prove
A thousand ways the force of genuine love.
He may be call'd to give up health and gain,
To exchange content for trouble, ease for pain,
To echo sigh for sigh, and groan for groan,
And wet his cheeks with sorrows not his own.
The heart of man, for such a task too frail,
When most relied on, is most sure to fail ;
And, summon'd to partake its fellow's woe, Starts from its office, like a broken bow.
Votaries of business, and of pleasure, prove Faithless alike in friendship and in love. Retired from all the circles of the gay, And all the crowds that bustle life away, To scenes where competition, envy, strife, Beget no thunder-clouds to trouble life, Let me, the charge of some good angel, find One who has known and has escaped mankind; Polite yet virtuous, who has brought away The manners, not the morals, of the day: With him, perhaps with her, (for men have known No firmer friendships than the fair have shown) Let me enjoy in some unthought-of spot, (All former friends forgiven, and forgot) Down to the close of life's fast-fading scene, Union of hearts, without a flaw between. 'Tis grace, 'tis bounty, and it calls for praise, If God give health, that sunshine of our days; And if he add, a blessing shared by few, Content of heart, more praises still are due :But if he grant a friend, that boon possess'd Indeed is treasure, and crowns all the rest; And giving one, whose heart is in the skies, Born from above, and made divinely wise, He gives, what bankrupt nature never can, Whose noblest coin is light and brittle man, Gold, purer far than Ophir ever knew,
A soul, an image of himself, and therefore true.
ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON, THE NIGHT OF THE 17TH MARCH, 1789.
WHEN, long sequester'd from his throne,
George took his seat again,
By right of worth, not blood alone,
Entitled here to reign;
Then, Loyalty, with all his lamps
New trimm'd, a gallant show,
Chasing the darkness and the damps,
Set London in a glow.
"Twas hard to tell of streets or squares,
Which form'd the chief display,
These most resembling cluster'd stars,
Those the long milky way.
Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,
And rockets flew, self-driven,
To hang their momentary fires
Amid the vault of heaven.
So, fire with water to compare,
The ocean serves on high
Up-spouted by a whale in air,
To express unwieldy joy.
Had all the pageants of the world
In one procession join'd,
And all the banners been unfurl'd
That heralds e'er design'd;
For no such sight had England's Queen
Forsaken her retreat,
Where, George recover'd made a scene
Sweet always, doubly sweet.
Yet glad she came that night to prove,
A witness undescried,
How much the object of her love
Was loved by all beside.
Darkness the skies had mantled o'er
In aid of her design,—
Darkness, O Queen! ne'er call'd before
To veil a deed of thine.
On borrow'd wheels away she flies,
Resolved to be unknown,
And gratify no curious eyes
That night, except her own.
Arrived, a night like noon she sees,
And hears the million hum;
As all by instinct, like the bees,
Had known their sovereign come.
Pleased she beheld aloft portray'd
On many a splendid wall,
Emblems of health, and heavenly aid,
And George the theme of all.
Unlike the enigmatic line,
So difficult to spell,
Which shook Belshazzar at his wine,
The night his city fell.
Soon, watery grew her eyes and dim,
But with a joyful tear;
None else, except in prayer for him,
George ever drew from her.
It was a scene in every part
Like those in fable feign'd,
And seem'd by some magician's art
Created and sustain'd.
But other magic there, she knew,
Had been exerted none,
To raise such wonders in her view,
Save love of George alone.
That cordial thought her spirits cheer'd,
And through the cumbrous throng,
Not else unworthy to be fear'd,
Convey'd her calm along.
So, ancient poets say, serene
The sea-maid rides the waves, And fearless of the billowy scene Her peaceful bosom laves. With more than astronomic eyes
She view'd the sparkling show; One Georgian star adorns the skies, She myriads found below.
Yet let the glories of a night
Like that, once seen, suffice; Heaven grant us no such future sight, Such previous woe the price!
WRITTEN IN COMMEMORATION OF HIS MAJESTY'S HAPPY
I RANSACK'D, for a theme of song,
Much ancient chronicle, and long;
I read of bright embattled fields,
Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields,
Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast
Prowess to dissipate a host;
Through tomes of fable and of dream
I sought an eligible theme,
But none I found, or found them shared
Already by some happier bard.
To modern times, with truth to guide
My busy search, I next applied;
Here cities won and fleets dispersed
Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed,
Deeds of unperishing renown,
Our fathers' triumphs and our own.
Thus as the bee, from bank to bower,
Assiduous sips at every flower,
But rests on none till that be found
Where most nectareous sweets abound,
So I, from theme to theme display'd
In many a page historic stray'd,
Siege after siege, fight after fight,
Contemplating with small delight,
(For feats of sanguinary hue
Not always glitter in my view)
Till, settling on the current year,
I found the far-sought treasure near;
A theme for poetry divine,
A theme to ennoble even mine,
In memorable Eighty-nine.
The spring of eighty-nine shall be
An era cherish'd long by me,
Which joyful I will oft record,
And thankful at my frugal board;
For then the clouds of eighty-eight,
That threaten'd England's trembling state
With loss of what she least could spare,
Her sovereign's tutelary care,
One breath of Heaven, that cried-Restore!
Chased, never to assemble more :
And far the richest crown on earth,
If valued by its wearer's worth,
The symbol of a righteous reign
Sat fast on George's brows again.
Then peace and joy again possess'd
Our Queen's long-agitated breast;
Such joy and peace as can be known
By sufferers like herself alone,
Who losing, or supposing lost,
The good on earth they valued most,
For that dear sorrow's sake forego
All hope of happiness below,
Then suddenly regain the prize,
And flash thanksgivings to the skies!
O, Queen of Albion, queen of isles!
Since all thy tears were changed to smiles,
The eyes, that never saw thee, shine
With joy not unallied to thine;
Transports not chargeable with art
Illume the land's remotest part,
And strangers to the air of courts,
Both in their toils and at their sports,
The happiness of answer'd prayers,
That gilds thy features, show in theirs.
If they who on thy state attend, Awe-struck, before thy presence bend, "Tis but the natural effect
Of grandeur that ensures respect;
But she is something more than Queen
Who is beloved where never seen.
THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND.
May, 1789.
MUSE-hide his name of whom I sing,
Lest his surviving house thou bring
For his sake into scorn,
Nor speak the school from which he drew The much or little that he knew,
Nor place where he was born.
That such a man once was, may seem
Worthy of record, (if the theme
Perchance may credit win)
For proof to man, what man may prove,
If grace depart, and demons move
The source of guilt within.
This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, man he must be styled)
Wanted no good below;
Gentle he was, if gentle birth
Could make him such; and he had worth,
If wealth can worth bestow.
In social talk and ready jest
He shone superior at the feast,
And qualities of mind
Illustrious in the eyes of those
Whose gay society he chose
Possess'd of every kind.
Methinks I see him powder'd red,
With bushy locks his well-dress'd head
Wing'd broad on either side,
The mossy rose-bud not so sweet;
His steeds superb, his carriage neat
As luxury could provide.
Can such be cruel? Such can be
Cruel as hell, and so was he;
A tyrant entertain'd
With barbarous sports, whose fell delight Was to encourage mortal fight
"Twixt birds to battle train'd.
One feather'd champion he possess'd,
His darling far beyond the rest,
Which never knew disgrace,
Nor e'er had fought, but he made flow
The life-blood of his fiercest foe,
The Cæsar of his race.
It chanced, at last, when, on a day,
He push'd him to the desperate fray,
His courage droop'd, he fled.
The master storm'd, the prize was lost, And, instant, frantic at the cost,
He doom'd his favourite dead. He seized him fast, and from the pit Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit, And, bring me cord, he cried; The cord was brought, and, at his word, To that dire implement the bird
Alive and struggling, tied.
The horrid sequel asks a veil,
And all the terrors of the tale
That can be, shall be, sunk.—
Led by the sufferer's screams aright, His shock'd companions view the sight And him with fury drunk.
All, suppliant, beg a milder fate
For the old warrior at the grate:
He, deaf to pity's call,
Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel
His culinary club of steel,
Death menacing on all.
But vengeance hung not far remote,
For while he stretch'd his clamorous throat
And heaven and earth defied,
Big with the curse too closely pent
That struggled vainly for a vent,
He totter'd, reel'd, and died.
'Tis not for us, with rash surmise, To point the judgments of the skies; But judgments plain as this, That, sent for Man's instruction, bring A written label on their wing, "Tis hard to read amiss.
BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS MAJESTY FROM SEA-BATHING,
O SOVEREIGN of an isle renown'd For undisputed sway Wherever o'er yon gulf profound Her navies wing their way;
With juster claim she builds at length
Her empire on the sea,
And well may boast the waves her strength,
Which strength restored to thee.
ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE's Ode "AD LIBRUM SUUM." February, 1790.
MARIA, Could Horace have guess'd
What honour awaited his ode
To his own little volume address'd,
The honour which you have bestow'd,—
Who have traced it in characters here,
So elegant, even, and neat,
He had laugh'd at the critical sneer
Which he seems to have trembled to meet.
And sneer, if you please, he had said,
A nymph shall hereafter arise
Who shall give me, when you are all dead,
The glory your malice denies;
Shall dignity give to my lay,
Although but a mere bagatelle;
And even a poet shall say,
Nothing ever was written so well.
FOR A STONE ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE of
OAKS, AT CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF
T. GIFFARD, ESQ., 1790.
OTHER stones the era tell
When some feeble mortal fell;
I stand here to date the birth
Of these hardy sons of earth.
Which shall longest brave the sky,
Storm and frost-these Oaks or I?
Pass an age or two away,
I must moulder and decay;
But the years that crumble me
Shall invigorate the tree,
Spread its branch, dilate its size,
Lift its summit to the skies.
Cherish honour, virtue, truth,
So shalt thou prolong thy youth.
Wanting these, however fast
Man be fix'd, and form'd to last,
He is lifeless even now,
Stone at heart, and cannot grow.
FOR A STONE ERECTED ON A SIMILAR OCCASION AT THE SAME PLACE IN THE FOLLOWING YEAR.
READER! Behold a monument That asks no sigh or tear, Though it perpetuate the event Of a great burial here.
ON THE LATE INDECENT LIBERTIES TAKEN WITH THE REMAINS OF THE GREAT MILTON,-ANNO 1790.
"ME too, perchance in future days,
The sculptured stone shall show,
With Paphian myrtle or with bays
Parnassian on my brow.
"But I, or ere that season come,
Escaped from every care,
Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,
And sleep securely there 1."
So sang, in Roman tone and style,
The youthful bard, ere long
Ordain'd to grace his native isle
With her sublimest song.
Who then but must conceive disdain,
Hearing the deed unblest
Of wretches who have dared profane
His dread sepulchral rest?
Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones
Where Milton's ashes lay,
That trembled not to grasp his bones
And steal his dust away!
O ill-requited bard! neglect
Thy living worth repaid,
And blind idolatrous respect
As much affronts thee dead.
FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY.
HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and prayer,
In heaven thy dwelling-place,
From infants, made the public care,
And taught to seek thy face!
Thanks for thy Word and for thy Day;
And grant us, we implore,
Never to waste in sinful play
Thy holy Sabbaths more.
Thanks that we hear, but oh! impart
To each desires sincere,
That we may listen with our heart,
And learn as well as hear.
For if vain thoughts the minds engage
Of elder far than we,
What hope that at our heedless age
Our minds should e'er be free?
Much hope, if thou our spirits take
Under thy gracious sway,
Who canst the wisest wiser make,
And babes as wise as they.
Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows,
A sun that ne'er declines;
And be thy mercies shower'd on those
Who placed us where it shines.
ON HER KIND PRESENT TO THE AUTHOR, A PATCHWORK COUNTERPANE OF HER OWN MAKING,
THE Bard, if e'er he feel at all,
Must sure be quicken'd by a call
Both on his heart and head,
To pay with tuneful thanks the care
And kindness of a lady fair
Who deigns to deck his bed.
A bed like this, in ancient time,
On Ida's barren top sublime,
(As Homer's Epic shows)
Composed of sweetest vernal flowers,
Without the aid of sun or showers,
For Jove and Juno rose.
Less beautiful, however gay,
Is that which in the scorching day
Receives the weary swain
Who, laying his long scythe aside,
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied,
Till roused to toil again.
What labours of the loom I see!
Looms numberless have groan'd for me!
Should every maiden come
To scramble for the patch that bears
The impress of the robe she wears,
The bell would toll for some.
1 Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus
Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Parnasside lauri
Fronde comas-At ego securâ pace quiescam.
Milton in Manso.
And oh, what havoc would ensue !
This bright display of every hue
All in a moment fled !
As if a storm should strip the bowers
Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers,-
Each pocketing a shred.
Thanks, then, to every gentle Fair,
Who will not come to peck me bare
As bird of borrow'd feather,
And thanks to one, above them all,
The gentle Fair of Pertenhall,
Who put the whole together.
TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ.
BY AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW OF HIS AT WESTMINSTER.
HASTINGS! I knew thee young, and of a mind
While young humane, conversable, and kind;
Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then,
Now grown a villain, and the worst of men ;
But rather some suspect, who have oppress'd
And worried thee, as not themselves the best.
THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ. November, 1790.
POETS attempt the noblest task they can,
Praising the Author of all good in man,
And, next, commemorating worthies lost,
The dead in whom that good abounded most.
Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more Famed for thy probity from shore to shore; Thee, THORNTON! worthy in some page to shine, As honest and more eloquent than mine,
I mourn; or, since thrice happy thou must be,
The world, no longer thy abode, not thee.
Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed;
It were to weep that goodness has its meed,
That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky,
And glory for the virtuous, when they die.
What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard,
Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford,
Sweet as the privilege of healing woe
By virtue suffer'd combating below?
That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee means
To illumine with delight the saddest scenes,
Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn
As midnight, and despairing of a morn.
Thou hadst an industry in doing good,
Restless as his who toils and sweats for food;
Avarice, in thee, was the desire of wealth
By rust unperishable or by stealth;
And if the genuine worth of gold depend
On application to its noblest end,
Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven,
Surpassing all that mine or mint had given.
And, though God made thee of a nature prone
To distribution boundless of thy own,
And still by motives of religious force
Impell'd thee more to that heroic course,
Yet was thy liberality discreet,
Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat,
And though in act unwearied, secret still,
As in some solitude the summer rill
Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green,
And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen.
Such was thy charity; no sudden start,
After long sleep, of passion in the heart,
But steadfast principle, and, in its kind,
Of close relation to the eternal mind,
Traced easily to its true source above,
To Him, whose works bespeak his nature, Love.
Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make
This record of thee for the Gospel's sake:
That the incredulous themselves may see
Its use and power exemplified in thee.
A BRIEF FRAGMENT OF AN EXTENSIVE PROJECTED POEM. May, 1791.
"I COULD be well content, allow'd the use
Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd
From worn-out follies, now acknowledged such,
To recommence life's trial, in the hope
Of fewer errors, on a second proof !”
Thus, while grey evening lull'd the wind, and call'd
Fresh odours from the shrubbery at my side,
Taking my lonely winding walk, I mused,
And held accustom'd conference with my heart;
When from within it thus a voice replied: [length
"Couldst thou in truth? and art thou taught at This wisdom, and but this, from all the past? Is not the pardon of thy long arrear, Time wasted, violated laws, abuse Of talents, judgments, mercies, better far Than opportunity vouchsafed to err With less excuse, and haply, worse effect?"
I heard, and acquiesced: then to and fro
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck,
My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind
I pass'd, and next consider'd, what is man?
Knows he his origin can he ascend
By reminiscence to his earliest date?
Slept he in Adam? and in those from him
Through numerous generations, till he found
At length his destined moment to be born?
Or was he not, till fashion'd in the womb? [toil'd
Deep mysteries both! which schoolmen must have
To unriddle, and have left them mysteries still.
It is an evil incident to man,
And of the worst, that unexplored he leaves
Truths useful and attainable with ease,
To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies
Not to be solved, and useless if it might.
Mysteries are food for angels; they digest
With ease, and find them nutriment; but man,
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean
His manna from the ground, or starve, and die.
THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS.
May, 1791.
Two nymphs, both nearly of an age,
Of numerous charms possess'd,
A warm dispute once chanced to wage,
Whose temper was the best.
The worth of each had been complete,
Had both alike been mild;
But one, although her smile was sweet, Frown'd oftener than she smiled;
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