Stop stop John Gilpin !-Here's the house!
They all at once did cry;
The dinner waits, and we are tired:
Said Galpin-So am I!
But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclined to tarry there;
For why?-his owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly-which brings me to
The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till at his friend the calendrer's
The horse at last stood still.
The calendrer, amazed to see
His neighbor in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted him:
What news? what news? your tidings tell;
Tell me you must and shall-
Say why bareheaded you are come,
Or why you come at all?
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
And loved a timely joke!
And thus unto the calendrer
In merry guise he spoke :
I came because your horse would come,
And, if I well forebode,
My hat and wig will soon be here,
They are upon the road.
The calendrer, right glad to find,
His friend in merry pin,
Return'd him not a single word,
But to the house went in;
Whence straight came he with hat and wig;
A wig that flow'd behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turn
Thus show'd his ready wit:
My head is twice as big as yours,
They therefore needs must fit.
But let me scrape the dirt away
That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case.
Said John, It is my wedding-day,
And all the world would stare,
If wife should dine at Edmonton,
And I should dine at Ware.
So turning to his horse, he said,
I am in haste to dine;
'Twas for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine.
Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast!
For which he paid full dear;
For, while he spake. a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he
Had heard a lion roar,
And gallop'd off with all his might,
As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig:
He lost them sooner than at first,
For why they were too big.
Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down
Into the country far away,
She pull'd out half-a-crown;
And thus unto the youth she said,
That drove them to the Bell,
This shall be yours, when you bring back
My husband safe and well.
The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain;
Whom in a trice he tried to stop,
By catching at his rein;
But, not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went postboy at his heels,
The postboy's horse right glad to miss
The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With postboy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry:-
Stop thief! stop thief!-a highwayman!
Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that pass'd that way
Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town;
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up
He did again get down.
Now let us sing, long live the king,
And Gilpin long live he;
And when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!
THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOWWORM
A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long
Had cheer'd the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended.
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around
He spied far off. upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glowworm by his spark;
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus right eloquent-
Did you admire my lamp, quoth he,
As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 'twas the self-same Power divine
Taught you to sing and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beauty and cheer the night.
The songster heard his short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
Hence jarring sectaries may learn
Their real interest to discern;
That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other;
But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life's poor transient night is spent,
Respecting in each other's case
The gifts of nature and of grace.
Those Christians best deserve the name
Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps and him that flies.
AN EPISTLE TO AN AFFLICTED PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.
A stranger's purpose in these lays Is to congratulate, and not to praise. To give the creature the Creator's due Were sin in me, and an offence to you. From man to man, or e'en to woman paid, Praise is the medium of a knavish trade, A coin by craft for folly's use design'd, Spurious and only current with the blind.
The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown; No traveller ever reach'd that blest abode. Who found not thorns and briers in his road. The world may dance along the flowery plain, Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain, Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread, With unshod feet they yet securely tread, Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend, Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. [prove. But he, who knew what human hearts would How slow to learn the dictates of his love, That, hard by nature and of stubborn will, A life of ease would make them harder still, In pity to the souls his grace design'd To rescue from the ruins of mankind, Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years, And said, "Go spend them in the vale of tears." O balmy gales of soul-reviving air! O salutary streams. that murmur there! These flowing from the fount of grace above, Those breathed from lips of everlasting love. The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys; Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys; An envious world will interpose its frown, To mar delights superior to its own; And many a pang experienced still within, Reminds them of their hated inmate, sin:
But ills of every shape and every name, Transform'd to blessings miss their cruel aim: And every moment's calm that soothes the breast, Is given in earnest of eternal rest.
Ah, be not sad although thy lot be cast Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste! No shepherd's tents within thy view appear, But the chief Shepherd even there is near; Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain; Thy tears all issue from a source divine, And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thineSo once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found, And drought on all the drooping herbs around.
TO THE REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.
UNWIN, I should but ill repay
The kindness of a friend,
Whose worth deserves as warm a lay
As ever friendship penn'd,
Thy name omitted in a page
That would reclaim a vicious age.
A union form'd, as mine with thee,
Not rashly, or in sport,
May be as fervent in degree
And faithful in its sort,
And may as rich in comfort prove,
As that of true fraternal love.
The bud inserted in the rind,
The bud of peach or rose,
Adorns, though differing in its kind,
The stock whereon it grows,
With flower as sweet or fruit as fair,
As if produced by nature there.
Not rich, I render what I may,
I seize thy name in haste,
And place it in this first essay,
Lest this should prove the last. 'Tis where it should be-in a plan That holds in view the good of man.
The poet's lyre to fix his fame,
Should be the poet's heart;
Affection lights a brighter flame
Than ever blazed by art.
No muses on these lines attend,
I sink the poet in the friend.
TO THE REVEREND MR. NEWTON.
AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.
THE Swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early Spring.
The keenest frost that binds the stream,
The wildest wind that blows.
Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,
Secure of their repose.
But man, all feeling and awake,
The gloomy scene surveys;
With present ills his heart must ache,
And pant for brighter days.
Old Winter halting o'er the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn; But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head, And whispers your return.
Then April with her sister May,
Shall chase him from the bowers, And weave fresh garlands every day, To crown the smiling hours.
And if a tear that speaks regret
Of happier times appear,
A glimpse of joy, that we have met, Shall shine and dry the tear.
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON,
(NOW MRS. COURTNEY.)
SHE came-she is gone-we have met-
And meet perhaps never again;
The sun of that moment is set.
And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has let a regret and esteein
That will not so suddenly pass.
The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delay'd
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paused under many a tree,
And much she was charm'd with a tone, Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who so lately had witness'd her own.
My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine,
As only her musical tongue
Could infuse into numbers of mine.
The longer I heard, I esteem'd
The work of my fancy the more,
And e'en to myself never seem'd
So tuneful a poet before.
Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year,
Catharina, did nothing impede,
Would feel herself happier here;
For the close-woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are sweeter to her many times
Than aught that the city can show.
So it is when the mind is endued
With a well-judging taste from above,
Then, whether embellish'd or rude,
"Tis nature alone that we love.
The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite;
But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse
A lasting, a sacred delight.
Since then in the rural recess
Catharina alone can rejoice,
May it still be her lot to possess
The scene of her sensible choice!
To inhabit a mansion remote
From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note
To incasure the life that she leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home;
And with scenes that new rapture inspire,
As oft as it suits her to roam;
She will have just the life she prefers,
With little to hope or to fear,
And ours would be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
A HERMIT, (or if 'chance
you hold
That title now too trite and old)
A man, once young who lived retired
As hermit could have well desired,
His hours of study closed at last,
And finish'd his concise repast,
Stoppled his cruise replaced his book,
Within its customary nook,
And staff in hand, set forth to share
The sober cordial of sweet air,
Like Isaac, with a mind applied
To serious thought at evening tide.
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees that fringed his hill,
Shades slanting at the close of day,
Chill'd more his else delightful way.
Distant a little mile he spied
A western bank's still sunny side,
And right toward the favor'd place
Proceeding with his nimblest pace,
In hope to bask a little yet,
Just reach'd it when the sun was set.
Your hermit, young and jovial sirs!
Learns something fron whate'er occurs→
And hence, he said, my mind computes
The real worth of man's pursuits.
His object chosen, wealth or fame,
Or other sublunary game,
Imagination to his view
Presents it deck'd with every hue
That can seduce him not to spare
His powers of best exertion there,
But youth health vigor to expend
On so desirable an end.
Ere long approach life's evening shades
The glow that fancy gave it fades;
And, earn'd too late it wants the grace
That first engaged him in the chase.
True, answer'd an angelic guide,
Attendant at the senior's side-
But whether all the time it cost,
To urge the fruitless chase be lost,
Must be decided by the worth
Of that which call'd his ardor forth.
Trifles pursued, whate'er the event,
Must cause him shame or discontent;
A vicious object still is worse,
Success.ul there. he wins a curse;
But he whom e'en in life's last stage
Endeavors laudable engage,
Is paid at least in peace of mind.
And sense of having well design'd;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His sun precipitate descend,
A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompense his mere intent.
No virtuous wish can bear a date
Either too early or too late.
THE FAITHFUL BIRD.
THE greenhouse is my summer seat; My shrubs displaced from that retreat Enjoy'd the open air;
Two goldfinches whose sprightly song Had been their mutual solace long,
Lived happy prisoners there.
They sang as blithe as finches sing,
That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,
And therefore never miss d.
But nature works in every breast,
With force not easily suppress'd;
And Dick felt some desires,
That, after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain
A pass between his wires.
The open windows seem'd to invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;
But Tom was still confined;
And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and sincere
To leave his friend behind.
So settling on his cage by play,
And chirp and kiss he seem'd to say
You must not live alone-
Nor would be quit that chosen stand
Till I, with slow and cautious hand,
Return'd him to his own.
O ye. who never taste the joys
Of Friendship satisfied with noise,
Fandango, ball, and rout!
Blush, when I tell you how a bird,
A prison with a friend preferr'd
To liberty without.
THERE is a field, through which I often pass,
Thick overspread with moss and silky grass,
Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood.
Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,
Reserved to solace many a neighboring squire,
That he may follow them through brake and brier,
Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine,
Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.
A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd,
Runs in a bottom and divides the field;
Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,
But now wear crests of oven-wood instead;
And where the land slopes to its watery bourn
Wide yawns a guli beside a ragged thorn;
Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago,
And horrid brambles intertwine below;
A hollow scoop'd. I judge, in ancient time.
For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.
Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed, Nor Autumn yet had brush'd from every spray, With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away, But corn was housed and beans were in the stack, Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack,
With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats
With a whole gamut fill'd of heavenly notes.
For which, alas! my destiny severe,
Though ears she gave me two gave me no ear
The sun, accomplishing his early march. His lamp now planted on heaven's topmost arch When exercise and air my only aim. And heedless whither, to that field I came, Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found. Or with the high-rais'd horn's melodious clang All Kilwick and all Dinglederry rang. [press d
Sheep grazed the field; some with soft boson The herb as soft while nibbling stray'd the rest Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook, Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook. All seem'd so peaceful that, from them convey d To me their peace by kind contagion spread.
But when the huntsman, with distended cheek. 'Gan make his instrument of music speak. And from within the wood that crash was heari Though not a hound from whom it burst appear d The sheep recumbent and the sheep that razed Alt huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed Admiring, terrified, the novel strain.
Then coursed the field around, and coursed is
But recollecting, with a sudden thought [nought
That flight in circles urged advanced tien
They gather'd close around the old pit's brink
And thought again-but knew not what to think
The man to solitude accustom'd long
Perceives in everything that lives a tongue;
Not animals alone. but shrubs and trees
Have speech for him, and understood with ease;
After long drought, when rains abundant fall
He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all;
Knows what the freshness of their hue implies.
How glad they catch the largess of the skies:
But, with precision nicer still, the mind
He scans of every locomotive kind;
Birds of all feather, beasts of every name;
That serve mankind or shun them wild or tane
The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears
Have all articulation in his ears;
He spells them true by intuition's light,
And needs no glossary to set him right.
This truth premised was needful as a text.
To win due credence to what follows next.
Awhile they mused; surveying every face, Thou hadst supposed them of superior race; Their periwigs of wool and fears combined, Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of
That sage they seem'd, as lawyers o'er a doubt
Which puzzling long, at last they puzzled out.
Or academic tutors, teaching youths,
Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths;
When thus a mutton statelier than the rest
A ram, the ewes and wethers sad address 1.
Friends! we have lived too long. I never
heard
Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd
Could I believe, that winds for ages pent
In earth's dark womb have found at last a vezt
And from their prison-house below arise
With all these hideous howlings to the skies,
I could be much composed, nor should appear.
For such a cause to feel the slightest fear.
* Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq.
Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders
All night, me resting quiet in the fold.
Or heard we that tremendous bray alone,
I could expound the melancholy tone;
Should deem it by our old companion made,
The ass; for he, we know, has lately stray'd,
And, being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide,
Might be supposed to clamor for a guide.
But ah! those dreadful yells, what soul can hear,
That owns a carcass, and not quake for fear?
Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd
And fang'd with brass the demons are abroad;
I hold it therefore wisest and most fit
That, life to save, we leap into the pit.
Him answer'd then his loving mate and true,
But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe.
How! leap into the pit our life to save?
To save our life leap all into the grave?
For can we find it less? Contemplate first
The depth how awful! falling there, we burst:
Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall
In part abate, that happiness were small;
For with a race like theirs, no chance I see
Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we.
Meantime noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray,
Or be it not or be it whose it may, [tongues
And rush those other sounds. that seem by
Of demons utter'd, from whatever lungs,
Sounds are but sounds, and, till the cause appear,
We have at least commodious standing here.
Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast
From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last.
While thus she spake, I fainter heard the For Reynard, close attended at his heels [peals, By panting dog, tired man, and spatter'd horse, Through mere good fortune, took a different
The flock grew calm again, and I, the road
Following, that led me to my own abode,
Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found
Such cause of terror in an empty sound,
So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound.
Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, Live till to-morrow, will have passed away.
WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought with an indignant mein,
Counsel of her country's gods,
Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage, and full of grief.
Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy natchless wrongs, "Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues. Rome shall perish-write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt.
Rome, for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.
Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.
Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow:
Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance due;
Empire is on us bestowed,
Shame and ruin wait for you.
THERE was a time when Ætna's silent fire
Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire;
When, conscious of no danger from below,
She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow.
No thunders shook with deep intestine sound
The blooming groves that girdled her around.
Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines
(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines)
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured,
In peace upon her sloping sides matured.
When on a day, like that of the last doom.
A conflagration laboring in her womb,
She teem'd and heaved with an infernal birth,
That shook the circling seas and solid earth.
Dark and voluminous the vapors rise.
And hang their horrors in the neighboring skies,
While through the Stygian veil that blots the day,
In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play.
But oh! what muse and in what powers of song,
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Havoc and devastation in the van.
It marches o'er the prostrate works of man;
Vines, olives herbage. forests disappear,
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.
Revolving seasons fruitless as they pass,
See it an uninform'd and idle mass;
Without a soil to invite the tiller's care,
Or blade that might redeem it from despair.
Yet time at length (what will not time achieve?)
Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live.
Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade,
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.
O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats,
O charming Paradise of short-lived sweets!
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