Poems, 1799 Part 10

So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back And they carv'd him bone from bone, But what became of the Surgeon's soul Was never to mortal known.

THE VICTORY.

Hark--how the church-bells thundering harmony Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come, Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships Met on the element,--they met, they fought A desperate fight!--good tidings of great joy!

Old England triumphed! yet another day Of glory for the ruler of the waves!

For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause, They have their pa.s.sing paragraphs of praise And are forgotten.

There was one who died In that day's glory, whose obscurer name No proud historian's page will chronicle.

Peace to his honest soul! I read his name, 'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest G.o.d The sound was not familiar to mine ear.

But it was told me after that this man Was one whom lawful violence [1] had forced From his own home and wife and little ones, Who by his labour lived; that he was one Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel A husband's love, a father's anxiousness, That from the wages of his toil he fed The distant dear ones, and would talk of them At midnight when he trod the silent deck With him he valued, talk of them, of joys That he had known--oh G.o.d! and of the hour When they should meet again, till his full heart His manly heart at last would overflow Even like a child's with very tenderness.

Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly It came, and merciful the ball of death, For it came suddenly and shattered him, And left no moment's agonizing thought On those he loved so well.

He ocean deep Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know What a cold sickness made her blood run back When first she heard the tidings of the fight; Man does not know with what a dreadful hope She listened to the names of those who died, Man does not know, or knowing will not heed, With what an agony of tenderness She gazed upon her children, and beheld His image who was gone. Oh G.o.d! be thou Her comforter who art the widow's friend!

[Footnote 1: The person alluded to was pressed into the service.]

HENRY THE HERMIT.

It was a little island where he dwelt, Or rather a lone rock, barren and bleak, Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots Its gray stone surface. Never mariner Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast, Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark Anch.o.r.ed beside its sh.o.r.e. It was a place Befitting well a rigid anch.o.r.et, Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys And purposes of life; and he had dwelt Many long years upon that lonely isle, For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms, Honours and friends and country and the world, And had grown old in solitude. That isle Some solitary man in other times Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found The little chapel that his toil had built Now by the storms unroofed, his bed of leaves Wind-scattered, and his grave o'ergrown with gra.s.s, And thistles, whose white seeds winged in vain Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost.

So he repaired the chapel's ruined roof, Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone, And underneath a rock that shelter'd him From the sea blasts, he built his hermitage.

The peasants from the sh.o.r.e would bring him food And beg his prayers; but human converse else He knew not in that utter solitude, Nor ever visited the haunts of men Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed Implored his blessing and his aid in death.

That summons he delayed not to obey, Tho' the night tempest or autumnal wind.

Maddened the waves, and tho' the mariner, Albeit relying on his saintly load, Grew pale to see the peril. So he lived A most austere and self-denying man, Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness Exhausted him, and it was pain at last To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less Tho' with reluctance of infirmity, He rose at midnight from his bed of leaves And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal More self-condemning fervour rais'd his voice For pardon for that sin, 'till that the sin Repented was a joy like a good deed.

One night upon the sh.o.r.e his chapel bell Was heard; the air was calm, and its far sounds Over the water came distinct and loud.

Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear Its toll irregular, a monk arose.

The boatmen bore him willingly across For well the hermit Henry was beloved.

He hastened to the chapel, on a stone Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff and dead, The bell-rope in his band, and at his feet The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light

[Footnote 1: This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608.]

English Eclogues.

The following Eclogues I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, and I was induced to attempt by an account of the German Idylls given me in conversation. They cannot properly be stiled imitations, as I am ignorant of that language at present, and have never seen any translations or specimens in this kind.

With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from ??tyrus [1] and Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsises. No kind of poetry can boast of more ill.u.s.trious names or is more distinguished by the servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers "more silly than their sheep" have like their sheep gone on in the same track one after another. Gay stumbled into a new path. His eclogues were the only ones that interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for a long essay, but this is not the place for it.

How far poems requiring almost a colloquial plainness of language may accord with the public taste I am doubtful. They have been subjected to able criticism and revised with care. I have endeavoured to make them true to nature.

[Footnote 1: The letters of this name are illegible (worn away?) in the original text; from the remaining bits I have guessed all but the first two, which are not visible under any magnification. text Ed.]

ECLOGUE I.

THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE.

STRANGER.

Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours.

OLD MAN.

Why yes! for one with such a weight of years Upon his back. I've lived here, man and boy, In this same parish, near the age of man For I am hard upon threescore and ten.

I can remember sixty years ago The beautifying of this mansion here When my late Lady's father, the old Squire Came to the estate.

STRANGER.

Why then you have outlasted All his improvements, for you see they're making Great alterations here.

OLD MAN.

Aye-great indeed!

And if my poor old Lady could rise up-- G.o.d rest her soul! 'twould grieve her to behold The wicked work is here.