Poems, 1799 Part 3

THE ROSE.

Nay EDITH! spare the rose!--it lives--it lives, It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh'd The dews of night; let not thy gentle hand Tear sunder its life-fibres and destroy The sense of being!--why that infidel smile?

Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful, And thou shall have a tale of other times, For I am skill'd in legendary lore, So thou wilt let it live. There was a time Ere this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms, Bedeck'd the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard How first by miracle its fragrant leaves Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness.

There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid And Zillah was her name, so pa.s.sing fair That all Judea spake the damsel's praise.

He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance How quick it spake the soul, and what a soul Beam'd in its mild effulgence, woe was he!

For not in solitude, for not in crowds, Might he escape remembrance, or avoid Her imaged form that followed every where, And fill'd the heart, and fix'd the absent eye.

Woe was he, for her bosom own'd no love Save the strong ardours of religious zeal, For Zillah on her G.o.d had centered all Her spirit's deep affections. So for her Her tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverenced The obdurate virtue that destroyed their hopes.

One man there was, a vain and wretched man, Who saw, desired, despair'd, and hated her.

His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek Even till the flush of angry modesty Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more.

She loath'd the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, And the strong workings of brute selfishness Had moulded his broad features; and she fear'd The bitterness of wounded vanity That with a fiendish hue would overcast His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plot Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports That soon obtain belief; that Zillah's eye When in the temple heaven-ward it was rais'd Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance With other feelings fill'd; that 'twas a task Of easy sort to play the saint by day Before the public eye, but that all eyes Were closed at night; that Zillah's life was foul, Yea forfeit to the law.

Shame--shame to man That he should trust so easily the tongue That stabs another's fame! the ill report Was heard, repeated, and believed,--and soon, For Hamuel by most d.a.m.ned artifice Produced such semblances of guilt, the Maid Was judged to shameful death.

Without the walls There was a barren field; a place abhorr'd, For it was there where wretched criminals Were done to die; and there they built the stake, And piled the fuel round, that should consume The accused Maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd, By G.o.d and man. The a.s.sembled Bethlemites Beheld the scene, and when they saw the Maid Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness She lifted up her patient looks to Heaven, They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts Stood Hamuel near the pile, him savage joy Led thitherward, but now within his heart Unwonted feelings stirr'd, and the first pangs Of wakening guilt, antic.i.p.ating h.e.l.l.

The eye of Zillah as it glanced around Fell on the murderer once, but not in wrath; And therefore like a dagger it had fallen, Had struck into his soul a cureless wound.

Conscience! thou G.o.d within us! not in the hour Of triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch, Not in the hour of infamy and death Forsake the virtuous! they draw near the stake-- And lo! the torch! hold hold your erring hands!

Yet quench the rising flames!--they rise! they spread!

They reach the suffering Maid! oh G.o.d protect The innocent one!

They rose, they spread, they raged-- The breath of G.o.d went forth; the ascending fire Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames In one long lightning flash collecting fierce, Darted and blasted Hamuel--him alone.

Hark--what a fearful scream the mult.i.tude Pour forth!--and yet more miracles! the stake Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves and bowers The innocent Maid, and roses bloom around, Now first beheld since Paradise was lost, And fill with Eden odours all the air.

The COMPLAINTS of the POOR.

And wherefore do the Poor complain?

The rich man asked of me,-- Come walk abroad with me, I said And I will answer thee.

Twas evening and the frozen streets Were cheerless to behold, And we were wrapt and coated well, And yet we were a-cold.

We met an old bare-headed man, His locks were few and white, I ask'd him what he did abroad In that cold winter's night:

'Twas bitter keen indeed, he said, But at home no fire had he, And therefore, he had come abroad To ask for charity.

We met a young bare-footed child, And she begg'd loud and bold, I ask'd her what she did abroad When the wind it blew so cold;

She said her father was at home And he lay sick a-bed, And therefore was it she was sent Abroad to beg for bread.

We saw a woman sitting down Upon a stone to rest, She had a baby at her back And another at her breast;

I ask'd her why she loiter'd there When the wind it was so chill; She turn'd her head and bade the child That scream'd behind be still.

She told us that her husband served A soldier, far away, And therefore to her parish she Was begging back her way.

We met a girl; her dress was loose And sunken was her eye, Who with the wanton's hollow voice Address'd the pa.s.sers by;

I ask'd her what there was in guilt That could her heart allure To shame, disease, and late remorse?

She answer'd, she was poor.

I turn'd me to the rich man then For silently stood he, You ask'd me why the Poor complain, And these have answer'd thee.

METRICAL LETTER,

Written from London.

Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile; I love the homely and familiar phrase; And I will call thee Cousin Margaret, However quaint amid the measured line The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, Sirring and Madaming as civilly As if the road between the heart and lips Were such a weary and Laplandish way That the poor travellers came to the red gates Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret, For many a day my Memory has played The creditor with me on your account, And made me shame to think that I should owe So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear So heavy a pack of business, that albeit I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I That for a moment you should lay to me Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some Who know how warm it beats. I am not one Who can play off my smiles and courtesies To every Lady of her lap dog tired Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love; Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up At once without a seed and take no root, Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere The little circle of domestic life I would be known and loved; the world beyond Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think That you should know me well, for you and I Grew up together, and when we look back Upon old times our recollections paint The same familiar faces. Did I wield The wand of Merlin's magic I would make Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth, The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle Like that where whilome old Apollidon Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers, That we might stand upon the beach, and mark The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound Told us that never mariner should reach Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle We might renew the days of infancy, And Life like a long childhood pa.s.s away, Without one care. It may be, Margaret, That I shall yet be gathered to my friends, For I am not of those who live estranged Of choice, till at the last they join their race In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly.

If not, if I should never get beyond This Vanity town, there is another world Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, I gaze at night into the boundless sky, And think that I shall there be born again, The exalted native of some better star; And like the rude American I hope To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth.

The Cross Roads.

The circ.u.mstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as I have versified them.