Poems, &c. (1790) Part 11

Thick rests the white settled mist on the deep rugged clifts of the sh.o.r.e; And the grey rocks look dimly between, like the high distant isles in a calm.

But grim low'r the walks of Arthula; the light of the morn is behind them.

LATHMOR.

Dark low'rs the tow'r of Arthula: the time of its glory is past.

The valiant have ceas'd from its hall; and the son of the stranger is there.

The works of the mighty remain, but they are the vapour of morning.

A MOTHER TO HER WAKING INFANT.

Now in thy dazzling half-op'd eye, Thy curled nose, and lip awry, Thy up-hoist arms, and noddling head, And little chin with crystal spread, Poor helpless thing! what do I see, That I should sing of thee?

From thy poor tongue no accents come, Which can but rub thy toothless gum: Small understanding boast thy face, Thy shapeless limbs nor step, nor grace: A few short words thy feats may tell, And yet I love thee well.

When sudden wakes the bitter shriek, And redder swells thy little cheek; When rattled keys thy woe beguile, And thro' the wet eye gleams the smile, Still for thy weakly self is spent Thy little silly plaint.

But when thy friends are in distress, Thou'lt laugh and chuckle ne'er the less; Nor e'en with sympathy be smitten, Tho' all are sad but thee and kitten; Yet little varlet that thou art, Thou twitchest at the heart.

Thy rosy cheek so soft and warm; Thy pinky hand, and dimpled arm; Thy silken locks that scantly peep, With gold-tip'd ends, where circle deep Around thy neck in harmless grace So soft and sleekly hold their place, Might harder hearts with kindness fill, And gain our right good will.

Each pa.s.sing clown bestows his blessing, Thy mouth is worn with old wives' kissing: E'en lighter looks the gloomy eye Of surly sense, when thou art by; And yet I think whoe'er they be, They love thee not like me.

Perhaps when time shall add a few Short years to thee, thou'lt love me too.

Then wilt thou thro' life's weary way Become my sure and cheering stay: Wilt care, for me, and be my hold, When I am weak and old.

Thou'lt listen to my lengthen'd tale, And pity me when I am frail-- But see, the sweepy spinning fly Upon the window takes thine eye.

Go to thy little senseless play-- Thou doest not heed my lay.

A CHILD TO HIS SICK GRANDFATHER.

Grand-dad, they say your old and frail, Your stocked legs begin to fail: Your k.n.o.bbed stick (that was my horse) Can scarce support your bended corse; While back to wall, you lean so sad, I'm vex'd to see you, dad.

You us'd to smile, and stroke my head, And tell me how good children did; But now I wot not how it be, You take me seldom on your knee; Yet ne'ertheless I am right glad To sit beside you, dad.

How lank and thin your beard hangs down!

Scant are the white hairs on your crown: How wan and hollow are your cheeks!

Your brow is rough with crossing breaks; But yet, for all his strength is fled, I love my own old dad.

The housewives round their potions brew, And gossips come to ask for you: And for your weal each neighbour cares, And good men kneel, and say their pray'rs: And ev'ry body looks so sad, When you are ailing, dad.

You will not die, and leave us then?

Rouse up and be our dad again.

When you are quiet and laid in bed, We'll doff our shoes and softly tread; And when you wake we'll aye be near, To fill old dad his cheer.

When thro' the house you shift your stand, I'll lead you kindly by the hand: When dinner's set, I'll with you bide, And aye be serving by your side: And when the weary fire burns blue, I'll sit and talk with you.

I have a tale both long and good, About a partlet and her brood; And cunning greedy fox, that stole, By dead of midnight thro' a hole, Which slyly to the hen-roost led-- You love a story, dad?

And then I have a wond'rous tale Of men all clad in coats of mail.

With glitt'ring swords----you nod, I think?

Your fixed eyes begin to wink: Down on your bosom sinks your head: You do not hear me, dad.

THE HORSE AND HIS RIDER.

Brac'd in the sinewy vigour of thy breed, In pride of gen'rous strength, thou stately steed, Thy broad chest to the battle's front is given, Thy mane fair floating to the winds of heaven.

Thy champing hoofs the flinty pebbles break; Graceful the rising of thine arched neck.

White churning foam thy chaffed bits enlock; And from thy nostril bursts the curling smoke.

Thy kindling eye-b.a.l.l.s brave the glaring south; And dreadful is the thunder of thy mouth: Whilst low to earth thy curving haunches bend, Thy sweepy tail involv'd in clouds of sand; Erect in air thou rear'st thy front of pride, And ring'st the plated harness on thy side.

But, lo! what creature, goodly to the sight, Dares thus bestride thee, chaffing in thy might?

Of portly stature, and determin'd mien?

Whose dark eye dwells beneath a brow serene?

And forward looks unmov'd to fields of death: And smiling, gently strokes thee in thy wrath?

Whose brandish'd falch'on dreaded gleams afar?

It is a British soldier, arm'd for war!

FINIS.