Poems, &c. (1790) Part 4

But William, head erect, with settled brow, In sullen silence view'd the pa.s.sing shew; And oft' he scratch'd his pate with manful grace, And scorn'd to pull the bonnet o'er his face; But did with steady look unmoved wait, Till hindmost man had turn'd the church-yard gate; Then turn'd him to his cot with visage flat, Where honest Tray upon the threshold sat.

Up jump'd the kindly beast his hand to lick, And, for his pains, receiv'd an angry kick.

Loud shuts the flapping door with thund'ring din; The echoes round their circling course begin, From cot to cot, in wide progressive swell, Deep groans the church-yard wall and neighb'ring dell, And Tray, responsive, joins with long and piteous yell.

A LAMENTATION.

Where ancient broken wall encloses round, From tread of lawless feet, the hallow'd ground, And somber yews their dewy branches wave O'er many a motey stone and mounded grave: Where parish church, confus'dly to the sight, With deeper darkness prints the shades of night, And mould'ring tombs uncouthly gape around, And rails and fallen stones bestrew the ground: In loosen'd garb derang'd, with scatter'd hair, His bosom open to the nightly air, Lone, o'er a new heap'd grave poor Basil bent, And to himself began his simple plaint.

"Alas! how cold thy home! how low thou art!

Who wert the pride and mistress of my heart.

The fallen leaves light rustling o'er thee pa.s.s, And o'er thee waves the rank and dewy gra.s.s.

The new laid sods in decent order tell How narrow now the s.p.a.ce where thou must dwell.

Now rough and wint'ry winds may on thee beat, And drizzly drifting snow, and summer's heat; Each pa.s.sing season rub, for woe is me!

Or storm, or sunshine, is the same to thee.

Ah, Mary! lovely was thy slender form, And sweet thy cheerful brow, that knew no storm.

Thy steps were graceful on the village-green, As tho' thou had'st some courtly lady been: At church or market, still the gayest la.s.s, Each younker slack'd his speed to see thee pa.s.s.

At early milking, tuneful was thy lay, And sweet thy homeward song at close of day; But sweeter far, and ev'ry youth's desire, Thy cheerful converse by the ev'ning fire.

Alas! no more thou'lt foot the gra.s.sy sward!

No song of thine shall ever more be heard!

Yet now they trip it lightly on the green, As blythe and gay as thou hadst never been: The careless younker whittles lightsome by, And other maidens catch his roving eye: Around the ev'ning fire, with little care, The neighbours sit, and scarcely miss thee there; And when the night advancing darkens round, They to their rest retire, and slumber sound.

But Basil cannot rest; his days are sad, And long his nights upon the weary bed.

Yet still in broken dreams thy form appears, And still my bosom proves a lover's fears.

I guide thy footsteps thro' the tangled wood; I catch thee sinking in the boist'rous flood; I shield thy bosom from the threaten'd stroke; I clasp thee falling from the headlong rock; But ere we reach the dark and dreadful deep, High heaves my troubled breast, I wake, and weep.

At ev'ry wailing of the midnight wind Thy lowly dwelling comes into my mind.

When rain beats on my roof, wild storms abroad, I think upon thy bare and beaten sod; I hate the comfort of a shelter'd home, And hie me forth o'er fenceless fields to roam: I leave the paths of men for dreary waste, And bare my forehead to the howling blast.

O Mary! loss of thee hath fix'd my doom: This world around me is a weary gloom: Dull heavy musings down my spirits weigh, I cannot sleep by night, nor work by day.

Or wealth or pleasure slowest minds inspire, But cheerless is their toil who nought desire.

Let happier friends divide my farmers' dock, Cut down my grain, and sheer my little flock; For now my only care on earth shall be Here ev'ry Sunday morn to visit thee; And in the holy church, with heart sincere, And humble mind, our worthy curate hear: He best can tell, when earthly cares are past, The surest way to meet with thee at last.

I'll thus a while a weary life abide, Till wasting Time hath laid me by thy side; For now on earth there is no place for me, Nor peace, nor slumber, till I rest with thee."

Loud, from the lofty spire, with piercing knell, Solemn, and awful, toll'd the parish bell; A later hour than rusties deem it meet That church-yard ground be trode by mortal feet, The wailing lover startled at the sound, And rais'd his head and cast his eyes around.

The gloomy pile in strengthen'd horrour lower'd, Large and majestic ev'ry object tower'd: Dim thro' the gloom they shew'd their forms unknown, And tall and ghastly rose each whiten'd stone: Aloft the waking screech-owl 'gan to sing, And past him skim'd the bat with flapping wing.

The fears of nature woke within his breast; He left the hallowed spot of Mary's rest, And sped his way the church-yard wall to gain, Then check'd his coward heart, and turn'd again.

The shadows round a deeper horrour wear; A deeper silence hangs upon his ear; A stiller rest is o'er the settled scene; His flutt'ring heart recoils, and shrinks again.

With hasty steps he measures back the ground, And leaps with summon'd force the church-yard bound; Then home with knocking limbs, and quicken'd breath, His footstep urges from the place of death.

AN ADDRESS TO THE MUSES.

Ye tuneful Sifters of the lyre, Who dreams and fantasies inspire; Who over poesy preside, And on a lofty hill abide Above the ken of mortal fight, Fain would I sing of you, could I address ye right.

Thus known, your pow'r of old was sung, And temples with your praises rung; And when the song of battle rose, Or kindling wine, or lovers' woes, The poet's spirit inly burn'd, And still to you his upcast eyes were turn'd.

The youth all wrapp'd in vision bright, Beheld your robes of flowing white: And knew your forms benignly grand, An awful, but a lovely band; And felt your inspiration strong, And warmly pour'd his rapid lay along.

The aged bard all heav'n-ward glow'd, And hail'd you daughters of a G.o.d: Tho' to his dimmer eyes were seen Nor graceful form, nor heav'nly mien, Full well he felt that ye were near, And heard you in the blast that shook his h.o.a.ry hair.

Ye lighten'd up the valley's bloom, And deeper spread the forest's gloom; The lofty hill sublimer flood, And grander rose the mighty flood; For then Religion lent her aid, And o'er the mind of man your sacred empire spread.

Tho' rolling ages now are past, And altars low, and temples wade; Tho' rites and oracles are o'er, And G.o.ds and heros rule no more; Your fading honours still remain, And still your vot'ries call, a long and motley train.

They seek you not on hill and plain, Nor court you in the sacred sane; Nor meet you in the mid-day dream, Upon the bank of hallowed stream; Yet still for inspiration sue, And still each lifts his fervent prayer to you.

He knows ye not in woodland gloom, But wooes ye in the shelfed room; And seeks you in the dusty nook, And meets you in the letter'd book; Full well he knows you by your names, And still with poets faith your presence claims.

The youthful poet, pen in hand, All by the side of blotted stand, In rev'rie deep, which none may break, Sits rubbing of his beardless cheek; And well his inspiration knows, E'en by the dewy drops that trickle o'er his nose.

The tuneful sage of riper fame, Perceives you not in heated frame; But at conclusion of his verse, Which still his mutt'ring lips rehea.r.s.e, Oft' waves his hand in grateful pride, And owns the heav'nly pow'r that did his fancy guide.

O lovely sisters! is it true, That they are all inspir'd by you?

And while they write, with magic charm'd, And high enthusiasm warm'd, We may not question heav'nly lays, For well I wot, they give you all the praise.

O lovely sisters! well it shews How wide and far your bounty flows: Then why from me withhold your beams?

Unvisited of heav'nly dreams, Whene'er I aim at heights sublime, Still downward am I call'd to seek some stubborn rhyme.

No hasty lightning breaks the gloom, Nor flashing thoughts unsought for come, Nor fancies wake in time of need; I labour much with little speed; And when my studied task is done, Too well, alas! I mark it for my own.

Yet should you never smile on me, And rugged still my verses be; Unpleasing to the tuneful train, Who only prize a slowing strain; And still the learned scorn my lays, I'll lift my heart to you, and sing your praise.

Your varied ministry to trace, Your honour'd names, and G.o.dlike race; And lofty bow'rs where fountains flow, They'll better sing who better know; I praise ye not with Grecian lyre, Nor will I hail ye daughters of a heathen fire.

Ye are the spirits who preside In earth, and air, and ocean wide; In hissing flood, and crackling fire; In horror dread, and tumult dire; In stilly calm, and stormy wind, And rule the answ'ring changes in the human mind.

High on the tempest-beaten hill, Your misty shapes ye shift at will; The wild fantastic clouds ye form; Your voice is in the midnight storm; Whilst in the dark and lonely hour, Oft' starts the boldest heart, and owns your secret pow'r.

From you, when growling storms are past, And light'ning ceases on the wade, And when the scene of blood is o'er, And groans of death are heard no more, Still holds the mind each parted form, Like after echoing of the o'erpa.s.sed storm.

When closing glooms o'erspread the day, And what we love has pa.s.s'd away, Ye kindly bid each pleasing scene Within the bosom still remain, Like moons who doth their watches run With the reflected brightness of the parted sun.

The shining day, and nightly shade, The cheerful plain and gloomy glade, The homeward flocks, and shepherds play, The busy hamlet's closing day, Full many a breast with pleasures swell, Who ne'er shall have the gift of words to tell,

Oft' when the moon looks from on high, And black around the shadows lie; And bright the sparkling waters gleam, And rushes rustle by the stream, Shrill sounds, and fairy forms are known By simple 'nighted swains, who wander late alone.

Ye kindle up the inward glow, Ye strengthen ev'ry outward show; Ye overleap the strongest bar, And join what Nature sunders far: And visit oft' in fancies wild, The bread of learned sage, and simple child.

From him who wears a monarch's crown, To the unletter'd artless clown, All in some strange and lonely hour Have felt, unsought, your secret pow'r, And lov'd your roving fancies well, You add but to the bard the art to tell.

Ye mighty spirits of the song, To whom the poets' pray'rs belong, My lowly bosom to inspire, And kindle with your sacred fire, Your wild obscuring heights to brave, Is boon, alas! too great for me to crave.

But O, such sense of matter bring!

As they who feel and never sing Wear on their hearts, it will avail With simple words to tell my tale; And still contented will I be, Tho' greater inspirations never fall to me.

A MELANCHOLY LOVER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MISTRESS.

My Phillis, all my hopes are o'er, And I shall see thy face no more.