The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume Ii Part 5

And "so conclude!"

But save me from the sight Of curate fop, half jockey and half clerk, The tandem-driving Tommy of a town, Disdaining books, omniscient of a horse, Impatient till September comes again, 280 Eloquent only of "the pretty girl With whom he danced last night!" Oh! such a thing Is worse than the dull doctor, who performs Duly his stinted task, and then to sleep, Till Sunday asks another homily Against all innovations of the age, Mad missionary zeal, and Bible clubs, 287 And Calvinists and Evangelicals!

Yes! Evangelicals! Oh, glorious word!

But who deserves that awful name? Not he Who spits his puny Puritanic spite On harmless recreation; who reviles All who, majestic in their distant scorn, Bear on in silence their calm Christian course.

He only is the Evangelical Who holds in equal scorn dogmas and dreams, The Shibboleth of saintly magazines, Decked with most grim and G.o.dly visages; The cobweb sophistry, or the dark code Of commentators, who, with loathsome track, 300 Crawl o'er a text, or on the lucid page, Beaming with heavenly love and G.o.d's own light, Sit like a nightmare![29] Soon a deadly mist Creeps o'er our eyes and heart, till angel forms Turn into hideous phantoms, mocking us, Even when we look for comfort at the spring And well of life, while dismal voices cry, Death! Reprobation! Woe! Eternal woe!

He only is the Evangelical Who from the human commentary turns 310 With tranquil scorn, and nearer to his heart Presses the Bible, till repentant tears, In silence, wet his cheek, and new-born faith, And hope, and charity, with radiant smile, Visit his heart,--all pointing to the cross!

He only is the Evangelical, 316 Who, with eyes fixed upon that spectacle, Christ and him crucified, with ardent hope, And holier feelings, lifts his thoughts from earth, And cries, My Father! Meantime, his whole heart 320 Is on G.o.d's Word: he preaches Faith, and Hope, And Charity,--these three, and not that one!

And Charity, the greatest of these three![30]

Give me an Evangelical like this! But now The blackest crimes in tract-religion's code Are moral virtues! Spare the prodigal,-- He may awake when G.o.d shall "call;" but, h.e.l.l, Roll thy avenging flames, to swallow up The son who never left his father's home Lest he should trust to morals when he dies! 330 Let him not lay the unction to his soul, That his upbraiding conscience tells no tale At that dread hour; bid him confess his sin, The greater that, with humble hope, he looks Back on a well-spent life! Bid him confess That he hath broken all G.o.d's holy laws,-- In vain hath he done justly,--loved, in vain, Mercy, and hath walked humbly with his G.o.d!

These are mere works; but faith is everything, And all in all! The Christian code contains 340 No "if" or "but!"[31] Let tabernacles ring, And churches too,[32] with sanctimonious strains Baneful as these; and let such strains be heard Through half the land; and can we shut our eyes, And, sadly wondering, ask the cause of crimes, 345 When infidelity stands lowering here, With open scorn, and such a code as this, So baneful, withers half the charities Of human hearts! Oh! dear is Mercy's voice To man, a mourner in the vale of sin 350 And death: how dear the still small voice of Faith, That bids him raise his look beyond the clouds That hang o'er this dim earth; but he who tears Faith from her heavenly sisterhood, denies The gospel, and turns traitor to the cause He has engaged to plead. Come, Faith, and Hope, And Charity! how dear to the sad heart, The consolations and the glorious views That animate the Christian in his course!

But save, oh! save me from the tract-led Miss, 360 Who trots to every Bethel club, and broods O'er some black missionary's monstrous tale, Reckless of want around her!

But the priest, Who deems the Almighty frowns upon his throne, Because two pair of harmless dowagers, Whose life has pa.s.sed without a stain, beguile An evening hour with cards; who deems that h.e.l.l Burns fiercer for a saraband; that thou-- Thou, my sweet Shakspeare--thou, whose touch awakes The inmost heart of virtuous sympathy,-- 371 Thou, O divinest poet! at whose voice Sad Pity weeps, or guilty Terror drops The blood-stained dagger from his palsied hand,-- That thou art pander to the criminal!

He who thus edifies his Christian flock, Moves, more than even the Bethel-trotting Miss, My pity, my aversion, and my scorn.

Cry aloud!--Oh, speak in thunder to the soul 379 That sleeps in sin! Harrow the inmost heart Of murderous intent, till dew-drops stand Upon his haggard brow! Call conscience up, Like a stern spectre, whose dim finger points To dark misdeeds of yore! Wither the arm Of the oppressor, at whose feet the slave Crouches, and pleading lifts his fettered hands!

Thou violator of the innocent Hide thee! Hence! hide thee in the deepest cave, From man's indignant sight! Thou hypocrite!

Trample in dust thy mask, nor cry faith, faith, 390 Making it but a hollow tinkling sound, That stirs not the foul heart! Horrible wretch!

Look not upon the face of that sweet child, With thoughts which h.e.l.l would tremble to conceive!

Oh, shallow, and oh, senseless! In a world Where rank offences turn the good man pale, Who leave the Christian's sternest code, to vent Their petty ire on petty trespa.s.ses, If trespa.s.ses they are;--when the wide world Groans with the burthen of offence; when crimes 400 Stalk on, with front defying, o'er the land, Whilst, her own cause betraying, Christian zeal Thus swallows camels, straining at a gnat!

Therefore, without a comment, or a note, We love the Bible; and we prize the more The spirit of its pure unspotted page, As pure from the infectious breath that stains, Like a foul fume, its hallowed light, we hail The radiant car of heaven, amidst the clouds Of mortal darkness, and of human mist, 410 Sole, as the sun in heaven![33]

Oh! whilst the car 412 Of G.o.d's own glory rolls along in light, We join the loud song of the Christian host, (All puny systems shrinking from the blaze), Hosannah to the car of light! Roll on!

Saldanna's[34] rocks have echoed to the hymns Of Faith, and Hope, and Charity! Roll on!

Till the wild wastes of inmost Africa, Where the long Niger's track is lost, respond, 420 Hosannah to the car of light! Roll on!

From realm to realm, from sh.o.r.e to farthest sh.o.r.e, O'er dark paG.o.das, and huge idol-fanes, That frown along the Ganges' utmost stream, Till the poor widow, from the burning pile Starting, shall lift her hands to heaven, and weep That she has found a Saviour, and has heard The sounds of Christian love! Oh, horrible!

The pile is smoking!--the bamboos lie there, That held her down when the last struggle shook 430 The blazing pile![35] Hasten, O car of light!

Alas for suffering nature! Juggernaut, Armed, in his giant car goes also forth, Goes forth amid his red and reeling priests, While thousands gasp and die beneath the wheels, As they go groaning on, 'mid cries, and drums, And flashing cymbals, and delirious songs Of tinkling dancing girls, and all the rout Of frantic superst.i.tion! Turn away!

And is not Juggernaut himself with us? 440 Not only cold insidious sophistry Comes, blinking with its taper-fume, to light, If so he may, the sun in the mid heaven!

Not only blind and hideous blasphemy Scowls in his cloak, and mocks the glorious...o...b.. Ascending, in its silence, o'er a world Of sin and sorrow; but a h.e.l.lish brood Of imps, and fiends, and phantoms, ape the form Of G.o.dliness, till G.o.dliness itself Seems but a painted monster, and a name 450 For darker crimes, at which the shuddering heart Shrinks; while the ranting rout, as they march on, Mock Heaven with hymns, till, see! pale Belial Sighs o'er a filthy tract, and Moloch marks, With gouts of blood, his brandished magazine!

Start, monster, from the dismal dream! Look up!

Oh! listen to the apostolic voice, That, like a voice from heaven, proclaims, To faith Add virtue! There is no mistaking here; Whilst moral education by the hand 460 Shall lead the children to the house of G.o.d, Nor sever Christian faith from Christian love.

If we would see the fruits of charity, Look at that village group, and paint the scene!

Surrounded by a clear and silent stream, Where the swift trout shoots from the sudden ray, A rural mansion on the level lawn Uplifts its ancient gables, whose slant shade Is drawn, as with a line, from roof to porch, Whilst all the rest is sunshine. O'er the trees 470 In front, the village church, with pinnacles And light gray tower, appears; whilst to the right, An amphitheatre of oaks extends Its sweep, till, more abrupt, a wooded knoll, 474 Where once a castle frowned, closes the scene.

And see! an infant troop, with flags and drum, Are marching o'er that bridge, beneath the woods, On to the table spread upon the lawn, Raising their little hands when grace is said; Whilst she who taught them to lift up their hearts 480 In prayer, and to "remember, in their youth,"

G.o.d, "their Creator," mistress of the scene (Whom I remember once as young), looks on, Blessing them in the silence of her heart.

And we too bless them. Oh! away, away!

Cant, heartless cant, and that economy, Cold, and miscalled "political," away!

Let the bells ring--a Puritan turns pale To hear the festive sound: let the bells ring-- A Christian loves them; and this holiday 490 Remembers him, while sighs unbidden steal, Of life's departing and departed days, When he himself was young, and heard the bells, In unison with feelings of his heart-- His first pure Christian feelings, hallowing The harmonious sound!

And, children, now rejoice,-- Now, for the holidays of life are few; Nor let the rustic minstrel tune, in vain, The cracked church-viol, resonant to-day 500 Of mirth, though humble! Let the fiddle sc.r.a.pe Its merriment, and let the joyous group Dance in a round, for soon the ills of life Will come! Enough, if one day in the year, If one brief day, of this brief life, be given To mirth as innocent as yours! But, lo!

That ancient woman, leaning on her staff! 507 Pale, on her crutch she rests one withered hand; One withered hand, which Gerard Dow might paint, Even its blue veins! And who is she? The nurse Of the fair mistress of the scene: she led Her tottering steps in infancy--she spelt Her earliest lesson to her; and she now Leans from that open window, while she thinks-- When summer comes again, the turf will lie On my cold breast; but I rejoice to see My child thus leading on the progeny Of her poor neighbours in the peaceful path Of humble virtue! I shall be at rest, Perhaps, when next they meet; but my last prayer 520 Is with them, and the mistress of this home.

"The innocent are gay,"[36] gay as the lark That sings in morn's first sunshine; and why not?

But may they ne'er forget, as life steals on, In age, the lessons they have learned in youth!

How false the charge, how foul the calumny On England's generous aristocracy, That, wrapped in sordid, selfish apathy, They feel not for the poor!

Ask, is it true? 530 Lord of the whirling wheels, the charge is false![37]

Ten thousand charities adorn the land, Beyond thy cold conception, from this source.

What cottage child but has been neatly clad, And taught its earliest lesson, from their care?

Witness that schoolhouse, mantled with festoon Of various plants, which fancifully wreath 537 Its window-mullions, and that rustic porch, Whence the low hum of infant voices blend With airs of spring, without. Now, all alive, The green sward rings with play, among the shrubs-- Hushed the long murmur of the morning task, Before the pensive matron's desk!

But turn, And mark that aged widow! By her side Is G.o.d's own Word; and, lo! the spectacles Are yet upon the page. Her daughter kneels And prays beside her! Many years have shed Their snow so silently and softly down Upon her head, that Time, as if to gaze, 550 Seems for a moment to suspend his flight Onward, in reverence to those few gray hairs, That steal beneath her cap, white as its snow.

Whilst the expiring lamp is kept alive, Thus feebly, by a duteous daughter's love, Her last faint prayer, ere all is dark on earth, Will to the G.o.d of heaven ascend, for those Whose comforts smoothed her silent bed.

And thou, Witness Elysian Tempe of Stourhead! 560 Oh, not because, with bland and gentle smile, Adding a radiance to the look of age, Like eve's still light, thy liberal master spreads His lettered treasures;--not because his search Has dived the Druid mound, ill.u.s.trating His country's annals, and the monuments Of darkest ages;--not because his woods Wave o'er the dripping cavern of Old Stour, Where cla.s.sic temples gleam along the edge Of the clear waters, winding beautiful;-- 570 Oh! not because the works of breathing art, 571 Of Poussin, Rubens, Rembrandt, Gainsborough, Start, like creations, from the silent walls; To thee, this tribute of respect and love, Beloved, benevolent, and generous h.o.a.re, Grateful I pay;--but that, when thou art dead (Late may it be!) the poor man's tear will fall, And his voice falter, when he speaks of thee.[38]

And witness thou, magnificent abode, Where virtuous Ken,[39] with his gray hairs and shroud, 580 Came, for a shelter from the world's rude storm, In his old age, leaving his palace-throne, Having no spot where he might lay his head, In all the earth! Oh, witness thou, the seat Of his first friend, his friend from schoolboy days!

Oh! witness thou, if one who wanted bread Has not found shelter there; if one poor man Has been deserted in his hour of need; Or one poor child been left without a guide, A father, an instructor, and a friend; 590 In him, the pastor, and distributor[40]

Of bounties large, yet falling silently As dews on the cold turf! And witness thou, Marston,[41] the seat of my kind, honoured friend-- My kind and honoured friend, from youthful days.

Then wandering on the banks of Rhine, we saw Cities and spires, beneath the mountains blue, Gleaming; or vineyards creep from rock to rock; 599 Or unknown castles hang, as if in clouds: Or heard the roaring of the cataract, Far off, beneath the dark defile or gloom Of ancient forests; till behold, in light, Foaming and flashing, with enormous sweep, Through the rent rocks--where, o'er the mist of spray The rainbow, like a fairy in her bower, Is sleeping, while it roars--that volume vast, White, and with thunder's deafening roar, comes down.

Live long, live happy, till thy journey close, Calm as the light of day! Yet witness thou, 610 The seat of n.o.ble ancestry, the seat Of science, honoured by the name of Boyle, Though many sorrows, since we met in youth, Have pressed thy generous master's manly heart, Witness, the partner of his joys and griefs; Witness the grateful tenantry, the home Of the poor man, the children of that school-- Still warm benevolence sits smiling there.

And witness, the fair mansion, on the edge Of those chalk hills, which, from my garden walk, 620 Daily I see, whose gentle mistress droops[42]

With her own griefs, yet never turns her look From others' sorrows; on whose lids the tear Shines yet more lovely than the light of youth.

And many a cottage-garden smiles, whose flowers Invite the music of the morning bee.

And many a fireside has shot out, at eve, Its light upon the old man's withered hand And pallid cheek from their benevolence-- Sad as is still the parish-pauper's home-- 630 Who shed around their patrimonial seats The light of heaven-descending Charity. 632 And every feeling of the Christian heart Would rise accusing, could I pa.s.s unsung, Thee,[43] fair as Charity's own form, who late Didst stand beneath the porch of that gray fane, Soliciting[44] a mite from all who pa.s.sed, With such a smile, as to refuse would seem To do a wrong to Charity herself.

How many blessings, silent and unheard, 640 The mistress of the lonely parsonage Dispenses, when she takes her daily round Among the aged and the sick, whose prayers And blessings are her only recompense!

How many pastors, by cold obloquy And senseless hate reviled, tread the same path Of charity in silence, taught by Him Who was reviled not to revile again; And leaving to a righteous G.o.d their cause!

Come, let us, with the pencil in our hand, 650 Portray a character. What book is this?

Rector of Overton![45] I know him not; But well I know the Vicar, and a man More worthy of that name, and worthier still To grace a higher station of our Church, None knows;--a friend and father to the poor, A scholar, un.o.btrusive, yet profound, "As e'er my conversation coped withal;"

His piety unvarnished, but sincere.[46]

Killarney's lake,[47] and Scotia's hills,[48] have heard 660 His summer-wandering reed; nor on the themes Of hallowed inspiration[49] has his harp 662 Been silent, though ten thousand jangling strings-- When all are poets in this land of song, And every field c.h.i.n.ks with its gra.s.shopper-- Have well-nigh drowned the tones; but poesy Mingles, at eventide, with many a mood Of stirring fancy, on his silent heart When o'er those bleak and barren downs, in rain Or sunshine, where the giant Wansdeck sweeps, 670 Homewards he bends his solitary way.

Live long; and late may the old villager Look on thy stone, amid the churchyard gra.s.s, Remembering years of kindness, and the tongue, Eloquent of his Maker, when he sat At church, and heard the undivided code Of apostolic truth--of hope, of faith, Of charity--the end and test of all.

Live long; and though I proudly might recall The names of many friends--like thee, sincere 680 And pious, and in solitude adorned With rare accomplishments--this grateful praise Accept, congenial to the poet's theme; For well I know, haply when I am dead, And in my shroud, whene'er thy homeward path Lies o'er those hills, and thou shalt cast a look Back on our garden-slope, and Bremhill tower, Thou wilt remember me, and many a day There pa.s.sed in converse and sweet harmony.

A truce to satire, and to harsh reproof, 690 Severer arguments, that have detained The unwilling Muse too long:--come, while the clouds Work heavy and the winds at intervals, Pipe, and at intervals sink in a sigh, As breathed o'er sounds and shadows of the past-- 695 Change we our style and measure, to relate A village tale of a poor Cornish maid, And of her prayer-book. It is sad, but true; And simply told, though not in lady phrase Of modish song, may touch some gentle heart, 700 And wake an interest, when description fails.

PART THIRD.

THE MAIDEN'S CURSE.

I subjoin the plain narrative of the singular event on which this tale is founded, from Mr Polwhele, that the reader may see how far, _poetically_, I have departed from plain facts, and what I have thought it best to add for the sake of moral, picturesque, and poetical effect. The narrative is as follows:--

"October, 1780. Thomas Thomas, aged 37. This man died of mental anguish, or what is called a broken heart. He lived in the village of Drannock, in the parish of Gwinnear, till an unhappy event occurred, which proved fatal to his peace of mind for more than eight years, and finally occasioned his death. He courted Elizabeth Thomas, of the same village, who was his first-cousin; and it was understood that they were under a matrimonial engagement. But in May 1772, some little disagreement having happened between them, he, out of resentment, or from some other motive, paid great attention to another girl; and on Sunday the 31st of that month, in the afternoon, accompanied her to the Methodist meeting at Wall.

During their absence, the slighted female, who was very beautiful in her person, but of an extremely irritable temper, took a rope and a common prayer-book, in which she had folded down the 109th Psalm, and, going into an adjacent field, hanged herself. Thomas, on his return from the preaching, inquired for Betsy; and being told she had not been seen for two or three hours, he exclaimed, 'Good G.o.d! she has destroyed herself!' which apprehension seems to show, either that she had threatened to commit suicide in consequence of his desertion, or that he dreaded it from a knowledge of the violence of her disposition. But when he saw that his fears were realised, and had read the psalm, so full of execrations, which she had pointed out to him, he cried out, 'I am ruined for ever and ever!' The very sight of this village and neighbourhood was now become insupportable, and he went to live at Marazion, hoping that a change of scene and social intercourse might expel those excruciating reflections which harrowed up his very soul, or at least render them less acute; but in this he appeared to be mistaken, for he found himself closely pursued by the evil demon

'Despair, whose torments no man, sure, But lovers and the d.a.m.ned endure.'

"To hear the 109th Psalm would petrify him with horror, and therefore he would not attend divine service on the 22d day of the month; he dreaded to go near a reading school, lest he should hear the dreaded lesson. Whatever misfortunes befel him (and these were not a few, for he was several times hurt, and even maimed, in the mines in which he laboured), he still attributed them all to the malevolent agency of the deceased, and thought he could find allusions to the whole in the calamitous legacy which she had bequeathed him. When he slumbered, for he knew nothing of sound sleep, the injured girl appeared to his imagination, with such a countenance as she retained after the rash action, and the prayer-book in her hand, open at the hateful psalm; and he was frequently heard to cry out, 'Oh, my dear Betsy, shut the book, shut the book!' _etc._ With a mind so disturbed and deranged, though he could not reasonably expect much consolation from matrimony, yet imagining that the cares of a family might distract his thoughts from the miserable subject by which he was hara.s.sed both by day and night, he successively paid his addresses to many girls of Marazion; but they indignantly flew from him, and with a sneer asked him, whether he was desirous of bringing all the curses in the 109th Psalm on their heads? At length, however, he succeeded with one who had less superst.i.tion and more fort.i.tude than the rest, and he led her to St Hilary church, to be married, January 21, 1778; but on the road thither, they were overtaken by a sudden and violent hurricane, such as those which not unfrequently happen in the vicinity of Mount's Bay; and he, suspecting that poor Betsy rode the whirlwind and directed the storm, was convulsed with terror, and was literally 'coupled with fear.' Such is the power of conscious guilt to impute accidental occurrences to the hand of vindictive justice, and so true is the observation of the poet,

'Judicium metuit sibi mens mali conscia justum.'

"He lived long enough to have a son and a daughter; but the corrosive worm within his breast preyed upon his vitals, and at length consumed all the powers of his body, as it had long before destroyed the tranquillity of his mind, and he was released from all his pangs, both mental and corporeal, on Friday, October 20, 1780, and buried at St Hilary, the Sunday following, during evening service."

Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!

So William cried, with wild and frantic look.

She whom he loved was in her shroud, nor pain Nor grief can visit her sad heart again.

There is no sculptured tombstone at her head; 5 No rude memorial marks her lowly bed: The village children, every holiday, Round the green turf, in summer sunshine play; And none, but those now bending to the tomb, Remember Mary, lovely in her bloom! 10 Yet oft the h.o.a.ry swain, when autumn sighs Through the long gra.s.s, sees a dim form arise, That hies in glimmering moonlight to the brook, Its wan lips moving, in its hand a book.

So, like a bruised flower, and in the pride Of youth and beauty, injured Mary died.

William some years survived, but years no trace Of his sick heart's deep anguish could erase.

Still the dread spectre seemed to rise, and, worse, Still in his ears rang the appalling curse! 20 While loud he cries, despair upon his look, Oh! shut the book, my Mary, shut the book!

The sun is slowly westering now, and lo, How beautiful steals out the humid bow, A radiant arch! Listen, whilst I relate William's dread judgment, and poor Mary's fate.

I think I see the pine, that, heavily Swaying, yet seems as for the dead to sigh.

How many generations, since the day Of its green pride, have pa.s.sed, like leaves, away! 30 How many children of the hamlet played Round its h.o.a.r trunk, who at its feet were laid, Withered and gray old men! In life's first bloom How many has it seen borne to the tomb!

But never one so sunk in hopeless woe As she who lies in the cold grave below.

Her Sabbath-book, from which at church she prayed, Was her poor father's, in that churchyard laid: For Mary grew as beautiful in youth, 39 As taught at church the lore of heavenly truth.

What different pa.s.sions in her bosom strove, When first she heard the tale of village love!

The youth whose voice then won her partial ear, A yeoman's son, had pa.s.sed his twentieth year; She scarce eighteen: her mother, with the care Of boding age, oft whispered, Oh, beware!

For William was a thoughtless youth, and wild, And like a colt unbroken, from a child: At length, if not to serious thoughts awake, He came to church, at least for Mary's sake. 50 Young Mary, while her father was alive, Saw all things round the humble dwelling thrive; Her widowed mother now was growing old, And bit by bit their worldly goods were sold: Mary remained, her mother's hope and pride!