The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume I Part 5

Despair upon his languid smile was seen!

Yet Resignation, musing on the grave, (When now no hope could cheer, no pity save), And Virtue, that scarce felt its fate severe, And pale Affection, dropping soft a tear 10 For friends beloved, from whom she soon must part, Breathed a sad solace on his aching heart.

Nor ceased he yet to stray, where, winding wild, The Muse's path his drooping steps beguiled, Intent to rescue some neglected rhyme, Lone-blooming, from the mournful waste of time; And cull each scattered sweet, that seemed to smile Like flowers upon some long-forsaken pile.[22]

Far from the murmuring crowd, unseen, he sought Each charm congenial to his saddened thought. 20 When the gray morn illumed the mountain's side, To hear the sweet birds' earliest song he hied; When meekest eve to the fold's distant bell Listened, and bade the woods and vales farewell, Musing in tearful mood, he oft was seen The last that lingered on the fading green.

The waving wood high o'er the cliff reclined, The murmuring waterfall, the winter's wind, His temper's trembling texture seemed to suit; 29 As airs of sadness the responsive lute.

Yet deem not hence the social spirit dead, Though from the world's hard gaze his feelings fled: Firm was his friendship, and his faith sincere, And warm as Pity's his unheeded tear, That wept the ruthless deed, the poor man's fate, By fortune's storms left cold and desolate.

Farewell! yet be this humble tribute paid To all his virtues, from that social shade Where once we sojourned.[23] I, alas! remain To mourn the hours of youth, yet mourn in vain, 40 That fled neglected. Wisely thou hast trod The better path; and that High Meed, which G.o.d Ordained for Virtue towering from the dust, Shall bless thy labours, spirit pure and just!

[22] Alluding to the _Beauties of Ancient Poetry_, published by Mr Headley, a short time before his death. He was also the author of some pleasing original poetry.

[23] Trinity College, Oxford. Among my contemporaries were several young men of literary taste and talent, Headley, Kett, Benwell, Dallaway, Richards, and Dornford; Thomas Warton was one of the Senior Fellows.

ON MR HOWARD'S ACCOUNT OF LAZARETTOS.

Mortal! who, armed with holy fort.i.tude, The path of good right onward hast pursued; May HE, to whose eternal throne on high The sufferers of the earth with anguish cry, Be thy protector! On that dreary road That leads thee patient to the last abode Of wretchedness, in peril and in pain, May HE thy steps direct, thy heart sustain!

'Mid scenes, where pestilence in darkness flies; In caverns, where deserted misery lies; 10 So safe beneath His shadow thou may'st go, To cheer the dismal wastes of human woe.

O CHARITY! our helpless nature's pride, Thou friend to him who knows no friend beside, Is there in morning's breath, or the sweet gale That steals o'er the tired pilgrim of the vale, Cheering with fragrance fresh his weary frame, Aught like the incense of thy sacred flame?

Is aught in all the beauties that adorn The azure heaven, or purple lights of morn; 20 Is aught so fair in evening's lingering gleam, As from thine eye the meek and pensive beam That falls like saddest moonlight on the hill And distant grove, when the wide world is still!

Thine are the ample views, that unconfined Stretch to the utmost walks of human kind: Thine is the spirit that with widest plan Brother to brother binds, and man to man.

But who for thee, O Charity! will bear Hardship, and cope with peril and with care! 30 Who, for thy sake, will social sweets forego For scenes of sickness, and the sights of woe!

Who, for thy sake, will seek the prison's gloom, Where ghastly Guilt implores her lingering doom; Where Penitence unpitied sits, and pale, That never told to human ears her tale; Where Agony, half-famished, cries in vain; Where dark Despondence murmurs o'er her chain; Where gaunt Disease is wasted to the bone, And hollow-eyed Despair forgets to groan! 40 Approving Mercy marks the vast design, And proudly cries--HOWARD, the task be thine!

Already 'mid the darksome vaults profound, The inner prison deep beneath the ground, Consoling hath thy tender look appeared: In horror's realm the voice of peace is heard!

Be the sad scene disclosed; fearless unfold The grating door--the inmost cell behold!

Thought shrinks from the dread sight; the paly lamp Burns faint amid the infectious vapours damp; 50 Beneath its light full many a livid mien, And haggard eye-ball, through the dusk are seen.

In thought I see thee, at each hollow sound, With humid lids oft anxious gaze around.

But oh! for him who, to yon vault confined, Has bid a long farewell to human kind; His wasted form, his cold and bloodless cheek, A tale of sadder sorrow seem to speak: Of friends, perhaps now mingled with the dead; Of hope, that, like a faithless flatterer, fled 60 In the utmost hour of need; or of a son Cast to the bleak world's mercy; or of one Whose heart was broken, when the stern behest Tore him from pale affection's bleeding breast.

Despairing, from his cold and flinty bed, With fearful muttering he has raised his head: What pitying spirit, what unwonted guest, Strays to this last retreat, these shades unblest?

From life and light shut out, beneath this cell Long have I bid the cheering sun farewell. 70 I heard for ever closed the jealous door, I marked my bed on the forsaken floor, I had no hope on earth, no human friend: Let me unpitied to the dust descend!

Cold is his frozen heart--his eye is reared To Heaven no more--and on his sable beard The tear has ceased to fall. Thou canst not bring Back to his mournful heart the morn of spring;-- Thou canst not bid the rose of health renew Upon his wasted cheek its crimson hue; 80 But at thy look, (ere yet to hate resigned, He murmurs his last curses on mankind), At thy kind look one tender thought shall rise, And his full soul shall thank thee ere he dies!

Oh ye, who list to Pleasure's vacant song, As in her silken train ye troop along; Who, like rank cowards, from affliction fly, Or, whilst the precious hours of life pa.s.s by, Lie slumbering in the sun! Awake, arise, To these instructive pictures turn your eyes; 90 The awful view with other feelings scan, And learn from HOWARD what man owes to man!

These, Virtue! are thy triumphs, that adorn Fitliest our nature, and bespeak us born For loftier action; not to gaze and run From clime to clime; nor flutter in the sun, Dragging a droning flight from flower to flower, Like summer insects in a gaudy hour; Nor yet o'er love-sick tales with fancy range, And cry--'Tis pitiful, 'tis wondrous strange! 100 But on life's varied views to look around, And raise expiring sorrow from the ground:-- And he who thus has borne his part a.s.signed In the sad fellowship of human kind, Or for a moment soothed the bitter pain Of a poor brother, has not lived in vain!

But 'tis not that Compa.s.sion should bestow An unavailing tear on want or woe: Lo! fairer Order rises from thy plan, Befriending virtue, and adorning man. 110 That Comfort cheers the dark abode of pain, Where wan Disease prayed for relief in vain; That Mercy soothes the hard behest of law; That Misery smiles upon her bed of straw; That the dark felon's clan no more, combined, Murmur in murderous leagues against mankind; That to each cell, a mild yet mournful guest, Contrition comes, and calms the laboring breast, Whilst long-forgotten tears of virtue flow; Thou, generous friend of all--to thee we owe! 120 To thee, that Pity sees her views expand To many a cheerless haunt, and distant land!

Whilst warm Philanthropy extends her ray, Wide as the world, and general as the day!

HOWARD! I view those deeds, and think how vain The triumphs of weak man, the feeble strain That Flattery brings to Conquest's crimson car, Amid the bannered host, and the proud tents of war!

From realm to realm the hideous War-fiend hies Wide o'er the wasted earth; before him flies 130 Affright, on pinions fleeter than the wind; Whilst Death and Desolation fast behind The havoc of his echoing march pursue: Meantime his steps are bathed in the warm dew Of bloodshed, and of tears;--but his dread name Shall perish--the loud clarion of his fame One day shall cease, and, wrapt in hideous gloom, Forgetfulness bestride his shapeless tomb!

But bear thou fearless on;--the G.o.d of all, To whom the afflicted kneel, the friendless call, 140 From His high throne of mercy shall approve The holy deeds of Mercy and of Love: For when the vanities of life's brief day Oblivion's hurrying wing shall sweep away, Each act by Charity and Mercy done, 145 High o'er the wrecks of time, shall live alone, Immortal as the heavens, and beauteous bloom To other worlds, and realms beyond the tomb.

THE GRAVE OF HOWARD.

Spirit of Death! whose outstretched pennons dread Wave o'er the world beneath their shadow spread; Who darkly speedest on thy destined way, Midst shrieks and cries, and sounds of dire dismay; Spirit! behold thy victory! a.s.sume A form more terrible, an ampler plume; For he, who wandered o'er the world alone, Listening to Misery's universal moan; He who, sustained by Virtue's arm sublime, Tended the sick and poor from clime to clime, 10 Low in the dust is laid, thy n.o.blest spoil!

And Mercy ceases from her awful toil!

'Twas where the pestilence at thy command Arose to desolate the sickening land, When many a mingled cry and dying prayer Resounded to the listening midnight air, When deep dismay heard not the frequent knell, And the wan carcase festered as it fell: 'Twas there, with holy Virtue's awful mien, Amid the sad sights of that fearful scene, 20 Calm he was found: the dews of death he dried; He spoke of comfort to the poor that cried; He watched the fading eye, the flagging breath, Ere yet the languid sense was lost in death; And with that look protecting angels wear, Hung o'er the dismal couch of pale Despair!

Friend of mankind! thy righteous task is o'er; The heart that throbbed with pity beats no more.

Around the limits of this rolling sphere, Where'er the just and good thy tale shall hear, 30 A tear shall fall: alone, amidst the gloom Of the still dungeon, his long sorrow's tomb, The captive, mourning, o'er his chain shall bend, To think the cold earth holds his only friend!

He who with labour draws his wasting breath On the forsaken silent bed of death, Remembering thy last look and anxious eye, Shall gaze around, unvisited, and die.

Friend of mankind, farewell! These tears we shed-- So nature dictates--o'er thy earthly bed; 40 Yet we forget not, it was His high will, Who saw thee Virtue's arduous task fulfil, Thy spirit from its toil at last should rest:-- So wills thy G.o.d, and what He wills is best!

Thou hast encountered dark Disease's train, Thou hast conversed with Poverty and Pain, Thou hast beheld the dreariest forms of woe, That through this mournful vale unfriended go; And, pale with sympathy, hast paused to hear The saddest plaints e'er told to human ear. 50 Go then, the task fulfilled, the trial o'er, Where sickness, want, and pain are known no more!

How awful did thy lonely track appear, Enlightening Misery's benighted sphere!

As when an angel all-serene goes forth To still the raging tempest of the north, The embattled clouds that hid the struggling day, Slow from his face retire in dark array; On the black waves, like promontories hung, A light, as of the orient morn, is flung, 60 Till blue and level heaves the silent brine, And the new-lighted rocks at distance shine; Ev'n so didst thou go forth with cheering eye-- Before thy glance the shades of misery fly; So didst thou hush the tempest, stilling wide Of human woe the loud-lamenting tide.

Nor shall the spirit of those deeds expire, As fades the feeble spark of vital fire, But beam abroad, and cheer with l.u.s.tre mild Humanity's remotest prospects wild, 70 Till this frail orb shall from its sphere be hurled, Till final ruin hush the murmuring world, And all its sorrows, at the awful blast Of the archangel's trump, be but as shadows past!

Relentless Time, that steals with silent tread, Shall tear away the trophies of the dead.

Fame, on the pyramid's aspiring top, With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop; The feeble characters of Glory's hand Shall perish, like the tracks upon the sand; 80 But not with these expire the sacred flame Of Virtue, or the good man's honoured name.

HOWARD! it matters not, that far away From Albion's peaceful sh.o.r.e thy bones decay: Him it might please, by whose sustaining hand Thy steps were led through many a distant land.

Thy long and last abode should there be found, Where many a savage nation prowls around: That Virtue from the hallowed spot might rise, And, pointing to the finished sacrifice, 90 Teach to the roving Tartar's savage clan Lessons of love, and higher aims of man.

The h.o.a.ry chieftain, who thy tale shall hear, Pale on thy grave shall drop his faltering spear; The cold, unpitying Cossack thirst no more To bathe his burning falchion deep in gore; Relentless to the cry of carnage speed, Or urge o'er gasping heaps his panting steed!

Nor vain the thought that fairer hence may rise New views of life, and wider charities. 100 Far from the bleak Riphean mountains h.o.a.r, From the cold Don, and Wolga's wandering sh.o.r.e, From many a shady forest's lengthening tract, From many a dark-descending cataract, Succeeding tribes shall come, and o'er the place, Where sleeps the general friend of human race, Instruct their children what a debt they owe; Speak of the man who trode the paths of woe; Then bid them to their native woods depart, With new-born virtue stirring in their heart. 110 When o'er the sounding Euxine's stormy tides In hostile pomp the Turk's proud navy rides, Bent on the frontiers of the Imperial Czar, To pour the tempest of vindictive war; If onward to those sh.o.r.es they haply steer, Where, HOWARD, thy cold dust reposes near, Whilst o'er the wave the silken pennants stream, And seen far off the golden crescents gleam, Amid the pomp of war, the swelling breast Shall feel a still unwonted awe impressed, 120 And the relenting Pagan turn aside To think--on yonder sh.o.r.e the _Christian_ died!

But thou, O Briton! doomed perhaps to roam An exile many a year and far from home, If ever fortune thy lone footsteps leads To the wild Nieper's banks, and whispering reeds, O'er HOWARD's grave thou shalt impa.s.sioned bend, As if to hold sad converse with a friend.

Whate'er thy fate upon this various scene, Where'er thy weary pilgrimage hath been, 130 There shalt thou pause; and shutting from thy heart Some vain regrets that oft unbidden start, Think upon him to every lot resigned, Who wept, who toiled, and perished for mankind.

For me, who musing, HOWARD, on thy fate, These pensive strains at evening meditate, I thank thee for the lessons thou hast taught To mend my heart, or animate my thought.

I thank thee, HOWARD, for that awful view Of life which thou hast drawn, most sad, most true. 140 Thou art no more! and the frail fading bloom Of this poor offering dies upon thy tomb.

Beyond the transient sound of earthly praise Thy virtues live, perhaps, in seraph's lays!

I, borne in thought, to the wild Nieper's wave, Sigh to the reeds that whisper o'er thy grave.[24]

[24] The town of Cherson, on the Black Sea, where Howard the philanthropist died, is entirely supplied with fuel by reeds, of which there is an inexhaustible forest in the shallows of the Nieper.--_Craven's Travels._

SHAKSPEARE.

O sovereign Master! who with lonely state 1 Dost rule as in some isle's enchanted land, On whom soft airs and shadowy spirits wait, Whilst scenes of "faerie" bloom at thy command, On thy wild sh.o.r.es forgetful could I lie, And list, till earth dissolved to thy sweet minstrelsy!

Called by thy magic from the h.o.a.ry deep, 2 Aerial forms should in bright troops ascend, And then a wondrous masque before me sweep; Whilst sounds, _that the earth owned not_, seem to blend Their stealing melodies, that when the strain Ceased, _I should weep, and would so dream again_!

The song hath ceased. Ah! who, pale shade, art thou, 3 Sad raving to the rude tempestuous night!

Sure thou hast had much wrong, so stern thy brow, So piteous thou dost tear thy tresses white; So wildly thou dost cry, _Blow, bitter wind_!

_Ye elements, I call not you unkind_![25]

Beneath the shade of nodding branches gray, 4 'Mid rude romantic woods, and glens forlorn, The merry hunters wear the hours away; Rings the deep forest to the joyous horn!

Joyous to all, but him,[26] who with sad look Hangs idly musing by the brawling brook.

But mark the merry elves of fairy land![27] 5 To the high moon's gleamy glance, They with shadowy morrice dance; Soft music dies along the desert sand; Soon at peep of cold-eyed day, Soon the numerous lights decay; Merrily, now merrily, After the dewy moon they fly.

The charm is wrought: I see an aged form, 6 In white robes, on the winding sea-sh.o.r.e stand; O'er the careering surge he waves his wand: Hark! on the bleak rock bursts the swelling storm: Now from bright opening clouds I hear a lay, _Come to these yellow sands, fair stranger,[28] come away!_

Saw ye pa.s.s by the weird sisters pale![29] 7 Marked ye the lowering castle on the heath!

Hark, hark, is the deed done--the deed of death!

The deed is done:--Hail, king of Scotland, hail!

I see no more;--to many a fearful sound The b.l.o.o.d.y cauldron sinks, and all is dark around.

Pity! touch the trembling strings, 8 A maid, a beauteous maniac, wildly sings: They laid him in the ground so cold,[30]

Upon his breast the earth is thrown; High is heaped the gra.s.sy mould, _Oh! he is dead and gone._ The winds of the winter blow o'er his cold breast, But pleasant shall be his rest.

O sovereign Master! at whose sole command 9 We start with terror, or with pity weep; Oh! where is now thy all-creating wand; Buried ten thousand thousand fathoms deep!

The staff is broke, the powerful spell is fled, And never earthly guest shall in thy circle tread.

[25] Lear.

[26] Jaques: _As You Like It._