The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume Ii Part 25

The frantic mother, hushing every grief, Joins the dread scene, and to some plumed chief All pale with rage, with desperation wild, Cries, as she smites his heart: Hadst thou a child!

Unequal strife! the scene of death is o'er; 157 Mother and child lie side by side in gore!

When evening comes, through the lone cottage pane, No light looks cheerful in the darkening plain, No soothing sounds stray the dim hills along, No home-returning goat-herd trills the song; At intervals, wild accents of despair, Or shouts are heard, or dismal nightfires glare; But all is dark and silent near yon heap Where the fallen heroes of the hamlet sleep; Save that, at times, a hollow groan is heard, Or melancholy cry of the night-bird; Save where some dog, amid the scene of death, Moans as he watches yet his master's breath; 170 Whilst with despair and love that seems to speak, He licks the blood that stagnates on his cheek.

The morn looks through the hurrying clouds, the air Sighs as it lifts, at times, the dead man's hair; Upon those slaughtered heaps the cold stars shine, And Freedom sighs: The triumph, Gaul, is thine!

Now dawns the morn o'er vales with blood defiled, Where late affection's sweetest pictures smiled.

O'er the still lake how sadly peals the bell That sounds of every earthly hope the knell! 180 Pale on the crimsoned snow, without a home, The sad survivors of that death-storm roam; Their infants, outcast on the desert plain, Demand their mothers and their sires in vain; And when the red sun leaves the darkening sky, Amid those gory tracks sit down and sigh.

Sh.o.r.es of Lucerne! where many a winding bay Shone beauteous to the morn's returning ray; Where rosy tints upon the blue lake shone, And touched the rock with colours not their own; 190 Who now, with eyes that swim in tenderness, 191 Those scenes to every virtue dear shall bless!

What pleasure now can the rich landscape yield, The sparkling cataract, the pendent field, 'Mid h.o.a.r declivities, the sunny tower Peering o'er beeches that its roof embower, And cottage tops with light smoke trailing slow O'er the gray vapours looming far below!

Who shall ascend proud Pilate's[189] height, and mark The motley clouds sail o'er the champagne dark, 200 Now breaking in fantastic forms, and now Dappling the distant promontory's brow?

Then when the sun, that lights the scene, rides high, And far away the scattered volumes fly, Look up to the great G.o.d that rules the world, By whom proud empires from their seats are hurled, And feel a glow of holy grat.i.tude, That here, 'mid hollow glens and mountains rude, Far from Ambition's march and Discord's yell, Content with Love and Happiness should dwell. 210 Who now along those banks shall, listening, stray When evening lights each inlet west away, And hear the solitary boatman's oar Dip duly as he nears the shaded sh.o.r.e; Or catch the whispers of the waterfall That through the ivied clefts swell musical?

These scenes, these sounds, could many a joy impart, With sadness mixed. The wandering youth, whose heart Was sick with many sorrows, resting here At such an hour, forgot his starting tear; 220 He felt a pensive calm, sweeter than sleep, Steal gently o'er his aching breast; the deep And clear repose of the unruffled lake 223 His spirit seemed, unconscious, to partake; And still the water, as it whispered near, Or high woods, as they rustled, soothed his ear, Like the remembrance of a melody Heard in his infant, happy years gone by.

Now in his distant country, when, with tears, The tale of ruffian violence he hears; 230 Hears that the spot which smiled with lovely gleam, Like some sweet image of a tender dream, Upon his morning path, is drenched with gore, Its harmless tenants weltering on the sh.o.r.e; He will exclaim, whilst from his breast he draws A deep, deep sigh, Avenge, O G.o.d, their cause!

Who would not sigh for Switzerland! What heart That ever bore in human woes a part; That ever felt affection's genuine flame; That ever leaped at injured Freedom's name; 240 Would not for her dark foes feel honest hate, And swell with indignation at her fate!

If thus her lot of sorrow have impressed Grief and resentment on a stranger's breast, How must he hear the cruel tale of death, He who in these sad vales first drew his breath!

'Tis his perhaps in distant climes to roam, Far from the shelter of his early home; Yet still, as fancy paints the spot, he sees His father's cottage, and the mountain trees; 250 Again by the wild streams he seems to rove; He hears the voice of her who won his love, His heart's first love; for her he prunes the vine, Whose cl.u.s.tering leaves the rustic porch entwine; The mountain's van together they ascend; They see Alps piled on Alps far on extend; They mark the casual sunshine light the ma.s.s, 257 Or vernal showers along the valley pa.s.s; Whilst tinging the dark rocks, more lovely glow The braided colours of heaven's humid bow.

But now the maid he loved, with whom all day He used in summer o'er the hills to stray, The faithful maid he loved--oh! cold despair, Freeze his warm life-blood; and that thrilling air, Which erst he sang, when, all alive to joy, He carolled on the Alps, a shepherd boy, Let him not hear it now, lest tears quick start, And madness harrow up his broken heart!

How touching was the simple strain! The tear Of memory started when it met the ear; 270 And he whose front was rough with many a scar, Whose bold heart bounded at the trump of war, Stood all dissolved in sadness at its tone, Remembering him of pleasant seasons gone.

Perhaps full many a heavy hour had pa.s.sed, Since in its native nooks he heard it last; And when again its well-known music thrilled, A thousand thronging recollections filled His soul, that, sick with longing, homeward roved; Remote from scenes which most on earth he loved, 280 Cast on a world tempestuous, bleak, and wide, More ardent for his once-loved hills he sighed; And sighed again to think how it might fare With sisters, brothers, friends, and parents there; For be its music and its name forgot, The desert is his home, and those he loved are not!

PART SECOND.

I was a child of sorrow when I pa.s.sed, Sweet country, through your rocky valleys last; For one whom I had loved, whom I had pressed With honest, ardent pa.s.sion to my breast, Was to another vowed: I heard the tale, And to the earth sank heartless, faint, and pale.

Till that sad hour when every hope had flown, I thought she lived for me, and me alone; Yet did I not, though pangs my heart must rend, Prove to thy weakness a sustaining friend? 10 Did I not bid thee, never, never more Or think of me or mine? As firm I swore To cast away the dream, and bury deep, As in oblivion of the dead man's sleep, All that once soothed, and from the soul to tear Each longing wish that youth had cherished there.

But when 'twas midnight, to the woods I hied, Despairing, and with frantic anguish cried: Oh, had relentless death with instant dart Smitten and s.n.a.t.c.hed thee from my bleeding heart; 20 Through life had n.i.g.g.ard fortune bid us pine, And withered with despair thy hopes and mine; Yes, yes, I could have borne it; but to see The accusing tear, and know it falls for me; Oh cease the thought--a long and last farewell-- We must forget--nor shall my soul rebel!

Then to my country's cliffs I bade adieu, And what my sad heart felt G.o.d only knew.

Helvetia, thy rude scenes, a drooping guest, I sought, and sorrowing sought a spot of rest. 30 Through many a mountain pa.s.s and s.h.a.ggy vale 31 I roamed an exile, pa.s.sion-crazed and pale.

I saw your clouded heights sublime impend, I heard your foaming cataracts descend; And oft the rugged scene my heart endued With a strange, sad, distempered fort.i.tude; Oft on the lake's green marge I lay reclined, Murmuring my moody fancies to the wind; But when some hanging hamlet I surveyed, A wood-cot peeping in the sheltered glade, 40 A tear, perforce, would steal; and, as my eye Fondly reverted to the days gone by, How blest, I cried, remote from every care, To rest with her we loved, forgotten there!

Then soft, methought, from the sequestered grove, I heard the song of happiness and love:

Come to these scenes of peace, Where, to rivers murmuring, The sweet birds all the summer sing, Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease! 50 Stranger, does thy heart deplore Friends whom thou wilt see no more; Does thy wounded spirit prove Pangs of hopeless, severed love?

Thee the stream that gushes clear, Thee the birds that carol near, Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie, And dream of their wild lullaby; Come to bless these scenes of peace, Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease! 60

Start from the feeble dream! The woodland shed Flames, and the tenants of that vale are dead!

All dark the torrent of their fate hath rushed; 63 Each cheering echo of the plain is hushed; And every joyous, every tender sound, In the loud roaring of the night-storm drowned.

How cheerily the rocks, from side to side, Oft to the tabor's festive sounds replied!

There, when the bells upon a holiday Rang out, and all the villagers were gay, 70 In summer-time, the happy groups were seen; Youth linked with beauty bounded on the green, And age sat smiling, as the joyous train Round the tall May-pole, tapering from the plain, Their locks entwined with ribands streaming red, And crowned with flowers, the rural pastimes led.

Oh! on the bleeding turf the sad flowers throw, And weep for them that sleep in dust below; There sleep together, in their deathbed cold, The beautiful, the brave, the young, the old! 80 No voice is heard that charmed their earthly road: Around their desolate and last abode The blast that swept them to the earth yet raves, And strews with havoc their insulted graves.

As on the lucid lake's unruffled breast Soft silvery lights and blending shadows rest, Above, around the heavens' blue calm is spread, And sleeps the sunshine on the mountain's head; Then purple rocks and woods smile to the eye, Like fairy landscapes of the evening sky; 90 And all is sad, save where some forest bird, With small and solitary trill, is heard.

Sudden the scene is changed, the hurricane Is up among the mountains, wind and rain Drive, and strange darkness closes on the vale; And high rocks to the lightning glimmer pale; And nought is heard but the deep thunder's roar, 97 Or vultures screaming round the desert sh.o.r.e.

So mourns the prospect, changed and overcast, And shrieks the spirit in the pa.s.sing blast!

But ah! how feller burst the ruthless storm That speeds the moral prospect to deform!

To-morrow, and the man of blood may see Again fresh verdure deck the dripping tree; Again pure splendour light yon bursting views, And the clear lake reflect the fairest hues; Whilst the gay lark seems, with a livelier voice, In scorn of his stern spirit, to rejoice.

But, hapless land, what dayspring shall restore The lovelier morals that now smile no more! 110 Affection tender as the murmuring dove, That in the noiseless wood her home-nest wove; And piety, that the blue mountains trod, With kindling eyes upraised to nature's G.o.d; Virtues that made thy streams, and woods, and hills, Thy lakes all sunshine, and thy shaded rills Like pictures of no earthly paradise, Beaming remote from sorrow and from vice.

Far from the earthly scenes that wasteful lie, Virtue and peace, and arts and freedom fly; 120 Arts which the wild surrounding views inspired, And freedom, such as genuine patriots fired.

When the great sun sinks in the crimson west, And all the pines in golden pomp are dressed, Whose daring hand shall s.n.a.t.c.h the vivid light, That purples o'er the promontory's height; And with a Loutherbourg's rich pencil throw On the warm tablet all the lucid glow?

When the slow convent's bell sounds from afar, And the dim lake reflects the evening star; 130 When shall again the rapt enthusiast rove 131 And deck the visionary bower of love?

Hushed be the Doric strain, that, in the shade Of his own pines, the pensive Gesner played; Which oft the homeward-plodding woodman, near, Paused with his gray beard on his staff to hear; Whilst his lean dog, whose opening lips disclose, Just peeping forth, his white teeth's even rows, Lifted his long ears with sagacious heed, And fixed his full eye on his trilling reed! 140 High on the broad Alps' solitary van, Where not a sound is heard of busy man, Hark! with loud orgies, o'er the b.l.o.o.d.y dew, Lewd Comus leads his nightly madding crew!

Strong shouts and clangours through the high wood run, And distant arms flash to the sinking sun; Dark forests their lone empire, the tall rocks Their shelter, and their wealth their wandering flocks.

To the proud Macedon, whose conquering car Rolled terrible through the ranks of armed war; 150 Whose banners chilled the plain with fearful shade; Whose sovereignty a thousand trumpets brayed, The Scythian chiefs spoke n.o.bly: What have we, King of the world, to do with thine or thee?

Far o'er the snowy solitudes we roam, Or by wild rivers fix our casual home.

O'er the green champagne let thy cities shine; We ne'er invaded fields or seats of thine; Nor will we bow, proud lord, at thy decree; Hence, hence, and leave us to our forests free! 160 But the stern soldier, with war's banners spread, Through thy still vales his glittering squadrons led; And wild despair, and unrelenting hate. 163 Stalk o'er thine inmost valleys desolate; And she, that like the nimble mountain roe, With step scarce heard, went bounding o'er the snow; She whose green buskins swept the frosts of morn, Who walked the high wood with her bugle horn; She who once called these hills her own, and found Her loveliest sojourn 'mid the hallowed ground, 170 Blessing the spot where, shaded with high wood, And decked with simple flowers, her altar stood; Freedom insulted sees, as pale she flies, A monster phantom in her name arise!

On weltering carcases it seems to stand, Waving a dim-seen dagger in its hand; Its look is unrelenting as the grave, Around its brow the muttering whirlwinds rave; Its spreading shadow chills the scene beneath, Ah! fly--it onward moves, and murmurs, Death! 180 Earth fades beneath its footstep, and around Long sighs and distant dying shrieks resound![190]

Could arms alone o'er thy brave sons prevail, Helvetia? No, it was the fraudful tale Of this false phantom which the heart misled; That spoke of peace, peace to the poor man's shed, Then left him, houseless, to the tempest's gloom That swept his hopes and comforts to the tomb!

High towered the grisly spectre, half concealed, And gathering clouds its dismal forests veiled; 190 The clouds disperse, and lo! 'mid murderous bands, Dark in its might the hideous phantom stands!

Now see the triumph of its reign complete!

Behold it throned in its own sovereign seat!

The orgies peal, the banners wave on high, 195 And dark rocks ring to shouts of liberty!

Now, soldier, lift thy loud acclaiming voice!

Children of high-souled sentiment, rejoice!

Round the scathed tree, upon the desert plain, Dance o'er the victims of the village slain! 200 Thou who dost smiling sit, as fancy flings Her hues unreal o'er created things, And as the scenes in gay distemper shine, Dost wondering cry, How sweet a world is mine!

Ah! see the shades, receding, that disclose The direst spectacle of living woes!

And ye who, all enlightened, all sublime, Pant in indignant thraldom till the time When man, bursting his fetters, proud and free, The wildest savage of the wilds shall be; 210 Artful instructors of our feeble kind, Illumined leaders of the lost and blind, Behold the destined glories of your reign!

Behold yon flaming sheds, yon outcast train!

Hark! hollow moaning on the fitful blast, Methought, Rousseau, thy troubled spirit pa.s.sed; His ravaged country his dim eyes survey.

Are these the fruits, he said, or seemed to say, Of those high energies of raptured thought, That proud philosophy my precepts taught? 220 Then shrouding his sad visage from the sight, Flew o'er the cloud-dressed Alps to solitude and night.

Thou too, whilst pondering History's vast plan, Didst sit by the clear waters of Lausanne,[191]

(What time Imperial Rome rose to thy view, And thy bold hand her mighty image drew), Thou too, methinks, as the sad wrecks extend, 227 Dost seem in sorrow o'er the scene to bend.

With steady eye and penetrating mind, Thou hast surveyed the toil of human kind; Hast marked Ambition's march and fiery car, And thousands shouting in the fields of war.

But direr woes might ne'er a sigh demand, Than those of hapless, injured Switzerland!

Oh, may they teach, whatever feelings start, One awful truth, that here we know in part: Whatever darkness round his ark may rest, There is a G.o.d, who knows what is best.

Submissive, still adoring may we stand Beneath the terrors of his chastening hand! 240 And though the clouds of carnage dim the sun, Bend to the earth and say, Thy will be done!

DONHEAD, 1801.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 188: Inscribed (1801) to Mrs William Douglas, a native of Switzerland.]

[Footnote 189: Mount Pilate, on the Lake of Lucerne.]

[Footnote 190: Contrast between genuine liberty and the spirit of Jacobinism.]

[Footnote 191: Gibbon completed his "Decline and Fall" in a summer-house on the banks of this lake.]

THE

VILLAGER'S VERSE-BOOK.

PREFACE.

The following compositions were written originally to be learned by heart by poor children of my own parish, who have been instructed every Sunday through the summer, on the garden lawn before the parsonage house, by Mrs Bowles. The object, which, to the best of my knowledge, is entirely novel, was briefly to describe the most obvious images in country life, familiar to every child; and in the smallest compa.s.s to connect every distinct picture with the earliest feelings of humanity and piety, in language which the simplest might understand; but which, from the objects represented, might be read, perhaps, with some interest by those whose minds were more cultivated. About fourteen of these little poems were composed with this view many years ago; but it was not thought of extending their knowledge beyond the village circle, to which they were originally limited, except by a very few copies given away. I have now added to the number, and revised the whole; thinking that, when early education is so greatly extended, they may be found upon a wider scale to answer the purpose for which they were written.

They may also prove acceptable to mothers in a higher station of life, who might wish to impress upon the memory of their children as they grow up, a love of natural scenes, combined with the earliest feelings of sympathy and religion. Some of these verses, such as "The Mower," "The Swan," _etc._, are purposely designed for the exercise of a more advanced intellect.