Chapter XXI: Book XXII: The Visit Concluded (10)

From her own room, in summer’s softest eve,
Stept _Celia_ forth, her _Delia_ to receive—
Joy in her looks, that half her tale declared:
_C._ War and the waves my fav’rite Youth have spared;
Faithful and fond, through many a painful year,
My Charles will come——Do give me joy, my dear!
_D._ I give you joy, and so may he; but still,
’Tis right to question, if ’tis sure he will;
A sailor’s open honest heart we prize;
But honest sailors have their ears and eyes. 10
_C._ Oh! but he surely will on me depend,
Nor dare to doubt the firmness of his friend.
_D._ Be not secure; the very best have foes, }
And facts they would not to the world expose; }
And these he may be told, if he converse with those. }
_C._ Speak you in friendship?—let it be sincere
And naked truth—and what have I to fear?
_D._ I speak in friendship; and I do confess
If I were you, the Truth should wear a dress:
If Charles should doubt, as lovers do, though blind, 20
Would you to him present the naked mind?
If it were clear as crystal, yet it checks
One’s joy to think that he may fancy specks;
And now, in five long years, we scarcely know
How the mind gets them, and how large they grow.
Let woman be as rigid as a nun,
She cannot censures and surmises shun.
Wonder not, then, at tales that Scandal tells—
Your father’s rooms were not like sisters’ cells;
Nor pious monks came there, nor prosing friars, 30
But well-dress’d captains, and approving squires.
_C._ What these to me, admit th’ account be true?
_D._ Nay, that yourself describe—they came to you!
_C._ Well! to my friend I may the truth confess,
Poor Captain Glimmer loved me to excess;
Flintham, the young solicitor, that wrote
Those pretty verses, he began to dote;
That Youth from Oxford, when I used to stop
A moment with him, at my feet would drop;
Nor less your Brother, whom, for your dear sake, 40}
I to my favour often used to take— }
And was, vile world! my character at stake? }
If such reports my Sailor’s ear should reach,
What jealous thoughts and fancies may they teach;
If without cause ill-judging men suspect,
What may not all these harmless Truths effect?
And what, my Delia, if our virtues fail,
What must we fear if conscious we are frail?
And well you know, my friend, nor fear t’ impart,
The tender frailties of the yielding heart. 50
_D._ Speak for yourself, fair lady! speak with care;
I not your frailties, but your suffering, share.
You may my counsel, if you will, refuse;
But, pray, beware how you my name accuse!
_C._ Accuse you! No! there is no need of One,
To do what long the public voice has done.
What misses, then at school, forget the fall }
Of Ensign Bloomer, when he leapt the wall? }
That was a first exploit, and we were witness all; }
And that sad night, upon my faithful breast, 60
We wept together, till we sank to rest.
You own’d your love——
_D._ A girl, a chit, a child!
Am I for this, and by a friend, reviled?
_C._ Then lay your hand, fair creature! on your heart,
And say how many there have had a part!
Six I remember; and, if Fame be true,
The handsome Serjeant had his portion too.
_D._ A Serjeant! Madam, if I might advise,
Do use some small discretion in such lies!
A Serjeant, Celia?——
_C._ Handsome, smart, and clean. 70
Yes! and the fellow had a noble mien,
That might excuse you, had you giv’n your hand—
But this your father could not understand.
_D._ Mercy! how pert and flippant are you grown,
As if you’d not a secret of your own!
Yet would you tremble, should your Sailor know
What I, or my small cabinet, could show:
He might suspect a heart with many a wound,
Shallow and deep, could never more be sound;
That of one pierced so oft, so largely bled, 80}
The feeling ceases, and the love is dead; }
But sense exists, and passion serves instead. }
_C._ Injurious Delia! cold, reproachful maid!
Is thus my confidential faith repaid?
Is this the counsel that we two have held,
When duty trembled, and desire rebell’d;
The sister-vows we made, through many a night,
To aid each other in the arduous fight
With the harsh-minded powers who never think
What nature needs, nor will at weakness wink? 90
And now, thou cruel girl! is all forgot, }
The wish oft whisper’d, the imagined lot, }
The secret Hymen, the sequester’d cot? }
And will you thus our bond of friendship rend,
And join the world in censure of your friend?
Oh! ’tis not right! as all with scorn must see,
Although the certain mischief falls on me.
_D._ Nay, never weep! but let this kiss restore
And make our friendship perfect as before;
Do not our wiser selves ourselves condemn, 100
And yet we dearly love their faults and them?
So our reproofs to tender minds are shown:
We treat their wanderings as we treat our own;
We are each other’s conscience, and we tell
Our friend her fault, because we wish her well;
We judge, nay prejudge, what may be her case,
Fore-arm the soul, and shield her from disgrace.
Creatures in prison, ere the trying day,
Their answers practise, and their powers essay.
By means like these they guard against surprise, 110
And all the puzzling questions that may rise.
“Guilty or not?” His lawyer thus address’d
A wealthy rogue—“Not guilty, I protest.”—
“Why, then, my friend, we’ve nothing here to say,
But you’re in danger! prithee heed your way!
_You_ know your truth, _I_ where your error lies:
From your ‘_Not_ guilty’ will your danger rise.”—
“Oh! but I _am_, and I have here the gain
Of wicked craft”—“Then let it _here_ remain;
For we must guard it by a sure defence, 120
And not professions of your innocence;
For that’s the way, whatever you suppose,
To slip your neck within the ready noose.”
Thus, my beloved friend, a girl, if wise,
Upon her Prudence, not her Truth, relies;
It is confess’d, that not the good and pure
Are in this world of calumny secure—
And therefore never let a lass rely
Upon her goodness and her chastity!
Her very virtue makes her heedless: youth 130
Reveals imprudent, nay injurious, truth;
Whereas, if conscious that she merit blame,
She grows discreet, and well defends her fame,
And thus, offending, better makes her way—
As Joseph Surface argues in the play—
Than when in virtue’s strength she proudly stood,
So wrongly right, and so absurdly good.
Now, when your Charles shall be your judge, and try }
His own dear damsel—questioning how and why— }
Let her be ready, arm’d with prompt reply; 140}
No hesitation let the man discern,
But answer boldly, then accuse in turn:
Some trifling points with candid speech confess’d,
You gain a monstrous credit for the rest.
Then may you wear the Injured Lady frown,
And with your anger keep his malice down;
Accuse, condemn, and make him glad at heart
To sue for pardon, when you come to part.
But let him have it; let him go in peace,
And all inquiries of themselves will cease; 150
To touch him nearer, and to hold him fast,
Have a few tears _in petto_ at the last—
But this with care! for ’tis a point of doubt,
If you should end with weeping or without.
’Tis true you much affect him by your pain,
But he may want to prove his power again;
And, then, it spoils the look, and hurts the eyes—
A girl is never handsome when she cries.
Take it for granted, in a general way,
The more you weep for men, the more you may. 160
Save your resources; for, though now you cry
With good effect, you may not by and by.
It is a knack; and there are those that weep
Without emotion, that a man may sleep;
Others disgust—’tis genius, not advice,
That will avail us in a thing so nice.
If you should love him, you have greater need
Of all your care, and may not then succeed.
For that’s our bane—we should be conquerors all
With hearts untouch’d—our feelings cause our fall. 170
But your experience aids you: you can hide
Your real weakness in your borrow’d pride.
But to the point—should so the Charge be laid,
That nought against it fairly can be said—
How would you act? You would not then confess?—
_C._ Oh! never! no!—nor even my Truth profess!
To mute contempt I would alone resort
For the Reporters, and for their Report.
If he profess’d forgiveness, I would cry—
“Forgive such faithlessness! so would not I! 180
Such errors pardon! he that so would act
Would, I am sure, be guilty of the fact.
Charles, if I thought your spirit was so mean,
I would not longer in your walks be seen;
Could you such woman for a moment prize?
You might forgive her, but you must despise.”
_D._ Bravo, my girl! ’tis then our sex command,
When we can seize the weapon in their hand;
When we their charge so manage, that ’tis found
To save the credit it was meant to wound. 190
Those who by reasons their acquittal seek,
Make the whole sex contemptible and weak;
This, too, observe—that men of sense in love
Dupes more complete than fools and blockheads prove;
For all that knowledge lent them as a guide,
Goes off entirely to the lady’s side;
Whereas the blockhead rather sees the more,
And gains perception that he lack’d before.
His honest passion blinds the man of sense.
While want of feeling is the fool’s defence; 200
Arm’d with insensibility he comes;
When more repell’d, he but the more assumes,
And thus succeeds where fails the man of wit;
For, where we cannot conquer, we submit.
But come, my love! let us examine now, }
These Charges all—say, what shall we avow, }
Admit, deny; and which defend, and how? }
That old affair between your friend and you,
When your fond Sailor bade his home adieu,
May be forgotten; yet we should prepare 210
For all events—and are you guarded there?
_C._ Oh! ’tis long since—I might the whole deny—
“So poor, and so contemptible a lie!
Charles, if ’tis pleasant to abuse your friend,
Let there be something that she may defend;
This is too silly—”
_D._ Well you may appear
With so much spirit—not a witness near;
Time puzzles judgment; and, when none explain,
You may assume the airs of high disdain.
But, for my Brother—night and morn were you 220
Together found, th’ inseparable two,
Far from the haunts of vulgar prying men—
In the old abbey—in the lonely glen—
In the beech-wood—within the quarry made
By hands long dead—within the silent glade,
Where the moon gleams upon the spring that flows
By the grey willows as they stand in rows—
Shall I proceed? there’s not a quiet spot
In all the parish where the pair were not
Oft watch’d, oft seen. You must not so despise 230
This weighty charge—Now, what will you devise?
_C._ “Her brother! What, Sir? jealous of a child!
A friend’s relation! Why, the man is wild—
A boy not yet at college! Come, this proves
Some truth in you! This is a freak of Love’s:
I must forgive it, though I know not how
A thing so very simple to allow.
Pray, if I meet my cousin’s little boy,
And take a kiss, would that your peace annoy?
But I remember Delia—yet, to give 240
A thought to this is folly, as I live—
But I remember Delia made her prayer
That I would try and give the Boy an air;
Yet awkward he, for all the pains we took—
A bookish boy, his pleasure is his book;
And since the lad is grown to man’s estate,
We never speak—Your bookish youth I hate.”
_D._ Right! and he cannot tell, with all his art,
Our father’s will compelled you both to part.
_C._ Nay, this is needless—
_D._ Oh! when you are tried, 250
And taught for trial, must I feed your pride?
Oh! that’s the vice of which I still complain:
Men could not triumph were not women vain.
But now proceed—say _boyhood_ in this case
(The last obscure one) shields you from disgrace.
But what of Shelley? all your foes can prove,
And all your friends, that here indeed was love.
For three long months you met as lovers meet,
And half the town has seen him at your feet;
Then, on the evil day that saw you part, 260
Your ashy looks betray’d your aching heart.
With this against you——
_C._ This, my watchful friend,
Confess I cannot, therefore must defend.
“Shelley! dear Charles, how enter’d he your mind?
Well may they say that jealousy is blind!
Of all the men who talk’d with me of love,
His were the offers I could least approve;
My father’s choice—and, Charles, you must agree }
That my good father seldom thinks with me— }
Or his had been the grief, while thou wert tost at sea! }
It was so odious—when that man was near, 271
My father never could himself appear;
Had I received his fav’rite with a frown,
Upon my word he would have knock’d me down.”
_D._ Well! grant you durst not frown—but people say
That you were dying when he went away.
Yes! you were ill! of that no doubts remain;
And how explain it?—
_C._ Oh! I’ll soon explain.
“I sicken’d, say you, when the man was gone—
Could I be well, if sickness would come on? 280
Fact follows fact; but is ‘t of Nature’s laws
That one of course must be the other’s cause?
Just as her husband tried his fav’rite gun,
My cousin brought him forth his first-born son—
The birth might either flash or fright succeed,
But neither, sure, were causes of the deed.
That Shelley left us, it is very true—
That sickness found me, I confess it too;
But that the one was cause, and one effect,
Is a conceit I utterly reject. 290
You may, my Friend, demonstrate, if you please,
That disappointment will bring on disease;
But, if it should, I would be glad to know
If ’tis a quinsy that such griefs bestow?
A heart may suffer, if a lady doat;
But will she feel her anguish in the throat?
I’ve heard of pangs that tender folks endure,
But not that linctuses and blisters cure.”—
Your thoughts, my Delia?
_D._ What I think of this?
Why! if he smile, it is not much amiss. 300
But there are humours; and, by them possess’d,
A lover will not hearken to a jest.
Well, let this pass!—but, for the next affair,
We know your father was indignant there:
He hated Miller. Say! if Charles should press
For explanation, what would you confess?
You cannot there on his commands presume;
Besides, you fainted in a public room;
There own’d your flame, and, like heroic maid,
The sovereign impulse of your will obey’d. 310
What, to your thinking, was the world’s disdain?
You could retort its insolence again.
Your boundless passion boldly you avow’d,
And spoke the purpose of your soul aloud;
Associates, servants, friends, alike can prove
The world-defying force of Celia’s love.
Did she not wish, nay vow, to poison her
Whom, some durst whisper, Damon could prefer?
And then that frantic quarrel at the ball—
It must be known, and he will hear it all. 320
Nay! never frown, but cast about, in time,
How best to answer what he thinks a crime;
For what he thinks might have but little weight,
If you could answer—
_C._ Then I’ll answer straight—
Not without Truth; for who would vainly tell
A wretched lie, when Truth might serve as well?
Had I not Fever? is not that the bane
Of human wisdom? was I not insane?
“Oh! Charles, no more! would you recall the day
When it pleased Fate to take my wits away? 330
How can I answer for a thousand things
That this disorder to the sufferer brings?
Is it not known, the men whom you dislike
Are those who now the erring fancy strike?
Nor would it much surprise me, if ’twere true,
That in those days of dread I slighted you.
When the poor mind, illumined by no spark
Of reason’s light, was wandering in the dark,
You must not wonder, if the vilest train
Of evil thoughts were printed on the brain; 340
Nor, if the loyal and the faithful prove
False to their king, and faithless to their love.”—
Your thoughts on this?
_D._ With some you may succeed
By such bold strokes; but they must love indeed.
_C._ Doubt you his passion?—
_D._ But in five long years
The passion settles—then the reason clears.
Turbid is love, and to ferment inclined,
But by and by grows sober and refined,
And peers for facts; but, if one can’t rely
On truth, one takes one’s chance—you can but try. 350
Yet once again I must attention ask
To a new Charge, and then resign my task.
I would not hurt you; but confess at least
That you were partial to that handsome Priest;
Say what they will of his religious mind,
He was warm-hearted, and to ladies kind.
Now, with his reverence you were daily seen,
When it was winter and the weather keen,
Traced to the mountains when the winds were strong,
And roughly bore you, arm in arm, along— 360
That wintry wind, inspired by love or zeal,
You were too faithful or too fond to feel,
Shielded from inward and from outward harm
By the strong spirit, and the fleshly arm—
The winter-garden you could both admire,
And leave his sisters at the parlour fire;
You trusted not your speech these dames among—
Better the teeth should chatter, than the tongue!
Did not your father stop the pure delight
Of this perambulating Love at night? 370
It is reported, that his craft contrived
To get the Priest with expedition wived,
And sent away; for fathers will suspect
Her inward worth, whose ways are incorrect—
Patience, my dear! your Lover _will_ appear;
At this new tale, then, what will be your cheer?
“I hear,” says he—and he will look as grim
As if he heard his lass accusing him—
“I hear, my Celia, your alluring looks
Kept the young Curate from his holy books. 380
Parsons, we know, advise their flocks to pray; }
But ’tis their duty—not the better they; }
’Tis done for policy, for praise, for pay— }
Or, let the very best be understood,
They’re men, you know, and men are flesh and blood.
Now, they do say—but let me not offend— }
You were too often with this pious friend, }
And spent your time”—— }
_C._ “As people ought to spend. }
And, sir, if you of some divine would ask
Aid in your doubts, it were a happy task. 390
But you, alas! the while, are not perplex’d
By the dark meaning of a threat’ning text;
You rather censure her who spends her time
In search of Truth, as if it were a crime!
Could I your dread of vulgar scandal feel,
To whom should I, in my distress, appeal?
A time there may be, Charles, indeed there must, }
When you will need a faithful Priest to trust, }
In conscience tender, but in counsel just. }
Charles, for my Fame I would in prudence strive, 400
And, if I could, would keep your Love alive;
But there are things that our attention claim,
More near than Love, and more desired than Fame!”
_D._ “But why in secret?” he will ask you—
_C._ “Why?
Oh, Charles! could you the doubting spirit spy,
Had you such fears, all hearers you would shun;
What one confesses should be heard by one.
Your mind is gross, and you have dwelt so long
With such companions, that you will be wrong.
We fill our minds from those with whom we live, 410
And, as your fears are Nature’s, I forgive;
But learn your peace and my good name to prize,
And fears of fancy let us both despise!”
_D._ Enough, my friend! Now let the man advance—
You are prepared, and nothing leave to chance.
’Tis not sufficient that we’re pure and just;
The wise to nothing but their wisdom trust—
Will he himself appear, or will he send,
Duteous as warm, and not alarm my friend?
We need not ask—behold! his servant comes: 420
His father’s livery! no fond heart presumes.
Thus he prepares you—kindly gives you space
To arm your mind, and rectify your face.
Now, read your Letter—while my faithful heart
Feels all that his can dictate or impart.
Nay! bless you, love! what melancholy tale
Conveys that paper? Why so deadly pale?
It is his sister’s writing, but the seal
Is red: he lives. What is it that you feel?
_C._ Oh, my dear friend! let us from man retreat, 430
Or never trust him if we chance to meet—
The fickle wretch! that from our presence flies
To any flirt that any place supplies,
And laughs at vows!—but see the Letter!—here—
“_Married at Guernsey!!!_”—Oh! the Villain, dear!

LINES IN LAURA’S ALBUM.

(These lines, were written at the desire of a young lady, who requested
some verses on a cameo in her possession.)

See with what ease the child-like god
Assumes his reins, and shakes his rod;
How gaily, like a smiling boy,
He seems his triumphs to enjoy,
And looks as innocently mild
As if he were indeed a child!
But in that meekness who shall tell
What vengeance sleeps, what terrors dwell?
By him are tamed the fierce—the bold
And haughty are by him controll’d; 10
The hero of th’ ensanguined field
Finds there is neither sword nor shield
Availing here. Amid his books
The student thinks how Laura looks;
The miser’s self, with heart of lead,
With all the nobler feelings fled,
Has thrown his darling treasures by,
And sigh’d for something worth a sigh.
Love over gentle natures reigns,
A gentle master; yet his pains 20
Are felt by them, are felt by all,
The bitter sweet, the honied gall,
Soft pleasing tears, heart-soothing sighs,
Sweet pain, and joys that agonise.
Against a power like this, what arts,
What virtues, can secure our hearts?
In vain are both—the good, the wise,
Have tender thoughts and wandering eyes;
And then, to banish Virtue’s fear,
Like Virtue’s self will Love appear; 30
Bid every anxious feeling cease,
And all be confidence and peace.
He such insidious method takes,
He seems to heal the wound he makes;
Till, master of the human breast,
He shows himself the foe of rest,
Pours in his doubts, his dread, his pains,
And now a very tyrant reigns.
If, then, his power we cannot shun,
And must endure—what can be done? 40
To whom, thus bound, can we apply?—
To Prudence, as our best ally:
For she, like Pallas, for the fight
Can arm our eye with clearer sight;
Can teach the happy art that gains
A captive who will grace our chains,
And, as we must the dart endure,
To bear the wound we cannot cure.

LINES WRITTEN AT WARWICK.

“You that in warlike stories take delight,” &c.

Hail, centre-county of our land, and known
For matchless worth and valour all thine own—
Warwick! renown’d for him who best could write,
Shakspeare the Bard, and him so fierce in fight,
Guy, thy brave Earl, who made whole armies fly,
And giants fall—who has not heard of Guy?
Him sent his Lady, matchless in her charms,
To gain immortal glory by his arms—
Felice the fair, who, as her bard maintain’d,
The prize of beauty over Venus gain’d; 10
For she, the goddess, had some trivial blot
That marr’d some beauty, which our nymph had not:
But, this apart—for in a fav’rite theme
Poets and lovers are allow’d to dream—
Still we believe the lady and her knight }
Were matchless both: he in the glorious fight, }
She in the bower by day, and festive hall by night. }
Urged by his love, th’ adventurous Guy proceeds,
And Europe wonders at his warlike deeds.
Whatever prince his potent arm sustains, 20
However weak, the certain conquest gains;
On every side the routed legions fly,
Numbers are nothing in the sight of Guy.
To him the injured made their sufferings known,
And he relieved all sorrows but his own;
Ladies who owed their freedom to his might
Were grieved to find his heart another’s right.
The brood of giants, famous in those times,
Fell by his arm, and perish’d for their crimes.
Colbrand the strong, who by the Dane was brought, 30
When he the crown of good Athelstan sought,
Fell by the prowess of our champion brave,
And his huge body found an English grave.
But what to Guy were men, or great or small,
Or one or many?—he despatch’d them all;
A huge dun Cow, the dread of all around,
A master-spirit in our hero found:
’Twas desolation all about her den—
Her sport was murder, and her meals were men.
At Dunmore Heath the monster he assail’d, 40
And o’er the fiercest of his foes prevail’d.
Nor fear’d he lions more than lions fear
Poor trembling shepherds, or the sheep they shear.
A fiery dragon, whether green or red
The story tells not, by his valour bled;
What more I know not, but by these ’tis plain
That Guy of Warwick never fought in vain.
When much of life in martial deeds was spent,
His sovereign lady found her heart relent,
And gave her hand. Then all was joy around, 50
And valiant Guy with love and glory crown’d;
Then Warwick Castle wide its gate display’d,
And peace and pleasure this their dwelling made.
Alas! not long—a hero knows not rest;
A new sensation fill’d his anxious breast.
His fancy brought before his eyes a train
Of pensive shades, the ghosts of mortals slain;
His dreams presented what his sword had done;
He saw the blood from wounded soldiers run,
And dying men, with every ghastly wound, 60
Breathed forth their souls upon the sanguine ground.
Alarm’d at this, he dared no longer stay, }
But left his bride, and as a pilgrim gray, }
With staff and beads, went forth to weep and fast and pray. }
In vain his Felice sigh’d—nay, smiled in vain; }
With all he loved he [dared] not long remain, }
But roved he knew not where, nor said, “I come again.” }
The widow’d countess pass’d her years in grief,
But sought in alms and holy deeds relief;
And many a pilgrim ask’d, with many a sigh, 70
To give her tidings of the wandering Guy.
Perverse and cruel! could it conscience ease,
A wife so lovely and so fond to tease?
Or could he not with her a saint become,
And, like a quiet man, repent at home?
How different those who now this seat possess!
No idle dreams disturb their happiness.
The Lord who now presides o’er Warwick’s towers
To nobler purpose dedicates his powers;
No deeds of horror fill his soul with fear, 80
Nor conscience drives him from a home so dear.
The lovely Felice of the present day
Dreads not her lord should from her presence stray;
He feels the charm that binds him to a seat
Where love and honour, joy and duty, meet.
But forty days could Guy his fair afford;
Not forty years would weary Warwick’s lord.
He better knows, how charms like hers control
All vagrant thoughts, and fill with her the soul;
He better knows, that not on mortal strife, 90
Or deeds of blood, depend the bliss of life—
But on the ties that first the heart enchain,
And every grace that bids the charm remain.
Time will, we know, to beauty work despite,
And youthful bloom will take with him its flight;
But Love shall still subsist, and, undecay’d,
Feel not one change of all that Time has made.

ON A DRAWING OF THE ELM TREE, UNDER WHICH THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON STOOD
SEVERAL TIMES DURING THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

Is there one heart that beats on English ground,
One grateful spirit in the kingdoms round—
One who had traced the progress of the foe,
And does not hail the field of Waterloo;
Who o’er that field, if but in thought, has gone,
Without a grateful wish for Wellington?
Within that field of glory rose a Tree
(Which a fair hand has given us here to see),
A noble tree that, pierced by many a ball,
Fell not—decreed in time of peace to fall. 10
Nor shall it die unsung; for there shall be }
In many a noble verse the praise of thee, }
With that heroic chief—renown’d and glorious tree!— }
Men shall divide thee, and thy smallest part
Shall be to warm and stir the English heart;
Form’d into shapes as fancy may design,
In all, fair fame and honour shall be thine.
The noblest ladies in the land with joy
Shall own thy value in the slightest toy;
Preserved through life, it shall a treasure prove, 20
And left to friends, a legacy of love.
And thou, fair semblance of that tree sublime,
Shalt a memorial be to distant time;
Shalt wake a grateful sense in every heart,
And noble thoughts to opening minds impart:
Who shall hereafter learn what deeds were done,
What nations freed, by Heaven and Wellington.
Heroic tree we surely this may call— }
Wounded it fell, and numbers mourn’d its fall; }
It fell for many here, but there it stood for all. 30}

ON RECEIVING FROM A LADY A PRESENT OF A RING.

A ring to me Cecilia sends—
And what to show?—that we are friends;
That she with favour reads my lays,
And sends a token of her praise:
Such as the nun, with heart of snow,
Might on her confessor bestow;
Or which some favourite nymph would pay,
Upon her grandsire’s natal day,
And to his trembling hand impart
The offering of a feeling heart. 10
And what shall I return the fair
And flattering nymph?—A verse?—a prayer?
For, were a Ring my present too,
I see the smile that must ensue—
The smile that pleases, though it stings,
And says—“No more of giving rings:
Remember, thirty years are gone,
Old friend, since you presented one!”
Well! one there is, or one shall be,
To give a ring instead of me; 20
And with it sacred vows for life
To love the fair—the angel-wife.
In that one act may every grace,
And every blessing have their place—
And give to future hours the bliss,
The charm of life, derived from this;
And—when even love no more supplies;
When weary nature sinks to rest—
May brighter, steadier light arise,
And make the parting moment blest! 30

TO A LADY, WITH SOME POETICAL EXTRACTS.

Say, shall thine eye, and with the eye the mind,
Dwell on a work for thee alone design’d?
Traced by my hand, selected by my heart,
Will it not pleasure to a friend impart,
And her dear smile an ample payment prove
For this light labour of aspiring love?
Read, but with partial mind, the themes I choose;
A friend transcribes, and let a friend peruse!
This shall a charm to every verse impart,
And the cold line shall reach the willing heart; 10
For willing hearts the tamest song approve,
All read with pleasure, when they read with love.
There are no passions to the Muse unknown—
Fear, sorrow, hope, joy, pity are her own.
She gives to each the strength, the tone, the power,
By varying moods to suit the varying hour;
She plays with each, and veils in changing robes
The grief she pities, and the love she probes.
’Tis hers for we the sullen smile to feign, }
And Laughter lend to Envy’s rankling pain, 20}
Soft Pity’s look to Scorn, mild Friendship’s to Disdain. }
Joy inexpressive with her tear she veils,
And weeps her transport, where expression fails.

TO A LADY, ON LEAVING HER AT SIDMOUTH.

Yes! I must go—it is a part
That cruel Fortune has assign’d me—
Must go, and leave, with aching heart,
What most that heart adores, behind me.

Still I shall see thee on the sand
Till o’er the space the water rises;
Still shall in thought behind thee stand,
And watch the look affection prizes.

But ah! what youth attends thy side,
With eyes that speak his soul’s devotion— 10
To thee as constant as the tide
That gives the restless wave its motion?

Still in thy train must he appear,
For ever gazing, smiling, talking?
Ah! would that he were sighing here,
And I were there beside thee walking!

Wilt thou to him that arm resign,
Who is to that dear heart a stranger,
And with those matchless looks of thine
The peace of this poor youth endanger? 20

Away this fear that fancy makes,
When night and death’s dull image hide thee!
In sleep, to thee my mind awakes;
Awake, it sleeps to all beside thee.

Who could in absence bear the pain
Of all this fierce and jealous feeling,
But for the hope to meet again,
And see those smiles all sorrow healing!

Then shall we meet, and, heart to heart,
Lament that fate such friends should sever; 30
And I shall say—“We must not part;”
And thou wilt answer—“Never, never!”

TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

Of all the subjects poetry commands
Praise is the hardest nicely to bestow;
’Tis like the streams in Afric’s burning sands,
Exhausted now, and now they overflow.
As heaping fuel on a kindling fire,
So deals a thoughtless poet with his praise;
For, when he would the cheerful warmth inspire,
He chokes the very thing he hopes to raise.

How shall I, then, the happy medium hit,
And give the just proportion to my song? 10
How speak of beauty, elegance, and wit,
Yet fear at once t’offend thee and to wrong?
Sure to offend, if far the Muse should soar,
And sure to wrong thee if her strength I spare:
Still, in my doubts, this comfort I explore—
That all confess what I must not declare.

Yet on this day, in every passing year,
Poets the tribute of their praise may bring;
Nor should thy virtues then be so severe,
As to forbid us of thy worth to sing. 20
Still I forbear; for why should I portray
Those looks that seize—that mind that wins the heart—
Since all the world, on this propitious day,
Will tell how lovely and how good thou art?

TO A LADY WHO DESIRED SOME VERSES AT PARTING.

Oh! do not ask the Muse to show
Or how we met, or how we part:
The bliss, the pain, too well I know,
That seize in turn this faithful heart.
That meeting—it was tumult all—
The eye was pleased, the soul was glad;
But thus to memory I recall,
And feel the parting doubly sad.

Yes, it was pleasant so to meet
For us, who fear’d to meet no more, 10
When every passing hour was sweet—
Sweeter, we thought, than all before.
When eye from eye new meanings steal,
When hearts approach, and thoughts unite—
Then is, indeed, the time to feel,
But, Laura! not a time to write.

And when at length compell’d to part,
When fear is strong, and fancy weak;
When in some distant good the heart
For present ease is forced to seek; 20
When hurried spirits fall and rise,
As on the changing views we dwell—
How vainly then the sufferer tries
In studied verse his pains to tell!

Time brings, indeed, his slow relief,
In whom the passions live and die;
He gives the bright’ning smile to grief,
And his the soft consoling sigh.
Till then, we vainly wish the power
To paint the grief, or use the pen; 30
But distant far that quiet hour—
And I must feel and grieve till then.

THE FRIEND IN LOVE.

[About 1816.]

Unhappy is the wretch who feels
The trembling lover’s ardent flame,
And yet the treacherous hope conceals
By using Friendship’s colder name.

He must the lover’s pangs endure,
And still the outward sign suppress;
Nor may expect the smiles that cure
The wounded heart’s conceal’d distress.

When her soft looks on others bend,
By him discern’d, to him denied, 10
He must be then the silent friend,
And all his jealous torments hide.

When she shall one blest youth select,
His bleeding heart must still approve;
Must every angry thought correct,
And strive to like, where she can love.

Yet must he all his Pains conceal
From her whom his fond Thoughts adore,
In Fear of these which he must feel,
If she that soothed them smiled no more. 20

Heaven from my heart such pangs remove,
And let these feverish sufferings cease—
These pains without the hope of love,
These cares of friendship, not its peace!

[DISILLUSIONED.]

And wilt thou never smile again,
Thy cruel purpose never shaken?
Hast thou no feeling for my pain,
Refused, disdain’d, despised, forsaken?

Thy uncle crafty, careful, cold,
His wealth upon my mind imprinted;
His fields described, and praised his fold,
And jested, boasted, promised, hinted.

Thy aunt—I scorn’d the omen—spoke
Of lovers by thy scorn rejected; 10
But I the warning never took,
When chosen, cheer’d, received, rejected.

Thy brother, too—but all was plann’d
To murder peace, all freely granted;
And then I lived in fairy land,
Transported, bless’d, enrapt, enchanted.

Oh, what a dream of happy love,
From which the wise in time awaken;
While I must all its anguish prove,
Deceived, despised, abused, forsaken! 20

[LINES] FROM A DISCARDED POEM,
ENCLOSED, AT MRS LEADBEATER’S REQUEST, FOR THOMAS WILKINSON’S COLLECTION
OF HANDWRITINGS.

One calm, cold evening, when the moon was high,
And rode sublime within the cloudy sky,
She sat within her hut, nor seem’d to feel
Or cold, or want, but turn’d her idle wheel;
And with sad song its melancholy tone
Mix’d—all unconscious that she dwelt alone.

ON THE DEATH OF SIR SAMUEL ROMILLY.

(Hampstead, November 6, 1818.)

* * * * *

“Thus had I written—so a friend advised,
Whom as the first of counsellors I prized;
The best of guides to my assuming pen,
The best of fathers, husbands, judges, men.
‘This will he read,’ I said, ‘and I shall hear }
Opinion wise, instructive, mild, sincere; }
For I that mind respect, for I the man revere.’ }
“I had no boding fear, but thought to see
Those who were thine, who look’d for all to thee;
And thou wert all! there was, when thou wert by, 10
Diffused around the rare felicity
That wisdom, worth, and kindness can impart,
To form the mind and gratify the heart.
“Yes! I was proud to speak of thee as one
Who had approved the little I had done,
And taught me what I should do!—Thou wouldst raise
My doubting spirit by a smile of praise
And words of comfort! great was thy delight }
Fear to expel, and ardour to excite, }
To wrest th’ oppressor’s arm, and do the injured right. 20}
“Thou hadst the tear for pity, and thy breast
Felt for the sad, the weary, the oppress’d!
And now, afflicting change! all join with me,
And feel, lamented ROMILLY, for thee.”

LINES.

(Edinburgh, August 15, 1822.)

Of old, when a Monarch of England appear’d
In Scotland, he came as a foe;
There was war in the land, and around it were heard
Lamentation, and mourning and woe.

In the bordering land, which the Muses love best,
Was one whom they favour’d of old;
With a view of the future his mind they impressed,
And gave him the power to unfold.

“Come, strike me the harp, and my spirit sustain,
That these visions of glory annoy; 10
While I to the Chieftains of Scotland explain
What their Sons shall hereafter enjoy!

“I see, but from far—I behold, but not near—
When war on the Border shall cease,
New cities will rise, and the triumphs appear
Of Riches, and Science, and Peace.

“O give me to breathe, while this scene I describe:
A Monarch in Scotland I see,
When she pours from her Highlands and Lowlands each tribe,
Who are loyal, and happy, and free. 20

“The Islands at rest in their Sovereign rejoice;
Lo, the power and the wealth they display!
And there comes from the lands and the waters a voice,
From the Shannon, the Thames, and the Tay.

“‘All hail to our King!’ is the shout of the crowd;
I see them, a shadowy throng;
They are loyally free, are respectfully proud,
And Joy to their King is their song.

“Yet bear up, my soul, ’tis a theme of delight,
That thousands hereafter shall sing; 30
How Scotland, and England, and Ireland unite
In their Glory, their Might, and their King.

“Aloud strike the harp, for my bosom is cold
And the sound has a charm on my fears—
A City new-clothed as a Bride I behold,
And her King as her Bridegroom appears.

“’Tis he whom they love, and who loves them again,
Who partakes of the joy he imparts;
Who over three nations shall happily reign,
And establish his throne in their hearts.” 40

[LINES.]

(Aldborough, October, 1823.)

Thus once again, my native place, I come
Thee to salute—my earliest, latest home.
Much are we alter’d both, but I behold
In thee a youth renew’d—whilst I am old.
The works of man from dying we may save;
But man himself moves onward to the grave.

LINES, ADDRESSED TO THE DOWAGER DUCHESS OF RUTLAND.

When she—I will not tell her name—
Was in her early beauty laid,
Reposing—Time in person came.
And looked delighted at the maid.

Such charms, unmov’d, he could not pass,
They were to him unusual things,
He gazed till he had dropp’d his glass,
And, sighing, closed his mighty wings.

“Awake!” in tender tone he cried,
“Nor be of my stern look afraid; 10
For never yet has Time espied
Three graces in one form display’d.”

The nymph awoke; and, when she saw
Old Time was falling fast in love,
She thought she might advantage draw
From one who friend or foe must prove.—

“And dost thou love me, Time,” she cried,
“With passion ardent, temper true?”
“Let me,” he cried, “by test be tried,
And tell to Time what he shall do!” 20

“Old Time,” said she, “thy hand is hard,
And thou on beauty lov’st to prey:
Do, prithee, Time show some regard,
And touch me gently in thy way!”

“Then smile upon me, lady, so—
That look again, oh! where are such!
I must not pass thee as I go,
But I will softly, gently touch.

“So gently by thee will I steal
That none the steps of Time shall see; 30
This withering scythe thou shalt not feel,
Nor injured by its stroke shalt be.—

“But still I must my prowess prove,
Be not displeased—indeed I must;
Or men will say that Time, in love,
Is blinded, partial, and unjust.—

“Yet fear not thou: that form, that face
Shall still from me forbearance find;
But all the love of Time shall trace,
And see his progress in thy mind.” 40

FRAGMENTS OF TALES

AND

MISCELLANEOUS VERSES
NOT PREVIOUSLY PRINTED, ARRANGED (SO FAR AS POSSIBLE) IN CHRONOLOGICAL
SEQUENCE

TRACY.

(1 Jan. 1813.)

The House of Tracy was of all belov’d:
A generous, gentle, valiant, virtuous Race,
Admir’d for Courage and for Arts approv’d,
They shun’d Dishonour and they spurn’d Disgrace.
The Village Mansion was a noble Place,
Whose strong Foundations down a Vale were laid;
Pride of its Lords and of the Country Grace,
Its Towers were o’er the western hill display’d,
And on an Eastern Stream broad cast their Evening Shade.

Twice twenty Steps of Stone, now mossy all, 10
Led wandering Strangers to the central Door
Of a vast Room, by name the marble Hall,
Whose squares discolour’d form’d the polish’d floor.
Broad were the Stairs and black that rose before
And led to Chambers fair and Galleries wide;
Here Tracys stood, Men fam’d in days of yore;
These Pictures rare, by Taste and Wealth, supply’d
The Pride of Tracy these, and worthy praise the pride.

Th’ Improver’s Hand was seen in all the place;
But Mercy still was a Companion found, 20
And spar’d the Statues fair, the Wood to grace,
And Waters clear that fell with murmuring sound
From the green Terrace on the higher Ground,
With Flowers in Knolls on many a sunny Bank,
Where the white flocks o’er velvet Pasture bound;
Where Gold-fish long possess’d their marble Tank,
And steeds with silky Sides the living Water drank.

It was a lovely and a rich domain,
Vex’d by no Debt, no Mortgage, no Decrease;
No Tenant came with unredress’d Complaint 30
Of Churlish Steward or of rigorous Lease;
In the fair Village dwelt perpetual Peace,
Far as a Patron could his power extend,
Hail’d at his birth and mourn’d at his discease;
Where all, where each, was pleas’d his help to lend
To each, where all might seeking find a friend.

Two furlongs distant from that seat, its Pride,
Was the fair Village plac’d upon a Green,
By wood surrounded save the Eastern Side,
Where the broad, silent, silvery flood was seen. 40
There stood the peasants’ cots, a view serene
On either side a small and central Lake,
That long the scene of rustic Sports had been.
Unenvied People! may ye still partake
Life’s honest Joys and pure, and late may ye forsake!

The whiten’d Church and Vicar’s low Abode
Are near each other and these Dwellings near;
But, far from Town and from the public Road,
Few Travellers stray, few Strangers travel here;
Where yet an Inn, “The Tracy’s Arms,” appear, 50
The Mill, the Shop, and Trades that Peasants need,
But Farmers all; the Soil to all so dear
Gives to the Peasant’s Cow a space to feed;
Such was the Tracys’ will, and Heav’n approves the Deed.

A numerous Race were these, and Sons were lent
To England’s Honour and were great in Arms;
But now the generous Blood seems nearly spent.
One Son one only Son had raised Alarms
For Generations three! nor female Charms
As heretofore had done their Parents Grace; 60
These Lords had dwelt amid their flocks and farms,
A mild benevolent and virtuous Race,
Whose Lives accorded well with this their favourite Place.