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 shores forgetful could I lie, And list, till earth dissolved to thy sweet minstrelsy! Called by thy magic from the hoary 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-shore 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 pass 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 bloody 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 grassy 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._ [27] _Midsummer Night's Dream._ [28] Ferdinand: see _The Tempest._ [29] See _Macbeth._ [30] Ophelia: _Hamlet._ ABBA THULE'S LAMENT FOR HIS SON PRINCE LE BOO.
I climb the highest cliff; I hear the sound Of dashing waves; I gaze intent around; I mark the gray cope, and the hollowness Of heaven, and the great sun, that comes to bless The isles again; but my long-straining eye, No speck, no shadow can, far off, descry, That I might weep tears of delight, and say, It is the bark that bore my child away! Sun, that returnest bright, beneath whose eye The worlds unknown, and out-stretched waters lie, 10 Dost thou behold him now! On some rude shore, Around whose crags the cheerless billows roar, Watching the unwearied surges doth he stand, And think upon his father's distant land! Or has his heart forgot, so far away, These native woods, these rocks, and torrents gray, The tall bananas whispering to the breeze, The shores, the sound of these encircling seas, Heard from his infant days, and the piled heap Of holy stones, where his forefathers sleep! 20 Ah, me! till sunk by sorrow, I shall dwell With them forgetful in the narrow cell, Never shall time from my fond heart efface His image; oft his shadow I shall trace Upon the glimmering waters, when on high The white moon wanders through the cloudless sky.
Oft in my silent cave, when to its fire From the night's rushing tempest we retire, I shall behold his form, his aspect bland; I shall retrace his footsteps on the sand; 30 And, when the hollow-sounding surges swell, Still think I listen to his echoing shell.
Would I had perished ere that hapless day, When the tall vessel, in its trim array, First rushed upon the sounding surge, and bore My age's comfort from this sheltering shore! I saw it spread its white wings to the wind, Too soon it left these hills and woods behind, Gazing, its course I followed till mine eye No longer could its distant track descry; 40 Till on the confines of the billows hoar A while it hung, and then was seen no more, And only the blue hollow cope I spied, And the long waste of waters tossing wide.
More mournful then each falling surge I heard, Then dropt the stagnant tear upon my beard.
Methought the wild waves said, amidst their roar At midnight, Thou shalt see thy son no more! Now thrice twelve moons through the mid heavens have rolled And many a dawn, and slow night, have I told: 50 And still as every weary day goes by, A knot recording on my line I tie;[31] But never more, emerging from the main, I see the stranger's bark approach again.
Has the fell storm o'erwhelmed him! Has its sweep Buried the bounding vessel in the deep! Is he cast bleeding on some desert plain! Upon his father did he call in vain! Have pitiless and bloody tribes defiled The cold limbs of my brave, my beauteous child! 60 Oh! I shall never, never hear his voice; The spring-time shall return, the isles rejoice, But faint and weary I shall meet the morn, And 'mid the cheering sunshine droop forlorn! The joyous conch sounds in the high wood loud, O'er all the beach now stream the busy crowd; Fresh breezes stir the waving plantain grove; The fisher carols in the winding cove; And light canoes along the lucid tide With painted shells and sparkling paddles glide.

70 I linger on the desert rock alone, Heartless, and cry for thee, my son, my son.
[31] I find on referring to the narrative of Captain Wilson's voyage to the Pelew Islands, that the knots were tied at the time of Prince Le Boo's departure, and that one was untied every moon by the disconsolate father.
The evening before the "Oroolong" sailed, the King asked Captain Wilson how long it might be before his return to Pelew; and being told that it would probably be about thirty moons, or might chance to extend to six more, Abba Thule drew from his basket a piece of line, and after making thirty knots on it, a little distance from each other, left a long space, and then adding six others, carefully put it by.
SOUTHAMPTON WATER.
Smooth went our boat upon the summer seas, Leaving, for so it seemed, the world behind, Its sounds of mingled uproar: we, reclined Upon the sunny deck, heard but the breeze That o'er us whispering passed, or idly played With the lithe flag aloft.

A woodland scene On either side drew its slope line of green, And hung the water's shining edge with shade.
Above the woods, Netley! thy ruins pale Peered as we passed; and Vecta's[32] azure hue 10 Beyond the misty castle[33] met our view; Where in mid channel hung the scarce seen sail.
So all was calm and sunshine as we went Cheerily o'er the briny element.
Oh! were this little boat to us the world, As thus we wandered far from sounds of care, Circled by friends and gentle maidens fair, Whilst morning airs the waving pennant curled; How sweet were life's long voyage, till in peace We gained that haven still, where all things cease! 20 [32] Isle of Wight.
[33] Kelshot Castle.
THE PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETY.[34] INSCRIBED TO THE DUKE OF LEEDS.
When Want, with wasted mien and haggard eye, Retires in silence to her cell to die; When o'er her child she hangs with speechless dread, Faint and despairing of to-morrow's bread; Who shall approach to bid the conflict cease, And to her parting spirit whisper peace! Who thee, poor infant, that with aspect bland Dost stretch forth innocent thy helpless hand, Shall pitying then protect, when thou art thrown On the world's waste, unfriended and alone! 10 O hapless Infancy! if aught could move The hardest heart to pity and to love 'Twere surely found in thee: dim passions mark Stern manhood's brow, where age impresses dark The stealing line of sorrow; but thine eye Wears not distrust, or grief, or perfidy.
Though fortune's storms with dismal shadow lower, Thy heart nor fears, nor feels the bitter shower; Thy tear is soon forgotten; thou wilt weep, And then the murmuring winds will hush thy sleep, 20 As 'twere with some sad music;--and thy smiles, Unlike to those that cover cruel wiles, Plead best thy speechless innocence, and lend A charm might win the world to be thy friend.
But thou art oft abandoned in thy smiles, And early vice thy easy heart beguiles.
Oh for some voice, that of the secret maze Where the grim passions lurk, the winding ways That lead to sin, and ruth, and deep lament, Might haply warn thee, whilst yet innocent 30 And beauteous as the spring-time o'er the hills Advancing, when each vale glad music fills! Else lost and wandering, the benighted mind No spot of rest again shall ever find; Then the sweet smiles, that erst enchanting laid Their magic beauty on thy look, shall fade; Then the bird's warbled song no more shall cheer With morning music thy delighted ear; Fell thoughts and muttering passions shall awake, And the fair rose the sullied cheek forsake! 40 As when still Autumn's gradual gloom is laid Far o'er the fading forest's saddened shade, A mournful gleam illumines the cold hill, Yet palely wandering o'er the distant rill; But when the hollow gust, slow rising, raves, And high the pine on yon lone summit waves, Each milder charm, like pictures of a dream, Hath perished, mute the birds, and dark the stream! Scuds the dreer sleet upon the whirlwind borne, And scowls the landscape clouded and forlorn! 50 So fades, so perishes frail Virtue's hue; Her last and lingering smile seems but to rue, Like autumn, every summer beauty reft, Till all is dark and to the winter left.
Yet spring, with living touch, shall paint again The green-leaved forest, and the purple plain; With mingling melody the woods shall ring, The whispering breeze its long-lost incense fling: But, Innocence! when once thy tender flower The sickly taint has touched, where is the power 60 That shall bring back its fragrance, or restore The tints of loveliness, that shine no more?
How then for thee, who pinest in life's gloom, Abandoned child! can hope or virtue bloom! For thee, exposed amid the desert drear, Which no glad gales or vernal sunbeams cheer! Though some there are, who lift their head sublime, Nor heed the transient storms of fate or time; Too oft, alas! beneath unfriendly skies, The tender blossom shrinks its leaves, and dies! 70 Go, struggle with thy fate, pursue thy way;-- Though thou art poor, the world around is gay! Thou hast no bread; but on thy aching sight Proud luxury's pavilions glitter bright; In thy cold ear the song of gladness swells, Whilst vacant folly chimes her tinkling bells: The careless crowd prolong their hollow glee, Nor one relenting bosom thinks of thee.
Will not the indignant spirit then rebel, And the dark tide of passions fearful swell! 80 Will not despight, perhaps, or bitter need, Urge then thy temper to some direful deed! Pale Guilt shall call thee to her ghastly band, Or Murder welcome thee with reeking hand! O wretched state, where our best feelings lie Deep sunk in sullen, hopeless apathy! Or wakeful cares, or gloomy terrors start, And night and tempest mingle in the heart! All mournful to the pensive sage's eye, The monuments of human glory lie; 90 Fall'n palaces, crushed by the ruthless haste Of time, and many an empire's silent waste, Where, 'midst the vale of long-departed years, The form of desolation dim appears, Pointing to the wild plain with ruin spread, The wrecks of age, and records of the dead! But where a sight shall shuddering sorrow find, Sad as the ruins of the human mind;-- As Man, by his GREAT MAKER raised sublime Amid the universe, ordained to climb 100 The arduous height where Virtue sits serene;-- As Man, the high lord of this nether scene, So fall'n, so lost!--his noblest boast destroyed, His sweet affections left a piteous void! But oh, sweet Charity! what sounds were those That met the listening ear, soft as the close Of distant music, when the hum of day Is hushed, and dying gales the airs convey! Come, hapless orphans, meek Compassion cried, Where'er, unsheltered outcasts! ye abide 110 The bitter driving wind, the freezing sky, _The oppressor's scourge, the proud man's contumely_; Come, hapless orphans! ye who never saw A tear of kindness shed on your cold straw; Who never met with joy the morning light, Or lisped your little prayer of peace at night; Come, hapless orphans! nor, when youth should spring Soaring aloft, as on an eagle's wing, Shall ye forsaken on the ground be left, Of hope, of virtue, and of peace bereft! 120 Far from the springtide gale, and joyous day, In the deep caverns of Despair ye lay: She, iron-hearted mother, never pressed Your wasted forms with transport to her breast; When none o'er all the world your 'plaint would hear, She never kissed away the falling tear, Or fondly smiled, forgetful, to behold Some infant grace its early charm unfold.
She ne'er with mingling hopes and rising fears, Sighed for the fortune of your future years: 130 Or saw you hand in hand rejoicing stray Beneath the morning sun, on youth's delightful way.
But happier scenes invite, and fairer skies; From your dark bed, children of woe, arise! In caves where peace ne'er smiled, where joy ne'er came, Where Friendship's eye ne'er glistened at the name Of one she loved, where famine and despair Sat silent 'mid the damp and lurid air, The soothing voice is heard; a beam of light Is cast upon their features, sunk and white; 140 With trembling joy they catch the stealing sound; Their famished little ones come smiling round.
Sweet Infancy! whom all the world forsook, Thou hast put on again thy cherub look: Guilt, shrinking at the sight, in deep dismay Flies cowering, and resigns his wonted prey.
But who is she, in garb of misery clad, Yet of less vulgar mien?
A look so sad The mourning maniac wears, so wild, yet meek; A beam of joy now wanders o'er her cheek, 150 The pale eye visiting; it leaves it soon, As fade the dewy glances of the moon Upon some wandering cloud, while slow the ray Retires, and leaves more dark the heaven's wide way.
Lost mother, early doomed to guilt and shame, Whose friends of youth now sigh not o'er thy name, Heavy has sorrow fall'n upon thy head, Yet think--one hope remains when thou art dead; Thy houseless child, thy only little one, Shall not look round, defenceless and alone, 160 For one to guide her youth;--nor with dismay Each stranger's cold unfeeling look survey.
She shall not now be left a prey to shame, Whilst slow disease preys on her faded frame; Nor, when the bloom of innocence is fled, Thus fainting bow her unprotected head.
Oh, she shall live, and Piety and Truth, The loveliest ornaments, shall grace her youth.
And should her eye with softest lustre shine, And should she wear such smiles as once were thine, 170 The smiles of peace and virtue they shall prove, Blessing the calm abode of faithful love.
For ye[35] who thus, by pure compassion taught, Have wept o'er human sorrows;--who have sought Want's dismal cell, and pale as from the dead To life and light the speechless orphan led;-- Trust that the deed, in Mercy's book enrolled, Approving spirits of the just behold! Meanwhile, new virtues here, as on the wing Of morn, from Sorrow's dreary shades shall spring; 180 Young Modesty, with fair untainted bloom; And Industry, that sings beside her loom; And ruddy Labour, issuing from his hatch Ere the slant sunbeam strikes the lowly thatch; And sweet Contentment, smiling on a rock, Like a fair shepherdess beside her flock; And tender Love, that hastes with myrtle-braid To bind the tresses of the favoured maid; And Piety, with unclasped holy book, Lifting to heaven her mildly-beaming look: 190 These village virtues on the plain shall throng, And Albion's hills resound a cheerful song; Whilst Charity, with dewy eyelids bland, Leading a lisping infant in her hand, Shall bend at pure Religion's holy shrine, And say, These children, GOD OF LOVE, are thine! [34] The Philanthropic Society was instituted in September 1788, for the prevention of crimes, by seeking out and training up to virtue and industry the children of the most abject and criminal among the vagrant and profligate poor; by these means more effectually to alleviate human misery, and to oppose the progress of vice.
[35] The promoters of the charity.
THE DYING SLAVE.
Faint-gazing on the burning orb of day, When Afric's injured son expiring lay, His forehead cold, his labouring bosom bare, His dewy temples, and his sable hair, His poor companions kissed, and cried aloud, Rejoicing, whilst his head in peace he bowed:-- Now thy long, long task is done, Swiftly, brother, wilt thou run, Ere to-morrow's golden beam Glitter on thy parent stream, 10 Swiftly the delights to share, The feast of joy that waits thee there.
Swiftly, brother, wilt thou ride O'er the long and stormy tide, Fleeter than the hurricane, Till thou see'st those scenes again, Where thy father's hut was reared, Where thy mother's voice was heard; Where thy infant brothers played Beneath the fragrant citron shade; 20 Where through green savannahs wide Cooling rivers silent glide, Or the shrill cicalas sing Ceaseless to their murmuring; Where the dance, the festive song, Of many a friend divided long, Doomed through stranger lands to roam, Shall bid thy spirit welcome home! Fearless o'er the foaming tide Again thy light canoe shall ride; 30 Fearless on the embattled plain Thou shalt lift thy lance again; Or, starting at the call of morn, Wake the wild woods with thy horn; Or, rushing down the mountain-slope, O'ertake the nimble antelope; Or lead the dance, 'mid blissful bands, On cool Andracte's yellow sands; Or, in the embowering orange-grove, Tell to thy long-forsaken love 40 The wounds, the agony severe, Thy patient spirit suffered here! Fear not now the tyrant's power, Past is his insulting hour; Mark no more the sullen trait On slavery's brow of scorn and hate; Hear no more the long sigh borne Murmuring on the gales of morn! Go in peace; yet we remain Far distant toiling on in pain; 50 Ere the great Sun fire the skies To our work of woe we rise; And see each night, without a friend, The world's great comforter descend! Tell our brethren, where ye meet, Thus we toil with weary feet; Yet tell them that Love's generous flame, In joy, in wretchedness the same, In distant worlds was ne'er forgot; And tell them that we murmur not; 60 Tell them, though the pang will start, And drain the life-blood from the heart,-- Tell them, generous shame forbids The tear to stain our burning lids! Tell them, in weariness and want, For our native hills we pant, Where soon, from shame and sorrow free, We hope in death to follow thee! SONG OF THE AMERICAN INDIAN.
Stranger, stay, nor wish to climb The heights of yonder hills sublime; For there strange shapes and spirits dwell,[36] That oft the murmuring thunders swell, Of power from the impending steep To hurl thee headlong to the deep; But secure with us abide, By the winding river's side; Our gladsome toil, our pleasures share, And think not of a world of care.

10 The lonely cayman,[37] where he feeds Among the green high-bending reeds, Shall yield thee pastime; thy keen dart Through his bright scales shall pierce his heart.
Home returning from our toils, Thou shalt bear the tiger's spoils; And we will sing our loudest strain O'er the forest-tyrant slain! Sometimes thou shalt pause to hear The beauteous cardinal sing clear; 20 Where hoary oaks, by time decayed, Nod in the deep wood's pathless glade; And the sun, with bursting ray, Quivers on the branches gray.
By the river's craggy banks, O'erhung with stately cypress-ranks, Where the bush-bee[38] hums his song, Thy trim canoe shall glance along.
To-night at least, in this retreat, Stranger! rest thy wandering feet; 30 To-morrow, with unerring bow, To the deep thickets fearless we will go.
[36] The Indians believe some of their high mountains to be inhabited by supernatural beings.
[37] The alligator.
[38] The bush-bee lives on shrubs and low trees.
MONODY, WRITTEN AT MATLOCK.
Matlock! amid thy hoary-hanging views, Thy glens that smile sequestered, and thy nooks Which yon forsaken crag all dark o'erlooks; Once more I court the long neglected Muse, As erst when by the mossy brink and falls Of solitary Wainsbeck, or the side Of Clysdale's cliffs, where first her voice she tried, I strayed a pensive boy.