Scene, on an Eminence on one of those Downs, which afford to the South a view of the Sea; to the North of the Weald of Sussex.
Time, an Afternoon in April, 1793.
Long wintry months are past; the Moon that
Lights her pale crescent even at noon, has
Four times her revolution; since with step,
Mournful and slow, along the wave-worn cliff,
Pensive I took my solitary way,
Lost in despondence, while
Not my own wayward destiny alone,(Hard as it is, and difficult to bear!)But in beholding the unhappy
Of the lorn Exiles; who, amid the
Of wild disastrous Anarchy, are thrown,
Like shipwreck'd sufferers, on England's coast,
To see, perhaps, no more their native land,
Where Desolation riots:
They, like me,
From fairer hopes and happier prospects driven,
Shrink from the future, and regret the past.
But on this Upland scene, while April comes,
With fragrant airs, to fan my throbbing breast,
Fain would I snatch an interval from Care,
That weighs my wearied spirit down to earth;
Courting, once more, the influence of Hope(For "Hope" still waits upon the flowery prime)As here I mark Spring's humid hand
The early leaves that fear capricious winds,
While, even on shelter'd banks, the timid
Give, half reluctantly, their warmer
To mingle with the primroses' pale stars.
No shade the leafless copses yet afford,
Nor hide the mossy labours of the Thrush,
That, startled, darts across the narrow path;
But quickly re-assur'd, resumes his talk,
Or adds his louder notes to those that
From yonder tufted brake; where the white
Of the first thorn are mingled with the
Of that which blossoms on the brow of May. Ah! 'twill not be:—— So many years have pass'd,
Since, on my native hills,
I learn'd to
On these delightful landscapes; and those years Have taught me so much sorrow, that my
Feels not the joy reviving Nature brings;
But, in dark retrospect, dejected
On human follies, and on human woes.——What is the promise of the infant year,
The lively verdure, or the bursting blooms,
To those, who shrink from horrors such as
Spreads o'er the affrighted world?
With swimming eye,
Back on the past they throw their mournful looks,
And see the Temple, which they fondly
Reason would raise to Liberty,
By ruffian hands; while, on the ruin'd mass,
Flush'd with hot blood, the Fiend of Discord
In savage triumph; mocking every
Of policy and justice, as she
The headless corse of one, whose only
Was being born a Monarch—Mercy turns,
From spectacle so dire, her swol'n eyes;
And Liberty, with calm, unruffled
Magnanimous, as conscious of her
In Reason's panoply, scorns to
Her righteous cause with carnage, and
To Fraud and Anarchy the infuriate crowd.—— What is the promise of the infant
To those, who (while the poor but peaceful
Pens, unmolested, the encreasing
Of his rich master in this sea-fenc'd isle)Survey, in neighbouring countries, scenes that
The sick heart shudder; and the Man, who thinks,
Blush for his species?
There the trumpet's
Drowns the soft warbling of the woodland choir;
And violets, lurking in their turfy
Beneath the flow'ring thorn, are stain'd with blood.
There fall, at once, the spoiler and the spoil'd;
While War, wide-ravaging,
The hope of cultivation; gives to Fiends,
The meagre, ghastly Fiends of Want and Woe,
The blasted land—There, taunting in the
Of vengeance-breathing armies,
Insult stalks;
And, in the ranks, "1 Famine, and Sword, and Fire,"Crouch for employment."—Lo! the suffering world,
Torn by the fearful conflict, shrinks, amaz'd,
From Freedom's name, usurp'd and misapplied,
And, cow'ring to the purple Tyrant's rod,
Deems that the lesser ill—Deluded Men!
Ere ye prophane her ever-glorious name,
Or catalogue the thousands that have
Resisting her; or those, who greatly
Martyrs to Liberty —revert
To the black scroll, that tells of regal
Committed to destroy her; rather
The hecatombs of victims, who have
Beneath a single despot; or who
Their wasted lives for some disputed
Between anointed robbers: 2 Monsters both!"3 Oh!
Polish'd perturbation—golden care!"So strangely coveted by feeble
To lift him o'er his fellows;—Toy, for
Such showers of blood have drench'd th' affrighted earth—Unfortunate his lot, whose luckless
Thy jewel'd circlet, lin'd with thorns, has bound;
And who, by custom's laws, obtains from
Hereditary right to rule, uncheck'd,
Submissive myriads: for untemper'd power,
Like steel ill form'd, injures the
It promis'd to protect—Unhappy France!
If e'er thy lilies, trampled now in dust,
And blood-bespotted, shall again
In silver splendour, may the wreath be
By voluntary hands; and Freemen,
As England's self might boast, unite to
The guarded diadem on his fair brow,
Where Loyalty may join with
To fix it firmly.—In the rugged
Of stern Adversity so early train'd,
His future life, perchance, may
That of the brave Bernois 4 , so justly
The darling of his people; who
The Warrior less, than they ador'd the Man!
But ne'er may Party Rage, perverse and blind,
And base Venality, prevail to
To public trust, a wretch, whose private
Makes even the wildest profligate recoil;
And who, with hireling ruffians leagu'd, has
The laws of Nature and Humanity!
Wading, beneath the Patriot's specious mask,
And in Equality's illusive name,
To empire thro' a stream of kindred blood—Innocent prisoner!—most unhappy
Of fatal greatness, who art suffering
For all the crimes and follies of thy race;
Better for thee, if o'er thy baby
The regal mischief never had been held:
Then, in an humble sphere, perhaps content,
Thou hadst been free and joyous on the
Of Pyrennean mountains, shagg'd with
Of chesnut, pine, and oak: as on these
Is yonder little thoughtless shepherd lad,
Who, on the slope abrupt of downy
Reclin'd in playful indolence, sends
The chalky ball, quick bounding far below;
While, half forgetful of his simple task,
Hardly his length'ning shadow, or the bells'Slow tinkling of his flock, that supping
To the brown fallows in the vale beneath,
Where nightly it is folded, from his
Recal the happy idler.—While I
On his gay vacant countenance, my
Compare with his obscure, laborious lot,
Thine, most unfortunate, imperial Boy!
Who round thy sullen prison daily
The savage howl of Murder, as it
Thy unoffending life: while sad
Thy wretched Mother, petrified with grief,
Views thee with stony eyes, and cannot weep!— Ah! much I mourn thy sorrows, hapless Queen!
And deem thy expiation made to
For every fault, to which
Betray'd thee, when it plac'd thee on a throne Where boundless power was thine, and thou wert
High (as it seem'd) above the envious
Of destiny!
Whate'er thy errors were,
Be they no more remember'd; tho' the
Of Party swell'd them to such crimes, as
Compassion stifle every sigh that
For thy disastrous lot—More than
Thou hast endur'd; and every English heart,
Ev'n those, that highest beat in Freedom's cause,
Disclaim as base, and of that cause unworthy,
The Vengeance, or the Fear, that makes thee stillA miserable prisoner!—Ah! who knows,
From sad experience, more than I, to
For thy desponding spirit, as it
Beneath procrastinated fears for
More dear to thee than life!
But
Of misery is thine, as once of joy;
And, as we view the strange vicissitude,
We ask anew, where happiness is found?———Alas! in rural life, where youthful
See the Arcadia that Romance describes,
Not even Content resides!—In yon low
Of clay and thatch, where rises the grey
Of smold'ring turf, cut from the adjoining moor,
The labourer, its inhabitant, who
From the first dawn of twilight, till the
Sinks in the rosy waters of the West,
Finds that with poverty it cannot dwell;
For bread, and scanty bread, is all he
For him and for his household—Should Disease,
Born of chill wintry rains, arrest his arm,
Then, thro' his patch'd and straw-stuff'd casement,
The squalid figure of extremest Want;
And from the Parish the reluctant dole,
Dealt by th' unfeeling farmer, hardly
The ling'ring spark of life from cold extinction:
Then the bright Sun of Spring, that smiling
All other animals rejoice, beholds,
Crept from his pallet, the emaciate
Attempt, with feeble effort, to
Some heavy task, above his wasted strength,
Turning his wistful looks (how much in vain!)To the deserted mansion, where no
The owner (gone to gayer scenes) resides,
Who made even luxury,
Virtue; while he
The scatter'd crumbs to honest Poverty.—But, tho' the landscape be too oft
By figures such as these, yet Peace is here,
And o'er our vallies, cloath'd with springing corn,
No hostile hoof shall trample, nor fierce
Wither the wood's young verdure, ere it
Gradual the laughing May's luxuriant shade;
For, by the rude sea guarded, we are safe,
And feel not evils such as with deep
The Emigrants deplore, as, they
The Summer past, when Nature seem'd to
Her course in wild distemperature, and aid,
With seasons all revers'd, destructive War. Shuddering,
I view the pictures they have
Of desolated countries, where the ground,
Stripp'd of its unripe produce, was thick
With various Death—the war-horse falling
By famine, and his rider by the sword.
The moping clouds sail'd heavy charg'd with rain,
And bursting o'er the mountains misty brow,
Deluged, as with an inland sea, the vales 5 ;
Where, thro' the sullen evening's lurid gloom,
Rising, like columns of volcanic fire,
The flames of burning villages
The waste of water; and the wind, that
Along its troubled surface, brought the
Of plunder'd peasants, and the frantic
Of mothers for their children; while the brave,
To pity still alive, listen'd
To these dire echoes, hopeless to
The evils they beheld, or check the rage,
Which ever, as the people of one
Meet in contention, fires the human
With savage thirst of kindred blood, and
Man lose his nature; rendering him more
Than the gaunt monsters of the howling waste. Oft have I heard the melancholy tale,
Which, all their native gaiety forgot,
These Exiles tell—How Hope impell'd them on,
Reckless of tempest, hunger, or the sword,
Till order'd to retreat, they knew not why,
From all their flattering prospects, they
The prey of dark suspicion and regret 6 :
Then, in despondence, sunk the unnerv'd
Of gallant Loyalty—At every
Shame and disgrace appear'd, and seem'd to
Their scatter'd squadrons; which the warlike youth,
Unable to endure, often implor'd,
As the last act of friendship, from the
Of some brave comrade, to receive the
That freed the indignant spirit from its pain.
To a wild mountain, whose bare summit
Its broken eminence in clouds; whose
Are dark with woods; where the receding
Are worn by torrents of dissolving snow,
A wretched Woman, pale and breathless, flies!
And, gazing round her, listens to the
Of hostile footsteps—— No! it dies away:
Nor noise remains, but of the cataract,
Or surly breeze of night, that mutters
Among the thickets, where she trembling seeksA temporary shelter—clasping
To her hard-heaving heart, her sleeping child,
All she could rescue of the innocent
That yesterday surrounded
Almost by miracle!
Fear, frantic Fear,
Wing'd her weak feet: yet, half repentant
Her headlong haste, she wishes she had
To die with those affrighted Fancy
The lawless soldier's victims—Hark!
The driving tempest bears the cry of Death,
And, with deep sudden thunder, the dread
Of cannon vibrates on the tremulous earth;
While, bursting in the air, the murderous
Glares o'er her mansion.
Where the splinters fall,
Like scatter'd comets, its destructive
Is mark'd by wreaths of flame!—Then,
Beneath accumulated horror,
The desolate mourner; yet, in Death itself,
True to maternal tenderness, she
To save the unconscious infant from the
In which she perishes; and to
This last dear object of her ruin'd
From prowling monsters, that from other hills,
More inaccessible, and wilder wastes,
Lur'd by the scent of slaughter, follow
Contending hosts, and to polluted
Add dire increase of horrors—But alas!
The Mother and the Infant perish both!— The feudal Chief, whose Gothic
Frown on the plain beneath, returning
From distant lands, alone and in disguise,
Gains at the fall of night his Castle walls,
But, at the vacant gate, no Porter
To wait his Lord's admittance!—In the
All is drear silence!—Guessing but too
The fatal truth, he shudders as he
Thro' the mute hall; where, by the blunted
That the dim moon thro' painted casements lends,
He sees that devastation has been there:
Then, while each hideous image to his
Rises terrific, o'er a bleeding
Stumbling he falls; another
His staggering feet—all, all who us'd to
With joy to meet him—all his
Lie murder'd in his way!—And the day
On a wild raving Maniac, whom a
So sudden and calamitous has
Of reason; and who round his vacant
Screams unregarded, and reproaches Heaven!—Such are thy dreadful trophies, savage War!
And evils such as these, or yet more dire,
Which the pain'd mind recoils from, all are thine—The purple Pestilence, that to the
Sends whom the sword has spar'd, is thine; and
The Widow's anguish and the Orphan's tears!—Woes such as these does Man inflict on Man;
And by the closet murderers, whom we
Wise Politicians; are the schemes prepar'd,
Which, to keep Europe's wavering balance even,
Depopulate her kingdoms, and
To tears and anguish half a bleeding world!— Oh! could the time return, when thoughts like
Spoil'd not that gay delight, which vernal Suns,
Illuminating hills, and woods, and fields,
Gave to my infant spirits—Memory come!
And from distracting cares, that now
Such scenes of all their beauty, kindly
My fancy to those hours of simple joy,
When, on the banks of Arun, which I
Make its irriguous course thro' yonder meads,
I play'd; unconscious then of future ill!
There (where, from hollows fring'd with yellow broom,
The birch with silver rind, and fairy leaf,
Aslant the low stream trembles) I have stood,
And meditated how to venture
Into the shallow current, to
The willow herb of glowing purple spikes,
Or flags, whose sword-like leaves conceal'd the tide,
Startling the timid reed-bird from her nest,
As with aquatic flowers I wove the wreath,
Such as, collected by the shepherd girls,
Deck in the villages the turfy shrine,
And mark the arrival of propitious May.—How little dream'd I then the time would come,
When the bright Sun of that delicious
Should, from disturb'd and artificial sleep,
Awaken me to never-ending toil,
To terror and to tears!—Attempting still,
With feeble hands and cold desponding heart,
To save my children from the o'erwhelming wrongs,
That have for ten long years been heap'd on me!—The fearful spectres of chicane and
Have,
Proteus like, still chang'd their hideous forms(As the Law lent its plausible disguise),
Pursuing my faint steps; and I have
Friendship's sweet bonds (which were so early form'd,)And once I fondly thought of
Inwove with silver seven times tried) give way,
And fail; as these green fan-like leaves of
Will wither at the touch of Autumn's frost.
Yet there are those , whose patient pity
Hears my long murmurs; who, unwearied,
With lenient hands to bind up every
My wearied spirit feels, and bid me go"Right onward 7 "—a calm votary of the Nymph,
Who, from her adamantine rock, points
To conscious rectitude the rugged path,
That leads at length to Peace!—Ah! yes, my
Peace will at last be mine; for in the
Is Peace—and pass a few short years, perchanceA few short months, and all the various painI now endure shall be forgotten there,
And no memorial shall remain of me,
Save in your bosoms; while even your
Shall lose its poignancy, as ye
What complicated woes that grave conceals!
But, if the little praise, that may
The Mother's efforts, should provoke the
Of Priest or Levite; and they then
The dust that cannot hear them; be it
To vindicate my humble fame; to say,
That, not in selfish sufferings absorb'd,"I gave to misery all I had, my tears 8 ."And if, where regulated
Pours her long orisons to Heaven, my
Was seldom heard, that yet my prayer was
To him who hears even silence; not in
Of human architecture, fill'd with crowds,
But on these hills, where boundless, yet distinct,
Even as a map, beneath are spread the
His bounty cloaths; divided here by woods,
And there by commons rude, or winding brooks,
While I might breathe the air perfum'd with flowers,
Or the fresh odours of the mountain turf;
And gaze on clouds above me, as they
Majestic: or remark the reddening north,
When bickering arrows of electric
Flash on the evening sky—I made my
In unison with murmuring waves that
Swell with dark tempests, now are mild and blue,
As the bright arch above; for all to
Declare omniscient goodness; nor need
Declamatory essays to
My wonder or my praise, when every
That Spring unfolds, and every simple bud,
More forcibly impresses on my
His power and wisdom—Ah! while I
That goodness, which design'd to all that
Some taste of happiness, my soul is
By the variety of woes that
For Man creates—his blessings often
To plagues and curses:
Saint-like Piety,
Misled by Superstition, has
More than Ambition; and the sacred
Of Liberty becomes a raging fire,
When Licence and Confusion bid it blaze.
From thy high throne, above yon radiant stars,
O Power Omnipotent! with mercy
This suffering globe, and cause thy creatures cease,
With savage fangs, to tear her bleeding breast:
Refrain that rage for power, that bids a Man,
Himself a worm, desire unbounded ruleO'er beings like himself:
Teach the hard
Of rulers, that the poorest hind, who
For their unrighteous quarrels, in thy
Is equal to the imperious Lord, that
His disciplin'd destroyers to the field.——May lovely Freedom, in her genuine charms,
Aided by stern but equal Justice,
From the ensanguin'd earth the hell-born
Of Pride,
Oppression,
Avarice, and Revenge,
That ruin what thy mercy made so fair!
Then shall these ill-starr'd wanderers, whose sad
These desultory lines lament,
Their native country; private vengeance
To public virtue yield; and the fierce feuds,
That long have torn their desolated land,
May (even as storms, that agitate the air,
Drive noxious vapours from the blighted earth)Serve, all tremendous as they are, to
The reign of Reason,
Liberty, and Peace!
