And when their converse was disturb'd, oh, then How flat and stale it was to mix with living men! 58.
But not the less, whate'er was to be done,
With living men he took his part content,
At loom, in garden, or a-field, as one
Whose spirit, wholly on obedience bent,
To every task its prompt attention lent.
Alert in labour he among the best;
And when to church the congregation went, None more exact than he to cross his breast, And kneel, or rise, and do in all things like the rest. 59.
Cheerful he was, almost like one elate With wine, before it hath disturb'd his power Of reason. Yet he seem'd to feel the weight Of time; for always, when from yonder tower He heard the clock tell out the passing hour, The sound appeared to give him some delight; And when the evening shades began to lower, Then was he seen to watch the fading light As if his heart rejoiced at the return of night.
The old man, to whom he had been given in
To Dobrizhoffer came one day, and said,
The trouble which our youth was thought to bear
With such indifference hath deranged his head.
He says that he is nightly visited;
His Mother and his Sister come and say
That he must give this message from the dead,
Not to defer his baptism, and delay
A soul upon the earth which should no longer stay.
A dream the Jesuit deem'd it; a deceit
Upon itself by feverish fancy wrought;
A mere delusion, which it were not meet
To censure, lest the youth's distemper'd thought
Might thereby be to further error brought;
But he himself its vanity would find,-
They argued thus,-if it were noticed not.
His baptism was in fitting time design'd,
Came they to him in dreams?-he could not tell; Sleeping or waking now small difference made; For even, while he slept, he knew full well That his dear Mother and that darling Maid Both in the Garden of the Dead were laid; And yet he saw them as in life, the same, Save only that in radiant robes array'd, And round about their presence when they came There shone an effluent light as of a harmless flame.
And where he was he knew, the time, the place,
All circumstantial things to him were clear.
His own heart undisturb'd. His Mother's face
How could he choose but know; or, knowing,
fear
Her presence and that Maid's, to him more dear
Than all that had been left him now below?
Their love had drawn them from their happy
sphere;
That dearest love unchanged they came to show; And he must be baptized, and then he too might go.
With searching ken the Jesuit, while he spake
Perused him, if in countenance or tone
Aught might be found appearing to partake
Of madness. Mark of passion there was none ;
None of derangement: in his eye alone,
As from a hidden fountain emanate,
Something of an unusual brightness shone :
But neither word nor look betrayed a state
Of wandering, and his speech, though earnest,
was sedate.
Regular his pulse, from all disorder free,
The vital powers perform'd their part assign'd;
And to whate'er was ask'd collectedly
He answer'd Nothing troubled him in mind;
Why should it? Were not all around him kind?
Did not all love him with a love sincere,
And seem in serving him a joy to find?
He had no want, no pain, no grief, no fear;
The father said, and then dismiss'd it from his But he must be baptized; he could not tarry here.
But the old Indian came again ere long
With the same tale, and freely then confess'd
His doubt that he had done Yeruti wrong;
For something more than common seem'd im-
press'd;
And now he thought that certes it were best
From the youth's lips his own account to hear;
Haply the father then to his request
Might yield, regarding his desire sincere,
Nor wait for further time if there were aught to fear.
Considerately the Jesuit heard, and bade
The youth be called. Yeruti told his tale.
Nightly these blessed spirits came, he said,
To warn him he must come within the pale
Of Christ without delay; nor must he fail
This warning to their pastor to repeat,
Till the renewed entreaty should prevail.
Life's business then for him would be complete,
Thy will be done, Father in heaven who art! The pastor said, nor longer now denied ; But with a weight of awe upon his heart Enter'd the church, and there, the font beside With holy water, chrism, and salt applied, Perform'd in all solemnity the rite. His feeling was that hour with fear allied; Yeruti's was a sense of pure delight, And while he knelt his eyes seem'd larger and more bright.
His wish hath been obtain'd; and this being done,
His soul was to its full desire content.
The day in its accustom'd course pass'd on;
The Indian mark'd him ere to rest he went,
How o'er his beads, as he was wont, he bent,
And then, like one who casts all care aside,
Lay down. The old man fear'd no ill event.
When, "Ye are come for me!" Yeruti cried;
And 'twas to tell him this they left their starry seat." Yes, I am ready now!'' and instantly he died.
The following Eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, and I was induced to attempt it by what was told me of the German Idyls by my friend Mr. William Taylor of
Norwich. So far, therefore, these pieces may be deemed imitations, though I am not acquainted with the German language at present, and have never seen any translations or specimens in this kind. With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from Tityrus and Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsisses. No kind of poetry can boast of more illustrious names, or is more distinguished by the servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers, "more silly than their sheep," have, like their sheep, gone on in the same track one after another. Gay struck into a new path. His eclogues were the only ones which interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for an essay, but this is not the
OLD friend! why, you seem bent on parish duty, Breaking the highway stones,-and 'tis a task Somewhat too hard, methinks, for age like yours!
Why, yes! for one with such a weight of years
Upon his back!-I've lived here, man and boy,
In this same parish, well nigh the full age
Of man, being hard upon threescore and ten.
I can remember, sixty years ago,
The beautifying of this mansion here,
When my late Lady's father, the old Squire,
Came to the estate.
Why, then you have outlasted All his improvements, for you see they're making Great alterations here.
But 'twill be lighter and more cheerful now;
A fine smooth turf, and with a carriage road
That sweeps conveniently from gate to gate.
I like a shrubbery too, for it looks fresh ;
And then there's some variety about it.
In spring the lilac, and the snow-ball flower,
And the laburnum with its golden strings
Waving in the wind; and when the autumn comes,
The bright red berries of the mountain-ash,
With pines enough in winter to look green,
And show that something lives. Sure this is better
Than a great hedge of yew, making it look
All the year round like winter, and forever
Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under
Wither'd and bare.
[boughs,
Ay! so the new Squire thinks And pretty work he makes of it! What 'tis To have a stranger come to an old house!
It seems you know him not?
No, Sir, not I,
They tell me he's expected daily now;
But in my Lady's time he never came
But once, for they were very distant kin.
If he had play'd about here when a child
In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries,
And sate in the porch threading the jessamine
flowers,
Which fell so thick, he had not had the heart
To mar all thus!
Come! come! all is not wrong;
And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favourite dog,-
She did not love him less that he was old
And feeble, and he always had a place
By the fire-side: and when he died at last,
She made me dig a grave in the garden for him.
For she was good to all! a woful day
Well! well! you've one friend more than you're aware of.
If the Squire's taste don't suit with yours, I
That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste
'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady
Or you wouldn't ask that question. Were they
sick?
She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs
She could have taught the Doctors. Then at
When weekly she distributed the bread
In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear
The blessings on her! and I warrant them
They were a blessing to her when her wealth
Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir!
It would have warmed your heart if you had seen
Her Christmas kitchen,-how the blazing fire
Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs
So cheerful red, and as for mistletoe,-
The finest bush that grew in the country round
Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went
So bountiful about! a Christmas cask,
And 'twas a noble one,-God help me, Sir!
But I shall never see such days again.
Things may be better yet than you suppose,
And you should hope the best.
It don't look well,-
These alterations, Sir! I'm an old man,
And love the good old fashions; we don't find
Old bounty in new houses. They've destroy'd
All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk
Grubb'd up, and they do say that the great row
Of elms behind the house, which meet a-top,
They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think
To live to see all this, and 'tis perhaps
A comfort I shan't live to see it long.
But sure all changes are not needs for the worse,
My friend?
E'er broach'd a better cask. You did not know me,
But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy
To make you like the outside; but within,
That is not changed, my friend! you'll always find
The same old bounty and old welcome there.
Westbury, 1798.
HARRY! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round
The fire, and Grandmamma, perhaps, will tell us
One of her stories.
Ay-dear Gradmamma!
A pretty story! something dismal now;
A bloody murder.
Nay, nay, I should but frighten ye. You know
The other night, when I was telling ye [bled
About the light in the churchyard, how you trem-
Because the screech-owl hooted at the window.
And would not go to bed.
Why, Grandmamma. You said yourself you did not like to hear him. Pray now!-we won't be frightened.
Well, well, children But you've heard all my stories.-Let me see,Did I never tell you how the smuggler murder'd The woman down at Pill?
Not how he cut her head off in the stable?
Mayhap they mayn't, Sir;-for all that, Oh-now!-do tell us that!
I like what I've been used to. I remember
All this from a child up; and now to lose it,
'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left
As 'twas;-I go abroad, and only meet
With men whose fathers I remember boys;
The brook that used to run before my door,
You must have heard
Your mother, children! often tell of her.
She used to weed in the garden here, and worm
Your uncle's dogs, and serve the house with
coal;
That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt And glad enough she was in winter time
To climb are down; and I see nothing now
That tells me of old times, except the stones
In the churchyard. You are young, Sir, and I
hope
Have many years in store, but pray to God
You mayn't be left the last of all your friends.
To drive her asses here! It was cold work
*I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common in other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from doing any mischief, should they afterwards become mad.
To follow the slow beasts through sleet and snow;
And here she found a comfortable meal,
And a brave fire to thaw her; for poor Moll
Was always welcome.
Oh! 'twas blear-eyed Moll,
The collier woman, a great, ugly woman;
I've heard of her.
GRANDMOTHER.
Ugly enough, poor soul!
At ten yard's distance, you could hardly tell
If it were man or woman, for her voice
Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore
A man's old coat and hat :-and then her face!
There was a merry story told of her,
There was no proof; no one had seen the deed;
And he was set at liberty. But God,
Whose eye beholdeth all things, He had seen
The murder; and the murderer knew that God
Was witness to his crime. He fled the place,-
But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand
Of Heaven,-but nowhere could the murderer
rest;-
A guilty conscience haunted him; by day,
By night, in company, in solitude,
Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him
The weight of blood. Her cries were in his ears;
Her stifled groans, as when he knelt upon her,
Always he heard; always he saw her stand
How, when the press-gang came to take her Before his eyes; even in the dead of night,
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She was a terrible reprobate, and swore
Like any trooper, she was always good
To the dumb creatures; never loaded them
Beyond their strength; and rather, I believe,
Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want,
Because, she said, they could not ask for food.
I never saw her stick fall heavier on them
Than just with its own weight. She little thought
This tender-heartedness would cause her death!
There was a fellow who had oftentimes,
As if he took delight in cruelty,
Ill used her beasts. He was a man who lived
By smuggling, and, for she had often met him,
Crossing the down at night, she threaten'd him,
If ever he abused them more, to inform
Of his unlawful ways. Well-so it was-
Twas what they both were born to! he provoked
With such slow wasting, that the hour of death'
Came welcome to her. We pursued our way
To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk
Which passes o'er the mind and is forgot,
We wore away the time. But it was eve
When homewardly I went, and in the air
Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade
Which makes the eye turn inward: hearing then
Over the vale the heavy toll of death
Sound slow, it made me think upon the dead;
I question'd more, and learnt her mournful tale.
She bore unhusbanded a mother's pains,
And he who should have cherish'd her, far off
Sail'd on the seas. Left thus a wretched one,
Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues
Were busy with her name.
The sharper sorrow of neglect from him
Whom she had loved too dearly. Once he wrote;
But only once that drop of comfort came
To mingle with her cup of wretchedness;
And when his parents had some tidings from him,
There was no mention of poor Hannah there,
Or 'twas the cold enquiry, more unkind
Than silence. So she pined and pined away,
And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd;
Nor did she, even on her death-bed, rest
From labour, knitting there with lifted arms,
Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother
Omitted no kind office, working for her,
Albeit her hardest labour barely earn'd
Enough to keep life struggling, and prolong
The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay
On the sick bed of poverty, worn out
With her long suffering and those painful thoughts
Which at her heart were rankling, and so weak,
That she could make no effort to express
Affection for her infant; and the child,
Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her,
Shunn'd her as one indifferent. But she too
Had grown indifferent to all things of earth,
Finding her only comfort in the thought
Of that cold bed wherein the wretched rest.
There had she now, in that last home, been laid,
And all was over now,-sickness and grief,
Her shame, her suffering, and her penitence,-
Their work was done. The school-boys, as they
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An arm or leg-I could have borne with that.
It was no ball, Sir, but some cursed thing
Which bursts* and burns, that hurt him. Some-
thing, Sir,
They do not use on board our English ships,
It is so wicked!
TRAVELLER.
Rascals! a mean art
Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain.
Yes, Sir! and they should show no mercy to them For making use of such unchristian arms.
I had a letter from the hospital;
He got some friend to write it; and he tells me That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes, Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever live
To see this wretched day!-They tell me, Sir,
There is no cure for wounds like his.
'Tis a hard journey that I go upon
To such a dismal end.
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