Wove a black canopy of cloud, And round her flung his fable fhroud; No stars arose with changeful blaze, To cheer her path's bewilder'd maze : No moon-beams glimmering through the trees Trembled obedient to the breeze.
A while the weeping beauty flood
(Cold tremors courfing through her blood), Then screaming rufh'd, with furious tread, Along the manfions of the dead;
Where at this hour o'er mouldering graves His beard of fnow the thiftle waves. At length more calm, with looks refign'd, She check'd the tumult of her mind, Rais'd her white arms, implor'd the moon To fhed on night her placid noon, Then funk in agony of prayer, Pale kneeling monument of care!
Saw the grim night diffuse around A blacker pail upon the ground: "Alas! my fruitless prayer"-fhe cried, Sunk on the dew-cold mofs, and figh'd. O'er her fine form difaftrous Sleep Wav'd his wand wet from Lethe's deep, Dire dreams convuls'd her labouring mind, And phantoms started from behind: When, lo! through opening clouds the moon Shed o'er the vales her lucid noon, Silver'd the fable cheeks of night, And horror fmil'd at holy light. Inftant awaken'd by the glare
Of glory foft diffus'd through air,
She wonder'd much, with whom, and how,
Her fteps e'er fought thefe wilds below,
What fpirit of the midnight hour
Dragg'd her from Cona's rock-roof'd bower;
When all at once remembrance dread
Impetuous feiz'd her fhudd'ring head.
"Who comes?" fhe fhriek'd, "who hauuts this vale?
"His looks! his robes of mift! how pale!
"'Tis he! 'tis he! my life! my love! "Ye gods who hear me from above, "Tis my Hidallan!-heaven! he flies, "Drinks with unfeeling ear my cries." Thrice with impaffion'd grief the pray'd, And thrice the clafp'd the fleeting fhade; But when the faw his buoyant feet Through ether's argent realms retreat, Saw itars dim twinkle in his veft,
And moonshine glimmer through his breaft, Then with mad foot the fmote the ground, Then started at the bursting found; Wrung with wild hands her fhadowy hair, And star'd, and laugh'd with fierce despair; Thrill'd with delirious fhouts the grove, As frenzy fann'd the flames of love.
ELINOR, a BOTANY-BAY ECLOGUE.
[From POEMS by ROBERT SOUTHEY.]
NCE more to daily toil, once more to wear The weeds of infamy, from every joy
The heart can feel excluded, I arise
Worn out and faint with unremitting woe; And once again with wearied steps I trace
The hollow-founding fhore. The fwelling waves
Gleam to the morning fun, and dazzle o'er With many a fplendid hue the breezy strand,
Oh there was once a time when Elinor Gazed on thy opening beam with joyous eye Undimmed by guilt and grief! when her full foul Felt thy mild radiance, and the rifing day Waked but to pleasure! on thy fea-girt verge, Oft, England! have my evening steps stole on, Oft have mine eyes furveyed the blue expanfe, And mark'd the wild wind fwell the ruffled furge, And feen the upheaved billows' bofomed rage Ruff on the rock; and then my timid foul Shrunk at the perils of the boundless deep, And heaved a figh for fuffering mariners. Ah! little deeming I myself was doom'd To tempt the perils of the boundless deep, An outcaft-unbeloved and unbewail'd.
Why, ftern Remembrance! must thine iron hand Harrow my foul? why calls thy cruel power The fields of England to my exil'd eyes, The joys which once were mine? even now I fee The lowly lovely dwelling! even now Behold the woodbine clafping its white walls, And hear the fearless red-breafts chirp around To ask their morning meal:-for I was wont With friendly hand to give their morning meal, Was wont to love their fong, when lingering morn Streak'd o'er the chilly landfcape the dim light, And thro' the open'd lattice hung my head To view the fnow-drop's bud: and thence at eve When mildly fading funk the fammer fun, Oft have I loved to mark the rook's flow course And bear his hollow croak, what time he fought The church-yard elm, whofe wide-embowering boughs Full-foliaged, half conceal'd the houfe of God. There, my dead father! often have I heard Thy hallowed voice explain the wondrous works Of Heaven to finful man. Ah! little deem'd Thy virtuous bofom, that thy fhameless child So foon fhould fpurn the leffon! fink the flave Of vice and infamy! the hireling prey Of brutal appetite! at length worn out With famine, and the avenging fcourge of guilt, Should dare difhonefty-yet dread to die!
Welcome ye favage lands, ye barbarous climes, Where angry England fends her outcast fons I hail your joylefs fhores! my weary bark Long tempeft-toft on Life's inclement fea, M2
Here hails her haven! welcomes the drear scene, The marshy plain, the briar-entangled wood, And all the perils of a world unknown. For Elinor has nothing new to fear
From fickle Fortune! ali her rankling fhafts Barb'd with difgrace, and venom'd with disease, Have pierced my bofom, and the dart of death Has loft its terrors to a wretch like me.
Welcome ye mar fhy heaths! ye pathlefs woods, Where the rude native refts his wearied frame Beneath the fheltering fhade; where, when the ftorm, As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky, Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to feek The dripping fhelter. Welcome ye wild plains Unbroken by the plough, undelv'd by hand Of patient ruftic; where for lowing herds, And for the mufic of the bleating flocks, Alone is heard the kangaroo's fad note Deepening in diftance. Welcome ye rude climes, The realm of Nature! for as yet unknown The crimes and comforts of luxurious life, Nature benignly gives to all enough, Denies o all a fuperfluity.
What tho' the garb of infamy I wear, Tho' day by day along the echoing beach I cull the wave-worn fhells, yet day by day I earn in honefty my frugal food,
And lay me down at night to calm repofe, No more condemn'd the mercenary tool Of brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heart With Virtue's ftifled figh, to fold my arms Round the rank felon, and for daily bread To hug contagion to my poifon'd breaft; On thefe wild fhores Repentance' faviour hand Shall probe my fecret foul, fhall cleanfe its wounds, And fit the faithful penitent for Heaven.
MARY the MAID of the INN.
HO is fhe, the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes Seem a heart overcharged to exprefs?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply the fighs; She never complains, but her filence implies The compofure of fettled diftrefs.
No aid, no compaffion the Maniac will seek; Cold and hunger awake not her care:
Thro' her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor wither'd bofom half bare, and her cheek Has the deathly pale hue of defpair.
Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, Poor Mary the Maniac has been;
The traveller remembers who journeyed this way No damfel fo lovely, no damfel fo gay
As Mary the Maid of the Inn.
Her cheerful addrefs fill'd the guests with delight As the welcomed them in with a smile; Her heart was a ftranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.
She loved, and young Richard had fettled the day, And the hoped to be happy for life; But Richard was idle and worthless, and they Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and fay That he was too good for his wife.
'Twas in autumn, and ftormy and dark was the night,
And faft were the windows and door;
Two guests fat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, And fmoking in filence with tranquil delight They liften' to hear the wind roar.
""Tis pleafant," cried one, "feated by the fire-fide "To hear the wind whiftle without."
"A fine night for the Abbey !" his comrade replied, "Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried "Who fhould wander the ruins about.
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