As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new earth!
-All cannot be: the promise is too fair For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air: Yet not for this will sober reason frown Upon that promise, nor the hope disown; She knows that only from high aims ensue Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due.
Great God! by whom the strifes of men are weighed
In an impartial balance, give thine aid
To the just cause; and, oh! do thou preside Over the mighty stream now spreading wide: So shall its waters, from the heavens supplied In copious showers, from earth by wholesome springs,
Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nilelike wings!
And grant that every sceptred child of clay Who cries presumptuous," Here the flood shall stay,"
May in its progress see thy guiding hand, And cease the acknowledged purpose to withstand;
Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore, Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more! To-night, my Friend, within this humble cot Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot In timely sleep; and when, at break of day, On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play, With a light heart our course we may renew,. The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew.
NAY, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands
Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb? What if the bee love not these barren boughs? Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. -Who he was
That piled these stones and with the mossy sod First covered, and here taught this aged Tree With its dark arms to form a circling bower, I well remember.-He was one who owned No common soul. In youth by science nursed, And led by nature into a wild scene Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth A favoured Being, knowing no desire Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, And scorn,-against all enemies prepared, All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, Owed him no service; wherefore he at once With indignation turned himself away, And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude. Stranger! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene,-how lovely 'tis Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time,
When nature had subdued him to herself, Would he forget those Beings to whose minds
Warm from the labours of benevolence
The world, and human life, appeared a scene Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh, Inly disturbed, to think that others felt What he must never feel: and so, lost Man! On visionary views would fancy feed, Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep
PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THIS POEM, PUBLISHED IN 1842.
Not less than one-third of the following poem, though it has from time to time been altered in the expression, was published so far back as the year 1798, under the title of "The Female Vagrant." The extract is of such length that an apology seems to be required for reprinting it here: but it was necessary to restore it to its original position, or the rest would have been unintelligible. The whole was written before the close of the year 1794, and I will detail, rather as a matter of literary biography than for any other reason, the circumstances under which it was produced.
And scarce could any trace of man descry, Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound;
During the latter part of the summer of 1793, having passed a month in the Isle of Wight, in view of the fleet which was then preparing for sea off Portsmouth at the commencement of the But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be war, I left the place with melancholy forebodings. The American war was still fresh in memory. The struggle which was beginning, and which many thought would be brought to a speedy close by the irresistible arms of Great Britain being added to those of the allies, I was assured in my own mind would be of long continuance, and productive of distress and misery beyond all possible calculation. This conviction was pressed upon me by having been a witness, during a long residence in revolutionary France, of the spirit which prevailed in that country. After leaving the Isle of Wight, I| spent two days in wandering on foot over Salisbury Plain, which, though cultivation was then widely spread through parts of it, had upon the whole a still more impressive appearance than it now retains.
The monuments and traces of antiquity, scattered in abundance over that region, led me unavoidably to compare what we know or guess of those remote times with certain aspects of modern society, and with calamities, principally those consequent upon war, to which, more than other classes of men, the poor are subject. In those reflections, joined with particular facts that had come to my knowledge, the following stanzas originated.
In conclusion, to obviate some distraction in the minds of those who are well acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to say, that of the features described as belonging to it, one or two are taken from other desolate parts of England.
No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; Long files of corn-stacks here and there were But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be And so he sent a feeble shout-in vain ; No voice made answer, he could only hear Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfur- rowed plain.
Long had he fancied each successive slope Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn And rest; but now along heaven's darkening
The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. Thus warned, he sought some shepherd's spread- ing thorn Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn, And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed.
And be it so-for to the chill night shower And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared; A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour Hath told; for, landing after labour hard, Full long endured in hope of just reward, He to an armèd fleet was forced away By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 'Gainst all that in his heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay.
For years the work of carnage did not cease, And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed, Death's minister; then came his glad release, And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid The happy husband flies, his arms to throw Round his wife's neck; the prize of victory laid In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know.
Vain hope! for fraud took all that he had earned. The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood Even in the desert's heart; but he, returned, Bears not to those he loves their needful food. His home approaching, but in such a mood That from his sight his children might have run, He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood; And when the miserable work was done He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun.
From that day forth no place to him could be So lonely, but that thence might come a pang Brought from without to inward misery. Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang A sound of chains along the desert rang;
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