Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

LYRICAL TALES,

BY

MRS. MARY ROBINSON.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR T. N. LONGMAN AND O. REES, PATERNOSTER-ROW, BY BIGGS AND CO. BRISTOL.

1800.

CONTENTS.

ERRATA.

Page [30] line 3 for loath, read loathe.

Page [52] line 16 for long, read still.

Page [111] line 6 for negros read negroes.

Page [166] line 4 for weary read dreary.

TALES.

ALL ALONE.

I.

Ah! wherefore by the Church-yard side,

Poor little LORN ONE, dost thou stray?

Thy wavy locks but thinly hide

The tears that dim thy blue-eye’s ray;

And wherefore dost thou sigh, and moan,

And weep, that thou art left alone?

II.

Thou art not left alone, poor boy,

The Trav’ller stops to hear thy tale;

No heart, so hard, would thee annoy!

For tho’ thy mother’s cheek is pale

And withers under yon grave-stone,

Thou art not, Urchin, left alone.

III.

I know thee well! thy yellow hair

In silky waves I oft have seen;

Thy dimpled face, so fresh and fair,

Thy roguish smile, thy playful mien

Were all to me, poor Orphan, known,

Ere Fate had left thee—all alone!

IV.

Thy russet coat is scant, and torn,

Thy cheek is now grown deathly pale!

Thy eyes are dim, thy looks forlorn,

And bare thy bosom meets the gale;

And oft I hear thee deeply groan,

That thou, poor boy, art left alone.

V.

Thy naked feet are wounded sore

With thorns, that cross thy daily road;

The winter winds around thee roar,

The church-yard is thy bleak abode;

Thy pillow now, a cold grave-stone—

And there thou lov’st to grieve—alone!

VI.

The rain has drench’d thee, all night long;

The nipping frost thy bosom froze;

And still, the yewtree-shades among,

I heard thee sigh thy artless woes;

I heard thee, till the day-star shone

In darkness weep—and weep alone!

VII.

Oft have I seen thee, little boy,

Upon thy lovely mother’s knee;

For when she liv’d—thou wert her joy,

Though now a mourner thou must be!

For she lies low, where yon grave-stone

Proclaims, that thou art left alone.

VIII.

Weep, weep no more; on yonder hill

The village bells are ringing, gay;

The merry reed, and brawling rill

Call thee to rustic sports away.

Then wherefore weep, and sigh, and moan,

A truant from the throng—alone?

IX.

“I cannot the green hill ascend,

“I cannot pace the upland mead;

“I cannot in the vale attend,

“To hear the merry-sounding reed:

“For all is still, beneath yon stone,

“Where my poor mother’s left alone!

X.

“I cannot gather gaudy flowers

“To dress the scene of revels loud—

“I cannot pass the ev’ning hours

“Among the noisy village croud—

“For, all in darkness, and alone

“My mother sleeps, beneath yon stone.

XI.

“See how the stars begin to gleam

“The sheep-dog barks, ’tis time to go;—

“The night-fly hums, the moonlight beam

“Peeps through the yew-tree’s shadowy row—

“It falls upon the white grave-stone,

“Where my dear mother sleeps alone.—

XII.

“O stay me not, for I must go

“The upland path in haste to tread;

“For there the pale primroses grow

“They grow to dress my mother’s bed.—

“They must, ere peep of day, be strown,

“Where she lies mould’ring all alone.

XIII.

“My father o’er the stormy sea

“To distant lands was borne away,

“And still my mother stay’d with me

“And wept by night and toil’d by day.

“And shall I ever quit the stone

“Where she is left, to sleep alone.

XIV.

“My father died, and still I found

“My mother fond and kind to me;

“I felt her breast with rapture bound

“When first I prattled on her knee—

“And then she blest my infant tone

“And little thought of yon grave-stone.

XV.

“No more her gentle voice I hear,

“No more her smile of fondness see;

“Then wonder not I shed the tear

“She would have DIED, to follow me!

“And yet she sleeps beneath yon stone

“And I STILL LIVE—to weep alone.

XVI.

“The playful kid, she lov’d so well

“From yon high clift was seen to fall;

“I heard, afar, his tink’ling bell—

“Which seem’d in vain for aid to call—

“I heard the harmless suff’rer moan,

“And griev’d that he was left alone.

XVII.

“Our faithful dog grew mad, and died,

“The lightning smote our cottage low—

“We had no resting place beside

“And knew not whither we should go—

“For we were poor,—and hearts of stone

“Will never throb at mis’ry’s groan.

XVIII.

“My mother still surviv’d for me

“She led me to the mountain’s brow,

“She watch’d me, while at yonder tree

“I sat, and wove the ozier bough;

“And oft she cried, “fear not, MINE OWN!

“Thou shalt not, BOY, be left ALONE.”

XIX.

“The blast blew strong, the torrent rose

“And bore our shatter’d cot away;

“And, where the clear brook swiftly flows—

“Upon the turf at dawn of day,

“When bright the sun’s full lustre shone,

“I wander’d, FRIENDLESS—and ALONE!”

XX.

Thou art not, boy, for I have seen

Thy tiny footsteps print the dew,

And while the morning sky serene

Spread o’er the hill a yellow hue,

I heard thy sad and plaintive moan,

Beside the cold sepulchral stone.

XXI.

And when the summer noontide hours

With scorching rays the landscape spread,

I mark’d thee, weaving fragrant flow’rs

To deck thy mother’s silent bed!

Nor, at the church-yard’s simple stone,

Wert, thou, poor Urchin, left alone.

XXII.

I follow’d thee, along the dale

And up the woodland’s shad’wy way:

I heard thee tell thy mournful tale

As slowly sunk the star of day:

Nor, when its twinkling light had flown,

Wert thou a wand’rer, all alone.

XXIII.

“O! yes, I was! and still shall be

“A wand’rer, mourning and forlorn;

“For what is all the world to me—

“What are the dews and buds of morn?

“Since she, who left me sad, alone

“In darkness sleeps, beneath yon stone!

XXIV.

“No brother’s tear shall fall for me,

“For I no brother ever knew;

“No friend shall weep my destiny

“For friends are scarce, and tears are few;

“None do I see, save on this stone

“Where I will stay, and weep alone!

XXV.

“My Father never will return,

“He rests beneath the sea-green wave;

“I have no kindred left, to mourn

“When I am hid in yonder grave!

“Not one! to dress with flow’rs the stone;—

“Then—surely, I am left alone!”

The MISTLETOE.
A CHRISTMAS TALE.

A Farmer’s Wife, both young and gay,

And fresh as op’ning buds of May;

Had taken to herself, a Spouse,

And plighted many solemn vows,

That she a faithful mate would prove,

In meekness, duty, and in love!

That she, despising joy and wealth,

Would be, in sickness and in health,

His only comfort and his Friend—

But, mark the sequel,—and attend!

This Farmer, as the tale is told—

Was somewhat cross, and somewhat old!

His, was the wintry hour of life,

While summer smiled before his wife;

A contrast, rather form’d to cloy

The zest of matrimonial joy!

’Twas Christmas time, the peasant throng

Assembled gay, with dance and Song:

The Farmer’s Kitchen long had been

Of annual sports the busy scene;

The wood-fire blaz’d, the chimney wide

Presented seats, on either side;

Long rows of wooden Trenchers, clean,

Bedeck’d with holly-boughs, were seen;

The shining Tankard’s foamy ale

}

Gave spirits to the Goblin tale,

}

And many a rosy cheek—grew pale.

}

It happen’d, that some sport to shew

The ceiling held a Mistletoe.

A magic bough, and well design’d

To prove the coyest Maiden, kind.

A magic bough, which Druids old

Its sacred mysteries enroll’d;

And which, or gossip Fame’s a liar,

Still warms the soul with vivid fire;

Still promises a store of bliss

While bigots snatch their Idol’s kiss.

This Mistletoe was doom’d to be

The talisman of Destiny;

Beneath its ample boughs we’re told

Full many a timid Swain grew bold;

Full many a roguish eye askance

Beheld it with impatient glance,

And many a ruddy cheek confest,

The triumphs of the beating breast,

And many a rustic rover sigh’d

Who ask’d the kiss, and was denied.

First Marg’ry smil’d and gave her Lover

A Kiss; then thank’d her stars, ’twas over!

Next, Kate, with a reluctant pace,

Was tempted to the mystic place;

Then Sue, a merry laughing jade

A dimpled yielding blush betray’d;

While Joan her chastity to shew

Wish’d “the bold knaves would serve her so,”

She’d “teach the rogues such wanton play!”

And well she could, she knew the way.

The Farmer, mute with jealous care,

Sat sullen, in his wicker chair;

Hating the noisy gamesome host

Yet, fearful to resign his post;

He envied all their sportive strife

But most he watch’d his blooming wife,

And trembled, lest her steps should go,

Incautious, near the Mistletoe.

Now Hodge, a youth of rustic grace

With form athletic; manly face;

On Mistress Homespun turn’d his eye

And breath’d a soul-declaring sigh!

Old Homespun, mark’d his list’ning Fair

And nestled in his wicker chair;

Hodge swore, she might his heart command—

The pipe was dropp’d from Homespun’s hand!

Hodge prest her slender waist around;

The Farmer check’d his draught, and frown’d!

And now beneath the Mistletoe

’Twas Mistress Homespun’s turn to go;

Old Surly shook his wicker chair,

And sternly utter’d—“Let her dare!”

Hodge, to the Farmer’s wife declar’d

Such husbands never should be spar’d;

Swore, they deserv’d the worst disgrace,

That lights upon the wedded race;

And vow’d—that night he would not go

Unblest, beneath the Mistletoe.

The merry group all recommend

An harmless Kiss, the strife to end:

“Why not?” says Marg’ry, “who would fear,

“A dang’rous moment, once a year?”

Susan observ’d, that “ancient folks

“Were seldom pleas’d with youthful jokes;”

But Kate, who, till that fatal hour,

Had held, o’er Hodge, unrivall’d pow’r,

With curving lip and head aside

Look’d down and smil’d in conscious pride,

Then, anxious to conceal her care,

She humm’d—“what fools some women are!”

Now, Mistress Homespun, sorely vex’d,

By pride and jealous rage perplex’d,

And angry, that her peevish spouse

Should doubt her matrimonial vows,

But, most of all, resolved to make

An envious rival’s bosom ache;

Commanded Hodge to let her go,

Nor lead her to the Mistletoe;

“Why should you ask it o’er and o’er?”

Cried she, “we’ve been there twice before!”

’Tis thus, to check a rival’s sway,

That Women oft themselves betray;

While Vanity, alone, pursuing,

They rashly prove, their own undoing.

THE
POOR, SINGING DAME.

Beneath an old wall, that went round an old Castle,

For many a year, with brown ivy o’erspread;

A neat little Hovel, its lowly roof raising,

Defied the wild winds that howl’d over its shed:

The turrets, that frown’d on the poor simple dwelling,

Were rock’d to and fro, when the Tempest would roar,

And the river, that down the rich valley was swelling,

Flow’d swiftly beside the green step of its door.

The Summer Sun, gilded the rushy-roof slanting,

The bright dews bespangled its ivy-bound hedge

And above, on the ramparts, the sweet Birds were chanting,

And wild buds thick dappled the clear river’s edge.

When the Castle’s rich chambers were haunted, and dreary,

The poor little Hovel was still, and secure;

And no robber e’er enter’d, or goblin or fairy,

For the splendours of pride had no charms to allure.

The Lord of the Castle, a proud, surly ruler,

Oft heard the low dwelling with sweet music ring:

For the old Dame that liv’d in the little Hut chearly,

Would sit at her wheel, and would merrily sing:

When with revels the Castle’s great Hall was resounding,

The Old Dame was sleeping, not dreaming of fear;

And when over the mountains the Huntsmen were bounding

She would open her wicket, their clamours to hear.

To the merry-ton’d horn, she would dance on the threshold,

And louder, and louder, repeat her old Song:

And when Winter its mantle of Frost was displaying

She caroll’d, undaunted, the bare woods among:

She would gather dry Fern, ever happy and singing,

With her cake of brown bread, and her jug of brown beer,

And would smile when she heard the great Castle bell ringing,

Inviting the Proud—to their prodigal chear.

Thus she liv’d, ever patient and ever contented,

’Till Envy the Lord of the Castle possess’d,

For he hated that Poverty should be so chearful,

While care could the fav’rites of Fortune molest;

He sent his bold yeomen with threats to prevent her,

And still would she carol her sweet roundelay;

At last, an old Steward, relentless he sent her—

Who bore her, all trembling, to Prison away!

Three weeks did she languish, then died, broken hearted,

Poor Dame! how the death-bell did mournfully sound!

And along the green path six young Bachelors bore her,

And laid her, for ever, beneath the cold ground!

And the primroses pale, ’mid the long grass were growing,

The bright dews of twilight bespangled her grave

And morn heard the breezes of summer soft blowing

To bid the fresh flow’rets in sympathy wave.

The Lord of the Castle, from that fatal moment

When poor Singing Mary was laid in her grave,

Each night was surrounded by Screech-owls appalling,

Which o’er the black turrets their pinions would wave!

On the ramparts that frown’d on the river, swift flowing,

They hover’d, still hooting a terrible song,

When his windows would rattle, the Winter blast blowing,

They would shriek like a ghost, the dark alleys among!

Wherever he wander’d they followed him crying,

At dawnlight, at Eve, still they haunted his way!

When the Moon shone across the wide common, they hooted,

Nor quitted his path, till the blazing of day.

His bones began wasting, his flesh was decaying,

And he hung his proud head, and he perish’d with shame;

And the tomb of rich marble, no soft tear displaying,

O’ershadows the grave, of The Poor Singing Dame!

MISTRESS GURTON’s CAT.
A DOMESTIC TALE.

Old Mistress Gurton had a Cat,

A Tabby, loveliest of the race,

Sleek as a doe, and tame, and fat

With velvet paws, and whisker’d face;

The Doves of Venus not so fair,

Nor JUNO’s Peacocks half so grand

As Mistress Gurton’s Tabby rare,

The proudest of the purring band;

So dignified in all her paces—

She seem’d, a pupil of the Graces!

There never was a finer creature

In all the varying whims of Nature!

All liked Grimalkin, passing well!

Save Mistress Gurton, and, ’tis said,

She oft with furious ire would swell,

When, through neglect or hunger keen,

Puss, with a pilfer’d scrap, was seen,

Swearing beneath the pent-house shed:

For, like some fav’rites, she was bent

On all things, yet with none content;

And still, whate’er her place or diet,

She could not pick her bone, in quiet.

Sometimes, new milk Grimalkin stole,

And sometimes—over-set the bowl!

For over eagerness will prove,

Oft times the bane of what we love;

And sometimes, to her neighbour’s home,

Grimalkin, like a thief would roam,

Teaching poor Cats, of humbler kind,

For high example sways the mind!

Sometimes she paced the garden wall,

Thick guarded by the shatter’d pane,

And lightly treading with disdain,

Fear’d not Ambition’s certain fall!

Old China broke, or scratch’d her Dame

And brought domestic friends to shame!

And many a time this Cat was curst,

Of squalling, thieving things, the worst!

Wish’d Dead! and menanc’d with a string,

For Cats of such scant Fame, deserv’d to swing!

One day, report, for ever busy,

Resolv’d to make Dame Gurton easy;

A Neighbour came, with solemn look,

And thus, the dismal tidings broke.

“Know you, that poor Grimalkin died

“Last night, upon the pent-house side?

“I heard her for assistance call;

“I heard her shrill and dying squall!

“I heard her, in reproachful tone,

“Pour, to the stars, her feeble groan!

“Alone, I heard her piercing cries—

“With not a Friend, to close her Eyes!”

“Poor Puss! I vow it grieves me sore,

“Never to see thy beauties more!

“Never again to hear thee purr,

“To stroke thy back, of Zebra fur;

“To see thy emral’d eyes—so bright,

}

“Flashing around their lustrous light

}

“Amid the solemn shades of night!

}

“Methinks I see her pretty paws—

“As gracefully she paced along;

“I hear her voice, so shrill, among

“The chimney rows! I see her claws,

“While, like a Tyger, she pursued

“Undauntedly the pilf’ring race;

“I see her lovely whisker’d face

“When she her nimble prey subdued!

“And then, how she would frisk, and play,

“And purr the Evening hours away:

“Now stretch’d beside the social fire;

“Now on the sunny lawn, at noon,

“Watching the vagrant Birds that flew,

“Across the scene of varied hue,

“To peck the Fruit. Or when the Moon

“Stole o’er the hills, in silv’ry suit,

“How would she chaunt her lovelorn Tale

“Soft as the wild Eolian Lyre!

“’Till ev’ry brute, on hill, in dale,

“Listen’d with wonder mute!”

“O! Cease!” exclaim’d Dame Gurton, straight,

“Has my poor Puss been torn away?

“Alas! how cruel is my fate,

“How shall I pass the tedious day?

“Where can her mourning mistress find

“So sweet a Cat? so meek! so kind!

“So keen a mouser, such a beauty,

“So orderly, so fond, so true,

“That every gentle task of duty

“The dear, domestic creature knew!

“Hers, was the mildest tend’rest heart!

“She knew no little cattish art;

“Not cross, like fav’rite Cats, was she

“But seem’d the queen of Cats to be!

“I cannot live—since doom’d, alas! to part

“From poor Grimalkin kind, the darling of my heart!”

And now Dame Gurton, bath’d in tears,

With a black top-knot vast, appears:

Some say that a black gown she wore,

As many oft have done before,

For Beings, valued less, I ween,

Than this, of Tabby Cats, the fav’rite Queen!

But lo! soon after, one fair day,

Puss, who had only been a roving—

Across the pent-house took her way,

To see her Dame, so sad, and loving;

Eager to greet the mourning fair

She enter’d by a window, where

A China bowl of luscious cream

Was quiv’ring in the sunny beam.

Puss, who was somewhat tired and dry,

And somewhat fond of bev’rage sweet;

Beholding such a tempting treat,

Resolved its depth to try.

She saw the warm and dazzling ray

Upon the spotless surface play:

She purr’d around its circle wide,

And gazed, and long’d, and mew’d and sigh’d!

But Fate, unfriendly, did that hour controul,

She overset the cream, and smash’d the gilded bowl!

As Mistress Gurton heard the thief,

She started from her easy chair,

And, quite unmindful of her grief,

Began aloud to swear!

“Curse that voracious beast!” she cried,

“Here Susan, bring a cord—

I’ll hang the vicious, ugly creature—

The veriest plague e’er form’d by nature!”

And Mistress Gurton kept her word—

And Poor Grimalkin—Died!

Thus, often, we with anguish sore

The dead, in clam’rous grief deplore;

Who, were they once alive again

Would meet the sting of cold disdain!

For Friends, whom trifling faults can sever,

Are valued most, WHEN LOST FOR EVER!

The LASCAR.
IN TWO PARTS.

I.

“Another day, Ah! me, a day

“Of dreary Sorrow is begun!

“And still I loathe the temper’d ray,

“And still I hate the sickly Sun!

“Far from my Native Indian shore,

“I hear our wretched race deplore;

“I mark the smile of taunting Scorn,

“And curse the hour, when I was born!

“I weep, but no one gently tries

“To stop my tear, or check my sighs;

“For, while my heart beats mournfully,

“Dear Indian home, I sigh for Thee!

II.

“Since, gaudy Sun! I see no more

“Thy hottest glory gild the day;

“Since, sever’d from my burning shore,

“I waste the vapid hours away;

“O! darkness come! come, deepest gloom!

“Shroud the young Summer’s op’ning bloom;

“Burn, temper’d Orb, with fiercer beams

“This northern world! and drink the streams

“That thro’ the fertile vallies glide

“To bathe the feasted Fiends of Pride!

“Or, hence, broad Sun! extinguish’d be!

“For endless night encircles Me!

III.

“What is, to me, the City gay?

“And what, the board profusely spread?

“I have no home, no rich array,

“No spicy feast, no downy bed!

“I, with the dogs am doom’d to eat,

“To perish in the peopled street,

“To drink the tear of deep despair;

“The scoff and scorn of fools to bear!

“I sleep upon a bed of stone,

“I pace the meadows, wild—alone!

“And if I curse my fate severe,

“Some Christian Savage mocks my tear!

IV.

“Shut out the Sun, O! pitying Night!

“Make the wide world my silent tomb!

“O’ershade this northern, sickly light,

“And shroud me, in eternal gloom!

“My Indian plains, now smiling glow,

“There stands my Parent’s hovel low,

“And there the tow’ring aloes rise

“And fling their perfumes to the skies!

“There the broad palm Trees covert lend,

“There Sun and Shade delicious blend;

“But here, amid the blunted ray,

“Cold shadows hourly cross my way!

V.

“Was it for this, that on the main

“I met the tempest fierce and strong,

“And steering o’er the liquid plain,

“Still onward, press’d the waves among?

“Was it for this, the Lascar brave

“Toil’d, like a wretched Indian Slave;

“Preserv’d your treasures by his toil,

“And sigh’d to greet this fertile soil?

“Was it for this, to beg, to die,

“Where plenty smiles, and where the Sky

“Sheds cooling airs; while fev’rish pain,

“Maddens the famish’d Lascar’s brain?

VI.

“Oft, I the stately Camel led,

“And sung the short-hour’d night away;

“And oft, upon the top-mast’s head,

“Hail’d the red Eye of coming day.

“The Tanyan’s back my mother bore;

“And oft the wavy Ganges’ roar

“Lull’d her to rest, as on she past—

“’Mid the hot sands and burning blast!

“And oft beneath the Banyan tree

“She sate and fondly nourish’d me;

“And while the noontide hour past slow,

“I felt her breast with kindness glow.

VII.

“Where’er I turn my sleepless eyes,

“No cheek so dark as mine, I see;

“For Europe’s Suns, with softer dyes

“Mark Europe’s favour’d progeny!

“Low is my stature, black my hair,

“The emblem of my Soul’s despair!

“My voice no dulcet cadence flings,

“To touch soft pity’s throbbing strings!

“Then wherefore cruel Briton, say,

“Compel my aching heart to stay?

“To-morrow’s Sun—may rise, to see—

“The famish’d Lascar, blest as thee!”

VIII.

The morn had scarcely shed its rays

When, from the City’s din he ran;

For he had fasted, four long days,

And faint his Pilgrimage began!

The Lascar, now, without a friend,—

Up the steep hill did slow ascend;

Now o’er the flow’ry meadows stole,

While pain, and hunger, pinch’d his Soul;

And now his fev’rish lip was dried,

And burning tears his thirst supply’d,

And, ere he saw the Ev’ning close,

Far off, the City dimly rose!

IX.

Again the Summer Sun flam’d high

The plains were golden, far and wide;

And fervid was the cloudless sky,

And slow the breezes seem’d to glide:

The gossamer, on briar and spray,

Shone silv’ry in the solar ray;

And sparkling dew-drops, falling round

Spangled the hot and thirsty ground;

The insect myriads humm’d their tune

To greet the coming hour of noon,

While the poor Lascar Boy, in haste,

Flew, frantic, o’er the sultry waste.

X.

And whither could the wand’rer go?

Who would receive a stranger poor?

Who, when the blasts of night should blow,

Would ope to him the friendly door?

Alone, amid the race of man,

The sad, the fearful alien ran!

None would an Indian wand’rer bless;

None greet him with the fond caress;

None feed him, though with hunger keen

He at the Lordly gate were seen,

Prostrate, and humbly forc’d to crave

A shelter, for an Indian Slave.

XI.

The noon-tide Sun, now flaming wide,

No cloud its fierce beam shadow’d o’er,

But what could worse to him betide

Than begging, at the proud man’s door?

For clos’d and lofty was the gate,

And there, in all the pride of State,

A surly Porter turn’d the key,

A man of sullen soul was he—

His brow was fair; but in his eye

Sat pamper’d scorn, and tyranny;

And, near him, a fierce mastiff stood,

Eager to bathe his fangs in blood.

XII.

The weary Lascar turn’d away,

For trembling fear his heart subdued,

And down his cheek the tear would stray,

Though burning anguish drank his blood!

The angry Mastiff snarl’d, as he

Turn’d from the house of luxury;

The sultry hour was long, and high

The broad sun flamed athwart the sky—

But still a throbbing hope possess’d

The Indian wand’rer’s fev’rish breast,

When from the distant dell a sound

Of swelling music echo’d round.

XIII.

It was the church-bell’s merry peal;

And now a pleasant house he view’d:

And now his heart began to feel

As though, it were not quite subdu’d!

No lofty dome, shew’d loftier state,

No pamper’d Porter watch’d the gate,

No Mastiff, like a tyrant stood,

Eager to scatter human blood;

Yet the poor Indian wand’rer found,

E’en where Religion smil’d around—

That tears had little pow’r to speak

When trembling, on a sable cheek!

XIV.

With keen reproach, and menace rude,

The Lascar Boy away was sent;

And now again he seem’d subdu’d,

And his soul sicken’d, as he went.

Now, on the river’s bank he stood;

Now, drank the cool refreshing flood;

Again his fainting heart beat high;

Again he rais’d his languid eye;

Then, from the upland’s sultry side,

Look’d back, forgave the wretch, and sigh’d!

While the proud Pastor bent his way

To preach of Charity—and Pray!

PART SECOND.

I.

The Lascar Boy still journey’d on,

For the hot Sun, HE well could bear,

And now the burning hour was gone,

And Evening came, with softer air!

The breezes kiss’d his sable breast,

While his scorch’d feet the cold dew prest;

The waving flow’rs soft tears display’d,

And songs of rapture fill’d the glade;

The South-wind quiver’d, o’er the stream

Reflecting back the rosy beam,

While, as the purpling twilight clos’d,

On a turf bed—the Boy repos’d!

II.

And now, in fancy’s airy dream,

The Lascar Boy his Mother spied;

And, from her breast, a crimson stream

Slow trickled down her beating side:

And now he heard her wild, complain,

As loud she shriek’d—but shriek’d in vain!

And now she sunk upon the ground,

The red stream trickling from her wound,

And near her feet a murd’rer stood,

His glitt’ring poniard tipp’d with blood!

And now, “farewell, my son!” she cried,

Then clos’d her fainting eyes—and died!

III.

The Indian Wand’rer, waking, gaz’d

With grief, and pain, and horror wild;

And tho’ his fev’rish brain was craz’d,

He rais’d his eyes to Heav’n, and smil’d!

And now the stars were twinkling clear,

And the blind Bat was whirling near;

And the lone Owlet shriek’d, while He

Still sate beneath a shelt’ring tree;

And now the fierce-ton’d midnight blast

Across the wide heath, howling past,

When a long cavalcade he spied

By torch-light near the river’s side.

IV.

He rose, and hast’ning swiftly on,

Call’d loudly to the Sumptuous train,—

But soon the cavalcade was gone—

And darkness wrapp’d the scene again.

He follow’d still the distant sound;

He saw the lightning flashing round;

He heard the crashing thunder roar;

He felt the whelming torrents pour;

And, now beneath a shelt’ring wood

He listen’d to the tumbling flood—

And now, with falt’ring, feeble breath,

The famish’d Lascar, pray’d for Death.

V.

And now the flood began to rise

And foaming rush’d along the vale;

The Lascar watch’d, with stedfast eyes,

The flash descending quick and pale;

And now again the cavalcade

Pass’d slowly near the upland glade;—

But He was dark, and dark the scene,

The torches long extinct had been;

He call’d, but, in the stormy hour,

His feeble voice had lost its pow’r,

’Till, near a tree, beside the flood,

A night-bewilder’d Trav’ller stood.

VI.

The Lascar now with transport ran

“Stop! stop!” he cried—with accents bold;

The Trav’ller was a fearful man—

And next his life he priz’d his gold!—

He heard the wand’rer madly cry;

He heard his footsteps following nigh;

He nothing saw, while onward prest,

Black as the sky, the Indian’s breast;

’Till his firm grasp he felt, while cold

Down his pale cheek the big drop roll’d;

Then, struggling to be free, he gave—

A deep wound to the Lascar Slave.

VII.

And now he groan’d, by pain opprest,

And now crept onward, sad and slow:

And while he held his bleeding breast,

He feebly pour’d the plaint of woe!

“What have I done?” the Lascar cried—

“That Heaven to me the pow’r denied

“To touch the soul of man, and share

“A brother’s love, a brother’s care;

“Why is this dingy form decreed

“To bear oppression’s scourge and bleed?—

“Is there a God, in yon dark Heav’n,

“And shall such monsters be forgiv’n?

VIII.

“Here, in this smiling land we find

“Neglect and mis’ry sting our race;

“And still, whate’er the Lascar’s mind,

“The stamp of sorrow marks his face!”

He ceas’d to speak; while from his side

Fast roll’d life’s swiftly-ebbing tide,

And now, though sick and faint was he,

He slowly climb’d a tall Elm tree,

To watch, if, near his lonely way,

Some friendly Cottage lent a ray,

A little ray of chearful light,

To gild the Lascar’s long, long night!

IX.

And now he hears a distant bell,

His heart is almost rent with joy!

And who, but such a wretch can tell,

The transports of the Indian boy?

And higher now he climbs the tree,

And hopes some shelt’ring Cot to see;

Again he listens, while the peal

Seems up the woodland vale to steal;

The twinkling stars begin to fade,

And dawnlight purples o’er the glade—

And while the sev’ring vapours flee,

The Lascar boy looks chearfully!

X.

And now the Sun begins to rise

Above the Eastern summit blue;

And o’er the plain the day-breeze flies,

And sweetly bloom the fields of dew!

The wand’ring wretch was chill’d, for he

Sate, shiv’ring in the tall Elm tree;

And he was faint, and sick, and dry,

And bloodshot was his fev’rish eye;

And livid was his lip, while he

Sate silent in the tall Elm tree—

And parch’d his tongue; and quick his breath,

And his dark cheek, was cold as Death!

XI.

And now a Cottage low he sees,

The chimney smoke, ascending grey,

Floats lightly on the morning breeze

And o’er the mountain glides away.

And now the Lark, on flutt’ring wings,

Its early Song, delighted sings;

And now, across the upland mead,

The Swains their flocks to shelter lead;

The shelt’ring woods, wave to and fro;

The yellow plains, far distant, glow;

And all things wake to life and joy,

All! but the famish’d Indian Boy!

XII.

And now the village throngs are seen,

Each lane is peopled, and the glen

From ev’ry op’ning path-way green,

Sends forth the busy hum of men.

They cross the meads, still, all alone,

They hear the wounded Lascar groan!

Far off they mark the wretch, as he

Falls, senseless, from the tall Elm tree!

Swiftly they cross the river wide

And soon they reach the Elm tree’s side,

But, ere the sufferer they behold,

His wither’d Heart, is DEAD,—and COLD!

THE
WIDOW’s HOME.

Close on the margin of a brawling brook

That bathes the low dell’s bosom, stands a Cot;

O’ershadow’d by broad Alders. At its door

A rude seat, with an ozier canopy

Invites the weary traveller to rest.

’Tis a poor humble dwelling; yet within,

The sweets of joy domestic, oft have made

The long hour not unchearly, while the Moor

Was covered with deep snow, and the bleak blast

Swept with impetuous wing the mountain’s brow!

On ev’ry tree of the near shelt’ring wood

The minstrelsy of Nature, shrill and wild,

Welcomes the stranger guest, and carolling

Love-songs, spontaneous, greets him merrily.

The distant hills, empurpled by the dawn

And thinly scatter’d with blue mists that float

On their bleak summits dimly visible,

Skirt the domain luxuriant, while the air

Breathes healthful fragrance. On the Cottage roof

The gadding Ivy, and the tawny Vine

Bind the brown thatch, the shelter’d winter-hut

Of the tame Sparrow, and the Red-breast bold.

There dwells the Soldier’s Widow! young and fair

Yet not more fair than virtuous. Every day

She wastes the hour-glass, waiting his return,—

And every hour anticipates the day,

(Deceiv’d, yet cherish’d by the flatt’rer hope)

When she shall meet her Hero. On the Eve

Of Sabbath rest, she trims her little hut

With blossoms, fresh and gaudy, still, herself

The queen-flow’r of the garland! The sweet Rose

Of wood-wild beauty, blushing thro’ her tears.

One little Son she has, a lusty Boy,

The darling of her guiltless, mourning heart,

The only dear and gay associate

Of her lone widowhood. His sun-burnt cheek

Is never blanch’d with fear, though he will climb

The broad oak’s branches, and with brawny arm

Sever the limpid wave. In his blue eye

Beams all his mother’s gentleness of soul;

While his brave father’s warm intrepid heart

Throbs in his infant bosom. ’Tis a wight

Most valourous, yet pliant as the stem

Of the low vale-born lily, when the dew

Presses its perfum’d head. Eight years his voice

Has chear’d the homely hut, for he could lisp

Soft words of filial fondness, ere his feet

Could measure the smooth path-way.

On the hills

He watches the wide waste of wavy green

Tissued with orient lustre, till his eyes

Ache with the dazzling splendour, and the main,

Rolling and blazing, seems a second Sun!

And, if a distant whitening sail appears,

Skimming the bright horizon while the mast

Is canopied with clouds of dappled gold,

He homeward hastes rejoicing. An old Tree

Is his lone watch-tow’r; ’tis a blasted Oak

Which, from a vagrant Acorn, ages past,

Sprang up, to triumph like a Savage bold

Braving the Season’s warfare. There he sits

Silent and musing the still Evening hour,

’Till the short reign of Sunny splendour fades

At the cold touch of twilight. Oft he sings;

Or from his oaten pipe, untiring pours

The tune mellifluous which his father sung,

When HE could only listen.

On the sands

That bind the level sea-shore, will he stray,

When morn unlocks the East, and flings afar

The rosy day-beam! There the boy will stop

To gather the dank weeds which ocean leaves

On the bleak strand, while winter o’er the main

Howls its nocturnal clamour. There again

He chaunts his Father’s ditty. Never more

Poor mountain minstrel, shall thy bosom throb

To the sweet cadence! never more thy tear

Fall as the dulcet breathings give each word

Expression magical! Thy Father, Boy,

Sleeps on the bed of death! His tongue is mute,

His fingers have forgot their pliant art,

His oaten pipe will ne’er again be heard

Echoing along the valley! Never more

Will thy fond mother meet the balmy smile

Of peace domestic, or the circling arm

Of valour, temper’d by the milder joys

Of rural merriment. His very name

Is now forgotten! for no trophied tomb

Tells of his bold exploits; such heraldry

Befits not humble worth: For pomp and praise

Wait in the gilded palaces of Pride

To dress Ambition’s Slaves. Yet, on his grave,

The unmark’d resting place of Valour’s Sons,

The morning beam shines lust’rous; The meek flow’r

Still drops the twilight tear, and the night breeze

Moans melancholy music!

Then, to Me,

O! dearer far is the poor Soldier’s grave,

The Widow’s lone and unregarded Cot,

The brawling Brook, and the wide Alder-bough,

The ozier Canopy, and plumy choir,

Hymning the Morn’s return, than the rich Dome

Of gilded Palaces! and sweeter far—

O! far more graceful! far more exquisite,

The Widow’s tear bathing the living rose,

Than the rich ruby, blushing on the breast,

Of guilty greatness. Welcome then to me—

The Widow’s lowly home: The Soldier’s HEIR;

The proud inheritor of Heav’n’s best gifts—

The mind unshackled—and the guiltless Soul!

THE
SHEPHERD’s DOG.

I.

A Shepherd’s Dog there was; and he

Was faithful to his master’s will,

For well he lov’d his company,

Along the plain or up the hill;

All Seasons were, to him, the same

Beneath the Sun’s meridian flame;

Or, when the wintry wind blew shrill and keen,

Still the Old Shepherd’s Dog, was with his Master seen.

II.

His form was shaggy clothed; yet he

Was of a bold and faithful breed;

And kept his master company

In smiling days, and days of need;

When the long Ev’ning slowly clos’d,

When ev’ry living thing repos’d,

When e’en the breeze slept on the woodlands round,

The Shepherd’s watchful Dog, was ever waking found.

III.

All night, upon the cold turf he

Contented lay, with list’ning care;

And though no stranger company,

Or lonely traveller rested there;

Old Trim was pleas’d to guard it still,

For ’twas his aged master’s will;—

And so pass’d on the chearful night and day,

’Till the poor Shepherd’s Dog, was very old, and grey.

IV.

Among the villagers was he

Belov’d by all the young and old,

For he was chearful company,

When the north-wind blew keen and cold;

And when the cottage scarce was warm,

While round it flew, the midnight storm,

When loudly, fiercely roll’d the swelling tide—

The Shepherd’s faithful Dog, crept closely by his side.