POEMS

BY MATILDA BETHAM.

London:

PRINTED FOR J. HATCHARD, BOOKSELLER TO HER MAJESTY, OPPOSITE ALBANY, PICCADILLY.

1808.

TO LADY ROUSE BOUGHTON, AS A TESTIMONY OF RESPECT AND GRATITUDE FOR LONG CONTINUED FRIENDSHIP, THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS INSCRIBED BY HER OBLIGED HUMBLE SERVANT, MATILDA BETHAM.

New Cavendish-street,
Feb. 3, 1809.

ADVERTISEMENT.

Before this book was printed, I thoughtlessly concluded there must be a preface; but, on consideration, see no particular purpose it would answer, and gladly decline a task I should have undertaken with much timidity and reluctance. All I feel necessary to premise, is, that the tale in the Old Shepherd's Recollections is founded on an event which happened in Ireland; and that last spring I suppressed the song ending in page 65 [The Old Man's Farewell], some time after it had been in the hands of the composer, from meeting accidentally with a quotation in a magazine that resembled it.

CONTENTS.

POEMS.

THE OLD FISHERMAN.

'My bosom is chill'd with the cold,

My limbs their lost vigour deplore!

Alas! to the lonely and old,

Hope warbles her promise no more!

'Worn out with the length of my way,

I must rest me awhile on the beach,

To feel the salt dash of the spray,

If haply so far it may reach.

'As the white-foaming billows arise,

I reflect on the days that are past,

When the pride of my strength could despise

The keen-driving force of the blast.

'Though the heavens might menace on high,

I would still push my vessel from shore;

At my calling undauntedly ply,

And sing as I handled the oar.

'When fortune rewarded my toil,

And my nets, deeply-laden, I drew,

I hurried me home with the spoil,

And its inmates rejoic'd at the view.

'Though the winds and the waves were perverse,

I was sure to be welcom'd with glee;

My presence the cares would disperse,

That were only awaken'd for me.

'Whether weary, with toiling in vain,

Or gay, from abundant success,

I heard the same blessing again,—

I met the same tender caress:

'I fancied the perils repay'd,

That could such affection ensure;

By fondness and gratitude sway'd,

I was eager to dare and endure.

'My cot did each comfort contain,

And that gave my bosom delight;

When drench'd by the winterly rain,

I watch'd in my vessel at night.

'But, alas! from the tyrant, Disease,

What love or what caution can save!

A fever, more harsh than the seas,

Consign'd my poor wife to the grave.

'My children, so tenderly rear'd,

And pining for want of her care,

Though more by my sorrows endear'd,

Could not rescue my heart from despair.

'I tempted the dangers of night,

And still labour'd hard at the oar,

My sufferings appear'd to be light,

But I suffer'd with pleasure no more.

'And yet, when some seasons had roll'd,

I seem'd to awaken anew;

My children I lov'd to behold,

How tall and how comely they grew.

'My boy became hardy and bold,

His spirit was buoyant and free;

And, as I grew thoughtful and old,

Was loud and oppressive to me.

'But the girl, like a bird in the bower,

Awaken'd my hope and my pride;

She won on my heart ev'ry hour,

And I could not the preference hide.

'I mark'd the address and the care,

The manner endearing and mild,

Not dreaming those qualities rare

Were to murther the peace of my child:

'That grandeur would ever descend

To seek for so lowly a bride,

Or his fair one, a lover pretend,

From all she held dear to divide:

'That beauty was priz'd like a gem,

Expected to dazzle and shine,

Whose value the world would contemn,

Unless trac'd to some Indian mine:

'Alas! hapless girl! had I known

Thou hadst learnt to repine at thy lot;

That splendour and rank were thy own,

Thy home and thy father forgot:

'That lore and ambition assail'd,

Thou hadst left us, whatever befel!

My pardon and prayers had prevail'd,

I had blest thee, and bade thee farewel!

'With thy husband, from this happy clime,

I had seen thee for ever depart!

Still hoping affection and time

Might soften the pride of his heart:

'That a moment perhaps would arise,

When, fondling a child on the knee,

He might read, in its innocent eyes

A lesson of pity for me.

'But lips, which till then never said

A word to cause any one pain,

Inform'd me, when reason had fled,

Of a conflict it could not sustain.

'And he, who had wish'd to conceal

That the woman he lov'd had been poor,

Began all his folly to feel,

When the victim could hearken no more.

'Yet still for himself did he mourn,

And, indignant, I fled from the view:

For my wrongs were not easily borne,

And my anger was hard to subdue.

'One prop, one sole comfort, remain'd,

Who saw me o'erladen with grief,

Who saw (though I never complain'd)

My heart was too sick for relief.

'One, who always attentive and dear,

Every effort exerted to please,

My desolate prospect to cheer,

To study my health and my ease.

'For his was each toil and each care,

The due observations to keep;

To sit watching amid the night air,

And fancy his father asleep.

'Yet, dejected, and sadly forlorn,

I dar'd in my heart to repine,—

To lament that I ever was born,

Though such worth and affection were mine.

'Alas! I was destin'd to know,

However intense my despair,

I still was reserv'd for a blow,

More painful and cruel to bear.

'Yes! this only one fell in the main!

—I eagerly struggled to save;

But I strove with the current in vain,

And saw him sink under the wave!

'My head was astounded and wild,—

Incessant I roam'd on the shore,

To seek the dead corse of my child,

And to weep on his bosom once more.

'Seven days undisturb'd was the sky,

The eighth was a tempest most drear,

I saw the huge billow rise high!

I saw my lost treasure appear!

'Like a dream it seem'd passing away:—

I hurried me onward to meet,

And clasp the inanimate clay,

When senseless I sunk at his feet.

'These hands, now enfeebled by time,

The last pious offices paid!

Age sorrow'd o'er youth in its prime,

And my boy near his mother was laid.

'Now scar'd by the griefs I have known,

Wounds, apathy only can heal,

My joys and my sorrows are flown,

For I have forgotten to feel.

'But I know my Creator is just,

That his hand will deliver me soon;

I have learnt to submit and to trust,

Though I finish my journey alone.'

Aldborough, September 7, 1800.

LINES TO MRS. RADCLIFFE,

ON FIRST READING THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

Enchantress! whose transcendant pow'rs,

With ease, the massy fabric raise;—

Beneath whose sway the tempest low'rs,

Or lucid stream meänd'ring plays;—

Accept the tribute of a heart,

Which thou hast often made to glow

With transport, oft with terror start,

Or sink at strains of solemn woe!

Invention, like a falcon, tam'd

By some expert and daring hand,

For pride, for strength and fierceness fam'd,

Implicit yields to thy command.

Now mounts aloft in soaring flight,

Shoots, like a star, beyond the sight;

Or, in capricious windings borne,

Mocks our faint hopes of safe return;

Delights in trackless paths to roam,

But hears thy call, and hurries home;

Checks his bold wing when tow'ring free,

And sails, without a pause, to thee!

Enchantress, thy behests declare!

And what thy strong delusions are!

When spirits in thy circle rise,

Gaunt Wonder, panic-struck, and pale,

Impatient Hope, and dread Surmise,

Attendants on the mystic tale!

How is it, with such vivid hues,

A harmonizing softness flows!

What are the charms that can diffuse,

Such grandeur as thy pencil throws!

Say! do the nymphs of classic lore,

So simply graceful, light, and fair,

Forsake their consecrated shore,

Their hallow'd groves, and purer air?

Tir'd of the ancient Grecian loom,

And smit with Fancy's wayward glance,

Weave they amid the Gothic gloom,

The high-wrought fiction of Romance?

While the dark Genius of our northern clime,

Whose giant limbs the mist of years enshrouds,

Bursts through the veil which hides his head sublime,

And moves majestic through recoiling clouds!

O yes! they own the wond'rous spell,

And to each form their hands divine

Give, with nice art, the temper'd swell,

The chasten'd touch and faultless line!

Each fiction under their command,

Assumes an air severely true,

And, every vision, wildly grand,

Life's measur'd pace and modest hue.

Reason and fancy, rival powers!

Unite, their RADCLIFFE to befriend;

To decorate her way with flowers,

The minor graces all attend!

This piece, with the exception of a few lines, has appeared in the Athenaeum.

THE HEIR.

See yon tall stripling! how he droops forlorn!

How slow his pace! how spiritless his eye!

Like a dark cloud in summer's rosy dawn,

He saddens pleasure as he passes by.

Long kept in exile by paternal pride,

He feels no joy beneath this splendid dome;

For, till the elder child of promise died,

He knew a dearer, though a humbler home.

Then the proud sail was spread! The youth obey'd,

Left ev'ry friend, and every scene he knew;

For ever left the soul-affianc'd maid,

Though his heart sicken'd as he said—Adieu;

And nurses still, with superstitious care,

The sigh of fond remembrance and despair.

TO A LLANGOLLEN ROSE,

THE DAY AFTER IT HAD BEEN GIVEN BY MISS PONSONBY.

Soft blushing flow'r! my bosom grieves,

To view thy sadly drooping leaves:

For, while their tender tints decay,

The rose of Fancy fades away!

As pilgrims, who, with zealous care,

Some little treasur'd relic bear,

To re-assure the doubtful mind,

When pausing memory looks behind;

I, from a more enlighten'd shrine,

Had made this sweet memento mine:

But, lo! its fainting head reclines;

It folds the pallid leaf, and pines,

As mourning the unhappy doom,

Which tears it from so sweet a home!

July 22, 1799.

L'HOMME DE L'ENNUI.

Forlornly I wander, forlornly I sigh,

And droop my head sadly, I cannot tell why:

When the first breeze of morning blows fresh in my face,

As the wild-waving walks of our woodlands I trace,

Reviv'd for the moment I look all around,

But my eyes soon grow languid, and fix on the ground.

I have yet no misfortune to rob me of rest,

No love discomposes the peace of my breast;

Ambition ne'er enter'd the verge of my thought,

Nor by honours, by wealth, nor by power am I caught;

Those phantoms of folly disturb not my ease,

Yet Time is a tortoise, and Life a disease.

With the blessings of youth and of health on my side,

A temper untainted by envy or pride;

No guilt to corrode, and no foes to molest;

There are many who tell me my station is blest.

This I cannot dispute; yet without knowing why—

I feel that my bosom is big with a sigh.

Oh! why do I see that all knowledge is vain;

That Science finds Error still keep in her train;

That Imposture or Darkness, with Doubt and Surmise,

Will mislead, will perplex, and then baffle the wise,

Who often, when labours have shorten'd their span,

Declare—not to know—is the province of man?

In life, as in learning, our views are confin'd,

Our discernment too weak to discover the mind,

Which, subdued and irresolute, keeps out of sight;

Or if, for a moment, her presence delight,

Our air is too gross for the stranger to stay;

And, back to her prison she hurries away!

If my own narrow precincts I seek to explore,

My wishes how vain, my attainments how poor!

Tenacious of virtue, with caution I move;

I correct, and I wrestle, but cannot approve;

Till, bewilder'd and faint, I would yield up the rein,

But I dare not in peace with my errors remain!

With zeal all awake in the cause of a friend,