Hollinger Corp. pH8.5 PR 3991 I. PI R45 , , ^^^^ Copy 1 li E T u R :j^ OP ■FITZOSBERT, A P O E M. THREE B -O O K S. *— — ■ GO. I N Q U I R (3 Oy NATUP, E, AKENSIDE. PRINTED BY AND FORB. FLOU'ER?: AND SOLD BY CROSBY AND CO. AVE-MARiA LANE, AND CQND£R,-BUCKLERSBURY, LQl^DOK, 1803. fP/?>c Two Shillin^s.'J. loso tK?tVr u ^k F R E FA C K IF poetic merit depends solelj/ on tJte Jiarmo*- nious disposition of syllables, the return" of PiTzosBERT will not confer celebrity on its author. The language, though sometimes strong, is far from being uniformly smooth; too frequently, if not genC' rally, harsh. There are perhaps too many instances ofjiegligent and prosaic versification; although some fezo unstudied lines may be found, zvhere pomp of language zeould be a blemish. Although the author is a tradesman, he is not by trade a poet : he is a young man, uneducated, and who has little acguain" tance zi)ith literature ; and, in offering to the public this metrical fiction, he pleads youth and disadvan- ( i^ ) tiiges in extenuation of its faults. If it shall be found to possess no sterling excellence, he zvill oyily lose the cost of publication, zohih the pleasure he enjoyed' i0tomposing it, ampli/ repays^ him for t/i$. labour.^ THE RETURN F I T Z O S B E R T, BOOK I. J[, on the pleasant banks of DuN.N/felate i In artless' verse, how, from his country dragg'd ] By cruel men, and having wander'd long \ O'er the vast deep disconsolate, at Icng^th J FirzosBERT to his native fields returned. j Mauritius lonely! on thy fragrant shor^, \ With shatter'd cordage, and with stornvtorn suils^^ Anchor'd.the war ship Neptune. Beautiful '\ The wild liana's crimson loveliness. The persian lilac's lofty grey-nued boughs, 1 The pendent snow-bloom of -the aga this, i Tho Indian fig with yellow flowers red-stain'd^ v' The high calbasia, tl;e fresh tamarin'dj Most beautiful to the o'er-wearied crew, i " B ; ( 6 ) Long by tlie wrath of furious tempests driv'ii O'er seas immense. The sailors ihrongM the deck. Oh ! with what transport gaz'd they on thy meads. Thy vales prolific, thy cloud-catching heights. Thy wild woods waving wide ! They wept for joy. And with their eyes devour'd thee. Isle retir'd. Thou hermit of the seal Forth from the ship Theyrush'd tumultuous : some from drooping bough* Pluck'd summer fruits, some shouted to the sky ; While otheifs of the chrystal torrent drank. And others, kneehng, than k'd the holy one. That yet they liv'd to thank him, and exclaim'd Oh, father! yet defend us, yet protect Our else defenceless wives and little ones. And let us tread once more on English ground ! Were there not many broken-hearted men Among them : men whom lawless power had torn From friends and home ? Yea, and among them one, FiTzosBERT, stoop'd to sorrow, till his cheek Was of the colour of that sallow leaf. Which the smooth beech flings to th' autumnal wind; Young was Fitzosbert, young and passionate: There was a sometliing in his lightening look. ( 7 ) A restless^ fearless, instant etieig\', Thatseem'd to say, — ^*l can, because T will/' : ■1 lie seldom spoke, but, when he spoke, it wa^ With rapid force, and speaking would upraise ^1 Or drop his hand, wiiile in his countenance ■; i The eye might read his soul. Slowly he mov'd^ i His joy-wingM breth'ren left him far behind, i A'ld, passing saw him not : slowly he mov'd, ; And seem'd to heed not whither, till he mark'd ; A blooming primrose near him, haply^ there ;. By some European planted long before, .i And oft', with more than fondness visited. -| Now, when Fitzosbert saw that lowly flower, '| Remembering divStant England, he did weep ! ,| Him fi'om the vessel foIlowM, unperceiv'd, | Williams, a youth form'd for high enterprise. ' Determination in his sable eye ~! Look'd onward: his features harsh, ! Severe, expressive of austerity, ''. Mingled with sorrow and with gentleness. ] Herbert the base, of Cornw^all was his sire^ | And &lie who bore him was, an Irish girl, J5 2 ( 8 ) Sally the maniac. On the heaths of Cork, Her Herbert met: descended, mix'd with snow/ Rain, and the winds of winter from on high Kipp'd forests: Herbert, mad with lust. Close in his strong arms lock'd her; and the fruit Of that embrace was Williams. Wretched Wil- liams! He never knew his father: wretclied Williams, Born in the storm, and doom'd in storms to die! Yet, if the noblest gifts of nature, strength Of soul and body, can make mortals blest. Not wretched! Williams, child of accident, Was not, like poor Fitzosbert, passion^s slave. No, he was firm. Lis soul was adamant. And, when he once determin'd, nought could shake His resolution. Valour was his God! Valour his fault; for he w^as more than bold. And yet he lav'd Fitzosbert. Why ? Because Fitzosbert was like him, unfortunate. Shall I relate his sorrows? First, he slew His bosom friend O'bryen ; once they walk'd Along the banks of Shannon, musquet-armVI, And many a coot, and many a widgeon shot,. When, lo! the poor O'BfwYen croucliM beneath ( 9 ) j A bank of reeds to watch the timid game: ' Williams^ meantime^, levell'd above the reeds i His fowhng-piece^ and, as the leaden death \ Wizz'd thro' the air_, his hapless friend arose : The bullet pierc'd the youth, and from that hour The brow of Williams wore the frown of care, - Was this the period of his sorrows? No. Suspecting none who wor<^ the human form^ i He gave his heart to all men, and engag'd ^ In commerce, with a man of manv words, I Whose soul was in his warehouse* Soon this man, ■ Collecting their joint property, elop'd. And gave his friend to ruin. W^illiams bore , With manly patience this calamily. . Alas! he had not drain'd the cup of woef i He heard his country groan, he saw lier writhe ] Beneath the feet of desolating: wronsr. ' Dear land of devastation, he exclaim'd, * Shall I not fight for thee the glorious fight? j < I war for Ireland and for Liberty.' : Grasping the pike of insurrection, he Sprang to th^ field of slaughter, desperate. ] B3 ; ( 10 ) But Right was cmsh'd by Poweh. Wounded he fell Amid the dead, and seem'd a dead man there. The victor foe, cruelly merciful, Dragg'd him from lov'd Hibernia to the deep. And bade him be a naval murderer ! Who shall contend with stroug-arm'd circumstance? Shall worth, shall talent? They are impotent To combat with the many weapon'd one. All powerful to depress or to exalt. FiTzosBEET, bending o'er the primrose, shed The joyous tear, Williams approaching plac'd His right hand on the shoulder of the youth. And thus address'd him :— ^Shedd'st thou tears of joy, * Because thou see'st the flower of Europe here? 'FiTzosBERT, thou shalt see the [^imrose bloom ' In England ; but my feet must ptess no more *■ The daisie'd turf ( f I r el an d. Weeping youth,. ^ Thou may'st be happy, but I must be wretched ; ' Happy ?^ exclaimM FiTiiOSBERT, 'flatt'rer cease ! * Am I not fortune's outcast ? — Curs'd be they 'Who, at the ruffian's bidding, from my home * Dragg'd me, to fight their wars of wickedness! ' Muv thev be curs'd, aye, curs'd as they are bn>c'' ( 11 > His nostrils swell'd, his large eye flamed with rage, Wliile every feature^ all his limbs, expressed Tumultuous passion, till at length he fell Prostrate to earth, and mix'd his tears with blood. WiLLiAisis iiprais'dhim : ^mourn no more/ he said : ' NatiiJ*e is fair, Fitzosbert, fair and gay; ' Therefore, arise and laugh, aiise and snatch * The present good : fleet are the steps of time ! ^ Oh! feast thine eye with beauty, gaze around I * Sure in this island I till death could dwell, ' And envy not the peopled continent. * How lovely is this valley 1 Yonder, see ' The mighty ocean ; lawns and meadows here; ^ There, and before us, mountains forest-clad> * In alpine loftiness : woods bej'ond woods 'Appear, and rising and receding, fade ' In the dimthaze of distance and of height.^ ' Come, let us climb the mountains, see from then c^ ' The isle intire, seas beyond distant isles. * Now, wilt thou climb the mountains, wilt thou tber<: * Relate to me ihe story of thy wrongs V They onward? walk'd, and reach'd a rapid stream Deep was the stream and high and wild the baiVks, ( 12 ) And tall the trees and beautiful the flowers^. Forth from a grove^ impenetrably dark. That waving slow and solemn on high crags, Fill'd the deep glen with awe, the river rush'd Down precipices huge, tremendous steps, With awful force : the loudness of the fall, "Was like the roUing thunder, like the shout Of multitudes, likejhe hollow sound Of armies marching to the field of blood, ' We must ascend above the cataract,' Williams exclaim'd. Slowly and painfully They climb'd the rugged rocks. At length they gain'd The summit, look'd beneath : — it was a view Of rude and terrible sublimity! Rocks seem'd to tremble, up arose the foam, M^d was the water in the vale below. Above the cataract two fallen trees Extended lay, a narrow, dreadful bridge ! FiTzosBERT paus'd, and shuddered, and drew back. And, gaaing down wards, reeFd; butWiLLiAMS look'd Scornfully, grasp'd Fitzosbert's hand, and said — ' Pale coward, how he shudders! — HearFiTzosBERx! * Outcast of fortune, hear me! What is life ' To wretched men ? Well would it be, young mar ( 13 ) *■ Should this dread torrent prove our watery tomb, *The furious stream would bear us to the sea; '^ O'er our wan limbs the stormy waves would roll, * And to the wind uplift our scatter'd hair; * While spirits of the waters would respect '^ The floating corse of the unfortunate, ' Would w^eep with drooping forehead^andwith hands ^ Most tender, bear us towards the sandy shore. ' Then would the children of humanity, 'Sighing, convey us to the narrow tomb, ' And many a gallant youth and gentle maid, ' When they beheld our simple grave, would weep. " Poor strangers, ye are happy!" would they sigh, ** Tho' far from friends and sacred home you rest.*' 'Then would they rear the willows o'er our tomb, ' And on the cold turf strew the early flower/ Tears down Fitzosbert's cheek successive stole: He was the child of sensibility. But Williams boldly o*er the torrent walW, And roughly by the wrist haul'd after him FiTzosBERT. Then thro* the aromatic woods They slowly, sadly mov'd, ascending still With weary feet. In wild security. Above the trees, the ami-davi bird ( 14 ) Gave to the sun the beauty of his plumes: They saw him not_, but heard his rusthng wings» Emerging from the forest, they ascend Peaks bare and treeless; now breathe purer ah; They see beneath hills huge of shapeless bulk. The hqiiid silver of pellucid streams. And the bright verdure of the countless vales* Westward in fiery pomp the sun dechnes; Red is the ocean in the beam of flame ; Hush'd are the winds, and blue the cloudless heav'n: Theirsouls expand ; thoughtwaves the viewless wing. Soars to JL.LISIUM, spurns reanty, ' Oh ! elevation dreadfully sublime ! ' Rocks, that in solitary majesty, ^ Rise to the heavens, or mingle with the storm * When combat wrathful clouds! Valour with you, ^ Liberty, virtue, independence dwell. ^ On heights like this how doth the soul despise ^ All human greatness ! Wherefore?. Man is dust, ' Our strength is weakness, our stability * Chaff, which the wind drives to the ends of heav'n. ' What are the boasted monuments of man, *■ When the soul soars to God? Are they not less ^ Than insignificance? Ascend the hills! ( 15 ) ^ Rise with the vastness of tbe moimtaln's heiglVt! ' They speak of him who walketh on the stars, ' Who, dark in hght, royally rivalless, ■' Strideth from woild to world. Tho' thou art poor, ' Yet art thou more than wealthy, worm of dust I *■ Tho' in man's estimation thou art mean, ^ Yet art thou great, if thou canst raise to heaven ' The mental eye, and laugh proud power to scorn.' Thus having spoken, on a mossy stone Pensive sate Williams. On the same cold stone^ Reclin'd Fitzosbert weeping. To the fields 'Below, he turn'd his view, and, Svby,' he said, ^ Dwells not with safety in her lowly house ' Contentment? Why do slaughter's hounds invade * Her httle garden, and it's blooms destroy ? * Oh! man, most potent, yet most imbecile! ' Man, whose great soul ascends to heights august, * And drinks the stream of immortal it}^, * Yet stoops to feed on carnage ! . Oh 1 what woe, 'What havoc have thy furious passions caus'd! ^I drink not human blood. I were well pleas'd * To woo contentment in the house of peace. ' But marble-hearted, statue-featur'd men, "^ \Ruffians, unfeelins: as this herbless rock. ( I6 ) ' Did, at a scoiindrers bidding, drag .me tlience. ^ Stern destiny, 'twas hard, 'twas pitiless! ' From friends, from home, from all my heart held [dear, ' Borne far away! Was it not black indeed? ' O ! right, O ! law, ye are not ! Sounds, mere sounds ! * Where now is Lucy? who shall soothe her now, ' Who now protect her ! Ait thou weeping now * On Cornwall's wildest shore, and while the sea 'Murmurs, and gives his white foam to the gale? ^ *■ Yes, thou art thinking of thy lover now, ' Thinking he never, never will return. 'Ah! hopeless maid, it will be, must be so! ' Well, if it must be. Father, let it be. ' I am, I must be wretched. Oh ! farewell, * Ye fields romantic oFhigh-mountain'd Cornwall ! ' Nor by your streams shall sad Fitzosbert stra}', ' Nor thro' 3'our woods at noon. Adieu, for ever! * I shall behold your solitudes no more. ' Far from deep-valley 'd Cornwall I shall die, * And slumber in the ocean. Lucy still * Shall mourn for her lost lover, and in vain * The footsteps of his long-delay'd return ' Expect to hear. Poor Lucy, thou shult weep ( 17 ) ' For me, when the grey surge of distant seag ' * Shall rush and roar over my lifeless corse, ' Thy long black hair, dretichM by the midnight raii ^ Shall wander o'er thy bosom's spotless snow. ' The moon shall see thee in the desert vale, ' The stars of heav'n shall pity thee, my love ^ ■* But thou shalt mourn in vain; thou shalt despair/ Now, Williams, tho' he shed not woman's tears. Could strongly feel, and, as Fitzosbert ceas'd. He turn'd aside his face, he smote the earth. And damn'd the car-borne scourges of mankind. The curse was silent; but the holy one Regarded, the angel of remembrance wrote \ On adamant, in characters of blood; Tor wlien the victims of oppression iQ.ii\j God knowstheir thoughts, and what theythink avails ' Now is my spirit thunder!' Williams cried : ' Now, now, I could perform the awful deed, ' Could stride o'er danger, laugh at deatli, unarm'c. ' Destroy the steel-clad, and in falling rise. ' How glorious is the patriot in his death, '^ C ( 18 ) ^ When for tliejust^ and the just cause, he dies! " FuzosBEUT, tell the story of thy wrongs/ * Fair is the vale/ Fitzosbert said and sigh'd, ' Fair is the vale where stands my father's house, ' Midst of the village of his ancestors. ' A stream divides it, groves of ancient trees ' Surround it, and beyond those ancient groves, ' Moors, heathy hills, and barren dales, extend ' East, north, and west; and on the south the sea ' Sublimely swells : the wildly-winding vale ' E-oves to the sea shore. I have often seen * The whirlwind mix the billows with the clouds; ' And often walking on the sabbath eve ' With my lov'd father, I have seen the sun ' Flame on the waters, silent and serene ' As tho' they slept : then heav'n, earth, ocean, smil'd. ' My father is a poor, but honest man, ^ Who earns by daily toil his daily bread. ' Me, his sole child he lov'd, and early taught * Virtue, for virtue's sake, to love and chuse. ' Early he sent me to the village school, ' And there I found a friend, my Robertson, ^ A gentle youth. Can I forget the days ( 19 ) *■ Of childhood^ when, awaking with the morn, * We rov'd together, eager to secure ^ The late-found birds-nest; while on hazel boughs ' The crimson breasted songster sweetly sang, ' And the sloe's blossom in the vale was white ? * Can I forget, when from the school releas'd, * With many a shout we sought the stubble field, ' And, as the plough-share turn'd up sweet ground [nuts^ ' Snatch'd and divided them? Can 1 forget, ^ When climbing the tall fir tree, we return'd ' Homewards, our hats fill'd to the very brim ^ With dark rooks clamorous? No, Williams, no_, * I never, never, can forget the days * Of childhood: they are wiitten on my heart. ' But when my muscles swell'd, and when the hair ^ Grew on my manly bosom, then love, love ^ Entic'd, and took possession of my soul. ^ A maiden near my father's dwelling liv'd, ' Whom with the soul of tenderness I lov'd. ' She was the darling of her widow'd sire, * And much he lov'd her, and they both were blest; 'For tho' the mother of his daughter slept ^ C2 ( 20 ) * The sleep of death, yet to the will of God ' He "bow'd, and murmur'd not, since with firm faith * Believ'd he that they soon should meet in heav'n. * Lucy ! my Lucy ! dearest, sweetest, best ! ' If I forget thee, seas shall turn to stone, * And stone shall melt, and flow as rivers flow ! ' Her cheek was of the colour of the peach, * Dark was her hair, black w^aS her sparkling eye, ' Smooth was her brow of mildness, elegant ' Her person, as the graceful jessamine ' That round the window of the peasant's cot ' Twines rich in whitest blossom. As the waves '' Of ocean, when the zephyr first awakes, ' Heave the light vessel, so her bosom heav'd ' The envious sky-blue handkerchief, which veil'd ' It's living marble. When crocuses ' Smil'd in the vale, and cowslips on the hill; ' When the king's-fisber to the vernal day ' Displayed Iflwbeauty, and the soft wood-lark * Rival'd the music of the nightingale; ' When the wild rose, luxuriant sweetly blush 'd * Amid the blossom of the milk-white thorn; A How often have we sat beneath the shade * Of sycamores-, of beeches, and 6f elms. ( 21 ) ' And looking tipward, seen the pale-green leave^^ ' Hlumin'd by the sun, diaphanous. ^ How often o'er her shoulder did 1 throw * The eager arm, while the swift wood-pecker ^ Circled his mossy tree, and the least wren ^ Peep'd thro' the umbrage, as from twig to twig * He hopp'd with erest of gold! How smoothly pass'd ' The hours away, when in her father's house ' We in sweet converse sat! The aged sire *^Exclaim'd, ^you shall be happy!' But, alas> ' How am I happy? Is it happiness ^To wander o'er the ocean, without rest, ^ Banish'd from kindred, friends, from her Ij®vc! ' Insulted, trampled on ! — There was an house ' Not distant from the village, a strong pile ' Built in the ancient days, with battlements ^ Crown'd, by a moat surrounded : the high towers 'Above the waving woods rose ivy-hung; ' And on the distant moors the traveTler ' Might see the time-dark castle,, darker still '■ In distance, and admire it's giant hiilk. ' Herbert, the master of this castle strong, ' And all the lands adjacent, was a maa C3 ( 22 ) 'Haughty, and turbulent, and fond of power^ ^ And pomp, and splendour : wrapt in dust, he lov'd * To rattle thro' the village, chraiot-drawn, ' By all his servants follow'd, while the boy ' Climb'd some near tree to view him as he pass'd> ' While the blue apron'd, cleanly dairy-maid, ' Forgot her butter, and the threatened kiss ' Of amorous William ; while the toiling swain ' Leap'd from the threshing floor, and aged men ' Came forth without their crutches in their haste * To see the lord of fields. Once in his way ' He saw and lov'd my Lucy; who could see ' And love not? Mad with passion, he resolv'd * To blast the flower of youth and innocence. ' Once, as I sought the much frequented bower, •^So custom'd, shrieks I heard, and stood aghast: *.' It w^as the voice of Lucy : I advanc'd ' With breathless swiftness. HERBERT,on theground * Lay prostrate; round the waist he clasp'd my love. ' Lock'd to his bosom by the strong right arm ; ^ Then, with his left rending her shawl, he kis^'d * The heaving alabaster of her breast. ' She panted, shriek'd, implor'd! The sweat of fear * RoU'd down his face^ and on his neck the veins ( 25 ) ' SwelPd with the sore exertion, andlook'd darlc. * I instant grasp'd his hair, I smote his cheek; ' I struck him on the temples. He arose ^ And fell again;, again arose and spake; — ' Hear, base-born- villain ! Thou shalt pay for this. ' I will be as the fiend of death to tliee, ^ My vengeance shall pursue thee as thy shade, ^ Never will I forgive thee. Hearest thou? ' Rude, ragged clown ! That maiden is not thine, * Shall not be thine : I stand between your loves'j 'And, by the emperor of hell I swear, * I will possess her_^ and thy soul shall groan ' Beneath the scorpion scourge of mj revenge ! * The oath was dreadful. I>id he keep the oath? ' Six days elaps'd, when once again I sought 'The bower of love; for Lucy proniis'd there ' To meet me. Careless and fearing nought, I walk'd,. ' When suddenly six ruffians from behind ' An aged oak, rush'd light-swift: fast in cords ' They bound my hands ; then, with insulting tauntS;^ ' They bore me down the valley to the sea. ' There on the beach stood Heebert, and a boat * Not distant from the shore. Loudly he laugh'd, * Whilst the six ruffians dragg'd ni|p towards the sea; ( 24 ) 'With cruel insult mock'd my tears^ my groans» * My Lucy on the sea-beach rent her hau*_, * Wav'd her white hand^ and fainted* Stedfastly ' I fixt my eyes upon her, fill'd with tears, ^ Yet still I gaz'd ; but soon the shore appeared ^ Like a dim mist, soon was it seen no more, * And nought beheld I but the sky, the sea, ^ And boundless heav'n. In agony I call'd * On death, but vainly ; death would not hear \ ' We reach'd the ship : the captain of the crew * Survey'd me with a scornful, dreadful smile ^ Which made me tremble/ " Rascal," he exclaim'd,. ** Thou shalt be taught obedience. Quick,up the mast! *^ Such rogues deserve a rope : compar'd with thee, ^' Robbers are honest. Turn thy face away : *' I hate thy gallows looks. Give me the true ' And loyal heart!" Herbert had brib'd this man. * Stung to the soul, I seiz'd him by the throat, * And would have — but the sailors held my hands, * Some curs'd me, and some struck me. "Tie him up!" ^Then roar'd the captain, "flog him till he dies! ^'^ Flea him alive!" They bound me to the shrouds> * And then the devil-hearted boatswain scourg'd ^ My naked back^ till bare the spinal bone ! ( 25 ) ' Thou hast now heard my story: from the tale * Say, what conclusion draw'st thou? Wealthy pride * Tramples on poor men with impunity. ' Herbert unpunish'd lives; Herbert is rich!* * We both have drank of sorrow in our day/ • Calmly said Williams as Fitzosbert ceas'd. * But let us not despair. Life spent in pain ' Is less than iK)thing, — it is wearisome, ' What shall we do? Still in the ship remain ? * Be slaves of slaves? No, hear what I advise, ' And we will either perish or escape* 'When we reach England, let ns quit the ship, '. And seek that land of freedom, where the sons ' Of our much injurM fathers dwell secure, * And bid the full vein'd arm of labour wrench ' From forests, and the boundless desert, food/ rW When thus the youth had spoken, night ^proach'd. And slowly they descended to the ship; Mournfully mov'd Fitzosbert: he despair'd; But Williams walk'd erect, with forward chest. Conscious of strength : he Was the child of hope. The lov'd of enterprize : despondency He knew not: fearless where the valiant fear'd^ ( 25 ) He in dark midnight haii'd the day unbom> And to his bosom clasp'd futurity. Now, when thrice ten times morning had illum'd The mountain of three peaks, since first the ship. Isle of Reunion, anchor'don thy coast. The seamen lower'd their saik: zephyrs most mild Swell the white canvas : proudly o'er the waves. As tho' instinct with vital spirit moves. In awful pomp, the boasted master-piece Of human talent : on the figur'd stern The flag of England, on the main-mast waves The streamer rainhow-hued. Hung on the shrouds. With down cast brow, Fitzosbert meditates. He speaks not, but his soul distends with thought ; ' Man, thou art potent: all the elements ^ Obey thee: as a lord thou rulest them. * Who shall controul thee, weigher of the air, ^ That ridest in the winds, turn'st streams to smoke^ * Graspest the fire, and meltest solid rocks? * Thy habitation on the storm-mad wave '■ Rideth securely : scorner of the storm^. ^ Thou awest ocean : thou art arm'd with power> * Thou art a being dreadful, wonderfuL ( 27 ) 'Yet^ I would rather tliouwert impotent, * Than as tliou art^ potent to thy own bane. ' Thou art weak, mean, base, fiend-hke, and the slave ' Of passions vile : thou art the slave of sin, j ' And dost his bidding with alacrity, * Still, still I love thee; spite of all thy faults, * My heart is wedded to thee. From thy haunts ' Unforc'd I would not go ; for where thou art^ * There is the representative of God! ' Earth, ocean, air, knows not thy rival, man l * Let me be near thee, let me hear ihy voice, * Behold thy features of intelligence: * With thee sojourning, tho' I oft may mourn, ^ Because thou art not as I would thou wert; * I shall be still much happier^ than the wretch *Who,d welling where thou d welF'st not, looseth speech ' And thought itself. Image of God supreme, 'Oh! never may the nation-girding deep, ' Roll tlie grey surge between my steps and thee !* Thus thought FiTzosBERT. Swiftly sail'd the ship. And hope already landed on the shores Of Albion, isle renown'd, and to her breast Clasp'd friends belov'd. One sailor in his hand ( ^'8 ) Grasping a purse, his little treasury Sung gaily, ' I will go to sea no more.' Another, — a thin youth with flaxen hair_, Sate smiling on a cask of turpentine. And on his knee held a small oaken chest. From which he drew two shells, and, holding one Between his thumb and finger, ' this,' said he, ^ My rose cheek'd daughter Mariane shall have, * And that my darling boy, my curly-hair'd ' And black ey'd William. Heav'n preserve them [both, *" And bless their mother for her husband's sake!' BOOK II. < Hj wh^ the pensive cowslip in tlie spring Is lovely, and the golden daffodil Yellovvs the field ; we think not of the hill Storm-blasted, of the inundated plain. And herbless valley. Virgins slender-arm'd. Attended by their lovers, hand in hand Walk, and on meadows richly verdant, pluck The flaunting crow-foot and the violet. Or stray beneath the shade of lime and elm. Not drooping then in snow. They, as they move. Gay as the day of sun-beams talk of joy. And life is happiness. Far be't from me To say, ^ enjoy not while you may enjoy ! * And, lest you mourn to-morrow, mourn to day!* Far be't from me ! Most surely well it is Not to anticipate the future ill. But seize the present good : this hour is thine. But dimness doth invest futurity. Hex raiment is of shadows indistinct, D ( 30 ) Her limbs are smoke, her features colourless. Blank, on the throne of unborn days, she sits In dire obs^curitj^: delusive hope. With voice harmonious, names her fortunate^ But fear hath arm'd her with calamity. Hath fili'd her mouth with loudness, and hath wrapt Her brow in midnight, streaked with tempest flame. The spirit of destruction borne on air. As thro' the gloom of night his giant form Sail'd like a thousand congregated clouds. Stoop 'd. In his mighty hand he grasped the sea. And hurl'd the foam aloft. Awful the storm ! The war ship Neptune with prostrated masts Drove over ocean shoreward: on the rocks Of C RNW^ALL, by vhe strength of winds impelFd, She struck, and there amid thelight'ning's flash. The thunder's roll, humanity's loud shrieks. And the huge roar of rolling waters, sunk ! Low murmurs and half sufl"ocated groans, Moan'd dismally a moment, and expir'd. Then all was silent, save the ocean's roar IJnceasing, and the intermitted howl d Of the wild winds.— Oae of the crew survived, ( 31 ) Fi tzosbert! With the storm-distracted siirgc lie struggled much and long: thrice o'er his head Rolled the waters turbulent, and thrice Retiring, left him on the sandy beach. At length he caught the branches of a tree. That, lone and leafless, on the bleak beech grew. And crj'd. Oh! God, I thank thee, I am safe! Then shivering, fainting, with exertion hard Exhausted, on the slimy strata lean'd* Soon gazing on the waters dimly seen,. He thusexclaim'd : — ^How the wind blows ! how coldl ' Poor Williams feels it not.— Thy period^s clos'd^ * Thy day of life is gone! Soft be thy bed, * And sleep. Oh! sleep in dreamless quietness^ 'Until the morning of th' eternal day ' Dawn on the eyeless sockets of the drown'd, * And call thee from the ocean ! Thou art dead, ' And well art thou; for to this world thy heart 'Was not fast bound by love's tie, strong the' soft, 'And death hath done a friendly act for thee, ' But I must seek the village of my birth, * Since, on that spot inviting, there are those ' Eor whom I wish to live : thee, Robertson, D2 ( 32 ) ^Friend of my youth! thee, Lucy, maid belov'd ! ' And thou my father ! I shall soon, perhaps, ^ Be with you, friends: but Oh ! this world, this world ' Is fill'd with wicked hearts, and wicked deeds! "'Shall I at length, oppression, dwell in peace?" ' Merciful God, shield me from wicked men !* So saying, with a sad desponding eye. He, thro' the darkness view'd the shadowy scene. And shudder'd, when reflecting where he stood. His situation was most terrible. At midnight, on the ocean's unknown shore. He stood alone : dark was the solemn hour. Dark as the rayless hours of chaos, ere The word lucific bade the sun illume The waste of desolation : rain, hail, snow. Pell mingled, and the sweeping wing of heav'n Smote night's black hills, and their rent forests scar'd. Distinct, amid the tumult of the storm. He heard the fiend of devastation howl. And, when at intervals the tempest paus'd, The noise of torrents, horribly sublime. Tumbling unseen, o'er formless masses near. He knew not what to do, whether to climb The shaking rocks, or, with uncertain feet . ( 33 ) Wander the plain; or, chill and shivering wait, Benumb'd, with chatt'ring teeth and knocking knees>. Till morning, on the sea-beach desolate, Should, dawning o'er the billows, scatter light.. ' If here I sleep,' he cried, ^ I shall not wake 'Till death shall die/ — A moving flame he saw. Which glimmer'd faintly in the distant marsh:. 'Some one moves yonder on the plain,' he said,. And shouted: no one answer'd. Ah! crj'd he, ' It is the meteor of the fens, that lures ' To watery death, the wilder'd traveller.' At length he turn'd, and labour'd up the steeps Huge, and toil'd long from cliff to cliff untir'd. O'er many a cragg he pass'd, o'er many a rock Vast, treeless, dark; and climb'd, rested, and climb'd. And gain'd at last the highest of the hills. There stood, in awe-inspiring solitude, A ruin'd convent : dark it stood in thickest shades. And spoke of other years, of other deeds, or things which had been: instantaneous fire At times illum'd the ruins : then were seen Columns half pros trate> moss-grown sepulchres j D3 ( 34 ) The symbols of devotion stiew'cl around In sad confusion; here a crucifix. And there a reHck holy^, to destroy The strength of satan, and the writhing pang Of sickness^ potent; lonely fiowers^ grey mo'ss. Amid the fragments^ weeds, and rustling grass. FiTzosEERT shudder'd, and his heart beat quick. As w-ith redoubled violence^ the wind Blew, and with eye uprais'd he dimly saw, Storm-driv'n thro' sable heav'n, the blackest clouds. His brows were rais'd, his lips wei-e pale with fear. His hair w^as wildly scatter'd: light'ning flashed, Th' immediate thunder burst: he heard a groan; He started back; he listen'd; — and again A groan he heard: then did the night blast howl. And shake the acje-black ruin to it's base. Again he heard the hollow, stifled groan. *■ 'Tis the last sigh of some poor wretch,' he cried, * Perhaps of Williams di owning far below\* Again the groan he heard : most mournfully It rose upon his ear, while the rude storm Was silent. ' Nay, il comes not from the sea. f Whence comes it ? from these tombs f — Hark, hark ! [again ! a 35 ) ' What can this mean ?— My GoD^have mercy on me! ^ Ah ' 'tis the spirit of some murder'd wretch, * That haunts the courts of this^disaster'd pile/ Then, then, he trembled and> fear's cold damp sweat Mo'isten'd his shaking limbs : again he heard The groan lerriSc: once more howl'd the wind. And then fled midD;;i;ht from the instant fire. And thunder shook again the hall of years. He panted, listen'd. ^ I am innocent. * Terrible voice, why dost thou trouble me? ' Art thou the spirit of some toiirder'd wretch? ^ Art thou the angel of the night?— ^'o answer I- ' I will pursue thee, whatsoe'er thou art^ ' Ev'n to the silence of the sepulchre.' He spoke, and riish'd o'er tombs and human bones Clouds and the sky seem'd falling; rain, wind, fire Convuls'd earth, ocean, heav'n! A female near A grassy sepulchre, wrapt in her cloak. Reclining, and the softness of her hand,, Pillow'd her drooping forehead : pale her cheek As the wan cheek of hope, when, having long With eye of ardour haii'd prosperity, Stern-visag'd disappointment with harsh fist ( 35 ) Strikes her fair bosotn : on the female gaz'd EiTzosBERT fearfully^ and, as he gaz'd. He would have spoken,, but he could not speak. Then^ in a voice, hollow and feeble, thus Spake the unknown one : — Man, whate'er th6u art, ' Be thou a midnight robber, or like me ^ A toil-worn wanderer. Oh! pity me, *■ Oh! pity me. Oh! aid a friendless wretch, •^ Dying with cold and hunger I' ' Gracious God, ^ Whdse voice is this? — Fitzosbert to his heart ^ Clasp'd tiie imploring maid, and. Oh! he cry'd, ' Lucy, my dearest Lucy'! — Slie exclaini'd, ' FiTzosBERT, my FiTzosBERT '' On his breast Her head then fell, and down her white arms hung ; She fainted, and her hair o'er his left arm Flow'd, wildly waving in the wind of night. *" What dost thou here?' cry'd he, ^here, on this rock, ^ Amid these ruins, while the wrathful storm ' Beats each high tower? — Wilt thou not speak, my [lover... She answer'd not; but soon her head she rais'd. And then, reviving, faintly answer'd thus: — ^ When I am dead; pr^^y for the bad raan^ Herbert^ ( 37 ) ' For he first robb'd me of my innocence, ' And then expos'd me to calamity, || < And death itself.-Leave me !-l am not pm-e. < Nay, leave me not.-Curse on hi^ promises, < Curse on his bribes 1 Yet, yet implore the high ; < And awful spirit to have mercy on him I < Give me thy hand, love ! I am very weak. ' Dear youth, and for have jonrne/d, wishing muchj «To die at home: but God to punish me < Hath wili'd it otherwise. Well, I have seea ^ FiTzosBERT, and I therefore murmur not. ' Spirit of love ! Yet might I die at home,. 'Yet might I see my father ere I die! ' O ! wretched, helpless maid, 'tis a hard thing < To die without his blessing ! Will he curse me,, j < FiTzosBERT? will he cursc his hapless child? ' Oh! my FiTzosBERT, Oh! my friend, my love^ ' Tell him I thought of him in death, and pray'd^ ' Oh! may he never suffer as his child ' Hath suifer'd, in this world of sin, and woe!' ^ Nay, no, thou shall not die/ Fitzosbekt cry'di ' I cannot, Lucy, will not part with thee I ^ Come, warm thee in my bosom! Thou shalt live < W#th me, our farthers, and my faithful friend,^ ( 53 ) *■ 111 the seqiiester'd village of our j-ouili; ' We shall behold our native fields again, * And, Oh ! how lovely will those fields appear. ' When we feturn in joy, and, as we rove 'Thro' the green forests that surround the vale, ^ Say, we have met, and we shall part uo more.' He said, but she reply'd not; for the breath: Of life had left her, and her spirit pure Look'd from the regions of the blest, and saw FiTzosBERT leaning o'er a breathless corse. He press'd her snow-white hand— 'twas icy cold; ■He kiss'd her lip— the vital warmth was gone: Her heart had ceasVl to beat, her breast to heave He sigh'd, he groan'd, he tore his hair, he raised His hands to heav'n, he bade the realms of bliss Ptestore the spirit of the silent maid. ' Oh ! she is gone, her soul for ever fled, ' Then, wildly furious, call'd upon the storm,— 'Annihilate me ! dash me from this height, 'And let me sleep with Williams in the deep!* He spoke, and groaning, on the body fell. ( 59 ) The tempest no^V was spent, the winds were calm. The -black clouds all dispers'd: the full orb'd moon Shone in blue heav'n, amid the twinkling stars. And pleasing was the mildness of her light. Beneath, unraensely swell'd the rollingdeep, And with the gentlest undulation gleam'd. Dark was the mountain on the lonely shore. And dark the convent on the mountain top. The silver moonlight beam'd upon the fair. Pale was her face, y€t lovely ev'n in death : Fix'd was the smile of resignation, calm She seem'd to Vive in deatli : reclin'd she lay Upon the half-demolish'd sepulchre, Imag^ of sculptur'd sensibihty, thrown From the wrought pedestal by ruthless time. Amid the ruins of some city fall'n. Prone lay the youth : he knew not that the prince Of storms was havock-weary, and had call'd His ruin-potent servants to the pole : Ceas'd was the tempest of the elements. But not the tempest of Fitzosbert's soul. •Sudden he rose: ' thou awful storm,' said he, ^ < Why, hke a false friend, when I ask'd thy ard - Fled'st thou away ? Art thou too Heebekt's slav ( 40 ) *■ The very elements mock my despair: ' Misfortune hath no kinsman. Man, poor man, ^ When thou art wretched, thou art friendless too. ^ Oh ! wretchedness, the cold winds laugh at thee, ^ And, in derision, whistle thro' thy rags. * Oh! that these rocks in pity, like the waves ' Of the wild sea, would roll and bury me, ^Kindly s^^ere!. Oh! that the mighty wind ' Would froM this bare bleak mountain hurry me, * Dash me to atoms on the shore below ! ' Have I no hope? no hope? may I not throw ' This burthen down ? 1 am resolv'd to die, ' Life is oppressive to the sorrowful, * I have a friendly dagger here, which soon * Will end my woe. Welcome, Oh ! welcome death, * Thou solace of the wretched ! welcome graved * For sorrow dwells not in the sepulchre. * Sons of the tomb, receive a brother ! soon * Shall I be with you, children of the grave! * Now, now, my Lucy, we shall meet a^ain!* He spoke and drew the dagger, tlirice he rais'd The steel of death, and thrice he thoughtful paus'd: ' My father lives, expos'd to poverty, ( 41 ) ^ And all the ills of life. I should support ' The drooping parent who supported me/ He sheath'd the dagger. ' Oh ! farewell/ he cry'd, ' Farewell, my Lucy ! Yet a little while ' And I will join thee in the fields of heaven. * Yes soon, my Lucy, we shall meet again ' To part no more. And now. Oh ! siiipnt maid, ^ I now will lay thee in this mossy tomb, * For it is empty. Lucy, long, long since, * The tenant of this dark and narrow house * Has moulder'd into dust: sleep here in peace! * Wliat, tho' no solemn bell to passing crowds ^ Proclaim thy death? I will heave over thee ^ Grief's tendi'est sigh. What,tho' no surplic'd priest ^ Speak o'er thy grave, my tears shall hallow it. ' What, tho' I bury thee, as robbers earth 'The murder'd traveller: I. slew thee not; * Lov'd of my soul I did not murder thee. ' You did the deed, possessors of the earth! ' You murdei'd Lucy; in my heart you fix'd ' The dagger of inexorable v/oe. ^ And sleeps the wrath of God ? Oh ! moon and stars! ^ Sleep'st thou in heav'n, Loed of the universe? E ( 42 ) ^Spirit tliike awful^ sleep'st thou ? Is tliy arm ' Feeble to save, and powerless to avenge?* He laid the pale maid in the sepulchre. And threw the cold earth on her bosom. Fast Down his wan cheek the fear of anguish streamed. ^ Here lies my all, my world/ Thus was interr'd The fairest and the most unfortunate Of woman. Twas a wild and terrible Interment! Over her, in well arrang'd And honied words, no hir'd declaimer spoke The funeral oration : at that hour The men of language slept: but over her The breaking heart and speechless agony Groan'd, and her memory shall live in song. Amid the ruins on the eminence The bard hath struck his harp : he o'er her grave Hath scatter'd the uncultivated flower Of poesy, and, sadly sighing sung : Sweet village maid, pass'd is the day of tears. And thou art careless of calamity. The men of power shall injure thee no more. The hoarse and hollow murmur of the sea Shall not awake thee; and the wrathful gales Of future years, unlieard, unfclt by thee. ( 45 ) Sliall rage around this m-ountaiii ruin-crowiiM. Soon wild flowers fair shall grow u[)on thy tonil): Tlion shalt not see their beauty. On thy grave The bUist-wing'd spiiit of the storm shall stand. Shall shriek amid the loneliness of night, But, by the tempest-demon undisturb'd, Thou in the sepulchre of years shalt rest, For ever silent and for ever mourn'd. Mute stood FiTzosBERT on the silent tomb. Beneath which slept Iris Lucy, with fix'd eye, Immovable. i\t length, 'farewell!' he cry'd^ ^ Sweetest farewell;— for ever! Rest in peace.* He said, and turning, viewed the plain below. That stretch'd in shadowy grandeur, far away. Till, lost in dim obscurity, his eye Beheld nought certain. Rivers, lakes, and streams. Like drops and winding lines of silvery light Sprinkled upon the darkness — pleasingly Diversified the landscape ; and the fanes Of distant spires shone brightly, visible Tho' distant, hke the lofty stars remote*. ( U ) ' The plain is wide and lone/ Fitzosbert said, ' And distant hence the village of my youth. * But I must speed across the wide, lone plain, * To thee, my siie, and thee my Robertson. * The old are weak and feeble. I will ga ' Back to the well-known cottage, and support ' My drooping father. I am bound to life, ' Tho' life be more than loathsome, while he lives * Expos'd to want, to scorn and wretchedness:' So saying, thro' obscure, uncertain paths. Which wound, now seen, then lost, around the hills; Now o'er smooth rock;, then o'er loose stones he pass'd^ And, as he wander'd down the winding way. Beheld oft', scatter'd here and there the weed. Or stunted tree, or solitary flower. Down many a dangerous steep and horrid crag. Prone he descended, of the dire descent Unapprehensive: on the plain at last Arriv'd he : swiftly o'er the moonlight fields He westward mov'd : oft' as he mov'd, he turn'd To view the darkly-shaded eminence Where Lucy slept; and, as the night breeze pass'd. Oft' starting, list'ning, paus'd awhile, and thought C 45 y jRfer gentle spirit whisper'd in his ear. But far he had not joiirnied^ ere he heard The sound of clatt'ring feet, and soon heheld Six horsemen, bending o'er their out-stretched steeds. With high-rais'd whip : sudden, with back-drawn [curb^ Each check'd the swiftness of his fiery steed. And, turning, sought a forest, from the road Not distant. Much astonish'd, more afraid, FiTzosBERT journied onward rapidly. And, often to the gloomy forest threw The side glance of suspicion: soon lie saw Two saddled horses grazing near the road. As he approacii'd^ they snorted, and retired On rampant hoof. He paus'd, and gazing round, Mark'd by the pale light of the moon, a man^ In livery attir'd, stretcli'd motionless Within the miry ditch : he dicw him thence: The moon shone on him, and Fitzosbert knew The livery of Herbert* Near him lay Two pistols and a chargeless blunderbuss. He plac'd upon the young man's breast his hand; But, ah! the young man's breast vvas cold as clay, E 3 ( 46 ) And heav'd no more. Shot from the blunderbuss^ A bullet struck him just beneath the ear^ And^ rising thence, was buried in his brain. * Murder/ then cried Fitzosbert, * hath been here, ' This youth they've murder'd, and not him alone, ' For are there not two steeds ?' he heard a sigh, He listen'd fix'd; again he heard the sigh; Then bending, look'd he southward, and descried The villain, Herbert bleeding on the road. His spirit kindled, his cheek burn'd with rage. He paus'd,and check'd revenge: Fitzosbert's heart Was not of flint; he rais'd against the bank The wretched Herbert. Fractur'd was his skull. And black his face with bruises: His empty purse lay near him: in his thigh. Left by the haste of the assassin's fear, A cutlass was half buried : from the wound Fitzosbert drew it, Herbert, reviving, spake: 'Would I could Williams see, my bastard son, * Ere my eyes close for ever ! I would give — ^ For yel my wealth is mine— -my wealth to him.' Bemembering Williams, then Fitzosbert wept. ^ Poor man,' said he to Herbert, and the tears ( 47 ) Flow'd fast and faster down his sallow cheek, 'Poor man, may God have mercy on thy soujl'^i; He spoke, and kneeling) rais'd his hands to heav'nl Then rising straight, he on the dying man Sprinkled cold water : next, with eagerness ^ Tearing his trowsers, to the bleeding thigh He bound the coarse strip'd cloth : last, as he gaz' On his expiring foe, he pity'd him, Till pity melting ev'n into love, j With sighs he cry'd, ' father of Williams, hve!' 1 Slow at that instant, Herbert rais'd his head, . And, in a low faint voice said, ' injur'd man, ' Speak not against me to the holy one. ' FiTzosBERT, pray for me,— 1 need thy pray'ri ' But, if thou can'st not pray, Oh ! do not curse If ' At least, forgive me ! Wilt thou ? Canst thou ? Spj ' Have mercy !— I'm a lost man— have pity !' He clos'd his eyes exhausted, open'd them. Writhing in anguish he, delirious, spoke : ' Is this the place of torment? Bow, ye fiends,i ' Bow to your master! What! Must I serve y ' Is this obedience ? I am sov'reign her^. i ( 49 ) ' Boni to dominion, where I am, I rule.' He straggled in Convulsions; his strain'd eye Seem'd leaping from the socket; and he smote, IVith head, hands, feet, the ground: the purple veins Swell'd darker forth, and, as his lips turn'd blaek, (le cursd FiTzosBERT, curs'd himsejf, and. died 1: ( 49 ) BOOK III. Morning arose on Cornwall. From his nej; Sprang the gay lark, and sang amid the clouds Invisible : wak'd by his voice, the buds. In all the forests and surrounding groves, ^ On every scatter'd tree and straying hedge. Their native wild notes warbled : fleecy flocks ^ Play'd in the pastures green; from neighb'ring fartf The crowing cock was heard ; and the brown swat Whetted his seythe, then, stretching to his work, Shrilly he whistled, and blew care away. Forth from his solitary dwelling came. To rove his custom'd ramble, Robertson., Thro' the still windings of a lonely wooel. Contemplative, he wanderd, and thus spake. Alone, unnotie'd there: 'Hove thy shade, ' Forest, thy pleasing solitude, I love ; < For, with: FiTzosBERT, thro' thy silent walks, ' Oft'' have I wander'd : on this bending tree < Oft' did we sit, and, thro' that vista, see ( 60 ) 'The setting sun illume with waning li.ht ;T!.ewesternhiIIs;butI have lost n/friend. ^ Hy.o,ea.Uath been absent; .voIong,ea. Ah. fo„„d by nature for ft>r other scenes! ^^Vuhruffianso'erthe ocean he hath roam-d, ^S%,„g his brothers, not his enemies. ' Ye, European desoJation-fiends ! J Power-bloated monsters, in the form of men- Who, like a torrent, pour calamity ' O^'er the nations, making desolate rThe vale of cultivation : and at once 'Sweep away talent, honour, honesty. Plenty and peace ; peace of the mildest look ' Why, demons, did ye drag Fitzosbert hence^ Why chose you him to do your dev'lish deeds ^ He was not form'd for you; for he could weep When solemn sorrow, or misfortune claim'd A gentle tear: but warriors seldom weep : When, in a cause unrighteous, ihev go forth ,^nd plant their cannon in the fac^ of heav'n rheir hearts are stone ; but his l,eart was not stone, ^fo. It was soft as pity, warm as hoj)e. • iK^re dwelt mild love, and meek benevolence. Ind all the virtues that make mortals me.v. (^ 51 ) I! < Ah ! where, thou gentle, amiable youth, < Where art thou now ? Poor, poor unfortunate, ^ < God help thee ! Now, perhaps ev'n now, the fleet < Meet on the ocean ; now, perhaps ev'n now, ' While war's dread thunder shakes the vast of waves ' Less cruel than thy persecutors, death ' Ends with thy life, sad youth, thy misery* ' Or, haply from the dreadful war releas'd < With half thy limbs, thou wand'rest o'er the eaat^ < A mangled wretch, and beg'st thy daily bread, ' ' Far from thy native home thou dy'st of want, ' With not one friend to lay thee in the tomb. * If yet he hves, I yet may hope; if not, < I still shall think he lives, shall still indulge ' Vain hope, and pass the hours in sad suspence. < Restless anxiety. Oh ! gracious God, ' If yet he hath not perish'd, let thy hand ' Aid him in e%^ery danger, every toil; ' And, Oh 1 thou God of mercy infinite, 'Grant, in thy boundless goodness, grant me th!i ■< Let him return and dwell in safety here!' Heav'n heard the pray'r of Robertson ; for n< FiTzosjJERT, home returning, saw again ( -52 ) •The steeple of the village of his youth : And when he .-each'd the woode that screen'd from jj. [storms His nat,ve valley; then he thought of years Departed, and reclin'd against ,m oak Indulging soft emotions • his right hand Supports his drdbping head ; the big tear bathe. His pallid cheek ; his pensive countenance Beams a sad pleasure, and he heaves the sigh Of pleasing woe. ' Scenes of my youth/ he cried. Fair, native fields, we parted mournfully, ' And mournfully we meet. Y^ood-crown'd Iiilfs, ' Ye I have not'forgotten ! #,en the sons 'Ofhavock bore me to tlie mighty deep, ' My poor old father; by my cries alarm'd,' ' Mov'd down that hiil, supported on his staff. ' His snowy locks gleam'd in the purple beams Of the declining sun : soon as he saw The savage sailors bearing me away. He strove to run and rescue me, in vain! His aged frame could not support the toil. And down he sunk. Yon'Js the old man's hQ«se - In which mysil^as born. »' And who is her Is not that he? It is the good old man. ( 53 ) ' Bending in sorrow, at the door he sits,, ' And deeply si^hs, while the unceasing tear * Rolls down the furrows of his tiiiie-worn cheek. ' His soul is full of woe; and, in despair, ^ FiTzosBERT never will return/ he sighs ! *" But mourn no more/my father ! for thy son ' Comes to support thy unsupported age.' He paus'd, he gaz'd around, and thus resum'd: ^l also well remember that green grove; ^ For thro' it's deep shades, slow and pensively, ' I many a time have stray'd with Robertson", ' This oak too I remember: many a tin^e ' With Lucy have I sat beneath it's shade: 'Departed Lucy !— Cease, Oli^- cease my sorroTTs? ' For tears are vain, and sighs are impotent ' Nor can she hear the fnournful voice of o-nef, ' Deaf is tlv attentive ear which listen'd once ' With gentlest kindness to my tale of love - ' For ever silent is that syren tongue ' Which charm'd me oft with more than melody ' And faded! Ah! dcspoil'd, is that fair form ' W4iichj)nce enchanteii^me! Thou, thou, O grave ' Tho' sifeut, speakest high and solemn truths F ( ^4 ) ' Dost tell me that I very soon shall join ' My low-laid Lucy in the Und of rest. ' Adieu then, sweetest,. dearest! Never more ' Shall I behold thee here; but yet, I hope, ^ That we shall meet in heav'n. Roll then. Oh ! time, ^ Thy deedful years, and speed that happy houi-;, "Whose wings of joy shall waft me to the skies! ^ But, ere that hour of happiness arrive, ' Oh! I wilL wander o'er yon barren hills, ' When lawless midnight, friend of sorrow, reigns ' In terror, not in silence : when the winds 'Shall sweep the ocean and confound the clouds; ' When thunders roll amid the crashing pines * Till craz'd reverberation stun the rocks, ' The high heav'n flames in light'ning, and displays, ' Awfully indistinct, the troubled sea ' Rolling below in foam: then shall my soul ' Recall the hour, destructive, horrible, 'When Lucy perish'd; then my frenzied soul ' Shall wed the tempest, on the light'ning ride! While thus Fitzosbert spoke, an aged man. Slowly, unmark'd, approach'd with locks of snow. There was a sadness in his countenance. ( ^5 ) 'Pleasing yet mournful^ a solemnity Peculiar: he had the mein of goodness : And when he saw the slow approaching youth. He thought of his lost daughter, who once lov'd Fitzosbert; yes^ he thought df her and wept; For she had long been absent from her home. And, ruin'd by base Herbert, bad brought doWa Ev'n to the borders of the tomb, with grief Her father's hoar^^ hairs. Ah ! poor old man^ He knew not that his child would w^eep no more; j He knew not that his daughter slept in peace. Within the convent's ruin on the hilL , ' Fitzosbert'' he exclaim'd, *FiTzosBERT,hearmej Fitzosbert heard, but knew not the old man. So much had two years sorrow altered him. ' Old man,'FiTzos BERT answer'd,^dost thou knowmel ' Y^a,' he reply 'd, ^I know and pity thee/ ' Then all men are not monsters/ ^Oh ! young man Exclaim'd the aged one, 'my child, my child! * May God forgive my wretched sinful child! * Poor Lucy ! — Oh! thou dostnotknow,FiTZOSBER: * I have lost Lucy. — God forgive and "bless herl' ' Hads'tthou a Lucy too?' Fitzosbert cry'd, F3 ( ^6 } ' I pity thee! Come, let us join our hands, ' For sweet. Oh! sweet, is fellowship in grief/ ^ Dost thou not know me;*_said the aged sire ? ■ Once, w^hen my daughter sat upon my knee, ^Ilov'd to call you both my children. Ah! ^ Time swiftly flies, young man !— Lucy is lost! ' >Vould she were dead ! Would I were also dead ! ' I ask but this — Let us in one grave sleep ■ The long, long sleep !— Thou see'st me weep, young [man : Do not despise me : I am very old. I once was young, I once was happy too: Now I am old and wretched! — ^Weli, my friend, I will not w^eep : may not all yet be well? Perhaps she is not dead— God may forgive her ; God, knowing all, does all things for the best: Then why should we repine? His will be done I' Father of Lucy!* sadly said Fitzosbert, Indeed thy child is dead. Oh ! God, Oh ! God, I saw her die! I never shall forget Her last words:' — ^Fitzosbert, will he curse me? Oh I will the father curse his wretched daughter! Tell him I thought of him in death, and cry'd — ( 57 ) 'Oh! may he never suffer as his child ' Hath suffer'd in this world of wretchedness!' ■■ And did my daughter think of me in death ? . Curse thee, my child? No, Lucv? God forgave the< ' Father, I murmur not : thy will he done! « 'Tis meet that we should suffer ; Jesus wept, « And died for us ; therefore, thy will he done !' Then solemnly he rais'd his aged hands. And ' Oh ! my child,' he said, ' my injur'd child ^ Would I were with thee in that land of rest, . Wherebad men dwell not.and the wretch finds peac < Would we were there together! Yes, my g.rl, . Soon shall be laid at rest; and says not CnRis^ . That all who bear his cross shall be with HUll Thus spake the aged man of piety. And calmly laid his hand upon his heart. Then, turning to the youth, he straight exela.mN . Thy sire is dead. Worn out by age and woe ^ .i'ortheehedied.-Whydostthouweep,rtT20SBl ( 58 > ' ^^PPy ai-e they who in the cold grave rest, 'Fo. peace the daughter of the tomb is there.^ He spake, and slowly moving, bade the youth Attend him, and so wrapt was he in thought. That he walk'd onwards, tho' Fitzosbert stood. ' Bead is my father,' said Fitzosbert, ^ dead ' My Lucy, all, ev'n life is dead to me. Am 1 not left alone upon this earth ? Am I. not worn away with ceaseless grief ? Am I not lost to hope? What bond shall then Chain me to life?' He from his bosom drew lie dagger, and exClaim'd, ^ friend of despair. Wilt thou desert me in the hour of need? Friend of despair, may I not, bless'd with thee. Laugh at the shadow, woe:— Now !— Shall I strike? Hold!— 'Tis a dreadful action, 'tis a deed Demands reflection : pause, impetuous soul. Pause, ere thou pass the bounds which none repass ! Why trembles thy resolve? Why would'st thou live. Thou, to whom life is pain and bitterness? Thy life, to others useless, to tl^yself Is -worthless; end it then! Or would'st thou hve ( 59 > ' Yet a few days till death uncalled shall come? * Resolve^ but answer not by words, but deeds. * Still undetermin'd ? — Deadi;, I meet thee now I' He near the oak tree stood as thus he spoke:: Prantic, with aimless fury, to his heart He urg'd the deadly steeh but struck the tree And broke the dragger: mute awhile he stood,. Then, frowning, hml'd the useless hilt away. * Malicious weapon ! — Well! I need thee not. ' Stream of my native valley,. Oh! receive, ' Receive me! Often, in the day of joy, ' Ere yet the sun was midnight to my soul,. ' 1 bathing in thy waters, have enjoy'd * The luxur}^ of cold; and I will now ' Perish where once I bath'd. Oh! native stream, * Be gentle and transparent,, that tlie eye ' Of him who wanders on thy flowery bankS). ' May see the verdant weed beneath thy waves f ' So shall my friend, — for Robertson is wont * To wander on thy pleasant banks— soon find * The body of Fitzosbert, stiff and cold, * Will he not lay me in the silent tomb ' With many tears? Yes,, and in future yeai's^ ( 60 ) * The children of the men who knew my she; * Shall view the green grave of his son, and say, ^ ' Here rests Fitzosbert: he was one whose soul * Was amiable as his fate was dark ; * For Ik was one wlio wrong'd not, but was wrong'd.* ' He hastened down the hi!l : he reached the stream-r Deep in the bank he plung'd his oaken stick. Then, on the oaken stick he plac'd his hat. And from his head, tearing a lock of hair. He bound it round the hat : with tearless eye Lorn-gazing, be a passionate farewell Took of each object dear to memory. Last, round his eyes he wrap'd his handkerchief,. And plung'd into tlie waves! But who comes from the forest ? Robfrtson, Swift as the hunted hare, swift as the horse That on the course of York or Doncaster Shoots towards tli€ goal in view, he ru&s, he flies,. And, bending o*er a willow, by the hair Snatches from death his friend": amaz'd he stands And speechless long : at length he wept, then cry'd — 'Fitzosbert, Oh! Fitzosbert^— Gracious God! ( 61 ) 'As in the solitary grove I stray'd, ' I saw a young man leap into the stream, *^But thought not of Fitzosbert. — Dearest friend, ' Speak to me ! — But he knows me not. — Oh ! speak ! ' Yes he revives^he moves. — Thy frierfd^FiTzosBERT ! ' Ah ! know'st thou not thy friend,, thy Robertson I Fitzosbert sigh'd^ and slowly, vacantly Rolling around his dim eyes, full at length Fix'd them on RoftiRTSoN. ' Hast thou done this? * That was not friendly, Robertson ! Oh ! act 'As friends should act with friends; leave me to [die ; ' Death is my only hope: why should I live? ^ My father and my Lucy are no more. * Poor victims of oppression, ye are gone * Tq heav'n where bad men dwell not! Now what [bond * Chains me to life ? Friends, I will follow youl' * But is it then no crime ;' said Robertson, * Madly, when passion lifts the impious arm,. ' To rush into the presence of thy God? ^ Give not the reins to passionr 'tis most weak, ' 'Tis most unmanly to submit to grief. ' Confront affliction and affliction flies. ( 62 ) ^ Tis true, thy sire, thy Lucy, are no more. ' Who shall not die? Goixonly. Nature shall ! * There is a final, fatal hour, which comes ' To mighty and minute, to strong and weak, ' Which palsies pride, which murders majesty, / Which shakes all-grasping empire; and ere long ' Shall lay the world in ruins. Oh ! my friend^ ' Since nought is deathless but eternity, ' And nought immutable but God, firmness * Assume, despise misfortune, laugh at woe, * And stand amid life'.s storms irnmovable/ * Oh ! that I could!' f itzosbert said and sigh'd, * Oh ! that thy soul were mine; then might I stand ' Immovable amid the storms of life. # ' But partial nature hath deny'd to me, ^ What she to thee hath giv'n : art thou not strong? * Nought shakes thy soul's fix'd firmness. O'er the [stprms ' Of dark misfortune proudly she ascends ' Victorious, as the sun when tempests rage, * Looks from the windows of the stormy sky^ ^ But I am feeble; nerveless is my soul : ' The slightest sorrow, the minutest ill. ^ 63 ) ' Weighs down her infant strength, as smallest cloutU ^ Hide in their shade the twinkUng stars of night. * Thou» hke the oak of England, which defies ^ The desolating blasts of winter, scorn'st ' The woes of life; bat I am like the flower * Of early spring: the morning dews depress ' It's unsupported head ; it's tender form ^ Trembles at every breeze. Can I efface ' The stamp of nature? No. Yet iiiy weak soul ' Shall put on power, and wrestle with despair. ' Thou bid'st me live, my friend, and I wijl live, * But not with man; the world hath injur'd me ; ' Therefore, farewell, farewell, society ! * Amid yon lonely mountains, where my soul, * Ere sorrow had depress'd the wings of hope, * Wild as^he daughter of the restless winds, ' The sky-ascending eagle, — ^bade me roam ' Undaunted, will I dwell. On lofty cliffs, * Whose cloud-encircling heads, of rude ascent, * Behold unbounded prospects, I will sit * And see the smoke of crowded cities rise, ' Dusky and distant. Yonder! I will say, ' Dwell abject men, men of degenerate minds, ^ Who plait, to scourge themselves, the lash of jrt^oe ( 64 ) ^ And bribe oppression to destroy their peace. ^ There virtue blooms not; there in poison'd air ' The flower of genius withers. Here^ indeed, ^ On these delightless rocks^ no verdure smiles; ^ But here an hapless mourner, damn'd by fate, ^ Weeping, retreats to nurse his many wrongs,* ^ Then answer'd Robertson, does happiness, ' The maid that loves society, sojourn, ' Like the lone hermit, in untravel'd wilds? ^ Believe me, no, Fitzosbert: nor shalt thou, ' In solitude, amid yon mountains, moan. *■ Tis a wild, baseless thought. Lo, bounteous [heav'n ^ Hath slrew'd my path with flowers: domestic peace, ' And conjugal aflection Hess my home, ^ Where two sweet children, lisping, call mc sire; * Contentment twines her woodbines round my door, ' And independence o'er my humble I'ooj^^ * His feae%ss banner waves. Come to nfepi^me, * A welcome guest : the wife who smiles on me ' Shall lovelier husband's friend : my little ones, < As simply prattling, with their artless smiles, ^They come to m^^et their sire, shall try each art. ( 65 ) ^ Each kind and winning art, to gain thy love, ^ Pleas'd with their new companion; while, oft charm'd ^ With friendship's sweetest converse, we will stray ' Through these enchanting fields, thy native lailds.* Then calmly said Fitzosbert, ' I rejoice ^ That thou art happy : may prosperity ^ Continue with thee, even to the grave, ^ And may the light of her heart-raising smiles ' Long cheer thy onward way : thou doest well ' To woojcq n te ntnaen t in the house of peace. 'Thou hast a home, a wife, and little ones; ' But I am like the soHtary flower ^ That pines in some lone valley; far retir'd ' Amid the wilds of ancient solitude, ' No eye beholds it's beauty : it departs * Unseen,unmourn'd;and and when it's head declines, ^ And when the leaves drop, no one comes to say ^^ The flower is faded ." Miserable doom ! ' I stag^galone upon the world's wide waste ; ' I h^l^o wife, no child, no home of peace; ' Oh ! how unlike my rayless fortune, thine! ' Nor name this envy. To the wretched man ' 'Tis pleasing to complain, 'tis sweet to mourn. G ( 66 ) ^Sure, ere mine eye beheld the light of clay, ^Sure, fate did frown upon my unborn life, * And say, ' thy doom is wretchedness!' Oh! friend;^ * I am unfitted for society, * And therefore I will flee the haunts of men, ' There was a time, before oppression reign'd, ' When happiness, the maiden of the smile, ' Not like an hermit, but ^^ villager, * Dwelt in the cottag'd vale. Am I to blame ^ Because power-bloated men have driven her thence I Robertson answer'd, 'tho* all argument * Seems weak to shake thy purpose, yet, I trust, * Thou wilt not disregard thy father's wish, * The last wish of his life: when the faint breath ^ Hung on his dry, parch'd lips, he grasp'd my arm, ' And, in a feeble tone, address'd me thus; '^ Friend of Fizosbert, I commend my son, '• With thes©, my dying accents, to thy care. *' Never forget Fitzosbert — ^love him SLlill, ^' And, Oh! if ere the hapless youth return, •' Oh! take him to thy house, and tell my son *' 'Twas my last wish that he should dwell with thee, ? And be thy brother." Breathless, here he paus'd. ( 67 ). ' And deeply sigh'd : then saying, scarcely beaidj, " Would I might see thee ere I die, iny soil-!*^ ' He clasp'd his stiffening hands, lais'd his dim eyft ' Hopeful to heav'rij and dying, seem'd to sleep.* 'Oh! friend/ exclaim'd Fitzosbert, 'thou hast [wak'd ' The sleeping pang of sorrow : paor old mtiii, - * He is departed to a better world. * Yes^ thou art gone my parent! Willingly, ' I too would die: how gladly would my soul ' Quit the darl: valley of this wretched world, ' And fly to thee!— Thy will shall be obey'd, ' Father! and, if thy spirit ever seeks ' The scenes which once were dear, amid these fields, ' These lovely fields, these scenes of infancy, ' Whisper etherial counsel to my soul, ' And I will bless thy voice, paternal shade !' ] Thus met the friends long parted. Arm in arm. Then towards the peaceful house of Robertson, They mov'd in silence. On a swelling hill. Screened from the north wind bj*^ luxuriant oaks. Lonely it stood amid surrounding groves. G3 ( ^8 ) Beneath the groves, along the vale beneath, With sweetest murmurs, flow'd a gentle stream Smoothly, save when grove-crested rocks disturb'd It's placid course, projecting rough and rude. 'The eye pursued it's windings many a mile. Till, as it wander'd thro' the plain of flowers. Gradual it faded with the distant hills. jFair were th' adjacent landscapes: hills, wood- [crown'd. Or treeless, swelling beautifully, rose In near or far perspective; rock-rib'd dells, Rill-water'd, smil'd before them; loveliest lawns. And greenest meadows, wide and various, strew VI With cotts and villages, repos'd around Jn sweet variet}^ Onward they mov'd. And as they mav'd, Fitzosbert's eye survey'd The sadly-pleasing, landscape, till he w'ept 'Rememberirig years departed: yes, he thought Of time for ever lost, and smii'd thro' tears; ]for the remembrance of departed joy Is sweet, tho' mournful. Onward still they mov'd, [Aud, thro' a sudden turning off the road, High ovei-^i*ch'd with elm and sycamore, jSudden, beheld the home of Robertson. ( 69 y It was a charming spot: with rustic grace Rising, it seem'd the residence of peace. The seat of love and friendship : o'er the walls A spreading vine extended her wide arms; ^' Tree-climbing ivy garlanded the roof; And round the door two beauteous wood-bines clung^ On each side one, with joining boughs above. The dove resided, and the red-breast there His sweet notes warbled. At the cottage door Matilda sate : in her expressive face Shone beauty's light celestial: on her cheek, The fairest rose of ever-smiling health Bloom'd beautifully; and her azure eye Beam'd, with bewitching sweetness, the soft look Of gentle love and meek benevolence. The fair luxuriance of her golden hair, Flow'd o'er her shoulders like a stream of light. A snowy mantle clad her lovely limbs. And, gracefully descending, swept the ground;, WhilC;, thro' the partial veil which modesty Threw o'er her bosom, the alternate bieast. Rising and falhng softly, was discern'd ; Like the pale moon, when thro' the heav'ns she moves* G3 ( 70 ) Silent in tranquil beauty, and illumes iy|th silvery light the slowly scudding clouds. A blooming daughter sate upon her knee. And in her arms she held an infant son. And clasp'd him to her bosom, and oft* kiss'd His ruby lip; while towards her neck of snow. He sti-etch'd his little hands, in half-form'd words Express'd his simple thoughts, and harmlessly Laughed at he knew not what. ' See, see,' he said^ * My father, and another father, come,' She turh'd her dark blue eyes, and saw the friende Approaching. Then most gracefuU}^ she rose. And, lowly curtseying, with divinest smiles, Wekom'd FiTZQSBERT to his native fields^ FINIS. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 014 152 398 3 ♦ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 014 152 398 3 •