THE DISABLED SOLDIER. 
 
 THE THRESHER, THE STORM. 
 
 AND 
 
 THE HAPPY RETREAT- 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR J.T.WARD and COMPANY, 
 3, Bread-Street-Hill, Clieapsidc. 
 
 1808, 
 
 V. 
 
 [id. 
 
THE DISABLED SOLDIER, 
 
 The sun was just retired, the dews of eve 
 Their glow-worm lustre scattered o'er the vale 5 
 
 The lonely nightingale began to grieve* 
 
 Telling, with many a pause, her tender tale. 
 
 No clamours loud disturb'd the pensive hour, 
 And the young moon, yet fearful of the night, 
 
 Eear'd her pale crescent o'er the burnish'd tow'er, 
 That caught the parting orb's still ling'ring light 
 
 Twas then, where peasant footsteps mark'd the f 
 A wounded soldier feebly mov'd along ; 
 
 Nor aught regarded he the soft'ning ray, 
 Nor the melodious bird's expressive song, 
 
On crutches borne, his mangled limbs he drew, 
 Unsightly remnants of the battle's rage ; 
 
 While Pity, in his youthful form might view 
 A helpless prematurity of age. 
 
 Then, as with strange contortions, laboring slow, 
 He gain'd the summit of his native hill, 
 
 And saw the well-known prospect spread below, 
 The farm, the cot, the hamlet, and the mill. 
 
 In spite of fortitude, one struggling sigh 
 Shook the firm texture of his tortur'd heart; 
 
 And from his hollow and dejected eye 
 A trembling tear hung ready to depart 
 
 1 How chang'd,' he cry'd, ' is this fair scene to me, 
 
 * Since last across this narrow path I went ! 
 ' The soaring lark felt not superior glee, 
 
 ' Nor any human breast more true content 
 
 ' When the fresh hay was o'er the meadow throtvn, 
 
 * Amidst the busy throng I still appear'd : 
 My prowess too at harvest-time was shown, 
 
 ' While Lucy's carol ev'ry labor cheer'd, 
 
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 * The burning rays I scarcely seem'd to feel, 
 
 ' If the dear maiden near me chanc'd to rove 
 ' Or if she deign'd to share my frugal meal, 
 
 * It was a rich repast, a feast of love. 
 
 6 And when at evening, with a rustic's pride, 
 ' I dar'd the sturdiest wrestler's on the green, 
 
 ' What joy was mine, to hear her, at my side, 
 ' Extol my vigor and my manly mein. 
 
 ' Ah ! now no more the sprightly lass shall run 
 ' To bid me welcome from the sultry plain ; 
 
 ' But her averted eye ray sight shall shun, 
 ' And all our cherish'd fondest hopes be vain, 
 
 < Alas! my parents, must ye too endure 
 
 * That I for ever should destroy your mirth, 
 
 * Exist upon the pittance ye procure, 
 
 ' And make ye curse the Trour that gave me bit 
 
 ' hapless day ! when, at a neighb'ring wake, 
 ' The gaudy Serjeant caught my wond'ringeye 
 ' And, as his tongue of war and honor spake, 
 
 * I felt a wish — to conquer or to die I 
 
* Then, while he bound the ribbands on my brow, 
 
 * fie talk'd of captains kind and gen'rals good • 
 < Said a whole nation would my fame avow, 
 
 4 And bounty call'd the purchase of my blood* 
 
 ' Yet I refus'd that bounty • I disdain'd 
 
 * To sell my service in a righteous cause; 
 
 ' (And such to my dull sense it was explain'd) 
 4 the cause of Monarchy Justice, and the Law 
 
 ' The rattling drums beat loud, the fifes began, 
 
 * My king and country seem'd to ask my aid, 
 ' Through ev'ry vein the thrilling ardour ran- ' 
 
 ' I left my humble cot, my village maid ! 
 
 Unhappy day I torn from my Lucy's charms, 
 ' r thence was hurried to a scene of strife, 
 
 To painful marches and the din of amis, 
 ' Tire wreck of reason, and the waste of life. 
 
 In Wthsome vessels now with crowds confined, 
 fowled with hosts to slaughter in the field, 
 Now backward driv'n, like leaves before the wind, 
 Too weak to stand, and yet asham'd to yidd , 
 
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 « Till oft repeated victories inspir'd 
 « With tenfold fury the indignant foe, 
 
 « Who ruthless, still advanc'd as we retiu'd, 
 « And laid our boasted proudest honors low. 
 
 ' Through frozen deserts then compell'd to fly, 
 < Our°bravest legions moulder'd fast away ; 
 
 « Thousands of wounds and sickness let to die, 
 ■ While Wring ravens mark'd them for then; 
 
 « Oh, be this warfare of the world accurs'd!- 
 . The son now weeps not o'er the father's ta 
 
 « But grey-hair'd age (for nature is revers'd) 
 < Drops o'er his children's grave an icey " 
 
 Thus having spoke, by varying passions tost 
 He reach'd the threshold of his parent's ste 
 
 Who knew not of his fate, yet mourn'd bimk 
 . Amidst the number of the nnnam'd dead 
 
 Soon as they heard his well-remember'd voirt 
 
 A ray of rapture chas'd habitual care ; 
 ' Our Henry lives, we may again rejoice,* 
 A»d Lucy sweetly blush'd-for she wast' 
 
 tear' 
 
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 But wleii he enter'd in such horrid guise,' 
 His mother shriek'd, and dropp'd upon the floor 
 
 lis father look' d to Ileav'n with streaming eves, 
 And Lucy sunk, alas ! to rise no more* 
 
 THE THRESHER. 
 
 Between the upright shafts of those tall' elms 
 We may discern the Thresher at his task. 
 Thump after thump resounds the constant flail^ 
 That seems to swing uncertain, and yet falls 
 Full on the destin'd ear. Wide flies the chaff,, 
 The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist 
 Of atoms, sparkling in the noon-day beam* 
 Come hither, ye that press your beds of down, 
 And sleen not : see him sweating o'er his bread 
 Before lie eats it. — Tisthe primal curse, 
 But softeifd into mercy ; made the pledge 
 Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan, 
 
 / 
 
THE STORM. 
 
 So from the shore they launch'd, 
 Bound to no port, but destin'd on a cruise, 
 A morning's cruise for fish. Pleas'd was the 
 With utmost joy he saw the wood recede, 
 Beheld his cottage dwindled to a speck, 
 Observ'd the snow-white cliffs to right and left 
 Unfolding their wide barrier to his view, 
 And felt the boat bound quic% o'er the wav, 
 Bight as a cork. He took the helm, rejoic'd. 
 And right before the wind held on his course' 
 Unheed ing ! Twas in vain his busy friends 
 Advis'd a aW 'rent course, to gain with ease 
 The shore he left. He carelessly went on, 
 And never dream'd of danger and delay 
 Never experienced. Fast into the waves 
 S.nks the far distant shore. The lofty cliff 
 Stoops to the water, and his hoary brow 
 At ev'ry wave seems buried in the flood. 
 And now the gloomy clouds collect. A storm 
 Comes mutt'ring o'er the deep, and hides the m 
 
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 Hush'd is the breeze, and the high-lifted wave, 
 Portending speedy danger, to the shore, 
 In lurid silence rolls. In tenfold gloom 
 The stormy south is wrapt, and his gum frown 
 Imparts unusual horror to the deep. 
 Now to the shore too late young Gilbert turns. 
 The breeze is sunk, and o'er the moutain waves 
 Labours the bark in vain. To the stout oar 
 The fisher and his son repair, and pull, 
 Alarm'd for safety, 'till their flowing brows 
 Trickle with dew. And oft the anxious youth 
 Looks back amaz'd, and sees the lightning plav, 
 And hears the thunder, and beholds a sea 
 Ready to burst upon him. Oft he thinks 
 Of Anna and Sophia, and of thee, 
 Much-lov'd Maria and thy aged sire, 
 Never perhaps again to walk with you, 
 To hear you speak, to live upon your smiles. 
 Ye hapless pair ! what shall become of you, 
 No brother to defend you, and no father ! 
 
 But fast the storm increases. The strong flash 
 Incessant gleams upon the curling wave. " 
 
 Bound his dark throw* i*, r i 
 
 v unonc, in awful majesty, 
 
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 »<"*>»»>•« 
 
 The thunder marches ; his imperious roar 
 Shakes the proud arch of heav'n. And now the sho 
 Begins to drop, and the unsteady gust 
 Sweeps to the shore, and stoops the flying boat 
 E'en to the brink. Small distance then, my frig 
 'Twixt life and death ; a mere hair's breadth, Audi 
 .Far, very far, appears the wish-'d-for port. 
 And lo ! between yon rocks now seen, now lost, 
 Buried in foam, and high the milky surge 
 Kolls its proud cataract along the shore, 
 Access denying. To the frowning cliff 
 Approach not. Mark the strong recoiling wave; 
 E'en to the base of the high precipice 
 It plunges headlong, and the stedtast hill 
 Wears with eternal battery. No bark 
 Of forty times your strength, in such a sea 
 Could live a moment! Twere enough to wreck 
 A British navy, and her stoutest oak 
 Shiver to atoms. 
 
THE HAPPY RETREAT, 
 
 High o'er the winding of a cliffy shore, 
 From whose worn steep the black'ning surges roar^ 
 My friend Chow blest !) in quiet plenty lives, 
 Rich in the unbought wealth which nature gives i 
 Unplanted groves rise round his shelter'd seat, 
 And self-sown flow'rs attract his wand'ring feet; 
 Lengths of wild garden his near views ad^n, 
 And far seen fields wave with domestic corn. 
 
 The grateful herds, which his own pastures feed, 
 Pay their ask'd lives, and, in due tribute, bleedo 
 Here, in learn'd leisure, he relaxes life, 
 'Twixt prattling children and a smiling wife, 
 
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 Here, on dependent want he sheds his care, 
 Moves amid smiles, and all he hears is— pray'r, - 
 The world lies round him, like a subject soil, 
 StorM for his service, but beneath his toil. 
 
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 Hence, in a morning walk, his piercing eye 
 Skims the green ocean to the circling sky ; 
 And marks, at distance, some returning sail, 
 Wing'd by the courtship of a flattering gale. 
 The fearless crew, concluding danger o ? er, 
 With o-ladd'ning shouts salute the op'ning shore; 
 They think how best they may their gains employ, 
 And antedate their scenes of promis'd joy ; 
 Till a near quick-sand checks their shortened way, 
 And the sunk masts point through the rising spray, 
 Felix starts, sad I revolves the changeful sight, 
 Where mis'ry can so soon succeed delight ; 
 Then shake's his head, in pity of their fate, 
 And, sweetly conscious, hugs his happier state,