« PředchozíPokračovat »
She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve,
And one night as the old woman And a jovial storm had brew'd.
Was sick and ill in bed,
And pondering sorely on the life
Her wicked daughter led,
And she raised her pallid head,
And she saw her daughter, with a knift,
Approaching to her bed.
And said, My child, I'm very ill,
I have not long to live,
Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die
Thy sins I may forgive.
And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, Her heavy heart beguiled.
And she lifted the sharp bright knife
And the mother saw her fell intent,
And hard she begg'd for life.
But prayers would nothing her avail,
And she scream'd aloud with fear,
But the house was lone, and the piercing screams And when the tempest waxed strong,
Could reach no human ear
And though that she was sick, and old,
She struggled hard and fought;
The murderess cut three fingers through
Ere she could reach her throat.
And the hag she held the fingers up,
The skin was mangled sore,
And they all agreed a nobler deed
Was never done before.
And she threw the fingers in the fire,
The red flame flamed high,
And round about the cauldron stout And to have seen the mother's pangs,
They danced right merrily. "I'was a glorious sight to see ; The crew could scarcely hold her down
The third arose; She said she'd been From jumping in the sea.
To Holy Palestine;
And seen more blood in one short day,
Than they had all seen in nine.
Now Gondoline, with fearful steps,
Drew nearer to the flame,
For much she dreaded now to hear
Her hapless lover's name.
The hag related then the sports
Of that eventful day,
When on the well-contested field
Full fifteen thousand lay.
She said that she in human gore
Above the knees did wade,
And that no tongue could truly tell
The tricks she there had play d.
There was a gallant-featured youth,
Who like a hero fought;
He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist,
And every danger sought.
Unto the knight she sues,
And tells him she from Britain comes,
And brings unwelcome news.
That three days ere she had embark'd,
His love had given her hand
Unto a wealthy Thane :-and thought
Him dead in holy land.
And to have seen how he did writhe.
When this her tale she told,
It would have made a wizard's blood he said, there was an aged woman,
Within his heart run cold.
Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed,
And sought the battle's bed :
And soon all mangled o'er with wounds,
He on the cold turf bled.
And from his smoking corse she tore
His head, half clove in two.
She ceased, and from beneath her garb
The bloody trophy drew.
The eyes were starting from their socks,
The mouth it ghastly grinn com
And there was a gash across the brow,
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss.
Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height,
What even are kings, when balanced in the scale Twas Bertrand's Head! With a terrible scream Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God! The maiden gave a spring,
Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works! And from her fearful hiding place
Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, She fell into the ring.
One look of kind benevolence ?-t'hou canst ;
For Thou art full of universal love,
And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud,
The pageant insects of a glittering hour.
Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, Insensible the maiden lay
How insignificant do all the joys,
The gaudes, and honours of the world appear ! And still mysterious sounds were heard
How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp. At intervals around.
Outwatch'd the slow-paced night ?-Why on the
page, She woke-she half arose,--and wild,
The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd She cast a horrid glare,
The hours devoted by the world to rest, The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled, And needful to recruit exhausted nature ? And all was stillness there.
Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay
The loss of health? or can the hope of glory
Lend a new throb unto my languid heart,
Cool, even now my feverish aching brow,
Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye,
Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?
Say, foolish one-can that unbodied fame,
For which thou barterest health and happiness, It offer'd well, for madness fired
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave ?
Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs
Of everlasting punishment condign?
Alas' how vain are mortal man's desires !
How fruitless his pursuits ! Eternal God!
Guide Thou my footsteps in the way of truth,
And oh ! assist me so to live on earth,
That I may die in peace, and claim a place
In thy high dwelling: - All but this is folly,
The vain illusions of deceitful life.
Along the ocean's side.
In the Morning before Day-break.
YE many twinkling stars, who yet do hold
The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven,
MARY, the moon is sleeping on thy grave,
Spirit of her
Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now
It is a night, when from their primrose beds, But who it was the able master
Had moulded in the mimic plaster,
I never yet could justly learn: And strike grim terror to his guilty soul.
But knowing well, that any head The spirit of my love might now awake,
Is made to answer for the dead, And hold its custom'd converse.
(And sculptors first their faces frame,
And after pitch upon a name,
Because they both have beards, which, you know, In solemn music, a funereal dirge,
Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno)
With Chatham and with Cicero,
Then all around in just degree,
A range of portraits you may see,
Who are no whit inferior to men.
For though confined, t'will well contain
The ideal flights of Madam Brain.
Can cramp the energies of mind!
Thus, though my heart may seem so small,
And should it e'er become so cold
That these it will no longer hold, Where I, one of the rhyming race,
Nor more may Heaven her blessings give,
I shall not then be fit to live.
TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.
MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine, smoky grate my fire to hold :
Was nursed in whirling storms,
And cradled in the winds.
Thee when young Spring first question'd Winter's Full half the spacious room and more.
sway, And dared the
sturdy blusterer to the fight, A window vainly stuff'd about,
Thee on this bank he threw
To mark his victory.
In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, My furniture I sure may crack
Unnoticed and alone,
Thy tender elegance.
So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms A desk-of that I am not fervent,
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk The work of, Sir, your humble servant;
Of Life she rears her head, (Who, though I sayt, am no such fumbler ;)
Obscure and unobserved ; A glass decanter and a tumbler, Prom which my night-parch'd throat I lave, While every bleaching breeze that on her blows, Luxurious, with the limpid wave.
Chastens her spotless purity of breast, A chest of drawers, in antique sections,
And hardens her to bear,
Serene the ills of life.
TO THE RIVER TRENT.
Written on Recovery from Sickness.
ONCE more, o Trent ! along thy pebbly marge
From the close sick-room newly let at large, Of heads, and coins, and silver medals,
Wooes to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale. And organ works, and broken pedals;
O! to his ear how musical the tale (For I was once a-building music,
Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat: Though soon of that employ I grew sick ;)
And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, And skeletons of laws which shoot
How wildly novel on his senses float! All out of one primordial root;
It was on this that many a sleepless night, That you, at such a sight, would swear
As lone, he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, Confusion's self had settled there.
And at his casement heard, with wild atfright, There stands, just by a broken sphere,
The owl's dull wing and melancholy scream, A Cicero without an ear,
On this he thought, this, this his sole desire, A neck, on which, by logic good,
Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland I know for sure a head once stood;
Will often ring appalling-I portend
A dismal night--and on my wakeful bed
Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head, GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, And him who rides where winds and waves contend,
Where, far from cities, I may spend my days, And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide.
May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,
I shall not want the world's delusive joys ;
BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.
This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.
Volume, and was occasioned by several little Qua. torzains, misnomered Sonnets, which he pub
lished in the Monthly Mirror. He begs leave to SONNET III.
return his thanks to the much respected writer, Supposed to have been addressed by a female lunatic
for the permission so politely granted to insert to a Lady.
it here, and for the good opinion he has been
pleased to express of his productions. LADY, thou weepest for the Maniac's wo,
And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young; Oh! may thy bosom never, never know
YE, whose aspirings court the muse of lays, The pangs with which my wretched heart is
“ Severest of those orders which belong,
Distinct and separate, to Delphic song, wrung. I had a mother once-a brother too
Why shun the Sonnet's undulating maze ? (Beneath yon yew my father rests his head:
And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days, I had a lover once, and kind, and true,
Assume,its rules disown'd? whom from the throng But mother, brother, lover, all are fled !
The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye?
Of its full harmony :-they fear to wrong Oh! gentle lady-not for me thus weep,
The Sonnet, by adorning with a name The green sod soon upon my breast will lie,
Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet, And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep.
Yet not in magic texture taught to meet Go thou and pluck the roses while they bloom
Of that so varied and peculiar frame. My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.
O think! to vindicate its genuine praise (swars. Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favouring impulse
Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody,
in a Storm, while on board a Ship in his Majesty's Service.
Recantatory, in reply to the foregoing clegant
LO' o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds
Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds,
While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined, Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies
His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him sad,
Of wife and little home, and chubby lad,
View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep,
LET the sublimer muse, who, wrapp'd in night,
Rides on the raven pennons of the storm,
Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight, Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight,
Disdain the plaintive Sonnet's little form,
And scorn to its wild cadence to conform
Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest
With wildest song ;-Me, much, behoves thy aid
On hearing the Sounds of an Æolian
THE WINTER TRAVELLER.
GOD help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far; So ravishingly soft upon the tide
Of the infuriate gust, it did career,
Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear And in thy agonizing ear the shriek
Of druid sage, who on the far-off ear
Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge rep'ied;
Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds, • This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant By unseen beings sung; or are these scunda Sonnet, occasioned by seeing a young Female Such, as 'tis said, at night are known to swell Lunatic," written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in By startled shepherd on the lonely heat i, the Monthly Mirror.
Keeping his night-watch sad portending deain?
ADDRESSED TO B. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A
On seeing Engravings from his Designs.
WHAT art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat?
Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands,
And thou dost bear within thine awful hands The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet, Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind, Thou guíd'st the northern storm at night's dread
noon, Or on the
red wing of the fierce Monsoon, Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. In the drear silence of the polar span
Dost thou repose ? or in the solitude Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan
Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood ? Vain thought the confines of his
to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space.
BE hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds,
Ye pelting rains a little rest :
That wring with grief my aching breast. Oh! cruel was my faithless love,
To triumph o'er an artless máid; Oh! cruel was my faithless love,
To leave the breast by him betray'd. When exiled from my native home,
He should have wiped the bitter tear; Nor left me faint and lone to roam,
A heart-sick weary wanderer here, My child moans sadly in my arms,
The winds they will not let il sleep: Ah, little knows the hapless babe
What makes its wretched mother weep! Now lie thee still, my infant dear,
I cannot bear thy sobs to see, Harsh is thy father, little one,
And never will he shelter thee. Oh, that I were but in my grave,
And winds were piping o'er me loud, And thou, my poor, my orphan babe,
Were nestling in thy mother's shroud !
MIGHTY magician who on Torneo's brow,
When sullen tempests, wrap the throne of night,
Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light, That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; And listen to the distant death-shriek long
From lonely mariner foundering in the deep,
Which rises slowly up the rocky steep,
Or when along the liquid sky
Him who grasp'd the gates of Hell,
Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep,
Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep,
Who shall now, sublimest spirit,
his aching head
And oh ! for ever must its efforts sleep,
sceptre e'er regain ? Oh yes, 'tis his ! Thy other son; He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, Fuesslin waves thy wand,-again they rise, [eyes, Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd im didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep [flung, Where round his head the vollied lightnings
And the loud winds that round his pillow rung, Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of sleep;
Or on the highest top of Teneriffe Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look
Where far below the weather-beaten skiff On the gulf bottom of the ocean strook. Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear
The death-soo, and, disdaining rest,
in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear.
FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD, THE
NICHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION.
SLEEP, baby mine, enkerchieft on my bosom,
Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast; Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'st have a mother
To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest.
Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled ; Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning,
And I would fain compose my aching head. Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy
weeping, When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be: Who then will soothe thee, when ihy mother's
sleeping In her low grave of shame and infamy! Sleep, baby mine-To-morrow I must leave thee,
And I would snatch an interval of rest : Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee,
For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast.
• Sir Philip Sidney has a poem beginning, “Sleep Baby mine."