The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide, The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark: Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings;

The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!

Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon

rings;

Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs;

Slow toils the village clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tour.

O Nature, hov in every charm supreme! Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new! O for the voice and fire of seraphim To sing thy glories with devotion due! Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew From Pyrrho's maze and Epicurus' sty; And held high converse with the godlike few, Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, and eye, Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody.

Hence! ye who snare and stupify the mind, Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy the bane! Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind, Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane, And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain! Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slime First gave you form! hence! lest the Muse should deign

(Though loath on theme so mean to waste a rhyme)

With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious crime.

But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay,
Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth!
Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay,
Amused my childhood and inform'd my youth.
O let your spirit still my bosom soothe,
Inspire my dreams and my wild wanderings
guide!

Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth;
For well I know, wherever ye reside,
There harmony and peace and innocence abide.

Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain, As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore, Save when against the winter's drenching rain And driving snow the cottage shut the door. Then, as instructed by tradition hoar, Her legend when the Beldame 'gan impart, Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er, Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart; Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful

art.

Various and strange was the long-winded tale; And halls, and knights, and feats of arms display'd;

Or merry swains who quaff the nut-brown ale, And sing, enamour'd of the nut-brown maid; The moonlight revel of the fairy glade;

Or hags that suckle an infernal brood, And ply in caves th' unutterable trade,1 'Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in

blood,

Yell in the midnight storm or ride the infuriate flood.

But when to horror his amazement rose, A gentler strain the Beldame would rehearse, A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, The orphan-babes and guardian uncle fierce. O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce That heart by lust of lucre sear'd to stone? For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse, To latest times shall tender souls bemoan Those hopeless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.

Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn,2

The babes now famish'd lay them down to die, Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn, Folded in one another's arms they lie; Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry: "For from the town the man returns no more." But thou who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st

defy,

This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore, When death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store.

A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy

Brighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear,
"But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy,
And innocence thus die by doom severe?"
O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere,
Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel:
Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere;
But let us hope; to doubt is to rebel;
Let us exult in hope that all shall yet be well.

Nor be thy generous indignation check'd,
Nor check'd the tender tear to misery given;
From guilt's contagious power shall that protect,
This soften and refine the soul for heaven.
But dreadful is their doom whom doubt has
driven

To censure fate, and pious hope forego:

1 Allusion to Shakspere:-

Macbeth. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags, What is't you do?

Witches. A deed without a name.

Macbeth, act iv scene 1.

2 See the fine old ballad called "The Children in the Wood."

Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven,
Perfection, beauty, life they never know,
But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe.

Shall he whose birth, maturity, and age
Scarce fill the circle of one summer day,
Shall the poor gnat with discontent and rage
Exclaim, that Nature hastens to decay,
If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,
If but a momentary shower descend?

Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay,

Which bade the series of events extend Wide through unnumber'd worlds, and ages without end?

One part, one little part, we dimly scan Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream;

Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan, If but that little part incongruous seem. Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem; Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. O then renounce that impious self-esteem, That aims to trace the secrets of the skies! For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise.

Thus Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years. For Nature gave him strength and fire, to soar On fancy's wing above this vale of tears; Where dark cold-hearted sceptics creeping pore Through microscope of metaphysic lore: And much they grope for truth, but never hit. For why? their powers, inadequate before, This idle art makes more and more unfit; Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit.

Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth;
Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device
Oft cheer'd the shepherds round their social
hearth;

Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice
To purchase chat or laughter at the price
Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed,
That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice.
Ah! had they been of court or city breed,
Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed.

Oft when the winter storm had ceased to rave, He roam'd the snowy waste at even to view The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave High towering, sail along th' horizon blue: Where 'midst the changeful scenery, ever new, Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries More wildly great than ever pencil drew, Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts

rise.

Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, The lone enthusiast oft would take his way,

Listening with pleasing dread to the deep roar Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array When sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day,

Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man, Along the trembling wilderness to stray, What time the lightning's fierce career began, And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran.

Responsive to the sprightly pipe when all In sprightly dance the village youth were join'd, Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall, From the rude gambol far remote reclined, Sooth'd with the soft notes warbling in the wind, Ah! then, all jollity seem'd noise and folly, To the pure soul by fancy's fire refined! Ah! what is mirth but turbulence unholy, When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy!

Is there a heart that music cannot melt?
Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn!
Is there who ne'er those mystic transports felt
Of solitude and melancholy born?

He needs not woo the Muse-he is her scorn.
The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine;
Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or

mourn

And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine; Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine.

For Edwin Fate a nobler doom had plann'd; Song was his favourite and first pursuit. The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand, And languish'd to his breath the plaintiff flute. His infant muse, though artless, was not mute: Of elegance as yet he took no care; For this of time and culture is the fruit, And Edwin gained at last this fruit so rare, As in some future verse I purpose to declare.

Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful or new, Sublime or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky, By chance or search, was offer'd to his view, He scann'd with curious and romantic eye. Whate'er of lore tradition could supply From Gothic tale, or song, or fable old, Roused him, still keen to listen and to pry. At last, though long by penury controll'd, And solitude his soul her graces 'gan unfold.

Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,
For many a long month lost in snow profound,
When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland,
And in their northern caves the storms are
bound;

From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,

Torrents are hurl'd, green hills emerge; and lo,

The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd,

Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go, And wonder, love, and joy the peasant's heart o'erflow.1

Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little while. The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim. But on this verse if Montague should smile, New strains ere long shall animate thy frame. And her applause to me is more than fame; For still with truth accords her taste refined. At lucre or renown let others aim,

I only wish to please the gentle mind, Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of human kind.

BOOK II.

Of chance or change O let not man complain,
Else shall he never, never cease to wail;
For, from the imperial dome, to where the swain
Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale,
All feel th' assault of fortune's fickle gale;
Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doom'd;
Earthquakes have raised to heaven the humble
vale,

And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entomb'd,

And where the Atlantic rolls wide continents

have bloom'd.2

But sure to foreign climes we need not range,
Nor search the ancient records of our race,
To learn the dire effects of time and change,
Which in ourselves, alas! we daily trace.
Yet at the darken'd eye, the wither'd face,
Or hoary hair, I never will repine;

But spare, O Time, whate'er of mental grace, Of candour, love, or sympathy divine, Whate'er of fancy's ray or friendship's flame is mine.

So I, obsequious to Truth's dread command, Shall here without reluctance change my lay, And smite the Gothic lyre with harsher hand; Now when I leave that flowery path for aye Of childhood, where I sported many a day, Warbling and sauntering carelessly along; Where every face was innocent and gay, Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue, Sweet, wild, and artless all, as Edwin's infant song.

"Perish the lore that deadens young desire" Is the soft tenor of my song no more.

1 Spring and autumn are hardly known to the Laplanders. About the time the sun enters Cancer their fields, which a week before were covered with snow, appear on a sudden full of grass and flowers.-Scheffer's History of Lapland, p. 16.

2 See Plato's Timæus.

Edwin, though loved of Heaven, must not aspire To bliss which mortals never knew before. On trembling wings let youthful fancy soar, Nor always haunt the sunny realms of joy: But now and then the shades of life explore; Though many a sound and sight of woe annoy, And many a qualm of care his rising hopes destroy.

Vigour from toil, from trouble patience grows.
The weakly blossom, warm in summer bower,
Some tints of transient beauty may disclose;
But soon it withers in the chilling hour.
Mark yonder oaks! Superior to the power
Of all the warring winds of heaven they rise,
And from the stormy promontory tower,
And toss their giant arms amid the skies,
While each assailing blast increase of strength
supplies.

And now the downy cheek and deepen'd voice
Gave dignity to Edwin's blooming prime;
And walks of wider circuit were his choice,
And vales more wild and mountains more
sublime.

One evening, as he framed the careless rhyme,
It was his chance to wander far abroad,
And o'er a lonely eminence to climb,
Which heretofore his foot had never trode:

A vale appear'd below, a deep retired abode.

Thither he hied, enamour'd of the scene.
For rocks on rocks piled, as by magic spell,
Here scorch'd with lightning, there with ivy

green,

Fenced from the north and east this savage dell. Southward a mountain rose with easy swell, Whose long, long groves eternal murmur made. And toward the western sun a streamlet fell, Where, through the cliffs, the eye remote

survey'd

Blue hills and glittering waves, and skies in gold array'd.

Along this narrow valley you might see
The wild deer sporting on the meadow ground,
And here and there a solitary tree,

Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine crown'd.
Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound
Of parted fragments tumbling from on high;
And from the summit of that craggy mound
The perching eagle oft was heard to cry,
Or on resounding wings to shoot athwart the sky.

One cultivated spot there was that spread
Its flowery bosom to the noonday beam,
Where many a rosebud rears its blushing head,
And herbs for food with future plenty teem.
Sooth'd by the lulling sound of grove and
stream,

Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul:

He minded not the sun's last trembling gleam,

Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll; When slowly on his ear these moving accents stole.

"Hail,awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,
And woo the weary to profound repose!
Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest,
And whisper comfort to the man of woes!
Here innocence may wander safe from foes,
And contemplation soar on seraph wings.
O solitude! the man who thee foregoes,
When lucre lures him or ambition stings,
Shall never know the source whence real grandeur
springs.

"Vain man! is grandeur given to gay attire?
Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid:
To friends, attendants, armies bought with hire?
It is thy weakness that requires their aid:
To palaces, with gold and gems inlaid?
They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm:
To hosts, through carnage who to conquest
wade?

Behold the victor vanquish'd by the worm! Behold what deeds of woe the locust can perform!

"True dignity is his whose tranquil mind

Virtue has raised above the things below; Who, every hope and fear to Heaven resign'd, Shrinks not though Fortune aim her deadliest blow."

This strain from 'midst the rocks was heard to flow

In solemn sounds. Now beam'd the evening

star;

And from embattled clouds emerging slow Cynthia came riding on her silver car; And hoary mountain-cliffs shone faintly from afar.

Soon did the solemn voice its theme renew: (While Edwin wrapt in wonder listening stood) "Ye tools and toys of tyranny, adieu, Scorn'd by the wise, and hated by the good! Ye only can engage the servile brood

Of levity and lust, who all their days,
Asham'd of truth and liberty, have woo'd

And hugged the chain, that, glittering on their gaze,

Seems to outshine the pomp of heaven's empyreal blaze.

"Like them, abandon'd to ambition's sway,
I sought for glory in the paths of guile;
And fawn'd and smiled to plunder and betray,
Myself betray'd and plunder'd all the while;
So gnaw'd the viper the corroding file.
But now with pangs of keen remorse I rue
Those years of trouble and debasement vile.
Yet why should I this cruel theme pursue?
Fly, fly detested thoughts, for ever from my view!

"The gusts of appetite, the clouds of care,
And storms of disappointment, all o'erpast,

Henceforth no earthly hope with Heaven shall

share

This heart, where peace serenely shines at last. And if for me no treasure be amass'd, And if no future age shall hear my name, I lurk the more secure from fortune's blast, And with more leisure feed this pious flame, Whose rapture far transcends the fairest hopes of fame.

"The end and the reward of toil is rest.

Be all my prayer for virtue and for peace.
Of wealth and fame, of pomp and power pos-
sess'd,

Who ever felt his weight of woe decrease?
Ah! what avails the lore of Rome and Greece,
The lay Heaven-prompted, and harmonious
string,

The dust of Ophir, or the Tyrian fleece,

All that art, fortune, enterprise can bring, If envy, scorn, remorse, or pride the bosom wring!

"Let vanity adorn the marble tomb

With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of re

nown,

In the deep dungeon of some Gothic dome,
Where night and desolation ever frown.
Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
With here and there a violet bestrewn,
Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave;
And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my
grave.

"And thither let the village swain repair;
And light of heart the village maiden gay,
To deck with flowers her half-dishevel'd hair,
And celebrate the merry morn of May.
There let the shepherd's pipe the livelong day
Fill all the grove with love's bewitching woe;
And when mild evening comes in mantle gray,
Let not the blooming band make haste to go;
No ghost nor spell my long and last abode shall
know.

What forms of mournful, loathsome, furious mien !

O when shall that eternal morn appear, These dreadful forms to chase, this chaos dark to clear!

"O thou at whose creative smile yon heaven, In all the pomp of beauty, life, and light, Rose from th' abyss; when dark confusion, driven

Down, down the bottomless profound of night, Fled, where he ever flies thy piercing sight! O glance on these sad shades one pitying ray, To blast the fury of oppressive might, Melt the hard heart to love and mercy's sway, And cheer the wandering soul, and light him on the way!"

Silence ensued: and Edwin raised his eyes In tears, for grief lay heavy at his heart. And is it thus in courtly life (he cries), That man to man acts a betrayer's part? And dares he thus the gifts of Heaven pervert, Each social instinct and sublime desire? Hail poverty! if honour, wealth, and art, If what the great pursue, and learn'd admire, Thus dissipate and quench the soul's ethereal fire!"

He said, and turn'd away; nor did the sage O'erhear, in silent orisons employ'd. The youth, his rising sorrow to assuage, Home as he hied, the evening scene enjoy'd: For now no cloud obscures the starry void; The yellow moonlight sleeps on all the hills;1 Nor is the mind with startling sounds annoy'd; A soothing murmur the lone region fills, Of groves, and dying gales, and melancholy rills. But he from day to day more anxious grew, The voice still seem'd to vibrate on his ear. Nor durst he hope the hermit's tale untrue; For man he seem'd to love, and Heaven to fear;

And none speaks false where there is none to

hear.

"Yet can man's gentle heart become so fell? No more in vain conjecture let me wear My hours away, but seek the hermit's cell; "Tis he my doubt can clear, perhaps my care dispel."

At early dawn the youth his journey took, And many a mountain pass'd, and valley wide, Then reach'd the wild; where, in a flowery nook, And seated on a mossy stone, he spied An ancient man; his harp lay him beside. A stag sprang from the pasture at his call, And kneeling lick'd the wither'd hand that tied A wreath of woodbine round his antlers tall, And hung his lofty neck with many a floweret small.

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank. Shakspere.

And now the hoary sage arose, and saw The wanderer approaching: innocence Smiled on his glowing cheek, but modest awe Depress'd his eye, that fear'd to give offence. "Who art thou, courteous stranger? and from whence?

66

Why roam thy steps to this sequester'd dale?"

A shepherd boy (the youth replied), far hence My habitation; hear my artless tale; Nor levity nor falsehood shall thine ear assail. "Late as I roam'd, intent on Nature's charms, I reach'd at eve this wilderness profound; And, leaning where yon oak expands her arms, Heard these rude cliffs thine awful voice rebound,

(For in thy speech I recognize the sound.) You mourn'd for ruin'd man, and virtue lost, And seem'd to feel of keen remorse the wound, Pondering on former days by guilt engross'd, Or in the giddy storm of dissipation toss'd.

"But say, in courtly life can craft be learn'd,
Where knowledge opens and exalts the soul?
Where fortune lavishes her gifts unearn'd,
Can selfishness the liberal heart control?
Is glory there achiev'd by arts as foul
As those that felons, fiends, and furies plan?
Spiders ensnare, snakes poison, tigers prowl;
Love is the godlike attribute of man.

O teach a simple youth this mystery to scan
"Or else the lamentable strain disclaim,
And give me back the calm, contented mind;
Which, late exulting, view'd in Nature's frame
Goodness untainted, wisdom unconfined,
Grace, grandeur, and utility combined.
Restore those tranquil days, that saw me still
Well pleased with all, but most with human-
kind;

When fancy roam'd through Nature's works at will,

Uncheck'd by cold distrust, and uninform'd by ill.”

"Wouldst thou (the sage replied) in peace return
To the gay dreams of fond romantic youth,
Leave me to hide, in this remote sojourn,
From every gentle ear the dreadful truth:
For if my desultory strain with ruth
And indignation make thine eyes o'erflow,
Alas! what comfort could thy anguish sooth,
Shouldst thou th' extent of human folly know.
Be ignorance thy choice, where knowledge leads

to woe.

"But let untender thoughts afar be driven;
Nor venture to arraign the dread decree.
For know, to man, as candidate for heaven,
The voice of the Eternal said, Be free:
And this divine prerogative to thee
Does virtue, happiness, and heaven convey;
For virtue is the child of liberty,