"Where a sight shall shuddering sorrow find,
Sad as the ruins of the human mind."-Bowles.
TIME, Morning. SCENE, The Shore.
ONCE more to daily toil, once more to wear
The livery of shame, once more to search
With miserable task this savage shore !
O thou, who mountest so triumphantly
In yonder Heaven, beginning thy career
Of glory, O thou blessed Sun! thy beams
Fall on me with the same benignant light
Here, at the farthest limits of the world,
And blasted as I am with infamy,
As when in better years poor Elinor
Gazed on thy glad uprise with eye undimm'd
By guilt and sorrow, and the opening morn
Woke her from quiet sleep to days of peace.
In other occupation then I trod
The beach at eve; and then when I beheld
The billows as they roll'd before the storm
Burst on the rock and rage, my timid soul
Shrunk at the perils of the boundless deep,
And heaved a sigh for suffering mariners; ..
Ah! little thinking I myself was doom'd
To tempt the perils of the boundless deep,
An outcast, unbeloved and unbewail'd.
Still wilt thou haunt me, Memory! still present
The fields of England to my exiled eyes,
The joys which once were mine. Even now I see
The lowly lovely dwelling; even now
Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls,
Where fearlessly the red-breasts chirp'd around
To ask their morning meal: and where at eve
I loved to sit and watch the rook sail by
And hear his hollow tone, what time he sought
The church-yard elm, that with its ancient boughs
Full-foliaged, half-conceal'd the house of God;
That holy house, where I so oft have heard
My father's voice explain the wondrous works
Of Heaven to sinful man. Ah! little deem'd
His virtuous bosom, that his shameless child
So soon should spurn the lesson, . . sink, the slave
Of Vice and Infamy, . . the hireling prey
Of brutal appetite; at length worn out
With famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt,
Should share dishonesty, - yet dread to die!
Welcome, ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes, Where angry England sends her outcast sons, I hail your joyless shores! My weary bark,
Long tempest-tost on Life's inclement sea,
Here hails her haven; welcomes the drear scene,
The marshy plain, the briar-entangled wood,
And all the perils of a world unknown.
For Elinor hath nothing new to fear
From cruel Fortune; all her rankling shafts
Barb'd with disgrace, and venom'd with disease,
Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death
Has lost its terrors to a wretch like me.
Welcome, ye marshy heaths, ye pathless woods,
Where the rude native rests his wearied frame
Beneath the sheltering shade; where, when the storm
Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seek
The dripping shelter. Welcome, ye wild plains
Unbroken by the plough, undelved by hand
Of patient rustic; where for lowing herds,
And for the music of the bleating flocks,
Alone is heard the kangaroo's sad note
Deepening in distance. Welcome, wilderness,
Nature's domain ! for here, as yet unknown
The comforts and the crimes of polish'd life,
Nature benignly gives to all enough,
Denies to all a superfluity.
What though the garb of infamy I wear,
Though day by day along the echoing beach
I gather wave-worn shells; yet day by day
I earn in honesty my frugal food,
And lay me down at night to calm repose;
No more condemned, the mercenary tool
Of brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heart
Abhorrent, and self-loathed, to fold my arms
Round the rank felon, and for daily bread
To hug contagion to my poison'd breast!
On these wild shores the saving hand of Grace
Will probe my secret soul, and cleanse its wounds,
And fit the faithful penitent for Heaven.
SEE'ST thou not, William, that the scorching sun
By this time half his daily race hath run?
The savage thrusts his light canoe to shore,
And hurries homeward with his fishy store.
Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soil,
To eat our dinner and to rest from toil.
Agreed. Yon tree, whose purple gum bestows
A ready medicine for the sick man's woes,
Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreat
To shield us from the noontide's sultry heat.
Ah, Humphrey! now upon old England's shore
The weary labourer's morning work is o'er.
The woodman there rests from his measured stroke,
Flings down his axe, and sits beneath the oak;
Savour'd with hunger there he eats his food,
There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood.
To us no cooling streamlet winds it way,
No joys domestic crown for us the day;
The felon's name, the outcast's garb we wear,
Toil all the day, and all the night despair.
Ay, William! labouring up the furrow'd ground,
I used to love the village clock's old sound,
Rejoice to hear my morning toil was done,
And trudge it homeward when the clock went one.
"Twas ere I turn'd a soldier and a sinner!
Pshaw curse this whining-let us fall to dinner.
I too have loved this hour, nor yet forgot
The household comforts of my little cot;
For at this hour my wife with watchful care
Was wont her humble dainties to prepare ;
The keenest sauce by hunger was supplied,
And my poor children prattled at my side.
Methinks I see the old oak table spread,
The clean white trencher, and the good brown bread:
The cheese, my daily fare, which Mary made,
For Mary knew full well the housewife's trade;
The jug of cyder,―cyder I could make ; —
And then the knives,-I won 'em at the wake.
Another has them now! I toiling here
Look backward like a child, and drop a tear.
I love a dismal story: tell me thine,
Meantime, good Will, I'll listen as I dine;
I too, my friend, can tell a piteous story
When I turn'd hero, how I purchased glory.
That cursed morning brought on my undoing;
I went to prison, and my farm to ruin.
Poor Mary! for her grave the parish paid,
No tombstone tells where her remains are laid!
My children.. my poor boys..
You to your dinner; . . to my story I.
For you, my friend, who happier days have known,
And each calm comfort of a home your own,
This is bad living: I have spent my life
In hardest toil and unavailing strife,
And here, (from forest ambush safe at least,)
To me this scanty pittance seems a feast.
I was a plough-boy once, as free from woes
And blithesome as the lark with whom I rose.
Each evening at return a meal I found;
And though my bed was hard, my sleep was sound.
One Whitsuntide, to go to fair I drest
Like a great bumpkin in my Sunday's best;
A primrose posey in my hat I stuck,
And to the revel went to try my luck.
From show to show, from booth to booth I stray,
See, stare, and wonder all the livelong day.
A sergeant to the fair recruiting came,
Skill'd in man-catching, to beat up for game;
Our booth he enter'd, and sat down by me;..
Methinks even now the very scene I see!
The canvass roof, the hogshead's running store,
The old blind fiddler seated next the door,
The frothy tankard passing to and fro,
And the rude rabble round the puppet-show.
The sergeant eyed me well; the punch-bowl comes,
And as we laugh'd and drank, up struck the drums.
And now he gives a bumper to his wench,
God save the King! and then, God damn the French!
Then tells the story of his last campaign,
How many wounded and how many slain,
Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating,
The English marching on, the French retreating...
"Push on.. push on, my lads! they fly before ye,
March on to riches, happiness, and glory!"
At first I wonder'd, by degrees grew bolder,
Then cried, ""Tis a fine thing to be a soldier!"
"Ay, Humphrey !" says the sergeant,. . " that's
'Tis a fine thing to fight the French for fame!
March to the field,.. knock out a Mounseer's brains,
And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains.
But, Humphrey, sure thou never canst have known Come, Humphrey, come! thou art a lad of spirit; The comforts of a little home thine own:
A home so snug, so cheerful too, as mine,
"T was always clean, and we could make it fine.
For there King Charles's Golden Rules were seen,
And there-God bless 'em both! the King and Queen.
The pewter plates, our garnish'd chimney's grace,
So bright, that in them you might see your face;
And over all, to frighten thieves, was hung,
Well clean'd, although but seldom used, my gun;
Ah! that damn'd gun! I took it down one morn, . .
A desperate deal of harm they did my corn!
Our testy Squire, too, loved to save the breed,
So covey upon covey ate my seed.
I mark'd the mischievous rogues, and took my aim;
I fired, they fell, and . . . up the keeper came.
Rise to a halbert, as I did,.. by merit!
Wouldst thou believe it? even I was once
As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce;
But courage raised me to my rank. How now, boy!
Shall Hero Humphrey still be Numps the plough-
A proper-shaped young fellow! tall and straight!
Why, thou wert made for glory!.. five feet eight!
The road to riches is the field of fight!..
Didst ever see a guinea look so bright?
Why regimentals, Numps, would give thee grace,
A hat and feather would become that face;
The girls would crowd around thee to be kiss'd!..
Dost love a girl?"—" Odd Zounds!" I cried, "I'll
Jist!
So pass'd the night; anon the morning came,
And of I set a volunteer for fame.
[head,
"Back shoulders, turn out your toes, hold up your
"Stand easy!".. so I did... till almost dead.
O how I long'd to tend the plough again,
Trudge up the field, and whistle o'er the plain,
When tired and sore, amid the piteous throng,
Hungry, and cold, and wet, I limp'd along,
And growing fainter as I pass'd, and colder,
Cursed that ill hour when I became a soldier!
In town I found the hours more gaily pass,
And time fled swiftly with my girl and glass;
The girls were wondrous kind and wondrous fair,
They soon transferr'd me to the Doctor's care;
The Doctor undertook to cure the evil,
And he almost transferred me to the Devil.
"Twere tedious to relate the dismal story
Of fighting, fasting, wretchedness, and glory.
At last discharged, to England's shores I came,
Paid for my wounds with want instead of fame;
Found my fair friends, and plunder'd as they bade me :
They kiss'd me, coax'd me, robb'd me, and betray'd
Tried and condemn'd, His Majesty transports me, And here in peace, I thank him, he supports me. So ends my dismal and heroic story,
And Humphrey gets more good from guilt than glory.
JOHN, SAMUEL, AND RICHARD. TIME, Evening.
'Tis a calm pleasant evening, the light fades away,
And the sun going down has done watch for the day.
To my mind we live wondrous well when transported;
It is but to work, and we must be supported.
Fill the cann, Dick! Success here to Botany Bay!
Success if you will,.. but God send me away!
You lubberly landsmen don't know when you're well!
Hadst thou known half the hardships of which I can tell!
The sailor has no place of safety in store;
From the tempest at sea, to the press-gang on shore;
When Roguery rules all the rest of the earth,
God be thank'd, in this corner I've got a good berth.
Talk of hardships! what these are the sailor don't know;
'Tis the soldier, my friend, that's acquainted with woe; L ng journies, short halting, hard work, and small pay,
To be popt at like pigeons for sixpence a-day. !..
Thank God I'm safe quarter'd at Botany Bay
God help the poor soldier when backward he goes,
In disgraceful retreat through a country of foes!
No respite from danger by day or by night,
He is still forced to fly, still o'ertaken to fight;
Every step that he takes he must battle his way,
He must force his hard meal from the peasant away;
No rest, and no hope, from all succour afar,..
God forgive the poor soldier for going to the war!
But what are these dangers to those I have past,
When the dark billows roar'd to the roar of the blast;
When we work'd at the pumps worn with labour and
weak,
And with dread still beheld the increase of the leak?
Sometimes as we rose on the wave could our sight,
From the rocks of the shore catch the light-house's
light;
In vain to the beach to assist us they press;
We fire faster and faster our guns of distress;
Still with rage unabating the wind and waves roar;..
How the giddy wreck reels, as the billows burst
Leap, leap; for she yawns, for she sinks in the wave!
Call on God to preserve. . for God only can save!
There's an end of all troubles, however, at last! And when I in the waggon of wounded was cast, When my wounds with the chilly night-wind smarted
And I thought of the friends I should never see more,
No hand to relieve, scarce a morsel of bread,
Sick at heart I have envied the peace of the dead.
Left to rot in a jail, till by treaty set free,
Old England's white cliffs with what joy did I see!
I had gain'd enough glory, some wounds, but no
good,
And was turn'd on the public to shift how I could.
When I think what I've suffer'd, and where I am
now,
I curse him who snared me away from the plough.
When I was discharged, I went home to my wife,
There in comfort to spend all the rest of my life.
My wife was industrious, we earn'd what we spent,
And though little we had, were with little content;
And whenever I listen'd and heard the wind roar,
I bless'd God for my little snug cabin on shore.
At midnight they seized me, they dragged me away,
They wounded me sore when I would not obey,
And because for my country I'd ventured my life,
I was dragg'd like a thief from my home and my
wife.
Then the fair wind of fortune chopt round in my
face,
And want at length drove me to guilt and disgrace.
But all's for the best;.. on the world's wide sea cast,
I am haven'd in peace in this corner at last.
And in faith I can give you no judgement at all: But that as you're now settled, and safe from foul weather,
You drink up your grog, and be merry together.
TIME, Night. SCENE, The Woods.
WHERE shall I turn me? whither shall I bend
My weary way? thus worn with toil and faint,
How through the thorny mazes of this wood
Attain my distant dwelling? That deep cry
That echoes through the forest, seems to sound
My parting knell: it is the midnight howl
Of hungry monsters prowling for their prey!
Again! O save me-save me, gracious Heaven!
I am not fit to die!
Why palpitates thy heart? why shake thy limbs
Beneath their palsied burthen? Is there aught
So lovely in existence? wouldst thou drain
Even to its dregs the bitter draught of life?
Stamp'd with the brand of Vice and Infamy,
Why should the felon Frederic shrink from Death?
Death! Where the magic in that empty name
That chills my inmost heart? Why at the thought
Starts the cold dew of fear on every limb?
There are no terrors to surround the Grave,
When the calm Mind collected in itself
Surveys that narrow house: the ghastly train
That haunt the midnight of delirious Guilt
Then vanish; in that home of endless rest
All sorrows cease! . . Would I'might slumber there!
Why then this panting of the fearful heart?
This miser love of life, that dreads to lose
Its cherish'd torment? Shall a man diseased
Yield up his members to the surgeon's knife,
Doubtful of succour, but to rid his frame
Of fleshly anguish; and the coward wretch,
Whose ulcerated soul can know no help,
Shrink from the best Physician's certain aid?
Oh, it were better far to lie me down
Here on this cold damp earth, till some wild beast
Seize on his willing victim.
Were all, 'twere sweet indeed to rest my head
On the cold clod, and sleep the sleep of Death.
But if the Archangel's trump at the last hour
Startle the ear of Death, and wake the soul
To frenzy? . . Dreams of infancy; fit tales
For garrulous beldames to affrighten babes !
What if I warr'd upon the world? the world
Had wrong'd me first: I had endured the ills
Come, Dick! we have done.. and for judgement Of hard injustice; all this goodly earth
we call.
Was but to me one wide waste wilderness;
I had no share in Nature's patrimony; Blasted were all my morning hopes of youth, Dark Disappointment followed on my ways, Care was my bosom inmate, Penury
Gnaw'd at my heart. Eternal One, thou know'st
How that poor heart, even in the bitter hour
Of lewdest revelry, has inly yearn'd
My Father! I will call on thee, Pour to thy mercy-seat my earnest prayer, And wait thy righteous will, resign'd of soul. O thought of comfort! how the afflicted heart, Tired with the tempest of its passions, rests On you with holy hope! The hollow howl Of yonder harmless tenant of the woods Comes with no terror to the sober'd sense. If I have sinn'd against mankind, on them Be that past sin; they made me what I was. In these extremest climes Want can no more
Urge me to deeds of darkness, and at length
Here I may rest. What though my hut be poor
The rains descend not through its humble roof: . . .
Would I were there again! The night is cold;
And what if in my wanderings I should rouse
The savage from his thicket!
Hark! the gun!
And lo, the fire of safety! I shall reach
My little hut again! again by toil
Force from the stubborn earth my sustenance,
And quick-ear'd guilt will never start alarm'd
Amid the well-earn'd meal. This felon's garb..
Will it not shield me from the winds of Heaven?
And what could purple more? O strengthen me,
Eternal One, in this serener state!
Cleanse thou mine heart, so Penitence and Faith
Shall heal my soul, and my last days be peace.
Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely maid
Whom fancy still will pourtray to my sight,
How here I linger in this sullen shade,
This dreary gloom of dull monastic night;
Say, that from every joy of life remote
At evening's closing hour I quit the throng,
Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note,
Who pours like me her solitary song;
Say, that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh;
Say, that of all her charms I love to speak,
In fancy feel the magic of her eye,
In fancy view the smile illume her cheek,
Court the lone hour when silence stills the grove,
And heave the sigh of memory and of love.
Nor to thee, Bedford, mournful is the tale
Of days departed. Time in his career
Arraigns not thee that the neglected year
Hath past unheeded onward. To the vale
Of years thou journeyest; may the future road
Be pleasant as the past; and on my friend
Friendship and Love, best blessings, still attend,
Till full of days he reach the calm abode
Where Nature slumbers. Lovely is the age
Of virtue; with such reverence we behold
The silver hairs, as some grey oak grown old
That whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's rage,
Now like a monument of strength decay'd,
With rarely-sprinkled leaves casting a trembling shade.
THINK, Valentine, as speeding on thy way
Homeward thou hastest light of heart along,
If heavily creep on one little day
The medley crew of travellers among,
Think on thine absent friend; reflect that here
On life's sad journey comfortless he roves,
Remote from every scene his heart holds dear,
From him he values, and from her he loves.
And when, disgusted with the vain and dull
Whom chance companions of thy way may doom,
Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full,
Turns to itself and meditates on home,
Ah, think what cares must ache within his breast
Who loathes the road, yet sees no home of rest.
As thus I stand beside the murmuring stream
And watch its current, memory here pourtrays
Scenes faintly form'd of half-forgotten days,
Like far-off woodlands by the moon's bright beam
Dimly descried, but lovely. I have worn
Amid these haunts the heavy hours away,
When childhood idled through the Sabbath-day;
Risen to my tasks at winter's earliest morn ;
And when the summer twilight darken'd here,
Thinking of home, and all of heart forlorn,
Have sigh'd and shed in secret many a tear.
Dream-like and indistinct those days appear,
As the faint sounds of this low brooklet, borne
Upon the breeze, reach fitfully the ear.
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