Lie barren, so that o'er the forest waste
He might more royally pursue his sports!
If that thine heart be human, passenger!
Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips
Will mutter curses on him. Think thou, then,
What cities flame, what hosts unsepulchred
Pollute the passing wind, when raging power
Drives on his blood-hounds to the chase of man;
And as thy thoughts anticipate that day
When God shall judge aright, in charity
Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind.
FOR THE BANKS OF THE HAMPSHIRE AVON,
A LITTLE while, O traveller! linger here,
And let thy leisure eye behold and feel
The beauties of the place; yon heathy hill
That rises sudden from the vale so green,
The vale far stretching as the view can reach
Under its long dark ridge, the river here
That, like a serpent, through the grassy mead
Winds on, now hidden, glittering now in light.
Nor fraught with merchant wealth, nor famed in song,
This river rolls; an unobtrusive tide,
Its gentle charms may soothe and satisfy
Thy feelings. Look! how bright its pebbled bed
Gleams through the ruffled current; and that bank
With flag-leaves bordered, as with two-edged swords!
See where the water wrinkles round the stem
Of yonder water lily, whose broad leaf
Lies on the wave, and art thou not refresh'd
By the fresh odour of the running stream?
Soon, traveller! does the river reach the end
Of all its windings; from the near ascent
Thou wilt behold the ocean, where it pours
Its waters and is lost. Remember thou,
Traveller! that even so thy restless years
Flow to the ocean of eternity.
FOR A TABLET ON THE BANKS OF A STREAM.
STRANGER! awhile upon this mossy bank
Recline thee. If the sun rides high, the breeze,
That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet,
Will play around thy brow, and the cool sound
Of running waters soothe thee. Mark how clear
It sparkles o'er the shallows; and behold
Where o'er its surface wheels with restless speed
Yon glossy insect; on the sand below
How the swift shadow flits. The stream is pure
In solitude, and many a healthful herb
Bends o'er its course and drinks the vital wave:
But passing on amid the haunts of man,
It finds pollution there, and rolls from thence
A tainted tide. Seek'st thou for happiness?
Go, stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot
Of innocence, and thou shalt find her there.
FOR THE CENOTAPH AT ERMENONVILLE.
STRANGER! the man of nature lies not here:
Inshrined far distant by his rival's side
His relics rest, there by the giddy throng
With blind idolatry alike revered!
Wiselier directed have thy pilgrim feet
Explored the scenes of Ermonville. Rousseau
Loved these calm haunts of solitude and peace;
Here he has heard the murmurs of the lake,
And the soft rustling of the poplar grove,
When o'er their bending boughs the passing wind
Swept a grey shade. Here, if thy breast be full,
If in thine eye the tear devout should gush,
His spirit shall behold thee, to thine home
From hence returning purified of heart.
FOR A MONUMENT AT OXFORD OPPOSITE BALLIOL GATEWAY
HERE Latimer and Ridley in the flames
Bore witness to the truth. If thou hast walk'd
Uprightly through the world, proud thoughts of joy
Will fill thy breast in contemplating here
Congenial virtue. But if thou hast swerved
From the right path, if thou hast sold thy soul
And served, a hireling, with apostate zeal,
The cause thy heart disowns, oh! cherish well
The honourable shame that sure this place
Will wake within thee, timely penitent,
And let the future expiate the past.
FOR A MONUMENT IN THE VALE OF EWIAS
HERE was it, stranger, that the patron saint
Of Cambria past his age of penitence,
A solitary man; and here he made
His hermitage, the roots his food, his drink
Of Hodney's mountain stream. Perchance thy youth
Has read with eager wonder how the knight
Of Wales in Ormandine's enchanted bower
Slept the long sleep; and if that in thy veins
Flows the pure blood of Britain, sure that blood
Has flow'd with quicker impulse at the tale
Of David's deeds, when through the press of war
His gallant comrades followed his green crest
To conquer. Stranger! Hatterill's mountain heights
And this fair vale of Ewias, and the stream
Of Hodney, to thine after-thoughts will rise
More grateful, thus associate with the name
Of David and the deeds of other days.
ΕΡΙΤΑΡH ON KING JOHN.
JOHN rests below. A man more infamous
Has never held the sceptre of these realms,
And bruised beneath the iron rod of power,
The oppressed men of England. Englishman!
Curse not his memory. Murderer as he was,
Coward and slave, yet he it was who signed
That charter which should make thee, morn and night,
Be thankful for thy birth-place: Englishman!
That holy charter, which, shouldst thou permit
Force to destroy, or fraud to undermine,
Thy children's groans will persecute thy soul,
For they must bear the burthen of thy crime.
STRANGER! whose steps have reach'd this solitude,
Know that this lonely spot was dear to one
Devoted with no unrequited zeal
To nature. Here, delighted he has heard
The rustling of these woods, that now perchance
Melodious to the gale of summer move,
And underneath their shade on yon smooth rock
With grey and yellow lichens overgrown,
Often reclined, watching the silent flow
Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals
Along its verdant course, till all around
Had fill'd his senses with tranquillity,
And ever sooth'd in spirit he return'd
A happier, better man. Stranger, perchance
Therefore the stream more lovely to thine eye
Will glide along, and to the summer gale
The woods wave more melodious. Cleanse thou then
The weeds and mosses from this letter'd stone.
FOR A MONUMENT AT TAUNTON.
THEY perish'd here whom Jefferies doom'd to death
In mockery of all justice, when he came
The bloody judge, the minion of his king,
Commission'd to destroy. They perish'd here,
The victims of that judge and of that king,
In mockery of all justice perish'd here,
Unheard! but not unpitied, nor of God
Unseen, the innocent suffered! not in vain
The widow and the orphan, not in vain
The innocent blood cried vengeance! for they rose,
At length they rose, the people in their power,
Resistless. Then in vain that bloody judge
Disguised, sought flight: not always is the Lord
Slow to revenge! a miserable man
He fell beneath the people's rage, and still
The children curse his memory. From his throne
The sullen bigot who commission'd him,
The tyrant James was driven. He lived to drag
Long years of frustrate hope, he lived to load
More blood upon his soul. Let tell the Boyne,
Let Londonderry tell his guilt and shame,
And that immortal day when on thy shores,
La Hogue, the purple ocean dash'd the dead!
FOR A TABLET AT PENSHURST.
ARE days of old familiar to thy mind,
O reader hast thou let the midnight hour
Pass unperceived, whilst thy young fancy lived
With high-born beauties and enamour'd chiefs,
Shared all their hopes, and with a breathless joy
Whose eager expectation almost pain'd,
Follow'd their dangerous fortunes ? if such lore
Has ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread
As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts
The groves of Penshurst. Sidney here was born,
Sidney, than whom no gentler, braver man
His own delightful genius ever feign'd
Illustrating the vales of Arcady
With courteous courage and with loyal loves.
Upon his natal day the acorn here
Was planted. It grew up a stately oak,
And in the beauty of its strength it stood
And flourish'd, when his perishable part
Had moulder'd dust to dust. That stately oak
Itself hath moulder'd now, but Sidney's fame
Lives and shall live, immortalized in song.
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