H, think how one compelled for life to abide Locked in a dungeon needs must eat the heart
Out of his own humanity, and part
With every hope that mutual cares provide;
And, should a less unnatural doom confide
In life-long exile on a savage coast, Soon the relapsing penitent may boast
Of yet more heinous guilt, with fiercer pride.
Hence thoughtful Mercy, Mercy sage and pure, Sanctions the forfeiture that Law demands, Leaving the final issue in His hands
Whose goodness knows no change, whose love is sure, Who sees, foresees; who cannot judge amiss,
And wafts at will the contrite soul to bliss.
EE the Condemned alone within his cell
And prostrate at some moment when remorse Stings to the quick, and, with resistless force, Assaults the pride she strove in vain to quell. Then mark him, him who could so long rebel, The crime confessed, a kneeling Penitent Before the Altar, where the Sacrament Softens his heart, till from his eyes outwell
Tears of salvation. Welcome death! while Heaven
Does in this change exceedingly rejoice;
While yet the solemn heed the State hath given Helps him to meet the last Tribunal's voice In faith, which fresh offences, were he cast On old temptations, might for ever blast.
YES, though He well may tremble at the sound
Of his own voice, who from the judgment-seat Sends the pale Convict to his last retreat
In death; though Listeners shudder all around, They know the dread requital's source profound; Nor is, they feel, its wisdom obsolete— (Would that it were!) the sacrifice unmeet For Christian Faith. But hopeful signs abound;
The social rights of man breathe purer air; Religion deepens her preventive care; Then, moved by needless fear of past abuse, Strike not from Law's firm hand that awful rod, But leave it thence to drop for lack of use: Oh, speed the blessed hour, Almighty God!
HE formal World relaxes her cold chain
For One who speaks in numbers; ampler scope His utterance finds; and, conscious of the gain, Imagination works with bolder hope
The cause of grateful reason to sustain;
And, serving Truth, the heart more strongly beats Against all barriers which his labour meets In lofty place, or humble Life's domain. Enough; before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love
From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
TO SIR GEORge Howland BEAUMONT, BART.
From the South-west Coast of Cumberland.-1811
AR from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake,
From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake,
Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore
We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless roar;
While, day by day, grim neighbour! huge Black Comb Frowns deepening visibly his native gloom,
Unless, perchance rejecting in despite
What on the Plain we have of warmth and light,
In his own storms he hides himself from sight.
Rough is the time; and thoughts, that would be free 10 From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to thee; Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad; Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might Attained a stature twice a tall man's height, Hopeless of further growth, and brown and sere Through half the summer, stands with top cut sheer, Like an unshifting weathercock which proves
How cold the quarter that the wind best loves, Or like a Centinel that, evermore
Darkening the window, ill defends the door
Of this unfinished house-a Fortress bare,
Where strength has been the Builder's only care; Whose rugged walls may still for years demand
The final polish of the Plasterer's hand.
-This Dwelling's Inmate more than three weeks' space And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place,
I-of whose touch the fiddle would complain,
Whose breath would labour at the flute in vain, In music all unversed, nor blessed with skill
A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill,
Tired of my books, a scanty company!
And tired of listening to the boisterous sea— Pace between door and window muttering rhyme, An old resource to cheat a froward time!
Though these dull hours (mine is it, or their shame?) Would tempt me to renounce that humble aim. -But if there be a Muse who, free to take Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake
Those heights (like Phoebus when his golden locks He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks) And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pail, Trips down the pathways of some winding dale ; Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores To fishers mending nets beside their doors; Or, Pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined, Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind, Or listens to its play among the boughs Above her head and so forgets her vows- If such a Visitant of Earth there be And she would deign this day to smile on me And aid my verse, content with local bounds Of natural beauty and life's daily rounds,
Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which we tell Without reserve to those whom we love well— Then haply, Beaumont! words in current clear Will flow, and on a welcome page appear Duly before thy sight, unless they perish here.
What shall I treat of? News from Mona's Isle? Such have we, but unvaried in its style; No tales of Runagates fresh landed, whence And wherefore fugitive or on what pretence; Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind Most restlessly alive when most confined. Ask not of me, whose tongue can best appease The mighty tumults of the HOUSE OF KEYS; The last year's cup whose Ram or Heifer gained, What slopes are planted, or what mosses drained: An eye of fancy only can I cast
On that proud pageant now at hand or past, When full five hundred boats in trim array, With nets and sails outspread and streamers gay, And chanted hymns and stiller voice of prayer, For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep repair, Soon as the herring-shoals at distance shine Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brine
Mona from our Abode is daily seen, But with a wilderness of waves between ; And by conjecture only can we speak
Of aught transacted there in bay or creek; No tidings reach us thence from town or field, Only faint news her mountain-sunbeams yield, And some we gather from the misty air,
And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, declare. But these poetic mysteries I withhold;
For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold,
And should the colder fit with You be on
When You might read, my credit would be gone.
Let more substantial themes the pen engage, And nearer interests culled from the opening stage 90 Of our migration.-Ere the welcome dawn Had from the east her silver star withdrawn, The Wain stood ready, at our Cottage-door, Thoughtfully freighted with a various store; And long or ere the uprising of the Sun O'er dew-damped dust our journey was begun, A needful journey, under favouring skies,
Through peopled Vales; yet something in the guise Of those old Patriarchs when from well to well
They roamed through Wastes where now the tented Arabs dwell.
Say first, to whom did we the charge confide, Who promptly undertook the Wain to guide Up many a sharply-twining road and down, And over many a wide hill's craggy crown, Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook, And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook? A blooming Lass-who in her better hand Bore a light switch, her sceptre of command When, yet a slender Girl, she often led, Skilful and bold, the horse and burthened sled1 From the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar's head. What could go wrong with such a Charioteer For goods and chattels, or those Infants dear, A Pair who smilingly sat side by side, Our hope confirming that the salt-sea tide, Whose free embraces we were bound to seek,
Would their lost strength restore and freshen the pale cheek?
Such hope did either Parent entertain
Pacing behind along the silent lane.
1 A local word for sledge.
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