The Emigrants, a Poem

Charlotte Turner Smith

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  • TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ.
  • BOOK I.
  • BOOK II.

  • TO
    WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ.

    DEAR SIR,

    THERE is, I hope, some propriety in my addressing a Composition to you, which would never perhaps have existed, had I not, amid the heavy pressure of many sorrows, derived infinite consolation from your Poetry, and some degree of animation and of confidence from your esteem.

    The following performance is far from aspiring to be considered as an imitation of your inimitable Poem, "THE TASK;'' I am perfectly sensible, that it belongs not to a feeble and feminine hand to draw the Bow of Ulysses.

    The force, clearness, and sublimity of your admirable Poem; the felicity, almost peculiar to your genius, of giving to the most familiar objects dignity and effect, I could never hope to reach; yet, having read "The Task" almost incessantly from its first publication to the present time, I felt that kind of enchantment described by Milton, when he says,         "The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear
            "So charming left his voice, that he awhile
            "Thought him still speaking."——
    And from the force of this impression, I was gradually led to attempt, in Blank Verse, a delineation of those interesting objects which happened to excite my attention, and which even pressed upon an heart, that has learned, perhaps from its own sufferings, to feel with acute, though unavailing compassion, the calamity of others.

    A Dedication usually consists of praises and of apologies; my praise can add nothing to the unanimous and loud applause of your country. She regards you with pride, as one of the few, who, at the present period, rescue her from the imputation of having degenerated in Poetical talents; but in the form of Apology, I should have much to say, if I again dared to plead the pressure of evils, aggravated by their long continuance, as an excuse for the defects of this attempt.

    Whatever may be the faults of its execution, let me vindicate myself from those, that may be imputed to the design.— In speaking of the Emigrant Clergy, I beg to be understood as feeling the utmost respect for the integrity of their principles; and it is with pleasure I add my suffrage to that of those, who have had a similar opportunity of witnessing the conduct of the Emigrants of all descriptions during their exile in England; which has been such as does honour to their nation, and ought to secure to them in ours the esteem of every liberal mind.

    Your philanthropy, dear Sir, will induce you, I am persuaded, to join with me in hoping, that this painful exile may finally lead to the extirpation of that reciprocal hatred so unworthy of great and enlightened nations; that it may tend to humanize both countries, by convincing each, that good qualities exist in the other; and at length annihilate the prejudices that have so long existed to the injury of both.

    Yet it is unfortunately but too true, that with the body of the English, this national aversion has acquired new force by the dreadful scenes which have been acted in France during the last summer—even those who are the victims of the Revolution, have not escaped the odium, which the undistinguishing multitude annex to all the natives of a country where such horrors have been acted: nor is this the worst effect those events have had on the minds of the English; by confounding the original cause with the wretched catastrophes that have followed its ill management; the attempts of public virtue, with the outrages that guilt and folly have committed in its disguise, the very name of Liberty has not only lost the charm it used to have in British ears, but many, who have written, or spoken, in its defence, have been stigmatized as promoters of Anarchy, and enemies to the prosperity of their country. Perhaps even the Author of " The Task," with all his goodness and tenderness of heart, is in the catalogue of those, who are reckoned to have been too warm in a cause, which it was once the glory of Englishmen to avow and defend—The exquisite Poem, indeed, in which you have honoured Liberty, by a tribute highly gratifying to her sincerest friends, was published some years before the demolition of regal despotism in France, which, in the fifth book, it seems to foretell—All the truth and energy of the passage to which I allude, must have been strongly felt, when, in the Parliament of England, the greatest Orator of our time quoted the sublimest of our Poets—when the eloquence of Fox did justice to the genius of Cowper. I am, dear SIR,
    With the most perfect esteem,
    Your obliged and obedient servant,
    CHARLOTTE SMITH.
    Brighthelmstone, May 10, 1793.

    THE
    EMIGRANTS. BOOK THE FIRST.

    BOOK I.

    SCENE, on the Cliffs to the Eastward of the Town of
    Brighthelmstone in Sussex.
    TIME, a Morning in November, 1792.

    SLOW in the Wintry Morn, the struggling light
    Throws a faint gleam upon the troubled waves;
    Their foaming tops, as they approach the shore
    And the broad surf that never ceasing breaks
    On the innumerous pebbles, catch the beams
    Of the pale Sun, that with reluctance gives
    To this cold northern Isle, its shorten'd day.
    Alas! how few the morning wakes to joy!
    How many murmur at oblivious night
    For leaving them so soon; for bearing thus
    Their fancied bliss (the only bliss they taste!),
    On her black wings away!—Changing the dreams
    That sooth'd their sorrows, for calamities
    (And every day brings its own sad proportion)
    For doubts, diseases, abject dread of Death,
    And faithless friends, and fame and fortune lost;
    Fancied or real wants; and wounded pride,
    That views the day star, but to curse his beams.
        Yet He, whose Spirit into being call'd
    This wond'rous World of Waters; He who bids
    The wild wind lift them till they dash the clouds,
    And speaks to them in thunder; or whose breath,
    Low murmuring, o'er the gently heaving tides,
    When the fair Moon, in summer night serene,
    Irradiates with long trembling lines of light
    Their undulating surface; that great Power,
    Who, governing the Planets, also knows
    If but a Sea-Mew falls, whose nest is hid
    In these incumbent cliffs; He surely means
    To us, his reasoning Creatures, whom He bids
    Acknowledge and revere his awful hand,
    Nothing but good: Yet Man, misguided Man,
    Mars the fair work that he was bid enjoy,
    And makes himself the evil he deplores.
    How often, when my weary soul recoils
    From proud oppression, and from legal crimes
    (For such are in this Land, where the vain boast
    Of equal Law is mockery, while the cost
    Of seeking for redress is sure to plunge
    Th' already injur'd to more certain ruin
    And the wretch starves, before his Counsel pleads)
    How often do I half abjure Society,
    And sigh for some lone Cottage, deep embower'd
    In the green woods, that these steep chalky Hills
    Guard from the strong South West; where round their base
    The Beach wide flourishes, and the light Ash
    With slender leaf half hides the thymy turf!—
    There do I wish to hide me; well content
    If on the short grass, strewn with fairy flowers,
    I might repose thus shelter'd; or when Eve
    In Orient crimson lingers in the west,
    Gain the high mound, and mark these waves remote
    (Lucid tho' distant), blushing with the rays
    Of the far-flaming Orb, that sinks beneath them;
    For I have thought, that I should then behold
    The beauteous works of God, unspoil'd by Man
    And less affected then, by human woes
    I witness'd not; might better learn to bear
    Those that injustice, and duplicity
    And faithlessness and folly, fix on me:
    For never yet could I derive relief,
    When my swol'n heart was bursting with its sorrows,
    From the sad thought, that others like myself
    Live but to swell affliction's countless tribes!
    —Tranquil seclusion I have vainly sought;
    Peace, who delights solitary shade,
    No more will spread for me her downy wings,
    But, like the fabled Danaïds—or the wretch,
    Who ceaseless, up the steep acclivity,
    Was doom'd to heave the still rebounding rock,
    Onward I labour; as the baffled wave,
    Which yon rough beach repulses, that returns
    With the next breath of wind, to fail again.—
    Ah! Mourner—cease these wailings: cease and learn,
    That not the Cot sequester'd, where the briar
    And wood-bine wild, embrace the mossy thatch,
    (Scarce seen amid the forest gloom obscure!)
    Or more substantial farm, well fenced and warm,
    Where the full barn, and cattle fodder'd round
    Speak rustic plenty; nor the statelier dome
    By dark firs shaded, or the aspiring pine,
    Close by the village Church (with care conceal'd
    By verdant foliage, lest the poor man's grave
    Should mar the smiling prospect of his Lord),
    Where offices well rang'd, or dove-cote stock'd,
    Declare manorial residence; not these
    Or any of the buildings, new and trim
    With windows circling towards the restless Sea,
    Which ranged in rows, now terminate my walk,
    Can shut out for an hour the spectre Care,
    That from the dawn of reason, follows still
    Unhappy Mortals, 'till the friendly grave
    (Our sole secure asylum) "ends the chace ."
        Behold, in witness of this mournful truth,
    A group approach me, whose dejected looks,
    Sad Heralds of distress! proclaim them Men
    Banish'd for ever and for conscience sake
    From their distracted Country, whence the name
    Of Freedom misapplied, and much abus'd
    By lawless Anarchy, has driven them far
    To wander; with the prejudice they learn'd
    From Bigotry (the Tut'ress of the blind),
    Thro' the wide World unshelter'd; their sole hope,
    That German spoilers, thro' that pleasant land
    May carry wide the desolating scourge
    Of War and Vengeance; yet unhappy Men,
    Whate'er your errors, I lament your fate:
    And, as disconsolate and sad ye hang
    Upon the barrier of the rock, and seem
    To murmur your despondence, waiting long
    Some fortunate reverse that never comes;
    Methinks in each expressive face, I see
    Discriminated anguish; there droops one,
    Who in a moping cloister long consum'd
    This life inactive, to obtain a better,
    And thought that meagre abstinence, to wake
    From his hard pallet with the midnight bell,
    To live on eleemosynary bread,
    And to renounce God's works, would please that God.
    And now the poor pale wretch receives, amaz'd,
    The pity, strangers give to his distress,
    Because these Strangers are, by his dark creed,
    Condemn'd as Heretics—and with sick heart
    Regrets his pious prison, and his beads.—
    Another, of more haughty port, declines
    The aid he needs not; while in mute despair
    His high indignant thoughts go back to France,
    Dwelling on all he lost—the Gothic dome,
    That vied with splendid palaces ; the beds
    Of silk and down, the silver chalices,
    Vestments with gold enwrought for blazing altars;
    Where, amid clouds of incense, he held forth
    To kneeling crowds the imaginary bones
    Of Saints suppos'd, in pearl and gold enchas'd,
    And still with more than living Monarchs' pomp
    Surrounded; was believ'd by mumbling bigots
    To hold the keys of Heaven, and to admit
    Whom he thought good to share it—Now alas!
    He, to whose daring soul and high ambition
    The World seem'd circumscrib'd; who, wont to dream,
    Of Fleuri, Richelieu, Alberoni, men
    Who trod on Empire, and whose politics
    Were not beyond the grasp of his vast mind,
    Is, in a Land once hostile, still prophan'd
    By disbelief, and rites un-orthodox,
    The object of compassion—At his side,
    Lighter of heart than these, but heavier far
    Than he was wont, another victim comes,
    An Abbé—who with less contracted brow
    Still smiles and flatters, and still talks of Hope;
    Which, sanguine as he is, he does not feel,
    And so he cheats the sad and weighty pressure
    Of evils present;—— Still, as Men misled
    By early prejudice (so hard to break),
    I mourn your sorrows; for I too have known
    Involuntary exile; and while yet
    England had charms for me, have felt how sad
    It is to look across the dim cold sea,
    That melancholy rolls its refluent tides
    Between us and the dear regretted land
    We call our own—as now ye pensive wait
    On this bleak morning, gazing on the waves
    That seem to leave your shore; from whence the wind
    Is loaded to your ears, with the deep groans
    Of martyr'd Saints and suffering Royalty,
    While to your eyes the avenging power of Heaven
    Appears in aweful anger to prepare
    The storm of vengeance, fraught with plagues and death.
    Even he of milder heart, who was indeed
    The simple shepherd in a rustic scene,
    And, 'mid the vine-clad hills of Languedoc,
    Taught to the bare-foot peasant, whose hard hands
    Produc'd the nectar he could seldom taste,
    Submission to the Lord for whom he toil'd;
    He, or his brethren, who to Neustria's sons
    Enforc'd religious patience, when, at times,
    On their indignant hearts Power's iron hand
    Too strongly struck; eliciting some sparks
    Of the bold spirit of their native North;
    Even these Parochial Priests, these humbled men;
    Whose lowly undistinguish'd cottages
    Witness'd a life of purest piety,
    While the meek tenants were, perhaps, unknown
    Each to the haughty Lord of his domain,
    Who mark'd them not; the Noble scorning still
    The poor and pious Priest, as with slow pace
    He glided thro' the dim arch'd avenue
    Which to the Castle led; hoping to cheer
    The last sad hour of some laborious life
    That hasten'd to its close—even such a Man
    Becomes an exile; staying not to try
    By temperate zeal to check his madd'ning flock,
    Who, at the novel sound of Liberty
    (Ah! most intoxicating sound to slaves!),
    Start into licence—Lo! dejected now,
    The wandering Pastor mourns, with bleeding heart,
    His erring people, weeps and prays for them,
    And trembles for the account that he must give
    To Heaven for souls entrusted to his care.—
    Where the cliff, hollow'd by the wintry storm,
    Affords a seat with matted sea-weed strewn,
    A softer form reclines; around her run,
    On the rough shingles, or the chalky bourn,
    Her gay unconscious children, soon amus'd;
    Who pick the fretted stone, or glossy shell,
    Or crimson plant marine: or they contrive
    The fairy vessel, with its ribband sail
    And gilded paper pennant: in the pool,
    Left by the salt wave on the yielding sands,
    They launch the mimic navy—Happy age!
    Unmindful of the miseries of Man!—
    Alas! too long a victim to distress,
    Their Mother, lost in melancholy thought,
    Lull'd for a moment by the murmurs low
    Of sullen billows, wearied by the task
    Of having here, with swol'n and aching eyes
    Fix'd on the grey horizon, since the dawn
    Solicitously watch'd the weekly sail
    From her dear native land, now yields awhile
    To kind forgetfulness, while Fancy brings,
    In waking dreams, that native land again!
    Versailles appears—its painted galleries,
    And rooms of regal splendour, rich with gold,
    Where, by long mirrors multiply'd, the crowd
    Paid willing homage—and, united there,
    Beauty gave charms to empire—Ah! too soon
    From the gay visionary pageant rous'd,
    See the sad mourner start!—and, drooping, look
    With tearful eyes and heaving bosom round
    On drear reality—where dark'ning waves,
    Urg'd by the rising wind, unheeded foam
    Near her cold rugged seat:—To call her thence
    A fellow-sufferer comes: dejection deep
    Checks, but conceals not quite, the martial air,
    And that high consciousness of noble blood,
    Which he has learn'd from infancy to think
    Exalts him o'er the race of common men:
    Nurs'd in the velvet lap of luxury,
    And fed by adulation—could he learn,
    That worth alone is true Nobility?
    And that the peasant who, "amid the sons
    "Of Reason, Valour, Liberty, and Virtue,
    "Displays distinguish'd merit, is a Noble
    "Of Nature's own creation!"—If even here,
    If in this land of highly vaunted Freedom,
    Even Britons controvert the unwelcome truth,
    Can it be relish'd by the sons of France?
    Men, who derive their boasted ancestry
    From the fierce leaders of religious wars,
    The first in Chivalry's emblazon'd page;
    Who reckon Gueslin, Bayard, or De Foix,
    Among their brave Progenitors? Their eyes,
    Accustom'd to regard the splendid trophies
    Of Heraldry (that with fantastic hand
    Mingles, like images in feverish dreams,
    "Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimeras dire,"
    With painted puns, and visionary shapes;),
    See not the simple dignity of Virtue,
    But hold all base, whom honours such as these
    Exalt not from the crowd —As one, who long
    Has dwelt amid the artificial scenes
    Of populous City, deems that splendid shows,
    The Theatre, and pageant pomp of Courts,
    Are only worth regard; forgets all taste
    For Nature's genuine beauty; in the lapse
    Of gushing waters hears no soothing sound,
    Nor listens with delight to sighing winds,
    That, on their fragrant pinions, waft the notes
    Of birds rejoicing in the trangled copse;
    Nor gazes pleas'd on Ocean's silver breast,
    While lightly o'er it sails the summer clouds
    Reflected in the wave, that, hardly heard,
    Flows on the yellow sands: so to his mind,
    That long has liv'd where Despotism hides
    His features harsh, beneath the diadem
    Of worldly grandeur, abject Slavery seems,
    If by that power impos'd, slavery no more:
    For luxury wreathes with silk the iron bonds,
    And hides the ugly rivets with her flowers,
    Till the degenerate triflers, while they love
    The glitter of the chains, forget their weight.
    But more the Men , whose ill acquir'd wealth
    Was wrung from plunder'd myriads, by the means
    Too often legaliz'd by power abus'd,
    Feel all the horrors of the fatal change,
    When their ephemeral greatness, marr'd at once
    (As a vain toy that Fortune's childish hand
    Equally joy'd to fashion or to crush),
    Leaves them expos'd to universal scorn
    For having nothing else; not even the claim
    To honour, which respect for Heroes past
    Allows to ancient titles; Men, like these,
    Sink even beneath the level, whence base arts
    Alone had rais'd them;—unlamented sink,
    And know that they deserve the woes they feel.
        Poor wand'ring wretches! whosoe'er ye are,
    That hopeless, houseless, friendless, travel wide
    O'er these bleak russet downs; where, dimly seen,
    The solitary Shepherd shiv'ring tends
    His dun discolour'd flock (Shepherd, unlike
    Him, whom in song the Poet's fancy crowns
    With garlands, and his crook with vi'lets binds);
    Poor vagrant wretches! outcasts of the world!
    Whom no abode receives, no parish owns;
    Roving, like Nature's commoners, the land
    That boasts such general plenty: if the sight
    Of wide-extended misery softens yours
    Awhile, suspend your murmurs!—here behold
    The strange vicissitudes of fate—while thus
    The exil'd Nobles, from their country driven,
    Whose richest luxuries were their's, must feel
    More poignant anguish, than the lowest poor,
    Who, born to indigence, have learn'd to brave
    Rigid Adversity's depressing breath!—
    Ah! rather Fortune's worthless favourites!
    Who feed on England's vitals—Pensioners
    Of base corruption, who, in quick ascent
    To opulence unmerited, become
    Giddy with pride, and as ye rise, forgetting
    The dust ye lately left, with scorn look down
    On those beneath ye (tho' your equals once
    In fortune , and in worth superior still ,
    They view the eminence, on which ye stand,
    With wonder, not with envy; for they know
    The means, by which ye reach'd it, have been such
    As, in all honest eyes, degrade ye far
    Beneath the poor dependent, whose sad heart
    Reluctant pleads for what your pride denies);
    Ye venal, worthless hirelings of a Court!
    Ye pamper'd Parasites! whom Britons pay
    For forging fetters for them; rather here
    Study a lesson that concerns ye much;
    And, trembling, learn, that if oppress'd too long,
    The raging multitude, to madness stung,
    Will turn on their oppressors; and, no more
    By sounding titles and parading forms
    Bound like tame victims, will redress themselves!
    Then swept away by the resistless torrent,
    Not only all your pomp may disappear,
    But, in the tempest lost, fair Order sink
    Her decent head, and lawless Anarchy
    O'erturn celestial Freedom's radiant throne;—
    As now in Gallia; where Confusion, born
    Of party rage and selfish love of rule,
    Sully the noblest cause that ever warm'd
    The heart of Patriot Virtue —There arise
    The infernal passions; Vengeance, seeking blood,
    And Avarice; and Envy's harpy fangs
    Pollute the immortal shrine of Liberty,
    Dismay her votaries, and disgrace her name.
    Respect is due to principle; and they,
    Who suffer for their conscience, have a claim,
    Whate'er that principle may be, to praise.
    These ill-starr'd Exiles then, who, bound by ties,
    To them the bonds of honour; who resign'd
    Their country to preserve them, and now seek
    In England an asylum—well deserve
    To find that (every prejudice forgot,
    Which pride and ignorance teaches), we for them
    Feel as our brethren; and that English hearts,
    Of just compassion ever own the sway,
    As truly as our element, the deep,
    Obeys the mild dominion of the Moon—
    This they have found; and may they find it still!
    Thus may'st thou, Britain, triumph!—May thy foes,
    By Reason's gen'rous potency subdued,
    Learn, that the God thou worshippest, delights
    In acts of pure humanity!—May thine
    Be still such bloodless laurels! nobler far
    Than those acquir'd at Cressy or Poictiers,
    Or of more recent growth, those well bestow'd
    On him who stood on Calpe's blazing height
    Amid the thunder of a warring world,
    Illustrious rather from the crowds he sav'd
    From flood and fire, than from the ranks who fell
    Beneath his valour!—Actions such as these,
    Like incense rising to the Throne of Heaven,
    Far better justify the pride, that swells
    In British bosoms, than the deafening roar
    Of Victory from a thousand brazen throats,
    That tell with what success wide-wasting War
    Has by our brave Compatriots thinned the world.

    END OF BOOK I.

    BOOK THE SECOND.

                     Quippe ubi fas versum atque nefas: tot bella per orbem
                     Tam multæ scelerum facies; non ullus aratro
                     Dignus honos: squalent abductis arva colonis,
                     Et curva rigidum falces conflantur in ensem
                     Hinc movet Euphrates, illinc Germania bellum
                     Vicinæ ruptis inter se legibus urbes
                     Arma ferunt: sævit toto Mars impius orbe.
    GEOR. lib. i.

    BOOK II.

    SCENE, on an Eminence on one of those Downs, which
    afford to the South a view of the Sea; to the North of
    the Weald of Sussex.
    TIME, an Afternoon in April, 1793.

    LONG wintry months are past; the Moon that now
    Lights her pale crescent even at noon, has made
    Four times her revolution; since with step,
    Mournful and slow, along the wave-worn cliff,
    Pensive I took my solitary way,
    Lost in despondence, while contemplating
    Not my own wayward destiny alone,
    (Hard as it is, and difficult to bear!)
    But in beholding the unhappy lot
    Of the lorn Exiles; who, amid the storms
    Of wild disastrous Anarchy, are thrown,
    Like shipwreck'd sufferers, on England's coast,
    To see, perhaps, no more their native land,
    Where Desolation riots: They, like me,
    From fairer hopes and happier prospects driven,
    Shrink from the future, and regret the past.
    But on this Upland scene, while April comes,
    With fragrant airs, to fan my throbbing breast,
    Fain would I snatch an interval from Care,
    That weighs my wearied spirit down to earth;
    Courting, once more, the influence of Hope
    (For "Hope" still waits upon the flowery prime)
    As here I mark Spring's humid hand unfold
    The early leaves that fear capricious winds,
    While, even on shelter'd banks, the timid flowers
    Give, half reluctantly, their warmer hues
    To mingle with the primroses' pale stars.
    No shade the leafless copses yet afford,
    Nor hide the mossy labours of the Thrush,
    That, startled, darts across the narrow path;
    But quickly re-assur'd, resumes his talk,
    Or adds his louder notes to those that rise
    From yonder tufted brake; where the white buds
    Of the first thorn are mingled with the leaves
    Of that which blossoms on the brow of May.
        Ah! 'twill not be:—— So many years have pass'd,
    Since, on my native hills, I learn'd to gaze
    On these delightful landscapes; and those years
    Have taught me so much sorrow, that my soul
    Feels not the joy reviving Nature brings;
    But, in dark retrospect, dejected dwells
    On human follies, and on human woes.——
    What is the promise of the infant year,
    The lively verdure, or the bursting blooms,
    To those, who shrink from horrors such as War
    Spreads o'er the affrighted world? With swimming eye,
    Back on the past they throw their mournful looks,
    And see the Temple, which they fondly hop'd
    Reason would raise to Liberty, destroy'd
    By ruffian hands; while, on the ruin'd mass,
    Flush'd with hot blood, the Fiend of Discord sits
    In savage triumph; mocking every plea
    Of policy and justice, as she shews
    The headless corse of one, whose only crime
    Was being born a Monarch—Mercy turns,
    From spectacle so dire, her swol'n eyes;
    And Liberty, with calm, unruffled brow
    Magnanimous, as conscious of her strength
    In Reason's panoply, scorns to distain
    Her righteous cause with carnage, and resigns
    To Fraud and Anarchy the infuriate crowd.——
        What is the promise of the infant year
    To those, who (while the poor but peaceful hind
    Pens, unmolested, the encreasing flock
    Of his rich master in this sea-fenc'd isle)
    Survey, in neighbouring countries, scenes that make
    The sick heart shudder; and the Man, who thinks,
    Blush for his species? There the trumpet's voice
    Drowns the soft warbling of the woodland choir;
    And violets, lurking in their turfy beds
    Beneath the flow'ring thorn, are stain'd with blood.
    There fall, at once, the spoiler and the spoil'd;
    While War, wide-ravaging, annihilates
    The hope of cultivation; gives to Fiends,
    The meagre, ghastly Fiends of Want and Woe,
    The blasted land—There, taunting in the van
    Of vengeance-breathing armies, Insult stalks;
    And, in the ranks, " Famine, and Sword, and Fire,
    "Crouch for employment."—Lo! the suffering world,
    Torn by the fearful conflict, shrinks, amaz'd,
    From Freedom's name, usurp'd and misapplied,
    And, cow'ring to the purple Tyrant's rod,
    Deems that the lesser ill—Deluded Men!
    Ere ye prophane her ever-glorious name,
    Or catalogue the thousands that have bled
    Resisting her; or those, who greatly died
    Martyrs to Liberty —revert awhile
    To the black scroll, that tells of regal crimes
    Committed to destroy her; rather count
    The hecatombs of victims, who have fallen
    Beneath a single despot; or who gave
    Their wasted lives for some disputed claim
    Between anointed robbers: Monsters both!
    " Oh! Polish'd perturbation—golden care!"
    So strangely coveted by feeble Man
    To lift him o'er his fellows;—Toy, for which
    Such showers of blood have drench'd th' affrighted earth—
    Unfortunate his lot, whose luckless head
    Thy jewel'd circlet, lin'd with thorns, has bound;
    And who, by custom's laws, obtains from thee
    Hereditary right to rule, uncheck'd,
    Submissive myriads: for untemper'd power,
    Like steel ill form'd, injures the hand
    It promis'd to protect—Unhappy France!
    If e'er thy lilies, trampled now in dust,
    And blood-bespotted, shall again revive
    In silver splendour, may the wreath be wov'n
    By voluntary hands; and Freemen, such
    As England's self might boast, unite to place
    The guarded diadem on his fair brow,
    Where Loyalty may join with Liberty
    To fix it firmly.—In the rugged school
    Of stern Adversity so early train'd,
    His future life, perchance, may emulate
    That of the brave Bernois , so justly call'd
    The darling of his people; who rever'd
    The Warrior less, than they ador'd the Man!
    But ne'er may Party Rage, perverse and blind,
    And base Venality, prevail to raise
    To public trust, a wretch, whose private vice
    Makes even the wildest profligate recoil;
    And who, with hireling ruffians leagu'd, has burst
    The laws of Nature and Humanity!
    Wading, beneath the Patriot's specious mask,
    And in Equality's illusive name,
    To empire thro' a stream of kindred blood—
    Innocent prisoner!—most unhappy heir
    Of fatal greatness, who art suffering now
    For all the crimes and follies of thy race;
    Better for thee, if o'er thy baby brow
    The regal mischief never had been held:
    Then, in an humble sphere, perhaps content,
    Thou hadst been free and joyous on the heights
    Of Pyrennean mountains, shagg'd with woods
    Of chesnut, pine, and oak: as on these hills
    Is yonder little thoughtless shepherd lad,
    Who, on the slope abrupt of downy turf
    Reclin'd in playful indolence, sends off
    The chalky ball, quick bounding far below;
    While, half forgetful of his simple task,
    Hardly his length'ning shadow, or the bells'
    Slow tinkling of his flock, that supping tend
    To the brown fallows in the vale beneath,
    Where nightly it is folded, from his sport
    Recal the happy idler.—While I gaze
    On his gay vacant countenance, my thoughts
    Compare with his obscure, laborious lot,
    Thine, most unfortunate, imperial Boy!
    Who round thy sullen prison daily hear'st
    The savage howl of Murder, as it seeks
    Thy unoffending life: while sad within
    Thy wretched Mother, petrified with grief,
    Views thee with stony eyes, and cannot weep!—
    Ah! much I mourn thy sorrows, hapless Queen!
    And deem thy expiation made to Heaven
    For every fault, to which Prosperity
    Betray'd thee, when it plac'd thee on a throne
    Where boundless power was thine, and thou wert rais'd
    High (as it seem'd) above the envious reach
    Of destiny! Whate'er thy errors were,
    Be they no more remember'd; tho' the rage
    Of Party swell'd them to such crimes, as bade
    Compassion stifle every sigh that rose
    For thy disastrous lot—More than enough
    Thou hast endur'd; and every English heart,
    Ev'n those, that highest beat in Freedom's cause,
    Disclaim as base, and of that cause unworthy,
    The Vengeance, or the Fear, that makes thee still
    A miserable prisoner!—Ah! who knows,
    From sad experience, more than I, to feel
    For thy desponding spirit, as it sinks
    Beneath procrastinated fears for those
    More dear to thee than life! But eminence
    Of misery is thine, as once of joy;
    And, as we view the strange vicissitude,
    We ask anew, where happiness is found?———
    Alas! in rural life, where youthful dreams
    See the Arcadia that Romance describes,
    Not even Content resides!—In yon low hut
    Of clay and thatch, where rises the grey smoke
    Of smold'ring turf, cut from the adjoining moor,
    The labourer, its inhabitant, who toils
    From the first dawn of twilight, till the Sun
    Sinks in the rosy waters of the West,
    Finds that with poverty it cannot dwell;
    For bread, and scanty bread, is all he earns
    For him and for his household—Should Disease,
    Born of chill wintry rains, arrest his arm,
    Then, thro' his patch'd and straw-stuff'd casement, peeps
    The squalid figure of extremest Want;
    And from the Parish the reluctant dole,
    Dealt by th' unfeeling farmer, hardly saves
    The ling'ring spark of life from cold extinction:
    Then the bright Sun of Spring, that smiling bids
    All other animals rejoice, beholds,
    Crept from his pallet, the emaciate wretch
    Attempt, with feeble effort, to resume
    Some heavy task, above his wasted strength,
    Turning his wistful looks (how much in vain!)
    To the deserted mansion, where no more
    The owner (gone to gayer scenes) resides,
    Who made even luxury, Virtue; while he gave
    The scatter'd crumbs to honest Poverty.—
    But, tho' the landscape be too oft deform'd
    By figures such as these, yet Peace is here,
    And o'er our vallies, cloath'd with springing corn,
    No hostile hoof shall trample, nor fierce flames
    Wither the wood's young verdure, ere it form
    Gradual the laughing May's luxuriant shade;
    For, by the rude sea guarded, we are safe,
    And feel not evils such as with deep sighs
    The Emigrants deplore, as, they recal
    The Summer past, when Nature seem'd to lose
    Her course in wild distemperature, and aid,
    With seasons all revers'd, destructive War.
        Shuddering, I view the pictures they have drawn
    Of desolated countries, where the ground,
    Stripp'd of its unripe produce, was thick strewn
    With various Death—the war-horse falling there
    By famine, and his rider by the sword.
    The moping clouds sail'd heavy charg'd with rain,
    And bursting o'er the mountains misty brow,
    Deluged, as with an inland sea, the vales ;
    Where, thro' the sullen evening's lurid gloom,
    Rising, like columns of volcanic fire,
    The flames of burning villages illum'd
    The waste of water; and the wind, that howl'd
    Along its troubled surface, brought the groans
    Of plunder'd peasants, and the frantic shrieks
    Of mothers for their children; while the brave,
    To pity still alive, listen'd aghast
    To these dire echoes, hopeless to prevent
    The evils they beheld, or check the rage,
    Which ever, as the people of one land
    Meet in contention, fires the human heart
    With savage thirst of kindred blood, and makes
    Man lose his nature; rendering him more fierce
    Than the gaunt monsters of the howling waste.
        Oft have I heard the melancholy tale,
    Which, all their native gaiety forgot,
    These Exiles tell—How Hope impell'd them on,
    Reckless of tempest, hunger, or the sword,
    Till order'd to retreat, they knew not why,
    From all their flattering prospects, they became
    The prey of dark suspicion and regret :
    Then, in despondence, sunk the unnerv'd arm
    Of gallant Loyalty—At every turn
    Shame and disgrace appear'd, and seem'd to mock
    Their scatter'd squadrons; which the warlike youth,
    Unable to endure 7

    [There is no note for this duplicate reference 7.]

    , often implor'd,
    As the last act of friendship, from the hand
    Of some brave comrade, to receive the blow
    That freed the indignant spirit from its pain.
    To a wild mountain, whose bare summit hides
    Its broken eminence in clouds; whose steeps
    Are dark with woods; where the receding rocks
    Are worn by torrents of dissolving snow,
    A wretched Woman, pale and breathless, flies!
    And, gazing round her, listens to the sound
    Of hostile footsteps—— No! it dies away:
    Nor noise remains, but of the cataract,
    Or surly breeze of night, that mutters low
    Among the thickets, where she trembling seeks
    A temporary shelter—clasping close
    To her hard-heaving heart, her sleeping child,
    All she could rescue of the innocent groupe
    That yesterday surrounded her—Escap'd
    Almost by miracle! Fear, frantic Fear,
    Wing'd her weak feet: yet, half repentant now
    Her headlong haste, she wishes she had staid
    To die with those affrighted Fancy paints
    The lawless soldier's victims—Hark! again
    The driving tempest bears the cry of Death,
    And, with deep sudden thunder, the dread sound
    Of cannon vibrates on the tremulous earth;
    While, bursting in the air, the murderous bomb
    Glares o'er her mansion. Where the splinters fall,
    Like scatter'd comets, its destructive path
    Is mark'd by wreaths of flame!—Then, overwhelm'd
    Beneath accumulated horror, sinks
    The desolate mourner; yet, in Death itself,
    True to maternal tenderness, she tries
    To save the unconscious infant from the storm
    In which she perishes; and to protect
    This last dear object of her ruin'd hopes
    From prowling monsters, that from other hills,
    More inaccessible, and wilder wastes,
    Lur'd by the scent of slaughter, follow fierce
    Contending hosts, and to polluted fields
    Add dire increase of horrors—But alas!
    The Mother and the Infant perish both!—
        The feudal Chief, whose Gothic battlements
    Frown on the plain beneath, returning home
    From distant lands, alone and in disguise,
    Gains at the fall of night his Castle walls,
    But, at the vacant gate, no Porter sits
    To wait his Lord's admittance!—In the courts
    All is drear silence!—Guessing but too well
    The fatal truth, he shudders as he goes
    Thro' the mute hall; where, by the blunted light
    That the dim moon thro' painted casements lends,
    He sees that devastation has been there:
    Then, while each hideous image to his mind
    Rises terrific, o'er a bleeding corse
    Stumbling he falls; another interrupts
    His staggering feet—all, all who us'd to rush
    With joy to meet him—all his family
    Lie murder'd in his way!—And the day dawns
    On a wild raving Maniac, whom a fate
    So sudden and calamitous has robb'd
    Of reason; and who round his vacant walls
    Screams unregarded, and reproaches Heaven!—
    Such are thy dreadful trophies, savage War!
    And evils such as these, or yet more dire,
    Which the pain'd mind recoils from, all are thine—
    The purple Pestilence, that to the grave
    Sends whom the sword has spar'd, is thine; and thine
    The Widow's anguish and the Orphan's tears!—
    Woes such as these does Man inflict on Man;
    And by the closet murderers, whom we style
    Wise Politicians; are the schemes prepar'd,
    Which, to keep Europe's wavering balance even,
    Depopulate her kingdoms, and consign
    To tears and anguish half a bleeding world!—
        Oh! could the time return, when thoughts like these
    Spoil'd not that gay delight, which vernal Suns,
    Illuminating hills, and woods, and fields,
    Gave to my infant spirits—Memory come!
    And from distracting cares, that now deprive
    Such scenes of all their beauty, kindly bear
    My fancy to those hours of simple joy,
    When, on the banks of Arun, which I see
    Make its irriguous course thro' yonder meads,
    I play'd; unconscious then of future ill!
    There (where, from hollows fring'd with yellow broom,
    The birch with silver rind, and fairy leaf,
    Aslant the low stream trembles) I have stood,
    And meditated how to venture best
    Into the shallow current, to procure
    The willow herb of glowing purple spikes,
    Or flags, whose sword-like leaves conceal'd the tide,
    Startling the timid reed-bird from her nest,
    As with aquatic flowers I wove the wreath,
    Such as, collected by the shepherd girls,
    Deck in the villages the turfy shrine,
    And mark the arrival of propitious May.—
    How little dream'd I then the time would come,
    When the bright Sun of that delicious month
    Should, from disturb'd and artificial sleep,
    Awaken me to never-ending toil,
    To terror and to tears!—Attempting still,
    With feeble hands and cold desponding heart,
    To save my children from the o'erwhelming wrongs,
    That have for ten long years been heap'd on me!—
    The fearful spectres of chicane and fraud
    Have, Proteus like, still chang'd their hideous forms
    (As the Law lent its plausible disguise),
    Pursuing my faint steps; and I have seen
    Friendship's sweet bonds (which were so early form'd,)
    And once I fondly thought of amaranth
    Inwove with silver seven times tried) give way,
    And fail; as these green fan-like leaves of fern
    Will wither at the touch of Autumn's frost.
    Yet there are those , whose patient pity still
    Hears my long murmurs; who, unwearied, try
    With lenient hands to bind up every wound
    My wearied spirit feels, and bid me go
    "Right onward "—a calm votary of the Nymph,
    Who, from her adamantine rock, points out
    To conscious rectitude the rugged path,
    That leads at length to Peace!—Ah! yes, my friends
    Peace will at last be mine; for in the Grave
    Is Peace—and pass a few short years, perchance
    A few short months, and all the various pain
    I now endure shall be forgotten there,
    And no memorial shall remain of me,
    Save in your bosoms; while even your regret
    Shall lose its poignancy, as ye reflect
    What complicated woes that grave conceals!
    But, if the little praise, that may await
    The Mother's efforts, should provoke the spleen
    Of Priest or Levite; and they then arraign
    The dust that cannot hear them; be it yours
    To vindicate my humble fame; to say,
    That, not in selfish sufferings absorb'd,
    "I gave to misery all I had, my tears ."
    And if, where regulated sanctity
    Pours her long orisons to Heaven, my voice
    Was seldom heard, that yet my prayer was made
    To him who hears even silence; not in domes
    Of human architecture, fill'd with crowds,
    But on these hills, where boundless, yet distinct,
    Even as a map, beneath are spread the fields
    His bounty cloaths; divided here by woods,
    And there by commons rude, or winding brooks,
    While I might breathe the air perfum'd with flowers,
    Or the fresh odours of the mountain turf;
    And gaze on clouds above me, as they sail'd
    Majestic: or remark the reddening north,
    When bickering arrows of electric fire
    Flash on the evening sky—I made my prayer
    In unison with murmuring waves that now
    Swell with dark tempests, now are mild and blue,
    As the bright arch above; for all to me
    Declare omniscient goodness; nor need I
    Declamatory essays to incite
    My wonder or my praise, when every leaf
    That Spring unfolds, and every simple bud,
    More forcibly impresses on my heart
    His power and wisdom—Ah! while I adore
    That goodness, which design'd to all that lives
    Some taste of happiness, my soul is pain'd
    By the variety of woes that Man
    For Man creates—his blessings often turn'd
    To plagues and curses: Saint-like Piety,
    Misled by Superstition, has destroy'd
    More than Ambition; and the sacred flame
    Of Liberty becomes a raging fire,
    When Licence and Confusion bid it blaze.
    From thy high throne, above yon radiant stars,
    O Power Omnipotent! with mercy view
    This suffering globe, and cause thy creatures cease,
    With savage fangs, to tear her bleeding breast:
    Refrain that rage for power, that bids a Man,
    Himself a worm, desire unbounded rule
    O'er beings like himself: Teach the hard hearts
    Of rulers, that the poorest hind, who dies
    For their unrighteous quarrels, in thy sight
    Is equal to the imperious Lord, that leads
    His disciplin'd destroyers to the field.——
    May lovely Freedom, in her genuine charms,
    Aided by stern but equal Justice, drive
    From the ensanguin'd earth the hell-born fiends
    Of Pride, Oppression, Avarice, and Revenge,
    That ruin what thy mercy made so fair!
    Then shall these ill-starr'd wanderers, whose sad fate
    These desultory lines lament, regain
    Their native country; private vengeance then
    To public virtue yield; and the fierce feuds,
    That long have torn their desolated land,
    May (even as storms, that agitate the air,
    Drive noxious vapours from the blighted earth)
    Serve, all tremendous as they are, to fix
    The reign of Reason, Liberty, and Peace!