The British poets of the nineteenth century, including the select works of Crabbe ... and others. Being a suppl. vol. to The poetical works of Byron, Scott and Moore

Warning, sald Richard, seems the only thing | Or looks for pardon ere the ill be done,
That would a spirit on an errand bring;
To turn a guilty mind from wrong to right
A ghost might come, at least I think it
might.-

Because 'tis vain to strive our fate to shun;
In spite of ghosts, predestined woes would

But, said the Brother, if we here are tried,
A spirit sent would put that law aside;
It gives to some advantage others need,
Or hurts the sinner should it not succeed:
If from the dead, said Dives, one were sent
To warn my brethren, sure they would

repent;
But Abraham answer'd, if they now reject
The guides they have, no more would that
effect;

Their doubts too obstinate for grace would
prove,

For wonder hardens hearts it fails to move.
Suppose a sinner in an hour of gloom,
And let a ghost with all its horrors come;
From lips unmoved let solemn accents flow,
Solemn his gesture be, his motion slow;
Let the waved hand and threatening look
impart

Truth to the mind and terror to the heart;
And, when the form is fading to the view,
Let the convicted man cry: this is true!
Alas! how soon would doubts again invade
The willing mind, and sins again persuade!
I saw it—What?—I was awake, but how?
Not as I am, or I should see it now:
It spoke, I think,-I thought, at least, it
spoke,-

And look'd alarming-yes, I felt the look.
But then in sleep those horrid forms arise,
That the soul sees,—and, we suppose, the

eyes,

And the soul hears, the senses then thrown
by,

She is herself the ear, herself the eye;
A mistress so will free her servile race
For their own tasks, and take herself the
place:

In sleep what forms will ductile "ncy take,
And what so common as to drea awake?

On others thus do ghostly guests intrude?
Or why am I by such advice pursued?
One out of millions who exist, and why
They know not-cannot know--and such
am I;

And shall two beings of two worlds, to meet,
The laws of one, perhaps of both, defeat?
It cannot be-But if some being lives
Who such kind warning to a favourite gives,
Let him these doubts from my dull spirit
clear,

And once again, expected guest! appear.
And if a second time the power complied,
Why is a third, and why a fourth denied?
Why not a warning ghost for ever at our
side?

Ah, foolish being! thou hast truth enough,
Augmented guilt would rise on greater
proof;

Blind and imperious passion disbelieves,
Or madly scorns the warning it receives,

come,

And warning add new terrors to our doom.
Yet there are tales that would remove our
doubt,

The whisper'd tales that circulate about,
That in some noble mansion take their rise,
And told with secrecy and awe, surprise:
It seems not likely people should advance,
For falsehood's sake, such train of circum-
stance;

Then the ghosts bear them with a ghost-
like grace,

That suits the person, character, and place.
But let us something of the kind recite:
What think you, now, of Lady Barbara's
spright?-

I know not what to think; but I have heard
A ghost, to warn her or advise, appear'd;
And that she sought a friend before she died
To whom she might the awful fact confide,
Who seal'd and secret should the story keep
Till Lady Barbara slept her final sleep,
In that close bed, that never spirit shakes,
Nor ghostly visitor the sleeper wakes.-
Yes, I can give that story, not so well
As your old woman would the legend tell,
But as the facts are stated; and now hear
How ghosts advise, and widows persevere.

When her lord died, who had so kind a heart,
That any woman would have grieved to part,
It had such influence on his widow's mind,
That she the pleasures of the world resign'd,
Young as she was, and from the busy town
Came to the quiet of a village down;
Not as insensible to joys, but still
With a subdued but half-rebellious will;
For she had passions warm, and feeling
strong,
With a right mind, that dreaded to be

wrong;-
Yet she had wealth to tie her to the place
Where it procures delight and veils disgrace;
Yet she had beauty to engage the eye,
A widow still in her minority;
Yet she had merit worthy men to gain,
And yet her hand no merit could obtain;
For, though secluded, there were trials made,
When he who soften'd most could not
persuade;

Awhile she hearken'd as her swain proposed,
And then his suit with strong refusal closed.
Thanks, and farewell!-give credit to my
word,

That I shall die the widow of my lord;
'Tis my own will, I now prefer the state,-
If mine should change, it is the will of fate.
Such things were spoken, and the hearers
cried,

'Tis very strange,—perhaps she may be tried.

The lady past her time in taking air,
In working, reading, charities, and prayer;
In the last duties she received the aid
Of an old friend, a priest, with whom she
pray'd;

And to his mansion with a purpose went,
That there should life be innocently spent ;
Yet no cold vot'ress of the cloister she,
Warm her devotion, warm her charity;
The face the index of a feeling mind,
And her whole conduct rational and kind.
Though rich and noble, she was pleased to
slide

Into the habits of her reverend guide,
And so attended to his girls and boys,
She seem'd a mother in her fears and joys;
On her they look'd with fondness, something
check'd

By her appearance, that engaged respect;
For still she dress'd as one of higher race,
And her sweet smiles had dignity and grace.

George was her favourite, and it gave her joy To indulge and to instruct the darling boy; To watch, to soothe, to check the forward child,

Who was at once affectionate and wild; Happy and grateful for her tender care, And pleased her thoughts and company to share.

George was a boy with spirit strong and high, With handsome face, and penetrating eye; O'er his broad forehead hung his locks of

brown,

That gave a spirit to his boyish frown;
My little man, were words that she applied
To him, and he received with growing pride;
Her darling even from his infant years
Had something touching in his smiles and
tears;

And in his boyish manners he began

To show the pride that was not made for man;
But it became the child, the mother cried,
And the kind lady said it was not pride.
George, to his cost, though sometimes to
his praise,

Was quite a hero in these early days,
And would return from heroes just as stout,
Blood in his crimson cheek,and blood without.
"What! he submit to vulgar boys and low,
He bear an insult, he forget a blow!
They call'd him Parson-let his father bear
His own reproach, it was his proper care;
He was no parson, but he still would teach
The boys their manners, and yet would not
preach.'

The father, thoughtful of the time foregone, Was loth to damp the spirit of his son; Rememb'ring he himself had early laurels

won;

The mother, frighten'd, begg'd him to refrain,

And not his credit or his linen stain;

While the kind friend so gently blamed the deed,

He smiled in tears, and wish'd her to proceed; For the boy pleased her, and that roguish eye And daring look were cause of many a sigh, When she had thought how much would such quick temper try:

And oft she felt a kind of gathering gloom, Sad, and prophetic of the ills to come. Years fled unmark'd; the lady taught no more Th' adopted tribe as she was wont before; But by her help the school the lasses sought, And by the vicar's self the boy was taught; Not unresisting when that cursed Greek Ask'd so much time for words that none will speak.

What can men worse for mortal brain contrive

Than thus a hard dead language to revive! Heav'ns, if a language once be fairly dead, Let it be buried, not preserved and read, The bane of every boy to decent station bred; If any good these crabbed books contain, Translate them well, and let them then remain ;

To one huge vault convey the useless store, Then lose the key, and never find it more.' Something like this the lively boy express'd, When Homer was his torment and his jest.

At least the time for your degree abide,
And be ordain'd, the man of peace replied;
Then you may come and aid me while I
keep,

And watch, and shear th' hereditary sheep;
Choose then your spouse. That heard the
youth, and sigh'd,
Nor to aught else attended or replied.

George had of late indulged unusual fears
And dangerous hopes: he wept unconscious
tears;-

Whether for camp or college, well he knew
He must at present bid his friends adieu;
His father, mother, sisters, could he part
With these, and feel no sorrow at his
heart?

But from that lovely lady could he go?
That fonder, fairer, dearer mother?-No!
For while his father spoke, he fix'd his eyes
On that dear face, and felt a warmth arise,
A trembling flush of joy, that he could ill
disguise-

Then ask'd himself from whence this grow-
ing bliss,

This new-found joy, and all that waits on
this?

Why sinks that voice so sweetly in mine ear?
What makes it now a livelier joy to hear?
Why gives that touch-Still, still do I

retain

The fierce delight that tingled through each vein

Why at her presence with such quickness
flows

The vital current?-Well a lover knows.
O! tell me not of years,-can she be old?
Those eyes, those lips, can man unmoved
behold?

Has time that bosom chill'd? are cheeks
so rosy cold?
No, she is young, or I her love t' engage
Will grow discreet, and that will seem like

age;

The purest damask blossom'd in her cheek,
The eyes said all that eyes are wont to speak;
Her pleasing person she with care adorn'd,
Nor arts that stay the flying graces scorn'd;
Nor held it wrong these graces to renew,
Or give the fading rose its opening hue;
Yet few there were who needed less the art
To hide an error, or a grace impart.

George, yet a child, her faultless form
admired,

And call'd his fondness love,as truth required;
But now, when conscious of the secret flame,
His bosom's pain, he dared not give the
name;

In her the mother's milder passion grew,
Tender she was, but she was placid too;
From him the mild and filial love was gone,
And a strong passion came in triumph on.
Will she, he cried, this impious love allow?
And, once my mother, be my mistress now?
The parent-spouse? how far the thought
from her,

And how can I the daring wish aver?
When first I speak it, how will those dear
eyes
Gleam with awaken'd horror and surprise;
Will she not, angry and indignant, fly
From my imploring call, and bid me die?
Will she not shudder at the thought, and say,
My son! and lift her eyes to heaven, and
pray?

Alas! I fear-and yet my soul she won
While she with fond endearments call'd me

son!

Then first I felt-yet knew that I was
wrong-

This hope, at once so guilty and so strong:
She gave-I feel it now-a mother's kiss,
And quickly fancy took a bolder bliss;
But hid the burning blush, for fear that eye
Should see the transport, and the bliss deny:
O! when she knows the purpose I conceal,
When my fond wishes to her bosom steal,
How will that angel fear? How will the
woman feel?

And yet perhaps this instant, while I speak,
She knows the pain I feel, the cure I seek;
Better than I she may my feelings know,
And nurse the passion that she dares not
show:

But speak it not; Death's equalizing arm
Levels not surer than Love's stronger charm,
That bids all inequalities be gone,
That laughs at rank, that mocks comparison.
There is not young or old, if Love decrees,
He levels orders, he confounds degrees;
There is not fair, or dark, or short, or tall,
Or grave, or sprightly-Love reduces all;
He makes unite the pensive and the gay,
Gives something here, takes something To her the power and triumph of her own,—
there away;

She reads the look,—and sure my eyes have shown

shame.

And in maternal love she veils the flame From each abundant good a portion takes, That she will heal with joy, yet hear with And for each want a compensation makes; Then tell me not of years-Love, power Come, let me then-no more a son-reveal The daring hope, and for her favour kneel; Let me in ardent speech my meanings dress, And, while I mourn the fault, my love confess;

divine, Takes, as he wills, from hers, and gives to mine. was lovely-Time had though he so long had flown;

And she, in truth,
No snows on her,

strown

And, once confess'd, no more that hope
resign,
For she or misery henceforth must be mine.

O! what confusion shall I see advance
On that dear face, responsive to my glance!
Sure she can love!-In fact, the youth was
right;

She could, but love was dreadful in her sight;
Love like a spectre in her view appear'd,
The nearer he approach'd the more she fear'd.
But knew she, then, this dreaded love? She
guess'd

That he had guilt-she knew he had not rest:
She saw a fear that she could ill define,
And nameless terrors in his looks combine;
It is a state that cannot long endure,
And yet both parties dreaded to be sure.

All views were past of priesthood and a gown,

George, fix'd on glory, now prepared for town;

But first this mighty hazard must be run, And more than glory either lost or won: Yet, what was glory? Could he win that heart

And gain that hand, what cause was there to part?

He heard, he grieved-so check'd, the eager youth Dared not again repeat th' offensive truth, But stopp'd, and fix'd on that loved face an eye

Of pleading passion, trembling to reply; And that reply was hurried, was express'd With bursts of sorrow from a troubled breast;

He could not yet forbear the tender suit, And dare not speak-his eloquence was

mute.

But this not long, again the passion rose
In him, in her the spirit to oppose:
Yet was she firm; and he, who fear'd the
calm

Of resolution, purposed to alarm,
And make her dread a passion strong and
wild-

He fear'd her firmness while her looks were mild: Therefore he strongly, warmly urged his prayer,

now?

Till she, less patient, urged him to forbear. I tell thee, George, as I have told before, I feel a mother's love, and feel no more; Her love afforded all that life affords- A child I bore thee in my arms, and how Honour and fame were phantasies and words. | Could I—did prudence yield-reccive thee But he must see her-She alone was seen In the still evening of a day serene: In the deep shade beyond the garden-walk At her remonstrance hope revived, for oft They met, and talking, ceased and fear'd to He found her words severe, her accents soft; In eyes that threaten'd tears of pity stood, At length she spoke of parent's love,—and | And truth she made as gracious as she

talk;

now

He hazards all-No parent, lady, thou! None, none to me! but looks so fond and mild

Would well become the parent of my child.' She gasp'd for breath-then sat as one resolved

On some high act, and then the means revolved.

It cannot be, my George, my child, my son! The thought is misery!-Guilt and misery shun:

Far from us both be such design, oh, far!
Let it not pain us at the awful bar,
Where souls are tried, where known the
mother's part

That I sustain, and all of either heart.
To wed with thee I must all shame efface,
And part with female dignity and grace:
Was I not told, by one who knew so well
This rebel heart, that it must not rebel?
Were I not warn'd, yet Reason's voice
would cry,
Retreat, resolve, and from the danger fly!
If Reason spoke not, yet would woman's
pride-

A woman will by better counsel guide;
And should both Pride and Prudence plead
in vain,
There is a warning that must still remain,
And, though the heart rebell'd, would ever
cry: Refrain.

could ;

But, when she found the dangerous youth would seek

His peace alone, and still his wishes speak, Fearful she grew, that, opening thus his heart,

He might to hers a dangerous warmth impart :

All her objections slight to him appear'd,— But one she had, and now it must be heard. Yes, it must be! and he shall understand What powers, that are not of the world, command;

So shall he cease, and I in peace shall live— Sighing she spoke that widowhood can give!

Then to her lover turn'd, and gravely said: Let due attention to my words be paid; Meet me to-morrow, and resolve t' obey; Then named the hour and place, and went her way.

Before that hour, or moved by spirit vain, Or woman's wish to triumph and complain; She had his parents summon'd, and had

shown

Their son's strong wishes, nor conceal'd her

own:

And do you give, she said, a parent's aid To make the youth of his strange love afraid; And, be it sin or not, be all the shame display'd.

The good old Pastor wonder'd, seem'd to grieve,

And look'd suspicious on this child of Eve: He judged his boy, though wild, had never dared

To talk of love, had not rebuke been spared;
But he replied, in mild and tender tone,
It is not sin, and therefore shame has none.
The different ages of the pair he knew,
And quite as well their different fortunes too:
A meek, just man; but difference in his
sight

That made the match unequal made it right:
His son, his friend united, and become
Of his own hearth-the comforts of his
home-

Was it so wrong? Perhaps it was her pride
That felt the distance, and the youth denied?
The blushing widow heard, and she retired,
Musing on what her ancient friend desired;
She could not, therefore, to the youth
complain,

That his good father wish'd him to refrain; She could not add, your parents, George, obey,

They will your absence-no such will had they.

Now, in th' appointed minute met the pair, Foredoom'd to meet: George made the lover's prayer,— That was heard kindly; then the lady tried For a calm spirit, felt it, and replied: George, that I love thee why should I suppress?

For 'tis a love that virtue may profess—
Parental, frown not,-tender, fix'd, sincere;
Thou art for dearer ties by much too dear,
And nearer must not be, thou art so very near:
Nay, does not reason, prudence, pride agree,
Our very feelings, that it must not be?
Nay, look not so, I shun the task no more.
But will to thee thy better self restore.
Then hear, and hope not; to the tale I tell
Attend! obey me, and let all be well:
Love is forbad to me, and thou wilt find
All thy too ardent views must be resign'd;
Then from thy bosom all such thoughts

My father early taught us all he dared, And for his bolder flights our minds prepared: He read the works of deists, every book From crabbed Hobbes to courtly Bolingbroke;

And when we understood not, he would cry
Let the expressions in your memory lic,
The light will soon break in, and you will
find

Rest for your spirits, and be strong of mind!
Alas! however strong, however weak,
The rest was something we had still to seek!
He taught us duties of no arduous kind,
The easy morals of the doubtful mind;
He bade us all our childish fears control,
And drive the nurse and grandam from the
soul;

Told us the word of God was all we saw,
And that the law of nature was his law;
This law of nature we might find abstruse,
But gain sufficient for our common use.
Thus, by persuasion, we our duties learn'd,
And were but little in the cause concern'd.

The fiercest mind, and set the cold on flame;
For him no rival in dispute was found
Whom he could not confute or not confound.

Some mystics told us of the sign and seal,
And what the spirit would in time reveal,
If we had grace to wait, if we had hearts
to feel:
Others, to Reason trusting, said, believe
As she directs, and what she proves receive;
While many told us, it is all but guess,
Stick to your church, and calmly acquiesce.
Thus, doubting, wearied, hurried, and
perplex'd,

This world was lost in thinking of the next:

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The British poets of the nineteenth century, including the select works of ...