Part 17 (1/2)
Poor wretch! that blasted leafless tree, More frail and death-like even than thee, Can yield no shelter to thy s.h.i.+vering form; The sleet, the rain, the wind of Heaven, Full in thy face are coldly driven, As if thou wert alone the object of the storm.
Yet, chill'd with cold, and drench'd with rain, Mild creature, thou dost not complain By sound or look of these ungracious skies; Calmly as if in friendly shed, There stand'st thou, with unmoving head, And a grave, patient meekness in thy half-closed eyes.
Long could my thoughtful spirit gaze On thee; nor am I loth to praise Him who in moral mood this image drew; And yet, methinks, that I could frame An image different, yet the same, More pleasing to the heart, and yet to Nature true.
Behold a lane retired and green, Winding amid a forest-scene With blooming furze in many a radiant heap; There is a browsing a.s.s espied One colt is frisking by her side, And one among her feet is safely stretch'd in sleep.
And lo! a little maiden stands, With thistles in her tender hands, Tempting with kindly words the colt to eat; Or gently down before him lays, With words of solace and of praise, Pluck'd from th' untrodden turf the herbage soft and sweet.
The summer sun is sinking down, And the peasants from the market town With chearful hearts are to their homes returning; Groupes of gay children too are there, Stirring with mirth the silent air, O'er all their eager eyes the light of laughter burning.
The a.s.s hath got his burthen still!
The merry elves the panniers fill; Delighted there from side to side they swing.
The creature heeds nor shout nor call, But jogs on careless of them all, Whether in harmless sport they gaily strike or sing.
A gipsey-groupe! the secret wood Stirs through its leafy solitude, As wheels the dance to many a jocund tune; Th' unpannier'd a.s.s slowly retires From the brown tents, and sparkling fires, And silently feeds on beneath the silent moon.
The Moon sits o'er the huge oak tree, More pensive 'mid this scene of glee That mocks the hour of beauty and of rest; The soul of all her softest rays On yonder placid creature plays, As if she wish'd to cheer the hards.h.i.+ps of the opprest.
But now the silver moonbeams fade, And, peeping through a flowery glade, Hush'd as a wild-bird's nest, a cottage lies: An a.s.s stands meek and patient there, And by her side a spectre fair, To drink the balmy cup once more before she dies.
With tenderest care the pitying dame Supports the dying maiden's frame, And strives with laughing looks her heart to chear; While playful children crowd around To catch her eye by smile or sound, Unconscious of the doom that waits their lady dear!
I feel this mournful dream impart A holier image to my heart, For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime give birth:-- Blest creature! through the solemn night, I see thee bath'd in heavenly light, Shed from that wond'rous child--The Saviour of the Earth.
When, flying Herod's murd'rous rage, Thou on that wretched pilgrimage Didst gently near the virgin-mother lie; On thee the humble Jesus sate, When thousands rush'd to Salem's gate To see 'mid holy hymns the sinless man pa.s.s by.
Happy thou wert,--nor low thy praise, In peaceful patriarchal days, When countless tents slow pa.s.sed from land to land Like clouds o'er heaven:--the gentle race Such quiet scene did meetly grace,-- Circling the pastoral camp in many a stately band.
Poor wretch!--my musing dream is o'er; Thy s.h.i.+vering form I view once more, And all the pains thy race is doom'd to prove.
But they whose thoughtful spirits see The truth of life, will pause with me, And bless thee in a voice of gentleness and love!
ON READING
MR CLARKSON'S HISTORY OF THE ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE TRADE.
'Mid the august and never-dying light Of constellated spirits, who have gain'd A throne in heaven, by power of heavenly acts, And leave their names immortal and unchanged On earth, even as the names of Sun and Moon, See'st thou, my soul! 'mid all that radiant host One worthier of thy love and reverence, Than He, the fearless spirit, who went forth, Mail'd in the armour of invincible faith, And bearing in his grasp the spear of truth, Fit to destroy and save,--went forth to wage, Against the fierce array of b.l.o.o.d.y men, Avarice and ignorance, cruelty and hate, A holy warfare! Deep within his soul, The groans of anguish, and the clank of chains, Dwelt ceaseless as a cataract, and fill'd The secret haunts of meditative prayer.
Encircled by the silence of the hearth, The evening-silence of a happy home; Upon his midnight bed, when working soul Turns inward, and the steady flow of thought Is all we feel of life; in crowded rooms, Where mere sensation oft takes place of mind, And all time seems the present; in the sun, The joyful splendour of a summer-day; Or 'neath the moon, the calm and gentle night; Where'er he moved, one vision ever fill'd His restless spirit. 'Twas a vision bright With colours born in Heaven, yet oh! bedimm'd With breath of sorrow, sighs, and tears, and blood!
Before him lay a quarter of the world, A Mighty Land, wash'd by unnumber'd floods, Born in her bosom,--floods that to the sea Roll ocean-like, or in the central wilds Fade like the dim day melting into night; A land all teeming with the gorgeous shew Of Nature in profuse magnificence!
Vallies and groves, where untamed herds have ranged Without a master since the birth of time!
Fountains and caves fill'd with the hidden light Of diamond and of ruby, only view'd With admiration by the unenvying sun!
Millions of beings like himself he sees In stature and in soul,--the sons of G.o.d, Destined to do him homage, and to lift Their fearless brows unto the burning sky, Stamp'd with his holy image! n.o.ble shapes, Kings of the desert, men whose stately tread Brings from the dust the sound of liberty!
The vision fades not here; he sees the gloom That lies upon these kingdoms of the sun, And makes them darker than the dreary realms, Scarce-moving at the pole.--A sluggish flow Attends those floods so great and beautiful, Rolling in majesty that none adores!
And lo! the faces of those stately men, Silent as death, or changed to ghastly shapes By madness and despair! His ears are torn By shrieks and ravings, loud, and long, and wild, Or the deep-mutter'd curse of sullen hearts, Scorning in bitter woe their gnawing chains!